Roger Zelazny. Eye of cat
страница №6
...lked. When the callbox buzzed,Yellowcloud switched it off. Later he got them coffee.
Running now, into the bowels of the earth, it seemed.
Darker and darker. Soon he must slow his pace. The world
had almost completely faded about him, save for the
sounds - of wind, water, his drumming feet. Slow now. Yes.
Now.
Ahead. Something in that stand of trees. Not moving. A
light.
He advanced cautiously.
It appeared to be - But no. That was impossible. Yet.
There it was. A trip-box. He was positive that it was against
regulations to install one in the canyon.
He moved nearer. It certainly looked like a trip-box, there
among the trees. He advanced and looked inside.
A strange one, though. No slot for the credit strip. No way
to punch coordinates. He entered and studied it more
closely. Just an odd red-and-white-flecked button. Without
thinking, he moved his thumb forward and pushed it.
A mantle of rainbows swirled before his eyes and was
gone. He looked inside. Nothing had changed. He had not
been transported anywhere. Yet -
A pale light suffused the canyon now, as if a full moon
hung overhead. But there was no moon.
He looked again at the box, and for the first time saw the
sight on its side. SPIRIT WORLD, it said. He shrugged and
walked away from it. Save for the light, nothing seemed
altered.
After some twenty paces, he turned and looked back. The
box was gone. The stand of trees stood silvery to his rear,
empty of any unnatural presence. To his right, the water
gleamed in its rippling progress. The rain which fell into it
seemed to be descending in slow motion, more a full-bodied
mist than a downpour. And the next flash of lightning
seemed a stylized inscription on the heavens.
Plainly marked before him now was the trail he must
follow. He set his foot upon it and the wind chanted a
staccato song of guidance as he went.
He moved quickly, approaching a bend in the canyon;
more slowly then, as his slope steepened and narrowed. He
dropped to a wider shelf as his way curved, hurried again as
he followed it.
As he made the turn, he saw outlined to his right, ahead, a
human figure standing on the opposite bank of the stream, at
the very tip of a raised spit of land which projected out into
the water. It was a man, and he seemed somehow familiar,
and he had a kind of light about him which Billy found
disturbing.
He slowed as he drew nearer, for the man was staring
directly at him. For a moment, he was not certain how to
address him, for he could not recall the circumstances of
their acquaintance, and a meeting here struck him as pecu-
liar. Then suddenly he remembered, but by then the other
had already greeted him.
He halted and acknowledged the call.
"You are far from home," he said then, "from where I met
you just the other day, in the mountains, herding sheep."
"Yes, I am," the other replied, "for I died that same
evening."
A chill came across the back of Billy's neck.
"I did nothing to you," he said. "Why do you return to
trouble me?"
"I have not returned to trouble you. In fact, I have not
returned at all. It is you who have found your way to this
place. That makes it different. I will do you no harm."
"I do not understand."
"I told you to follow a twisted way," the old singer said,
"and I see that you have. Very twisted. That is good."
"Not entirely," Billy told him. "My chindi is still at my
back."
"Your chindi turned right instead of left, following the
false trail into Black Rock Canyon. You are still safe for a
time."
"That's something, anyway," Billy said. "Maybe I can do
it again."
"Perhaps. But what is it exactly that you are doing?"
"I am following a trail."
"And it brought you here. Do you think that we have met
by accident?"
"I guess not. Do you know why we met?"
"I know only that I would like to teach you an old song of
power."
"That's fine. I'll take all the help I can get," said Billy,
glancing back along the way. "I hope it's not a real long one,
though."
"It is not," the old singer told him. "Listen carefully now,
for I can only sing it three times for you. To sing it four times
is to make it work."
"Yes."
"Very well. Here is the song...."
The old man began chanting a song of the calling of
Ikne'etso, which Billy followed, understood and had learned
by the third time he heard it. When the singer was finished he
thanked him, and then asked, "When should I use this
song?"
"You will know," the other answered. "Follow your
twisted way now."
Billy bade him good-bye and continued along the northern
slope. He considered looking back, but this time he did not
do it. He trekked through the sparkling canyon and images
of other worlds and of his life in cities rose and mingled with
those about him until it seemed as if his entire life was being
melted down and stirred together here. But all of the asso-
ciated feelings were also swirled together so that it was an
emotional white noise which surrounded him.
He passed a crowd of standing stones and they all seemed
to have faces, their mouths open, singing windsongs. They
were all stationary, but at the far end of the group something
came forward out of darkness.
It was a man, a very familiar man, who stood leaning
against the last windsinger, smiling. He was garbed accord-
ing to the latest fashion, his hair was styled, his hands well
manicured.
"Hello, Billy," he said in English, and the voice was his
own.
He saw then that the man was himself, as he could have
been had he never come back to this place.
"That's right. I am your shadow," the other said. "I am
the part of yourself you chose to neglect, to thrust aside
when you elected to return to the blanket because you were
afraid of being me."
"Would I have liked being you?"
The other shrugged.
"I think so. Time and chance, that's all. You and Dora
would eventually have moved to a city after you'd proved to
your own satisfaction how free you'd become. You took a
chance and failed. If you'd succeeded you would have come
this route. Time and chance. Eight inches of space. Such is
the stuff lives are bent by."
"You are saying that if I'd proved how free I had become I
still wouldn't really have been free?"
