1865

Wintertime

With a heave, Harriet tries to shove her gun onto the horse’s holster. The saddle’s high up, a destrier’s - a real war horse, like in the stories Pa told. She found her gun in a maze of cargo, which she traipsed through in the dark. Already on the steed are cured meats, a bag of oats, and every piece of ammunition she thought the strange men carried.

She looks back to the wagon, where they still sleep. They had only retired an hour before dawn. Forced her to move much more quickly. Something builds in her throat, that old pang of guilt, when she thinks of the Black Prince. The stories he told, the warmth in his eyes. He had offered her so much kindness. Was this going to be her reply?

Yes. It has to be. No more warmth. No more stories. No more people. She’d been down that road.

It takes multiple tries to climb the horse. It kicks and stomps and even bucks, and she’s too small and weak to stop it. Eventually, she wriggles on, like a worm. Her croaking voice can’t calm it down.

It’s frustrating that she can’t speak. The presence of others made that clear. But it was something she’d have to get used to. It doesn’t matter.

She never had anything important to say.

With a kick, the horse starts to trot, confused by her weight and constantly looking back. Harriet growls, kicks again. Finally, the thing breaks into a gallop. The sun hasn’t risen, but the sky’s turned pink and gold. She watches the Milky Way fade. Then the stars. One by one.

She presses her cheek to the horse’s neck, closes her eyes, squeezes her gun. She’s exhausted. Can barely focus. But she has to keep moving. She has to survive. And if her body won’t let her, the windchimes will. They’re ringing in her ear already. Wrapping around her like-

There’s a force. Weight, then weightlessness. She’s in the air. Arcing over bushes, sailing between trees. She lands in snow. Cold against her skin. Half a dozen boxes of dried rice and musket balls join her.

She lifts to her knees, looks around. Gun, gun, gun. Where is it? Where-

The destrier calmly lifts itself to its hooves, legs bruised by a long, heavy tree branch. Harriet blinks. She couldn’t have missed that. How did she miss that? The horse plods slowly through piles of snow, past her, and places its maw in Red Eddards’ large, waiting hand. He stares at her with malice.

The man with bells stands beside him. Menowin. With a glint in his eye, he puts his glove back on his hand.

“Rakli nashli,” he hisses. “Do you have any idea what we do to thieves?”

She sees the man’s swords on his belt. Glittering in pre-dawn light. She gasps. Her gun. It’s still there, on the horse. She grunts helplessly as Red slides it out. “K… keh… nnn-nnnn-”

“Xoxamno sap,” Menowin smirks. “Svidetiv-”

“Menowin.” A light voice breaks through. “That’s enough.”

The Black Prince pushes past the trees. Mud still splatters his clothes. His eyes have darkened.

Menowin grits his teeth. “Silence, rikono! Your trust got us here! The bitch made off with half our weapons. What happened to your war?”

Gawen gives him a sharp look, before turning to Red. “Hand her the gun.”

“What?”

“Hand her the gun.”

“Rowe, let's talk serious. She’s wild. Clearly doesn’t want our-”

“Please.” Gawen’s voice is firm. “I gave you second chances.”

A pause. Red sighs, unslings the Springfield. Gawen smiles as it’s tossed in the air, landing in the snow. Harriet springs for it, embracing it, curling herself around the barrel and pressing her cheek along the trigger.

Menowin watches in disgust. “Čoxani,” he spits. “Ladžajmos, kurva čoxani!”

“Harriet.” Gawen ignores him, speaking quietly, kneeling down. “We’re not mad.”

Red scoffs. “Speak fer yer-”

“He’s not mad either.” Gawen smiles. “But you’re tired, and hungry, and probably sick. It’s not safe for you to be alone.”

Harriet slides back, the gun pulled close. Hair falling over her face as she snarls.

“You don’t want to join us. That’s okay. But until I know you live a full life, I won’t stop offering the tools you need to build one. Please.” He starts walking closer.

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She flinches. Lifts her gun.

“It’s okay to stop. It’s okay to rest.” Too close, too close, too close. “It’s okay to-”

She fires. Black smoke fills her throat. The Black Prince leans from foot to foot, his breathing paused. As he wobbles, his eyes almost roll back. Trying to look up and see the gaping hole in his forehead.

Red looks upon it with horror, his face now splattered by blood. “GAWEN!”

The Black Prince falls. Harriet runs. Red charges past Menowin as the strange man shouts in his strange tongue. She weaves between the trees. Legs pounding the frozen earth. Faster, faster, but Red’s large, and strong. She can’t run not fast enough.

Heavy hands grab her shoulders. Thrust her into a tree. Harriet kicks, thrashes, claws at his arms. The touch, it’s too much. Wind chimes roaring, louder and louder.

“Stop it, stop it! STOP MOVIN’!”

Her movements grow more frantic. Angry, angry, no no no!

“WHAT DID YOU DO!?” Red rattles her, forces her to look at his face. Fury mixed with sorrow. Rage blinded by tears. He looks… confused. “God… what did you-”

Harriet screams. A hoarse voice, cracking against the wind, as her world turns white.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It’s not correct to say she wakes up. In truth, Harriet was never sleeping.

