CHAPTER NINETEEN

WAR

Bernie saw the fire from the kitchen window, and went out the back door for a better look. At first it was a bright glow in the canyon, without smoke, and then quite suddenly there were flames leaping above the trees. Her houseguests had gone back to the bunkhouse, but now a few of them came outside to watch, pointing and chattering animatedly among themselves. She saw Baela race towards the barn, blonde hair streaming behind her. A moment later she appeared in the hayloft doorway, pointing towards the canyon and shouting to the others, but Bernie couldn’t understand anything. At first she didn’t understand when Baela suddenly pointed again in a different direction, screaming shrilly, driving the others into a panic. Some raced towards the house, while others ran inside the bunkhouse, slamming the door shut. Diana and two other women pounded towards Bernie, pointing towards their left and shouting at her. Her head turned, in slow motion it seemed, and suddenly she understood.

Trotting towards her across the fields from the direction of the burning canyon was the filthiest group of men she had ever seen in her life.

Instantly she recognized the danger, but never before had she felt so vulnerable. Never before had she felt so slow—so pregnant, and the baby was kicking madly. The other women stormed past her and scrambled into the house. She watched the attacking men, stooped over, splitting into two groups, one heading straight for her, and finally she seemed able to move. She rushed inside and locked the back door, then shut a window and locked it too. While the other women cowered in the kitchen by the windowless back door Bernie walked briskly to the front door and bolted it, then glanced at the line of white men coming towards the porch: filthy, clothes hanging in rags, primitive spears and clubs in their hands, long hair hanging in brutish faces and over shoulders. Jake’s critters, she thought. These are Jake’s critters. But they’re men. White men.

The big window was the soft spot of the house; they would come through there. Bernie opened a closet by the front door, pulled out a twelve-gauge shotgun, stretched to reach a box of shells on a shelf. She crossed the front room when the first of the attackers was already on the front porch, face pressed against the window, grinning evilly. She stood in the kitchen doorway, loaded two shells into the weapon and snapped it shut. Four men were on the porch, now. The front door rattled.

Bernie stepped backwards into the kitchen, yanked open a drawer by the sink and took out all the carving knives she could find. She put them on the counter, looking sternly at the frightened women, and pointing. No translation necessary, the women grabbed knives with both hands and retreated again to a corner. Bernie stood in the doorway, leveling the shotgun as the men outside began pounding on the window with their hands, pressing their faces close to look inside. They seemed hesitant, unsure. Out of a corner of her eye she saw someone move past the kitchen window, and then there was a pounding on the thick back door, bolted shut. A heartbeat later the window of the kitchen burst inwards, followed by a massive, hairy arm groping around the corner, reaching past the sink and towards the door. Diana growled, raised a butcher knife in both hands and struck four times in rapid succession.

Blood sprayed over the sink. The man outside howled, and the arm retreated. The women were not whimpering, now, but angry. Their eyes flashed, and they screamed at the men outside in a language unlike anything Bernie had heard before. Guttural, fast. Now they stood their ground, but they were only four women with knives—and a shotgun.

A crowd was on the porch, at least seven men still hesitating, feeling the glass with their hands. Perhaps they would decide it was too dangerous, and go away. Bernie’s finger curled around one trigger of the shotgun as a new face appeared at the window. A tall man with chiseled features, less brutish than the others.

“Hidaig,” said Diana, and Bernie wondered fleetingly what that meant, but there was no time to dwell on it for the new man had stepped back and was swinging an axe towards the big window. His knees were bent, and he swung horizontally, head down. The glass tried to bend, but was not given time; it shattered into several large pieces falling onto the living room floor, a spray of smaller slivers sticking in furniture along the opposite wall.

Bernie took two steps into the room, and aimed the shotgun.

Two men scrambled over the windowsill.

Bernie fired at point-blank range.

The explosions were deafening, and the women screamed. The first shot blew away the face of one attacker, the second nearly cutting a man in half at the waist as Bernie reloaded. Blood sprayed over the attackers and the porch, but on they came, another three men, and Bernie cut them down like grass blades, slamming their bodies back over the windowsill.