"What's free?" said the other, a faint green light beginning
to play about his head. "To travel all good paths, I suppose.
And you restricted yourself. I am a way that you did not go,
an important way. I might have been a part of you, a saving
part, but you slighted me in your pride that you knew best."
He smiled again, and Billy saw that he had grown fangs.
"I know you," Billy said then. "You are my chindi, my
real chindi, aren't you?"
"And if I am," the other said, "and if you think me evil,
you see me so for all of the wrong reasons. I am your
negative self. Not better, not worse, only unrealized. You
summoned me a long time ago by running from a part of
yourself. You cannot destroy a negation."
"Let's find out," Billy said, and he raised the laser snub-
gun and triggered it.
The flash of light passed through his double with no visible
effect.
"That is not the way to deal with me," said the other.
"Then the hell with you! Why should I deal with you at
all?"
"Because I can destroy you."
"Then what are you waiting for?"
"I am not quite strong enough yet. So keep running, keep
regressing into the primitive and I will grow in strength as
you do. Then, when we meet again..." The other dropped
suddenly to all fours and took on the semblance of Cat,
single eye glistening, "... I will be your adversary by any
name."
Billy drew the tazer and fired it. It vanished within the
other's body, and the other became his double again and
rose, lunging at him, the dart and cable falling to the ground
and rewinding automatically.
Billy swung his left fist and it seemed to connect with
something. His double fell back upon the ground. Billy
turned and began running.
"Yes, flee. Give me strength," it called out after him.
When he looked back, Billy saw only a faint greenish glow
near the place of the windsingers. He continued to hurry,
until it vanished with another turning of the way. The voices
of the windsingers faded. He slowed again.
The canyon widened once more; the stream was broader
and flowed more slowly. He seemed to see distorted faces,
both human and animal, within the water.
He had felt himself the object of scrutiny for some time
now. But the feeling was growing stronger, and he cast
about, seeking its source among fugitive forms amid shadow
and water.
Cat?
No reply, which could mean anything. But no broadcast
apprehensions either - unless they came on only to be lost
amid the emotional turbulence.
Cat? If it is you, let's have it out. Any time now. I'm ready
whenever you are.
Then he passed a sharp projection of the canyon wall and
he knew that it was not Cat whose presence he had felt. For
now he beheld the strange entity which regarded him, and its
appearance meshed with the sensation.
It looked like a giant totem pole. His people had never
made totem poles. They were a thing of the people of the
Northwest. Yet this one seemed somehow appropriate to the
moment if incongruous to the place. It towered, and it bore
four faces - and possibly a shadowy fifth, at the very top.
There were the countenances of two women, one heavy-
featured, one lean, and two men, one black and one white.
And above them it seemed that a smiling masculine face
hovered, smokelike. All of their eyes were fixed upon him,
and he knew that he beheld no carving but a thing alive.
"Billy Blackhorse Singer," a neuter-gendered voice ad-
dressed him.
"I hear you," he replied.
"You must halt your journey here," it stated.
"Why?" he asked.
"Your mission has been accomplished. You have nothing
to gain by further flight."
"Who are you?" he said.
"We are your guardian spirits. We wish to preserve you
from your pursuer. Climb the wall here. Wait at the top. You
will be met there after a time and borne to safety."
Billy's gaze shifted away from the spirit tower to regard '
the ground at his feet and the prospect before him.
"But I still see my trail out within this canyon," he said
finally. "I should not depart it here."
"It is a false trail."
"No," he said. "This much I know: I must follow it to its
end."
"That way lies death."
He was silent again for a time. Then, ъ Still must I follow
it," he said. "Some things are more important than others.
Even than death."
"What are these things? Why must you follow this trail?"
He took several deep breaths and continued to stare at the
ground, as if considering it for the first time.
"I await myself at its ending," he said at last, "as I should
be. If I do not follow this trail, it will be a different sort of
death."
"Worse, I think," he added.
"We may not be able to help you if you go on."
"Then that is as it must be," he said. "Thank you for
trying."
"We hear you," said the totem as it sank slowly into the
ground, face by face sliding from view beneath stone, until
only the final, shadowy one remained for an instant, smiling,
it seemed, at him. "Gamble, then," it seemed to whisper,
and then it, too, was gone.
He rubbed his eyes, but nothing changed. He went on.
...I walk on an invisible arch,
feet ready to bear me anywhere.
outcoming fra thplatz fwaters flwng awa thheadtopped tre
andriving now to each where five now four apartapart horse
on the mountain ghoti in thrivr selves towar bodystake like a
longflwung water its several bays to go and places of ourown
heads to sort sisters in the sky old men beneath the ground
while coyote trail ahead blackbrid shadow overall and
brotherone within the chalce of minds a partapartatrapatrap
"My God!" Elizabeth said, sinking back into her chair.
Alex Mancin poured a glass of water and drained it.
"Yes," said Fisher, massaging his temples.
Mercy Spender commenced a coughing spell which lasted
for close to half a minute.
"Now what?." Fisher said softly.
Mancin shook his head.
"I don't know."
"Ironbear was right about his thinking he's in another
world," Elizabeth said. "We're not going to move him."
"The hell with that," Fisher said. "We tried, and we got
through, even if he did turn us into a totem. That's not
what's bothering me, and you know it."
"He was there," Mercy said, "in the spirit."
"Somebody call the hospital and make sure Sands is really
dead," Fisher said.