Hours have passed. Or maybe minutes. Or days. There’s no way to tell. Harriet’s lost all sensation except the wind chimes and white clouds. But eventually, she feels cold grass on her fingers. Her face half-smushed by rotting wood. And a taste of something foul. The stiff smell of rot and sinew and the texture of dried blood on equally dry lips. Harriet moves slowly, tearing something from between her teeth. Her eyes grow wide. A bit of cloth.

It’s Red’s.

“- bit me. She actually fuckin’ bit me.” She hears the Dixie’s voice, somewhat muffled. “Think we mighta grabbed the wrong puma?”

She turns. Her confusion grows. Where once there was nothing but shrub and rock, now an extravagant tent stands. Its cloth is rich, and embroidered, flooded with bright colours. A wide awning at the front creates a space filled with shadow. But she’d been in these men’s wagons, she’d seen its treasures, or lack thereof. Something like this...

And why is it… shimmering? Like waves of heat in the summer.

“Be glad she didn’t draw blood, or we’d have something much worse to deal with.” She can hear Menowin spit from inside. “You should have left her. She's marime. Something in her blood is… tainted. Unclean.”

“Can’t say I feel comfortable killin’ a kid.”

“It’s a luxury now. Won’t be when she’s older.”

Harriet finds her gun. There, a few yards closer to the tent. She crawls towards slowly, carefully, listening to the men.

“Frankly, I’m more worried ‘bout this tent,” Red continues. “Dawn’s come. Wind’s gonna pick up. Yer sure this’ll keep the Sun ousside?”

“It’s paradox, gadje. It doesn’t follow a forest’s laws.”

“That don’ make a lick a’ sense.”

“To you, it wouldn’t.”

Harriet puts her forehead on her gun. Breathing deep, squeezing the stock. But a stirring from the tent shakes her, makes her arm. Crunching boots that have sent the men into a frenzy.

“Hey, wait-”

“The Sun, karbaro! Don’t-”

The tent flap opens. A silhouette steps into the awning’s shadow. Harriet feels her jaw drop as light slowly penetrates his face. She shot him. Right between the eyes. How…?

“Harriet.” The Black Prince still sounds calm. In his hands are twin curved swords and a revolver. “Take these.”

He throws them all on the ground.

Menowin and Eddards reach out, clearly cautious to leave the tent space. “Gawen, what the fuck are ya-”

“She has to feel safe before I can ask her to join us.”

“Enough fuckin’ heroics. Ya don’t have ta-”

“This is what she needs.”

There’s conflict on Red’s face. Worry, fear, and none for himself. But Gawen turns back and gives a steely, knowing glare.

Before sliding his arm from Red’s fingers.

Harriet lifts the Springfield. More terrified than she’s ever been. But as the Black Prince steps into the awning, face lit by hints of light, she realises how foolish her gun would be. His face is dirty. His clothes torn. But he looks fine. Even with a trail of blood leaking from the hole in his forehead.

“You’re frightened,” he taps his head. “But not of us, or even this. You’re afraid because you’ve been taught to fear. Of everything you need.”

Gawen stops at the foot of the awning, just before light can reach.

“Do you still dream, Harriet? Or have the demons of your past scared those from you, too?” His brow furrows. “I’ve already told you one of mine. Calm waves below my feet, a castle beneath the moon. But I dream of the people, as well. Butchers and fishwives, sailors and serfs. And when I came to this land, the dream only grew. Soldiers without limbs. Children scarred by war. And an army of souls, millions strong, marching back into slavery’s chains. Sealing their deaths in steel tombs.”

Gawen’s hand becomes a fist. He stares at it, his voice low.

“I see their faces, Harriet. Lost and desperate and torn apart. Robbed of beauty, of purpose, of answers. This world is taking what makes them human. Like it’s taken from me, and it’s taken from you."

She bites her lip. The Springfield shakes. The Black Prince’s voice starts to rise in fervour.

“They think you’re an animal. A terrified creature, lost to the wild. But that’s not what I see. I see Harriet. The real Harriet, the human Harriet, the woman that exists beyond hunger and exhaustion and shame! I see her brilliance, her strength, her light. A light that wants to be lit. A light that wants to shine. A light that only needs a source she knows she can safely follow.”

“Geh-h….” She shakes her head, her face contorting. “K-keh-kehkeh…”

“That’s my dream, Harriet. A world all can speak. A world where none are forgotten. Where humans can be human. And if you don’t want that world, run. Take everything I have, and run as far as your legs can carry you. But I see your eyes, Harriet. You don’t want to just survive. You’re so tired of running.”

Harriet’s lowered her gun, little squeaks from her throat. Rowe watches her silently as tears fill her eyes.

“Stay, and I will help. Build you up, higher and higher, until you can see above the castle towers, until you can see beyond today. You will tread a path for all peoples to follow. You will dream again..."

The other men gasp. Harriet’s eyes grow wide. The Black Prince, with his long dark hair, and knowing eyes, extends his arm past the awning. It’s grey, and filthy, and coarse as leather. When it enters the sunlight, it sizzles and sears. Flesh turning moulty, slides off in strips. But he doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t wince. Merely smiles.

Serene, and satisfied, like meeting her here was nothing less than an act of God.

“… But until that day, dream with me.”

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