She backed towards the kitchen, grasping for the box of shells on a counter. Three more men came across the sill, eyes wide with fear, but the taller one on the porch, the one who had broken the window, was screaming at them, driving them on. For an instant she realized they didn’t understand the gun, didn’t understand it wasn’t loaded yet, and could do no harm. She reached behind her, and found the box, scrabbling with her fingers for a shell and loading it as the attackers edged forward, but then there was no more time to even aim. One man sprang at Bernie, she thrust the shotgun into his mouth and jerked the trigger.

A human head bounced into one corner of the room.

They had their filthy hands on her, now, grappling for the weapon. She threw her weight into them, and at first they seemed surprised by her strength, but then reinforcements came and suddenly she was struggling with four men. As they pushed her into the kitchen, the back door burst open, flooding the room with light as the other women fled from the house to whatever fate awaited them outside.

A fist struck her face once—twice, and then in her stomach. Oh God, the pain! The baby’s feet pounded inside her. They’re killing my baby, she thought. They’re going to kill both of us. She struck back with the shotgun butt and felt bone break, but them a fist hammered into her ribs and she cried out, loosening her grip. The weapon was ripped from her hands as they pushed her against the sink and again there was a hard blow to her stomach. Tears streaming, she clawed at their faces as they struck her repeatedly in the face and ribs as she covered up to protect her child, dropping to her knees under the rain of blows.

Her head snapped back. A hand was snarled in her long hair, and she was being dragged across the floor, arms crossed over her stomach. Pieces of glass drove into her back and buttocks and she screamed in pain, vaguely aware of the front door slamming open and then the porch was beneath her, rough splinters tearing at her clothes.

Shouting. The ground was now beneath her, for they had dragged her off the porch. Her hair was released, and her head hit a rock. Barely conscious, she looked up to see a blurred figure standing over her. More shouting, and then a gunshot! The figure above her turned, and then from far away came an animal scream that sent a chill through her broken body. She closed her eyes, and waited for death to come.

* * * * * * *

From her perch in the hayloft, Baela screamed at the others to lock themselves inside. Hidaig and his gang were attacking; they would kill all but the females, but for Baela this was not reassuring. She knew what the outcast gang leader thought of Hanken, and she would surely die if they captured her. The attackers came in two lines, one veering towards the main house, and she thought of Bernie: alone, pregnant, and Hinchai. They would slit her open and leave her to die slowly, or crush her skull with an axe if she was lucky. She screamed Bernie’s name, but there was no movement in the house. Below her, Tenanken ran to the bunkhouse, some females to the main house, and one male towards her in the barn. Moug. Her father had seen her.

No, she thought, don’t come here. Stay with mother.

Moug raced silently towards her, motioning her with a sweep of his arm to get out of sight, but it was already too late. The first line of attackers had reached the bunkhouse, were pounding on walls and the door, and Baela could hear the screams of those trapped inside. But three attackers had split from the group, and were chasing her father. One she recognized as Maki, and she flushed with anger. The traitor was now in the open with his conspirators, and she wished that somehow he would not live to see darkness.

As the warriors gained ground on Moug, Baela searched the loft for a weapon and found one, a long, metal fork with needle-sharp tines that could run through the muscle of even a Tenanken warrior. She hefted it, gratified by the light weight, stepped up to the edge of the loft and kicked at the wooden ladder leading up to it from the barn floor. It was nailed solidly to the loft, would not come loose even when she kicked with all her strength. She was still kicking when Moug appeared in the entrance to the barn. Stepping to one side of the doorway in half-gloom, he looked around desperately for something to fight with, eyes wide like those of a cornered, frightened animal. Baela tensed, starting to throw the fork down to her father, but it was too late to react at any speed for the attackers had nearly caught up to him when he reached the barn.

A warrior she had never seen before appeared in the entrance, spear in hand, looking up and seeing her, moving forward, and then Moug stepped from the shadows and kicked him hard in the crotch.

The warrior dropped his spear and fell to both knees, clutching at himself. Moug pounced, grabbing for the throat and rolling his intended victim over, squeezing hard. The warrior’s feet beat a crazy rhythm on the floor, hands clawing at Moug’s face, but then a shadow fell over both of them. A huge warrior appeared in the doorway, war club in hand, and the biggest spear Baela had ever seen in the other. He swung the club in a high arc over his head as Baela screamed. Moug saw motion out of the corner of an eye, shrinking from the blow, but there was a loud snap and crunch as the heavy stone club struck first shoulder and then head.

