by Angus Wells
Flysse said, “No; tell me.”
Arcole looked at the watchful animals—had Rannach said buffalo?—and then at Flysse. “Three times,” he said, and grinned. “The first was to see if I could.”
“And could you?” she asked.
He could not tell whether she approved or not; her face was unreadable. He said, “Yes. I’m alive, no? I was frightened.” He felt his grin fading. “God, but my legs were shaking and my mouth was dry. But I put the sword in and slew the beast.” He remembered, then, the cheers of the crowd, and added, proudly, “I was granted the ears.” Then, humbler when her expression did not change, “But it was only a small affair, in a private arena. And the bull was only a three-year-old, not the mature bulls the professionals fight.”
“Why?” Flysse asked.
Her voice was empty of intonation. Arcole had thought she’d be impressed—the bull might have been immature, but still it could have killed him—but neither her tone or her face suggested that. He shrugged and said, “A friend—Antonym de Chevres—bred the bulls for the ring, and wagered me five hundred golden guineas I’d not fight one.”
Still Flysse’s expression did not change. “And the other times?”
“Those,” he said, “were for wagers resulting from that first—Antonym bet me a thousand in gold I’d not do it again, facing a full-grown bull. But I did.” He chuckled, remembering. “I hired a fighter called Manolito to train me, and we split the money. Antonym was amazed.”
Flysse said, “You might have been killed.”
“Yes.” Arcole shrugged. “But a wager’s a wager, no? And it was the bull that died.”
He thought that surely that must impress her. God, but the bull had been massive, and even did they not fight bulls in Evander, still they knew of the Levanite tradition—how could she not be impressed? But her face remained impassive, even less expressive than the heat-hazed blankness of the mountains behind them.
“And the third time?”
“That was a bull called Escovar. No one wanted to face him because he’d horned two fighters; one died, and the other never fought again.” Surely she must be impressed with this. Even had she not heard of that battle, it must impress her. “Colign Murrie wagered five thousand, and I won.”
“Won?” she said.
“Yes.” He frowned. “I killed the bull: I won.”
“You put your sword into the bull and killed it,” she said.
Arcole said, “Yes,” wondering why she seemed not at all impressed with his bravery.
“After the—what are they called?—the picadors lanced the bull?”
So she did know somewhat of the ritual: he nodded. “Escovar gored two of their horses.”
“Did they die?”
He said, “One, I think,” no longer confident in his pride, feeling it slip away. “I’m not sure.”
Flysse looked at the impossibly distant horizon and sighed, nodded. “And then the—the ones with the little lances came in on foot.”
“The banderillas,” he supplied.
“Yes. They put those sticks with ribbons into the bull’s neck, no?”
“To weaken it,” he said. “So that it drops its head enough you can get the sword over the horns.”
“And kill it.”
“Yes.”
“Did you eat it?” Flysse asked.
He shook his head. “God, no! That meat’s too tough for eating.”
“So you killed it for money. Or to prove something?”
“Both, I suppose,” he said. God, why did he suddenly feel so embarrassed? Why did he want her approval so badly, that she turn her face toward him and smile; grant him … absolution? He spoke of a life left far behind, when he was different. He waited nervously for her response.
“I think,” she said at last, slowly, “that you should only kill animals to eat. Not for sport, or to prove anything. Only to eat. The Matawaye”—she pronounced the title better than he—“don’t kill like that.”
He thought on the doe they’d been eating and nodded: she’d been the slowest of the herd, and likely to fall to wolves or age, and Rannach and Kanseah had singled her out from the tenderer meat, leaving the younger, stronger animals to run free and breed. A natural culling, he thought; and felt ashamed of himself.
“I was young then,” he said defensively. “I’m older than that now.”
“Yes, I think so.” Now she did turn her head, but still her eyes searched his face. “But would you do it again?”
“You do not approve,” he said.
“No.”
“Then I’d not.”
She shook her head. “Not for my approval, Arcole. Rather because …” She gestured at the vast, wide land around them, at the shifting, slowly moving herd of buffalo. “Because you should not kill for sport, but only in need.”
