Cloud Warrior

by Patrick Tilley

  ‘You will all chew bone before the moon turns its face away,’ said Mr Snow. ‘And if Mo-Town our mother does not drink from your life-streams, your poles will be heavy with the heads of sand-burrowers.’

  ‘Hey-YAH!’ chorussed the Bears.

  Rolling-Stone exchanged a worried glance with the other clan-elders. ‘Is this the counsel of the Sky Voices?’

  ‘The Sky Voices advise caution,’ replied Mr Snow. ‘It will take more than the hot-blooded strength of our Bears to stop the iron snake. Cunning and magic are the weapons we must use.’

  ‘But can you still summon the earth-magic?’ asked Long-Tooth.

  ‘If Talisman wills it,’ said Mr Snow. ‘But even if he strengthens my hand, many who now sit before us will not hear their fire songs. This is the year that Mo-Town sits in the Black Tower of Tamla. Her heart is filled with love for the She-Kargo but her throat is dry. She thirsts – and when she drinks, many streams will run dry.’

  ‘She will also have blood to drink from the necks of sand-burrowers,’ growled Motor-Head.

  ‘Hey-yah,’ murmurmed the warriors, with the same low, throaty growl.

  Rolling-Stone held up both hands for silence. ‘Enough talk. Let those who would head for the hills stand up and be counted!’

  Nobody moved.

  ‘The M’Calls have spoken,’ said Rolling-Stone. ‘We hold fast to our ground and fight the iron snake!’

  Everyone, from the youngest child in Mr Snow’s story circle to the grey-haired elders leapt to their feet joyously, arms raised, beating the air with their fists. The forest around them seemed to shake with their thunderous roar of assent. ‘Hey-YAH! Hey-YAH! Hey-YAH!!’

  In the evening of the same day, Cadillac knelt at the door of Mr Snow’s hut and asked permission to enter. Mr Snow told him to come on in. They sat cross-legged, facing each other, on the mat of buffalo-skin. Mr Snow filled his pipe with rainbow grass, lit it from his flame-pot, puffed contentedly then passed it to Cadillac. They had shared his pipe for a year now. The rainbow grass gave the things of the world colours that Cadillac had not seen before. Sometimes he saw pictures of a world that was not of the Plainfolk. Perhaps it was the sunset islands; perhaps another world beyond the roof of the sky – like the dream world he entered when his body slept. Often, when he drew the smoke from the rainbow grass into his body, his mind seemed to burst out of his head and float among the stars. When that happened, there was a timeless moment of great joy when he seemed to understand all things.

  ‘Speak.’ Mr Snow’s voice came from a long way away. Like a call from a clan-brother floating on the air from the other side of a valley.

  ‘I would run with the Bears in the battle with the iron snake,’ said Cadillac.

  ‘Are you out of your mind?’ said Mr Snow.

  Cadillac giggled at the question. ‘The grass gives my head wings but I speak from the heart. I would fight at the side of my clan-brothers.’

  Mr Snow waved the smoke away from his face and shook his head vigorously. ‘No way, my son. The Sky Voices forbid it.’

  ‘But I have chewed bone,’ cried Cadillac. ‘My brothers have accepted me as a warrior. I have a pole with two heads outside my pad–’

  ‘– and Motor-Head has let you wear his hat,’ concluded Mr Snow. ‘Why do you waste breath telling me things that even the hills know. Was your fire song not sung loudly enough?’

  ‘I was not boasting, Wise One. By talking of these things I hoped to persuade you to –’

  ‘– to ignore the Sky Voices?’ interjected Mr Snow. He took the offered pipe and drew smoke into his chest. ‘Not content with breaking your oath, you seek my help to break it a second time! Did not Clearwater remind you? Why do you now make me waste my breath – forcing me to speak to you as if you were like the others with nothing between their ears? Their heads have no pockets to hold the past. Words trickle through the holes in their minds like water through their fingers. But you –’ He stabbed the bowl of the pipe towards Cadillac’s heart, ‘– you are a wordsmith! Your brain is not a lump of buffalo cheese to be spooned out of your skull before it is stuck on the pole of some roving bonehead! It is a jewel – to be treasured, to be guarded night and day!’

  ‘You use strange words,’ said Cadillac. ‘Jewel, treasured – what do these things mean?’

