Reveille: Book II

By R. H. van de Weert

After disaster strikes their camping trip and a gang of thugs attacks them as they try to find help, Hunter regains consciousness to be told his injuries nearly killed him, his partner Cat is missing presumed dead, her son Joey is lost and gone forever.

Hunter refuses to believe it. He’s determined to get well, get help from the authorities and then, he’s coming back to find the men who attacked them and to make them pay, in full, with interest.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris NZ
• Release date: Apr 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781543497236

R. H. van de Weert

Renee Hapimarika van de Weert is the author of New Zealand Post 2002 Short-listed children’s books ‘The Last Whale’ published in English and as ‘Te Tohora Whakamutanga’ in Te Reo Maori. A jack of many trades, including hill country farmer, agricultural journalist and columnist, creative writing and adult literacy tutor, parliamentary electorate agent and political junky, she has retired to the beach to write full time and is fully immersed in her Speculative Fiction series ‘Reveille’. ‘Reveille – Book I – Resistance’ 2019, ‘Book II – Revenge’ 2020 and ‘Book III – Redemption’ late 2021. She is now researching Book IV – working title Resolution for publication late 2022.

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 by R. H. van de Weert.

ISBN:      Softcover      978-1-5434-9724-3

                eBook           978-1-5434-9723-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 05/17/2021

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Chapter 100

Chapter 101

Chapter 102

Chapter 103

Chapter 104

Chapter 105

Chapter 106

Chapter 107

Chapter 108

Chapter 109

Chapter 110

Chapter 111

Chapter 112

Chapter 113

                        "…For those who live the century through


                    In fear and trembling this shall do.


Flee to the mountains and the dens


                        To bog and forest and wild fens

                        For storms will rage and oceans roar


                        When Gabriel stands on sea and shore


                        And as he blows his wondrous horn


                        Old worlds die and new be born…"

                                                        ~Mother Shipton~

RESISTANCE

THE MAN’S TALE

CHAPTER 1

Cold.

Dark.

I’m dying.

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CHAPTER 2

Pain.

Warm.

Dark.

Dead?

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CHAPTER 3

Not.

Hurts too much.

Need a piss.

Where’s Cat?

Cat? Cat! Hello?

Voice sounds strange.

Sit up.

Can’t.

Hello? Someone? Hello?

A woman stepped through the curtains. Laid her hand on my forehead then her fingers on the pulse point in my neck.

We were expecting you today. Welcome back.

What? No matter.

Maori, late sixties, grey hair secured behind her neck. Seems familiar. Can’t place her. ‘Whaea’ then. Aunty covers the bases.

Thank you, Whaea. Whaea? My partner, Cat? Catherine Winter? Is she here? And her son, Joey? Has Joey been brought in, too?

She shook her head. Didn’t answer. I tried again.

"Whaea, aroha mai. Aunty, forgive me but it’s important. Did you find Cat when you found me? She was knocked out for a while so she’ll be concussed. She might’ve gone for help.

And the boy? Did you find him?

It hurt to talk, hurt to breathe, hurt to think. I was afraid I’d pass out again before I made sure Cat and Joey were okay.

The woman shook her head.

No. They found no one but you. They saw the footprints of someone else, in the shelter under the cliff, someone smaller than you but, whoever they were, they were gone. Perhaps the Snatchers took them. It is, after all, what the Snatchers do.

What’s she talking about? Pull yourself together, man, concentrate.

Right. Okay. Whaea, I have to speak to the cops, report what happened. The attack on me is just part of it. You’re right; that gang might have Cat. And the boy, Joey. Maybe the gang got him too. Someone did. I’ve got to make sure he’s being looked after. He took a massive fall in the caves. He’ll need urgent medical attention; hospital, surgery, most likely.

The old woman shook her head.

If the boy entered Purgatory he will not come out. No one ever does.

Purgatory? Purgatory! What’s she on about? Forget it. Find someone else. Someone who’ll help.

Whaea, help me up, please? I must talk to the authorities. There’s been an accident and an assault; maybe even an abduction!

Maybe, God forbid, a murder. My voice rose with my frustration and my temper. I was in charge. I agreed to explore the caves. This mess was on me. On me to put it right.

The woman patted my shoulder.

Calm yourself. Our chief knows you are back. He’s as keen to speak to you as you are to speak to him. Let me make you comfortable then he will join you.

