The Midnight Circus, стр. 40

up at the moon and thought shesaw her father’s face there. Not the father who lay with his innardsspilled out into contorted hands. Not the one who had braidedfiresticks in his beard and charged into battle screaming. She thoughtshe saw the father who had always sung her to sleep against the nightterrors. The one who sat up with her when Great Graxyx haunted herdreams.

“Iwill do for you, Father, as you did for me,” she whispered to themoon. She prayed to the goddess for the strength to accomplish what shehad just promised.

Thenfoot by slow foot, she crept onto the field, searching in the redmoon’s light for the father who had fallen. She made slits of her eyesso she would not see the full horror around her. She breathed throughher mouth so that she would not smell all the deaths. She never oncethought of the Great Graxyx who lived—so she truly believed—in theblack cave of her dressing room. Or any of the hundred and sixgibbering children Graxyx had sired. She crept across the landscapemade into a horror by the enemy hordes. All the dead men looked alike.She found her father by his boots.

Shemade her way up from the boots, past the gaping wound that had takenhim from her, to his face which looked peaceful and familiar enough,except for the staring eyes. He had never stared like that. Ratherhis eyes had always been slotted, against the hot sun of the gods,against the lies of men. She closed his lids with trembling fingers andput her head down on his chest, where the stillness of the heart toldher what she already knew.

Andthen she began to sing to him.

Shesang of life, not death, and the small gods of new things. Of bees inthe hive and birds on the summer wind. She sang of foxes denning andbears shrugging off winter. She sang of fish in the sparkling riversand the first green uncurlings of fern in spring. She did not mentiondying, blood, or wounds, or the awful stench of death. Her fatheralready knew this well and did not need to be recalled to it.

Andwhen she was done with her song, it was as if his corpse gave a greatsigh, one last breath, though of course he was dead already half thenight and made no sound at all. But she heard what she needed to hear.

Bythen it was morning and the crows came. The human crows as well asthe black birds, poking and prying and feeding on the dead.

Soshe turned and went home and everyone wondered why she did not weep.But she had left her tears out on the battlefield.

Shewas seven years old.

Dogsbark, but the caravan goes on.

Beforethe men who had killed her father and who had killed her brothers couldcome to take all the women away to serve them, she had her maid cut herblack hair as short asa boy’s. The maid was a trembling sort, and the hair cut was ragged.But it would do.

Shewaited until the maid had turned around and leaned down to put away theshears. Then she put her arm around the woman, and with a quick knife’scut across her throat, killed her, before the woman could tell on her.It was a mercy, really, for she was old and ugly and would be usedbrutally by the soldiers before being slaughtered, probably in a slowand terrible manner. So her father had warned before he left for battle.

Thenshe went into the room of her youngest brother, dead in the field andlying by her father’s right hand. In his great wooden chest she found apair of trews that had probably been too small for him, but werenonetheless too long for her. With the still-bloody knife she shearedthe legs of the trews a hand’s width, rolled and sewed them with aquick seam. The women of her house could sew well, even when it had tobe done quickly. Even when it had to be done through half-closed eyes.Even when the hem was wet with blood. Even then.

Whenshe put on the trews, they fit, though she had to pull the drawstringaround the waist quite tight and tie the rib bands twice around her.She shrugged into one of her brother’s shirts as well, tucking it downinto the waistband. Then she slipped her bloody knife into the shirtsleeve. She wore her own riding boots—which could not be told from aboy’s—for her brother’s boots were many times too big for her.

Thenshe went out through the window her brother always used when he setout to court one of the young and prettymaids. She had watched him often enough though he had never known shewas there, hiding beside the bed, a dark little figure as still as thenight.

Climbingdown the vine, hand over hand, was no great trouble either. She haddone it before, following after him. Really, what a man and a maid didtogether was most interesting, if a bit odd. And certainly noisierthan it needed to be.

Shereached the ground in moments, crossed the garden, climbed over theoutside wall by using a tree as her ladder. When she dropped to theground, she twisted her ankle a bit, but she made not the slightestwhimper. She was a boy now. And she knew they did not cry.

Inthe west, a cone of dark dust was rising up and advancing on thefortress, blotting out the sky. She knew it for the storm that manyhooves make as horses race across the plains. The earth trembledbeneath her feet. Behind her, in their rooms, the women had begun towail. The sound was thin, like a gold filament thrust in to her breast.She plugged her ears that their cries could not recall her to her oldlife, for such was not her plan.

Circlingaround the stone skirting of the fortress, in the shadow so no onecould see her, she started around toward the east. It was not adirection she knew. All she knew was that it was away from the horsesof the enemy.

Once,she glanced back at the fortress that had been the only home she hadever known. Her mother, her sisters, the other women stood on thebattlements