Over the same time interval which ended with Steve getting his marching orders, Cadillac and Roz had also been preparing themselves for a journey into the Eastern Lands. Among the items Cadillac had recovered from the burnt-out ruins of the settlement were two of the three flags made from green and gold Iron Master fabric, and his own set of body colours – waterproof dyes in the form of a thick paste contained in small clay pots.
There was just enough for one coat each. After bathing in the rock-pool, Roz knelt on a talking-mat in front of the hut, closed her eyes and offered up her face. Beginning a little way inside the hairline, Cadillac slowly covered Roz’s body from head to toe using four different skin colours plus her own golden UV-tan.
Once a year over the last five years, he and Clearwater had renewed each other’s skin markings – markings that other Mutes were born with – and the random pattern of swirls and patches that began on Roz’s forehead and slowly spread to cover her whole body was a close copy of that same design.
When the last touch had been applied and rubbed into her feet and ankles, Cadillac stepped back to admire his handiwork. Roz turned around for his benefit then examined her arms and the front of her body.
‘Can I touch it?’
‘Yes. But you have to rub some wood-ash over yourself to take the raw edge off the dye. I’ll do the bits you can’t reach.’ He walked with her to the shaded rock pool and watched her peer closely at her reflection. ‘Does it feel strange?’
‘No. The strange thing is, it doesn’t. I think I prefer myself this way.’ She got up off her knees and faced him. ‘It’s funny, here I am with no clothes on but … somehow I don’t feel naked. I feel…’ she spread her arms, searching for the word ‘… complete. Except for one thing.’
Responding to her unspoken invitation, Cadillac gathered her into his arms. ‘What’s that?’
‘I need a Name of Power,’ she whispered.
Bestowing names was one of the tasks performed by Mute wordsmiths. Cadillac planted a kiss on the flowing dark brown stripe that now divided her forehead. ‘I have one for you. I have seen you turn your face to the clouds, have seen the happiness with which you greet the falling waters. Your name shall be Rain-Dancer.’
Roz hugged him, then stepped away and leapt joyfully into the air, turning full circle before landing gracefully with arms outstretched. ‘It is done! I have shed my other self like the snake emerging from its old skin. I am finally free of the Federation!’
‘Don’t celebrate too soon,’ said Cadillac. ‘They can still reach you.’
‘Through Steve?’ Roz shook her head. ‘Not now that we’ve tricked them into thinking I’m dead.’ The state of the telepathic link between herself and Steve was the one secret she kept from Cadillac. The last contact had confirmed that she and Steve were free of suspicion, but since then she had felt his mind slip away each time she tried to make contact – just as it had when, at the age of eleven, he had announced his intention to compete for one of the coveted places at the Flight Academy.
Roz knew that Steve was perfectly capable of looking after himself, but in closing the mind-bridge, he had also shut her off from Clearwater. She and Roz could communicate without the need for words, but it was not telepathy, it was empathy; a deep common bond of soul-sisterhood which allowed them to understand each other’s emotional state, and to divine what the other was thinking.
But for this to take place, they needed to be in each other’s presence. Steve was the link; the key connection that allowed her to speak to her soul-sister from afar. She could only enter Clearwater’s mind if it was engaged with Steve’s – as she had when Steve had cradled her wounded body while waiting for the Red River medics to arrive. Roz guessed that Clearwater was probably being held in the Life Institute, but with Steve’s mind drifting out of reach she no longer knew if she was safe and well.
Roz’s close physical and growing mental relationship with Cadillac had allowed him to study her closely. He had detected a certain evasiveness whenever he had broached the subject of Steve and Clearwater – especially in respect of Brickman’s intentions. Whatever he said was bound to get him into trouble, but it needed to be brought out in the open. ‘He’s gone off the air, hasn’t he?’
‘If he has, I’m sure there’s a perfectly good reason.’
‘Yes. He’s sold out,’ said Cadillac. ‘He’s got Clearwater. He knows you’re with me. He knows what you can do. And now that you’ve got him off the hook, he figures he’s safer where he is.’
Roz’s face darkened. ‘Why must you always think the worst?!’
‘Because ‘I’ve been inside his head!’ cried Cadillac. ‘And part of him is in me now! I know how his mind works!’
‘You have no right to judge him!’ Roz thrust him away and walked towards the hut. Cadillac followed her. Snatching her skirt off the ground with an angry gesture, she wrapped it around her waist and fastened the ties with trembling fingers. Thrusting her arms into the fringed sleeves of the leather tunic, she pulled it on and turned to face him, eyes blazing. 7 am the only one who knows the pressure he’s under! It’s something you have never experienced! And I pray to Mo-Town you never will!’
‘I bear heavy responsibilities!’ protested Cadillac.
‘And you’ve got me to help you! It’s not the same thing. Here, you’ve got room to think!’ Roz pointed to the ground. ‘Down there is a different world. I know Steve is still with us. And he’s going to do his very best to get Clearwater and her child out of the Federation – the same way he got you out of Ne-Issan.’
‘With a great deal of outside help,’ said Cadillac sourly. ‘And you may like to know that I built the aircraft which enabled us to reach the Hudson River! He didn’t carry me. I played an active part in that escape!’
‘Oh, really? That’s not what Clearwater told me. She said you were the one who didn’t want to leave! Go on! Admit it! You were having too good a time!’
‘I was until your kin-brother came along!’ The words tumbled out before Cadillac could stop himself.
‘Exactly!’ cried Roz. ‘You had sold out to the Iron Masters!’
‘That’s not true!’ shouted Cadillac. ‘That’s not how it was!’
‘All right, I believe you. You had your reasons – just as Steve has equally valid reasons for what he’s doing now. I know he hasn’t sold out. And deep down, so do you, don’t you?’
Cadillac didn’t reply.
Roz tried again. ‘Why can’t you bring yourself to trust him?’
It took a while, but when his anger had subsided, the answer came: ‘Because he seeks to know everything, but he does not use that knowledge to change himself – only to gain power over those around him.’
