Chapter 8

The Shepherd and His Flock

White Tree comes into view, several miles up the trail.

The village sits atop a small hill, giving it a good vantage of the surrounding desert. It's enclosed by a six-foot high fence that looks like a midlevel palisade. An imposing wall of sharpened, wooden stakes meant to keep prying eyes out. A jury-rigged guard tower made from logs and scrap metal pokes out above the palisade, along with a few stony rooftops.

Twil tells me that the guard tower and palisade are new. They weren't there when she was banished from the village.

Broken Legs wiggles in my arms. She's never woken up; at least not fully. As I walked with her through the night, she'd cried out a few times, but never opened her eyes. They remain closed now, although I can see them moving under her eyelids.

"You should wait here," I whisper to Twil. "I'll take the girl into town to this doctor. I'll come back here tomorrow and look for you. Keep your eyes out. Stay hidden."

"Okay." Twil fidgets. She seems transfixed by her village's medieval makeover. "Try and count how many men are in White Tree. New Canaanites and Yampa. A lot has changed. Let me know what's happened to my people."

I watch as Twil scurries away, hiding somewhere in the scrub. Broken Legs shivers. I adjust my grip on her and continue forward.

When I'm about two hundred yards from the wooden palisade, a man up in the guard tower waves his arms at me and starts yelling. I can't make out his words. I nod to him and continue to walk towards the wall. Slowly.

Four armed men come up from behind the palisade with their weapons drawn. They're wearing leather body armor and carrying rifles. Three of them are clean-shaven and unremarkable. The fourth one has tattoos all across his face. I assume he is - or was- Yampa.

"Stay there," the tattooed merc barks. "No closer."

I'm carrying a little girl, so it's pretty clear I pose no danger. The four mercs whisper to one another for a minute or two and then cautiously wave me over to a gap in the palisade.

I walk through it.

From the inside, White Tree looks like a typical waster settlement. There are two buildings made of stacked stones in the town center, next to a large bonfire. One of those buildings has a large wooden cross mounted above the doorway. Behind that building is the guard tower. All of the other structures that make up the village are tents made of brahmin hide, saplings, and rope. They ring the town in three concentric circles.

Four brahmin and a small group of molerats have been penned up along side the wall. I watch as a little girl reaches over the fence and feeds maize to them.

Most of White Trees' residents seem to be Yampa. I can tell by their tattoos, although the youngest children don't seem to have any. The Yampa decorate their hair with feathers, and wear it loose and long. They all seem to have abandoned their old tribal garb for typical, leather wasteland attire.

There are a few men and women mixed in among the Yampa who look slightly more refined. I figure they must be the New Canaanites. They have modern clothes and hair styles. One of them is wearing glasses. Some have energy weapons.

I stare at the New Canaanite with glasses for a moment as an old Yampa woman pokes her head out of her tent and ogles me.

After taking in the town, I continue towards the bonfire and the two stone buildings. The doctor may be inside one of them. Before I reach them, a pale, languid man ducks out of a nearby tent and approaches me.

The man is wearing a grey robe with a thick book tucked under his arm. His hair and eyes are both jet black and palpably cold. He's young - younger than me. I stop in my step and wait for him to say something.

"I see that you're legion." The man points at the center of my chest. I'm wearing a brahmin skin cloak over my uniform, but it's still visible. "You're a long way from the Mojave."

"I was legion. Not anymore."

I stare at the book tucked under the man's arm. It's three inches thick. All of the pages are yellow.

A Bible?

"Are you a. . .preacher?"

"A bishop - technically - but they're much the same," the man replies. "You're a deserter, I'd guess? No matter. Welcome to White Tree. What is your name, friend?"

"Io."

The bishop comes closer and peers down at Broken Legs, inspecting her injuries.

"And who is this poor girl?"

"My daughter." I say without hesitation. I take a brief look around. "Is there a doctor in this town? If there is, can he take a look at her?"

"Of course." The bishop points back, towards the guard tower. "Ezekiel's tent. It's that way, the last one on the right. Up against the wall. Right behind the church."

"Thanks." I walk off without giving the bishop a second look.

"God be with you." He calls after me.

Ezekiel's tent is older than those surrounding it and slightly more tattered. There's no way to knock on the flap so I rustle it instead and ask if I can enter.