I’d already realised I wasn’t in hospital. Probably not even a small community clinic.

My bed was too low to the floor – the woman had to bend to tend to me. The curtains round it were dark and heavy – a nightmare to launder. The only light was provided by flickering candle lamps, warmth by a clay what d’ya call em? chimenea? burning charcoal and pinecones in the middle of the small room – they must be having a power cut.

The old woman said her chief was coming – he’d be more on to it.

Whaea, I need the bathroom. Can you help me up or get someone to help me, please?

You’re going nowhere, not today, nor for some time to come. We’ll keep you clean and comfortable for a while yet. You were grievously injured. If it were not for the bitch that lay beside you and kept your face clear of snow and brought a hunting party to see why a strange dog was howling in the night, you would’ve died.

Jazz! You found Jazz?

Jazz, is it? She nearly took the hand off the first man who touched you but settled as soon as she understood they would help not harm you further. She rarely leaves your side except to answer the calls of nature. She’ll be pleased to find you awake.

Jazz. Jazz had kept me alive and she was here, wherever here was.

A breeze stirred the curtains, men talked nearby, a woman called, a child laughed, a horse trotted past, somewhere, a dog barked and sheep bleated. Right. A farm or a village or, maybe, a Marae.

The bastards who nearly killed me, who assaulted Cat and might have taken her with them, were all white. Hopefully, they weren’t here, too. Hopefully, these folks would help me find Cat and Joey.

I just had to get past this old lady.

Aroha mai! I’m sorry! I really need to, um, answer the call of nature myself. Sorry to be a nuisance but, if you could help me up or get someone to help me, I’d be grateful. I don’t want to mimi the bed!

The old lady smiled.

What do you think you’ve been doing all this time. You’re swaddled. I’ll put another rag on you when you’re done.

Jesus God!

Auntie, please! Can’t you get me a bottle, a pan, then? Something!

I pissed in my pants, eyes shut tight, fists clenched.

A large spoonful of something unbelievably bitter was tipped down my throat and I choked and coughed and thought the pain would kill me.

She spooned half a cup of warm water into me then my blankets and sodden pads were whisked away.

The sight of my body, wounds and contusions everywhere shocked me stupid. How could I be so pale and skinny, injuries half-healed, bruises turning yellow?

Whaea! How long have I been here?

A moon and some days.

A moon? A month? And I’d been completely unaware?

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CHAPTER 4

A quick audit. The dressings she removed were stained but I couldn’t see pus or smell infection.

Coarse black sutures, that looked like but surely couldn’t be horsehair, closed a welted, purple wound in my chest. It started, deep and wide, under my sternum and a surgical incision finished in the notch between my collarbones.

I didn’t remember getting that. Small mercies. I remembered the spears rammed into me from all sides.

I remembered copping that wound in my thigh. Hit from behind, I’d looked down and saw the spear head sticking out.

It looked like someone had stuck straws in the deepest holes and roughly cobbled me back together around them. I assumed they were meant to drain the wounds or maybe ensure they didn’t heal on the outside before the insides did.

Horsehair sutures? Straw drains? This is mad! Where am I?

Having the straws removed was bad. Having more inserted drenched me in sweat. By the time she was done, I’d clenched my jaws so long and hard my teeth chattered when I unclamped.

The bed bath she gave me was embarrassingly thorough. She tucked a folded and padded cloth between my legs, spread it under my arse, tied it off on my hips. Basically, I was wearing nappies.

I stared at the ceiling and wished myself far, far away.

The ceiling was draped in the same heavy, abstract patterned cloth as my curtains, the smoke from the chiminea rose and drifted out between poles visible in the hole in the middle.

I was in a tent, more accurately and even madder, a tipi. The kuia said I’d been there a month already. Why? Why wasn’t I in a proper hospital somewhere? With proper nurses looking after me.

The chief arrived soon after I’d been cocooned again in my blankets. He, too, was Maori, tall, lean, probably in his seventies.

Greetings. Welcome back. Esther said you would return today and she’s seldom wrong.

Right.

Rangatira. Tena koe…

Jazz’s sweet, black and white face popped up beside me and her worried eyes looked deep into mine. She laid her head on my good shoulder, her cold, damp nose nuzzled into my neck and she whimpered in a way that wrenched my heart. I’d been immobilised by the tightly tucked blankets so I couldn’t pat her or hold her. All I could do was press my cheek to hers and whisper to her.

