Chapter Nine

The Daughter of Yohana

1.

WHEN THE APACHE camp came in sight, Wapi deftly dismounted and began leading the horse, Annabelle still resting in the saddle. Once more she felt a curious mix of nostalgia and long-suppressed fears. It almost seemed as if nothing had changed for the Apaches—the tents, the smells, even the atmosphere in the settlement, simultaneously so serious and so happy, were all exactly the same. Only, she reasoned, things were not the same. Not for her, not any more. She had seen distant worlds, befriended aliens and battled tyranny and cruelty, suffered great hardship…she had even lost a leg. And yet all that seemed so trifling compared to the biggest change in her life, the one that had happened only days ago, even if it felt like weeks. She was married now, she and George professing their undying love and commitment to each other, the biggest and best change in her life so far.

As they approached the outermost tepees of the camp, a pair of small figures causing a ruckus became discernible. Two children were fighting behind one of the tents. There was a clear winner, and as the combatants resolved themselves in the shimmering haze that rose from the arid desert floor, it was clear that that winner was a girl. She was perhaps eight years old and had striking ebony hair flowing to her waist, with thick, woven bands of leather wrapped around her chest and waist. She was mercilessly drubbing her opponent, a young boy, with a large stick. Though the blows were not so heavy as to break the skin, the boy had curled up into a foetal position and was wailing at her to stop. She did not seem overly keen on doing so, and it was only when she looked up and noticed the approach of Wapi’s party that she did, instantly dropping her bludgeon and pelting across the dusty floor towards them, her attack on the unfortunate boy forgotten.

“Wapi!” she squealed. She did not decrease her speed or hesitate as she dashed towards them, and when she got within a foot of Wapi she leapt nimbly up to wrap herself around his chest, nuzzling her face into his poncho. “I was so worried about you!”

“My journey was not without danger, little one, but I returned to you safely, just like I promised. But I see you have not kept your promise to me…”

The girl looked up, coy and shame-faced.

“What promise, Wapi?”

“The promise you made to behave, Cactus Flower. Who was that? Nenko? Why were you beating him?”

“It was his fault, Wapi! I swear! He said I’d never be a warrior. He said he was going to marry me and then I’d have to cook for him and wash his smelly trousers. And I don’t want to wash his smelly trousers so I had to teach him a lesson.”

“Well I think he has learnt it, little one. And now you must apologise! Nenko is your friend.”

“He’s not my friend, he’s stupid.”

Wapi laughed and tousled her hair, setting her back down on the ground. It was only then that the girl noticed Annabelle, George and Bert. Beguiled by their strange dress, Annabelle’s beauty and George’s strong, handsome face, she looked down shyly at her bare feet. She beckoned for Wapi to lean down, and as he did so she reached up on tiptoe and whispered something in his ear. Once more, Wapi laughed warmly.

“These are friends of the Apache, Kai. They have come to help us restore peace to our land. You will meet them properly soon, when the time is right. But it is far more important now that we speak with Geronimo, and start our fight against the evil men that would awaken spirits to destroy us. Go, run ahead! Tell him we are here.”

The girl nodded dutifully and scampered off towards the camp. Wapi turned around to look at Annabelle.

She was almost catatonic. Her eyes were wide and her face had blanched to a deathly white. She tried to swallow but her mouth was so dry she was incapable even of this simple, reflexive action. Delirious visions on Mars, memories stirred by an assault on Ceres, and the haunting face of a child stalking her cabin on Esmeralda… Her head felt light, her eyelids fluttered and her pupils shot up into her skull. She could just about feel her prosthetic leg unhook itself from the stirrup as she plunged towards the hard, hot ground.

2.

FOLKARD AND ENDERBY had scouted up closer to the Russian base, taking in its perimeter, the number of guards and the best route to get to the hangar undetected. Night had begun to crawl in like a living thing, and with it came the bright searchlights from the airships, swooping over the base like ominous eyes. A stealthy approach would be difficult, a point that Enderby and Folkard did not feel the necessity to share, both already knowing it far too keenly.

