The Tower of Il Serrohe (50 page)

Nersite looked at Netheraire blankly then back at Don.

“
Oh,” Don said. “You probably don’t count.”

Looking around, he saw how the sun’s early rays of dawn highlighted the humps of the Pot Hills. He could now see more clearly. A little startled, he glimpsed his shadow and then confronted it head on.

There he was: a young buck with sprouts of antlers on top of his head. But the rest of his shadow’s outline was fairly impressive.

Shrugging, he found five, dark marble-sized rocks that contrasted with the sand. Gathering them in his mouth he carefully tried not to swallow them.
Damn! Hands are so ‘handy’; where are they when I need them?

He dropped the rocks in a row on the ridge above where Nersite had told his story. “Each day when the sun rises, throw away one of these rocks. If I’m not back when you throw away the last one, go back to your homes and figure out how to get by with the Soreyes still up on their mesa.”

Nersite sighed and leaned against Netheraire. “OK. Do I throw away a rock now?”

“
No, start tomorrow.”

Nersite twitched his nose in affirmation.

In silence, Don looked over the milling clanspeople. Raquela faced away from him in a little depression, but he’d know that beautiful butt anywhere. She sniffed the air and started to turn toward him, but stopped, pretending to pick at wisps of dull green grass that survived under a bush at her feet.

Don grunted and sprinted away to the northwest.

seventy one

Avoiding thought as he ran, Don became aware of his slacking pace and clumsiness as he bounded over low bushes and uneven soil. He stopped to survey himself. Human again.

The tower mocked as he saw it from the southwest corner of Seared Meadow.
Do I dare approach the Soreye village? What can I accomplish? Maybe surveillance to see how they’ve secured the Tower since the failed Nohmin attack? Yeah, right! Beyond teaching
Beowulf
and the legends of King Arthur plus a little Rudyard Kipling, I have no military exposure.

Maybe I’m going about this wrong. Clanspeople are animals. Only now do I seem to transform into a deer in their presence, but that’s more delirium and wish fulfillment to be like them. But am I, really?

What will I become in the Soreye presence? They always treated me like another annoying clansman and threw me into a slave pit. But things are different now. Why?

He scanned the sky, expecting to see that damned bat, but it was a deep, empty blue with the usual New Mexico clouds putting on a show for tourists. Except, here in Valle Abajo, he was the only tourist.

With no plan, he approached the Soreye village.

The Tower grew to an improbable height. How could these savages erect an adobe building that high with little mud and only vertical posts to support it?

A welcoming committee of two priests and the chief, Sydewynder, were waiting as if he had an appointment.
Just another sample of the Tower’s futurecasting in action. Apparently, I’m the only one surprised by this.

“
Greetings, visitor. You look much improved since your last visit. We were insulted by your quick exit when we had such pleasantries planned for you! Haw-haw-haw!” said Sydewynder.

“
Sorry about that. I had to leave suddenly. Just disappeared, didn’t I?” Don asked, curious how it had looked to them as he’d been slammed back into his world after the Soreye had hit the back of his head.

“
In a puff of dirt and sweat,” one of the priests spat. “We were impressed. Our stories tell of one other who may have had such powers though she only threatened to use them and was bested by a freak storm.”

“
That would be my dear great-grandmother,” Don said.

The Soreyes looked much the same as before: tall, skinny but muscular, not unlike star basketball players with varying skin ranging from light to dark.

Glancing down at himself, Don confirmed he was still human and naked. “I would appreciate some clothes,” he said. “I’m not used to these cold mornings with nary a stitch.”

The chief laughed. “And you expect us to treat you as a true guest?”

Don smiled brightly, drawing on his brief experience as a college student when he sold cutlery door-to-door to pay tuition and buy beans and tortillas. He replied in his best salesman’s voice, “I apologize about my earlier visit. I was confused and angry. You weren’t being very sociable, and I responded in kind. However, you see, I have come fully exposed and unarmed. We are brothers in body and mind although I’m shorter than most of you.”

The chief squinted suspiciously. “To what do we owe this change of heart? The clanspeople have become disillusioned with you? Or did they realize you don’t fit in?”

“
You are a wise man. I see I don’t have to explain anything to you.”

“
Well, maybe.” The chief whispered to the priests. A spirited debate followed though Don couldn’t pick up a word of it.

Finally, the chief turned back to him, smiling like a fisherman with his catch firmly hooked. “At my insistence, we offer you the hand of friendship. Come and join us for breakfast and fresh clothes.”

The priests nodded, but glared as Don walked beside the chief into the village. Watchful eyes tracked the procession to the large open plaza that had once been filled with slave cages.

Don entered a small adobe house where he found an earthenware basin filled with fresh water and a brown tunic of woven cotton, probably imported from a distant clan. Looking more presentable in his tunic, he was escorted to a larger house on the plaza’s west side, its door wide open with windows facing the morning sun.

He enjoyed a hearty breakfast of jerky reconstituted in broth with things like potatoes and carrots, a thick tortilla slathered in butter, and a mug of strong, toasted-cereal tea with rich cream. As he’d entered the village, he noted corrals stocked with Taurimin, their likely source of the butter, cream, and… jerky. Don nearly gagged in spite of its rich, salty flavor.

As a young girl offered him more tea, Sydewynder walked in, causing her and an old man in a far corner, to suddenly find something to do in the back rooms. Don had been enjoying the warmth of the sun streaming through the open window. Now, the chief blocked the pleasant rays while Don squinted to see his face.

