Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 17 Read online

  * * * *

  That night Iron Wood and most of his warriors left. They returned the next day with much shouting and hung fifteen scalps on their palisades at the entrance. Many wore French hats. This would bring a reprisal. The French would seek revenge.

  He found Shannon outside the city cleaning muskets. “Do you not think it a good time to leave?” he asked.

  "And go where?"

  Jan didn't have a good answer to that.

  "I'll stay here. They can use my skills."

  "A teacher can't do much in a time of battle."

  "I'm no fine lady, remember?” She picked up a musket that stood in a round stack and with amazing speed half-cocked it, poured in the powder, inserted the ball, withdrew the rod, rammed the ball home, then replaced the rod.

  A person could not load a musket that quickly unless they'd done it hundreds of times.

  "I'll stand upon that wall,” she said. “I have five of these children trained to load the musket. Do you know how many balls I can put in the air?"

  Jan looked at Shannon with new eyes. By the Holy Mother, Devil Jack did have a daughter.

  "I can't imagine. I've never met a woman quite like you,” said Jan. “You're something of an inspiration. Maybe I'll stay."

  "You have no ties here,” she said.

  He thought about that. He didn't have family here, but then again, this was really the only family he had. These savages and the lads at the post. And if he had to choose, well, he'd rather stay with the savages.

  "You're right,” he said. “But then I've no love for the Abenaki either."

  "It's a good thing this village purchased what powder they did,” she said.

  "Yes,” he said. “I'm thinking they were waiting for my load before going off on that raid. I can tell you one thing, these fields will run with blood."

  "One of these days,” she said, “it will be my son that comes painted for war."

  * * * *

  The Abenaki and French came just before dawn. A village boy went out to the stream to check his weirs. He managed to yell twice before they cut his throat.

  A warrior on the rampart heard him and gave the warning cry. Flaming arrows flew over the palisades and into the roofs of the longhouses. Jan saw one bury itself in a woman's back as she ran away.

  The warning had come almost too late. The Abenaki were within yards of the entrance when Iron Wood's warriors poured out of the village to meet them. Warriors ran up the ladders and fired muskets and arrows.

  Jan decided to stay back by the entrance. The ends of the palisades overlapped here so you could not get a straight shot into the village. If any of these devils wanted to get in, they'd have to go through the Dutch Bear. And by William, he'd smash them to pieces.

  The two sides on the field clashed and mingled. Not wanting to hit their own, the archers and musketeers on the wall ceased firing.

  Then a cluster of Abenaki broke the line and ran for the entrance. Their faces were painted in horizontal white and black stripes.

  It had been too long since Jan had seen any real battle, and he could feel himself begin to quail. There was only one solution to that. Jan raised his musket and shot one of the demons in the belly. Then he took up his war club.

  The first one to close with him leapt like a deer. Jan's war club was longer than most of those the Iroquois used. So he was able to smash the inside of the man's elbow as he came at him. Then he stepped out of the man's path and with a roar crushed the side of his head.

  The Iron Wood warrior next to Jan fell then began to drag himself back into the village.

  A yell rose from the far end of the village. Jan glanced back. Archers ran along the rampart back towards the noise.

  He hoped Iron Wood's runners were fleet. And then he realized they ran because the village was surrounded. The runners had probably not made it more than twenty rods into the woods.

  The Abenaki in front of him began to retreat, and Iron Wood's men chased after them.

  Something was not right. They never broke off the attack so quickly. And then Jan realized he'd seen no French. He looked at the woods.

  The further the warriors ran, the more room they gave someone lurking in the woods to make for the village. Only a handful of warriors could defend the village from the inside. It took many more to attack.

  It was a ruse. The retreat was a ruse.

  He yelled to the archer above him to prepare for an attack from the woods. The archer barked orders to the others on the wall and then let out a yell. It was the call for retreat. Others on the wall took it up.

  A few of Iron Wood's warriors turned. And then the main body stopped its chase.