They returned to the bridge to find the men waiting on full alert. Not wasting any time, Enderby briefed them on the situation. The length of fence at the northern side of the base seemed closer to the main hangar than the rest, and so it was decided this was the best point of entry. Speed was of the essence, and though it was unlikely that the base would be less guarded at night, at least the darkness outside the walls would help mask their approach. Once more, the fickle weather had turned its cold shoulder on the mission. The sky had cleared, and in the absence of snow-heavy clouds a plethora of stars stood out starkly against the absolute darkness of the sky.

It took the men mere seconds to pack their supplies and ready themselves for the next stage of the expedition. They took the stairs inside the buttress, once more checking the horizon both ways to see if any Russian patrols were on the approach. All seemed clear, and keeping their heads down, the group of six skirted along the bridge and headed out into the deeper tundra. There was very little cover from trees and vegetation surrounding the Severnaya installation—there was no need for concealment so far away from civilization, and it made sense that all approaches to the base were clear. Expansionist and antagonistic they may be, but the Russians had lost nothing of their guile. To underestimate them would be a fatal mistake.

They were a few hundred metres away from the walls, encroaching upon the west side, when an almighty clank reverberated around the landscape. Instantly the six men dropped to the floor, Enderby’s agents with their carbines instantly ready and primed. Shouts, rushed activity and an alarm bell sounded out from the base, ringing across the desolate white plains. This was followed momentarily by the long, ominous droning of machinery, vast gears grinding together, the screech of metal on metal. The beetle of the huge black hangar was extending its carapace. It was opening.

Even from this distance, the scale of the engineering was awe-inspiring. The curved roof began to flower, pushed open by monstrous iron joists that hinged on an oil-black wheel halfway down their length. As they opened further, an intricate mechanism of flywheels and cogs the size of millstones was revealed, slowly cranking the roof apart. And yet even the noise they made was not loud enough to drown out another sound—an ungodly thundering that came from above their heads, throbbing like a heartbeat from the chest of a Titan. The men looked up.

It moved at such speed that it was upon them before they had a chance to even comprehend the magnitude of the thing—and after the initial shock of the scale, there came to Folkard a greater terror…one of recognition.

The entire body of the beast, from the plates bolted to its hull to the chimney stacks that stretched from bow to stern, was coloured a matt black, and so at first discerning its true shape against the night sky was difficult. And yet as it passed ever closer the light from the stars and the moon’s bright glare picked out details, reflecting dully from surfaces and gun turrets…a shape Folkard knew only too well, down to the very last bulkhead.

Sovereign!

Only this was no sleek, majestic British airship. It was more like Sovereign’s warped, bastard twin. It was, Folkard estimated, perhaps twenty-five percent larger, and where Sovereign had been built with concessions to beauty and craft, this behemoth eschewed any pretence to grace. It had been built as nothing more than a weapon of war. Extra armour plates covered the entire body of the ship, giving a brutish, unstoppable look. Extra fins, struts and gantries criss-crossed the hull, seemingly grafted on at random, the design of a madman. Bulky protuberances emerged from the black behind the armour plates, their purpose mysterious and alarming, and Folkard counted at least a dozen extra guns at either side of the prow, sticking out like poisoned spines. Then there was the engine. It was easily twice the size of Sovereign’s, and was constructed with the same haphazard alchemy that characterised the rest of the ship, covered in exposed gears and a row of pistons beating in and out of the body with a terrifying precision. A faint green glow emanated from within its housing, and in its wake it left a thick cloud of choking black dust that gave the air a scent of sulphur and coal, and something else… Something not of this Earth.

As it passed overhead the noise was overwhelming, forcing the men to cover their ears. The searchlights from the numerous dirigibles tethered to the hangar whipped up in unison to illuminate the warship and guide it in to dock, further showing the patchwork brutality of the Russian’s secret weapon—a truly awe-inspiring and terrifying sight.

