Native Wind

by A. M. Burns

  “A party of metal men?” Trey asked. A strange look laced his brows together. “So, McNair is creating more of these things like Copperpot. Did they attack anyone else, or just the shamans?”

  “The shamans and those with two forms,” Jumping Elk explained. “Only a couple of our flyers, like Cunning Bird, managed to escape. Several of the other tribe members were also injured, but they appeared to focus on those with magic.”

  “So they could see auras too,” Trey said, slightly louder than a whisper, but just loud enough for Gray Talon to hear. “How did you manage to drive them off?”

  “We didn’t. When they failed to find the girl with golden eyes and blue hair, and once all the magical folk were killed, they just turned and walked out of camp,” the chief said. “Most of them were utterly silent, other than the squeaking they make when they move. Only one of them spoke at all, when it was asking about the strange girl.”

  “The dragon’s daughter,” Gray Talon said. As soon as the words escaped his lips, he could’ve hit himself. They didn’t know their Crow host. One of the first things young Comanche learned was to never expose more information than was needed. But Jumping Elk and his advisors were providing a lot of information about their encounter with the constructs.

  “The dragon’s daughter?” Jumping Elk raised a dark eyebrow. “Is that what the girl is? She sounded strange enough. How do you know of her?”

  Gray Talon glanced at Trey. His partner silently gave his consent to share the information with an almost unperceivable nod. “We’ve been tasked by the Old Man of the Storms to find the daughter of the dragon of Bald Peak. She went missing a few months back and was last seen with some brigands who make their camp near the Valley of the Mist.”

  “Ah,” the counselor with hawk feathers said. “We know of these brigands. They respect our lands, and for the most part, limit their activities to the whites who travel along the mountains. It isn’t unusual for them to have strange women with them from time to time, so I’m sure our scouts took no notice if one was a little stranger than most.”

  “Can you lead us to them?” Trey asked.

  Before the chief or any of his advisors could answer, screams erupted outside the tent.

  8

  THEIR HOST seemed unaffected by the screams coming from beyond the tipi’s hide walls. The sound was unlike anything Trey’d ever heard from human lips. It was frantic and unearthly. In the dim light from the central fire, a couple of the advisors paused in their eating, and their faces paled. If their hosts weren’t reacting, Trey knew custom was they shouldn’t react, but he had to at least ask. Being white, he might be able to get away with the breach in protocol without the shame it would bring to Gray Talon.

  “What is that sound?” he asked. His partner shot him a hard look for breaking guest rules. The chief looked down at the piece of deer meat in his fingers.

  “It has taken us a couple of weeks to get used to it,” the advisor closest to Trey said in a hushed tone.

  “I’ve never heard anything like it,” Trey replied. The screaming continued to shatter the stillness of the tipi. Something out there was in desperate pain.

  “They came the first time by the dark of the moon,” Jumping Elk said. “They woke us from our sleep, but when our warriors tried to fight them back, the arrows, spears, and bullets just passed right through them. We tried to do the proper ceremonies to honor them so they can rest, but none of us have the training. The metal men made sure they left none behind that had the training we needed to protect ourselves. I think that is why they left most of us alive. Our own dead will make sure we get no rest in the night.”

  “Wait, those screams are the spirits of the shamans the metal men killed?” Trey asked. There wasn’t anything scarier to Indians than the souls of the dead, and the souls of shamans were the most powerful. Each caste had their own ritual for laying the dead to rest. A woman’s or child’s were the simplest, while the ritual for laying a shaman to rest was the most complex. And if the metal men had left no one alive in the tribe who knew the ritual, or even how to speak to the dead, the spirits would return each night to plead with their living kin to take them back.

  Jumping Elk fixed his gaze on the ground. “Yes. To my everlasting shame, we have no way to lead them into the afterlife, and my tribe suffers for it.”

  “If I can help your shamans to find rest, will you send someone with us who knows where to find the brigands?”

