A History Maker Read Online Free PDF

and right thigh. Tiny atomic motors among the pinkish-brown broth inside were nudging together cells of new limbs, but a month would pass before outlines of bones appeared. Joe sighed then said, “You made them very tense in there. You should keep ill-sounding words for me or the Warrior house.”
    â€œDryhope women are stupid,” said Wat coldly,
    â€œThey think I’m mourning the Dad — that daft old prick.”
    â€œIt should be possible for you to mourn the Dad,” said Joe gently, “ I’m mourning him and he loved you most, loved you more than anyone because you’re our bonniest fighter and always argle-bargled with him. He liked contention. Are you mourning the bairns?”
    â€œRage not sorrow is my disease. Why did ourfucking old progenitor con nearly all Ettrick into dying round a pole with a tin chicken on top? Why did he want us to fight after the decent chiefs of Teviot and Eskdale, Liddesdale and Galawater had surrendered? I’ll tell you why. He was past his prime and knew he was fighting his last war. He wanted to take our whole army into the roots with him. Our bairns were slaughtered because our Dad feared age and loneliness.”
    â€œHe made sure we’ll be remembered! The lot of us! Living and dead!” said Joe with a small firm smile, “The bairns too, in fact the bairns most of all. ‘All my fledglings have turned into eagles,’ he said. O he was right. Wee lads of fourteen have never chosen to die like that before — not since the dawn of television. If history wasnae a thing of the past I would say Ettrick made it two days ago. The strategy was the Dad’s but only you had the spunk to get the standard to the cliff top and kill the man you passed it to … What’s wrong?”
    â€œI’m remembering his face,” muttered Wat after a moment. He had dropped his book and was biting his nails. Joe said softly, “A cigar?” and offered one.
    â€œNo.”
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    After a minute of silence Joe said mildly,“You’re wrong about Dad wanting us all to go out with him. He saved me by falling on me when Dodds’s butchers were hacking us both, that was no accident. But nothing you say upsets me, Wat — you arenae normal. You’re a hero. I’m proud of what you did. And I don’t care if all this …” (he waved his only hand at the view) “… never seems sweet to me again. Pride will keep me going, like it keeps you.”
    He looked down at Wat who was reading again, or pretending to. Joe said, “How can a soldier who thinks our last war too bloody forget it by reading about dark ages when men fought wars without rules, and burned bombed looted peaceful houses, and killed raped enslaved whole families of women children and old ones — and boasted about it in their filthy newspapers! I hated history when I was wee. When Granny Pringle showed us films from those days I had nightmares.”
    â€œI’m reading about folk who struggled to stop all that,” said Wat, “They were the greatest heroes.”
    â€œWell, mibby, but it was the powerplants that stopped all that.”
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    For a while the only sounds were sparrows twittering on the bird table, infant shouts and splashes, a dull distant boomfrom Oxcleuch where something metallic was being synthesized. Joe said, “How would you like to die, Wat, if not in a battle folk would replay for centuries?”
    â€œBy heart failure while weeding a cabbage patch.”
    â€œAye, only dafties despise gardening,” said Joe thoughtfully, “But soldiers like us have no patience for it.”
    Wat pocketed his book and stood up.
    â€œYou’re no fool, Joe,” he said, “You’re also brave, honest and good-natured so you’ll be our next general.”
    â€œMe? General Joe of Ettrick? Why not General Wat?” said Joe grinning shyly, “You’re our