by James Axler
And he knew, too, that he would no longer be alone.
This knowledge was the last thing he could recall, although he could never explain how things, once more, changed at this point and he became, once more, the man that he had been before.
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Thirteen
Ryan had changed. He didn’t know quite how, but he knew that he was somehow different. He had been on the plateau, on his hands and knees, crawling to find some kind of shelter from the relentless rays of the sun. Krysty had been there, close by; she, too, had been on all fours. He could hear her breath, shallow and harsh, at his rear. His own breath had come with razor-sharp edges that sawed painfully at his throat. To make even the gasping rattle that begged expression would have been a pain that was unnecessary right now: he focused on keeping that pain down, using it as the wedge to drive between himself and the pain that racked his whole body.
He had felt as if all the moisture had been sucked from his body by the sun; as if they had been laid out on the dust- and dirt-covered rock surface to fry like pieces of meat. This was supposed to show them the way of the spirits? It would be funny if the test that was supposed to set them up for the fulfillment of the prophecy did nothing more than chill them. The Grandfather spirit Wakan Tanka wouldn’t find that so amusing. Nor would the tribal elders. Ryan would, though. Fireblast, it would slay him…
He knew he was thinking stupe thoughts, and not concentrating on finding a way in which they could shelter, maybe find some water. The scrub plants up here were weak and pathetic, but they still managed to cling on somehow, which meant there had to be some moisture to be found up here. That could make the difference between buying the farm and surviving a little longer.
How long had they been here? How many days, months, years…hours? He had no idea. Time seemed to stretch out and curl in on itself so that he was not sure how long it was since yesterday or the day before that.
That was when he realized that he was different. How and when it had happened he could not tell. One moment he was Ryan Cawdor, and the next he was and yet was not.
It was still hot, but a different kind of heat. Not the relentless pounding of the sun, but a kind of diffused, all-encompassing heat that came only from a fire within an enclosed space.
He was no longer outside. He was inside. He had no idea how that had happened, only that he felt like he had been here for a thousand years. Perhaps longer.
His eyes focused. What had seemed at first like blackness had been the dim light of a cave lit only by a fire. Now that his vision was adjusting to the gloom, he could see that in front of him stretched fur-covered legs, ending in huge black paws. He started to lick them, knowing that he had always done this, and would continue to do so for as long as time existed.
The mouth of the cave was in the distance. They were far back within, hidden from the world outside and sheltered from the elements. It was a long way to see, yet his new eyes were good enough to view the world beyond the cave. He could see a vista of lush, verdant plain in the distance. But near to where the mouth of the cave entered the outside world, the land was more desolate. Stony, with little scrub, and no sign of growth or life. He knew—again, he was not sure how—that the cave was situated where the Macha Sicha and the prairie met. The badlands where nothing could live, and the lands where all could prosper.
The cave stood at the point where life and death were poised, facing each other.
And he had a task to perform.
Inside the cave, by the light of the fire, he could see a woman. She was immeasurably old—as old as himself, and he could not measure the time that he had been here—and sat hunched and bent about her task. In the reflection of the flickering flame, he could see that her face was lined and weathered, her skin the color and texture of a shriveled walnut. Indeed, her whole body resembled nothing so much as this, as she seemed to disappear into herself.
She was dressed in rawhide, and it gathered in folds around her, emphasizing how old and small she had become. For a thousand years she had sat in this same cave, and she would sit a thousand years more if that was what it took.
On her lap she had a buffalo robe. She was measuring against it a blanket strip that was decorated with dyed porcupine quills. It was two-thirds complete, but there was still much work to be done. Her eyes glittered in the firelight as she counted, her lips moving soundlessly as she calculated what remained to be done.
Ryan watched her intently. No, not Ryan: he knew that his name now was Shunka Sapa, and that he had sat here since she had begun the blanket strip. Sat here because he had an important task to perform, but one that he could only do at certain times. So he had to wait, bide his time, and then be ready to act swiftly when he was called upon.
The old woman put down the blanket strip and the buffalo robe, and took up the skin of a porcupine. There were many skins by the side of where she sat, and the floor of the cave was littered with the bones from which these had come, as well as the bones of all those who had been used before. The air was sweet with the decay of their flesh. Some scents were fresh and pungent, others older and just a faint suggestion that lingered in the close, still air of the cave.
While Ryan watched, the old woman took the quills from the skin and placed them in her mouth, gradually flattening them so that they would be easy to work into the blanket strip. It was a slow, laborious process, and it took her forever to flatten just a few. That she had been doing it so long showed when she took them from her mouth and, satisfied, smiled to herself. Her teeth were nothing more than stumps in her mouth, flattened like the quills by years, decades, centuries of chewing. Flat almost to her gums, they were discolored and slablike.
This first task having been completed, she took the bowls of juices and dyes that she kept by the side of her seat, and worked the quills into them, dividing the numbers so that she had the right amount of each color to add to the pattern she was forming. The dyes took some time to take hold, but she appeared to be in no hurry.
