《The Amtrak Wars I : Cloud_Warrior》22

He knew she knew neither item should have been in that particular
basket.  And she knew he knew she knew.  There was nothing else for
Steve to do but go on chewing his half of the plum and wait for her
next move.

The Mute girl slowly picked up the ration pack and the water purifying
kit then, quite unexpectedly, placed them within Steve's reach.

Putting a finger to her lips, she motioned him to remain where he was,
gathered up two rolled grass mats and ducked out through the door
flap.

Mastering his surprise, Steve grabbed the two packages and slipped them
quickly into the thigh pockets of his trousers.

Fifteen seconds later, the Mute girl came back in, taking care not to
throw the door flap wide open.  Rummaging quickly through a pile of
stuff at the back of the hut that Steve had not had time to search she
pulled out a folded wad of plasfilm and dropped it on Steve's chest.

Steve picked it up gingerly, hardly able to believe his good fortune.

Fazetti's air navigation map!  His return ticket home!  In his
excitement, he opened his mouth to loose off a rebel yell but, before
he could utter a sound, the Mute girl clamped a firm hand over his
lips.

Holding his head down on the furs, she leant across him and retrieved a
rectangular, woven casket that lay against the skin wall of the hut.

Steve grabbed hold of her wrist and pulled her hand away from his
mouth.  'What's your name?"  he whispered.  'Tell me.  I have to know!'
The Mute girl gazed down at him, with the hint of a smile at the
corners of her lips.  Impossible to tell what she was thinking.  'I am
Clearwater, first-born of Thunder-Bird out of Sun-Dance,' she
whispered.

Steve tapped the pocket containing the ration pack and held up the
map.

'These are great gifts.  I shall not forget."

'These things are not from me.  They come from the hands of
Talisman."

Her voice took on a new urgency.  'You must go!"  'Yes, but how?"

mouthed Steve.

Clearwater pointed to the door flap, swept her forefinger round to the
back of the hut then put her hands together to form the wings of a bird
taking flight.  'When you hear me sing."

Steve nodded and stowed the map in another of his pockets as
Clearwater went out through the door flap carrying the rectangular
basket.  It was one that he had opened during his hasty search.  It
contained six pots of thick, coloured paste: One of them was black, the
others were various shades of brown.  His examination of the basket's
contents had been so fleeting he had not understood their purpose until
now.

Steve got to his knees and inched his way over to the door and peeked
through the flap.  Cadillac sat with his back to the hut.  Clearwater
knelt behind him painting a line of black dye onto his shoulder blade
with a little stick.  Steve stared at them, unable to accept the
evidence of his own eyes.

Cadillac's overall skin colour was now a deep copper bronze;
Clearwater's was a velvety olive-brown - just a shade or two darker
than Steve's own sister, Roz.  The random pattern produced by defective
mutant genes which was the indelible mark of the Plainfolk and their
Southern brothers was, in the case of Cadillac and Clearwater, nothing
more than a camouflage to enable them to merge with the rest of the
clan.

Physically and mentally, Cadillac was now indistinguishable from a
Tracker.  He was articulate, intelligent and his memory was probably
superior even though, like Mr Snow, he could not read or write.  There
had been no opportunity to test Clearwater's memory but she had
demonstrated a clear ability to think fast and was probably equally
intelligent.  It was incredible.  They were - they were just like real
people!

Clearwater began to sing softly.

Thrusting all thoughts of this astonishing discovery and its
ramifications to the back of his mind, Steve eased the doorflap open,
ducked out and got to his feet with slow-motion movements.  To his
heightened senses the rustle of cloth against skin, of boot against
grass, and the'pounding of his heart against his ribs seemed magnified
to deafening proportions.  Cadillac must be able to hear him!  Must
know he was there!  But no.  Incredibly, the young wordsmith did not
turn his head, did not budge an inch.  He just sat there crosslegged,
his upturned palms resting on his thighs.

Clearwater glanced over her shoulder.  Her eyes met Steve's briefly
then she turned back to her task.  Running her hand up into Cadillac's
hair, she bent his head forward, and began painting the pattern of
black dye up onto his neck.  Hardly daring to breathe, Steve edged
round to the rear of the hut, slipped out under the screen of leaves,
crawled back through the ferns and in under the low branches of the
surrounding pines.

