Notes from the Future: Iron Rachel

"Mother Henrietta? Is that really you?" I ask.

She opens her mouth to answer, and in that moment a figure leaps to the top of the embankment in front of us, shouting, "Die in the name of the Prophet!"

It's a woman, her silhouette looks familiar. And as fire ignites in the treetops all around us, more figures appear on the embankment near her and I realize who she is.

Iron Rachel has found us.

She wears glasses that turn dark in daylight, like her soul. But right now, in the growing light of the burning trees, I can see her eyes clearly and they are the eyes of a crazy lady. A feeling of doom settles over me, like a black fog. We are surrounded. We will never escape.

Then Mother (Her Ladyship?) Henrietta stands up and brings her wrists together above her head as she shouts something:

"!قد الظلام الخاص بك لا العبور إلى دائرة الضوء بلدي" 

A rippling wall of blue-white light shoots out of her as she throws her wrists apart on the last word; Iron Rachel and her minions are blasted back off their feet by the light, which snuffs out the burning trees with a sound like an instant torrential downpour. The trees are rippling, rustling, sighing, and new growth is appearing, visible in the night as though shining with their own light. New growth, little puffy fronds and, as I watch, acorns and bay nuts appear in seconds and begin to drop from the trees. Where they fall, they take root and begin to grow. By the time the first of Iron Rachel's minions is trying to stand, we are surrounded by a small and actively growing forest of Oak and Bay. Maybe five seconds have passed.

I am staring at this woman whom I thought I knew, this younger version of Mother Henrietta, a woman that Second Lieutenant Petherbridge and Private Boggs refer to as Her Ladyship -- and I realize that I have no idea who she is or how she can do these things. Even as I watch, she is throwing small handsful of some powder among the roots of the rapidly growing trees, and she is chanting -- singing, even -- as she does so:

"تنمو وتمتد، تنفس تنفس الصعداء و؛
تصل الفروع الخاصة بك إلى السماء،
انظر ما يأتي من الحفر العميقة،
تنبيه من النوم في العطاء الشتلات،
عقد الخضراء الخاصة بك في الشتاء واسعة،
الغناء الخاص بك الصمت والأغاني القديمة؛
شرب الأمطار، أبدا النوم،
وفهم الشتاء لا يصمد كثيرا ..."

Even as these words leave her mouth, Petherbridge and Boggs are collecting the lantern, the tripod, the lamp and the chest -- but over the sound of their quick, efficient movement there comes a whispering, sighing, creaking. Almost a chorus. Her Ladyship turns to me.

"Veronica, give me your hand; I must cut it and add your blood to this work, to protect you and to put you in touch with the trees," she's reaching her hand to me, her eyes a little wild in the light of the single lantern still burning.

The trees, as they grow, seem to be flexing their roots. Flexing and lifting and shifting their roots. Even the trunks appear to have faces rippling within them as these little trees get larger and sprout branches like stretching toddlers.

"Why me? Why my blood?" It feels stupid and weak, but I have to know.

"It must be you, it must be your blood, because you are the only one who is from this place and time. In that way, you are the only one who is really here. We are merely visitors. Help me, quickly!"

I hold out my hand, and like lightning she whips a silver dagger across my palm; it's so sharp, I don't really feel the cut even as I watch it happen. Warm blood flows from my hand and she moves me over to the still-growing, stretching saplings, where she holds my wrist and moves my hand and arm in a series of gestures that feel significant, but hold no meaning for me. She moves with me, her body close to mine, and it's like a dance. At specific points, she flicks my hand out and I fling my fingers wide, throwing my blood among the roots of the trees. It may be my imagination, but it looks as though the trees are strengthened by my blood. Her body is warm against mine, and I realize that she and I may be around the same age, now. And she's totally a hottie. I catch her scent and breathe deeply as we move; cinnamon, rosemary ... and some other, more exotic scents I can't name. I am beginning to wonder where her tent might be when I hear something.

It arises from the sighs and creaks that began earlier, now coalescing into a chorus of voices. Their harmonies are deep, their voices -- though young -- feel older than time. All thoughts of Her Ladyship in a sleeping bag evaporate as the saplings sing:      

"Grow and stretch, breathe and sigh;  
Reach your branches to the sky, 
See what comes of digging deep, 
Wake from seedling's tender sleep, 
Hold your green in sweeping Winter, 
Sing your silent, ancient songs; 
Drink the rains, never sleeping,
Winter's grasp won't hold for long ..."