Moug rolled over on his side, and lay still.

Baela screamed again, tears streaming down her face as Maki entered the barn, looking from her to the figures on the ground: one still as death, the other writhing angrily now, scrambling to his feet in terrible fury.

The one who had struck down Baela’s father now moved towards the ladder to the loft, but Maki screamed at him, “Leave her! She’s mine!”

The huge one fixed amber eyes on Baela, amused, then turned to his companion who had just risen, still holding his crotch. “So we will take her,” he said in a deep voice, “and throw her scrawny body down to the point of my spear.” He slammed the spear shaft into the ground near the ladder, grinned as his comrade pushed past him unarmed and began to climb up to the loft.

Baela stepped back two paces from the ladder, and leveled the big, metal fork, gripping with tiny hands.

The warrior’s head appeared above the loft floor. He grinned, showing rotten teeth.

His shoulders and thick body appeared; he grasped the top of the ladder and started to step up onto the loft floor.

Baela lowered her head, and charged.

The fork struck in the hard chest of the warrior, burying itself deeply.

The attacker let out a gasp, blood spurting with air. His hands groped at the wooden shaft sticking out of him and he toppled over backwards, ripping the weapon out of Baela’s hands and slamming hard to the floor below.

Baela’s heart pounded, her weapon gone. Nothing but straw remained in the loft, not even a stone. The giant below her looked up and chuckled, then pushed the shaft of his spear even deeper into the ground. He smiled at Baela, and began to climb the ladder.

“Why kill her, Kretan?” asked Maki calmly from the doorway.

“I will take her to Hidaig on my spear. He will be pleased.” Slowly, patiently, Kretan slithered up the ladder.

“Very well,” said Maki, and he bent over to pick up the spear of the warrior killed by Baela.

Her only chance now was quickness and speed and light, flexible bones like those of a bird. Once she had briefly experienced flight by leaping from her hidey tree, executing a forward roll when her feet touched the ground, and taking up much of the shock in her back and one shoulder. The height had been what she now faced, perhaps three times her own length. If she landed wrong it would all be over. Even done properly she must come up on her feet in a sprint to get past Maki and out of the barn. And what then?

Baela thought of the great hunting bird, and stretched out her arms like wings as she backed along the edge of the loft away from the ladder. Kretan’s head appeared above the edge of the loft, grinning in anticipation of touching her, saliva glistening on his chin. Her foot slipped on the edge of the loft, and she teetered a little, gasping in surprise at what she saw below: Maki, arm drawn far back with the spear, running forward to gain momentum, eyes fixed not on her but on the back of the huge warrior named Kretan, releasing the spear with a grunt, and then the strangled cry.

Kretan’s eyes bulged as he screamed in pain and fury, four inches of the stone spearhead protruding out from his chest, blood spurting. Pump, pump, pump, the life drained from him in an instant. He collapsed over the top of the ladder in a red pool, and was still.

Baela looked down as Maki kicked over the big spear that had been waiting to receive her, and he saw the question in her face.

“It was a private vengeance,” he said, “but I did it for you, too. Jump down, now, and I will catch you. I promise, Hidaig will not harm you, because it is my will that you go unharmed. He needs my support to consolidate the band, and you can help, Baela. You can make life better for your parents and friends if you stand by my side in this, because they all have affection for you.”

“You try to trick me,” said Baela sharply. “You hate all Hanken; I’ve heard you say it. You think we all should have died at birth.”

Maki shook his head and looked up at her pleadingly. “No, I don’t feel that way about you, Baela. You have intelligence and spirit, and when I’m Keeper I want you at my side. Just you, Baela. Nobody else.”

Suddenly the girl with long legs and budding breasts understood the power she had over the ambitious young man. She put her hands on her hips, and looked down at him seriously. “When you say by your side, you expect that I will lie down with you.”

Maki nodded.

“You expect I will have your children.”

“Yes,” said Maki softly. “Now jump down quickly, and I will catch you. There’s no more time for talk.”

Baela thought—considering her options.

