The Crafters Book Two

by Christopher Stasheff

  Nat forced himself to remain motionless as the hand tightened around his wrist, increasing the strength of its grip gradually but inexorably until it took all of Nat’s resolve not to fight back. For a moment he wasn’t sure he could succeed. The urge to react was almost overwhelming, an instinct as old as man himself. But he resisted.

  Gradually a hazy, luminous collection of green-blue lines began to form in front of him. They sketched out the ectoplasmic figure of a man, nearly transparent except where the lines terminated in the solid dark density of his hand. Nat knew that all of the spirit’s energy was concentrated into materializing and maintaining that hand. And already the crisis was passing. The spirit couldn’t maintain his grip for long. Already it was loosening.

  Then, abruptly, the hand released its grip, but the fingertips remained in contact with Nat’s wrist. The disembodied hand, attached to nothingness by luminous lines of energy, crept up his arm, hunching itself up like a big tarantula. It crawled up his shoulder. A cold, ethereal forefinger poked at Nat’s eye. But it was an empty threat.

  Nat could already feel the hand softening, dissolving back into substanceless ectoplasm.

  * * *

  In the morning, Nat called on the earth spirit.

  “What is it now?” the earth spirit asked. “What happened last night?”

  “I need to know what’s going on,” Nat said.

  “Simple. The shaman Two Coyotes followed you by the dream-scent to the place where you were sleeping. He wants the amulet back. It was his, lost by mistake. He’s coming for it.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Nat, this is the last service I’m going to do. This one is above and beyond the call of duty. If you want this one, you have to promise to let me go at the end of it.”

  “I swear.”

  The spirit lifted Nat up and took him out over the land.

  Swooping low, invisible, Nat could see the rise and fall of the hills and the deep channels in which the rivers flowed. He could see the Indian host gathering. They were mounted, and there were a lot of them. There were Cheyenne and Shoshone, and Arapaho and others, and above all there was Kiowa, a small tribe but very fierce, and leading them was the shaman.

  Squat and bold he sat on the back of his painted pony. Nat came down close and peered at him. He could see the man closely, see the very pores of his skin. And then suddenly Two Coyotes became aware of him, despite his invisibility, and swung around, searching ... .

  And then they were back, Nat and the spirit, back at the place where they’d begun.

  “He saw me!”

  “Well, I did the best I could.”

  “What happens now? What do I do?”

  But the earth spirit was gone.

  Nat saw that he’d have to warn the people of what was coming. But how could he do that? What would they say? What would they do to him? How would they think he got this knowledge?

  * * *

  And so this was the matter that perplexed Nat Singer. So much did he think about it that finally the long-awaited moment of buying a horse was almost anticlimactic. The beast was a large black stallion with a hard mouth and a suspicious eye. A dangerous creature, and the story was it had trampled its previous owner to death, catching him in the stall, back in Virginia. Nat didn’t know if this was true. He did know that the horse had been ill-used. Old scars from a braided whip still lay about its flanks and withers. Nat walked around the horse, keeping his distance from possible flying hooves. He looked into the horse’s eyes, touched its heaving flanks, did a reading and a prognosis there on the spot. This horse had seen some bad times, but it wasn’t a bad horse. Some steady work and some decent care and it would be good as new again. So he bought the horse, and drove a hard bargain, getting him for nine dollars. That left him one dollar with which to start his new life.

  But he couldn’t rejoice in his new life. There arose before him continually now a vision of the catastrophic attack that was coming to the town, sliding through the distant plains like smoke.

  Nat sought out the advice of Marduk, the Babylonian spirit who resided in the amulet.

  It was easy to raise Marduk. He was an ancient spirit with much experience in discourse with mankind. When Nat called him, that morning, sitting in a little copse of trees above the widow’s house, the Babylonian spirit appeared almost immediately, as if he had been sitting at the edge of Limbo waiting to be called up.

  “I want to know about Two Coyotes,” Nat said. “He tried to kill me. He knows where I am. Why hasn’t he renewed his attack?”

