Dies the Fire (89 page)

“Pamela Arnstein, our swordmistress—fencing instructor—and historian.”

“Also the vet and horse doctor,” she said. Her accent was Californian, like Dennis's.

Juniper let herself smile as she introduced her people in turn.

“This way,” she said when the introductions were done. “Doubtless you've seen our wall—”

“Very impressive,” Havel said, sounding like he meant it.

She nodded, proud, and even more proud of the cabins built against its inner surface; that meant every family living here had its own hearth at last. The rest of the four-acre plateau held the two-story Hall, flanked by two near-identical structures, an armory on one side and a school-library-guesthouse on the other. And sheds, workshops and storehouses, log-built on stone foundations.

It all looked a lot neater now that they'd had time to clean up the litter and lay flagstone paths to connect the buildings. Open space lay at the rear of the U, used for everything from soccer matches to public meetings, with another blockhouse tower to watch over the gully that separated the plateau from the hillside behind.

“This is where we started,” she said. “There was nothing here but my cabin and some sheds, back before the Change.”

Havel's brows rose; she could see that he was impressed again. “Log construction goes fast, but that's a hell of a lot of timber to cut, considering everything else you had to do.”

Dennis cut in: “Lady Juniper's luck—Cascade Timber Inc. felled a couple of thousand trees before the Change, and hadn't gotten around to hauling the timber out. We just dragged it out and set it up.”

Juniper nodded. “We've got other sites fortified pretty much like this, except that they're down in the flats,” she said. “Dun Carson, Dun McFarlane and Dun Laughton—where the other septs of the clan are based.”

Signe Larsson chuckled. When Juniper looked over at her, the younger woman said:

“It reminds me of a story I heard once, about some Scottish pirates who retired and settled down. They built three towns—Dunrobbin', Dunrovin', Dunleavin'.”

 

 

 

“God, Mike, they have a
salad bar
!” Signe Larsson said, licking her lips. “Come
on,
Pam, give me a hand! That'll make three between us.”

“Get me some too, would you,
askling
?” Havel said. “I won't say I'd kill for a green salad, but I'd certainly
maim.
”

She bounced up eagerly. “And this is the man who said a Finnish salad started with a dozen sausages,” she cast over her shoulder.

“Impressive spread,” Havel went on to his hostess.

Juniper nodded with what she thought was a pardonable smile of pride at the setting as well as the meal. During the rebuilding they'd taken all the interior partitions out of the first floor of her old cabin, save for the cubicle around the bathrooms; the kitchens were gone too, replaced by a long lean-to structure along the rear of the building with salvaged woodstoves and clan-built brick hearths.

That made it easier to use the ground floor of the Hall for public occasions; tonight tables along the rear wall held the food, and clansfolk and guests sat along the outer perimeter elsewhere; the old fireplace was freestanding now, crackling and adding a reddish glow to the butter-yellow of the kerosene lamps. Holly and ivy festooned the walls, to invite the Good Folk in and bring luck; there were baskets of apples and hazelnuts laid in evergreen boughs, twined with wheat stalks and dusted with flour. Above the hearth where the huge Yule log burned were candles: red, green, white for the season; green and gold and black for the Sun God; and white, red and black for the Great Goddess.

And a big barrel had been set up, full of water and thick with apples.

“Bobbing for apples?” Havel said.

Juniper grinned. “Symbolizing the apples of eternal life,” she said. More gravely: “After the past year, we need reminders.”

Two roast wild pigs and a haunch of venison held pride of place on either side of it, and roast chicken and barons of beef. But there were heaps of greens as well, the last of the winter gardens: tomatoes, onions, peppers, steamed cauliflower and broccoli, boiled carrots, mashed turnips, potato salad with scallions and homemade mayonnaise, and potatoes grilled with pepper and garlic, mashed and whipped . . .

For dessert there were fresh fruit and dozens of pies, apple and blueberry and strawberry with rhubarb—honey sweetener instead of sugar, although next year they might be able to cultivate some sugar beets. There was even whipped cream, now that they had a decent dairy herd.

Dennis had the product of his brewery—it was getting a bit large to call it a micro—set up in barrels, along with the mead and wine and applejack.

Juniper waved a hand. “Yule is a major holiday, of course, and . . . well, right after the Change, we—my original bunch—just planted every garden seed we could get, regardless. So did most of the people around here, the ones who joined us later. Things were very tight until about June, and we're storing all we can, but you can't keep lettuce or green peppers, and we might as well eat the last of them while they're here. Things will be a lot more monotonous again come January and February.”

Monotonous, but ample,
she thought with profound satisfaction.

The thought of the storehouses and cellars full of wheat and barley and oats, of potatoes and cabbages and dried tomatoes and dried fruit and onions and parsnips and turnips and beets, of the herds and flocks in paddock and byre and pigpen, the full chicken coops, gave her a warm glow she'd never known before the Change. She'd never cared much about money, but hunger and hard work had taught her what real wealth was; it was being full and knowing you could eat well every coming day to next harvest—and that the seed for that harvest was safely in the ground.

Havel nodded. “You're certainly doing very well,” he said.

The buzz of conversation rose to a happy roar as people filled their plates and made their way back to the seats. There were a hundred adults here, and many of the older children—the youngsters were over in the schoolhouse building, having their own dinner.

Dorothy Rose, their piper, strode up and down the open space within the tables, making what the charitable or extremely Scottish would consider music.

“You know why pipers walk up and down like that while they play?” Juniper asked.

Havel shook his head; so did Signe, back with a heaped plate, followed by Pam with two more.