It let out a long, low hoot like a bellowing Kraken and, as it did so, a flash of hope leapt into Folkard’s heart. The ship was coming in too fast! He’d steered Sovereign long enough to know when an approach was miscalculated, and miscalculated this one surely was. At its current rate the bow would skew as it turned to descend into the hangar… The Tereshkov-patented propeller governor (Folkard had no doubt that this ship possessed one) would overcompensate, destabilizing the entire weight of the vessel and causing it to list uncontrollably. There was no doubt the ship would suffer a huge, catastrophic crash.

His breath held, Folkard hoped against hope that this mission would be over before its most dangerous segment began, that this machine that could change the destiny of the world would be written off as just another failed Russian experiment. And yet his hope was all in vain. In an almost breathtaking display of helmsmanship, the Russian warship’s prow seemed to hang in the air as it hovered over the open hangar roof. The back end began to slide round with an ease and grace that belied the ship’s monstrous appearance, and deftly stopped dead when the length of the vessel hung over the open bay doors. As light as a feather, with its engines purring and cooling, the dreadnought gently sank into its nest, and once more the air was filled with the gigantic doors clanking shut.

After that, there was nothing but silence. Even the wind, it seemed, held its breath in fear.

3.

THE DRIVER OF the cab had taken some persuading to take Nathaniel and Tally as fares. Considering their appearance and the lateness of the hour, this was hardly surprising, but it was nothing the promise of a few extra shillings couldn’t solve. When they returned to Rathgar and let themselves into the garret, the sight of his lumpy old mattress almost made Tally weep with gratitude.

When Nathaniel awoke, late the following afternoon, every muscle in his body roared with strain. He stretched experimentally, and despite a few bruises and the cut on his side (which turned out to be not as deep as he had feared) everything seemed to be in good working order. Tally, fully clothed, lay face down on his ratty bed, snoring at such a volume that it rattled the windows. Nathaniel got the kettle on and, just as it was coming up to the boil, Tally eased himself up with a groan and rubbed his eyes.

“Christ,” he moaned, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “When I first opened me eyes I thought, ‘Jayze, old Jenny must have put me through me paces last night’. Then you get to thinking it hurts a bit too much for that, and maybe I’ve gone a few rounds with Slugger O’Toole. It’s only when I sets eyes on you it all comes back, and bugger me blind how I wish it hadn’t.”

“Well it hasn’t seemed to affect your blarney, Tally. Here, drink this.” Nathaniel handed him a steaming cup of tea.

“Right!” said Tally eventually, draining the last of his mug and standing. “Shouldn’t take me long to get my stuff together and then we’ll be on our way.”

“Stuff?” said Nathaniel, nonplussed. “We?”

Tally had turned his back to Nathaniel and was sorting through a pile of clothes heaped on the floor in the corner, occasionally tossing a choice article on the bed.

“Aye, the ferry back to England. I needn’t pack much anyway, your boys have said they’ll sort me out when we reach London. Digs and togs, all that. Part of the deal, they said.”

“Deal?” said Nathaniel, wondering if he’d somehow managed to doze off despite himself and wake in the middle of a totally different conversation. “I’m sorry Tally, I have to confess I’m not entirely sure what you’re talking about.”

“Well what d’ya think all that business yesterday with yer man Cormac was all about? Sorting out me papers.”

“Papers? You mean, passports and such?”

“Aye, that’s it.”

“You mean to say you’re coming back to London with me?”

Tally stopped his rummaging and turned around slowly.

“You mean to say they didn’t tell you I was coming back to London with you?”

“Now that you mention it…no.”

“Why those slimy, double-crossing English sons o’ whores!” exclaimed Tally, before adding; “Present company excepted.”

“Believe me, Tally, I’m tempted to echo the sentiment. What did the Bureau offer?”

Tally sat back down on the edge of the bed and looked Nathaniel straight in the eyes.