“
You’re not eating all the beef,” the chief said with evil amusement.

“
I’m not a heavy eater this time of day, but it’s very tasty.”

“
Why are you really here enjoying our hospitality?”

Don decided he wasn’t going to play the grateful guest. “Thought I’d give you a chance to make up for the welcome I got the last time I… ‘visited.’”

“
Haw, haw, that’s good. You have a knack for So-Rye humor. Maybe we’ve misjudged you. This is our chance to make amends.” He sat down in a chair opposite Don.

Yeah, right,
Don thought, while his mouth said, “That’s very considerate… a second chance for us both.” He paused for effect. “I’ve grown tired of the clanspeople. You wouldn’t believe the demands they’ve made on me, a mere visitor. Of course, because of the infamous Teresa, they think… well, you get the idea.”

Sydewynder looked at him skeptically. Producing a genuine-looking smile, he said, “Then we need to make you more comfortable among
us.
The clanspeople are tiresome, but they’re good for something as you’ve probably found out. I suspect you aren’t interested in providing the same service they have provided for us.”

“
Not a bit,” Don said truthfully. “In fact, I think you and I have a lot more in common than we first thought. I wish to correct that misunderstanding and offer my services should you need anything I can provide.”

By his expression, this was more than the chief could have hoped. Simple torture and hard work out in the fields might not have brought results as good as this. Which, of course, made Sydewynder deeply suspicious. Don noted that, and realized he was being excessively cooperative and generous.

Struggling to find the right words, he continued. “I don’t mean to say I am going to betray the clanspeople. But I may be useful to you in ways apart from your problem with them.”

“
And what do you want from us?”

“
I need to leave to return to my home… village which is… a long ways from here. I am without provisions or a beast of burden to carry supplies and… weapons for protection.” Don produced what he hoped was a guileless smile. “I’m at your disposal, Sydewynder.”

Pushing back from the table, the chief reclined his lean body against the hard wood of his chair. “I’m not sure we need what you can provide.”

“
Oh, that’s simple,” Don said, standing. “I see many children here in the village. I can teach them and some of your leaders a more effective means of communication than memorizing details: information about your stored food, supplies… your slaves, and weapons. I am speaking of something I call ‘writing’: a way of marking down information you want to send to someone far off or for your own knowledge—or even for those who will come after you in years to come.”

“
We have priests who store knowledge in their heads—”

“
Of course, but what about you? Don’t you want that knowledge, the histories, the stories, at
your
fingertips, instead of relying on some priest to dig it out of his memory?”

Sydewynder had no conception of this until Don had described it. Is such a thing possible? Forgetting his scheming and hyper-alertness as he mulled this over, he demanded, “Show me what you’re talking about.”

Don nodded. “I need something like a piece of leather about this big,” Don held up his hands indicating about a square foot.

The chief
called out, “Snap, come here!”

The girl came back in, nearly instantly.

“
Go get a scrap of leather this big from Sinew.” The girl looked at him dumbly. “Now!”

She rushed off. Don glanced around the room to see it was furnished for a couple of dozen people.  However, nothing was there but furniture.

“
I also need a knife, a piece of wood like a branch, and ashes from the cooking fire.”

Looking warily at him, the chief reached into his belt pulling out wooden handled knife with a long, flat shaft of razor-sharp flint attached to the handle with rawhide strips. Don took the knife by the blade, showing he did not intend it as a weapon. Unfortunately, his peaceful act was rewarded with a thin cut on the palm of his hand.

“
Ouch!” He licked at the sharply painful wound. Then he smiled. “No harm done. I think I’ll live.”

Sydewynder walked over to a cabinet behind Don and retrieved a shaft minus the arrowhead. Handing it to Don, he yelled again, “Snival!”

The old man appeared, not as fast or anxiously as the girl had earlier. “Yes, chief.”

“
Get me a handful of ashes from the fire.”

Snival looked puzzled. Sydewynder sighed. “Do it. I have no idea why, just do it.”

The old man soon came back with a bowl of cool ashes. He gave Sydewynder a look, and then sat in the same place he’d occupied earlier. He was going to see what this was about.

The chief sat down, placing the bowl of ashes between him and Don, looking at him with an expression that dared him to make good on these odd requests.

The girl rushed back holding a piece of leather with ragged edges. “I’m sorry, Chief Sydewynder, this is all he had. It’s kind of small.”

Don spoke up before she received some kind of reprimand. “That’s fine. I just want to show you what I’m talking about.”

He sharpened the tip of the arrow shaft with the knife and, wetting it with his tongue, dipped it in the ashes and wrote on the leather a list of several types of livestock with numbers. Next, he wrote the opening line of Dickens’
Tale of Two Cities,
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness…”

The chief, the girl, and the old man watched fascinated as he scribbled. They exchanged looks, indicating they thought the markings were odd, unlike drawings some village artists drew or the symbols pottery makers painted on their wares.

“
It looks like bird scratchings,” Sydewynder observed, “when they search for bugs or grains of corn.”

Don laughed. “Funny you should say that. My own people sometimes call it chicken scratching. There. Look at this.”

He turned the leather around, pushing it toward the chief. “What you have here is an inventory. I just made this up, but you could have this written to show the actual number of livestock you have in the village. What I wrote here was, ‘4
Càhbahmin
, 12 Taurimin, 1 Kastmin, 20 Nohmin, and 2 Sianox—’”

“
Why would I want any Sianox? Those damned pests are barely good for eating even if you have little appetite and can stand the gamey taste!”