Armed with a stolen carbine, Cadillac marched slowly through the drifting plumes of smoke that rose from the charred remains of the huts which – just one brief day ago – had been the home of the Clan M’Call.
Roz – clutching another carbine with the awkwardness of someone trained to save lives not terminate them – followed him as he scoured the settlement from end to end. The soldiers had done their work with the thoroughness that was the mark of the Federation. Goods and chattels had been put to the torch, every living soul regardless of age had been killed.
The decapitated bodies of the den mothers, their children, and the She-Wolves who had stayed to defend them were scattered everywhere. Some, burnt beyond recognition, lay smouldering in the glowing rings of ashes that had once been huts of skin and wood; others, partially stripped, their naked bodies ripped by bayonet thrusts, lay sprawled awkwardly where they had been gunned down – either running away from, or towards the enemy: the tall faceless figures in their blood-red and flame-orange uniforms who showed no mercy and expected none.
When the last hope of finding any survivors finally expired, Cadillac turned to Roz, his eyes brimming with bitter tears. His lips moved but no words came. He had come down from the hills fearing the worst, but the shock of discovering this scene of senseless slaughter had driven the breath from his body.
Roz threw aside her carbine and supported him as he lurched towards her. She knew what he was thinking. He was the last of the M’Calls; the only one still alive. The remainder of his clanfolk – every man, woman and child of fighting age – had gone forth to do battle with one of the dreaded iron-snakes, the Mute name for the wagon-trains of the Amtrak Federation.
And despite falling into a trap, they had confounded their enemy, capturing and destroying The Lady from Louisiana before being surrounded by four more of the giant land-cruisers – each one carrying a thousand Trail-Blazers. When Cadillac had flown west, taking Roz with him on the orders of Mr Snow, the M’Call Bears and She-Wolves, bloodied but triumphant from their victory over The Lady, were preparing to make a last stand as the circle of fire closed in remorselessly around them.
Roz and Cadillac had escaped in the last aircraft to leave the flight-deck of The Lady and they had not been fired upon because no one on the advancing wagon-trains had suspected that the Skyhawk was being flown by a Mute. The same thing had happened when they had overflown the settlement and seen the groups of camouflaged Trail-Blazers moving through it sowing a trail of death and destruction. Some had even paused long enough to lower their weapons and raise their dark, visored faces as Cadillac circled overhead.
His first impulse had been to dive down and spray them with a prolonged burst from the mini-Vulk in the nose of the Skyhawk, but he did not dare risk damaging his precious cargo: Roz – the young stranger whom Mr Snow had given into his care. Gritting his teeth, Cadillac had made two low passes, dipping his wings to salute the murderers of his clanfolk.
The Trail-Blazers had waved to him. And then, as he flew off – wracked with guilt – to find a landing place higher up in the hills, those same hands had dropped back onto their weapons to continue the slaughter of the innocents.
From an overlooking crag, he and Roz had watched the distant fiery glow wax and wane throughout the night then, in the grey dawn of the following day, they had gone down to take stock of his inheritance.
But there was nothing left.
On the very same day he had become wordsmith to the Clan M’Call – the greatest clan ever to spring from the bloodline of the She-Kargo – his clanfolk had perished in a last blaze of glory and the hell-fires of vengeance.
As the first shock faded and new breath forced its way into his lungs, Cadillac stepped away from Roz, raised his face to the sky and howled with grief. A heart-rending cry that came from deep within the soul. Inarticulate, more animal than human, but which expressed his deep-felt sense of loss and desolation in a way which mere words could not encompass.
Falling to his knees, he pounded the blood-stained earth then furrowed it with clawed fingers, scooping it up and smearing it over his neck, arms and chest.
Roz knelt down beside him – this clear-skinned, smooth-boned Mute whose future was now inextricably enmeshed with hers. They had met less than 24 hours ago, surrounded, as now, by the stench of death, but it had only served to strengthen the instinctive bond between them.
