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"It can change shape."
"It's still got to move in order to make progress. That
makes it a target. Billy's armed now. It won't have it as easy
as you seem to think."
"Then why'd you decide to come?"
"I don't like to see any outsider chasing Navis on our
land. And I couldn't let a Sioux have the first shot at the
thing."
Without Yellowcloud, I wouldn't be worth much out here,
Ironbear told himself. Even the little kids around here must
know more than I do about getting around in this terrain,
tracking, hunting, survival. I'm a damn fool for butting into
this at all, physically. The only things I know about being an
Indian come from Alaska, and that was a long time ago. So
why am I here? I keep saying I like Singer, but why?
Because he was some kind of a hero? I don't really think
that's it. I think it's because he's an old-style Indian, and
because my father might have been that way. At least I think
of him that way. Could I be trying to pay off a debt of guilt
here? It's possible, I guess. And all of my music had an
Indian beat to it....
The car slowed, worked its way into the shelter of a stone
outcrop, came to a halt. The snow had turned back to rain, a
slow, cold drizzle here.
"Are we there?" he asked.
"Almost," Yellowcloud replied. "There's an easy way
down near here. Well, relatively easy. Let me get us some
lights and I'll show you."
Outside, they donned small packs and slung their weap-
ons. Yellowcloud shined his light toward the canyon.
"Follow me," he said. "There was a slide here a few years
ago. Made a sort of trail. We'll be more sheltered once we
reach the bottom."
Ironbear fell in behind him and they made their way to the
rim of the canyon. Its floor was invisible, and the rocks
immediately before him looked jagged and slippery. He said
nothing, and shortly they began the descent, Yellowcloud
playing his light before them.
As they climbed, the force of the rainfall lessened, until
about halfway down they entered the full rainshadow of the
wall and it ceased entirely. The rocks were drier and the
pace of their descent increased. He listened to the wind and
the noises of the rain.
Moving from rock to rock, he came, after a time, to
wonder whether there was indeed a bottom. It began to seem
as if they had been descending forever and that the rest of
time would be a simple repetition of the grasping and lower-
ing. Then he heard Yellowcloud call out, "Here we are!"
and shortly thereafter he found himself standing on the
canyon's floor, stony shapes distorted and flowing in the
blacklight.
"Just stay put for a minute," Yellowcloud said. "I don't
want any trails messed up." Then, "Can you use that trick of
yours to tell whether there's anyone nearby?" he asked.
"There doesn't seem to be," Ironbear replied a few mo-
ments later.
"Okay. I'm going to use a normal light for a while here.
Make yourself comfortable while I see what I can turn up."
Several minutes passed while Ironbear watched Yellow-
cloud's slowly moving light as the other man studied the
ground, ranging farther and farther ahead, passing from left
to right and back again. Finally Yellowcloud halted. His
figure straightened. He gestured for Ironbear to come along,
and then he began walking.
"Got something?" Ironbear asked, coming up beside
him.
"He's been this way," he answered. "See?"
Ironbear nodded as he regarded the ground. He saw
nothing, but he read the recognition of signs within the
other's mind.
"How long ago was he by here?"
"I can't say for sure. Doesn't really matter, though. Come
on."
They hiked for nearly a quarter-hour- in silence before
Ironbear thought to inquire, "Have you seen any signs of his
pursuer?"
"None. A few dog tracks here and there are the only other
things. It couldn't be that size, from what you told me."
"No. It's got a lot more mass."
Yellowcloud ignored the false signs at Twin Trail Canyon
and continued along the northeasterly route of the main gap.
There was a hypnotic quality to the steady trudging, the
unrolling trail of rock, puddle, mud, shrub. The cold was not
as bad as it might have been with the wind softened as it was,
but the numbness Ironbear began to feel was more a mental
thing. The waters splashed and gurgled past. His arms
swung and his feet strode in a near mechanical fashion.
... Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes...
The wind seemed to be talking to him, seemed to have
been talking to him for a long while, lulling words, restful
within the routine of the movements.
... Lull, lull, lull, lull. Yes, rest, yes, rest, yest, yest,
yest...
It was more than the wind and the rhythm, he suddenly
knew. There was someone -
Yes. Yes.
Power. Blackness. Death. It walked at his back. The
thing. The beast. It was coming.
Yes. Yes.
And there was nothing he could do about it. He could not
even slow his pace, let alone deviate from his course. It had
him completely in its power, and so deftly had it taken
control of him that he had not even felt the insinuation of its
presence. Until now, when it was far too late.
Yes. Yes, son of cities. You seem different from this other
one, and both of you block my way. Keep walking. I will
catch up with you soon. It will not matter then.
Ironbear tried again to turn aside, but his muscles refused
to obey him. He was about to probe Yellowcloud's mind to
see whether the other man had yet become aware of his
condition. He held back, however. The creature somewhere
to the rear was exerting a form of telepathic control over his
nervous system. He could not tell whether it was also
reading his thoughts. Perhaps. Perhaps not. He wanted to
keep his own telepathic ability away from its awareness if he
possibly could. Why, he was not certain. But he felt -
He heard a sound to the rear. A dislodged stone turning
over, it seemed. He knew that if he did not break free in a
few moments nothing that he felt would matter anymore. It
would all be over for him. Everything. The beast Singer
called Cat was almost upon him.
His feet continued their slow, steady movements. He tried
to visualize Cat, but he could not. A malevolent shadow with
sinuous movements... a large eye drifting like a moon...
The images came and departed. None seemed adequate for
the approaching beast - powerful, fearless...
Fearless?
An image leaped to mind, a question keeping it company:
How strong a mental impression could he project? Fisher
could create solid-seeming illusions with ease. Could he .
manage with a fraction of that verisimilitude if he backed
it with everything he had? Perhaps just enough to discon-
cert?
There was no real pause, though, between the idea and the
effort. The speculation ran simultaneous with the attempt,
habit of the reflective part of himself.
The sandy stretch across which he had just passed... He
projected the image of its eruption, with the shining triangu-
lar form bursting upward, lunging forward, reaching to em-
brace his pursuer....
Krel! Krel! he sent, concentrating to achieve perfection in .
its display.
He halted, feeling the panic waves from behind him,
aware of controlling his own movements once more, aware,
too, that Yellowcloud had halted.
Krel! But even as he reinforced the image with every
feeling of menace and terror with which he found himself
freshly familiar, even as he unslung the burst-gun and fitted
his hand to its grip, he realized that while his movements
were now his own he was afraid to execute the necessary
turn to face the thing which stood behind him.
The report of Yellowcloud's weapon shattered his paraly-
sis. He spun about, the burst-gun at ready.
Cat, in the light of Yellowcloud's beam, was dropping to
the ground from an erect posture, and that awful eye seemed
fixed upon his own, burning; boring.
He triggered his weapon, moving it, and dirt and gravel
blew backward from a line traced on the ground in front of
the beast.
Yellowcloud fired again and Cat jerked as he plunged
forward. Ironbear raised the muzzle of his own weapon and
triggered another burst. It stitched a wavering line along
Cat's neck and shoulder.
And then everything went silent and black as he felt the
impact of Cat's body upon his own.
They sat or lay in their rooms at the Thunderbird Lodge,
not far from the mouths of the canyons. It was as if they
were all together in one room, however, for the walls did not
impede their conversation.
Well? Elizabeth asked. What have you learned?
I'm going to try again, Fisher answered. Wait a few
minutes.
You've been at it for quite a while, Mancin said.
Sometimes there are snags - unusual states of mind that
are hard to pick up. You know.
Something's wrong, Mancin said. I've been trying, too.
Maybe we're too late, Mercy put in.
Don't be ridiculous!
I'm just trying to be realistic.
I got through to Yellowcloud's house while you were
trying for contact, Elizabeth said. His wife told me that he
and Ironbear left together some time ago. They went over to
the canyon, she said.
After Singer? Mancin asked.
She wouldn't say any more about it. But why else?
Indeed.
I'm going to try again now, Fisher said.
Wait, Elizabeth told him.
Why?
You're not getting anywhere by yourself.
You mean we should get together again and try?
Why not? That is why we're here. To work together.
Do you think Sands... ? Mancin began.
Probably, Elizabeth said.
Yes, Mercy said. But he wouldn't hurt us.
Well, you're right about why we're here, Mancin said to
Elizabeth.
And if we can't locate Jimmy? Fisher said. What then?
Try again with Singer, Elizabeth said. Perhaps this time
he'll listen.
Now you travel your own trail, alone.
What you have become, we do not know.
What your clan is now, we do not know.
Now, now on, now, you are something not of this world.
Walking. Through the silver and black landscape. Slow
here. Confuse the way. As if for an ambush from behind
those rocks. Erase the next hundred feet or so with a branch
of shrubbery. Good. Go on. The way is clear. Vaguely red-
and-white flecked. Walking. Skyflash mirrored in waters
twisting. Faint drumbeat once again. Consistency of wind-
sound within the slant of walls. Small spray glassmasking
face here, eyelash prisms spectrumbreaking rainbows geo-
metric dance of lights. Wipe. Shadows leapback. Coyotedog
smile fading between the light and the dark. Cross here,
splashing. Wherever trail runs follow the feet. Around.
Over. Masked dancers within the shadows, silent. Far, far to
the rear, a faint green light. Why look back? To turn is to
embrace. Climb now. Descend again. It narrows soon, then
widens again. A thing with many eyes sits upon a high ledge
but does not stir. Frozen, perhaps, or only watching. Louder
now the drumbeat. Moving to its rhythms. Fire within the
heart of a stone. Rain yei bending, bridgelike, from above to
below. Birdtracks behind a mooncurved wall. Thighbone of
horse. Empty hogan. Half;burned log. Touch the mica that
glistens like pollen. Remember the song the old man -
... Singer.
