Chapter 6
"Man, we bein' followed." B.A. kept his voice low, pushing aside a thorny branch as he spoke. "You think Redthorn and his posse found our trail?"
"I think you're right, B.A. No telling who it is; I can hardly see ten feet ahead of me," Face agreed, panting, his breath coming out in misted puffs. "Hannibal? You hanging in there?"
Leaning heavily on his men for support, the colonel gritted his teeth. "Guys, remind me to bring a field medic bag next time we conduct an operation out here. Maybe a flask of whiskey, too. Let's take a quick breather, get our bearings…" His voice was hoarse, every word taxing him. With as much ease as they could manage, Face and B.A. lowered him into a sitting position atop a lichen-covered log.
Like three football players, they huddled together, backs turned to a persistent, bitter north wind. "We are being followed, but they're keeping their distance for now. I'm not worried about that so much as I am this hole in my leg. B.A., how much further to the van?" Hannibal asked.
"Hard to say, man. We had to double back some to lose them Black Foxes, so maybe another mile, maybe less." The big man frowned, his face a shadow in the dappled patches of moonlight. "We're still goin' south by southeast, so I think we're pretty close. But they know where they're goin', and we runnin' blind and hurt."
Face examined the still-protruding end of the bolt, and the quarter-sized bloodstain surrounding its entry point. "Looks like the bleeding's stopped, if there were any to begin with," he ventured.
"That's what worries me, Lieutenant," Hannibal admitted in an unusually serious tone. "These things are designed to bring down a razorback in a bad mood. They're not like rounds, they don't cauterize as they go in. You start moving, and you'll bleed internally. I think I got lucky and it missed my femoral artery, but I'm not a medic." He tried to touch the bolt again, and immediately winced.
"I ain't either, so don't be lookin' for no bedside manner," said B.A., tossing Hannibal the canteen from his belt.
Hannibal quickly sucked down the little bit left inside and wiped his lips with one grime-covered hand. "Face, how far to the closest hospital? I can't exactly pull this thing out with pliers."
The younger man paused, visualizing the map he'd used as Albert Colston. "There isn't one in either Possum Lodge or Tyrell. I think it's the county seat, Fairwoods," he said.
"How far?"
"It don't matter none if we can't get you outta here alive," B.A. interjected, concern replaced by sheer determination in his voice. "You better get up, sucka, 'cause I don't wanna have to carry yo' wounded butt through these woods." He leaned down, a wry smile creasing his lips.
"You really know how to motivate a guy, B.A."
Face, crouching beside Hannibal's other side, offered a smirk of his own. "At least we're somewhat less damp now, right? And we don't have Charlie on our tail, just a bunch of lunatic rednecks." He scanned the surrounding trees more out of habit than anything else; it was impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction. "You think Murdock found civilization by now? Or a Captain Bellybuster's?"
"Man, I don't say this much, but I wouldn't mind seein' that fool right about now," said B.A., letting Hannibal drape one arm around his broad shoulders. "I jus' hope he didn't run off on all fours without no clothes or some crazy shit like that."
Hannibal gingerly planted his right foot on the ground, then let himself be helped up. "Have some faith, Sergeant. It hasn't been more than an hour. Maybe he stumbled across one of those big, shiny Forest Service choppers."
A groan. "Even worse…"
"I'm getting a weird feeling, like when we were back in that graveyard," Face muttered. "Or maybe Redthorn and his bunch scared off all the animals except the Big Bad Wolf?"
"Or maybe used 'em all as bait for them pit bulls," suggested B.A.
Hannibal jerked his head ever so slightly upward. "I think whoever's been tailing us may have just caught up. Let me down for a minute, Face, so I can grab my pistol…"
A shooonk, and a thirty-inch, grey-fletched shaft buried itself in a tree trunk three inches from B.A.'s shoulder. He blinked in surprise, then immediately unslung his own rifle and pointed it at what he only hoped was his enemy's position.