She leapt into the air, and fell into Maki’s outstretched arms.

He caught her with a grunt, holding her for an instant close against his chest, feeling the slender arm around his neck and smelling her sweet breath. He put her down on her feet, but grabbed an arm when she tried to twirl away from him.

“My father’s badly hurt; I have to help him. Let me go!”

“He’s dead, Baela. There’s nothing we can do, now.”

“No! Please!”

“He’s gone, and we have no time to argue. I’ll bring you back when the fighting is over, but now you come with me!”

“Father—” she said, tears running down her face as Maki pulled her away from the huddled form and out of the barn. She stumbled after him, squinting in the sunlight and again hearing the screams of the battle.

They had run only a few steps when the first shots rang out.

Popping sounds. Maki flinched, ducking his head and unslinging his pointing weapon while maintaining a firm grip on Baela’s arm.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Stay close to me, and move quickly.” Maki pulled her close, put an arm around her waist and they trotted towards the bunkhouse which the attackers had still not penetrated, the scene chaotic as warriors stumbled around and fell, one breaking away and running towards them, the popping sounds continuing. When he was a few feet away, a red hole appeared in his forehead, and then his head exploded, showering them with blood and pieces of bone. Baela screamed, and Maki crushed her to him as they ran for their lives.

* * * * * * *

Pete charged down the ridge, a crazy bull looking for something to crush, eyes fixed on the house with attackers already on the porch. He hit the grass and vaulted a fence like an eighteen-year-old, without breaking stride, Jake calling out in vain for him to wait, but again all that existed were the figures on the porch, his porch and his house, pounding at the window, and then he saw Hidaig swing the big club, heard the window shatter and the first explosion from inside the house. Bernie’s shotgun. She was fighting them—alone. Pete growled in rage, baring his teeth as the shotgun went off again, two, three times, slamming bodies back onto the porch. They will kill her; they will kill her, then slit her open and kill our child. Because I wasn’t there.

Hidaig was barking orders on the porch, oblivious to the crazy animal charging at him. Another explosion, and then the back door to the house flew open, spilling out women.

“Diana!” called Jake from behind him. “Over here!”

The women ran towards Pete and Jake. One warrior saw them from the porch, starting a chase but freezing in his tracks when he saw Pete coming. Another came around the house, swinging a club and striking one woman to her knees, retreating to the porch as she bounced up flailing at him with a knife in her hand.

Pete saw the mob drag a kicking and screaming woman from the house. Bernie. Dear God, they’ve got Bernie. My wife—my baby. She lay in a heap on the ground, surrounded by warriors, and Hidaig was stepping up to her with his club.

Pete screamed a primal sound that came from the pit of his soul. He leveled his rifle waist high and fired, a warrior spinning away from the crowd, holding his side before collapsing on the porch. As he chambered another round a warrior ran towards him, spear raised for a throw, body shuddering and them crumpling to the ground when Jake opened fire. Jake fired again, knocking down another warrior as the group turned and saw them coming. Where was Hidaig now? It was Hidaig he wanted. I will crush skull, then feed your brains to our child. But there were no children—yet. His unborn child lay with its mother in the dirt before their home, threatened by beings from another world, who showed no pity.

He would show no pity.

Pete screamed again, firing as he charged, warriors scattering and falling before him. By the time he reached Bernie the rifle was empty; he threw it to the ground and snatched up a war club. So many years since he’d had such a weapon in his hands, but it felt comfortable and natural, and when the first warrior came at him with a spear he parried delicately, then swung by spinning his entire body, shattering the Tenanken head in an explosion of gore. The three remaining warriors fled around the side of the house as he reached Bernie and knelt beside her, vaguely aware of Jake’s puffing arrival to stand guard behind him.

“I’m here,” he said, panting. “It’s all right, now.”

Her face was bloody and swollen. She rolled over on her back, and held out her arms for him, tears gushing over her face. “Oh, Pete, they’ve hurt the baby. I have a terrible pain inside me, and the baby isn’t kicking. Oh, Pete—our child—”

“It’s all right,” he said. “We’ll take care of you. Relax.” As he spoke, his head swiveled, searching for Hidaig. Jake seemed to read his mind, and knelt beside him.

