by Angus Wells
Perhaps; but even so: what other choice had he owned? He could not deny the Tachyn the promise of salvation for fear of Chakthi and his Dreamer; for fear, alone, of betrayal. That would have been to deny such honest folk as Dohnse the promise, which must surely have been a denial of the Maker. Not all the Tachyn, he told himself, were like Chakthi, like Hadduth.
But still … He looked out across the sparkling snow fields and wondered; and thought that he was a frail and doubtful vessel for the Maker’s promise, for the hope of his People.
Maker, he said into the brightness of the snow and the warm mustiness of the horse’s mane, Only guide me. I’d do what you would have me do. But I need your help because I am only frail flesh and doubt myself. I’ve not dreamed lately; and I need to dream if I am to bring my people—all the People—safe through. So give me back my dreams, please?
He looked at the sky and saw an eagle, spinning high circles over the long line of the Commacht as the clan straggled across the snow. He wondered what the gallant bird saw: live hope, or sorry eating?
Did he deliver salvation or damnation?
The eagle offered no answers; nor the Maker.
And Morrhyn wished again he dreamed.
Perico looked Hazhe in the eye and said, “You did not see him; I did. He looked”—he shrugged, spreading his hands wide—“like a man who has spoken with the Maker. Like a man … changed! His hair is all white now, and his eyes … his eyes burn! They look into you and see your soul. And Rannach came back to guide him.”
“Rannach was exiled by the Council,” Juh said.
Perico said, “Yes, but he risked his life to bring Morrhyn home. And Morrhyn’s message; I think we must be mad do we ignore it. The Commacht prepared to leave even as I departed.” He took his courage firm in both hands and said it out loud: “We had best go with them.”
“Still, it defies the Council.” Juh’s ancient face creased deeper as he frowned. “Rannach was forbidden Ket-Ta-Witko: he should not have come back.”
Almost, Perico shouted his frustration. Could his akaman not see that what mattered here was Morrhyn’s promise, not the manner of its delivery? He forced himself to impatient calm and said, “Morrhyn was wasted; had Rannach not escorted him, he’d not have made it back.”
Juh’s frown deepened until his eyes were almost lost, flashing irritably at Perico, who wondered if he had overstepped the line. What matter? he thought. Shall we dance around petty protocol now, when these Breakers threaten us and all the People?
Hazhe said, “Perhaps he was not meant to come back.”
Perico gasped and could not stop himself from blurting out again, “You did not see him! I tell you, he’s …” He raised his hands helplessly, shrugging. “Had you only seen him—heard him—you’d understand. You’d believe!”
“But we have not,” the wakanisha returned. “Only you have heard this fabulous promise.”
Perico’s face darkened in a scowl and Hazhe raised an apologetic hand. “It’s not that we disbelieve you,” he said soothingly. “But what you tell us is so …” He glanced at Juh. “So large a thing.”
“These Breakers are also a large thing,” Perico snapped. “Racharran has seen their full force, and he says it is such as shall crush us all. Do you doubt his word too?”
Now Hazhe frowned disapprovingly. Perico could not care: he saw his akaman and his wakanisha prevaricating when action was required, urgent and immediate. But he held his tongue as Juh spoke.
“Morrhyn would have us quit our Wintering Ground, eh? And go out through the snow to the Meeting Ground; in hope of a miracle?”
He stared at Perico, who ducked his head and said, “Yes.”
“Which should be a great upheaval,” Juh said. “And not much welcomed, I think. Folk would surely die along that trail, in search of Morrhyn’s promise.”
“The Maker’s promise!” Perico insisted.
“Perhaps.” Juh looked to Hazhe. “What do you think?”
“I think,” the wakanisha said, “that we must ponder this between ourselves and decide how best to advise the clan.”
Juh nodded. Perico said, “The Breakers draw ever closer. By the full of the Rain Moon, at the latest, they’ll be upon us. There’s little time for debate.”