“Now you’re not foolin’ me about here, are you, Professor? All on the level?”

“Absolutely.”

“I thought as much. You’re a stand up chap, sure y’are, and it makes sense they’d mess you about as much as they have me. Okay. So here’s the craic.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “Yer’ a smart man, Professor, so you’ll probably picked up that my line of work here in Dear Old Dublin isn’t exactly what you’d call ‘blessed with legality’. And that sort of employment, if you aren’t careful, is wont to ruffle a few feathers here and there. And don’t get me wrong, I love my mother country an’ I want to see us free as much as the next man, but setting bombs and shooting soldiers ain’t the way to go about it, I reckon. That’s just gonna make things worse. And so, when I was given the chance, I may have, well…stopped a few bombs going off and a few soldiers getting shot. Needless to say, my countrymen weren’t best pleased. I needed a way out before I ended up floating in the Liffey, arse pointed at the sky.”

“And that’s when the Bureau stepped in.”

“Right so. They said they’d get it all sorted no bother, just had to help out one of their men with a job. That’d be you.”

“As I gathered.”

“Only it’s me who has to go chasing around to get me papers, and naturally the Bureau contact over here vanishes when you need him most. Guess they hoped the Fenians would catch up with me or I’d just cark it down in that feckin’ mine. God Bless England.”

“Tally, I can only apologise…”

“Sure, it ain’t your fault, Professor. But I’ve got a few choice words for your employers, and not all of them would please your maiden aunt.”

“Rest assured, Tally, they’re not my employers. And it seems like I have a few choice words for them myself. I think it’ll be much more satisfying if we both air our grievances together, don’t you think?”

“You mean you’ll help me?”

“Tally, after everything that happened last night, I feel I’m duty bound to.”

Tally leapt up and pounced on Nathaniel, throwing his long arms around him and slapping him on the back. “Ah, Jaysus,” he said. “Long-live the decent and honourable subjects of Her Majesty!”

“And God Bless Ireland,” said Nathaniel, gently pushing the smiling Irishman away.

4.

COYNE, HIS OWN pistol drawn, was taking the lead, with Arnaud keeping a skittering eye on the rear. They had slunk into the back streets, every sense alert, moving through the shadows with no real plan, or sense of where they were going. Arnaud was only too aware that Madame Moonsinge posed a serious threat, and the grip she held on the slums meant that a reckoning was due. The barman had seemed terrified of her power and influence, and Arnaud had been adventuring long enough to trust his instincts when it came to the greater dangers. Not only that, Coyne was a loose cannon, and he felt himself keeping as much of an eye on the unstable agent as he did their surroundings.

They came to the corner of a derelict building and Coyne stopped. They had been lucky so far; with the exception of a few feral dogs and the odd pair of eyes peering suspiciously from the inside of ramshackle huts, the darkened byways had been deserted. Arnaud found little comfort in this, however, and the state of the back streets—littered with human waste and the stench of poverty and decay—made him all the more sickened and uneasy.

He sidled up to Coyne, who had taken a quick peek around the corner.

“What can you see?” he asked.

“Trouble,” said Coyne, as he brought the butt of his pistol viciously down onto Arnaud’s temple.

5.

THERE WERE MURMURS, the crackling of wood spitting in a fire…then a soothing coolness on her forehead that seemed to gently coax her senses back to full consciousness. She tried to move her arms up to rub her eyes but they felt light and unresponsive; it was only when she moved her head and heard a groan that her body felt like it belonged to her once more, and she was able to open her eyes. Even this basic task felt an uncommonly strenuous thing to achieve.

“Easy, Annabelle, easy….” It was George’s voice that filtered into her ears, hazy and indistinct, but it gave her something solid to concentrate on—something to aim for in the fog that clouded her faculties. Gradually his face came into focus, as pale as a ghost and as fretful as she had ever seen him. He smiled in relief.