  “Not much doubt about the reason for that,” Marduk said.

  “He doesn’t want to risk a physical attack on you. Not at a time like this, when the Indians are staying quiet and preparing for new mischief. He won’t attack you again as a spirit because he didn’t have the strength to kill you that way before.”

  “Do you think maybe he’ll leave me alone?”

  Marduk chuckled. “You know enough about these matters, Nat, to know that Two Coyotes will never rest until one of you is dead. He’s coming for you, Nat. But he’s expecting to find you in the Dream Country.”

  “I don’t think I know about that,” Nat said. “Where is the Dream Country?”

  “It’s the region of the mystic world where a man can wander when he does his dreaming. Wizards and shamans can go there at will.”

  “What makes Two Coyotes think I’ll go there? It’s a region one goes to voluntarily, isn’t it?”

  “That it is, Nat.”

  “Well, you’re not going to find me there!”

  “That is wise,” Marduk said. “You are to be commended for your cautious nature.”

  The sound of Marduk’s ironic’ voice grated on Nat’s nerves.

  The spirit wasn’t being very sympathetic! But it didn’t matter. Nat knew he had to get out of there, away from Oak Bluffs, far away, before the Indians came down on the town and began their next war. He had to leave. Now. It was as simple as that.

  * * *

  That morning Nat found Emma in the kitchen as usual. She was doing the week’s wash. Her abundant hair was tied back with a bit of bright yam, and her sleeves were pushed back, revealing rosy forearms. There was a glow of health upon her. Nat had never seen her look so pretty.

  “Morning, ma’am.”

  “Morning, Nat.”

  Nat willed himself to make some small talk, but none came.

  He had chided himself for a long time on this problem in his makeup. He had found life in the civilized East almost impossible because of this inability of his to make chitchat even at the dance they had attended. After stumbling around with tame words for a few minutes, he got straight to the point.

  “Mrs. Hawkins, I have reason to believe that you and the boy are in grave peril.”

  She gave him a quizzical look. “Whatever are you talking about, Mr. Singer?”

  “I have sure knowledge that there is going to be an Indian attack on this settlement, Mrs. Hawkins. It will signal the beginning of a full-scale Indian war throughout the Middle West, extending God knows how far.”

  “I see,” she said. “And when is this Indian attack supposed to take place?”

  “I am fairly sure it will commence within a day or two. Perhaps tomorrow morning. Surely not long after that.”

  “And how did you come by this knowledge, Mr. Singer? You didn’t find it in the bottom of a jug by any chance?”

  “I beg pardon? Oh, I see what you mean. No, I have not been drinking!”

  “Then where did you come by your knowledge?”

  He hesitated. “Ma’am, that is difficult to tell. Could you not just take my word for it?”

  “No, I could not. Nor could the rest of the town. Because if there is a danger such as you say, everyone here ought to be told about it. Is that not so?”

  “Yes, ma�
�am, it is.”

  “And who else have you told?”

  “You are the first.”

  “And to what do I owe this honor?”

  “I am afraid no one will believe me, ma’am, and they will force me to admit things that are better not spoken of.”

  “Things like what, Mr. Singer?”

  “But those are the things I prefer not to reveal!”

  “Nevertheless, if you want me to take any credence whatsoever in your wild words, you had better tell me something.”

  “Yes, I suppose I’d better,” Nat muttered. “The fact is, Mrs. Hawkins, I have some little knowledge of magical arts, and the impending Indian attack has come to my attention through them.”

  “You are claiming that you are a warlock?” she asked, her voice flat and unfriendly.

  “No, not exactly,” Singer muttered. “But I do have certain ... powers ... at my disposal. What I say is the truth, Emma, as God is my witness! The Indians are coming! I beg you to believe me.”

  “What is it you would have me do?” she asked.

  “Take the boy and whatever valuables you can pack in the buckboard, and head West. The Indian attack will engulf this town and the regions within a hundred miles east of here.”

