A Man Called Milo Morai

by Robert Adams

  She kicked him again, on the other shin, then raised her voice. "Know you all, on the hunt today, I arrowed a shoat and, failing to kill it outright, foolishly pursued it into heavy brush. The shoat's squeals brought out a monstrous old long-tushed boar. He charged my mare, savaged her, and she reared suddenly, casting me from the saddle. Then that hellish boar made for me, and you would all be building me a pyre and sending me home to Wind, this night, save for the heroism and strength of Gy Linsee. He rode up, arrowed the boar twice, then came in afoot to take a beast that outweighed him by hundreds of pounds on his spear and hold him there until more hunters came up to kill the creature."

  "That is why he is to be our guest at food, on this evening. And any who offer him less than he deserves, than he has earned in full this day, will assuredly find the blade of my knife in his flesh."

  After a single, slow-moving, grim-faced sweep of her glance completely around the circle, she suddenly smiled and added, "Who knows, Kindred? Perhaps Uncle Milo will honor our fire and food, as well, with his presence. Then, maybe, he'll tell us all more of his tales of the olden days as he did last night."

  If there was any one thing in particular that Horse-clansfolk instinctively honored, it was proven bravery, even in an enemy… especially in an enemy. With the tale of Gy Linsee's courageous feat in succoring their chiefs daughter become common knowledge, the big young man was received and feted in time-hoary Horse-clans tradition, for all his un-Horseclanslike size and height, his un-Kindredlike dark hair and eyes and his Linsee lineage. And, as all had hoped, Uncle Milo readily accepted the invitation of Hunt Chief Tchuk Skaht and dined around their firepit on the thick stew, the baked tubers, the roasted meats and the oddments of nuts and late fruits.

  The meal concluded, those who had done the day's cooking repaired to the riverbank to scour the precious metal pots with sand and cold water, then filled them with fresh water and brought them back to fireside for the preparation of the morning draft of herb and root tea, which, with a few bites of hard cheese, was the breakfast of most Horseclansfolk.

  The rest of the diners sat ringed about the firepit. They picked their teeth with splinters of firewood, cleaned their knives, wiped at greasy hands and faces. They chatted, both aloud and telepathically, or brought out uncompleted handicraft projects to work at by the fire-light. One group of boys and girls set a small pot of cold, congealed fish glue to heat in a nestlet of coals, laying a bundle of presmoothed, prerounded dowels by, along with sharp knives, collected feathers and preshaped hunting points of bone and threads of soaked, supple sinew, all for arrow-making.

  One of the older boys began to carefully remove the bark from a six-foot length of tough hornbeam—the best part of a sapling killed through some natural cause a year or so before and then cured where it stood by the winds and sun. The boy had recognized it for the rare prize that it was—such made for fine spear shafts or the hafts of war axes—and he meant to finish it as much as possible before they rode back to the clan camp, where he would make of it a gift to his father.

  Slowly, carefully, using a belt knife for the drawknife he lacked, helped by a cousin who steadied the sapling, the boy took off the bark in long, even strips, which he flicked into the firepit and out of his way. With the last of the horny outer bark gone, he sheathed his knife, took the two-inch-thick length of wood upon his lap and began to sand it with a coarse-grained, fist-sized river rock, keeping a finer-grained pebble of equal size close to hand for semifinal finishing.

  Two different youngsters—a boy and a girl—squatted and braided thin strips of rawhide and sinew into strong riatas. Others honed the edges of various types of knives, spearheads and axes, or the points of fishhooks, gaffhooks and hunting darts. Yet another young Skaht was industriously knapping a lucky find of ancient glass— shards of a bottle broken long centuries before and rendered a deep purple by hundreds of years of unremitting sun—into projectile points, such points being much favored for hunting, since they needed no fire-hardening as did bone and their points and edges were sharper and more penetrating than even honed steel; he already had knapped and fitted to a hardwood hilt a larger, triangular piece of the glass to be used for the splitting of sinews.

  With a speed born of manual dexterity and much practice, Myrah Skaht was converting a length of antler into a barbed head for a fish spear, her knifeblade flashing in the firelight. All the while, she engaged in silent converse with Gy Linsee, where he sat between Hunt Chief Tchuk Skaht and Uncle Milo, both she and Gy being gifted with better than average telepathic abilities (that trait called "mindspeak" by the folk of the Horse-clans).