"What is it with arrows around here? Can't these people use guns like normal maniacs?" hissed Face, as another found its mark where he had stood a moment before. He too aimed his rifle at the unseen target, whirling around.
Hannibal had dropped to one knee, his .45 clenched firmly in his right hand. "Hold fire," he commanded Face and B.A. sharply. Without lowering his weapon, he squinted into the darkness.
A tall figure stood just at the cusp of visibility. There was a barely audible creak as the longbow's string it held was drawn into position.
"We're on the run from a gang that calls themselves the Brotherhood of the Black Fox. We mean you no harm," Hannibal said as calmly as he dared.
"Hannibal, are you crazy?" Face was incredulous.
"Could be one of them, man," B.A. agreed, still in his shooter's stance.
The archer took one tentative step forward, shaft still nocked and drawn. "The Brotherhood of the Black Fox?" asked a low, hoarse voice. A female voice.
"Yeah. Their leader's a guy named Ike Redthorn. They opened fire on us ," Hannibal continued, "and I'm wounded. We need some medical help."
"You crazier than Murdock, man…"
Into the meager light emerged a rangy woman neither old nor young in a long, ragged duster coat and boots, along with the kind of wide-brimmed hat a southern preacher might have worn a century earlier. Her otherwise proud face was streaked with dirt, and her eyes shone like two pinpricks of light. She did not smile.
"Lower yer weapons, and I shall do the same." There was a curious lilt mixed in with her Tennessee drawl.
Each side did so grudgingly, exchanging looks of mutual hesitation. When the three Thompson automatics, Hannibal's .45, and the stranger's longbow and curved dagger were on the ground, she spoke again.
"All yer weapons." She flicked a glance at Hannibal.
He pulled his favorite throwing knife from his belt, grinning. "Had to try." He kept kneeling, unable for the moment to rise. "Now if I might ask: why were you were shooting at us?"
The woman folded her arms across her chest, smirking just a bit. "This 'ere's sacred ground. But you're cowan, Sassenach besides, and you wouldna know that. Apologies, but I didna know if you were one o' them till I got a wee bit closer." Almost a Scottish accent, but not quite. "Yer runnin' from Redthorn, ye say?"
"We don't run from nobody, lady," B.A. shot back.
Hannibal raised one arm to silence him. "Redthorn and the town constable were running a dogfight not far from here, and we were trying to break up their little party. It went somewhat awry." He paused; the last ten minutes had drained much of his remaining stamina. "But I need to have this wound dressed pretty quick, or I won't be in a position to help you or anyone else. Can you take us to shelter? We'll pay you for your troubles."
She looked from Hannibal to Face to B.A., her own expression inscrutable. Finally she nodded. "I'll take ye to my home; it's over the ridge yonder. Stay close, and take yer weapons," she said, sweeping up her own with one hand. With a grunt, Hannibal let his men re-arm, then raise him up once again.
"What about my van?" B.A. growled as they picked their way over dried leaves and underbrush in the stranger's wake. "If anythin' happens to it…"
"They won't. Not if you hid it the way you usually do," answered Hannibal, the energy nearly gone from his voice. "I sure hope 'yonder' doesn't mean another mile."
Face leaned in closer and whispered. "She seems to take a special interest when you mentioned Redthorn. What's her angle, you think?"
In one fluid motion, the woman turned on Face, fixing him with a gaze that might have melted pig iron. "'E was my soulmate, my anamchara, before 'e killed me father," she explained coolly, as if telling him the final score of a Dodgers game. The duster coat swung around as she wheeled in a huff.
"It's an old military saying, but a good one, Lieutenant. 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend,'" murmured Hannibal just before he drifted into darkness.
After what seemed like an eternity, B.A. and Face, supporting the unconscious Hannibal, stood in front of a weathered but homey log cabin with a tin roof and a chimney with a thin column of smoke rising. At this point, it seemed more inviting than the Beverly Hills Hotel, and it meant dry clothes, a cup of coffee, and at least basic medical treatment for their injured leader. Both men breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
Their guide, who hadn't said a word in the last twenty minutes since her revelation, gestured for them to enter. "Put 'im on the cot inside. I'm goin' tae take out that bolt, and I'll wager ye'll need tae restrain him," she said, nodding her head to B.A.