‘Give him time.’ Roz’s voice was also calmer now. ‘I did not see things clearly at first, even though a voice deep within told me I did not belong to the underground world. Knowing is not the same as understanding. How much have you changed since our life-streams were drawn together?’
‘Whose side are you on?!’ cried Cadillac, his new spirit of reasonableness wearing thin.
‘Yours!’ said Roz. ‘But this jealousy, this rivalry between you must end! The four of us are bound together by ties far deeper and stronger than mere blood and friendship! The resentment and distrust you harbour gnaws at that bond like a cancer. Cut them out swiftly and cleanly, like a surgeon wielding a knife! Act like the warrior you’re supposed to be!’ She saw her words strike home and laughed at his crestfallen expression. ‘Do you realise we’ve just had our first quarrel?’
‘I’ve a feeling it won’t be the last,’ said Cadillac.
Roz ran a teasing finger down his bare chest. ‘So how can I make it up to you?’
‘I can think of several ways,’ said Cadillac. ‘But first, this pale imitation of a warrior needs a paint job.’
Protective colouring was not the only thing they needed. The long journey Cadillac had in mind called for horses and some extra security en route. There was little doubt that Roz could ward off almost any threat they were likely to meet but Cadillac was looking for a way to keep trouble at arms’ length. He had seen how the act of summoning earth-magic had left both Mr Snow and Clearwater physically weakened and looking utterly drained.
All these gifts had their price, and just as Brickman had insisted on the need to husband Clearwater’s power, so it was with Cadillac now. Roz did not know why or how she was able to warp people’s sense of reality, she just did it. But would it always be instantly available? Summoners could not produce an endless stream of earth-magic. Her mental powers might have similar limitations; that was why it was important not to abuse them. He did not want to arrive in Ne-Issan – where they would be in mortal danger every step of the way – only to discover that her ‘batteries’ had gone flat.
As a couple, rattling around the landscape on their own, they were too exposed. To a hand of warriors from a rival clan who were out to put some blood on their knives they looked like an easy kill – exactly the kind of trouble Cadillac was anxious to avoid.
There was only one answer – they had to seek the protection of another clan. The extended truce decided upon by the Great River Council, which had already enabled the M’Calls to gain the support of a She-Kargo and M’Waukee clan in setting up the surprise attack on The Lady, made such an arrangement entirely feasible. Cadillac ran through a mental list of the She-Kargo clans who laid claim to the territory north and east of the Laramie Mountains and decided upon the Clan M’Kenzi.
While not as numerous as the M’Calls had been before their first encounter with The Lady, the M’Kenzi were a large clan and their delegation had supported Mr Snow’s efforts to weld the She-Kargo and M’Waukee into a coherent fighting force: a gesture of solidarity which had proved costly on the day. The M’Kenzi delegation were still scrambling for safety when the edge of the tidal wave had barrelled along the face of the bluffs, sweeping away many of those who had survived the bloody retreat along the sand-bars.
Magnum-Force, the M’Kenzi’s wordsmith was one of the lucky ones. And also one of a rare breed; a. female wordsmith. Cadillac knew there had been others in the past, but Magnum was the only living example. He also knew that, as of last year, she had not found a similarly-gifted child to train as her replacement. If approached in the right fashion, she might view him as a possible heir, and that would be sufficient to overcome any objections the other clan elders might have.
Wordsmiths enjoyed a special status both inside and outside their clan. They were regarded as being above the fray in which ordinary Mute warriors were embroiled. As a result, their lives were rarely threatened by rival clansmen – not even by those disrespecters of tradition, the D’Troit. They did not have to ‘chew bone’ – to kill, or be blooded in battle – they were regarded as having ‘standing’ from simply being a wordsmith. This, of course, had not been enough for Cadillac. Raised in Mr Snow’s shadow, he was so hungry for recognition, he had sought every opportunity to prove his worth as a warrior and had finally succeeded due to the timely intervention of Clearwater – a fact he had conveniently overlooked.
The first priority, however, was the horses. On his return to the M’Call settlement in the spring, in the company of Brickman, Malone and his band of renegades, Cadillac had brought a number of Iron Master horses. Malone’s men had appropriated most of them, but they had been recovered following the midnight massacre in which Malone and every single one of his men had been killed. Some had been used by Brickman’s group in the attack on The Lady, but six or seven had been left in the care of the den-mothers and She-Wolves who had stayed to guard the settlement.
Searching the immediate surroundings of the burnt-out settlement in the first few days after his return, Cadillac discovered two bullet-ridden carcasses that were already being pulled apart by a jostling crowd of death-birds. A week later, on lower ground some two miles northeast of the settlement, he and Roz came across the body of another horse. From the relatively intact state of the carcass, it had died from wounds some days after the first pair. That left at least three unaccounted for.
Despite the miles he had travelled on their backs, Cadillac’s knowledge of horses was still rudimentary, but he knew about herd animals. He reckoned the third, wounded horse had fled at the first fusillade, following its more-fortunate companions. They had moved on when he finally succumbed, but given the point where his body lay they had not travelled very far in that seven-day period. This seemed to indicate they had resumed their normal grazing pattern once the initial panic had died down.
Cadillac surmised that horses, in their natural state, behaved like buffalo, who only ran when alerted to danger by the scout bulls on the fringes of the herd. If the horses had enjoyed a relatively peaceful life since and with bears, jackals and mountain lions in abundance that was certainly not guaranteed – they might still be within reach.
There was only one way to find out, and that fitted in with another requirement; the need for Roz to learn how to run. If she was a full-blooded Mute, the ability to lope effortlessly mile after mile for hours on end would be lying dormant within her, but it could not be awakened at the snap of a finger. After his broken leg had mended, Brickman had trained himself back to peak fitness, but it had taken him time to reach the combination of speed and endurance required to keep up with a M’Call hunting posse.
Roz, like most Trackers, had followed a daily exercise regime since early childhood, but swimming came higher on the list than running. During her first five-mile jog with Cadillac along mountain trails she thought she would die, but at the end of three weeks she was still on her feet after ten, but distinctly wobbly when Cadillac stretched it to fifteen. Five weeks into her overground existence she was able to overcome that pain-barrier and start pushing herself towards the target distance of twenty-five miles.
