Earth-Thunder

by Patrick Tilley

  In such an environment, you quickly came to realise the value of ready-made objects. The grinding bowls that turned the golden seeds of breadstalks into a powder which, when mixed with water and salt and puddled onto a hot stone, produced crunchy flat-bakes, the pots and pans, knives, machetes, fire-stones, a stoutly-sewn set of walking skins, woven-straw hood-mats, Iron Master needles, binding twine and thread were all precious possessions to be treasured and handed down to the next generation. These, and the skills which fashioned and used them, were the bedrock of existence and being aware of that gave you a whole new perspective on things.

  In the Federation, with its sanitised, regulated, wall-to-wall video life-style, you were part of a world created by the First Family. But it was not the real world. This was the real world; the world of the Plainfolk. Out here, you were not a brain-washed cog in a soulless machine, you were a living being, interacting with every living thing around you. Not just the birds and the beasts and the bug-uglies, but with the earth and the rocks, the grass and the trees, the wind and water, the clouds scudding across the sky, softly melting snow-white towers, blue-grey blankets heavy with rain, rosy-pink at dawn, pearly-mauve in the evening, brushed with golden fire by the setting sun, and then the night with its stars and moon which, for Roz, was just as wondrous as the day.

  Steve had experienced the same feeling of wonder, the same joyous sensation of being truly alive – but he had been trained as a soldier. He was still enamoured by the gadgets and the hardware and the power they conferred. The lack of such things had proved irksome. He did not understand that the two states were incompatible. It was the technology developed by man in search of a more comfortable existence which had alienated him from his natural environment. In attempting to master it, he had – through a mixture of greed and ignorance – destroyed it.

  Roz could see this because she had been trained as a doctor, not a uniformed assassin. Her studies had led her to a greater understanding of the human organism, its incredible complexity and the miraculous, unfathomable nature of the force that animated every living thing; the force that, when you had reduced an organism to its smallest chemical component and its most elusive subatomic particle, still remained tantalisingly out of reach.

  It was this knowledge, this awareness of the mystery that lay at the heart of all creation, that enabled her to merge the totality of her being with the blue-sky world. Her kin-brother – for that was how she still thought of Steve – had only managed to go part of the way. He had been told he was a Mute, he knew he was a Mute, yet he was unable to accept it unreservedly. He was not content to know. He had to know why. There was nothing Roz could do to change him. She could only hope and pray he would not destroy himself before he finally found his way.

  With no one but themselves to look after, Cadillac decided to leave the flat land above the bluff which, since Steve’s escape on Blue-Bird, had seen so much death and sorrow. The scarred, empty space brought back too many bitter-sweet memories.

  The first move did not involve a long journey. Carrying their worldly goods on trucking poles, Cadillac led Roz to the small forest glade where Clearwater had been hidden on the orders of Mr Snow. The rock-pool in which she and Cadillac had washed off their body-markings was fed by the same stream that snaked its way down over a series of rock steps and fern-covered banks before launching itself into space over the tongue-stone.

  Here, surrounded by an endless supply of firewood and with fresh, clear running water close at hand, they would be sheltered from the attentions of any hostile hunting posses. There was also a plentiful supply of game, but it was all small stuff. With only a limited amount of ammunition, Cadillac did not intend to waste it on anything less than a tusker – the Mute name for a wild pig.

  Swallowing his pride, Cadillac led Roz down the face of the bluff in a dawn raid on a swift flowing river where he showed her how to catch the plump, brown-speckled fish with her bare hands.

  It was a rarely-used skill he had acquired from Clearwater. He had been a reluctant pupil but she had persevered. Male She-Kargo Mutes were renowned hunters of buffalo, fast-foot and bear; fishing was rated on a level with grinding bread-stalks – women’s work. This disdain had its roots in the warrior/hunter-ethic, the prowess displayed in battle which made the Plainfolk superior to the riverfolk such as the Clan Kojak who lived on the shores of Me-Sheegun. Fishermen with cold water in their veins.

