“Who? Who wrote…” Gordon shifted the paper in the faint moonlight that slipped between the slats. At last he saw scrawled pencil scratchings, rude block letters that contrasted starkly under Dena’s flowing script.
Is true?
Are woman so free north?
Are some man both good and strong?
Will she die for you?
Gordon sat for a long time looking at the sad, simple words. Everywhere his ghosts foDowed him, in spite of his newfound resignation. What George Powhatan had said about Dena’s motives still gnawed within him.
The Big Things would not let go.
He ate the letter slowly. He would not let Johnny share this particular meal, but made a penance, a sacrament, of every piece.
About an hour later there was a commotion outside — a ceremony of sorts. Out across the clearing, at the old Agness General Store, a double column of Holnist soldiers marched to the slow beat of muffled drums. In their midst walked a tall, blond man. Gordon recognized him as one of the camouflaged fighters who had dumped the dying prisoner into their midst earlier that day.
“Must be Isterman,” Johnny commented, fascinated.
“This’ll teach him not to come back without reporting in to G-2 first thing.”
Gordon noted that Johnny must have watched too many old World War Two movies, back at the video library in Corvallis.
At the end of the line of escorts he recognized Roger Septien. Even in the dark he could tell that the former mountain robber was trembling, barely able to hold on to his rifle.
Charles Bezoar’s barrister voice sounded nervous, too, as he read the charges. Isterman stood with his back to a large tree, his face impassive. His trophy string lay across his chest like a bandolier… like a sash of grisly merit badges.
Bezoar stood aside and General Macklin stepped up to speak to the condemned man. Macklin shook hands with Isterman, kissed him on both cheeks, then moved over beside his aide to watch the conclusion. A two-earringed sergeant snapped sharp orders. The executioners knelt, raised their rifles, and fired as one.
Except for Roger Septien. Who fainted dead away.
The tall blond Holnist officer now lay crumpled in a pool of blood at the foot of the tree. Gordon thought of the dying prisoner who had shared their captivity for so short a time, and who had told them so much without ever opening his eyes.
“Sleep well, Califomian,” he whispered. “You’ve taken one more of them with you.
“The rest of us should only do so well.”
14
That night Gordon dreamed he was watching Benjamin Franklin play chess with a boxy iron stove.
“The problem is one of balance,” the graying statesman-scientist said to his invention, ignoring Gordon as he contemplated the chessboard. “I’ve put some thought to it. How can we set up a system which encourages individuals to strive and excel, and yet which shows some compassion to the weak, and weeds out madmen and tyrants?”
Flames licked behind the stove’s glowing grille, like dancing rows of lights. In words more seen than heard, it inquired:
“…Who will take responsibility… ?”
Franklin moved a white knight. “Good question,” he said as he leaned back. “A very good question.
“Of course we can establish constitutional checks and balances, but those won’t mean a thing unless citizens make sure the safeguards are taken seriously. The greedy and the power-hungry will always look for ways to break the rules, or twist them to their advantage.”
The flames flicked out, and somehow in the process a red pawn had moved.
“…who …?
Franklin took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. “Would-be tyrants, that’s who… they have an age-old panoply of methods — manipulating the common man, lying to him, or crushing his belief in himself.
“It’s said that ‘power corrupts,’ but actually it’s more true that power attracts the corruptible. The sane are usually attracted by other things than power. When they do act, they think of it as service, which has limits. The tyrant, though, seeks mastery, for which he is insatiable, implacable.”
“…foolish children…” the flames flickered.
“Yes,” Franklin nodded, wiping his bifocals. “Still, I believe that certain innovations might help. The right myths, for instance.
“And then, if Good is willing to make sacrifices…” He reached out, picking up his queen, hesitated for a moment, and then moved the delicate ivory piece all the way across the board, almost under the glowing hot grille.
Gordon wanted to cry out a warning. The queen’s position was completely exposed. Not even a pawn was nearby to protect her.
His worst fears were borne out almost at once. The flames licked forth. In a blur, a red king stood on a pile of ashes where the slender white figure had been only a moment before.
“Oh lord, no,” Gordon moaned. Even in the half-critical dream state, he knew what was happening, and what it symbolized.
“…Who will take responsibility… ?” the stove asked again.
Franklin did not answer. Instead, he shifted and pushed back in his chair. It squeaked as he turned around. Over the rims of his bifocals, he looked directly at Gordon.
You too? Gordon quailed. What do you all want from me!
The rippling red. And Franklin smiled.
He startled awake, staring until he saw Johnny Stevens crouching over him, about to touch his shoulder.
“Gordon, I think you’d better take a look. Something’s the matter with the guards.”
He sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Show me.”
Johnny led him over to the east wall of the shed, near the door. It took a moment to adjust to the moonlight. Then Gordon made out the two survivalist soldiers who had been assigned to watch them.
One lay back against a log bench, his mouth hanging open as he stared blank-eyed up at the low, growling clouds.
The other Holnist still gurgled. He clawed at the ground, trying to crawl toward his rifle. In one hand he held his burnished sheath knife, glinting in the low firelight. By his knees lay a toppled ale stein, a brown stain spreading from its broken lip.
Seconds after they had begun to watch, the last guard’s head slumped. His struggles died away in a faint rattle.
Johnny and Gordon looked at each other. As one, they rushed to test the door, but the lock was firmly in place. Johnny stretched his arm through a gap in the planks, trying to grab any part of the guard’s uniform. The keys… “Damn! He’s just too far!”
Gordon began prying at the boards. The shack certainly was flimsy enough to take apart by hand. But when he pulled, the rusty nails creaked and sent the hair rising up the back of his neck.
“What do we do?” Johnny asked. “If we yank hard, all at once, we might be able to crash out real fast, and dash down the trail to the canoes. …”
“Shhh!” Gordon motioned for silence. Out there in the darkness he had seen a figure move.
Tentatively, nervously, a small, shabby shape scuttled toward the moonlit clearing just outside the shack, where the fallen guards lay.
“It’s her!” Johnny whispered. Gordon also recognized the dark-haired drudge, the one who had written the pathetic little addendum to Dena’s letter. He watched as she overcame her terror and conditioning to approach each of the guards in turn, checking for breath and life.
Her whole body shook and low moans escaped her as she sought the ring of keys under the second man’s belt. To get at them she had to push her fingers through his line of gruesome trophies, but she closed her eyes and brought them forth, clinking softly.