Prophecy (17 page)

But their father was very afraid of their power, and had hidden himself well away from them. They searched for many years, before they came upon the sweat lodge of the Wanapri. This tribe of ghosts had been asked by the brothers' father to protect him, and so the ghosts tried to keep the brothers from seeing their father.

Although it was impossible to chill a ghost, it was possible to get past them by magic. Yet the brothers did to wish to do this: it was their magic that their father feared, so to use it would only prove to scare him more. Besides, they had no quarrel with the ghosts.

So the brothers built a sweat lodge of their own, in which they lived, hoping that this would tempt their father. Eventually, their father came to them.

“Why did you hide from us?” Wahre'dua asked.

“Because I left you when you were young, and you gained magic that you gave to your brother. I have al
ways wondered if you count me with the monsters because of making you the mouse boy.”

“Father, you did what you had to. And the spirits brought Wahre'dua back to us. Without his knowledge, I could not have done what I have. These things happened at the command of the Grandfather, whose manner is not always plain to see. But you are our father, and we are of you,” Dore said.

With these words, the brothers were reconciled with their father, who was no longer afraid of them. And with this reconciliation came the time for them to ascend from the mortal world, where their task had been completed according to the plan of the Grandfather. So their father ascended into the heavens and went into a star.

The brothers followed him. Dore went into the moon, as his magic—although strong—wasn't the same as that of his brother. And Wahre'dua, who had the greater power, ascended into the sun. From these places, the brothers could look down upon the world and see the good that their work had caused. They could keep watch that monsters did not again stalk the world, and that the people used the bundles of war and bundles of peace with care. They could also each look upon their father, the star.

In the time of their ascension, Mildred and J.B. became themselves once more, and not Dore and Wahre'dua. And as they did so, they recognized that there were lessons that they had been taught during their time as the brothers that would be important to them in the time ahead.

And so it was that the two people spoken of in legend as the ones who would lead the tribe to their destiny came back from the wilderness. Three days and nights on the plains with no food or water, and only the tangled imaginings of their own dehydrated bodies and the visions of the spirits to sustain them.

When their time was up, the warriors who had stood guard over the companions, to prevent their attempting escape and also to ensure that no real harm came to them, went to the places where they were and brought them back to the villes. They were placed in earth lodges, cool, calm and quiet places of contemplation, where each, in turn, was given water and food, and allowed to rest and recover from their ordeal.

In each ville, as the pairing who would lead the tribe to destiny recovered in peace and tranquility, the tribes waited for word. They were eager to move now that the stars were in alignment, and the words of those who would lead them were as pearls of dew in the early morning air.

 

K
RYSTY AND
R
YAN
told their stories. The shaman listened carefully before returning to the section of caves
where the elders of the tribe sat waiting for word. Briefly he told them of the dog that Ryan had become, and of the manner in which Krysty had put paid to the four ghosts who sought to disprove her bravery.

“There is a lesson in here for us,” he concluded. “Eternal vigilance and determination will see us to our goal. One thing we must not do is to take our magpie eyes from the prize. Distraction will be our undoing. In the same way, we must not forget that the bravery is about more than facing the enemy. It is about facing the small things in ourselves that can do more to distract us from the course on which we are set.”

There was a muttering of agreement among the tribal elders as they sat in the dimly lit, smoky cave room. The tribal chief spoke for them all when he asked, “And what do the dream quest visions tell us about those that the spirits have sent to lead us?”

The shaman shrugged. “One-eye is stubborn, and focused. He will be a great leader. He knows when to fight, and when to not. He is, perhaps, the better judge of a situation. The woman is a warrior with courage that goes beyond what anyone would expect of a woman who is slighter in stature than most male warriors. But she is perhaps inclined to be carried away, and forget those things in herself that may yet hold her back at a crucial moment. Follow her in battle, but let One-eye make the decisions about how we move.”

The chief nodded. “So shall it be,” he said simply.