“You gave me quite a shock, Mrs Bedford,” he said soothingly, rubbing her cheek softly with his palm. She tried to raise her torso but her head swam, so George curled his arm around her waist and helped her into a sitting position. “Here,” he said, offering her a clay cup. “Drink this, they said it’d help.” She curled both her hands around the proffered drink but it was really George who tipped the liquid gently into her mouth. It was mildly sweet, herbal, and as she swallowed it gave to her throat a pleasantly warm sensation. Already feeling rejuvenated, she drank a little more, and the restorative effects of the infusion coursed into her belly and her bloodstream.

“Thank you,” she muttered, finding her voice but not her memory. “What happened?”

“You passed out… Dropped off the horse like a brick off a bridge and gave yourself a pretty good thump when you landed. Probably this blasted heat getting to you.”

Annabelle didn’t respond and looked around her. She was sitting on a mattress made of buffalo hide in a large tepee. A fire crackled gently in the centre, and dozens of totemic constructions of feathers, sticks and bone hung from the walls. The shaman’s hut, she was sure. She looked down, and with anger and embarrassment found that her prosthetic leg had been removed and was laying a couple of feet to her left. Stiff and ungainly as it was, she had grown used to wearing it, and the weightlessness and uselessness of her stump irked and shamed her. She quickly grabbed for the leg and, not caring for decorum, hoisted up her skirt and began to strap it back into place.

“You shouldn’t have taken it off,” she hissed to George, not looking up.

“I’m sorry, I know, but the fall dislodged it and we were much more concerned in getting you to safety… I’m sorry, Annabelle. Truly.”

She had chided him unnecessarily, and felt guilty. Once more he had made her safety paramount, and she needed to remember that this came not from any doubt in Annabelle’s strength or ability, but from the love he felt for her so sharply in his heart.

She locked the leg into place and tightened the buckles until they were comfortable, then replaced her skirts to a more modest position. It was only then that she properly looked around the tent, and noticed that she and George were not the only occupants. Sitting across from them, at the opposite side of the fire, was Geronimo. He was looking at her with intelligent eyes the colour of obsidian that reflected the fire’s dance. Dressed far more traditionally than Wapi or the other braves she had hitherto seen, he sat cross-legged on a raised bear pelt surrounded by carved poles of wood, like a throne. His face, framed by two braided lengths of black hair, was a roadmap of wisdom through age. It was wrinkled, pinched and sternly serious, the colour of a roasted nut with a strong jaw-line and forehead. Wapi stood at his right, and on his left the young girl, Kai, sidled up to him as a child would to her grandfather. She looked across to Annabelle with wide, apprehensive eyes.

“You have travelled far, Yohana,” said Geronimo. His voice was low, but strong. “At times I have been with you on your journeys, watching, fearing for your life as you have feared for your own. I was with you when you traversed the red planet, when you dug into the belly of the white lady in the sky, and fed and helped her children. I have gazed through your eyes at the stars, and seen our mother Earth from heights that the eagle can only dream of. I have been with you, Yohana, and I have prayed for your deliverance.”

Wapi stepped forward.

“The great Geronimo is wise beyond the skill of many tribes,” he said. “But he cannot see the future. He simply knew you would come when you were needed most, as the rain comes when the earth is at its most thirsty.”

“This need,” said Annabelle, hoisting herself up. “You mentioned that before. Spirits that must be left to slumber. What do you mean? What’s going on?”

Geronimo nodded. “As I had hoped, your spirit is drawn in the wake of your passing, and follows you here. It is this, and the pure hearts of your companions, that will aid us in cleansing our land. Wapi is a brave and noble warrior, and yet what he sees as evil spirits, you and I know, Yohana, in truth come from a far more solid plane. Our lands have been a waypoint for visitors since the lands themselves were young, and as a warrior’s steed leaves its tracks in the sand, so too did these travellers from beyond leave their mark. It is these forgotten footprints that have brought evil men here, men who would exploit powers far beyond their understanding.