"I don't see how they could be mistaken, Charles,"
Elizabeth said. "But Mercy is right. He was with us, some-
how, and it seems as if he's still somewhere near."
"Yes," Mercy put in. "He is here."
"You don't need the spirit hypothesis for what I think
happened," Mancin finally stated.
"What do you mean?" Elizabeth asked.
"Just the memory of how he died. We were all of us
together, functioning as that single entity of which we under-
stand so little. I think that the trauma of his death served to
produce something like a holograph of his mind within our
greater consciousness. When we are apart like this it is
weakened, but we all bear fainter versions, which is why we
seem to have this sense of his presence. When we recreated
the larger entity just now, the recombination of the traces
was sufficient to reproduce a total functioning replica of his
- mind as it was."
"You see him as a special kind of memory when we are in
that state?" Elizabeth asked. "Will it fade eventually, do
you think?"
"Who can say?"
"So what do we do now?" Fisher asked.
"Check on Singer, I suppose, at regular intervals," Man-
cin said, -and renew the invitation to be picked up if he'll
climb to some recognizable feature."
"He'll just keep refusing. You saw how fixed that mental
set of his was."
"Probably - unless something happens to change it. You
never know. But I've been thinking about some of the things
Ironbear said. He's owed the chance, and we seem the only
ones who can give it to him."
"Okay by me. It seems harmless enough. Just don't ask
me to go after that alien beast again. Once was enough."
"I'm not too anxious to touch it myself." '
"What about Ironbear?"
"What about him?"
"Shouldn't we try to get in touch and let him know what
we're doing?"
"What for? He's mad. He'll just shut us out. Let him call
us when he's ready."
"I'd hate to see him do anything foolish."
"Like what?"
"Like go after that thing and find it."
Mancin nodded.
"Maybe you're right. I still don't think he'd listen, but -"
"He might listen to me," Fisher said, "but I'm not sure I
can reach him myself at this distance."
"Why don't we locate the nearest trip-box to that canyon
and go there?" Elizabeth said. "It will probably make every-
thing easier."
"Aren't Indian reservations dry?" Mercy asked.
"Let's tell Tedders and get our stuff together. We'll meet
back here in fifteen minutes," Fisher said.
"Walter thinks it's a good idea, too," Mercy said.
There is danger where I walk,
in my moccasins, leggings, shirt
of black obsidian.
My belt is a black arrowsnake.
Black snakes coil and rear about my head.
The zigzag lightning flashes from my feet,
my knees, my speaking tongue.
I wear a disk of pollen upon my head.
The snakes eat it.
There is danger where I walk.
I am become something frightful.
I am whirlwind and gray bear.
The lightning plays about me.
There is danger where I walk.
"I dropped him back here," Yellowcloud said, jabbing at
the map, and Ironbear nodded, staring down at the outline of
the long, sprawled canyons.
The rain, growing sleetlike, pelted against the floatcar in
which they sat, parked near the canyon's rim. Reflexively,
Ironbear raised the collar of his borrowed jacket. Pretty
good fit. Lucky we're both the same size, he decided.
"I watched for a time," Yellowcloud continued, "to make
sure he got down okay. He did, and I saw that he headed east
then." His finger moved along the map and halted again.
"Now, at this point," he went on, "he could have turned
right into Black Rock Canyon or he could have kept on along
Canyon del Muerto proper. What do you think?"
"Me? How should I know?"
"You're the witch-man. Can't you hold a stick over the
map, or something like that, and tell?"
Ironbear studied the map more closely.
"Not exactly," he said. "I can feel him out there, down
there. But a rock wall's just a rock wall to me, whether I'm
seeing it through his eyes or my own. However..." He
placed his finger on the map and moved it. "I'd guess he
continued along del Muerto. He wanted lots of room, and
Black Rock seems to dead-end too soon."
"Good, good. I feel he went that way, too. He chose a
spot before it on purpose, I'd say. I'll bet the trail gets
confused at the junction." Yellowcloud folded the map,
turned off the interior light and started the engine. "Since we
both agree," he said, turning the wheel, "I'll bet I can save
us some time. I'll bet that if we head on up the rim, past that
branch, and if we climb down into del Muerto, we'll pick up
his trail along one of the walls."
"It'll be kind of dark."
"I've got goggles and dark-lights. Full spectrum, too."
"Can you figure out where he might be from where you
dropped him and how fast he might be going?"
"Bet I can make a good guess. But we don't want to come
down right on top of him now."
"Why not?"
"If something's after him, he's liable to shoot at anything
he sees coming."
"You've got a point there."
"So we'll go down around Many Turkey cave, Blue Bull
Cave - right before the canyon widens. Should be easier to
pick up the trail where it's narrow. Then we'll ignore any
false signs leading into Twin Trail Canyon and start on after
him."
Winds buffeted the small car as it made its way across a
nearly trailless expanse, turning regularly to avoid boulders
and dips which dropped too abruptly.
"... Then I guess we just provide him with extra fire-
power."
"I'd like to try talking him out of it," Ironbear said.
Yellowcloud laughed.
"Sure. You do that," he said.
Ironbear scanned the other's thoughts, saw his impression
of the man.
"Oh, well," he said. "At least I learned to shoot in the P-
Patrol."
"You were P-Patrol? I almost joined that."
"Why didn't you?"
"Afraid I'd get claustrophobia in one of those beer cans in
the sky. I like to be able to see a long way off."
