Chapter Eleven: Fire from the Sky

Ottavar had the oddest sensation of being watched. Or maybe not watched, exactly...it was more like.... Ivergan stepped directly into his path, forcing him to stop. He took a deep breath. This was no time to be distracted by funny feelings.

"Good day, Ivergan." He hoped that taking the initiative was the right move.

Ivergan scanned Ottavar and the two young women as if evaluating their hides and meat. "I see you think you can make a decent woman out of a wog. You have a lot to learn, boy."

Might have known politeness was a waste of breath. "If you will excuse our haste, Balekara is expecting us. We can debate this later."

"Oh, yes, later--when you can hide behind Balekara, and that other busybody. What else does your band hope to pull off behind our backs, ah?"

"We have nothing to hide. That will be made clear at the meeting." What was Ivergan driving at? He couldn't know yet that they were concealing something. Anyway, it was nothing to be ashamed of. "I would hope that the Bull band can make a good account of its own doings. Until then--"

"Nothing to hide? We'll see about that! Your band has a cuckoo's egg that will hatch only trouble." Ivergan jerked his head in the direction of the White Horse band's tents.

Ottavar glanced that way. Blast it, Ivergan did know? The drumbeats coming from the tent finally penetrated his consciousness--and he recognized the drum's voice. He knew who the drummer had to be as well, but what could have roused Radovin out of his apathy--and with that drum! It hadn't been out of its case since Kayotar last put it away. He turned back to Ivergan.

"Trouble? For who? I think the trouble will be yours. Only liars fear truth." Oh, good throw, foot-spearer. He was falling into the very trap he wanted to avoid.

"You will regret those words," Ivergan snarled. "You--and that other whelp of the old jagal!"

The world was out of order. Ottavar expected the man who despised his entire band to be unpleasant, but not unsubtle. Taut cords in Ivergan's neck and an ugly twist of his lips spoke of fear, a dangerous force in any man, with an evil magic all its own.

Thunder take it, he needed to get this finished and get home before the slithering leech came on with more than words--if he hadn't already. There was a crackly feeling in the air. Everything had the lucid quality of a vision. Time slowed, or his thoughts outran it. People turned, stopped to watch the confrontation in a frozen circle dance. Tiny droplets of spit flew from Ivergan's mouth with each word, glittering in the sunlight. The other two men had moved back, uneasy spectators to a potential shamanic showdown.

"I don't want to argue with you here, Ivergan. If you wish, I will meet you later on elsewhere. We have plenty of time to talk without delaying necessary business."

"You have less time than you think, smoke-rider, and less business."

Ottavar took a step sideways. Ivergan moved to block him.

"Let us pass, Ivergan. I'm sure you have better things to do than play useless games. We need to go on about our own affairs. The Council--"

"I'll see you and all your 'affairs' gone where you belong. With those!" Ivergan pointed stiff-armed at Kewarratiwa. "You have no respect for yourself or your people, consorting with such filth!"

The People considered pointing rude, at best. To the Wa!ikerrima, it was a hostile, even dangerous, gesture when directed at a human. Ottavar grabbed Ivergan's wrist and forced it down with barely contained fury.

"You could learn a little respect. How can you say that you are Dedicated when you defile the sacred purpose of your vow and offend the Mother of all life? You have blood on your hands!"

Ivergan's eyes widened and he wrenched away, shaking his hand as if trying to get something off. The nearest onlookers gasped and drew back.

"You...." Ivergan hissed.

Ottavar blinked and retreated a step, taken aback by the mad glare of the man's eyes. Ivergan was no longer speaking to the person who stood in front of him but to someone or something that only he could see. Ottavar motioned to the girls to move farther away, then turned back to the grotesque pantomime.

Ivergan continued to back off, his face contorted with an ugly combination of fear and hatred. He held his hands out in a desperate warding off of some unseen menace.

"No! You're dead! You can't stop us now!"

People were running away. A woman screamed. Then all was still for a moment, except for an ominous rumbling mingled with the drum beats. Calm filled Ottavar, while a distant part of himself told him he should be soiling his breechclout. Every hair tingled and he heard--or felt--an eerie hum.

In less time than it takes to blink, the shaman of the Bull band became the center of an intense luminosity. Ottavar was slammed back, his mind shattered by thunder.