She watched patiently as Cadillac, oblivious to her presence, continued to claw at the crimson earth and daub it on his body. To the detached medical side of her mind, he seemed, by these frenzied gestures, to be trying to share the dying agonies of his clanfolk. Gradually, the raw edge of his guilt and anger became blunted. He slumped back on his heels, round-shouldered under the burden of sorrow and lapsed into total immobility, hands hanging limply between his thighs, his expressionless eyes blind to all external sensation – the classic symptoms of catatonia. For nearly an hour, not a muscle twitched. Nothing moved except for the occasional tear which rolled down his cheeks then, suddenly, he jerked into life and when he turned his bloodied, dirt-streaked face towards her, the eyes were dry and clear.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘We have work to do.’
Using Tracker machetes, they cut down and hauled back a large quantity of pine saplings which they hewed into eight-foot lengths and built a square funeral pyre, interleaving the layers of slim logs with the broken bodies of the women and the young children, laid on a bed and under a cover of pine branches.
Despite her training, Roz found it a heart-breaking task. In the Federation, dead bodies were whisked away by the bag-men. Some were delivered to the Medical College for autopsies and dissection by students but once again the bag-men collected the bits. And it occurred to Roz that she had never enquired what happened next. She had merely assumed that the mortal remains of its soldier-citizens were disposed of with the same clinical efficiency that characterised most of the procedures evolved by the Amtrak Federation.
True or false, she was certain of one thing. The operation was not something the kin-folk of the deceased were required to perform or watch – as she had to do now.
They piled more branches around the outside of the log squares to mask the bodies from view, then Cadillac set light to it using a potful of glowing ashes from one of the burnt-out huts. There was a pungent smell of resin as the pine needles caught fire, and with a crackling roar the flames leapt skywards, carrying the spirits of the dead into the arms of Mo-Town on a rising current of air.
With his half-naked body smeared with grey ash in the traditional style of the Plainfolk, Cadillac squatted before the column of fire, just out of range of the blistering heat, his arms wrapped around his rib-cage. And so began the second period of mourning.
For the rest of that day and throughout the following night, Cadillac rocked silently back and forth, his heart and mind imprisoned in a private world of grief which Roz could comprehend but could not wholly share.
The funeral pyre blazed throughout the evening, then around midnight, as he maintained his vigil while she slept fitfully nearby, it slowly collapsed with a shower of sparks into a mound of glowing embers. By morning, all that remained was a grey-shrouded hump in the middle of a blackened square of earth. But it still gave off a fierce heat, and quickly ignited the odd branch and bits of debris that Roz threw onto it as she tidied up around her seated companion.
Cadillac did not utter a word throughout the whole of that second day. And Roz did not attempt to engage him in conversation. She was content to be; to savour to the full the expansive beauty of the surrounding landscape, the fathomless depths of the blue sky world above her head. A sky flecked with ever-changing patterns of cloud that stretched away towards a horizon that was so distant it surpassed understanding.
Up here in the hills, the world about her was much vaster than the one she had experienced from the flight deck of Red River. Coming from a life-time spent in the confines of the Federation, she had – like most Trackers – no proper sense of scale, no grasp of the truly awesome dimensions of the universe. If someone had told her that from where she now stood the farthest point she could see towards the east lay over a hundred miles away it would have meant nothing. And to have talked about the size of the earth or the distance between it and the moon would have meant even less.
On the first day, while Cadillac sat grieving in front of the blazing pyre, she had taken the edge off her hunger by dipping into the emergency ration pack that all Skyhawks carried. Now, on the second day, as the sun reached its zenith, Cadillac rose, made a cooking fire and silently prepared a meal for two.
Not everything had been been destroyed by the soldiers or thrown onto the funeral pyre. Cadillac had salvaged and set aside pots and pans, tools and implements, sleeping furs, some walking skins, even some dried food – everything they needed to survive the immediate future and were able to carry on trucking poles between them.
Without being asked, Roz had brought water from the stream that burst from the moss-covered rocks deep within the forested slopes to the north of the settlement. The same stream that cascaded over the glistening tongue of rock overhanging the bluff then fell in a long filmy ribbon onto the rocks below. The same rocks on which Steve Brickman had stood to refresh himself before his fateful second encounter with Clearwater.
Roz helped Cadillac prepare the meal, her gestures complementing his without a hint of awkwardness. They ate in silence, but on the occasions when their eyes met they fixed each other with an unwavering gaze that was only broken by mutual, unspoken agreement.