It was fortunate that the sight of the two extra bedding rolls in
Clearwater's hut had reminded Steve that he should proceed with the
utmost caution.  Having gone to some lengths to prevent him learning of
Clearwater's presence the M'Calls were bound to have taken steps to
guard her against unwelcome intruders - such as himself.  And now that
he had discovered the true nature of their prize exhibit he was in even
greater danger from his shadowy adversaries within the clan.  His
impulsive actions had placed him in double jeop.  ardy for he knew he
would not rest until he had seen her agmn.  But before that could
happen, he had to slip past any guards that might be around and get
back to the settlement before sundown.

Trailcraft was not the Tracker's strong suit but the extra adrenalin
generated by his encounter with Clearwater raised Steve's level of
awareness so that he was able to tune into the sounds of the forest.

His uncanny sixth sense functioned in a way it never had before.  He
heard the overground for the first time; was able to distinguish the
rustle of leaves overhead from leaves being crushed underfoot; was able
to differentiate between the shrill cries of birds and the birdlike
calls exchanged by a patrol of Mutes; was able to discern their
movement north along the slope towards him.  When the trees opened out
sufficiently for him to proceed on foot he moved silently and swiftly
across and away from their line of advance towards the stream.  He
planned to retrace his path down to the edge of the plateau, using the
constant rippling cascade of sound to cover his progress along its bed,
hidden by the wall of ferns on either side.  At the tongue-stone where
it began its plunge onto the slope below he would turn right and pick
up one of the trails back to the settlement.  After that, his biggest
problem would be trying to pretend that nothing extraordinary had
happened to him.

Reaching the stream, Steve turned right and paused, dropping down
behind cover to check the ground to the south.  Nothing moved.  His
adrenalin-charged senses noticed that a curious stillness had crept
over the woods but there was no sign of the Mute patrol.  It was only
when he was about to plunge through the tangle of ferns lining the bank
that his plans started to unravel.  As he rose, and pivoted round,
leaning forward from the waist, he felt a rush of cold air across the
back of his neck and heard a loud zzzjjhonkk.

Glancing round, he banged his forehead against a crossbow bolt embedded
in the tree he had been crouching against.  Close I If he had been a
fraction of a second slower in moving he would have been skewered
through the neck.

Steve didn't stop to see who fired the bolt; the fact that they had
missed meant they were some distance away - and that meant he was in
with a chance.  He changed direction abruptly, dashed up the slope
instead of down, leapt noisily across the stream and went crashing
through the ferns into the woods beyond.  As he ran, he flailed his
arms wildly in the hope of persuading his pursuers that he was fleeing
in blind panic.  Behind him, he heard the Mutes begin to whoop and
whistle as they gave chase.  Steve zigzagged northwards some eighty
yards, then turned sharp right, hurtled down the slope in a series of
flying leaps and somersaults, turned sharp right again, and doubled
back towards the stream, crawling on his belly through the
undergrowth.

He had put up some good times over the assault course during his years
at the Flight Academy but this was probably his fastest eighty-yard
tiger crawl ever.

Plunging headlong into the shallow water, he clawed his way frantically
up over the stepped rock and loose pebble bed.

Reaching a deeper section where the water covered most of his body,
Steve wedged himself against the nearside bank under a loose fringe of
ferns and broad-leaved grasses that hung in graceful curves with their
tips dragging conveniently in the water.

His ruse worked.  Keeping his head down with only his eyes above water
he saw the whooping Mutes leap across the stream higher up the slope
and race on into the trees on the other side.  One, two, three Bears
brandishing knife-sticks, the fourth carrying a crossbow, three
She-Wolves.  Seven...

Zip!  How many more of them were there?  Another Bear carrying a knife
leapt across the stream and ran after his companions.  Eight... Steve
knew he daren't hang on too long.  If the lead Mutes didn't catch sight
of him soon it wouldn't take them long to work out what had happened.

And then they'd be spearing him out of the stream with those
knife-sticks - the way they did with trout.  He was on his hands and
knees with his back half out of the water when two more Mutes leapt
across the stream with a shrill whoop almost directly over his head.

Steve hit the bottom nose first.  Christopher!  He surfaced slowly and
caught sight of a pair of She-Wolves crossing further up.  Twelve.  Two
hands.  That had to be it.  Move, Brickman!

Steve leapt to his feet and plunged down the bed of the stream, blindly
leaping off the series of rock ledges without checking what lay
below.

Several times he lost his footing on the slippery moss-covered rocks
and fell awkwardly, crashing against treetrunks lining the stream,
bouncing off boulders, and sprawling headfirst in the water.  His
newly-mended ribs took a terrible pounding; his elbows, knees and chin
were badly grazed but he didn't stop to inspect the damage and,
amazingly, he didn't feel any pain.  He just picked himself up and
pressed on, stumbling and weaving his way downstream like a drunken
sailor in San Diego on a Saturday night in the myth-shrouded years of
the Old Time.

