Straying From the Path (8 page)

“No, none of that. I’m just a common thief, milady.”

“Don’t call me that. I’m Elsa, a librarian’s daughter. And no one has ever before called me pretty.”

“It’s no doubt hard to tell, with that horse skin pulled over your face.” She barely heard him, he spoke so softly, his face turned away.

Elsa had a daydream that she made up herself and had nothing to do with prophecy. In it, she buried Falla’s coat in a dark wood and never chanted visions again. But the story always got away from her, and instead of living free, she was pursued by Falla’s voice, which cried after her not to abandon her.

“You’re frightened of me,” she said. “Why don’t you run away? Doesn’t the Dreamer’s wrath frighten you?”

“It should. But you—you don’t seem very much like the seeress in the stories. You—you’re young. Alive.”

And the stories were old and dead. “I’m not the Dreamer, when I’m not wearing the skin. I’m just a girl. A librarian’s daughter.”

“I saw the book.”

“It was my father’s.”

They sat together quietly, Elsa thinking all the while that he’d leave her at any moment.

Instead, he asked, “How did this happen? That isn’t part of the stories, how you came to wear the horse’s skin. How did a girl like you become the Dreamer?”

If she told him the story, he would only become more horrified. It wasn’t a story for telling, without the filter of decades of legend. She wanted to talk to him, though, and wanted him to talk to her. She wanted to tell him something that would keep him here, talking to her. She did not know when she would have a chance to touch another living being again.

“The horse was magic, and when she died she called to me. It’s hard to explain.” She wasn’t used to talking; her words faltered. She shook her head, swallowed, and spoke again. “How does a man become a famous thief?”

“I tell you once and for all, I am common. Nameless.”

If she wouldn’t tell her story, she couldn’t expect him to tell his. After this, they had sat so long in an uncomfortable silence, she thought he’d surely leave her now. But he didn’t. He stayed. He was even watching her.

“Elsa the Prophet. Can you tell me my future?”

“You probably wouldn’t like it. People usually don’t, especially when they ask for it.”

“What do you do, to learn someone’s future?”

“I sleep a night wearing the skin. I dream the answer, and the next morning tell the person.”

“Spend a night with me, Elsa. Tell me my future in the morning.”

Falla wouldn’t like it. Elsa could almost hear the mare chiding. This was selfish, the dreaming turned into a parlor trick. If the dream were terrible, none of them would be happy. But to spend a night with Conrad—she would dream what she had to.

She knelt beside him. He touched her cheek, then kissed her, slowly and gently. It was lovely.

They found a hidden place in the woods outside the town. They stripped each other, quickly and desperately, as though afraid of interruption or afraid this wasn’t real. Cool air chilled their skin, making every touch that much warmer. Elsa didn’t think to open her eyes to look. They made love on her wool blanket, spread on the ground under a thicket. When Conrad lay back, spent, she crawled on top of him, bit his ear and whispered, “Again.” He said, “Yes,” and they did.

When they finished, Elsa move a little way away, leaving him to the wool blanket. She took the spotted horse skin from her pack and wrapped it tight around her. Silent, Conrad watched as she curled up to fall asleep and dream.

She never dreamed for herself. Others asked her to wear the skin, and she did so because the skin demanded it. Tonight, the skin was reluctant.

Tell me about Conrad.

I cannot tell you
, Falla said, her voice like the rustle of hay.

Even dead, she smelled of horse: warm hair, hay, and dust. In memory, Elsa felt her breath and heard her nostrils snorting.

Why not? Is he wicked? Is there a mystery surrounding him? If he is common as he says, then so is his future. Why not tell me?

Do not ask me this.

I have served you for ten years, why can’t you answer me now? Is it because I like him?

It will hurt you to hear this. I do not wish to hurt you.

