Prophecy (8 page)

“But the white-eye was greedy. Always wanted more. We existed alongside them, but they acted like they wanted us gone. They fought us, drove us into smaller and smaller areas. They called them reservations, which were prisons. All the while, the white-eye ways did nothing but destroy the land and bring the end of all life that much closer.

“Before skydark came, some of us had decided to return to the old ways. We had the jack that the white-eyes had forced us to use, to fit in with their ways. So we used it against them. Took it off them, used it to stockpile things that would help us, determined that we would go back to the ways of our fathers.”

“Pretty story,” Jak sniffed. “Can't see where I fit.”

The chief snorted. “You need to understand why we see you as important, For that you need to know how we got to this point.”

“Hurry up, then.” Jak shrugged.

Undaunted, the chief continued, although the look given him by the shaman did not escape Jak.

“When the nukecaust came, we had already started to separate from the world of the white-eyes. We had left the lands to which we were sent by the old governments, and we had come to this place. We found shelter, and so we were able to wait out the worst of the nuke winter before the spring of a new life came to us.”

Jak was starting to get bored. A lot of stupe talking had never, as far as he was concerned, ever got anyone to anywhere. But he was hanging on, hoping that some sense would soon come out of this, something that would give him some clue as to why he was seemingly indispensable. And who, perhaps, was the “other half” they spoke about.

He knew he'd have to be patient. The chief was speaking as though this was something that had been committed to memory and passed down. It would end only when it had always ended.

One thing that did strike him as amusing, though: it would seem that the shelter from the ways of their enemies had come via the redoubt. Built, of course, by those they professed to be against. He figured that it was not the time to raise this anomaly.

But now he could see that the chief was reaching the
end of his long peroration. It was time to find out what the hell he was here for…or so he hoped.

“As the lands were ravaged by the dreadful terrors of the nuke, and the life that had been given by Mother Earth had been distorted by mutation, it was hard for us to adapt to the new land and the new ways. But we were driven by the knowledge that this was just, in the view of the great spirit that guides us, a way of cleansing. So that the world would be made afresh for us. Then, when this was so, and we were in the right place at the right time, as defined by the stars, then two people would come out of nowhere, delivered unto us so that we could be the people to lead the world.”

“An' you figure I'm one of 'em?” Jak questioned.

The shaman nodded. He answered instead of the chief, and when he did, it was clear why.

“Wakan Tanka speaks to those of us who have been blessed with the gift of vision. We are few, and we are just vessels of the spirits, but we are the mouthpiece by which the wise words of Wakan Tanka are delivered to those who would be his chosen people. To my predecessors he spoke of a time when you and the other half would come across our people. You are the ones who will lead us. It is only in my time that he has spoken of the nearness of this event. The stars are in the patterns that he showed me in the dust. The shapes are right.”

“And we're supposed show you what?” Jak asked. It sounded like a bunch of crap to him, and his patience was wearing thin. Maybe they could give him shelter on a hostile plain, but was it worth this shit?

The shaman smiled sadly. “That is what you are supposed to know. But perhaps you do without knowing that you do. Such are the ways of Wakan Tanka.”

“Sounds like crap,” Jak said.

“It would if you had been sent as the unsuspecting messenger.” The shaman shrugged. “Perhaps it is part of the great plan that you must discover for yourself before we can discover.”

“For now,” the chief added, “rest up here and let us show you that we mean you no harm. The answer lies on the plains from which you came. You and the other half, who was also delivered to us by accident. Perhaps if you meet him, then that will mean something to you.”

Jak said nothing. It sounded yet another stupe idea to him. It was lucky for whoever the “other half” might be that he had been saved from wandering the plains until he bought the farm, but Jak couldn't see that it would mean squat to him. On the other hand, he had nowhere to go. Play along, and at least he would gain food, shelter and rest for a short while, while he considered what to do next.

“Okay,” he said simply.

The chief stepped forward and indicated that Jak follow him. The crowd parted as the barrel-chested warrior strode through, heading for a wigwam that stood on the far reach of the small ville. The shaman brought up the rear. Some of the crowd followed, driven either by the need to witness this momentous event or simply by curiosity.