  The woods boiled with men. French and Indian came rushing out.

  They were half the distance to the village before the warriors in the field caught up with those in the rear.

  There was no way Jan and the seven who stood with him could hold the entrance. There had to be two hundred French coming down upon him.

  The French line stopped and fired a volley that dropped four of the men with Jan and sent chips of wood flying. One chip struck him on the cheek. Another few inches and it would have put his eye out.

  He retreated into the village. Women and children stood on the walls armed with bows. Shannon stood among them with her five boys. She shot and took a ready musket from the boy behind her, shot again, took another, shot again.

  He needed to find the barricades. The village kept them close to the entrance. He and the other three lifted them into place. They set the fourth just before the French broke upon them.

  The arrows and musket fire rained down upon the attackers, but there were simply too many of them and they reached the barricade.

  The first two men over were shot with arrows. Jan finished them off when they reached the ground.

  He heard a cry and an Iron Wood woman fell from the wall and crashed almost at his feet. More men tried to leap the barricade with the same result. And then he heard a volley of muskets crack at his back.

  He turned and saw a dozen French loading muskets. They'd broken through the other entrance. Two of them took arrows and fell.

  A group of young warriors rushed those remaining. Only lads. He hoped they had learned their killing lessons well. Jan searched for Shannon on the wall, but saw only her five loaders.

  His heart fell. She must have been shot.

  In front of him more French and Abenaki tried to break through. He and the other warriors rushed up the barricade to meet the attackers, but they could not hold. Too many men got past them.

  And then Jan found himself back in the village swinging for his life. He downed five men and then saw some Abenaki running for a ladder.

  He turned to chase and found Shannon had reappeared. She stood with her boys, blood smeared down her cheek. She must have taken only a grazing.

  One of the men threw a tomahawk that struck one of Shannon's boys in the head.

  She turned her musket down the ladder and blew the first man off; she took another musket and did the same to the second.

  But the enemy in the back of the village gained the rampart and now ran toward Shannon.

  "Shannon,” he yelled and pointed.

  That distraction cost him. He saw someone out of the corner of his eye. He was fast enough to avoid getting his shoulder crushed, but he was not fast enough to avoid the sharp point of the man's war club in his back.

  Jan swung his war club into the man's face. But then another Abenaki stood before him. Jan roared and charged.

  The man was quick as a snake. He ducked Jan's swing twice and then smashed Jan's fingers.

  Jan dropped his club.

  The man drew back for a killing blow.

  Then there was a wet thud and half of the man's neck disappeared. Another shot took out the man behind him.

  Jan looked up. Shannon hadn't missed a beat. She handed her smoking musket to one of her four boys and took another.

  He picked up his war club w
ith his left hand and limped to the barricade. He found Frenchmen penned in by those above, Iron Wood's warriors coming back from their chase, and those that fought inside.

  The attackers died in that spot.

  A yell of victory rose from the other end of the village. The warriors there must have chased the attackers out of the far entrance.

  However, many of the French and Abenaki had retreated to the woods.

  The village regrouped. Jan stood at the entrance and waited for another charge. They came, the French in their pretty lines and the Abenaki yelling like devils. There were still so many of them.

  He felt weak in his knees and fell to the ground. He tried to crawl out of the way but didn't get far. He lay there watching the backs of the warriors.

  The attack broke upon the village. He looked for Shannon and found her. Then his vision started to blur.

  It was very possible that too much of his life had already leaked out his back.

  Men and women yelled all about him. Musket smoke clouded his vision even further. An Abenaki fell crossways over his legs. Someone scuffed dirt in his face. And then another cheer rose up from the walls and the noise of the attack broke off.

  "They're running,” someone said.

  "Don't let them escape!"

  Then all went black.

  * * * *

  He found himself on his stomach in a longhouse. Willow sat on the floor below him.

  "We drove them?” he asked.

  She turned and smiled. “We slaughtered them from here to the river."

