The Skrayling Tree (7 page)

This last thought came as I watched, virtually mesmerized, while a long, gleaming neck rose and rose and rose from the river
until it blotted out the light. Vast sheets of water ran off its body and threatened to capsize the canoe as, with a shout
to me to steady us, Ayanawatta took one of the spears from beneath his feet and threw it expertly into flesh I had assumed
to be hugely dense. But the spear went deep into the creature, as if into a kind of heaving, wet sawdust, and the water bubbled
with the thing’s hissing breath. It groaned. I had not expected such a noise from it. The voice was almost human, baffled.
It thrashed violently until the spear was flung free, and then it disappeared upstream, still groaning from time to time as
its head broke the water, trailing a kind of thin, yellow ichor like smoke.

“I haven’t seen anything close to that since I was in the Lower Devonian,” I said. I was still shaking. The word
devour
had gained a fresh resonance for me. “Did it mean to attack us?”

“It probably hoped to eat us, but those are known along this river as the Cowardly Serpents. It takes little to drive them
off as you saw, although if they capsize your canoe, you are in some danger, of course.”

Much as I was trained not to think in linearities I was
aware that in this realm gigantic water-serpents had long since become extinct. I put this to Ayanawatta as he paddled to
where his spear floated, shaft up, in the reedy, eddying water. A strong smell of firs and the noise of feeding birds came
from the bank, and I drank in the simplicity of it to steady myself. I knew the supernatural better than that which my husband
insisted on calling “natural,” but I felt resentful that I was being forced to take extra risks as I sought to save him. I
said as much to Ayanawatta.

The Mohawk prince reassured me. He was simply obeying the demands of his dream-quest. This meant that my own dream-quest was
in accordance with his, which meant that as long as we continued in the current pattern and made no serious mistakes our quests
would be successful. We should both get what we desired.

The wind was still blustering and slapping at our clothes. I drew my blanket closer. Ayanawatta hardly noticed the drop in
temperature. As for the “prehistoric” nature of our dangers, he regretted that some sort of crisis had occurred. Such anomalies
were becoming increasingly common. He believed that the source of our own troubles was also causing the disruptions. The great
prairies offered natural grazing and ample prey for predators. They were, he admitted, generally moving south these days,
and the altering climate took increasing numbers of those that remained.

I said that I had noticed it growing colder.

Still apparently oblivious of the chill, Ayanawatta sighed. “Once,” he said, “this was all unspoiled. Those serpents would
never have come this far downriver. It
means you lose all the river game, and before you know it the whole natural order is turned upside down. The consequences
are disastrous. It becomes impossible to lead any kind of settled life. Do you see any villages on the banks these days? Of
course not! It used to be wonderful here. Girls would wave at you. People would invite you in to hear your stories…”

Grumbling thus, he paddled mechanically for a while. The encounter with the river serpent had not so much frightened as irritated
him. Even I had not been terrified of the beast. But Ayanawatta’s sense of order and protocol was upset, and he was becoming
concerned, he said, about the wind.

Again he surprised me. He had a habit of noticing everything while appearing to be entirely concerned with his own words.
For such people, words were sometimes a kind of barrier, the eye of a storm, from which part of them could observe the world
without the world ever guessing.

The wind was the king of the prairie, Ayanawatta continued. The most important force. He suspected that we had somehow engaged
its anger.

He paused in his paddling and took out his flute. He blew a few experimental notes, then began a high, slow tune which made
use of the echoes from the distant mountains and turned them back and forth so that once again it seemed the whole of the
natural world was singing with him.

The wind dropped suddenly. And as it dropped, Ayanawatta’s flute died away.

The extraordinary scenery seemed to go on forever,
changing as the light changed, until it was close to twilight. The river ahead had begun to rumble and hiss. Ayanawatta said
we would have to bypass the rapids tomorrow. Meanwhile we would make camp before sunset, and this time, he promised, he would
catch whatever fish the serpent had left us.