Faint, faint. The wind or its echo. Tired word of tired
breath.
Billy Blackhorse...
Across again now, to that rocky place.
I feel you - up there, somewhere - tracker...
Something. Something he should remember. This journey.
To follow his trail. But.
Your friends did not stop me. I am still coming, hunter.
Ghost of the echo of the wind. Words in his head. Old
friends, perhaps. Someone known.
Why do you not answer me? To talk gives nothing away.
Ghost-cat, chindi-thing. Yes. Cat.
I am here, Cat.
And I follow you.
I know.
It is a good place you have chosen.
It chose me.
Either way. Better than cities.
Billy paused to muddle his trail, create the impression of
another possible ambush point.
... Coming. You cannot run forever.
Only so far as I must. You are hurt...
Yes. But not enough to stop me. We will meet.
We will.
I feel you are stronger here than you were before.
Perhaps.
Whichever of us wins, it is better this way than any other.
We are each of us the last of our kind. What else is there for
us?
I do not know.
It is a strange country. I do not understand everything
about it.
Nor do I.
Soon we will meet, old enemy. Are you glad that you ran?
Billy tried hard to think about it.
Yes, he finally said.
Billy thought of the song but knew that it was not the time
to sing it. Thunder mumbled down the canyon.
You have changed, hunter, since last we were this close.
I know where I'm going now, Cat.
Hurry then. I may be closer than you think.
Watch the shadows. You may even be nearer than you
think.
Silence. The big widening and a clear view far ahead. He
halted, puzzled, suddenly able to see for a great distance.
Like a ribbon, his trail led on and on and then wound
upward. He did not understand, but it did not matter. He
broke into his ground-eating jog. In the darkness high over-
head, he heard the cry of a bird.
Farther yet, he returns with me, Nayenezgani,
spinning his dark staff for protection.
The lightnings flash behind him and before him.
To the ladder's first rung,
to the Emergence Place
he returns with me;
and the rainbow returns with me
and the talking ketahn teaches me.
We mount the ladder's twelve rungs.
Small blue birds sing above me,
Cornbeetle sings behind me.
Hashje-altye returns with me.
I will climb Emergence Mountain,
Chief Mountain, Rain Mountain,
Corn Mountain, Pollen Mountain....
Returning. Upon the pollen figure to sit.
To own the home, the pre, the food,
the resting ploce, the feet, the legs, the body,
to hold the mind and the voice, the power
of movement. The speech, that is blessed.
Returning with me. Gathering these things,
Climbing. Through the mists and clouds,
the mosses and grasses,
the woods and rocks, the earth,
of the four colors. Returning.
"Grandchild, we stand upon the rainbow."
RUNNING. THE WIND AND WA-
ter-sounds now a part of the drumbeat. Path grown clearer
and clearer. Blood-red now and dusted as with ice flakes.
The ground seemed to shake once, and something like a
tower of smoke rose before him in a twisting at the side of
the trail. Changing colors, the pillar braided itself as it
climbed, and five shifting faces took form within it. He
recognized his guardian spirits.
"Billy, we have come to ask you again," they said in a
single voice. "The danger increases. You must leave the
trail, leave the canyon. Quickly. You must go to a place
where you will be met and taken to safety."
"I cannot leave the trail now," he answered. "It is too late
to do that. My enemy approaches. My way is clear before
me. Thank you again. There is no longer a choice for me in
this."
"There is always a choice."
"Then I have, already made it."
The smoke-being blew apart as he passed it.
He saw what appeared to be the end of the trail now, and a
small atavistic fear touched him as he realized where it,
would take him. It was to the Mummy Cave, an old place of
the dead, that it ran, high up the canyon wall.
As he advanced, it seemed to grow before him, a ruin
within a high alcove. A green light played behind one of the
windows for an eyeblink and a half. And then the wind was
muffled, and then it rose again. And again. Again.
Now the sound came like the flapping of a giant piece of
canvas high in the sky. He kept his eyes upon his goal and
continued to follow his trail toward the foot of the wall. And
as he ran the sound grew louder, felt nearer. Finally it
seemed directly overhead, and he sensed each beat upon his
body. Then a dark shape moved past, through the upper air.
When he raised his eyes he beheld an enormous bird-form
dipping to settle atop the cliff wall high above the place of
the Mummy Cave. He slowed as he neared the foot of the
wall and encountered the talus slope. And he knew as he
beheld the dark thing, settling now and staring downward,
that he beheld Haasch'e'e'shzhini, Black-god, master of the
hunt. He looked away quickly, but not before he met the
merciless stare of a yellow eye fixed upon him.
Must I end this thing beneath your gaze, Dark One? he
wondered. For I am both the hunter and the hunted. Which
side does that put you on?
He mounted the slope, his eyes now following the trail
gone vertical up toward the recessed ruin. Yes, that did seem
the easiest route....
He approached the wall, took the first foothold and hand-
hold and commenced climbing.
Climbing. Slowly over the more slippery places. A strange
tingling in the palms of the hands as he mounted higher. Like
the time -
No. He halted. Everything he was was a part of the hunt.
But it was also a part of the past. Let it go. Climb. Hunt.
Position is what is important. That lesson comes with mem-
ory. Achieve it now. He drew himself higher, not looking at
the dark shadow far above, not looking back. Soon.
Soon he would enter the place of death and await his
pursuer. The running should be nearing its end. Hurry.
Important to be up there and out of sight when Cat enters the
area. Wet handhold. Grip tightly.
Glance upward. Yes. In sight now. Soon. Careful. Pull.
There.
After several minutes, he drew himself up onto a ledge,
moved to the left. Another hold. Up again.
Half crawling. Okay now. Rise again. Move toward the
wall. Enter. No green light. Over the wall...
He passed along the rear of the wall, peering through gaps
out over the floor of the canyon. Nothing. Nothing yet in
sight. Keep going. That large opening... '
All right. Halt. Unsling the weapon. Check it out. Rest it
on the ledge. Wait.
Nothing. Still nothing. The place was damp and filled with
rubble. He ran his eyes across the open spaces before him,
the entire prospect palely illuminated through screens of
phosphorescent mist. But waiting was a thing at which he
excelled. He settled with his back against a block of stone,
his eyes upon the canyon, one hand upon the weapon.
Nearly an hour passed with no changes in the scene before
him.
And then a shadow, slow, inching along the wall, far to his
left and ahead. Its creeping barely registered, until at some
point he realized that there was nothing to cast it.
He raised the weapon - it had a simple sight - and zeroed
it in on the shadow. Then he thought about the accuracy of
the thing and lowered it again. Too far. If the shadow were
really Cat he did not want to take a chance on missing and
giving away his position.
It stopped. It flowed into the form of a rock and remained
stationary for a long while. He could almost believe that the
entire sequence had been a trick of light and shadow.
Almost. He drew a bead on the rock and held it there.
You are somewhere near, Billy. I can feel you.
He did not respond.
Wherever you are, I will be there shortly.
Should he risk a shot after all? he wondered. It would take
Cat a while to assume a more mobile shape. He would
doubtless have several opportunities during that time....
Movement again. The rock shifted, flowed, reformed far-
ther along the wall.
Suffer, tracker. You are going to die. Four first shot will
betray you and I will dodge all of the successive ones. You
will see me when I am ready to be seen and you will pre it
then.
The movement commenced again, drifting toward a real
rock beneath a shelflike overhang. Within the amorphous
form the glittering of Cat's eye became visible; his limbs
began to take form.
Billy bit his lip, recalling having seen a torglind meta-
morph run up a near-vertical wall on the home planet. He
triggered the weapon then and missed.
Cat froze for a split second as the flash occurred high
overhead, then moved more slowly than Billy had antici-
pated, leading Billy to believe that the beast was indeed
injured. Cat sprang back toward a line of stones nearer the
wall. And then, realizing his mistake as he glanced upward,
his legs bunched beneath him and he sprang forward again.
But not in time.
A large slab of stone facing, blasted loose by the shot, slid
down the wall, striking the shelf beneath which Cat
crouched. Even as his feet left the ground, it descended
upon him.
Hunter! I believe - you've won.... '
Billy fired again. This time he scorched the earth ten yards
off to the right of the fall. He moved the barrel slightly to the
left and triggered the weapon again. This time the top of the
rubble heap exploded.
It seemed that he could make out a single, massive fore-
limb projected near the front of the pile. But at that distance
he could not be certain.
Was that a twitch?
He fired again, blasting the center of the heap.
The canyon rang with a massive cawing note. The flapping
sound began again, slowly. He looked up briefly and
glimpsed the shadow moving off to his right.
"It is over," he sang, head rested upon his forearm, "and
my thanks rise like smoke...."
His words trailed off as his eyes moved across the canyon
floor. Then his brow furrowed. He raised himself. He leaned
forward to peer.
"Why?" he said aloud.
But nothing answered.
The trail he had followed did not terminate at this place.
Somehow he had not noticed this earlier. It ran off to his
right, curving out of sight beyond the canyon wall, presum-
ably continuing on into the farther reaches of the place.
He slung his weapon and adjusted his pack. He did not
understand, but he would go on.
He returned to the place where he had climbed and began
his descent.
His shoulder ached. Also, it was raining on his face and a
sharp stone was poking him in the back. He was aware of
these things for some time before he realized that they meant
he was alive.
Ironbear opened his eyes. Yellowcloud's light lay upon the
ground nearby, casting illumination along a gravel slope.