It took a lot of perseverance on both their parts, and the fact they were still speaking at the end of it testified to the closeness of their relationship. That perseverance finally paid off: the daily runs took them further and further afield, and finally, as they crested a rise, they saw below them a loose cluster of larches grouped around a stream sparkling with sunlight as it rippled over a pebble bed. Drinking from the stream were two horses, one a dappled grey, the other a golden brown with a flowing oatmeal-coloured mane and tail – one of several mounts Cadillac had ridden during the long journey from Lake Michigan to Wyoming.
Cadillac led the way down the slope towards the stream, moving with the same stealth the Mutes employed when hunting game. As they entered the stand of trees, the two horses turned their heads towards them several times to assess the danger then continued to eat their way across the carpet of sweet fat grass, flicking their tails to express their annoyance at being interrupted.
Squatting down by the edge of the stream, Cadillac fished out the two bridles he’d been carrying around in a sling pouch for the last few days. ‘Let’s have a couple of those yellow-fists.’
Roz produced two yellow-skinned apples from her bag. Cadillac sliced them in half, releasing a sharp tangy smell from the firm white flesh inside that made Roz’s jaws tingle.
The dappled grey mare pricked up her ears.
Cadillac laid two pieces into the palm of Roz’s hand. ‘I’m hoping the roan will recognise my voice, but if he doesn’t, you know what to do.’
‘Wait a minute. I know what you told me, but –’ Roz looked down at the apple halves. ‘You don’t seriously expect me to put these in their mouths, do you? With teeth like they’ve got?!’
‘Relax! It’s not dangerous. Look – keep your palm flat, with your fingers turned down, and offer it up at an angle – like that.’ Cadillac arranged her left hand in the correct position. ‘The flesh on the muzzle is quite loose, and the front lips are soft and sort of leathery.’
‘Err-ugghhh!’ The thought made Roz shiver.
‘Don’t be stupid. They can’t eat you, they’re not carnivores. And they’re not going to slobber all over you. Their mouths should be quite dry. Just keep your thumb tucked well in.’
‘Why?’
‘So as not to get it bitten off.’
‘That’s it. That does it. You do it, I’ll watch.’
Cadillac rose and stepped back out of reach as she tried to give back the sliced apple. ‘I was only joking, Roz. How can you possibly be scared? I’m sure you can do anything if you put your mind to it.’
‘Ho, ho, very funny.’ She snatched the bridle from his outstretched hand. ‘It doesn’t work with animals. I know, because I’ve tried.’
‘Why should I? You’d have only made fun of me – like you’re doing now.’
‘Clearwater didn’t have any problems. She even knew how to talk to them. Right from the word go. They were drawn to her like bees to honey.’
‘Yes, well, I’m not her, and she’s not here, so there’s no point in talking about it, is there?’
‘You’re right.’ Cadillac turned away.
‘Where are you going?!’
‘To the other side of the stream. I’m going to try and work round behind the roan.’
‘But what do I do if they both come towards me?’
‘You’ve got a bag full of apples. Keep feeding ‘em until I get there.’
The prospect of being run down by two large horses provoked a squeal of dismay. ‘Don’t go so fast!’
But Cadillac was already over the stream and striding away through the trees in an attempt to head off the roan which had kicked up its heels and trotted away from its companion. Cupping his hands around his mouth, Cadillac called to the horse with the same shrill voice he had heard the Thai stable-boys using when rounding up horses in Ne-Issan.
Reacting to the voice, the roan halted obediently and allowed Cadillac to get closer. Then, catching the scent of the proffered apple, it trotted towards him. Cadillac readied the bridle.
Roz, on the other side of the stream, forced herself to walk towards the dappled grey. The closer she got, the bigger it became. It was absolutely enormous! Gritting her teeth, she stretched out her right hand and offered it half an apple. ‘Come on, take it! You great stupid thing!’
The dappled grey sniffed the air then started to walk forward. In the last few weeks, Roz had discovered both the attractions and dangers of living with wild animals, but as the horse broke into a trot, all her lofty theories about the precious nature of lower life forms and their rights to co-exist with Man evaporated. All she could feel now was the ground shaking beneath her, and to her ears, the booming thump of the four trotting hoofs sounded like a roll of thunder.
Oh, Sweet Mother! It weighs a ton and it’s not going to stop!
Gripped by an unreasoning fear, Roz turned sideways, right arm still outstretched, ready to flee. She held her ground until the mare was some two yards away then dropped the apple, leapt across the stream and hid behind the nearest tree with Cadillac’s laughter ringing in her ears.
The mare snaffled the fallen fruit with bared teeth, cleared the stream with one stride and headed towards Roz.
‘Help! It’s following me!’
‘Exactly! That’s the whole idea!’ cried Cadillac. He led the roan downstream. ‘Get your bridle ready then give her the other piece!’
‘Oww-err! Can’t you help? I’m not used to this!’
‘Steve brought a horse onto Red River, didn’t he?’
‘Yes – but I didn’t have to feed it!’ Keeping the tree between them, Roz offered the grey another piece of apple. The horse caught it between its teeth just as Roz jerked her hand away.
‘Now the bridle!’ called Cadillac. ‘Quick! Grab hold of her mane!’
‘I can’t reach!’ said Roz. ‘You’ll have to do it.’ She threw the bridle towards him.
Cadillac caught it against his chest and led the roan over. ‘Think you can manage to hold onto this one?’
‘I’ll try…’
‘Give me another of those apples.’ Cadillac turned and addressed the dappled grey mare soothingly, stroking its neck as it ate out of his hand. When the horse had quietened down, he gently eased the bridle over its muzzle, slipped the metal bit between its teeth, and hooked the head strap over its ears.
Roz watched him buckle the straps tight. ‘You make it all look so easy…’
‘That’s because this is the easy bit,’ said Cadillac. He handed her the reins of the grey and took control of the roan. ‘Sitting on top of them and staying there is where it gets difficult.’
