Peregrin Page 9

  Liz leaned close to Misty and whispered something.

  “I am not delusional!” said Miles. “I have a red Toyota Prius up in the mountains.”

  “Miles,” said Liz, gently. “Coming here is traumatic for all of us peregrins. Certainly was for me. And I didn’t have a soft landing like you … a place where I had time to adjust and people to take care of me. Stick around with us … least another day. Learn what you’re up against before you go traipsing off.”

  Misty and the others watched to see how he would respond. Miles felt all torn up inside. The anxiety of being stuck so far from home and work roiled his gut. But the prospect of going off on his own again chilled him, and all those scare stories about Cuasars lopping off heads didn’t help.

  “Do I have to sleep in that … goat latrine?” said Miles.

  “Miles, I told ya,” said Misty. “We’ll air it out. It’ll be scads better by tonight.”

  “And … can I get a change of clothes?” said Miles.

  Liz sized Miles up with her eyes. “What do you think, Tom?” she said. “He’s a mite taller than you.”

  “I don’t have much to spare,” said Tom. “My old rags are shredded.”

  “What about … Dad’s clothes?” said Ellie.

  “True,” said Liz, sighing. “Some of Bimji’s stuff might fit him.”

  Chapter 13: Smoke in the Valley

  Miles loped to the spring behind the house bearing a bundle of Bimji’s old shirts and breeches. A grooved tree trunk, acting as a miniature aqueduct, carried a trickle off a ledge and spilled it into a sandy pool. Miles washed his hair with a wad of greasy soap. He swabbed his strategic bits with a soggy and cold wad of homespun.

  The breeches were a tad short, the shirt a little too roomy. He wondered what had happened to their previous owner. The family seemed reluctant to talk about him. Raw grief, most likely, explained their reticence.

  He scrubbed his slacks and dress shirt as best he could and laid it over the rocks to dry. Ellie and Misty came by with an armload of rabbit snares.

  “You want lunch, you gotta work,” said Misty.

  “Trapping?” said Miles. “I don’t think so.”

  “What’s wrong?” she said. “You a vegetarian?”

  “I like meat just fine,” said Miles. “Just don’t like it staring back at me with big brown eyes.”

  “Go see Liz,” said Misty. “Maybe you can help her with the weeding.”

  Miles found Liz pushing a hand cart down the lane towards the fields. She paused by the goat shed and propped open the door.

  “Phew!” she said. “You weren’t kidding. This place is ripe.”

  “Dar I ask … what happened to the goats?”

  “They’re up in the high meadows,” said Liz. “The lower pastures go to pot in the dry season. So Asao and Elio—Bimji’s cousins—take turns watching them for us from a little cabin up in the hills. You’ll meet them when you walk the trap lines with Misty.”

  “I don’t do trap lines,” said Miles.

  “Oh no?” said Liz.

  “Misty said I could help you weed.”

  Liz looked at him with bemusement. Miles was certain she was poised on the verge of challenging or mocking him.

  “Sure,” she said. “Why not? Work is work.”

  They trundled past the sheds down to the terraced fields.

  “We’ll be bringing the goats down soon,” said Liz, her eyes scanning the fast-moving puffs of cloud overhead. “I feel the change of season coming. Wouldn’t surprise me if it rains tonight.”

  Miles took over the wheel barrow from Liz and followed her across an expanse of crusted soil, dark and moist deep within the cracks to a tangled patch of green growing beside a stream. She poked around the hand cart and passed Miles a blade with a hooked tip, sharpened only on the inside curve.

  “What is this?” said Miles.

  “Pick a row and start weeding,” she said, descending gingerly to the ground, stretching her bad leg behind her.

  Miles saw no evidence of rows. He saw a tangle of at least three different kinds of plants growing with equal vigor.

  “Which ones … are the weeds?” he said.

  Liz smirked. “Watch me.”

  Her hands moved deftly, the blade skimming just beneath the soil through the roots of the plants with narrow-bladed leaves, avoiding the squatter plants with broad leaves. When she finished a section, she raked with her fingers, sweeping away the weeds and tossing them in the barrow.

  “Voila,” she said.