“We have passed down secret knowledge over countless generations, acted as the guardians of these forbidden places. Once they were worshipped, but always they are feared. Metal and money are the ways of nations now, not the plants and beasts and land, as our people believe. The balance must be restored, the hunger of this progress must be tempered, not satisfied, a hunger that has no care for the life that blesses the world. If we fail, a great cataclysm of fire will engulf all of mankind.”

“I thought you said you couldn’t see the future?” commented George, before realising his interruption may have come across more accusatory than he intended.

Geronimo looked at him stoically.

“To see the events of futures untold is not necessary, husband of Yohana. Merely to observe the actions of greedy and careless men is enough, for the consequences are always the same. Death. Misery. Slavery. Pain. You know this, or you would not take arms against them.”

“Of course,” mumbled George. “I’m sorry.”

Annabelle put an arm on his shoulder, and turned back to Geronimo.

“What are we to do?” she asked.

“First, we must rest. The days ahead will punish the spirits and bodies of us all. We must focus, become one with ourselves, each other, our purpose. And you, Yohana. You must reconcile with your past, with the crimes that were imposed upon you when you were but a child.”

For the first time, Geronimo moved, he looked down sadly into his lap before looking back up and meeting Annabelle’s eyes. She could almost swear the fire reflected in them had become misty, dimmed by the tears that welled there…

“You must reconcile,” he said quietly, gesturing to his right, “with your daughter.”

6.

TALLY AND NATHANIEL packed quickly. There was no point wasting any more time in Dublin, and Nathaniel was keen to return to the Admiralty so he could make his report and begin his investigation on the chunk of crystal he had rescued from the caverns under Phoenix Park. The city itself was in a state of panic. The news of the bombing was on the tongue of every Dubliner, discussed in loud voices in pubs, in hushed tones in market corners and yelled in newsprint in every paper from Howth to Tallaght. There was shock and consternation, fear and guilt, the city boiling over into a maelstrom of accusation and counter-accusation. Many believed it was a British plot to break the spirit of the Fenians, a show of fearful strength and a promise of retribution. Others believed the Fenians themselves were responsible, experimenting with new explosives and destroying a large chunk of the city in the process. There was political turmoil at the highest levels and a tightrope tension in the streets. Now, where a resting place for lovers and a playground for children had once stood, there only remained a vast sinkhole. Charred debris and twisted metal poked evilly out of the ruined land, mixed with the splinters of uprooted trees and mangled hunks of exotic animal flesh.

The city was swollen with fear and mistrust, and it seemed that if you did not appraise every face in the street with a look of suspicion then you, too, were somehow suspect. Not that it was even that necessary—despite the weather, which was once more balmy and promised glorious sunshine later—the streets were pretty much deserted. This didn’t stop curtains from twitching when Tally and Nathaniel walked past them, and neither of the pair dared to look back inside. Tally, demonstrating admirable sense and forward-thinking, lent Nathaniel a shirt, waistcoat and one of his old, grubbier overcoats to replace his battered and conspicuously British suit. Nathaniel was also conscious that his accent might not be particularly well-received, so as they walked, they walked in silence. This seemed to pair well with the sombre mood of the eerily desolate town.

They boarded the tram at Westland Row and it trundled sluggishly past the famous Martello Towers on the coastline, on towards the port near Ringsend. As Nathaniel had suspected, there was a distinct increase in the number of security measures for those wishing to leave the Emerald Isle. Passports were scrutinised far more closely, eyes were met and held by the squinting, suspicious gaze of officials. Tally did his best not to look shifty; he was sure that the papers he had acquired with Nathaniel’s help were legitimate, but he had been betrayed so many times that any underground deal he’d successfully completed always came with that faint whiff of panic. Normally he’d have enjoyed it—but today was a very different day.

The staunch and humourless official eventually waved them through with an irate flick of the hand, and only then were the two men able to breathe again. They boarded the ferry with a minimum of fuss, and as the great boat’s engine’s hummed into life Tally sauntered to the stern and leant on the aft railing, watching as he sailed away from the city he called his home.