The women had just come in, each with an armload of wood, when it seemed that all the demons of the Underworld were turned loose in the camp. The screams and the vehement explosion of light and sound outside were only a backdrop to pandemonium within the tent. Radovin jerked convulsively, the drum leaping from his hand to spin in the air and land rolling on the mats as he collapsed. Tucali shrieked in terror. Sherilana dropped the firewood and rushed forward to scoop the screaming child into her arms.

A gust of wind shook and bellied the tent. The fire shot up in a fierce spiral of flying sparks. While Zhamavi and Sherilana tried to soothe Tucali, Radovin scrabbled upright and dashed headlong through the door, now wide open with the flap raised by the wind. "Oh, good Mother of all," Sherilana said, "what is happening?" More thunder and lightning answered her, the flap slapped back down, and rain pounded the tent.

Muffled shouts came through the thunder and drumming rain. The door-flap was lifted, then blown aside again, and a huddle of dripping figures staggered in. Bazenaber broke away to thrust himself in front, cursing a colorfully worded stream. He dropped on one knee at the hearth and began to rebuild the fire. Water dripped from his hair and arms onto the hot ashes; steam and smoke framed his face when he looked up.

"Wood, dammit, is there more dry wood?"

"We just brought some in," Zhamavi said. "In back. What happened? Ottavar--"

Ottavar leaned on Radovin, blank-eyed. He half-collapsed onto his knees by the hearth. Jesumi and Kewarratiwa dashed back and forth with bed-furs while the fire began to relieve the sudden darkness of the storm. After hovering over Ottavar for a moment, Radovin dodged between moving bodies to the shaman's storage place. He came back to the hearth with an armload of things.

Sherilana watched, not knowing what to do or if she should try to do anything. The mad scene was playing itself out without her, and she had her arms full of daughter. Tucali grew calmer, safe in her mother's embrace. The little girl peered out, then hid her face away from all the frantic activity.

Zhamavi and Jesumi were fetching wood from the temporary heap that all but blocked the rear exit, while Bazenaber tended the fire. Radovin appeared to be trying to do several things at once while avoiding getting stepped on. A bizarre striped mask of wet black hair clung to his face. "Let me get at the fire," he yelped desperately; a mouse ordering a herd of bison away from its hole. "I need water, ah?"

The herd did not presume to question the strange behavior of the mouse, who seemed to know what to do. Ottavar was in no condition to help himself, mute and blinking, buried in furs. Kewarratiwa clung to him, her eyes following Radovin, who was oblivious to all but his self-appointed task. He dropped cooking stones into a bowl of water and herbs, stirred, sniffed, and tasted.

Ottavar still heard nothing but humming chaos. He could see again, but a remembered image gripped him: Ivergan, standing rigid in a column of writhing white fire. A hazier picture lurked behind that one, of the Bull band shaman lying motionless on the ground, sightless eyes staring at the darkening sky. He wasn't sure if he had seen that himself.

Someone held a cup of hot tea in front of him. He lifted cold, shaking hands to it. Other hands helped him to bring the cup to his mouth. The tea tasted horrible, intensely bitter. Probably just what he needed. He looked up from it into Radovin's haunted eyes.

"Drink it all," a distant voice said as Radovin's lips moved.

Ottavar finished the tea. He was shivering under enough furs for a winter night. Recent events began to sift into some kind of order out of rattling chaff. He remembered the drumming, the odd feelings, the strange behavior of those around him. "What did you do?" he said to Radovin. His voice bumped around in his head, muffled and trapped. He had no idea how loud it sounded.

Radovin's lips moved. Ottavar couldn't quite hear what he said. I don't know? I didn't do...? The worried face turned away. He watched Radovin dip another cup of the nasty brew and down it himself in one gulp. Then Jesumi draped a reindeer hide around the young man's shoulders. Radovin stood shivering in the warm fur, eyes half closed.

Kewarratiwa was still beside Ottavar. He closed his eyes while she stroked his forehead and temples. "Tiwa," he whispered, "I'm sorry." If she replied in words, he could not tell, but her hands spoke tenderly.