They were like two castaways, marooned on a wooded island amid an ocean of red grass. But although they had only been in each other’s presence for a matter of hours, they were not strangers. Neither Roz nor Cadillac had anything to hide. There was no need for timid, furtive glances; no time for anything other than a frank appraisal. There was no need to say anything. The eyes said it all.
The afternoon lengthened into evening. Roz helped him erect a hut using a selection of unburnt poles and a patchwork of skins, then they went into the forest to fetch more wood for the fire.
While they were there Cadillac bathed in the stream, washing away the grey ash that had covered his body. Night fell. They communed in silence over the evening meal that Cadillac prepared with her help, then he gathered up the sleeping furs that had been warming by the fire and took them into the hut.
A short while later he crawled out through the low door flap and picked up the two carbines. Seating himself with his back to the hut, he laid one of the guns across his lap and placed the other on the ground beside him.
‘Sleep now.’ They were the first words he had uttered in two days.
Roz stood up and slowly unzipped her camouflage fatigues, then rolled them into a neat bundle. Cadillac averted his eyes as she stripped off her underclothes, but she stood before him and willed him to look up at her naked body, its smooth artificially-tanned skin tinted deep orange by the firelight glow. When their eyes finally met, she held up the garments that marked her out as a Tracker and dropped them onto the red-hot embers.
They both watched as the flames took hold.
When there was nothing left, Roz said: ‘There is no need to stand guard. My power will protect both of us.’ She walked past Cadillac, brushing his head lightly with one hand.
Entering the hut, Roz saw the firestone had been trimmed, leaving only a tiny flame to light the way to bed. Picking up the stone, she pushed it out through the door flap then found her way back to the bed in the pitch dark and snuggled down between the soft layers of furs.
She knew what was going to happen; had known with an overwhelming certainty ever since she had been introduced to Cadillac on the flight-deck of The Lady. It was just a question of time. Her whole life had been a voyage of discovery, but in the past year the pace had accelerated. One revelation had succeeded another with bewildering speed. It was like being in a sail-boat driven by a hurricane which preceded a gigantic storm: a storm that threatened to sweep away the world she had known.
She had learned that Steve was not a true kin-brother. Neither of them had been born to Annie Brickman. They had been placed in her care by the First Family. And to the mystery surrounding their origins had been added another: inexplicably and without warning, her already extraordinary mental gifts had been expanded, giving her access to powers that enabled her to warp the perceptions of those around her. Through her telepathic link with Steve had come the shared discovery that they were both Mutes and this had helped to open her mind further, enabling her to understand that her life had a deeper purpose.
With the deliberate burning of her uniform she had severed all links with her past, just as Cadillac’s previous existence as part of the Clan M’Call had been consumed by fire.
They both had to begin anew. Together.
As she waited, she stroked her breasts and belly, and pressed down hard in an effort to contain the love-heat that was building up between her tightly-closed thighs. A fleeting shaft of moonlight illuminated Cadillac’s glistening body as he entered the hut on all fours and slid between the furs. There was a moment’s hesitation before he edged into contact then they turned towards each other, bodies moulding, arms and legs enfolding, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
Roz did not possess the detached professionalism of the Thai body-slaves who with the help of liberal doses of sake had inflamed his desires in Ne-Issan, but it felt right and it felt good. For both of them. Each in their own way had loved their former partners but this was different. Cadillac did not feel overawed as he had when sharing a bed with Clearwater, and Roz, for her part, was freed from the confused feelings of shame and desire which had always surrounded her furtive couplings with Steve. Feelings which, for the last two years, had been compounded by her jealousy for Clearwater.
With the opening of her mind and the realisation that her hated rival was a soul-sister, those negative feelings had been transformed. Now at last she was able to give full expression to her emotions. Here at last was the love she had yearned for – unencumbered, unrestricted; not hedged about with petty rules and regulations. A love that could now be expressed in words that had been denied to her since birth. An emotion which, through her inability to express it, had become distorted and misdirected towards her kin-brother.
