Fur Magic

by Andre Norton

  The Changer laughed in a sharp, yelping sound. “That’s the truth, Elder Brother. But who can do so? For mine alone of the earth spirits is the shaping power. You, Elder Brother, can control the wind, the clouds, the lightning and thunder, the pound of rain, the coming of cold moons’ snow. But can you shape anything?”

  “The power is yours only—on earth,” again agreed the shadow.

  “And it is on earth now that we stand, Elder Brother. Therefore, I say that this shall be done—that I shall shape this ‘man’ to be a servant to the People. Nor will you again raise a storm to stop me, for when I have so spoken, then it becomes my right.”

  “It becomes your right,” again echoed that mighty voice. “But still you may be challenged—”

  “Not on my making of this thing,” returned the Changer quickly.

  “Then otherwise,” replied the Thunderbird. “For it is this message that I bring—there shall be a challenge, and, if you lose, then you shall with your own hands destroy this thing you have shaped, and you shall forget its making and not so shape again. Instead you shall be guided for a space by the will and wishes of he who challenges.”

  “And if I win?” There was such confidence in the Changer that he seemed to be growing taller, larger, to match the shadowy giant Cory could more sense than see.

  “And if you win, then it shall be as you have said. Though this thing is wrong, yet it shall live and be all you have promised, a servant to the People, never more than that.”

  “So be it! Such a tossing of game sticks pleases me. But since I am the challenged, I say that this testing shall be rooted in mother earth, for I am her son and not one who commands air, wind, and water as my right.”

  “So be it,” agreed the Thunderbird in turn. “You have the choice that this contest be of the earth. Mine is the second saying, which is this—”

  There was movement in the night as if mighty wings were spread, and Cory felt those eyes burning not only on the Changer and the image of mud but on him also. And in that moment he guessed that soon, if ever, would come his chance, and he must be ready to seize it. That binding the Changer had laid upon him still held in part, but suppose the Changer would be so occupied with this contest that he must use all his power for it? Then Cory would be wholly free. He could see the medicine bag still lying beside the fire, very plain in the light.

  The Thunderbird had paused for a long moment, as if he were turning over in his mind several different possibilities of a challenge. At last he spoke.

  “Of the earth, yet in a manner of seeing of my sky also. Look you to the north, Younger Brother. What see you?”

  There was a vivid flash of lightning to tear aside the night, holding steady as no lightning Cory had ever witnessed before had done. Against it stood the black outline of a mountain, one of lesser width but greater height than the eagles’ hold.

  “I see earth shaped as a spearhead aimed at the sky,” replied the Changer. “This is a piece of medicine to be thought on, Elder Brother. Perhaps it does not promise good for you.”

  “A piece of earth,” answered the Thunderbird. “As you have asked for, Younger Brother. Now this be my challenge—which is not really mine but that of One Above speaking through me—that you take this earthen spear and without changing its form you lay it upon the ground so that it no longer aims its point to the sky, but into this desert country, even at this fire where you would harden your shaping into life.”

  Still that lightning banked behind the mountain, showing it plainly. And the Changer looked at it steadily, nor did he show that he thought the task impossible.

  “It is of the earth,” he said, “and so must obey me.” And to Cory he sounded as confident as ever.

  Facing the mountain, he uttered some sharp howls, as if the huge mound of earth and stone were alive but sleeping, and must be so awakened to listen to his orders. Then his feet began to stamp, heavier and heavier and heavier, as he put his full force into each planting of those coyote paws.

  Stamp, stamp, right paw, left paw—

  Under his own feet Cory felt an answering quiver in the earth, as if the force of that stamping ran out under the surface.

  Stamp, stamp—those paws were now digging holes into the ground where the Changer brought them down with all his might. At the same time he began to sing, pointing his human hands at the mountain peak against that light which could no longer be considered lightning, for it remained steady and clear.

  And having pointed out the mountain, the Changer now went through the motions of hurling at the peak, although his hands held nothing Cory could see.

