Califia's Daughters (4 page)

The cave was still, the faces ruddy now with the last of the sun's rays. The eyes were all focused at a mythic place long removed from sight, when men were free to travel without heavily armed guards, free to risk life and limb doing dangerous jobs, a barely conceivable time when a boy child might wander away from his caretakers long enough to get himself lost and injured. The younger eyes wondered at it, half disbelieving. Kirsten's hooded eyes watched the faces of the girls and the women as each took a deep breath, their minds coming back to this cave, and she saw how every one of them, every pair of female eyes present, glanced quickly at one or another of their twenty-seven males, from sturdy little Jonathan, asleep in his mother's arms, to Peter, his beard now more than half gray, and Anthony, ancient among the men at sixty-two. The same every time—a quick glance, a touch of pain, of love, of blessing and fierce protection bestowed. These twenty-seven were the most valuable possessions the farm community had, and also the most vulnerable.

Every person there knew that if the party on the road wanted anything, it would be the Valley's men.

         

It was nearly dusk when Susanna burst through the door of the veranda where Judith was trying to rest, to deliver Jeri's message that the wagons had cleared the last hill before the Valley entrance. Judith pushed her daughter gently back out the door and went to find Dian, only to meet her halfway to the house. The two women, walking shoulder to shoulder, came through the gate beneath the walnut tree and made their way down the once-paved road in the twilight. The noises of the night were starting up, the whir of crickets filling the Valley; the sun's final rays were brushing the tips of the highest trees on the cave's hillside. The night air lay sweet and dusty and warm around them. The dogs that flowed around the two women were attentive and glad for an evening out, knowing only that some form of excitement was in the air. Dian whistled them back from the millpond but let them run on ahead to the lights and cooking smells that waited on the other side of the bridge.

Culum alone stayed with Dian, walking at her hip so her left hand brushed his massive shoulders. It was their usual position, especially when something was up, as if physical contact was a necessary element in the partnership. Judith, glancing over at Dian's expression and then down at Culum's equally intent face, hid a smile. The dog would not move from Dian's side all night. Unless his teeth were needed, she corrected herself, the smile fading. A hundred eighty pounds of muscle, teeth, and brain made for a weapon more effective than the bow in Dian's other hand.

In the meadow, the lamps were lit and hung, the big boilers gurgling to themselves. Dian checked the defenses, adjusting the arrangements slightly to her satisfaction: a half-circle of women with Judith in the center, Dian and the other archers to the sides, the rifles above and behind. As she took up her own position to the right of the greeting committee, bow strung and arrow nocked, she wondered if the others were as conscious as she of the uncomfortable overtones of meeting here, in the ground where the messiest of slaughtering tasks were done. The echoes of pig squeals and the whish of knives over whetstones seemed to tremble in her ears.

Silence gathered and spread across the meadow. A huge orange moon raised its head over the protecting hills, lighting the road beyond the reach of the lamps. The women took up their positions, the dogs arrayed for maximum effect. The short wait began.

Suddenly the sound of harnesses and hooves rang through the still air. As they drew near, Dian was hit by a spasm of apprehension: they had made the wrong decision—they should have remained in hiding until these people declared themselves. Culum whined softly, searching for the enemy she was feeling; she nudged his side comfortingly with her knee and fought the urge to step back into the shadows. One of the women beside her had unconsciously moved until she was slightly in front of Judith, protecting her and the life she carried. The strange outriders were staying close to their wagons, although they could undoubtedly see the lighted welcome party ahead.

Dian moved into the center of her dogs, the better to control them. They were alert now, aware of why they were here at this strange gathering. They sat on their haunches, the five animals, and waited with their humans.

The wagons were only a hundred yards away when Culum reacted. Culum, who left Dian's side only when commanded, who formed her other half, who had not disobeyed a command since he was six months old; Culum rose to his feet, hunch-shouldered and intent, staring at the first wagon as if he could see through its sides. His hackles bristled huge across his shoulders and down his spine, and Dian readied her bow: in a moment he would begin his war-croon, and then all hell would be loosed, but abruptly, with Dian's warning shout nearly to her lips, his head came up, his ears pricked, and his ruff began to subside; his tail even waved experimentally. Dian told him to sit. He twitched one ear and ignored her—
Culum
ignored her. And then, to her utter disbelief, the dog set off at a brisk, swinging trot down the road and got as far as Judith before Dian found her voice. Her outraged command cracked through the air like a whip.

