by Kage Baker
“Now, this is only some of my hunting medicine. Whenever I need more, you know what I do? I put some shell money in a pouch, and on the pouch I inscribe this.” On the white screen the word ACME appeared. “This sign is the most powerful medicine of all. I can get anything I need with this sign. Yes, folks, that’s my secret! Now you know how I became the powerful and successful hunter I am, and now you’ll be able to enjoy the hunting stories I’m about to show you.” I stepped forward, picking my way through the seated crowd, and sat down between the kantap and the other notables. “Roll it, guys!”
The equipment began to whirr, and there was a burst of sound that made everybody jump. A blurred image appeared on the screen, which resolved into a pattern of red concentric circles as a jolly little tune announced itself.
“What’s that, Sky Coyote?” Kaxiwalic leaned over to ask, shouting a little above the bouncing music.
“It’s the tribal tattoo for the World Above,” I told him. He nodded thoughtfully, and then his attention was seized and held by the bright figures that leaped into view. His cry of astonishment was echoed by most of the people of Humashup. The audience fell silent as they leaned forward and stared openmouthed at a brilliant world of red mesas, yellow desert, blue sky. Across this landscape a streak of dust was moving at high speed, emitting a high-pitched double cry.
“Hey!” said Sawlawlan abruptly. “I know where that is! Isn’t that down at Sespe?”
“Who cares, you idiot?” growled Nutku. “Don’t you want to know what’s making the painting move?”
“Well, sure, but—”
Conversation died as the dust streak halted in its rush and everybody gaped at what had been emitting the strange cry.
“Is that some kind of bird?” Sepawit inquired politely, just as it began to move again. Close behind it, here came a second speeding blur. I elbowed Kaxiwalic.
“You’ll appreciate this,” I told him, just as the blur froze to reveal—
“COYOTE!” cried the whole village, nearly in unison.
If they’d been interested before, they were spellbound now. The people of Humashup watched intently as the hunt progressed, scarcely drawing a breath until the first time the coyote turned full-frontal to glare at the audience, inviting them to share his frustration at the unstoppable speed of his adversary. There were some horrified mutters from the priests and shamans, but they were drowned out by a wave of tittering. Kaxiwalic guffawed outright.
“All right, all right!” I said good-humoredly. “I’d had a little accident when these pictures were painted, okay? It grew back later.”
The laughter never really stopped after that, even when their mirth at a coyote with no penis died away, because here was the first stupid blunder with the hunting medicine: Coyote trapping the damned bird under a tub and throwing one of his fire-sticks in after it, then waiting expectantly for the explosion that never came. Half the people in the audience groaned and howled warnings to Coyote as he couldn’t resist peering under the tub to see what had gone wrong, then crawling inside the trap himself to investigate. Of course, the bird had magically escaped, and it looked on brightly as the explosion came, blowing poor Coyote sky-high.
No, they couldn’t stop laughing at poor old Coyote, through his misadventures with the ACME hunting medicine that never worked right, through his collisions with inescapable red boulders and cliff walls, through his doomed stares at the audience as he free-fell down, down, down some red canyon, so far down that he disappeared before the tiny puff of dust below signaled his impact.
They had no problem at all understanding the humor. I needed to explain that the long gray stripe with the white line that wound to the horizon was a game trail, and that the wheeled things that charged along it blaring before they flattened Coyote were a kind of high-powered nunasis. Most of it they figured out for themselves, though, even the fiendishly clever contraptions of levers and springs that always failed to function until after the bird sped by, even the rocket-powered shoes or mail-order wings that invariably flew Coyote straight into rock walls. And how they laughed and laughed, including poor gloomy Sepawit, who hadn’t smiled since the day he’d learned his son was dead.
Mortals are funny about their gods. My people were reassured: this was the Coyote they’d always known, this clever loser, always starving, never quite able to do anything without taking an ignominious pratfall. Who could imagine me as a demon of darkness now? When you laugh at something, you don’t fear it anymore.
