“Hands to follow Ahk-lut!” Max’s and Eviane’s hands shot up. And Charlene’s, and three others. Bowles had abstained, and so had Trianna.
They would go to Sedna. Underwater. Claustrophobia and sea monsters . . .
The sober, round-faced men and women around the sweat lodge nodded their heads as if at a prearranged signal. They rattled segments of bone, seal-hide drums, whittled-ivory percussion instruments, strange musical devices that produced a flow of sound like nothing in the modern world. Rattling, lilting, now strident, now coaxing, but always seething with urgency.
“You,” Martin said, pointing to each of the refugees in turn. “You who are young must go, and right this terrible wrong.”
“What happened to your own men?” Max asked softly.
Martin’s eyes dropped. “They crossed the veil of Seelumkadchluk, where the sky meets the sea. Some went to Sedna and some followed the Cabal. The most powerful of our angakoks carried the most powerful of our talismans. None have returned. We do not know why.”
Kevin clucked, punching something into a little hand-held keyboard. “This bodes not well . . .”
Martin ignored him. “But your power is greater. You may find them as allies on the other side.”
Or not. Eviane looked around at her companions. Overweight and soft . . . and youthful, with the exception of Robin Bowles, the man who had saved their lives in San Francisco. But they looked inspired. Could a dozen chubby but game neophytes match the unknown powers of these renegade Raven-spawn?
The fire had nearly died. One by one the old Inuit rose and began to dance around the coals. The walls of the sweat lodge shuddered with the low chants as they circled, their miming at first cryptic and then discernible as hunting and fighting movements.
An old, old man hopped around the fire in a crouch, as if perched next to an ice hole, awaiting a fish. Behind him, another grandfather cast a spear, and another raised an imaginary rifle to his shoulder, squeezed the trigger, spun and rolled on the floor in simulated death-throes before springing up and repeating the ritual.
Martin threw a handful of powders onto the fire. It flared to new life, and threw a ghastly emerald light against the walls. A handful of dull green embers floated down, were borne up by air currents, and then settled down again.
One by one, the old people sat. Snow Goose stood, wearing only a thin undergarment that might have been stitched from gut. Her body under it, although zaftig, moved with practiced grace. Eviane’s hands touched her own body self-consciously. She wanted to move like that. She remembered . . . faintly . . . a time when she had.
The girl writhed beseechingly, beckoning to each of them. Max Sands jumped grinning to his feet and began to dance around the fire, too close behind Snow Goose for Eviane’s comfort.
Eviane stood, embarrassed in her underwear. She gritted her teeth and began to dance, moving with the flow of the pipes, the rattles and drums. Even though the musical implements seemed like relics from another, earlier time, they blended together in surprisingly complex and precise rhythm.
One at a time, the others stood. The pilot. Charlene. The Guardsman. Hebert the soldier. Half-naked they danced around the fire. And as they did, Eviane felt her body pulse to the music.
Her sense of self, of midcentury mid-America, began to fade. There was no formal ceremony, no verbal acknowledgment or speech, but she knew that the Inuit had accepted them, had welcomed the refugees into their family.
The long shadows played upon the walls, and the music, the exertion, and the swirling smoke began to weave their subtle magic. The refugees took their place around the fire, twisting and hopping. Eviane gasped heavily for breath, blind to her exhaustion, unmindful of her ungainly heaviness, lost in the sheer exhilaration of it all.
For Eviane it was total ecstasy, the very best that life had offered her in a long, long time.
Chapter Nine
BAPTIZED IN COMBAT
The world was blind with snow as Max Sands crawled out of the qasgiq. The frozen ground was rough on hands and knees. Other Adventurers popped out of the tunnel to sprawl gracelessly on the snow.
The sun was a pale disk daubed in watercolors upon a paler sky. Tiny flakes of ice flurried like flower petals driven by the wind.
Max stretched his back. He was cramped and sore.
A ragged chorus of barks split the air, and a dog sled appeared around the curve of the lodge, driven by an old woman. The six dogs pulling the sled described a semicircle, slowed to a crawl, and stopped. The sled carried one soot-stained crate from the plane and an additional pile of equipment.