After a minute or two, the old man spoke, slowly and carefully.

Apologies. I do not speak your language. Do you understand me?

How could a chief, a rangatira, not speak basic Te Reo?

Ae, I understand you perfectly.

I waited for him to introduce himself.

Eventually, I decided he must be waiting for me so I gave him my mountain, river, canoe, marae, tribe, my clan, family and my own names. Even without the language, exchanging that information would help us connect. Only, nothing I said seemed to mean anything to him. He didn’t even try to respond.

For God’s sake! I reverted to English.

"Greetings, Chief. Thank you for your welcome. I’m Hunter, Charles Hunter, of Taranaki. Sir, I’m truly grateful for the care you and your people have provided since you found me and I’m sorry but I’ll have to ask you for yet more help.

"My partner and I and her son were exploring some caves when the earthquakes struck. We were all thrown off our feet and the boy fell into a hole. By the time I’d climbed down he was gone. There were boot-prints that weren’t his so, obviously, someone found him and got him out.

"Your Kuia here said if he fell in the caves he’ll never come out. She said no one ever does but that can’t be right. I mean, I climbed down after him and climbed back out again, so there you go. I’ve got to find him and make sure he’s getting proper medical care.

When his mother and I got out of the caves we were attacked by a gang of fullas on horses. I’ve got to report them to the cops. I think they’ve taken Cat. I mean, they must’ve or there’d have been a search mounted for me, right? I’ve got to talk to the authorities, alert them, get them out to find Cat and Joey.

The old man sat where we could see each other. The old lady sat on a stool at his side.

Behind me, Jazz began her usual circle, dig, circle, dig thing; ‘making her bed’ Cat and Joey call it.

The chief relaxed in his chair and watched me calmly. There was intelligence and something cold and hard in his thoughtful gaze. Not a man to be taken lightly. Fine. Nor am I.

Sir? Sir!

So. You’re a hunter? Tell me again. Leave nothing out. Tell me who you are, who was with you; tell me what happened to them and you. Tell me what you want of us.

I told him again, reining in my temper and impatience. I kept it brief and on point but it still took time and all my strength plus some. The old man listened closely, asked for clarification or more information. What had I seen in the caves and tunnels? Who were the men who attacked us? Who was their leader? What were their Marks? Their badges? What had they looked like?

The chief, who still hadn’t bothered to tell me his name, sipped from a cup of something warm and winey, served by the old woman, Esther.

Muttering crossly under her breath at both of us, she interrupted every few minutes to insist I had a spoonful or two of warm water to which she’d added a little honey and more of the tongue curling medicine.

When there wasn’t another thing I could tell the chief and I’d answered all his questions, croaking and breathless with the effort of it, we stared at each other in silence.

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CHAPTER 5

The chief nodded.

So. Charles. Hunter of Tanaraki…

Ta...ra...na...ki, Chief.

What the hell? How can a rangatira, a chief, not know the name of the mountain and the province? Where am I? Who are these people?

"Apologies. Taranaki.

"We’re far from any market town or seaport here at the Winter Grounds but we, too, are travellers. We are a nomadic people and traders. We know all the peoples of these lands, their appearance, their weapons, Marks, clothing, beliefs, customs, accents.

No one recognizes anything in you. Nothing. You are not Elect or Elite. You are not a Pitman. You look like us. Except for your Marks. And your hair. And your eyes. You are not one of us.

His gaze narrowed thoughtfully on mine.

I’m used to that. My hair is red, so dark in most lights it looks black, not unknown amongst Maori. My eyes though, they’re golden brown like a lion’s, and that is unusual. I’m told they change colour according to how I’m feeling, like those mood rings.

Wonder what colour angry frustration is?

Are you cross-bred? You’re marked like but not identical to a Wilding. Are you a Wilding? An Exile?

I must have looked as confused as I felt. ‘Course I’m ‘cross-bred’. We all are but only the white folks think like that. We don’t quantify. You’re Maori. Or you’re not-Maori. End of.

"No? Well then. You speak the common tongue with an accent unknown to us. You speak a language none has heard before. We thought perhaps it was because you were out of your senses and fevered but now you are returned and still you speak like no other I have heard.

"Now, hear me, Taranaki. We know something is afoot in Arcady. Something or someone has disturbed the rats’ nest.