“The fight’s moved to the bunkhouse, but they can’t get in. You want to find someone, I’ll stay with Bernie, Pete. I’ll take care of her for you.”

I’ve brought them to this. I led them out of the caverns and down here to die. I am responsible for this. Pete grabbed up the war club, and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Jake reached out to hand him something.

Two sticks of dynamite, and a small box of matches.

“Something for the cause,” said Jake.

Bernie groaned, and clutched at her belly. Jake looked down at her. “If I have to, I’ll die for her, Pete. Go on, now.”

Pete grabbed Jake awkwardly in a hug, then turned and headed towards the bunkhouse, where warriors still pounded at the heavy door. He ran within twenty meters of the milling crowd, then knelt in the tall grass and struck a match. The fuses on the dynamite were incredibly short, and he had no experience with explosives.

The warriors had built a small fire by the bunkhouse, feeding it with loose scraps of wood, carrying flaming pieces over to the building to start a much bigger fire. A warrior tending the fire looked up and saw Pete kneeling in the grass. When he saw the match his eyes widened, he stood up, spear in hand, and walked deliberately towards Pete. He had walked only a few steps when he stopped with a sudden shudder. A small hole appeared in his chest, oozing blood. The warrior stood there, looking confused, and then his eyes rolled upwards; he sank to his knees, and toppled over on his side.

Now Pete heard it, the crackle of gunfire, off to his right, the whine of bullets coming in like bees. Screams. Two more warriors staggered and fell by the bunkhouse. Pete lit the fuse of the dynamite, watched the fuse burn all the way down, then flipped it towards the bunkhouse and dropped to the ground. The dynamite exploded in the air, knocking everyone hard to the ground within a radius of twenty meters. For a moment Pete could hear no sound except a high-pitched ringing; he stood up groggily, gripping the war club, stumbling forward.

The warriors panicked, darting away from him around the bunkhouse and across the grassy field towards the blackened and smoldering canyon beyond. Gunfire was continuous; Pete looked to his right, saw Ned and the others kneeling in a line by his fence, aiming and firing with careful deliberation. One by one, the warriors fell under rifle fire and lay still. Pete trotted after them, looking for Hidaig, finding Baela instead, firmly in the grip of Maki. The traitorous son of Anka was dragging her with him towards the canyon, a rifle in his hand. Pete changed direction and went after them, trotting faster until he was running. They hadn’t seen him, hurrying to escape the hail of bullets which somehow avoided them, not looking back but ahead to where the steep ridge came down to meet the grass. And there, waiting for them on the ridge, a spear in his hand, stood Hidaig. Grinning.

Pete gained ground with each step. By the time they reached the ridge he was only a few meters behind them. They scrambled up to the flat rock slab where Hidaig stood, spear leveled.

“Kill the Hanken slime!” screamed Hidaig.

“She comes with me!” yelled Maki. “I promised her—”

“I said kill her! Now!” Hidaig drew back his arm with the spear.

Maki twirled, getting himself between Hidaig and Baela, and pushing the girl to the ground.

Hidaig’s arm thrust forward, his spear piercing Maki in the throat. Maki let out a gurgling cry, releasing Baela and his rifle, grabbing the shaft of Hidaig’s spear with both hands and yanking it from him. As life pumped out of him, shock came; he teetered on the sharp edge of the ridge, then fell off it and spun lazily to the ground meters below.

Hidaig grabbed Baela’s hair in one hand, the rifle in the other, stepped forward and put one foot firmly on the girl’s stomach to hold her down. Pete roared, and charged up the ridge, swinging the club up in a high arc over his head.

Hidaig calmly leveled the rifle at Pete, a horrible grin on his face—and pulled the trigger.

The explosion was loud enough to drown Baela’s scream, the breech of the weapon blowing apart and sending splinters of steel and brass upwards into Hidaig’s eyes and face. As he staggered backwards, reaching for his face, Pete’s club came down with terrible force to destroy his head from crown to brain stem with a sickening plop. He toppled off the ridge to join Maki in the dirt below as Pete pulled Baela to her feet.

“Okay?” asked Pete.

“Okay,” she said, but her eyes were filled with tears. Below them, Ned and the others were advancing across the grass, and there was one more rifle shot.

