Flesh (24 page)

Halfway toward first, the ball fell off.

Stagg ran like the deer he resembled, launched himself head foremost and slid on the grass into the plate. The bat, which he held out before him in his extended arm, hit the first baseman in the shinbone, knocking him off his feet.

Something struck Stagg in the shoulder. He groaned with pain as he felt the spike sticking in the flesh. But he leaped up, reached behind him, and pulled the spike out, heedless of the warm gush down his shoulder.

Now, according to the rules, if he survived the impact of the ball and had strength enough, he could throw it at either the pitcher or the first baseman.

The first baseman had tried to run away, but he had been so badly hurt by Stagg’s bat that he could not even walk. He had removed his own bat from the sheath hanging over his back and stood ready to knock down the ball if Stagg would throw it at him.

Stagg threw, and the first, his face contorted with the pain of his leg, swatted at the ball.

There was a thump. The first swayed back and forth, then slumped, the spike buried in his throat.

Stagg had the choice of staying safe on first or trying to steal second. He chose to run, and again had to slide in face first. The second baseman, unlike the first, stood to one side. So great was Stagg’s momentum that he slid past the plate. At once he twisted around and rolled back to touch second base.

There was a smack as the ball caught in the second’s enormous thickly padded glove.

Stagg was—theoretically—safe on second. But he did not relax because of the look of fury on the second’s face. He jumped up, his bat ready to hit the fellow over the head if he forgot the rules long enough to try to hit Stagg with the ball.

The second, seeing the bat poised, let the ball drop to the ground. Blood dripped from his fingers where he had cut himself on the spikes in his eagerness to get the ball loose from the glove.

Time out was called, while the first baseman had some brief rites said over him as he was being covered with a blanket.

Stagg asked for more food and water because he was beginning to feel faint from hunger. He had a right to demand such if the other side called time out.

He ate. Just as he finished, the mascot called, “Play ball!”

Now Stagg, standing within the narrow box marked around second base, was at bat again. Mighty wound up and let loose. Stagg knocked the ball to his left just inside the foul line. He began running, but this time the fellow who had replaced the dead first baseman was on the ball as soon as it landed and stuck in the ground. Stagg broke his run for a split second, not knowing whether to run on for third or return to second.

The first tossed the ball in an underhand motion to Mighty, who, by now, was crouched close to the lane between second and third, almost in Stagg’s path. Stagg’s back would be unprotected if he continued. He spun around; his bare feet slipped on the grass, and he fell on his back.

For one terrible second, he thought he was done for. Mighty was very close and had drawn back to throw at his prostrate target.

But Stagg had clung to his bat. Desperately, he raised it before him. The ball hit it glancingly, knocking the bat out of his hand and itself rebounding to a spot a few feet away.

Stagg roared with triumph, leaped to his feet, picked up the bat, and stood there, swinging the bat warningly. Unless he was actually hit by the ball while between bases, he could not pick it up and hurl it back at his opponents. Nor could he leave the white-marked lane to threaten anyone who tried to pick it up. However, if the ball was lying on the ground close enough for him to bat anybody who tried to pick it up, he could do so.

The ump’s feminine voice shrilled over the field as she began counting to ten. Stagg’s opposition had ten seconds in which to decide whether to try for the ball or allow him to stroll safe to third.

“Ten!” called the mascot, and Mighty turned away from the swinging bat.

Mighty threw again. Stagg swung and missed. Mighty smiled and threw at Stagg’s head. Stagg swung and missed the ball, but the ball also missed him.

Mighty grinned wolfishly because, if Stagg struck out, Stagg would have to throw aside his bat and stand unmoving while Mighty tried to hit him between the eyes with the ball.

However, if Stagg managed to get to home plate, then he became the pitcher. He would still be at a disadvantage because he had no teammates to help; on the other hand, his greater speed and strength made him a one-man team.

There was a hush with only the murmurs of the prayers from the Caseys to be heard. Then Mighty hurled.

Straight for Stagg’s belly the ball flew, giving him the choice of trying to bunt it down or else lean to one side and still keep his feet in the narrow box. If he stepped or fell outside, he had a strike against him.

Stagg chose to lean.

The ball shot by his shrinking flesh. So close was it that a whirling spike point ripped out a tiny gobbet. Blood trickled down his stomach.

“Ball one!”

Mighty hurled for the belly again. To Stagg the ball seemed to swell enormously, pregnant with doom, a planet toward which he was falling.

He swung hard, the bat coming around in a swift arc, parallel to the ground. Its tip connected with the ball, and a shock ran down the bat. It broke in two, and the ball soared back to Mighty.

The pitcher was caught off guard. He could not believe that the heavy ball could fly so far. Then, as Stagg raced for home, Mighty ran forward and caught the ball in his glove. At the same time, the other players, breaking out of their paralytic astonishment, closed in for the kill.

Two men stood between Stagg and home, one on each side of the white lines of the path. Both begged for Mighty to throw them the ball. But he chose the honor of tackling Stagg himself.

Desperately, Stagg struck the ball down with the stub end of his bat, the wooden part which had separated from the brassbound half. The ball did not rebound but stuck in the ground at his feet.

A Casey dived for it.

Stagg caved in the hat and the skull beneath it.

The others stopped running.