  Cadillac knew from personal experience that this wasn’t strictly true. The Kojak had fought well. On the other hand, they hadn’t had much choice. It was either kill or be killed. And it’s not too difficult to be brave when your enemy is staggering ashore half-drowned onto a dark, booby-trapped beach and you have promise of Clearwater’s magic to stiffen the sinews.

  Back at their hidden campsite, they gutted and boned the fish, stuffed them with a mixture of dried herbs, pinned them round long skewers with thin slivers of wood, then roasted them over the glowing embers of a fire made with larch wood. When the fish were ready, they cupped them in several broad leaves and bit hungrily into the steaming flesh.

  It tasted good. And as Roz juggled the juicy morsels around her mouth to avoid burning her tongue, she thought back to the time when she and Steve had watched the same dark brown shapes gliding beneath the rippling surface of the pool surrounding the base of Santanna Deep. Fish. She hadn’t even known what they were. And she remembered the wave of revulsion that had swept over her when, without knowing why, Steve had said they were good to eat. And now, here she was, doing just that, enjoying it, and revelling in the sense of achievement.

  It was incredible yet, at the same time, there was something inevitable about the way one thing had led to another, drawing her life towards this point, to this conjunction with Cadillac’s life. The Mutes used the term ‘life-currents’ which they likened to crystal-clear streams that converged, ran alongside one another, merged into one or separated again, going their different ways. It was part of an immutable plan. Destiny. The Wheel turns. The Path is drawn. For good or ill, it was a force which the Federation, with all its weaponry, could not hope to match.

  Over the days they had been together, Roz and Cadillac had exchanged life stories and touched upon the more private things that all lovers reveal as their relationship deepens and grows. With his tales of past battles and his adventures in Ne-Issan, Cadillac held the stage far longer than Roz. But that did not matter. She was eager to listen, and he told his story well. But although he mentioned the parts Steve and Clearwater had played in his past life, he did not dwell upon his feelings for them or speculate where they might be now. And Roz suddenly realised that neither had she. It was time to put that right. Time to break the news.…

  It took a little time to get round to it because, at the beginning, she was waiting for the right moment. But it quickly became clear that Cadillac was a creature of fleeting moods. Despite her supportive presence, his emotional barometer was constantly swinging between highs and lows. One minute he was full of confidence and optimism and then, suddenly, his brow and eyes would darken as if a cloud had crossed the face of the sun. The smile was replaced by a sullen, brooding expression then, with equal suddenness, the shadows would lift and the eyes would shine again.

  Roz, by contrast, was an extremely uncomplicated person, open-hearted, forthright, long on sympathy, short on guile even though she had learned to tread carefully since she had been forced to work with the people who were trying to manipulate her kin-brother. Cadillac, she decided, was a suitable case for treatment, and the only way to straighten him out was to be herself.

  Clad in a skin tunic and wrap-around skirt, Roz sat on the edge of the rock-pool with her bare legs in the water and watched Cadillac scrub his top half in the waist-deep water. He was not as powerfully built as Steve but he had strong shoulders and a slim, hard muscular body encased in a smooth coppery skin that Roz found immensely attractive.

  ‘There’s something you ought to know. About Clearwater.’

  C
adillac paused in mid-scrub. ‘Oh, Sweet Mother! Don’t say she’s going to be permanently crippled!’

  ‘On the contrary. She’ll have metal pins on her thigh for the rest of her life, but she’ll be up on her feet within a couple of months. And if she gets some intensive physio, she’ll be back to normal in another four. It’s someone else’s health I’m worried about. Clearwater’s pregnant.’ Roz waited a second or two then tried again. ‘With child.’

  ‘Clearwater…?’ Cadillac didn’t seem to be able to take the news on board.

  ‘Yes. I reckon she’s got about five months to go. Six at the outside.’

  The words came slowly. ‘Steve … is he the …?’

  ‘Father? Well, I hope so. Do you have any idea who else it could be?’

  ‘No.’ Cadillac looked confused. ‘When did this, uh, all…?’