  A spark of hope flashed in the chief’s eyes as he looked from Trey to Gray Talon. “Yes.”

  “WHAT CAN I do to help?” Gray Talon asked as Trey completed his preparations.

  Trey smiled at him. “Watch over me as you always do. You aren’t trained in magic. This is going to take a very delicate touch if it’s going to work correctly. There is a chance one or more of them may try to use me as a way to get back to the land of the living. You have to be ready to stop me if that happens.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you.” Concern clouded his face.

  The look almost made Trey change his mind about helping the spirits of the Crow shamans, but he had to. Ever since the Comanche took him in, when his parents had died and his magic had first surfaced, he’d been honing his magical skills. Singing Crow often said how good he was at it. Now was his chance to give something back to the People. They might not be Comanche, but they were of a similar culture. Plus this tribe was hurting. When he looked closely at Jumping Elk and his council, it was obvious they were all under a great deal of stress. There was a gray shadow to their auras that screamed “tired.” He could only hope they would be able to find a trained Crow shaman among another band of Crow that had escaped the massacre caused by the metal men. Otherwise none of the spirits of their tribe would ever be able to rest again.

  “Let’s hope you don’t have to,” Trey said with a grim smile. “But we can’t let an unresting spirit out into the world in my body, especially a shaman’s spirit. It would cause too much havoc and delay us in finding the dragon’s daughter.”

  “You know, we don’t even know her name,” Gray Talon said, shifting his feet uneasily beside Trey. “The Old Man of the Storms didn’t even tell you her name, did he?”

  Trey recalled the meeting with the storm spirit. “No, not that I remember. He just gave us the description. But how many young women can there be out here in Wyoming with blue hair and golden eyes?”

  “Good point,” his partner said.

  “Anyway, I think I’m ready for this,” Trey said with a sigh. He reached up and caught Gray Talon’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Now stand guard and make sure that no one breaks my concentration.”

  Jumping Elk and his advisors had left the tent several minutes before, promising to guard the entrance flap. The moon was nearing its apogee, and still the spirits of the lost shamans screamed outside.

  Gray Talon squeezed back. “I’ll be right here for you. No one will get past me.”

  Without another word Trey forced his mind away from the world above and down into the world below. There were a lot of prairie dog holes around to give him access. His spirit passed down the carefully dug passages, flowing far beyond anything the small creatures had created. Then he found himself standing in the midst of a great cavern that spread out as far as he could see.

  He walked a narrow path that snaked down from the ledge he’d landed on into a vast forest that filled the cavern. The forest reminded him of the tales of tribal elders about how the forest had been before the coming of the white man. Massive lodgepole pines and towering ponderosa pines crowded smaller, but no less grand, aspens and scrub oaks. The heavy smell of wet pine filled the air while a multitude of birdsongs came from countless unseen throats.

  “Crow!” Trey called out to the forest around him. “Crow, come to me!”

  The birdsong died away. For several moments the great forest held its breath. Then a loud caw rang through the stillness. Another caw followed, growing louder. When the third cry sounded, the crash of heav
y wings filled the air.

  Trey looked around. A giant crow, larger than any eagle he’d ever seen, landed on a limb just above him. Even in this world, spirits had no weight. According to Singing Crow, a shaman had to travel many worlds down before they entered a world where spirits had physical form.

  Crow looked down at Trey. Its red eyes bored into him. Here was a spirit more powerful than the elemental spirits he was used to dealing with. His teacher had never summoned one of the greater spirits when he’d been around. The young mage could only hope that dealing with this spirit was like dealing with any elemental spirit.

  “Why have you called me?” the spirit asked as it roused and settled on the branch. “You are not of the People.”

  Squaring his broad shoulders, Trey met the bird’s gaze. “I am Trey McAlister, adopted son of the Comanche and student of Singing Crow. I have come to you on behalf of the Crow tribe. They are in great need.”

