It was here that they found traces of one of the ancient hardways along which giant beetles had once carried the men of the Old Time. The beetles, Mr Snow explained, left a trail of sticky black slime – like snails, and black horned worms – so they could find their way back again. This black trail gradually hardened, becoming thicker and thicker with each passing beetle as they followed each other in long lines, jammed nose to tail. Once laid down, the hardway was used over and over again because the beetles knew where they were going and could move faster.
Men of the Old Time, said Mr Snow, were obsessed with speed. They had built a huge crossbow that had shot a bolt with men inside it all the way to the moon. They had other bolts with wings like huge arrowheads that could cross the sky faster than the sun. They were masters of the world but they never learned to love each other. And they had forgotten The Way of the Warrior. And so, through their ignorance and hatred, the world had died in the War of the Thousand Suns. Clans numbering more than the raindrops in the sky fell like shrivelled leaves at the Yellowing. Killed not by their equals in single combat but by strange secret words spoken by machines made with the High Craft, hidden deep within the earth – like this Columbus, the cloud-warrior had talked of. Sharp iron of unimaginable power wielded by men who had not chewed bone.
Cadillac pondered these deep and tragic mysteries of the Old Time as he searched for a seeing stone. Eventually, as the sun sank towards the western door, he found one. Mr Snow squatted cross-legged and watched intently as his pupil knelt, closed his eyes, raised the stone to his forehead and began the process which caused the pictures from its memory to flow into his mind.
‘Find me the iron snake,’ said Mr Snow. ‘Go forward a little way through the time-clouds and find me a great battle.’
Since his first attempts to make practical use of his gift at the urging of his teacher, Cadillac had gradually improved to the point where he now remembered much of what he had seen and spoken of while in contact with the stone. He had discovered that far and near memory could be distinguished by the intensity of the aura which surrounded them, and his inner eye had begun to recognise the difference between visions from the past and those from the future.
Still grasping the stone firmly, Cadillac lowered it to his knees. His face muscles tightened, dragging the ends of his closed lips back and down as he shied away from some fearful internal landscape of horror. ‘My mind flies forward, but I cannot yet tell how far I journey,’ he gasped, the words hissing out between his clenched teeth.
‘Look for Clearwater,’ suggested Mr Snow. ‘Look for yourself and the cloud-warrior. Summon them with all the power of your mind. Perhaps, in this way, their images will come to the fore and the others will remain sealed within the stone.’ The old wordsmith sat back patiently. Behind him, the wide waters of the two great rivers moved slowly eastwards. Several minutes passed. Cadillac’s head rolled from side to side and his body began to twitch and then was racked by more violent muscular spasms. Mr Snow made no attempt to prompt him further.
Suddenly Cadillac’s spine became rigid. He turned his sightless face to the sky, his features contorted with anguish. ‘The iron snake stands over me!’ he cried. ‘Oh, Mo-Town! Great Mother! It runs with the blood of our people!’ Cadillac began to moan, a keening sound that became a harsh sobbing noise as he was shaken by another spasm. After a few moments, the convulsions died away. He slumped forward awkwardly, crushed under the weight of his grief.
Mr Snow watched him in silence.
For several minutes Cadillac did not move then he slowly sat up, drew his shoulders back and turned his tear-streaked face towards Mr Snow, gazing at him with great tenderness. ‘There is nothing but pain and sorrow in this stone.’ He cast it aside.
‘The world is full of it, my son,’ replied Mr Snow quietly. ‘It is the burden of the Warrior. The dark side of existence that threatens to crush the soul. Only those strong enough to bear it can reach the light beyond where true happiness lies.’
‘Even so, I wish you had not brought me here.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because this is the place of your death, Old One.’ Cadillac’s eyes filled with fresh tears. He brushed them away angrily.
Mr Snow grimaced and drew his hand slowly over his beard. ‘When is it to be?’
‘In less than twelve moons. Near the time of the Yellowing.’
