The young M’Call Cubs continued to regard Steve as an object of curiosity and source of innocent amusement. Like Three Degrees, they seemed to have forgotten his role in the fire-bombing of the cropfields. Steve found that a lot harder to forget, especially when the bodies of the children who trailed behind him on his walks were indelibly scarred by the napalm he had dropped with reluctant precision.
Some of the older children behaved more aggressively, jostling him as they ran past; dancing round him, pulling faces and jeering. Others played a boisterous game of tag wherever he happened to be walking, running into him at full tilt while attempting to evade their pursuer. Steve was ‘accidentally’ knocked to the ground several times and once, as he was sent sprawling, two thirteen-year-olds grabbed his crutches and swung them wildly round their heads, smashing them together like quarter-staves. It was just another game, of course, but the intention was clear: they hoped to break the crutches and send Steve crawling back to his hut on his hands and knees.
Fortunately, Mr Snow happened by. He restored order and helped Steve back onto his feet. ‘Just high spirits…’
‘Yes, sure,’ said Steve. There was no point in complaining. He altered his exercise schedule so that his walks coincided with Mr Snow’s classes for the young Mutes and kept close to the hut he shared with Cadillac when they were out of school.
The majority of the adult Mutes – and that included everybody from fourteen up – treated him with a mixture of courtesy and circumspection. They didn’t go out of their way to avoid him but neither did they seek out his company unless it was to eavesdrop silently on his conversations with Mr Snow or Cadillac. A number of male and female warriors showed their hostility more openly by turning their backs on him whenever he approached. If they were sitting talking in a group, they fell silent until he was out of earshot. The classic cold shoulder. He was like a stray dog whose presence is tolerated but not actively encouraged; who is given odd scraps to eat but never becomes one of the family with his own bowl and a place by the fire.
His talks with the two wordsmiths continued on a more or less regular basis but Steve found he was left to his own devices for the greater part of each day with very little opportunity to do anything except think and exercise his body. He concocted his own programme of physiotherapy, spending up to six hours each day in strenuous physical workouts. As he sweated to build up his stamina and strength Steve continued to plan his escape, modifying various details as he gradually built up his knowledge of the clan’s activities and the layout of the settlement.
As time passed, Steve became increasingly certain that the M’Calls had no particular fate reserved for him. Roast cloud warrior was not on the menu. There was no Plan X. They were just waiting for something to happen. As a child of the Federation, Steve was totally baffled by the clan’s attitude towards him. He could accept the undercurrent of hostility but he could not understand the almost total freedom he was accorded. He was, after all, their prisoner, yet he was not shackled or guarded; he had no escort, no one asked him where he was going or where he had been, and the restraints upon him were minimal. On the face of it, if he wanted to escape, all he had to do was to walk out of the settlement. But how far could he get? It was this very lack of overt surveillance that led Steve to conclude that escape on foot would not be that easy. If there were no bars to his cage it was because the M’Calls were confident that they could hunt him down as quickly and efficiently as they did the fast-foot and the buffalo.
Steve applied himself to his programme of exercises with his usual diligence and was finally rewarded by being able to stand on his own two feet. Cadillac and Mr Snow were on hand to applaud the moment when he cast aside his crutches and walked around the hut with a confident stride. Returning to where they stood by the head-poles bearing the decaying skulls of Shakatak and Torpedo, he punched the air exultantly with his right fist. As his arm snapped straight in the traditional Trail-Blazer salute, a stab of pain shot through the still tender muscle, punishing him for such an arrogant gesture.
Steve concealed the pain beneath a tight-lipped grin and found the grace to thank his benefactors. ‘I’d like you both to know that I really appreciate what you’ve done for me.’ He paused and took a deep breath. ‘I may regret this but, uh, I have to ask – why have you gone to so much trouble to keep me alive?’
‘I don’t have time to get into that,’ replied Mr Snow. He cut Steve off with a wave of the hand. ‘Don’t worry about it. You’ll find out soon enough.’
