Dies the Fire (13 page)

“Finland's national epic. That great big thing that sounds like
Hiawatha,
only you can't pronounce the names?”

“Now I remember,” Eric nodded. “We've got a copy at home; every line sort of repeats? Dad has it with his saga collection; he used to read us that stuff when we were little kids—that's how Astrid got started on her schtick. The illustrations were cool, but I couldn't get through it. I can't remember anything about knives, though; I thought it was all witches and monsters and Santa Claus sleigh-trips with reindeer?”

“Yeah, the Old Country version could make sex sound dull, but the one my dad taught me was sort of modified; it goes—” He began to chant as they walked west along the trail:

Eric hadn't expected to be forced to listen to poetry, but a smile broke through his frown of puzzlement as the words sank in. Havel cleared his throat and continued, in the solemn singsong shaman-type voice purists always used for the real thing when the old farts got together at the Suomi-American Society meetings:

Eric Larsson was beginning to stagger and wheeze with laughter as they walked; Havel made a grand gesture with the rabbit stick, declaiming:

He carried on through the younger man's laughter, remembering the way the sauna had run that night, he and his brothers and father howling out the verses in turn until the one reciting couldn't go on, and falling back on the scalding-hot pine benches.

“
H
ope Luther doesn't mind us dropping in past midnight,” Dennis said. Juniper snorted wordlessly, too tired to waste breath on speech as she pedaled her heavily laden bike along the rough patched pavement of the country road. She felt every jolt, all the way up her back. The muscles of her thighs burned and cramped; the day had wrung her limp as a dishrag, even after all the miles she'd covered on a bicycle over the years. Despite the chill damp of the air she was sweating under her down coat, and the straps of her knapsack cut into her shoulders.

“Hold up!” she said suddenly, stopping and putting a foot down. It skidded through dirt and gravel along the edge of the asphalt.

They all braked and swerved. It was dark, dark in a way she'd never experienced in settled country before. Between patches of cloud the stars were a bright frosted band across the sky, and the moon was rising huge on the edge of sight; it turned the grassy fields and woodlots to silvered mystery.

It's nearly Ostara,
she thought. That would come with the vernal equinox; also Eilir's birthday.
Night and day in perfect balance, with light on the increase. Maybe things will get better. All Gods above, I hope so!

The tin mailbox on its post beside the turnoff was prosaic by contrast, down to the little flag in the upright position to warn the mailman there were letters waiting.

If there's ever a postman by again,
she thought, and swallowed.

“This is Luther's drive,” she said. “Another quarter mile.”

Luther Finney had farmed south of Corvallis most of his seventy-four years, like his fathers before him since they came west on the Oregon Trail the year before the California gold rush started; when the last of his children moved away, he'd rented out most of his land to neighbors and kept only the old house and a few acres around it. He still kept farmer's hours, but he'd complained to her that he slept lightly these days.

Dogs barked as the three fugitives walked their laden bicycles up the tree-lined gravel lane. The buds were out on the rock maples arching overhead—trees Luther's great-great grandfather had planted to remind him of Massachusetts—and they turned the lane into a tunnel of shadow even darker than the open road.

He probably
does
sleep lightly
Juniper thought, as light blossomed in an upstairs window.

First the buttery yellow flame of a candle, and then the brighter glow of a kerosene lamp. Nothing like the hard glare of electricity, which she was already starting to miss. Luther's two Alsatians came up, excited but polite; her own nondescript black-and-white mongrel threw himself into the air around them in wriggling transports of barking joy, before making his usual nosedive for the crotch to catch up on the olfactory news.

“Quiet, Cuchulain,” she said, giving him an admonitory rap on the head.

She'd named him after the Hound of Ulster, which was somewhat appropriate given the beast's mixed ancestry, though not for his entirely nonheroic nature.

He jumped up and tried to lick her face instead. She pushed him down and thumped his ribs reassuringly. The dog sensed anxiety and whined a bit, then followed them with head down and tail wagging nervously. More lights came on downstairs, and the door opened; Luther Finney came out, wrapped in a long bathrobe.

“Juney!” he cried. “And Ellie! Weren't expecting you back for another few days.”

The old man's face carried a genuine smile; so did his wife Sarah's, where she stood behind him.

Jack Sprat,
Juniper thought as she smiled back; Luther was tall and lean and wrinkled, Sarah short and round with a face like a raisin dumpling.

“Come on in,” the farmer said.

He shook hands with Dennis, giving the ax over his shoulder no more than a glance; he'd met the manager of the Hopping Toad before, and even come in to hear Juniper sing a couple of times. Sarah hugged Juniper and her daughter, and shooed them forward through the hall and into the farmhouse kitchen.

Good thing we can leave the crossbows inconspicuously with the bikes,
Juniper thought.
They might overwhelm even Luther's politeness reflex.

They were ugly squared-off things like stubby rifles with short thick bows across the front, but light and easy to handle.