It didn't escape Jak's notice that in among them were
a few men whose hands hovered close to the sheathed knives that hung from their belts. He had noticed the small hand gestures exchanged between the shaman and the warrior he had earlier bested. They may not be overtly hostile, but they were certainly in no mood to take risks.

Jak would have been the same.

At the entrance to the wigwam, which was the farthest from the open redoubt entrance, and faced onto the empty plain, a man and woman were waiting for them. Its location suggested that if trouble were to start, then none of the tribe would be at much risk. The man was armed in plain sight, just to reinforce the message. The woman, on the other hand, had her long sleeves rolled up and looked as though she had recently been washing something…or someone.

“Is he awake?” the chief asked.

The woman shook her head.

“We will look upon him anyway,” the chief decided.

As the man and woman stood aside, the chief and the shaman ushered Jak into the wigwam. It was dark inside, the tallow candle casting only the dimmest of light. It took the albino teen a few moments to make out the shape that was huddled on rush bedding.

“By Three Kennedys…” Jak breathed, almost to himself.

Three days and nights. That was how long Mildred and J.B. rode with the tribesmen before they reached the cluster of wigwams and tepees that defined the tribal ville. During that time, they had learned very little of who their traveling companions were, and why they had been waiting for them. In truth, the subject had been broached only the once: during a rest period on the second day.

For most of the first day they had traveled in silence, which had suited both Mildred and the Armorer; both were still at the point of exhaustion after struggling against the effects and aftereffects of the storm. Although both had many questions to ask, these could wait. By the same token, they were relieved that the silence of their fellow travelers saved the effort of having to answer potentially awkward questions for themselves.

The first night, as the sun fell and the cold cloak of dark descended upon the plain, they had halted at a signal from the rider at the head of the party. It had seemed arbitrary, but perhaps he had determined visibility too poor to continue. For both Mildred and J.B., riding behind warriors in the middle of the party,
it was impossible to know. All either of them could say was that the rest of the party concurred with his opinion. Indeed, by the way in which they had dismounted and struck camp with only the barest of verbal communication suggested that the unit worked like a well-oiled piece of machinery, with every wheel and cog fitting perfectly into a place that they knew only too well.

When a fire had been lit and tepees had been erected for the night, food was cooked, and bowls presented to both Mildred and J.B.

“Eat. It'll help you through the chill of night,” intoned the bronzed warrior who handed them the wooden bowls. He waited until they both took a mouthful before nodding, then returning to his compatriots.

The food was good: spiced meat that had been heated in a thin stock, with dried beans added. They were astounded at how hungry they actually were, neither having given the matter much thought since the desultory breakfast of the morning.

Their traveling companions talked among themselves in low, soft tones, yet there seemed to be no secrecy, no desire to keep the newcomers out of the loop. Rather, it seemed as though a quiet, contemplative manner was their natural bearing. In the same way, there was no attempt to mount a guard on the two outlanders. The horses were tethered nearby and left unguarded; neither did any of the warriors seem to even notice when Mildred, and then J.B., rose to move nearer the warmth of the fire. It was only when the warriors made a seemingly
mutual—and unspoken—decision to retire for the evening that a guard was mounted.

With the rising of the sun, camp was struck and the party headed off once more with, yet again, little verbal communication.

As they traveled across the plains, Mildred and J.B. were acutely aware that every hour took them, in all likelihood, farther away from their friends. The chances of coming upon them by mere coincidence grew less and less. Yet, at the same time, there was a nagging feeling—unspoken by either—that they had not seen the last of their companions.

The land around them changed as they traveled, so slightly by degrees that it was only noticeable if they stopped to think about it. The flat and arid plains had been replaced by a more verdant landscape. Small groves of stunted trees began to appear at intervals, with spiky, high grass scattered between. This alone spoke of a higher water table, and a more fertile soil, which was confirmed as they rode into a small dip that was too shallow to grace with the term valley, yet provided enough shelter from the elements to harbor some small rodents and mammals along with the lizard forms that had occasionally shown themselves along the way. Trees with overhanging branches, their heavy greenery seeming to drink from the shallow but clear stream that ran between them, provided shelter.