I sat there among them and wrapped myself in their happiness. Good old paintings: you can’t beat them for a teaching device, whether they’re bison that seem to dance on a rock wall by the flickering light of a tallow lamp or rabbits that caper on a white sheet suspended before a projector.
Once upon a time I’d been the rabbit, hadn’t I? The rabbit who always won, who might drive the mean-spirited duck or the little pink man crazy with his tricks but who was never mean-spirited himself. That had been my favorite role for years and years, clever immortal guy outwitting brutish mortals but never doing them any harm.
Gradually the world got darker and smaller, and my job got a little dirtier. So I told myself I was the man who had to go down the mean streets, though he wasn’t mean himelf. I was still the hero, even if now and then I had to hurt somebody. And if it was kind of lonely sometimes, well, that went with the job. Philip Marlowe never got the girl, did he? He always seemed to end up alone in his rented room, no company but a bottle or a chess problem, until the door should open and another desperate soul ask for his help.
You really have to lie to yourself sometimes, if you’re stuck with eternal life.
But there would come a point where it was just no use anymore, not with the things I had to do in my line of work, and I couldn’t seem to find the role. I was the secret good guy on the bad-guy team, right, playing the Company’s hand, not really a member of the Inquisition. But for every Jew I smuggled out of the dungeons because his genetic code was unique and the Company wanted it passed on, I had to watch as twenty were burned. Hell, I helped burn them. Being able to play the sinister Spanish devil, a good meaty part, wasn’t much compensation.
I’d been playing Coyote for years now, really, hadn’t I? No hero at all, and lately not even much of a villain. God knows I did what the Company asked of me—what else could I do?—but nowadays most of my jobs seemed to consist of catching anvils with my head. How far down was I going to fall? How far before my own personal little puff of dust signaled to the chuckling gods that I’d hit bottom?
Well, no way of knowing, and no point in wondering. I was immortal; no accident was ever going to set me free. Like the silly bastard in the cartoon, I’d just drag myself out of the hole I’d made and limp on to the next job, whatever it was.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
OH, THE CHUMASH LOVED THOSE cartoons. They couldn’t get enough of them. I had to order more from New World One. Imarte issued a snotty formal protest about it—supposedly I was wreaking havoc with their cultural myth sphere—but she’d said it herself, we’d garnered about all we could of their culture. Besides, as soon as we took them away, they were going to be exposed to a lot stranger things than coyotes on rocket roller skates.
So I showed them the stories about the rabbit and the hunter and the duck, and while I had to do a lot of translating, they found them as funny as I had, long ago. They were so enthusiastic, in fact, that I went ahead and gave them the stuff they really had no context for, like the duck and the pig and the Martian, or the rabbit and the hunter singing opera, or the furious little man with the six-guns. It took a few screenings for them to figure out what was supposed to be going on, but once they’d grasped it, they laughed twice as hard and clamored for more. The kantap began having intense discussions about devising new shows with a whole new cast of characters and new and improved special effects. Imarte was furious.
Not a day too soon, the personnel transports arrived.
I was screening a matinee in
the meeting house at the time, so I didn’t find out about them until they’d been there six hours. I was on my way back to the base for a nice hot sponge bath, when I saw Mendoza standing motionless on the hillside above me. She was staring intently out to sea. Something going on? I broadcast in inquiry. She glanced down, located me, and responded, The ships.
So I went trotting up to see and, by golly, there they were: four gleaming transports hanging far out above the water, waiting for nightfall so they could come in.
“Well, finally,” I said. “I was running out of party tricks.”
“Now you can give your mortals their ride in the chariots of the gods.” Mendoza pulled her cloak closer about her. The wind battered at us, up here. My skimpy fur stood on end; Mendoza’s hair streamed out like fire. I did a little dance, partly to express joy and partly to keep from freezing.
“This means that this time next week I’ll be out of here!”
“Just when I’d got used to you with a tail,” she remarked, actually smiling.
