The Snowmelt River (The Three Powers) (17 page)

A Council of Life and Death

Haltingly, at times with his hands running through his hair in frustration, Alan did his best to explain what he had learned from the shaman. The friends were standing out on deck, so scared that they were scarcely aware of the bitter wind that numbed every inch of their exposed skin.

“Oh, Alan!” Kate put her arms around him, squeezing him tight.

“Oh, Alan, my foot!” Mark was less comforting. “You Americans have just the term for it—
bullshit
!”

“Mark,” said Kate, “I’m warning you!”

“Hey, Kate, it’s okay. Mark’s right. I can see how that’s exactly how it must sound. All I can tell you guys is exactly what I saw and heard, just as it happened.”

Even as Mark’s face creased with disbelief, a bell began to peal out over the ice-bound lake, and the boat
people began to gather, putting down whatever they were doing and streaming towards the galleon. Kate clasped Alan’s hand. She didn’t need to tell him how frightened she was.

Mo was equally shocked, and puzzled. “Thu-thu-this . . . ?” She pointed at the triangle in Alan’s brow.

“‘The soul eye,’ the shaman called it.”

Kate spoke for herself and Mo. “You really can understand what people are saying through it?”

Alan shrugged. “I’m just doing my best to explain what I saw and heard. I’m not sure I believe it myself.” He hesitated, hardly daring to tell them what he now suspected. “I . . . well, I think that sometimes I can read some of what people are thinking—what’s in their minds.”

The three others stared at him dumbstruck. Then Kate grew excited. “It must be terrifying.”

“You’re right—it is.”

“But if it’s true—I mean, think about it! Do you think Granny Dew might have put some similar kind of magic into our crystals?”

“Who knows? Maybe it’s possible.”

Kate looked down at the egg-shaped crystal given to her by Granny Dew. She pored over its subtle shades of green, and the complex whorls and patterns within the green which were constantly metamorphosing, like the whirling of autumn leaves in the wind. Mo suddenly grew tearful and Kate understood, putting her arm around her shoulders. “We were all given crystals, except for Mo. Poor Mo—why was she left out?”

Alan could only shrug. “I haven’t a clue. I guess, maybe, because she didn’t have a cell phone.”

“That hardly seems fair.”

“I’m not sure fairness counts for much here.” But then he sighed and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Who knows, it might be more of a blessing to have no crystal!”

But there was no time for further discussion. Several Olhyiu arrived to herd the four friends down onto the ice, leading them to where the great ship was becalmed. They escorted them up the gangway that led to the center deck of the galleon, which extended to at least a hundred and fifty feet in length and forty feet in breadth, with balustraded sides over all the different levels of the decks, and overhead a complicated maze of snow-grimed rigging. There were huge raised sections of deck at the fore and aft, with a stretch of mid-section in between. It was toward the rear raised section they were now being herded, passing under a massive carved arch, from the apex of which hung a brass bell that was still faintly vibrating from the summoning. Two heavy doors were thrown open onto a broad staircase and they descended under a circular carving of a whale leaping out of the ocean over two crossed harpoons; given what Kemtuk had told him, Alan assumed this symbolized the Children of the Sea and their former freedom to fish the oceans.

But now that Alan was close enough to witness the complexity of the galleon’s art and engineering, he
couldn’t help but wonder how these unsophisticated people could possibly have built it.

Where the other boats, like Kemtuk’s, were simple and functional, masted for a single leather sail, this giant stirred feelings of wonder and awe in him. It was piloted by a great wheel and driven by a complexity of rigging that must have demanded great navigational skill. Every square foot of the superstructure was exquisitely carved, as if by master craftsmen. Exotic birds and butterflies preened and fluttered their wings. Shoals of fish darted through a labyrinth of coral and seaweed. Other panels depicted what appeared to be mythological creatures of the land, sea and air, at play amid forests, against a vista of mountains and sky, yet all captured with an artistry that seemed out of keeping with the simple fisher folk and their other boats.

He knew from Kemtuk that they called it the “Temple Ship,” a good name for a cathedral dedicated to Akoli, the Creator, which also appeared to be their word for the sperm whale.