  Stamp, hurl, stamp, hurl. Cory watched, yet the peak remained unchanged. And the boy wondered if there was any time limit placed upon this contest.

  With a great effort he dragged his eyes away from the Changer and looked to where the medicine bundle lay. Now he began to try his strength once more against the spell the Changer had held him in. His hands moved to answer his will, and then his arms, stiffly, with pain, as if they had been cramped in one position too long. He tried not to flinch lest the Changer notice him. But the coyote head remained steadily facing the mountain.

  Cory glanced up to see that the hurling motions had come to an end. Now the Changer moved right hand and arm in a wide, sweeping, beckoning. It might be that in answer to his signal he expected that distant humping of earth to take to itself legs or wings and come forward at his gesture.

  If he expected such, he was doomed to disappointment. But Cory gave only a short glance at what the Changer did. He was edging, hardly more than an inch at a time, out of the place where he had been rooted for so long at the other’s pleasure. Now the image stood between him and the Changer, and he had yet some feet to go around the fire to get his hands on the medicine bag. So much depended upon whether the Changer would remember him, or whether he would need the bag for his present magic. Cory could only try, for he believed that he would not get a second chance.

  He stooped a little to flex his stiff knees, then stood erect several times, remaining still when it seemed that prick-eared head was about to turn. The crows had left off cawing, almost as if they feared they were distracting their master’s attention at this great testing of his power. But they watched from where they were and perhaps they would betray Cory.

  And what of that great shape? Had it indeed come to his call that first time when the storm had destroyed both the fire and the image baking in it? Yet Cory was sure, though he could not have said how he knew, that that shape was not really concerned with him at all, but only with what might happen when the Changer shaped his mud and thought of giving it life.

  So Cory kept to his own purpose, to reach the medicine bag. With his hands on that, could he indeed escape the Changer’s spells—return himself to his own world and time?

  Still the Changer sang his song, beckoned to the mountain. Then, from far away, there was a rushing that became a roar and Cory, startled, looked round.

  Where the mountain had stood stark and clear, shown only by the light the Thunderbird had summoned, now shot a red column of fire. A volcano?

  And that fire climbed into the sky, as might a fountain. As the spray of a fountain falls, so did a shower of giant sparks come, together with brilliant streams channelling the earth of the peak’s sides. The peak was being consumed. As its sides melted, so clouds gathered above it, dark and heavy. From them poured streams of rain, so that steam arose. And underneath him, as far from the mountain as he was, Cory could feel the ground weave and shake, move as if some great explosion tore under its surface.

  Cory was thrown forward, his hands out, and the fire the Changer had built was scattered in brands that glowed and sputtered. Even the Changer was down on his hands and knees, and now he looked more animal than man. He was snarling, snapping at a flaming bit of wood that had seared against his upper arm.

  The image he had made tottered back and forth, though it did not fall. And the Changer, seeing it in danger, made a sudden leap
to steady it, brace it up against the continued shaking of the ground.

  At the mountain the flames tore up and across the sky as if more than just one peak was now burning, or as if earth itself, and rock, could burn as easily as dried wood. But the flood from the sky poured steadily on it, drowning that fire bit by bit. Though they were miles away, they could hear the noise of that mighty battle between fire and water.

  Under Cory’s hand as he pushed against the ground to gain his feet was a smooth object. The medicine bag! He had the medicine bag! But where could he go—what could he do with it? He had no doubt the Changer could get it away from him with ease if he remained nearby.

  A glance told him that the Changer was still occupied with saving his clay figure from breaking. Whether or not he could claim any victory in the contest, Cory did not know. The Changer was lowering the mountain, but not as the Thunderbird had directed—moving the point undisturbed out to lie pointing into the waste. And the storm the Thunderbird had summoned was putting an end to the fire.

