The spell almost broke when he realized the day and time to which he had been projected. It was nine o'clock on the night of February 7, 2039. He was young, a teenager who was still Sammy to his family. That wouldn't last long. In an hour, he would be an orphan. February 7, 2039, the terrible day that later became known as the Night of Rage. On that night, the world spasmed in a massive explosion of violence. Though metahumans were mainly the victims of the destruc-tiveness and brutality, in some instances they struck back, individually and hi groups. In major cities and metroplexes, riots and fires raged for days. In the less urbanized areas, the violence sputtered on for weeks. The media blamed it on everything from outside psychic influences and coincidence to the spontaneous release of repressed aggressions and any other magical or scientific reason the various experts could think to spout. Somehow, the media hounds never saw their own role, never realized that the global village created by communications was also a powder keg of emotions that a single spark could set off across the world.
Like so many other families, the Verners were involuntarily caught hi the violence. That evening Sammy's father had made a rare, impetuous suggestion that the whole family abandon their usual routine and go out to dine. Mother had insisted that Janice must be home in bed by ten, but Father, uncharacteristically, had overruled her. The occasional late night never hurt anyone, he said. They had all bundled up, walked the three blocks to the metro, and then boarded the bullet train to the Greenbelt Mall District.
The dinner was fun, but his parents' jolly mood crumbled as the family headed for the theater. Already the public tridscreens Were running the first reports of the fire in the warehouse district of Seattle, where thousands of metahumans were being burned to death and a terrorist group calling itself the Hand of Five was taking responsibility. Father's face went grim and determined as he listened to the reactions of the crowd in the mall, most of whom seemed sympathetic to the terrorists. Father herded them to the metro, and they took the first train back to the burbs. Sammy sensed the fear beneath his parents' concern. Oliver and Jan-ice felt it, too. Oliver and Father spoke quietly together for a while, then Oliver turned around to smile at Sam and Janice and told them it would all be fine. He was scared, too; Sammy could smell it. But Sammy took his cue from Oliver and tried to hide his own growing fear. Not so Janice, who began to whimper and demand that Mother hold her. There wasn't much conversation during the train ride. Most of the people on board echoed the same racist sentiments the Verners had heard expressed at the mall.
As they got off the metro, Sammy knew something was wrong. The neighborhood was lit as brightly as day, but day had never been so red. All the dogs in the neighborhood were barking.
When the Verners reached their street, they saw their house in flames. The wall fence around the property was battered down in places, while some sections still standing were scrawled with words such as "Ork Luv-ver," "Race Traitor," and other less savory things. Through one gap, Sammy could see a stark and obscene silhouette. He puzzled at the shape, but Twist knew what the boy he had been was seeing. It was their handyman Variy. The poor ork had been crucified on their front lawn.
Father whispered something to Mother. He ordered Oliver to stay with her. She took hold of Janice and Sammy's hands. Striding forward, Father headed for the knot of people gathered near the driveway. Tears streamed down Mother's face. Oliver looked annoyed and glared after Father, but he stayed put. Sammy heard his father's angry voice demanding to know what was going on, ordering the mob to disperse. They jeered at him.
He repeated his demands and they laughed, an animal sound, wild and dangerous. One came forward and shouted something incoherent into Father's face. Another crept out and swung a fence board against the back of Father's knees. As the elder Verner collapsed, the one who'd shouted at him sidestepped to let him fall to the sidewalk. Then the mob rushed in, beasts tearing at the fallen foe.
Oliver rushed forward, disappearing instantly among the surging crowd. Sammy heard screams, but they sounded too high-pitched to be Oliver's. They sounded like a girl's screams. Twist knew better.
The mob reached them. Mother shoved Sammy and Janice behind her, but someone tore her away. Sammy grabbed his sister and ran. A howling rose behind them, and he dragged her along even faster. Turning down the alley between the Foster and Lee places, he knew he couldn't outrun the mob; he was just a kid and he was carrying his little sister. Pulling Janice into the deep shadows around the Fosters' shed, he crouched there, rucking Janice against the building and covering her head with his arm. He'd protect her as best he could. He tucked his own head down and closed his eyes.