Reaching the tongue-stone he staggered sideways out of the water and
sank to his knees.  Finding that too painful he sat back, drew his legs
up and tried hugging them.  That's when he found out that his elbows
were on fire.  He lay back on the ground in an effort to recover his
breath and found that hurt even more.  Sitting up, he pulled off his
sodden T-shirt and combat boots, then stood up and stepped out of his
camouflaged trousers and underpants, twisting and beating the water out
for the second time that day.  That hurt too.

Still, it was in a good cause.  He pulled on his damp clothes, fixed
the scabbard of his combat knife through the loops on his trouser leg,
and stowed the map and the other items Clearwater had given him back in
the thigh pockets.

Great... He put his right foot up on a nearby rock and buckled the
side straps on his boot.  With the sun now behind the far mountains the
air had become suddenly chill.

Steve swapped feet and began to buckle up his left boot, allowing
himself a congratulatory smile at the way he had evaded the Mute
patrol.  He stamped his feet on the ground to settle them comfortably
inside his boots and clapped his hands together happily.  Okay.  Time
to hit the trail.  It was at this moment that he suddenly realised that
he had left his quarterstaff lying somewhere outside Clearwater's hut
together with its carrying sling.

Now that, thought Steve, is a real pain...

Before he reached the settlement, Steve stepped off the trail, wrapped
up the ration pack and water purifying kit in broad leaves, buried them
in a hole between the roots of a tree and cut a small blaze-mark on the
trunk with his knife.

He had already decided that he would hide the map between one of the
double-layered mats that served to make up the floor beneath his fur
bedding roll.  Satisfied that the ground showed no sign of having been
disturbed Steve blocked out the jabbing pain in his knees and headed
for home at a fast jog.

Outside the hut hidden by the screen of yellow leaves, Clearwater
laboured lovingly to recreate the swirling body pattern that Cadillac
had adopted as his mark.  When it was finished, it would be his turn to
paint her body.  Although Clearwatef's brain was not the equal of a
wordsmiths, both she and Cadillac had received from Mo-Town the gift of
a photographic memory which included the ability to project a
mind-image of the pattern onto each other's body.

Cadillac's back was like a blank canvas on which Clearwater could 'see'
the exact area of every colour.  All she had to do was fill them in, As
she worked, Clearwater thought about the cloud warrior who had been
sent to them by Talisman and who the Sky Voices, through Mr Snow, had
named the Death-Bringer.

She had first seen his body when it had been brought in, broken and
bloody from the cropfields.  He had not seen her, for his mind slept,
and she had been sent away before he awoke.  The clan elders had told
her that she must live apart from the rest of the M'Calls while the
cloud warrior was held captive.  He was not to discover that she had
been born with a smooth, one-coloured skin like his.  The body of a
sand-burrower.

Like Cadillac, she had suffered as a young child because of her
'otherness'.  It was they who, in their perfection, were the ugly
ducklings, and it was their shared feeling of wretchedness that had
brought them closer together.

Although he was already weighed down with the task of absorbing Mr
Snow's prodigious knowledge, the young Cadillac had always come to her
defence when she had been taunted by the other Cubs.  She, in her turn,
had aided him, hurling herself upon his tormentors and pummelling them
with her tiny fists.  When she was seven, and old enough to understand
that there were other worlds above the blue roof of the sky and below
the grass at her feet, Mr Snow had explained that her body had been
shaped thus because she too had been born to serve Talisman, the
Thrice-Gifted One.  She had accepted this and drawn comfort from it but
had not truly believed until the recent unveiling of her powers as a
summoner, and Cadillac's new-found ability to draw pictures from the
seeing stones.  Mr Snow had spoken the truth: th?path of the future
was already drawn.  Most of the Plainfolk could only see that path one
step at a time but Cadillac had the gift of seership.  When his skill
increased and his mind was ready, he would be able to pierce the
time-clouds and see what lay ahead.

Mr Snow knew some of these things already because the Sky Voices spoke
through him.  They, The Masters of All, lived in a world whose horizons
were bounded by the beginning and the end of time, on a mountain so
high they could see below them all that had been and all that would
be.

The Sky Voices had told Mr Snow that, despite the wishes of the clan
elders, her path would meet that of the Death-Bringer.

