Native Wind

by A. M. Burns

  They were going to try to meet the storm and convince it to hold off for a while. He’d done weather magic before with the shaman, but normally they didn’t have a storm breathing down their backs. As they walked up the steep trail that led out of the canyon to the grasslands above, he began to still his mind from the rush of the hunt. He’d been surprised how easily he learned to manipulate the magical energies. But he always had problems stilling his mind to get to the state to meet the spirits. This time they’d be meeting the spirit of the storm. Centering himself as they walked, he eased the rocking waves of his mind into a smooth windless lake of tranquility.

  When they reached the top of the canyon, the women had already processed most of the buffalo. Members of the tribe carried the bounty down into the canyon where they’d set up a hasty camp. On the rim it was more evident the storm was coming. Lightning played across the western sky as the dark clouds sought to block out the late afternoon sunlight. The wind harried the workers, blowing the heavy hides around like leaves as the women tried to get them clear of the buffalo. Children already burdened with what they could carry bowed to the wind as they staggered toward the trail down into the canyon.

  Singing Crow stopped as the first strong wind hit him in the face. Trey sensed his master reaching out and trying to feel where the storm was and where it was heading. With a soft sigh, the old man started walking again, heading due west, into the teeth of the storm.

  They walked about five minutes before Singing Crow stopped and sat down on a large rock where they could see down into the canyon and out over the grasslands. Trey sat down near him on a soft patch of grass, facing into the storm.

  “Follow me, Trey” was all Singing Crow said as his gray eyes closed.

  Trey let his mind fall away from his body. Deep into the earth he went, following the glowing white crow that flew ahead of him. Inside the spiritual earth, they emerged into a large cavern that was almost a twin to the grasslands where their physical bodies sat. Here the spirits of the buffalo still roamed while the wind whipped the tall grass around their legs. The spirits of the Comanche tribe were but flickers here, since they didn’t have as much of an attachment to the area as the buffalo did. There were glows of the spirits of the coyotes, foxes, and hawks that hunted the grasslands and inhabited the vast plain. Smaller were the sparks of the mice, snakes, and songbirds that flickered about. Above them rolled the massive glowing darkness of the storm.

  The white crow landed on a rock almost identical to the one Singing Crow sat on in the world above. “Spirit of the storm!” he cried out with a strong, deep voice. “I would speak to you this fine day.” At first there was no answer. Singing Crow repeated his call two more times.

  “Do I hear a little crow cawing away at the wind?” A deep bellowing voice rolled down upon them.

  “We do call to you, Old Man of the Storms.” Trey added his voice to the call as the wind began to whip around them.

  “You do not sound so much like a crow,” the voice replied.

  Shivers ran through Trey as he felt something powerful looking at him. He’d never drawn the attention of anything as powerful as the Old Man of the Storms. One of the earliest lessons he’d learned was not to let spirits sense your fear. Squaring his shoulders, he pushed his fear back.

  “Sounds can be deceiving, like the little bird in the dried leaves that sounds like the rattlesnake,” the crow answered the storm from his rock.

  “Or the crow who tries to speak like a wise man,” the storm teased as the wind lessened.

  A figure appeared on the horizon, walking slowly toward them. Trey tensed. Never before had he seen the Old Man of the Storms. Singing Crow had told him of the fierce spirit who rode the storms as they crossed the world. Like most spirits he could be bargained with. It was said his bargains came with a high price. Like most of the elemental spirits, his powers were very frightening. And he wasn’t known for his patience. With each step the grasses blew flat as the winds whirled around him.

  Silver sparkled in the tips of storm spirit’s long black hair. Singing Crow had told him about how the Old Man of the Storms changed his form with each season, moving from young man in the early year to a stooped old grandfather by the end of the year. The silver told the tale of frost and snows to come as the year traveled toward winter. His skin was mostly smooth, but crow’s feet grew at the corners of his dark, brooding eyes.

  “So, old crow, I suppose you and this youngster have come to beg me not to rain on the great bounty your hunters have gathered this day,” the storm spirit said with the voice of thunder.