  “Ah, Singing Crow.” The great bird opened its beak in what could’ve been an unlikely smile. “Did the old man tell you that I personally gave him his name? He was destined to be a great force of magic in the tribes, and his student was destined for even greater things. It was only appropriate that he bear my name.”

  “He didn’t tell me that. He is a great shaman.”

  “Of course he is. He bears my name.” The bird closed his beak with a loud snap. “You say you have come to help the Crow People. Why have none of their shamans come to me about this problem? It does not seem appropriate to send you, no matter how great your teacher is, when they should be here to plead on their tribe’s behalf.”

  “They are the problem, great spirit. The shamans of the Crows were all slain and now cannot be laid to rest. None of the tribal elders know the proper rituals. I know the Comanche rituals but am unfamiliar with the Crow, so I came seeking you. Even as we speak, the restless spirits of the shamans walk the night, tormenting their tribe.” The bird sat on the limb with its black beak closed and its red eyes fixed on Trey. An eerie feeling slithered down his spine.

  Finally the bird drew a long breath, ruffled its feathers, and lifted its chin. “You have called the right spirit, young shaman. The rituals of my sacred people are different from the ones you’re used to. I will help you… this time. Since this is for the benefit of my sacred tribe, there will be no price for my aid, but should you have to call on me again, you will owe me a boon.”

  “You are a most wise and great spirit,” Trey replied.

  “That I am.” Crow spread his wings. “Now come, we have my people to save.”

  The spirit led Trey deeper into the underworld. The forest closed around them. At times the shadows deepened to the point that he could barely make out the dark shape flying ahead of him. The normal forest sounds never returned as they traveled. The birds and other creatures remained silent, as if the presence of Crow cowed them all.

  “We must pass farther into the underworld if we are to find the place where these lost souls can be called down from the upper world,” Crow explained as they entered a cavern that sloped downward. “There is a special place in the next world where the spirits can be called from.”

  Trey hurried to keep the bird in sight. The cavern darkness closed around them. It took only a thought for him to summon a bit of spirit light to illuminate the path. Skittering and scraping, just outside the radius of the light, marked their passage as the creatures that dwelled in the cave sought to get away from them. Trey’s pulse raced. The cave seemed to press in on him. Unlike the transition from the upper world to the first level of the underworld, where the change was easy and gradual, the barrier between the first and second levels was harsh. He’d never journeyed this far before. One second he was in the cave; then with the next step, he stood on a rocky plain.

  Crow soared out over the barren plain. It was more desolate than any place Trey had ever been before. Although he couldn’t do it in the upper world, in the underworld Trey knew how to change shape. With but a thought, he spread his arms and wings formed to carry him out over the barrenness, following the lone black bird. No wind rustled his feathers as he flew. This second level of the underworld was devoid of everything save the gray sandy reaches that stretched in all directions. He knew the first level, where he’d met Crow, was prone to change depending on where in the world you were and the needs of the shaman at the time. Trey wondered if this level was similar, or if it stayed this burned-out plain forever.

  In the distance he spotted a tree, or the skeleton of a tree. The thing reached up and its top branches disappeared into the gray above it. No leaves existed near the tree, neither on its many branches nor on the ground around it. A deep feeling of forlorn shrouded it, reminding Trey of a hanging tree the tribe had come across one time in the Oklahoma territory with five men swinging from its sturdy, barren branches.

  Crow landed on the lowest branch. Trey alit next to him. The limb was bigger around than Trey’s human waist. He doubted he and Gray Talon could’ve encircled the trunk with their hands linked together; it would’ve taken at least one, maybe two other people.

  “This tree is a point that spans the many worlds,” Crow cawed. “It is one of several such trees, but for our needs, this one is the best. It is the tree of death.”