  “And what of you, Mr. Singer?”

  “I will accompany you,” Nat said.

  “I see,” Emma Hawkins said. “You and I and the boy are to escape this menace. But what of the rest of the townspeople?”

  “They would never believe me,” Nat said.

  “Have you even tried to convince them?”

  “I have not! The Reverend Harrelson would have me strung up within the hour if he heard I was making talk like that. He has his suspicions of me anyhow.”

  “And so do I, Mr. Singer, so do I. I do not like this style of speaking. If there is any danger, which I seriously doubt, you should go to the town council and lay your suspicions before them openly and honestly. Then, if they will not heed you, you will have done what you could. Even if there were such a danger—-could you have believed I would go away with you, stealing away like a thief in the night from the place where my husband is buried, abandoning my neighbors to their fate and thinking only of myself?”

  “There’s Billy to be considered, ma’am.”

  “Billy is no more a coward than I am. He will stay here with me. I see you have your horse, Mr. Singer. I suppose you will be on your way, then?”

  “Yes, ma’am. That is what I suppose.”

  “Then sooner would be better than later, Mr. Singer. I believe on work and wages we are quits. It would be convenient if you were gone by morning. I had thought better of you when you first came here, Mr. Singer. I had thought ... Never mind! Please be on your way as soon as you can!”

  * * *

  Nat went to the little copse of trees in the upper meadow.

  It was late afternoon. The golden light was already taking on a tinge of evening pallor. Blackbirds sung merrily in the trees. Nat lay down on the grass. Almost immediately a voice said to him, “Gotten yourself into a proper mess now, haven’t you, Nat?”

  “Is that you, Marduk? I didn’t call you.”

  “No. But I took the liberty of appearing anyway.”

  “Well, you’re right,” Nat said. “Damn but this is a bad situation! I don’t even know when this Indian attack is to take place! Not exactly. Soon, but I don’t know exactly when. Emma doesn’t believe me. The folks in town won’t believe me, either.”

  “Let me set your mind at rest about one thing,” Marduk said.

  “I’ve done a little investigating on your behalf and I know when the tribes plan to attack.”

  “When?”

  “The attack will begin in the morning, Nat, at first light.”

  “So soon? How could it be so soon?”

  “There’s no way it could be any later. Two Coyotes has been having a lot of trouble holding the tribes together. They don’t really trust him. Fear him, yes, but not trust. Dissident voices have been raised in council, demanding that he postpone the uprising, make one more attempt at reconciliation. His whole enterprise is foundering, Nat. Without him there to whip them on, there’d be no rebellion. Many tribes have lost their first fury, are inclined now to accept the inevitable.”

  “Can’t someone talk to the tribes?” Nat asked. “Isn’t there someone who could point out how disastrous a course the shaman is leading them on?”

  “Why yes, there is such a person,” Marduk said.

  “Who is he?”

  “You know him well,” Marduk said, “although in another sense you don’t know him at all.”

  “You refer to me?”

  “No other.”

  “The tribes would not listen to me! I do not speak their language!”

  “You speak a universal language,” Marduk said. “I refer of course to the power of sorcery. If you but defeat Two Coyotes in the Dream Country, the tribes will understand better than any words could tell how hopeless his pretension is. They will go back to their tents. Many lives will be saved.”

  “You expect me to fight the shaman? I am unskilled at these battles of sorcerers, Marduk. And I am a long time out of practice. How can you expect this of me?”

  “Oh, you’re quite right, of course,” Marduk said. “Who could expect you to stretch out a finger or put yourself in a moment of possible harm for the sake of saving the lives of a few hundred settlers and a few thousand Indians? It is unthinkable to ask that of you. I most humbly apologize.”

  “That’s not fair,” Nat said.

  “How not?”

  Nat was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “I perceive on second thought that what you say is fair enough.”

  “I thought you’d come to it,” Marduk said. “You’re not a bad sort, Nat. Just a little spoiled.”