There is a muted response. I take this as a yes and duck into the tent

Inside of the tent are two soiled cots, piles of dirty medical instruments, and various glassware and chems bottles. Standing amongst the mess is a bald old man with a white goatee. His face is gnarled and withered.

"Are you Ezekiel?"

"Yes," the man wipes his head on his sleeve. He's sweating heavily and has terrible body odor. "You are?"

"Io. I need you to take a look at my daughter."

I slowly lower Broken Legs onto an empty cot. Her eyes flick open for a moment and she mumbles something in White Leg. She closes them and turns her head to the side, burying it into a dusty pillow.

"Daughter, eh?"

Ezekiel scratches his goatee. He takes several minutes to inspect Broken Legs and then puts his hand on her forehead.

"I see her legs have been set and splinted. Broc flower paste for antiseptic. Yao guai sinew for stitches." He takes a step back and begins to dig through an old filing cabinet. "Who patched her up? Doesn't look like the work of a legionnaire."

I ignore the question. "Can you help her?"

Ezekiel shrugs. "She's lost a lot of blood. She should just rest for now, before I start probing her and reopen her wounds. I can give her med-x for the pain. Perhaps a little Buffout. . ."

Caesar banned chems from legion lands when he took power. During my time in his service, I'd come to see why. Many of the captives we took from the Mojave were chem addicts. One look at them, and you could tell how quickly jet, buffout, and psycho ruin your mind and body. Within a day of their arrival, those addicts would get sick from withdrawal and shrink into gaunt, shaking shells of their former selves.

Most would have to be killed. Addicts made poor slaves. They were already slaves to their addiction, and a good slave can only serve one master.

"Chems?" I grimace as Ezekiel fumbles with a med-x needle.

"Chems - medicine - what's the difference?" Ezekiel sneers. "Are you able to pay for this? My supply is limited. Not a lot of traders come out here, besides that queer Arab."

I hadn't considered payment. You never had to pay a healer in the legion. They were required to heal you.

We all served Caesar.

"I - I have this." I pull the pistol Twil bought for me out of my robe. "And one clip of ammo for it."

"Enough for now." Ezekiel snatches the weapon from me. His spindly hands look like claws. "I have a medical brace or two somewhere around here. Tomorrow I'll change her dressings and fasten them on her. Are you staying in White Tree? She won't be able to walk for two weeks at least - and even then - she'll need crutches."

"I don't know. Maybe."

"You should talk to Jethro. He doesn't like having nonbelievers in our midst. Thinks they bring bad luck to his flock." Ezekiel slides the needle into Broken Legs's arm.

She doesn't react. I watch as he slowly depresses the plunger.

"Where can I find Jethro?"

"If he's not in the church, he could be anywhere, making his rounds. He's about your height. Black hair. Grey robe. Dark eyes-"

The bishop. . . .

"Carrying a Bible?"

"That's him. You've met?"

I don't answer. I lift up the tent flap and make my way outside.

Jethro is still standing next to the guard tower. Two of the mercs who intercepted me at the wall are standing next to him. They take a few steps back as I approach.

I expected Jethro to be older. The bishop looks no older than Twil. Thirty perhaps. He isn't muscular. Nothing about him looks particularly threatening. His hair is cut neatly. His robe is spotless. Only his eyes are unsettling. They're too dark. His pupils blend into his irises.

"You're Jethro?"

"Yes. Sorry I didn't introduce myself to you before." Jethro smiles. It's a plastic smile. His lips look like earthworms. "My apologies. Ezekiel is treating your daughter?"

"Uh-huh."

"What's her name?"

"Broken Legs." I say without thinking.

Jethro's eyes narrow. "An unfortunate name. A prophesy fulfilled, so it would seem."

I feel like I've just been punched in the gut. Broken Legs and her legs are broken? How unbelievably convenient.

Why didn't I make up a different name for her? How could I have been so stupid?

He won't believe me anymore. He's pegged me as a liar.

"She's a tribal?'" Jethro continues.

"Her mother was." I try not to let my voice betray my nervousness. "I didn't know I had a daughter until a few days ago. Her mother's dead. I couldn't pronounce her tribal name so I renamed her."

"What was her mother's name?"

"Swift Rabbit."

Jethro doesn't blink. "Are you sure it wasn't 'Twil'?"