Ryan was content to wait. He watched her, still licking at his immense black paws.
When the dyes had taken hold, the old woman grunted and nodded to herself. Taking up the blanket strip once more, she began to work the dyed and flattened quills into the design, filling up more of the space that had been left blank and open. It was a beautiful design, possibly the single most beautiful thing that Ryan had ever seen. Yet it was also awful in its beauty, as it was a design of the universe, and to see it complete would mean that everything was finished, and so would all come to an end.
The finished blanket strip would mean the end of the world.
She worked slowly and assiduously, investing in her work a care and attention that meant time was immaterial. She would take as long as it took, and nothing would deter her. She would work until there was nothing left of her, until she had shriveled into nothing. She would give her all to this blanket strip.
Still Ryan watched, his eyes never wandering from her hands as they moved across the blanket strip. Every quill that went in, Ryan knew its exact position. He understood that it was important he know this.
When she had finished with the dyed quills, she sat back for a moment, nodded and sighed to herself. She mumbled a few words, chuckling softly. Ryan did not understand them; they were in a language that made no sense to him, though whether that was because it was a native tongue, or because he was now a dog, he did not know. Perhaps it did not matter. He would have liked to have known what she said, nonetheless.
She took up another skin and began to slowly strip it of quills. In the oppressive heat of the cave, it seemed as though she did that with an infinite care; almost as if she slowed down the longer she carried on. Ryan felt the air grow heavy around him. He kept licking his large black paws, his eyes unmoving from her. The heavier the air grew around him, the more he was aware that he needed to stay focused. That the time to act would soon be upon him. He did not wish to be found wanting.
The ol
d woman began to flatten the quills with her stumps once more. It was something that he knew he had seen thousands of times before, and that he would see yet many more thousands of times before the end of all time.
Yet this time it was a little different. Halfway through her task, the old woman paused. She took the half-chewed, half-flattened quills from her mouth and laid them upon the blanket strip. She rose from her chair. This alone seemed to take an infinity, as her extreme age and the amount of time that she had spent seated caused her to seize up, and her aged body took a long time to unbend.
When she was finally on her feet, watched all the while by the black hound that Ryan had become, she shuffled her way across the cave floor to where the fire burned. A large earthenware pot rested on the flames, supported by a structure of crossed sticks, rooted in the stone circle that contained the fire.
The pot was full of a bubbling liquid. Wojapi. The sweet red berry soup sustained the old woman, and was the stuff from which life itself was sustained.
The old woman grasped a stick that protruded from the pot and began to stir. She intoned and chanted to herself as she did this. It was almost singing, except that her voice was flat and toneless, so no notes could be discerned.
She kept stirring. Her back was turned. If she took as long over this as she had over any aspect of the blanket strip, then Ryan knew that he had the time in which to act. And he knew what he had to do.
Rising to all four feet, he stealthily padded the few yards between where he had lain watching, and where the old woman had worked. The blanket strip lay upon the buffalo robe. With his forepaw he scattered the quills that she had been flattening, and then set about worrying and working loose some of the colored quills that she had spent so long inserting into the blanket strip.
Her work was good. It was almost a pity to discard so much of it. Yet he knew that he had to. The longer the blanket strip took to finish, the longer the world could live. He was all that stood between life and the end of all things. The thought of that did not help him, nor make his work any easier. If anything, it made the clumsy paws fumble all the more; the unfamiliar teeth bite and catch on the quills, each miss-hit making his mouth raw, salt blood mingling with the taste of the dyes and the old woman’s spit.
He heard her move behind him. He scattered those quills he had unpicked until they were lost in dust and shadow, then returned to his position in time to see her turn around. When she saw what he had done, she screamed and cursed at him in that tongue that he could not understand. Her manner, though, was unmistakable.
Almost crying, she returned to her seat. Seating herself, she surveyed the damage to her blanket strip. He had removed all that she had done while he had been watching her, and this time a little more besides. He knew, though did not exactly remember, that it had not always been this way.
With a resigned sigh, the old woman picked up a porcupine skin and began to pull out the quills. When she had enough, she placed some in her mouth and began once more to chew.
As it had always been.
As it would always be.
K RYSTY HAD NOT SEEN them before, so she could have no idea why they would wish to do this. Why the spirits would be so mischievous, and wish to scare her so. She did not realize that her reputation as one who was scared of nothing had spread from this world into that of ghosts and spirits, and had angered those who lived in this realm.
She had not seen the four of them, gathered high in the rocks by the light of the moon, sitting in a circle and swapping ghost smoke while they talked.
Their chief drew long on his smoke, then blew it out into a pattern that lingered on the night air. “This woman, she is brave. She fears nothing. That is what they say about her. But there is always something that causes fear. It is our job to do that, and as long as she walks, seemingly afraid of nothing, then there will be no fear of us among the others of the tribe. That is not how it should be. We must change that.”
“How can we do that?” asked one of the other three.