"For at least the last two turns, Haceldama has been infested by more patrols, more couriers, more Snatchers than ever before and, even now, even in the depths of winter, they’re still scouring the land for we know not what. Or whom.

You’re here for a reason. Who are you? Why are you here? Who was the woman and the boy you say accompanied you?

I didn’t understand. I tried to sit up and failed, again.

"Chief! Listen! I’m telling you, my partner was beaten up and probably kidnapped! Her son fell in the caves and must have been badly injured if not killed! You don’t know me? Don’t know who I am? Well, how could you? I don’t know you either! Unless…

"…were you in the army? No? I was, years ago but I’m a public servant now. I help people find jobs. Cat sells real estate. The boy’s still at school!

"For God’s sake, man! Listen, will you! The boy fell a helluva long way. He’s injured. Or dead. Half a dozen vicious mongrels on horses nearly killed me. They might’ve killed Cat, or taken her, or she’s lost out there in the bush! The police have to be told! Surely someone has a phone or a radio?

Christ, man, you can’t just sit there and refuse to call in the cops and LandSAR! There’s nothing more I can tell you!

The chief was unmoved, his face expressionless. The pain in my chest was terrible. I shut my mouth and steadied my breathing.

You speak of earthquakes, Taranaki. There have been no quakes since we returned to the Winter Grounds. We must know what you and the woman were doing between when you say an earthquake caused your boy to fall into Purgatory and when you were attacked by Snatchers.

Esther stood up and stepped in between her chief and me.

Enough, Michael. The hunter has only just returned to himself. You may leave now. Perhaps you can question him further tomorrow.

The chief shrugged, stood, nodded to me, drained and handed his cup to the old lady and left.

I was adopted out. I don’t have much of the language though I’m taking classes, and even less of the culture, but I know enough now to suspect it’s the same on most marae. These old women are often the ‘power behind the thrones’. This one reminded me of another who told me, with an amused snort, You men are all hui! It’s us women who’re all do-ey!

Esther? You’re Esther, right? Is he getting help? Alerting the authorities? What’s he doing?

Taranaki. Michael’s doing nothing. There’s nothing he can do. There’s no help to be had. Your woman is gone. Your boy is gone. There is nothing anyone can do to get them back. Understand this. You have been out of your body for a moon already. Your woman has been gone for a moon and the boy too. Even if there had been some way to help them that time is long past.

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A few nights later, I was woken from a drugged sleep by a noise nearby.

When it came again, I realised it was Jazz, circling and digging, lying down, getting up, fussing about. She’d added panting and whining to her routine.

Jazz! Settle down!

I tried to settle down myself. I didn’t want to be awake. My chest hurt. My leg hurt. My head hurt. I couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened, the cockup I’d made, the disaster I’d mismanaged. I wanted to sleep until I could get up, get out, get help. Jazz was quiet for a while then started again.

Jazz! Lie down!

Jazz ignored me and carried on bed-making, panting and complaining.

I tried to ignore her, too, until I heard a tiny squeak. More tiny squeaks. A mouse? Unlikely.

Took me way too long to work out one plus one might equal pups.

Hello! I yelled, not giving a damn it was the middle of the night. Hello? Can someone come here, please? Hello!

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CHAPTER 6

Jazz always set off with me but soon she’d want to go back to the pups. I didn’t mind. She had better things to do than hobble to the latrine and around camp with me.

I made myself walk a little further each day. I still needed my sticks, more to lean on when I stopped to catch my breath than to actually keep me upright and moving. The pain was nothing like as bad as when I began rehab.

At first, I could only get out of my bed or chair with help, hard put to shuffle from my cot to my chair and back again after a rest. The leg wasn’t great but the chest was way worse.

A handful of people popped in and out and helped Esther care for me. As soon as I was properly awake, I was allowed out of nappies and got a pan and a bucket to empty it into. They’d chat to me briefly, ask questions I rarely answered with more than a few words or a polite smile, and dealt with the bucket, morning, noon and night, until I could deal with it myself. That bucket was a great incentive to get walking again ASAP.

I sat in my folding chair by the little chiminea, wrapped in a blanket, watching Jazz and her pups. She must have been in-pup before we left home but what dog or dogs she’d mated with was a mystery.