She was still linked closely and intimately to Steve, but only through her mind. Her heart and body were now her own, and she had found the person with whom she was destined to exchange these precious gifts. In so doing she had found her place in the world, a new identity, and a mission which gave her life meaning beyond mere physical existence.
Then it happened. A sweet burning that brought a sharp cry to her lips and a juddering sigh to his. Everything flowed together, their minds and bodies fusing in a convulsive star-burst of ecstasy that left them feeling utterly fulfilled for at least half an hour, at which point – being healthy young animals with the stamina to match their sexual appetite – both were ready to go round again.
The dawn of the fourth day (the third having been spent mostly in bed) found Cadillac hollow-eyed through lack of sleep but feeling on top of the world. The secret envy and lingering distrust of his rival, the confusion of brotherly love, jealousy and hatred had vanished, leaving him brimming with a new self-confidence which caused him to be immensely satisfied with the world in general and – being Cadillac – with himself in particular.
As the days passed, the super-charged emotional state generated by their discovery of one another gradually subsided and their life together assumed its natural rhythm. But it was not achieved without a great deal of hard work. Hearing about life on the overground was not the same thing as being there. Even though Roz felt – like Steve – that she belonged to the blue-sky world, there was much to learn. And a great deal to do.
In the Federation, nearly everything came at the turn of a tap, or the flick of a switch. Food was literally handed to you on a plate. Okay, there were Trackers manning the hydroponic tank-farms, the water-pumping and power-gen stations, the materials and food processing units. And there were the Seamsters sweating away down in the A-Levels to keep everything going.
Roz herself had put in the statutory number of PD hours on a variety of mundane chores. The point was, in the Federation, all these processes were performed with the aid of mechanical or hi-tech equipment. If you wanted hot water you tapped a line that came from one of the geo-thermal plants; to prepare a hot meal you simply peeled the foil lid off a pre-pak and put it in a micro-wave cooker. Sixty seconds max. Dirty clothes you tossed into a unit at the block laundromat and selected the correct wash-rinse ’n’ dry cycle; any worn, torn or damaged garments or kit you took down to the company quarter-master and exchanged old for new.
But not out here. Out here, there was nothing on line and there wasn’t a serviceman in sight. Everything had to be figured out in advance. Hot water needed a fire, a fire needed wood, the wood needed to be cut from a tree, to cut it you needed a Tracker machete, an Iron-Master axe or saw, and you had to know how to put a keen edge on the blade. The only alternative was to go around picking up fallen branches, dead wood that was usually rotten and powdery and which burned quickly without producing any real heat.
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.’
Cadillac 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 the 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.
His heart quailed at the prospect. From early childhood he had longed for greatness, craved recognition, adulation, standing. It was there for the taking, but would the warriors and wordsmiths of the other She-Kargo clans listen? He was not even twenty years old!
If only Clearwater was here! And Brickman too, with his flair for action and his devious mind. It was impossible to discover what his true motives were, but in their daring attack on the wagon-train, their talents had meshed smoothly and – for the first time – they had managed to work together without the usual back-biting.
Brickman, of course, would want to take charge, but his presence would be a challenge that he, Cadillac, would have to surpass. And it would not be like it was before. Roz had changed all that. She had restored the balance. He was no longer the odd man out. Her presence had given him the strength to face the woman he had lost and her chosen partner without any of the past bitterness and pain.
It was a great pity the other two were not here to witness this change and work with him in this new spirit of cooperation. It would have made his present task a lot easier. But they weren’t, and there was not the slightest chance of them appearing magically over the horizon if things got tough. For the first time in his life he was faced with making major decisions without the steadying counsel of Mr Snow, Clearwater and, yes, even Brickman. This was the testing time he had both longed for and secretly feared. Roz, he knew, would help in every way she could, but he had to set the goal, take the lead, the responsibility – and the blame …
Cadillac walked over to where Roz was trying her hand at making another batch of flat-bakes. She looked up at him and wrinkled her nose. ‘ ’Fraid I’m not having much success.’
He hunkered down beside her, picked up an iron ladle and took a sample of the mixture, testing its liquidity by pouring it back into the bowl. ‘Too much water.’ He tried one of the burnt offerings. ‘And not enough salt.’