Bowles and the Guardsman went to the sled. The Guardsman opened a sheathed knife and went to work on the crate. A slat creaked in protest, then pulled loose with a long, thin whine.
“Yeah!” Max hefted out one of the rifles, checked its action—long-forgotten ROTC training flashed to mind—then passed it to Orson.
The rifles were relayed hand to hand like fire brigade buckets. When the last weapon had been distributed, the National Guardsman balanced a gun in one big fist, then brandished it overhead. “Is there anyone who doesn’t know how to use one of these?”
Some of the refugees paused, then raised uncertain hands.
“All right. These are Remington thirty-caliber gas-operated semiautomatic carbines—”
Max sidled over to Eviane, ready to lend assistance. She didn’t need any. As the Guardsman called out instructions she worked with manic intensity, with a mixture of dread and fascination that was almost alarming to watch. During a pause in the instructions she relaxed, and then looked up at Max, through
Max, as if he wasn’t there at all. The bullets in her hand were blanks, and she was not his enemy; but there was something in her eyes, something in the way she gripped the gun that made him feel queasy.
“—we don’t know what we’re heading into, but we do know that it’s dangerous: we don’t want to lose any of our own.” There were sober nods of agreement from the others, but Eviane stared fixedly ahead, her eyes on the snow-blown horizon, or beyond.
Damn, she was really into this. Had she Gamed before, in the real Games? Once her hands closed around the rifle she didn’t seem to want to release it. Her reluctance created a neat topological puzzle as she tried to pull on her backpack.
“Need a little help, there?” Max volunteered. “Why don’t you let me hold that?”
She clutched the rifle defensively for a moment. He watched her face tighten and then reluctantly relax. “Yes. Thank you very much.”
She handed him her rifle. She shrugged into her pack, bent, and fastened on her snowshoes. “Check me, will you?”
“Nothing looks broken from here. Maybe a closer look.” He ran a finger along her shoulder.
A smile struggled with her businesslike expression, won for a moment, then fluttered nervously and died. “You’re nice,” she said shyly. “I hope we make it out of this.”
“Stick with me, kid,” he said, giving it his best Bogart.. “I’m strong enough for both of us.”
She took the rifle, twirled heel-toe, and was gone.
He knew he was pushing it. Bulky, flirtatious, helpful Max Sands. Some women seek a nonthreatening man. He could usually tell, but he couldn’t tell with Eviane. Maybe she didn’t know herself.
He could switch out of that “harmless” mode. He could do a Jekyll-Hyde and become “Mr. Mountain,” but he didn’t want to.
God, he was tired of Mr. Mountain and his lavender leotards.
Distantly, he heard a playful announcer singing about “purple Mountain’s majesty—”
With a little help from Dream Park’s magic, he just might retire that role forever.
Snow Goose knelt by the lead dogs to hug a muscular light gray husky with reddish highlights in his fur. They nuzzled each other like old friends.
Max hunkered down next to her, scratched the back of the dog’s neck, peered out toward the horizon. The weather was clearing a bit, but a curtain of snow rolled
across the horizon, reminding him of an Arizona dust storm.
Snow Goose said, “This is Takuka, the Red Bear.”
“Hail, O Bear.”
Red Bear sniffed at Max, found him mildly unobjectionable, and then turned back to adoring Snow Goose. She said, “He and Otter are our last lead dogs. All of the others just ciphered. Disappeared. Lost.”
As if on cue, Red Bear whined disconsolately.
“We’ll get ‘em back. We’ll get everyone back.”
She nodded silently, then stood.
Most of the gear had been tightly packed onto the sled, then bound with tarps and oilskins. Antibiotics, coils of thin line, hard-weather gear, food. The dogs came to attention, shuffling and whining at Snow Goose impatiently, as if awaiting a signal.
Martin the Arctic Fox emerged from the qasgiq tunnel. Old age and despair seemed to have filled his joints with rust: his neck virtually creaked as he scanned them. He pulled a bag out after him.
