Cloud Warrior

by Patrick Tilley

  ‘But – Old One – what is the point of going? If we can change nothing…’

  A mischievous look crept into Mr Snow’s eyes. He chuckled and thrust a finger under Cadillac’s nose. ‘We are going to teach you a lesson. Which I hope won’t be wasted, because the run from here is probably going to kill me.’

  Clearwater found the small, square package of folded red leaves lying on the talking mat outside her hut after Death-Wish had chased her two clan-sisters round the screen of yellow leaves and into the rock-pool. Taking it into the hut, she opened it and found the pouch. With her hunting knife, she cut the sealed knot and peeked inside. The musty odour told her it contained Dream Cap. Pulling out the necklace, she studied the tag bearing the silent speech-signs of the sand-burrowers and recognised it as something that had been taken from Steve. And when she held it to her forehead, she knew immediately who it was from and what she was required to do. Clearwater’s heart alternately leapt and quailed at the thought of going to the cloud-warrior and the dread of what might happen if they were found together. She knew that Mr Snow would not have asked her to risk death and dishonour unless it was necessary. She also knew that if she did what was required without the rest of the clan knowing, the cloud-warrior would go, leaving her to face Cadillac weighed down by the shameful knowledge that she had betrayed him. And that would be like dying too. But she was a child of the Plainfolk; of the clan M’Call, from the bloodline of the She-Kargo. And as Mr Snow had said to Steve, the M’Calls had the courage to accept their destiny.

  Death-Wish left to return to the main settlement as Clearwater prepared the evening meal she was to share with her clan-sisters. Both sisters were unaware that their portions contained a liberal dose of Dream Cap. Cooked with food, it acted as a strong sedative and within an hour both slipped away gently into a deep sleep.

  Confident that neither would wake until the sun was at the head of the sky on the following day, Clearwater went to the rock-pool where her clan-sisters had provided Death-Wish with a frolicsome combination of sex and hygiene and carefully washed her newly-patterned body. Returning to the hut, she knelt before it on the woven mats and sang to herself as she braided fresh flowers into her hair and rubbed a fragrant oil onto her arms, breasts, belly and thighs. The song she sang was about a She-Wolf who lay with her young warrior-love through the time of the New Earth only to lose him at Summer-Dawn when he fell under the knives of a marauding clan. A sad, keening lament that brought tears to her eyes.

  And so it was that, on the last night before Cadillac and Mr Snow returned, Steve stirred sleepily and discovered Clearwater snuggling down beside him under his wolfskins. As his eyes snapped wide open, she laid a warning finger on his lips and then embraced him. The touch of her lips on his, the electric shock that ran through him as her supple body slid sinuously against his own, nearly blew the top of his head off. It was unbelievable. Out of this world. Putting the bomb in the barrel with Lundkwist was nothing compared with this. Steve might not know what the word love meant but he knew how it felt. It made his heart leap; made him feel he would suffocate with sheer joy. It was all coming true; it was happening; she was here; lithe, eager, vibrant, sensual, demanding, yet, at the same time, it seemed totally unreal.

  As they lay together in the darkness, tenderly locked in each other’s arms, their love-making had a gentle dream-like quality, far removed from the sweaty clash of lamp-tanned muscled limbs, the mechanical thrust and counterthrust, the feeling of disassociation that accompanied his previous sexual encounters. They were borne aloft on a wave of emotion, transported to another plane, another timeless dimension beyond the bounds of physical reality.

  This isn’t really happening, thought Steve. My imagination’s working overtime. But no. When he woke again in the first grey light of dawn he found Clearwater nestled sleepily against him, her legs interlocked with his. It took a few seconds to collect his thoughts then the reality of the situation hit Steve like a sledgehammer between the eyes.

  ‘Christopher Columbus… !’ he whispered to himself. What they had done was the height of folly: if discovered it would destroy the relationships he had carefully built up, demonstrate his total disregard of the clan’s social values – and bring death to them both.

  Clearwater was also full of regrets. Not for what they had done, but because her desire for Steve had placed his life in jeopardy. She took his face in her hands and told him that there was only one solution to the jam they had landed themselves in. He must escape on the arrowhead he had built.