They were silent for a time as they traveled through the
blackness, dim shapes about them, snowflakes spinning in
the headlight beams, changing back to rain, back to snow-
flakes again.
Then, "That thing that's after him," Yellowcloud said,
"you say it's as smart as a man?"
"In its way, yeah. Maybe smarter."
"Billy may still have an edge, you know. He'll probably
be mad to see us."
"That beast has chased him all over the world. It's built
for killing, and it hates him."
"Even Kit Carson was afraid to go into these canyons
after the Navajo. Had to starve us out in the dead of winter."
"Why was he scared?"
"The place was made for ambushes. Anyone who knows
his way around down there could hold off a superior force,
maybe slaughter it."
"This beast can read thoughts."
"So it reads that there's someone up ahead waiting to kill
it. Doesn't have to be a mind reader to know that. And if it
keeps following that's what could happen."
"It can change shape."
"It's still got to move in order to make progress. That
makes it a target. Billy's armed now. It won't have it as easy
as you seem to think."
"Then why'd you decide to come?"
"I don't like to see any outsider chasing Navis on our
land. And I couldn't let a Sioux have the first shot at the
thing."
Without Yellowcloud, I wouldn't be worth much out here,
Ironbear told himself. Even the little kids around here must
know more than I do about getting around in this terrain,
tracking, hunting, survival. I'm a damn fool for butting into
this at all, physically. The only things I know about being an
Indian come from Alaska, and that was a long time ago. So
why am I here? I keep saying I like Singer, but why?
Because he was some kind of a hero? I don't really think
that's it. I think it's because he's an old-style Indian, and
because my father might have been that way. At least I think
of him that way. Could I be trying to pay off a debt of guilt
here? It's possible, I guess. And all of my music had an
Indian beat to it....
The car slowed, worked its way into the shelter of a stone
outcrop, came to a halt. The snow had turned back to rain, a
slow, cold drizzle here.
"Are we there?" he asked.
"Almost," Yellowcloud replied. "There's an easy way
down near here. Well, relatively easy. Let me get us some
lights and I'll show you."
Outside, they donned small packs and slung their weap-
ons. Yellowcloud shined his light toward the canyon.
"Follow me," he said. "There was a slide here a few years
ago. Made a sort of trail. We'll be more sheltered once we
reach the bottom."
Ironbear fell in behind him and they made their way to the
rim of the canyon. Its floor was invisible, and the rocks
immediately before him looked jagged and slippery. He said
nothing, and shortly they began the descent, Yellowcloud
playing his light before them.
As they climbed, the force of the rainfall lessened, until
about halfway down they entered the full rainshadow of the
wall and it ceased entirely. The rocks were drier and the
pace of their descent increased. He listened to the wind and
the noises of the rain.
Moving from rock to rock, he came, after a time, to
wonder whether there was indeed a bottom. It began to seem
as if they had been descending forever and that the rest of
time would be a simple repetition of the grasping and lower-
ing. Then he heard Yellowcloud call out, "Here we are!"
and shortly thereafter he found himself standing on the
canyon's floor, stony shapes distorted and flowing in the
blacklight.
"Just stay put for a minute," Yellowcloud said. "I don't
want any trails messed up." Then, "Can you use that trick of
yours to tell whether there's anyone nearby?" he asked.
"There doesn't seem to be," Ironbear replied a few mo-
ments later.
"Okay. I'm going to use a normal light for a while here.
Make yourself comfortable while I see what I can turn up."
Several minutes passed while Ironbear watched Yellow-
cloud's slowly moving light as the other man studied the
ground, ranging farther and farther ahead, passing from left
to right and back again. Finally Yellowcloud halted. His
figure straightened. He gestured for Ironbear to come along,
and then he began walking.
"Got something?" Ironbear asked, coming up beside
him.
"He's been this way," he answered. "See?"
Ironbear nodded as he regarded the ground. He saw
nothing, but he read the recognition of signs within the
other's mind.
"How long ago was he by here?"
"I can't say for sure. Doesn't really matter, though. Come
on."
They hiked for nearly a quarter-hour- in silence before
Ironbear thought to inquire, "Have you seen any signs of his
pursuer?"
"None. A few dog tracks here and there are the only other
things. It couldn't be that size, from what you told me."
"No. It's got a lot more mass."
Yellowcloud ignored the false signs at Twin Trail Canyon
and continued along the northeasterly route of the main gap.
There was a hypnotic quality to the steady trudging, the
unrolling trail of rock, puddle, mud, shrub. The cold was not
as bad as it might have been with the wind softened as it was,
but the numbness Ironbear began to feel was more a mental
thing. The waters splashed and gurgled past. His arms
swung and his feet strode in a near mechanical fashion.
... Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes...
The wind seemed to be talking to him, seemed to have
been talking to him for a long while, lulling words, restful
within the routine of the movements.
... Lull, lull, lull, lull. Yes, rest, yes, rest, yest, yest,
yest...
It was more than the wind and the rhythm, he suddenly
knew. There was someone -
Yes. Yes.
Power. Blackness. Death. It walked at his back. The
thing. The beast. It was coming.
Yes. Yes.
And there was nothing he could do about it. He could not
even slow his pace, let alone deviate from his course. It had
him completely in its power, and so deftly had it taken
control of him that he had not even felt the insinuation of its
presence. Until now, when it was far too late.