He pulled out a fistful of little leather pouches on leather thongs. “Hang around your necks,” he said. “You are angakoks now.”
Again he reached into the bag. “These are things of power,” he said. He pressed a bird’s foot into Max’s hand. Max took it, grimacing. “Owl claw. Give strong fists.”
He gave a withered Caribou’s ear to Bowles, who smiled and bowed. “Make you quick of hearing.” He pulled a crumpled skin from the bag, opened it to show that it was crusted with black soot, and gave it to Kevin. “For strength. Soot is stronger than fire.” For Charlene he had a swatch of white fur. “Sealskin. Hide you.” Kevin whipped out his little computer and entered the new information soberly.
He moved along the Gamers until the bag was empty. Then Martin spoke to them all. “You from the hot countries are our final hope. If you cannot prevail, all is lost. I trust the Gods will grant you victory. Seek the Thunderbirds. Only they can take you to the underworld.”
Snow Goose hugged her father. Captain Grant took his place at the sled, and cracked his whip once. The sled began to move. The huskies snapped the reins taut, straining against the inertia of the sled. Slowly, it began to slide across the field, toward a blank, wind-whipped horizon.
Some of the Adventurers were puffing, but none were falling back. Max was easily able to keep pace with the sled, staying abreast of Snow Goose. He asked, “What’s next?”
She smiled enigmatically. “We’re off for Seelumkadchluk, where the sky meets the sea. Daddy did a number for us, opened the path.”
He peered out across the snow. It was as desolate as a salt flat, and not much more inviting. “I don’t see anything special.”
“You will.”
“Okay. Then what? I still don’t quite understand what we’re supposed to do.”
The wind was a faint, consistent howl around them. Hippogryph and Charlene Dula crunched through the snow to walk next to her.
“Daddy told you most of what I know. Somebody whacked Sedna out, and we have to undo it.”
“Whacked her out?” Orson puffed as he quick-walked up next to them. “You talk funny for an Eskimo.”
“Did you expect grunts and clicks? I have a master’s in Cultural Anthro from Alaska State U, Nome.” She cracked the whip again, humanely high above the backs of the trotting huskies. “That was before all of this began.”
Orson seemed a little embarrassed, but Max jumped into the gap. “Cultural Anthro. I’d think you’d be somebody’s class project. I’d love to read your thesis.”
“It does make you kind of split-brained to grow up hearing all about the spirits and the Raven, and then go off to school. When they talked about Eskimo lore in the books they might as well be talking about the Great Pumpkin. I’m not sure where I really stood. I mean, I’d seen some stuff that would weird anyone out, but the books explained everything away, made it all sound so reasonable . . .”
“Anyway, when everything came apart it was time to choose sides, and quick. Daddy thinks that I’m the best choice to help you guys survive.” She paused, reflecting. “Rephrase: I’m the only choice. You’ve kind of run out of options, you know?”
Max was enchanted.
Orson puffed, “I think I know what’s wrong with your dad.”
“Yeah, he’s sick,” Snow Goose said thoughtfully. “And poor Ahk-lut, he went completely wacko. Some of the first generation, the Raven’s children, they look like that. Something wrong with the way they were made, maybe.”
“No!” Huff. “Max, I remembered something. Her dad said that talisman”—puff—”was a satellite that fell on Canada in the eighties?”
“Okay . . . why?”
“If it’s the one I’m thinking about”—puff—”it had a nuclear plant aboard. If Martin and Ahk-lut—”
“—are both suffering from radiation poisoning. Damn good, Orson!”
“Maybe that’s where . . . magic comes from.”
Snow Goose considered. “A powerful talisman is one that has traveled a long way. When I was just a cub, I saw a Swiss army knife that had been carried from Quebec, swapped over and over. Guy traded it for a bear fur and six cases of beer. Long nights. Plenty of time to party.”
“Heh,” Orson puffed. “That skyfall talisman . . . went round and round the Earth . . . hundreds of times.” Puff; huff. “So we find the Lady Sedna. What do we do then? Or is that a secret?”
“We have to comb her hair.”
“That doesn’t sound very difficult.”