  Steve gathered her into his arms. ‘I’m not leaving here unless you promise to come with me.’

  Clearwater put her hands on his chest. ‘That is madness. There is no place on the arrowhead for me!’

  Steve knew she was right. There was no way that Blue-Bird could carry both of them. The wing area, which had been limited by the fabric he’d been able to salvage, simply would not generate enough lift. The only other alternative was suicidal, but he brushed aside all thoughts of failure and seized her firmly by the arms. ‘Okay, then – we’ll go on foot.’

  Clearwater shook her head sadly, her eyes filled with tears. ‘Oh, golden one – think with your head not your heart. You ask the impossible! Where could we run to? Look at me! I am a Mute!’

  Steve ran his hands along the black and brown jigsaw pattern on her forearms. ‘You’re not! Not like the others!’

  ‘Yes, I know, underneath this my skin is like yours, but your people would never accept me. And even if they did, I could not live in your dark world beneath the desert.’

  ‘It’s not dark!’ hissed Steve. ‘There is no night! Even in the deepest place the light is as bright as when the sun is at the head of the sky! There is no White Death, no rain. Thousands of us spend our whole lives within the earth-shield. Happily,’ he added, with less than total conviction.

  ‘I could not live in your bright burrows for a day,’ whispered Clearwater. ‘Is that what you wish to do with me – take me down there to die?’

  ‘No, no,’ muttered Steve. He searched his mind desperately for a more practical solution to their predicament; a more persuasive argument.

  Clearwater caressed his cheek. ‘Even if I agreed to come with you, we are doomed from the start. You would not be able to outrun the Bears. They would hunt us relentlessly night and day, even in their sleep.’

  Steve knew she was referring to the Mutes’ ability to run continuously, with their characteristic loping stride, for twenty-four hours or more, sleeping on their feet like birds on the wing. He thought hard and suddenly had a brilliant idea. ‘What about your magic? You made that rock fly, didn’t you? You can use that to protect us!’

  Clearwater shook her head again. ‘No. It would be too dangerous. I am no match for Mr Snow.’

  Steve looked at her with a surprised frown.

  Clearwater looked equally surprised. ‘Did he not tell you he was a summoner when he spoke of the Talisman Prophecy?’

  ‘No,’ said Steve. ‘He forgot to mention it.’

  ‘There are nine Great Rings of Power,’ explained Clearwater. ‘I have barely grasped the first two. Mr Snow has absolute mastery over the first seven.’

  ‘What about the other two?’

  ‘Only Talisman is strong enough to wield the Nine,’ replied Clearwater. ‘But no one among the Plainfolk has the power of Mr Snow. The Seventh Ring is called the Storm-Bringer. Were you not there, aboard the iron snake, when he blinded it with mist then brought lightning, thunder and the flood waters down upon it?’

  ‘Are you telling me that old man…’ Steve stared at her with stunned disbelief. ‘He did that? Mr Snow… made that river flood? Almost wrecked the train?’

  ‘Yes!’

  Steve tried to cope with this revelation. Incredible though it was, he did not doubt a word of it. He pictured the rock plummeting from the sky and then he thought about the spiked heads of Fazetti and Naylor outside her hut in the forest. ‘And what did you do?’

  Cl
earwater looked deep into his eyes and read the question in his mind before answering. ‘I did what had to be done. And I also saved you from Motor-Head’s hammer.’ She sealed his lips as he went to reply then took hold of his hands and kissed them lovingly, holding them against her face. ‘You must go! I beg you – go now! Don’t wait until Cadillac and Mr Snow return!’

  It was against all Steve’s instincts to break and run when the going was tough but this time he knew it was the smart thing to do. There was no way he could hide what had happened – especially from Mr Snow, who had shown himself expert at piercing the layers of guile that had hidden Steve’s true intentions so well in the past. He had to go. Not only to protect Clearwater and himself, but also for the sake of the Federation. He had to find some way to tell them about the Talisman Prophecy. They knew about wordsmiths, but not about summoners and seers. Or that Mute magic was not a defeatist rumour but a deadly fact that could no longer be ignored. It could prove tricky to be the bearer of news no one wanted to hear. If he did it right, he could maybe earn ten promotional grades at one jump; if he did it wrong, he could find himself getting shot on the Public Service Channel for spreading alarm and despondency.

