The Man from Forever (22 page)

Die.
Still staring at Eagle, she drew unwanted comparisons between its movements and that of a vulture. She'd seen them a couple of times during the past several days but hadn't given them much attention beyond acknowledging that they were a necessary part of the environment.

Not Loka! No, not Loka!

Again she bent over the warrior, her warrior, and pressed her mouth against his. Praying for some reaction from him, she nearly allowed herself to believe he'd kissed her in return, but when Eagle screamed again, she was forced to face the truth.

Loka was unconscious—maybe worse.

A need she didn't understand built inside her and forced words—sounds—from her throat. She was saying what Loka had a few minutes ago, the foreign syllables coming from a source that might be nothing more than instinct. Still, her heart had recorded them.

“Kiuka. Blaiwas. La'qi. Sloa. Kiuka.”

Frightened that Eagle might leave her and Loka, she watched every movement he made. He was now no more than twenty feet above them. Although she'd seen him this close before, her awe was no less this time. His wingspan was so great that he hid her view of Spirit Mountain. When he lifted his proud head, morning light glinted off the pure white feathers. His pristine tail caught the same light and half blinded her. If she put her mind to it, she would be able to count the feathers on the tips of his wings.
“Sloa. La'qi. Tusasa's.”

Eagle dipped one wing low enough that it grazed the top of her head. A thrill shot through her at that, tempered almost immediately by her concern for Loka. Still, the despair she'd felt earlier didn't return. Either that or she'd become mesmerized by Eagle and the sounds coming from her throat.
“La'qi. Sloa.”

Again Eagle touched her.
“Kiuka,”
she whispered.
“Blaiwas. Blaiwas,
I love you.
He
needs you.”

Eagle might have been doing nothing more than stretching his wing to make sure he remained airborne, but she would always believe there'd been more to the movement. As he did, two large feathers separated themselves from the others and fluttered to the ground next to her. She picked them up, feeling Eagle's body warmth in their velvet surface. She held them so that Eagle could see what she'd done, but the bird was already heading upward. Not daring to breathe, she waited for him to return, but he didn't. Instead, he flew toward Spirit Mountain until he became part of the few clouds.

She became aware of the vastness of her surroundings. A few distant birds sang. A wasp darted toward her and she
brushed it away, only then remembering that she still held the feathers. She ran her fingers over the glossy black, feeling something—something beyond her comprehension. Opening her mouth, she tried to chant again, but the sounds that had come so effortlessly a minute ago now deserted her. Frightened, she looked down at Loka, thinking to ask him to help her. If he'd seen Eagle, he gave no sign. His eyes remained closed. She didn't breathe herself until she saw his chest rise and fall. Although she was able to protect his face and chest from the sun, his legs were exposed. It was still morning, but before much longer the sun would punish him with all its strength-sapping fierceness. She had to drag him into the shade and then find water and help for him.

Only, water was miles away, and he wouldn't let anyone else touch him.

“You can't die.” She wanted to be strong for him because maybe then he would continue to fight, but she felt played out, frightened and sick at the thought that he might not see tomorrow. When a wasp tried to land on his chest, she waved it away with one of the two feathers.

Two feathers.

Although her eyes remained fixed on Loka, an image began forming inside her and her thoughts went back to when Loka had shown her Wa'ash. There'd been so many wall drawings that they all ran together in her mind.

Except for one.

Concentrating, she waited for the drawing to become clearer. There had been two figures, one a man lying on the ground just as Loka was now. The other represented a shaman—Loka had told her that. In his hands, the shaman held two eagle feathers. The patient's eyes had been opening because they were sacred feathers and the patient had believed in their power.

Loka believed.

She held the feathers in front of her. Eagle had come, not just because she and Loka had called to him, but because he wanted to give her a piece of himself. If she never understood
another thing in life, she understood that now. She wasn't a shaman; she would never have a shaman's knowledge. But she loved Loka, and that was all she could give him.

Love. Placing the feathers on the ground beside Loka, she carefully drew the other two out of her hair. She kissed one and then the other, briefly held them up toward Spirit Mountain. Then, acting out of an instinct older than anything except maybe the land itself, she placed them on top of Loka's head and held them there. She closed her eyes so she could concentrate on chanting, but after a few seconds, the need to see Spirit Mountain and beyond that a glimpse of Mount Shasta made her open them.