Culum stopped, looked over his shoulders at her, and slowly, reluctantly, settled down onto his haunches, giving an audible sigh as he did so. He sat with one eye on her, head cocked, deliberate patience in every line of his powerful body. He was humoring her, she saw with amazement, putting up with her human shortcomings. Okay, he was saying. She had the right to order him around, but in his opinion she was being very stupid. Dian, meeting his gaze, only half-heard the approaching wagons. She had trusted Culum with her life before this; she would trust him now.

“Okay, if you say so,” she told him. He stood with an air of satisfaction and trotted off eagerly to meet the strangers. Dian kept the other dogs where they were.

The first of the riders had come within hailing distance of the standing half-circle when her words of greeting were strangled by the sight of this huge animal trotting down the center of the road. Her horse shied and cribbed against the bit as Culum went past, but not until he neared the wagon did the rider reach with an oath for her rifle scabbard, then in the next instant draw back her hand and shout in an unnecessarily loud order to her people that nobody was to move.

Culum stared up at the now stationary wagon, completely ignoring the white-faced driver in his interest at what lay within. The woman nearly fell off her perch to the ground five feet below when Culum, tired of waiting, rose up easily onto his hind legs to rest his front paws on the driver's seat, peering into the closed canvas interior behind her. Dian had a moment to wonder at the woman's dedication to duty before a movement within shifted the wagon and caused Culum to draw back and thump down on all fours to the ground, looking up expectantly, tail wagging furiously. The wagon shifted again, and a low murmur came from within. Dian's nocked arrow raised itself marginally, and in the trees around her, the fingers on four triggers tensed.

One arm lifted the flap, and the driver hastily moved aside. The top of a glossy black head of hair appeared, followed by a large booted foot, a trousered leg, and a pair of startlingly wide shoulders. Then the rest of the figure emerged, unfolding itself until it stood upright on the front of the wagon, where it raised a face to the armed women and the lights.

A face that was dark with stubble.

“Holy Mother of God,” someone whispered hoarsely into the shocked silence. “It's a man.”

THESE WOMEN HAD ENERGETIC BODIES AND COURAGEOUS, ARDENT HEARTS,
AND THEY WERE VERY STRONG.

T
HREE

D
IAN STARED WITH THE REST OF THEM AT THE SIGHT,
telling her eyes that she was indeed seeing a strange man climbing down from the wagon and gingerly patting the tawny head Culum thrust against his chest.

“They must be insane,” she muttered. The only males she had ever seen on the road were the occasional lunatics such as Crazy Isaiah, the self-proclaimed prophet who usually spent some days in the Valley every spring on his southbound migration. She'd heard of large caravans of armed women protecting one or more men being transferred between towns or rich families, seen lesser versions on the safe roads near Meijing, but a male, apparently sane and whole, escorted by less than two dozen women through the wilderness? Unheard of.

And the shocks for the evening were not over. The man turned his back on Culum to reach up to the wagon. A small figure slipped through the canvas, helped by the driver to climb down into the man's arms. The child's features were delicate, but this was clearly a boy, four or five years of age. A beautiful, apparently healthy male child, smiling a bit dubiously at the hairy face of the dog that snuffled at his knee, extending a finger to touch Culum's prominent eyebrows.

The man, quite aware of the effect the two of them had on the women in the clearing, finally raised his head and looked around him. His eyes first sought out Judith, then went to Dian with the other dogs at her feet; when he spoke, his voice was as calm and anticlimactic as his words:

“My son seems to like your dog.”

The words broke the spell that had held the meadow in stasis. A murmur arose from the women around Judith. The lead rider pried herself out of the saddle to walk stiffly forward. Although she did not appear to be armed, she sensibly kept her hands in clear sight and stopped well away from Judith.

“My name is Miriam,” she began formally. “This is my brother Isaac and his son, Teddy. We come to you from the Oregon Territories, on a matter of great importance for both of our communities. I ask that we be allowed to impose on you, as uninvited guests, for a few days. We still have a fair amount of our own provisions, although we do have an urgent need for a doctor or healer, if you have one.” Here her voice slid from its formality. “Two of us were badly wounded yesterday, and I'm afraid—” She caught herself, and after a steadying breath, continued. “We'll be happy to follow your requests regarding your security and will leave our weapons wherever you wish. I am sorry to have given you no forewarning of our arrival, but I think you'll understand why we couldn't when we have a chance to talk.” She stopped, obviously so exhausted she could only follow a prepared text.

Judith turned to look at Dian, imperceptibly raising her eyebrows and pointing her chin in the direction of the main house up the hill. Dian looked again at the wagons, the ten mounted riders, the man, the boy, and finally at Miriam. She made her decision and lowered her bow to address the woman.

“If the wagons and weapons remain here, we would be happy to welcome you as guests.” She watched closely for any sign of hesitation in Miriam's response, but saw only a relief so great it threatened to release her fatigue completely. Judith saw it too and stepped in.