He wanted to run away from these awful people, find a better place to hide. Twist understood as the terror-born, desperate need of young Sammy Verner called to the city spirit, wrapping its protection around him and his sister. It was only a small, weak spirit, much too small to have covered and hidden the whole family from the mob, even if it were not already too late.
A tentacle of the mob surging down the alley brushed unseeing past the huddled children. Not finding its victims, the tentacle retracted back to its parent body as the mob moved on down the street. Now they turned their fury against the Andersons' house, burning it completely before moving on again.
Sammy stayed huddled where he was, hugging his sister. Sam didn't dare move even after she had cried herself to sleep. She needed her sleep. Mother had said so. He cried, too, but would not let himself sleep. Then a man came walking down the street and crossed the mouth of the alley. He was dressed in fine clothes. The flickering light of the fires glittered from gold on his fingers and from the head of his cane. He looked like a rich businessman, out of place in the burbs. But he didn't act out of place; he acted instead as though he owned it all. Sammy Verner didn't know him, but Twist did.
The man was Mr. Enterich, an agent of the dragon Lofwyr. Ever since the Haesslich affair, Enterich had been a symbol of duplicity for Sam, the perfect corporate false front for the savage and duplicitous ma-neuverings of the worm that gnawed at the wood of society. Twist had no memory of Enterich being present that night.
Sammy Verner watched the well-dressed man stroll down the street until he reached the broken gate of the Verner house. Leaning on his cane, the man contemplated the fire. At length a shadow flitted over Sammy and his sister, moving across the street in a curving arc before it vanished. But it returned again, and this time Sammy looked up to see enormous bat wings spread against the paling stars. It was a dragon. The creature banked and came to a silent landing at Enter-ich's side. It was not Lofwyr. "Success?"
"No trace, no trail. The line must be extinguished. " The dragon exuded satisfection. "The losses of time spent dreaming are recouped this night. The herd is culled, and the small rivals shall find no allies. They burn. Everywhere, they burn. Are not the flames wonderful?"
"Perhaps," Enterich replied. "I fear this noise that echoes around the world tonight. It is out of control, and the resulting chaos might demand a high price." "Temerity. But dawn comes and we must be away. " The dragon stretched its wings. Sammy hid his head. Despite his own leavening of experience Twist was overwhelmed by childish terror and hid as well. Together the boy and man consciousnesses huddled in fear.
The sound of the beast's passage was a roaring moan. It might have been wind displaced by the force of the beast's wing stroke, or it might have been the voice of the mob. If indeed the two were different. Sammy loved symbols, and dragons were among the best. They were huge and powerful, strong and dangerous. They were elemental beasts that Twist could envision as chaos embodied. When he got up enough courage to look again, the dragon and the man were gone as though they had never been. Maybe they never had.
But his parents were really gone. His brother, too. Only their memories remained in his heart.
A skinny old Indian in a breech clout stood at his side. Howling Coyote. "Would you give your life to see them live again?"
Sam thought about that for a while, then
shrugged. "What good would it do? They wouldn't like what the world has become. Sooner or later, naturally or not, they would die again, and I'd be responsible for making them face that trial again. They already died once. Let them be in peace."
"And if you had the power to change the world, to make it so they would like it? Would that make a difference?"
"No. They've earned their peace." Sam stood up. He was just Twist now, though the child Janice still sheltered under his protective arm. "But I'd change the world anyway. We all have the responsibility to make things better for ourselves and for our families. We all have to do what we can to make the world a better place."
"Better for your own ends?'' ' 'Better for everybody.'' "What about the cost?" Sam looked at the bodies of his parents. They were
even as the scene of the old neighborhood was fading. Even the child Janice was fading. "Can I pay less than they did to live up to my beliefs?"
"Very easily," the shaman said gravely. "Most people don't stand up and pay when it comes down to it."
"There's a price for everything. Sooner or later, you have to pay."
