Chapter Ten: Thunder Drums

Radovin was aware of what went on around him. He heard everything, even Pavolen's voice outside. It just didn't matter any more. Soon he would be leaving. A few more days of going through the motions and his futile life could end.

His wrists fascinated him, the bluish traces that showed where rivers of blood flowed beneath the skin. That would probably be the best place, the easiest. He couldn't see where to cut on his throat. It could be a problem if he didn't get it right the first time. Just his luck (ha ha) he wouldn't, and with shit for a knife. Better to go with a sure thing. Any sharp flake would do it nicely on the wrist. He'd probably hardly feel it. Just sit and let the world fade away.

Blood had such a beautiful color, the most sacred of all shades of red. It wouldn't be the first time he had seen some of his own.

He watched dust motes for a while. The twinkling particles danced their slow tribute to chaos in a ray of sun that slipped in somewhere. Ottavar materialized, disrupting the stately ballet, and squatted in front of him. The man's voice entered his mind, walked on through, and disappeared into the dark cave where everything else had gone. A hand shook his shoulder, then grabbed his arm and pressed hard. There was pain. After contemplating the pain for a short time, he decided to respond to the obvious signal for attention.

"Rado! Hai! Where are you?" Ottavar felt a chill run up his spine when Radovin finally raised his head. Eyes full of nothing gazed into his. For a moment he fell into that blackness that went on forever. He jerked free, his mind lurching back up into the light. Vahé! This has gone much too far!

Dark eyelashes hooded the blank stare once more, but Ottavar thought Radovin was listening now. He took a deep breath before speaking again. "I'm sorry I pinched you so hard. I'm going out now, to take Tiwa to the Maidens' Tent. I'll be back before long, and we'll have a talk, ah?"

He might as well be talking to a corpse. Ottavar patted Radovin's shoulder gently, feeling foolish and impotent. Too many things going on all at once, and he had to get them all finished today, and this.

He rose, turning toward the two young women, who had risen. "We'd best get going. Are you all ready? You have your spare clothes, Tiwa?"

Both smiled at his needless prompting. "Yes, awida," Kewarratiwa said. "I have all I may need." She glanced briefly at Radovin, and spoke again, more softly. "Ottavar, do not feel bad that you can not do everything at one time. You will bring him back to himself."

"I'll have at him as soon as I get back. I just hope we can convince the Council he's telling the truth."

"You will. You see truly and you believe what is true."

"I'm glad someone thinks so."

Ottavar yearned for that small but shapely body clad in a beaded, quilled, and fringed dress of pale doeskin. Her curly hair, sunbleached haze of reddish gold over dark brown, made him think of autumn leaves, ripe apples and nuts, festivals of thanksgiving. He would give thanks when all this was over...he hoped.

Zhamavi entered as they headed for the door. Tucali separated from her to run, not to her mother, but straight to Radovin. Ottavar watched her get onto his lap. The young man's face was free of emotion as he moved his hands out of her way, then encircled her with his arms. Tucali prattled about going down to the pond with Grandmamma to bathe and making little boats from last year's seed pods. Her animation contrasted starkly with Radovin's lack of involvement.

"Whatever it is, I hope you can help him," Zhamavi said. "Tookie's in love."

Ottavar understood what she meant. Tucali's life had begun so close to the end of many others, and more loss had followed too soon. She was a symbol of hope for the whole band, a sign that they would go on. It gave her attachment to Radovin an undue importance.

"I'll get him out of it," he replied, with a confidence that had no bones in it. He wished that Tiwa did not have to be even further isolated now, just when he could use a good dose of her positive attitude.

"You'd better get along with these young ladies." Zhamavi patted Ottavar's shoulder and stepped past him. "I think it's going to rain soon. We'd best get some extra wood in."

Sherilana agreed, and paused to push cooking stones into the embers, adding a few sticks on top. "There'll be hot tea when you get back, Ott."

Ottavar nodded and smiled his thanks. He stepped outside and held the flap open for the young women. They took their place decorously behind him, close together. Jesumi had wangled the escort role as Tiwa's fiercest protector.