He turned his head and saw Yellowcloud. The man was
seated with his back against a stone, legs straight out before
him. Both of his hands were gripping his left thigh.
Ironbear raised his head, reached out a hand, levered
himself upward.
"I live," he said, swinging into a sitting position. "How're
you?"
"Broken leg," Yellowcloud answered. "Above the knee."
Ironbear rose, crossed to the light and picked it up, turned
back toward Yellowcloud.
"Bad place for a break," he said, advancing. "Can't even
hobble."
He squatted beside the other man.
"I'm not sure what's the best thing to do," he said. "Got
any suggestions?"
"I've already called for help. My portaphone wasn't
damaged. They'll be along with a medic. Get me out of here
in a sling if they have to. Don't worry. I'll be okay."
"Why are we still alive?"
"It didn't think we were worth killing, I guess. Just an
annoyance, to be brushed aside."
"Makes you feel real important, doesn't it?"
"I'm not complaining. Listen, there's dry wood along the
wall. Get me a couple of armloads, will you? I want a fire."
"Sure." He moved to comply. "I wonder how far along '
that thing has gotten?"
"Can't you tell?"
"I don't want to get near it at that level. It can hurt you
just with its mind."
"You going after it?"
"If I can figure a way to follow it."
Yellowcloud smiled and turned his head, gesturing with
his chin.
"It went that way."
"I'm not a tracker like you."
"Hell, you don't have to be. That thing's heavy and it's
running, right out in the open. Nothing fancy. It couldn't
care less whether one of us knows where it went. You take
the light. I'll have the fire. You'll be able to see the marks it
left."
He carried over the first load of kindling, went back to
look for more. By the time he returned with the second load,
Yellowcloud had a fire going.
"Anything else I can do for you?" he asked.
"No. Just get moving."
He slung his weapon and picked up the light. When he
played the beam Up the canyon he saw the tracks readily
enough.
"And take this." Yellowcloud passed him the portaphone.
"Okay. I'll go try again."
"Maybe you ought to aim for its eye."
"Maybe I should. See you."
Good luck."
He turned and began walking. The water was a dark,
speaking thing whose language he did not understand. The
way was clear. The tracks were large.
The wind stirs the grasses.
The,snow glides across the earth.
The whirlwind walks on the mountain,
raising dust.
The rocks are ringing
high on the mountain, behind the fog.
The sun's light is running out
like water from a cracked pitcher.
We shall live again.
The snowy earth
slides out of the whirling wind.
We shall live again.
AROUND THE CURVE OF THE
canyon wall, walking. Gusts of wind here over stream grown
wider, swirling glittering particles across watersong gone
wild. Other side more sheltered but the red way lies close to
the wall, here, rising now. Ripples like rushing pictographs.
Pawprints of the perfidious one. Ice-rimed bones beside the
trail. Rabbit. Burnt hogan, green glow within. Place of
death. Shift eyes. Hurry on. Shine of crystal. Snow-streaked
wall, texture of feathers. 'Bail winding on. As far as the eye
will go. What now the quarry?
Pause to drink at the crossing of tributary streamlet
Burning cold, flavored of rock and earth. Fog bank ahead,
moving toward him, masked dancers within; about a south-
blue blaze. Rhythms in the earth. He is become a smoke,
drifting along his way, silent and featureless, rushing to
merge with that place of flux and earthdance cadence. Yes,
and be lost in it.
White and soft, smothering sounds, like that place where
he had hunted the garlett, so long ago...
Dancers to the right, dancers to the left, dancers crossing
his way. Do they even see him, invisible and spiritlike,
passing among them, along the stillbright, stillred way writ-
ten upon the ground as with fire and blood?
One draws nearer bearing something covered by a cloth
woven with an old design. He halts, for the dancer moves to
bar his way, thrusting the thing before him. It is uncovered,
displaying a pair of-hands. He stares at them. That scar near
the base of the left thumb... They are his hands.
At the recognition they rise to hover in front of him, as if
he were holding them before his face. He feels them, glove-
like, at the extremity of his spirit. He had skinned game with
them, fought with them, stroked Dora's hair with them....
He lets them fall to his sides. It is good to have them back
again. The dancer moves away. Billy swirls like a whirlwind
of snow and continues along his trail.
There is no time. A cluster of gray sticks, rising from the
earth on the slope to his right, beside the trail... He pauses
to watch as the sticks turn green, bumps appearing along
their surfaces to become buds. The buds crack, leaves
unwind themselves, turn, enlarge. White flowers come
forth.
He passes, swinging his hands. Another dancer with an-
other parcel approaches from his left.
He halts, hovering, and with his hands he accepts the gift
of his feet and restores them to their places on the ground
below him. The many miles we have come together...
Walking, again walking, upon the trail. Feeling the heart-
beat of the earth through the soles of his feet. There is no
time. Snowflakes blow upward before him. The stream has
reversed its direction. Blood flows back into the wounded
deer lying still across his way. It springs to its hoofs, turns
and is gone.
Now, like curtains, a parting of the fog. Four masked
dancers advance upon him, bearing the body that is his own.
When he wears it again, he thanks them, but they withdraw
in silence.
He moves on along the trail. The fog is shifting. Every-
thing is shifting but the trail.
He hears a sound which he has not heard in a great
counting of years. It begins off in the distance behind him
and rises in pitch as it comes on: the whistle of a train.
Then he hears the chugging. They no longer make engines
of this sort. There is nothing here for it to run on. There is -
He sees the rails paralleling his trail. That ledge ahead
seems a platform now....
The whistle sounds again. Nearer. He feels the throb of
the thing, superimposed upon the earth rhythms. A train
such as Be has not beheld in years is coming. Coming,
impossibly, through this impossible place. He keeps walk-
ing, as the sound of it fills the world. It should be rushing up
beside him at any moment.
The shriek of the whistle fills his hearing. He turns his
head.
Yes, it has come. An ancient, black, smoke-puffing dragon
of an engine, a number of passenger cars trailing behind. He
hears the screaming of its brakes begin.
He looks back to the area of the platform, to where a
single, slouched figure now stands waiting. Almost familiar...
With a clattering and the cries of metal friction the engine
draws abreast of him, slowing, slowing, and passes to halt
beside the platform. He smells smoke and grease and hot
metal.
The figure on the platform moves toward the first passen-
ger car, and he now recognizes the old dead singer who had
taught him the song. Just before boarding the man turns and
waves to him.
His gaze slides back along the coach's windows. Behind
every one is a face. He recognizes all of them. They are all
people he has known who are now dead - his mother, his
grandmother, his uncles, his cousins, two sisters...
Dora.
Dora is the only one who is looking at him. The others
stare past, talking with one another, regarding the land-
scape, the new passenger....
Dora is looking directly at him, and her hands are working
with the latches at the lower corners of the window. Almost
frantically, she is pushing and lifting.
The whistle blows again. The engine surges. He finds
himself running, running toward the train, the car, the win- .
dow....
The train jerks, rattles. The wheels turn.
Dora is still working at the latches. Suddenly the window
slides upward. Her mouth is moving. She is shouting, but
her words are lost among the noises of the train.
He shouts back. Her name. She is leaning forward out of
the window now, right arm extended.
The train is picking up speed, but he is almost beside it.
He reaches. Their hands are perhaps a meter apart. Her lips
are still moving, but he cannot hear her words. For a
moment his vision swims, and it is as if she were falling.away
from him.
He increases his pace and the distance between their
hands narrows - two feet, a foot, eight inches....
Their hands clasp, and she smiles. He matches the train's
velocity for a moment before the tension begins. Then he
realizes that he must let go.
He opens his hand and watches her rush away. He falls.
How long he lies there he does not know. When he looks
again, the train is gone. There are no tracks. There is no
platform. His outstretched arm lies within the icy stream.
Snow is falling upon him. He rises.
The big flakes drift by. The wind has died. The water
sounds are muted. He raises his hand and stares at it like a
new and unfamiliar thing within the silence.
After a long while, he turns and seeks the trail again. He
continues his journey along it.
Trudging. Alternating elation and depression, finally all
mixed together. To have caught her and then had to let her
go. To ride Smohalla's ghost-train through the snow. An-
other breaking apart. Would there be a putting together
again?
He realized then that he was traversing an enormous sand-
painting. All of the ground about him was laid out in stylized,
multicolored fashion. He walked in the footprints of the
rainbow, passing between Eth-hay-nah-ashi - Those-who-
go-together. They were the twins created in the Second
world by Begochiddy. First Man and the others had come up
from the Underworld along this route. The painting itself
was one used in Hozhoni, the Blessingway. His trail fol-
lowed the rainbow to the cornstalk, where it changed to the
yellow of corn pollen. Upward, upward along the stalk then.
The sky was illuminated by a brilliant flash as he passed
alongside the female rainbow and the male lightning. Passing
between the figures of Big Fly, heading north to the yellow
pollen footsteps.
Emerge to take up the trail again, passing the mouth of the
large canyon to the right, continuing northward. Alone,
singing. There was beauty in the falling snow. Beauty all
around him...
Admire it while you may, tracker.
Cat? You're dead! It is over between us!
Am I, now?
I touched-your limb at the place where you fell. It was stiff
and glassy. There was no life in you.
Have it your way.
Nor could anythirig have gotten out from beneath that
heap of stone.
You've convinced me. I will go back and lie down.
Billy looked backward, saw nothing but snowfall within
the canyon.
...But I'll find you first.
That shouldn't be too hard.
I am glad to hear you say that.
I like finish what I start. Hurry.
Why don't you wait for me?
I've a trail to follow.
And that is more important than me?
You? You are nothing now.