Juh’s answering look was angry, as if Perico were some upstart speaking out of turn. He said, “Perhaps. Or perhaps they’ll not find us. Perhaps the Maker sends them to scourge the Commacht for their sins.”
Now Perico gaped. “What sins?” he asked.
It was Hazhe who answered: “That Rannach slew Vachyr when the laws of Matakwa held sway, and then defied the judgment of the Council to return to Ket-Ta-Witko.”
Perico ground his teeth. It seemed to him they were willfully blind, willfully deaf: like Sand Boy turning his back on the flood, hands covering his ears that he not hear the water that drowned him.
“We shall think about all you’ve told us,” Juh said. “You may go now.”
Perico offered the old man formal thanks and quit the lodge. Outside, the night was dark, stars hiding behind low cloud, the newborn crescent of the Rain Moon peeking briefly from the rack like a flirtatious maiden from under her blanket. Fires burned cheerful through the camp and folk watched him curiously as he trudged to his own lodge. He hiked his blanket over his head and went with face downcast: he felt no wish to speak with anyone save his wife. Ahwandia would listen to him; she always gave sound advice. He needed that now, for he felt he was about to make such decisions as might set him at odds with Juh and Hazhe.
They had not looked into Morrhyn’s eyes, nor heard the surety in the Commacht’s voice. He had, and he believed; in his soul he knew what he would do—what he knew he must do. But it would be good to have Ahwandia’s approval.
• • •
The clan moved slower than a war band, slower than Morrhyn and Rannach, for there were so many, with horses and dogs and travois to draw, and the teeth of the old ones and the youngest chattered in the cold and babies cried, and late-born foals foundered in the snow so that their mothers turned back to nurse them and ignored the shouts of the unblooded herdsmen, and all the time the Commacht rode cautious, wary of attack.
“At this pace we’ll not reach the Meeting Ground before the New Grass Moon.” Rannach halted his borrowed horse, turning in his saddle to look back along the sprawling line. “And the Maker help us if we’re found.”
“Would you leave them?” Racharran reined his own horse to a stop. “Any of them?”
Rannach took his eyes from the clan and turned them on his father, shaking his head: “No.”
“Well said.” Racharran smiled, albeit grimly. “You begin to think like an akaman.”
Rannach snorted laughter. “Me? An akaman? Father, I am exiled by the Council—I am under a sentence of death at this moment.”
Racharran frowned and shook his head. “We’ve spoken of that, and I stand with Morrhyn—what comes against the People now transcends all else, and that judgment was negated when you brought Morrhyn back.”
Rannach nodded, the buffalo head that topped his robe bobbing with the movement so that the curved horns shone in the rays of the setting sun. “So you believe—and I thank you for it. But—”
“What else should I believe?” Racharran interrupted.
“I had wondered …” Rannach hesitated, and smiled from under the horned cowl. “I had wondered if you would not deliver that sentence.”
His father stared at him, eyes wide. “Truly?” he asked.
“Truly,” Rannach answered.
“Am I so hard, then?” Racharran’s brow creased, and he fidgeted with his horse’s rein so that the animal pranced, curveting in the snow.
“Yes, father; you are a very hard man. You are a stern, stiff man; and it is not easy to fulfill your expectations.”
Racharran said, “I …” and shook his head, licking his lips. Then he spat and squared his shoulders. “I am sorry. I never meant …”
Rannach
laughed again, this time cheerfully, and reached to touch his father’s wrist. “I know—now. I’ve learned much in my valley, with Arrhyna; and more from Colun and Morrhyn. I know it cannot be easy to guide the fate of a clan. Nor to have such an enemy as Chakthi. Coward though he be …”
He left that sentence dangling, and Racharran narrowed his eyes and asked cautiously, “How mean you?”
Rannach grinned and said, “Colun spoke of a bear, and a man in a tree.”
“That?” Racharran smiled even as he frowned. “Colun swore to hold silent on that.”
“He deemed it wise to tell me,” Rannach said. “That I might understand you better; and why Chakthi resents you. Is it true?”