Shoulders squared, Ottavar led the way, straight out into the open ground of the center and--so it felt--into the center of the whole campground's attention.

Why he expected something to go wrong, he couldn't say. Maybe it was just the weather. Kayotar had always said Ottavar looked too much for the worst that could happen...just as he had.

"Can I help it if the dropping of a carrion crow wasn't there? We hid out and watched all day and night. The defiled bugs were eating us. No sign of him coming back or that he was there at all last night. Vasho and Fredo scouted for tracks. Lousy tracking, the ground's too dry, but there were some likely traces. Found what looked freshest by the long wash. We found this on the near side, on our way back." Pavolen held up a spear, well made but too short for a full-grown man's use. Dried blood stained the polished bone point and the shaft. "There was something dead down in the wash, a wolf by the look of what was left."

Bodisar snatched the spear from Pavolen's hand to inspect it more closely. "Shit!" White horse mark, and by the size it had to belong to that older brat of Lovaduc's, there were only those two boys in the whole stinking band. "The tracks led to this?"

"No, there was one set of tracks to this that ended at the wash on this side. On the other side, where the bank was caved in, one in and two out." Pavolen scowled in sullen puzzlement. His hunting companions stood well behind him, content to let their leader take credit for failure.

Bodisar glared past his son at the shifting group of boys that had been playing spear-hoops half the morning in the southern part of the common ground. "I want to talk to that kid of Lovo's, the oldest boy, what's his name, vah! you'd know him by his hair and the sunspots." And a mess of recently acquired bruises. One in, two out, and all quiet about it. Pavo was too muck-headed to add it up. If the rat was with them now.... "Invite him to dinner, ah?"

"Invite?"

"Nicely, if you please. I don't want any trouble. Yet. Here, take the spear. Flatter the bugger, make like you're interested in his hunting stories."

"What about the other one, Hava-whosis," one of Pavolen's younger companions said. "My kid brother hung out with him last summer--his brother too--and he was talking about seeing them again. Maybe he'd blab something."

"Excellent idea," Bodisar said, making the eager young man grin. "The younger they are the looser they talk. You go along. Get him at least, if you can't get both." He returned his attention to Pavolen. "You're sure it was the rat's hideout you found, ah?"

Pavolen shrugged and motioned toward the grungy object one of the others was holding by a worn strap. "If that's his pack. It's crappy enough. I left him some shit instead, in case he does come back." He grinned at his petty revenge.

Bodisar slapped the grin off Pavolen's face. "You asshole," he snarled, "now if he did he'd know we're onto him. But I have a feeling your stupidity won't mess things up worse than they are."

He saw Ivergan approaching and gritted his teeth. The shaman's own failure to locate their pesky nemesis did nothing to make the man forgive the shortcomings of others. Well, at least he had an idea, though Iver would probably claim it as his own, if it worked.

"Get on with it," he barked at the sullen-faced Pavolen, who turned away, beckoning to the young man who had spoken up. The others waited for Bodisar's dismissal. Insolent bastards, all of them.

Ottavar led his retinue across the open circle, their course wavering to keep their distance from people moving about to visit or trade. Ottavar avoided all but the merest polite nod. He had no intention of getting entangled in any discussions along the way. Then he saw three men just ahead stop their mobile conversation to stare at him.

Ivergan was unmistakable even before he turned, with his immaculate, nearly white, beaded vest. Ottavar could not name the other two offhand; that could be either good or bad. Too late to veer off without being obvious. What rotted awful timing. He forged ahead. Maybe ignoring them would work. Maybe Ivergan wasn't in the mood to antagonize him and try to make him do something stupid. Maybe mammoths suck eggs. A cold, sinking feeling took his stomach. He hated being right, sometimes.

Tucali left Radovin's lap and made for the curtained storage space where the shaman's tools and supplies were stored.

Morbid self-absorption is fine and dandy if there is no other compelling objective, but small children need attention. Should he stop her? Radovin tensed, ready to move quickly. Surely Ottavar didn't want children rummaging among consecrated articles. The herbs could be dangerous--he couldn't let little Tookie get into them. Though he might be as good as dead, her life had a long way to go. Ah, she backed out. He subsided with relief.