The late summer of the coming year. The old wordsmith lowered his head and digested this news in silence then raised his eyes and let them range over his surroundings: the rolling prairie covered with red buffalo grass that lay north of the river; the billowing towers of cloud advancing slowly from the eastern door like stately Spanish galleons under full sail – precious words, those, from the Old Time – while to the south, a low band of dark grey rain cloud threw the long shadowed stand of tall, white-trunked larches into bright relief, their orange and yellow leaves aflame in the slanting rays of the sun; to the west, over his right shoulder, the blue, distant hills to which they must now return. Mr Snow swept his hand around the horizon and beamed at Cadillac.
‘Come! Put away your grief and look around you! How can you be saddened by such beauty? This is a good place to die!’ Slapping his thighs, Mr Snow rose as if he had not a care in the world, threw his arms out wide and drank in the late afternoon air.
Cadillac had seen many things in the stone at the joining of the two rivers. Some were too painful to talk of – even to Mr Snow – but, as they headed west on the return leg of their journey, he revealed that the cloud-warrior would have to be set free for it was his departure that led directly to the events he had foreseen, bringing fulfillment of the Prophecy one step nearer.
‘It will not be easy to arrange,’ observed Mr Snow. ‘Despite the sign at the Biting of the Arrow, some of our clan-brothers still seek his death. They will do all they can to prevent his escape.’
Cadillac shrugged. ‘If he follows the path drawn by Talisman, the cloud-warrior will overcome them.’
Mr Snow smiled. ‘Spoken like a true wordsmith. Even so, to stand any chance of success, the cloud-warrior will have to take the arrowhead. Can you build another?’
Cadillac nodded. ‘If you desire it, yes.’
The two wordsmiths exchanged a conspiratorial smile. Steve could not have picked a more apt pupil. Cadillac did not need to be ‘taught’; the act of instruction merely provided the young wordsmith with the opportunity to insert a mental plug into Steve’s memory and make a duplicate record of everything that was stored in the files. Cadillac had learned to fly with consummate skill because his brain circuits now contained the same sensory data that had enabled Steve to perform so well at the Academy. And when presenting Steve with the ‘remains’ of the three Skyhawks, the clan had taken care to conceal the wing fabric from Steve’s own craft. Although split in several places and scorched at one wing tip, the panels were otherwise virtually intact. The M’Calls had also held back an undamaged motor and propeller. Unknown to Steve and his masters within the Federation, the Plainfolk now possessed, through Cadillac, the knowledge to build and fly a craft similar to Blue-Bird. It was a task Mr Snow had secretly agreed to undertake on behalf of the mysterious iron masters of Beth-Lem. They had asked him to deliver a cloud-warrior and an undamaged arrowhead. In the event they would get neither, but Cadillac’s newly acquired flying skill and a reconstructed craft would serve their purpose just as well. And in return, the iron masters – whose promises were always honoured – would furnish the M’Calls with new and powerful long, sharp iron…
When they halted for the night, and while Cadillac slept, Mr Snow stared thoughtfully at the glowing embers of the fire and considered how the cloud-warrior’s departure might be achieved. Steve had had the means and the opportunity to escape for nearly a month, but, so far, nothing had happened. After pondering the problem at length, Mr Snow turned to the Sky Voices. With their help he understood that Steve’s inertia was not due to his fear of Clearwater’s powers as a summoner b
ut because of his unrequited desire for her. It was the other, sweeter, kind of death he longed to suffer by her hand. Allowing them to come together might, paradoxically, be the best way of securing his departure. It would be a minor betrayal of his young protégé, and was totally contrary to the wishes of the clan elders, but if this was the will of Talisman, then so be it.
Without disturbing the other sleeping warriors, Mr Snow woke a young Bear called Death-Wish and told him to return immediately to the settlement. A non-stop run of three hundred miles – a day and a half’s running. He was to bring twelve hands of warriors to meet them on the eastern edge of the D’Vine turf. He was also to take, in the utmost secrecy, a gift to Clearwater. Opening the bag slung round his waist, Mr Snow handed Death-Wish a small pouch closed at the neck by a draw-string tied in a sealed knot around a knuckle bone. Mr Snow did not disclose its contents to his fleet-footed messenger but inside was a thin, standard-issue chain necklace and dog tag bearing Steve’s name and number, and a dozen threads of Dream Cap.