That is not too pattering. But very well. If we must meet
upon your trail again, we will meet upon your trail.
Billy checked his weapons.
You should have taken the train, he said.
I do not understand you, but it does not matter.
But it does, Billy said, rounding another rock and seeing
the trail go on.
A whirlwind of snow danced across the water. He heard
the thump of a single drumbeat.
... The blue medicine lifts me in his hand.
THE PAIN IN HIS SHOULDER
had subsided to a dull throbbing. He peered into pockets of
shadow as he passed them, wondering whether the beast
might be waiting to spring upon him, knowing the fear to be
irrational since the tracks lay clear before him - and why
should it go to the trouble of doubling back to lay in wait for
him when it could have taken an extra second to smash him
in passing back when they had met?
Ironbear cursed, still looking. His breath emerged as
plumes of steam before him. His nose was cold and his eyes
watered periodically.
Yellowcloud had been right. There was no problem at all
in following this trail. Simple and direct. Deep and clear cut.
Was that a movement to the left?
Yes. The wind stirring bushes.
He cursed again. Had his ancestors really led war parties?
So much for genetics...
Jimmy. Don't shut me out!
I won't, Charles. I can use the company.
Where are you? What's happening?
I'm in the canyon, following the thing.
We're here in Arizona, at the hotel near to where the
canyons start.
Why?
To help, if we can. You're following the beast? Is Yellow-
cloud with you?
He was, but it broke his leg. He's sent for help.
You've met it?
Yeah. Got a sprained shoulder out of the deal. Put a few
shots into the thing, though.
Were you unconscious?
Yes.
I wondered why I couldn't reach you for a while there.
Have you been in touch with Singer?
No.
We have. That's one crazy Indian.
I think he knows what he's doing.
Do you know what you're doing?
Being another crazy Indian, I guess.
I'd say.
Looks like we cross the water here.
I think you ought to get out. That's two trails you're
following, not one.
It's starting to snow now. God, I hope it doesn't cover the
tracks. Melting when it hits, though. That's good.
Sounds as if that thing almost killed you once.
They're changing shape.
The tracks?
Yeah, and moving nearer the wall. Wonder what that
means?
It means you'd better shoot at anything that moves.
Something wet and glassy here... Wonder what its blood
looks like?
How far along are you, anyway?
Don't know. My watch is broken. Seems as if I've been
walking forever.
Maybe you'd better stop and rest.
Hell, no. It's time to try jogging for a while. I've got a
feeling. I think I'm near and I think it's hurt.
I don't want to be in your mind if it gets you.
Don't go yet. I'm scared.
I'll wait.
For the next quarter-hour he felt Fisher's silent presence
as he ran beside the pleated wall. They did not converse
again until he slowed to catch his breath near a turning
place.
It's going slow here, sneaking. But there's only a little of
that glassy stuff he observed.
You go slow.
I am. I'll just switch to the blacklight and put on the
goggles. I'll get down low and look around the corner.
There was a long silence.
Well?
I don't see anything.
He turned the light toward the ground.
The trail's changing again. I'm going to follow it.
Wait. Why don't you probe?
I'm afraid to touch its mind.
I'd be a lot more afraid of the rest of it. Why not just take
it very slow and easy? Just scan for its presence. Sneak up
mentally. I'll help.
You're right, but I'll do it myself.
He reached out into the pocket canyon before him. Gin-
gerly at first. Then with increased effort.
Not there. Nothing there, he said. I see the trail, but I
don't feel the beast. Singer either, for that matter. They
must have gone on.
It would seem...
He neared the corner, walking slowly, observing the
markings on the ground. The markings were altered beyond
the turning, forming a troughlike line. They narrowed, wid-
ened, halted in the form of circular depressions.
He paused when he saw where they led, rushed forward
when he saw something other than rock.
Singer's prints marked the ground before the rough cairn,
near to the protruding limb. It was a longer while before he
could bring himself to move a few stones and then only after
probing thoroughly. He kept at it for several minutes, until
he was sweating and breathing heavily. But at last he beheld
the eye, dull now, in the sleek, unmoving head.
He got it, Fisher said. He nailed the thing.
Ironbear did not respond.
It's over, Fisher told him. Singer won.
He's beautiful, Ironbear said. That neck... the eye, like
a jewel...
Dead, Fisher said. Wait while I check. I'll tell you where to
climb out. We'll have someone pick you up.
But where's Singer?
I guess he knows how to take care of himself. He's safe
now. He'll turn up when he's ready. Hang on.
I'm going after him.
What? What for?
I don't know. Call it a feeling. Say I just want to see the
man after all this.
How'll you find him?
I'm starting to get the hang of this tracking business. I
don't think it will be too hard.
It's all over - and that's a dangerous place.
His trail has run through safe spots so far. Besides, I've
got a phone here.
Don't you flip out, too!
Don't worry about it.
Ironbear turned away, pushed up his goggles, shifted to
normal spectrum, began following Singer's tracks.
I'm going to leave you for a time, Fisher said. I'm going to
tell the others. Also, I've got to rest.
Go ahead.
Ironbear headed north. For a moment it seemed that he
heard a train whistle, and he thought of his father. Fat
snowflakes filled the air. He wrapped his muffler around his
nose and mouth and kept going.
Mercy Spender
when she heard the news,
opened the bottle of gin she had brought along
& poured herself a stiff one,
humming "Rock of Ages" all the while;
feeling responsibility dissolve,
giving thanks,
deciding which books to read
& what to knit
during her convalescence;
offered a word or two
for the soul of Walter Sands,
whom she saw before her
in the glass,
suddenly,
shaking his head;
"Rest in peace," she said
& chugged it,
& when she went to pour another
the glass broke somehow
& she was very sleepy
& decided to turn in
8 save the serious part
for tomorrow;
k her sleep was troubled.
Alex Mancin
tripped home when he heard the news,
the game being over,
his side having won
again;
4 after he'd said good-bye to the others
& gone through,
he visited the kennels
& played with the dogs for a time,
lithe, yipping & licking -
he could read their affection for him
& it warmed him -
& then visited his console,
a glass of warm milk at his right hand,
taking action on the multitude of messages
which had come in,
as always;
too keyed up to sleep,
thoughts of the recent enterprise
dashing into and out of his mind
like puppies;
& the smile of Walter Sands
seemed to flash for a moment
on the screen
as he read a list of stock quotations
& toyed with a pair of souvenir dice
he'd found in the bottom drawer
of the dresser in the back room.
Elizabeth Brooke
wanted to get laid,
was surprised
at the intensity of the feeling,
but realized that the previous days'
pace & tensions, suddenly relaxed,
called for some physical release, too;
& so she bade the others farewell
& tripped back to England
to call her friend to join her
for tea,
to talk of her recent experiences,
listen to some chamber music
& lay the ghost of Walter Sands
which had been troubling her
more than a little.
Charles Dickens Fisher
in his room at the Thunderbird Lodge
with a pot of coffee,
looked out of the window at the snow,
thinking about his brother-in-law
& the Indians
in western movies he had seen
& wilderness survival
A the great dead beast
whose image he caused to appear
before him on the lawn
(frightening a couple across the way
who happened to look out
at that moment),
recalled from a video picture
he had summoned earlier,
eye blazing like Waterford crystal,
fangs like stalactites;
& then he banished it
& produced a full-sized
image of Walter Sands,
sitting in the armchair
looking back at him,
A when he asked him,
"How do you like being dead?"
Sands shrugged
& replied,
"It has its benefits,
it has its drawbacks."
GOING. ALONG THE WESTERN
rim of the canyon now, heading into the northeast. Turning,
taking an even more northerly route. Away from the canyon,
across the snows, toward the trees. His way had brought
him over the water and up the wall nearly an hour before. Up
here where the wind was strong, though the snowfall had
lessened to an occasional racing flake.
He bore on. A coyote howled somewhere in the trees or
beyond them, ahead. A woodland smell came to him as he
advanced, and the sounds of rattling branches.
He looked back once before he entered the wood. It
seemed that there was a greenish glow rising just above the
rim of the canyon. He lost sight of it in a snowswirl a
moment later, and then there were trees all around him and a
diminishment of the wind. Ice fell with crisp and glassy
sounds when he brushed against boughs. It was like another
place, a place of perpetual twilight and cold, where he had
hunted what he came to call the ice bears, the sun a tiny,
pale thing creeping along the horizon. At any moment the
high-pitched whistle of the bears might come to him, and
then he would have only moments in which to throw up the
barrier and lay down a paralytic fire before the pack swirled
in toward him. Move the barrier then to preserve the fallen
before their fellows devoured them. Call for the shuttle
ship....
He glanced overhead, half expecting to see it descending
now. But there was only a pearl-gray folding of clouds in
every direction. This hunt was different. The thing he sought
would not be taken so simply, nor borne away for enclosure.
All the more interesting.
He crossed an ice-edged streamlet and his way swerved
abruptly, following its course through an arroyo where
something with green eyes regarded him from within a small
cave. The ground rose as he advanced, and when he
emerged the trees had thinned.
His way took him to the left then, continuing uphill. He
mounted higher and higher until he came at last to stand atop
a ridge commanding a large view of the countryside. There
he halted, staring into the black north, into which his trail
ran on and on for as far as he could see in the odd half-light
which had accompanied him on this journey. Opening his
pouch, he cast pollen before him onto it. Turning then to the
blue south, way to the earth-opening from which he had
emerged, he cast more pollen, noticing for the first time that
there was no trail behind him, that his way to this place had
been vanishing even as he walked it. He felt that he would be
unable to take a step in that direction if he were to try. There
was to be no return along the way that he followed.
