.45 Caliber Soul
Chapter 6 – Adventures in Land NavigationDue to the short time remaining before nightfall, and the threat of heavy weather, we decided to hole up in the stable until first light. Sister Nadeza and the older girls cooked some sort of stew. I'd had mystery meat like this before, as a guest of some Afghan tribal elders. In situations like that, you just eat it and try not to make faces when anyone's looking. It wasn't bad, actually, but it wasn't all that good, either.
The next morning, as soon as it was light, we loaded up. Raphael and Mitsurugi rigged up saddlebags full of provisions on the horse, which we would use to carry the smaller kids. Xianghua and Talim helped the kids get packed and bundled up.
I got some kid-sized blankets together, rolled them into a long cylinder, and slung it over my right shoulder, tying the ends together at my left hip with some twine. Once I had it adjusted so I could draw the .45 without difficulty, I went outside. Georg, Bedrich, and Dusana were on the horse. Little Zelenka was too small and unsteady to ride, so Sister Nadeza had rigged up a sort of papoose-backpack thing to carry her. Citrad and Rickena, the two older kids, who were about ten or eleven, had light bundles slung over their shoulders, as did Talim, Raphael, and Mitsurugi. Xianghua was holding the horse's reins.
"Are we ready?" I asked.
"I think we are," Mitsurugi replied.
"Where's Father Jan?"
"He said he would be here shortly," Sister Nadeza said. She looked apprehensive.
Father came down the alley just as she said that. He had a rolled-up piece of heavy paper in one hand. "We are very fortunate," he said, "that the Bohemians and the Magyars did not put the town hall to the torch." He handed me the rolled-up paper. "This is a map of the Baron's lands."
I unrolled it. The paper was really thick, more like an animal skin than an actual piece of paper. It was hand-drawn, with towns and hills and woods and bridges represented by little cartoons rather than map symbols. There were Latin inscriptions running around the borders of the page, and town and location names in elaborate calligraphy. It was less of a map than a work of art, and I would love to have something like it framed and displayed in my living room someday when I get a living room.
As a navigational aid, however, it was not what I was used to working with. "Is the top of the map north?" I asked. There was no compass rose.
"I believe it is," Father Jan replied.
"Well, let's hope you're right, or we might end up in Vienna." I laid it on the ground, took out my compass, and oriented it, talking to myself as I did it. "Okay, if this edge of the map is north-south, and the compass says this is magnetic north, so then, the magnetic deviation is . . . I have no idea, so let's hope it's not much."
I looked up. They were staring at me in complete confusion. "What are you doing?" Xianghua asked tentatively.
"I'm orienting the map," I said, realizing that no one had the slightest idea what I was talking about. "Lining 'north' on the map up with north in real life so I can use my little old magnetic compass here to keep us pointed the right way." Only Raphael seemed to get what I was saying. "Okay, Father, show me on the map here where we need to get."
He pointed to an area to the northeast—well, upper right, anyway—of Hollenschau. "The Baron is said to be here, with his retainers and the Poles."
I set the compass so that one edge was on the line we wanted to travel, just like I'd learned to do as a Tenderfoot Scout back in Troop 1705. "All righty, if we're here, and we want to go there, then our compass course is . . . zero three five, or something like it." I rolled the map up and put my compass away. "My thought is we cut across country, stay off the roads and try to stay under cover as much as we can."
"Why not follow the road?" Rickena asked. She was a bit of a tomboy, sort of the Silesian version of Xianghua.
I smiled at her. "Because, little princess, these days there's a lot of people on the road, and not all of them are friendlies, and we don't want the bad guys bothering you." I looked at the adults. "As a matter of policy, I suggest we avoid contact with anyone, especially groups of armed men, unless we know for sure they're friendly." I looked specifically at Father Jan and Sister Nadeza. "Can you guys tell by looking at flags or uniforms which army is who?"
"I will know the Baron's standard if I see it," Sister Nadeza answered. I could work with that. The modern Polish flag is just plain red and white, but at various times in history, I was pretty sure they'd used a red flag with a black or white two-headed eagle. Unless it looked Polish, or it passed the Sister Nadeza test, we'd presume it hostile, evade and break contact.
Aaaruggh—there I was, assuming command again! "What do you all think?" I asked, feeling lame. They all seemed to be going along with me, but still . . . .
Father Jan seemed to sense my emotion. "I think you are a good leader, Seamus, and you know what is best. Now, let me give you a blessing, and then you can proceed."
It was only then that I realized he wasn't planning to come with us. Sister Nadeza had a pained expression—she'd just figured it out, too. "What about you?" I asked him.
"I cannot go now. I have . . . other business to attend to here." He looked at the adults in a way that told us all that he expected never to see us again. It was in that moment I realized—it was one of those things again, don't ask me how I knew, I just did—that he was right.
"But you will come later?" Bedrich asked innocently.
"I will be with you, little one; do not worry." I noticed his word choice: be with you, not catch up to you.
"I could stay with you, . . . if you need some help." It was Raphael, which sort of surprised me; I didn't think he had it in him. Mitsurugi and Talim, too, looked ready to volunteer.
"No," Father Jan replied, "your place is with them—but thank you. Now, let us bow our heads and ask God's blessing . . . "
We were about half a mile out from Hollenschau, nearing the place where plowed fields gave way to woods. I was the tail end of the column, and I looked back at the town one last time. I was starting to get the creepin' willies, like I did right before the time the Taliban mortared our camp a couple weeks ago. I didn't want to let the kids see my nervousness—after all, if I'm wrong, I'd be worrying them for nothing, and if I'm right we'll deal with it when the time comes.
I turned around. "Hey, Raphael," I called out, "you ever come up with a name for that horse?"
"Well," he said, "no, it never occurred to me that I should give him a name."
"Do you want to name him?" Xianghua asked me.
"All right," I said, trying frantically to think of a good horse name. I went with the first thing that came to mind. "How about . . . ah . . . 'Mister Ed?'"
I know, Mister Ed was white, and this horse was brown—but they didn't know that.
"That's a funny horse name!" Bedrich declared.
"Oh," I said, "where I come from, Mister Ed is a very famous horse. Why, when I was you age, we used to"—Crikey! How do you explain television to people who don't have electricity?—"ah, listen to . . . listen to the . . . the village storyteller"—hey, don't laugh, it's as good a description as anything you could come up with—"telling tales of the famous Mister Ed, the talking horse."
The kids giggled. "Horses don't talk," Dusana scolded.
"Oh, this one did, or, so the story went, anyway. He would talk like—ah, let me see if I can remember—like this: 'Wilbur! What are all these children doing on my back?'"
When the laughter started to die down, Raphael looked at me quite seriously. "So, now you are telling me that, in this fantastic land where you come from, you do not ride horses, but"—he snickered—"you do talk to them."
He was setting me up for something, I just knew it. "Don't you talk to horses, too?"
"Well, yes, but"—another snicker—"in your land, the horses"—snicker—" the horses talk back!"
They were all laughing at me now. "Oh, come on! It was just a story."
Little Zelenka pointed at me from her perch on Sister Nadeza's back. "Funny!" she squealed.
. . . to be continued . . .