HOPE...RISING
Directly continued from the end of Too Quick to Die (with an 8-month gap in time)
By Sharon Ferguson and Jo Anzalone (each writing the same characters as before)
“You’re making a face,” Rachel said. She had gone to extra effort to make the table look presentable, clearing baby bottles, binkies, an empty box of crackers, to set a table that looked more in keeping with adult tastes. At eight months of age, the baby had developed a much-appreciated habit of falling asleep around seven and remaining down for much of the night, a habit that finally allowed the two of them to regain some normalcy of routine and sleep...and some quiet time together. Still, it meant eating late at night, and by that time, both she and Cort were ravenous for whatever sounded good by that time of night. This night, however, was going to be different. She had decided.
Cort was staring blankly at the dinner plate before him, an uncertain expression hovering on his features, eyeballing a large simple sandwich of ham and cheese, and a pile of leafy green vegetables next to it. And that was all. Not the usual heft of fried chicken or potatoes, or frozen dinners or other highly filling meals but of dubious nutritional value.
“Darlin’, did I do something wrong?” he asked, tentatively, mouth crooking a bit in hopeful humor.
“No! I just...well, I just noticed that we’re...well, we’re letting our diet get away from us. We need to eat more healthily, more light. And I really need to back off on the cookies...” She looked at him, hoping desperately he wouldn’t get angry that she made this decision for him. She wasn’t about to tell him she could no longer fit into half the dresses she had in her closest, and that was upsetting enough.
“You...you’re saying I need to eat something other than chocolate chip cookies?”
Rachel suppressed a grin. Cort was like a child himself when it came to the sweets.
“Man cannot live by chocolate chips alone, my sweet preacher,” she said, gently. “And women
get really big hips when they try.”
He paused a moment and then took a bite out of the sandwich, ignoring Rachel’s sigh of relief.
“I suppose I could start stringing more fence line,” he said finally, casting her a glance.
“Oh, exercise is definitely good! But you don’t have to kill yourself. There are lots of forms of exercise,” she began and caught a flash of smug knowing on his face. “Oh, get that smirk off
your face! I meant things like jogging, biking....”
“No, you didn’t. I know my lady,” he replied, the smirk growing bigger on his face.
Rachel couldn’t answer for several moments, fighting the urge to giggle. One of the best things about getting some control over their routine was being able to spend more (conscious) time with each other, even if it meant just sitting and talking. Especially if it meant being able to steal more private moments and not feel like they had to fight fatigue while doing so.
“...as in...walking to the bedroom,” she finally muttered, blushing because Cort had her pegged.
“Ah, so that is what you had in mind,” he crowed softly, reaching over to lift up a long stray lock
of her hair and curl its end around his finger. Smiling, he added, "My favorite kind of walk."
He took her hand and set her fingers to the buttons of his shirt. "Much, much better than walking miles of barbed wire, too."
Rachel woke up first, a snapping open of the eyes for someone who had become attuned to
the sleeping and waking patterns of a baby, the brain programmed to know when to be aware, despite the drowsy desire to remain locked in Cort's embrace forever. She listened intently, looked at the dappled patterns of shadows on the wall: sunrise. Usually about this time of the morning, Hope was fussing for attention; instead, she heard soft creaking sounds coming from her room. Gently, reluctantly, slipping out of Cort's embrace, Rachel pulled on her robe, pausing to look down at her husband as she did so. His features were relaxed, his body utterly cushioned in the pillows and sheets, one hand resting on his bare torso, the other laid out where she had inadvertently dragged it when rising. The shadows highlighted the planes and curves
of his face and body, as if he were a living statue come to rest for a moment in her enclave. How like an angel he was, she thought, wishing for the umpteenth time she had some way of keeping the ephemeral sight in full vision. Leaning down, she dropped the gentlest kiss upon his open fingertips. Tucked away.