  “Storm, surely you know that if you let us get all the meat of the hunt persevered, then when winter is here, we will be less likely to ask you not to make the snow as deep,” the white crow replied.

  “Your people always ask for less snow, old crow,” the old man snarled. “This year will be no exception. What else would you offer if I were to move my storm away from your people?”

  “I will commission a fine painting on my tipi in your honor so that all may know of the great benevolence of the Old Man of the Storms,” the white crow offered.

  The old man’s laughter sounded like rolling thunder. “Old crow, the skin of your tipi is so crowded now with homages to the spirits who have been foolish enough to parlay with you that my image would be lost amongst the crowd. No, I think not.”

  “We could hold a dance in your honor. Our warriors, hunters, and maidens would dance and sing until dawn to show their gratitude of your greatness.” The white crow bowed his head solemnly.

  “Would any of those maidens welcome a dance with me?” The Old Man of the Storms sounded almost sad. “I think not. Many dances have been held in my honor and never have any of the young maidens, stealthy hunters, or mighty warriors wanted to dance with me. So for me, what good would a dance in my honor be?”

  Trey knew this offer and counteroffer was just their way of testing each other. He also knew that a dance in the honor of any of the spirits granted them power. Dances, prayers, rituals, fear—these were the food of the spirits. Singing Crow had just offered the Old Man of the Storms a feast as grand as the Comanche tribe would enjoy, once the kill was stored away. Even though he was still learning the ways of the spirits, Trey suspected the storm spirit was up to something.

  The Old Man of the Storms studied the world walkers for a moment and scratched his smooth chin. “Perhaps you can give me half of the great feast you have prepared before you.”

  “What good would that do us?” The white crow coughed. “Even if you do not bargain with us and the rains come to the plains, we will lose half the feast. And what good is food to a spirit?”

  “Then let half of your horses run free. I always like the way my winds blow through their manes and tails as they run free on the plains. Release them so I have more to watch as I soar back and forth over the grasslands, and I will turn my rains to the north and leave you in peace.”

  The white crow laughed. “And leave my tribe stranded here, left with only their dogs and their feet to carry them to the winter camp? Sorry, Old Man, but I cannot agree to that.”

  Trey bit his tongue to keep from laughing. He wondered what the Old Man of the Storms was after. There had to be something the spirit wanted from them, and by the unwritten rules of the little game they played, he had to get around to it with the next request.

  “Well, that would just be cruel of me. Remember my kindness the next time mud clogs the trails you use as you follow the herds, old crow.” The storm man paused and sighed. “It is said the hunters of the Comanche tribe are some of the best in the world. Perhaps one or two of them would be willing to help me out for a short while, only a moon or two.”

  “What would the great Old Man of the Storms need help with that our humble hunters might provide?” the crow asked with a gleam in his eye.

  The spirit lowered himself down and sat on the ground in front of the crow, a sure sign the serious negotiations were about to begin. Everything tha
t had been said before was just a game to set the scene for the actual bargaining so they and the storm could get what they wanted. The white crow seemed to settle a bit himself, with an unlikely smile on his beak.

  “This spring I made a bargain. Nothing of real consequence at the time.” From a gray pouch that hung from his white belt, the spirit drew a long pipe. He packed a pinch of tobacco into it and lit it with a small spark of lightning that danced off the tips of his fingers. He took an extended draw off the pipe, then turned the stem to the crow.

  The crow’s beak was not really designed for fitting around the pipe, but he still managed to take a deep draw off it and sent a little plume of smoke circling his head while the spirit held the pipe for him.

  The spirit and the pipe seemed to ignore Trey for the moment. Trey was reminded of the treaty negotiations between tribes for hunting rights as the pipe passed between the two. The pipe would pass between the chiefs of the tribes while they worked out the details of the treaty. It all appeared very civilized.

  “As I do from time to time, I ran into this dragon. She and I spent a bit of time together, rather entertaining all in all as dragons tend to be. They have such great tales and are the most wonderful host. If you have never spent time with one, you really must.”

