Sky Coyote (18 page)

“Just don’t put the kantap down,” growled Sawlawlan, and went into a coughing fit that lasted two whole minutes. I scanned him idly. Twenty years of carving steatite had left his lungs lined with talc. He had hemorrhoids, too. Rich as he was, he must have been miserable most of the time.

“You’ve got to have a word with the boys up at Skaxpilil, by the way.” Nutku splashed a little water in Kupiuc’s direction. “It looks as though they’ve been letting redwood consignments through again. I think they’re stockpiling. Might be time for a little Miwok lightning.”

“Stockpiling?” I inquired.

“We’ve got an agreement with the towns up north, Sky Coyote. Don’t You do this kind of thing in the Upper World? They hold back on their redwood export, and we can keep the price of redwood canoes nice and high.”

“That’s pretty clever!” I said ingenuously. “Of course, wouldn’t that mean most people can’t afford them?”

“Right, so they buy pine. Which means they have to get a new one every sixteen moons. Either way, big profits.” Nutku looked hard at Kupiuc. “So any bastard planning to flood the market with cheap redwood had better have his inventory torched before he gets the chance. Understand?”

“Nutku, I’ve got it under control. Trust me.” Flip, flip, flip went the charmstone.

“We may not be the dealers You guys are in the Upper World, but we know a few tricks, huh?” Nutku grinned at me. He leaned forward conspiratorially. “So, what about a little straight talk on this white men thing, Sky Coyote?”

“Straight talk?” I looked as innocent as I could. It’s not easy with pointed ears and fangs.

“Come on, Sky Coyote, You can level with us. The metaphors are okay for the little people, but we’re community leaders. We know how the game’s really played. These white men, is that some kind of code phrase for the Chinigchinix crazies down south? You can’t mean there’s an invasion planned? Why should they invade us? They need us. They can’t produce any trade goods worth mentioning.”

“Stranger things have happened,” I told him. “But, no. The white men are somebody else entirely, and they really are going to invade you. In fact, their advance forces have already been scouting your coast. You know those funny-looking canoes that landed at Syuxtun? The strangers you sold all those baskets to?” I leaned back lazily and smiled at Kaxiwalic.

As my words sank in, he froze in the act of pouring more water on the rocks.

“What?”

“Remember those fancy new patterns you had designed for
souvenirs? Those people, remember? Didn’t they look just the teensiest bit, oh,
white
to you?”

“Actually some of them were black—but—” His mouth hung open.

“So they’re real?” Nutku looked grim. “Well, so what? They’re only men like we are, then. They want to invade us? We’ll see about that. Our war parties can kick ass like nobody’s business.”

“What’s it going to take to get through to you guys?” I barked. “This is not just an invasion. This is a cosmic matter. There are Big Players in this game. The white men and the Chumash are just pawns.”

Kupiuc stared. “So there really is a World Above.”

“Do I look like I’ve come from the next village over? Of
course
there’s a World Above. Look, I’ll level with you. You all understand, I’m sure, that there are times when you have to let out information in a strictly controlled way. You’re not lying, exactly. Just telling the truth strategically. You all follow me?”

They nodded tensely.

“All right, so we’ve been a little vague with you about Life Up There. It isn’t all that different from life down here, if you want the truth. It’s a power struggle. You have to play the game to win. You guys would understand that.

“Now, your lives are a commodity to us, like any other commodity. Some of us have vested interests in you. Others are more interested in controlling the rate of flow.” I made my eyes mean and small. I canted the tips of my ears forward. “With you guys it’s shell money. With us it’s human lives. My stock goes up when there are a lot of you running around. But the other party—and you can go on calling Him the Sun—does good business when lots of you die off.

“So I’ve had inside information on a move He’s planning, this white-men business. If I can pull my capital—all of you, I
mean—in time, I can protect most of it and transfer to a long-term investment. He’ll flood the market with His invading force, and I’ll take a loss, but I won’t be wiped out. See? Then He’ll have wasted a lot of His resources. I can pull back, draw on my reserves, and hit Him in the next game, and He’ll be at a disadvantage because He won’t know about my secret strategy this time around. And
that’s
how the game is played by the Big Boys, nephews.” Whew.

