Prophecy (7 page)

As he reached the apex of the climb, he could feel the effect. Muscles ached and trembled, sweat poured off him. When he was on the ridge that formed a shelter, he paused momentarily, hungrily gulping in air while still being cautious.

Feeling more like his old self, he edged forward and carefully looked over the lip of the rock ledge.

What he saw almost made him exclaim in surprise.

Beneath, sheltered in the shadow of the outcropping, stood a small ville of tepees. The dyed and patterned cloth shelters, supported on constructs of wood, num
bered nine. An equal number of horses was tethered a short distance away. The tepees were circled around the remains of a fire: it was this that had scented to Jak, along with the horses. Six men sat around the now dead fire, each with his head bent and perfectly still, as though in meditation. Perhaps they were.

That left three men missing.

Jak slowly rolled over so that he could see behind where he lay. The missing three men were behind him. Two had their long black hair in plaits that they wore loose. The other had his hair, unplaited, held back by a bandanna. All three wore vests of a tanned leather, festooned with feather and clay decorations. Their pants were of the same tanned leather, but were not decorated, except by colored thread in the stitching. Their moccasins were battered and hardy.

They carried no weapons, and they stood in a loose, easy manner that showed no obvious threat. But each man was stocky and heavily muscled. Their faces were impassive, so it was impossible to judge their intent.

Jak knew that he had been unforgivably slack in his approach to the crop, the lack of attention he had paid to his own back trail. Whatever happened now, he had to accept that he was responsible for his own position. Studying them, he could see that the one with the bandanna was closest. He would have to be the first point of attack. He could palm a knife, which would even the odds a little. Nonetheless, at such close quarters, to be outnumbered three-to-one were less than great odds. Especially as he was prone, and they were looming over him.

Jak tensed himself. Would they expect him to attack? Surprise might be all he had…

But it was Jak who was to be taken by surprise.

“White man…whiter than white man,” the Native American with the bandanna chuckled. “Legend never told us it would be like this.”

Jak had been poised to spring to his feet and take his chances. But the tone of the man's voice disarmed him. There was no malice in there; no hint of any hostility. If anything, he seemed to take the view that Jak was friend rather than foe.

Instinct would not let Jak completely let down his guard. Nonetheless, he relaxed slightly, the tension slackening in his muscles.

“We don't mean you harm,” one of the others said, “but we couldn't risk you attacking.”

Jak nodded. If he was in their position, he would act defensively. And he had to give it to them; they were good. It was a more than evenly matched standoff, and they knew it.

“What do with me now?” he asked, aware that while he was still prone he was at their mercy.

“Well, if you're not going to turn around and attack as soon as you get the chance, we were going to offer you food and shelter. You look like you could use it.”

Jak looked down at himself as he lay recumbent. He was covered in dust and dirt, with livid bruises and welts raised on his white skin by impact with rocks. Streaks of blood colored his skin. He figured that he had to look a whole lot worse than he felt.

“Why give me that?” he asked.

The three men exchanged looks. The one in the middle sighed, then scratched his chin. He was so casual that it seemed as though they were old compatriots rather than men who had just been facing off.

“Look, Whitey, it's hard to explain. Probably might sound crazy and stupe unless you know already.” He studied Jak's blank canvas of a face carefully, then continued. “Maybe you do. Don't give much away if you do. Come with us, and we'll explain.”

“Okay. Not trust you, though.”

The man with the bandanna laughed. “No more than we can trust you, right now. C'mon.”

Beckoning Jak to follow him, he turned and went back down the shallow shelf of rock, starting the climb down. He was followed by one of the others, who looked over his shoulder to ensure that Jak was following. As the albino teen got to his feet, he noted that the third man stepped back, but did not immediately follow his compatriots. He waited for Jak to move. Figuring that he would do exactly the same thing under such circumstances, Jak scrambled to his feet and followed, allowing the man to wait for him before bringing up the rear.

The two leading Native Americans were already waiting for him on the floor of the plain as he started
his descent. Knowing this, and knowing that he had another above, Jak would have waited to attack if that had been his aim. But right now, he was more concerned with discovering why these men were acting in a friendly manner toward him. With the wag noise having long since vanished into the distance, it was also a certainty that he would need to make allies to survive. At least, until such time as he was able to begin searching for his companions.