“I’ve things to learn yet,” he said; meaning it, suddenly aware he stood on the threshold of an experience perhaps even greater than the land around them. As if contact with the Matawaye introduced him to far more than only a new country. Davyd understands it, he thought, and Flysse; and I must learn to. I must shuck off these old notions that belong to the past, and learn to live with this new country and its thinking.
He said, “I’m sorry.”
Flysse looked at him and smiled, and he felt suddenly like a child excused punishment.
“So do you forgive me my past sins?”
She ducked her head again, and he laughed; and said, “I learn from you, all the time.”
And they rode out around the great herd of buffalo, out across the wind-shifted grass, Rannach and Yazte and Kanseah drifting their horses rightward to form a living screen between the riders and the warily guardian bulls, Morrhyn and Kahteney escorting Davyd, Flysse and Arcole following.
Four more days they traveled across the prairie, living off the deer meat, which lasted them to the Summer Ground of the People, where all of them—the Commacht and the Lakanti and the remnants of the Naiche and the Aparhaso, and those few Tachyn who had forsworn the heresy of Chakthi and Hadduth—were gathered together in one great camp until the Maker or his prophet, Morrhyn, should tell them to scatter and spread over this new country.
It was not, Morrhyn thought as he rode toward the great camp, an easy destiny. Neither for him nor the strangers; but the Maker had shaped it, and so it must be. And doubtless the Maker would, in time, reveal it.
And meanwhile, he would do what he could. Which first, he was confident, meant giving Davyd the pahé root.
6
Like Coming Home
The People had not split into clans and scattered through the vastness of Ket-Ta-Thanne, as had been their habit in the lost homeland, but remained in a unified group, as if all their time here was Matakwa. The memories of disaster yet held strong, and no one clan would risk annihilation or the weakening of all to seek out individual territory. Even did Morrhyn assure them he owned no dreams of Breakers or other enemies, still they demurred, like buffalo frightened by a wolf pack and herding defensive.
Yet they had found a fine place, close by their entry point into Ket-Ta-Thanne, and was it not overlooked by the Maker’s Mountain, they had raised a cairn of stones to mark the gateway. It stood twice a man’s height, surrounded by poles bearing the clan totems, the base all spread with the thanks-offerings of the People—a monument in the great grass sea. The camp itself was spread out along a shallow valley that cradled a wide, slow-running river, the water the color of Grannach steel between the grassy banks. Lush grazing lay all around, and the valley walls were heavily timbered, the woods and the grass rich with game. Buffalo no different to those of Ket-Ta-Witko wandered the plains, and the warriors went out at need to hunt them. The People wanted for nothing here, not for the present—in time, Morrhyn supposed, they must deplete the stock of game to such extent that they be forced to wander farther afield, and then he anticipated they would separate, returning to the old ways, with each clan choosing its own grazing. By then, he hope
d, they would know themselves safe.
For now, it seemed enough to live in peace, and he smiled as they came down into the valley’s eastern entrance and all the lodges of the People spread before them, turning in his saddle to observe the expressions of the newcomers.
They looked amazed, as if they stared at some great marvel beyond their comprehension. It was surely a marvelous sight, and for all there were not so many lodges as had graced the Meeting Ground of lost Ket-Ta-Witko, still they spread numerous over the grass, the symbols painted on the hides denoting the placement of the clans. The horse head of the Commacht and the eagle of the Lakanti were predominant, the Aparhaso wolf and the Naiche’s turtle mingled together in lesser numbers; and scattered through them all were lodges decorated with newly painted symbols where those Tachyn who had forsworn Chakthi’s heresy were adopted into the remaining clans. Morrhyn wished he commanded sufficient of the strangers’ language that he might ask their impressions.
“By God, it’s a city all of tents.” Arcole shaded his eyes against the sun. “Like an army bivouac; save I’ve not seen so large an army.”
“Nor one so peaceful, I think.” Flysse pointed to where children played and dogs wandered. “Look.”