  Cory held the bundle tight against his chest. Then he scrambled to his feet and began to run, without any goal, just out into the desert, towards the wall of the basin that held the wood of stone. If the crows gave warning of his going, he did not hear them, for that roaring in the earth, in the sky, was a harsh sound filling the whole night.

  Panting, he somehow got up the ridge, pausing there for a moment to look back. The fire had caught the small hide shelter of the Changer. From this point Cory could not see the shadowy form of the Thunderbird, only the beast-man steadying his image against one of the stone trees. Around and around above flew a wheeling circle of crows. And seeing that, Cory began to run again.

  When he had first picked up the medicine bag, it had seemed very light, as if it were stuffed only with feathers. But as he went it grew heavier and heavier, weighing against him so that at last he was drawn towards the earth. And he ran as if a prisoner’s chain were fastened to his feet; his flight became a trot, and finally a walk. Now he was in the dark, though from behind, the glow of the melting mountain was like a sun rising, only in the north instead of the east. It sent his own shadow moving before him—and that shadow changed.

  It had been a boy’s as he left the hollow. Now it grew hunched of back, thicker—Cory looked down at his own body. There was fur, there were the webbed hind feet, the clawed forepaws, behind him a scaled tail dragged on the ground. His pace was the shuffle of a beaver. He was Yellow Shell again!

  The heart almost went out of Cory. He had been sure he had won back his own body, if not his own world—but now—Now he had the medicine bag, yes, but he had lost himself again. And in a clumsy beaver body, in this desert place, he would have so little chance to escape—for this was coyote land and he did not doubt that the Changer would have the advantage.

  Yet he continued to shuffle on, the heavy bag clasped tight to his chest with one forepaw while he walked on the other three with what speed he could make. Water—if he could only reach water! But this was desert. There was no water here.

  Unless—unless the storm would have given some to the land, even if only for a short time before the sand drank it up!

  Yellow Shell’s sense, his quivering nose in a head thrown as far back on his bulky shoulders as he could raise it, sought water. And the scent of it came to him—south and west. Unhesitatingly he turned to find that water.

  He humped along at the best speed his beaver body was capable of making. And the bag grew ever heavier, chained and slowed him more and more. Yet he did not put it down, even for a breath of rest. He had a feeling that were he once to let it out of his hold, he would not be able to pick it up again.

  The false sun of the blazing mountain was dying now. Perhaps the storm the Thunderbird had raised to quell the flames was winning. So his path grew darker. He now entered a world of sand dunes. To climb up and down carrying the weight of the bag was more than Yellow Shell dared attempt. He had a vision of being buried in some slip of a treacherous surface. So he had to turn and twist, push along such low places as he could find. As Cory he would have had no guide and might have become hopelessly lost. But as Yellow Shell the scent of water found him a path.

  There came a cawing overhead. He did not have to look up to know that one of the crows must have sighted him, that even if the Changer had lost him for a time, now he was trailed again. That the beast-man would be after him at once, Yellow Shell did not doubt. His only hope was based on the fact that the scent of water was now stronger and that the dunes among which he slipped and slid were growing smaller and farther apart.

  He came around a last one, was out on a stretch of rocky ground, great masses of it towering into the sky. The cawing over his head echoed and re-echoed. More of the crows joined in a flock. He expected them to attack him, to try to force him to drop the bag that now weighed upon him as if he had his foreleg around a big stone. But they only circled in the sky and called to their master.

  With a last burst of the best speed he could make, Yellow Shell stumped across the stony land and came upon what he sought, a cut in the earth with the silver of water running through it. Though it was no true river, yet now it had a current that whirled along pieces of uprooted sagebrush and the long-dried remnants of other storms, so that to plunge blindly in with the weight of the bag was a dangerous thing. But not as dangerous, the beaver thought, as to remain on land where he was so clumsy and slow.

  Without stopping to think or look behind, Yellow Shell dived, and the bag pulled him down and down, as if it would pin him to the bottom of the cut, hold him anchored so that the rush of the water, the beating of those floating pieces in it, would drown or batter him to death.