My throat goes dry.

How could he know?

"Who?" I feign innocence.

"You're a poor liar, Mr. Io. I saw the girl's legs. The binding was the work of a Yampa medicine woman. My father came here to study the Yampa's healing techniques so he could bring their knowledge back to Ogden. Sadly, he spent too many years with the tribe and their culture corrupted him. I know all of their tricks. Twil is the only Yampa medicine woman left out there."

"Was your father's name Jethro?"

I still can't believe that the Jethro in front of me is the man Twil has been telling me about. I had pictured a much larger man. A barrel-chested giant. The man in front of me is of average build and height, and is much thinner than I am.

I could take him down with ease. If I wanted to. . .

"No, his name was Marc." Jethro says curtly. "Twil treated your daughter?"

"I met a medicine woman on the road." I shrug. "She patched Broken Legs up and told me about this town. That's why I came here."

"Be truthful, now. Is the girl Twil's daughter or yours?" Jethro's gaze is iron.

"Mine." I sniff. "Why does it matter?"

"I saw a bit of myself in her. Her face. And she's the right age. . ." Jethro trails off. "It would be just like Twil to send her here with you. She's rather conniving. . ."

I finally realize that Jethro is asking if he's Broken Legs' father.

"You and Twil were together?"

Jethro avoids the question. "Was the girl attacked? Why are her legs broken?"

"She was caught by the 80s. They're on their way to Ogden. They're going to sack it."

"You're certain of this?" Jethro raises an eyebrow.

"Very."

Jethro leans into one of the mercs and has a quick, hushed conversation. When he's finished, the mercs walk off.

"White Tree is a god-fearing settlement, Mr. Io. We take our religion very seriously. I'll let Ezekiel treat your daughter - we're good neighbors here - but unless you plan on joining my flock, you'll need to be on your way afterwards."

"Okay. . ."

Jethro smiles. "Have you heard of the Good Word? I'd be more than happy to tell you all about it. If you're interested."

"Whose words?"

"Our Lord and savior's."

Another proselytizer.

"The Bible? I've read it. Most of it, anyway."

"What about the Third Testament?"

"Never heard of it."

Jethro taps the Bible tucked under his arm. He holds it out to me, and I glance down at the cover.

The Book of Mormon.

"The old legion - the Romans - were heathens too. You must know this. Godless idolaters." Jethro says with conviction. "But they became the bedrock of the church. If you'd be interested in hearing more about-"

"Jethro!" A loud shout interrupts our conversation.

I turn around. The blood drains from my face. Four mercs are approaching us, and Twil is pinned between them. Her hands are bound behind her back. One of the mercs has her by the hair and is yanking her towards us.

My blood boils.

"We found the witch spying on us."

The merc pushes Twil up to Jethro. She falls to her knees and then glares up at him.

"Twil." Jethro's eyes sparkle.

Twil stands up and spits on him.

"Exactly the greeting I expected." Jethro doesn't react. The spittle soaks into his robe. He points at me. "Do you know this man?"

Twil eyes me for a moment and then shakes her head. "No."

"He says you treated his daughter."

Twil squirms, fumbling for an answer.

"Is she yours? Is she ours, Twil?"

Twil smiles. Then, unbelievably, she laughs.

"If you had planted your seed in me - when you forced yourself on me - I would have flushed it out of my womb. I'd never give you a child." Twil snickers. "But I didn't have to worry about that, did I? You're sterile. You're all sterile."

I'm confused by this but say nothing.

Jethro is unmoved. "Why have you come back?"

"I didn't. Your dogs grabbed me and carried me here." Twil glares at the mercs, directing her anger at the one with the facial tattoos, "Don't think I don't recognize you under those New Canaanite clothes, Urahil. Father was right about you. We never should have taken you into our tribe. He knew you'd betray us."

"She was spying on us from the trees." Urahil sneers. "Looking for weaknesses."

"You still plan to unseat me? You want to drag these people back into darkness? Look at how much good work I've done here."

Jethro motions to the church, the guard tower, the brahmin pen, and the wooden palisade.

"This is my village." Twil seethes. "These are my people."

"These are God's people. I've helped them find God. The one, true God. Not the demons you worship and that you'd have them kneel to. I told you what would happen if you ever came back. God commands us to burn witches. I never wanted to hurt you, Twil. You always force me to. . ."