At the bottom of the staircase they were led into a great chamber with a low ceiling. The room was so dark it needed the additional illumination of oil lamps, which reflected now in the eyes of many faces. The whole village appeared to be here, and now the arrival of the four strangers among them threw the Olhyiu into an excited murmuring. There was a strong odor of sweaty bodies.

The Olhyiu were sitting cross-legged on the bare planks of the floor. The crowding was so dense that
those in the nearest row could have reached out and touched them. Alan noticed that the older men and women, presumably the elders of the tribe, were gathered closer to the front. The walls, between murals, were festooned with carved oars, ornamental maces and clubs. As his eyes grew more accustomed to the gloom, he saw that the murals depicted the history of the Olhyiu. Whale hunts he recognized from boats similar to those around the frozen lake. He could see that in better times their lives had depended on the whale: for the oil that burned in their lamps, for meat, even for the brackets that supported the oil lamps, which were constructed from its bones. But he also picked up something more: the sense that the whale was revered as well as hunted. One of the murals showed a community on its knees, praying by the carcass of a sperm whale in what appeared to be a vigil of atonement.

The council waited until the excitement settled. Now the four friends were made to turn around and face a long table, on the other side of which a committee of three men and a woman were settling into place. Alan recognized their leader as the thickset ginger-haired giant with the dense brown side-whiskers. This had to be Siam, chief of the tribe, and Turkeya’s father.

With shock, Alan saw that Siam was carrying the Spear of Lug, which he placed on the table in front of him.

The shaman, Kemtuk, was seated to Siam’s left. Farther to the left was the weasel-faced man with the cruel eyes. To Siam’s right was a tall and elegant woman with
snowy white hair framing an ivory-colored face. Her regal head, above a slender neck, was tattooed in whorls and lines of slate and silver, drawing Alan’s attention to her lustrous jade-green eyes. She had to be Siam’s wife, co-leader of the Olhyiu. Behind the table, and running almost the length of the wall, was an enormous lance. The blade of pitted black steel was four feet long and the heavy weathered shaft twice that. Attached to the neck with twisted leather thongs were two huge floats made out of inflated seal skins.

A whaling harpoon!

It made Alan see the chief in a different light: the huge man balancing barefoot in the prow of a seagoing canoe, pitching and tossed by the elements, the massive blade hefted in both his hands. The fierce courage.

There was a sudden powerful pulse in the triangle on his brow. It caused Alan to look at the thin man, Snakoil Kawkaw, who was staring at him with undisguised hatred in his coal-black eyes.

Siam brought the proceedings to order. Raising his voice above the shuffling and coughing, he addressed Alan in a deep growl. “I am assured that you understand these words I speak to you. Then understand this,
huloima
. It is unprecedented for strangers to be allowed entry into the Temple Ship. For this honor you may thank the sage of this tribe, Kemtuk Lapeep.”

The big man paused, as if awaiting Alan’s reaction.

Alan paused, realizing that the word
huloima
meant more than just strangers—it was something more akin
to “aliens.” He needed to allay their suspicions. He said, “I would like to ask a favor. My companions do not speak your language. Will you let me explain to them what is happening?”

“So be it.”

Alan noticed that the shaman nodded, as if to acknowledge Siam’s response to be reasonable.

The chief continued. “The Tilikum Olhyiu are gravely alarmed. For strangers to arrive among us in such times—are these not days of the gravest peril? We demand that you give an account of yourself and your arrival among us.”

While Alan translated this for the benefit of his friends, his alien language provoked a rising hubbub from the Olhyiu. Kemtuk called out to the people to be silent and to allow the strangers to speak among themselves. He put a wide-eyed urgency into his gaze as it fell upon Alan, whose heart shrank at the look, though he couldn’t bring himself to explain it to his friends. He realized now that this was a court that would decide if they lived or died. He took a deep breath, to allow his thoughts to calm down, and then he summarized the events that had brought them here. He described how the four friends had come together, whether by fate or accident, in a small town in another world. He described the mountain, Slievenamon, and its calling, and the common dreams that had brought them here, to a destiny they themselves did not understand.

There was a renewed outbreak of murmuring, with several cries of derision.