The four men made their way around the outcropping to where camp had been pitched. Those warriors who had been deep in meditation were now on their feet. As Jak was led to them, they already had food and water ready for him. It was as though they had every confidence in his compliance. As though they had been expecting him.

Jak ate and drank in silence. He was determined to give nothing away, and would wait for these men to make the first move. Were these men his captors, or his salvation? He was unsure.

When he had eaten and drunk well, they presented him with a bowl of water in which to wash. While he did, they took down the tepees and stored them on a hide sled, which they then attached to the saddle mount of one of the horses.

Once Jak had completed his ablutions, the warrior with the bandanna spoke to him. “If you ride with me, I'll explain something of what has happened while we journey to our ville.”

Jak nodded. Climbing up behind the warrior, he found
himself moving out into the middle of the line of riders. The horse with the sled took up position at the rear.

They set off across the plain, the sun now high overhead, and the heat intensifying with every mile they traveled.

After a while, the warrior with the bandanna spoke over his shoulder.

“We knew you were coming. Some had arrived, and so it was certain that the others would be nearby. It was just a question of tracking you. The one who came upon us of his volition could say little. Too long out on the plain, exposed to the elements. But if we explored in the direction from which he came, then chances were that we would find you. As it happened, we were spared the need to search as you came upon us of your own accord. Truly, we should have known that this would happen. How else could the legends be realized?”

Jak listened, but said nothing. So far, none of it really made much sense to him. This talk of legends was stupe, but if he waited long enough, he was sure that more would become clear.

So they continued. It was near nightfall, the sun descending behind a far range of hills, casting long blue-hued shadows over the sun-scorched plain, before they came upon the area that the Native Americans called their ville. Riding into the shadows, as Jak's eyes adjusted to the gloomier light, he became aware that a small ville of wigwams sat in the shelter of the hillside. The large structures, made of wood and brush woven together to form misshapen mushrooms of shelter, were
clustered close to the face of the rock, the beginning of a fire flaring and casting a glow reflected back off the rock. In this improving light, Jak was now able to see that the ville numbered more than twenty wigwams. There was also the suggestion of an opening in the rock, through which he was now able to see another source of light. Dimmer, but steady. Not natural or fire light, but something else. Electricity? Within the confines of rock, this could mean only one thing.

“Mebbe redoubt,” he breathed.

The man in front of him glanced over his shoulder. They had ridden in silence for some time, and it was as much surprise at Jak's voice, as it was at what he said, that prompted response.

“So you will say something, then? Even if it makes no sense. ‘Re'-what? Never mind, Red-eyes, it'll be talked of soon enough. Maybe the shaman can get some sense out of you.”

Jak would be ready for anything. He would bide his time and try to find out as much as he could.

As the new arrivals rode into the ville, they found themselves surrounded by men, women and children. Jak noted that while the men and boys wore their hair long, the women were the opposite. Unlike most communities, where there were no rules or conventions about this, it seemed that it was a tradition strictly observed. Grimly, he wondered how Krysty or Millie would fare in such a place.

The warrior party halted and dismounted. The throng milled around them, and there were questions about
where Jak had been found and what he had said. None of these were directed toward him, which he found amusing rather than irritating. It was as though the people were afraid to speak to him directly. He found himself being ushered through the crowd by the man he had ridden with, who brushed aside all of these queries with a few terse words. It was easy to see that Jak was considered of some importance. Mebbe, he thought, someone would soon tell him why.

He found himself being led to the wigwam that was closest to the redoubt entrance. As they approached, he noticed the following things—the wigwam to which he was being taken was larger and more ornate in its weaving than any of the others in the ville. There was little doubt in his mind now that there was a redoubt hidden by the rocks, as the open entrance was unmistakable, down to the support pillars in the interior tunnel, and the entry pad and sec door mechanisms that were visible on their approach. And there was also little doubt that the other members of the Native American tribe were in deference to the inhabitant of the large wigwam, falling back as they did.

The warrior in the bandanna stopped in front of the entrance to the wigwam, indicating that Jak do likewise. He said something in his native language, and after a few moments two men emerged from the interior of the wigwam.

Although he could not see, and did not look back, Jak could feel the people at his rear supplicate as the two men walked into the open. One was tall, barrel-chested,
and was dressed similarly to the warriors who had brought Jak into the ville. He had an aquiline nose and hooded eyes, which were as cold as a snake's as they regarded him. He was a man used to being obeyed without question. Where some men had decorative feathers and braiding in their hair, this imposing figure had enough to almost consider it a headdress. He also had scarring on his chest that suggested a number of ritualistic ordeals. Jak was familiar enough with stories of such Native American tribes to guess at such.