"She's not a witch." I put myself between Twil and Jethro. "You said it yourself; she uses plants and herbs to heal people, not hurt them. No magic."

"Twil is capable of more than you know. When I first came to White Tree, my New Canaanite followers were triple the number they are now. Twil's mother, Ayla, put a hex on us for burning her pagan alters. Within days, my flock was struck by boils that would not heal. Instead, they festered. Open sores on the face, hands, and feet. Ezekiel could do nothing to treat us. Most of those afflicted died. Those that didn't were left infertile. . .It was an unnatural sickness. The work of the devil."

"I wish her hex had taken you." Twil sniffs.

"God had other designs for me and for my flock. The fact that we stand here now, and Ayla does not, is a testament to that and the Lord's power. Though the Lord tested us - like Job - we kept our faith and did not kneel before false idols."

Twil scowls. "If your God was just, he wouldn't have created you to begin with."

"I will give you another chance to accept God, Twil. Just as I did before. I know you will refuse, but God is all-forgiving. The Lord will wash away your sins if you accept Him. If you accept Him; He will accept you. Give yourself to Him."

"I spit on your God and on you!" Twil, again, hocks a wad of spit onto Jethro.

"Burn her." He mutters.

"No!"

I draw my machete. The steel rings. The mercs take a step back and then level their rifles at my chest. I could take down one of them before the rest filled me with holes. Not a bad death, but not one that I'd wish for.

"Twil didn't come here. I did. I found the girl and Twil treated her. She told me about White Tree and said there'd be a doctor here. She guided me here. I took the girl here so Twil wouldn't have to break your rules-"

"Not my rules. God's commandments. Heathens shall not live amongst us." Jethro's tone is fiery. "Lying is against His commandments too, Mr. Io."

I frown. "What about rape?"

"A bold accusation."

"Twil told me what you did to her."

"And why did you come here?" Jethro snaps. "The legion isn't known for their kindness towards women or for rescuing cripples. The child is not yours. That much is obvious. You came here because of Twil. Why?"

Why did I come? Why did I follow Twil? Why did I pick up Broken Legs?

There's only one answer.

"To challenge you as her champion."

"Haha!" Jethro lets out a belly laugh. He then turns to his mercs. "So this was Twil's scheme all along. He's just her puppet. How fitting she chose a legionnaire to challenge a disciple of Christ. Shall we duke it out in the arena? A throwback to the first martyrs? I think not. We are savages no longer. Nor do we keep their customs. Challenge me if you wish, Mr. Io, but I won't oblige. If you want, you can burn with Twil."

"Are you afraid?" I blink.

"Afraid of what?"

"You said your God is stronger than hers. If He is, then you have nothing to fear from fighting me. You won't lose with your God behind you."

Jethro grins. "And Jesus said to the devil: 'Thou shalt not test the Lord.'"

"Coward! All of you are cowards!" Twil screams.

A small crowd of villagers has gathered around us. I can tell from the looks on their faces that many of them recognize Twil. Some of them avert their eyes when she looks at them. Others stare at her with morbid fascination.

Twil raves at them. "Nhatal, Gemine, Urahil! My mother and father protected you all - all of you - and you let him burn her! Alkalhas homash indeki voila! May Ayla's spirit torment you! I curse you! Let all of you be barren and impotent like your masters! Burn in Jethro's hell and in the spirit world! Burn forever!"

The crowd shirks under the weight of Twil's words. Many of the villagers are trembling. Especially the Yampa.

"Do not fear the witch." Jethro puts his hands up to try and reassure his flock. He taps his Bible. "She has no power here."

"Prove it!" I goad him, machete still in hand. "Fight me."

Jethro glares at me, brooding.

"No."

"Then you have no faith." I mock him. "How can you fear death if you truly believe? What sweeter death is there, than the death of a martyr?"

Jethro is silent. The crowd is on edge, shifting their gaze between him, Twil, and myself, as if they're trying to decide which one of us is more powerful.

Jethro can sense the crack in his leadership and nips it in the bud.

"Alright, Mr. Io." He says calmly. "I accept your challenge. We shall see which is stronger - pagan idols - or the one true God. Urahil, put a rope around the witch's neck and clear a patch of ground for us to fight on. Saul - bring me my hammer."