  Yet Yellow Shell held to his stolen trophy, swimming along with the current with what strength he had, dragging the bag with him. It caught on rocks embedded in the bottom, on pieces of the drift, and he fought it almost as if it were a live enemy determined to finish him. But never did he loosen his hold upon it.

  Then he was caught in a sudden eddy of the current. The bag loosened in his grip, almost whirled away. He fought to retain it but had to crawl half out of the water to do that. And at that moment he heard a noise that froze him where he was.

  The howl of a coyote sounded so loud and sharp it seemed as if the hot breath of that hunter were able to dry the fur rising in a fighting ridge on the beaver’s back. Baring his murderous teeth, Yellow Shell turned in the mud, tucking the bag under his body, Cory’s determination strengthening the animal stubbornness at facing old enemies.

  Across the water was the Changer. But he himself had changed. There was nothing of man left in the great yellow-white beast who stood there. It was all animal, and the yellow eyes, the teeth from which the snarling lips curled away, promised only death.

  Yellow Shell snarled back. His forepaws were set tightly on the medicine bag, and now he lowered his head, nipping the taut surface of the bundle with his teeth, his intent plain. Let the Changer move at him and he would destroy what he had taken.

  The coyote watched him. As the fire on the mountain had paled, so now the first streaks of dawn lighted the sky. And once more in Yellow Shell’s mind came a faint and ghostly vision of Raven, behind him the White Eagle, and farther yet—the Thunderbird. Somehow, from them, added knowledge came to his aid.

  Hold—if he could hold here and now until the sun rose. And then let the sunlight touch upon the bag, so would the Changer’s power be broken. For he had used much of it, too much of it, upon the mountain, which had not answered his call but been consumed in part. In this much he had lost the battle, but he would try again—unless his medicine was also destroyed.

  Knowing this, Cory-Yellow Shell crouched low above the bag, sheltered it with his body. None too soon, for if the crows had held off attack before, they did not do so now, but flew down and against him, striking with punishing beaks at his head, his eyes, stabbing his body painfully, though the thickness of his fur was some armour. Using his tail to defend
himself as best he could, Yellow Shell stayed where he was, covering the bag.

  With the attack from the birds there came also a different attack, aimed not against his body but his mind. A strong will battled against him, sought to make him give up what he had stolen. First it promised what he wanted most, his own body, return to his own world. Yet Cory-Yellow Shell did not yield. Then it threatened that he would never again be Cory, never return to the world he knew, while the crows dived and pecked at him until he was bleeding from countless small wounds on his head and shoulders.

  The first red was in the sky, and that grew while the coyote prowled up and down the bank of the now fast-drying stream, and the crows cawed their hatred and rage overhead. Why the Changer did not attack in person, Cory did not understand. But the running water seemed to form a barrier he could not cross. Only the water was shrinking fast, and then—

  It was a race between the coming of the sun and the vanishing of the water. If the water failed first, then Yellow Shell had no hope at all. Yet the beaver crouched and waited.

  Sun—a first beam struck across the ground. Yellow Shell cried out as one of the crows struck viciously at his eye. He did not hesitate or try to protect himself, but used all his remaining strength to push the bundle out into that weak beam as it became stronger and stronger.

  As if the sun had lighted a fire, smoke rose from the bundle, puffed out and out—

  Cory coughed, coughed again, staggered back a step or two. He stood on two feet, he was a boy again. And in his hands he held the bundle—or was it the bundle? For it crumbled as might dried clay, sifting through his fingers in the fashion of fine sand. Then there were only particles of ashy dust left. The smoke blew away from him and he looked about as one just awakened from sleep.

  Sleep—dream—He was at the line camp! There was the jeep, the corral, the horse and—Black Elk.

  The old Indian sat with his blanket wrapped around his shoulders in spite of the heat. It was not dawn but late afternoon.