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By Root 930 0

’s face gleamed, memory-bound. Eddie did not glimpse the young man who had been (Gran-pere was too old for that), but in his rheumy eyes he saw the mixture of excitement and determination and sick fear which must have filled him that day. Must have filled them all. Eddie felt himself reaching out for it the way a hungry man will reach for food, and the old man must have seen some of this on his face, for he seemed to swell and gain vigor. Certainly this wasn’t a reaction the old man had ever gotten from his grandson; Tian did not lack for bravery, say thankya, but he was a sodbuster for all that. This man, however, this Eddie of New York…he might live a short life and die with his face in the dirt, but he was no sodbuster, by ’Riza.

“Go on,” Eddie said.

“Aye. So Ah will. Some of those comin toward us split off on River Rud, toward the little rice-manors that’re there—you c’d see the dust—and a few more split off on Peaberry Road. Ah ’member Pokey Slidell turned to me, had this kind of sick smile on his face, and he stuck out his hand (the one didn’t have his bah in it), and he said…”

Seven

What Pokey Slidell says under a burning autumn sky with the sound of the season’s last crickets rising from the high white grass on either side of them is “It’s been good to know ya, Jamie Jaffords, say true.” He’s got a smile on his face like none Jamie has ever seen before, but being only nineteen and living way out here on what some call the Rim and others call the Crescent, there’s plenty he’s never seen before. Or will ever see, way it looks now. It’s a sick smile, but there’s no cowardice in it. Jamie guesses he’s wearing one just like it. Here they are under the sun of their fathers, and the darkness will soon have them. They’ve come to their dying hour.

Nonetheless, his grip is strong when he seizes Pokey’s hand. “You ain’t done knowin me yet, Pokey,” he says.

“Hope you’re right.”

The dust-cloud moils toward them. In a minute, maybe less, they will be able to see the riders throwing it. And, more important, the riders throwing it will be able to see them.

Eamon Doolin says, “You know, I believe we ort to get in that ditch”—he points to the right side of the road—“an’ snay down small-small. Then, soon’s they go by, we can jump out and have at em.”

Molly Doolin is wearing tight black silk pants and a white silk blouse open at the throat to show a tiny silver reap charm: Oriza with her fist raised. In her own right hand, Molly holds a sharpened dish, cool blue titanium steel painted over with a delicate lacework of green spring rice. Slung over her shoulder is a reed pouch lined with silk. In it are five more plates, two of her own and three of her mother’s. Her hair is so bright in the bright light that it looks as if her head is on fire. Soon enough it will be burning, say true.

“You can do what you like, Eamon Doolin,” she tells him. “As for me, I’m going to stand right here where they can see me and shout my twin sister’s name so they’ll hear it plain. They may ride me down but I’ll kill one of ’un or cut the legs out from under one of their damn horses before they do, of that much I’ll be bound.”

There’s no time for more. The Wolves come out of the dip that marks the entrance to Arra’s little smallhold patch, and the four Calla-folken can see them at last and there is no more talk of hiding. Jamie almost expected Eamon Doolin, who is mild-mannered and already losing his hair at twenty-three, to drop his bah and go pelting into the high grass with his hands raised to show his surrender. Instead, he moves into place next to his wife and nocks a bolt. There is a low whirring sound as he winds the cord tight-tight.

They stand across the road with their boots in the floury dust. They stand blocking the road. And what fills Jamie like a blessing is a sense of grace. This is the right thing to do. They’re going to die here, but that’s all right. Better to die than stand by while they take more children. Each one of them has lost a twin, and Pokey—who is by far the oldest of them—has lost both a brother and a young