Jazz was bred, overbred in my opinion not that I’d said so, from a long line of show dogs and there’d been many unsuccessful attempts to breed her. Eventually, Cat said, they accepted she’d never have pups and, a couple of years ago, their vet said she was too old to get in pup, anyways.

Now look at her; the picture of canine motherhood with three roly-poly babies, a dog and a bitch just like her and a red and white dog pup.

People kept her supplied with bones, meat scraps, milk and a share of the leftovers they gave their own working dogs.

Much of this generosity was delivered by one young girl. She didn’t talk to me but she whispered to Jazz and squatted by the nest watching the little family for minutes at a time. I know girls her age and baby animals go together but some of the men also dropped by most days, often bringing a bone or some scraps. They were hardly a sentimental lot and it seemed a bit odd, to be honest, until one told me Jazz had come across a flock of sheep being moved through the camp.

Some took off and your bitch raced away in a wide circle around them, quietly gathered them up and brought them back to the rest of the mob. None of our dogs do that, Hunter.

The only dogs I’d seen were either hunting hounds or huntaways, big dogs with big punching barks, dogs that pushed stock where they had to go, not strong eyed heading dogs that pulled stock back to the stockman, using only their steely gaze, balance and agility.

I was amazed to hear Jazz could head sheep. I was amazed she had any useful stock instincts at all but there you go. It certainly explained the keen interest the shepherds had in her pups and the generosity of people with little to share.

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After another month I could walk twice around the Winter Grounds before having to rest.

Sometimes one or two of the men walked with me. The children had joined me at first but my grim face, obvious pain, curt answers to their curious questions, put off all but that one girl. She continued to feed Jazz morning and night and spent as much time with her as she could.

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The Winter Ground was a basin bounded by cliffs or steep, pine-clad, snow covered slopes.

Stands of deciduous trees must have been planted long ago where the bottom of the bowl met the sides. Some were pollarded, some coppiced, all were recently pruned or trimmed.

I asked one of the shepherds about that and he answered politely but the way his eyebrows shot up showed he thought it was a strange question. I was pretty sure it wasn’t me who was strange.

All the Winter Grounds and some Gathers are planted like this, Hunter, to provide food for people and stock, hardwood for tools and weapons, charcoal for the braziers.

The only route in and out of the Winter Ground, unless you’re into mountain climbing, was a narrow defile formed by a small creek. The creek arrived in the basin via a skein of waterfalls mostly frozen solid and its surface was ice, bank to bank.

The gully was closed off with manuka hurdles staked and tied across it. Not sure why they bothered. Waist high snow effectively blocked the pass. In my condition, escape was impossible.

They reckoned, when snowmelt began, the pass would become impassable. They either left the Winter Ground at the first sign of spring or waited till after the thaw.

The livestock depended almost entirely on hay and grain lugged up here, throughout summer and autumn, on sleds or travois, on horseback or on the backs of the shepherds and cattlemen themselves. The tree crops and slim pickings amongst the scrub merely supplemented the feed. Both human and animal food supplies were stored in several small caves.

It was hopelessly, barking mad. I had no idea where I was or who these people were. I’d never heard of anyone like them or this place before. Oh ae, and speaking of barking, here’s another barking thing.

There are wolves in the hills around the valley. So they said.

Wolves! We don’t have wolves in the wild! We have wolves in zoos, I said. We have feral dogs; lost, strayed or dumped in the bush and that’s what I was hearing at night, calling to each other. But they insisted it was wolves so I entered ‘Wolves?!!! in a file I’d created in my mind and labelled Crazy Shit.

Taking to the hills in winter was the opposite of ‘normal’ in every mountainous region I’d ever known.

The shepherds reckoned the winter weather on the plains was worse and the foothills and lowland forests too dangerous. They said the alternative was to move into the camps in the towns which most Freemen did but not them.

The towns are perilous for Freemen. We prefer to stay in the hills where the foe is easier to resist, they said.

Right.

Further questioning or reasoning simply confused and irritated us all so I entered ‘Winter camping in the mountains?!!!’ in the burgeoning Crazy Shit file and left it there.

Stock were reduced in autumn by sale or slaughter to the minimum for survival and replacement. They had access to the caves and were herded into shelter there or under the pines on the perimeters of the camp as each winter storm approached.

There were maybe two dozen families here, men, women and children, though only a few kids and not that many old folks either so I guessed they wintered in town.