No prisoners were taken that day.

“Bernie’s hurt; I’ve got to get back to her. Come with me.” Pete gave Baela’s hand a squeeze, then rushed towards the house. Baela hesitated, then started after him, but halfway to the house she changed direction, heading towards the barn.

Bodies were scattered in the grass, and Pete smelled death. Tenanken were piling out of the bunkhouse, a few following him as he rushed past. Ahead, a small crowd had gathered around Bernie, still on the ground by the porch, and an awful thought crept into Pete’s mind. What if I lose her? What’s the sense of all I’m doing if I lose my wife and child? But he was relieved to find her alive and conscious, managing a weak smile from her battered, swollen face when he bent over her, and then she burst into tears. He knelt down, and took her hands in his.

“I hurt so bad inside, Peter. I hurt so bad.”

“It’s all right now, hon. Lots of people here to take care of you.”

Jake put a hand on Pete’s shoulder. “Hope you don’t mind, but she complained a lot about pain on her left side so I pulled up her blouse and checked. No bleeding or swelling, but a pretty good bruise comin’. She might have a cracked rib, Pete. They really pounded her, but Jeezus, Pete, she killed six of ’em.”

“It’s not just my side, Peter,” said Bernie, squeezing his hands hard. “What scares me is the baby not moving, and I feel pain there too. Oh—there it goes again!” Bernie closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them wide. “Oh, God,” she said, “it’s starting!”

“What?” Pete was surprised by her sudden alertness.

“I think it’s coming now! Get me to a bed. I’m not going to have my child born in the dirt.”

Pete gulped, then looked at the faces around them. “Three on a side, and keep her back straight. We’ll lift together, and take her to the bedroom by the kitchen.”

Six men lifted her gently from the ground, and she groaned. They carried her inside the house, broken glass crunching under their boots, and put her on the brass bed she shared with Pete.

“Now what?” asked Jake. “Is she really gonna have a baby now? Hell, we need a doctor here.”

“Nearest one’s in Quincy, and Bernie’s in no shape for a ride,” said Ned. “Besides, our horses ’n’ wagons are all back at the creek. Any volunteers for a run back to town?”

A couple of hands went up. “Okay, Ed and Zeke, it’ll take you an hour if you really hump it. Stop by as many houses as you can, and tell the women to get right over here. I know Audrey’s done some midwifin’, and some of the others, maybe. Zeke, bring some shovels back. We’ve got maybe thirty bodies to bury somewhere.”

“We gonna talk about this, Ned?” asked Jake.

“Later,” said Ned. “Right now we need action, not words, unless you want to smell the stink.”

“The mouth of the canyon is a good spot,” said Pete, “and it’s safe on my property. Whoever these people were, I doubt they have relatives to come lookin’ for them.”

“Maybe,” said Jake thoughtfully, “but what we’re doin’ ain’t legal.”

“Later, Jake,” said Ned, but the end of the conversation came when Bernie moaned again.

“Can you get some women here? Things are really startin’ to happen!” she yelled.

The men crowded out of the room in confusion, Pete remaining at her side. Only a minute later Jake returned with Diana and two other women in tow. Pete looked at them, and without hesitation spoke in classical Tenanken.

“Please help her. Our child is ready to be born.”

Diana squealed with delight, clapping her hands together but then becoming stern, pushing both Peter and Jake out of the room and slamming the door behind them.

Pete looked at Jake, and managed a wry grin. “I’ve just been thrown out of my own bedroom by a woman who isn’t even my wife,” he said.

They occupied themselves with the other men for two hours, shoveling broken glass out of the front room and boarding up the big window. Everyone crowded into the house, wanting to help, and in an hour a steady stream of women was marching back and forth between the bedroom and the kitchen. Near dusk, Diana emerged from the bedroom with a smile, took Pete by the arm and led him to Bernie. The women had cleaned and bandaged her wounds, and she had on her favorite nightgown, a white thing that made her hair seem even more golden. Her face was swollen and purple on the left side, one eye nearly shut so she had to turn her head to look at him. “See, I’m pretty again,” she said weakly.

Pete felt out of place. Awkwardly, he said, “Do you still hurt?”

