Cloud Warrior

by Patrick Tilley

  Steve checked out the bathing party again then started rummaging through the lidded baskets. If he had to leave in a hurry, whoever came in after him would not immediately spot there had been an intruder. He found the pack of survival rations in the second basket and the water purifier pack at the bottom of the fifth. Steve kissed both items happily then slid them into the pockets provided on his trousers. Air pistol… Steve hurriedly ransacked the other baskets. Nope. Maybe that was too much to hope for… Map… that was the thing he really wanted. Where the hell was that? He reached for the nearest bundle of clothing, and stuck his hand into the loosely coiled layers of leather and fur to see if anything had been hidden inside. Nothing. He tossed it roughly back into place and grabbed another. A chill warning ripple ran up his spine. He threw himself forward towards the door flap, opened it a fraction – and saw the naked Mute girl walking towards the hut, pushing her wet hair away from her face and twisting it round on the nape of her neck.

  For a split second, Steve lay open-mouthed, spellbound. Her skin was…

  Tearing his eyes away, he looked past her to see Cadillac climbing out of the pool. Christopher! He was trapped! Steve looked over his shoulder and considered cutting his way out of the back of the hut by opening up one of the bound seams. But that would give the game away and besides, he might not get out in time. Steve’s mind went into overdrive. He looked desperately around the hut. Hide… but where? Under the furs? No – that’s pathetic, Brickman. Not enough cover. Try and remember, you’re a warrior now. Let’s have a little dignity. It would not do to be discovered hiding under the bed – especially in the middle of some heavy action. The answer came. Brazen it out. But wait! Get rid of the stuff! You don’t want to be caught thieving. Steve hurriedly pulled the ration pack and the purifier kit out of his pockets, crammed them into the nearest basket, threw on the lid, reached up, grabbed a wild plum from a bunch hanging from a hut pole and dived onto the bearskins.

  The door flap was pushed aside and the Mute girl entered. She went down on one knee and froze as she caught sight of Steve lying there nonchalantly, legs crossed, and one hand behind his neck.

  Heart pounding, Steve slowly extended his other hand towards the Mute girl and offered her the plum. ‘I saved one for you.’

  She didn’t say anything. She just moved inside far enough to let the door flap close behind her.

  ‘Go on, eat it,’ continued Steve, trying to hide the slight tremor in his voice. ‘The others tasted real good.’

  The Mute just looked at him steadily. Now she was this close, Steve could see that she was not just a pretty face. This lump was no soft touch. The strong, clear, ice-blue eyes set in the firm, well-boned face had a surprising depth. They radiated not only an unnerving intelligence but also a hint of danger – the kind of shadowy menace you felt when looking down the three barrels of a loaded rifle.

  And her skin was now…

  I don’t believe it, thought Steve.

  They gazed at each other for what seemed a long time but which, in reality, was only two or three seconds, then the Mute took the plum from Steve’s hand, ate half of it, pulled the stone out with her white, even teeth and gave the other half back to Steve.

  I’m winning, thought Steve. ‘Thank you. Listen – your –’

  As the words left his mouth, the basket he’d hidden the gear in toppled off a roll of clothing, and spilled its contents onto a mat beside the Mute. She didn’t need to say anything.

  He knew she knew neither item should have been in that particular basket. And she knew he knew she knew. There was nothing else for Steve to do but go on chewing his half of the plum and wait for her next move.

  The Mute girl slowly picked up the ration pack and the water purifying kit then, quite unexpectedly, placed them within Steve’s reach. Putting a finger to her lips, she motioned him to remain where he was, gathered up two rolled grass mats and ducked out through the door flap. Mastering his surprise, Steve grabbed the two packages and slipped them quickly into the thigh pockets of his trousers.

  Fifteen seconds later, the Mute girl came back in, taking care not to throw the door flap wide open. Rummaging quickly through a pile of stuff at the back of the hut that Steve had not had time to search she pulled out a folded wad of plasfilm and dropped it on Steve’s chest.

