Prophecy (20 page)

“You talk in a very similar manner to myself,” Doc mused to the creature. He was aware that he had lagged behind the warriors, who rode on ahead, seemingly intent of passing through this point as swiftly as was possible. Jak was midway between the two, turning his mount to face Doc, a puzzled expression fleetingly crossing his otherwise blank visage as he wondered why Doc had dropped behind them.

“Perhaps that is because it is an idiom that you will easily understand,” the creature replied. If not for the fact that its facial muscles weren't constructed for such an act, Doc could have sworn that it was smiling at him. No, more: mocking him.

An insect, like a dragonfly but with the wings and markings of a red admiral butterfly, fluttered in the space between them.

“You tell him. You got him on the run, and he don't know what's real and what ain't,” it squeaked in a high-pitched and belligerent tone.

“The very crux of the matter,” Doc murmured. Panic—the fear that he was losing his tenuous grip on
sanity at a time when he may most need it—poked tentacled fingers of doubt into his mind. Quelling this fear, he tried to reason with the creature, and thus, he suspected, with himself. He continued. “If you were real, you would be a most unusual type of mutie. One the like of which I have not yet seen.”

“I could be,” the creature said slyly.

Doc allowed himself a small smile. “Indeed. That would not be entirely beyond the bounds of possibility. And yet what, I ask myself, are the chances of such a creature not only being able to speak, but to do so in tones that are not so far removed from mine. I am no egotist, but I doubt that such a manner of speech is prevalent anywhere in a land such as this.”

“True,” the creature said to him, “but is it also not a possibility that I am a mimic, and like a bird such as—say—the parrot, I am able to assimilate the styles of those who I encounter?”

Doc gave a short, barking laugh. “But the parrot is not a bird heard often on these shores, I would wager. How would you know of such a thing? And again, such mimics are just that—they do not have the intelligence and ability to think constructively that would enable speech such as yours, unless…”

“He's talking from his ass,” buzzed the insect. “You got him on the ropes. Cogent argument ain't his suit.”

“Indeed not,” Doc muttered. “I would say that a kind of insanity is closer to the mark. And perhaps that is what this is—even if you are a real creature, stand
ing watching, then the words are not yours but from my own head.”

“Now you're getting it,” the creature urged. “You're almost there, Dr. Tanner.” There was an edge to its voice as it uttered his name that made his blood run cold.

Doc turned and looked ahead, to where the warriors were still riding through the passage. Other animals were peering from the grasses and over the edge of the banks. He could hear the chattering, whispering voices that he had been hearing for some time, and he realized why they had been making something that only approximated to sense; something that was on the edge of comprehensible, yet not quite.

“Jak, don't listen, whatever it seems to be saying,” Doc yelled as he could see the albino teen become entranced and intrigued by what a creature with the build of a bear and the face of a rat was saying to him. Doc could not hear the voice from this distance, as it spoke—as did the creature talking to him—with a soft, almost whispering tone. He realized why they did this.

Beyond, he could see creatures of varying hues and builds leaning farther out from the banks, whispering in those sibilant, seductive tones. The warriors—despite their best efforts to ignore the distractions and continue without stopping—found themselves intrigued by whatever it was that was being muttered and murmured to them. Their progress became halting.

Doc had no doubt that the creatures were speaking to them in the tongue of the Pawnee. Just as he had no doubt that the creature talking to Jak would use the
same truncated version of the language that had become so identifiable with the albino.

“Very clever, Dr. Tanner. Clever, but not quick. You were never that fast, were you. A pity…”

He whirled so that he was facing the raccoon-faced creature once again. Its eyes were large and reflective: so much so that he was sure he could see himself in the orb of its iris. He was fish-eyed and distorted, but there was no disguising the look of horror on his face, even in such a bizarre mirror.

“He's got it, he's got it,” the insect mocked as it buzzed around his head. He swatted at it and missed. “Gotta be quicker than that, you old buzzard,” it cackled.

“Much quicker,” the creature in front of him said, so quietly as to be almost to itself.

“No!” Doc yelled. So loud that it felt as though all the oxygen in his lungs had been expelled in one manic act, and there was little left to power his body.

Illusion? Fantasy? Mutated, hard fact? It could be any of these things, but he wasn't going to take a chance on it being something that couldn't cause real, physical harm.