Yes. Yes, son of cities. You seem different from this other
one, and both of you block my way. Keep walking. I will
catch up with you soon. It will not matter then.
Ironbear tried again to turn aside, but his muscles refused
to obey him. He was about to probe Yellowcloud's mind to
see whether the other man had yet become aware of his
condition. He held back, however. The creature somewhere
to the rear was exerting a form of telepathic control over his
nervous system. He could not tell whether it was also
reading his thoughts. Perhaps. Perhaps not. He wanted to
keep his own telepathic ability away from its awareness if he
possibly could. Why, he was not certain. But he felt -
He heard a sound to the rear. A dislodged stone turning
over, it seemed. He knew that if he did not break free in a
few moments nothing that he felt would matter anymore. It
would all be over for him. Everything. The beast Singer
called Cat was almost upon him.
His feet continued their slow, steady movements. He tried
to visualize Cat, but he could not. A malevolent shadow with
sinuous movements... a large eye drifting like a moon...
The images came and departed. None seemed adequate for
the approaching beast - powerful, fearless...
Fearless?
An image leaped to mind, a question keeping it company:
How strong a mental impression could he project? Fisher
could create solid-seeming illusions with ease. Could he .
manage with a fraction of that verisimilitude if he backed
it with everything he had? Perhaps just enough to discon-
cert?
There was no real pause, though, between the idea and the
effort. The speculation ran simultaneous with the attempt,
habit of the reflective part of himself.
The sandy stretch across which he had just passed... He
projected the image of its eruption, with the shining triangu-
lar form bursting upward, lunging forward, reaching to em-
brace his pursuer....
Krel! Krel! he sent, concentrating to achieve perfection in .
its display.
He halted, feeling the panic waves from behind him,
aware of controlling his own movements once more, aware,
too, that Yellowcloud had halted.
Krel! But even as he reinforced the image with every
feeling of menace and terror with which he found himself
freshly familiar, even as he unslung the burst-gun and fitted
his hand to its grip, he realized that while his movements
were now his own he was afraid to execute the necessary
turn to face the thing which stood behind him.
The report of Yellowcloud's weapon shattered his paraly-
sis. He spun about, the burst-gun at ready.
Cat, in the light of Yellowcloud's beam, was dropping to
the ground from an erect posture, and that awful eye seemed
fixed upon his own, burning; boring.
He triggered his weapon, moving it, and dirt and gravel
blew backward from a line traced on the ground in front of
the beast.
Yellowcloud fired again and Cat jerked as he plunged
forward. Ironbear raised the muzzle of his own weapon and
triggered another burst. It stitched a wavering line along
Cat's neck and shoulder.
And then everything went silent and black as he felt the
impact of Cat's body upon his own.
They sat or lay in their rooms at the Thunderbird Lodge,
not far from the mouths of the canyons. It was as if they
were all together in one room, however, for the walls did not
impede their conversation.
Well? Elizabeth asked. What have you learned?
I'm going to try again, Fisher answered. Wait a few
minutes.
You've been at it for quite a while, Mancin said.
Sometimes there are snags - unusual states of mind that
are hard to pick up. You know.
Something's wrong, Mancin said. I've been trying, too.
Maybe we're too late, Mercy put in.
Don't be ridiculous!
I'm just trying to be realistic.
I got through to Yellowcloud's house while you were
trying for contact, Elizabeth said. His wife told me that he
and Ironbear left together some time ago. They went over to
the canyon, she said.
After Singer? Mancin asked.
She wouldn't say any more about it. But why else?
Indeed.
I'm going to try again now, Fisher said.
Wait, Elizabeth told him.
Why?
You're not getting anywhere by yourself.
You mean we should get together again and try?
Why not? That is why we're here. To work together.
Do you think Sands... ? Mancin began.
Probably, Elizabeth said.
Yes, Mercy said. But he wouldn't hurt us.
Well, you're right about why we're here, Mancin said to
Elizabeth.
And if we can't locate Jimmy? Fisher said. What then?
Try again with Singer, Elizabeth said. Perhaps this time
he'll listen.
Now you travel your own trail, alone.
What you have become, we do not know.
What your clan is now, we do not know.
Now, now on, now, you are something not of this world.
Walking. Through the silver and black landscape. Slow
here. Confuse the way. As if for an ambush from behind
those rocks. Erase the next hundred feet or so with a branch
of shrubbery. Good. Go on. The way is clear. Vaguely red-
and-white flecked. Walking. Skyflash mirrored in waters
twisting. Faint drumbeat once again. Consistency of wind-
sound within the slant of walls. Small spray glassmasking
face here, eyelash prisms spectrumbreaking rainbows geo-
metric dance of lights. Wipe. Shadows leapback. Coyotedog
smile fading between the light and the dark. Cross here,
splashing. Wherever trail runs follow the feet. Around.
Over. Masked dancers within the shadows, silent. Far, far to
the rear, a faint green light. Why look back? To turn is to
embrace. Climb now. Descend again. It narrows soon, then
widens again. A thing with many eyes sits upon a high ledge
but does not stir. Frozen, perhaps, or only watching. Louder
now the drumbeat. Moving to its rhythms. Fire within the
heart of a stone. Rain yei bending, bridgelike, from above to
below. Birdtracks behind a mooncurved wall. Thighbone of
horse. Empty hogan. Half;burned log. Touch the mica that
glistens like pollen. Remember the song the old man -
... Singer.