In the morning when I awoke Ayanawatta was gone. The only movement was the lazy smoke from his fire, the only sound the distant
lapping of water and the melancholy wail of a river bird. I felt the ground shiver under me. Was this the sound of the rapids
he had spoken about?

I rose quickly, hardly able to believe I was not experiencing an earthquake. I heard the chirping of frogs and insects, steady,
high. I smelled the smoke and the rich, earthy pines, the acrid oaks and sweet ash. I heard a bird flap and dive, and then
I heard a disturbance in the water. I looked up and saw a hawk carrying a bird in its talons. I found myself wondering about
the magical meaning of what I had seen.

The earth shuddered again, and wood snapped within the forest. I looked for Ayanawatta’s bow and arrows, but they were gone.
I found one of his lances, still in the bottom of the boat, and armed myself with it. As I turned, however, it became immediately
obvious that a stone lance, even a magic one, might not be much use against this newcomer. Out of the thick woods, scattering
branches and leaves in all directions, a fantastic apparition loomed over me.

While I was familiar with the Asian use of domestic elephants, I had never seen a man seated on the back of
a black woolly mammoth with tusks at least nine feet long curving out over an area of at least twenty feet!

The rider approaching me was clearly a warrior of the region, but with subtle differences of dress, black face paint, shaven
head, scalp lock worn long, a lance and a war-shield held in his left hand, his right hand gripping the decorated reins of
his huge mount. It was impossible to judge the rider’s size, but it was clear the mammoth was not young. The old tusks were
splintered and bound but could still very easily kill almost anything which attacked their owner.

My heart thumped with sickening speed. I looked for some advantage. At the last moment the mammoth’s trunk rose in a gesture
of peace. At the same time the painted warrior raised his palm to reassure me.

The mammoth swung her weight forward and began to lower herself onto her knees as the newcomer slid blithely down her back
and landed on the turf.

His tone was at odds with his ferocious black mask. “The prophecy told me I would meet my friend Ayanawatta here but only
hinted at his companion. I am sorry if I alarmed you. Please forgive the death paint. I’ve been in a fairly intense dispute.”

This thoroughly decorated man had a similar grace of manner to Ayanawatta, but something about his movements was familiar
to me. His posture, however, was more brooding. His paint was a black, glowing mask in which two dark rubies burned. I held
on to the spear and took a step back. I began to feel sicker still as I recognized him.

Silently, fascinated, I waited for him to approach.

Do not ask me how I came here,

Do not ask my name or nation,

Do not ask my destination,

For I am Dawadana, the Far Sighted,

Dawadana, Seer and Singer,

Who bore the lance, the Justice Bringer,

Who brought the law out of the East,

Sworn to seek but never speak.

W. S. H
ARTE
,

“The Maker of Laws”

H
e was, of course, the same youth I had seen at the house. His face was so thickly painted I knew him only by his white hands
and red eyes. He did not appear to recognize me at all and seemed a little disappointed. “Do you know where Ayanawatta is?”

I guessed he’d failed to find fish in the river and had
gone hunting in the woods, since his bow and a lance were missing.

“Well, we have some big game to hunt now,” the newcomer said. “I’ve found him at last. I would have reached him sooner if
I had understood my pygmy dream better.” This was offered as apology. He returned to his mount and led the great woolly black
pachyderm down to the water to drink. I admired the saddle blanket and the beaded bridle. Attached to the intricately carved
wooden saddle was a long, painted quiver from which the sharp metal tongues of several lances jutted. Beaver and otter fur
covered the saddle and parts of his bridle. The mammoth herself was, as I had thought, not in her prime. There were grizzled
marks around her mouth and trunk, and her ivory was stained and cracked, but she moved with surprising speed, turning her
vast, tusked head once to look into my eyes, perhaps to convince herself that I was friendly. Reassured, she dipped her trunk
delicately into the cold water, her hairy tail swinging back and forth, twitching with pleasure.