‘But at least you know how.’
‘Yes. And by the time we get to where we’re going so will you.’
For Roz, who was almost a head shorter than Cadillac, the first major problem was learning how to get onto the horse. Without the aid of stirrups and a saddle to hang onto, it demanded a fairly high degree of physical agility and – for absolute beginners – a good deal of determination. Roz had plenty of that and she needed every ounce of it. Cadillac gave her a leg up until she had mastered the basics of riding bareback, then left her to struggle on her own. After countless attempts and a great deal of cursing, she finally worked out how to haul herself onto the horse’s back, but not before she had suffered the ignominy of overdoing the first leap up and tumbling nose-first off the far side.
To her credit, she bore the knocks and the inevitable soreness without complaint and eventually her persistence paid off. Six days after running away in panic from the dappled grey, she was able to catch, bridle and control both horses well enough for them to begin the first stage of their long journey.
Using strips of buffalo hide cut from salvaged hut panels, Cadillac fashioned two wide girths to hold a part of a bearskin in place as a saddle, and he made horizontal chest and rump straps for them to provide an anchor point for the trucking poles.
These were long larch saplings, lashed together in parallel, just far enough apart for the horse’s hindquarters to fit between. The top ends were lashed to the leather harness, the strain being taken by a back strap behind the saddle and the horse’s chest; the bottom ends trailed at a shallow angle along the ground, well clear of its rear legs.
What possessions they had, including the constituent parts of their hut, were tied onto the light latticework platform that helped to keep the trucking poles parallel to one another. Roz helped Cadillac with the construction by cutting up thin strips of hide and binding everything together, firmly and neatly, with the same care she used when stitching up a wound.
When all was ready, they led the horses down the only suitable trail from the bluff to the undulating plain below. As they were about to enter a thick stand of pines that lay across their path, Cadillac reined in the roan and cast a long backward glance at the slim, graceful plume of water that fell from the tongue-stone: the landmark which, for so many years, had served to guide hunting posses back to the settlement.
‘Are you sorry to leave?’ asked Roz.
‘I’m not leaving anything. What’s left of the past we’re taking with us. But I was born up there. Even though it is heavy with death this place will always be special to me.’
‘It’s special to me too,’ said Roz. ‘This is where I came to life. Don’t grieve. We’ll come back one day.’
Cadillac clasped her outstretched hand and felt her fingers close reassuringly around his. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Isn’t this where you would like our child to be born?’
The question came as a total surprise. ‘Why, yes, but – surely you don’t mean –?!’
‘No,’ laughed Roz. ‘Not yet. But when it’s time, I want you to bring me here. Promise?’
‘Yes, I promise.…’
On their second day out, they encountered a hunting posse from the Clan K’Vanna, another branch of the She-Kargo bloodline. Not having a crossbow with which to send up a smoking arrow – the signal used by rival groups of Plainfolk when they wished to parley – Cadillac and Roz had to ride towards the posse, coming much closer than was usual at the preliminary stages of a parley, and running the risk of an itchy trigger finger sending a bolt through their chests.
When Cadillac was able to see they were facing warriors from a She-Kargo clan he motioned Roz to halt beside him. Placing his hand across his heart he raised it above his head to display the empty palm. The leader of the posse laid down his crossbow and returned the gesture. Cadillac dismounted, passed the reins of his horse to Roz and walked forward. He had prepared a big speech, but to his surprise, neither his eloquence nor Roz’s power were required to get them over the next hurdle.
It soon became clear that all the clans who had sent delegations to the trading post at Du-Aruta had heard about the power and triumphal progress of The Chosen from Carnegie-Hall and the wordsmiths of the clans that he, Steve and Clearwater had encountered on their journey westwards to the point where they had run into Malone’s renegades. The fact that he and Roz were on horseback, flying the green and gold banner of Talisman, was proof of their identity and their ticket to ride – wherever they wished – across territory held by the She-Kargo and M’Waukee.
It was almost too good to be true.
Introducing Roz as Rain-Dancer, Cadillac asked the warriors how he could reach the turf of the M’Kenzi. The leader of the posse offered to put him on the right path – but not until he and his companion had paid a courtesy visit to their settlement. Cadillac agreed, whereupon two of the K’Vanna warriors raced off to alert the elders.
When Cadillac and Roz arrived with the posse, they were received with some ceremony. The death-defying act that he, Steve and Clearwater had performed with the aid of rolled straw mats and a samurai sword had left a deep impression on everyone who had seen it, and the K’Vanna elders, led by their wordsmith Dow-Jones-Index, were clearly hoping for a repeat performance.
Cadillac, who had met Dow-Jones on previous visits to the trading post, made a great play of taking the elders into his confidence. In a hushed voice which drew the circle of heads towards his, Cadillac announced that he and Rain-Dancer were preparing themselves for an encounter of earth-shaking importance with the Iron Masters. If brought to a successful conclusion, it would secure the future of the Plainfolk. It was, therefore, absolutely vital that he and his companion preserved their magical energies until that fateful moment. Did they not agree?
Of course they did.
But Cadillac had another more important reason for not turning Roz loose. She was a key part of the presentation he intended to make to the forthcoming Plainfolk Council and he did not want to lose the element of surprise by giving sneak-previews to all and sundry.
Assuaging his disappointed hosts with the promise of further secret revelations at Sioux Falls, Cadillac and Roz resumed their journey and were passed on by the K’Vanna to the O’Shay. Once again their arrival created a wave of excitement followed by a sense of anti-climax which Cadillac quickly smoothed away with more artful diplomacy. Roz, who shadowed him throughout, watched and listened with growing admiration as he won over yet another audience.
Five days into their journey, they finally made contact with the Clan M’Kenzi and their wordsmith, Magnum-Force, a tough-minded, hard-bodied, handsome woman with over fifty life-beads on her necklace. She and Cadillac were well acquainted through her friendship with Mr Snow – a friendship that was something more than the professional link all wordsmiths shared.
