Echoes of the Great Song (17 page)

“You have spoken of dream walking before. You said it had many dangers, Touchstone.”

“Yes. Many dangers. But must answer riddle.”

“I thought you needed a shaman for the journey. To help you home.”

“You must bring me home.”

“I don’t know how, my friend.”

Touchstone shook his head. “You share walk. You see what I see. But you hold to ship. To …” he struggled for the right words, “to life,” he said, at last. “One hand to ship. One hand to me. You draw Touchstone back.”

“And this vision is important enough to risk your life?”

“And yours,” said Touchstone.

Talaban grinned. “Well, dream walking is something I have never done. So how do we begin?”

“We sit. On floor. Find trance. Then we fly.”

“Let’s do it,” said Talaban.

Talaban locked the door then knelt on the rug facing Touchstone. The tribesman put his hands on Talaban’s shoulders. Talaban copied the move. Then Touchstone leaned forward, lowering his head until their skulls touched.

“Hold to ship,” warned Touchstone. “Or both be lost.”

Talaban did not reply. Relaxing his mind he sought the trance state: focus without concentration, physical tension allied to mental relaxation, the melding of opposites, the closing of the circle. He felt himself moving, spinning, as if he and Touchstone were involved in a bizarre dance. He knew it was not so and that they still knelt together on the rug of his cabin, and yet he allowed the feeling to grow. Colors danced in his mind, swirling rainbows passing over, around and through him. And then he heard music, soaring and primal, the drumbeat of the universe, the eerie singing of cosmic winds, the sighing of unborn stars.

He was floating now in darkness and scenes from his past flowed before his mind’s eye; his first voyage to the Hidden Islands and the school there where he studied Anu’s star maps, his courtship of Suryet, as they ran together in the high hills above the tepees of the Anajo, his capture of Touchstone, his capture by Talaban. With a jolt he struggled to free himself from the complete union of minds. Drawing back, he held to his own identity, and became aware that Touchstone was going through a similar struggle. The colors flared into life once more and, momentarily, he felt the rug beneath his knees and the movement of the ship.

Separated but still together the two men relaxed once
more, their minds soaring back towards the music. Sights of infinite beauty filled Talaban’s mind, planets and stars, moons and comets, all moving and spinning in the great dance that was eternity.

Excitement swept through him, followed by ecstasy. All the secrets of the universe were flowing through him, too fast to make sense of, but slow enough to see that there was a unity and a sense of underlying purpose to all the scenes. Lost in the wonder of it he floated among the stars of the Great Milk River of the Sky.

He had forgotten Touchstone, forgotten the ship, lost touch with his own small, meaningless life. Here were the answers to every question, every mystery. And he was free—free of care and trouble, free of strife and discord. Here was harmony. Here was a joy undreamed of.

Time was meaningless here and he floated on, watching, learning, observing, filled with a sense of increasing wonder. He watched the birth of stars and the death of planets, growing ever more part of the dance.

Two moons
.

It was as if a voice had spoken to him, yet without sound. What did it mean? And then he remembered the mystery. So tiny it seemed now, so inconsequential. But even the thought of the riddle gave him a desire to find the answer.

Colors swirled around him once more and he found himself gazing down on a blue planet. Then he was hurtling towards it, passing through clouds, and hovering over vast mountains. Down and down he flew until he recognized Parapolis and the White Pyramid at its center. People were moving through the marketplace and the temple grounds.

And there, moving across the great courtyard, he saw himself being approached by a Vagar mystic, a ragged man in ragged furs.

The scene shimmered.

He was still above Parapolis—but there was no white pyramid. This time it was a golden ziggurat, stepped and flat-topped. The ragged mystic was there again, but this time he was being held by guards. One of them drew a golden knife with a serrated edge and dragged it across the little man’s throat.

Again the scene shimmered and changed. Talaban floated higher.

It was night, and a great wind was blowing over the continent. Talaban swung and looked to the north.

The tidal wave was bearing down upon the city.

In that moment a second moon appeared in the night sky, bright and gleaming. And the city disappeared—just as the tidal wave swept over it.