He faced the yellow west, place where the day was folded
"It's still got to move in order to make progress. That
makes it a target. Billy's armed now. It won't have it as easy
as you seem to think."
"Then why'd you decide to come?"
"I don't like to see any outsider chasing Navis on our
land. And I couldn't let a Sioux have the first shot at the
thing."
Without Yellowcloud, I wouldn't be worth much out here,
Ironbear told himself. Even the little kids around here must
know more than I do about getting around in this terrain,
tracking, hunting, survival. I'm a damn fool for butting into
this at all, physically. The only things I know about being an
Indian come from Alaska, and that was a long time ago. So
why am I here? I keep saying I like Singer, but why?
Because he was some kind of a hero? I don't really think
that's it. I think it's because he's an old-style Indian, and
because my father might have been that way. At least I think
of him that way. Could I be trying to pay off a debt of guilt
here? It's possible, I guess. And all of my music had an
Indian beat to it....
The car slowed, worked its way into the shelter of a stone
outcrop, came to a halt. The snow had turned back to rain, a
slow, cold drizzle here.
"Are we there?" he asked.
"Almost," Yellowcloud replied. "There's an easy way
down near here. Well, relatively easy. Let me get us some
lights and I'll show you."
Outside, they donned small packs and slung their weap-
ons. Yellowcloud shined his light toward the canyon.
"Follow me," he said. "There was a slide here a few years
ago. Made a sort of trail. We'll be more sheltered once we
reach the bottom."
Ironbear fell in behind him and they made their way to the
rim of the canyon. Its floor was invisible, and the rocks
immediately before him looked jagged and slippery. He said
nothing, and shortly they began the descent, Yellowcloud
playing his light before them.
As they climbed, the force of the rainfall lessened, until
about halfway down they entered the full rainshadow of the
wall and it ceased entirely. The rocks were drier and the
pace of their descent increased. He listened to the wind and
the noises of the rain.
Moving from rock to rock, he came, after a time, to
wonder whether there was indeed a bottom. It began to seem
as if they had been descending forever and that the rest of
time would be a simple repetition of the grasping and lower-
ing. Then he heard Yellowcloud call out, "Here we are!"
and shortly thereafter he found himself standing on the
canyon's floor, stony shapes distorted and flowing in the
blacklight.
"Just stay put for a minute," Yellowcloud said. "I don't
want any trails messed up." Then, "Can you use that trick of
yours to tell whether there's anyone nearby?" he asked.
"There doesn't seem to be," Ironbear replied a few mo-
ments later.
"Okay. I'm going to use a normal light for a while here.
Make yourself comfortable while I see what I can turn up."
Several minutes passed while Ironbear watched Yellow-
cloud's slowly moving light as the other man studied the
ground, ranging farther and farther ahead, passing from left
to right and back again. Finally Yellowcloud halted. His
figure straightened. He gestured for Ironbear to come along,
and then he began walking.
"Got something?" Ironbear asked, coming up beside
him.
"He's been this way," he answered. "See?"
Ironbear nodded as he regarded the ground. He saw
nothing, but he read the recognition of signs within the
other's mind.
"How long ago was he by here?"
"I can't say for sure. Doesn't really matter, though. Come
on."
They hiked for nearly a quarter-hour- in silence before
Ironbear thought to inquire, "Have you seen any signs of his
pursuer?"
"None. A few dog tracks here and there are the only other
things. It couldn't be that size, from what you told me."
"No. It's got a lot more mass."
Yellowcloud ignored the false signs at Twin Trail Canyon
and continued along the northeasterly route of the main gap.
There was a hypnotic quality to the steady trudging, the
unrolling trail of rock, puddle, mud, shrub. The cold was not
as bad as it might have been with the wind softened as it was,
but the numbness Ironbear began to feel was more a mental
thing. The waters splashed and gurgled past. His arms
swung and his feet strode in a near mechanical fashion.
... Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes...
The wind seemed to be talking to him, seemed to have
been talking to him for a long while, lulling words, restful
within the routine of the movements.
... Lull, lull, lull, lull. Yes, rest, yes, rest, yest, yest,
yest...
It was more than the wind and the rhythm, he suddenly
knew. There was someone -
Yes. Yes.
Power. Blackness. Death. It walked at his back. The
thing. The beast. It was coming.
Yes. Yes.
And there was nothing he could do about it. He could not
even slow his pace, let alone deviate from his course. It had
him completely in its power, and so deftly had it taken
control of him that he had not even felt the insinuation of its
presence. Until now, when it was far too late.
Yes. Yes, son of cities. You seem different from this other
one, and both of you block my way. Keep walking. I will
catch up with you soon. It will not matter then.
Ironbear tried again to turn aside, but his muscles refused
to obey him. He was about to probe Yellowcloud's mind to
see whether the other man had yet become aware of his
condition. He held back, however. The creature somewhere
to the rear was exerting a form of telepathic control over his
nervous system. He could not tell whether it was also
reading his thoughts. Perhaps. Perhaps not. He wanted to
keep his own telepathic ability away from its awareness if he
possibly could. Why, he was not certain. But he felt -
He heard a sound to the rear. A dislodged stone turning
over, it seemed. He knew that if he did not break free in a
few moments nothing that he felt would matter anymore. It
would all be over for him. Everything. The beast Singer
called Cat was almost upon him.
His feet continued their slow, steady movements. He tried
to visualize Cat, but he could not. A malevolent shadow with
sinuous movements... a large eye drifting like a moon...
The images came and departed. None seemed adequate for
the approaching beast - powerful, fearless...
Fearless?
An image leaped to mind, a question keeping it company:
How strong a mental impression could he project? Fisher
could create solid-seeming illusions with ease. Could he .
manage with a fraction of that verisimilitude if he backed
it with everything he had? Perhaps just enough to discon-
cert?
There was no real pause, though, between the idea and the
effort. The speculation ran simultaneous with the attempt,
habit of the reflective part of himself.
The sandy stretch across which he had just passed... He
projected the image of its eruption, with the shining triangu-
lar form bursting upward, lunging forward, reaching to em-
brace his pursuer....
Krel! Krel! he sent, concentrating to achieve perfection in .
its display.
He halted, feeling the panic waves from behind him,
aware of controlling his own movements once more, aware,
too, that Yellowcloud had halted.
Krel! But even as he reinforced the image with every
feeling of menace and terror with which he found himself
freshly familiar, even as he unslung the burst-gun and fitted
his hand to its grip, he realized that while his movements
were now his own he was afraid to execute the necessary
turn to face the thing which stood behind him.
The report of Yellowcloud's weapon shattered his paraly-
sis. He spun about, the burst-gun at ready.
Cat, in the light of Yellowcloud's beam, was dropping to
the ground from an erect posture, and that awful eye seemed
fixed upon his own, burning; boring.
He triggered his weapon, moving it, and dirt and gravel
blew backward from a line traced on the ground in front of
the beast.
Yellowcloud fired again and Cat jerked as he plunged
forward. Ironbear raised the muzzle of his own weapon and
triggered another burst. It stitched a wavering line along
Cat's neck and shoulder.
And then everything went silent and black as he felt the
impact of Cat's body upon his own.
They sat or lay in their rooms at the Thunderbird Lodge,
not far from the mouths of the canyons. It was as if they
were all together in one room, however, for the walls did not
impede their conversation.
Well? Elizabeth asked. What have you learned?
I'm going to try again, Fisher answered. Wait a few
minutes.
You've been at it for quite a while, Mancin said.
Sometimes there are snags - unusual states of mind that
are hard to pick up. You know.
Something's wrong, Mancin said. I've been trying, too.
Maybe we're too late, Mercy put in.
Don't be ridiculous!
I'm just trying to be realistic.
I got through to Yellowcloud's house while you were
trying for contact, Elizabeth said. His wife told me that he
and Ironbear left together some time ago. They went over to
the canyon, she said.
After Singer? Mancin asked.
She wouldn't say any more about it. But why else?
Indeed.
I'm going to try again now, Fisher said.
Wait, Elizabeth told him.
Why?
You're not getting anywhere by yourself.
You mean we should get together again and try?
Why not? That is why we're here. To work together.
Do you think Sands... ? Mancin began.
Probably, Elizabeth said.
Yes, Mercy said. But he wouldn't hurt us.
Well, you're right about why we're here, Mancin said to
Elizabeth.
And if we can't locate Jimmy? Fisher said. What then?
Try again with Singer, Elizabeth said. Perhaps this time
he'll listen.
Now you travel your own trail, alone.
What you have become, we do not know.
What your clan is now, we do not know.
Now, now on, now, you are something not of this world.
Walking. Through the silver and black landscape. Slow
here. Confuse the way. As if for an ambush from behind
those rocks. Erase the next hundred feet or so with a branch
of shrubbery. Good. Go on. The way is clear. Vaguely red-
and-white flecked. Walking. Skyflash mirrored in waters
twisting. Faint drumbeat once again. Consistency of wind-
sound within the slant of walls. Small spray glassmasking
face here, eyelash prisms spectrumbreaking rainbows geo-
metric dance of lights. Wipe. Shadows leapback. Coyotedog
smile fading between the light and the dark. Cross here,
splashing. Wherever trail runs follow the feet. Around.
Over. Masked dancers within the shadows, silent. Far, far to
the rear, a faint green light. Why look back? To turn is to
embrace. Climb now. Descend again. It narrows soon, then
widens again. A thing with many eyes sits upon a high ledge
but does not stir. Frozen, perhaps, or only watching. Louder
now the drumbeat. Moving to its rhythms. Fire within the
heart of a stone. Rain yei bending, bridgelike, from above to
below. Birdtracks behind a mooncurved wall. Thighbone of
horse. Empty hogan. Half;burned log. Touch the mica that
glistens like pollen. Remember the song the old man -
... Singer.