  ‘They are words from the Old Time,’ replied Mr Snow. ‘Jewels were stones dug from the earth and fashioned by those with the High Craft. They were small, like eyes, and glittered as if filled with the light of stars. Others were filled with red, green and blue fire. Men and women of the Old Time loved them greatly and longed to possess them for they were things of great beauty. They carried them tied round their necks and round their fingers. It was a sign of great standing.’

  Cadillac gave a perplexed frown. ‘They had standing because they carried stones?’

  Mr Snow shrugged. ‘They had many strange customs then.’ He paused and stared reflectively at the firelight flickering in the hollowed stone. ‘Clearwater is a jewel that you must treasure.’

  Cadillac considered this, then nodded slowly. ‘I think I get the picture. Will you tell me more words from the Old Time?’

  ‘Some other day,’ said Mr Snow. ‘First you must show greater regard for the needs of the clan and less to your own.’

  ‘Your words bring me down,’ said Cadillac.

  Mr Snow smiled. ‘There is a saying that comes from the Old Time – “It is hard to fly with eagles when you work with turkeys”.’ He drew on the pipe, closing his eyes as he swallowed the smoke. When he opened them, he saw the uncomprehending look on Cadillac’s face. ‘Forget it,’ he said, offering the pipe to Cadillac. ‘Let’s hit the sky.’

  The next day, Mr Snow and Cadillac went back to the plateau and sat amongst the rocks overlooking the plain while a group of clan-women tended the strips where the bread stalks and the earth-food had been sown. Small mixed posses of Bears and She-Wolves watched the sky for arrowheads while pupil and teacher continued the conversation they had begun the night before.

  ‘The M’Calls are a clan that have been favoured by the Sky Voices,’ said Mr Snow. ‘Consider this. The D’Vine have no wordsmiths yet we have two! But my stream will soon run dry. That is why you must never join battle with the sand-burrowers, or challenge the warriors of other clans, why you must never, ever, put the gift of words at risk. You are the guardian of the clan’s past and the light of its future. Your brain must serve those who have nothing between the ears. When Buffalo-Head forgets what the seeds of bread-stalks look like and when they should be planted, it is you who must remind her. With the help of the Sky Voices, you are their guiding spirit. Since Black-Wing brought you to the door of my hut, I have poured my mind into yours.’ He tapped Cadillac’s forehead. ‘Nine hundred years of Plainfolk history is stored in that little bone box. You know all that I know–’

  ‘Not everything,’ said Cadillac quickly.

  Mr Snow waved his hand airily. ‘What I have not told you, the Sky Voices will. The great secrets of the earth cannot rest in the hot, bubbling brains of young men. They will only enter when the passing years have brought a calmness to your thoughts. When the mind lies open to the sky like the darkly mirrored surface of a deep mountain lake, still and unruffled by the winds of desire. Only then will the great secrets enter, alighting like white waterbirds in the cool of the evening.’

  His eyes fixed on Cadillac with a sudden intensity. ‘These are the birds of wisdom. Their wings have the power to move heaven and earth. Be ready to receive them when they come.’

  ‘I will be.’

  ‘And be patient also,’ said Mr Snow. ‘These things are not given to all men – even those with such gifts as yours.’

  ‘What of Clearwater?’

  ‘Ahh, yes…’ murmured Mr Snow. ‘She, too, has a precious gift that Mo-Town, the great mother of the Plainfolk, has given into the hands of the M’Calls. As you can never be a true Bear, she can never be a true She-Wolf.’

&n
bsp; Cadillac frowned. ‘But she has great power. Is it not the task of a summoner to aid the clan in battle?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Snow. ‘But like you she was born in the shadow of Talisman. The Sky Voices that spoke at her birth told me that she was linked to the Thrice-Gifted One. Just as your life-stream runs alongside hers, both merge with the great river from which Talisman draws his strength. The elders, your clan-brothers and sisters know this. Know that you are among the Chosen Ones. That is why you have no need of standing. Even though Motor-Head may mock your manhood, he and the other warriors are ready to lay down their lives for you. Every man, woman and child in this clan is prepared to die to protect you.’

  Cadillac sat back on his haunches, stunned by this revelation. ‘I did not know this. Talisman! Is that the truth?’

  ‘I never speak anything else,’ said Mr Snow.