 

D
OC AND
J
AK
spoke of their visions. For Doc, to discuss that which he had seen in a moment of what appeared
to be madness was no great trial. For Jak, who did not often choose to talk at all, let alone of things that were from within, the process was considerably more difficult. Doc spoke at length: so much so, in truth, that the shaman was glad when the old man with the white mane finally shut up. He learned much of what Doc had seen, but it was sometimes hard to disentangle the actual vision from the discursive manner in which the old man appeared to veer off at tangents to discuss things that he had seen in the past—bizarre tales of a land in the past from which he claimed to come—and analysis of that which he had experienced as metaphor and symbol. None of this concerned the shaman. Such analysis was his task, and all he sought were the details of the vision.

As such, it was a relief for him when he turned to Jak, and briefly—not without a little embarrassment in his manner as he relayed something that seemed to him to be so fantastic—the albino youth told him of his experiences as a coyote.

The shaman thanked them both for what they had told him, and left to consult with his chief.

“What has Wakan Tanka told us through these men?” the chief asked.

“The Grandfather works in a manner that is bizarre in many ways,” the shaman replied with a wry grin. “Certainly, the manner in which he has manifested to them has done little to make their waking minds comprehend what he wishes them to do. And yet, to me it tells us so much about how we must use them, and what their strengths may be.”

“Then the Grandfather has done his job well,” the chief said after some thought. “For if we are to use these men to lead us, then it is right that the spirits that have guided them to us should also tell us of their strengths and weaknesses, so that we may not be deflected from our course.”

The shaman agreed. “The old man is a strange one. He has much intelligence and cunning, yet his mind is inclined to be easily clouded and befuddled. Only such a lack of judgment could lead to a man into taking a horse spirit into his home and losing a wife. He acts upon an impulse to be both altruistic and also to do that which he feels is right. Yet he may not have a grasp on what the long-term consequences of his actions may be and so may lead our people into a situation that will be our downfall. We must follow, but also watch carefully.”

The chief pursed his lips and nodded slowly. “I understand. But what of the small white one? What can he offer us?”

“Ah, now he is a completely different matter. He is a hunter of immense skill, strength and cunning. He is cool, almost to the point of not caring whether he does himself harm. He has a fine judgment, and when he does make mistakes he has the ability to think as he runs, and to extract himself from such a situation. Yet he also expects and demands this same level of skill and of truth from everyone else, and this is his weakness. If he is deceived, or his call on the skills of others is wrong in some manner, then it is possible that he may place himself—and by extension our people—in jeopardy. It is essential that we watch him, and learn of his limits, so that
we may be able to use our own judgment on those times when he may inadvertently place our people in danger.”

“And you think that we can do this? That the spirits have chosen well for us?”

“I have confidence that any who may oppose us will have a mountain as tall as any on this plain to climb if they wish to go up against us.”

The chief grunted softly. “This is as it should be.”

 

M
ILDRED AND
J.B. sat together and told their story to the shaman. As soon as they had both recovered from their exposure, and their minds were able to function as their brains rehydrated, they had realized that the dream quest vision in which they had each seen the other had not been mere coincidence. It had been something beyond their understanding that they had shared in a manner that went beyond the world as they knew it.

“These things aren't possible,” J.B. had said at first.

“John, we've seen weird shit for as long as I've known you. Hell, it was certainly weird shit to me, where I came from. And isn't that proof enough that things that are beyond normal experience can happen?”

“But—dark night—spirits and gods? That shit is only legend,” he countered softly.

“Maybe, but who's to say what are spirits and ghosts, and what are things that happen in the natural universe that we just don't have a way of controlling? What if we share some kind of link not because of some prophecy, but because of something else out there that makes us share?”

“Something?” J.B.'s voice was puzzled, even suspicious.

Mildred thought about what the old woman Milled Red had said to her before they had been sent out on the dream quest. Should she share this with J.B.? She didn't like the idea of keeping anything from him, and yet she was not totally clear on what the old woman meant. She had only the vaguest notion of how science, nature and myth could be tied together.

If only J.B. had shared the secret of the redoubt with her. Their combined knowledge could provide the great leap forward that they needed.

Instead, before she had the chance to form words that would answer his questioning frown, the shaman entered and the moment was lost.