Bernie took his hand in hers. “The contractions are regular, now, but my side doesn’t hurt so much when I lie still. And Pete, the most wonderful thing, a little while ago Diana was examining me, putting her hands over my stomach to see how the baby was positioned, pushing back and forth a little and Peter, the baby moved! I felt it move! Then as soon as Diana took her hands off me it was quiet again. She says the head is placed right; everything’s ready to go. Our first child will be born right in this bed. Oh, it feels tight down there!”

She was babbling, euphoric. Pete sat down on the edge of the bed. “Can I touch?” he asked, and she nodded. He put both palms gently on her abdomen and immediately felt movement as if the child had been startled. He closed his eyes and let the love feeling well up in him, imagining it flowing through his hands to child and mother. A tiny heel moved slowly past his hand once, twice, then pushing outwards sleepily. He opened his eyes, and found Bernie crying.

“He knows his daddy’s there,” she said.

He sat with her until after darkness as the contractions grew stronger, coming at shorter and shorter intervals. People came and went, including Baela, who wanted to feel the baby and laughed when it moved for her. Diana and two other Tenanken women were a constant presence, waiting patiently for the moment. Pete looked at their calm expressions. The memories of tens of thousands of birthing years are with you. Please use them to help the ones I love.

Well after dark, Bernie yelled, then grunted and arched her back with terrible force. Diana pushed Pete out of the room, explaining, “room too small. No space enough.” Steaming water was brought in, along with all the linens in the house. The door slammed shut.

Pete was jittery, standing in a front room filled with nervous men. When Diana came out briefly he followed her to the kitchen. “I should be in there to help,” he pleaded.

Diana looked at him sharply. “Woman know what to do. No time to talk—work!” She bustled past him with a boiled knife in her hand, and slammed the door behind her.

“Aren’t you supposed to start pacing, now?” asked Jake, and some of the men laughed uneasily.

“I’m gonna take a walk,” said Pete. “It’s getting too close for me in here.” Nobody followed him when he left the house to sit on the edge of the porch and look out at the silhouettes of trees. Darkness hid the bodies piled to his left where they had been dragged. One of them was Maki, Anka’s last son, unceremoniously dumped with a pile of Tenanken outcasts, perhaps the last of their kind.

The change was not coming; it was here—now. Tenanken and Hinchai as one people. It was right; again, he felt it, and now, very soon, the first child of their joining. What kind of child? The question chilled him. His own features were heavy, but not Tahehto like those of his father. Would the child be brutish? Would Bernie scream at the sight of her newborn, wondering how such a thing could come from her, what monster had entered her to conceive it? Sweat beaded on his forehead as he thought about it, but then his reverie was interrupted by the arrival of Zeke in his wagon, carrying shovels and a passenger. Audrey Miflin, red-faced and heavy-busted, waddled past him into the house.

“Calm down, poppa. We’ll have that baby of yours born in no time.”

But in a few minutes she peeked out the front door. “Hell, they don’t need me in there; everything’s goin’ fine. Old country medicine. Better stick close, though. It’s gonna be pretty soon.” Audrey grinned happily, and ducked back inside.

Pete directed Zeke to a spot at the mouth of the canyon and walked back to sit on the porch while ten men went to work with the shovels. Ned came out of the house, and sat with him for a while.

“We’ve been talkin’,” said Ned, “and I hope you’ll go along with this, even though it’s against the law. It’s just that we’ve got ourselves a nice, quiet town up here, and what would it accomplish if what happened today ever got out?”

“All those dead. How can we not talk about it?”

“Well, we’re sure as hell gonna try not to. All of us came up here for the peace and quiet, and we’re gonna keep it that way. The vote was unanimous, Pete. We’re not sayin’ anything to anybody about today. It never happened, just like Tom bein’ killed. Tom had nobody but us, and we got the guys who killed him. That’s fair enough, and nobody will mourn the critters we’re buryin’ out there.”

I can think of a couple, thought Pete, remembering the feelings he’d had in the cave that day. If they are still alive.

“We got them all, Pete, every one. A couple of our own got banged up pretty good: Bernie, one of the other women, and then the guy we found in the barn, the little girl’s father.”