  Jan looked at his splinted fingers. He remembered Shannon on the wall. “And Bright Waters?"

  "She's a demon,” said Willow. “All the warriors want to take her as wife. But I don't think she'll accept."

  "Why?” he asked.

  "Because all she's done is come in here and check on you."

  He suddenly suspected Willow. He reached up to feel his patch. It was still there.

  She smiled at him.

  Then he brushed his cheek. There was no beard. He felt his chin then the top of his head. He had no hair at all. She'd shaved him.

  "What have you done?"

  "Saved your life,” she said. “Be grateful."

  "You haven't been bringing your daughter in to look at me, have you?"

  Willow smiled. “Of course not."

  He didn't trust her. He asked her to fetch him a looking glass and held it up to his face. He looked like a fright with his tanned brow and cheeks all surrounded by the white skin that had been hidden under his hair. But the tattoo had not changed color.

  * * * *

  That evening he felt well enough to walk so he got up and shuffled outside. He must have been asleep two days for he saw none of the dead. One of the longhouses was now nothing more than ash.

  He saw Shannon. She stood with her back to him grinding corn with a foot-long pestle.

  He walked up behind her, but not too close. “Miss Burke,” he said.

  She did not startle this time, but turned and smiled at him.

  "Come here and sit by me,” she said.

  "Is it safe?"

  "What were you expecting?"

  "A clop with that murderous pestle."

  "And you would have received one,” she said. “But it seems you've learned it's bad manners to sneak up on people."

  Jan went and sat down on the bench beside her as she ground corn into meal. She'd stitched the gash that went from her cheek to one ear.

  "That's quite a wound you have there."

  "I'm afraid it won't do in proper society."

  "Hang proper society."

  "Yes, but I will miss the cheeses."

  He looked over at her. There was a playfulness in her expression. But he didn't know how to build on it, so he changed the subject.

  "Was your son among the dead?"

  "No,” she said. “He's not old enough yet to fight with the men. I wonder if I'll even recognize him after his growth comes upon him."

  "You'll know him."

  "But not from a distance,” she said and then was quiet for some time.

  She emptied out a bowl full of meal and then looked over at him. “Why do you wear that patch?” she asked.

  "I've got a mole the size of a mushroom growing there."

  She reached up for it, but he held her hand.

  "No,” he said.

  "It's not a mole,” she said.

  "It is."

  "Do you take me for a fool?"

  "Fine,” he said. He'd tell her the truth. He doubted she'd believe it. He wouldn't have. “It's a bit of Iroquois devilry to help me find a mate."

  "I know,” she said. “Willow showed it to me."

  Willow. First it was a shaving and now this.

  "I've seen something similar twice before while I was with the Abenaki."

  She knew what it was. He felt ashamed. It was a weak man who tried to buy or trick people into liking him.

  "Why cover it up?"

  He didn't want to explain it all to her. “It's devil craft."

  "I would think the power to magnify the beauty found in unlikely places is a gift from God."

  She smiled at him. Her expression was full of warmth. Or was that pity he saw? He'd mistaken pity for kind words before and paid dearly for it. Of course, Shannon did not seem to be one of those social ladies who smiled at and touched every man they met on the back of the hand.

  "You don't believe it's witchcraft?"

  "I believe that our Lord rains his gifts on the heathen as well as the just."

  She reached for the patch again.

  This time he let her move it aside.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Found in shops or on bookshelves or in mailboxes (usually ours). The Forty-Niners by Alan Moore, et al—Excellent prequel to Top 10. A little easy on good vs. evil but some wonderful characters and lovely world-building. That also applies to Alex Robinson's new book, Tricked (Top Shelf), an alternate history of indie pop in the last ten years. New cover coming (yay!). Read!