  Still no wind moved on the desolate plain, but deep beneath their feet, the tree creaked. Trey gripped the limb the best he could; the sharp talons of his eagle form sank into the dead bark, but none of it flaked off. His heart pounded, and he shook out his feathers. A chill from the tree brought an ache to his feet, even after only seconds on the branch.

  “Now we must use the tree to call to those souls lost in the world above,” Crow instructed. “Merge your energies with the tree, reach up through the branches, and find the world above. Then we will sing the song of death to those spirits who walk up there. They will hear and come down to us.”

  Trey knew about merging his energies with other things. It was one of the first things Singing Crow had taught him. Even with the knowledge of something he did on a regular basis, trying to force his energy into synch with the tree of death was harder than he would’ve thought. The chill from the tree pushed back against him. It fought him. It struggled to find a way to merge with him, to make him cold and lifeless. Trey pushed back against the grave chill that surged up his legs. With all his might, he shoved his will into the tree, battling it for the right to survive. Never before had it been so hard for him to merge his energy with another thing. Living things didn’t fight the merging like the tree of death did.

  A smell of rot, the first smell he’d noticed since entering the plain, rolled up as the tree tried to take over. The young mage gagged. The tree surged deeper into him, but he forced it back. It became clear to Trey that if he lost the struggle with the tree, he’d lose his life as well. Crow sat calmly at his side, not moving a feather. The spirit would be of no help. Trey had to win the battle on his own.

  As the cold and rot tried to get past his knees, he thought of Gray Talon. He recalled their life together and how much more they had to give each other. With the image of his lover’s brown eyes and the feeling of how those eyes made his heart beat, he pushed harder against the tree, forcing his way deep into the limb, then into the trunk. The death energies gave way to him, moved aside by the strong love empowering him. For a second the tree actually pulsed with life.

  “Whoa there, boy,” Crow cawed. “Don’t get carried away. You really are a very powerful magic user, more powerful than I think you realize. You’ve beaten the tree. Now use its power to reach up to the world above. It’s time for us to sing a bit.” The great black bird threw its head back, and soft words flew out of its harsh beak.

  The words weren’t in any of the tribal dialects Trey spoke, but they sang to him, and he found the pulse he needed to match the words. The song circled out of him and ran up the limbs of the tree, reaching out for the world above, the world where the dead shamans harried their tribe. Together he and Crow sang a duet to
the spirits who had lost their way. Within seconds another voice joined their song, then another. Soon all the lost shamans stopped screaming and joined the chorus that would sing them to the next world. As more voices joined, the song was easier to keep moving. It created a great glowing pathway down the tree, guiding each one from the world above. With the shamans came the lost shifters; they flew, clawed, and walked their way down the branches to gather around Trey and Crow.

  After what felt like hours, Crow ended the song, and one by one the others followed. Trey’s throat hurt. He’d never had to sing such a complex song for so long. But looking around him, it was worth it. The limbs of the tree of death were filled with souls.

  “Come, my people. It is time to lead you into the next world,” Crow announced. He glanced over at Trey. “Thank you for your help, most worthy student of Singing Crow. Tell him that you bring much honor to him and from him to me.” The massive bird shook its feathers out, pooped, and launched itself off the limb. The assembled spirits followed without a sound.

  Trey sat there watching them all disappear into the gray world before him. There was something eerie about the silence the dead traveled in. He could still hear Crow, but nothing more. This plain of the dead isn’t for me. And he launched himself into the air, heading back the way he and the spirit had come. The need to get back to the world of the living filled him as he flew.

  9

  GRAY TALON paced impatiently as Jumping Elk tried again to press gifts onto Trey. For two days, while his lover recovered from his extended stay in the underworld—Trey’d been gone for most of the night, coming back to himself moments before dawn—the chief had been trying to get him to accept gifts for getting their restless dead the peace they so richly deserved. So far the chief had offered beads, blankets, guns, horses, and even a wife. All of which he’d graciously refused. In the end they only wanted a guide to help them find the brigands that had taken the dragon’s daughter.