“Oh, I won’t be out of the dog suit for another six months, believe me. I have to help the Chumash settle into their new lifestyle. Boy, will I have some explaining to do.”
“You’ll manage,” she said. She was still smiling. I looked at her closely. As usual, the smile had nothing to do with me.
“You look happy,” I observed.
“The Company approved my request, Joseph,” she said. “I’ve been reassigned. I’m staying here in California.”
“Congratulations,” I said, mentally thanking the people who had owed me favors. “So you’re going out to the base at Yosemite?”
“Out there? No. Though I’ll certainly visit it when I get the chance; those sequoias are supposed to be amazing. No, I’m on my own recognizance. I’ll be scouting with a complete field kit and sending stuff in as it’s acquired. I thought I’d make myself a base camp in the coastal range hereabouts, just me and my credenza for company.”
“You’re kidding.” I stared. “Mendoza, there’s nothing here!”
“There’s work, Joseph. There’s enough work to keep me busy for years and years. No miserable departmental dinners. No social life. No people, very nearly. Only the land. Only those forests.”
What reverence in her voice, talking about a bunch of trees and seismic zones. She had the answer, all right; she had found the True Faith, and she was as certain about it as the damned Englishman had been about his. She looked out at the ships and finally said, “I’ll say this much for New World One. With all the luxury and all Houbert’s silly rituals, all the conversation and busyness, there wasn’t much time to think. That was a good thing, for a long while.”
“Well, but what about your work? Your maize cultivars, that big project you’ve had on the burner since forever?”
“I have all the time I need for that,” she said serenely. “I’m immortal, aren’t I? Besides, I was about ready to settle down for a long spell of analysis of the hybrids I’d produced, and one can do that best inside a credenza anyway. Without all the distractions, I ought to make some real progress for a change.”
She was already gone, settling her pack on her back and disappearing into the green leaves without a trace. I had to make an effort, all the same.
“But, Mendoza—you have no idea what it’ll be like. I’ve been on field assignments in real fields, baby; there are no shelters, no generators, no emergency backup. You live like an animal in the woods, and you can lose yourself.”
“God, I hope so,” she said softly. I didn’t know what to say in reply, so I didn’t say anything. The big ships hovered out there, silent, waiting to take me away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
THE DAY OF THE SKY CANOES.
Old Coyote went prowling back to the town in the dim hour before dawn, and as he stood on the hill above them all, he thought the place was already a dream. Not a soul to see, not a sound to hear: the houses looked transparent in the bleak air. Some cameraman somewhere was about to turn a rheostat, and they’d all fade out, shadows on a screen in a darkened room, no more.
I put my head in through the chief’s doorway.
“Sepawit? It’s our big day. Wake up your people.”
A mound of furs on a sleeping platform stirred, and the chief emerged. He stared, half-asleep. Ponoya was a smooth curve behind him; between them sprawled the baby. “I saw the white men,” he said thickly. “The trees died where they came.”
“That’s right, Sepawit. Wake up.”
Back and forth between the houses I flitted, just like a real coyote hoping to find garbage. Or a loving father waking his children on Christmas morning. I guess I was somewhere in between. Young and old I woke them up, rich and poor, and one after another they emerged from their houses and stood blinking in the light.
“All right, everybody!” I jumped up in the air and waved my paws. “Come on out to the playing field, all of you! I have big news!” I loped away, and most of them followed me, except for one or two who weren’t facing the day without breakfast even if it was the end of the world. They turned right around and went back inside, and soon you could see the smoke of their cooking fires.
The others milled around on the open ground, and I capered and frisked before them. “Now!” I barked. “You’ll never guess what I saw this morning, out on Raven Point!”
“White men?” somebody ventured fearfully.
“No!” I replied, though it was true.
“The spirits of the dead?” tried somebody else.
“No! No, my own dear nephews and nieces, I saw not one, not two, not three, but four big sky canoes! The very same sky canoes that are going to carry us away from here!”