Falla was her friend, despite all that had happened, despite the fact her devotion to Falla made Elsa something other than human. Elsa used to hang on Falla’s stall door and wonder what the mare would say if she could talk. If she had known then, what the mare would say—
I do not wish to hurt you
—Elsa would have cried with happiness, because this meant that Falla loved her as much as she loved Falla. But love caused pain as well as joy.

Tell me his fate, Falla. I must know.

You are sure?

Yes!

You cannot save him. You will stand watching, his fate in your hands, and you will do nothing. Is that what you wished to hear?

Elsa cried, because Falla spoke truth, always. Falla, Falla, I can’t do this anymore.

Hush, dear friend. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

Once more, Elsa felt her soft muzzle against her hands, and Falla’s dark eyes gazed at her.

The first time she put on Falla’s skin, it was still wet with flesh and blood.

One day, the King needed a prophecy, and the Wizard worked his most powerful spell. But the spell failed, the prophecy did not come. It was a black day, as the Wizard stormed out of his workroom and the King despaired of overcoming his troubles. Folk everywhere wondered how the great Wizard could have failed.

Spying, the librarian’s daughter discovered the truth. She first went to the stables, to see Falla, but the Wizard’s familiar wasn’t in her stall. With a pounding heart, she went next to the Wizard’s tower, which was empty, because the Wizard was in the great hall, arguing with the King. By the front door to the tower, she found stairs leading down to the cellar.

There, the Wizard had sacrificed his familiar to raise power for the spell. The girl found the horse dead, her belly sliced open, her guts spilled over the floor, a slick mass of intestines and organs that made no pattern and offered no portents. She had been a noble animal, and the girl cried at the injustice of it. In her grief, a power took her. With the Wizard’s own sacrificial dagger, lying abandoned on the stone floor, she skinned the horse. She took the bloody skin to the great hall where the King pleaded with the Wizard to try again and the Wizard insisted such a prophecy was impossible. Wearing the skin wrapped tight around her, she delivered the prophecy that the King sought. “Betrayal! This is a Wizard who will slay his dearest servant for power. This is a Wizard who will covet his King’s throne!”

The Wizard denied it, the King disbelieved it, and the librarian pleaded for his daughter’s life, which the Wizard threatened to take. The King granted the librarian’s request, because while he did not understand the magic, he could see the girl was helpless in its grip. As she fainted, her father carried her home from the great hall. They both cried a bit, and he helped her run away, into exile. A year later, the King died of a mysterious creeping illness, and the Wizard took the reins of power before chaos could disrupt the kingdom.

The next morning, she awoke, naked and tangled in the legs and neck of Falla’s coat, a fringe of white mane tickling her nose. Conrad still slept nearby. She lay still and watched him until he stirred.

When he opened his eyes, looked at her, and smiled, her heart beat faster.

He could be a friend, she thought to Falla. My only other friend beside you.

Do not fall in love. Your fate won’t allow it.

I know, Falla. I know.

Elsa and Conrad sat and faced each other, Elsa wearing the mare’s skin, Conrad wrapped in the wool blanket.

“Well?” he said.

She lowered her gaze. “I didn’t dream. Your future isn’t for me to know.”

He gave his fox-sly smile, a joyless expression. “You’re lying. You cried in your sleep. Thrashed like you were having nightmares. You must have dreamed something terrible.”

Tears pricked her eyes. Sometimes, as with the princess and her marriage, she dreamed paths as clear as plate glass windows. Other times, like last night, the dreams were murky, little more than emotions and terror, which Elsa had to express. Conveying them meant reliving them.

“Tell me,” he said. “I’m not afraid.”

She quelled her own fear and spoke softly. “I dreamed of betrayal.”

He considered that, his expression falling to a frown. “Am I the betrayer or the betrayed? Whose betrayal?”

“Mine,” said Elsa.

After a long moment watching her, he pursed his lips and nodded, content to live with the enigma of prophecy. “Then I should leave, I suppose. If we are not near each other, we can’t betray each other.”

