Mists of Dawn (71 page)

Blackness.
Silence.
His
soul
drifted
on
an
infinite sea
of
calmness
that
had
no
waves
and
yet
washed the
shores
of
the
universe.
Mark
knew
that
he
was dead.
It
was
good
to
be
dead,
with
nothing
to
worry about
ever
again.
He
had
often
wondered
what
it would
be
like
to
die,
and
he
had
feared
it.
But
now that
it
had
happened
it
wasn’t
bad
at
all.
Very
pleasant, really,
just
drifting
on
forever
.
.
.

“Mark.”

Someone
was
calling
him.
Who
could
it
be?
He was
all
alone
on
the
sea. “Mark!”

His
uncle?
What
was
he
doing
here,
drifting
with the
dead?
But
no—his
uncle
was
thousands
of
years away.

“Mark!”

Mark
stirred.
The
vast,
unmoving
sea
dissolved
into nothingness.
 H
is
head
hurt.
He
opened
his
eyes
and there
was
the
sun
and
the
blue
sky.
He
saw
a
cloud. Mark
moaned
and
decided
that
he
was
still
alive.
He wished
that
he
were
dead
again.

“It’s
all
right,
Mark,”
said
a
voice.
It
wasn’t
his uncle,
the
voice
did
not
speak
English.
“The
quote-is
dead,
but
you
are
alive.
The
great
red
flower
will burn
through
the
heavens
many
more
times
before you
leave
us.
The
evil
spirits
had
you—they
were
dragging
you
away
across
the
Sea
of
Shadows—but
I
have brought
you
back.”

Mark’s
dazed
eyes
swam
back
into
focus
and
he
saw the
owner
of
the
voice.
It
was
Qualxen,
the
shaman. He
was
smiling
broadly,
well
pleased
with
his
success
in
driving
out
the
spirits
with
his
magic.
Mark managed
a
smile
in
return.

“You
are
the
most
powerful
medicine
man
in
all the
world,”
Mark
assured
him,
his
voice
weak
with shock.

Qualxen
positively
beamed
with
delight.
“Sleep now,”
the
shaman
whispered
soothingly.
“Sleep, sleep
.
.
.”

Mark
slept,
and
he
did
not
dream.
When
he
woke up
again,
it
was
dark.
There
was
a
robe
over
him, and
his
head
was
clear.
He
sat
up,
looking
around.

He
felt
surprisingly
good;
the
pain
in
his
side
had diminished
to
a
throbbing
ache,
and
a
careful
exploration
with
his
fingers
assured
him
that
nothing
was broken.
His
head
was
sore
where
it
had
been
hit
by the
swinging
tusk,
but
the
soreness
was
all
on
the surface.
He
felt
a
warm
glow
of
relief
wash
through him.
He
had
evidently
just
been
knocked
out,
and was
not
seriously
hurt.

Mark
got
uncertainly
to
his
feet,
taking
it
easy
at first,
and
at
once
a
shadow
detached
itself
from
the others
that
filled
the
night
and
came
to
him.

“You
are
back
with
us,”
said
a
voice.
“I
have
been watching
you.”

“Nranquar!”
Mark
said
with
surprise.
“Is
that
you?”

“Yes,
it
is
Nranquar.
The
others
are
down
below the
cliff,
cutting
up
the
meat.”