  ‘These words are heavy,’ muttered Cadillac.

  Mr Snow smiled. ‘You have strong shoulders. You will learn to bear them.’

  ‘But–’ Cadillac wrestled with this new burden. ‘What must I do?’

  Mr Snow held up his left hand and counted off his fingers. ‘Listen to the sky. Seek wisdom, not glory. Act prudently. Love your brothers. Be worthy of their sacrifice.’

  They gazed silently at each other for a moment then Cadillac nodded towards Mr Snow’s raised little finger.

  ‘And the sixth thing?’

  ‘Go easy on the grass,’ said Mr Snow.

  When night fell, the moon glow did not reach the forest floor, and few stars could be seen through the tree tops. This enveloping, suffocating darkness was something that the Mutes feared. Perhaps it was a race memory of a distant time when many of their ancestors had been entombed after the War of a Thousand Suns. Whatever the cause, most of the Mutes abandoned the huts they had set up amongst the huge trees and crept to the edge of the forest where they could look up and see the sky. There they slept, wrapped in their fur skins, the children snuggled against their blood-mothers, all of them secure in the knowledge that Mo-Town the Sky-Mother of the She-Kargo, watched over them shielding them from danger with her star-studded cloak.

  Cadillac was one of the few who, like Mr Snow, did not go to the edge of the forest. He did not fear the whispering, rustling language of the trees, or the sudden shrill cries of the night birds. He lay under his skins and watched the wavering patterns of light and dark thrown on the roof of the hut by his flame-pot. Mr Snow had told him that in the Old Time, people used to sit in huts made of stone that were too heavy to move and had no doors. They sat in these houses day and night and watched pictures of the world outside that they kept in a box. A magic box made of frozen water, that glowed with colours and was filled with the sound of music.

  Cadillac’s thoughts turned to his duel with Shakatak and his renewed promise to Mr Snow to avoid risking his life in the coming battle with the iron snake. He had shown he possessed courage that had not failed him even at the point of death but he could not avoid the knowledge that it was the power summoned by Clearwater that had killed the two D’Vine warriors whose pierced heads now sat on the pole by the door to his hut. Despite everything that Mr Snow and Clearwater had said, he felt that his manhood was diminished by his enforced non-combatant status. Fate might have set aside a place for him in Plainfolk history but what Cadillac wanted more than anything was to prove himself a hero.

  Not at some indefinite time in the future, but right now.

  NINE

  Two hundred and fifty miles to the south of the forest in which the M’Calls now lay hidden, The Lady from Louisiana neared the pre-Holocaust state line between Colorado and Wyoming. Catapulted from the wagon train, Steve Brickman soared up into the late afternoon sky followed by Gus White and their section leader, Jodi Kazan. Their task was to scout ahead of The Lady, searching the ground for hostiles before ‘circling’ the wagons for the night. Steve and Gus had flown regular patrols during the two re-supply runs but from here on in they could not afford to make a mistake. The Lady was about to enter Plainfolk territory to begin the eagerly-awaited second phase of her mission: hunting Mute.

  During their patrol, the three wingmen roved independently in wide sweeps on either side of their allotted course, keeping in contact with each other by radio. Apart from scattered herds of buffalo, deer and antelope, they saw no movement across the overground. Square mile after square mile of the vast plains that they had half-expected to be dotted with fearsome groups of Mutes massing to repel The Lady contained nothing more hostile than bright red buffalo grass. Even so, Steve’s sixth sense told him that the seemingly-innocent emptiness below was unnatural. He had the distinct impression that the overground – and its denizens – lay crouched like a stalking beast; lying in wait for them.

  As they approched the pre-holocaust site that had borne the name of Cheyenne, the three Sky hawks converged to fly in loose arrowhead formation with Kazan in the lead. She called up The Lady to get a check on its latest position.

  The wagon train had been trying to follow the route of the old Interstate 25 highway running from Denver up through Fort Collins in Colorado to Cheyenne and Caspar in Wyoming. On the Navigation Officer’s maps, these names were printed in capital letters, but the ground sites were nothing more than uneven hummocks of earth which the prairie grass, scrub and trees had reclaimed and held for nearly a thousand years. Interstate 25 had long since crumbled into dust, and the wagon train’s progress has been slowed considerably by the unchecked eastwards expansion of what had once been known as the Roosevelt National Forest.