  The boy and girl conversed on a tight, personal beaming, and such was the very way that Milo "bespoke" Tchuk Skaht. "They are fine young people, Tchuk, all of them I've seen, this night; those who have the good fortune to live to maturity will bring great honor to Skaht, of that you may be sure."

  The hunt chief beamed his sincere thanks for the compliment to his clan and young clansfolk, but then sighed audibly and shook his head, setting his still-damp braids asway. "But so few will be still alive in ten years, fewer still in twenty, and it seems that always the very best are they who first go to Wind. They die in war, in the hunt, in herding, they succumb to wounds, to fevers and other illnesses. The girls, many of them, will die during or just after childbirth, and both boys and girls will be swept off and drowned in river crossings, will fail to outrun prairie fires or will be done to death in stupid, pointless, singular accidents. We two sit amongst a bare twoscore or so only half of whom will ever live to even my age, yet I know of Kindred clans that number more than twice as many younkers, warriors and maiden archers."

  He sighed even more deeply and again shook his head. "It would just seem that Clan Skaht is intended by Sacred Sun and by Wind to remain small and weak upon the land. And ever fewer Kindred of other clans seem of a mind to wed into Clan Skaht, to accept our boys and girls as spouses for their own clansfolk or even to host our wandering hunters as befits true Kindred. And this great mystery is not of my mind alone, Uncle Milo. Right often have my chief and the subchiefs and bard in council discussed these very topics…vainly."

  Milo frowned. "Oh, come now, Tchuk, you are an intelligent man, and so too are they, else they would not be leaders of their clan, but you and they have chosen first and foremost to think only within narrow limits. Open your mind, man, loose your thoughts, and you quickly will see the basic reason for all… well, for most of the afflictions of not only your clan but of Clan Linsee, as well."

  "Well?" he prodded after a moment. "Think of it, man, unfetter your mind and think. You posed questions —now give me the answers to them, as you can and will."

  It did not take long. "The… the feud… the feud with Clan Linsee… is that it, Uncle Milo?"

  Milo smiled briefly. "You have a cigar coming, but I don't have one, so how about a pipeful of my tobacco instead, Hunt Chief Tchuk? Precisely! This damnable, idiotic feud is at the bottom of all the tribulations of both Clan Skaht and Clan Linsee. Nomad clan versus nomad clan is a flatly murderous type of warfare… but you know that fact well, don't you? Raidings of Dirtmen steadings are one thing—the element of surprise holds down the number of casualties amongst the raiders, as too does the fact that the modes of thinking are very different when you compare settled farmers and nomad herders and hunters. And, also, the prairiecats and our strain of horses with their telepathic abilities give us a distinct edge over our prey. Yes, there are losses sustained in raiding Dirtmen, but mostly they are but piddling compared to the loot, livestock and slaves gained for the clans. Why, the hunt results in as many or more deaths and serious injuries for a far more paltry return in benefits, but you know that, too."

  "On the other hand, when you ride to raid or war against men just like yourselves, you can expect the butcher's bill to be high, almost insupportably high. How in hell are you going to surprise a camp the perimeter of which is patrolled by farspeaking telepathic cats and horses? And if you choos
e to set your own cats on the guard cats, the resultant din of feline battle is going to be heard for miles. Though I understand that the cat chiefs, both yours and Clan Linsee's, past and present, wisely refused to engage in active warfare and raiding against any Kindred clan, only fighting defensively."

  "Had your clans been allowed to keep up this senseless round of raidings and ambushes and duelings and battles, the time would soon have come when neither of you would have had sufficient strength remaining to even hold your own against the natural adversaries that beset us all our lives on the prairies and plains. The only reason, indeed, that you two weakened clans have survived this long is that almost all of the non-Kindred nomads have been killed off, driven off or melded into our tribe over the last few generations. Had such fearsome fighters as Clans Staiklee, Duhglisz, Kahr, Lebohn and their ilk still roamed in enmity to the Kindred, you had all been rendered corpses or slaves."