My blood has spattered the roots of every tree, it seems. I am feeling a little faint. Her Hottieship presses a flask to my lips, whispering to me to drink, and I do. What meets my tongue is a liquid that feels like ice and flame but seems to have no water in it; flavors that move toward fruit then veer off into clove and ginger; a whirlwind of changing notes and my tongue feels like every individual tastebud is living a lifetime of unexpected vast horizons.

Holy shit, I can smell everything. My hand tingles, and I turn it over to see the wound knitting closed. For a moment, there is soft pink scarflesh, then that heals and the wound is gone completely. 

I can taste the air.

Ooo, not just taste it -- I can practically feel the shapes of what I smell and taste; I know where they are, what they are, how they are. I know where the minions are and who is conscious. My ears are attuned to my sense of smell, now. I can feel who is injured. My bones are whole, my bones are like OAK! I can smell the fires in the houses down the hills and I know that they are close, too close, closer than they ever should have been. Every moment we are here is a risk, but it is a risk that must be taken. We will win. We are alive. I will lead us.

I am Alpha.

As that thought takes root in my mind and soul, I feel something -- a bell, a clarion call, a kind of inner, muted tone or note (anagrams! Suddenly fascinating!) that isn't really inner at all. It's outer. It's someone I know, he's nearby, he's alive, he's awake he's --

... You! You! You! You!
I am here! Do you need me?
I must stay her 'til you call!
I am here! Say you need me!
You, You Need me! Need me!
Call! ...

Before I can fully respond, I see Iron Rachel being helped to her feet by two of her minions. I take the amber lantern from Petherbridge and smash it among the roots of the Oak saplings which are strapping youths now and therefore straplings. Whatever that liquid is, the treelings drink it up as the metal of the lantern breaks into golden sparks and puffs like thistledown begin to blow among the trees. Now they lift their roots and part for me as I bound forward, leaping from the embankment to the near edge of the small clearing where Iron Rachel has landed. As I land, and even before I touch earth, I sense that every acorn and bay nut lying dormant in the soil sprouts and takes root around me, even as the strapling Oaks and Bays behind me have begun to move across the land in my wake, their roots like tentacles propelling them smoothly to surround me within seconds of my arrival.

Iron Rachel is brought up short by my landing, my appearance, my very me-ness. I know I have transformed, and I glory in it. The strapling trees, having absorbed the liquid of the amber lantern, now put off a glow even stronger than the lantern itself. Each tree is growing and glowing at the same time, and it is by their light that I see that Iron Rachel's glasses are cracked and askew.

"Like your soul," I say, pointing at them. Her left hand moves self-consciously to adjust them and I laugh but it seems to come out as one long, bright howl.

Like a ripple in a still pool, my howl spreads and I feel where it goes, my awareness spreading with it. Every animal terrified goes still (including Iron Rachel, erstwhile sexual cannibal of San Ramon), every animal akin to me perks up ... and one entity, one not-animal, one thing of dark and ancient origin perks up its ears and lifts its head in answer, transforming my howl to a challenge even as it mocks me in acceptance. 

I know where he is. 

"This way," I cry, and, leaping past Iron Rachel I bat her aside like the insignificant thing she is, satisfied to hear her last grunting breath as Boggs bayonets her in passing. The rest of her minions are dispatched quickly and I sense more than see that our side is joining me in this charge, they are coming from everywhere, this is what they've been waiting for. It's why they're here. I am why they're here. I lead an army of men and women from another time; I lead an army of indigenous species. Tad would be so proud of me.

I will do it, Tad, I think. I will do as you ask. I will do anything you ask. Come home, come home to me, we mate for life, you and I. Come home. I need you. Our boy needs you. Your pack needs you.

I can feel the question from the bright note in the night, he wants to be near me. I can tell that he wants to be near me, but it is not time. I am sprinting, leaping through the trees and dry brown grass (soon to burn, the fires are less than a mile away), smacking aside any resistance I meet, savoring the sounds of their deaths as I hear him calling to me, begging to join me and help me and be of good service to the pack. Not yet, I tell him in my mind. Not yet, sweet boy. Stay until I call you. Stay and sit and gather your strength, sweet Maxwell. Daddy is lost in time, but Mommy will need you by her side. Be a good boy, gather your strength, and listen well. For when I call you, my need will be great, the danger terrible. You are the best boy. You are the noblest beast. You are a smoochy stinkface, and I love you so.

I see the lights of a structure beyond the ranch house, beyond the barn, tucked back among three smaller hills. I know instantly that this is where the beast lurks.

I see the lights.

I hear the screams.

I sense his dark rapture at their pain, the tearing of their flesh, their eyes wild as they watch him eat them. I am crossing the field. We have taken the ranch house. The barn will be next. I am not stopping. It is almost time. 

Almost. 

Time.