  Trey could only remember hearing rumor of one dragon in the area the Comanche traveled in, the one who lived on Bald Peak. She was the reason the tribe didn’t travel in that area since he had joined them. There was something whispered from time to time about a connection between him and her. He tried to be nonchalant as he listened intently to what the spirit said. One thing his teacher had drilled into his head was never let a spirit you are talking to know you are excited about something they said. Just like a chief never let the opposing chief know the negotiations were going the way he wanted them to.

  “Well, one evening, after a particularly enjoyable meal,” the Old Man of the Storms continued, “the dragon asked a small favor of me. I was in a particularly good mood, so I agreed to help her out. It would’ve been very disrespectful of me to decline her request, after she had been such an accommodating host, and it was such a small thing, really.”

  “And the little acorn grows into the mighty oak,” the white crow muttered under his breath but loud enough to be heard.

  The storm spirit ignored him and continued with his tale. “This past summer has been a particularly busy season for me, in case you haven’t noticed the rich green grass my rains have brought to the plains and the mountains. Even with the white man killing the herds, the ones that survive have flourished. Well, with everything I kept going, my favor to the dragon was pushed to the back of my mind until she so kindly reminded me of it last moon when I was bringing the first snows of the year to Bald Peak. I asked her if it would be acceptable to get someone else to complete the favor for me since I have been so busy this year.” The spirit paused to take another long drag off the pipe.

  The white crow took the pause as an opportunity to ask a question. “So, most busy storm spirit, what was this favor you owe to the dragon of Bald Peak?”

  The Old Man of the Storms waved a dismissive hand. “As I said, it was really nothing at all. Any of your most-adept hunters will have no problem completing it. And the dragon will be most grateful. She might even offer a favor of her own to the one or ones who complete it for her. I’d just be happy to be rid of the debt. So happy, in fact, that I would guarantee clear skies to the Comanche tribe as they travel to their winter camp.”

  “That is mighty generous of the most busy storm spirit, for a hunter or two to complete a simple favor you owe to a dragon.” The white crow eyed the spirit suspiciously.

  “It would be the least I could do for such good friends as the Comanche.” He took a pull of the pipe and let the smoke circle around his head a moment. It reminded Trey of the clouds that sometimes circled the top of a mountain.

  “So.” The white crow peered at the Old Man of the Storms over the sharp ridge of his beak. “What would this favor be?”

  “It seems that earlier this spring, about the time there were a lot of eastern brigands around the Bald Peak area, her daughter disappeared. Now this isn’t a big issue since, normally, she can keep an eye on her offspring with no problem. But right now she has another egg in the nest and can’t go looking for the kid. She normally wouldn’t worry as the youngster has been around for a while, but she hasn’t seen or heard from her in many months. The little one left abruptly, and that is a bit long for even a dragon to go without speaking to her mother. Basically you just need to find the girl and get her to go see her mother.” He swung the pipe away from the crow again and took a long drag on it again. “See, nothing major, just a bit of tracking, which any of your most wonderful hunters should find almost boring.”

  “Do you know where I should tell them to begin looking?” the white crow asked cautiously. “If I agree to your bargain.”

  “Well, if the lass was following the brigands or her disappearance was in anyway related to the brigands, they headed north and then west. Most of them have been seen harassing other easterners around the Valley of the Mist. It might give you a point to start from.” The old man tapped the bowl of the pipe on the heel of his moccasin.

  The white crow glanced at Trey, who inclined his head slightly. “Very well, in exchange for you drawing your storms to the north while we finish preparing our kill for transport to the winter camp, and your assurance of clear skies during the trip to the winter camp, I will have two of my best hunters go and find the dragon’s daughter, and they will either return her to the dragon or return to the dragon with tales of their quest. How will they know the girl when they find her, other than she is a dragon?”