Some years back, in a rare moment when one too many lungfuls of rainbow-grass had got the better of his discretion, Mr Snow had hinted at a deeper relationship dating back to the time when he and Magnum had first come to the trading-post as young pupils of their predecessors. A mutual attraction which he claimed had never been requited because of the strict taboo on sexual relationships between members of different clans.
Having recently discovered more about Mr Snow’s early life, including the hidden cave which he allegedly used for illicit amorous liaisons, Cadillac was no longer sure that the old fox was any great respecter of tradition.
Magnum had survived the Battle of the Trading-Post and had seen Mr Snow lying grey-faced and totally exhausted on what many of his entourage said was his death-bed. Magnum had spent many hours by his side and had been close at hand when the young man she knew as Cloud-Warrior had had several whispered conversations with him. Later, when the first Plainfolk Council ended, she saw the Old One rally, and what remained of their two delegations had journeyed side by side towards Wyoming.
Mr Snow had been alive when they parted and one of the first things she wanted to know was his present state of health.
‘Did you not hear of the great battle at Big Fork?’
‘I have heard there was a battle with several iron snakes in which many of the Plainfolk perished,’ said Magnum. ‘One snake was consumed by fire, four more limped away with their backs broken.’
Cadillac squared his shoulders. ‘The blood that was spilt was the blood of the Clan M’Call!’ he declared proudly. ‘And the Old One died leading them in battle.’
The news left Magnum visibly shaken. She hung her head for a long moment and when she raised her eyes to meet theirs her face was streaked with tears. ‘I shall miss him,’ she said. And with that simple epitaph, she threw back her head, cleared her throat and became her brisk, no-nonsense self. ‘How can I help you?’
Cadillac explained the situation that he and Rain-Dancer found themselves in, and how he was hoping that the extended truce might permit their adoption by the Clan M’Kenzi.
‘For how long?’
‘The foreseeable future.’
Had they been ordinary Mutes it would have been out of the question, but it was not without precedent for wordsmiths who, for one reason or another, found themselves without a clan. Cadillac himself had been offered the chance of joining a D’Troit clan and had come close to getting himself killed for saying ‘no’.
Magnum wiped the tear-stains from her cheeks with the back of her hand. ‘You certainly don’t believe in pussy-footing around.’
‘Neither do you.’ Cadillac shrugged. ‘Rain-Dancer and I need a secure base. We won’t be here all the time, but when we are we don’t expect special treatment. We’ll do our share of whatever has to be done like everyone else. You could benefit a great deal from what we know. Always assuming we get back in one piece from the Eastern Lands.’
‘Is that where you’re going?’
‘Yes. All will be revealed at the Big White Running Water.’
The Mute name for Sioux Falls …
‘And we’d like to go there as part of your delegation,’ added Roz.
Magnum eyed them both in turn. ‘That’s okay as far as it goes but what’s in it for us? What exactly are these benefits?’
‘I’ll be in a better position to answer that question when the Plainfolk Council meets,’ replied Cadillac. ‘But Rain-Dancer is a healer and I know the ways of both sand-burrower and dead-face. And I can make you one promise now. If I outlive you, and provided your people so honour and accept me, I am ready to become wordsmith to the M’Kenzi – unless, of course, you find a worthier apprentice between now and then.’
The offer brought tears back to Magnum’s cheeks. ‘How strange life is! If Mo-Town’s hand had caused me to be born in another’s place, unfettered by the traditions which separate our clans, you might have been my son and Mr Snow might have been your father. But it could never be. And now here you are…’
Magnum stood up. Cadillac and Roz followed. ‘Welcome, my children.’ She embraced them both in turn. ‘From this day on, you shall enjoy the same rights and be held in the same esteem as the most favoured of our own sons and daughters.’
‘Thank you,’ said Roz.
Cadillac could see that she was affected by Magnum’s emotional reaction to the news of Mr Snow’s death. He ran a comforting hand across her shoulders then turned back to Magnum-Force. ‘Won’t you need to clear this with the clan elders?’
Magnum’s jaw-muscles hardened. ‘When it comes to important decisions they usually end up doing what I think is best. But before I put this to them, there is one thing. If you’re serious about being our next wordsmith –’
‘I am –’
‘They will probably insist on you both adopting our clan name. It means the end of Cadillac M’Call. Are you ready for that?’
It was one of those rare occasions when Cadillac was at a loss for words.
Magnum-Force exchange an amused glance with Roz. ‘No. Clearly not. Never mind. If the matter comes up – as it most certainly will – I’ll suggest we postpone your formal adoption until you return from the Eastern Lands.’
‘Good thinking,’ said Cadillac. ‘I won’t forget this.’
‘I don’t intend to let you,’ said Magnum.
That night, when they lay between the furs in their newly-erected hut, Roz said: ‘They did.…’
Cadillac eased away from her. ‘Who did?’
‘Mr Snow and Magnum-Force.’
‘Did what?’
Roz hugged him fiercely and pressed her naked body closer to his. ‘What we’re doing now.…’
The first formally convened Plainfolk Council proved to be a rambling affair that spread itself over the first three weeks of September. With so many hatchets to bury, there was a great deal of argument, much of it bad-tempered. The general truce agreed by the shaken delegates after the Battle of the Trading Post had not been universally observed by the young bloods of their own clans, but that had not deterred them from sending representatives to Sioux Falls. As a consequence, the opening round of debates degenerated into a series of interminable slanging matches in which accusations and counter-accusations were hurled across the ring.
Cadillac and Roz were probably the only participants not seeking redress for some real or imagined wrong. After three days of verbal blood-letting had gone by without anything positive having been achieved he began to get a little impatient, but he was shrewd enough to realise that he stood a better chance of impressing his views on the assembly if he waited for the acrimony to subside.
It was in the second week that a constructive dialogue began to emerge, by which time Cadillac had had ample opportunity to discover how well or poorly each bloodline was represented, and to test the varying moods of the major delegations. As expected, the She-Kargo and M’Waukee were there in strength along with the San’ Paul, the lesser bloodline who had stood with them against the D’Troit. There were a surprising number of C’Natti delegations and some from the San’Louis, but still less than half those who, in previous years, would have assembled at the old trading post.
