Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (77 page)

 
          
 
The beating of the drum, the eerie singing of
the Sioux, and the tramping shuffle of feet filled the night, but the music had
changed, turned ominous.

 
          
 
"Sit" Wah-Menitu pointed to a spot
on a blanket in front of the old one-eyed demon.

 
          
 
Richard swallowed hard, and sank to his knees.
His entire body was trembling from exertion and the sudden sense that something
had gone very wrong.

 
          
 
"Who are you?" Wah-Menitu asked.
"The wechasha-wakan wants to know."

 
          
 
Richard glanced at the one-eyed man, and fear
chilled his guts. That single burning eye pinned him like a lance. "Richard.
Richard Hamilton."

 
          
 
The old man spoke, his voice rising and
falling, saying lots of wh and che and sh sounds. The gaping wound where his
eye had been seemed to study Richard with a red-wealed, scar-tissue intensity
that looked through Richard: saw all that he was, and was not.

 
          
 
Blessed God, where's Travis? The panic rose to
pump as brightly as Richard's blood.

 
          
 
"He says he saw you," Wah-Menitu
said. "He says that you came to him last night in a dream. You came as a
cloud white dog, but when you looked at the wechashawakan, your eyes were those
of a wolf, or maybe it was a coyote. Because of that, he has come to see you
tonight. He wants to find out what you are."

 
          
 
Richard's throat had gone dry. "I. . .
I'm Richard Hamilton. From Boston. That's all. I didn't have any choice when I
came here. I was forced to. Honestly. I just haven't had a chance to escape
yet."

 
          
 
Wah-Menitu drank some of his whiskey, then
translated. The old man's eye gleamed, and he sucked his thin lips over peglike
brown teeth. Richard's stomach turned as he realized that the dark patches in
the eye socket weren't shadows, but crusted dirt lodged in the scar tissue.

 
          
 
The old man was talking again, his horn-dusky
hands moving to form shapes and signs. Then he reached out and grasped
Richard's hands in his. His skin was warm and dry, the grip powerful.

 
          
 
What should he do? Pull back? Shout for help?
What was it Travis had said? Do as he was asked, or they might kill him?

 
          
 
The old man leaned forward and spat on the
backs of Richard's hands. Richard flinched as the spittle cooled in the night
air. Then the old man took his finger and rubbed the saliva on each hand around
in circles. He closed his good eye, and bent down to inspect the damp spots
with his gaping socket.

 
          
 
Richard fought the urge to vomit.

 
          
 
The old man straightened, opened his eye, and
spoke again, his voice a low growl.

 
          
 
"
He wants to know if your stomach hurts," Wah-Menitu translated.

 
          
 
"Yes."

 
          
 
One-Eye grinned evilly, and laughed before he
chattered in Sioux. Wah-Menitu said: "He says the cannibal's stomach
always hurts. It is hard to eat yer own kind."

 
          
 
"Cannibal? Eat my what?
"

 
          
 
But the old man leaned so close that his
single baleful eye filled the world. Richard couldn't break that sudden
connection. From some corner of his mind, the words "eye of the soul"
floated, then slipped away. One-Eye reached out with the eagle-wing fan. He
used the tips of the feathers to trace the outline of Richard's head, chanting
softly. Then he touched the feathers to Richard's forehead. A sensation like
chilled mint extract flowed through Richard's head, and the world seemed to
shimmer and fade.

 
          
 
What are you? The words came soundlessly.
Richard shuddered as his insides went greasy with fear. You called to me, came
floating through the sky as I spread my wings in the night.

 
          
 
"I did what?"

 
          
 
"You came here, looking, searching. What
do you want?"

 
          
 
"
To go home!
"

 
          
 
The horrible gaping socket was so close now,
he could sec the rippling folds of scar tissue, and what looked like eroded
bone in the back. At the same time his soul stood naked, transparent as window
glass.

 
          
 
Wowash’ake fills you, White Cloud dog, burning
like a slow fire.

 
          
 
From a great distance, Wah-Menitu's voice told
him, "He says you are wah e'yuzepe, confused. You have been fooled like
Inktomi, the Spider Trickster, you have fooled yourself. Now, you must choose.
"

            
"What are my choices.
"

 
          
 
Paralyzed, Richard gazed into the depths of
that terrible empty eve, seeing flames reflected there. Bui as lie watched, the
flickers ol firelight began to dance and shift, spiraling, falling,
,metamorphosing into snowflakes. The cold stole through him, driven by winter
winds. His bones might have become ice, snow crystallized in his lungs.

 
          
 
Wah Menitu’s drunken voice said, "The
Wechashawakan says this is your future that you feel. This awaits you upriver.
Snow, hunger, and cold a dog curls up and freezes under the snow He dies there
without man to feed him.