The chief silenced his people again with a blow of his huge open hand on the table. “Huloima, you speak of ominous and disquieting things. I am a simple fisherman. Who, I ask myself, would wish to come here to these starveling lands? Strangers, you say, with no given purpose? Such an arrival might herald mischief. We have no food to spare. Our children run wild in the woods, scratching for pine nuts to fill the emptiness in their bellies. I demand that you stop this lying and confess the truth. What is the real reason you have come here among us?”

Alan had to control his rising sense of unease, remembering the words of caution from the shaman. “You’re right. We are strangers here. We didn’t ask to come to this world. We appear to have been chosen by others—other forces—whether we like it or not.”

When he gave his friends a summary of this, Mark was the one who most vehemently shook his head. “For God’s sake! Tell them some yarn they’re likely to believe.”

Siam spoke again, his growl deepening. “You speak of a destiny that remains a mystery to you, and yet there is much that implies a hidden purpose to your coming here among us. How then did you survive in the wilderness? What was the nature of those strange coverings of spiderwebs you wore when first you arrived among us?”

Hoisting the Spear of Lug off the table, Siam held it aloft, so all could behold it. Alan could see the Ogham
inscriptions in the spiral of the blue-black spearhead glowing brightly, as if they had taken on a power of their own.

“All can see this is no ordinary weapon. What sinister magic governs the blade you have brought among us?”

Alan explained how his grandfather had forged the spear, and told of their arrival into the world and how they had found themselves within the cave receiving the attentions of the strange old woman. Siam stiffened, as if apprehensive.

It was Kemtuk, speaking quietly, who continued the interrogation. “What was the nature of this old woman, who took it upon herself to save the lives of strangers?”

“I don’t know who or what she was. But when she spoke her name it sounded like ‘Granny Dew.’ Yet I can’t pretend to understand the things she did. In our world we have a word for what she did—we call it ‘magic.’ Magic is a thing that can be seen and felt and yet cannot be explained.”

From behind him Alan heard more raucous shouts. When he turned to look at them, he saw people shaking their fists. As the uproar deepened, he turned once more to address the four leaders behind the table.

“Everything I have told you is the truth. My friends and I owe our lives to this old woman, though I don’t know who or what she represents to you.”

It seemed to be the moment that Snakoil Kawkaw had been waiting for. Rising to his feet, he had to bow his head to accommodate his height in the low-ceilinged
chamber, he extended a claw-like hand toward Alan’s face. “Now we know the extent of this treachery. Not only does he bring danger of reprisal against us from the Storm Wolves, but he profanes the faith of the people.” With a lightning move, Kawkaw drew a long-bladed dagger from his side and he made a sudden lunge toward Alan, but was restrained by the powerful arm of the chief.

It took all of the authority of Kemtuk to impose calm upon the murmuring and gesticulating crowd.

The shaman held up his right hand and there was a quiet gravity in his words. “The Olhyiu know better than to listen to the words of a thieving crow. Do we not hear in the very innocence of this Mage Lord’s words that here before us is the heralded one of the prophecy? Yes, I call him Mage Lord, for such all my senses proclaim him to be. All know of the blasphemy of the High Architect, Ussha De Danaan. Yet though many now revile her, the knowledgeable few have suspected wisdom and purpose in her abandoning Ossierel to rape and plunder. Did she not cast the prophecy in her dying breath, an omen so profound as to make the earth tremble! So the true believers among us, those who know and revere the De Danaan lineage, have refused to believe her capable of cowardice. And that faith has kept a single hope alive. The heralded one, a child who would come out of the snow, will save us. This youth, Alan Duval, and his friends, have surely come from an alien world to redeem Monisle from persecution.”

The shouts quickly settled to a murmuring as the Olhyiu people discussed among themselves what Kemtuk had told them.

Taking to his feet once more, Siam pounded the table, this time with what looked like a sledgehammer fist. His eyes stared directly into Alan’s. “What do you have to say to this?”

Alan shrugged. “I don’t understand this soul eye, as the shaman calls it.”

“Hah!” Siam raised his voice to a roar, addressing the entire gathering of his people. “Then we are left to decide for ourselves. Only one of our senior councillors is right, the other wrong. Which is it to be—the shaman, Kemtuk Lapeep, or the hunter and tracker, Snakoil Kawkaw? We must take care in arriving at a common view, for many lives hang in the balance.”