Turning then to the hallway, Rachel padded a few steps, trying to get a sense of the sounds in Hope's room before she turned the corner, a sing-song threading its way into her baby-language...the sound of which seemed to be closer to the door than she anticipated. Before she was able to turn the corner, Rachel saw Hope’s rounded little head poke around the corner
as the baby crawled to the door. Hope burst into a delighted squeal of surprise at the sight of her mother.
"You little imp! What are you up to?" Rachel exclaimed, arms akimbo. “Since when did you figure out how to climb out of the crib? No, c’mere, you got diapers that need changing.”
Cort stirred, even asleep sensing the sudden emptiness beside him. The fingers that had rested, curled on his chest, stretched out and as his lids flickered open, his head turned to the side, trying to locate Rachel. He sighed, utterly comfortable where he lay, but irresistibly drawn
to the coos and chuckles coming from down the hall. His women. He smiled. He had two now and even separated by the distance of the hallway, some invisible band of his being was wrapped around them both.
Barefoot, combing his hands through his hair, he made his way down the hall, his rusty-gold
silk pajama bottoms hanging low on his hips. At the door to Hope's room, he paused, leaning his right shoulder against the frame, watching his wife and daughter. Rachel had just picked Hope up and was holding her in the air as the baby's arms and legs wiggled delightedly, a constant
rill of laughs coming from her mouth.
Silently he came up behind them, sliding both arms around Rachel's middle, locking his hands
in front as he leaned his chin on her shoulder. "Liftin' weights, Darlin'?" he asked, turning his face to nuzzle her ear, their recent love-making still fresh in his mind.
“You’d think with all the hauling around I do, I’d have arms of steel,” Rachel laughed, leaning back against him, debating whether or not to take Hope back to the bed with her so all three
of them could cuddle up, but...spokes of sunlight poked through the curtains of the window.
“I was thinking that today looks like it's going to be beautiful and that I’d like to go out to that meadow by the stream. I haven’t practiced with Sindri in ages, and I feel the need to run around.”
“I think that's a fine idea, my love,’ Cort replied, as Hope leaned over Rachel’s shoulder and reached out with a hand, which he playfully kissed. “I know you've kept close to the house for several months now. And you," he added, touching a fingertip to his daughter's small, pink
nose, "must wait at least another month or so before you take up sword practice."
Her response was to grab a lock of his hair with damp little fingers. "Ow!" Cort exclaimed and began trying to curl her fingers back one by one to release himself. "Do all babies have such a strong grip?" he asked, chuckling when it took a bit of effort to accomplish his task.
“Oh! Oh, let go of Daddy. Yes, she has powerful fingers, doesn’t she? I think that must be how she climbed out of the crib...using those fingers.” Rachel helped urge the little fingers apart, but Hope, now fascinated by the feel and weight of hair, grabbed one of Rachel’s locks and tugged. Fortunately, the length was beyond the furthest stretch of her little arm, but that did not prevent Hope from dowsing the lock with saliva as she stuffed the end into her mouth. “Think she knows I want to escape from the house a bit?” Rachel asked in bemusement.
"Here, I'll take her," Cort said, sliding his hands under Hope's armpits. "You go ahead and
get dressed. Little Darlin' and I'll just hang out for a bit. I know you'll be wantin' to get ready
to take Sindri out." He smiled at his wife and the eagerness in her eyes, forming a clear mental image of her in the meadow with her sword. Her happiness was utterly dear to him. "If it's ok, Hope and I'll come out after you've had some time alone. I'll spread a blanket beside the big
flat rock at the north end of the meadow under the large pine. When you're done, come to me under the pine." The way he said it, the look in his eyes, was meant to carry her back to a different time, a different pine grove. He knew he needed no more words and used none. Then his smile widened. "But today Poopsie here and I'll be together waitin'. With apple cider and...cookies."
Hope giggled at his use of the nickname he called her from time to time. "Poop!" she chortled happily.