  ‘When did she conceive?’ Roz knew exactly when. She had been there. Inside both their heads. But this was not the moment to try and explain how or why. ‘A short time before we picked her up,’ she said. ‘When the three of you were in the hands of Malone’s renegades. Did, uh – they …?’

  ‘No! No…’ Cadillac cast his mind back over their period of ‘captivity’ and realised he’d lain in a drunken stupor and watched it happen. It wasn’t supposed to hurt any more but for a brief moment it did. He wiped the picture from his mind and cleared his brow. Looking up he found Roz eyeing him intently.

  ‘It must be Steve. But how? From what, he told me I thought the President-General was –’

  ‘The Father of All Life? He is,’ said Roz. ‘But Steve’s not a Tracker. He was only brought up as one. If he’s a Mute, like you, he carries the seeds of life within him.’

  And maybe I do too.…

  ‘The point is,’ she continued, ‘what are we going to do about it? I mean, we just can’t leave them there.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ Cadillac hauled himself out of the water and began to towel himself dry. The towel, soap and the friction-glove he’d been using were some of the items he’d purloined from the wagon-train and stuffed into the Skyhawk before leaving. Not everything produced by the sand-burrowers was bad. ‘What have you got in mind? Going into the Federation and bringing her out?’

  ‘Not just Clearwater. All three of them.’

  Cadillac wrapped the towel round his waist and started pacing up and down. ‘Have you any idea what you’re asking? Where would we start? I don’t know my way around – or how anything works down there!’

  ‘But I do.’ Roz caught hold of his hand as he strode past and pulled him round to face her. ‘And you can drop the pretence. If you can get inside Steve’s head, you know enough to get by.’

  Cadillac went to turn away but she didn’t let go of his hand. ‘It won’t be just the two of us. Steve and Clearwater will help too. It’s an unbeatable combination.’

  ‘Hah! Yes!’ said Cadillac bitterly. ‘You, me, an invalid, and a—’ he was going to say ‘a blood-brother I dare not turn my back on’ but he caught himself in time. He knew he had to take his share of the blame for the injuries Clearwater had suffered; knew also that Steve, in putting her aboard Red River, had saved her life. But the old wounds ran deep, and even though Roz’s loving presence was a healing balm it could not make them disappear overnight.

  Looking at her, Cadillac saw that she knew exactly what had been going through his mind. But her sympathetic expression had a firm edge to it. The message in her eyes read: ‘I know what’s bugging you, I understand totally, but from here on in, neither of us have time to waste on this self-indulgent, recriminatory shit.’

  Had she put it into words, Roz might have used a less abrasive form of language but Cadillac had seized the essence exactly. And it brought him back on a even keel.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘But we can’t make a move until she’s back on her feet and has given birth to her child.’

  Roz used her grip on his hand to pull herself upright and stepped in close so that their thighs touched. ‘Good.’ She gave him a placatory kiss. ‘That means you’ll have plenty of time to work out exactly how we’re going to do it.’

  There was another reason why Cadillac was unable to put the rescue of Clearwater at the top of his list of things to do. The first Council of all the Plainfolk was due to be held at Big White Running Water (Sioux Falls, South Dakota) in less than eight weeks. As the successor to Mr Snow and as one of The Chosen, he had to attend. And Roz would have to come with him.

  They could make no plans to enter the Federation until the Council had completed its deliberations. He had no inkling as to what might be on the agenda, but he was sure that the present and future state of relations between the Plainfolk and the Iron Masters would be one of the major talking points.

  Looking back, he wished he, and not Brickman, had gone to the trading post. Had he done so, he could have seen the aftermath of the battle, shared the feelings of his blood-brothers, and taken part in the first, crucial round of discussions as a stand-in for the ailing Mr Snow. But events had conspired to prevent him from making the journey and he could see now that it was meant to be.