The mascot had thrown her hands over her mask, shielding the sight of the dead man from her eyes. But in a moment she put her hands down and looked beseechingly at Mighty. Mighty hesitated for a moment, as if he were going to give the signal to rush at Stagg and dispose of him, to hell with the rules.

Then he took a deep breath and called out, “Okay, Katie, start the count. We are
diradah.
We do not cheat.”

“One!” quavered the mascot.

The other players looked at Mighty. He grinned and said, “Okay. Everybody line up behind me. I’ll try first. I wouldn’t ask you boys to do anything that’s my duty.”

One of the men said, “We could let him walk home.”

“What?” cried Mighty. “And have every henpecked, skirt-wearing, idol-worshiping man in Deecee laughing at us? No! If we must die—and we have to die some time—we’ll die like men!”

“Five!” the mascot called, sounding as if her heart were breaking.

“We haven’t a chance!” a Casey groaned. “He’s twice as fast as any of us. It’ll be a lamb to the slaughter.”

“I’m no lamb!” Mighty roared. “I’m a Casey! I’m not afraid to die! I’ll go to heaven, while this fellow’ll roast in hell!”

“Seven!”

“Come on!” Stagg bellowed, swinging the broken half of the bat. “Step up, gentlemen, and try your luck!”

“Eight!”

Mighty crouched for the leap, his lips working in a silent prayer.

“Nine!”

“STOP IT!”

16

Mary Casey ran from the woods, her hands held out in protest. She threw her arms around Mighty and began kissing him, weeping all the while.

“Oh, cousin, cousin, I thought I’d never see you again!”

“Thank the Mother you’re safe,” he said. “So what this horned man said was true, heh?” He held her away from him and looked carefully at her. “Or did he harm you?”

“No, no! He didn’t touch me. He was a true
diradah
all the time,” she said. “And he’s not a worshiper of Columbia. He swears by God and the Son. I’ve heard him many times! And you know no Deecee would do that.”

“I wish I’d known that,” Mighty said. “We’d not have two good men dead for nothing.”

He turned to Stagg. “If what she says is true, friend, there’s no reason to continue the game. Of course, if you insist, we will.”

Stagg threw the stump of the bat to the ground and said, “My original purpose was to go to Caseyland and live there the rest of my life.”

“We’ve no time to talk!” Mary said. “We have to get out of here! Fast! I climbed a tree to get a better look around, and I saw a pack of hellhounds and a group of men and women on deer following them. And the death-hogs!”

The Caseys turned pale.

“Death-hogs!” Mighty said. “Alba is riding! But what’s she doing here?”

Mary pointed at Stagg. “They must know he’s in this area, and they must have picked up his scent. They were coming too fast just to be casting around.”

“We’re in a hell of a dilemma,” Mighty said. “She won’t bother us, I think, because we’ve a safe-conduct pass. But you never know about Alba. She’s above such things as treaties.”

“Yes,” Mary said, “but even if they don’t harm you, what about Peter—and me? I’m not included in the safe-conduct.”

“I could give you two a couple of extra deer. You could run for the Housatonic River; once across it, you’d be safe. There’s a fort there. But Alba still might catch you.”

He twisted his face into a mask of intense concentration. Then he said, “Only one honorable thing to do. We can’t allow two God-believers to fall into the foul hands of Alba. Especially when one of them is my cousin!

“All right, men!” he shouted. “What do you say? Shall we give up the safe-conduct and fight for these two? Or be chickens before the hawk and hide in the forest?”

“We live like Caseys and we die like Caseys!” the team roared.

“Okay, we fight,” Mighty said. “But first we make a run for it. We’ll make them work for their blood.”

At that moment, they heard the baying of the hounds.

“On your mounts! Let’s go!”

Mary and Stagg untied the packs from the deer given them, climbed on the bare backs of the beasts, and gripped the reins.

“You women ride first,” Stagg said. “We’ll drop behind a little.”

Mary looked despairingly at Stagg. “If he stays behind, I stay behind with him.”

“No time to argue,” Mighty said. “We’ll ride together.”

They began galloping down the rough and winding trail. Behind them, the baying increased as the hounds caught the scent of many men and deer. The fugitives had scarcely left the meadow before the first of the hounds burst out of the woods. Stagg, looking back, saw a large dog built like a cross between a greyhound and a wolf. Its body was snow-white, and its wolflike ears were auburn. Behind it came a pack of twenty more like it.

Then he was too busy guiding his deer over the rough trail to risk many more backward glances. He did not have to urge the frightened beast to run at top speed.

Half a kilometer sped beneath the flying hoofs, and then Stagg took another quick look behind him. Now he saw about twenty deer and riders. At their head, riding a white stag with scarlet-painted antlers, was an old woman who wore only a tall black conical hat and a live snake around her neck. Her long white hair trailed out behind her, and her flat hanging breasts bounced with every motion of the beast under her.

She was enough to frighten any man. Alongside of the riders, running swiftly as the deer, was a herd of pigs. These were tall, long-legged, rangy swine, built for speed. They were black, their tusks long and painted with scarlet, and they squealed hideously as they ran.

Stagg had just turned his head when he heard a crash and then a deer screaming with pain in front of him.

He looked ahead. There were two deer on the ground, and beside them their riders. The worst had happened. The deer of the mascot had stepped into a hole and gone down.

Mary, just behind her, had not been able to pull to one side quickly enough.

Stagg reined in his deer and leaped down.

“Are you all right?” he cried.