  The Old Man of the Storms stood and nodded. “As always, old crow, you strike a hard bargain. It’ll be hard for them to identify the dragon’s child for, like the special one of your hunters, she can be anything or anyone, but her eyes are always golden like the sun and her hair is the blue of the midnight sky.” The spirit bowed to the crow and turned to go. “Safe travels until you come, as you always do, to beg for less snow or clear roads. Next time bring one of those lovely maidens with you, and we will see if she is willing to dance with an old man like me for a boon for her tribe.” Thunderous laughter rolled again across the otherworld plain and the spirit was gone. The glowing darkness diminished, and the storm rolled off toward the north.

  3

  DRUMS STILL echoed down the narrow canyon as the sun peeked over the eastern rim. Gray Talon yawned and tried to roll over, but Trey’s weight across his chest held him in place. They had danced with the other hunters until late. The moon had already begun her journey through the underworld in the west when Trey led Gray Talon away from the fire and toward the edge of the camp where others retreated to get a bit of sleep so they could continue preparations for the journey to the winter camp the next day.

  Trey and Singing Crow’s news brought almost as much joy as the successful hunt when the menacing clouds departed to the north and the hunters continued to clear away the buffalo they so desperately needed. With the news of the bargain Singing Crow had made, it was no longer necessary for Gray Talon and Trey to ask permission to leave the tribe to explore the world for a season. It was almost like the Old Man of the Storms had been sent to help them. Trey had already volunteered them for the journey before he and the shaman returned to camp. Gray Talon hadn’t argued in the least, which he could tell by the look on Trey’s handsome face was a surprise. He hadn’t discussed his idea of heading off on their own with Trey, wanting it to be a surprise. And on top of the adventure, they would get to meet the dragon of Bald Peak. He’d always wanted to meet a dragon.

  Trey shifted in his sleep, moving slightly off Gray Talon, giving Gray Talon a better view of his body. The sun, coming above the rim of the canyon and passing over his hair, created a golden halo across his body. It looked so soft and inviting that Gray Talon could not resist the urge to reach up and run his fing
ers through it. The hair was as soft and warm as it looked. He wished Trey was not lying on his other arm so he could use both hands, but he did not want to wake him either. They had a long journey ahead of them.

  Gray Talon realized this was going to be the longest he and Trey had ever been alone together. They’d had a lot of one-night hunting trips when looking for deer or rabbits over the years, but they had never had a long period of time like this with just the two of them. His heart skipped a beat, and he fought the urge to will Trey’s eyes to open so he could look into their blue depths.

  Trey shifted again, this time back toward Gray Talon, and his weight across Gray Talon’s loins put a bit too much pressure on his bladder. Gray Talon didn’t want to move, but the need overwhelmed him. He tried as gently as possible to roll Trey off him so he could get up.

  Trey groaned and looked at him with sleep-filled eyes. “Wha—?”

  “Got to pee.” Gray Talon leaned into Trey and kissed his warm soft lips.

  Trey muttered something and rolled off Gray Talon, turning his face toward the rising sun. He gasped, covered his eyes, and rolled back over to where Gray Talon had been seconds before.

  Gray Talon headed to the farthest edge of camp and the line of bushes there. Business done, he turned to head back to the blankets where Trey lay when a small hand touched his shoulder.

  “You know, Gray Talon, your sons could be very powerful in the tribe,” Pine Ermine said softly. “It would be a shame if you went on this dangerous journey and left no sons behind.”

  Gray Talon gently removed the woman’s hand from his shoulder. “Pine, you know there is no place in my blankets for you.” He kept his voice low and steady, but she was one of the women who had given Trey the most grief since the tribe adopted him. Her father was one of the chief’s main counselors, and she wanted to be more than the simple wife of a hunter. Gray Talon, with his gift of multiple forms, would one day sit on the chief’s council, if not be chief himself. If he and Trey successfully completed the task set for them by the Old Man of the Storms, his prestige in the tribe would grow, and he would advance more quickly. Gray Talon knew some of the maidens like Pine Ermine would want to share in that rise. He had hoped he and Trey could be on their way before any of them gathered the courage to push against them again.