The princess’s cousin thought he could escape prophecy, too. Perhaps Conrad could actually succeed. She watched him dress, still wishing he was a famous rogue. Then perhaps his own legend would save him from hers.

He straightened his cuffs, fastened the last straps on his boots, and took up his pack. “Well then, I’m off.”

So that was that. “Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. About.” He paused and bent for a last kiss, dry and warm. His smile was bright, genuine. Perhaps he’d remember her. “God bless you and your hard path, Dreamer.”

Elsa dressed, packed her blankets, and started on her way more slowly. It was almost midday when she returned to Brewersville and saw a crowd gathered by the oak at the edge of the market. No musicians played today. She pushed through to the front to see what had happened.

The town constable was about to hang a man from the tree. The condemned man—barefoot, stripped to his waist and wearing ragged, third-hand trousers, stood on a stool with his hands bound behind his back. The noose around his neck was tied to a sturdy branch.

The man was Conrad, his expression slack, his gaze staring forward at nothing.

“That man,” she said to a laborer beside her. “What’s he done?”

“He’s a thief.”

Elsa still carried hopes. “A famous one? A highwayman or a rogue or such?”

“No,” the man said. “Just a common thief. Got caught this morning cutting the mayor’s purse.”

Then he saw her. He hadn’t seemed to be looking at anything, but his gaze found her. A look of such tenderness, such regret passed over his face. Like he would have kissed her right then, if he could have.

She knew what to do.

She knelt and pulled at the tie that fastened closed her pack.

When she wore the spotted horse’s skin, she became the Dreamer, and her words were prophecy.
He will be a hero! Free him and he will lead your armies to victory! He is a savior!
She could say these things and make a grand story, how the Dreamer snatched the rogue from the maw of death.

But you’d be lying.

Yes, she would. Conrad wasn’t a hero. But if she could make him one, if she could inspire him . . . He could
make
this prophecy true, after the fact.

If you use me for a lie, I will never speak to you again.

So. She could save Conrad, or she could be the Dreamer, but not both. She thought she wanted that, to leave Falla and never hear her speak again. Falla, who had rested her muzzle on Elsa’s shoulder with trust and love. So because she had known Falla for half her life, and Conrad for only a day, the choice was not as hard as she wanted it to be.

The story was so much larger than she.

The hardest thing was to leave her pack closed, to stand while he watched. Seeing this, he must have known what she had thought of, and what she’d decided not to do.

She hoped he understood why she couldn’t help. But he probably thought she was being cruel, and that was probably the thought he died with. The constable kicked the stool away and Conrad hanged. Elsa shut her eyes, but heard the crowd gasp and the rope creak as it swung with its weight.

Conrad or Falla, but not both. She’d have liked to have Conrad as a friend, but Falla was the only friend she knew.

The crowd dispersed but the body stayed hanging to serve as a warning. Elsa lingered, chasing away crows and stray dogs that came too near. She wanted him whole.

Late at night, when the town was asleep and no one would come near the gallows tree, she retrieved the stool and stood on it to cut him down, using the Wizard’s sacrificial knife. She hefted the body over her shoulders and took him to the woods to do the rest.

The first time she put on his skin, it was still wet with flesh and blood.

Evie curled up on the chairs in the ready room at the landing field. I sat with my head against the wall, my legs stretched out and propped on my B-4 bag. The place was empty except for us, the field quiet after a day full of roaring engines.

We had just ferried a B-26 bomber to Harlingen Army Airfield in the far south of nowhere Texas. It was late, so we had to wait until morning to catch the bus to Corpus Christi, where we could find a train back to New Castle in Delaware. WASP weren’t allowed to hitch rides on Army planes with male pilots—just didn’t look right, according to the powers that be.

I had started to doze when the door opened and two military types walked in. One wore a flight suit and bomber jacket without rank markings or insignia. The other was an Army colonel. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of a war bonds poster. He’d say, “I need
you
,” and you’d say, “Yes
sir
.” He was tall, broad through the shoulders, and fit. He could probably still make it through Basic—couldn’t say that about a lot of colonels.