“We have prepared food and drink for you. Would you like to take it here or up at the house?”

Miriam grinned, and Dian was suddenly conscious of the rich odors and long, laden tables; the strangers must be drooling.

“I don't think any of us craves a roof over our heads enough to wait while this is moved. We've had nothing but cold food for two days, for fear of stopping on that last part of the road.”

“You were right to fear it,” said Judith. “We never take wagons through there if we can avoid it. You were fortunate to have made it through with only two wounded, considering . . . considering the burden you carry. But here, have your riders turn their horses into the pen; Carmen will see to them. Our healer is on her way, so if your people would like to wash—there's hot water in there—and then to food and drink, we can see to your wounded.”

While Miriam conferred with the man and gave orders to the women, Dian remained where she was and took it all in. The wagons were battered, of course, with the long journey and the attack, but beneath the wear they were well-fitted and sturdy, of clean craftsmanship without unnecessary weight or decoration. The same might be said of the people they carried—competent, healthy individuals beneath the weariness and the unusual circumstances. She watched the man and boy make their way to the wash building, all her dogs now accompanying them and the women beginning to fall in behind. She caught Judith's eye and shook her head in amazement.

“It's like something out of one of Kirsten's stories, men wandering around practically on their own. What can it be about? Well, let them eat and rest first. But I'm going to make the rounds of the sentries. It smells less and less like a trap, but my nose could be numb, following that.” She jerked her head to indicate the two males and turned to watch the entourage disappear into the shed. She shook her head again and slipped into the night.

The second wagon had been driven closer to the lights, and when Judith went around the back she found a lamp hanging inside and Miriam and Ling, the healer, bent over a still form lying atop some blanket-covered crates. Even before she climbed in, Judith could see that the woman was seriously wounded; up close, her color was bad, her breathing ragged, and the blankets in which she was wrapped saturated with blood, some of it new and wet. The smell lay hot and cloying in the small canvas space. Another woman watched dully from under a bandaged head as the three of them grimly assessed the damage. Ling looked up at Judith.

“I'll have to take her up to the infirmary.”

Judith nodded. “Get Carmen to drive you up, and take one or two others as well, to help you carry them in. She'll have to bring the wagon back down—Dian doesn't want it up there.” She looked at Miriam, and asked, “You'll stay down here?” Seeing the woman's look of anxious indecision she said, “We'll join them within the hour if you feel all right about leaving her. Ling is a fully qualified healer, a very good one. She's from Meijing, and trained there.”

“Yes, I thought so. I couldn't do anything for Jenn anyway, so, yes, I'll stay here.”

“Do you know her blood type?” asked Ling.

“Type? No, but one of the others—”

“Find out. She could use a transfusion, and it'd save time if I didn't have to do a test.”

“I'll go now,” she said, and climbed out the front of the wagon. She was back in two minutes. “B positive, fairly sure.”

“Good,” said Ling, and to Judith, “I'll take Hanna and Kila with me; they can carry her in and stick around to be drained. Two of our B positives,” she told Miriam.

“Take Susanna too,” suggested Judith. “She'll be happy to help with the needles, and she can be your runner if you need anything.”

“Fine. Let's go, before this woman turns white.” Miriam bade a few hasty words of encouragement to the conscious woman before clambering with Judith out the back of the wagon. Judith rounded up the four individuals and sent them up the hill with the wagon, then gestured Miriam toward the sounds of cutlery and plates and the beginnings of conversation. Miriam glanced down at Judith's waistline and asked the question that spanned the ages.

“When are you due?”

“Another seven or eight weeks,” she said, and continued with more information than Miriam would ask for. “This is my third time. You've seen my daughter, the girl in the wagon.”

Miriam did not look surprised at this unwonted gift of intimacy, Judith noted, and she had manners enough not to ask about the other pregnancy: lost or healthy male, neither was her business.

“A blessing on your life” was all she said, a phrase that covered both Judith and the life she carried. Judith found herself warming to the woman.

The next hour was primarily a matter of fueling bodies and relaxing tense muscles, guests and hosts alike settled on benches before the long tables. An unstated agreement had been reached to set aside explanations and questions while more urgent matters were dealt with. Underneath, however, testing and probing was going on. Watching each other eat and drink and listening to apparently inconsequential talk made for the beginnings of understanding. Those seated near the man and boy, though too polite to gawk, nonetheless missed none of their words or gestures, and there was quite a bit of casual coming and going in the vicinity of that table.