Faint, faint. The wind or its echo. Tired word of tired
breath.
Billy Blackhorse...
Across again now, to that rocky place.
I feel you - up there, somewhere - tracker...
Something. Something he should remember. This journey.
To follow his trail. But.
Your friends did not stop me. I am still coming, hunter.
Ghost of the echo of the wind. Words in his head. Old
friends, perhaps. Someone known.
Why do you not answer me? To talk gives nothing away.
Ghost-cat, chindi-thing. Yes. Cat.
I am here, Cat.
And I follow you.
I know.
It is a good place you have chosen.
It chose me.
Either way. Better than cities.
Billy paused to muddle his trail, create the impression of
another possible ambush point.
... Coming. You cannot run forever.
Only so far as I must. You are hurt...
Yes. But not enough to stop me. We will meet.
We will.
I feel you are stronger here than you were before.
Perhaps.
Whichever of us wins, it is better this way than any other.
We are each of us the last of our kind. What else is there for
us?
I do not know.
It is a strange country. I do not understand everything
about it.
Nor do I.
Soon we will meet, old enemy. Are you glad that you ran?
Billy tried hard to think about it.
Yes, he finally said.
Billy thought of the song but knew that it was not the time
to sing it. Thunder mumbled down the canyon.
You have changed, hunter, since last we were this close.
I know where I'm going now, Cat.
Hurry then. I may be closer than you think.
Watch the shadows. You may even be nearer than you
think.
Silence. The big widening and a clear view far ahead. He
halted, puzzled, suddenly able to see for a great distance.
Like a ribbon, his trail led on and on and then wound
upward. He did not understand, but it did not matter. He
broke into his ground-eating jog. In the darkness high over-
head, he heard the cry of a bird.
Farther yet, he returns with me, Nayenezgani,
spinning his dark staff for protection.
The lightnings flash behind him and before him.
To the ladder's first rung,
to the Emergence Place
he returns with me;
and the rainbow returns with me
and the talking ketahn teaches me.
We mount the ladder's twelve rungs.
Small blue birds sing above me,
Cornbeetle sings behind me.
Hashje-altye returns with me.
I will climb Emergence Mountain,
Chief Mountain, Rain Mountain,
Corn Mountain, Pollen Mountain....
Returning. Upon the pollen figure to sit.
To own the home, the pre, the food,
the resting ploce, the feet, the legs, the body,
to hold the mind and the voice, the power
of movement. The speech, that is blessed.
Returning with me. Gathering these things,
Climbing. Through the mists and clouds,
the mosses and grasses,
the woods and rocks, the earth,
of the four colors. Returning.
"Grandchild, we stand upon the rainbow."
RUNNING. THE WIND AND WA-
ter-sounds now a part of the drumbeat. Path grown clearer
and clearer. Blood-red now and dusted as with ice flakes.
The ground seemed to shake once, and something like a
tower of smoke rose before him in a twisting at the side of
the trail. Changing colors, the pillar braided itself as it
climbed, and five shifting faces took form within it. He
recognized his guardian spirits.
"Billy, we have come to ask you again," they said in a
single voice. "The danger increases. You must leave the
trail, leave the canyon. Quickly. You must go to a place
where you will be met and taken to safety."
"I cannot leave the trail now," he answered. "It is too late
to do that. My enemy approaches. My way is clear before
me. Thank you again. There is no longer a choice for me in
this."
"There is always a choice."
"Then I have, already made it."
The smoke-being blew apart as he passed it.
He saw what appeared to be the end of the trail now, and a
small atavistic fear touched him as he realized where it,
would take him. It was to the Mummy Cave, an old place of
the dead, that it ran, high up the canyon wall.
As he advanced, it seemed to grow before him, a ruin
within a high alcove. A green light played behind one of the
windows for an eyeblink and a half. And then the wind was
muffled, and then it rose again. And again. Again.
Now the sound came like the flapping of a giant piece of
canvas high in the sky. He kept his eyes upon his goal and
continued to follow his trail toward the foot of the wall. And
as he ran the sound grew louder, felt nearer. Finally it
seemed directly overhead, and he sensed each beat upon his
body. Then a dark shape moved past, through the upper air.
When he raised his eyes he beheld an enormous bird-form
dipping to settle atop the cliff wall high above the place of
the Mummy Cave. He slowed as he neared the foot of the
wall and encountered the talus slope. And he knew as he
beheld the dark thing, settling now and staring downward,
that he beheld Haasch'e'e'shzhini, Black-god, master of the
hunt. He looked away quickly, but not before he met the
merciless stare of a yellow eye fixed upon him.
Must I end this thing beneath your gaze, Dark One? he
wondered. For I am both the hunter and the hunted. Which
side does that put you on?
He mounted the slope, his eyes now following the trail
gone vertical up toward the recessed ruin. Yes, that did seem
the easiest route....
He approached the wall, took the first foothold and hand-
hold and commenced climbing.
Climbing. Slowly over the more slippery places. A strange
tingling in the palms of the hands as he mounted higher. Like
the time -
No. He halted. Everything he was was a part of the hunt.
But it was also a part of the past. Let it go. Climb. Hunt.
Position is what is important. That lesson comes with mem-
ory. Achieve it now. He drew himself higher, not looking at
the dark shadow far above, not looking back. Soon.
Soon he would enter the place of death and await his
pursuer. The running should be nearing its end. Hurry.
Important to be up there and out of sight when Cat enters the
area. Wet handhold. Grip tightly.
Glance upward. Yes. In sight now. Soon. Careful. Pull.
There.
After several minutes, he drew himself up onto a ledge,
moved to the left. Another hold. Up again.
Half crawling. Okay now. Rise again. Move toward the
wall. Enter. No green light. Over the wall...
He passed along the rear of the wall, peering through gaps
out over the floor of the canyon. Nothing. Nothing yet in
sight. Keep going. That large opening... '
All right. Halt. Unsling the weapon. Check it out. Rest it
on the ledge. Wait.
Nothing. Still nothing. The place was damp and filled with
rubble. He ran his eyes across the open spaces before him,
the entire prospect palely illuminated through screens of
phosphorescent mist. But waiting was a thing at which he
excelled. He settled with his back against a block of stone,
his eyes upon the canyon, one hand upon the weapon.
Nearly an hour passed with no changes in the scene before
him.
And then a shadow, slow, inching along the wall, far to his
left and ahead. Its creeping barely registered, until at some
point he realized that there was nothing to cast it.
He raised the weapon - it had a simple sight - and zeroed
it in on the shadow. Then he thought about the accuracy of
the thing and lowered it again. Too far. If the shadow were
really Cat he did not want to take a chance on missing and
giving away his position.
It stopped. It flowed into the form of a rock and remained
stationary for a long while. He could almost believe that the
entire sequence had been a trick of light and shadow.
Almost. He drew a bead on the rock and held it there.
You are somewhere near, Billy. I can feel you.
He did not respond.
Wherever you are, I will be there shortly.
Should he risk a shot after all? he wondered. It would take
Cat a while to assume a more mobile shape. He would
doubtless have several opportunities during that time....
Movement again. The rock shifted, flowed, reformed far-
ther along the wall.
Suffer, tracker. You are going to die. Four first shot will
betray you and I will dodge all of the successive ones. You
will see me when I am ready to be seen and you will pre it
then.
The movement commenced again, drifting toward a real
rock beneath a shelflike overhang. Within the amorphous
form the glittering of Cat's eye became visible; his limbs
began to take form.
Billy bit his lip, recalling having seen a torglind meta-
morph run up a near-vertical wall on the home planet. He
triggered the weapon then and missed.
Cat froze for a split second as the flash occurred high
overhead, then moved more slowly than Billy had antici-
pated, leading Billy to believe that the beast was indeed
injured. Cat sprang back toward a line of stones nearer the
wall. And then, realizing his mistake as he glanced upward,
his legs bunched beneath him and he sprang forward again.
But not in time.
A large slab of stone facing, blasted loose by the shot, slid
down the wall, striking the shelf beneath which Cat
crouched. Even as his feet left the ground, it descended
upon him.
Hunter! I believe - you've won.... '
Billy fired again. This time he scorched the earth ten yards
off to the right of the fall. He moved the barrel slightly to the
left and triggered the weapon again. This time the top of the
rubble heap exploded.
It seemed that he could make out a single, massive fore-
limb projected near the front of the pile. But at that distance
he could not be certain.
Was that a twitch?
He fired again, blasting the center of the heap.
The canyon rang with a massive cawing note. The flapping
sound began again, slowly. He looked up briefly and
glimpsed the shadow moving off to his right.
"It is over," he sang, head rested upon his forearm, "and
my thanks rise like smoke...."
His words trailed off as his eyes moved across the canyon
floor. Then his brow furrowed. He raised himself. He leaned
forward to peer.
"Why?" he said aloud.
But nothing answered.
The trail he had followed did not terminate at this place.
Somehow he had not noticed this earlier. It ran off to his
right, curving out of sight beyond the canyon wall, presum-
ably continuing on into the farther reaches of the place.
He slung his weapon and adjusted his pack. He did not
understand, but he would go on.
He returned to the place where he had climbed and began
his descent.
His shoulder ached. Also, it was raining on his face and a
sharp stone was poking him in the back. He was aware of
these things for some time before he realized that they meant
he was alive.
Ironbear opened his eyes. Yellowcloud's light lay upon the
ground nearby, casting illumination along a gravel slope.