By contrast, the figure at his side was, perhaps, more sinister than imposing. Shorter, and much thinner, he was a wiry figure whose frame was similar to Jak's. But his skin was dark and his long hair jet-black. Or at least, it appeared to be so. There was little of it visible beneath the headdress that he wore. It was made from the skull of some animal—Jak couldn't guess which—and was covered with furs, stitched from many creatures, and of differing hues that extended past his neck and shoulders. His clothing, too, was made of animal pelts that had been dried, but not cured in the same way as the leather and hide worn by the rest of the men. It was enough to set him apart and mark him as someone with a unique role in the tribe.

This, Jak figured, had to be the shaman.

The larger of the men held up his hand in greeting. “Welcome, Red-eyes. Can't say you're what we were expecting, but then, the same is true of the other half.”

“Seems our friend doesn't know what we speak of,” the smaller man interjected wryly, taking note of the ex
pression on Jak's face. Although as impassive as ever in many ways, there was perhaps the slightest flicker of puzzlement at the larger man's words.

“Perhaps not. The prophecies never said that the messengers would know the message that they carried. I wonder if it's possible that they aren't permitted to know.”

“That to know would somehow break the spell?” the smaller man asked. He shrugged. “It's a possibility.”

Jak was starting to get angry at the way they were talking. It was as though he wasn't there. Worse, it was as though he were some animal being bought and sold at market. Or a slave. And Jak Lauren was no one's slave.

“Hey, talk about me like I'm dumb shit? Fuck you.”

Jak turned to leave. Deep down, he knew that there was no chance of his being able to make a break for it. As he made his move, he could see that the whole of the tribe—men, women and even the children—were now facing him. In the manner that they looked at him there was nothing but expectancy. And he had no idea how he could fulfill it.

But that was unimportant for the now. Beyond the faces, he could see only that the densely packed mass of flesh would be a wall of resistance that it may prove impossible to pass, particularly as he could see that male warriors among the crowd had picked up on the change in his posture. His body language now said nothing more than flight. They wouldn't be amenable to that, he was sure.

The bandanna-wearing warrior who had ridden with him stretched out a hand—a large ham of a fist—that
encircled Jak's biceps with ease. The grip was loose, but definite. It threatened to close tight at the merest behest.

Jak looked around, his eyes meeting the dark brown orbs of the warrior. In a second, he could see many things in there: the reluctance to violence; the hope that it would not come to conflict; the longing of one who has waited long for a prophecy to be fulfilled. The man did not want to fight, but would if he it was required.

That initial reluctance was all that Jak needed. Slippery like an eel, he jerked his arm from the warrior's grip before it had a chance to tighten. Reflexes just that fraction of a second too slow, the man was left clutching at air as Jak snaked behind him, a leaf-bladed knife palmed to his right hand while the left closed around the warrior's throat. A booted foot to the calf caused the man's leg to crumple, and he dropped to one knee, Jak driving a knee into his back to further bend him to his optimum position.

Red eyes darting around the crowd, seeing the warriors stiffen as they reach for knives of their own, Jak also flicked his gaze toward the chief and the shaman.

“You want him chilled? Be easy,” Jak said softly. Then he let the man go so that he slumped forward onto the ground. His constricted throat now freed, he gasped for breath, coughing hard. Jak stepped back, palming the knife once more so that it seemed to simply vanish, its hiding place within the patched camou jacket impossible to ascertain.

A small patch of empty ground had opened up around the albino hunter. The whole tribe had moved
back, unwilling to either precipitate the chilling of their warrior or to risk the wrath of the man for whom they had waited so long. Jak stood in the center, aware also that the chief and the shaman had moved back.

“Could easily have chilled him. No need. Tell me what you want, and mebbe we can talk.”

The chief, with a sideways glance at the shaman, stepped forward, slowly, hesitantly, unwilling to cause any further problem.

“Ok, Red-eyes, maybe we shouldn't have sounded like we were talking in riddles. Let's start again.” When Jak nodded, the chief gestured to the gathered tribe. “We're what used to be called the Pawnee, back before skydark. We moved onto these plains not long after the white-eyes came. They brought us the horse, and we used it to find new pastures on which to graze. We settled where we hadn't been able to before, because of what we'd gained.