“To get away from the music, of course,” Juniper said.

They both laughed, although that didn't slow down their eating; roast pork with applesauce, she noticed, as well as the salads and steamed vegetables. She'd scattered the other Bearkillers among the people at the high table; Astrid was deep in conversation with Eilir again, catching up on all they'd missed in two weeks' separation.

When the plates were cleared, the children filed out.

“This is our . . . well, sort of a school play,” she said.

The leads were Mary, Sanjay and Daniel. Mary got to play the Goddess with tinsel woven into her mahogany hair, as the Crone, while Sanjay was the Holly King, slain by the Oak King in a dramatic duel with wooden swords; the Goddess held a wand out over them during it, then made a speech about the Wheel of the Year. A chorus sang in the background, skipping around each other in a dance that looked quite pretty between the collisions.

It gave the kids a chance to show off what they learned in Moon School, and it didn't have to compete against TV.

“Errr . . . you're
all
pagans here now?” Havel said. “Not that I object—I'm a lapsed Lutheran myself—”

Juniper nodded: “Well, we call ourselves Witches. To be technical, we're rather old-fashioned Wiccans, at least my original group were, and something like two-thirds of those who've joined us since have signed up—as fast as we can run the Training Circle, with some corners cut. It's a new situation for us, having actual congregations!”

A little way down the table, Ken Larsson leaned forward to talk to her:

“Founder effect,” he said. “First bunch in a community tend to have a disproportionate influence on what comes after.”

He waved around the room with his fork. “I suspect this is happening all over the world—some leader or small group is lucky and smart and attracts individuals to join, and then they take on the same coloration, grabbing at anything that seems to work in a world of death. It certainly happened with us. I bet there will be some pretty weird results in a couple of generations.”

Havel nodded. “Although—” He cut himself off and nodded again.

Juniper grinned. “Although we don't remind you much of pagans you met before the Change?” she said helpfully. “Although you might think the obsession with dressing up in costumes has survived?”

Havel coughed into his hand, then looked around as if he was contemplating something on the order of:
My, aren't the walls vertical today?

Signe smiled slyly and nudged him with an elbow. “Gotcha, Lord Bear. Roll over and show your tummy, boy! You're whipped! I told you to leave all the diplomatic stuff to Dad.”

Juniper took pity on him: “Types like that did get lot of attention before the Change,” she said. “They weren't the whole story even then.” She smiled. “Do I believe magic works since the Change? Of course! But I believe it worked before the Change, too, remember, and I never took”—she gestured at the decorations—“ ‘My other car is a broomstick' bumper stickers literally.”

“Err . . . thanks,” he said. “It's nice to know we'll have sensible neighbors.”

“Good save,” Signe muttered in a stage whisper.

“If only we didn't have the
Protector
as a neighbor,” Juniper said. “We've been fighting him most of the year. . . .”

“Us too,” Havel said, and smiled grimly. “Oh, yes, the castles on Route 20 weren't our first encounter.”

She frowned. “I think you mentioned . . . well, tale-telling is a Yule tradition too. We'd be very interested to hear it. If you wouldn't mind?”

“Not at all.”

Juniper smiled and nodded. Havel looked as if he'd rather gouge out his own liver than talk in public, so . . .

She caught Signe Larsson's eye, and got a wink.

“In fact . . .”

She used a fork to ring a small iron triangle before her, tapping out a simple tune. The pleasant buzz of conversation died away.

“Our guest, Lord of the Bearkillers, has a tale to relate.”

The buzz warmed up again for a second; hearing a story like that was entertainment now, and of high practical value as well. Everyone was eager for news from outside their strait local horizon.

“He and his had to fight earlier in the year—even before the Protector's men attacked Sutterdown. He'd like to tell us about it.”

Havel gave her a stricken look. Signe gave him a nudge in the ribs, and he sighed and cleared his throat.

“We were around Craigswood, in Idaho,” he said. “A bunch of bandits—they called themselves the Devil Dogs; a lot of them were in a biker gang before the Change—were trying to—”

Juniper leaned back with a cup of the mead and listened, smiling slightly to herself. Havel gave the story baldly, in what she imagined was the style of a military report.

The chief of the Mackenzies let her storyteller's mind take them and weave in scent and sound and the thoughts of humankind; she could feel the beginnings of a song stirring and that felt very good indeed. Her fingers moved, unconsciously strumming—Mike Havel's theme, sharp as knife steel, but with hidden depths like rushing water, and a cold clear tang of danger. . . .

It had been too long a time since she'd done much composing, and she'd never had quite this sort of subject.

“
S
o that's Larsdalen,” Juniper Mackenzie said.

Her clansfolk—the score or so who'd come along to escort their allies home—clustered behind her, their horses stamping and snorting breath-plumes into the crisp evening air. The clouds had parted for a while, and the sun gilded every grass blade and spiderweb with diamonds. The noise and bustle of the Bearkiller caravan and their herds were behind for now, though she could hear the lowing of cattle in the distance.

Ahead the broad valley narrowed, rising to low forested heights north and west, shaggy with Douglas fir and yellow-leaved oak, silhouetted against the setting sun. Below the rolling lands were silent, grass waist-high in the pastures, the blocks of orchard and vineyard gone shaggy with a year's neglect and sere with winter—save that not one bunch of grapes hung withered into raisins. Willows dropped their tresses into ponds, and ducks swam. The big house on its hill was yellowish-red brick, mellow, bowered in its trees—from this distance the broken windows and doors swinging free couldn't be seen.