  “Yes. I see it now.”

  “Well, I’ve made my point,” Marduk said. “Come on, Nat, let’s get out of here, you and I.”

  “No,” Nat said. “We have something to do first.”

  “Have we indeed? And what is that?”

  Nat rose and started down the pasture toward the river bank.

  “Where are you going?” Marduk asked. “To wash in the river.”

  “You surprise me,” Marduk said. “This is a curious time to take a bath.”

  “Ritual ablution is customary in these cases,” Nat said.

  “What cases, Nat?”

  “You know very well what I’m talking about. It’s time that Two Coyotes and I had this thing out.”

  “Bravely spoken! But aren’t you frightened? This Indian is formidable!”

  “There’s no time for fear,” Nat said. “No, nor for courage, either, or hope. This is the time when a man does what he has to do.”

  “The widow would like you a little better,” Marduk said, “if she heard you talking now. To the river, then!”

  * * *

  The Dream Country is reached by way of the Land of Sleep.

  This Land of Sleep is a place all people know, though they have no control of themselves once they are there. For most men, dreams are simply things that happen to them. For Nat and others trained in the magical art of dream mastery, sleep is a state that can be entered consciously, a place that has a climate and a scenery and even a characteristic lighting and color. These qualities change from time to time, but the main characteristics of the Dream Country remain constant.

  And so this time Nat found himself in a dream-forest, with purple trees and red clouds that lay in clumps on the forest floor. He continued, and his intent made all directions easy, and soon he found himself in front of a wall. He stood a moment and looked at it, then sighed and made a motion. As his dream-hand rose, a hole appeared in the wall; a dream-hole in a dream-wall. And Nat entered, and he was in the Dream Country.
>
  This was a place where shapes were malleable and unfixed.

  Colors ran one into the other, and sounds behaved as if they hadn’t quite made their minds up, wavering eerily up and down on the scale. It was not a good place, but Nat moved forward, and strove to pick up the details. One moment the place seemed a forest, the next it had turned into a great desert with mountains in the near distance shaped like stovepipe hats, and colored in brilliant yellows and fuchsias. Nat kept on moving forward, and if he had any doubts, now was not the time to exercise them, because he could see, far ahead, a tiny black dot against the gloriously colored swirling background of lights that marked the shaman’s entrance.

  Two Coyotes advanced on him and then stood close enough for Nat to make out the shaman’s strong features. Two Coyotes spoke, and since he spoke in the universal language of dreams, Nat could understand him.

  “So you have come! I thought you would not dare!”

  “Obviously you were wrong about that,” Nat said. “And there’s quite a lot else you’re wrong about.”

  The shaman grinned. “How sad, tiny, and insignificant your words sound! Come to your death, then!” And so the combat was begun.

  No tongue in the world is equipped to tell of the combat of dream-warriors in a dream-space. Such contests are the essence of the uncanny. These are deeds that take place on the border of what is reality and what is spirit. Such deeds cannot aptly be recorded in the mundane language we use to speak of pecks of lima beans and bushels of com. The recording muse felt faint when faced with the challenge of describing the ineffable, but managed to point out that the Indian advanced along the line of his best capabilities, his physical prowess, his lithe and panther-like passion. Whereas Nat was a representative of another culture entirely. It was his way to examine the onslaughts which the shaman perpetrated. His rationality led him to find an object interesting even when it was trying to kill him. Due to this psychic setup he was almost drowned when the shaman, drawing strength from the depths of his being, commanded a cataract of water to fall in its broken white-waved immensity on Nat’s head. The waters rose around him, churning and frothing as wind-spirit energies whipped their surface to a stinging froth. Nat could see for himself that if a dream-warrior died a dream-death in a dream-place, death would come, too, back in the place his body was. So Nat summoned up strength and fought his way out of the flood that washed over him, forming handholds on the rapidly passing river bank, and then creating hands with which to hold on to the handholds. And this stratagem sufficed, and for the moment he could lift himself above the raging waters.