  Nothing in life was insignificant, every gesture, every action was part of a larger pattern. The essence of each experience had to be distilled, each event had to be stripped down to its core elements, weighed and understood – because they were all related. And if, by clear thinking, you could pierce the fog of trivia and arrive at a true understanding of that relationship, you would find that the way ahead was illuminated. You could not change The Path, for that was already drawn, but you could proceed along it calmly, confidently, free of doubt; a wayfarer at peace with himself, his soul no longer tortured by unworthy thoughts and desires.

  There were moments when Cadillac attained that state, when he felt he had been given a glimpse of the grand design, but then it slipped from his grasp and he found himself sinking back into a morass of doubt and petty emotions. To achieve and maintain that state of grace required a constant, and conscious, effort. Perhaps with the aid of Roz and the transforming power of her love he would become worthy of the role he had been given – to prepare the Plainfolk for the coming of Talisman.

  The returning elders had told him of the astonishing progress that had been made towards the building of a lasting alliance between the clans of the She-Kargo, M’Waukee and San’Paul, and the willingness to accept any C’Natti and D’Troit clans who were ready to renounce their ties with the Iron Masters. But would that first flush of goodwill hold – even among the clans of the She-Kargo?

  The catastrophic loss of life at the trading post, the awesome nature of the tidal wave and the terrifying swiftness with which it had swept away friend and foe alike, must have shaken the survivors to the core. Just over half the M’Call delegation had escaped with their lives and many of the returnees had continued to relive the nightmare, waking from their sleep with a scream on their lips as the violent death-laden images rose up from their subconscious and the huge roaring wall of water threatened, once again, to overwhelm them.

  For the Clan M’Call, who were now in the arms of the Great Sky Mother, the nightmare was over, but the other participants must have been similarly affected. At that first gathering above the bluffs they would all have been suffering from shock, a condition which if not treated, as Roz had explained, could affect people’s behaviour for a considerable time. With the landscape of death that lay below them, the scale of the losses suffered by both factions, the traditional rivalries between individual clans and bloodlines would suddenly have become pointless, grotesque. But how would the clan elders and delegates feel now – as the shock of the event began to recede? Old habits die hard. When they assembled at Sioux Falls – if they came at all – would it be to build on those first expressions of solidarity or would it be to withdraw their hasty pledges of eternal blood-brotherhood?

  As the Plainfolk entered the period known as The Yellowing and then The White Death, which was both an end and a beginning, they faced t
he prospect of a new year in which there would be no journey to the trading post. No walking on the water. No chance to exchange furs and skins for tools and weapons and the many other things that only the Iron Masters could provide. As that thought sank in, would they regret their stand against the Iron Masters? The treacherous D’Troit and their running dogs, the C’Natti and San’Louis had been dealt a blow they richly deserved, but perhaps the She-Kargo would, upon reflection, feel they had paid too high a price for their defence of Mr Snow, the Clan M’Call and the honour of their bloodline. And whatever conclusion the She-Kargo reached would be shared by the M’Waukee and San’Paul.

  On the other hand, what could they do? Mr Snow and the entire clan had perished in the battle at Twin Forks or in the simultaneous raid on the settlement. He, Cadillac Deville, was the sole survivor.

  No … that was wrong. He was no longer a M’Call…

  For the foreseeable future, the clan identity would remain the basic unit but there could be no going back. They had to build on that first fragile consensus. The Mutes had to develop a wider allegiance, a bond that went beyond their clan and their bloodline. He and Roz – two of The Chosen – were the first members of the Plainfolk nation that would be forged by Talisman.

  Cadillac knew he had to go to Sioux Falls and brave whatever hostility he might encounter. He had to impose his view, his vision of the future. It would not be easy. In fact, it would be incredibly difficult and, above all, dangerous. The change of heart and mind that were required would be seen as an attack on the cherished traditions and fundamental beliefs of the Plainfolk.

  Talisman, the Thrice-Gifted One, would no doubt have the power to impose his views by his presence and by the defeats he could inflict upon the enemies of his people. But Talisman was not here now – at a time when the Plainfolk were in greater danger than ever before. The first step towards nationhood had been taken. To maintain the momentum, Cadillac realised he would have to lead from the front.