Out of breath, his charge of adrenaline abating, Zeth plunged into acute embarrassment as the man stared at him in silence before he said, "You must be Zeth Farris. Mountain Chapel welcomes you, and thanks you for preserving the life of Mrs. Carson."
At the man's completely reasonable tone, Zeth wished he could sink through the floor. Then he remembered why he was here, and forced himself to say politely, "You must be Mr. Bron. I'm honored to meet you—but Fort Freedom needs your help." He stumbled over the English word "needs," but knew it was the right word to convey his meaning.
Mr. Bron's level gaze swept the assembled men. "Is that what you were counseling about? Whether you dared ask my help? Are you afraid to confide in me?"
The thin, bent-over man rose. "No, we're not afraid. We are going to help our friends and families on the other side of the border. We'd welcome your help."
"To go to the aid of ... Simes?"
"Simes who don't kill," said Lon Carson, "under attack from Simes who do. Freeband Raiders, Mr. Bron. It's not a moral issue from what Zeth tells us. It's a plain practical one: either we join forces with Fort Freedom and stop the Raiders there, or we risk their destroying the Fort and then descending onus."
Mr. Bron nodded slowly. "I see. On the 'plain practical'
side, if we ride in force across the border, can we hope to avoid detection? Or will we be branded Sime sympathizers, and have the militia down on us?" At the murmur of protest, he raised a hand. "I understand fully that that question is academic if we are attacked by such a huge band of Raiders. I've seen those monsters of depravity—and I share your desire to fend them off."
At the common sigh of relief, however, Mr. Bron shook his head. "Can you not see that this is not a secular issue, but a high moral one? God is testing us. Listen to me!" he urged as the men began to mutter again. "Each time young Owen has come here, he has brought an invitation to me to visit Fort Freedom, to see for myself Simes who have overcome the kill. Has God become impatient? Is this a test? Are we being asked to show charity to those we wrongly thought of as inhuman?"
A chorus of yeses echoed around the room.
"You may be right," said Mr. Bron, "or this may be the Devil's work drawing us into sympathy with demons, to lead us to our deaths in that sin. Tell me, Zeth Farris, why would Fort Freedom send a child for help? To play upon our sympathies?"
"I wasn't sent," said Zeth. "I came by myself. Now I see why my dad or Mr. Veritt didn't send someone: they knew you'd refuse. Mr. Veritt knows all about the Church of the Purity. He must've known it'd be no use asking you for help!" Frustrated tears stung Zeth's eyelids. He felt hollow. "D'you think they'd refuse to help you?"
"Son," replied Mr. Bron, "surely you know I have no way to answer your question." He turned to the assembled men. "I must pray for guidance. Tomorrow I will gather the elders—''
"You do that," said Mr. Carson. "We're going on ahead. I got a brother and a daughter over there. Last summer I didn't have the courage to help Marji—she's alive only because my wife dared risk her own life. You want miracles? Take a look at Hope. I'm going to go help my daughter, and afterward, I'm going to beg her forgiveness."
"Mr. Carson—Lon. Give me time to consider."
"But the Raiders are attacking now.'" said Zeth, his head spinning as he tried to make these men see him as more than a hysterical child.
Mr. Bron ignored him. "Don't be impetuous, Lon. A few
more people for the Raiders to kill will not help Fort Freedom. I will pray for a sign from God this night. If He indicates that we should help Fort Freedom, we will attack as a concerted force. If He reveals a trick of the Devil . . . then I fear if you go, you cannot return to Mountain Chapel."
Only then did he turn to Zeth. "You look tired, son. You are welcome to stay at my house. Your friend Owen may have arrived by now. I thought he was the one I would find here, not you."
Zeth wanted to see Owen the moment he arrived. "All right. Thank you, sir."
Despite Mr. Bran's lantern and the smooth, well-tended path, Zeth stumbled like a small child clumsy with sleepiness. Although he was "dreadfully tired from the long, hard trip and the letdown after pleading his case, he didn't feel sleepy, but his stumbling gait felt like one of his nightmares.
When he actually fell heavily to his knees, Mr. Bron helped him up, saying, "You're out on your feet, child." Zeth wanted to escape, to crawl away into a hole somewhere, he was so ashamed.
As Mr. Bron helped him up his own porch steps, the front door opened and a woman stood silhouetted against the light. "Maddok? What did they want you for? Oh—a child escaped from the Simes?" The woman closed the door as Mr. Bron led Zeth to the couch, then joined them, saying, "But surely he's too young—"
"I think he's ill, Sessly," said Mr. Bron, and the woman placed a cool hand on Zeth's forehead.
"He's feverish. Poor little boy. Don't worry—we'll take care of you."
"Zeth," said Mr. Bron, "this is my sister. Sessly, this is Zeth Farris." Zeth wouldn't have had to be told the two Gens were brother and sister—it was the same face, as if he were seeing double, but while the high forehead, deep-set eyes, and determined mouth and chin spelled strength in the man, in the woman they formed a face that at best would be called "plain" or "homely."
The woman was almost as tall as the man. Zeth felt small and frightened. He knew they meant to help him, but their proximity grated on his nerves. If they'd just go away—
The woman held out her hand to Zeth in a Gen gesture of friendship. Some people said it went back to the Ancients, but Mr. Veritt said it was more probable that it had developed
as a way of displaying the forearm to show the absence of tentacles. Whatever the motive, Zeth knew he had to touch her—and he had no idea why he desperately wanted to refuse.
When he lifted his hand, a dull pain, like sore muscles, spread from wrist to elbow. He'd been hauling on Star's reins all day,
guiding her through the rough terrain. There were spots of soreness on his hand, too, which might have been blisters if he hadn't
had calluses.
Telling himself to be grateful for being treated like an adult, Zeth shook hands, ignoring the faint twinges of pain and the illogical
sense of revulsion.
"I think I can find pajamas to fit you. A good night's sleep and you'll be fine. Zeth Farris," she added thoughtfully. "You're Owen's
friend. He should have been here by now."
"Perhaps he decided to stay over with the Mortons," Bron suggested. "I think he's seriously interested in Eph Norton's daughter."
Zeth fought down panic. Was Owen planning to stay this side of the border? "Can't you send for him? His pa's at Fort Freedom,
and his sister's hiding with the kids. Owen has the right to know what's going on."
"Of course," said Bron. "In the morning I’ll send someone. If he were coming tonight he'd be here by now. Sessly, you take care
of Zeth. I must go to the chapel and pray for guidance."
"Guidance? Maddok, what is happening?"
He explained briefly. Sessly looked back to Zeth. "Oh, you poor, brave child! No wonder you're exhausted. Come along and get ready
for bed now, and I'll bring you some hot milk."
She showed Zeth the bathroom and the guest room, and gave him some pajamas. It seemed to take every ounce of his strength to change
in the cold bathroom. Chills shook him, followed by a sudden sweat. Nausea hit so fast that he barely managed not to vomit on the floor.