Faint, faint. The wind or its echo. Tired word of tired
breath.
Billy Blackhorse...
Across again now, to that rocky place.
I feel you - up there, somewhere - tracker...
Something. Something he should remember. This journey.
To follow his trail. But.
Your friends did not stop me. I am still coming, hunter.
Ghost of the echo of the wind. Words in his head. Old
friends, perhaps. Someone known.
Why do you not answer me? To talk gives nothing away.
Ghost-cat, chindi-thing. Yes. Cat.
I am here, Cat.
And I follow you.
I know.
It is a good place you have chosen.
It chose me.
Either way. Better than cities.
Billy paused to muddle his trail, create the impression of
another possible ambush point.
... Coming. You cannot run forever.
Only so far as I must. You are hurt...
Yes. But not enough to stop me. We will meet.
We will.
I feel you are stronger here than you were before.
Perhaps.
Whichever of us wins, it is better this way than any other.
We are each of us the last of our kind. What else is there for
us?
I do not know.
It is a strange country. I do not understand everything
about it.
Nor do I.
Soon we will meet, old enemy. Are you glad that you ran?
Billy tried hard to think about it.
Yes, he finally said.
Billy thought of the song but knew that it was not the time
to sing it. Thunder mumbled down the canyon.
You have changed, hunter, since last we were this close.
I know where I'm going now, Cat.
Hurry then. I may be closer than you think.
Watch the shadows. You may even be nearer than you
think.
Silence. The big widening and a clear view far ahead. He
halted, puzzled, suddenly able to see for a great distance.
Like a ribbon, his trail led on and on and then wound
upward. He did not understand, but it did not matter. He
broke into his ground-eating jog. In the darkness high over-
head, he heard the cry of a bird.
Farther yet, he returns with me, Nayenezgani,
spinning his dark staff for protection.
The lightnings flash behind him and before him.
To the ladder's first rung,
to the Emergence Place
he returns with me;
and the rainbow returns with me
and the talking ketahn teaches me.
We mount the ladder's twelve rungs.
Small blue birds sing above me,
Cornbeetle sings behind me.
Hashje-altye returns with me.
I will climb Emergence Mountain,
Chief Mountain, Rain Mountain,
Corn Mountain, Pollen Mountain....
Returning. Upon the pollen figure to sit.
To own the home, the pre, the food,
the resting ploce, the feet, the legs, the body,
to hold the mind and the voice, the power
of movement. The speech, that is blessed.
Returning with me. Gathering these things,
Climbing. Through the mists and clouds,
the mosses and grasses,
the woods and rocks, the earth,
of the four colors. Returning.
"Grandchild, we stand upon the rainbow."
RUNNING. THE WIND AND WA-
ter-sounds now a part of the drumbeat. Path grown clearer
and clearer. Blood-red now and dusted as with ice flakes.
The ground seemed to shake once, and something like a
tower of smoke rose before him in a twisting at the side of
the trail. Changing colors, the pillar braided itself as it
climbed, and five shifting faces took form within it. He
recognized his guardian spirits.
"Billy, we have come to ask you again," they said in a
single voice. "The danger increases. You must leave the
trail, leave the canyon. Quickly. You must go to a place
where you will be met and taken to safety."
"I cannot leave the trail now," he answered. "It is too late
to do that. My enemy approaches. My way is clear before
me. Thank you again. There is no longer a choice for me in
this."
"There is always a choice."
"Then I have, already made it."
The smoke-being blew apart as he passed it.
He saw what appeared to be the end of the trail now, and a
small atavistic fear touched him as he realized where it,
would take him. It was to the Mummy Cave, an old place of
the dead, that it ran, high up the canyon wall.
As he advanced, it seemed to grow before him, a ruin
within a high alcove. A green light played behind one of the
windows for an eyeblink and a half. And then the wind was
muffled, and then it rose again. And again. Again.
Now the sound came like the flapping of a giant piece of
canvas high in the sky. He kept his eyes upon his goal and
continued to follow his trail toward the foot of the wall. And
as he ran the sound grew louder, felt nearer. Finally it
seemed directly overhead, and he sensed each beat upon his
body. Then a dark shape moved past, through the upper air.
When he raised his eyes he beheld an enormous bird-form
dipping to settle atop the cliff wall high above the place of
the Mummy Cave. He slowed as he neared the foot of the
wall and encountered the talus slope. And he knew as he
beheld the dark thing, settling now and staring downward,
that he beheld Haasch'e'e'shzhini, Black-god, master of the
hunt. He looked away quickly, but not before he met the
merciless stare of a yellow eye fixed upon him.
Must I end this thing beneath your gaze, Dark One? he
wondered. For I am both the hunter and the hunted. Which
side does that put you on?
He mounted the slope, his eyes now following the trail
gone vertical up toward the recessed ruin. Yes, that did seem
the easiest route....
He approached the wall, took the first foothold and hand-
hold and commenced climbing.
Climbing. Slowly over the more slippery places. A strange
tingling in the palms of the hands as he mounted higher. Like
the time -
No. He halted. Everything he was was a part of the hunt.
But it was also a part of the past. Let it go. Climb. Hunt.
Position is what is important. That lesson comes with mem-
ory. Achieve it now. He drew himself higher, not looking at
the dark shadow far above, not looking back. Soon.