As he listened, the shaman was excited. He tried to keep his feelings from display, but as soon as they had finished he rushed to tell the chief. As he stood in front of his tribal leader, the words pouring from him, he could not believe that he was telling once more the greatest legend in the history of the Otoe.

When he had finished, he looked expectantly at the chief. The elder was surprisingly impassive.

“You are not pleased?” the shaman asked.

“I am more than pleased,” the chief replied. “For these two to share the vision of Dore and Wahre'dua suggests that they are, indeed, the reincarnation of our legendary heroes on the flesh. With them at our head, we will surely be the ones who fulfill the prophecy. There can be no doubt about this. We will be the chosen ones.”

“So you feel that the others will not have a chance?”

The chief shook his head. “Even if they have been fortunate enough to have strangers enter their midst at the right time, then it is little more than a jest from the Grandfather. The stars are right, so they must find someone to lead them at this time. But they do not have the monster slayers of legend. Anyone who leads them does not have the weight of tradition behind them. No, I am sure that we will be the people who will emerge triumphant.”

“Then surely it is time that we should tell them that we are not alone,” the shaman mused. “If they have to lead us into the promised lands, then they must be aware that there may be those who would seek to obstruct them.”

“In time,” the chief said slowly. “We do not want them to be distracted from their task until the last. They must only understand this when they are ready to fight.”

Krysty drew back the bow. She could feel the tension in the taut string, the pressure pulling at her biceps, making it ache as she held the arrow steady, her eye focused on the target that stood at the far end of the plateau. It was a great distance. The tension needed to propel the arrow that far demanded a strength that she knew many of the watching warriors doubted in her.

Very well. Time to prove them wrong.

She held the bow until her muscles felt like they were singing with the same tension as the string. When it felt like she could hold it no longer, and she was as sure as could be that the target was centered in her vision, she let fly the arrow.

The sound of the thin wooden shaft cutting through the air hummed in the ears of the gathered men as they watched its progress. Before they even had the chance to register fully that she had let it fly, the arrow had thudded home to its target.

“Looks good from here,” Ryan murmured, moving up beside her.

“You got one eye,” one of the men countered. “You wait till we have a proper look before saying anything.”

There was a wariness in his tone that added extra weight to the words. The warriors waited in silence while one of them walked slowly across the plateau to examine the target.

In the tension-filled silence, Ryan reflected that the men of the tribe were ambivalent about outlanders leading the trek toward the promised land. Although the prophecy had always foretold that this would happen, and they had always accepted it as the word of the Grandfather, they seemed to have a deeply born reluctance to accept outside help. Part of it, he was sure, was down to Krysty being a woman. The concept of a strong woman who could be the equal of, and fight alongside, the male warriors of the tribe was one that was alien to them. But it was more than that. To go back to the ways of their forefathers and live as their tribe had lived before the white man had taken their land, it had been necessary for the Sioux to isolate themselves. Perhaps there were other tribes like them scattered across the lands; the ones that Ryan and his people had encountered in the past had been more inclined to integrate with other survivors. Regardless, it left the Sioux with a long-ingrained distrust of outlanders.

Which put himself and Krysty in an awkward position. They were told—even though they had no knowledge themselves—that they had been chosen to lead. And the men they would have to lead did not have the faith in them that may become necessary.

All this ran through his head as the Native American
walked to the target, pulled the arrow out and walked slowly back.

“Well?” Krysty asked.

The man shook his head and avoided eye contact with her, looking instead at those gathered near.

“Center of target. Could split an ant's head,” he said, but with little satisfaction in his voice.

Right, Ryan figured, they wouldn't accept her no matter what. This wouldn't be easy.

 

J
AK AND
D
OC WERE
having no such problems. In the shadow of the mountain, the Pawnee had adapted well to these two strange outlanders. As the Native Americans who would accompany them on the trip into the unknown lands went through a process of selection, so the two men who had been sent by the spirits to lead them were proving themselves.