As his mount quenched her mighty thirst, the young man knelt beside the water and began rubbing the black paint from his face,
hair and arms. When he stood up he was once again the youth I had seen at the house. His wet hair was still streaked with
mud or whatever he had put in it, but it was as white as my own. He seemed about ten years younger than me. His face had none
of the terror and pleading I had seen such a short time before. He was ebullient, clearly pleased with himself.

I chose to keep my own counsel. Before I offered too
much, I would wait until I had a better idea of what all this meant. I would instead give him a hint.

“I am Oona, Elric’s daughter,” I said. This apparently was nothing to him, but he sensed I expected him to recognize me.

“That’s a fairly common name,” he said. “Have we met before?”

“I thought we had.”

He frowned politely and then shook his head. “I should have remembered you. Here, I have never seen a woman of my own coloring
and size.” He was unsurprised.

“Were you expecting to see me?”

“You are White Buffalo Woman?”

“I believe so.”

“Then I was expecting to see you. We play out our parts within the prophecy, eh?” He winked. “If we do not, the pathways tangle
and strangle themselves. We should lose all we’ve gained. If you had not been here, at the time I foretold, then I should
have been concerned. But it disturbs me that the third of our trio is missing.”

I knew enough of travelers’ etiquette not to ask him any more than he told me. Many supernatural travelers, using whatever
means they choose, must work for years to reach a certain road, a particular destination. With a single wrong step or misplaced
word, their destination is gone again! To know the future too well is to change it.

“What name will you give for yourself?” I asked.

“My spirit name is White Crow,” said the youth, “and I am a student with the Kakatanawa, sent, as my family always sends its
children, to learn from them. My quest
joins with yours at this point. I have already completed my first three tasks. This will be my fourth and last great task.
You will help me here as I will help you later. Everything becomes clear at the right time. We all work to save the Balance.”
He had undone the straps holding the surprisingly light saddle and supported it as it slid towards him, dumping it heavily
to the ground, the spears rattling. “We walk the path of the Balance.” He spoke almost offhandedly, filling a big skin of
water and washing down the black mammoth’s legs and belly. “And this old girl is called Bes. The word means ‘queen’ in her
language. She, too, serves the Balance well.” With a grunt and a great heave, Bes moved deeper into the water, then lifted
her long, supple trunk and sprayed her own back, luxuriating in the absence of her saddle.

“The Cosmic Balance?”

“The Balance of the world,” he said, clearly unfamiliar with my phrase. “Has Ayanawatta told you nothing? He grows more discreet.”
The young man grinned and pushed back his wet hair. “The Lord of Winds has gone mad and threatens to destroy our longhouse
and all that it protects.” He took bunches of grass and began to clean the long, curving tusks as his animal wallowed deeper
into the stream, gazing at him with fierce affection. “My task was to seek the lost treasures of the Kakatanawa and bring
them to our longhouse so that our home tree will not die. It is my duty and my privilege, for me to serve thus.”

“And what are these treasures?” I asked.

“Together they comprise the Soul of the World. Once
they are restored, they will be strong enough to withstand the Lord of the Winds. The power of all these elementals increases.
They do not merely threaten our lives but our way of thinking. A generation ago we all understood the meaning and value of
our ways. Now even the great Lords of the Higher Worlds forget.”

I was already familiar with those insane Lords and Ladies of Law who had lost all sense of their original function. They had
gone mad in defense of their own power, their own orthodoxy. Lords of the Wind normally served neither Law nor Chaos, but
like all elementals had no special loyalties, except to blood and tradition. White Crow agreed.

“There’s a madness in Chaos,” he said, “just as there can be in Law. These forces take many forms and many names across the
multiverse. To call them Good or Evil is never to know them, never to control them, for there are times when Chaos does good
and Law does evil and vice versa. The tiniest action of any kind can have extreme and monumental consequences. Out of the
greatest acts of evil can spring the greatest powers for good. Equally, from acts of great goodness, pure evil can spring.
That is the first thing any adept learns. Only then can their education truly begin.” He spoke almost like a schoolboy who
had only recently learned these truths.