The euphoria Talaban had experienced moments before was gone now. He had witnessed the impossible and it brought his consciousness surging back to life. No longer passively observing, he was thinking again, remembering the ship, his life and …

Touchstone!

Where was Touchstone?

He could not feel him, nor sense his presence.

With an effort of will he concentrated on the ship, the rug, the cabin, his hands on Touchstone’s shoulders. The universe span and Talaban was hurled back into his body. Touchstone still knelt before him. Talaban shook him and called his name. There was no response and his body fell to the floor.

Struggling for calm, Talaban once more entered the trance state, seeking a route back to the stars. For an hour or more he sought it but to no avail.

For the first time in decades he felt the beginnings of panic. Rising from the rug he poured himself a goblet of water and drank it swiftly, seeking calm. He stared down at the prone figure of the tribesman.

He trusted you!

The panic flared again. Talaban swore, allowing anger to wash over him, swamping the negative forces seeking to unman him.

Touchstone’s right hand lay flat against the rug, the medicine pouch having fallen from it. Talaban returned to his position and took up the pouch. Everything of value in the tribesman’s life was represented by the contents of the pouch. Touchstone believed in its magic. Talaban needed it now.

He had once heard Touchstone chanting in his cabin. Talaban’s Avatar training allowed him to recall every note, every nuance. Holding the pouch to his chest he began the chant. Colors flared in his mind, the bright blue of a summer sky, the deep multi-shaded greens of the forest trees. Sounds whispered to him: distant bird song, the faint call of the Osnu. Then something terribly cold slammed into his brain, the pain exquisitely focused.

“You are moments from death,”
came a voice colder than the pain.

“I must find Touchstone. He is lost,” said Talaban.

“Open your mind to me,”
came the command. Talaban felt as if talons were ripping at his skull, tearing it open.
“Do not resist!”

Forcing himself to relax, the Avatar gave in to the pain. The cold was replaced by a searing heat that made him cry out. Red-hot wires seemed to be penetrating his brain, worming their way through the soft wet tissue. Bile rose in his throat and he vomited on the rug.

Then the pain eased and the voice came again.
“You must find him.”

“I do not know how.”

“You have the pouch. Use it. I can lead you back to the Milk River. But only the holder of the pouch can find him.”

“What must I do?”

“Hang the pouch around your neck. Then hold to his body with your left hand. Reach out with your right. Once among the stars when you feel something solid it will be Touchstone. He will not want to come back. He will fight you. He will claw and bite and rend and tear. He will take many shapes and forms. They will all be illusions. Hold to him. No matter what. You understand?”

“Yes.”

“Do not let go. There will be no second attempt.”

“I understand.”

“Be strong. If you are not he will kill you.”

“How can an illusion kill me?”

“The pain will be real enough. If you believe in it you will die.”

Talaban looped the pouch over his head. “I am ready,” he said. “Who are you?”

“I am the One-Eyed-Fox. Take hold of my grandson.”
Talaban did so.
“Now close your eyes and reach out with your right hand.”

Colors blazed against his eyes, bright, burning and painful. He felt himself floating in a sea of agony and he tried to cry out, but had no voice. Then he was falling, drifting through fire. He heard a voice—many voices, all screaming at him. Phrases burst through the cacophony …

“Loathsome child. Can you not master simple tasks?”
My father hated me. He knew the truth
.

“There is nothing you cannot do, my son.”
My mother adored me. She was the truth
.

“He is useless. Good for nothing. It is hard to believe that I sired him.”

“A talent for fighting is not what made the Avatar great, boy. The mind. Use the mind.”
Endar-sen, my teacher. Without him I would have been lost
.

The sounds grew, voices screaming, shouting, whispering,
Talaban fought for sanity amid the noise. Where were the bright stars and the music of the universe?

“They will come,”
came the voice of the One-Eyed-Fox.
“First you must fall inward and then we will fly outward. Listen to the voices. Know who you are.”

“I know who I am.”

“No. Find what was lost.”