  "All of the other Kindred clans face precisely the same attrition from natural causes and from riding the raid against Dirtmen as do Skaht and Linsee. That they manage—barring the rare disaster—to maintain a constant strength of numbers in spite of certain losses results from the fact that they live by, adhere to, The Law and the ancient customs proven from the days of the Sacred Ancestors to the present."

  "First and foremost of the Law is that Kinship is holy, Tchuk. Had clan not helped Kindred clan in times of need or danger over the years, there would today be no tribe, no clans. In union there is strength for all of our confederation of interrelated clans and families. Such disunity and enmity as your two clans have practiced can lead only to chaos and death for you, your descendants and, eventually, your clans."

  "Unfortunately, there are a certain number of hotheads, greedy, suicidal and homicidal types, in every generation of every clan. Clans Skaht and Linsee have, over the more recent years, set a bad example, and other, more sober and Law-fearing Kindred clans have avoided mixing with them because they feared the bad influence upon their own few fire-eaters. Looked at from their viewpoints, no man could blame them for being somewhat less than Kindred toward you. Prove only to the Council of Kindred Chiefs that Skaht and Linsee can live harmoniously, one with the other in peace and true brotherhood, and you will see how quickly there are offers of Kinship from your Kindred of all the other clans."

  He seemed on the verge of beaming more to the receptive hunt chief, but his mind was just then smitten by a beaming of the combined power of Myrah Skaht, Karee Skaht and Gy Linsee. "Uncle Milo, please, won't you do as you did last night? Please tell us all more of the olden days, of your life before the Great Dyings and of how you formed the Sacred Ancestors into our clans of today."

  "If I do, it will have to be, as last night, told to all, Linsees as well as Skahts. Will you welcome them among you if I agree to open my mind and memories again to you?"

  Chapter I

  Although radios and gramophones blared out songs of coins falling from the skies, the only thing that the skies over depression-racked Chicago seemed to be producing were rain, snow, sleet and windborne stenches from the stockyards this winter of the Year of Our Lord 1936.

  Or, at least, so thought Police Officer Bob Murphey as he squatted, back to a wall, keeping watch over the unfortunate gent who lay unconscious before him on the damp, slimy, gritty stones of the alleyway. Bob was certain that this one was a real gent—his clothing was too fine, too obviously expensive, for him to be aught else than a gent or a hood, and it was too conservative of cut and color to be the latter. That expensive clothing had likely gotten him into this sorry pickle, Murphey silently reflected. Why, his shoes alone represented a week's pay for the average working Joe these dark days… if said Joe was lucky enough to be working at all.

  Bob had been walking his beat, huddled into his uniform coat against the chill and the thick, cloying mist, when he had passed the alley mouth and sighted in his peripheral vision a flicker of movement too large to have been a mere rat or alley cat or gaunt scavenger dog. He had turned back then, taken his best grip on his billy club and demanded, "Now what in hell's goin' on back there?"

  There was scuttling movement, then footfalls rapidly receding down the alleyway. Murphey had proceeded cautiously on until he had suddenly tripped over and almost fallen onto a recumbent body. A brief examina-tion had revealed that the victim was not dead yet, though from the amount of blood clotting the dark hair, he might soon be. After he had carefully, as gently as possible, dragged the body closer to the alley mouth, he had trotted the half-block or so to the callbox and reported the need for an ambulance at this location.

  He had returned in time to find two miscreants—likely the same ones who had slugged the gent's head and robbed him to begin with—engaged in trying to get off the man's shoes and greatcoat. One of them had gotten away, but the other now sat handcuffed and groaning from the beating Bob had inflicted with his billy club.

  "I'm getting old," thought the shivering policeman, clenching his jaws to stop his teeth from chattering. "Twenty years ago, it's the both of the bastards I'd've got, not just this one. When I come back from France back in '18, all full of piss and vinegar, it looked like the world was my oyster for sure. What in hell happened to all those plans, all those chances I knew was just sitting out there waiting for Big Bob Murphey to come along?"