  Steve picked it up gingerly, hardly able to believe his good fortune. Fazetti’s air navigation map! His return ticket home! In his excitement, he opened his mouth to loose off a rebel yell but, before he could utter a sound, the Mute girl clamped a firm hand over his lips. Holding his head down on the furs, she leant across him and retrieved a rectangular, woven casket that lay against the skin wall of the hut.

  Steve grabbed hold of her wrist and pulled her hand away from his mouth. ‘What’s your name?’ he whispered. ‘Tell me. I have to know!’

  The Mute girl gazed down at him, with the hint of a smile at the corners of her lips. Impossible to tell what she was thinking. ‘I am Clearwater, first-born of Thunder-Bird out of Sun-Dance,’ she whispered.

  Steve tapped the pocket containing the ration pack and held up the map. ‘These are great gifts. I shall not forget.’

  ‘These things are not from me. They come from the hands of Talisman.’ Her voice took on a new urgency. ‘You must go!’

  ‘Yes, but how?’ mouthed Steve.

  Clearwater pointed to the door flap, swept her forefinger round to the back of the hut then put her hands together to form the wings of a bird taking flight. ‘When you hear me sing.’

  Steve nodded and stowed the map in another of his pockets as Clearwater went out through the door flap carrying the rectangular basket. It was one that he had opened during his hasty search. It contained six pots of thick, coloured paste: One of them was black, the others were various shades of brown. His examination of the basket’s contents had been so fleeting he had not understood their purpose – until now.

  Steve got to his knees and inched his way over to the door and peeked through the flap. Cadillac sat with his back to the hut. Clearwater knelt behind him painting a line of black dye onto his shoulder blade with a little stick. Steve stared at them, unable to accept the evidence of his own eyes. Cadillac’s overall skin colour was now a deep copper bronze; Clearwater’s was a velvety olive-brown – just a shade or two darker than Steve’s own sister, Roz. The random pattern produced by defective mutant genes which was the indelible mark of the Plainfolk and their Southern brothers was, in the case of Cadillac and Clearwater, nothing more than a camouflage to enable them to merge with the rest of the clan. Physically and mentally, Cadillac was now indistinguishable from a Tracker. He was articulate, intelligent and his memory was probably superior even though, like Mr Snow, he could not read or write. There had been no opportunity to test Clearwater’s memory but she had demonstrated a clear ability to think fast and was probably equally intelligent. It was incredible. They were – they were just like – real people!

  Clearwater began to sing softly.

  Thrusting all thoughts of this astonishing discovery and its ramifications to the back of his mind, Steve eased the doorflap open, ducked out and got to his feet with slow-motion movements. To his heightened senses the rustle of cloth against skin, of boot against grass, and the pounding of his heart against his ribs seemed magnified to deafening proportions. Cadillac must be able to hear him! Must know he was there! But no. Incredibly, the young wordsmith did not turn his head, did not budge an inch. He just sat there crosslegged, his upturned palms resting on his thighs. Clearwater glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes met Steve’s briefly then she turned back to her task. Running her hand up into Cadillac’s hair, she bent his head forward, and began painting the pattern of black dye up onto his neck. Hardly daring to breathe, Steve edged round to the rear of the hut, slipped out under the screen of leaves, crawled back through the ferns and in under the low branches of the surrounding pines.

  It was fortunate that the sight of the two extra bedding rolls in Clearwater’s hu
t had reminded Steve that he should proceed with the utmost caution. Having gone to some lengths to prevent him learning of Clearwater’s presence the M’Calls were bound to have taken steps to guard her against unwelcome intruders – such as himself. And now that he had discovered the true nature of their prize exhibit he was in even greater danger from his shadowy adversaries within the clan. His impulsive actions had placed him in double jeopardy for he knew he would not rest until he had seen her again. But before that could happen, he had to slip past any guards that might be around and get back to the settlement before sundown.