  Steve was constantly amazed by the number of population centres marked on the pre-Holocaust maps they now had access to. If they had all been as densely packed as a Tracker base, or one of the larger way-stations, there must -at one time – have been tens, perhaps hundreds of millions of people living in America. Looking down at the emptiness below the Skyhawk’s wheels, Steve found it difficult to imagine it crammed with people; teeming with life. The history videos called it the greatest country in the world. The only country in the world.

  Since joining the wagon train, he had learned that America lay surrounded by sea on a spinning globe that sailed through space, circling the sun once a year. To someone like Steve, whose horizons up to his overground solo had been limited by the dimensions of a world carved from what was known as the earth-shield, the idea that behind the sky there was even more space that went on for ever was absolutely mind-blowing. Even though he had now been flying the overground for three months, his mind and body still welcomed each sortie with the same secret, guilty pleasure. He resented the hours he was forced to spend in the confines of the wagon train but he could not, dare not, share this feeling with his crew-mates. They regarded it as a safe haven. A home from home to which they returned with relief from the awesome vastness that stretched away on all sides.

  Jodi Kazan circled overhead while Gus and then Steve lined up on the wagon train and lowered their arrester hooks. Throttling back to twenty miles an hour for the final approach, Gus skimmed along the rear section of the train, engaged the arrester wire and touched down on the roof decking of the flight-car. The plump rear tyres flattened under the impact, then the nose-wheel hit with its usual jarring thud as the aircraft rolled forward nose down under the braking action of the arrester wire. As Gus cut the motor, five ground crew-men scrambled up from the side-platforms, unlocked and folded the wings of the Skyhawk and went down with it as the front lift-section of the flight-deck retracted into the car beneath. The Skyhawk was rolled clear and stowed; the lift came up smoothly on cantilevered rams and locked into the deck; the second group of ground-crewmen crouched on the side platforms – in what was known as ‘the duck-holes’ – ready to receive Steve. He skimmed along the tail of the wagon train, ‘landing on’ just ninety seconds after Gus’s arrester hook had engaged the wire. Behind him, Jodi Kazan’s Skyhawk angled in on the final approach.

  The three wingmen went forward to the lead command car for the usual debrief
ing session with the Flight Operations Officer – a dry-mannered, stubby guy called Baxter. Steve told him he had seen what looked like crop patterns about fifty miles to the north-west of the wagon train’s present position. The three of them checked their own maps against the bigger one on the plotting table in the ops room. Gus’s general line of flight had been too far to the east, but Jodi confirmed Steve’s report.

  The F.O.O. marked the agreed location on The Lady’s battle map and reported the find to Commander Hartmann. The wagon master came down to the ops room with his Navigation Officer, Senior Field Commander, and Trail-Boss Buck McDonnell. Hartmann and the two execs took a quick look at the map, noting the contours of the terrain around the position marked by the F.O.O. on the southwestern flank of the Laramie Mountains.

  ‘Did you see any settlements?’ asked Hartmann.

  ‘No, sir,’ said Steve.

  Gus shook his head too. ‘It’s hard to spot anything from fifteen hundred feet. If we’d been allowed to go lower–’ Both wingmen had taken care to stay above the minimum altitude Kazan had given them before beginning the patrol.

  Hartmann nodded understandingly. ‘You’ll get your chance to cut grass.’

  ‘It can’t come soon enough for me, sir,’ said Gus.

  ‘They’re down there,’ said Kazan. ‘When Brickman called me up to report those cultivated strips, I went on over and took a closer look.’

  Steve groaned. ‘Are you going to tell me that there were huts as well?’

  ‘No, but there had been,’ said Kazan. She favoured him with a tight-lipped smile. ‘You can see a lot more when you’re six feet off the ground.’ She turned to Hartmann and the execs. ‘Whoever was there moved out in a hurry. An attempt was made to clear the campsite but it wasn’t good enough. There were dozens of post holes that hadn’t been filled in and there was quite a lot of ash and charred firewood scattered around. When Southern Mutes move camp they usually bury all that along with the camp refuse. There were also several long-handled wooden tools lying by the side of the crop fields. In my experience Mutes don’t throw tools away. They’re too valuable. I think someone failed to cover them up properly.’ She paused, then said, ‘Those crops are still being worked.’