Steve refused to let it go. ‘That sounds ominous.’
Mr Snow laughed quickly. ‘What can I tell you? Right now, the word is you’re going to live. Okay?’
‘But – if you know what’s going to happen,’ persisted Steve.
Mr Snow sighed patiently. ‘Look, young man, if I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. You have a good mind. It has a great deal of potential but it is not open to the things of this world. You do not see it as it is, but as you think it should be.’
‘You’ve lived under the ground too long,’ said Cadillac. ‘Your eyes and your ears are full of sand.’
Mr Snow squatted in front of Steve and ran his hands gently up and down his left trouser leg between the knee and ankle, barely touching the fabric. ‘Mmmm, feels good…’ He stood up, took hold of Steve’s wrist and flexed his right arm, checking the movement of the muscles as he did so. ‘I wish all my patients healed as well as this.’ Mr Snow gave Steve’s arm a friendly pat. ‘Keep on with those workouts. Another half-moon or so and you’ll be ready to make the big break.’
The old wordsmith chuckled at Steve’s confused expression. He looked like a kid who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. It was a saying from the Old Time that Mr Snow had treasured ever since he had first heard it fifty-two winters ago. ‘Relax. It’s only natural for you to want to get back to your burrow.’
‘The overground doesn’t frighten me,’ snapped Steve, annoyed at being caught off guard.
‘No, it doesn’t,’ agreed Mr Snow. ‘It should. The word from the South was that you people like to stay close to one another. Like a herd of fast-foot. But it doesn’t seem to affect you. I wonder why?’
‘I’m a wingman,’ replied Steve. ‘We’re different. The pick of the bunch. We’re trained to operate alone.’
Mr Snow nodded gravely. ‘I see… well, just remember that Cadillac and I can’t protect you once you step off the edge of our turf. Capeesh?’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Steve lightly. ‘I’ll let you know when I’m planning to leave.’
‘Good…’ The old wordsmith’s eyes twinkled mischievously. ‘Let’s get one thing straight, Brickman. I never worry.’ He turned on his heel and walked away, followed by Cadillac.
When they were out of earshot, Cadillac asked, ‘Was it wise to reveal that you know what he is thinking?’
Mr Snow smiled. ‘In this case, yes. Our devious young friend is one of those people who thrives on a challenge.’
When his leg felt strong enough, Steve added jogging to his exercise routine. Day after day, he gradually extended the length of his run, varying his route over the M’Call’s turf to build up his knowledge of the surrounding terrain. One particular day, while resting at a vantage point that gave him a good view over the slopes below, Steve saw a posse of Bears leave the main settlement on some errand. They set off with an easy, loping stride, running nimbly down the slope – and kept on running, for mile after mile across the plain below until they were lost from sight. Steve completed his planned circuit, returned to the same spot and waited patiently. Five hours later, his vigil was rewarded. The posse of Bears reappeared, covering the ground with the same robot-like stride, running back up the slope with the same ease as they had run down.
Steve raced back to the settlement in time to see the Bears arrive. He expected them to collapse, red-faced and exhausted, but they weren’t even gasping for breath. The runners strolled about, chatting unconcernedly with their families and othe
r clan members who had been on hand to welcome their return. Some even ran to join in a strange game in which two teams punched an inflated skin ball back and forth across a high strip of net strung between two poles. It looked like it might be fun to play.
Steve realised now why he had not been closely guarded. If he planned to make a break for it on foot he would not only have to be in top condition, he would also need at least a week’s start on his pursuers. The discovery of the Mute’s amazing stamina necessitated a drastic revision of his escape plan. There was only one surefire way to evade his captors – and that was to fly out.
The notion had first occurred to him when he had been flat on his back, daydreaming about his triumphal return to the Federation. He had dismissed the idea then as totally impractical but now, he began to consider it as a serious possibility. The M’Calls had, after all, brought down at least three Skyhawks near their original settlement above Route 88 out of Cheyenne. His own in the cropfield; Fazetti and Naylor over the forest – the clan’s presumed hiding place. In the several weeks he had lived amongst them, Steve had seen dozens of Mutes wearing strips of the blue solar cell fabric and plaited lengths of cable. He had even seen instrument dials sewn onto some of the warrior’s leather helmets and some of the kids had been rolling one of the small landing wheels around.