"Hey hey, Dog boy, there may be hope for you yet. That's the first step in the dance." Howling Coyote spun and capered away. "Or was it the last? I forget. I'm an old man, ya know."
Sam shook his head sadly and followed the shaman into the dawn.
PART 3
Pay The Price
Sometimes the tunnel to the otherworld appeared in different forms, though its nature always remained the same. This time it seemed more an organic tube than a cavern, its rugose walls looking soft and seeming to radiate heat. The odor pervading the place was rank and slightly stale. Sam had the sensation of being in someone's mouth, which made him feel distinctly uncomfortable.
He probed ahead with his senses. The Dweller on the Threshold was out there, as always. Like the tunnel, it didn't always look the same. Once, the Dweller had been perverted by an evil wendigo and warped through some unknown magic to bar Sam from the totemic plane. Sam had faced his fears to overcome the barrier and ultimately defeat the wendigo. He had learned something of the nature of the Dweller in that experience, and believed he would know if the Dweller were ever more than its normal etheric self again.
He found the Dweller waiting for him. It felt ordinary, though its form was unusual. This time the Dweller manifested itself as a tightening of the passage. Stalactites hung in jagged rows, moving and clashing with stalagmites. Slime dripped and spattered from them, like spittle from the teeth of a hungry carnivore.
Hoping Howling Coyote had some advice to offer, Sam turned to him. As on previous occasions, the old shaman's appearance surprised him. Here on the astral, Howling Coyote still looked like an old man, scrawny and weather-beaten as in the mundane world. Sam would have expected such a powerful shaman to look more… well, powerful. The shaman sat on a rock that protruded from the cavern wall and leaned against the side of the shaft. It had been Howling Coyote's idea to take this trip, and die old man's apparent lack of interest irritated Sam. "What are you doing sitting there?" The shaman's eyes were closed and his face composed. His right shoulder twitched in the barest hint of a shrug. "Waiting."
"I thought we were going to see Dog." "Not we. You. Dog's your totem, not mine, and you must find your own truth."
Sam felt vaguely betrayed. It was the first time he was going specifically to ask a favor of his totem. Howling Coyote must have done this thing often enough. Why didn't the shaman show him the ropes? "You're saying I have to go on alone."
A pipe materialized in the shaman's hand. He puffed on it and said nothing.
"If you're not coming with me to the otherworld, why did you bother coming this far?" "Thought I could use the exercise." Which was, of course, not the real reason, but Sam wasn't going to push it. This was probably some kind of test.
When he turned back to face the Dweller, Sam saw that the gnashing teeth had come closer while he talked to the shaman. Yet Sam had not moved. Months ago, such a minor displacement effect would have unnerved him. Now he just planted his feet, faced the clashing rock, and waited.
The tunnel had a voice that penetrated Sam's mind, like water seeping through porous rock. "Welcome again, Samuel Verner, Or do you prefer that I call you Twist?" "Twist will do."
"Fine, Sam. Stolen any good artifacts lately, or have you been too busy ignoring your sister's problem?"
Sam didn't want to listen to the Dweller's innuendo, half-truths, and petty revelations of Sam's secrets and desires. He was plenty able to castigate himself without any help from some astral presence. "Let me pass."
"Sure." The stone teeth yawned wide. "Go ahead."
Sam took a step forward and the rocks clashed together. "Oops. Too slow. " Once more the rock formations separated. "Try again."
The space encompassed by those teeth was too great to cross in a run before they could slam shut. But this was the astral world, and Sam knew other ways. Focusing his will he flew forward, whisking past the jagged rocks. They clashed behind him. "Catch you again sometime, shirker. " Sam ignored the Dweller's parting comment and shot down no, up the tunnel. He emerged in a sunlit land of green fields, rolling hills, gentle forests, and pleasant vales. Smoke rose from homey cottages nestled in some of the valleys. Despite all that there was no sign of people, but Sam was used to that. He walked now because it seemed more appropriate, and appropriateness was paramount in the totem realm. He headed down the dirt road that led away over the hills.
