Dies the Fire (77 page)

Dennis has gone berserk, and it's catching,
she thought ruefully.
All that seasoned wood just waiting to be carved . . .

The fires gave off a clean hot scent, mingling with the sappy-tarry odor of the big logs in the structures above and the farm smells that had become the background of her life, and the cool
aliveness
that poured down from the forests. Children ran around outside the line of dancers; only the infants and toddlers were off sleeping yet. Juniper made an inconspicuous signal.

Best to gather them up now, before they get overtired and cranky,
she thought.
Besides, there's grown-up business to attend to.

She shivered at the thought, then managed to push it away for the moment. Chuck and Judy caught the eye of Daniel and Sanjay and Mary; they herded the preteens together and brought them over to the little hillock where the musicians had sat.

None of the children were shy around her anymore; certainly not Chuck and Judy's Mary, who had brass enough for three and a real feeling for music.

“Can we sing the hymn now?” she said eagerly. “Dad said we could.”

She's calling Chuck Dad so natural now,
Juniper thought behind her smile.
Now, is that a sad thing, or happy, or both at once? At that, she and Daniel didn't have much of a father
or
mother before the Change, as far as I can tell. Why bother to have children at all if you don't want to spend time with them?

“That you can,” she said aloud. “But first, since Mabon's the Wine Harvest, you should all have a wee glass—it's a special occasion, to be sure.”

The children were eager; chances were they wouldn't actually like it much—dry red Pinot Noir was an acquired taste—but it was a chance to play grown-up. Small cups clutched in small hands, they filed past the big wicker-work, vine-woven figure behind her dressed in their Mabon best with ribbons of red, orange, russet, maroon and gold, each pouring a libation for the Green Man and the tree before drinking down the rest themselves.

Which will make them sleepier,
she thought.
And it's a cunning High Priestess you are, Juniper Mackenzie.

Mary cleared her throat impatiently and Juniper gave them the note, the fiddle singing long and pure. Judy tapped her bohdran. They'd all practiced hard, and everyone came in on the beat, although there were a few wobbles to be corrected with desperate speed:

The adults behind broke into a chorus of claps and cheers as they finished; dogs ran about; it was another twenty minutes before the children were all through the gatehouse and abed, or led off to the tents that housed the visitors and the clansfolk from the outlying duns. While that was going on Juniper headed for the tables and loaded a plate, resisting temptation and making herself take some potato salad despite how sick she'd gotten of the spud in general.

“Which isn't surprising, considering how often we all meet Mr. Spud when it
isn't
a festival day,” she muttered to herself. “Mashed, boiled, roasted . . .”

At least there was plenty in the way of fresh greens and tomatoes, which her mouth still craved, and Diana had managed to make plenty of wine vinegar. Most of it had gone into pickling and preserving, but there was enough for dressing, another taste everyone had sorely missed. Everyone with inclinations to cooking had contributed something; Dennis had produced a lovely baked-bean dish too, smokey and rich with bits of bacon and onion.

The bread was excellent, though less of a novelty now that a two-pound loaf was the basis of everyone's daily diet; but for today there was cheese-bread as well, and some with caramelized onions in the crust, and varieties done with honey and nuts . . .

It would have been a valuable source of protein, but fortunately the soybean didn't grow around here. She'd always loathed the bland custard-like dish, no matter what people claimed they could do with seasoning. Eating seasoned tofu was like licking a rubber snail dipped into garlic butter and calling it escargot.

Full of virtue, she added a single slice of ham and one of roast venison. Another month and they'd be slaughtering more—getting the necessary salt for laying down salt pork was proving difficult—but for now pig meat was short, and they always had to be careful with the deer for fear of hunting out the vicinity. Being cautious with the gifts of the Goddess was more than a principle now, it was
necessary.

The second set of fiddlers came on with “Bully of the Bayou”; they were from Sweet Home, refugeed out a month ago when that town broke up in internal fighting. When she got back to the oak tree and the table beside it, she found Sheriff Laughton waiting, along with several of the other guests—ranchers from across the Cascades. They'd come over the mountains in a body, with armed guards from their . . .
Well, I suppose you could call it their retainers,
she thought.
Anyway, their cowboys and all those people from the towns they've taken in.

All the bigger ranches on the eastern slopes were like hamlets themselves now, she'd heard, or at least the ones that didn't absolutely need power-driven pumps to survive.

And the ranchers like little lords on their properties, getting used to having their own way,
she thought.
It'll be a good long while before we know all the things the Change has brought on us.

They were influential men, most in their thirties and forties—the half-year since the Change had not been kind to the elderly anywhere, even in favored areas like theirs. Mostly lean—looking as if they'd always been lean—and weathered; and not a few were looking distinctly nervous at the tall bushy figure of the Green Man beneath the tree, and the Horns of Plenty and ribbons hung from the branches.

They were all impressed by the feast, though, and by the tall log walls of Dun Juniper, and by the exhibition of massed archery the clan had put on earlier that afternoon.

Everyone can shoot in the general direction of the enemy, and then we have a few like Aylward and Chuck who do marksmanship, and they think
all
of us can shoot like that. Would that it were so!

“Ah, Lady Juniper, I didn't want to intrude on your, well—” Laughton began.

Being polite,
she thought.
Actually, he's frightened.

“Don't worry,” she said soothingly; Laughton was still a little uncertain about what being a member of the clan meant. “This isn't a religious ceremony, not really. We've already had that.”