Steve had neither the hope nor the means of reconstructing a full-blown Skyhawk but – if the clan had hoarded enough bits of one or more of the basic airframes –there might be sufficient material to build a hang-glider. Through his concentrated studies at the Academy, Steve had the knowledge and the technical skill to build something that would fly. But not without tools – and there was no way such an enterprise could be carried out in secret. He would need to make friends and influence people. That was no problem. If enough materials could be salvaged, he would offer Cadillac the chance of learning how to fly. The young wordsmith took himself very seriously and was obsessed with his status – what the lumpheads called ‘standing’. He would jump at the opportunity. Through him, Steve would be able to get the help of M’Call craftsmen like Three Degrees. Maybe there were others with abilities unknown to the Federation. Building the glider would provide an opportunity for discovering just how bright the Plainfolk really were.
Steve sauntered along one of the settlement trails, putting the final details together in his head. He could see it clearly just like a videotape. A craft would be constructed to his design; would need to be tested before instruction of his eager pupil could begin. His helpers would marvel at the faultless take-off, would cheer as he swooped sleek-winged over their heads, would swell with pride as he gained height like a soaring eagle – blissfully unaware that his test-flight would end a couple of hundred miles away at the nearest way-station. He’d leave ‘em standing, open-mouthed, like the idiots they were. Best of all, the two wordsmiths, who thought they were such wise guys, would be totally shafted. It was a good plan. It had style. And it was a hell of a lot better than trying to outrun a bunch of screaming lumpheads.
When Cadillac joined him for supper that evening, Steve used the opportunity to talk about his three years at the Flight Academy in New Mexico, culminating with an eloquent account of his first overground solo. Cadillac listened attentively. Afterwards, when Steve had gone to sleep, he went to Mr Snow’s hut. They sat crosslegged on the talking mat and shared a pipe of rainbow grass.
‘He wishes to build an arrowhead so that he may teach me to ride the sky like a cloud warrior.’
‘I know…’ The old wordsmith’s voice floated through the smoke that curled lazily between them.
‘Is there any reason why this should not be?’
‘None at all.’ Mr Snow pulled deeply on his pipe, inhaling the smoke. His face froze in a half-smile for several minutes while his vocal chords waited for the air to clear. ‘He follows the path laid down for you by the Sky Voices.’
Cadillac took the offered pipe and drew more smoke into his body. His head began to take wing. As a consequence, there was some delay before his brain managed to make contact with his mouth. ‘To help build an arrowhead will give me knowledge of the High Craft, and to fly like an eagle will bring me great standing. You are my teacher.’ He passed the pipe over. ‘It is not fitting that I should receive these gifts without them first being given to you.’
‘You go ahead,’ replied Mr Snow. He waved the pipe in the air. ‘This is the only way I’m leaving the ground.’
Steve was right in thinking that the clan had moved further to the west but he was not entirely correct about the reason for their retreat to the relative safety of the high ground. While the clan elders were anxious to avoid further attacks from the arrowheads until they had learned to resist the fire from the sky and the long sharp iron wielded by the sand-burrowers they had a second, equally pressing, reason for moving westwards: the elders wanted to avoid having to answer any challenge over the M’Call’s turf until the Bears had regained their standing. By running from the battle with the iron snake they had – like the Japanese samurai of old – ‘lost face’. Without ‘standing’, they were – by the unwritten laws of the Plainfolk – unworthy to bear sharp iron and engage other warriors in single combat. Since the M’Call’s turf was now threatened with incursions by the D’Vine – the clan to which the dead Shakatak and his three companions had belonged – Rolling-Stone had given the order to withdraw westwards into the great mountains until the shamed Bears were ready to ‘bite the arrow’ – the traditional proof of courage by which they regained their warrior status.