"Yeah, you're good at that all right," he laughed, lifting her up to blow a raspberry on her belly. She giggled and drooled and swung her little feet in their fat socks, one foot catching
him in the middle of his chin. He staggered back a couple of steps, seeing stars for a second as Rachel grabbed Hope out of his hands. Blowing out a long breath, he shook his head to clear
it. "Whew! I've got to stop blowing raspberries when she's got her feet at face level." It was
the second time she'd kicked him in the chin in the last week.
“Well, it looks like she’s got good reflexes,” Rachel crooned, taking Hope back for the moment until Cort could recover, asked worriedly, “my goodness, she must have got you good. Are you all right?”
"I'm ok," he grinned, wiggling his jaw back and forth with one hand. "Still got all my teeth. I think." He made a silly face at Hope, who was perched on Rachel's hip. "Come back here,
you rascal." He held out his arms to take her again. "Come with Daddy into the living room
and I'll tell you all about branding steers." He cast a fond look back at Rachel as he carried Hope out of the bedroom. "Now the first thing you'll need is a big strong rope."
"Wope," she repeated.
"That's right, Little Darlin', a big strong wope. Then you...." His voice faded as they turned
the corner into the living room.
Minutes later, she was trussed in soft, closely fit pants, a loose cotton tunic and knee-high boots, with Sindri slung into a leather frog at her hip, with a small bag to carry sun-block and some water along. She’d been trying to get into a regular routine of practice of late; Sindri banging against her leg felt weird and familiar at the same time each time; Rachel found herself wondering if she should not wait until she could find another trainer. Despite her efforts to get back into shape, her muscles felt flaccid and unwilling. Terry had offered the use of the gym at Emerald City again, for which she was grateful, but one trainer after another fell through, thus lengthening her time away from practice. This occurred with such frequency that Rachel began to get suspicious that word of her last trainer’s fate had spread to fencing circles. No one wanted to go near the business complex if they didn’t have serious, and unavoidable, reason to be there.
Which was only a small indication of the problems NanoCorp was having in trying to recover from the wreckage of Sid’s vengeance upon them all. And since moving out to the farm, a two hour's drive away from NanoCorp, using the gym became a moot point. Still, a trainer would have come in handy.
She paused long enough in the kitchen in her bound for the door to kiss Cort thoroughly once more and nuzzle Hope before she began her morning ritual of feeding herself, then marched
out the door and through the front yard of their rambling wood-frame two story farmhouse toward the side.
She was the one who had found the house, a broken down two story that looked at least a century old, set off from the main road behind a stand of oaks. It had looked better in pictures than it did driving up the long weed-riddled gravel drive, a definite ‘fixer-upper.’ Cort, however, took it to his heart with enthusiasm and while she gazed at a rotting front porch and dubious vents for a wood-burning stove, he was happily planning astronomical undertakings
of projects before even viewing the second story.
Still, with lots of help from friends and family, they had moved in and begun to turn the place into some semblance of modernity. Caroline and Maximus, neighbors of the 64 acres of land that came with the house, brought lily and narcissus bulbs, cuttings of roses and other flowering plants, helped her build beds around the yard. The front yard had the makings of a promising little garden, even though Rachel knew it would be some time before it reached the grandeur
of Caroline’s; and Cort threw himself into his fix-up projects with a determination and focus that she knew all too well.
Beyond the side-yard was a wooden gate, and through this Rachel hurried, trotting along a dusty lane toward the back part of their land, towards a meadow that ran alongside a nicely flowing stream that threaded its way through the acreage. There, she was out of everyone’s view, separated into a woodland world she had already christened with her favorite names from her favorite books: Entwash, for the stream, Rivendell for the thick woods that piled up beyond the second fence, Carrock for the rock slab where Cort said he would be picnicking. Here, in the long meadow, the ground was flat, the dirt a fine dust that cushioned unexpected falls, and the width of it enough to allow her to swing and twirl away with abandon.