Another cup of tea turned up, tasting a different kind of nasty, and he drank it obediently. A welcome warmth began to creep in, while everything else faded out.

The absent members of the White Horse band straggled in, singly or in bunches. The tent was warm and dry. Despite the downpour, the only water inside was what dripped from soaked hair and the wet clothing that hung everywhere. A somber group sat close around the hearth or shared large furs and blankets off to the side, misshapen tents or creatures with multiple heads. The rain was only a light patter now and the thunder far away.

Lovaduc looked up from blowing on the cup of tea cradled in his hands. "You're sure he's dead, ah?"

"Yeah." Bazenaber pulled his warm bison skin tighter around himself. "Very, very dead."

"Good." Davoner added a snort of bitter laughter. "But now what? Will the meeting be put off?"

Lovaduc shook his head. "I don't know. Shit. Bad enough it was almost delayed already because we came so late. There isn't much time left before the Fire Festival. I'll go see Moshevar when this bloody rain stops. Vah! look at the mud we tracked in, and the mats almost new." He ran fingers through his still damp hair, then tested the tea against his lips.

"Mats! That's the last thing I'm worried about," Sherilana said. "We have a few extras, and I can toss down some rushes. I'm just thankful Ottavar is all right." She spoke quietly; Tucali had fallen asleep on her lap.

"It was close," Bazenaber said, nodding. "Sumi and Tiwa weren't much farther away, but they weren't knocked over." He glanced toward the rear of the tent. "Radovin...what was he doing, Sheri, with the drum? My hair was standing up. Even before." He shivered.

"I don't know. Tucali got the drum out. Mavi and I went to get the wood in. I figured he would put it back. He started on it, but I didn't think much about it--anyway, Ott wants him to...." She shrugged, barely moving her shoulders. "Then when the thunder struck, he looked like--vah! I don't know. Tookie was scared to fits." Her eyes went down to the blonde head against her bosom. Tucali had fallen asleep with her thumb in her mouth.

Wet slaps at the front flap interrupted them. Tanochen got up to let someone in out of the rain. "Don't bother about your feet," he said. "The mats are mucked already."

Shonovar, a grandson that Moshevar often used as a messenger, stepped in. "Good day, Lovaduc-nabu, and all of you," he said. "Moshevar wants to know if you agree that the meeting be delayed until mid-afternoon tomorrow. The burial will be done in the morning. And Hacaben--oh, never mind, here he is."

"Tell Moshevar it's fine with me," Lovaduc said. "Hac, come in, ah? Thank you, Shono. Will you have tea with us? Dinner's not out of the pit yet."

Shonovar shook his head and moved his hands in polite refusal. "No, I have to move on. Thank you." His eyes dodged around as if he expected something to jump out of the shadows.

Hacaben had a thin hide draped over his head and shoulders to keep the rain off. He shook water off his hand and looked at the muddy mats. With a shrug, he stepped farther in and let Shonovar slip out behind him. "Is Ottavar all right?"

"Yes, I think so. He's sleeping," Davoner answered. "Radovin gave him something to keep him down. He had the spirit half knocked out of him."

"Ah." Hacaben's eyebrows wagged. "I don't doubt it. I couldn't get here sooner. Well...." He squinted at the darkness beyond the hearth. "Do you want me to have a look at him?"

Davoner glanced over his shoulder. "Better to let him sleep now. Sit down, Hac, have some tea." He shifted closer to one end of the oblong cushion he sat on. The shaman accepted the invitation after hanging his rain-cape on the last empty peg near the door.

"Yeah. I just wanted to say, if there's anything I can do to help...look, I'll take Kewarratiwa to the Maidens' Tent, she's all right, ah? The rain's almost stopped. Who'll go with--is Tevina here?" Hacaben peered into the shadows again.

"I'll go," Jesumi began.

"I'm right here," Tevina said, emerging from the unlit back of the tent. "I'll go. Thank you, Hacaben. I don't want Ottavar worrying about anything. He's sleeping soundly now. You stay here, Sumi, in case he wakes. You've been through enough already too. Baz can help. Tiwa?"

Kewarratiwa's face peeked out from the furry bedcover that she shared with Jesumi. "Yes, you are right. I will go, and he may not worry. Radovin will take care of him."

