”
There’s no time for more. The Wolves come out of the dip that marks the entrance to Arra’s little smallhold patch, and the four Calla- folken can see them at last and there is no more talk of hiding. Jamie almost expected Eamon Doolin, who is mild-mannered and already losing his hair at twenty-three, to drop his bah and go pelting into the high grass with his hands raised to show his surrender. Instead, he moves into place next to his wife and nocks a bolt. There is a low whirring sound as he winds the cord tight-tight.
They stand across the road with their boots in the floury dust. They stand blocking the road. And what fills Jamie like a blessing is a sense of grace. This is the right thing to do. They’re going to die here, but that’s all right. Better to die than stand by while they take more children. Each one of them has lost a twin, and Pokey
— who is by far the oldest of them— has lost both a brother and a young son to the Wolves. This is right. They understand that the Wolves may exact a toll of vengeance on the rest for this stand they’re making, but it doesn’t matter. This is right.
” Come on!” Jamie shouts, and winds his own bah— once and twice, then click. ” Come on, ‘ee buzzards! ‘Ee cowardy custards, come on and have some! Say Calla! Say Calla Bryn Sturgis!”
There is a moment in the heat of the day when the Wolves seem to draw no closer but only to shimmer in place. Then the sound of their horses’ hooves, previously dull and muffled, grows sharp. And the Wolves seem to leap forward through the swarming air. Their pants are as gray as the hides of their horses. Dark-green
cloaks flow out behind them. Green hoods surround masks (they must be masks) that turn the heads of the four remaining riders into the heads of snarling, hungry wolves.
“Four agin’ four!”Jamie screams. “Four agin’ four, even up, stand yer ground, cullies! Never run a step!”
The four Wolves sweep toward them on their gray horses. The men raise their bahs. Molly— sometimes called Red Molly, for her famous temper even more than her hair— raises her dish over her left shoulder. She looks not angry now but cool and calm.
The two Wolves on the end have light-sticks. They raise them. The two in the middle draw back their fists, which are clad in green gloves, to throw something. Sneetches, Jamie thinks coldly. That’s what them are.
” Hold, boys… “Pokey says. “Hold… hold… now! ”
He lets fly with a twang, and Jamie sees Pokey’s bah-bolt pass just over the head of the Wolf second to the right. Eamon’s strikes the neck of the horse on the far left. The beast gives a crazy whinnying cry and staggers just as the Wolves begin to close the final forty yards of distance. It crashes into its neighbor horse just as that second horse’s rider throws the thing in his hand. It is indeed one of the sneetches, but it sails far off course and none of its guidance systems can lock onto anything.
Jamie’s bolt strikes the chest of the third rider. Jamie begins a scream of triumph that dies in dismay before it ever gets out of his throat. The bolt bounces off the thing’s chest just as it would have bounced off Andy’s, or a stone in the Son of a Bitch field.
Wearing armor, oh you buggardly thing, you’re wearing armor under that twice-damned—
The other sneetch flies true, striking Eamon Doolin square in the face. His head explodes in a spray of blood and bone and mealy gray stuff. The sneetch flies on maybe thirty grop, then whirls and comes back. Jamie ducks and hears it flash over his head, giving off a low, hard hum as it flies.
Molly has never moved, not even when she is showered with her husband’s blood and brains. Now she screams, “THIS IS FOR MINNIE, YOU SONS OF WHORES!” and throws her plate. The distance is very short by now— hardly any distance at all— but she throws it hard and the plate rises as soon as it leaves her hand.
Too hard, dear, Jamie thinks as he ducks the swipe of a light-stick (the light-stick is also giving off that hard, savage buzz). Too hard, yer-bugger.
But the Wolf at which Molly has aimed actually rides into the rising dish. It strikes at just the point where the thing’s green hood crosses the wolf-mask it wears. There is an odd, muffled sound—chump!— and the thing falls backward off its horse with its green-gauntleted hands flying up.
Pokey and Jamie raise a wild cheer, but Molly just reaches coolly into her pouch for another dish, all of them nestled neatly in there with the blunt gripping arcs pointed up. She is pulling it out when one of the light-sticks cuts the arm off her body. She staggers, teeth peeling back from her lips in a snarl, and goes to one knee as her blouse bursts into flame. Jamie is amazed to see that she is reaching for the plate in her severed hand as it lies in the dust of the road.
The three remaining Wolves are past them. The one Molly caught with her dish lies in the dust, jerking crazily, those gauntleted hands flying up and down into the sky as if it’s trying to say, “What can you do ?
What can you do with these damned sodbusters?”
The other three wheel their mounts as neatly as a drill-team of cavalry soldiers and race bach toward them.
Molly pries the dish from her own dead fingers, then falls backward, engulfed in fire.
“Stand, Pokey!”Jamie cries hysterically as their death rushes toward them under the burning steel sky,
“Stand, gods damn you!” And still that feeling of grace as he smells the charring flesh of the Doolins. This is what they should have done all along, aye, all of them, for the Wolves can be brought down, although they’ll probably not live to tell and these will take their dead compadre with them so none will know.
There’s a twang as Pokey fires another bolt and then a sneetch strikes him dead center and he explodes inside his clothes, belching blood and torn flesh from his sleeves, his cuffs, from the busted buttons of his fly.
Again Jamie is drenched, this time by the hot stew that was his friend. He fires his own bah, and sees it groove the side of a gray horse. He knows it’s useless to duck but he ducks anyway and something whirs over his head. One of the horses strikes him hard as it passes, knocking him into the ditch where Eamon proposed they hide. His bah flies from his hand. He lies there, open-eyed, not moving, knowing as they wheel their horses around again that there is nothing for it now but to play dead and hope they pass him by. They won’t, of course they won’t but it’s the only thing to do and so he does it, trying to give his eyes the glaze of death.
In another few seconds, he knows, he won’t have to pretend. He smells dust, he hears the crickets in the grass, and he holds onto these things, knowing they are the last things he will ever smell and hear, that the last thing he sees will be the Wolves, bearing down on him with their frozen snarls.
They come pounding back.
One of them turns in its saddle and throws a sneetch from its gloved hand as it passes. But as it throws, the rider’s horse leaps the body of the downed Wolf, which still lies twitching in the road, although now its hands barely rise. The sneetch flies above Jamie, just a little too high. He can almost feel it hesitate, searching for prey. Then it soars on, out over the field.
The Wolves ride east, pulling dust behind them. The sneetch doubles back and flies over Jamie again, this time higher and slower. The gray horses sweep around a curve in the road fifty yards east and are lost to view. The last he sees of them are three green cloaks, pulled out almost straight and fluttering.
Jamie stands up in the ditch on legs that threaten to buckle beneath him. The sneetch makes another loop and comes back, this time directly toward him, but now it is moving slowly, as if whatever powers it is almost exhausted. Jamie scrambles back into the road, falls to his knees next to the burning remains of Pokey’s body, and seizes his bah. This time he holds it by the end, as one might hold a Points mallet. The sneetch cruises toward him. Jamie draws the bah to his shoulder, and when the thing comes at him, he bats it out of the air as if it were a giant bug. It falls into the dust beside one of Pokey’s torn-off shor’boots and lies there buzzing malevolently, trying to rise.