Ghostcountry's Wrath (2 page)

“
Siyu,
Uncle!” Uki cried in turn: “Greetings,
Asgaya Gigagei!
Greetings, Red Man of the Lightning, Chief of
Nundagunyi
!”

“
Siyu
to you likewise, brother's son!
Siyu
to Hyuntikwala Usunhi, Chief of Walhala!”

“It is long since you visited, Uncle,” Uki noted placidly, as he embraced his kinsman.

“It is long since I had call to visit,” Asgaya Gigagei gave back, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “You serve your Quarter well.” He paused then, stared up at the clear blue sky. “Though for a time,” he continued more seriously, “I feared you would delay too long—or your apprentice would.”

“How is it that you know of him?” Uki asked carefully.

“He passed through my Quarter once,” the Red Man replied. “It was a year ago and more, when he and his Nunnehi friend fared east in search of the Burning Sand. I have been following his progress ever since. I also feared that this last undertaking of his would fail.”

“But it did not!” Uki cried. “Nunda Igeyi no longer shakes. Edahi has ended the war in that other Land which upset it.”

The Red Man scowled—an expression with which his brow looked unacquainted. “Do you
know
that it was Edahi who wrought this wonder? Men from the Lying World do not commonly have influence in Lands not their own.”

“He—or one of his comrades,” Uki answered flatly. “But only Edahi knew how to breach the World Walls; he therefore must have played a major role.”

The Red Man's brows lifted in curiosity. “You are proud of this mortal boy? This son of the Lying World?”

“Not all who live in the Lying World lie themselves!” Uki snorted.

The Red Man ignored him. “He wants to be an
adawehi
?”

“A
magician,
as his folk would say? So it appears. I have tried to direct him as best I could.”

The Red Man chuckled. “
Edahi:
He-Goes-About—that was your name for him?”

Uki shook his head. “His mother's father was a man of Power; when the boy was born he foresaw that the lad would travel far and called him accordingly—in both our tongue and his.”

“Names can be important,” the Red Man observed thoughtfully. “And they can mark important things as well.”

Uki's eyes twinkled conspiratorially. “What are you thinking, Uncle?”

Asgaya Gigagei's cryptic smirk became a grin. “I do not need to tell you what I am thinking.”

Uki's response was to gaze once more at Nunda Igeyi, which had now fully cleared the horizon, still amazed that he could trust it. “Perhaps,” he murmured, “we should
see
how things fare with my apprentice.”

“Perhaps,” the Red Man laughed, slapping his nephew on the back, “we can use your Power Wheel—though of course we will use my
ulunsuti
.”

*

…
a clearing in a forest, perfectly circular and as wide as three hands of men are high; paved with white sand across which no wind wanders; the whole bordered with watchful laurel; vigilant cedar at its back…

…four trees, lightning-blasted, twist skyward at the cardinal points: red at the East, white to the South, black marking West, and blue in the North; and running from them to the center of the wheel, lines of darker gravel that cross the circle into quarters…

…a crystal like an uncut diamond as big as a man's fist, split by a septum the color of blood: the ulunsuti—the jewel from the head of the great uktena…

Two men gaze into it, there where the Quarters meet in Uki's Place of Power. Blood films it: perhaps the blood of men. Or perhaps the blood of spirits—or even gods.

The ulunsuti drinks its fill of their might—and still the men stare into it.

And then…

…mountains. The soft-edged ridges of the Lying World, blazing purple and blue and green in the midday light. Lakes sprawl among them, cold man-made mirrors of a summer-hot sky. And amid those hills and long-drowned hollows a round knoll rises, carpeted in new-cut grass. Objects circle it like bright beetles
cars—
for
Edahi has taught Uki that word. But these are empty; the folk who rode them to the knoll have gathered around its summit, where, beneath an arch of pure white roses an aging man in night blue robes addresses a brown-haired youth clad in stiff white clothing that clinches close about his throat and strains tight across thick muscles. A white-veiled young woman stands beside him, her dress likewise of white, though it is loose and flows like foam among the grasses.

At
her
left more women wait; in pink, pale blue, soft green, lavender, and yellow: fair as the flowers in their hands.

To the young man's right, five youths likewise linger, all in snug white garments accented with color at throat and waist. Three of them have bound their long hair back in tails, and two of the five Uki does not recognize: one compact, dark-haired, and shortest, the other thin, gold-crowned, and tall.

The others Uki
does
know, for they have guested with him in Galunlati.

There is the slender, brown-haired youth named Alec McLean—once called by Uki
Tawiska:
the Smooth One—whom Edahi brought with him to Galunlati, where he helped slay an uktena and nearly died thereby; and who, reborn, was thereafter named
Tsulehisanunhi:
the Resurrected One.

Beside him stands his brother-close friend, David Sullivan; called
Sikwa Unega
—White 'Possum for his grin and the fairness of his hair; who journeyed once to the sacred lake
Atagahi
in quest of healing water with which to save Tsulehisanunhi from that same uktena's poison.

And finally, there is Edahi. Dark and handsome, strong and black-haired, and alone of the young men gathered there also of the Ani-Yunwiya, that the folk of the Lying World call Cherokee.

The White Man and the Red Man watch fascinated, as some ceremony—Edahi has said something about attending a wedding—lapses into merriment and feasting.

“Very well,” Uki whispers at last, nodding at his uncle. “As soon as we can summon the others, we will proceed!”

Chapter I: The Boy in the Stone

(near MacTyrie, Georgia—Saturday, June 21—late afternoon)

Mad David Sullivan snugged a worn leather belt around his narrow waist and vented a grateful sigh. “Well,” he announced to the log-walled room at large, “I feel like my old self again.”