  “Are those … beets?”

  “Yup,” said Liz.

  “Oh joy,” said Miles.

  He knelt and gave it a try. He wasn’t nearly as quick as Liz, and his blade claimed a few innocents at first, but he gradually acquired the knack and soon had a pile of weed carcasses accumulating beside him. As he worked along the row, he paused to admire the weed-free patches left in his wake. Not bad, he thought, for someone who had never gotten his hands dirty in a garden before.

  The monotonous work helped him absorb the events of the last day, not that he could make any sense of what happened. He was tempted not to heed these women’s warnings about Raacevo. For years his suburban mom had harangued him with scare stories about muggers in New York City. Yet that never dissuaded him from clubbing and gigging in some of the sketchiest parts of the city, with nary a mugging.

  Miles’ cell phone and radio gave him reason to hope. That conversation with his mother was no hallucination. This place was somehow connected with home, at least in places, like near his car. He wondered if he could get Misty and the kids to help him extract his Prius from the bog. Then he’d have some wheels to get about. Good thing he had filled the tank.

  An hour passed, and then another. They had passed their blades through the entire garden and another upstream by the time the sun had peaked. Miles knees were aching and a blood blister had formed on his thumb. He kept looking towards Liz, hoping she’d call for a break. But as long as Liz kept at it, so would he. He didn’t want her to think him soft.

  Miles kept looking back towards the cook shack. A thin wisp of smoke curled up and bent with the wind. In his mind he had most definitely earned himself at least another meal. But Liz kept weeding and braiding little onion-like bulbs onto the bunch she had already collected.

  A moan peeled from Miles’ stomach, turning Liz’s head.

  “Oh my, was that you?” said Liz.

  “Pardon me,” said Miles.

  “Finish these rows and we can head back. We’ll hit some of the other gardens after lunch. Thanks for the help, I appreciate it. It’s nice having another set of hands around.”

  Miles hustled through the next row. Though, still nowhere near as efficient as Liz, his skill had vastly improved from the hack job he had done earlier.

  “Will you look at those clouds?” said Liz. “They’re blowing in fast.” She heaved an armload of weeds into the hand cart. “This’ll do for now,” said Liz. “Let’s head up.”

  Miles took the handles of the cart and started back across the fields.

  “So how long have you been here?” said Miles.

  “Forever,” said Liz. “Or so it seems.”

  “Do you remember how you got here?”

  “A little fairy—”

  “For real,” said Miles.

  “I’d rather not think about it,” she said, with an edge to her voice.

  Miles sensed her anxiety level rising. “No problem,” he said. He changed the subject. “So what’s for lunch, do you suppose? Don’t say beets.”

  “Rabbit stew, if we’re lucky,” said Liz. “Ellie does up a nice one with ramps and greens. Otherwise, it’s back to porridge and beans.”

  “Wasn’t that what we had for breakfast?” said Miles.

  “It’s the end of dry season,” said Liz. “The larder’s kind of bare.”

  “Oh, what I’d give for a pizza right now,” said Miles, sighing.

  “Pizza?” said Li
z. “Here one day, and you’re already pining for pizza?”

  “My staple,” said Miles. “What can I say?”

  Liz sat up. “Misty does this thing with goat cheese you might like,” she said. “You’re gonna have to wait till harvest, though. There’s not much grain to spare from the seed stock.”

  “Thanks,” said Miles. ”But I’m heading down the street to Panarea’s soon as I get back.”

  “Get back?” said Liz.

  “That, and a hot fudge sundae from Carvel.”

  “Miles. You’ve only been here a day.”

  “Oh come on,” said Miles. “There must be something you miss. Living out here in the boonies?”

  “Not really,” said Liz. “I got everything I need.”

  “No treat you crave but can’t get?”

  “You’re a pest, Miles.” Liz’s eyes wandered up to the rocky pinnacle that loomed over the farm. “Salt licorice,” she said. “I can hardly remember what it tastes like. Just that I liked it ... a lot.”

  She stopped and faced Miles. “I realize you’re new, here. But you have to understand … there’s no going back. Gi is forever. The quicker you get that into your head, the faster you’ll adjust.”