Roz sank back on her heels with a sigh. ‘I don’t believe this! Only three ingredients – bread-meal, water and salt. How the heck can it go wrong?!’
‘There’s more to it than that. There’s the temperature of the cooking stone, the amount of mix you pour on and the way you spread it.’ Cadillac took charge of the mixing bowl, added more bread-meal and salt to correct the imbalance and stirred until it achieved the right consistency. He then checked the heat of the stone by pouring a thin stream of water onto it. ‘That’s okay. See the way it pops and dances as it boils off?’
Roz nodded and watched as he filled the ladle to the brim and with a practised flourish, quickly poured a ring of creamy dough mix then, spiralling inwards towards the centre, filled it with the last drop.
‘There … see? The right size, just over a hand’s breadth across, nice even thickness.’
‘Hmmff!’ Roz took the offered ladle, filled it to the brim and managed a lop-sided imitation. ‘Is there any rule that says they have to be round?’
‘No,’ laughed Cadillac. He lifted the edge of the first bake with a flat tapered wooden flip shovel and turned it over. ‘But once you start pouring, keep going – otherwise it’ll fall apart.’ He removed his neat, circular flat-bake from the stone and passed Roz the small shovel. ‘Don’t overcook the top side, otherwise it gets too brittle. Just leave it long enough to brown.’
‘Yeah…’ Roz tried to turn her mis-shapen bake over. It broke into several curved fragments. ‘Damn!’
‘Never mind. It’s still eatable.’ Cadillac picked up a fragment, blew on it then took a bite. ‘Delicious. You just need more practice, that’s all.’
Roz handed him the mixing bowl. ‘Show me again, champ. Several times.’ She watched Cadillac produce ten more faultless flat-bakes in as many minutes then, when she was allowed to start turning the next batch over, she said: ‘I thought this was women’s work – like fishing.’
Cadillac smiled. ‘The only real women’s work is bearing children. The normal everyday tasks are shared by everyone in the clan regardless of sex and age. If the women seem to have cornered certain tasks, it’s more a question of aptitude and convenience. There are no hard and fast lines of demarcation. The females fight, and the male warriors can prepare food and make flatbakes. Comes in handy when you’re away on a hunting expedition.’
‘Yes, well, it’s going to take me a while to settle in. I feel so useless! Nothing I’ve learnt up to now has prepared me for any of this. If you were to break a leg it would give me a chance to prove I was actually capable of doing something.’ Roz laughed. ‘On second thoughts, don’t. All I know is medicine the way it’s practised in the Federation. I could probably give you a diagnosis, but without the equipment and the drugs I probably wouldn’t be able to cure you!’ She toyed with her neck. ‘It’s really strange. I’ve carried a stethoscope round my neck for so long – and now it’s not there, I feel half-naked!’
Cadillac ruffled her hair playfully. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll tell you everything I know about Mr Snow’s herbal remedies, and show you the plants he gathered – and later on, you’ll have a chance to meet other healers.’
‘Okay. But it’s not the same thing. You already know all that.’ Roz tapped her chest. ‘I want to bring something to this relationship.’
‘You already have.’
She read the look in his eye. ‘Yes. But agreeable though it is, liberating your sex drive is a social attribute, not a workskill. I’m talking about making a positive contribution.’
‘Roz! You’re already doing that by just being here! The hunting, gathering, cooking and all the other things – that’s something we can do together. You’ve adapted even quicker than Steve did, and before long, your natural abilities will express themselves. Just take it easy. We have all the time in the world.’
Cadillac’s last words triggered a sudden pang of anxiety. ‘Do we?’ Roz forced a smile to her lips. ‘It’s strange to think I’ve known about you all these years – well, three, but it seems longer – and never once did I dream that…’
She took hold of his hands. ‘Whatever I felt before – when I thought I was having a good time – is nothing compared to the way I feel now.’
‘Me too…’
Roz tightened her grip on his hands. ‘I don’t want it to end. Ever.’
‘Nothing is for ever, Roz. But I promise you this. As long as I have breath in my body, you and I will be together. My feelings for you will never change. I will care for you and protect you.’
‘No,’ said Roz. ‘That’s my job. Let me at least earn my keep.’
‘That’s something we need to talk about.’