There were no delegations from the D’Troit, but many reports that several big D’Troit clans like the D’Vine, D’Sica and D’Niro who had carved their way into territory which was once the sole preserve of the She-Kargo, had been spotted moving eastwards towards Lake Mee-Sheegun. The migration seemed to indicate that the D’Troit intended to throw their lot in with the Iron Masters despite the clemency shown to the defeated warriors who had survived the tidal wave, and the fact that their illustrious patrons had also suffered heavy losses – plus a severe blow to their prestige.
So be it.…
To Cadillac, the fact that the clan delegations were here at all, and in such numbers, was a minor miracle in itself. The Battle of the Trading Post was a watershed in the history of the Plainfolk, but the traditions built up over nine hundred years could not be abandoned overnight. The changes that needed to take place before the Plainfolk could become a nation struck deep into the core of their belief-system. A warrior measured his worth in hand-to-hand combat in which he or his adversary could die, and often did. Death or dishonour.
Raw courage was the cornerstone of Mute existence; physical strength and endurance the foremost attributes. Their distant ancestors had survived through their ability to fight, and their readiness to kill for food, shelter, to protect their own and what they held to be theirs. Often, territory was the only thing they possessed; everything else of value had been turned to ashes.
With the passing of time, as the wastelands healed, the clans had moved into the vast, empty spaces. Red grass sprouted from the charred earth, fruit trees came into bud. Herd animals, once driven to the edge of extinction by high-velocity rifles, grew in numbers; birds and fish multiplied. The murderous battles for scarce resources became ritualised combats in which the young braves of both sexes gained ‘standing’ – the first step to warriorhood.
Fighting became a way of life even though there was enough food and raw materials and more than enough space to go round. The need to defend your ‘turf was a legacy from urban life in the pre-Holocaust era when the sidewalks around the block in which you lived were the only thing to which the ghetto-people could lay claim. With few possessions, a crippling lack of education, work-skills and job-opportunities, courage was the only badge the young bloods could wear with pride before they, like their elders, were worn down into hopelessness or destroyed by the system.
Anyone who didn’t belong, intruders from the next block had to pay tribute or be resisted – whatever the cost. That territorial imperative, combined with sewer-rat cunning, energy and ruthlessness enabled a favoured few to survive the War of a Thousand Suns. Many of these perished in the Great Ice Dark which followed, but some found the will to endure until the skies cleared and the blood drained from the face of the sun.
A new world was born but the old ways did not die with the Old Time. The scattered groups of people who were to become the Mutes never learned to put their trust in one another. They remained fragmented. Prior to the Battle of the Trading Post, Plainfolk Mutes made no distinction between the braves of a neighbouring clan and a company of Trail-Blazers. Certain ‘rules of engagement’ were observed when Mute clashed with Mute, but apart from that small distinction, both were regarded as the enemy and an incursion by either was resisted with equal ferocity.
This was the big hurdle that had to be overcome. Somehow, Cadillac had to find a way to persuade the assembled elders that there was only one enemy – the Federation. Drawing their own blood did not strengthen the Plainfolk, it weakened them and allowed the Federation to score easy victories.
From his preliminary conversations it was clear that the elders knew this, but getting them to do something about it was a different matter entirely. The Plainfolk were prisoners of their own history, and it was this same inability to forget their differences and band together which had led to the piecemeal subjugation of the Southern Mutes. It was not yet complete, but those who had escaped the yoke of the Federation remained fragmented and did not pose a serious threat to the overground activities of the sand-bur rowers.
The eventual fate of these remnants and the present condition of their blood-brothers provided a powerful argument for the Plainfolk to unite under the banner of Talisman. But that, in itself, would not ensure victory. In addressing the burnt and blistered M’Call Bears after the battle with The Lady, Mr Snow had spoken of the need for new ways, new weapons. Physical bravery, for which the Plainfolk were renowned, was not enough. Not against the Federation.
That, at least, was something the assembled wordsmiths and elders at Sioux Falls were able to agree on. New weapons had to be obtained. Powerful long sharp iron like the cannon plundered from the wrecked wheel-boats. Some of the iron balls they hurled through the air had been recovered, but no one knew how to make the cannons speak with a tongue of flame and a voice like sky-thunder.
Cadillac knew how, but on making enquiries, he learned that the few unbroken casks of black powder had been prised open and emptied by the scavengers in the hope of finding something useful within. New weapons could only be obtained from one source – The Eastern Lands. Ne-Issan. A way had to be found to resume trade with the dead-faces, but after the calamitous losses they had suffered at the hands of the Plainfolk how could the two sides be brought together to even discuss such a proposal?
Cadillac believed he, and he alone, was the man who could effect a reconciliation and clinch a new trade agreement. With Roz’s help he was ready to venture into Ne-Issan and parley with those who now ruled in place of Hirohito Yama-Shita – the domain-lord who had fallen prey to Clearwater’s earth-magic.
On the day he chose to announce his plan, it was Carnegie-Hall’s turn to preside over the three-deep ring of wordsmiths from the various clans and bloodlines. Sitting crosslegged behind them were the other delegates, mainly elders of both sexes. They in turn were surrounded by a shifting crowd of warriors, some of whom had been recruited to lend their vocal support to a particular faction or argument, others listening out of genuine interest or curiosity.
And when that curiosity was satisfied or their interest in the proceedings waned they wandered off elsewhere to watch or participate in one of the many peripheral activities: bouts of wrestling, feats of strength, practice duels with the increasingly popular quarterstaff which Steve had introduced, and a host of other rough-and-tumble team events. A kind of bare-knuckle Olympics.
Elsewhere, more serious business was being conducted. The process of inter-clan bartering which had started on the bluffs above Du-Aruta continued as the newly-styled ‘vendors’, who formed a key part of each delegation, honed their trading skills amid the hustle and bustle of a sprawling, open-air bazaar.
