“What this word mean?” she said, pointing to a section.
“Haralda,” he said.
“Yes?” she said impatiently.
“She was the Mother Superior at the sect I lived in.”
“You’re not wearing their clothes,” she said, looking him up and down with disgust.
“No, I was… kicked out.”
“You stole sword from her, didn’t you?”
Kirwyn stood up, but was instantly placed down by many hands. “No. She gave it to me when I left.”
“Liar,” said the Matriarch. “Why would she give to you, when they kicking you out?”
“Because—” he shouted, his eyes watered and his voice broke. “She raised me and she loved me.” He looked away, ashamed.
“Where she now?” said the Matriarch after a while, softening.
“I don’t know,” said Kirwyn forlornly. “They didn’t tell me.”
“I knew Haralda,” said the Matriarch.
Kirwyn looked up at her in amazement.
“She was… missionary to us, many years ago. She wasn’t very good, she didn’t get any Combi back to temple. But we liked her, and she liked us. I was little then, so was she. Did she speak of me?”
“I never heard her speak,” said Kirwyn. “She took a vow of silence before I met her.”
The old woman tutted and shook her head. “Doesn’t surprise me.”
“She never wrote of you. But I – never really asked.”
“Probably wanted forget you Buko,” she said, an old man perked up “No one forgets Buko,” he said and then doubled over laughing. Little ripples of relief spread through the crowd. Alana smiled nervously, Kirwyn looked down, his face scrunched in confusion and pain.
Kirwyn and Alana trudged back to their beach house.
“They want to throw us a party,” said Alana.
“Why?” said Loma blankly.
“It’s a tradition for them, something to do with returning family.” She said, gesturing to Kirwyn who looked away.
“Well – we should just go, we can be in Lundun before nightfall.”
“What about the party,” said Saburo, mock-dancing. “Somebody’s laying landmines the night you go to Lundun. There’s a copter from the fuckin’… Last War looking for you. Maybe it would do us good to lay low with some primitives for a while.”
“The landmines were a coincidence, we don’t know the copter was after us, or even from the same people,” said Loma.
“Do you really need to get to Lundun today? Can it not wait a day?” said Saburo. “I haven’t had anything to drink since Moortown.”
“Every day you’re with me, is another day you won’t have to be on the frontlines fighting Yellowjackets. Is that it?”
“I just need… a little vacation,” said Saburo smiling, his arms outstretched.
“We could do with a rest,” said Alana nodding.
“I don’t want to be rude to them,” said Kirwyn.
Loma shook her head. She sighed.
22
Fiddler flew like a crow in the night. Across the moors then down the highway. He had bribes to pay any passing Cavalier, and if that didn’t work he had his pistol. His bike was black and shiny like a river stone. It was slower and quieter than most. He swooped in and out of hazards, humming along the motorway, cold wind pouring into his eyes and mouth, utterly alone.
He passed under a bridge. Ahead of him, he distinctly saw three sets of tire tracks swerve off into a field. He stopped, dismounted. He crouched down by the tracks, illuminated only by the light of his bike. The tracks were fresh. Black rubber. He looked ahead and saw a crack in the road – there was a black discoloration around it, he noticed little pieces of glass and metal. He picked up one shard, the size of a grain of rice, it was stained red-brown with blood, fairly fresh.
He drew his revolver – immediately he was shot at, scraps of metal pinged about the concrete around him and at his bike, he flinched, putting his arm before him instinctively, then leapt behind his bike. He turned off the engine and the lights, but still drew fire. He pushed the bike off the road into a field. The shooting continued in fits and starts.
On the bridge a spotlight shone down, it spread over the road, and then onto the grass on either side – but Fiddler was gone. The men of the bridge clutched their machine guns with bandaged mittens. Tattered dirty cloaks wrapped around them. Their hoods were pulled up over their foreheads, obscuring their faces.
They peered out over the bridge and held their breath. One of them was shot in the back of the head by Fiddler, who was somehow on them and firing. The shot man fell face first off the bridge and his face exploded black on the ground. The others started firing, but Fiddler was obscure, the searchlight was spun around – but this was shot before the light hit him. Fiddler’s eyes were used to the dark now, theirs were not. Another man was shot – this time in the throat, he fell to his knees gargling, bandaged hands clutching the liquid that poured to the tarmac.
One of the men panicked and starting firing in a wide arc, killing many of his comrades, but also hitting Fiddler. Fiddler outstretched one arm like a duellist and shot him twice in the chest. Another man shot Fiddler in the thigh, Fiddler tripped down, turned and fired, his first shot missed but the next one reached the cloaked man’s ankle, which disintegrated, sending him hurtling to the floor, knocking him out for a moment. Two of the cloaked men had fled. The one who operated the searchlight was frozen in fear.
Fiddler got himself up and, limping slightly, walked to the 1 ankle’d man, who clumsily, lazily, extended his gun to aim at Fiddler. Fiddler shot him. Fiddler hunched over and vomited up black blood, which spewed obscenely from his beautiful mask. He corrected himself and walked towards the light-operator who – shaking, raised his hands high.
“Guard your head.” Said Fiddler. The man quickly put his hands down to his skull. Fiddler pushed him off the bridge. The white mask of Fiddler looked down on him, blood still dripping from the mouth hole. The light-man wailed in agony next to his dead comrade. Fiddler made his leisurely way down off the bridge to the highway. He retrieved his bike and turned the light on, blasting it at the crooked, twisting, wailing light-man.
Fiddler crouched and patted him down for weapons, found a knife in his pocket and threw it spinning into the grass. He ripped off the man’s hood, stripping off layers of fabric. The man below the layers was a sickly looking fellow, more of a boy. He had no body hair, even eyelashes. His skin was delicate, moist and riddled with blue veins, he looked up at fiddler with the red eyes of an albino. Fiddler stood up.
He felt his outer thigh and winced, then caressed his breastplate, found no imperfections, though as the adrenaline faded he was increasingly suffering from pain in his thorax. He felt around until – he touched his side – was jolted with agony and saw blood on his gloves. The bullet had hit him in the side, probably got him in the guts. He looked down at the mutant boy, who yet still wailed, stopping only to cough awkwardly.
Fiddler opened up his revolver and saw he had used all his ammunition, he emptied the cases on the floor and put his gun away. He unsheathed his sword and held the hooked blade at the boy’s throat. The boy winced and juddered back, which pained him.
“Who are you?” whined the boy
“I’m Fiddler,” said Fiddler. “You tried to kill me back there. Why?”
The boy coughed and moaned quietly. “Why?” said Fiddler again, in the exact same tone.
“We were told to… hold the road for the night… get anyone who tried to pass.”
“Who told you?”