  Trailcraft was not the Tracker’s strong suit but the extra adrenalin generated by his encounter with Clearwater raised Steve’s level of awareness so that he was able to tune into the sounds of the forest. His uncanny sixth sense functioned in a way it never had before. He heard the overground for the first time; was able to distinguish the rustle of leaves overhead from leaves being crushed underfoot; was able to differentiate between the shrill cries of birds and the birdlike calls exchanged by a patrol of Mutes; was able to discern their movement north along the slope towards him. When the trees opened out sufficiently for him to proceed on foot he moved silently and swiftly across and away from their line of advance towards the stream. He planned to retrace his path down to the edge of the plateau, using the constant rippling cascade of sound to cover his progress along its bed, hidden by the wall of ferns on either side. At the tongue-stone where it began its plunge onto the slope below he would turn right and pick up one of the trails back to the settlement. After that, his biggest problem would be trying to pretend that nothing extraordinary had happened to him.

  Reaching the stream, Steve turned right and paused, dropping down behind cover to check the ground to the south. Nothing moved. His adrenalin-charged senses noticed that a curious stillness had crept over the woods but there was no sign of the Mute patrol. It was only when he was about to plunge through the tangle of ferns lining the bank that his plans started to unravel. As he rose, and pivoted round, leaning forward from the waist, he felt a rush of cold air across the back of his neck and heard a loud zzz-jjhonkk. Glancing round, he banged his forehead against a crossbow bolt embedded in the tree he had been crouching against. Close! If he had been a fraction of a second slower in moving he would have been skewered through the neck. Steve didn’t stop to see who fired the bolt; the fact that they had missed meant they were some distance away – and that meant he was in with a chance. He changed direction abruptly, dashed up the slope instead of down, leapt noisily across the stream and went crashing through the ferns into the woods beyond. As he ran, he flailed his arms wildly in the hope of persuading his pursuers that he was fleeing in blind panic. Behind him, he heard the Mutes begin to whoop and whistle as they gave chase. Steve zig-zagged northwards some eighty yards, then turned sharp right, hurtled down the slope in a series of flying leaps and somersaults, turned sharp right again, and doubled back towards the stream, crawling on his belly through the undergrowth. He had put up some good times over the assault course during his years at the Flight Academy but this was probably his fastest eighty-yard tiger crawl ever. Plunging headlong into the shallow water, he clawed his way frantically up over the stepped rock and loose pebble bed. Reaching a deeper section where the water covered most of his body, Steve wedged himself against the nearside bank under a loose fringe of ferns and broad-leaved grasses that hung in graceful curves with their tips dragging conveniently in the water.

  His ruse worked. Keeping his head down with only his eyes above water he saw the whooping Mutes leap across the stream higher up the slope and race on into the trees on the other side. One, two, three Bears brandishing knife-sticks, the fourth carrying a crossbow, three She-Wolves. Seven… Zip! How many more of them were there? Another Bear carrying a knife leapt across the stream and ran after his companions. Eight… Steve knew he daren’t hang on too long. If the lead Mutes didn’t catch sight of him soon it wouldn’t take them long to work out what had happened. And then they’d be spearing him out of the stream with those knife-sticks – the way they did with trout. He was on his hands and knees with his back half out of the water when two more Mutes leapt across the stream with a shrill whoop almost directly over his head. Steve hit the bottom nose first. Christopher! He surfaced slowly and caught sight of a pair of She-Wolves crossing further up. Twelve. Two hands. That had to be it. Move, Brickman!

  Steve leapt to his feet and plunged down the bed of the stream, blindly leaping off the series of rock ledges without checking what lay below. Several times he lost his footing on the slippery moss-covered rocks and fell awkwardly, crashing against treetrunks lining the stream, bouncing off boulders, and sprawling headfirst in the water. His newly-mended ribs took a terrible pounding; his elbows, knees and chin were badly grazed but he didn’t stop to inspect the damage and, amazingly, he didn’t feel any pain. He just picked himself up and pressed on, stumbling and weaving his way downstream like a drunken sailor in San Diego on a Saturday night in the myth-shrouded years of the Old Time.