Nathaniel followed him, and leaned next to him in silence. The Irishman was gazing landward, smiling sadly. He took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, pulled one out and, thanks to the wind, lit it with some difficulty. He looked sideways to Nathaniel, curled the corners of his lips, and looked back to the city with a nod.

“Dear Old Dirty Dublin,” he said, raising an imaginary glass. “Be seein’ ya.”

“This was,” said Nathaniel, somewhat unsure, “your home…”

“What kind of feckin’ stupid question is that? You worry me sometimes, Nath. Yeah, sure it was my home. Born an’ bred. And this might be the last I see of it. Say,” said Tally, turning to Nathaniel with a smile, “sure I’ll be fine. The streets of London are paved with gold! All I needs do is pull up a cobblestone or two. Right?” He looked across to Nathaniel, who was staring back at the land with an eerie intensity.

“Right…?”

7.

THEY BOTH MOVED slowly around the tepee, shuffling wolfskin rugs, making the place their own as a new wife would rearrange her living room. The weight of the day, and the news it had brought with it, was upon them. For Annabelle, years of denial had been replaced by acceptance and anger, emotions that tugged her in opposite directions. George was stunned, and moved around their home for the night as if in a daydream, barely able to comprehend the truths that had been told.

Did he really now have a daughter?

Both were thinking of the sorry tale Geronimo had told, the history that Annabelle had held, hard-pressed against the back of her mind, for eight long years. When the Apaches had murdered Annabelle’s parents and kidnapped her, it was not long before the young girl’s spirit had begun to show itself. She was feisty, adventurous, never content to be a victim and always keen to be a part of the wild world that had captured her. When told “no”, she would always respond with “why?” When forbidden to do something, she would always go out of her way to try it anyway when elder eyes weren’t watching. She’d practise with bows or rifles she’d stolen from the secret cache after dark, or followed the braves out to hunt while the elder women stayed around the fire to weave.

Such fortitude was noted and respected, even if it was never talked about openly. Even the squaws who would harry and chide her for her precociousness would smile with pride when they thought she wasn’t looking.

As she had grown, and grown beautiful, she was accepted as no other outsider had been—totally and with absolute trust. She was known to the women as feminine and wise, and the men knew her as a warrior with a heart of fire. Yet, in such a close-knit tribal group, there were always those who would take more than they had earned, who would want more than they were offered…

Such a man was Deerpak. Even as a child he had a darkness about him, spending too much time on his own and rarely talking to his peers. Where Annabelle’s rebellious nature had endeared her to the rest of the tribe, both young and old, male and female, Deerpak’s natural status of outsider had been sly, quiet and suspicious. Annabelle would befriend young coyotes and tousle with them playfully; when he thought no-one was looking, Deerpak would kick the pups around the dust, or pierce scorpions into the ground with an arrowhead and pull off their legs, one-by-one. He was nearly three years older than Annabelle, and as manhood overtook him, so did jealousy and lust.

Annabelle did not care to remember that night when he found her, alone, still a girl, scratching pictures in the dirt with a stick. How, far beyond the sight of those who would have stopped it, he forced himself upon her, the smell of his teenage sweat and the pain and the bleeding. How, after he had satisfied himself, he had got up and walked away as if nothing had occurred, leaving her to make the red dust of the desert black with the stain of her tears. How she feared to tell the elders or the women; how she cried at night when her lunar cycle ceased and her belly began to swell with a hated, invading seed.

When the women of the tribe knew what was happening, they stood together as one. They took Annabelle, still too young to understand, and quizzed her ceaselessly. The truth was soon discovered.

He tried to escape. Cunning came easily to him, and when his crime had been discovered he knew his time with the tribe was at an end. At night, he stole a horse and supplies, still young, still stupid, for the noble men knew he would attempt to flee. They were ready, and to spare the noises carrying back to the camp, they let him get far enough away before they caught him.