When it was his turn to take over the centre of the ring, Cadillac reviewed the options open to the Plainfolk. The resumption of trade was a vital first step but they could not go back to the old ways. From henceforth, declared Cadillac, the Plainfolk must not go in fear of the Iron Masters. They must trade as equals. Cadillac spoke of what he had seen in Ne-Issan, of the Lost Ones – the journeymen and women who lived and worked in chains and were regarded as being lower than the beasts of the field, and of their offspring, the Iron-Feet, born into a life of unending slavery.
‘Never again,’ he cried, ‘must we allow our blood-brothers and sisters to journey across the Great River! All of us have closed our eyes and hearts, preferring not to know or even reflect upon the fate we condemned them to – through our inability to help ourselves!
‘That time has passed! We must not only defend this sacred ground against those – on all sides – who seek to take it from us, we must pledge ourselves to win freedom for all those who toil in chains under the whips of the dead-faces and the long sharp iron of the sand-burrowers!’
His words drew a rousing cheer from the outer ring of spectators, but the elders and wordsmiths were less enthusiastic. They nodded gravely to show they agreed with this ringing declaration of independence but remained sitting firmly on their hands.
Magnum-Force, wordsmith of the Clan M’Kenzi who had taken Roz and Cadillac under their wing, stood up and was given permission to respond. ‘These are spirited words, in the tradition of your teacher, Mr Snow, architect of our great victory and in whose name we are gathered here today. But despite his vision, and all the recent declarations of goodwill – which still hang on the air – there are many of our own bloodline, of the M’Waukee, C’Natti and San’Paul still ready to cut each other’s throats! We cannot go forward until those who sit amongst us with blood on their knives –’
Her words caused an immediate uproar. Those who felt unjustly accused, the unrepentant aggressors and their outraged victims, and the anarchic fringe who just liked sowing disorder, all leapt to their feet and tried to shout each other down.
It took several minutes for Carnegie-Hall and the silent majority to restore order. When everyone had subsided leaving only the M’Kenzi wordsmith and Cadillac standing, Carnegie-Hall motioned for Magnum to continue.
She surveyed the seated delegates, treating the most vocal of her detractors to a contemptuous stare. The Plainfolk will never be great while there are more yapping jackals than bears and mountain lions. Those who have broken their solemn pledge may be able to ease their guilt by shouting me down but it is not our tongues that will defeat the dead-faces and sand-burrowers – it is our knife-arms!’
‘Heyyyy-YAHHH!’ yelled the crowd. And this time, most of the wordsmiths and elders joined in the chorus of approval.
Magnum-Force turned to Cadillac. ‘I applaud the breadth of your vision but I think you ask too much of us. Those with wise heads and open hearts from the great bloodline of the C’Natti have chosen to join us, but many more have stayed away. There is not one amongst us who represents the D’Troit.
‘The Plainfolk is a house divided! How can we hope to overcome the armed might of the dead-faces and the iron-snakes of the Federation? We cannot! We know this and so do their great chiefs. And yet you talk of imposing terms on the dead-faces! You claim to be one of The Chosen who herald the coming of Talisman. You claim to speak for him –’
‘That is true,’ interjected Cadillac.
‘It is true you have inherited the tongue of Mr Snow,’ admitted Magnum. ‘And you can read the seeing-stones – but you have no earth-magic. You are no Storm-Bringer!’
‘That is also true.…’
‘Then tell us! How can you defend the interests of the Plainfolk when you cannot even defend yourself!’
The question evoked a challenging roar from the doubters in the audience.
Cadillac held up his hands to appeal for calm, then sought out Roz and motioned her to join him. As she threaded her way through the seated delegates he said: ‘My given role is to speak for the Plainfolk.’ He swept his eyes around the ring of wordsmiths then aimed his words to those beyond. ‘All of you know that a swift mind and tongue can achieve more than the sharpest blade. The tales a wordsmith spins and the wisdom he dispenses are the cords which bind us to the past and future and hold the clan together. Without the clan, without that bond forged by the shared memories of valorous deeds, we cannot know ourselves or why we tread the earth.
‘That is why you honour us by giving me and my respected colleagues pride of place in this assembly! I seek to reason with our enemy because they have minds which can be entrapped by cunning argument just as bears are lured to honey! Talisman has given me the power of words and…’
He broke off as Roz approached. Seizing her shoulders, he presented her to the four quadrants of the circle. ‘… he has given this woman even greater power than the Storm-Bringer!’
This claim triggered murmurs of astonishment and cries of disbelief. Cadillac stood back and introduced Roz with a sweeping gesture. ‘Rain-Dancer! Fourth and last of The Chosen! She will show you the magic that will confound our enemies!’
As Roz cast her gaze slowly around the ring, an eerie silence descended. ‘Stretch out your right hand towards me, and close your fist!’ The wordsmiths and elders did so. ‘And you!’ she cried, to the crowd pressing in around the seated delegates.
The front ranks obeyed. Those further back, and people passing by, did not feel the same compulsion.
Cadillac found his right hand was also extended towards her and hoped whatever image she planned to implant would not be too awful to contemplate. He tried to catch her eye but she was already pivoting on her heel, snaring the minds of those around her with another spell-binding illusion.
Cadillac, like the crowd of spectators was pleasantly surprised to find himself holding the stalk of a bright red flower which opened in the blink of an eye. Cries of delight and amazement burst from those around them, but they were shortlived. As the perfume from the red bloom reaches their nostrils, it became a thorn-stick with razor-sharp spikes like eagle’s talons! And where the hand gripped the stick, the startled holder could feel the thorns buried deep in his flesh.
Many of those caught up in the mind-spell tried to let go, but each attempt to loosen their grip had the effect of tightening it even further. Blood oozed between their fingers and down the lower part of the stalk. The pain was considerable, but not unbearable. Mutes had an incredibly high threshold of pain. It was more the shock of the brutal transformation that caused them to cry out. But as they did so, the thorn-stick became a wriggling snake poised to sink its fangs into their forearm!