He turned his head and saw Yellowcloud. The man was
seated with his back against a stone, legs straight out before
him. Both of his hands were gripping his left thigh.
Ironbear raised his head, reached out a hand, levered
himself upward.
"I live," he said, swinging into a sitting position. "How're
you?"
"Broken leg," Yellowcloud answered. "Above the knee."
Ironbear rose, crossed to the light and picked it up, turned
back toward Yellowcloud.
"Bad place for a break," he said, advancing. "Can't even
hobble."
He squatted beside the other man.
"I'm not sure what's the best thing to do," he said. "Got
any suggestions?"
"I've already called for help. My portaphone wasn't
damaged. They'll be along with a medic. Get me out of here
in a sling if they have to. Don't worry. I'll be okay."
"Why are we still alive?"
"It didn't think we were worth killing, I guess. Just an
annoyance, to be brushed aside."
"Makes you feel real important, doesn't it?"
"I'm not complaining. Listen, there's dry wood along the
wall. Get me a couple of armloads, will you? I want a fire."
"Sure." He moved to comply. "I wonder how far along '
that thing has gotten?"
"Can't you tell?"
"I don't want to get near it at that level. It can hurt you
just with its mind."
"You going after it?"
"If I can figure a way to follow it."
Yellowcloud smiled and turned his head, gesturing with
his chin.
"It went that way."
"I'm not a tracker like you."
"Hell, you don't have to be. That thing's heavy and it's
running, right out in the open. Nothing fancy. It couldn't
care less whether one of us knows where it went. You take
the light. I'll have the fire. You'll be able to see the marks it
left."
He carried over the first load of kindling, went back to
look for more. By the time he returned with the second load,
Yellowcloud had a fire going.
"Anything else I can do for you?" he asked.
"No. Just get moving."
He slung his weapon and picked up the light. When he
played the beam Up the canyon he saw the tracks readily
enough.
"And take this." Yellowcloud passed him the portaphone.
"Okay. I'll go try again."
"Maybe you ought to aim for its eye."
"Maybe I should. See you."
Good luck."
He turned and began walking. The water was a dark,
speaking thing whose language he did not understand. The
way was clear. The tracks were large.
The wind stirs the grasses.
The,snow glides across the earth.
The whirlwind walks on the mountain,
raising dust.
The rocks are ringing
high on the mountain, behind the fog.
The sun's light is running out
like water from a cracked pitcher.
We shall live again.
The snowy earth
slides out of the whirling wind.
We shall live again.
AROUND THE CURVE OF THE
canyon wall, walking. Gusts of wind here over stream grown
wider, swirling glittering particles across watersong gone
wild. Other side more sheltered but the red way lies close to
the wall, here, rising now. Ripples like rushing pictographs.
Pawprints of the perfidious one. Ice-rimed bones beside the
trail. Rabbit. Burnt hogan, green glow within. Place of
death. Shift eyes. Hurry on. Shine of crystal. Snow-streaked
wall, texture of feathers. 'Bail winding on. As far as the eye
will go. What now the quarry?
Pause to drink at the crossing of tributary streamlet
Burning cold, flavored of rock and earth. Fog bank ahead,
moving toward him, masked dancers within; about a south-
blue blaze. Rhythms in the earth. He is become a smoke,
drifting along his way, silent and featureless, rushing to
merge with that place of flux and earthdance cadence. Yes,
and be lost in it.
White and soft, smothering sounds, like that place where
he had hunted the garlett, so long ago...
Dancers to the right, dancers to the left, dancers crossing
his way. Do they even see him, invisible and spiritlike,
passing among them, along the stillbright, stillred way writ-
ten upon the ground as with fire and blood?
One draws nearer bearing something covered by a cloth
woven with an old design. He halts, for the dancer moves to
bar his way, thrusting the thing before him. It is uncovered,
displaying a pair of-hands. He stares at them. That scar near
the base of the left thumb... They are his hands.
At the recognition they rise to hover in front of him, as if
he were holding them before his face. He feels them, glove-
like, at the extremity of his spirit. He had skinned game with
them, fought with them, stroked Dora's hair with them....
He lets them fall to his sides. It is good to have them back
again. The dancer moves away. Billy swirls like a whirlwind
of snow and continues along his trail.
There is no time. A cluster of gray sticks, rising from the
earth on the slope to his right, beside the trail... He pauses
to watch as the sticks turn green, bumps appearing along
their surfaces to become buds. The buds crack, leaves
unwind themselves, turn, enlarge. White flowers come
forth.
He passes, swinging his hands. Another dancer with an-
other parcel approaches from his left.
He halts, hovering, and with his hands he accepts the gift
of his feet and restores them to their places on the ground
below him. The many miles we have come together...
Walking, again walking, upon the trail. Feeling the heart-
beat of the earth through the soles of his feet. There is no
time. Snowflakes blow upward before him. The stream has
reversed its direction. Blood flows back into the wounded
deer lying still across his way. It springs to its hoofs, turns
and is gone.
Now, like curtains, a parting of the fog. Four masked
dancers advance upon him, bearing the body that is his own.
When he wears it again, he thanks them, but they withdraw
in silence.
He moves on along the trail. The fog is shifting. Every-
thing is shifting but the trail.
He hears a sound which he has not heard in a great
counting of years. It begins off in the distance behind him
and rises in pitch as it comes on: the whistle of a train.
Then he hears the chugging. They no longer make engines
of this sort. There is nothing here for it to run on. There is -
He sees the rails paralleling his trail. That ledge ahead
seems a platform now....
The whistle sounds again. Nearer. He feels the throb of
the thing, superimposed upon the earth rhythms. A train
such as Be has not beheld in years is coming. Coming,
impossibly, through this impossible place. He keeps walk-
ing, as the sound of it fills the world. It should be rushing up
beside him at any moment.
The shriek of the whistle fills his hearing. He turns his
head.
Yes, it has come. An ancient, black, smoke-puffing dragon
of an engine, a number of passenger cars trailing behind. He
hears the screaming of its brakes begin.
He looks back to the area of the platform, to where a
single, slouched figure now stands waiting. Almost familiar...
With a clattering and the cries of metal friction the engine
draws abreast of him, slowing, slowing, and passes to halt
beside the platform. He smells smoke and grease and hot
metal.
The figure on the platform moves toward the first passen-
ger car, and he now recognizes the old dead singer who had
taught him the song. Just before boarding the man turns and
waves to him.
His gaze slides back along the coach's windows. Behind
every one is a face. He recognizes all of them. They are all
people he has known who are now dead - his mother, his
grandmother, his uncles, his cousins, two sisters...
Dora.
Dora is the only one who is looking at him. The others
stare past, talking with one another, regarding the land-
scape, the new passenger....
Dora is looking directly at him, and her hands are working
with the latches at the lower corners of the window. Almost
frantically, she is pushing and lifting.
The whistle blows again. The engine surges. He finds
himself running, running toward the train, the car, the win- .
dow....
The train jerks, rattles. The wheels turn.
Dora is still working at the latches. Suddenly the window
slides upward. Her mouth is moving. She is shouting, but
her words are lost among the noises of the train.
He shouts back. Her name. She is leaning forward out of
the window now, right arm extended.
The train is picking up speed, but he is almost beside it.
He reaches. Their hands are perhaps a meter apart. Her lips
are still moving, but he cannot hear her words. For a
moment his vision swims, and it is as if she were falling.away
from him.
He increases his pace and the distance between their
hands narrows - two feet, a foot, eight inches....
Their hands clasp, and she smiles. He matches the train's
velocity for a moment before the tension begins. Then he
realizes that he must let go.
He opens his hand and watches her rush away. He falls.
How long he lies there he does not know. When he looks
again, the train is gone. There are no tracks. There is no
platform. His outstretched arm lies within the icy stream.
Snow is falling upon him. He rises.
The big flakes drift by. The wind has died. The water
sounds are muted. He raises his hand and stares at it like a
new and unfamiliar thing within the silence.
After a long while, he turns and seeks the trail again. He
continues his journey along it.
Trudging. Alternating elation and depression, finally all
mixed together. To have caught her and then had to let her
go. To ride Smohalla's ghost-train through the snow. An-
other breaking apart. Would there be a putting together
again?
He realized then that he was traversing an enormous sand-
painting. All of the ground about him was laid out in stylized,
multicolored fashion. He walked in the footprints of the
rainbow, passing between Eth-hay-nah-ashi - Those-who-
go-together. They were the twins created in the Second
world by Begochiddy. First Man and the others had come up
from the Underworld along this route. The painting itself
was one used in Hozhoni, the Blessingway. His trail fol-
lowed the rainbow to the cornstalk, where it changed to the
yellow of corn pollen. Upward, upward along the stalk then.
The sky was illuminated by a brilliant flash as he passed
alongside the female rainbow and the male lightning. Passing
between the figures of Big Fly, heading north to the yellow
pollen footsteps.
Emerge to take up the trail again, passing the mouth of the
large canyon to the right, continuing northward. Alone,
singing. There was beauty in the falling snow. Beauty all
around him...
Admire it while you may, tracker.
Cat? You're dead! It is over between us!
Am I, now?
I touched-your limb at the place where you fell. It was stiff
and glassy. There was no life in you.
Have it your way.
Nor could anythirig have gotten out from beneath that
heap of stone.
You've convinced me. I will go back and lie down.
Billy looked backward, saw nothing but snowfall within
the canyon.
...But I'll find you first.
That shouldn't be too hard.
I am glad to hear you say that.
I like finish what I start. Hurry.
Why don't you wait for me?
I've a trail to follow.
And that is more important than me?
You? You are nothing now.
That is not too pattering. But very well. If we must meet
upon your trail again, we will meet upon your trail.