The next morning, when Cadillac discovered Death-Wish’s departure, Mr Snow explained he had been sent to fetch reinforcements to cover their crossing of the D’Vine turf. Cadillac accepted this without question. He had no knowledge of Mr Snow’s secret plan of action but he was now aware, through his reading of the stone, of Steve’s future desire to possess Clearwater. He had already sensed they were drawn to each other but had not challenged either of them to deny it. His indecision on the subject was due to Mr Snow. Ever since Steve’s ‘confession’, the old wordsmith had used his formidable powers to cloud Cadillac’s perception in the same way he had fudged Commander Hartmann’s thought processes prior to the attack on the wagon-train.
Unfortunately, Mr Snow had not been able to beam out the same stealthy static while Cadillac searched the stone. As a result, the young wordsmith had been shaken by the unexpected intensity of feeling that accompanied the images of Steve and Clearwater. From his other delvings into the cloud-warrior’s mind Cadillac knew that his own friendship with him was based on genuine feelings; feelings which were in constant conflict with the dark, treacherous side of Steve’s nature. Up to now, he had viewed Steve’s dilemma sympathetically but the revelation of the full extent of his future relationship with Clearwater had a galvanising effect on his psyche. When he emerged from his trance-state, Cadillac’s mind was stripped of its previous mental lethargy, and despite the renewed jamming operation by Mr Snow, remained sharp and clear.
Up to that moment, Cadillac had firmly believed in predestination and the unquestioning acceptance of the will of Talisman. But now, pride, jealousy, a sense of outrage and betrayal, made him a driven man. He felt a rebellious urge to do something; to be in control; to impose his will through some simple, yet decisive, act that would change the course of future events; would alter the direction of the River of Time so that the death and destruction he had foreseen would not occur. He was aware that, in attempting to tamper with the preordained, he was setting himself up as the equal of the Supreme Being that watched over the Plainfolk and he knew it was wrong, but this did not deflect his growing resolve. It was a forgivable conceit he shared with numberless other young men – and many older ones too – who had gone before him.
Towards sundown on the day that Death-Wish had been despatched in the hours before dawn, Cadillac sought out Motor-Head during one of their brief halts. The heavily-muscled warrior was crouched in a stream splashing water over his face, chest and arms. Black-Top and Steel-Eye, his constant companions, lay sprawled on the bank eating yellow-fists, the Mute name for a type of large, wild apple.
Motor-Head cupped his hands and splashed water over Cadillac as he hunkered down on the edge of the stream. ‘Your face looks heavy, sandworm. You got something on your mind?’
‘Yes. I would speak with my brother Bear of things I have seen in the stone.’
Motor-Head stepped out of the stream and beckoned Black-Top and Steel-Eye to come and sit on either side of him. The three warriors squatted down facing Cadillac. Motor-Head snapped his fingers and pointed to Cadillac. Black-Top tossed him a yellow-fist. Steel-Eye placed another in his leader’s outstretched palm. Motor-Head took a huge bite out of it. ‘What would you speak of?’
‘The Death-Bringer.’
Motor-Head spat the chunk of fruit out of his mouth, tossed the other piece away, then leant forward with his wrists on his knees and fixed his jet-black eyes on Cadillac’s face. His huge hands hung loose but his jaw was set, his neck muscles tensed, his killer instinct aroused by the subject of the cloud-warrior.
‘He plans to take wing,’ said Cadillac. ‘To return to the dark cities beneath the desert. And he wishes to take Clearwater with him.’
Motor-Head glanced at his two companions then studied Cadillac with narrowed eyes. ‘When is this to be?’
‘Soon. It could be within two or three moon-risings.’
‘Does the Old One know of this?’
‘He has not spoken of it to me,’ replied Cadillac. ‘Nor I to him.’
Motor-Head’s eyes glittered as he got the message. ‘What do you wish us to do – clip his wings?’
‘Yes. But in a way that does not harm the arrowhead.’
Motor-Head exchanged another look with Black-Top and Steel-Eye and gained their silent assent. He turned to Cadillac. ‘We will make the run for home when the others sleep under Mo-Town’s cloak. It will be hard. It is more than a day’s running. We may not get there in time.’