  Reaching the tongue-stone he staggered sideways out of the water and sank to his knees. Finding that too painful he sat back, drew his legs up and tried hugging them. That’s when he found out that his elbows were on fire. He lay back on the ground in an effort to recover his breath and found that hurt even more. Sitting up, he pulled off his sodden T-shirt and combat boots, then stood up and stepped out of his camouflaged trousers and underpants, twisting and beating the water out for the second time that day. That hurt too. Still, it was in a good cause. He pulled on his damp clothes, fixed the scabbard of his combat knife through the loops on his trouser leg, and stowed the map and the other items Clearwater had given him back in the thigh pockets. Great… He put his right foot up on a nearby rock and buckled the side straps on his boot. With the sun now behind the far mountains the air had become suddenly chill. Steve swapped feet and began to buckle up his left boot, allowing himself a congratulatory smile at the way he had evaded the Mute patrol. He stamped his feet on the ground to settle them comfortably inside his boots and clapped his hands together happily. Okay. Time to hit the trail. It was at this moment that he suddenly realised that he had left his quarterstaff lying somewhere outside Clearwater’s hut –together with its carrying sling.

  Now that, thought Steve, is a real pain…

  Before he reached the settlement, Steve stepped off the trail, wrapped up the ration pack and water purifying kit in broad leaves, buried them in a hole between the roots of a tree and cut a small blaze-mark on the trunk with his knife. He had already decided that he would hide the map between one of the double-layered mats that served to make up the floor beneath his fur bedding roll. Satisfied that the ground showed no sign of having been disturbed Steve blocked out the jabbing pain in his knees and headed for home at a fast jog.

  Outside the hut hidden by the screen of yellow leaves, Clearwater laboured lovingly to recreate the swirling body pattern that Cadillac had adopted as his mark. When it was finished, it would be his turn to paint her body. Although Clearwater’s brain was not the equal of a wordsmiths, both she and Cadillac had received from Mo-Town the gift of a photographic memory which included the ability to project a mind-image of the pattern onto each other’s body. Cadillac’s back was like a blank canvas on which Clearwater could ‘see’ the exact area of every colour. All she had to do was fill them in.

  As she worked, Clearwater thought about the cloud warrior who had been sent to them by Talisman and who the Sky Voices, through Mr Snow, had named the Death-Bringer. She had first seen his body when it had been brought in, broken and bloody from the cropfields. He had not seen her, for his mind slept, and she had been sent away before he awoke. The clan elders had told her that she must live apart from the rest of the M’Calls while the cloud warrior was held captive. He was not to discover that she had been born with a smooth, one-coloured skin like his. The body of a sand-burrower.

  Like Cadillac, she had suffered as a young child becau
se of her ‘otherness’. It was they who, in their perfection, were the ugly ducklings, and it was their shared feeling of wretchedness that had brought them closer together. Although he was already weighed down with the task of absorbing Mr Snow’s prodigious knowledge, the young Cadillac had always come to her defence when she had been taunted by the other Cubs. She, in her turn, had aided him, hurling herself upon his tormentors and pummelling them with her tiny fists. When she was seven, and old enough to understand that there were other worlds above the blue roof of the sky and below the grass at her feet, Mr Snow had explained that her body had been shaped thus because she too had been born to serve Talisman, the Thrice-Gifted One. She had accepted this and drawn comfort from it but had not truly believed until the recent unveiling of her powers as a summoner, and Cadillac’s new-found ability to draw pictures from the seeing stones. Mr Snow had spoken the truth: the path of the future was already drawn. Most of the Plainfolk could only see that path one step at a time but Cadillac had the gift of seership. When his skill increased and his mind was ready, he would be able to pierce the time-clouds and see what lay ahead.

  Mr Snow knew some of these things already because the Sky Voices spoke through him. They, The Masters of All, lived in a world whose horizons were bounded by the beginning and the end of time, on a mountain so high they could see below them all that had been and all that would be. The Sky Voices had told Mr Snow that, despite the wishes of the clan elders, her path would meet that of the Death-Bringer. Never doubting his wisdom, she had done exactly what he had told her to do. Even so, she felt troubled at having to conceal her thoughts and actions from Cadillac. For had they not agreed to exchange the blood-kiss? Had they not been as one between the fox and the bear? Was he – if not the strongest – the bravest, most valiant and stalwart of the M’Call warriors? And if he was not yet as wise as Mr Snow, was not his tongue like sharp iron, and his head like a bright star? Did her heart not warm at the thought of him? Had she not pledged to guard him through all her days?