“Touchstone. He is lost.”

“Find first the lost man within yourself, Talaban. Then seek Touchstone.”

“I don’t understand!” But he did understand—and tumbled into an ocean of voices.

“A man must have a dream, Talaban,” said Endar-sen. “Without it we are merely animate. We eat and drink, but we gain no sustenance. We listen and talk but we learn nothing of value. We breathe, but we do not live. What is your dream?”

“There is nothing you cannot do, my son. You are special.”

“I have no dream! There is no dream for me. All dreams died beneath the ice. All hope was buried there.”

“Loathsome child. Can you not master even simple tasks?”

“Come to me, Talaban. I will be yours and yours alone.”
Chryssa was the best of them. She loved me. With her I could have built dreams
. The sounds faded and he saw again the last meeting, her fragile beauty almost gone, her skin like glass. No one understood the nature of the disease. It afflicted perhaps one in ten thousand Avatars. They called it
Crystal-wed
. Use of crystals somehow changed the body chemistry. Soft tissue hardened, the body taking on the properties of the crystals themselves. Once it had begun there was no reversing it. Sometimes the process would be slow and agonizing,
at others swift and terrifying. Chryssa had thankfully fallen into the latter group. Talaban had sat beside her bed. He could not hold her hand, for fear of breaking her fingers. She had lost the power of speech, and only her eyes—sweet, blue eyes—remained soft and moist. He told her he loved her, would love her for all time. A tear appeared on her crystal cheek, then her eyes hardened, and she was gone.

The world ended then for him, and the fall of the world the following year was an anti-climax.

The pain of the memory was intense. It burned him and chilled him.

That was the day I lost everything, he thought.

“No. That was the day you surrendered everything,”
said the One-Eyed-Fox.
“Today is the day you reclaim it.”

The voices were gone now and Talaban floated free, high and fast, spinning and turning.

Below him the blue planet shone like a midnight lantern. His speed increased, the planet shrinking to a tiny pebble. Two comets flashed across his path, drawn towards a colossal planet, and plunging deep into the huge storm clouds that swirled around it. Great plumes of fire billowed out.

Talaban flew on.

Now he could hear the music, the heartbeat of the cosmos. He yearned to be a part of it, to let himself go and live among the rhythms of eternity.
“Hold fast!”
ordered the One-Eyed Fox.
“That is the route Touchstone chose.”

Talaban dragged his mind from the music and reached out. There was nothing.

“Close your eyes and picture the medicine pouch. Touchstone will be drawn to you.”

He was no longer spinning. He was floating, suspended amid the stars. Closing his eyes he followed the
advice of the shaman. He could feel the medicine bag in his left hand. Something whispered against his fingers. He grabbed at it and missed. It came again—and this time his fingers hooked to the surface. A sharp pain lanced into his arm. Opening his eyes he saw a huge mottled snake, its fangs embedded in his arm. His fingers jerked open, but he overcame his fear and gripped the round body once more. The snake’s fangs flashed for his face, sinking deep, and he could feel the poison seeping into his flesh.

Illusion. It is all illusion, he told himself. The wounds disappeared instantly.

He was holding a rock. Worms were sliding from holes in its surface, eating into his palm, their tiny teeth ripping away his flesh.

Concentrating on the medicine pouch he pictured the ship, seeking a way back. The worms ate their way into his wrist. They were laying eggs in the arteries. He felt them swimming through his veins. The eggs hatched, and more worms began to grow inside his chest and belly, his neck and his loins, bursting through the skin.

He was being eaten alive.

“Help me, shaman!” he said. But there was no answering voice.

What if this was all a trick? What if there was no Touchstone here? Had he been lured into a trap?

A worm burst out through his cheek and flopped down his face.

The rainbows were spiralling about him now, and he clung to the rock.

Almost home, he thought. Almost safe.

“You are hurting me,” came the voice of Chryssa. Talaban’s eyes snapped open. He saw her fragile body, the splintering cracks running up her crystal arm under the pressure of his hand. “Why do you want to hurt me?”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he told her.