People of the Owl(38)

“Neither do I.”

Mud Puppy frowned at the thin bit of stone, running his finger over the smooth chert. “What are you?”

“Whatever you make of me. I was alone until you picked me up. As long as you hold me, I shall be whatever you want me to be.”

Was it the flake of stone talking? Or the voice of the mushroom echoing around his souls? Mud Puppy blinked, his souls twining about and floating in his chest. Did it matter? The flake’s answer was oddly reassuring: “I shall be whatever you want me to be.”

The first spatters of rain pattered his skin. The impact of the drops went right through him, as though he were pierced by a cast dart. He forced himself to sit up, dazed, failing to understand as the raindrops thumped and hammered on his head. Each drop sent echoes of its impact through his skull, like rings on a pond. Eternity stretched as he lost himself in the sensations. The water trickling down his cold skin was alive. He could sense its living essence, silver and fluid.

Cold. Have I ever been this cold? Dumbly he ran his hands down his arms, squishing the water from his skin. He could feel himself, feel the blood being pushed around inside him as he tightened his grip on his arm. His body seemed to glow despite the cold.

A gust of wind pushed at him and relaxed. Wind, a thing of the sky.

I flew! The memory of the Dream floated out of the recesses and re-formed within his souls. Yes, hadn’t that been magical? His souls turned hollow with the sensation of dropping, weightless, from a great height. Were those really Owl’s wings that had carried him?

“They were indeed,” a deep voice told him from the night.

He blinked, lashes wet and cold on his face. “Flake?”

“No.” A pause. “Do you remember me? Do you remember the promise you made?”

“Masked Owl?” In the flickering glow of distant lightning, Mud Puppy saw him. The giant owl perched on the grass-thatched ramada. Those huge eyes seemed to gleam in the night.

“Are you seeking the One, Mud Puppy?”

“The One?”

“The One Life. It comes after the Dance.”

“Which you will teach me?”

“Someday.” Masked Owl agreed. “But first, I want you to talk to your uncle. He is here with a message for you.”

“My uncle?” Mud Puppy frowned. “Cloud Heron? Is that whom you mean?”

Lightning flashed again, this time to display Cloud Heron, his body lit by a pale shimmer. To Mud Puppy’s surprise he stood several hands above the earth, floating as though it were the most normal of activities.

“Hello, boy.” Cloud Heron cocked his head; his eyes looked as if they’d been painted with charcoal.

“You look well, Uncle,” Mud Puppy cried happily. “The illness is gone! I’m so happy! Now, everything is right again. You are well, White Bird is home from the north. Mother won’t have to worry so much.”

“I’m dead, Mud Puppy. What you see is my Life Soul.” The words sounded hollow on the storm. “As we speak, my sister is crying beside my body. I came here, to the Bird’s Head, because it is the way.”

“What way?”

“To the West, Nephew. You know what lies there?”

Mud Puppy suffered a sudden shiver. “The Land of the Dead.”

“That’s right. And once my Life Soul crosses the boundary, steps off the mound, it can’t come back. Not to this place. Spirits can’t cross the rings, boy. They can’t walk across water or lines of ash. My Life Soul will be gone forever.”

Mud Puppy frowned. “I’ll miss you.”

“Why?” Cloud Heron demanded. “I never liked you.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

The ghost seemed to waver, shifting when the wind blew through him. “You are right. It doesn’t matter now. I never understood who you were, what you were. If I had known, I would have taught you more. Treated you differently.”

“Taught me more of what?”

“The things you will need to lead. The world will have to teach you. So many will try to kill you, to destroy you, you must be crafty and cunning. You have so much to learn, and no one to teach you.”

“You could teach me, Uncle.”

“I don’t have time now, Nephew. Perhaps my Dream Soul might, if it is ever so inclined. I can’t say how it will decide to treat you.” The ghost shifted, twisting in the air. “A canoe is coming. From the south, from the Panthers. Five young men. As many as the fingers on your hand. With them is an angry young woman. They are going to raid Ground Cherry Camp. Can you remember that?”

“Ground Cherry Camp,” Mud Puppy repeated.

“They will strike at first light on the third day. She must be allowed to escape.”