For Jak, there was little question about his skills. Already, before his trip onto the prairie wastes, he had proved himself as a hunter when joining the parties that wandered the plains. Now, in combat practice, he was proving himself as a man who could not be bested in hand-to-hand combat. His skill with the leaf-bladed knives made him unstoppable. To prove to the tribe that he did not need these as an advantage, the albino hunter even made a point of removing his camou jacket and the weaponry stowed within. Unarmed, he put himself up against the best fighters that the tribe possessed. Each man he faced found himself deprived of his weapon, and on the receiving end of ax or knife taken from—and used against—him.

Doc had more to prove. For much of the time that Jak had been able to establish his credentials, Doc had been semiconscious and recovering from the exposure that he had faced in the storms that had led them to this place. His bearing on recovery had impressed the Pawnee. To a tribe that had little or no experience of outlanders, the way that Doc carried himself was impressive. What Jak was used to as Doc's wandering mind was, to the Pawnee, a sign that he was a man used to communing with the spirits.

For this alone, he was to be respected. But if he was to lead them, alongside Jak, on their trek to the promised lands, then he would have to prove himself as a warrior as well as a shaman.

So it was that one fine morning, as the cloud scudded across an otherwise clear sky and the chill of a northeasterly breeze was dimmed only in the shadow of the mountain, Doc faced four warriors across a circle of dirt that had been marked out. While many of the women went about their daily tasks and paid him no heed, he was aware that many of the men of the Pawnee had taken leave of their normal activities so as to be able to watch. Among them were the chief and the shaman.

As he looked carefully around, Doc noticed that Jak was conspicuous by his absence. He nodded to himself in satisfaction. It was good that the albino had made himself scarce. That way he wouldn't be obliged to step in if Doc could not handle the challenge he had set himself. That way the chief, the shaman and the men of the
tribe would not be looking to see if he would step in. They would evaluate Doc solely on what he did for himself, which was exactly the way that Tanner wanted it to be.

“Gentlemen,” he said to the four warriors who stood across the circle from him, “let us begin.”

He eyed them warily. The circle of dirt that had been cleared had a circumference of five yards. Small, but not so small as to be confining. Those who were watching hung back a few yards behind the line of the circle.

The four warriors carried small axes, each with a knife sheathed at their waists. They were dressed in loincloths, painted in war markings. There was no way that they were taking this with anything other than the utmost seriousness. They fanned out around the edge of the circle, so that they covered almost 180 degrees. Each warrior held himself so that he was evenly balanced. There was little chance that Doc would be able to tell from their body language alone which one of them—if just one—would be the first to move on him.

Doc moved languidly up and down, looking sideways on at the four warriors. He was stooped forward slightly, head down, looking up at them from beneath his mane of silver hair. His feet dragged slightly in the dust, kicking up small whirls around his heels.

The old man looked incongruous when compared to the men who faced him. He was fully dressed, his frock coat hanging off his shoulders. It seemed as though it would constrict him if or when they should pounce. He also carried his silver lion's-head sword stick, holding
it so that the silver head was clutched lightly in his loosely bunched fist.

Too many clothes. Too casual. It seemed as though he was setting himself up to fail.

The shaman and the chief exchanged glances. One was thinking that the man seemed too casual, and that it was a ploy that may just cause his men to drop their guard. The other was wondering what reserves of strength and magic this man who seemed to speak with the spirits may hold within himself. To go up against four warriors with nothing but a flimsy piece of wood…

With a yell that was intended to unnerve his opponent and disarm him as an attack was launched, one of the warriors hurled himself toward Doc. His ax was raised and his free hand reached out to grab at the old man's coat.

Seemingly frozen in shock, Doc deceived his attacker. At the last, when the man's hand touched the fabric of the frock coat, Doc sidestepped and shrugged. The coat fell easily off his arm, pulled down by the weight of the warrior as his momentum and balance carried him forward. With a few deft movements, he made space for himself away from his floundering attacker.

It was space that he needed. Before he had a chance to draw breath, another man was coming for him, ax and knife offering a twin threat. He was almost on Doc before the older man had a chance to move.

This, perversely, worked to Doc's advantage. He pitched the sword stick into the soil, the tipped end dig
ging into the dirt and twisting so that it came around and across, into the shins of the onrushing warrior. Balance disrupted, the man stumbled. Doc drew the sword stick from the soil. With a deft flick of the wrist, he dealt his adversary a sharp blow to the back of the man's exposed neck, his parted and plaited hair forming a line that was an inviting target for Doc.