Shirtless, barefoot, and inclined to stay that way for a spell, given how hot the bunk room in Aikin Daniels's unair-conditioned mountainside cabin had become in the few hours since he and his MacTyrie Gang buddies had deserted it, he scooped a pile of mostly-white clothing from the oiled pine floor and began transferring his wallet, keys, and checkbook from the tuxedo pants he had so eagerly abandoned to the faded cutoffs that replaced them now.

Amid the chaos of sleeping bags, backpacks, pizza boxes, beer bottles, and X-rated videotapes that updated the otherwise rustic room, that same Aikin “M. H.” (for Mighty Hunter) Daniels whose parents owned the cabin was likewise transforming himself from groomsman to civilian; moving, as always, with the near-absolute silence that was his stock-in-trade. A low, steady hiss to David's right was Calvin McIntosh showering in the adjoining john. The faint odor of Coast soap wafted between the diagonal planks of the ill-fitting door. David wished he'd hurry. They needed to talk—badly. Not here, of course—with Aik's overly eager ears alert and starved for secrets. But soon—real soon.

“Yeah, thank
God
it's over,” Aikin agreed, oblivious to David's subtle agitation, as he stuffed the tail of his black
Sandman
T-shirt into his own cutoffs. He retrieved his silver-framed glasses from the scarred oak dresser in the corner and raised inky eyebrows into like-colored bangs in relief.

“Guess it's your turn now,” David chided. He unbound his “formal” ponytail, turned to the single mirror, which hung between the windows, and applied a comb to his thick, white-blond hair.

Aikin bared his teeth at the taunt, then flung his tux jacket straight at him.

David observed the attack in the glass, plucked the garment neatly from the air, and whirled it back whence it came, then flopped against the rough-hewn wall. Aikin wadded the forsaken formal wear into his backpack and eased toward the greatroom door.

Before he reached it, however, it flew open, and Alec McLean stomped in, likewise (and atypically) barefoot, and with his purple satin bowtie undone and trickling down his shirtfront, but otherwise still fully clad in the regalia the Gang had endured for Gary Hudson's wedding. He lugged a duffle bag: as gray as his eyes and almost as elegantly slim. In line with his abrupt entrance, he also looked very harried.

Aikin flicked an unclaimed pair of Enotah County 'Possums gym shorts at him—which he dodged. “So what's the deal, Mach-One? You don't look like a happy camper.”

Alec shook his spiky dark head as he advanced into the room, releasing shirt studs in the process. “How'd
you
like havin' a dog-drunk Darrell Buchanan vomit red velvet wedding cake all over your dashboard, then pass out cold?”

David rolled his eyes. “That's our Runnerman.”

“What about Cal's lady?” Aikin wondered. “Sandy, or whatever? I thought you were gonna lead her up here.”

Alec flung down his bag and commenced to undress in earnest. “She needed to pick up a couple things in town but said she'd come up after that if she got antsy—assuming she can pry Liz away from the other bridesmaids long enough to show her the way. Otherwise, we're supposed to rendezvous at the Pizza Hut in MacTyrie. Me and Dave and Cal are,” he added apologetically to Aikin. “Sorry to stick you with K.P. man.”

“I'm
not
stupid!” Aikin growled. “I know you guys've got some big secret you're hot to download. It's no big deal.”

David shot Alec a wary glance. “Sorry
—really.
I'll tell you what I can when I can, I promise.”

“Yeah, like ten years from now,” Aikin muttered. He stared at them a moment longer, then grimaced sourly and slipped out of the room, silently as always: the quietest person David knew—save Calvin. He also made an obvious point of closing the door. David wondered what he was thinking.

“So, where
is
young Mr. Macintosh?” Alec asked offhandedly.

David dipped his head toward the loo. “Made a beeline for the shower as
-
soon as Aik got the door open. Said he couldn't stand himself a minute longer. Seems the A.C. in Sandy's truck died right when they hit the road this morning.”

Alec laughed out loud. “Six hours in this heat? No wonder he was so ripe at the wedding!”

“I can't believe he actually changed in the middle of the field!” David giggled. “No, actually I can, knowin' Cal. And we
were
standin' guard around him—sort of.”

“He say why he was late?”

David shook his head, suddenly serious. “Just what he told us when he called to say he was on his way.”

“It's complicated, and I only want to have to tell it once,” a new voice called above the fading hiss of the shower expiring.

Once again Alec and David exchanged glances: blue and gray eyes locked in quizzical resignation. While David collected his finery, Alec resurrected his civilian persona. An instant later, the bathroom door squeaked open, releasing a cloud of steam around a muscular, rusty-skinned young man who stood there applying one end of a long blue towel to shoulder-length black hair, while the other flirted with his thighs.

David stared fixedly at the opposite wall as Calvin continued drying himself. “So, Fargo,” he drawled, “when
are
you gonna reveal this great secret of yours?”

“Besides the one he's already revealing?” Alec chuckled. “Doesn't look so great to me!”

“Eat me, White Boy!” Calvin snarled.

“Don't have a fork that small,” Alec shot back. Calvin bent over to dry his legs—which not so coincidentally mooned him.

“Neither does your tattoo, actually,” Alec observed coolly, refusing to be baited. “—Look good, I mean.”
“

Eat me!”

David glanced at Calvin's bare backside reflexively, in quest of the cross-in-circle tattoo that had always graced—if that word was appropriate to such a referent—his friend's upper right “cheek.” “God, he's right!” he gasped. “It's all…faded!”

Calvin straightened and craned his neck to peer over his shoulder, then gave up and padded to the mirror, where he proceeded to peruse his bottom critically. “Well, that's interestin',” he mused. “Not that I spend a lot of time lookin' at my butt, or anything. Gosh, I bet it's 'cause—”