They sat there in shock a minute or two. At last Sawlawlan moved uneasily on his rock and said, “Well, I never thought the universe worked quite like that … But, you know, now that I think about it, it’s sort of comforting. I mean, this is a system I understand, anyway.”

“Yeah,” said Nutku.

“And it’s not like we were unimportant or anything,” ventured Kaxiwalic. “We’re vital parts of the big plan, aren’t we?”

“Sure you are.”

“Hell, yes, we must be, or Sky Coyote wouldn’t be here! Right, Coyote?” Kupiuc looked narrow-eyed and astute. “The good-and-evil stuff is just a front. It’s business up there just like it’s business down here.” He squeezed his charmstone tight.

“And you smart boys figured it out instinctively.” I smiled with all my sharp and pointed teeth. “The priests are all chasing moonbeams, but leave it to the real leaders to understand the truth.” They all basked in that for a moment, then Nutku cleared his throat again.

“So, um, Sky Coyote … what about
our
investments?”

“I knew you were coming to that.”

“Kaxiwalic mentioned something about losing our markets … ?”

“I won’t lie to you. Sure, you’ll take a loss—but not the way everybody else will. So, where does that put you? Ahead of the
game, right? Which will make you insiders when we get to where we’re going. And, Kaxiwalic, chum: don’t get too worried about our little conversation the other day. I mean, one of your producers was standing right there! Do you think I’d let one of
them
in on this?”

That lightened up a couple of faces, and I rushed on. “Plus—and listen up, this is a big plus—think of the aggravation you’re leaving behind! Ex-wives. Fanatic cultist trading partners. Redwood overstock. Okay? And as for all your existing inventory, hey, all I can say is, sell out now. How, you ask, it’s winter! Sea’s too rough to go on the trade routes. Land’s a mess with mud, and there’s hungry bears and mountain lions on the trails. Well, I can bring in buyers who’ll take it all off your hands! And at retail prices, too! Canoes, bowls, baskets, the whole works, AT RETAIL! You can liquidate all your assets, and when we get to the new place, you’ll be the ones with the capital to get the ball rolling in the new game. And believe me, boys, it’ll be a new game. There are easier ways to make a living than chipping stone bowls. Can you trust your Uncle Sky Coyote?”

Nutku clenched his fists. “You guarantee you can unload my inventory before we go?”

“I said retail, didn’t I?” I replied cheerfully, leaning forward to slosh some hot water on the stones and cloud the issue. I didn’t know where Beckman, our art curator, was going to get all that shell money, but that wasn’t my department.

A
S IT TURNED OUT, ALL
this had been foreseen, and Beckman had enough cash with him to buy a couple of museums, let alone a luxury canoe. If he’d worn all his money, he couldn’t have stood upright, of course. Instead, he stood unburdened in one discreet but high-denomination strand of shells, a deerskin jockstrap, and green body paint, with the rest of the loot carried in satchels by a couple of burly techs.

They waited patiently with the rest of the salvage team in the icy breeze coming off the Pacific. I could see them waiting as I hopped out of my knee breeches. Actually, some of them weren’t waiting so patiently.

“And here he comes! The star player! Yaay!” I went sprinting out to them. Fourteen freezing specialists and thirty security techs glared at me, and nobody cheered. With the goose pimples, green
paint, and
skimpy Chumash costumes, they looked like a bunch of avocados in a diorama.

“Does it get any warmer away from this goddam beach?” Mendoza wanted to know.

“Sure it does. This is California,” I told her. “Now, every
body, probably we won’t encounter any locals until we reach the village. I never give them any clear idea of when I’m going to visit them, so I don’t think they’ll shoot at you or anything, but let me go first and do all the talking. Everyone accessed their language files last night, riiiight?”

“Riiiight,” they echoed in sour unison.

“Heads up, everybody, here comes Bugleg,” hissed MacCool.