Stunned, the warrior sprawled in the dust as Doc moved farther away from his two attackers, moving around the line of the circle so that he was now approaching the two remaining warriors before they even had the chance to move on him.

“Gentlemen,” he whispered, the tone of his voice now giving a different feel to the word than in his previous utterance. He could see indecision in the eyes of the two men who faced him. They had not expected him to dispose of their comrades with such ease. It wasn't fear that he saw; rather, it was the sudden knowledge that they had underestimated their opponent, and were unsure of their best course of action.

Indecision led to hesitancy, a fraction of a second's delay in reacting. That was all Doc needed. The briefest of vulpine smiles flashed across his face. It couldn't have escaped the two men who faced him.

If they were already in doubt, then Doc's next move was enough to show them that they were novices when it came to close combat.

With a speed that defied the eye, Doc revealed to them the sword hidden within the stick. The rapier-thin blade, honed from the finest Toledo steel, glinted in the light.
It had momentum enough to blur in an arc and catch even the weakest of sunlight in this shadowed glade.

Reacting quickest, the man to the left of the old man feinted and tried to duck inside of the blade's whirling arc, his ax discarded and his knife now unsheathed. Doc dropped to one knee and flicked his wrist deftly, reversing the angle of the blade so that it almost sang in the air as it seemingly defied the laws of nature to come back and lick at the man's exposed wrist, slicing the skin and drawing beads of blood, causing the knife to drop from his nerveless fingers.

It hadn't been for sheer dramatic effect that Doc had dropped to one knee. As the man had approached him, from the corner of his eye Doc had seen his comrade draw back his arm and unleash his ax. The change in height effected by his dip had enabled Doc to evade the spinning ax as it sailed harmlessly over his head.

A neat move, but he had no time to stand on ceremony and reflect on how smart he may have been. While one warrior stumbled, pain momentarily fogging his reflexes, the other pulled his knife and rushed at Doc.

The old man rose to his full height and parried the thrust of the knife, made by his adversary as he closed. The steel of the sword and the coarser metal of the knife blade squealed and scraped against each other, sliding down until the hilt of both met, drawing the two men close so that Doc could see into the warrior's dark eyes, and smell his herb-scented breath as he came almost nose-to-nose. For the briefest of seconds, they were locked into stillness.

Doc grunted loudly. He was slightly more on the front foot than his opponent, all he needed to aid the effort that saw him push the man away.

While the warrior stumbled backward, Doc stepped farther back, the better to deal with the man he had cut, who was now recovering his wits and reaching for the knife with his uninjured hand.

A sweep of the blade kicked up dust, catching the knife blade and pitching it beyond reach. The back stroke of the arc saw the blade hack at the warrior's shins, causing him to stumble. As he floundered, Doc stepped forward and reversed his arm, so that he was able to club his opponent with one sharp, brief blow that caught him behind the ear, rendering him unconscious.

One man remained standing. There was still no time for Doc to pause or rest, for that man had recovered balance and was now heading for him, anger causing him to forego any attempt at retrieving a weapon, relying instead upon his bare hands.

It would be simple to disarm him, if only Doc had fast enough reflexes. But the efforts of putting down the three men had taken the edge from his speed, and he was in the act of raising the sword blade when the warrior hurled himself at Doc, coming in at waist level and under the arc of the Toledo steel.

Doc groaned and gasped for air as the man caught him in the midriff, driving him backward so that he crashed on the bone-jarringly hard earth with the weight of the warrior driving all the air from his abdomen. Lights danced before his eyes and blackness started to
encroach on the edges of his vision. His lungs felt as though they were ripping as he struggled for air. Yet he knew that he had to catch his breath before the similarly disabled man on top of him had such a chance.

From somewhere deep within him—possibly the wells of sheer stubbornness that had seen him through so much in his strange life—Doc found the strength to heave the man from him, rolling with him so that he was now on top. He felt his adversary's hands start to close around his throat. But the grip was weak, as though the man beneath him struggled for breath and strength.