Cadillac hesitated. Ever since they landed in Wyoming he had been holding back a question which he hoped she would answer in the affirmative. Be it ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ he couldn’t put it off any longer. ‘This telepathic link you share with Steve. Does it work with me? Can you reach into my mind?’
Roz shook her head regretfully. ‘If it did, you’d know about it. On the other hand, you and I have something he never had.’
‘I know…’
‘But you’re still upset.’
‘Not really. Not about that, anyway.’
‘Is it this meeting of the Plainfolk at Sioux Falls?’
‘Partly. That and staying alive.’
Roz placed her hands on his thighs, leant forward and kissed the base of his throat. ‘Our lives are in the hands of Talisman. I never thought I’d have to tell you that.’
‘You don’t. It was, well – a slip of the tongue. When something good happens to you – like what’s happening between us, you don’t want to lose it … makes you realise how precious life is.’
‘And how precarious…’
‘Exactly. The four of us may have been born in the shadow of Talisman but that doesn’t mean to say we’re destined to live happily ever after.’ He saw her eyes cloud over and moved on rapidly. ‘Sioux Falls is about five hundred miles from here. We ought to leave soon to make sure of getting there in good time.’
The image of the fearsome Shakatak D’Vine and the vicious duel they fought came into his mind. Thing is – there are quite a few D’Troit and C’Natti clans between here and Sioux Falls. They may not be too pleased to find us treading on their turf.’
‘We could always fly there.’
Cadillac shook his head. ‘We can’t. Remember those bear steaks we had the other day?’
‘Unforgettable. They were enough to put me off meat for the rest of my life.’
‘Yeah, well, I collected those up in the hills when I went up to check out the Skyhawk. Didn’t set out to, but I found myself halfway there, so…’
‘You went…’
‘Yeah. And when I got there, I found a whole family of ‘em – climbing all over it. A big male, about nine feet tall on his hind legs, two mothers and five cubs –’
‘Babies? Oh, I wish I’d been there!’
‘I’m glad you weren’t. The port aileron had been torn off and they’d ripped great holes in the underside of the wing. It was lucky I had my carbine.’
‘Did you manage to drive them off?’
‘And store up more trouble? Of course not. I killed them.’
‘Oh, Caddy! How could you?!’ Roz pounded his shoulders with her fists.
Cadillac caught them and squeezed hard. ‘Listen!’ he hissed. ‘The bear is an animal you don’t mess around with. Those cuddly little babies you’re so upset about grow up to be big and mean, with paws twice the size of a man’s hand and claws that can tear your head off your shoulders with one swipe!’
Roz was surprisingly strong but it wasn’t the physical force she exerted that made him let go. It was the look in her eyes. The same look that had chilled Steve to the marrow.
‘Not my head…’ She stood up.
Cadillac got to his feet with a placatory gesture. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was –’
‘You didn’t…’
‘Roz. There’s another question I need an answer to. The night we…’
‘Yes, I remember…’
‘When you went into the hut you said – "There is no need to stand guard. My power will protect us both." Steve mentioned something about it. Are you a summoner – like Clearwater?’
‘A kind of summoner perhaps. I’m not sure. I have never seen anyone use earth magic. And I have not seen or read a seeing-stone, but now and then – like you – my mind receives glimpses of the future.’
‘Why do you smile?’
‘Because Steve has always thought he was gifted with a sixth sense, second sight. But it was I who glimpsed what was going to happen, and sent a message – in that same instant – into his mind.’
Cadillac stared at her in surprise. ‘So … that evening, when the two of us were on the shore of Lake Mi-Shiga and I saw the sea burning, it was you and not Steve –’
‘– who saw you trapped underwater and about to drown. Yes. From that moment on I knew you were both approaching a point of extreme danger. I didn’t have the full picture, but I kept my mind open – ready to receive and act upon Steve’s call the minute he came through.’
‘Amazing…’
‘No more amazing than the gifts you and Clearwater possess. I’m glad I was there to help. Otherwise you and I wouldn’t be here now.’
‘No. This other power Steve spoke of…’
‘Ahh, you mean this…?’