She laid the scabbard down when she got there, wanting to warm and stretch her muscles
some before picking Sindri up again. She started with calf-stretches, reminded for the umpteenth time of the injuries she had suffered when in Montana, injuries inflicted by a ravenous, blood-thirsty grizzly bear, muscles in her calf torn and punctured until she had been certain that it would take months to walk properly again, much less bend in grace to perform
a lunge. But there had been a saving grace: the nanobots that NanoCorp specialized in, computer generated and activated blood plasma that facilitated recovery and healing. At least, it had been a saving grace they trusted until Sid 6.7, ever delighting in torture of the most unscrupulous character, subversively submitted a highly...altered...dosage, one that ultimately helped accelerate Hope’s gestation. The nanobots had done their job in healing her leg completely, but there was still some echo of an old ache, when she least expected it, when she thought her muscles had been exercised to their fullest extent. Sometimes it was a twinge, sometimes a Charlie horse of the most cruel cramping. She found that if she spent a good
amount of time warming up, the surprises were fewer and further between.
Finally, as the sun reached a point where only a couple of hours remained for it to reach its zenith, Rachel drew Sindri out of its scabbard, and she took a few moments (it never failed) to admire its craftsmanship. This was a custom made blade, shorter than most rapiers, because
she herself was on the small side, and fitted with a blackened swirling hand-guard and pommel, its balance like a fine weighing instrument as she let the hilt-end of the blade rest on her finger. Its edges were honed to sharpness and it gleamed in the late morning light like silver. Sindri meant ‘sparkling’ and it did that indeed. It was meant to be light, an extension of her hand, quick and infuriating. Only once had she had the real chance to test its real worth, its real stamina, as a forged blade; and it was one time she never cared to repeat.
Today, her leg was responding well to the stretching, and soon she was stepping, lunging, prancing, and riposting her way down the meadow and back. Sweat beaded her brow and once she felt she had done preliminary movements, her mind swept to an imaginary scene where she faced off with an opponent just as swift...a charming male elf with long burnished red hair and laughing hazel eyes, teaching her the ways of his people, using brilliant red stones as generators; or the pursuers of an injured girl running away from an evil king, black knights who shrank from the fierceness of the flickering Sindri...the floating mechanized orb of a Jedi knight who was preparing her for graduation from the new academy...
She heard a sound, a more earth-bound sound behind her, the kind that sounded like it fit its environment more than her other-world fantasies. She turned and saw that two figures sat on horses at the far end of the meadow, watching her, their forms bent in such a way as to speak loudly of their curiosity. Rachel began laughing, embarrassed and happy. Maximus and Caroline.
“What news from the Riddermark!” She called out as she closed the distance between them.
She was sure they were a bit confused by her attire, may as well finish the effect with equally bizarre words.
Maximus was grinning ear to ear as he leaned forward in the saddle watching Rachel. He was pleased, actually, that she seemed to know what she was doing with the slender rapier. Still, he chuckled, and called, "Watch out for tigers!"
Caroline joined in the chuckling, but more at Maximus than Rachel. "No tigers in Rohan," she said.
"Rohan?"
"The grasslands lying north of Gondor. Famous for their horses and cavalry. You'd fit right
in with the Rohirrim, I expect."
"Is this Rohan somewhere in Europe?" Maximus asked, still not entirely sure of his modern geography.
At this, Caroline laughed aloud and said to the approaching swordswoman, "Perhaps you'd better explain Rohan to our General of the Felix Legions, Rachel."
“That may take some doing,” Rachel conceded. “And I’m not really sure where to begin, either, movie or books. It's not in the known world, that’s for sure,” she added with a grin at the gladiator. “It would be better if we showed you what we meant. Just telling you about it would take some time. Are you on your way to see us or just out for a ride?”
"Well," Caroline replied, "I think we started out just for a ride, but the closer we got to the edge of your property, the needier I got to see Hope."
Just then Cort walked out into the meadow, Hope in his arms, a pleased smile on his face at the sight of his friends. "Mornin'," he called out. "You come to watch the swordplay?"