“We must find a way. Let us now make a wager. The one of us who succeeds in scaring her will have the advantage of being chief.”
The other three ghosts looked at the one who had spoken.
“You must feel sure that you can succeed. No one would willing give up their position, or wager idly upon it,” he said to the chief.
The chief said nothing. He smiled and blew more smoke at the moon.
“Very well then,” said the others, “we will take you up on this wager. And whichever of us wins,” they continued, each thinking that he alone had the best chance, “will take your place.”
The chief ghost smiled at them in a way that made them eager to beat him. “Then let us see,” he said simply.
So it was that, later that night, Krysty was returning home when she saw a most unusual sight.
She had been walking alone, as was her custom. Oth ers in the village were scared of the ghosts that stalked in the night, but Krysty did not fear them. That which was not alive could not touch you, let alone chill you. So she was surprised, rather than scared, by the skeleton that jumped out at her as she walked down a narrow passage between some rocks. Under the light of the shining moon, chosen by the ghosts as it would reflect most upon their ghost skin, or in whatever form they chose to appear, she could see that skeleton shimmered in the dark.
“Let me pass. I mean you no harm, and you cannot harm me,” she said.
The skeleton laughed. “Oh, stupe woman, do you think that I cannot harm you? I can steal your breath and take your life if I so wish.”
“Only if I give it willingly, which I will never do, stupe ghost,” she countered.
“Very well, then. Let us make a wager. I will play you at hoop and stick. If you win, then you continue on your way. If I win, then you will join me in becoming a skeleton. Will you agree to this?”
“I will,” Krysty said. But she did not trust the skeleton. Everyone knew that ghosts were wily in the ways of trickery and mischief. She knew that he would seek in some way to deceive her, and so steal her breath.
“Good.” The skeleton laughed and looked around for a stock with which to play the game.
He had not expected Krysty to be so suspicious of him, nor to have no fear at coming close to him. Those were not the normal ways of humankind. So it was that while he was turned away to look for a stick, Krysty dived toward him and took hold of his bones. He yelped in shock and surprise as she bent him in a circle so that he now formed a hoop of bones. As she did this, she pulled one of his bones from his lower leg, laughing all the while.
“See, how do you like this for hoop and stick?” she asked, using the leg bone to spin the gasping, yelling ghost. “How about we change this game to one of shinny ball?”
“No, no,” the ghost yelled, knowing only too well what was about to happen to him.
With a swing, Krysty hit the hoop of ghost bones and sent him skittering away from her along the pass. As he rolled out of control, she threw the leg bone after him, calling, “You lose, ghost. You are nothing to be frightened of, and you are easily bested. You will have to do better than that.”
She turned and continued on her way home, not knowing that other three ghosts had been watching and listening. So it was a surprise, but not a shock, when another ghost appeared in the pass in front of her, also choosing to appear in the form of a skeleton.
“Ha! Two ghosts in one night. What a lucky woman I am,” Krysty said with some sarcasm. “What games do you wish to play with me, ghost, so that you may steal my breath?”
But this ghost was more cunning than his brother, and so decided to try another way.
“I do not wish to steal your breath, or play games with you,” he said. “I have no wish to wager with one so brave, wise and clever as yourself.”
“You say flattering things, ghost, but you must have a purpose,” she said, “or else you would not appear before me at this time, and under such a flattering moon.”
“Yes,
it does make me look good,” the ghost agreed, “but it is also flattering to you. A brave and beautiful woman like you makes me wish for nothing more than to dance with you.”
The ghost held out his arms, inviting her to join him in an embrace that was to be nothing more or less than a dance. Yet Krysty was not as stupe as the ghost seemed to think. A ghost dance would do nothing more than steal her breath and lead her into the realm of the chilled. She had no intention of falling for such a simple trick.
She moved toward the ghost, saying, “Yes, I will dance with you ghost…”
Then, when she was within touching distance of the bones, the arms of the skeleton outstretched and waiting for her, she suddenly darted beneath his embrace and stole two of his ribs. The ghost looked down in surprise, and while his glance was not upon her, she snatched his skull from his neck bones.
“What are you doing with me, woman?” the ghost asked, confused.
“You want to dance with me, yet we cannot dance without music,” Krysty said. And she began to beat out a rhythm upon the ghost’s skull, using his ribs as sticks.
“Stop, stop, you are giving me a headache,” the ghost cried.
“It is much less than you wanted to give to me, so be thankful, ghost,” Krysty replied as she continued to beat a tattoo upon his skull.
“Enough, enough,” he cried, until she wearied of the joke and threw his ribs down the pass, tossing the skull after them.
“Now begone, ghost, and do not bother me again,” she said as she walked on toward the village.
When the third ghost jumped down in front of her, she was not in the least surprised.
“This is beginning to get boring,” she addressed the skeleton. “Can you ghosts think of nothing else to do to pass your time, other than appear before me as I try to walk home? Your attempts to trick me are pitiful.”