She directed his gaze to the southern flank, where women moved industriously amidst thickets heavy with red berries, plucking the fruit to deposit in woven baskets. The breeze carried snatches of song.
“And there.” He in turn pointed, down the valley, where a vast horse herd grazed. “God, so many horses.”
“It’s bigger than Grostheim,” Davyd said, staring enrapt, “and there are no walls.”
Then he laughed, amazed at himself, thinking that not so long ago he had felt at ease only behind walls, be they Grostheim’s wood or Bantar’s stone. At home behind walls and afraid of the open country—but no longer: he had changed, and this felt like coming home.
Still chuckling, he heeled his buckskin alongside Morrhyn’s horse, too filled with wonder to remember that scant days ago such ambitious movement had terrified him.
“It’s marvelous.” He flung out a hand to indicate the valley. Then clutched abruptly at the buckskin’s mane as the horse snorted and pranced—as yet, a gentle trot was the best he could manage. “It’s … wonderful.”
Morrhyn nodded, beaming, Davyd’s expression, his tone, interpreting the words. “It’s our home,” he said.
Davyd, in turn, nodded. “Yes, home.”
Then gasped as the realization he had understood clearly struck him.
Morrhyn spoke again, and Davyd frowned, the words no longer clear. “Dream” he recognized, and “pahé,” which he guessed was somehow linked to dreaming, but little else. He shrugged, shaking his head in frustration. Morrhyn smiled and touched his arm, speaking again; but the words again stood just past a veil that clouded proper comprehension. He saw Kahteney watching them, his lean face grave, and wondered why he thought the Dreamer doubtful.
Morrhyn caught Kahteney’s eyes on him and turned his smile to the Lakanti. “How else, brother?”
Kahteney shrugged and shook his head.
Morrhyn said, “Not yet, but in a while. I’d see them comfortable amongst us first, and only then give Davyd the pahé. And we dream first—as we agreed.”
Kahteney ducked his head. “As you will.” Almost, he added “Prophet,” but he knew Morrhyn felt no great liking for that title and so bit back the word. But still he wondered how the People might accept the introduction of a stranger, an unknown refugee from another world, to the sacred rituals of the wakanishas. Most, he supposed, would accept it because it was the Prophet’s will—and Morrhyn, no matter his feelings on that subject, was the Prophet—but some would doubtless resent it. Chazde had selected him even before he received his manhood name, long before he was old enough to think of the warrior’s braids, and that had birthed some measure of resentment amongst his companions; long gone now … but then childhood friends had eyed him as if he were a stranger, set apart from them by Chazde’s decision. And he had grown in knowledge of the Ahsa-tye-Patiko.… He smiled at the memory of childhood’s hurt, his own brief resentment of the honor that made him different.
“What if he’ll not accept the duty?”
“Then he refuses.” Morrhyn shrugged. “The Maker shall decide, no? He’ll tell us when we dream.”
Kahteney had known Morrhyn most of his life, since that Matakwa when the Dreamers had named their chosen successors, and they both younger than Davyd. They were old friends; but Morrhyn had always been the stronger Dreamer, and now … now he was a Dreamer such as the People had never known. Kahteney wondered if he would welcome such communion with the Maker as Morrhyn had, or if that duty should destroy him. Sometimes he wondered if Morrhyn lived still entirely within this world, or set his feet in both the Dirt World and the Spirit World, like the Grass Dreamer who showed First Man and First Woman the bridge between the spheres. Surely he was changed by his sojourn on the holy mountain—and Kahteney would not argue overmuch with his decisions: he was, after all, the Prophet. And would he give Davyd the pahé root and name the stranger his successor, then so be it.
So Kahteney grunted agreement and held his tongue tight-reined against his doubt and looked toward the valley where all the lodges of the People spread out in glorious array, and set his mind to thoughts of coming home again.
And when they came down the long, wide slope of the valley’s ingress, Rannach took a bugle of buffalo horn from his saddle and blew a clarion call that had horsemen thundering to greet them. The women picking berries set down their baskets and ran across the grass, and dogs barked, and all the camp gathered, wondering at what—or who—the Prophet brought to them.