As the warriors halted and dismounted, J.B. could see that the stream emerged from one end of the dip and disappeared into the other. The dip had been not been hol
lowed out by erosion, but appeared to have been engineered at some point to allow access to the stream. By these tribesmen? The growth of flora suggested that it had been settlers long before the dark of nuclear winter that had originally dug here.

He said as much to the warrior who had brought them food the night before. If nothing else, he wanted to see if the man would open up on this subject: if so, then it was possible that he may be able to find out more about the status Millie and himself shared as people who had been “expected.”

The warrior nodded, and said nothing for a moment. He cupped his hands and drank from the stream, as did many of the others. After he had splashed his face with the cool liquid, he drew breath and nodded once more.

“There are many stories and legends about the plains. For many hundreds of years both our people and the white man tried to tame the land. Neither was truly successful. Mother Earth has to be lived alongside, not broken in like a young stallion. There are those who say our people made this. Others say it was the white man. I figure that as wrong. We never try to make changes in the land. That's what the white man did. Where he went wrong.”

“You might not be wrong there.” J.B. nodded. “Still, we should be grateful for it right now. Although I guess if it wasn't here, you could still find water.”

The warrior smiled. “Smart man. Also man with a lot of questions you want one of us to answer.”

J.B. chuckled. “That obvious?”

“Only to those who care to see,” the warrior replied. “But the answers are not ours to give. That is why we want you to travel with us. When we reach our home, then our medicine man will speak with you. He is privy to the secrets that Wakan Tanka shares only with those who have the ability to speak directly to him. That is how we found you.”

J.B. looked at the man, one eyebrow raised. He pushed back his fedora and scratched at his forehead. “You'll excuse me if that makes no sense to me,” he murmured.

The warrior shook his head. “Those are the ways of the spirit world. Few of us understand. We are directed by the spirits to do their bidding, and it is only when each has played his part and the patterns are drawn in the dust that the real shape emerges.”

“Meantime we have to trust you?”

“Only if you wish to. All I will say is that the spirits told our medicine man that two we have been waiting for would be found in the dry parts of the plain, having been on a vision quest.”

J.B. pondered that. He had no idea what a vision quest was as such, but the idea that it suggested to him fitted pretty well with the weird shit and discomfort that he and Mildred had endured only forty-eight hours before. Maybe—just maybe—there was something in what the warrior said.

“I think your medicine man can tell me and my friend much that we would want to know. Mebbe we can tell him something in return. Something we might not know we know.”

The warrior returned the Armorer's previous expression of bemusement. “You sound like him, so you might be right,” he said with a wry humor.

As the party made ready to leave, J.B. relayed the conversation to Mildred. Remembering she knew of Native American lore from her old, predark life, she still erred on the side of believing it to be a pile of crap. However, there was something in what J.B. was saying: and it was true that they had no better option open to them. With a certain reluctance, she concurred with the Armorer.

And so they set off once more. The rest of the day followed the pattern of the first. They rode until the sun began to fall, finally stopping to pitch camp as the darkness curled around them. The next morning, they rose and began their journey with the rising of the sun.

The land was now much more lush. Scrub grass grew around the trail made by generations of riders, both before and after the nukecaust. The mountains and hills that had once been hazed with blue mist like wreathes of smoke now came into sharp relief, and grew in size with every mile that was traversed by the riders. Now there were herds of cattle upon the plain, fenced in by wire strung along a series of wooden posts. The enclosures were large, but were nonetheless enclosures. Mildred was certain that this hadn't been part of the Native life back in the days of the old west she recalled from movies. Maybe they had learned more from the white man that perhaps they realized.

The cattle looked healthy and well-fed. The land here
had lush grasses. In the distance, she could see grazing animals that had large heads and narrow backs, like the bison that had been all but wiped out before skydark. It was too far to be sure. Could these be the result of some kind of mutation, bred by these people in emulation of their past?

In the distance, and growing nearer by the minute, she could see the clustered wigwams and tepees that defined the ville. They were almost at their destination.

What they would find may just prove to be fascinating. Or it could be merely dangerous.