His life is in your hands. He can't die; he can't. He's all that's left—the last warrior. I need him. Everything he knows about the Maklaks can't die with him. He deserves a tomorrow. Please.

She didn't know who she was praying to, maybe Eagle, maybe Kumookumts, maybe Kiuka, maybe every entity the Modocs—Maklaks—had once believed in. Warmth swirled around her; she knew it didn't come from the sun. Giving herself up to the warmth, she imagined that she and Loka were again heading toward Spirit Mountain, only they weren't walking as they'd done before. This time they floated on the same wind currents that sustained Eagle. She heard or thought she heard Wolf howl, crickets, a whirling, whispering sound that must be the wind. Although she listened carefully, she didn't hear either Owl or Coyote, proof that all danger was gone.

In her mind, someone waited for them on the butte. When they were finally close enough, she took in the figure's painted mask, leathered hands clutching pristine eagle feathers. Kiuka, the first shaman.

After breaking free of the image long enough to assure herself that she still held the eagle feathers exactly as they'd been in the ancient drawing, she again concentrated on Kiuka. He stood with his arms uplifted as Loka had done before he
collapsed. The sounds coming from his throat were those Loka, and she, had used.

He is in your hands. Yours and Eagle's. If you need him with you in your world, so be it. But I believe he belongs here. With me. Both safeguarding and sharing Wa'hash with those he trusts. Loving me.
She faltered at the last but wasn't sorry she'd spoken the truth. Loka's life was up to Kiuka; she had absolutely no doubt of that. Mesmerized, she listened to the wind-borne song. Once, when the notes briefly died, she heard Wolf. His howl hung in the air, a lilting cry that seemed to have been alive since the beginning of time.

She looked around for the predator but couldn't see him.

Someday, she prayed, she'd gaze at the owner of those plaintive yet peaceful notes.

Wa'hash. Although the heat continued unabated, a cavelike coolness touched her nerve endings and eased her journey into the sacred place. Nothing of her sense of wonder from that first time had lessened. Again, awe, admiration, reverence washed over her as her mind's eye recorded each and every drawing, each ancient and telling symbol. But this time, instead of wanting the world to know what existed beneath the earth, she accepted it for what it was. A people's legacy.

This is your place, Kiuka. Yours and Kumookumts's. I feel blessed because I've seen it, but it isn't mine. I have no right saying what will be done with it. Wa'hash belongs to the ages. If that's how you want it to remain, I accept your wisdom.

Kiuka stopped chanting. Despite the distance between them, she had no doubt of the message in his eyes. He had heard her. But did he believe?

Loka moved, stole her thoughts. She lowered her gaze. His eyes were open and clear, and he no longer looked pale as death. “Kiuka,” she whispered. “He's on Spirit Mountain.”

“He waits for me.”

“No,” she told him with conviction. “He knows you can't reach him. He—he comes to you through me.”

“You believe?”

Emotion clogged her throat and made it impossible for her to utter a word. Still, she trusted her eyes to speak for her. After a few minutes during which the air remained full from Kiuka's chanting, Loka brought her hands to his mouth. When he saw the feathers she still clutched, a smile touched his lips. “You remembered.”

“That that was how a believer could be healed? Yes.”

“It is not enough, Tory.”

“Not enough?” Fear reasserted itself, but there was strength in Loka's fingers and his eyes remained bright.

“Belief must be total. You as well as me.”

“Me?” She hung on the word they both needed to hear, the finality of it, the conviction. “Yes. Me, too.” She glanced up at Spirit Mountain, but Kiuka was no longer there. She could still hear him and Wolf, or maybe their songs now existed inside her.

Maybe they always had.

She helped Loka sit. He was no longer bleeding. The day's heat beat down on her, but it no longer made her feel light-headed and half-sick.
Something
had happened here today. She might never put a name to it, not because it defied her comprehension, but because believing in the power of the first Maklaks shaman belonged in her heart, not her mind.

“I prayed for you.” She couldn't take her eyes off him. “I don't know what I said. The words didn't make any sense. But it didn't matter. Whatever it took to keep you from dying—”

“I heard you.”