The big man glowered at her; he was in worse spirits than even his usual ill humor. "Momma, Hannibal's tougher than old rawhide. He been wounded worse than this before, and he don't need no nursemaid."
"Suit yerself. But I'm guessin' the Cong didna ever use crossbows." Her smile, unseen until now, was quick and ironic.
"How'd you know we were in Nam?" Face asked, startled enough to nearly drop Hannibal's right arm.
" Musta been, fer you tae know how tae use weapons like those. Rangers, summat like that?" She pointed to the Brownings and the M-60 slung over their shoulders. "Let's get 'im inside first, then we canna talk…"
If the Happy Catfish had been tastelessly rustic, and the Hawkins' bungalow shamelessly all-American, the stranger's cabin was merely cozy and livable. Knotted pine walls draped with various hand-woven tapestries and rugs, the pleasant scent of burning candles that smelled of autumn, a chandelier made from an old wagon wheel. Face and B.A. made a grateful beeline for the open blaze going in the stone fireplace after they'd placed Hannibal atop the oversize cot in the combination living room/kitchen. They sat in silence for a few minutes, letting the warmth start to penetrate their sodden, filthy clothes, then rejoined their commanding officer at his bedside.
Face watched the woman rummage through an old-fashioned steamer trunk beside the fireplace. "So, uh, are you a field nurse by trade? Maybe you were over in Nam too? Is that how you guessed about us?"
Her dark head appeared over the lid of the trunk, along with a long pair of pliers held in her hand. "No, hardly been outta this valley, much less tae that part o' the world. Not a nurse either, but I'm a healer when I have tae be. Never really mastered the art," she admitted. "Think I can get that sticker out and disinfect it, though."
"Ain't you a little scared, livin' out here wit' them crazies all around, your father gone, and no husband?" B.A.'s tone had softened slightly after a few minutes by the fire. He pointed to the woman's long fingers, which bore no ring.
Closing the trunk lid, she chuckled dryly. "I'm not much fer jewelry," she said, eyeing B.A.'s matched golden hoops, "and even if I were married, I wouldna wear a ring. As fer Redthorn and those boys what call themselves a Clan, I can handle meself well enough."
Face continued, still skeptical. "With a bow and arrow? Come on, are you trying to be a twentieth-century Maid Marian or something?"
The tight-lipped smile crossed her face again, and for the first time he noticed the beginnings of wrinkles on her handsome features. "'Tis my charge, tae look after these woods. I scared ye well enough earlier, didn't I? And yes, I do have a shotgun, but I only use it for huntin' less dangerous prey."
"If you gonna be operatin' on Hannibal, we at least wanna know your name, lady. You better not be lyin' about Redthorn and them thugs, either," said B.A. impatiently.
She stepped toward him as if in challenge. "Give me your name, lad, and I shall give ye mine."
Ever the diplomat, Face rose to his feet and placed himself between the two would-be combatants. "I'll go ahead and break the ice. I'm Templeton Peck, our fearless leader there is Hannibal Smith, and this charming gent is B.A. Baracus. Don't worry, he's like this with everyone, even people he likes." They both nodded to their host.
"Moira O'Faolan," she replied curtly, her strange accent rolling the syllables.
B.A. spoke up immediately. "Our clients said somethin' about an old man O'Faolan, who went missing tryin' to bust up that ring. Was that your old man?"
"Aye. Now I'm the last o' the O'Faolans," Moira confirmed, now busied looking for bandages in a small cedar chest. She removed a roll of gauze along with a needle and thread. "It was Ike Redthorn who killed 'im, as I've said before. I couldna even send Dad to the Summerlands properly, since I never found 'is body."