Never doubting his wisdom, she had done exactly what he had told her to
do.  Even so, she felt troubled at having to conceal her thoughts and
actions from Cadillac.

For had they not agreed to exchange the blood-kiss?  Had they not been
as one between the fox and the bear?  Was he 249

if not the strongest - the bravest, most valiant and stalwart of the
M'C, all warriors?  And if he was not yet as wise as Mr Snow, was not
his tongue like sharp iron, and his head like a bright star?  Did her
heart not warm at the thought of him?

Had she not pledged to guard him through all her days?

Yes... All this was true, and yet she felt confused, guilty.

Ever since she had gazed upon the cloud warrior across the firelit
circle on the night he had bitten the arrow, her heart had been torn in
two.  She felt guilty because her mind harboured thoughts that the laws
of the blood-kiss forbade; images of lying in the moon-dark with the
Death-Bringer.

Images that brought her body to fever-heat.  Cadillac's eyes were dark;
his were blue.  It was like looking into her own eyes, reflected in the
untroubled surface of a shadowed rock pool.  Cadillac's shoulders were
broad and square but were not his broader, squarer?  And was he not
taller?  Cadillac's hair was straight and dark as a raven's wing; his
hair rippled like a field of breadstalks in the wind.  It shone like
grass struck by the rays of the rising sun, and his voice, ah... his
voice was strong and smooth like deep running water.  It made her heart
tremble like the roar of a mountain lion and lit a fire in her belly
that caused the bones in her thighs to melt like snow.

No one had seen her on the occasions when she had crept into the
settlement under the cover of Mo-Town's starry cloak.  She had crouched
outside Mr Snow's hut and listened to all they had said; had heard him
speak of the dark cities under the earth.  The word-pictures he drew
had filled her with terror but she could have sat there for days on end
listening to the sound of his voice.

Some of her clan sisters, who suspected nothing, had said he had the
tongue of a viper, the smile of a coyote, and a heart of stone.  Others
had told her that they had sent Night-Fever to test his manhood and
that he had spurned her.  He fights well with a long stick, they said
mockingly, but there is no sharp iron between his legs: only a broken
twig.

Clearwater had joined in their laughter but chose not to believe
them.

She did not care that his blue eyes were veiled and his spirit
hidden.

She had looked upon him and sensed the power within; had felt his heart
quicken.  And that was enough.  The cloud warrior was, quite simply,
the most beautiful being she had ever set eyes on.

By the tribal laws of the Plainfoik, Clearwater knew that she merited
death at Cadillac's hand for harbouring such desires; knew also that
she would welcome death if it came to her while in the cloud warrior's
arms.  The guilt engendered by these feelings and the torment caused by
their concealment had grown daily.  Amazingly, no one seemed to have
noticed but she was sure that Mr Snow knew, in the same way that he
knew she and the cloud warrior were destined to meet.

Clearwater began to paint Cadillac's chest.  As she charged the flat
sliver of wood with more dye she looked into his eyes and saw they were
focussed on the horizon of a world beyond that bounded by the reddening
sky."  She traced two curving lines down the centre of his chest and
began to fill in the space between.

And she wondered if he knew that it was she who, hidden by the darkness
into which she had retreated, had silently summoned up the power within
her to save the cloud warrior from Motor-Head's hammer.

SIXTEEN

On the day after Steve's encounter with Clearwater, he took the map
from its hiding place and set off into the hills behind the
settlement.

After climbing for a couple of hours, he reached a point which gave him
a panoramic view of the surrounding terrain.  Orienting his map by the
sun, he was able, by careful observation of various topographical
features, to pinpoint his position with some degree of accuracy.  His
hunch that the M'Calls had moved westwards was largely correct.  From
their original encampment north of Laramie, they had trekked some two
hundred miles north-westwards to the eastern slopes of the Wind River
Range from where Steve now looked down towards the head of the
Sweetwater and Beaver River.

To the south, the line of the Rocky Mountains -of which the Wind River
Range was part - opened out to surround the Great Divide Basin, an arid
stretch of bare rock and sand dunes that looked as if they'd been
shipped direct from the Sahara.  From his map, Steve saw that the
Rockies ran southwards through Colorado.  Proceeding on the improbable
supposition that enough materials had been salvaged to allow him, with
the help of his captors, to build a hang-glider, his best bet would be
to fly from peak to peak until he was within striking distance of the
nearest way-station Pueblo, on the Arkansas River, in the southern
quarter of the state.  The steep slopes would provide a plentiful
supply of up-drafts and thermals and, if he .had to come down, it would
be better to land on high ground from which he could take off again.