I shook Evie awake. She rubbed her eyes as the men stopped in front of us.

“You two are WASP?” the colonel said, before we could stand.

What else would two women wearing flight suits be doing at an Army air field? I nodded and answered more politely, “Yes, sir. I’m Jane Bateson, this is Evelyn Harris.”

“Colonel Avery. Doctor Cook. Army Intelligence.” The colonel tipped his head at the man in the flight suit, who shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket and shrugged. “Do you girls feel up to ferrying a B-26 to Wright Field tonight?”

Evie’s eyes sparkled; she was already nodding. Never turn down a chance to fly, you didn’t know when they’d ask again.

“Fuel will be tight,” I said. “But sure, we can fly it.”

“You
are
experienced with this craft?” Doctor Cook asked. He didn’t look much like a doctor, couldn’t have been more than twenty-five or so, skinny as a whip, uncomfortable in the flight gear. He wore glasses.

I crossed my arms and drew myself straighter. “I graduated with the first WFTD class at Ellington Field. I had a thousand flight hours before that. You know the B-26 that came in this afternoon? Evie and I flew it. We can fly your plane.” Some pilots called the B-26 the Widowmaker. A tough plane to fly, it was fast and hot and took a sensitive hand.

My act cowed most fly boys. Cook shook his head, oblivious. “But this isn’t a standard B-26. It’s had—modifications.” Colonel Avery gave him a sharp look.

My eyes narrowed. “We don’t normally receive our orders from Army Intelligence.”

“Miss Bateson, let me be frank. Cook is right, this plane isn’t standard. What’s been done to it is highly classified.
Highly
classified. Don’t misunderstand me, you can still fly it. In fact, you two are the only pilots available who are checked out on the B-26. And this plane needs to get to Wright Field as soon as possible.”

Evie was still nodding. If it had wings and an engine, she’d fly it.

“All right,” I said. “Show us the plane.”

The four of us walked out of the building to the hangars on the far side of the strip.

Avery said, “This is an unusual situation. The security clearance is of the highest order. If you speak of this to
anyone
, I’ll have you court-martialed so fast—”

“No you won’t, sir,” I said.

“What?”

“WASP are a civilian auxiliary. You can’t court-martial us.”

That only broke his rhythm for a second. “Then I’ll have you up on treason charges so fast your head will spin. I don’t expect you to understand what you’re about to see. Just get the damn thing to Wright Field. Understand? Cook will ride along, he’s one of the head scientists on this project.”

My mind turned over the possibilities. Had the bomber been mounted with a new kind of weapon? A new kind of engine? I’d heard they were working on new instruments that could see in the dark or through fog.

“What are you a doctor of?” I asked Cook. It was a subtle enough question to fish for a clue.

“Psychology.”

I couldn’t imagine what they had done to this plane.

We entered the last hangar through the side door.

The B-26 Marauder was a sleek plane, bullet-like, powerful. It seemed to crouch, waiting to spring into flight. It had two wing-mounted engines with propellers as tall as I was. The cockpit canopy perched up top; a gunner would sit in a plexiglass bubble at the nose.

I saw the bomber, alone on the concrete pad, before Avery hit the switch to illuminate the bank of lights. It
glowed
, a beacon in the dark. Colors played on it, reds flashing into purple, fading to blue, like some kind of Technicolor test on a movie screen. Rainbow bands traveled around the fuselage, bending with the curves of the plane, swirling, dancing, emitting light that pulsed with the rhythm of a heartbeat. The hangar lights didn’t diminish the patterns at all.

“What is it?” Evie said with a sigh. “Some kind of phosphorescence?”

Cook shuffled a little, shrugging his shoulders nearly to his ears. “Well, we—ah, don’t precisely know. That’s part of the problem.”

Evie moved toward the plane, stepping cautiously at first, then quickening her pace when the men didn’t stop her. By the fuselage, she reached up and touched the metal. Rose colored circles rippled from her hand along the belly of the plane. She laughed a little. “It’s incredible.”