Soon he would enter the place of death and await his
pursuer. The running should be nearing its end. Hurry.
Important to be up there and out of sight when Cat enters the
area. Wet handhold. Grip tightly.
Glance upward. Yes. In sight now. Soon. Careful. Pull.
There.
After several minutes, he drew himself up onto a ledge,
moved to the left. Another hold. Up again.
Half crawling. Okay now. Rise again. Move toward the
wall. Enter. No green light. Over the wall...
He passed along the rear of the wall, peering through gaps
out over the floor of the canyon. Nothing. Nothing yet in
sight. Keep going. That large opening... '
All right. Halt. Unsling the weapon. Check it out. Rest it
on the ledge. Wait.
Nothing. Still nothing. The place was damp and filled with
rubble. He ran his eyes across the open spaces before him,
the entire prospect palely illuminated through screens of
phosphorescent mist. But waiting was a thing at which he
excelled. He settled with his back against a block of stone,
his eyes upon the canyon, one hand upon the weapon.
Nearly an hour passed with no changes in the scene before
him.
And then a shadow, slow, inching along the wall, far to his
left and ahead. Its creeping barely registered, until at some
point he realized that there was nothing to cast it.
He raised the weapon - it had a simple sight - and zeroed
it in on the shadow. Then he thought about the accuracy of
the thing and lowered it again. Too far. If the shadow were
really Cat he did not want to take a chance on missing and
giving away his position.
It stopped. It flowed into the form of a rock and remained
stationary for a long while. He could almost believe that the
entire sequence had been a trick of light and shadow.
Almost. He drew a bead on the rock and held it there.
You are somewhere near, Billy. I can feel you.
He did not respond.
Wherever you are, I will be there shortly.
Should he risk a shot after all? he wondered. It would take
Cat a while to assume a more mobile shape. He would
doubtless have several opportunities during that time....
Movement again. The rock shifted, flowed, reformed far-
ther along the wall.
Suffer, tracker. You are going to die. Four first shot will
betray you and I will dodge all of the successive ones. You
will see me when I am ready to be seen and you will pre it
then.
The movement commenced again, drifting toward a real
rock beneath a shelflike overhang. Within the amorphous
form the glittering of Cat's eye became visible; his limbs
began to take form.
Billy bit his lip, recalling having seen a torglind meta-
morph run up a near-vertical wall on the home planet. He
triggered the weapon then and missed.
Cat froze for a split second as the flash occurred high
overhead, then moved more slowly than Billy had antici-
pated, leading Billy to believe that the beast was indeed
injured. Cat sprang back toward a line of stones nearer the
wall. And then, realizing his mistake as he glanced upward,
his legs bunched beneath him and he sprang forward again.
But not in time.
A large slab of stone facing, blasted loose by the shot, slid
down the wall, striking the shelf beneath which Cat
crouched. Even as his feet left the ground, it descended
upon him.
Hunter! I believe - you've won.... '
Billy fired again. This time he scorched the earth ten yards
off to the right of the fall. He moved the barrel slightly to the
left and triggered the weapon again. This time the top of the
rubble heap exploded.
It seemed that he could make out a single, massive fore-
limb projected near the front of the pile. But at that distance
he could not be certain.
Was that a twitch?
He fired again, blasting the center of the heap.
The canyon rang with a massive cawing note. The flapping
sound began again, slowly. He looked up briefly and
glimpsed the shadow moving off to his right.
"It is over," he sang, head rested upon his forearm, "and
my thanks rise like smoke...."
His words trailed off as his eyes moved across the canyon
floor. Then his brow furrowed. He raised himself. He leaned
forward to peer.
"Why?" he said aloud.
But nothing answered.
The trail he had followed did not terminate at this place.
Somehow he had not noticed this earlier. It ran off to his
right, curving out of sight beyond the canyon wall, presum-
ably continuing on into the farther reaches of the place.
He slung his weapon and adjusted his pack. He did not
understand, but he would go on.
He returned to the place where he had climbed and began
his descent.
His shoulder ached. Also, it was raining on his face and a
sharp stone was poking him in the back. He was aware of
these things for some time before he realized that they meant
he was alive.
Ironbear opened his eyes. Yellowcloud's light lay upon the
ground nearby, casting illumination along a gravel slope.
He turned his head and saw Yellowcloud. The man was
seated with his back against a stone, legs straight out before
him. Both of his hands were gripping his left thigh.
Ironbear raised his head, reached out a hand, levered
himself upward.
"I live," he said, swinging into a sitting position. "How're
you?"
"Broken leg," Yellowcloud answered. "Above the knee."
Ironbear rose, crossed to the light and picked it up, turned
back toward Yellowcloud.
"Bad place for a break," he said, advancing. "Can't even
hobble."
He squatted beside the other man.
"I'm not sure what's the best thing to do," he said. "Got
any suggestions?"
"I've already called for help. My portaphone wasn't
damaged. They'll be along with a medic. Get me out of here
in a sling if they have to. Don't worry. I'll be okay."
"Why are we still alive?"
"It didn't think we were worth killing, I guess. Just an
annoyance, to be brushed aside."
"Makes you feel real important, doesn't it?"
"I'm not complaining. Listen, there's dry wood along the
wall. Get me a couple of armloads, will you? I want a fire."
"Sure." He moved to comply. "I wonder how far along '
that thing has gotten?"
"Can't you tell?"