 
          
 
"The wechashawakan says that four paths
lie before you. You can take the red way, up the river. There, if you live, you
will become a wolf or maybe a coyote. Or, you can take the black way, and go
east. There, you will always be a white dog all hollow inside.

          
  
"What will you do, Washichun?"

 
          
 
Richard clutched himself, shivering in the
reflected winter in the old man's eye. It seemed like an eternity before the
old man backed away, and Richard gasped, breathless, the warmth of the summer
night that seeped into his frozen body, He panted for breath, exhaling air cold
enough that he swore it frosted in the air.

 
          
 
"And if I go home, to
Boston
I’ll be hollow inside? Forever?"

 
          
 
The old man grunted then, and ran weathered
fingers over his eagle fan. He spoke in a breathy voice, hesitating every now and
then, nodding and gesturing with his hands. Then he stood, joints crackling,
and walked off into the night.

 
          
 
"
What did he say?" Richard asked. He rubbed his shaking hands on his
leather pants.

 
          
 
Wah-Menitu made a face, as if the whiskey was
bothering him. "He said he does not know if you will survive the snow on
the red way. He does not see that far, so it is uncertain what will become of
you. He only sees you starving in the snow, and no more. But truth lies there.
An end to the confusion.

 
          
 
"
If you take the black way, he said he saw you in a Washichun place where
lodges are stacked on lodges and the streets are made of stones. He saw you
there, lonely and sad—and your soul was empty, like a buffalo-gut bag with all
the water drained out"

 
          
 
Richard shook his head, shivering from more than
the chill in his bones.
"
But
why did he spit on my hands?"

 
          
 
Wah-Menitu drank more of his whiskey and
grinned foolishly.
"
When
he spit, he tried to wash off your outside to see in. He wanted to know what kind
of creature you were ... if you were human at all, or some kind of monster who
had come to harm the people. If you were a monster, he would have to kill you
before you could do harm. When he looked inside you, he saw the white cloud dog
looking back, terribly afraid. If you do not remain a dog, you can become a
coyote, or a wolf. That's why you came here. Not to bring trouble to the wechashawakan
or our people, but to choose what you will be—and how you will live."

 
          
 
"That's crazy. I didn't come here at all.
Not of my ..."

 
          
 
'The wechashawakan says you did."
Wah-Menitu shrugged and belched, having trouble focusing his eyes.
"
Here. Drink this. White fool. I didn't want
to waste whiskey on a man who might be dead soon." And he handed Richard
the drinking horn.

 
          
 
Richard lifted it in shaking hands, drank
deeply, and let the horrible stuff burn away the last of the bone-deep chill
inside him. They're drunk, that's all.

 
          
 
But what had that terrible cold been? Where
had it come from? The old man thought he was a white dog? And he was supposed
to choose to become a coyote or a wolf? Richard shook his head.
"Superstitious nonsense."

 
          
 
Wah-Menitu was watching him though half-lidded
eyes, looking very drunk. "I think ye'll stay a dog, Washichun. White men
are naturally dogs. They do not have the Power inside them. Inside
here"—he thumped his chest with a fist—"to become wolf."

 
          
 
"I don't think I understand."

 
          
 
Wah-Menitu grinned, his mouth falling
crookedly open. "I speak of Power, of looking inside yourself . . . and
seeing through what ye are." He wiped at a dribble of saliva that escaped
his lips. "And I think yer a coward, White Cloud Dog. Go home. Die
empty." At that, he laughed uproariously.

 
          
 
Travis let out a whoop and came stumbling into
sight, a young woman under each arm.

 
          
 
Willow
jerked awake at the sound of booted feet on
the steps that led down into the cargo box. Slivers of pain lanced her cramped
back. She sat crouched in her hiding hole, propped by the rounded sides of
rough oak barrels. Tarn Apo, when had she fallen asleep?

 
          
 
"Willow?" Henri called, squinting at
the rumpled bedding on the blankets. "Morning is here.
Willow
?" He stepped forward to prod the empty
blankets.
"
Sacre! Non! Les
Sioux diaboliques!
"

 
          
 
"Henri?" she called.

 
          
 
He whirled, a hand to his heart. A slow smile
crossed his mustached lips. "Ah, mon papillon, you are safe. But what are
you doing down there?"

 
          
 
Willow placed her war club atop one of the
barrels and groaned as she pulled herself up. A gasp escaped her as blood ran
into her numb legs. "A man came in the night." She indicated the
narrow space. "He did not find me."

 
          
 
"Sioux?" Henri glanced warily about.

 
          
 
"Engage. " Prickles like a thousand
nibbling ants coursed down her legs, and she made a face.

 
          
 
"Who?"

 
          
 
Willow shook her head. "I do not know. It
was dark."