“Did you?” A tiny white butterfly flitted near his dark hair. If Loka wasn't holding her hands, she would have seen if she could get it to land on her finger. “I was so scared you were dying. Then I saw and heard Kiuka, and I was no longer afraid. When I heard Wolf, the sound strengthened me.”

“I felt your strength.” He ran his fingers up her forearms, her shoulders, gently caressed the sides of her neck. “Here.” He pressed his thumb against the pulse at the base of her
throat. “And here.” He covered her heart with a hand that could once again hunt and fish, and make love to her.

Echoing what he'd done, she placed her hand over his naked chest. Muscles roped it and sheltered his heart but didn't keep her from feeling its beat. Warmth flowed over her. This time, she knew, the heat came from him. Staring into his eyes, she believed he felt the same thing, because he understood her love for him.

“You couldn't die,” she told him. “It wasn't time. Kiuka wouldn't let you.”

“It was not Kiuka who kept me in this world.”

He was right. He had been pulled back from the brink of death because he wasn't the only one who had been touched by Kiuka, Eagle and Wolf. He was no longer alone in that, would never climb Spirit Mountain by himself again.

“Kiuka trusts you, Tory,” he whispered. “Eagle does, too. And Wolf.”

“I—know.”

“It is because they know I carry you within my heart.”

His heart.

S
ummer's heat hadn't yet given way to cool fall, but Tory didn't feel the sun as she sat on one of the rocks that made up the dance ring. Miles away, tourists drove slowly over the park's single road, but she and the others were safe from prying eyes. She couldn't help but smile. If park personnel ever learned about the underground tunnel that allowed Modocs to come here undetected, they would undoubtedly add it to the list of attractions.

But the secret would remain safe until Loka and the other Modocs decided that the time for sharing had come. And it would be done in their way.

Loka, magnificent in his loincloth and sun-kissed flesh, turned in a slow circle as he addressed one Modoc child after another. Their looks of awe left no doubt that they were fascinated by stories of ancestors who'd survived harsh winters because they'd had the wisdom to gather and hunt during the generous summers. They loved to hear about Bear and Wolf, occasionally looking around with wide-eyed wonder.

“Maybe the time will come when they'll see Bear and Wolf and the others, when they fully understand.”

Tory nodded to acknowledge what Black had said but didn't take her eyes off Loka. His wound was nearly healed. In every way that counted, in every way that mattered to her, he had recovered.

Loka had been pointing toward Spirit Mountain, but he stopped with his arm in the air and all eyes on him to look down at her. His smile, intimate and knowing, held for several seconds. Instead of blushing, she lovingly returned his gaze. He spent his days sharing his wisdom with the area's Modocs. She didn't resent a moment of his time and loved watching him emerge from his long isolation as both children and adults embraced him. At night—the nights belonged to them.

“You're sure he wants to do this?” Black asked when Loka returned to his storytelling. “You're going to be able to get him in a car? Into modern clothes?”

“Oh, yes. He believes as I now do that only Indians have a right to the Alsea site. We'll be going there next week. He's told me what he intends to say. His words are so eloquent, so powerful. They come from his heart, from an earlier time. Once the court hears him, I think they'll rule in favor of the Indians.”

“It'll cost you your job.”

“I don't care,” she said, meaning it. “Black, you know what it's like to want to learn everything you can about ancient ways and beliefs. That's the way it is for me, too, now. The time will come when I'll know how to convey that to this generation. When Loka and I will do it together. But for now, I'm content to be a student.”

“Hmm. That and embrace the last warrior.”

The last warrior.
Loka bent before a small boy so the child could touch the baby's cradle he carried. Boy and man locked eyes, and Tory saw, not grief for the son Loka had lost, but love for this child. Loka might be the last of a once-proud
people, but he now lived in today. Loved in today. Was finding a place for himself in this generation.

Unconsciously, she spread her hand over her stomach. Next week she and Loka would travel to the Oregon coast. Just looking at him, feeling his pride and passion, she had no doubt that he would succeed in what he was determined to accomplish. The university and its staff wouldn't be the ones to uncover the Alsea past; Indians would.

Once their work on the coast was done, they would return here, he to continue introducing modern-day Modocs to their heritage, she to bring their child into the world. She intended to continue as an anthropologist, but from now on her focus would be on the magical, mystical world that sustained Loka and had been his people's most essential element.

The last warrior? With their son growing inside her, that was no longer true.