Doc pulled at his horse's reins, turning it to face the warriors and Jak. He kicked his heels savagely, the only thought he gave to his steed being the desire to get the damned horse moving quicker than it ever had before. Ahead of him, beyond his fellow travelers, he could see that the bank extended on for another three or four hundred yards. They were almost at the end. That was why it happened now, obviously. Before it was too late.

“Ride, don't look, ride,” he yelled hoarsely, having
hardly the breath in him to force the words out. He whipped past Jak at such a speed that his horse caused the albino's to rear. Jak wrestled with it and cursed the old man, yet he was grateful for the action, as it seemed to break an almost hypnotic hold that the creature speaking to him seemed to have established. He dug in, urging his horse to gallop after Doc as the old man headed straight into the pack of warriors, scattering and awakening them in a similar manner.

As Jak set off after Doc, he could see that the old man was focused only on reaching the end of the bank. And he was soon aware why.

The creatures, who had been observing or talking from the banks, and had seemed so placid just moments before, were now ravening maws and throaty, bloodlusted yells that sprang forward from the banks, emerging from the shelter and shade of the multicolored grass to stand and loom over the riders as they picked up speed.

Or at least, most of them seemed to stand and loom. Darkening shadows around them cut across the sky, and the air whistled and moved around Jak's head as if some of the creatures were launching themselves on the attack. He felt the air pressure move as though they brushed against him, against the horse. On the periphery of his vision he saw them dart and feint. Ahead, they seemed to move in on the warriors and on Doc, with an awkward grace that belied their strange shapes. Instinctively, Jak guided his horse around the obstacles, all the while being aware at the back of his mind that these things may not be really there. Something Doc had said,
allied to the fact that they seemed to have no scent, made him sure that they were somehow illusory.

Yet could he afford to take the chance?

Like hell…

An open mouth with razor teeth in two rows appeared in front of him, sweeping up to take off his head. He ducked back and almost lost his seat on the horse, staying on its back only by straining his thigh muscles as he gripped the horse's flanks. The mouth snapped, and he saw a bearlike muzzle with orange striped markings and dark-rimmed, obsidian eyes flash past him.

Yet it had no scent, no rancid breath.

The last few yards seemed to last an age as the creatures—either real or illusion—leaped from the bank to chase after him. Ahead, he could see that Doc and the warriors were clear, and that they had come to a halt, stopped by something that they could see ahead of them, yet he couldn't.

He pulled up his horse as he leveled with them, and looked back over his shoulder. The bank was still there, but there were no grasses of many colors; no creatures, either, talking or otherwise.

And then he turned to face the others, and saw what had stopped them in their tracks.

“Our forefathers fight before us so that we may draw strength from their battles,” cried a tribesman, falling to his knees.

There were murmurs of agreement from the other Otoe warriors as they lined up to watch the fighting as it unfolded in front of them. Even Little Tree, who had been assiduous in his desire to straddle the line between his people and the strangers who had been sent to lead them, now found himself drawn in breathless awe to the panoply of violence.

It was as though the different tribes had ridden into a valley, descending with war whoops and chanted yells to meet and clash in the basin of that valley.

Yet, as they watched, both J.B. and Mildred were sure that the terrain had been flat when they first viewed it. It was as though the landscape was molding itself to the shape dictated by the desires of the watchers.

“Someone—or something—is yanking my chain. And it is really starting to piss me off,” Mildred said softly, but with emphasis.

“Guess we can worry about who or what later,” J.B. mused. “The real question right now is why.” And, when
Mildred shot him a questioning glance, he said, “This isn't happening for no reason. Thing that really worries me is if these boys take it into their heads to stop looking, and start fighting.”

“They couldn't do any harm,” Mildred replied. “They'd be fighting ghosts. Besides which, you told them to ready themselves for battle yourself, John.”

“Could still do each other damage,” J.B. said. “And it always pays to be triple red. Don't think they're for real now, but they might well have been from a distance.” Then, indicating to the far side of the conflagration, he added, “Besides which, that sure isn't an illusion. Not unless whatever's behind this knows more than we even think it does.”

 

“H
OLD YOUR POSITIONS
,” Ryan yelled. “Don't move in on the fight. We need to find out who or what we're up against before we charge.” His words were urgent, as he could see the desire to fight grow in the men gathered around Krysty and himself.

One of the warriors turned to Ryan, angry. “These are our people. Our ancestors. They have been returned to this world so that they can help us.”

“How do you figure that?” Krysty snapped.