Like their livestock, folks could shelter in the network of small caves when the weather was bad. In my opinion, the weather was always bad except when it was worse but it didn’t bother them. They stayed put in their heavy oiled canvas and felt tipis no matter how miserable the weather. Maybe only actual blizzards could drive them to the caves.

I looked at the condition of the stock and hoped winter was nearly over. The horses were doing it hard, despite their thick winter coats and heavy canvas and felt rugs. Their necks were thin under their manes, their eyes hollow, and they scratched at the snow in an endless search for food.

When I returned to my tent after my walks, there were pups everywhere and Jazz either trying to contain them or curled up on my cot looking depressed.

The girl had my permission to come in whether I was there or not, to clean up after them and play with them if she wanted. I couldn’t easily get down on the floor to do it myself and, now the pups were on solids, Jazz didn’t want to deal with their mess. They were four weeks old, eating meaty milky mush twice a day, chewing on bones and mauling Jazz with needle sharp teeth when they latched on.

She’d taken to hiding on my bed but it wouldn’t be long before the red and white dog pup, the largest and most agile of the three, could follow her up there.

Several shepherds asked about my plans for the pups. They reckoned I should wean them early.

Ae, I wanted good homes for them.

Ae, when the time came.

Ae, soon.

Every time playful pups with wolfish jaws attacked my feet, played tug o’ war with my trousers and bootees, made off with anything I dropped, or I trod in a crap or a puddle, I’d think the time had come then I’d decide another week or two of their mother’s care would be best.

The pups woke me, whinging and whining. It was just on dawn. Jazz didn’t move when I did and, when I reached out to her, she was already stiff and cold.

I should have taken the shepherds’ advice, should have weaned the pups, should have let Jazz rest, but no, I knew better.

I walked with them when they took her to a stand of apple and plum trees and laid her in a hole they’d scraped in the snow, on a bed of pine branches. The Winter Grounds were too cold and too hard to dig proper graves, even dog sized ones. She was just a dead dog to them. They could have tossed her in the midden. Instead, they covered her with more fresh cut pine then snow and piled boulders on top to make a cairn. I don’t know why they bothered.

When I got back to the tent, I gave the little bitch to the girl who’d cared so well for Jazz and her pups. She’d wept while they buried Jazz. She cuddled the pup to her chest, looked up with eyes still tear-filled and smiled. I nodded and turned away.

I told the shepherds they could decide for themselves who got the black and white dog pup. I didn’t care; they were all decent enough fullas.

The third pup was nothing like his dam and his litter mates. His red and white coat was short and coarse, whereas the other two had long silky coats like Jazz, and his eyes were bright blue. His nose was losing its puppy snub, his legs were lanky, his paws like paddles and his tail far too long. He romped with the other two but, just as often, he played his own games, alone.

He was remarkably quiet and calm. His mother was gone, his litter mates gone, but he nibbled up his dinner of meat and scraps, cautiously, piece by piece, then squatted to piss outside my door, gazing thoughtfully around the camp all the while. Later, he flopped on the rug under my chair and went to sleep with his chin on my foot.

I wasn’t sure what to do, leave him with the shepherds or take him with me when I left. He might be the one good thing I could save for Cat and Joey from this whole sorry mess.

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CHAPTER 7

I walked to regain fitness. The red and white pup followed me everywhere. He showed no fear of the people or animals he met even when they threatened him with raised hackles, warning growls, stamping hooves or lowered horns. The pup touched noses with those interested in that and skittered out of the way of those intending harm.

I was invited to join the men, after dinner, in Michael’s tent. They brought jugs of beer or wine or cider and pipes of weed to share, sat around his fire, what I called a chiminea and they called a brazier, and yarned.

Sometimes I’d listen, trying to get a handle on them and sometimes, I’d let my thoughts, like the smoke from the chiminea and the pipes, drift away through the hole in the centre of the roof.

Michael’s folding armchair was cushioned with sheepskins and a huge black and grey pelt; wolf, he reckoned, but it was probably goat.

He sat right behind the chiminea with the oldest men around him and the younger men further away. It didn’t make much difference, at least not to the warmth and comfort, because there were fifteen or twenty of us some nights and, even in Michael’s tent, that was quite a crowd.