Roz allowed them to open their hands. The result was total pandemonium. Everyone leapt to their feet, hurled their snake to the ground and stampeded away from the centre, leaping and hopping over the carpet of writhing serpents thrown down by those behind them.
Cadillac held grimly onto his. He knew that none of this was real but his brain thought otherwise, and he had to force himself to grip the rattlesnake when all his instincts were telling him to throw it away! And at the very instant his will failed him, the snake in his fist became another red flower which promptly vanished leaving only its scent lingering on the air.
The power which Roz was able to exercise, its scope, the ease with which she had snared several hundred people in her mental net was incredible. Those on the fringe of the crowd whose minds remained untouched could not, of course, see the flowers, thorn-sticks or snakes. All they saw was a crowd of elders recoil from their empty out-stretched fists then leap up and run in all directions, hopping and skipping as if they were walking on red-hot coals.
Since the front rows of standing spectators had also turned tail, those on the fringe were obliged to give way. Jostled from all directions by senior clansmen of every stripe and colour babbling about a plague of snakes, they stared at the empty ring, totally bewildered by the eccentric behaviour of their leaders.
There was not a single snake to be seen. Discarded mocassins, sandals and leather helmets lay in the grass around the two people who had stood their ground – Cadillac and his smooth-boned female companion, Rain-Dancer.
Having retreated to a safe distance, the wordsmiths, elders and the smitten front rows of onlookers also turned and realised with some embarrassment that it had all been a trick of the mind. Some, whose sense of self-importance could not permit the idea they had also been made fools of, covered their confusion by a show of anger. Leading the surge back into the ring, the protestors closed in on Roz, waving their fists and hurling abuse.
Cadillac appealed for calm but she was ready for them. Ice-cool, determined, and in complete command of the situation, it was hard to believe this was the same Roz who had fled yelping in panic from the dappled grey mare. To the horror of those around them, the fists of everyone making a menacing gesture burst into flame. And this time, the pain was excruciating.
Screams and curses filled the air as those around the stricken protestors tried to smother the flames with articles of clothing. But as they did so, the flames vanished, leaving the flesh unmarked and whole. Everyone fell to their knees around Cadillac and Roz. Truly, this was great and terrible earth-magic!
‘Will you not learn?!’ shouted Cadillac angrily. ‘What more proof do you need?!’ He pointed at Roz. ‘The power of Talisman flows through her! Our enemies are helpless against her magic because they only see what we wish them to see, and hear what we wish them to hear!’
Roz pivoted on her heel, capturing the circle of kneeling spectators in one sweeping glance. Those nearest to her cowered away from her then gasped as she and Cadillac vanished from sight. More cries of amazement, some of the hardier spirits started to rise and were immediately flattened as the earth trembled beneath their feet and a deafening peal of thunder split the sky over their heads.
Everyone fell on their faces and hugged the ground. The day the earth moved was a folk-memory seared into the minds of every Mute since the War of a Thousand Suns. A prolonged earth-tremor turned the bones of even the bravest warrior to jelly.
Once again, no one beyond the circle felt the ground shake or heard the thunder. Cadillac and Roz had not vanished. They only appeared to do so in the minds of those who had fallen under her spell. And when they both reappeared it was to an almost universal roar of acclamation.
Heyy-YAHH! Heyy-YAHH! HEYY-YAAHHH!!
The cheers that were less than fulsome came from the throats of those still shaken by the experience of having seen their right fists burst into a ball of flame.
Thrilled to be playing host to such an outstanding duo, their adoptive clan insisted on placing a special guard around the hut which the M’Kenzis had put at their disposal. Taking her cue from Cadillac, Roz accepted what was, for the egalitarian Mutes, a signal honour. She had never been treated like a VIP before.
Cadillac took it all in his stride. Teaming up with Roz had dramatically increased his standing, but it was no more than his due. They were, after all, The Chosen – and about to risk their necks for the Plainfolk.
‘You’re getting better by the day,’ he said, as the residue of the meal that had been prepared for them was cleared away. It had been cooked by three M’Kenzi women who had remained on their knees with their eyes averted while serving the various courses.
‘I seem to have frightened everyone half to death,’ replied Roz.
‘That won’t do us any harm. You know what the biggest problem is with the way Mutes run things? They talk too much. Everyone feels they have the right to stick their oar in.’
‘Oar …?’
‘A shaped wooden pole the fisherfolk use to propel their boats through the water.’
‘Ahh … Don’t you think that’s a good thing – people having a say in what happens to them?’
‘In theory, yes – but where has it got us? Too many conflicting opinions and aspirations. No cohesion. No vision! What the Plainfolk need is strong leadership!’
‘Isn’t Talisman supposed to provide that?’
‘Talisman isn’t here!’ snapped Cadillac. ‘For heaven’s sake, Roz! I’m talking about what needs to happen now! We’re facing a threat from the Iron Masters and the Federation. The Plainfolk can only survive if they get organised. Someone’s got to grab these guys by the scruff of the neck and start banging heads together.’
Roz eyed him as she washed the meat juice off her hands in the bowl that had been laid reverently in front of her. ‘And is that what you see yourself doing?’
‘With your help, yes.’ He met her eyes with a confident smile. ‘I feel ready to take charge – why be coy about it?’
‘Why indeed?’ said Roz. ‘You sound just like Steve!’
Cadillac wasn’t sure if that was a reproach or a compliment. ‘Really? I know one thing. If he was in my place he’d go for it.’
‘Yes … I imagine that’s just how the Founding Father felt.’
‘This is not like that.’
‘I hope not,’ said Roz. ‘I don’t want to find myself being ruled by another First Family.’
Cadillac fixed her with a searching glance. ‘What if you were part of it?’ His question was met With silence. He tried again. ‘Somebody has to lead. Will you follow?’
Roz thought about it for a while then replied with a fatalistic shrug. ‘The Wheel turns, The Path is drawn.…’
Cadillac reached out, took hold of her hand, and coaxed her to her feet. ‘Then let’s take it – one step at a time … together.’