She knew what her money would be on.

 

B
Y THE TIME
that Mildred and J.B. reached the tribal settlement that housed their rescuers, Ryan and Krysty had already been settled into the tribal ville inhabited by the men that had found them.

Following their surprisingly peaceful encounter with the tattooed riders, both Ryan and Krysty had agreed to follow in the wake of the party. Exchanging glances as they were faced by the riders' emissary, they both realized that dissent would risk combat that neither was ready to face. Sure, they wouldn't be able to look for their companions; by the same token, it wouldn't be possible for them to find their way back to the wag. But, looking around, there was little sign of any life other than themselves and the men who stood in front of them on foot or horseback.

In truth, they had little real choice.

Gunning the wag's engine back into life, Ryan and
Krysty drove across the arid and uneven area of the plain, surrounded on all sides by the riders. The horses kept their distance, whether from a desire to avoid any collision as Ryan erratically steered the wag over the more erratic excesses of the ground, or from a desire to show that their intent was not to ride sec on the inhabitants of the wag, was unclear. Either way, it allowed Ryan and Krysty to exchange words without fear of being overheard, while also avoiding the worst of the dust clouds thrown up by pounding hooves.

They headed in a direction that took them on a parallel course to the ville of Brisbane. At certain points in the journey, they could see the black ribbon of the road as it moved momentarily closer, then farther from them, barely visible through the dust thrown up by their outrider escort.

“Going back to Brisbane?” Krysty questioned.

“Near. Has to be,” Ryan said.

“Then how come we never heard of anyone who looked like this when we were there?” she continued. “It's not as if these guys wouldn't stand out in a crowd. Not if it was the crowd that lived in that pesthole.”

“They must keep themselves apart,” Ryan reasoned. “The big question is why they would do it.”

“Figure we'll get that answered sooner rather than later, lover,” Krysty said softly, watching the impassive figures of the Native Americans as they rode at pace with the wag. Their decorated bodies were hardened to the elements, and they did not flinch under the harsh glare of the sun, nor under the scouring of the constant
dirt mist that swirled around them. Among the body decoration, she was sure that she could see signs of scarification. From what she had heard, that bespoke of rituals for manhood that would test their endurance for pain. Which, in turn, would explain why it was no problem for them to take the dust and the heat in their stride—or at least, the stride of their mounts.

If they could take that amount of punishment, would they hesitate at handing out similar? And could either Ryan or herself—given the effects of the day before—count on their stamina being enough to handle this right now?

She looked across at Ryan. He didn't notice the look, his attention being focused on keeping the wag on course. But he looked weary. The effects of his concussion had not yet had time to wear off. How would he be if they faced trial and ordeal in any short space of time? Come to that, how would she deal with it?

These thoughts preoccupied her so much that she did not notice that their path had begun to deviate from the road back to Brisbane. It was only when Ryan pointed that out, wondering out loud where they were headed, that she took in the change in direction.

They were now headed away from the ville that stood alone on the dusty plains, their direction taking them toward one of the plateaued ranges that had peppered the horizon.

“Could be a long haul,” Ryan commented. “Mebbe not…the way they're taking us across this ground, that might be nearer than we thought…” It crossed his mind
that he may have made an error of judgment in heading the way he had when pursued by the coldhearts. If he had taken this route, could they have headed for the mountains and evaded their pursuers? Would they have skirted the storm? Would they still be together as a group, and not scattered to who knew where?

He shook his head, as if to clear it. What had happened couldn't be changed. It had been the best call at the time. He had to stay focused and stay frosty so that he and Krysty could face what lay ahead.

They journeyed on as the sun moved across the empty sky. As it began to sink to the horizon, Ryan could see that the route they had traveled had taken them out of the dust and hard-packed, ridged earth, and into something that had a little more to support life. The wheels beneath him no longer bucked and reared, twisting the steering column so that his arms ached with the effort of keeping them on an even path. The clouds of dust and dirt thrown up by hooves now began to decrease in size and volume. It became easier to breathe as the air became less arid. Their progress hastened as the wag was able to follow the riders with less strain and more speed.