"I'm not trying to be rude or anything, but what kind of accent is that?" asked Face, unable to take his eyes off her, and reminded somehow of a stunning brunette he'd once dated who'd been gonzo about Renaissance re-enactments and festivals. Now that Moira O'Faolan had removed the duster coat and her floppy hat, he saw that she wore a loose, homespun blouse and leather breeches, and was pretty in a rustic, weathered kind of way.
She laughed for the first time, guttural but somehow merry. "I could ask the same o' you. We O'Faolans are late, about two hundred years or so, of County Galway in Ireland, but that's been plenty o' time for this yokel drawl tae creep into our speech. Havin' a hard time understandin' me, are ye?" she asked, amused, laying out her makeshift surgical instruments onto a towel next to the cot.
"No, it wasn't that or anything. Just curious." Face seemed uncharacteristically embarrassed.
On the cot, Hannibal groaned and rubbed his eyes. " Looks like we made it to the Holiday Inn after all. Any chance happy hour's still on?" he asked eagerly.
Moira squatted beside him, her amber eyes staring into his baby blues. "Jes' so happens we've been savin' some of our finest fer an occasion such a' this." A bottle of whiskey was clutched in her other hand. "Hope yer not mindin' single malt…"
"No, I could use a drink right about now."
As Face and B.A. nervously hovered nearby, she cut away the patch of cloth surrounding the wound and liberally doused it with the antiseptic. "The Lord of the Forest must hae been lookin' out for ye. Just missed the artery, it did. Now fer the unpleasant part." She looked at him in a way meant to convey sympathy, but that seemed more like mild amusement.
"Look, lady, you better fix him up right. Ain't like you workin' on a horse or a cow," B.A. said, a finger thrust at Moira.
Face shook his head. "I'm sure she's fully qualified, B.A. She's not a witch doctor or anything like that…"
For a moment she lifted her head from her work, favoring him with her feral, lopsided smile.
"Are you?" He gulped.
"You were right about the first part o' that, lad," she murmured. "Is there a problem?"
It was Hannibal's turn to be amused despite his pain. "Let me get this straight, guys. The only person qualified to patch me up for fifty miles around is a woman we think might be a nurse, but is a witch instead?" His eyes stared up at the vaulted ceiling, and a grin tugged at his lips. "This just gets better and better."
"Do ye want me tae fix this or not?" Moira was indignant, hands on hips.
"No, go ahead. We didn't mean it that way," Face assured her. "It's just, well, if you're a witch, shouldn't you have a cauldron over the fireplace? A black cat? One of those pointy hats?"
She tugged a course thread through a needle with her teeth, biting off the end and knotting it. "It's not like in all the fairy-tale books ye read growin' up, lad. We're not turnin' men into newts, or bakin' children into pies, or any o' that nonsense. We want tae live and let live just like the rest o' the world," she said with quiet resignation, as if she'd had to explain her lot in life many times before. "Trouble is, sometimes the folk 'round here take literally the phrase 'ye shall not suffer a witch tae live.'"
"That's what happened to your father," said Hannibal, seeing her nod in agreement.
"So, 'are you a good witch or a bad witch?'" Face tried to offer levity to the situation.
There was that hard, iron-melting glare again. "I'm on no one's side, lad, as no one seems tae be on mine. I survive by me own wits now." Her voice was low, grim. She gestured to B.A. behind her. "Get ready tae hold him, and have that compress ready…"
In one quick motion, Moira clamped the pliers to the end of the bolt and said a quick incantation under her breath. After counting to three, she twisted and pulled hard, and the shaft came free in a spattering of blood. Hannibal, ever stoic, merely gritted his teeth as B.A. clamped down his shoulders and Moira held a cotton bandage quickly turning scarlet over the wound.
"We'll allow it tae stop bleedin', and I'll stitch it up. Ye'll be on yer feet again in no time," she offered. "The Lady of the Hunt was over yer shoulder tonight, lad. Just stay outta that burial ground from now on."
Face did a double-take. "That was your trap?"