  Her words had about as much effect on Miles’ ambitions as his mother’s warnings about the Bronx.

  ***

  After a lunch of crackers and hare, Miles slipped away to his quarters, while Liz sorted out the afternoon chores with Misty and the kids.

  Miles found sprigs of sweet pea and mint dangling from the rafters. They didn’t do much for the stench other than add more complexity to the aroma. The morning’s airing out hadn’t done much either.

  Miles found a whisk broom that looked like something a witch would ride and swept out more droppings and urine-tainted soil. Tom showed up just as he was thinking of settling in for a nap.

  “Come on,” said Tom. “You and me are going to go fix some walls.”

  Misty came out of a barn with two donkeys.

  “What’s Misty up to?” said Miles.

  “She’s going down to the woods,” said Tom. “To fetch firewood.”

  “Walls it is,” said Miles. He pushed the empty hand cart down the lane and they cut across to the stream just below the gardens Miles had weeded with Liz. Tom stopped beside a terrace wall that had collapsed at one corner, spilling soil onto the lower terrace.

  “If we don’t fix this, the rains will gully it up,” said Tom. The clouds had socked in thick and had already begun to spit. Wind howled across the heights.

  Miles helped him shovel out the breach until they had exposed the intact stonework. He and Tom and he rebuilt the wall stone by stone, tapping the flat slabs of limestone in place with a mallet. It was heavy work, but Miles preferred it to weeding.

  When they were done, Miles went to the rill and cupped a palm full of water to his lips. It chilled his teeth and numbed his throat. As Tom rinsed out the bed of the cart, Miles pulled his cell phone out of his pack. The chimes drew Tom’s attention.

  “Still no bars,” said Miles.

  Tom came for a closer look. “It’s … beautiful,” he said. “Can I hold it?”

  Miles snapped Tom’s photo and showed him the display.”

  Tom dragged a muddy, dripping finger over the screen and keypad.

  “Don’t get it wet!” Miles snatched it back. He turned it off and slipped it back into his pack. “Gotta save the battery.”

  “You have to show this to Ellie,” said Tom. “Would you?”

  “Of course,” said Miles. He slipped the phone back in his pack and pulled out the radio.

  “What’s that?”

  “It plays music and talk,” said Miles. “Doesn’t seem to work here, though.”

  Miles turned it on and pressed scan. Numbers cycled rapidly through the LCD and kept cycling over the entire range of frequencies – same as what happened when he tried it that morning and the night before.

  But then it locked on a frequency. A faint, scratchy signal came through. “WBZ news time 7:32. Stay tuned for traffic on the three’s.” Miles lurched to his feet. The signal disappeared. He tried twisting and turning every which way, but could not get it back.

  “Did you hear that?” he said, seeking confirmation that he hadn’t imagined it.

  “Yes,” said Tom. “That man. What does he say?”

  WBZ was no station Miles recognized from Greymore. But the five tone jingle rang a bell. Could it be one of those ionosphere-bounced signals he received only at night, like those Francophone hockey broadcasts from Quebec?

  “Do that again,” said Tom.

  “Can’t,” said Miles. “I lost it.”

  ***

  A steady drizzle sifted down. Miles left Tom with the hand cart and dragged himself back to the goat shed. He found his dress shirt and slacks laying dry and neatly folded on the bed. Someone had left a candle on a crate but nothing to light it with. He checked his pillow for a chocolate. No dice.

  Miles slid the door shut and peeled off his sweaty shirt and dusty pants and tossed them in a corner. He put his own clothes aside and changed into a clean set of hand-me-downs, including an undergarment that looked like a cross between a loin cloth and a miniskirt. The pants were baggy at the waist and thighs. The shirt was full of holes and way too short in the sleeves, but at least it was clean and soft as cotton against his skin.

  Mile stepped outside for some fresh air. His emergence made Ellie freeze in the middle of the lane, her eyes wide, chest heaving. She clutched her chest.

  “Those clothes!” she said. “You looked like Papa standing there.”

  “So … what ever happened to your dad?” said Miles.