That made her feel a bit better about the transaction; she was mournfully convinced that camping gear and high-energy trail rations and garden seeds were going to be worth a
lot
more than portraits of dead presidents by this time tomorrow, when more people had figured out what was happening.

Luther's eyebrows
did
go up when Juniper took off her down coat and the blades showed. She sighed at the warmth, and at the lingering cooking smells—those pastrami sandwiches seemed like a long time ago.

“There a reason for the cutlery, Juney?” he said. “You and Mr. Martin on your way to one of those pageant things you sing at?”

She suppressed an absurd impulse to slide the weapons around behind her; instead she unbuckled the belt and hung it on the back of a chair.

Sarah Finney didn't say anything; but then, she rarely did. Instead she started loading three plates with leftovers—cold fried chicken, beans, potato salad, string beans, and slices cut from a loaf of fresh bread. Then she put an old-fashioned percolator coffeepot on the gas range.

“Can't do filter,” she said apologetically. “Power's out.” She made a gesture towards the two big buckets on the counter. “Pump, too.”

“Good thing the old hand pump's still working,” Luther said. “Knew it would come in useful sometime.”

Dennis cut in, as he leaned the handle of the war-ax against the door: “Mr. Finney, you've got a gun around, don't you?”

“ 'Course,” Luther said, puzzled; his chin and nose looked as if they were going to meet when he frowned. “Got a shotgun, and my old deer rifle, too. Why?”

“I'd rather you see for yourself. Get one of 'em and go out back and pop off a couple of rounds into the woodpile. Either will do.” He raised a hand. “I can't explain and you won't believe me until you've tried. It'll save time. This is important. Humor me.”

The old man glanced at Juniper; she nodded, and he shrugged and went out. The three sat down and obeyed Sarah's smiling wave, pitching into the food. Juniper hid a smile as she bit into a drumstick; Luther affected a hard-headed practicality and a loud contempt for any “hippie nonsense,” but he also kept a henhouse full of free-range Rhode Islands because they simply tasted better, and a half-acre vegetable garden for the same reason.

Dennis's eyes met hers, and she knew they shared a thought:
I hope to hell that gun works properly. . . .

A
click
came from the backyard, followed by a muttered curse and the sound of a shotgun's slide being racked, repeated several times along with the futile-sounding metallic sounds. Juniper felt a twinge of disappointment, but not enough to make her stop eating. Luther came back with his lips moving silently. He could swear a blue streak when he wanted to, but had old-fashioned ideas about doing it in front of women or children—he'd been born in 1924, after all.

“You knew about this?” he said in a half-accusing voice, and sat—though not before he'd made sure there were no rounds left in the shotgun's magazine. He was thoroughly careful about firearms, courtesy of his father and a lifetime of hunting, plus World War II and Korea.

“Yeah,” Dennis said. He glanced over at Juniper. “You want to tell 'em, Juney?”

No,
she thought.
But I will.

She was more articulate, anyway, as befitted a musician and storyteller. When she'd finished the old man sat and stared at her for a while.

“Craziest damned thing I ever heard, Juney,” he said after a moment. “But my equipment won't start, that's true; not the car or the pickup either. And the scattergun won't shoot worth shhh…shucks.”

He shook his head. “There's going to be hell to pay while this lasts, too.”

“How do you know it's not going to last forever?” she said grimly.

“Why . . . it
can't,
” Finney said. “That'd be . . . why, that would be
terrible.
”

Juniper swallowed. “Luther, it's already terrible. There are
hundreds
of people dead in Corvallis—maybe thousands. I mean that, Luther: thousands. I was down at the waterfront, helping with the people who got hurt. A 747 out of Portland crashed right there at Fourth and Monroe, and a quarter of the town was up in flames by the time we left. If it's like that in Corvallis, what's it like in Portland or Seattle? Or LA or New York?”

Sarah's face had lost its smiling composure; Luther's hand clenched, and he looked at the silent radio on the countertop by the stove.

“And nothing works, Luther. Nothing. We got into a fight—”

Luther's eyes went wide as they described it; then they went to his own shotgun, leaning against the wall by the back door, and then to Dennis's ax.

“Luther,” Sarah said. “Eddie and Susan and the children!”

Juniper and Dennis winced; so did Eilir, who read lips well. Those were the Finneys' son and daughter and grandchildren . . . there were great-grandchildren too, come to think of it. They all lived in Salem.

Luther made a calming gesture in his wife's direction with one gnarled hand, a gentleness in contrast with a look more grim and intent than the musician had ever seen on his features before. Though others might have recognized it, in the bloody, frozen hills around Chosin Reservoir.

“Later, honey. Let's get things straight first.” He looked back at his guests. “You figure this thing has happened all over?”

All three nodded. “I can't be sure,” Juniper admitted. “But I climbed the tallest building in town and used my binoculars. It's dark out there, Luther. There isn't a single light, not a moving car, not a plane going overhead that I could see. All there are, are fires. Lots of fires. And you saw what happened with the gun—that's the way it was when we tried, too.”