“Baela?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. Her daddy, she said. Bad bang on the head, shoulder busted, a couple of dead critters by him, one pierced clean through with a stone-headed spear. Hell of a fight that must have been. Bad concussion, and we’ve got him upstairs. He’s been babbling all evenin’ in a weird language, sort of speakin’ in tongues. Touch and go for now, but we’ll ride it out with him.”

“Where’s Baela?”

“She’s with him, now, and her mother.”

There was a shout from inside the house.

“What do you say, Pete. We keep quiet about all this? Bury the dead, and get on with it?”

Pete thought for a minute, but it was hard to concentrate. What was all the yelling about? A new beginning for the Tenanken, safe in a quiet place, and time to learn the Hinchai ways. Their own settlement, and friends. Future lovers. Children. Quiet time was needed—not invasion by outsiders.

Now men were talking by the open door of the house, and from somewhere deep inside came an agonized cry.

“Yeah, that’s fine, Ned. We keep quiet about all of it.”

“Good,” said Ned, slapping him on the back.

Jake stuck his head out of the doorway. “Better get in here, Pete. Things is happenin’ fast, now; women runnin’ all over the place.”

Pete and Ned both scrambled to their feet, Pete beating him to the door by a step. Inside was chaos, men packed together, pushing up towards the bedroom door, falling back when Audrey rolled out of the kitchen with a pot of something steaming and threatened them with it before the door slammed behind her. Over the din in the front room Pete could hear women’s voices beyond the door, and then Bernie grunting, crying out, grunting again. Suddenly there was another cry, but this one higher pitched and coming in bursts.

A baby’s cry.

It got very quiet in the front room, everyone listening. Finally, Jake sidled up to Pete and put an arm around his shoulders. “From what I hear, you have just become a poppa,” he said. “Congratulations.”

The door opened, and Audrey bustled out.

“Can I?—” Pete began.

“Not now. Mister Pelegeropoulis is not yet presentable to his public.” She held up something long and bloody. “I’ll wrap up the cord for you to keep.” She busied herself in the kitchen, then pushed past Pete and into the bedroom, but women were in the way so he couldn’t see Bernie.

A boy. He had a son. The firstborn was a son, and in the Tenanken traditions it was a most favorable sign.

At last the door opened to him, the women stepping aside from the bed and he saw Bernie lying there, battered looking but smiling serenely, and cuddled tightly next to her a tiny human being wrapped in a blanket. For Pete, there was no sound or sight other than those two before him in the bed; he stepped forward, sat down next to them, touched Bernie’s face, then pulled aside the blanket to look at the face of his son.

He was beautiful.

A well-shaped head was covered with blond fuzz. Tiny mouth, but generous nose in a square face with well-defined cheekbones, and when Pete’s face drew near, the baby opened coal-black eyes, squinted at him, then turned his head and made sucking sounds.

“He’s a big baby,” said Bernie softly. “Maybe twelve pounds.”

Pete leaned over and kissed her, first the cheek, then the mouth. Control failed him for the first time in his life; tears welled up in his eyes, and streamed down his cheeks. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice quavering.

“I am now,” she said, then pulled his head down and kissed him firmly while the baby squirmed against her, mouth searching for a breast and finding it.

They watched the baby suckle for a moment while the other women left the room, closing the door behind them. “Do you have a name for the baby?” asked Bernie, then quickly added, “I think he should be named for his father.”

Pete thought. The baby suckled, and hiccupped.

“How about Peter Savas? The father and his father.”

Bernie smiled. “That’s nice, and very Greek.” She looked down at their son, his mouth clamped on a nipple, a tiny hand massaging the breast. “That’s your name, little guy. Peter Savas Pelegeropoulis. Quite a mouthful.” She jiggled the nipple in the baby’s mouth, and laughed.

They sat alone with their son for several minutes, and then Pete opened the door so the neighbors and Tenanken relatives could see the new addition to planet earth. One by one they smiled, made funny sounds and strange faces at the child. Jake seemed wistful when the baby clamped onto his index finger and held fast; he looked up, caught Diana smiling sweetly at him, and blushed a deep red. For those moments, the room was filled with both friendship and love, between two peoples.

Outside, under the cover of darkness, ten men worked on—burying the past.