Arslan (32 page)

It was a wholesome feeling. I had made the elementary discovery that marked, perhaps, the beginning of maturity as of childhood:
This is myself. I am separate
.

Through that month, knowing that he would go but not knowing how soon, I schooled myself for his departure. It was educational. I understood now how deeply I had counted on his return, and what little grounds I had had to expect it. Like a jilted lady of romance, I had staked my life on the farthest of outside chances, resigned myself with enthusiasm to a oneway journey into the ultimate pale realms of fantasy. He had come and halted me. He had put a body of solid flesh into my bed—and if it was not his body, it was all the more certainly real. He had come, and refocused the world for me, and he would go again. So far was certain. But not even the most heterodox predicted a third coming.

PART THREE
Franklin L. Bond

Chapter 22

I came downstairs one morning before sunrise and heard movements in the kitchen. The dog had barked earlier, but not as though something was wrong. Still, it wasn't often Hunt was up before me, and these days anything was possible, so I came along as quietly as I could and just looked around the corner of the door.

“Good morning, sir.”

It was Sanjar. He stood beside the window, looking very straight and small. It was too dark to see his face, and he had grown, but I knew him by his voice and the way he held himself. “Where's Arslan?”

“Not very far from here. He wants to know if you can hide us for about two weeks.”

I came in and reached for the candle we kept on the table. The cracks of the stove showed red; Sanjar must have built up the fire.

“No light yet,” he said, and as neat as you please he whisked the candle up before my fingers touched it, and stepped back out of reach behind the table. “Nobody must know except you and Hunt.” He hesitated. “Arslan wants me to tell you he's
asking
you. He wants me to tell you he says, ‘Please.'” He held the candle clasped against his chest.

“What's the trouble?”

“It's not trouble. We're on our way north, Arslan and me. We just need a place to rest awhile.” He set the candle down again, but he didn't let go of it.

“Who's he hiding from?”

Again he hesitated a little, before he said coldly, in his sweet, boy voice, “That's the message. I've got to give him your answer.”

“Sanjar,” I said, “take it easy. You know I can't give you an answer that means anything till you tell me a whole lot more. Now sit down and let me get you a drink of milk.”

“No, thanks.” But I heard him swallow.

“Well, sit down, anyway. Don't worry, I'm not asking you to give away any secrets. But I've got to know what happens if I say yes, and what happens if I say no.” He sat down. “Now I'm going to slice us some bread.” In the darkness I didn't want to make any sudden moves he might interpret as hostile. He was only a child; but he was Arslan's child, and he was keyed up.

“If you say no,” he said softly, “we'll go someplace else, that's all. If you say yes, I'll go get Arslan and we'll stay upstairs—or anywhere you want to put us. We can keep quiet. It'd be probably ten days.” He paused. “We think nobody knows where we are.”

It was two years since they'd been in Kraftsville—seven, if you didn't count the month-long stopover on their way to South America, or wherever they really went. I wondered who the somebody was that had reduced Arslan to a fugitive in that time.

“And what if somebody finds out?”

He took a piece of bread from my hand. “Then you might get hurt. But it's not likely.” He munched hungrily, but even so he was quiet about it.

“I'll tell you, Sanjar. If anybody came looking for you, this is about the first place they'd look. That's one thing. Another thing is, this is Hunt's home, too, and I can't speak for him. But the main thing is, I'm not even going to consider it unless I know what's going on—why he wants to come here and what he's planning to do. And maybe you can't tell me that.”

He put the bread down on the table and stood up. “No, sir,” he said, but he didn't move to leave.

I stood up, too, and came around the table to him in three steps. “Who's after him, Sanjar? Where are his troops?” I took him by the left arm. “What's going to happen in ten days?”

He was Arslan's child, all right. Absolutely before I knew he was moving, I felt a hair-light touch on my wrist, and looking down in the dimness I saw the dull gleam of the knife in his right hand. “Nobody's after him,” he said steadily. “His troops are north of here. In ten days he'll be rested enough to go on.”

I didn't let go of my hold. “What's happened? Why all the sneaking and hiding and begging favors? That's not like Arslan.”