“It’s not camouflage,” I said. “Are you trying to make sure the Germans can’t miss?”

“You’re not flying it to Germany,” Avery said. “Don’t ask so many questions.” Avery was one of those young hot shots, thirty-five or so, being groomed for four-star and a Chief-of-Something post. He gestured, walked, and spoke at double-time.

“You say it flies just fine?” I circled the plane, keeping my distance, unwilling to get too close. Did I hear it humming?

“Yes,” Avery said. “Practically flies itself.”

“I’ve never heard anyone say that about the B-26, Colonel,” I said.

He joined me. Side by side, we both stood with our arms crossed, staring at the bomber. Its aurora played over our faces—ribbons of purple, yellow, green. The colonel’s skin reflected the colors. Even he wore an expression of wonder, his lips parted.

“This war has produced some strange things.” He shook his head a little. “Strange ideas. Gadgets we only dreamed of five years ago. Right off the cover of a comic book. Ray guns, smart machines. The world is changing, Miss Bateson. This war is changing it.”

I did a careful walk around, taking twice as long as I normally did. It
looked
like a normal B-26. Tires filled, landing gear in good shape, no leaks. Its weapons had been stripped. Only the strange glowing metal didn’t match up with the checklist. Evie helped with the inspection, but not much. I kept having to ask questions twice. Each time, she always acted surprised to hear I was talking to her.

I collected charts and plotted a course, double checking headings, landmarks, and radio range frequencies all the way to Ohio. Avery kept pushing me to hurry, but as strange as the plane was, I didn’t want any surprises during the flight. I prepared a flight plan—and Avery took the paperwork, assuring me that he would file it properly.

“Oh, and you’re to keep radio silence through the trip.” Avery slipped in the order almost as an afterthought.

“Excuse me? What if we run into trouble? If we have to contact someone—”

“This trip is classified. You never know who might be listening in.” He patted my shoulder. “You’ll do
fine
, Miss Bateson.”

Evie, Doctor Cook and I boarded, lugging our bags and parachutes with us. Avery saw us right to the crew hatch.

“Is there anyone at the tower to clear us for take off?” I asked.

“I’ve already taken care of your authorizations,” said the Colonel. “Just take off whenever you’re ready. You won’t have any traffic for a hundred miles.”

Army Intelligence, sure. I forgot they could take care of things like that.

“Good luck,” he said before I closed the hatch. His smile was tight, his voice thick with genuine worry.

Evie and I traded piloting and copiloting duties on each trip. This time, Evie was pilot on the left, and I sat in the copilot’s spot on the right. Cook crouched between us, even though I told him he’d be more comfortable down below, in the radio operator’s station. But no, he wanted to watch.

I continued the pre-flight checklist, taking the maintenance log out of the pocket on the right side of the cockpit. I had to list our point and time of departure, the condition of the craft, any maintenance problems, and sign off. At our destination, I’d make the same entries.

The arrival columns for this plane’s last two flights were blank.

If one of the flights had been left blank, I might have believed that the pilot had been careless. But two? It looked like the plane had taken off twice and never landed.

I turned to Cook. “Do you know why these pilots didn’t log out?”

He shrugged. His whole body seemed to shift inside his bomber jacket. “Maybe they forgot.”

If it had been any other plane than this one, I might have believed that.

“What are these?” Evie lifted some coiled black cables that had been lying on the instrument panel. On each cable, a steel plug dangled from one end, and bare copper wires protruded from the other. They looked like cords from a telephone switchboard.

Cook leaped at them. Out of sheer surprise, Evie dropped the cables into his outstretched hands. He quickly bunched them together and shoved them inside his jacket. When they were hidden, he glanced back and forth at us guiltlessly, like we might not have noticed.