Tucali had removed a large, decorated rawhide drum case from the storage nook. She opened it and took out a broad-rimmed hoop drum adorned with four tassels of white horsehair, one at each quarter. The little girl held it high as she offered it to Radovin. "You need this drum, not the little one," she said, with a wide smile. "Thunder giants are coming."

"Ahm...thank you, Tookie." He accepted the drum cautiously, reverently, not letting the tassels touch the mat. Need it? He didn't think so, not this drum. Shouldn't be touching it. This was a Spirit Drum, so finely crafted that it nearly spoke on its own. The wide wooden rim looked very old, darkly polished by handling, though the translucent rawhide head and precise chevrons of binding were relatively new.

Once it was in his hands he couldn't help himself. One soft stroke. Another. Ta-bum, du-bom, bomm. The drum vibrated seductively, begged to be touched again, demanded it of him. Fill me with sound, it said. Subtle nuances of tone danced in his ears. Twining complexities of overtone and interference changed with the angle at which the drum was held and where and how he tapped.

Tucali sat down and watched him with fascination. Radovin held the rim with his left hand, supporting the other side with his left knee, while his right hand obeyed the drum's need to speak. His surroundings melted into the voice of the drum. The drumbeats sucked him up through the smokehole of the tent. He floated over the encampment, while his body continued the steady beat.

Small figures moved about on the ground below. Children played here and there or swam in the bathing pool. Small groups of adults gathered near tents. Others strolled across the wide circle. There was Ottavar with the two women, marching along...and there was Ivergan, glaring malevolently at them.

Radovin nearly snapped back into his body. He hadn't meant to do this. What if Ivergan became aware of him? Then everything was clear again. His life was smoke in the wind, cold ashes in an abandoned hearth.

The White Horse shaman stood for everything that Radovin had been taught to love and respect from his earliest memory. The People needed such men. Ivergan had to be shown for what he was, not allowed to intimidate and harm those who wanted to do good.

He willed himself toward the shamans. Just as he made the gut-twisting downward swoop, he had an odd feeling that he was not alone.

Havener had gotten Niko his turn at spearing the hoop. It had gone well; Niko was happier and nobody had lost an eye. Now he and Shugo drifted down toward the creek, engaged in a serious discussion of professionalism and ethics, while Niko killed every grassy tussock in sight.

"Things have all gone to the muckhole, 'specially since Mama died," Shugonar said. "I dunno; I don't remember that much from before we moved to the Bull band. But things like, well, Ivergan--he's so clean-fingered. Never does a lick of work for himself. You know what? When he sends Rado off to do whatever it is they do for days on end, he gets other boys to fetch and carry for him. I'm one of 'em." He made a dirt-eating face. "I don't like the way he looks at me sometimes, since Rado took off. And I don't believe Rado did what they say he did."

"Mmm, Ottavar lets us help him with stuff." What did they say Rado had done? Havener wished Shugo wouldn't drop disconnected bits like that, but he didn't want to sound too nosy.

"See what I mean? You're lucky." Shugonar stopped short, frowning. "Oh, shit, here comes Berto, and that three-balled bully Pavo."

Havener's stomach flip-flopped. He swiveled to watch the approaching pair. Pavolen split off, apparently to talk to Jerevan. That didn't look good. Shugo's brother, a swaggering fellow of maybe seventeen summers, continued their way. Had they caught on to Ottavar's plan?

"Hai-ai-yah, Shugo," Bertoluc called. "You're just the man I wanted to see. Bodo's inviting us to a little feast tonight, and he said to bring your friend, um...." Bertoluc waved a finger in circles, a comical grimace on his long face.

"Rhinos shag you, Berto," Shugonar said.

Havener had edged over toward Niko, and he grabbed a fresh handful of the child's loose garment that seemed to be made for just that purpose. Before anything interesting could result from Shugo's expression of brotherly love, he heard a scream from somewhere near the center of the campground. Two breaths later, a tremendous crash of thunder stopped the world.