Yes, here came our fearless leader, out to review the troops, shepherded by his faithful dog or puppet master, whichever view of Lopez one preferred. They emerged from the base, and Bugleg stood there blinking rapidly in the wind. I don’t think he got outdoors much.

I saluted briskly. “Hello, Mr. Bugleg. Any words of inspiration for us before we hit the beach?”

“What did you say?” He looked bewildered. “This is the beach. I thought you were going to the native huts.”

“Figure of speech, sir. Beach, front lines, salt mines, trenches. Engaging the enemy. Going off into the wild blue yonder. Beginning the beguine. Setting off on our mission.”
Damn it, Joseph!
broadcast Lopez, and I gave him a coyote grin and responded,
Sorry, I’ve really gotten into my role
. Bugleg’s face meanwhile was desperate as he dodged my metaphors and caught the only phrase he understood.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh. I hope it goes all right. Okay? Be careful, everybody.”

It was a wonder the massed wave of scorn projected at him through the ether didn’t knock him off his feet, to say nothing of the silently transmitted raspberries. Careful? Mortal man, we’re immortals! We tread water through the Great Flood! Ashur over there got out of Pompeii a month before things got hot, sold his house at a profit too: he could hear the mountain grumbling in its heart. Imarte can smell a Turk coming a mile away, was well
clear of Byzantium before the fall. I saw the writing on the wall myself, at Tyre: never mind what it said, but I left on a fast horse the same day. Beckman’s never booked passage for a shipwreck, or stood on a wobbly scaffold. Careful? Mortal, you don’t know what careful is.

Though of course nobody looked scornful, because that would have been rude. Instead everyone said out loud, “Thank you, Mr. Bugleg,” in a quiet and nonthreatening way. He turned to me and complained, “They’re all green. Why?”

“Local folklore, sir, remember? They’re supposed to be supernatural beings.”

“Oh.” He nodded. I think he comprehended, even though
supernatural
is five whole syllables long. “And everybody is going in just like we planned?”

“Right. We have a zoologist, an art curator, a botanist, a marine biologist, a geologist, a primary cultural anthropologist, a primary physical anthropologist, and six class-two anthropologists to work in teams with the other specialists.”

“But what if the natives shoot at them?”

“Well, sir, that’s what the security techs are for, isn’t it? And they’ll also help us transport artifacts.” Bugleg blanked on that one. “You know, the things the Indians make. Beads and stuff? Souvenirs?”

“All right.” He shivered. “You better get started. I don’t like it out here. Too cold.”

“Yes, sir, it’s very cold.”

“I’m going inside.” He turned and left.

We set off, up the long canyon. Behind us there was a mortal face at every window.

“Symbolic, isn’t it?” Beside me, Mendoza settled her pack.

“What?”

“Mortals behind us, mortals ahead of us. We’re always in the
middle, trudging up some blind canyon with our collecting gear, bare-ass naked.”

“You’re not bare-ass naked; you’re in colorful local costume,” I reproved. “I bet you’re wishing you had your Madrid fashions on now, huh?”

“And how,” muttered a dozen immortals.

But their spirits rose as we got inland, away from the wind. The sky was blue, the sun was warm, and nobody was shooting at us: basic elemental pleasures like that. More, though: we were finally away from all the bureaucratic crap and going out where we could do some work at last. We were on the job again. It produces a sense of euphoria in us. We were designed that way.

And we certainly had time to do what we’d come to do. Seventy years at least before Father Serra, bless or damn his well-meaning soul as you like, limps up the coast to found his mission system. Twice that long before the Yankee boys see Spanish estates the size of minor kingdoms, all empty and pastoral, and decide these lazy
Gentes de Razón
must be pretty damn dumb not to see the money they could be making if they’d cut down the oak trees and build towns. Two hundred years and then some before the engineer Mulholland throws open the sluice on his new aqueduct and yells, “There it is—take it!” as somebody else’s water cascades down to a host of real estate developers and orange growers. Putting in five words the creed of everyone who’ll ever lay eyes on this poor California.