Searching for a comparison: “It's just like, oh, having a turkey dinner and giving presents and singing carols at Christmas. Not something secret or barred to outsiders.”

Dennis winked at her. She knew what
he
was thinking:
And it's good for the mystique of the Witch Queen.
Her lips quirked.
Scoffer,
she thought with affectionate exasperation.
Though technically, I
am
a Witch Queen.

Any High Priestess was automatically, if your coven split off more than a couple of daughters, which hers had—several times over. That didn't mean all that much, besides prestige and people asking for your advice; the Craft didn't have popes or ayatollahs or anything resembling them. And of course, you got to put some doodads on your garter . . .

Or at least it didn't mean much before the Change,
she thought uneasily.

Dennis left and came back with a keg of his beer over one thick shoulder; there were appreciative murmurs from the ranchers, since there hadn't been much worthy of the name east of the mountains in some time. Eilir bustled about with mugs and glasses, and set up a little spirit-lamp with a big pot of chamomile tea near Juniper's place.

There were also a number of visitors from little clusters of coveners who'd survived in the mountainous backwoods south of Eugene and some other out-of-the-way spots. They were respectful to a degree that made her blink; granted, the Mackenzies had been able to spare some much needed help there, the difference between life and death in some cases. And her clan were much better off than any of theirs, and for that matter the Singing Moon had had a good reputation for years, still . . .

Luther Finney grinned at her as he detached himself from the dancing and came over to the table. “Nice spread, Juney. Haven't had a good barn dance like this in ages, neither.”

“Good to see you can still cut a rug, Luther.” She nodded at him, and his younger companion, before turning to the other guests: “Luther Finney, a member of the University Committee, and Captain Peter Jones, of their militia.”

Handshakes went around; Juniper made small talk—mostly about crops and weather—until the food was finished. Some of the people on kitchen duty came and took away the empties; and
at last
Sam Aylward gave her a thumbs-up signal from the edge of sight . . .

“I think the other guests have arrived,” she said, leaning forward to turn up the knob of the table lamp.

Heads came around at a uniform tramp of feet and clash of metal. There were a few gasps when five Bearkillers marched into sight, looking like giants in their long mail hauberks, vambraces, shin guards and armored gauntlets; they had their shields on their arms, and their bowcases and quivers slung over their backs. The sixth was in civil garb, dark cargo-pocket pants and duster and broad-brimmed hat, but he had the red snarling-bear outline embroidered on the left shoulder of his jacket. He also had one of the long straight-bladed, basket-hilted swords at his waist.

“Ma'am,” he said, taking off his hat. “Will Hutton, at your service. Ladies, gentlemen.”

You know, it's been weeks since I saw a black person,
she thought suddenly.

That brought a momentary pang for the thronging many-threaded tapestry of life before the Change; even his accent was nostalgic, a twanging drawl from off the southern plains, Oklahoma or Texas.

“Mr. Hutton,” she said, rising and extending a hand. “Mike Havel told me a great deal about you.”

“Likewise, Lady Juniper,” he said.

His grip had the careful gentleness of a very strong man. And his hand was callused in a way that spoke of hard work long before the Change, battered and a little gnarled—the hands of someone who labored outside in all weathers. Otherwise he was unremarkable, middle-aged and wiry save for broad shoulders . . . and a steady shrewdness about the eyes.

One of the ranchers blurted: “
You're
this Lord Bear we've heard about?”

“No, sir, I am not,” Hutton said with dignified politeness, unbuckling his sword belt and handing it to one of the troopers before he sat. “I'm ramrod and second-in-command of our outfit, and I have full authority to negotiate for the Bearkillers.”

“Wait a minute,” another rancher said. “Hutton . . . didn't you used to ride roughstock? Saw you at the Pendleton Round-Up back in 'seventy-five, 'seventy-six—that was one
mean
bull.”

Hutton smiled whitely; it made his rather stern, weathered brown face charming.

“Long time ago,” he said. “Been wranglin' horses since 1977, until the Change.”

“I've talked to men who bought horses from you.”

That seemed to break the ice. Hutton made a motion with his hand, and one of the armored men took off his helmet. It was the blond young man she'd met with Havel that spring; looking older and tougher now, his beard a little less fuzzy and a recently healed scar on his chin.

“This here is my aide-de-camp”—Hutton pronounced the words as if he'd learned them from a French speaker—“Eric Larsson; our bossman's going to be married to his elder sister, Signe. We're headed for the old Larsson place west of the Willamette. He's engaged to my daughter Luanne.”

The ranchers nodded; they understood blood ties, and that Hutton had made good his claim to be high in the Bearkiller hierarchy. Now that the elaborate panoply of bureaucracy and cities and civilization was gone, such things were beginning to take on their old importance.

Juniper sighed to herself.
Oddly sweet, those few days. But not lasting . . .
she set a hand on her stomach
. . . except for the consequences!

“And this is his
younger
sister, Astrid, who's here 'cause she sketches good; she's got drawings that'll interest you gentlemen.”

A coltish teenager; you could see Eric's chiseled Nordic looks in her face, but finer-boned, almost ethereal; and the eyes were remarkable, huge and pale, blue rimmed and streaked with an almost silver color. Her outfit looked a little like something you'd have seen at a RenFaire before the Change, or a Society meeting—Robin Hood gear, but in good-quality leather, and showing signs of hard use. Juniper's dirk stood at her waist, and a beautifully crafted bow and quiver over her shoulder.

Eric was standing near Juniper. She could hear his sotto voce murmur: