“How can you say that! How can you talk like that about The Gathering!”

“Because I am trying to make you see reason.”

“But it is your duty too! Your duty to support the Seers—”

“Missy, let me remind you, that in His Gaze, we are all pilgrims, we are all Seers, and all islands are One. It is also the duty of every pilgrim to honor the wisdom of the pilgrims of Gatherings past, who have gazed into his earthly Eye and believed. I have done so. You have not, yet. That’s just how people are. You need all the support you can get right now—not just the support of the third and fourth Gatherings.”

“But I’ve Seen—”

“—the path to the gathering place. Which none but Seers are allowed. You’ve Seen the Waking of His Eye. Which none but Seers are allowed. And now, you’ve seen the Revelation of angels! Praise Him! In His Gaze, I do believe! But you have not yet seen His earthly Eye awake! How will gathered pilgrims believe? How can an ungathered Seer prophesy?”

“Well, why do you? Believe, I mean?”

“Because He was revealed in my hour of grievous need. I lifted my hands from my face, and saw His face in your Gaze.”

But at this moment, Laurel’s face was set, hard and grim. “Well, it is the duty of every Seer to maintain the Watch for the Waking of His Eye. It is my duty to announce the Waking. “

“Missy, I can’t change your mind for you. You are our island’s Seer, and you are my own blood. I trust you with my life. I trust you to guide all pilgrims in safety and secrecy to the Gathering. But please, trust me in this one thing. Tell them. Tell them that He Wakes. Tell them to assemble. Tell them to begin the march. Lead them. But do not announce Revelation now. It will only awaken jealousy. Either leave it to later, or leave it to me.”

“But when will we tell them?”

He smiled at the “we.”

“Laurel, let it be Revealed on the mountain. You won’t be alone. You will have led them in safety. They will be drunk in His Gaze. You will be thronged with His angels. And then, when you return, Gathered and Seen in Glory, you can leave the old codgers to me.”

Collie winked. Finally, Laurel smiled. “Well, Agamemnon knows, too,” she said. “Agamemnon believes.”

“Sweet Pie, Agamemnon would believe if you told him fire was water.”

Captain Legrange’s mood became even grimmer as she approached the small knot of people at the edge of the trees. The girl was seated on a log to the left of the bridge entrance, hunched over, head between her knees, shoulders shaking. Yellow sweat jackets were piled on her back like so many remnants at a jumble sale, leaving the concerned-looking troops clumped around her like half-peeled bananas, puckered and shivering in their singlets. Sheila Thompson, the medic, was crouched down beside her, rather pointlessly waving a crushed ampoule beside the girl’s running nose with one hand, and patting her shoulder with the other. Under the jackets, Legrange saw a hint of shadow-khaki, and realized that the girl’s right arm was supported and tied to her body by a field sling. It never ceased to amaze her what Thompson could pull from her pockets, even on a morning training run.

One of the bananas looked up, then jogged up the path to meet her, dropping to a walk as he saluted, already blurting, “He’s still up in the tree, Ma’am.” He did not direct his gaze above Legrange’s own height. “We was worried that people would start walking and shit, you know, over the bridge and shit, and it’s pretty awful, but we thought we shouldn’t touch him, I mean…” He trailed off, with a furtive glance at the grim reality above him.

Legrange looked stolidly up at the horrible, waxy, crimson-washed face; at the bulging, staring eyes, and then down at the girl.

“You did right, Sergeant.”

He nodded once, then turned to rejoin the milling gaggle.

Legrange looked back down at the slip of a girl, and felt a sudden burst of anger. “Sergeant, why the hell haven’t you gotten her out of here?”

She regretted snapping even as she did it, but Thompson just took it in stride. “I know, Ma’am, I know, but she won’t leave. I tried to have a detail walk her home, but she just starts yelling and crying and finally I said fuck it, ‘scuze me Ma’am, goddam it, leave her be until the police get here.”

She said it the same way Swanson did: p’leece.

Legrange’s nostrils narrowed as she surveyed the scene. Bloody footprints were spread everywhere, the result of the first ranks splashing through the blood puddle, then being allowed to mill around aimlessly, and then being allowed to leave without wiping their feet. Worse, she could see a wet trail scuffled through the leaves leading into the woods off to the right along the Philosopher’s way. Somehow, she did not think it had been made by the killer.

“Sergeant, who passed through here?’

“That would have been the detail, Ma’am.”

“The detail?”

“The XO, Ma’am. He said we should make sure nobody came through from the back gate. He led the fallouts down there to block the way.”

And in the process, though Legrange, obliterate the tracks of anyone else that might have gone the same way.

“Sergeant, who the hell is going to come from post to Moorstown on foot at this hour of the morning?”

She shrugged. “Ma’am, I didn’t say it was my idea. I didn’t say it was a good idea. I just said that’s what the XO did.”

Legrange said nothing, but everyone there knew what she was thinking. They were probably thinking the same thing. Major Trippe was that hopeless combination of dull and keen; uninspired and ambitious, most dreaded by every soldier. He never seemed to grasp the important in anything, but could be relied upon to pursue the unimportant with vigor, annoying everyone involved with pointless supervision, overtime, and cheer-leading even as major problems crashed and burned around them.

“Let me guess,” she said tersely, “he also released everyone to quarters.”

“Oh, yes Ma’am. He said he ‘wasn’t going to hold up the duty day over some A-rab getting his throat cut in a blood feud.”

With that, the girl jumped to her feet, shaking her head, scattering yellow sweat suit jackets as she ranted.

“No! That’s not true! Hugo’s a good boy! He’s never, never, fighting!” Her eyes burned bright, deep within the shadow of her bonnet.

The group started, stupefied. It had not occurred to them that she spoke any Anglic, despite the fact that they had been speaking it to her, unremittingly, for half an hour. The MPs shifted from one foot to another, looking at her, then at each other, then at her again, wondering if they should do something. Or secure something. Or something. Caught off balance by Marul’s sudden movement, Sergeant Thompson stopped waving the ammonia capsule and thrashed to her own feet. The shivering banana cluster took a step back in unison, then remembering the grim artifact in the tree above them, lurched forward again. Even Swanson, at the far end of the path, turned to see what was going on.

The girl switched to Tok Pisin and continued ranting.

“See, Ma’am? She just goes off!”

Legrange looked down at the child, dwarfed by this forest of strangers, and made several snap decisions.

“Sergeant,” she barked, pointing to the banana bunch, “why are these people here?”

“They—uh—live in unofficial barracks? I mean, you know, in Moorstown? They was gunna take her home, only she won’t go.”

“Were any of you first on the scene?”

“Ma’am?”

“In that gaggle of 150 heroes chasing each others’ afterburners through the road apples, were any of you up at the front of the formation?”

“No, Ma’am.”

“OK, Sergeant, get these people out of here, and get the first rank back here, ASAP.”