I felt the knife-edge quiver against my wrist, but his voice was still steady. “He's disbanded the armies.”

“What armies?”

“All of his armies. All of them.”

“You just said his troops are north of here.”

“Those are irregulars.”

I shook his arm just a little. “What's happening up north of here, Sanjar?”

“There's a battle to be fought,” he said evenly. “Maybe more than one. Now, that's all I'm going to tell you. If you don't let go of my arm in thirty seconds, I'll cut you.”

“Will you listen to me a minute if I let go?”

“Yes.”

I dropped my hand. “You can tell Arslan this: I'm willing to hide
you
, Sanjar, for this ten days or so, but before I decide to hide
him
, I'd have to talk to him face to face.”

“I'll tell him.” He started melting away towards the window, but halfway there he stopped, silently poised. I listened, and heard Hunt's footsteps on the stairs.

It only took a few words; Hunt was always quick to understand a situation when he wanted to. “Where is he?” His voice was rough with eagerness.

“Not far from here,” Sanjar said quickly.

“Is he wounded?”

“No.”

“Are you on foot?”

“No. Got a horse down the road.”

“Wait a minute while I saddle up.”

“No, Hunt.” The difference in their ages didn't matter, no more than it would have between brothers. They talked straight at each other, on the same level. “He told me to come back alone.”

Hunt hesitated. “You'll bring him here, then.”

“I'll tell him what both of you say.”

Hunt whipped around to me, looking for someplace to take out his frustration. “He's
disbanded
the armies! I assume you know what that means. Can't you perform one generous act in your life?”

“Sure I know. He said himself there'd be revolts.”

Sanjar stepped between us, lifting his face towards mine. “Listen, Mr. Bond, I'll tell you something.” He spoke fast and low, every word stinging clear. “He disbanded the armies because he was through with them. He's done exactly everything he planned to, one hundred percent. There's some trouble, yes. I can't tell you what, I'm under orders; but he's going to stop it. We got word some of his old troops are gathering, up north of here. He wants to get there before it comes to a battle. Sir, he
needs
rest. Sir"—he seemed to grow an inch or two with sheer intensity—"do you think Arslan would be asking you just for—for
fun
?”

“I wouldn't expect it, but I can imagine it. What I can't understand is Arslan rushing north to stop a battle.”

“Stop it?” he cried, surprised. “No, sir—win it!”

I had to laugh. “All right, and after he wins his battle, Sanjar—then what?”

He didn't answer. Maybe he was considering what to say, or more likely it hadn't really occurred to him, up to now, that time would go on beyond the next battle. I put my hands on his shoulders and felt the skin-and-bones of him through his shirt. “Is it Nizam?” He didn't say anything, but his shoulders stiffened. So Nizam was making his bid to take over—Nizam with his wolfs face, Nizam who had carried Sanjar in his arms and sworn to avenge Arslan's death by annihilating Kraft County. Another proverb turned out to be right—thieves’ honor. I let go of the boy and stepped back. “All right. Tell Arslan to come. I'll hide him.”

He swayed toward me a little—from gratitude, maybe, or else faintness—and then he sprang to the open window and poured over the sill like a shadow. We both looked cautiously after him. I saw him once, already near the shed, before he disappeared. “That's quite a boy,” I said.

“Which room are you putting them in?” Hunt asked briskly.

We talked about that, and decided inevitably on Arslan's old room. The window was a reasonably good escape hatch, and they could hear something of what went on in the living room and keep an eye on the street and the Morrisville road. I went upstairs to get things ready, and Hunt went out to the wellhouse to fetch milk and butter and eggs and a bucket of fresh water.

I got back to the kitchen just in time to see them come through the window—a beautiful performance. Hunt stood by the cabinet, with his hands full of dishes. Arslan came straight on into the middle of the room and stood there like the king of the mountain. “Good morning, General,” I said.

“Good morning, sir.” He turned to Hunt. “Bring me food upstairs. Sanjar will help you.” This was his greeting after two full years of absence. I was a little sorry I hadn't decided to keep him in the shed. He passed me, heading straight for the stairs, with Sanjar hurrying in front. I followed, and Hunt trailed mutely after.