Billy checked his weapons.
You should have taken the train, he said.
I do not understand you, but it does not matter.
But it does, Billy said, rounding another rock and seeing
the trail go on.
A whirlwind of snow danced across the water. He heard
the thump of a single drumbeat.
... The blue medicine lifts me in his hand.
THE PAIN IN HIS SHOULDER
had subsided to a dull throbbing. He peered into pockets of
shadow as he passed them, wondering whether the beast
might be waiting to spring upon him, knowing the fear to be
irrational since the tracks lay clear before him - and why
should it go to the trouble of doubling back to lay in wait for
him when it could have taken an extra second to smash him
in passing back when they had met?
Ironbear cursed, still looking. His breath emerged as
plumes of steam before him. His nose was cold and his eyes
watered periodically.
Yellowcloud had been right. There was no problem at all
in following this trail. Simple and direct. Deep and clear cut.
Was that a movement to the left?
Yes. The wind stirring bushes.
He cursed again. Had his ancestors really led war parties?
So much for genetics...
Jimmy. Don't shut me out!
I won't, Charles. I can use the company.
Where are you? What's happening?
I'm in the canyon, following the thing.
We're here in Arizona, at the hotel near to where the
canyons start.
Why?
To help, if we can. You're following the beast? Is Yellow-
cloud with you?
He was, but it broke his leg. He's sent for help.
You've met it?
Yeah. Got a sprained shoulder out of the deal. Put a few
shots into the thing, though.
Were you unconscious?
Yes.
I wondered why I couldn't reach you for a while there.
Have you been in touch with Singer?
No.
We have. That's one crazy Indian.
I think he knows what he's doing.
Do you know what you're doing?
Being another crazy Indian, I guess.
I'd say.
Looks like we cross the water here.
I think you ought to get out. That's two trails you're
following, not one.
It's starting to snow now. God, I hope it doesn't cover the
tracks. Melting when it hits, though. That's good.
Sounds as if that thing almost killed you once.
They're changing shape.
The tracks?
Yeah, and moving nearer the wall. Wonder what that
means?
It means you'd better shoot at anything that moves.
Something wet and glassy here... Wonder what its blood
looks like?
How far along are you, anyway?
Don't know. My watch is broken. Seems as if I've been
walking forever.
Maybe you'd better stop and rest.
Hell, no. It's time to try jogging for a while. I've got a
feeling. I think I'm near and I think it's hurt.
I don't want to be in your mind if it gets you.
Don't go yet. I'm scared.
I'll wait.
For the next quarter-hour he felt Fisher's silent presence
as he ran beside the pleated wall. They did not converse
again until he slowed to catch his breath near a turning
place.
It's going slow here, sneaking. But there's only a little of
that glassy stuff he observed.
You go slow.
I am. I'll just switch to the blacklight and put on the
goggles. I'll get down low and look around the corner.
There was a long silence.
Well?
I don't see anything.
He turned the light toward the ground.
The trail's changing again. I'm going to follow it.
Wait. Why don't you probe?
I'm afraid to touch its mind.
I'd be a lot more afraid of the rest of it. Why not just take
it very slow and easy? Just scan for its presence. Sneak up
mentally. I'll help.
You're right, but I'll do it myself.
He reached out into the pocket canyon before him. Gin-
gerly at first. Then with increased effort.
Not there. Nothing there, he said. I see the trail, but I
don't feel the beast. Singer either, for that matter. They
must have gone on.
It would seem...
He neared the corner, walking slowly, observing the
markings on the ground. The markings were altered beyond
the turning, forming a troughlike line. They narrowed, wid-
ened, halted in the form of circular depressions.
He paused when he saw where they led, rushed forward
when he saw something other than rock.
Singer's prints marked the ground before the rough cairn,
near to the protruding limb. It was a longer while before he
could bring himself to move a few stones and then only after
probing thoroughly. He kept at it for several minutes, until
he was sweating and breathing heavily. But at last he beheld
the eye, dull now, in the sleek, unmoving head.
He got it, Fisher said. He nailed the thing.
Ironbear did not respond.
It's over, Fisher told him. Singer won.
He's beautiful, Ironbear said. That neck... the eye, like
a jewel...
Dead, Fisher said. Wait while I check. I'll tell you where to
climb out. We'll have someone pick you up.
But where's Singer?
I guess he knows how to take care of himself. He's safe
now. He'll turn up when he's ready. Hang on.
I'm going after him.
What? What for?
I don't know. Call it a feeling. Say I just want to see the
man after all this.
How'll you find him?
I'm starting to get the hang of this tracking business. I
don't think it will be too hard.
It's all over - and that's a dangerous place.
His trail has run through safe spots so far. Besides, I've
got a phone here.
Don't you flip out, too!
Don't worry about it.
Ironbear turned away, pushed up his goggles, shifted to
normal spectrum, began following Singer's tracks.
I'm going to leave you for a time, Fisher said. I'm going to
tell the others. Also, I've got to rest.
Go ahead.
Ironbear headed north. For a moment it seemed that he
heard a train whistle, and he thought of his father. Fat
snowflakes filled the air. He wrapped his muffler around his
nose and mouth and kept going.
Mercy Spender
when she heard the news,
opened the bottle of gin she had brought along
& poured herself a stiff one,
humming "Rock of Ages" all the while;
feeling responsibility dissolve,
giving thanks,
deciding which books to read
& what to knit
during her convalescence;
offered a word or two
for the soul of Walter Sands,
whom she saw before her
in the glass,
suddenly,
shaking his head;
"Rest in peace," she said
& chugged it,
& when she went to pour another
the glass broke somehow
& she was very sleepy
& decided to turn in
8 save the serious part
for tomorrow;
k her sleep was troubled.
Alex Mancin
tripped home when he heard the news,
the game being over,
his side having won
again;
4 after he'd said good-bye to the others
& gone through,
he visited the kennels
& played with the dogs for a time,
lithe, yipping & licking -
he could read their affection for him
& it warmed him -
& then visited his console,
a glass of warm milk at his right hand,
taking action on the multitude of messages
which had come in,
as always;
too keyed up to sleep,
thoughts of the recent enterprise
dashing into and out of his mind
like puppies;
& the smile of Walter Sands
seemed to flash for a moment
on the screen
as he read a list of stock quotations
& toyed with a pair of souvenir dice
he'd found in the bottom drawer
of the dresser in the back room.
Elizabeth Brooke
wanted to get laid,
was surprised
at the intensity of the feeling,
but realized that the previous days'
pace & tensions, suddenly relaxed,
called for some physical release, too;
& so she bade the others farewell
& tripped back to England
to call her friend to join her
for tea,
to talk of her recent experiences,
listen to some chamber music
& lay the ghost of Walter Sands
which had been troubling her
more than a little.
Charles Dickens Fisher
in his room at the Thunderbird Lodge
with a pot of coffee,
looked out of the window at the snow,
thinking about his brother-in-law
& the Indians
in western movies he had seen
& wilderness survival
A the great dead beast
whose image he caused to appear
before him on the lawn
(frightening a couple across the way
who happened to look out
at that moment),
recalled from a video picture
he had summoned earlier,
eye blazing like Waterford crystal,
fangs like stalactites;
& then he banished it
& produced a full-sized
image of Walter Sands,
sitting in the armchair
looking back at him,
A when he asked him,
"How do you like being dead?"
Sands shrugged
& replied,
"It has its benefits,
it has its drawbacks."
GOING. ALONG THE WESTERN
rim of the canyon now, heading into the northeast. Turning,
taking an even more northerly route. Away from the canyon,
across the snows, toward the trees. His way had brought
him over the water and up the wall nearly an hour before. Up
here where the wind was strong, though the snowfall had
lessened to an occasional racing flake.
He bore on. A coyote howled somewhere in the trees or
beyond them, ahead. A woodland smell came to him as he
advanced, and the sounds of rattling branches.
He looked back once before he entered the wood. It
seemed that there was a greenish glow rising just above the
rim of the canyon. He lost sight of it in a snowswirl a
moment later, and then there were trees all around him and a
diminishment of the wind. Ice fell with crisp and glassy
sounds when he brushed against boughs. It was like another
place, a place of perpetual twilight and cold, where he had
hunted what he came to call the ice bears, the sun a tiny,
pale thing creeping along the horizon. At any moment the
high-pitched whistle of the bears might come to him, and
then he would have only moments in which to throw up the
barrier and lay down a paralytic fire before the pack swirled
in toward him. Move the barrier then to preserve the fallen
before their fellows devoured them. Call for the shuttle
ship....
He glanced overhead, half expecting to see it descending
now. But there was only a pearl-gray folding of clouds in
every direction. This hunt was different. The thing he sought
would not be taken so simply, nor borne away for enclosure.
All the more interesting.
He crossed an ice-edged streamlet and his way swerved
abruptly, following its course through an arroyo where
something with green eyes regarded him from within a small
cave. The ground rose as he advanced, and when he
emerged the trees had thinned.
His way took him to the left then, continuing uphill. He
mounted higher and higher until he came at last to stand atop
a ridge commanding a large view of the countryside. There
he halted, staring into the black north, into which his trail
ran on and on for as far as he could see in the odd half-light
which had accompanied him on this journey. Opening his
pouch, he cast pollen before him onto it. Turning then to the
blue south, way to the earth-opening from which he had
emerged, he cast more pollen, noticing for the first time that
there was no trail behind him, that his way to this place had
been vanishing even as he walked it. He felt that he would be
unable to take a step in that direction if he were to try. There
was to be no return along the way that he followed.
He faced the yellow west, place where the day was folded