He’d been stuck there, out on old Highway 17, with the crap beaten out of him and no bike, trying to make it home. To get a ride, he’d thrown away his vest with the Dragon colors stitched onto its back. All the way home he’d thought about what he’d do, how he’d get even, but hitching out of T.O., he’d gotten a ride with some dippy author and ended up in Tamson House and everything had changed for him.
Sara’d been—how old? Just a kid. Thirteen tops, and treated him like a pal from the word go. Jamie hadn’t blinked an eye when he’d told him about the Dragon. They never tried to change him, but somehow just being in that House, he’d changed. Because of them. For them.
He’d left for awhile, riding down through the American southwest to stay with Charlie on the reservation, then up through Florida, New England, the Maritimes, thinking all the time, finding he liked the change; and came home. Home. Funny word. But that was what Tamson House had become.
It was stress that was messing him up right now, he realized. Worrying about Sara, about what was going on around them, about Gannon and Tucker and Thomas Hengwr. He wished he hadn’t killed Mercier, but if Mercier’d had his way, it would’ve been Blue lying there. And where would that leave Jamie and Sara? They were going to need him against men like Gannon. Against those weird wolfmen that Hengwr had either conjured up or drawn to them. No, he didn’t regret what he’d had to do. And he knew he’d do it again if the situation arose again. They weren’t in Ottawa anymore. They weren’t anywhere where they could call in the cops to give them a hand.
Mercier’s .38 was digging into his stomach, so he transferred it to his pack, grabbing some bread and cheese out of it while he had it open. He topped off his tank from the spare gas container, then removing the scope from his Weatherby, he used it as a makeshift telescope to check out the country around him.
He had to give the Otherworld this much: it sure was a wild and pretty land. Too bad they didn’t know how to shift the House back and forth themselves, because it would be awfully nice to have access to country like this just by stepping out of the House. Of course they’d have to get rid of the wolfmen.
Remounting the scope, he finished his sandwich, swallowed a mouthful of water, and climbed back on the bike. He used his compass and the sun to fix the House’s position and decided to make a southern sweep, returning to it by the west. It looked like his hopes weren’t going to pan out. There was nothing out here but bush. But the lack of success hadn’t been from lack of trying.
Two hours later he hit some heavy bushland. He didn’t like the look of the dense thickets of cedar, brush pine, aspens, birch and maple. There were too many places where he could get ambushed, assuming he could find a way through with the bike. He decided to take a break and give the engine a chance to cool down while he stretched his legs. Topping off the tank again, he hefted his Weatherby, working the bolt to get a shell in the chamber, and set off to do a little scouting on foot. Thirty paces or so into the forest, he came upon a game trail running roughly southwest.
Returning to the bike, he started it up. He bent low over the handlebars, taking it slow. Branches rattled against his helmet, snapped against his back and sides. He was glad he’d brought his leather jacket and wished he’d thought to have brought some gloves. Once the rifle got caught and he had to back up to work it free. Then he was on the trail and, giving the bike some gas, he shifted gears and was rolling again.
The trail meandered. He stopped from time to time to check his compass and found the trail had a tendency to run almost northwest at times. Well, that was all right. That was roughly in the direction of the House. He only hoped the trail hadn’t been made by the shuffling of many padded monster feet.
He was fifteen minutes on the track when he came to a clearing. He saw the trail head on out the further side back into the woods. In the middle of the clearing a second trail joined it, coming up from the south. But what made him bring up the bike sharply and kill the engine was a pole in the center of the clearing. It stood about six feet high. On top of it was a bear skull with the twelve-tined antlers of a stag tied to it. Hanging in streams from the antlers were a series of braided leather thongs, decorated with large beads and feathers.
“Jesus.”
Blue swung the rifle from his shoulder, checked to make sure he still had a cartridge in place. Leaving his helmet hanging from the handlebars of the bike, he slowly moved forward. Well, somebody lived here. He studied the sides of the clearing before stepping closer. The question was who? The wolfmen? Didn’t have the right feel about it for them—though he wasn’t sure how far he could trust instinct here.
He thought he heard something move in the undergrowth to his right and swung the rifle in that direction, finger tightening on the trigger. Then a voice spoke gutturally, from directly behind him. His stomach muscles tightened. He turned, slowly so as not to startle whoever it was that had spoken.