"Radovin is out of his cloud, ah?" Hacaben cocked his head.

"I don't know about that," Lovaduc replied. "He came out when Ott was thunderstruck. But now he's sunk back out of sight, if you know what I mean." He shrugged and aimed a thumb beyond the circle of firelight. "He's back there, just watching. Hardly speaks if you ask him a question, same as before." He looked at Tevina.

She shook her head. "He--I don't know what to do, what to say. Ottavar was going to have a talk with him this afternoon, but now.... All he'll say is 'Yes, amada' and 'No, amada.' and 'I don't know, amada.' He's dead to everything but Ottavar, and he's out of it for now."

"He will be all right," Kewarratiwa said. "Ottavar will help him."

"They'll take care of each other, ayah!" Hacaben shook his head and gave the Wa!ikerrima girl a quizzical look. Lovaduc sighed loudly and rested his forehead on one hand.

Ottavar slowly emerged from blank darkness, walking. A vast plain surrounded him under an overcast sky with a strange greenish tinge. A wolf walked beside him. "You have to walk all the way home now," the wolf stated matter-of-factly, in a woman's voice. Stars glinted in the unfathomable depths of its black eyes.

"It's a long way, isn't it?"

"Yes," the wolf replied, "but you will have help."

"Oh. Are you here to help me?"

"I am always with you," the wolf said.

Ottavar faded away into nothing again; then:

Lightning danced silently on the horizon, bright against approaching night. A lone wolf loped steadily over the endless plain. He slowed to a trot, sniffing. The air tingled, tried to rouse a memory.

Another creature came up beside him, keeping pace. It had a more slender, pointy build than a wolf should. Golden eyes glowed in the increasing darkness. It smiled, tongue hanging out. "Hello again," it said.

"Kayotar!" Ottavar stopped, one paw still in mid-air. The voice was his grandfather's.

"Indeed."

Am I dead or is this a dream, Ottavar wondered.

"No." Enigmatic gold eyes laughed at him, and the spirit-being sprang away.

"Hai, wait," Ottavar called.

They loped effortlessly through a mutating landscape. Now he followed through the air--they had become ravens in one of those unperceived transitions that are so common in the land of dreams and visions.

The familiar terrain changed as they flew over it. The low hills and small streams of the White Horse band's former territory became the deeper river valley where the Raven band had lived. Ottavar had been there but once, as a boy.

The ill-fated band still dwelt in this shadowland. Several sturdy lodges built in the traditional way of The People came into view. The raven that was Kayotar hovered over an attractive woman standing outside one of them. Then he stood near Ottavar; they had reverted to human shape.

The woman smiled at a child by her side, a boy of perhaps five or six summers with glossy black hair like hers. Solera, the woman who had taught Ottavar so much about the art of love in a too-short summer. By the time he knew her, Solera's eyes had become sad, but there was no mistaking the face of his first love. The boy's wide, dark eyes looked straight at--or through--the two spirit travelers.

Why are we here, Ottavar thought. He turned to look at Kayotar, who gazed at Solera and the child with eyes full of sadness. Kayotar opened his mouth to speak.

Ottavar woke abruptly. Solera had a child? It hadn't mattered that she was half again his age, in that brief, sweet time. She hadn't talked about herself much--her family and friends gone, the Raven band all dead or dispersed, too much loss. Most of their communication that summer needed no words.

He had sought her again at the next Summermeet, but was told that she had died. Too wrapped in his own grief to care if anyone else mourned her loss, he had only wanted to forget, throwing himself harder into his studies with his grandfather--ah! what did Kayotar have to do with...what had he been about to say when the dream ended? Vahé! What was falling together here? Solera had gone to the Bull band. With a child, a boy with big, dark eyes?

He thrust himself up on one elbow. More lamps than usual lit the tent well enough to make details clear. Radovin lay on his back close by him but not quite touching. Ottavar gazed at the slumbering face with no immediate distractions, the dream fresh in his mind.

The sleep-softened features melded with his vision of mother and child. How could he have overlooked it? The resemblance to Solera was disturbing. Except for that beak of a nose...Kayotar!

A whirling snow of questions added to the drift already heavy on his mind. Ottavar lay back again and watched shadows deepen while one lamp guttered out and another began to fail.