  “We don’t know for sure,” said Ellie. “He was doing things with Nalkies.”

  “With what?”

  “Rebels,” said Ellie. “He told mom he’d quit. But I guess not. He went off to market and never came back.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” said Miles.

  “Tom said you made his picture,” said Ellie. “Can you … make mine?”

  “Um … sure,” said Miles. “The light’s getting a bit low, but it should be okay.”

  He went in and fetched the phone from the pack, turned it on.

  The coverage indicator flickered.

  “Whoa!”

  Ellie leaned closer. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” said Miles. “It just … looked like I had coverage for a second.”

  He snapped a dim photo of Ellie, her features lost in shadow, but it pleased her just as well.

  Misty came up from the lower terraces leading two donkeys loaded with kindling. “What’re y’all up to?” she said.

  “Pictures,” said Ellie.

  “Misty! You won’t believe this, but I had a bar on my phone,” said Miles.

  “A … bar?”

  “Not as strong as by my car, but it was there. I saw it.”

  “Bars on your cell phone?” She paused and cocked her head. “Are you pulling my leg?”

  “No,” said Miles, earnestly. “Not at all.”

  “Well, ain’t that something,” Misty said. She slapped the donkeys’ rumps and continued on.

  “Misty. This means … we can call for help.”

  She crinkled her brow at him. “Come on up, you two. Dinner should be ready,” she said, leaving Miles staring blankly at Ellie.

  “Thanks … for showing me,” said Ellie.

  Miles strolled with Ellie back to the house. Tom was sitting on the porch playing something strange on the mandolin. The music was nothing like Miles had ever heard: notes bent to the queerest microtones, a rhythm that stuttered and stalled and started up again.

  As usual, hearing any kind of music played by others made Miles miss being in a band. He sat across from Tom and watched him closely, strumming his fingers in time on a loose strand of wicker.

  “You look like you want to play,” said Tom, handing over the instrument.

  Liz b
arged out of the house and seized the mandolin out of Miles’ hands before he could pluck a single note. “Enough,” she said. “Got myself a raging headache.” She put the instrument down on a woodpile and continued on to the cook shack with a kettle to put on the hearth.

  Halfway there, she stopped abruptly. “My God!” She stared past the terraces, into the valley.

  Columns of black smoke rose beyond the trees from the cleft that held the river and the village that Miles had passed through on the way here.

  “That’s Sinta,” said Liz.

  “Not again,” said Tom. “They burned a hut down just the other day.”

  “This ain’t a hut, Tom,” said Liz. “It’s gotta be the whole damn village.”

  They all went to the edge of the porch and watched black pillars twine above the treetops. More smoke plumes appeared upstream.

  “Xama, too,” said Ellie, crossing the porch with an armload of bowls.

  The dogs were agitated. They ran up and down the lane, snapping and snarling at anything and nothing. Miles shifted his leg behind the rail.

  “Don’t worry,” said Misty. “They don’t dare come up here.”

  “They just might,” said Tom, stepping off the porch into the drizzle. He stared at the columns of smoke, his face grim. “This latest batch of Cuasars is nasty.”

  “I meant the dogs,” said Misty.

  “Ellie, go easy on the portions,” said Liz. “Something tells me we’re having company tonight.”

  Ellie passed out bowls containing a lump of gelatinous porridge with bits of roasted meat and onion embedded. It wiggled in a disturbing way in Miles’ mouth, but tasted wonderful. He would have gladly taken a second helping had Liz not slapped a lid over the cauldron and hauled it aside.

  Tom wolfed his portion down in a few gulps and shoved the empty bowl towards his sister. He got up and trotted off the porch.

  “Where’s he going?” said Liz, frowning.

  Miles leaned back in his chair to see Tom sprinting down the lane. He ducked into the goat shed. Miles had left his pack on the bed. Was Tom after his camera?

  “Ellie, go see what he’s up to,” said Liz.

  “Mom … I just filled my bowl.”

  “I’ll go,” said Miles. He had no reason to think that Tom would tamper with his stuff, but he would feel better securing his only connections to the world he left behind.

  Miles stepped off the porch. A gentle but insistent rain spattered his face.