Cadillac found himself looking at Clearwater. And then, as he reeled back in astonishment, Clearwater became Steve Brickman, and then, before he could react fully, Brickman became Mr Snow!
‘Old One!’ cried Cadillac, stumbling forward.
Mr Snow, his blue eyes twinkling, reached out to steady his young protege, and chuckled mischievously. ‘Did you think I had abandoned you? Why do you think I brought you together with this young girl?’
It was incredible. The voice! Every detail of his face! The odour of the skins that made up his long cloak. The bony hands, attached to sinewy arms full of vigour! He could not be imagining this, it was far too real! Mr Snow had not died on the wagon-train. He had come back!
‘Don’t go, Old One,’ he begged. ‘Stay with us!’
Mr Snow met his plea with another throaty chuckle. ‘Fear not! As long as you keep my memory alive in your heart, I shall never be far away from you. The powers that were gifted to me by Talisman now dwell within her and will protect you both in times of danger! Love her and cherish her and – above all – be valiant! There are perilous times ahead!’
So saying, Mr Snow turned on his heel, his outstretched arm describing a great sweeping arc on the ground and, as he turned full circle, Cadillac found himself surrounded by a ring of D’Troit warriors, armed to the teeth and baying for blood. His stomach turned over and his mind went numb. It was like being thrown into a pit with the Hounds of Hell.
He turned to Mr Snow for help, but the Old One had vanished. Looking down, he found a Tracker carbine in his hands. There was a bayonet mounted under the barrel cluster and magazines in all three breeches. With trembling fingers he selected full auto and began firing from the hip, spinning round to cover the circle as the screaming warriors closed in.
Volley upon volley of needle-point rounds chewed holes in their bodies, and shredded their faces in a spray of blood. But as each man went down, two more appeared to take his place! On they came – drawing closer and closer – the sunlight catching their flickering, probing blades.
The roar of their voices drowned his senses. He kept firing, firing, severing knife arms, pulverising bone and muscle. He could feel their hot breath, their spittle on his face. He drove the bayonet savagely into the nearest body, felt the barrels of the carbine press against the chest of the warrior as the blade sank in up to the hilt – and found himself looking into the grinning face of Shakatak D’Vine! He shut his eyes but he could not blot out the vision, could not escape from the nightmare that had engulfed him. He felt his own body convulse with shock as a dozen ice-cold steel blades pierced his flesh, felt the hot rush of blood, the screaming pain, the crushing, suffocating weight as the warriors fell upon him and began to tear him limb from limb –
Oh, Sweet Mother! Save me! Ahhh! A-AHHHH AAA-AA-AA HHHHHH!!!
As his brain caved in, overwhelmed by terror, his physical and mental agonies vanished. An incredible lightness filled his body and, with it, a wonderful sense of release. He felt a cool hand upon his brow, the soft touch of lips upon his mouth. He opened his eyes and found Roz kneeling beside him.
What was she doing here? Had they killed her too?
Cadillac stared at her for a while, unable to understand then, as the memories of his death flooded back into his mind, he threw his hands across his face. And when that failed to halt the tide of blood, he turned over on his belly and hugged the ground.
Roz stroked the back of his neck and whispered, ‘It’s all right. You are safe. It’s over.’
Cadillac smelt the grass and the earth beneath him. It seemed real enough. He slowly eased himself up onto his elbows and scanned his immediate surroundings. They were alone. No shattered bodies, no blood, nothing. The D’Troit warriors whose breath, weight and steel had overwhelmed him had been summoned out of thin air. In recreating Shakatak, Roz had drawn upon and fleshed out his deepest fears. And she had used the same power to transform herself – in his eyes – into the Old One, Clearwater and Brickman.
It was terrifying …
She stood up and offered him her hand. As they came face to face she said, ‘If I can do that to you – whom I love – just imagine what I can do to our enemies…’
Cadillac nodded but said nothing.
They ate in silence and later, when their bodies came together in the dark, he had not still uttered a word.
As he entered her, Roz whispered: ‘I know what’s going through your mind. Relax.’ She locked her legs around the small of his back and thrust upwards to meet him. ‘What you can feel is not a figment of your imagination. Trust me. This is for real!’
And it was. Oh, yes! It was. It was.…