By the time the guests reached their thick wedges of berry pie awash in equally thick cream, conversation was flowing more easily, helped no doubt by the mugs of beer that had gone down the thirsty throats. The moon lit the Valley and the lamps gave an air of festivity, and it was some time before Judith noticed Dian leaning against the shed with a plate in her hands, looking on as usual. Although, on closer look, she was alone; that was not as usual. Judith excused herself (her place across from Miriam was filled the instant she stood up) and went to join Dian.

“Where's Culum?” she asked.

“Lying on the boy's feet,” Dian answered around a mouthful of food.

Judith looked more closely and, indeed, the table seemed to have been built over a pale boulder shape. “I hope he doesn't stand up under that table.”

“Everyone has good reflexes,” Dian answered. And the platters were nearly empty, anyway. “So, what do you think?”

“They seem a good lot. Exhausted, of course. My curiosity's killing me, but it's sure to be a long and complicated story, and Kirsten and the others will have to hear it too. I was thinking I might let Miriam off the hook tonight and set up a general meeting at the house first thing in the morning. Would that be okay with you?”

Dian grinned, her teeth dark with berries. “Of course not! I'll lie awake all night wondering, just like you will. But you're right, it'd be cruel to keep them up in the state they're in. In fact, I figured you might decide to put it off, so I asked Lenore to arrange for some beds. I thought Miriam and the man and boy should go in the big house with you, but I had them scatter our other . . . guests around, one or two to a house. I don't want them all together. And I'm also keeping the sentries at double strength for the next couple of days.” She glanced up at a burst of laughter from the tables surrounding Isaac, and smiled wryly. “Just because we like them doesn't mean we should be stupid. Oh, yes—tell them they're all going to be searched before they go up. Jeri and Laine will do it. I've told them to be polite about it but thorough.”

“If you think it's necessary. Where will you be?”

“Oh, around,” Dian said vaguely.

“I can imagine. Anyway, that sounds fine. We'll probably finish here in about half an hour. I'm sure Miriam will want to check on her two wounded as soon as she can.”

“Tell her that I helped Ling—and Susanna, so I'm sure you'll hear every detail—take out the arrowhead, and with the help of some of your precious ice we got the bleeding stopped. Ling was just starting a transfusion when I left. And I went up to the caves and let everyone know that they'd probably be able to come down first thing in the morning. Kirsten told them stories for a while, and they're settling down for the night—they didn't seem terribly disappointed that we weren't calling them back instantly. Can't think why.”

Judith laughed, grateful for the relief of humor. It was true, the alerts that sent the people to the cave might be serious affairs, but the enforced leisure made it a social occasion as well, a dramatic break from the grinding toil of daily life. And as Dian had noted that morning, there was usually a higher than average number of babies born forty weeks later.

Judith went back to the table to reassure Miriam about her wounded rider and about her chances for a solid night's sleep before having to account for herself. The party broke up shortly after that, the participants trudging wearily up the road to their beds by the light of the swinging lamps.

Dian squatted in the shadow of the mill, her unstrung bow cradled loosely against her side as she studied the passing strangers. One of them looked in her direction, a small blond woman with the sharp features of a vixen—but when the stranger glanced away again, Dian decided that she'd just been curious about the mill itself.

No one else showed any interest in her, but she examined them closely, marking the great fatigue in their shoulders and awkwardness in empty hands accustomed to holding weapons. In Miriam she saw the beginnings of relief, as of one slowly straightening after setting down a heavy burden, and she wondered at it. In the man Isaac she noted again his awareness of the subtle currents around him and a calm acceptance of his place in those currents. There was also great affection in the way he held the now-sleeping child, chest to chest, one thin shoulder tucked under the man's stubbled chin, two sandaled feet dangling free. Judith's face she glimpsed in the wavering lamplight, listening to Miriam. Judith, too, looked relieved beneath her chronic look of strain, as well as preoccupied—no doubt speculating, along the same lines as Dian, how this group was going to affect the Valley. And finally, Dian looked at the dogs. She trusted her dogs as she trusted few humans, and the animals seemed to like these strangers. Culum especially had formed an immediate bond with the child, Teddy, which fact interested Dian greatly. Even now he walked at the man's side, so close that his rough coat occasionally brushed the boy's naked leg. She stayed silent and still until all the guests and the last of their escorts had disappeared behind the high corn, and then she stood, stretched her tired muscles, and walked up the solitary road in the moonlight.

         

The next morning dawned blue and gold, with a sure promise of heat. Those who had spent the night in the cave came down at first light, and the sun coming over the surrounding hilltops found them at chores and sitting down to early breakfast tables, chattering excitedly but at low volume, so as not to awaken these intriguing visitors. There were frequent glances cast up at the main house, in hopes of seeing the man or the boy, but as yet all was quiet.