“Well, Sedna is a very choosy lady. It has to be done just right.”
“Great.” Orson called back along the line. “Hey! Is there a beautician in the house?”
Max turned to look, and that sweeping glance revealed something he hadn’t noticed before: the vista, which had stretched out endlessly only minutes before, was all beginning to change. He said, “The sun looks a little bit brighter. I don’t get it. Why would the sun be brighter now?”
The sky had cleared too. The snow had subsided to flurries. Max was sweating in his fur parka, and there were no buttons. “Looks like the snow’s letting up.”
Orson said, “So we comb Sedna’s hair. Then what?”
Snow Goose examined Orson with amusement. “You know, you’ll probably be a lot happier if you think a little bit less about what happens later, and check out what’s happening now. This isn’t exactly safe, and if you don’t stay on top of it you’re going to end up the world’s pinkest Popsicle.”
The dogs trotted heartily onward, crunching the snow underneath the treads. A faint cawing sound grew swiftly louder. Max whipped his head up as a flock of geese arced across the sky, barely a stone’s throw away. He quickly counted a dozen birds, and there might have been more.
“Bra nta canadensis,” Snow Goose smiled sadly. “Tuutangayak. My Canadian namesake. I used to love them. Almost extinct, now. My brother . . .” She paused, swallowed. “Ahk-lut taught me all about the animals. That was a long time ago.”
Orson saw an opening, and went for it. “He’s about thirty years older than you?”
“Just about. Daddy’s had three wives . . . that he’ll cop to.”
The birds swept south and disappeared into a bank of clouds. Snow Goose followed them with a wistful gaze.
It was remarkably easy to get into the spirit of it, to play to the hidden cameras. Max laid a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. “We’ll fix things, don’t worry.”
“Worry for yourself—it’s your world on the chopping block.” The pilot cracked the whip, picking up the pace slightly. Behind him, the refugees had begun to huff.
The snowshoes crunched step after step, rasping as the snow became thinner underfoot. Max stared at his feet, and then at Snow Goose in astonishment. “Dirt! I saw dirt! I was starting to think I’d never see dirt again!”
“Check behind your ears,” Orson hissed.
The dog sled dragged across the brown patches, slowed by friction. As the snow began to recede, Snow Goose reached down, flipped the sled blades up, and replaced them with
wheels. The cart wheels bumped against what he could now see was a rude path that they had followed under the snow.
The first small plants were twisting their way up through the permafrost, cracking their way through delicate rivulets of ice. Max plucked one up, rubbed a tiny leaf between two fingers, and chewed it as he walked along. The sun was warmer and brighter now, and he reveled in it. He had taken that golden disk for granted, as most people did, and as it blazed anew an indefinable depression lifted from his spirits.
He dropped back until he was shoulder to shoulder with Eviane. Her eyes were slitted, and she was watching everything around her like a nervous tiger. Something in her gaze resurrected unanswered questions. “Do you know anything about all of this that you’re not telling? Picked up on a clue or something? You’re so quiet that I can’t help but think that you’ve got a little hint for old Max.”
Her answering smile was quizzical. “Clue? I’m just trying to survive, like the rest of us.”
“I still get the feeling that I should stick with you. Does that make any sense?”
She moved a half-step away. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Ah . . .no.”
“Great.”
He started to—
Something writhed against his back, as if a sizable snake had slipped down his shirt.
His shoulders arched, and he bellowed. He reached back, clawing for the alien thing attaching itself to his shoulder blades, hooked claws reaching for his heart, fangs gnashing for his spine . . .
Something hard and cool moved in his grip. He pulled it around in front, ready for the worst horror imaginable. Ready for anything but what he saw.
“My rifle?” It wiggled in his hands, moving as if it had become a living thing. He held it out from himself, watching with awed fascination. The rifle was barely recognizable and still stretching, narrowing, taking on a new configuration under his very hands.
The barrel elongated, sharpened. The front sight flattened and the bore closed, flattened into a triangular shape. The framework butt had closed into a tube.
The Remington had become a long, barbed harpoon.
Dream Park [2] The Barsoom Project Page 10