Maximus dismounted, standing in front of Rachel. "May I see it?" he asked, indicating Sindri.
Never one to miss an opportunity to discuss one of her passions, Rachel happily laid Sindri in
his open palms. “It's made more for thrusting at the opponent, rather than cutting and slashing, that’s why the blade has a triangular cross-section and is sharp only at the end. You have to rely on speed to strike, rather than strength, but it would never withstand the kinds of battles you’ve seen, obviously. It came about in the 16th and 17th centuries as a civilian weapon, most often for self-defense and to settle disputes in duels. Before you ask, no, women were not known to carry them. It's only in the last century or so that the field has...opened up, you might say.”
Maximus took the light blade in his strong hands. He'd never held a rapier before and knew of them only through movies Caroline had shown him. Turning, he made a couple of quick slices through the air. "It weighs almost nothing," he commented. "I am not sure I would know how to use it effectively."
“Oh it's easy, really! Would you like to learn? It's not too different from what you know. Say yes, please? I haven’t been able to find a trainer since...,” she hesitated, not wanting to bring
the past into the discussion, “well, I can only go so far practicing on my own, so it would be
great to have someone to challenge me...please?”
He looked at her, sizing up her small form. She seemed so sincere with her suggestion, but it was such an entirely new thought for him. "I...I have never drawn sword against a woman before," he said, his voice kind. "Besides, I have no similar weapon." His fingers stretched and loosened, tightened and stretched again. He did miss the familiar feel of a hilt in his hand.
"Ah, you've brought Hope," Caroline said, holding out her arms toward the little girl. "Hi, there, Sweetie. Will you come to Aunt Caroline?"
Hope gurgled and extended her own arms as Caroline lifted her. She clapped her little hands a couple of time then poked Caroline's nose. "Node," she announced proudly.
"She's into body parts this week," Cort explained, grinning. "Watch your eyes. She won't hesitate to poke a fat little finger into one."
Hope looked back at her Daddy. "I not," she said with a comical frown.
"That's two words together," Caroline commented, looking at Hope with a bit of wonder.
"Isn't that, um, unusual for an 8 month old?"
"Mumph," Hope repeated.
"She's a little parrot right now," Cort went on. "Says the main word of everything she hears. I'm not really up on the whole baby thing, though. All I know is what she does." He reached out, tickling her back.
But Caroline noticed a shadow come over Rachel's eyes. "Are you concerned about something, Rachel?" she asked, handing Hope back to Cort and coming nearer the small woman.
Still...
"Is it..." Caroline asked, her eyes meeting with Rachel's, "anything to do with Sid?"
Cort stepped up. "No, Caroline, Sid has no connection at all with my baby...none." His eyes glinted fiercely in the sunlight as he took Hope again, one hand spreading protectively across
the back of her head.
Caroline, watching carefully, could see clearly that he was, perhaps, too protective when the suggestion had been posed. It was obviously not something he wanted to think about.
Cort kissed Hope's forehead. "She's just got her Mama's smarts, that's all."
"Marts," Hope repeated, then almost poked a finger in his eye. "Aye-ee. DaDa aye-ee."
Cort licked his lips. That was twice this morning she'd linked two words together. His eyes met Rachel's.
“Why don’t we sit down and have something to eat?” Rachel said, patting the lunch bag slung over her husband’s shoulder. The sun was getting hotter by the minute and thirst was making itself known now that she had slowed down enough to think about it. She was not going to argue with Cort in front of their friends, but the suppressed worry was finding a name now, an all too familiar name, and she wondered if she shouldn’t try to point this out...even if she did agree with Cort that all distance and time should be put between their daughter and the horrible Sid.
ON TO PART 2
BACK TO LIBRISCROWE
BACK TO END OF TOO QUICK TO DIE
BACK TO NANOCORP INDEX
BEGINNING OF SID'S STORY, "THE SCIENCE OF LOVE",
WHICH WILL BE MERGING WITH HOPE RISING