  After glancing at his prisoner and assuring himself that the clubbed and moaning man offered no further threat, Murphey let his billy dangle from his wrist by the thong and tucked his numbed hands under his armpits. "I wonder if that poor gent there was in the Great War, too? Likely he was—he looks about of an age with me. 'Course, he prob'ly was an officer—he looks the type. He sure got his breaks after the war, else he wouldn't be laying there in a greatcoat that cost a hunnerd dollars if it cost one red cent. I dunno—things would prob'ly have fell in place better for me if I hadn't gone and married Kate as soon as I did. Hell, she'd've waited for me to make my pile, and we both and the kids too would've been a sight better off if I had. But then, I'd prob'ly've lost it all back in '29 like the rest of the high-rollers did and ended up dead or riding boxcars or in jail or sweeping up horse biscuits with the WPA. At least I got me a steady job and three squares a day for me and Kate and the kids and a roof over our heads and coal to burn in the Arcola, and all that is a whole helluva lot more than most folks can say these days."

  His hands thawed a bit, Bob Murphey delved into his coat pocket and brought out the billfold he had taken from his handcuffed captive. Leaning toward the dim light out of the street beyond the alley mouth, he opened the butter-soft calfskin and riffled the sharp new bills contained therein. Sinking back onto his haunches, he whistled between his teeth. At least six hundred, maybe a thousand dollars, between one and two years' pay for the likes of him, if you didn't include the piddling amounts of cash and merchandise that he accepted now and then from certain cautiously selected persons on his beat for the casting of a blind eye on victimless activities.

  "Well, Mr. Milo Moray," he muttered to himself, reading the name stamped in gold leaf inside the billfold, "sure and you're bound to have a sight more where this came from. And you do owe me something for saving your life tonight, after all."

  He stood up then and emptied the billfold, folded the bills into two wads, then stuffed one down each sock to come to rest under the arches of his feet. He then stalked over to stand looming over the prisoner.

  "What did you and your partner do with this man's money?" he demanded of the battered, manacled criminal.

  Snuffling, the slumped, bleeding man half-whined, "Didn' have time to do nuthin' with it. It's still in his billfold, hones' to God, it is."

  Bob Murphey sighed. "Wrong answer, feller." Leaning down, he unlocked and removed the handcuffs, returned them to their place, then took a two-handed grip on the billy club and brought it down with all of his strength upon the prisoner's head. Bob was a beefy man, a very strong man, and the one blow of the lead-weighted baton was all that was necessary to cave in th
e gaunt prisoner's skull. Then he tucked the empty billfold back in the pocket from which he had taken it when first he had searched the man.

  Of course, the initial victim of attack was apprised of none of these events until much later.

  He awakened in a bed. The bed was hard, and the small pillow under his head had the consistency of a brick. He had no idea where he might be, why he was where he was, or exactly who he was.

  A woman of medium height was making one of two beds on the other side of the room, moving swiftly and surely, tucking up the sheets in smooth motions that left tight corners. It was when she turned to do the same for the other bed that she noticed that he was awake. Smiling warmly, she left the rumpled bed and bustled over to crank up the head of his bed.

  "Oh, Mr. Moray, doctor will be so glad to hear that we're finally conscious. How do we feel? Any headache, hmm? Would we like a drink of nice, cool water? An aspirin?"

  "Yes," he finally got out, wondering if that croak was his normal speaking voice. "Water. Please, water."

  The white-clad woman eased him a little more erect with an arm that proved surprisingly strong, then bore a glass with a bent-glass tube to his lips and allowed him to drain it before lowering his body back down. He was again asleep before his head touched the stone-hard pillow.

  When he once more awakened, the wan light that had come earlier through the window on his right was gone, replaced by the bright glare of the electric lamp in the ceiling above him. The two beds across the room sat crisply empty, and the white-clad woman who had given him water was nowhere to be seen. However, another woman, also wearing white—shoes, stockings, dress and odd-shaped cap atop her dark-blond, pulled-back hair— sat in a chair near his bedside reading a book.

  He tried to amass enough saliva to moisten his mouth and bone-dry throat but, failing in the effort, croaked, "Wa… water."

  Obviously startled, the seated woman dropped her book and sprang to her feet. "Certainly, Mr. Moray, of course you may have water, all the water you want. But you've got to try to stay awake for a little while, too. Poor Dr. Guiscarde is dead on his feet, but he insisted that he be called as soon as you woke up again. He needs to examine you and talk with you about something he thinks important."