“Jane, look.” On the instrument panel in front of her, Evie touched a metal socket, about the size of a dime, set in a plate that had obviously been bolted on after construction, squeezed in between the standard instruments and dials. She pointed—a similar socket was located at the corresponding spot on the copilot’s side. The plugs on those cables would have fit in those sockets. I could assume these had something to do with the ‘modifications.’

“You’re not telling us everything,” I said to Cook.

He glanced away and pursed his lips. “It’s a security matter, ma’am. Need to know basis.”

Evie looked at me, her brows raised in a question, and I shrugged a little. I had no idea what the things were for. We could have made a stink, told Cook and Avery we weren’t going to fly until they told us what was up—and they’d just find a couple other pilots. If the plane wasn’t airworthy, Cook wouldn’t be riding along. That was a comfort, I supposed.

When I didn’t complain, Evie got back to work. She’d been waiting for my cue. She nodded curtly and said, “All right, then. Hold on, Doctor.”

Evie started the engines. They choked once and flared to life. The props spun and blurred to invisibility. The instruments were all reading normal. Avery himself opened the hangar door for us and removed the plane’s chocks.

We taxied out of the hangar and onto the runway. Evie opened the throttle. We pointed toward the long stretch of tarmac. Sparse landing beacons marked its edges. The plane’s light display faded enough for us to be able to see beyond the corona and into the clear night.

We accelerated, the force pressing us back in our seats. Faster and faster, the engines roared like thunder until we hit decision speed, and Evie pulled back on the yoke. We bounced, rumbling along the tarmac. Then stillness. The plane tipped back as it lifted off its nose gear. Then off the main gear. We climbed, with nothing but air all around us. Nothing but the bomber’s pulse, the drone of engines, and flight.

The engines revved to a higher pitch for a moment, and the plane jumped, leaping a dozen feet in altitude before settling into the ascent. Cook grabbed the back of my seat.

“Did you do that?” Evie said.

“No.” I shook my head and gripped the yoke, waiting for another jump. Every plane had its quirks; we’d just discovered this one’s.

“Ooh,” Evie said. “This baby has some kick!”

We soared. Half-moonlight turned the desert below an icy silver. Scrub made weird shadows. The Gulf of Mexico to the east shone like mercury. We climbed to 10,000 feet and cruised.

We glowed like an opalescent beacon.

My parents had been barnstormers. Mom was one of the original Ninety-Nines, Amelia Earhart’s association of women pilots. I had a blurry photo of Mom and Dad from the Twenties, my mother posing on the top wing of their biplane in a swimming costume, my father by the propeller, hands on his hips, looking like a fighter ace with his white silk scarf, leather flight cap, and handlebar moustache. These days they ran a charter service, flying rich tourists and thrill seekers up and down the California coast. They also headed up the local Civil Air Patrol.

The image I had of them, great pilots and adventurers, was a tough one to live up to, but I tried. I liked to say I was flying before I was born. I got my pilot’s license when I was sixteen. I worked for them as a pilot and mechanic while I was still in high school. This was after Lindbergh’s famous flight, long after the Great War, and flying had become routine, losing some of its romantic appeal. It was a job, something I’d done my whole life. I was practical about it. I took it for granted.

Evie, on the other hand—Evie’s voice got low and breathy when she talked about flying. She was from a good Pennsylvania family, a debutante, went to Smith. She rode in a plane for the first time on a charter—like my folks ran—while on vacation at Martha’s Vineyard. It hooked her. A lot of pilots had stories like that—one flight, and it was like they’d been called by God. Of course, piloting wasn’t something a well-bred girl from Philly aspired to. She talked an instructor at a local airfield into giving her lessons, she scraped the money for it together by selling her old clothes, and got her sister to lie for her and say she was spending all that time at the library. Somehow, she managed to learn, managed to solo, and got her license. For her, every hour of flight was stolen. Even now that she worked as a pilot, she treated flying like a treasure that might be taken away from her. In the cockpit, she was like a kid in a candy store, all eyes and smiles.