“Woman, do not talk of things you do not understand,” another of the warriors countered. “Things that you, too, do not understand, One-eye,” he added. “The ways of the white-eyes do not allow for the spirits and the ways in which they talk to us. This is our time. You have led us here, but we have been picked for our courage. Now is the time to show that.”

Ryan wanted to tell them that the battle that raged before them may not be real. He wanted to explain about the hallucinations that he and Krysty had seen in their travels, and how the mind could be tricked. But even as this flitted across his consciousness, he knew that it would be fruitless. These people had been isolated for generations, looking back to ways that preceded the tech that might be causing the weird shit they had encountered. They would never believe him. Thinking about it, he wondered why they should.

“Ryan…” Krysty began as the warriors mounted their steeds and rode toward the battle at a gallop, whooping like the phantoms who danced in front of them in the ballet of combat.

The one-eyed man shrugged. “Nothing we can do to stop them, Krysty. The only thing we can do is try to see that they don't get themselves too deep in shit.”

She watched him mount and start toward the fast receding posse of warriors. He stopped, turning his horse back toward her. She had a sinking feeling in her gut, and her hair crawled close to her nape; yet she knew she couldn't leave Ryan to deal with this on his own. Swinging herself up onto the back of her own steed, she urged it forward. Even as she approached Ryan, she could feel herself having to raise her voice to be heard above the clamor, distant though it still was.

“Better keep it frosty, lover. More than them, for sure.”

Ryan flashed her a grin. “Ever known it any other way?”

 

“T
HIS MORE WEIRD SHIT
like talking bears?” Jak breathed to Doc.

The old man cast a wary eye over the warriors before taking in the vista that confronted him.

“I fear it may well be, young Jak. Whoever or whatever has power in this region is gifted in the manipulation of reality, as they have already amply proved. Whatever is within the region of the prophecy wishes very much to keep its secrets well guarded.”

Jak looked at Doc and shook his head. “Lots words, most not matter. Yes or no all asked.”

“If only it were that simple. I cannot be sure even of myself, let alone of anything else,” Doc told him.

“Be sure of me, Doc. Keep it frosty,” Jak said simply.

For all his own verbosity, Doc appreciated the youth's directness. Jak was uncomplicated, and Doc suspected that his own propensity to think and analyze too much would only confuse matters. Trust the young man's instincts.

“The truth is, I am not sure if they are real,” Doc said, indicating the three warring tribes who were coming together in a valley below them. “I suspect that there is no valley, only flat plains like those we have traveled. I also suspect that these warriors are illusory. However, I also fear that will count for nothing with our friends.”

Jak followed Doc's outstretched hand. The warriors of the Pawnee were rapt in concentration, following the unfolding battle and muttering excitedly to one another in their own tongue.

“Not gonna stop ‘em, are we?” he murmured.

Sadly, Doc shook his head. “I fear the most we can do is keep close.”

The warriors stopped taking among themselves, their attention taken by a section of the battle where Pawnee warriors were coming under siege from a group of Otoe. Unable to stand idly by while their fellows—albeit ones who may be nothing more than wisps of light—were attacked, they set themselves on a course to intercept.

“Wait!” Doc cried.

“No time,” returned one of the warriors, sparing the briefest glance backward. “The Grandfather calls us to act for our destiny.”

Before the words could even be lost in the heat and sound of battle, he had turned back and followed his fellow warriors into the melee. There was little Doc or Jak could do except follow.

 

D
UST SWIRLED AROUND THEM
, rising up the flanks of the horses, sticking to their sweaty pelts, changing white and piebald into a dusty brown that made it hard to distinguish one from the other. The men atop them also became a screaming, whirling mass of indistinguishable flesh. Sweat and blood made their battle colors run, so that the individual tribal markings became more and more blurred and indistinct, running the heaving mass into something amorphous.

Into the valley, they were now too close to use bow and arrow. Instead, fighting was hand-to-hand, grappling one another from horses to roll under the hooves, exchanging blows and ducking to avoid the feet of the
frightened animals. Axes and knives scored flesh, cut to the bone, caused warriors to tumble from their horses screeching in agony.

And yet…

As the three war parties rode into the valley from their separate vantage points, they were all aware of these things: there was no smell of sweat, blood, fear and chilling, which they would have expected. For an area that was seemingly so densely packed with humanity, there was no rise in air temperature as they rode through. And again, if they had descended into a valley they would expect their horses to dip at an angle commensurate with the valley walls, forcing them to adjust their balance. Yet they had ridden straight, their sense of balance telling them that they were on the flat, even though their vision told them something else entirely.

