When we reach the road, we turn east.
East to the sunrise. East to Weepin Water. East to the bunker in the hill. An DeMalo’s magnificent dawn vision.
His secret. His half truth. His outright lie.
I start to hear the faint throb of drumbeats. Many drums bein played together. The faint glow of torchlight colours the sky. As we git closer, the drums grow louder. Their fast, earthy beat urges us on. The hubble of voices warms the air.
The wind’s brought great rollin banks of grey cloud. They clash an part, tumble an break overhead.
Me an my Tonton escort stop on the low ridge that overlooks the torchlit meadow. The sweetgrass meadow with the bunker hill in the middle. It’s thronged with hunnerds of people. Stewards of the Earth, scrubbed an polished. There’s plenty of Tonton about. Fer them, too, it’s a day of celebration. At the foot of the hill sit the children from Edenhome. Kept apart from the rest by a line of Tonton. Low junktents ring the meadow. Through their smokeholes, the smell of food billows from cookfires. It seems that a feast will follow.
I see what’s kept DeMalo so busy. He’s completely transformed the hill. On top of it stands the white vision room. He’s had the walls an floor an ceilin moved, piece by piece, then put back together atop the hill. The front of it stands open to the meadow so’s everybody can see inside. Jack did say it was made in sections. Only DeMalo could do such a thing. I should be amazed, but I ain’t. I know his singularity of purpose.
Extraordinary. Jest like he said. All here will witness his miraculous vision. Most of ’em will of seen it once before. In a small group, inside the bunker, at the start of their new life in New Eden. But today they’ll witness it together. At the dawn of this marriage day of great joy.
The story will be told fer generations to come.
Everybody’s seen us. They’ve all seen me. They fall silent as I follow the front four Tonton. The back four bring up the rear. The drums beat our way down the ridge. The crowd falls back, clears a path fer us to the hill.
In this broody dawn of torchlight an drums, crow on my shoulder, wolfdog at my side, people ain’t certain if I’m real or not. The Angel of Death. Slayer of kings. She who rides the night with starfallen souls. Superstitious fools, DeMalo called ’em.
A few brave ones dare to dart forwards. To touch her dress. Her boots. The murmur spreads. She’s real. She’s alive. Captured. Conquered by the Pathfinder. Jest like them.
The drums. The spectacle. The crowd. The tang of flesh, sharp with excitement. I feel the hot clench of red start to burn in my belly.
It’s the Cage at Hopetown as I entered to fight. It’s the gauntlet, that snakeroad of drug-crazy hands, eager to pull me apart. It’s Freedom Fields on that midsummer night, with Lugh staked out to burn. It’s the beat beat of fear, the beat of sticks on stones as I came to the Snake River camp.
I look fer any familiar face. Cassie, even Vain Ed the miller. But none do I see. It’s a blur of bodies an torchlight.
DeMalo meets me near the foot of the hill. He’s dressed all in white. Of course. Britches, shirt an cloak. His black hair gleams. His skin’s golden in the torchlight. His face tightens when he sees what I’ve done, what I’m wearin. The rip in the magnificent marriage gown. My armour, my boots, Lugh’s necklace.
My beautiful bride, he says. His smile don’t reach his eyes. You brought your own entourage, I see, he says. I set Nero to fly. I slide down from Hermes. The wolfdog stays here, he says.
A flick of his hand brings a Tonton with a cord. I slip it around Tracker’s neck. Go, I tell him an he’s led away.
Then DeMalo holds out his hand to me. High. With ceremony. I lay my hand in his. He grips it painfully. He turns us so we face the crowd. As the drummers drum an the dawn creeps closer, the Pathfinder an his warrior bride move around the hill slowly. So’s all can look up an admire them.
It wouldn’t be obvious to nobody else. It is to me. DeMalo’s ill at ease. The first time I ever seen him so. You wouldn’t know from the calm of his face. But his eyes keep goin to the sky. To the clouds that tumble an shadow. Even as I wonder why, the answer comes to me. He needs the clear light of dawn fer his miracle. Dawnlight to trigger the Wrecker tech of the white walls. I know he won’t of left this to chance. He will of tested it. Probly more than once. But the master of control ain’t got no control over Mother Earth. When it comes down to it, he’s at her mercy like the rest of us.
DeMalo never loses. He always has a safety net. But not today. The biggest day of all. His whole body’s tense. I feel it through his hand.
Disarm yer opponent if possible.
I look at him. Our eyes meet. I squeeze his hand. Fergive me, I says. The dress is beautiful. I ain’t bin myself the past while.
He nods, distracted. We’ll have our handfasting after the visions, he says.
It’s nearly dawn. The clouds have finally started to move, swept westwards by the wind. The sky behind looks clear.
It’s almost time, he says. As he leads me up the hill, Stewards an Tonton begin to fill its slopes. They want to be close to the show.
Know yer battlefield. Locate yer allies.
Nero’s perched on top of the vision room. My belly tight with nerves, I scan the crowd once more. Then I see them. Down to my right. Off to one side. Tommo, Peg an Webb. They’re guarded by Tonton. Roped at the wrists.
I thought they was in prison till we married, I says.
DeMalo don’t even glance their way. I want them to see this, he says. So they’re left in no doubt whose side you’re on.
By now he’s properly on edge. His eyes fixed to the sky, as the clouds move away. Slowly. Slowly.
You’ll stand at my side, he tells me. We’ve reached the top of the hill. As our hands part, his silver bracelet catches my eye. He goes to git into position in the centre of the white room.
I pause beside a Tonton. I point to Tommo. That prisoner, I says. The boy. The Pathfinder wants him here, right now.
The Tonton pelts off down the hill, shovin his way through the gathered crowd. I wait till I see him seize Tommo an start rushin him up the hill.
I walk into the white room an stand near DeMalo. He’s in the centre, directly beneath the pinhole in the ceilin. He holds the great chunk of clear crystal rock, ready to raise it fer the light to latch on. It ain’t necessary, the walls do the work. But it looks good. Adds to the mystery.
At last it’s a cloudless sky. The marriage-day dawn is on the break. The drumbeats stop. The torches go out. A hush falls. Heavy with anticipation.
Tommo arrives at the top of the hill. Him an the Tonton outta breath from their haste.
The dawnlight’s about to hit the pinhole.
I speak loudly to DeMalo. I have a marriage gift fer you, I says. A bracelet to match the one you wear.
As he glances at me, distracted, I’m givin the nod to the Tonton. He thrusts Tommo forwards into my arms. Tommo looks at me, bewildered. Fergive me, I says.
I grab his roped wrists. I raise them high. I show DeMalo the bracelet. The identical twin of the one he always wears. He stares at it. He looks at Tommo. His face turns ashy pale. Tommo stares at him in shock. At his father, so long believed dead. Father an son. Their likeness is strong. Seen here together, their kinship cain’t be denied.
An the vision has come to the smooth white walls. The bloom of dawn colours. The soft song of birds. The low sweetness of music.