Pale daylight poured down the stairwell, and for the first time I got a good look at him. In the dark he was definitely Arslan, but I didn't know whether I'd have recognized him in the light, except by the crippled hand. He was sunburned nearly black, and he wasn't just thin, he was shrunken, like a fugitive from a prison camp. “You've been sick.”

He laughed huskily. “I
am
sick. This is why I have begged your bed, sir. You need not worry. It is not contagious, and I will not die on your hands. Not this time, at least. I want two things only, rest and nourishment.” He grabbed the bannister with his crippled hand, swinging from it like a boy swinging around a lightpole. Sanjar was halfway up the stairs, leaning anxiously on that same bannister. Arslan grinned at me like a death's head, swung himself back to the stairs, and mounted them slowly, with steady steps. Sanjar waited, all but quivering, till he reached him, and hovered at his elbow the rest of the way up. Hunt slipped past me and followed. They didn't need me. I went back to the kitchen to wait for breakfast.

Sanjar was right; it was ten days, almost to the hour. They had come through the kitchen window in the dawn of a Monday morning; and a week and a half later, a little before the dawn of the Thursday, they went quietly through the back door. Arslan brushed against me in the darkness, and I felt the heat of his lean body, still fired from the fourth bout of fever since he came. It had been a nervous ten days, but quiet. There were no alarms. He slept; slept night and day, apparently. Sanjar stood guard over him like a tame tiger. He ate. Maybe ten times a day and three or four in the night, Sanjar would materialize in the kitchen to carry away a bowl or plate full of the nourishing messes that Hunt continually stirred up. And in those ten days I never once saw Arslan. It was like having a ghost for a tenant. All the news of his progress came through Hunt from Sanjar. Hunt had washed and ironed Arslan's clothes, such as they were—the threadbare blouse and pantaloons of a peon. Sanjar had washed his own, in stages, borrowing a pair of Hunt's pants while his dried in the basement, belting them in to fit and rolling up the legs so that he looked like a boy playing pirate.

And now Arslan, hot with his fading fever but steady on his legs, brushed past me in the dark, and Sanjar slid through the door like a breath of night wind. Hunt stood shoulder to shoulder with me, occupying the space Arslan had vanished through. “I'm going,” he said conversationally. “Maybe I'll be back. Thanks.”

I stopped him with an arm across the door. “What are you talking about?”

“I'm going with Arslan.” He paused. “I didn't ask him. I'm not asking you. I own the horse.” Then, Huntlike, “You can make a note of anything I owe you. If I live long enough, I'll be back to work it off.”

“You don't owe me anything, Hunt.” I dropped my arm. “Good luck. Come back.”

“Thanks.” He passed me into the night. I watched till the three horses moved out of the shed, shadows in darkness, and then I closed the door and turned back into the lightless house.

The truth was that I missed Hunt. For one thing, I cared about him. And for another, he had been
there
, a human presence in the house. Now, for literally the first time in my life, I was living alone.

When Luella died, it was a terrific blow to me. And yet there was something in my feeling that surprised me. It was a while before I could even admit to myself what it was, and it was this, that I felt only a very little personal grief. As far as Luella herself was concerned, my overriding feeling was thankfulness that she had gotten out of it as easily as anybody could in these times. In the past years I'd watched her getting tireder and tireder, more and more discouraged and resigned, and I had grieved for that. Now the grief was relieved.

No, the real blow was entirely practical and selfish. Luella had kept everything running smoothly. No wonder she'd been tired. She had cooked and canned, washed and ironed, sewed and mended, swept and dusted and scrubbed, built fires and carried water; and hardest of all, she had coordinated all of those things, so that we never lacked for anything it was in her power to provide. And on top of everything else, she had helped with the garden and the chickens and the cow. She was even more a part of my life than I'd ever known.

The day after we buried her in the old Cedar Hill cemetery, I walked into the kitchen for the first time since she'd died. It was a real shock. The sink was piled full of dirty dishes. There were dirty pans on the stove and dirty napkins wadded up on the table. The whole place smelled of garbage and burned grease. “Hunt!” I yelled. He came in hastily from the dining room. “Look at this filthy mess! How did it happen?”