As they moved among the warring factions, it soon became apparent that this was not a real battle. Blows that were aimed toward them, seemingly, by those who came to greet them rose and fell, cutting through without any effect. Similarly, the returned blows by the war party warriors, acting in what they believed to be self-defense, fell on empty air, despite all appearances to the contrary. That only served to unbalance the war parties, both literally and metaphorically.

The Pawnee, the Otoe and the Dakota Sioux moved across the floor of the valley, uncertain as to whether the ground beneath their feet was as it seemed, or was simply flat grassland plains. They struck at phantoms, uncertain as to whether they were real or imagined.

It was only when they caught sight of one another that they were able to define the difference between the imagined and the corporeal.

The flesh-and-blood warriors were somehow more solid than the phantoms that raged around them. Although these seemed at first glance to be solid enough, there was a translucent quality to them that made the denser mass of the real warriors appear to show through the bodies of those around them, so that from a distance it was as though there were three groups of ghosts who moved through the battling throng.

More than that, the real groups could also be defined by the strangers who moved with them. The Pawnee and Dakota Sioux were taken by surprise; the Otoe party not so. They had been forewarned. It had been Doc and Jak, on the far side of what appeared as a valley, who J.B. had seen from a distance and pointed out to Mildred before the war party had begun to move.

Although, at the back of each of their minds, the separated friends had hoped and suspected from the moment that it had been revealed to them that the other messengers from Wakan Tanka would be their missing companions, nonetheless to see them advancing on each other through a battle that didn't, and couldn't, touch them was an experience that none had really expected.

As the three tribes sighted one another, the warriors realizing that here was a real and living enemy, so the strangers decreed by fate or the spirits to lead them to the promised land were forgotten. Each knew that to
fulfill the prophecy they had to be the only tribe to reach the sacred place and gain possession of the secrets and the power that would enable them to become triumphant.

In the face of such knowledge, all caution was forgotten. With wild yells that sounded loud above the clamor around them, ignoring the phantoms that fought on unseeing around them, the three parties of warriors charged for one another. In the midst of the ghost battle, to use a bow would beg defeat. Only hand-to-hand, ensuring that a real flesh-and-blood enemy was in your grip, would satisfy.

And yet, despite the fact that the real warriors seemed just that little more solid than the spirit forms around them, still it was hard when at full gallop to determine what was real and what was false. In the midst of such movement, it was too easy to lose sight of the enemy, and find oneself wheeling around to try to grapple with a warrior who was as air when a fist passed through him.

In the whirl of real and unreal, it was hard to keep a focus on who was the enemy, who was friend, and who really existed.

Ryan tried to keep his eye firmly on J.B. and Mildred, as they seemed to wheel the closest to him, the Otoe war party being keenest to engage with the Sioux, but it was difficult to remember who exactly the enemy might be. Particularly when one of the small groups of warring phantoms broke off as he galloped past them, stopping to turn and face him.

“Think you can best the spirits, One-eye?” asked one of the warriors.

“The Grandfather will test you,” said another.

A third feinted him, making his horse rear as he tried to pull back, to avoid any engagement; thinking even as he did so that it was absurd that these creatures from another time and place should speak to him, let alone that he should fear them causing him harm.

“Ha! Nearly got you that time.” The ghost warrior laughed. “Mebbe next time.”

Jak and Doc saw this happen as they tried to round up the Pawnee war party and pull them back. Having long since decided that an engagement under such mind-altering circumstances could be of no benefit, they were having problems in rounding up their warriors, whose lust for combat had now been inflamed by the knowledge that at least some of the enemy were real.

Watching Ryan draw back, Jak asked, “How we know Ryan and others real, not like rest of this shit?”

“We have no guarantees, but I would wager they are as real as us,” Doc replied, adding to himself, “But of our reality I could not say, right now.”

Krysty moved in on Ryan as his horse threatened to throw him. She grabbed at the reins, speaking quietly, but in an authoritative tone that could be heard even over the roar of the phantoms around them.

“Easy, lover, don't let them get to you.”

“How the fireblasted hell can they be talking to me when they don't exist?” he asked in return, his tone speaking of a man desperate to keep his grip on sanity and reality.

She shook her head. “Don't question. Let's just get our boys back to the edge of this shit, then take it from there.”

As a plan, it was as good as any. If they could disengage from the mayhem being played out around them, then at least they could take stock of the situation, form an overview and a plan of action.