"YouVe been in here before, haven't you?"
"No."
"Then how did you know about all this?"
He reached up and took a long, dark package from the shelf, placing it in the sled, then looked back at her. "This place has defenses no one knows about but us. We Shepherds have been preparing for this for near on two hundred years now."
It was not the words so much as how he said them. That "us"
seemed to exclude her. Seemed somehow masculine. "We Shepherds . . ."
She turned away from him, facing the shelves once more, doing as he'd asked, filling the sled with guns and bombs and bullets, her mind strangely detached from what she was doing. She had read the passages in Amos's journaclass="underline" had read about his preparations for the Great Third War he believed was coming, but never for a moment had she thought all this existed.
The intestines of the beast. . .
She shuddered, then looked down again, checking the handwritten label, ensuring she had the right ammunition for the rifle.
THE CUT TURF was laid neatly on its back, beside the dark square of earth. Nearby, forming a staggered line across the lower garden, a further five patches showed black against the green.
Meg stood over Ben, watching him take two of the small devices from the bag at his shoulder, noting how carefully he embedded them in the earth. Earlier he had shown her how the flash bombs worked, going through the remote-trigger sequence twice, to make sure she understood.
"Hopefully we won't have to use them," he said, setting the turf back firmly and looking up at her. "The speakers should do the trick. But if you have to, don't hesitate. And remember, the object is to take the little buggers alive. We use force only as a last resort."
She looked back at the cottage. It was late afternoon now, but most of it was done. Using special panels from the storehouse, they had sealed the kitchen end and the dining room, and blocked the stairway, leaving only the entrance to the living room free, the door down to the cellar open. Helping Ben fix the screens over the doors and windows, she had understood for the first time what all the fastenings on the frames were for. From childhood she had thought them merely decoration, but now she knew. It was as Ben had said. Amos had prepared thoroughly for this day.
We Shepherds. . .
He handed her the bag. "Here. You do the rest. I'll finish off in the cellar."
She nodded, standing there a moment, watching him return inside, then turned back, facing the water. It was only three hours now until sunset. The thought of it made her throat constrict, her stomach muscles tighten with fear, but she had said nothing to Ben. Not that it would have made any difference.
"Well, fuck you, Ben Shepherd," she said quietly, moving across to the next of the cut squares and kneeling down, the awkward shape of the handgun pressing into her side. "Fuck you and Amos and all your pigheaded breed."
"Ben?"
He turned, looking back at her from the saddle of the old green bicycle. "What?"
"What if they come while you're gone? What should I do?"
"They won't," he said, reaching back to check the towrope. "Besides, I'll be back before it's dark. But if it makes you feel any better, why don't you go up to the old church and sit on the wall. You get a good view of things from there. And if they do come, you can hide in the tower until I get back. Okay?"
She nodded reluctantly, watching him draw the pedal back, preparing to set off. "Ben. . . ?"
He laughed. "What now?"
"Take care."
He smiled, then was gone, his strong legs powering him up the steep slope between the hedges, the tightly packed sled rattling along behind him on its casters.
Ten minutes later he was on the level above the ferry road. Resting the bike against the wall by the old postbox, he unfastened the sled and, letting it run on in front, made his way down to the landing stage.
The rowboat was where he had left it ten days before. Loading the sled into the middle of the long, narrow boat, he pushed it out into the shallow water, then jumped aboard, picking up the oars and setting to, pulling himself across the narrow strait.
The path up to the old railway track was difficult, the stone steps slippery, overgrown in places. The sled seemed to grow heavier as he climbed, more awkward, but finally he was there, fifty feet above the river, the ancient track stretching away between the trees.
He set the sled down, slotting the groove in its base onto the rail, then squatted down, taking the slender case of the comset from his back and unfolding it. Activating the screen, he quickly checked on the remotes. In front of the breached seal there was no activity. Out on the raft armada, however, there was plenty. Five of the smaller, steam-powered rafts were being prepared, stockpiles of precious fuel being loaded on board, along with great stacks of weapons—crude spears, swords, and clubs for the main part.
Satisfied, he switched the comset off and secured it to his back. Then, attaching the towrope to his belt, he set off once more, running between the tracks, heading south toward the guardhouse, the sled sliding smoothly along behind him.
THESLEDLAYto his right, hidden in the dense undergrowth. Above him, some twenty-five feet up the embankment, was the blockhouse, its windows lit up brightly. From where Ben lay, the assault rifle held against his chest, he could see that one of the windows was open. From within, music spilled out into the air. It was the Yueh Erh Kao, "The Moon on High."
For a moment he found himself distracted; found himself wondering what it was like to be a guard—a Han—here in this strange land, listening to this most Chinese of melodies, and thinking of home. Of China, half a world away. What did that feel like?
He listened, knowing that he was wasting time, but unable to move, the music touching him as it had never done before. Breaching him. He looked up, his eyes finding the pale circle of the moon, there, like a ghost in the early evening sky.
The moon. He closed his eyes and saw it, full and bright, like a hole in the darkness, and saw, at the same moment, its negative, there at the valley's far end, the Clay-men huddled beyond it, waiting to emerge.
The moon...
Opening his eyes, he felt a pain of longing pass through him. A longing to be something else—something other than he was. To be a Han, a river pirate, a Clayborn. To be ...
To be other than he was . . . Yes, that was it. That was what drove him on.
He turned slightly, looking out across the valley, for the briefest moment held by the beauty of what he saw. In the fading light, a flock of birds seemed to float in the air above the river, the tiny specks of their bodies folding back upon themselves time and again, like a veil fluttering in the breeze. How many times had he seen that? How many times had he looked and not seen the beauty in it?
The music ended. He turned back, beginning to climb. In the sudden silence he could sense the stillness of the valley all about him. Could feel it waiting, like a lover, for the darkness.
There was the murmur of voices from above. Han voices. And then music, the sound of strings and flutes—of p'i p'a, yueh ch'rn, ti tsu, and erhu—echoing out across the English valley, reminding Ben of that moment, eight years before, when Li Shai Tung had sat at table with them, his carved ivory face in strong contrast with the simple English-ness of everything surrounding him.
The world we've made, he thought, edging toward the open window.
He pulled himself up, slowly, carefully, until he stood there, his back to the wall, the window to his right. Again he waited, listening, letting the song play itself out. Then, in the silence that followed, he moved closer, looking in at an angle through the open window.