  And there was also the little matter of him getting even with Lundkwist, Gus White and the others involved in the conspiracy to elbow him out of the top spot at the Centenary Graduation. Yeah…

  ‘It’s getting light. You must go,’ she whispered.

  ‘You too…’ They held each other tightly in one last desperate embrace then he began to dress with swift, practised movements. Something he’d learned during his three years at the Academy.

  ‘The arrowhead – can you prepare it by yourself?’

  ‘Yeah, don’t worry,’ he murmured, savouring for one last brief moment the lingering fragrance of her oiled skin, the softness of her hair and the warmth of her body as she cradled his head between her cheek and shoulder. He pulled away, took her hands from around his neck, stole a last quick kiss then pushed her out of reach. ‘Go on, get going.’

  Clearwater shook her head. ‘No. It will be safer if you leave first. Once you have gone, no one will see me.’

  Steve was curious to know what she meant, but this was no time for awkward questions. He peeked through the doorflap. Nothing moved outside. The place was as quiet as New Deal Plaza during a First Family Inspirational. He looked back at Clearwater and saw her rummaging through the pockets of her walking skins.

  ‘I was given something that belongs to you…’ She held up the necklace bearing Steve’s dog tag. ‘May I keep it?’

  ‘Of course. Here – let me put it on for you.’ He took hold of the tag and showed it to her. ‘You see these marks? This ^one here is my name. “Steven Roosevelt Brickman”.’

  ‘That is good,’ said Clearwater. ‘It means part of you will always be with me.’ She swept her long hair forward over one shoulder and inclined her head in a quasi-ceremonial gesture.

  Steve slipped the chain around her slim neck, adjusted the hang of it so that the tag bearing his name nestled in the cleft between her breasts, then smoothed her hair back into place and took her face in his hands. ‘I’ll come back. I don’t know when, or how, but I’ll find a way. I promise.’ And he meant it, too. ‘Think of me.’

  ‘Always,’ whispered Clearwater. One half of her could not bear to let him go; the other, more sensible, half did not believe she would ever see him again; knew it would be better to wipe out what had happened, to erase him from her mind. Impossible…

  ‘Ciao,’ said Steve, using one of the Mute words for saying ‘goodbye’. Come on, Brickman, he urged himself. Move! Hit the road! He ducked out under the door flap and turned to pick up his quarterstaff that he’d left lying alongside the hut. Out of the corner of his eye he saw something leaning against the left-hand head-pole. Steve stared at it, then reached out and touched it gingerly, as if he was afraid it might vanish. It was his air rifle! The one that Cadillac had torn from the Skyhawk! Seizing it, he ran his hands over it sensuously, savouring the hard, cold feel of the barrel cluster, then wiped off the thin film of condensation with his sleeve and quickly checked the contents of the magazine. Only three triple volleys. Shit… still, better than nothing. He looked at the air pressure gauge. More than enough. Oh, you sweet mother! He toyed briefly with the idea of saying thank you and decided it wasn’t necessary. If she’d wanted a big speech she’d have brought the rifle inside. He started to get up, then, on a sudden impulse, he stopped and knelt down again. Pulling a straw mat towards him, he rolled it lengthwise around the rifle. Satisfied that it was safely hidden, he rose to his feet, tucked the mat under his arm, slung the quarterstaff over his shoulder, and strode off towards the bluff without a backward glance.

  Inside the hut, Clearwater sat on her heels and bit her lip in an effort to stem the bitter tears that clouded her eyes. She fingered the dog tag and thought of the all too brief moment she had spent in the cloud-warrior’s arms then, with a sigh, she drew on her walking skins. When she stepped outside she was relieved to see there was still only the faintest glimmer of light at the eastern door. Soon Steve would be winging his way towards the dawn.

  Clearwater walked through the sleeping settlement to Mr Snow’s hut, laid down the talking mat she had brought with her, wrapped herself up warmly in her night fur and squatted down to await the arrival of the two wordsmiths. She tried hard to think of Cadillac, but the power within that had made her a summoner sent her mind’s eye soaring towards the bluff. And there it circled, like a wide-winged death bird. Below her she could see the arrowhead resting on its poles and further away, her beloved cloud-warrior making his way towards it.