Cadillac offered the yellow-fist he’d been given to Motor-Head. ‘If anyone can do it, you will.’
Motor-Head nodded with visible pride. ‘True.’ He gripped his knees and flexed the muscles in his arms and shoulders. ‘So – this treacherous crow fouls the floor of those who feed him. Is he to be killed?’
Cadillac considered the idea very seriously. To delay the cloud-warrior’s departure was a decision that could be reversed; to order his death was an irrevocable act that might lead to an even greater disaster than the one he sought to avoid. It could also render him totally unworthy in the eyes of Mr Snow. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Don’t kill or cut him. Just… keep him on the ground.’
Motor-Head’s mouth turned down sharply. ‘You disappoint me, sandworm. There is venom in your heart but your tongue lacks bite. A man who would take the place of Mr Snow needs iron in his soul. If he cannot say or do the hard things, the clan will go under.’
Cadillac searched his conscience and found what he felt was the true answer. ‘He who would give wise counsel must know when to take life and when to spare it. The Way of the Warrior is not drenched in blood. The strength and courage needed to kill your enemy is only the first step along the Path to Understanding.’
Motor-Head snorted contemptuously. ‘I will not cross words with you, little brother. Your head holds the star-secrets, my hand holds sharp iron – but we were both born to defend the Plainfolk in the name of Talisman.’ He waved a finger at the fruit in Cadillac’s hand. ‘Go! Sweeten your tongue on that yellow-fist while you wonder at the ways of the world and leave the cloud-warrior to us.’
When darkness fell, Mr Snow’s party halted. After a brief meal around a small log fire, sentinels were posted and the rest of the party wrapped themselves in their woven-straw blankets. Cadillac found it impossible to sleep. He twisted and turned restlessly, gnawed by indecision and guilt. Finally, when he could bear it no longer, he sought out the old wordsmith.
Mr Snow was sleeping deeply and was not in the best of humour when Cadillac woke him. ‘Great Sky-Mother, what is it?’ he grumped. He sat up and shivered. ‘Talisman! It’s cold! Uuughh! I’m getting too old to sleep outdoors.’ He pulled the straw blanket around his shoulders. ‘Is there any wood left to put on that fire?’
Cadillac cast around in the darkness, and found a few pieces. He stirred the dying embers and blew on them till the wood burst into flame.
Mr Snow warmed his hands. ‘That’s better,’ he muttered. He studied Cadillac’s face in the flic
kering orange glow. ‘You look as if the roofs fallen in.’
‘I have dishonoured you, Old One.’
Mr Snow yawned and stretched. ‘Let me be the judge of that. Just start at the beginning and keep it short and simple.’ He dropped his eyes from Cadillac’s face and stared at the flames.
Cadillac recounted his anguish at what he had seen in the stone, then took a deep breath and told Mr Snow he had sent Motor-Head, Black-Top and Steel-Eye to punish the cloud-warrior. He sat back nervously, expecting his teacher to explode in anger.
For a while, Mr Snow said nothing. He just stared into the fire for what seemed like a long time. When he raised his head he looked old and tired. ‘When did they leave?’
‘Soon after we ate.’
Mr Snow let out a long, weary sigh then rubbed his face briskly. ‘We’d better get going then…’
‘To the settlement?’ Cadillac found himself confused by Mr Snow’s low key response.
‘Where else?’
‘You are not angry, Old One?’
Mr Snow yawned again. ‘Angry? You bonehead! You imbecile! What you have done changes nothing! Do you think any of us can deflect the will of Talisman? You are an instrument of that will!’
Cadillac uncrossed his legs and knelt with his head bowed. ‘Forgive me, Old One, for being blind and deaf to your words.’
‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ grunted Mr Snow. ‘When I was your age, I also thought I could be master of the world. But that’s not the way it is.’ He got to his feet and started to roll up his blanket.
Cadillac rose. ‘Does that mean we must accept dishonour – take no action, do nothing?’
‘Of course not!’ exclaimed Mr Snow. ‘You do whatever has to be done! But above all, you must try to understand! Come on – help me wake the others.’
Cloud Warrior Page 31