"I don't want to get near it at that level. It can hurt you
just with its mind."
"You going after it?"
"If I can figure a way to follow it."
Yellowcloud smiled and turned his head, gesturing with
his chin.
"It went that way."
"I'm not a tracker like you."
"Hell, you don't have to be. That thing's heavy and it's
running, right out in the open. Nothing fancy. It couldn't
care less whether one of us knows where it went. You take
the light. I'll have the fire. You'll be able to see the marks it
left."
He carried over the first load of kindling, went back to
look for more. By the time he returned with the second load,
Yellowcloud had a fire going.
"Anything else I can do for you?" he asked.
"No. Just get moving."
He slung his weapon and picked up the light. When he
played the beam Up the canyon he saw the tracks readily
enough.
"And take this." Yellowcloud passed him the portaphone.
"Okay. I'll go try again."
"Maybe you ought to aim for its eye."
"Maybe I should. See you."
Good luck."
He turned and began walking. The water was a dark,
speaking thing whose language he did not understand. The
way was clear. The tracks were large.
The wind stirs the grasses.
The,snow glides across the earth.
The whirlwind walks on the mountain,
raising dust.
The rocks are ringing
high on the mountain, behind the fog.
The sun's light is running out
like water from a cracked pitcher.
We shall live again.
The snowy earth
slides out of the whirling wind.
We shall live again.
AROUND THE CURVE OF THE
canyon wall, walking. Gusts of wind here over stream grown
wider, swirling glittering particles across watersong gone
wild. Other side more sheltered but the red way lies close to
the wall, here, rising now. Ripples like rushing pictographs.
Pawprints of the perfidious one. Ice-rimed bones beside the
trail. Rabbit. Burnt hogan, green glow within. Place of
death. Shift eyes. Hurry on. Shine of crystal. Snow-streaked
wall, texture of feathers. 'Bail winding on. As far as the eye
will go. What now the quarry?
Pause to drink at the crossing of tributary streamlet
Burning cold, flavored of rock and earth. Fog bank ahead,
moving toward him, masked dancers within; about a south-
blue blaze. Rhythms in the earth. He is become a smoke,
drifting along his way, silent and featureless, rushing to
merge with that place of flux and earthdance cadence. Yes,
and be lost in it.
White and soft, smothering sounds, like that place where
he had hunted the garlett, so long ago...
Dancers to the right, dancers to the left, dancers crossing
his way. Do they even see him, invisible and spiritlike,
passing among them, along the stillbright, stillred way writ-
ten upon the ground as with fire and blood?
One draws nearer bearing something covered by a cloth
woven with an old design. He halts, for the dancer moves to
bar his way, thrusting the thing before him. It is uncovered,
displaying a pair of-hands. He stares at them. That scar near
the base of the left thumb... They are his hands.
At the recognition they rise to hover in front of him, as if
he were holding them before his face. He feels them, glove-
like, at the extremity of his spirit. He had skinned game with
them, fought with them, stroked Dora's hair with them....
He lets them fall to his sides. It is good to have them back
again. The dancer moves away. Billy swirls like a whirlwind
of snow and continues along his trail.
There is no time. A cluster of gray sticks, rising from the
earth on the slope to his right, beside the trail... He pauses
to watch as the sticks turn green, bumps appearing along
their surfaces to become buds. The buds crack, leaves
unwind themselves, turn, enlarge. White flowers come
forth.
He passes, swinging his hands. Another dancer with an-
other parcel approaches from his left.
He halts, hovering, and with his hands he accepts the gift
of his feet and restores them to their places on the ground
below him. The many miles we have come together...
Walking, again walking, upon the trail. Feeling the heart-
beat of the earth through the soles of his feet. There is no
time. Snowflakes blow upward before him. The stream has
reversed its direction. Blood flows back into the wounded
deer lying still across his way. It springs to its hoofs, turns
and is gone.
Now, like curtains, a parting of the fog. Four masked
dancers advance upon him, bearing the body that is his own.
When he wears it again, he thanks them, but they withdraw
in silence.
He moves on along the trail. The fog is shifting. Every-
thing is shifting but the trail.
He hears a sound which he has not heard in a great
counting of years. It begins off in the distance behind him
and rises in pitch as it comes on: the whistle of a train.
Then he hears the chugging. They no longer make engines
of this sort. There is nothing here for it to run on. There is -
He sees the rails paralleling his trail. That ledge ahead
seems a platform now....
The whistle sounds again. Nearer. He feels the throb of
the thing, superimposed upon the earth rhythms. A train
such as Be has not beheld in years is coming. Coming,
impossibly, through this impossible place. He keeps walk-
ing, as the sound of it fills the world. It should be rushing up
beside him at any moment.
The shriek of the whistle fills his hearing. He turns his
head.
Yes, it has come. An ancient, black, smoke-puffing dragon
of an engine, a number of passenger cars trailing behind. He
hears the screaming of its brakes begin.
He looks back to the area of the platform, to where a
single, slouched figure now stands waiting. Almost familiar...
With a clattering and the cries of metal friction the engine
draws abreast of him, slowing, slowing, and passes to halt
beside the platform. He smells smoke and grease and hot
metal.
The figure on the platform moves toward the first passen-
ger car, and he now recognizes the old dead singer who had
taught him the song. Just before boarding the man turns and
waves to him.
His gaze slides back along the coach's windows. Behind
every on...