My chest wound ached like a bastard all the time but the thigh was healing nicely. The drains had been removed, thank God, but the wounds still seeped a little, were padded front and back and heavily bandaged. I couldn’t sit, as everyone except Michael and the oldest fullas did, on big floor cushions they brought with them so they put a stool near the door for me. I was content in the outer circle with two teenage boys and a few young men.

We left our boots, cloaks and jackets on the racks in the porches of our tipis.

We all had these felt bootees that doubled as house slippers or as extra warm socks inside our overly large work boots. They were magic. Mine were dark brown and some cock-eyed optimist had embroidered yellow suns on them. I’d look at my happy feet, think about the mad, grey misery of this mountain valley, and wonder why anyone of sound mind would live this way.

No one talked to me beyond polite greetings and brief exchanges of small talk. I had nothing to add to the review of the day gone or the preview of the day to come. I had no tales to tell, none I wanted to share, anyways.

I restricted myself to one mug of wine or cider or ale and I passed on the pipes going round. It would be too easy to chill, if what they were smoking was anything like the weed back home, and I didn’t want to chill. It would reduce my pain but I didn’t want that either. My pain kept my anger simmering and my anger kept me focussed.

None of the men had their dogs with them except Michael himself, whose black and tan hound went everywhere he went and lay at his feet each night. The first time I joined them the pup followed me into the tent. Michael’s hound rose lazily and stalked through the seated men to stand over the pup, hackles at half-staff, tail high.

I wondered if I could bend fast and far enough to get the pup out harm’s way if necessary.

The pup didn’t cower or prostrate himself but lowered his head and clamped his long tail between his legs. The big dog sniffed him from stem to stern, yawned, and returned to his place at Michael’s side. After that, the hound just watched us arrive and made sure the pup left with me.

I was savouring a warm fruity wine, only half listening to the conversations going on around me, idly watching the smoke from the pipes and the little charcoal fire rising, when something Michael said caught my attention.

"…yes, well, they call it The Last War but we call it The Endless War, for good reason."

War? War was something I knew about, something I trained for, something I worked at for years. Not that I’d been to actual war but I’d been on several peacekeeping missions in several of the world’s hotspots and they’re rarely peaceful.

War was something I understood. Once I got out of here, reported to the cops, made sure Cat and Joey were safe, and got kitted up, I was coming back to start one of my own. I listened closely as Michael continued.

"While most surrendered long ago, some continue to defy the Foe and the Foe continues to oppress us.

"It continues, ever changing, never ceasing, this endless drive to take us over or take us down. We must continue the struggle to remain Freemen. We must remain alert to their wiles; their worthless treaties, their broken promises, their greed, bribes and brutality.

So yes, agreed Daniel, we must beware the traders and travellers who report what they see and hear to their masters and, not least, to the Snatchers who steal away our women and children into servitude and slavery.

Several of the men side-eyed me when Michael spoke of ‘traders and travellers’ who reported on them but I hardly noticed. I’d homed in on ‘the Snatchers who steal women and children’. The Snatchers were the gang who’d nearly killed me, who’d probably taken Cat. I was on my feet before I’d thought what to say.

A heartbeat behind, the lad beside me followed me up, stepped in front of me, one hand hovering, close but not too close, by his knife, the other open, ready to grab me. Hah!

The pup shot from under my stool, upending it, and got between me and the boy, hackles up, puppy teeth bared, tail clamped under his belly. Michael’s hound rose slowly, yawned, stretched his back and shoulders and waited, watching my pup.

The other men had reacted pretty damn quick, too. They didn’t speak, simply stood up and separated, each giving himself room to move. To a man, ready, willing and able to defend themselves. Huh! Interesting.

Only Michael hadn’t moved. He remained slouched in his big chair, calm, confident, sharp eyes under hooded lids fixed on me.

I flapped my hand at the youngster and he set his feet more solidly and narrowed his gaze.

"Relax, boy, I’m no threat to anyone here.

Michael, you never answered my questions and, after that first night, I haven’t answered yours. I heard what you just said. I had questions before and I’ve got more now. I expect you still have questions too? We should talk, you and I.

Michael nodded slowly.

"We should, Taranaki, we should.

Settle, all of you. Taranaki, sit down before you fall down. Isaac, you too, lest the hunter’s savage brute bites your arse and my poor old hound has to defend our honour.

The men were slower to resume their seats than they’d been to rise. The boy was the last to move and, even though I sat with