Steve's flight map only covered Wyoming and Colorado, plus a narrow
strip of Kansas, Nebraska and South Dakota so he could not work out how
far he was from Grand Central.  He did not even know the shape or
extent of the American continent.  It was not, and had never been,
Federation policy to allow Trackers access to more information than
they needed; not even Trail-Blazers.  Each expedition was issued with
the cartographical data covering its specific operational-area, no
more.  Houston, in fact, lay some twelve hundred miles south-east of
where he sat at that moment.

On his way back down the mountain, Steve mulled over how best to
proceed and cursed himself for leaving his quarterstaff lying somewhere
under the ferns at the back of Clearwater's hut.  If it was found, it
might blow his chances of enlisting Cadillac's help.  He considered
going back for it and decided it was too risky.  With luck, it would
remain undiscovered.  The return visit he had inwardly vowed to make to
the Mute with the blue eyes would have to be shelved.  Indefinitely.

Steve's mixed-up feelings about Clearwater hadn't lessened but his near
miss with the cross-bow bolt and the subsequent chase through the woods
had been an all too sharp reminder that he was in enemy hands.  So far
he had not been challenged about the incident or confronted by his
pursuers but that didn't necessarily mean he was in the clear.  Mutes
didn't think the way Trackers did.  There was no knowing what these
lumps might be cooking up.  He had allowed the regular meals, the
good-natured discussions, and the general lack of restraint to lull him
into a false sense of security.  Worse, in his thoughts about
Clearwater, he had permitted himself to indulge in the kind of fantasy
that the Mutes wallowed in all the time.  Pipe dreams...

In reality, his life was balanced on a knife-edge.  A knife which the
two wordsmiths were holding between them.  If he stepped too far out of
line the heat being generated by the head-hunters among the M'Calls
might get too much for Mr Snow.  The old guy had come up with this
great line about him being under Talisman's protection; he could just
as easily arrange for Talisman to change his mind and declare him
surplus to requirements.  It could prove equally fatal to intrude into
the relationship between Cadillac and Clearwater - especially in view
of the cooperation he was about to solicit.

Steve's step lightened as he came to a firm decision.  Even if it never
left the ground, building a hang-glider would provide an alternative
focus for his thoughts and energy.  It would also give Cadillac's mind
something more important to latch onto than Steve's walk in the
forest.

If he and Mr Snow put their weight behind the project then his own
continued well-being was guaranteed until it was completed.

Cadillac had not reacted in any positive way when Steve had first
broached the subject but he was pretty sure that the young wordsmith
would not turn down the chance of learning to fly.  At the back of
Steve's mind lurked the idea that Cadillac might - just might - break
his neck in the process.  Steve banished such thoughts resolutely.  The
loss of Cadillac would be a double tragedy for if the craft was wrecked
in the process it would put an end to all hopes of escape but.  on the
other hand...

No.  Forget it, Brickman.  You can't afford to let it happen.

The clan wouldn't let you get away with it.

Three more days went by.  Cadillac didn't show.

It figures, thought Steve.  Those patterns obviously take time to
apply.  She has to paint him all over - and then he has to paint her.

And so on...

Steve found he didn't like to think about it.  Jealousy was another
word that had been omitted from the Tracker vocabulary.  But, once
again, Steve didn't know that.  He only knew that he didn't like
feeling the way he did.  Back home, if you felt like putting the bomb
in the barrel with one of the guys you just propositioned them.  They
either said 'yes' or 'no' depending on how they felt or whether they
were busy.  Either way it was no big deal.  Nor did it matter who
they'd been with or who you were planning to go with next.  There were
no ties, even when you decided to pair off with somebody and filed a
bond application.  That was primarily an administrative requirement
relating to guardianship.

Provided you and your partner performed that role adequately you could
both jack up whoever you liked.  This was why Steve found himself
tormented and confused by his feelings towards Cadillac and
Clearwater.

He did not like to think of them together; did not like the thought
that Clearwater belonged to someone else.  To someone who had saved his
life and on whom his future well-being depended.

Steve's inner turmoil was compounded by the fact that he had begun to
like the two wordsmiths; had actually felt stirrings of genuine warmth
towards them; had experienced a very real but unsettling sense of
kinship.  And that was bad news.  Such feelings corroded the armour
plate he had riveted around his Tracker psyche.  It made him feel
vulnerable - and he didn't like that.