It was Wapi, Annabelle’s childhood friend and confidant, who had insisted on exacting the whole tribe’s retribution. He was fourteen, and it was the first time he had killed a man. Fittingly, after Geronimo had told this sad and sorry tale, it was Wapi who held out to Annabelle a package wrapped in leather; a package containing the scalp of the man who had attacked her. She took it without speaking, and held it loosely in her hands.

That same package sat beside the fire of their tent, unbidden, unwanted. A sore, sorry point. Annabelle breathed in deeply. She looked at George, still tending the fire. He sensed her unease, and looked back.

“Annabelle,” he said.

“George…,” she replied.

It was as much as they could manage. She tried to smile.

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

She sighed, uncomfortable. What could she say? She loved him deeply, and knew that he loved her. Wasn’t that enough? She wanted it to be, wished that that was enough for him…but how would he see her now? She had told only one person of the incident before, and even then it had not been the complete truth. But George, he deserved the whole truth.

“Annabelle,” he said. “I love you so much….”

“And I you, George….”

“No, stop.” He said. “Do you think you have to make excuses, to explain yourself?” His voice was terse with anger, directed, she knew, only towards himself. “You are the woman I love,” he continued. “The woman who I have loved absolutely from the moment I set eyes upon you. To know that that woman I fell for had been through so much, endured so much pain and hardship…. It only makes me love you all the more.”

He breathed in, deeply.

“I love you for your strength, your beauty, for everything that has made you who you are. I love you Annabelle, and am proud to be your husband. I am yours…” He faltered. Looked about, momentarily frustrated, then up to her.

“And that’s all that I can say.”

“Oh, George…”

She skipped up, suddenly happy, and trotted across to him. Resolute as he was, he smiled as she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him on the mouth.

“We’re still on our honeymoon,” she teased, and as she arced herself back she found her waist slipping easily into his welcoming arms. “And you and I in a tepee? Bearskin rugs, an open fire…” She looked him in the eye and smiled, teasing and content. He kissed her.

“Promises promises,” he said.

She leaned back, happy as he held her in his arms and letting out a slow groan of pleasure.

“I need to disrobe,” she said glibly, pulling away. “Just do one thing for me.”

“Anything.”

She looked towards the parcel at the base of the fire.

“That,” she said, suddenly cold. “I want it gone. Promise me, George. Take it out and bury it. Leave it to rot in the desert. Will you do that for me, husband?”

He smiled at her. “Of course, my love.”

She smiled back, coquettishly.

“And I promise that the sooner you get back, the sooner I’ll be here waiting for you. And fur does feel so good against bare skin…”

She pecked him on the lips, and skipped back happily to their bed. She grinned at him; he grinned at her. He turned. Casually, he bent down in his stride and picked up the leather package is if it were nothing more than a piece of rubbish.

“Back soon,” he said, as he flipped the tent’s entrance aside.

“I’ll be waiting,” said Annabelle, beginning to undress.

8.

BEDFORD LOOKED UP. The Arizona night sky was like nothing he had ever seen before. No clouds, no light, and nothing but a thousand stars to dazzle his eyes. He was far from the light of London, and glad for it, too. He breathed in the air, clean and cold. Breathed out. Looked to the package that he held firmly in his left hand.

Annabelle had not unwrapped it. But he wanted to. He wanted to see the dead skin of the man who had wronged her. He did so, slowly, surprised by how human it felt when his fingers touched human hair, and the thickness of the skin that once hugged so close to a living scalp… He held it, for a moment, and felt pleasure. The woman he loved had been avenged, and no amount of stars in the blackest of skies could bring light to the soul of the man who had hurt her. He would always be damned, that man. And he didn’t deserve a burial. Such was the way of their people, Bedford knew. He slipped the scalp into his pocket as a keepsake. Nobody would hurt his Annabelle like that again. He promised.