Racharran threw back his head and roared laughter into the sunset. “Yes!” he said when he drew breath. “In the name of the Maker, it’s true. Chakthi hung there like a ripe fruit, with his breeches all stained and dripping with no juice any would want! It took us a while to persuade him down. And when we did, he stank. Even his horse shied away.”
“I wish,” Rannach said, “that I’d seen that.”
Racharran shrugged. “Some things are best unseen.” Then he grinned. “But surely Chakthi was a sorry sight that day.”
“And for that he hates you?” Rannach asked. “For that he hates all the Commacht?”
“Does it take more?” Racharran’s face grew sober. “What makes a man your enemy? Some petty slight? Some knowledge of weakness? In some men these things grow, like a festering wound, until the poison spreads through all the body.”
“You saved his life,” Rannach said. “You and Colun—he should be grateful!”
“Perhaps.” Racharran shrugged again. “But it is not always like that: some men resent the favor. They see it as a debt they’d sooner not owe.”
“But still a debt.” Rannach frowned. “He owes you better than what he’s done.”
“Yes.” Racharran nodded. “But Chakthi is Chakthi, and not much like other men; and so that old wound festers.”
Rannach lowered his head and set both hands on his horse’s neck, and asked from under the shadow of the buffalo hood, “Do you trust him now?”
Racharran said, “I trust Morrhyn, and I trust Dohnse.”
“But Chakthi?” Rannach asked. “And Hadduth?”
“No.” Racharran waited until his son looked him in the eye. “I trust them not at all.”
“And yet you let Dohnse go? You think larger than I, and farther.”
Racharran smiled wearily and said, “I am akaman of the Commacht, and I believe that Morrhyn has spoken with the Maker. You’ve listened to him, no?”
Rannach said, “Yes, you know I have. I’d not be here else.”
“Go on listening to him,” Racharran said, “for you’ll be akaman one day.”
“I?” Rannach laughed as he shook his head.
“Yes: you,” Racharran said, “You learn wisdom daily.”
“I think that Morrhyn spoke only the truth,” Kanseah said, looking from Tahdase’s face to Isten’s. “And that if we do not act on his words, we shall be destroyed by these Breakers.”
“Who have not yet come against us,” Tahdase said.
“But soon shall, I think,” said Kanseah.
“Racharran said this?” Isten asked.
Kanseah nodded. “Yes. Racharran spoke of a great horde moving across Ket-Ta-Witko; and Morrhyn spoke of visions given him by the Maker himself, on the mountain. He says that the Breakers are come into Ket-Ta-Witko and shall slay all the People, save we go to the Meeting Ground.”
“Where the Maker himself shall lead us to a new land?” Isten asked.
Kanseah ducked his head in agreement: “That is what Morrhyn said, yes.”
Tahdase said, “That’s a long journey, no? To quit our safe Wintering Ground for the hills?”
“Safer than waiting here for the Breakers to come,” Kanseah said.
“Do they come,” said Isten.
“We’ve seen the signs,” Kanseah said. “Dead buffalo and dead men. And Racharran has told me what he’s seen. Shall we ignore all that?”
“And are they meant for us?” Tahdase turned his inquiring face to his wakanisha.
Isten shrugged. “I cannot say. But to journey to the Meeting Ground? With the Rain Moon barely risen?”
Tahdase said, “I’d know what Juh decides. This is not a matter to determine quickly.”
Isten nodded and said, “A hard road, that. I wonder what Hazhe makes of all this?”
“It would be best,” Tahdase said, “if we acted in concord, the Naiche and the Aparhaso together. It should be safer that way—must we go.”
“Yes,” Isten said. “Best we send a rider to the Aparhaso and learn what Juh does.”
Kanseah said, unthinking, “Not me. I’ve carried messages enough of late.”
Akaman and Dreamer, both, looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. He wondered if he had—and knew he believed everything that Morrhyn said, and that he would not go out again save to join the Commacht—which likely, he thought, made him the sanest man present.
