Prophecy (14 page)

Eventually they came to the place where the desert area of the plain truly began. At a signal from their guides, they drew their horses to a halt and dismounted.

“Now you go,” one of the men said. His words were halting, as though he had trouble with a tongue other than his own. But he was obviously the senior of the party—or else why should he be the one to speak, and not Little Tree? Automatically, Mildred marked him down as the one who she would have to take out first…if it came to it.

While this went through her mind, the man continued. “You keep walking, and let the sun decide your path. You do not come back this way until three days have passed. We will be waiting.”

J.B. and Mildred turned and began their march into the desert. They could feel the eyes of the warriors upon them, but did not look back.

“Hope you got a good reason why we we're not making a break for it,” she whispered to the Armorer when she figured they were out of earshot, which was some distance, as the empty land and sky were silent almost
to the point of being deafening. J.B. relayed the conversation that had taken place between Little Tree and himself. Mildred listened attentively, then looked at the vast expanse of emptiness that surrounded them for a full three-sixty.

“Yeah, well, I guess he has a point,” said quietly. “They couldn't have chosen better if they want us to have no cover. The thing is, I don't think that was really why they brought us here.”

J.B. risked a look back at the place where they had left their guards. The warriors had pitched camp, and were seemingly oblivious to their charges. “No, they don't seem that concerned. Can't work them out, somehow. They trust us and don't.”

Mildred thought back to what the old woman had told her. “They want this prophecy to be real, and they'll do anything to make it that way. But if they have to force it to happen, then it won't be so…real, I guess. It won't be the spirits, it'll be man, and it won't have so much power.”

J.B. snorted. “If it happens, then it happens. No matter how. Still the same result.”

Mildred smiled. “That's because you're a pragmatist, John. These people just think differently.”

“Guess so. But I don't care how they think,” he spit, “as long as we can get our asses out of this in one piece. That's what's real enough.”

Mildred shrugged. He was right. All the spirituality in the world wouldn't save them if, when they took their place in bringing the prophecy to life, it came to com
bat. The only thing that mattered then was skill and cunning.

Meantime, they had three days and nights to survive in this wasteland, maybe just so their ravings could be interpreted by a man who already knew what he wanted them to see.

Looked at like that, she could see exactly what the old woman had meant.

She only hoped they could live through it.

 

S
O IT BEGINS
. Three pairs of people, thrown by fate into a situation that bore no relation to anything they had ever known; each pair wondering if the others were chilled or alive, and if they would ever be able to find their friends again; none knowing that their friends were experiencing the same situation through which they persevered, and for the same reasons.

From the moment that they first encountered the storm that seemed to bring locusts and frogs, and yet left no trace of either, they had been in a world that seemed almost like a dream in itself. Three communities had eschewed the old ways of the predark world, communities that believed in ways and values that predated the kind of rationale that even the oldest of the friends had known from birth.

In what way did those values tie the people to the land on which they now lived? That land that was once so fertile, and was now arid and presenting nothing but struggle to people who face the hardships with stoicism.

The worlds of the dream and the mystic were things
that were alien to the friends, but were worlds that would soon become familiar to them. Whether they wished it or not, they would experience the vision quest.

Jak looked down at himself. The camou jacket glass and metal bits glittering among the patches in the glare of the sun, was now gone. The heavy boots on his feet were no longer there. He felt different, but in a way that remained just beyond explanation.

He moved his hands to check for the .357 Colt Python that had served him so well. To check for the leaf-bladed throwing knives that felt as comfortable in his palm as though they were part of his skin.

Gone.

There was no indication that he had ever had these items about his person. Indeed, his person seemed to have changed.

Jak had fallen to his knees under the weight of the sun, and now, as he raised one hand, he saw only a paw covered in a light, mottled fur, claws where once there were fingers. He tried to stand, but found that as he reared up he was unable to keep balance, and toppled backward so that he landed on his spine, twisting it instinctively as he fell so that he was almost on all fours again from the moment that he hit the dirt.

He shook himself. Why should he do that? All he
knew was that it felt good. He raised his hand once more—or should he think of it as his paw?—and felt his face. Tentative because of what he may find, and because he was unused as yet to the way that this foreleg moved in place of his arm, he patted delicately at his face. No scarred skin. Just fur. And a long snout where his nose used to be.

Twisting his head, Jak could see that he was now a coyote. A hunter still, but of a different kind. He sniffed the air and could tell the difference between his old and new self. The old Jak had been attuned in a way that most humans were not; but this was on another level. There was a tang to the air, of conflicting scents that lay beyond the boundaries of the human olfactory system. Similarly, his hearing was sharper still, and his sight was clearer.

But where was Doc? Looking around, he could see that there was no sign of the old man. He should be here, but…if Jak was now coyote, then did anything make any sense?