  Mutate no.9 (mutatezine.com). Sexuality, the Queer Zine Archive Project, “Bi Like Me,” and more. In that vertical half-letter format that can be frustrating but survives. All Flee by Gavin Burrows & Simon Gane (Top Shelf again). Not all about Godzilla and pals, but mostly. Get your giant monster fix here. A Rough Guide to Bicycle Maintenance (Microcosm.com). The bike shop guy says it's the end of the biking season and the rains and floods agree. Surely not! Take the tools up, look after your bike, get into your union suit and saddle up. Fifty Degrees Below, Kim Stanley Robinson.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Contribandeaus

  John Brown wrote the first draft of “Bright Waters” in Orson Scott Card's Literary Bootcamp. Having lived in the Netherlands, he has a particular affection for the hero of this story. John won first prize in Writers of the Future (13) under the name Bo Griffin. He is currently at work on an epic fantasy novel about a boy, a girl, and a wayward monster. He now lives in the hinterlands of Utah.

  Peter Dabbene is a Trenton, NJ-based writer. Several of his short plays have been produced in Philadelphia theaters. Most recently, some of his short stories have been published online at Parenthetical Note and Eyeshot. He has also published two book-length collections of short stories, Prime Movements and Glossolalia, as well as a novel, Mister Dreyfus’ Demons.

  Diana Pharaoh Francis is the author of fantasy novels Path of Fate (nominated for the Mary Roberts Rinehart Award) and Path of Honor. Path of Blood, which will complete the trilogy, will be published May 2006 by NAL/Roc. Diana is an assistant editor for The Broadsheet. She holds a BA & MA in creative writing, and a PhD in Literature and Theory. She currently teaches at the University of Montana-Western and is madly at work on her next novel. Her web site is www.sff.net/people/di-francis

  Christien Gholson's stories, poems and translations (of Rimbaud's Illuminations) have appeared in Hanging Loose, The Sun, Big Scream, Blue Mesa Review, etc. He grew up in Sou
thern Belgium and Northern Florida—places where the creatures inside a Bosch painting are very comfortable. A book of prose-poems (Faces in the Gallery) is forthcoming from Hanging Loose Press, along with a chapbook (Phenomenology) from March Street Press.

  Seana Graham is a bookseller in Santa Cruz, California and a closet scribbler of long standing. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Red Wheelbarrow Literary Magazine and Eclipse. LCRW is the first zine she's been published in, and she believes appearing here will significantly help her ‘coolness quotient'—that is, if anything actually can.

  How do we get our stories? We start with the set of people who read. Then we split out those who write with a butter knife (or some other blunt instrument). From these we filter out those who write well (and can hold their breath under water). Lastly we ask our neighbors to bury the stories in the garden for at least one season. We print whatever stories might still be legible.

  Sam MacArthur is an artist and writer. He lives in Edinburgh, Scotland.

  David Connerley Nahm lives in Carrboro, NC. He has a wife with a cat named Typee, a band named Audubon Park, and is halfway to a law degree. Sometimes, he performs stand-up comedy. His story “Sitting on a Bench in the Park” appeared in LCRW #14. Please visit the Tropic of Food (audubonpark.blogspot.com) if so inclined.

  On Selling Out: Yes, we will, thank you. Would we take the opportunity of having a larger platform to throw our zine (re-imagined as glossy with chocolate-bar pullouts and ads for the latest solar cars) out from into the reading masses? Offers to the usual address.

  Phil Raines and Harvey Welles have had stories published in Albedo One, Leading Edge, On Spec, Aurealis and New Genre as well as the recent collection of new Scottish fantastic fiction, Novia Scotia. Their stories have been anthologised in The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, including “The Fishie,” which was published in LCRW no. 12. Philip lives in Glasgow, Scotland, and is a member of the Glasgow Science Fiction Writers Circle. Harvey lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

  Deborah Roggie writes fantasy and lives in New Jersey with her husband and 15-year-old son. Her story “The Enchanted Trousseau” first appeared in LCRW no.14 and was selected for the anthology Fantasy: The Best of 2004. Forthcoming stories include “Thievery,” in the anthology Eidolon, and “Swansdown” (Realms of Fantasy). She is currently working on a novel.