“No,” said Tahdase, “you’ve done your share. We’ll send another, eh?”
“Tomorrow,” said Isten. “And when we know what Juh and his Aparhaso do, then we’ll decide.”
Kanseah nodded and quit the lodge.
His mind whirled as if he were caught in the eddies of the river that ran through the Naiche Wintering Ground. That swift current shone bright and cold under the hibernal sun, and all down its length stood the lodges of his clan which, he thought, might likely all be slain by the Breakers if cautious Tahdase and wary Isten failed to act.
He looked at the sky and asked the Maker to judge him as he reached his own decision. He had heard Morrhyn and knew what the Commacht did; he had told his akaman and his wakanisha—dispensed his duty. He knew in his soul that Morrhyn was right: he did not believe there was any other choice.
He raised his arms and shouted, “Listen to me! Listen to me, all you Naiche! Listen to what I tell you!”
Lhyn set the kettle over the fire and turned her body to the wind to break the gusting that threatened to extinguish the flames. Even through the furs she wore she felt the cold out here, where nothing stood to break the blast save frail humanity. She rubbed her hands together and held them closer to the fire, listening to the buffeting of the wind against the hides of the lodge.
She felt afraid and hid her fear, for she’d not let her husband or her son—or even Morrhyn—see it. They needed the strength of belief, and she knew—she’d looked into Morrhyn’s eyes, and theirs—that none of them entirely trusted what they did was right but did what they believed was best; the only thing.
And she believed it, sure in her heart, and knew she must support them.
What else was there?
So she smiled as the wind took her breath away and flung iced splinters of frozen snow against her cheeks, and sheltered the fire that they’d have tea to drink and warm food, and wondered how the defenseless ones fared.
Later, when Racharran and Rannach and Morrhyn had eaten, she would go see how the others faced this storm wind, and if they had enough to eat.
And how many had died in the cold.
She started as a hand touched her shoulder and looked up to find Morrhyn standing over her.
“This is not easy.” His smile was like a ghost’s; she remembered him younger, when … She shook the memory off with the ice on her furs, and said, “No,” not quite sure whether they spoke of the cold and the wind or things long past but there still, unforgotten.
He said, “Tea?”
She nodded and said, “Soon. When the water boils.”
He squatted and she looked at him, wondering how he came to be so gaunt, his hair turned the color of sun-washed snow, and his eyes so burning blue. She knew, of course: he’d told her; but even so she remembered the young man who’d called her to his blanket and asked her to decide between him and Racharran. And her answer.
“I’d welcome warm tea,” he said, and smiled; and touched her cheek. “Once, eh?”
She said, understanding, “Yes.”
“But now,” he said, “I’m no woman’s. I’m wed to another.”
She said, “Yes.”
“I’ve no choice,” he said. “But if I had …”
Lhyn said, “Yes; I know,” and took the kettle from the flames and poured him tea.
He drank it and looked around, at the lodges erected swift against the night and the snow, and said, “This is no easy thing any of us do. I wonder …”
She asked when he fell silent, “What?”
“If,” he said, “it is all in vain. If we shall reach the Meeting Ground; the promise.”
“Do you doubt it?” She took his hand. “You brought us the word. How can you doubt it now?”
He shrugged and smiled, and said, “Easily. I wonder every day if I bring the People to salvation or destruction.”
She said, “Salvation, Morrhyn! You guide us to a new land, and rescue us from the Breakers!”
“I hope it is so,” he said.
She said, “It is! It must be so!”
He held tight to her hand and smiled, and said no more.
Jach accepted the tiswin Yazte offered gratefully. The Maker knew, but this must raise his standing amongst the Lakanti—Yazte’s chosen messenger, and now come back with such incredible news and welcomed to the akaman’s lodge to sit with his chief and Kahteney. The warriors and the maidens, both, would surely look at him anew now; he sipped the tiswin and smiled hugely.
“And the Commacht go?” Kahteney asked.