Suddenly a sense of freedom swept over him that was almost overwhelming. If he had changed in this way, then there was no need to go on with the stupe dream quest. He could do as he wished.

Aware, now, of the gnawing in his guts, he knew that his first priority had to be food and water. He had to find sustenance.

Jak began to trot ahead, sniffing at the air to determine where he may find something to hunt and chill. But there was nothing. He continued to walk, wonder
ing if he would starve in this new form as he had been starving in the old.

“What do you want, young coyote. What is your wish?”

Jak stopped. Ahead of him was a large rock with several small ones laid around it, as though in obeisance. The rock had spoken to him. It had to have. There was nothing else around.

“Do you speak me, rock?” he asked. Even though his words emerged as guttural yowls, he knew that they were understood.

“Yes, it is I, the Great Spirit. I will aid you in your quest.”

“Grandfather, seek food, for am hungry. Must eat, or buy farm.”

“Young coyote, you are of good soul, so I will aid you. Head due east for one hour, and you will find a small hill. On the far side, there is a village where they revere your kind, and they will feed you.”

“Grandfather, thank you. But what can give as offering to spirit?”

“You still carry a knife. It is a good weapon and a fine piece of work. As something with meaning to you, it will be a gesture that would please me.”

Jak was puzzled. Without his jacket, where could he keep a knife? Twisting his head back, he nuzzled in his fur. There, halfway down his back, was a knife. He was sure he would have felt it when he fell, but…Pulling it out with his teeth, he found that it was not one of the leaf-bladed knives, but a more ornate blade, with a carved bone handle. He laid it down in front of the stone.

“Now go, young coyote, and feast.”

Jak left the stone and set off in the direction he had been instructed. Was it his imagination, or had the stone sounded like Doc? But how could that be? Doc was not here. Like walking on two legs, he was something that seemed to be a dream.

After some time, Jak came to the hill. Breasting it, he saw the village on the other side. The earth lodges and wigwams were richly decorated. Cured meat was hung out to dry in the sun. As he approached, he was greeted by tribesmen who recognized in him a hunter of great repute. The stone had not lied. He was revered and welcomed here.

Sitting to feast with the tribe, he tore with his teeth at the meat that was offered to him. It tasted good and filled his belly. Yet he was aware that he could not eat with the speed of the men around him. They were paring at the meat with knives. Ornate, beautifully carved knives like the one that he had given to the stone.

“Wait. Thankful for meat. Must do something important, but back soon.”

Jak left the puzzled men and ran back, away from the village, and toward the stone. Why had he given the knife to a stone that could have no use for it? It would, at least, be performing its intended function if he took it back.

Reaching the stone, he took the knife in his teeth, from the place where he had left it, and placed it back in his fur, from whence it had come.

“Forgive, Grandfather, but have need.”

The stone was furious. “Do not take back that which is given freely and as a gift. Disrespect to the spirits. If you have no respect for them, then they cannot be of aid to you.”

“Spirits cannot fill belly,” Jak said as he began to run back toward the village.

He thought it was over. He had taken back the knife. He did not expect to hear the stone rise up from the earth and begin to follow him, yelling curses as it came after him.

Jak knew that he could not lead the stone back to the village. Not because he wanted to spare the villagers, but because he did not wish to be dishonored in their eyes. Even as he turned and ran in the opposite direction, away from the hill, he knew that there was something wrong in this notion.

But right now he did not have time to consider this. The stone moved fast, though how it traveled he could not tell. He knew only that it seemed to be gaining on him. So he pushed himself harder, running until he felt that his lungs would burst and his legs would go skittering from beneath him.

He came upon some caves, where bears were sitting in the shadows. Breathlessly he yelled at them as he approached, pleading for their help as he knew he could not best the stone on his own.

“Keep on running, coyote,” one of the bears yelled back. “We do not want anything to do with the stone. We will not offend the Grandfather.”

Cursing them, Jak kept running. He passed a group
of trees where mountain lions idled in the branches, awaiting the arrival of prey. Normally, he would have considered himself to be fair game for them; but they did not move from their perches. He called up to them, pleading for assistance.

“Keep on running, coyote,” yelled one of them in return. “We will not interfere with the wishes of the Grandfather. The stone will do what it must with you, and that is the way it should be.”

Yelling curses back at them, Jak kept on running, aware all the time that the stone was gaining on him. It called out to him in a voice that seemed to grow louder and more resonant with each call.

Ahead of him, on the plains, buffalo grazed peacefully. Jak ran for them, screaming for their help. Normally they would scatter from him; this time he hoped they would rally to him. But they did neither. Instead they stood calmly and peacefully, allowing him to run through them, and allowing the stone to follow.