Sam crossed three hills, each more difficult to Climb than the last. He sensed that the fatigue he felt was due to more than the walking. By the time he reached the base of the fourth hill, he was almost exhausted. It was as though he'd been running for several kilometers, but he remembered only having walked along the road. Somehow he knew that more than a walk through the countryside had happened, but he had no memory of it. Determined to persevere, he started up the next hill. Dog was waiting for him on the crest. The totem was wearing his usual shape, a brindled mutt. His tail swept the dust, but he did not leap up or even stand at Sam's approach.
"I would like to speak with you," Sam said.
Dog turned his head away, seeming to make a scent inspection of a small weed growing near his side. "What makes you think I want to talk to you?"
"I need guidance."
Dog's head snapped up to look at Sam. The totem wore a canine grin. "That's for sure. How can I resist such blinding honesty? What do you want to talk about?"
There were many things, some very pressing, but Sam decided to start with what bothered him most. For all Howling Coyote's lessons the old shaman had never related a conversation with Coyote. Lots of proverbs concerning the totem, tales of the totem's doings, and confident assertions of the totem's demands, but never any words. "Maybe you'd like to tell me why you talk to me?"
"You sure that I do?"
Once, doubting the reality of totems, Sam hadn't been. He had thought that totems were merely psychological constructs through which a shaman organized his thoughts for magic, that they had no independent existence. He still wasn't completely convinced that totems were thinking entities in their own right, but he could no longer deny all evidence of that. Thus, he had accepted the necessity of dealing with the being sitting before him as though Dog were an independent entity. '' Yes, I 'm sure.''
"Well, that's something." Dog cocked his head and observed Sam. "You're not a very good follower, you know. Don't pay anywhere near enough attention. Dogs like attention, you know."
"I know." Sam had raised enough real dogs to know that very well. "Sorry."
Dog stood up. "Come on, let's go for a run."
Dog didn't wait for Sam to answer. Sam trotted after him. When he caught up, Dog broke into a run. Holding back his questions Sam ran, too.
It seemed that Dog had nothing more on his mind than exercise. Sam, however, had too much on his mind. After they had been running for what seemed a long time, he panted out a question. "Do we have time for
this?" "There is no time as you know it here. So I guess we got plenty. Or none at all. Take your pick." "I'll take plenty. I've got too much to do." "True enough."
Dog stopped, and Sam ran for a few more meters. He stopped, catching his breath, and walked over to join Dog. The totem appeared unwinded. "Need to build up your stamina." "I'm working on it," Sam said. "Work harder. It's a crime not to use what you have."
"And what's that?" "Magic, man. It's hi your blood." "I don't really like the idea." "Nobody said you had to, but that don't change anything." Dog sauntered over to a fence post, lifted a leg, and marked it. "Magic is my territory, man. You wouldn't be here if it wasn't yours, too." Dog inclined his head toward the fence post. "Want to make your mark?"
Sam shook his head. "No thanks. I went before I left the mundane."
Though a dog's shoulders aren't built to shrug, Dog managed one. Then he trotted over to the other side of the road and sat down where he could look out over the valley. Sam joined him and sat by his side. Neither said anything for a while. Then Dog stood and
"You think the only magic is flash, mirrors, and fireworks?" "Well, no."
"Good." Dog nodded his head once. "Magic is life, man. Some of your kind say it's all just a song and dance. Are they ever wrong! And right, too, which is the point. You start singing the song before you speak your first word, and dance the steps even after your flesh stops moving. Wise up and smell the world around you. It's marked by magic."
"I know," Sam said at last. "IVe come to see that I have no choice but to use my magic. My magic. But that magic is tied to you, Dog. I came looking for help."
"Help? Or advice?" "Well, both."
"Sure you don't want power, too?" "Well, yes, that too." No point in putting it off. "I came to learn the secret of the Great Ghost Dance." "What makes you think it's only got one secret?" ' 'If there's more than one, I want to learn them all." "Pretty ambitious for a pup. You have any idea what you're asking?"
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