  But wait! What was that?

  Eyes closed, Clearwater raised her head clear of the enveloping furs, her nostrils flared like a fast-foot doe scenting danger.

  Reaching the top of the slope above the settlement, Steve was relieved to see that Blue-Bird was still there, lashed to its supporting trestles some fifty feet back from the edge of the bluff. It was also unguarded. For some peculiar reason for which Steve had never sought an explanation, Mutes did not raid rival settlements or go out looking for trouble at night. Once the sun went down, they put their knives away. The lookouts around the perimeter of the clan’s turf remained in position but usually slept till dawn with only a nominal guard against four-footed predators such as wolves, or mountain lions. Since the departure of Mr Snow’s party, two Mute warriors had been posted to guard Blue-Bird, but only during the day. The thought that Steve might cut and run in the middle of the night had obviously not occurred to anyone.

  As he approached the craft, he saw that someone had made him a present of a red and white wingman’s helmet. It swung gently from one of the harness straps. How odd, thought Steve. He peered into the surrounding greyness but could see nothing. Probably a stray gust of wind, eddying up over the bluff. He looked at the name on the helmet. It was Fazetti’s, one of his Eagle Squadron buddies.

  Tough luck, Lou. Too bad you didn’t make it…

  Steve laid down the quarterstaff and the rolled straw mat with the rifle inside and put the helmet on. He raised the visor and fixed the neck strap so that it was a good tight fit on his head, then he loosened the ropes holding the swept back wings onto the head-high trestles and moved the support out from under the rear-mounted motor. Drawing his combat knife, he cut one of the ropes in half and dropped the two pieces onto the rolled mat. His plan was to tie them round each end of the roll then fasten it to the bottom section of the triangular control bar on which his hands would rest. But the same impulse that had prompted him to conceal the rifle in the mat told him to leave that particular job until the very last moment. If someone blew the whistle on him he might need to be able to get at that rifle fast…

  All he had to do now was run his eye over the wing fabric to make sure there were no tears or loose stitching, check the tension and anchorage of the rigging wires, the fixings and condition of the webbing straps from which his body would
hang horizontally, and the leads carrying the electric current from the wings to the motor. With the pre-flight checks completed, it only remained to buckle himself into the body harness, stagger forward taking care to keep the propeller clear of the ground, and throw himself off the edge of the bluff. Nothing to it.

  Steve was conscious that he didn’t have a moment to waste but he found himself in something of a quandary. Up to now, all his flights had been in broad daylight and although it was late in the year, the weather had been warm and sunny – just what was needed to charge the solar cells that delivered power from the wings to the motor. It had proved to be a fluctuating supply but it provided a useful backup. And now here he was, in semi-darkness, surrounded by cold damp air. Even if he’d been able to salvage a static charge unit, the weight would have made its installation impractical. But no sun meant no power – and that meant, instead of a motor, he was loading himself down with a useless heap of junk for maybe four to six hours. More if the weather was bad. Should he take a chance and go for it with the complete rig? Or should he strip the motor off the airframe? He had the tools. It was half a dozen nuts and bolts and a few leads. It would mean kissing goodbye to all those hours of painful circuit mending and testing – but what the heck…

  Steve walked round Blue-Bird a couple of times, weighing up the pros and cons, squared up to it with his hands on his hips, appealed silently to the sky, and decided to pull the motor. Now that his mind was made up, he worked quickly disconnecting the power leads before loosening the retaining bolts. One… two… three… four… two left to go, one on either side of the motor. It was ironic. Dumping the motor had increased the potential payload of the glider. If he had considered that option before, and if Clearwater had been willing to leave, he would, with a few last minute adjustments to the harness, have been able to take her with him.

  Steve moved the rear trestle back in to take the weight of the motor while he pulled the last two bolts. As he reached up to fit the crude wrench onto one of the remaining nuts, he felt the skin on the back of his neck go cold. He looked over his shoulder and almost had heart failure. Motor-Head was standing right behind him, leaning casually on his quarter-staff.