“Keep running. Away from us, for we have no wish to argue with stone,” one of the buffalo cried.

Jak would have cursed, but he was short of breath. It seemed as though his time was now up.

But yet there was the promise of salvation. A flock of Bull-Bats, not normally seen at this time, flew overhead.

“Hide, coyote, and we will help you,” one of them cried down to him. Jak did not look up, nor look back. He was just grateful for their aid. His eyes searched rapidly for a place to hide, and seeing a small crevice in a
group of stones, he dived into it, squeezing himself into the dark place.

Outside, the Bull-Bats swooped, with each pass unleashing wave upon wave of guano on the stone. The acid guano hit with force, chipping at the stone, breaking off more with each revolution, until the stone rolled to a halt, nothing more than a trail of pebbles.

“Come out, coyote, all is safe,” the Bull-Bats called.

Jak emerged from his hiding place. “Grateful. Why do this?” he asked.

“Because it is funny,” one of the Bull-Bats replied. And as Jak watched in horror they swooped, gathering the pieces of the stone. Each pebble and shard was clutched in their claws and placed in a pile. The guano that had previously acted to break up the stone now became like a glue, and welded the pieces together so that the stone was once more complete.

“Did you think that anyone could help you when you have gone against the spirits?” roared the stone. “There is no escape from the path you have chosen, coyote. You made the decisions, and you must stand or fall by them.”

And the stone began to roll, coming after Jak once more. In a blind panic, fear overcoming every instinct that he usually relied upon to guide him, Jak found himself turning and running. Somewhere, deep in the recesses of his mind, he knew that this was not what he would usually do, that he would use instinct with rational thought to work out a plan that would at least give him a fighting chance. But he was not Jak the man, he was Jak the coyote, and animal fear now consumed him.
Running blindly, he did not see the steep bank ahead of him. He did not think about what lay over the lipped edge. He just ran and jumped, hoping that he would be able to reach the other side.

But the bank gave way to a ravine, with a wide gap between this side and that. Jak found himself floundering in space, his momentum not enough to carry him to the far bank. Instead he began to fall, yowling in fear as he fell faster, knowing what was about to happen and yet being able to do nothing about it.

The pain as he hit the bottom was immense. Every bone broke. Nerves screamed. Organs felt bloodied and pulped as the weight and momentum of his body crushed him against the floor of the ravine.

Yet he was still alive. He could still see, hear and feel through the fog of pain. And he was aware of the rock, rolling to the edge of the ravine, far above, and hurling itself off. The Bull-Bats hovering overhead, laughing.

“This is what happens to those who try to deceive the spirits and the fates,” the rock intoned as it fell.

They were the last words Jak heard before the rock landed on him, and all went blissfully empty and black.

 

F
OR A MOMENT
, Doc felt that he was back home again. The skies were blue with a smattering of white cotton that carried none of the taint that he was now so used to; rather, it had a purity and beauty the like of which he had not seen for many a year.

The land around him, as he stopped and looked, casting a gaze all around as though seeing for the first time,
was lush and verdant—pasture with grazing horse and buffalo, trees waving in a distant breeze, the speckle of faraway birds in flight. It was as though the recent times were nothing but an insane nightmare from which he just awoken, fully refreshed.

He heard a cry from behind him and turned. It was a woman's voice, and he expected to see his beloved Emily coming toward him, perhaps with the children playing happily around.

What he saw told him that this was not real. It may seem that way, but it was far from being concrete and actual. Doc was familiar with hallucination and madness: so much so that he was able to almost detach a part of his fractured mind and view from two angles. So, although everything seemed to be as real and as beautiful as the world he had so long ago left behind, he knew it was artifice because of the glaring anomaly that now confronted him. It was not his Emily who came toward him, but the vacuous blond Lori Quint, whose childlike demeanor had so enchanted him until she had bought the farm, and left him alone. Like all the others.

She was not dressed as he remembered her. Gone was the miniskirt, the high boots…gone, too, was the mane of blond hair. Still the color of ripe corn, it was now hacked short. She was dressed like the Pawnee woman that he had been around until…recently? How recently? That part of Doc's brain that could detach started to wonder what was happening to him. A curiosity that was crushed rather than piqued when he looked down at himself for the first time and realized that he was
dressed not in his usual frock coat and vest, but in skins and furs. He felt the side of his head; his hair was in long braids.

Still feeling outside the situation, he yet knew that he had spent all day farming, tending to the crop that was growing around him. And that his wife—he knew somehow that Lori was his wife—had come to fetch him.

“Good day, husband?” she asked. Her voice was the same as he remembered it, but her words sounded strange and out of character.

“Tolerable,” he answered. Ah, at least he was still himself. “What have you been doing, my dear, while I have been out here?”