Steve was invited by Mr Snow and Cadillac to sit in on the ceremony. Seeing the flames leaping from the big bonfire and hearing a rumbling background beat of drums, he thought he was finally going to hear one of the long-awaited fire song sessions. Instead, he found himself watching a macabre ceremony of self-mutilation. Mr Snow explained to Steve the reason why, since his capture, he had only heard solo voices singing a keening lament, sometimes accompanied by a haunting melody played on reed pipes; the rousing fire songs, which recalled the epic deeds of the M’Call’s, could not be sung in honour of warriors who had lost their standing; they had first to bite the arrow.
Sitting beside Cadillac, Steve watched with morbid fascination as the first of the M’Call braves knelt before Rolling-Stone, the clan elder, and presented him with an arrow. Each brave was required to make his own, whittling the straight shaft and honing the four blades of the iron head to razor sharpness. Rolling-Stone held the arrow above his head, flexing the shaft as he displayed it to the watching clan. This, Cadillac explained, was to prove that the shaft had not been weakened. The warrior then stretched out his arms towards two clan elders who knelt facing him on either side and laid the palms of his hands on theirs, fingers stretched out and closed lightly together at shoulder height.
‘Watch his hands,’ whispered Cadillac.
Steve fixed his attention upon them. The drumbeats and the clicking from wooden percussive instruments became sharper, more insistent, assuming an almost hypnotic intensity. They were joined by an unseen chorus in the darkness beyond the fire.
The kneeling brave filled his chest with air and let out a great shout. ‘Hey-YAHH!’
With one swift movement, Rolling-Stone drove the arrow point through the left cheek of the brave and out through the right. Steve shuddered at the thought of how it must feel. He expected the brave’s hands to ball into fists but he bore the pain stoically. His outstretched fingers quivered a little but his palms did not lift from those of the elders. The brave rose and turned to face the clan, arms still outstretched, his teeth clamped firmly on the shaft of the arrow. Keeping his elbows at shoulder height, he swept his outstretched palms slowly forward then inwards and gripped the head and tail of the arrow. With a sharp downward jerk, he broke it between his teeth, pulled the two ends of the shaft out of his face, held them aloft with a showman’s flourish, then stepped forward and spat the remaining piece into the bonfire.
‘HEYY-YAHH!!’ roared
the clan. Their chorus of approval merged harmoniously with the sonorous background chant.
Steve sat there, silently appalled.
One by one, the M’Call warriors who had been at the Battle of the Now and Then River stepped forward to bite the arrow. Motor-Head, Black-Top and Steel-Eye, Cadillac’s surviving clan-brothers, then Hershey-Bar, Henry-K, Average-White, Curved-Air, Osi-Bisa, Seven-Up, Burger-King, Gulf-Oil, Camp-David, and the rest whose names of power Steve did not yet know.
After fifty or so braves had had their faces skewered, just as Steve had overcome his initial revulsion, he witnessed a new horror. Good-Year, a warrior who Steve guessed was in his mid-twenties – with Mutes it was hard to tell – crapped out. As Rolling-Stone plunged the arrow through his cheek, Good-Year balled his fists and half-closed his outstretched arms with a convulsive jerk. The kneeling clan elders on either side of him grabbed hold of his wrists, stood up and pulled his arms behind his back, forcing his head down. Almost before Steve had time to realise what was happening, another clan-elder stepped out of the darkness behind Rolling-Stone, lifted a hefty stone hammer and brought it down with tremendous force on the back of Good-Year’s skull.
‘Christopher Columbus!’ breathed Steve. He grabbed Cadillac’s arm. ‘Don’t any of these guys get a second chance?’
Cadillac didn’t answer. Four warriors who had passed the test with flying colours leapt up, grabbed Good-Year’s body by the arms and legs and threw it onto the fire. There was a shower of sparks and a hideous crackling noise. The flames leapt higher. The drumming, the clicking and the chanting rose to fever pitch.
Cloud Warrior Page 23