"Didna expect that half-wit Prescott tae come up with somethin' like that, did ye? And the Black Foxes use rifles, never arrows or bolts." Moira winked, seeing his expression change from shock to pure annoyance. "I'll put a pot o' coffee on fer the three o' ye. Hold that compress steady and I'll fetch another," she said to Hannibal.
"You didn't see another guy comin' through here, did you?" B.A. asked her. "Tall, real pale, completely crazy look to him?"
A flicker of recognition. "He's with the three o' you, then? Thought he was delirious, I did, under the influence o' the Morrigu herself. He was lookin' for aid, but seemed as though he was needin' it more fer himself than anythin'."
"Where'd he go?" Face asked, suddenly worried for Murdock lost in the woods, delusional and under the face of a full moon. "What did you say to him? He's, well, a little impressionable sometimes…"
She placed her first aid tools and the mostly empty whiskey bottle on an end table. "I didna know he was with you, lad. He's under a dark curse o' some kind. I sent him lookin' fer mistletoe and wolfbane. Might be the only hope fer him now," she ventured, her strange eyes peering through the cabin's only window into the dark woods beyond.
B.A.'s temper flared. "Lady, you sent that crazy fool out lookin' for weeds in them pitch-black woods wit' a bunch of killers on his tail?"
"Ah, but there's a full moon out, lad. Won't be so dark after all. Yer friend be in the hands of Cernunnos himself."
Hannibal gingerly rose to a sitting position, still holding the blood-soaked bandage, wondering if at last he'd found someone just as crazy and unpredictable as H.M. Murdock. "How long ago did you send him out?"
As if in answer to the question, the door of the O'Faolan family cabin crashed open, a crouched figure lurking on its threshold. Hannibal reached for his .45, but quickly lowered it when the ruddy firelight revealed the intruder for who he was.
"It's all right, guys." He tried not to laugh.
B.A. stomped towards the door like an enraged bull. "Where the hell you been, fool?" he shouted.
If he'd been able to grab Murdock's collar, he might have, but it was missing, along with all of the taller man's other attire save for a pair of bright blue boxers with a Woody Woodpecker pattern. The rest of his pale body was covered in mud, twigs, burrs, and who knew what else.
"Uh, Murdock, where are your clothes?" Face managed after a moment, his voice half an octave higher than normal. "And aren't you, well, a little cold?"
Murdock rose from four legs to two and shook off the way a dog would. "Hey, guys! You made it here. Colonel, you OK?" he asked, strangely calm and collected.
"Fine, now. Did you get lost out there?"
"I dunno what happened in those woods. There was the moon, and I musta blacked out or somethin'…" He shuddered, either from remembering his flight through the forest or simply due to his uncovered state.
B.A.'s hand shot to his throat. "Foo', you supposed to have been findin' us some help, not playin' around and actin' crazy! You find us a way outta this jam, or didn't you?" the big man bellowed, his face inches from Murdock's.
"Yeah, big guy, lemme down for just a sec…" He rubbed at his neck gratefully. "I got what you wanted, hon," he said to Moira, tossing her a wadded-up paper bag. "It's white berries, right?"
"That's right." She nodded.
"As for you, you big ugly mudsucker, there's an old logging road just to the south of here. Far as I could tell, it goes straight back into Possum Lodge." He straightened, looking as haughty as a man could look covered in debris and nearly naked.
"What about Prescott and Redthorn and their gang?" Hannibal said, grimacing as he tested his weight on the floor. Even if he'd been at full strength, he was still outnumbered and on hostile territory.
Face put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You didn't let those guys track you, right?"
"I…I just don't remember too much at all, Faceman…" Murdock looked like he wanted to cry, or maybe turn his head to the night sky and start yelping.
B.A. stood at the cabin window. "Hannibal, I jus' saw somethin' out there, and it wasn't no deer."
The silence of the night was punctuated by distant, but rapidly approaching shouts and whoops, along with glimpses of torchlight through the gaps in the trees.
The Brotherhood of the Black Fox.
"If they don't kill you first, foo', I'm gonna do it myself…" B.A. growled as Murdock shrank back down to a crouch and began to whimper in desperation.