This made for general excited babble from most of them, though some thoughtful souls fell silent and stared. I raised my paws again.
“And they are beautiful sky canoes too!” I went on. “Wait till you see them! They shine like polished abalone shell. They’re bigger than the council house. They’re all enclosed, so the wind won’t blow us overboard on our journey. The sea won’t even splash us. There are fine seats inside these canoes and, best of all, they have what you have never, ever seen in any other canoe in your lives: latrines!”
This impressed everybody.
“You mean—”
“Yes! No need to worry about falling off while the canoe is moving. No need to cross your legs until you reach your destination. A beautiful private room instead, with a door that closes and plenty of hygienic accessories!”
“How do you get all that in a canoe?” demanded Nutku, clearly taken with the idea.
“Sky Magic, friend. So! My Sky spirits are waiting for us out on Raven Point. Each of you needs to go back to your house now, and pack a bundle for traveling. Yes, you can eat breakfast first. But don’t bother to wash dishes, don’t worry about banking the fire, don’t even stop to fasten shut your doors when you’ve finished. Just grab those bundles and be back here in an hour!”
It took slightly more than an hour, but they did it. In the time between, the security team from the base arrived, sent by Lopez for crowd control in the event of panic. I can’t say I wasn’t a little annoyed by this: I mean, I’m a persuasive guy and I know how to do my job, right? But they did look impressive lined up behind me, I had to admit. A whole squadron of immortals as green as trees, as silent as a forest at my back.
When finally the whole population of Humashup had returned with their luggage, I cleared my throat and barked: “Let’s all line up now! Families first. I want all the families in groups. Next, the single or divorced men. Single or divorced women next. Ladies, that’s so you can watch their behinds as they walk!”
With a little help from the security teams, they were lined up in no time. I took my place at the head of the line and turned back to address them.
“Are we all ready? Good! I’ve composed a little song in honor of the occasion, and we’ll sing it as we march along, all right? Here we go!”
Put all my sorrows in
a basket,
I sing quietly as I go out upon my journey.
Farewell, Raven.
A woman stays awake to greet me,
She is sweet as honeydew.
Farewell, Raven.
In this place there are no shamans to assist me,
Only people who want to talk
About their own misfortunes.
Pile furs on my sleeping platform, put wood on the fire,
I will come home when the stars have faded.
Raven, farewell.
So that was the way they walked out of time, my people of Humashup: singing, and they never looked once behind them. But I kept my eyes on the village as we went along, walking backward most of the way, and I swear I saw the thatching on the houses blow away, their upright poles collapse, everything crumble. The ghosts took it over. My village died again, the old life died again. It was the year 1700, and time was running out for the old ways, the little tribal villages under the trees. A couple more centuries, and there wouldn’t be any Stone Age left anywhere, would there? Except in my memory.
Then the town was out of sight, and we climbed up a canyon and wound across the green hills in a line, and the hard spring wind came up off the ocean and buffeted us all.
Sepawit strode at their head, holding his child tight in his arms, staring into the uncertain future. Ponoya trudged beside him, carrying the pack with their belongings. After him came a few married couples and several old folks carrying grandchildren, teenaged aunts and uncles pulling toddlers by the hand, big sisters or brothers carrying tiny babies, thin wary children on their own. Yes, there was little Kyupi lugging the baby I’d saved, with the two young boys tagging after. Farewell, Raven, they sang.
In the next group came the rich men, Nutku and Kaxiwalic and the rest of the guys, and their cloaks were made of otterskin and they hefted skin bags full of money. Bracelets of money rattled on their arms, money swung in pendant loops about their throats, and they shuffled with careful steps so they wouldn’t lose any. I wondered if they’d packed their makeup and ceremonial costumes. Then came the shamans and priests, decked out in their feathers, bodies painted with signs to keep the world in balance, searching the sky for trouble. Last came the plain men, hunters, fishermen, and laborers, ragged or naked. Farewell, Raven, they sang.