It was an alarming sight, to see so many horsemen come charging toward them, all racing their animals as if to battle, whooping and shouting. None bore weapons, and their cries rang with glee rather than menace, but still Arcole glanced back instinctively to the packhorses, thinking of the muskets stowed there. The gray began to prance and he fought the horse calm, almost losing his seat. Beside him, Flysse turned her roan, looking from him to the approaching riders to the beaming Matawaye around them. She seemed less alarmed than excited, and he told himself no harm was intended, but only a welcome.
Davyd felt no doubts: Morrhyn’s smile told him this was only greeting. But even so, the buckskin snorted and set to plunging, and for all he clamped his thighs hard on the horse’s ribs and locked his right hand in the mane, and tugged on the single rein with left, still he felt himself bucked off.
He shouted as he fell; cursed volubly as he hit the ground. And then, even as he lay winded and embarrassed, there were unshod hooves all around him, and tan faces looking down, smiling, some—to his chagrin—laughing. He cursed some more, ignoring Flysse’s admonition, and clambered to his feet, irritably dusting his shirt, rubbing at his shoulder, which ached abominably from the sudden contact with the ground. It seemed to him a most ignominious meeting, and he could not help scowling at the surrounding Matawaye as one took up the rein of his horse and leaned with careless, casual grace from his saddle to pass it to him. He took it with sullenly grunted thanks and wondered if he might retrieve his lost dignity by vaulting into the saddle.
He thought not—more likely he’d fall again and they laugh again—and so stood red-faced, holding the buckskin still, and wondered how he would get back up. God!
“Ach, but these strangers you bring us are not very good on a horse, Rannach.”
“No, but they have other powers.” Rannach looked at the speaker with disapproving eyes: it was not meet to laugh at guests. “There’s much they can teach us. Much we need learn from them.”
“But not horsemanship, eh?”
“He’s a Dreamer. Morrhyn says he’s a great Dreamer.” Rannach hid his smile as Tekah’s faded. Mention of the Prophet’s name was a mighty tool: it stilled so many arguments. He glanced sidelong at the wakanisha, wondering if he abused their friendship. But Morrhyn sat his paint horse
with solemn mien, only looking gravely at the welcoming riders, so he went on: “Do you help him up? His name is Davyd.”
Tekah nodded and slid limber from off his horse. He went to where Davyd stood and said, “I am sorry, Davyd. Please forgive my rudeness. I welcome you to our lodges. Shall I help you mount?”
When Davyd only frowned, he said to Rannach, “He doesn’t understand me.”
“How should he?” Rannach asked. “Do you understand him?”
“Then what do I do?”
Tekah stared around, confused. The laughter shifted from Davyd to him. Rannach said, “He’s not used to our horses, so offer him your hands to climb on, like a step.”
Tekah frowned. “He’s not a woman with child.”
Rannach said, “No,” sternly.
From the corner of his eye he saw Arcole readying to dismount; guessed he was about to help Davyd, and motioned that he not. He wondered if the stranger would understand the importance of this small ritual. That a man fall from a placid horse was indignity enough: was Davyd to be respected by the People, some precedent of importance must be established, even did Tekah resent it. Save Davyd be accorded respect, all Morrhyn’s hopes should likely be dashed down abruptly as Davyd’s tumble.
Morrhyn looked on in silence, clearly pleased with Rannach’s response. No less than Yazte’s as the Lakanti reached out to touch Arcole’s wrist and indicate he remain in the saddle.
Then was delighted as Kanseah swung to the ground and cupped his hands and said, “Shall I help you up, Davyd?”
Rannach said, “You see? The akaman of the Naiche helps our guests.”
“And I,” Tekah said; hurriedly, moving to offer his hands alongside Kanseah’s, so that Davyd was sprung back astride the buckskin horse so swift he almost tumbled off the farther side.
Tekah clutched the mane, that the horse not buck or prance and disgrace Davyd further. He said, “Forgive me,” ducking his head slightly. “I intended no insult.”