He stood face to face with an old Indian. The man was grey-haired, the thick locks bound up in two braids, interwoven with feathers. He wore unadorned buckskins, with a bone carving hanging from his neck. The carving was of a bear’s head—so realistically portrayed that Blue got the weird feeling that the carving was staring at him. The old man’s eyes were deep brown and searching. He carried no weapon, though thrust into his belt was a thin rod of what looked like birch. It, too, had feathers on its end. Hanging on the opposite side of his belt, as though to balance the weight, was a small medicine bag.
The old man spoke again. He was plainly unafraid of Blue.
Blue shook his head. Still moving slowly, he leaned his rifle butt on the ground, the barrel propped against his legs, and tried to remember the sign language that Charlie Nez had taught him.
Don’t understand, he signed. Stranger. These woods. Friend.
The old man nodded and his fingers moved fluidly in reply. Blue had always been better at understanding the signs than at shaping them himself.
Who are you? the old man signed. What has brought you to me, Rider-of-Thunder?
My name—No. That was tribe. Move the hand in, Blue told himself. My name is Blue. I come from . . . House. How did you sign house? He made a sweeping motion with his hands and used the Navajo shape for dwelling place. . . . big hogan. He pointed in the general direction of the House, wondering how much he’d gotten across.
The Indian nodded. I know that place. It is always empty though the—He shaped an unfamiliar sign—are camped near it now. They seek entry but the medicine of the Great Lodge is too strong for them.
Your name? Blue signed.
Ur’wen’ta I am called. Blue translated that to: “Bear-of-Magic.” I am of the wandering people. The drummers-of-the-bear. What has brought you to this land, Blue-Rider-of-Thunder?
We’re doing good so far, Blue thought. His hands and fingers felt somewhat stiff from lack of practice. It was hard, thinking of what he was trying to say, translating it into motions, reading the old man’s signs, translating again. He got good vibes from the old fellow. But just how much did he want to pass on?
Well, you were looking for help, he told himself.
Shaking his fingers to loosen them, he signed:
The . . . He tried to copy the Indian’s sign for the wolfmen, flubbed it and was corrected. This time he got it right. Roughly translated, it came out to: “Offspring-of-the-Devil-Bear.” Something to do with wolverines. Blue nodded. Yeah, them. Except they had a lot of snake in them too. They are attacking us, he continued. We have a . . . sick man. Medicine man. He needs help. Can you help him?
How is your drummer sick?
Blue tried to explain, but the concept was too difficult for him to get across.
He sleeps? Ur’wen’ta signed.
Blue nodded.
A power dream?
Blue thought about that for a moment, not sure he understood the term. When Ur’wen’ta repeated the question, Blue shrugged. Don’t know. Can you help us?
Ur’wen’ta looked uncertain. I
am bound to a summoning of my people. The daughter of my drum-brother has called me to her side. He searched the sky, took the hour from the sun; and made a noncommittal motion. I will go with you to the Great Lodge and try to help your drummer. But by nightfall, I must be gone.
Blue signed his thanks, then glanced at his bike. No way it was going to carry the both of them that far. Ur’wen’ta caught his look.
Ride your Thunder, he signed. I will meet you at the Great Lodge. Beware the . . . Again that unfamiliar sign. Tragg’a. Ur’wen’ta pointed to the Weatherby. That is your totem stick?
Blue wasn’t sure how he was going to explain the rifle’s function through fingerspeech, so he simply nodded.
It will not be strong enough, Ur’wen’ta signed.
He took the birch rod from his belt and offered it to Blue.
But you will need this, Blue signed.
Ur’wen’ta smiled and shook his head. He pressed the totem stick into Blue’s hand. I have my drum, he signed.
What? Blue replied.
Again the Indian smiled. He made a pass with his hands and smoke wreathed between his fingers. A moment later and a small ceremonial drum hung at his belt. He tapped it twice and Blue, already startled by the drum’s appearance, was taken aback at the deep resonance that the small instrument produced. Go, Ur’wen’ta signed. I will meet you there.
Still uncertain, Blue nodded and returned to his bike. He thrust the totem stick in his belt, shouldered the Weatherby, and put on his helmet. He glanced at the Indian again. Ur’wen’ta nodded and smiled. Blue shrugged. All right. His bike roared into life and he put it into gear. As the machine shot forward, he saw Ur’wen’ta tapping on his drum once more. He thought he could hear the sound of the instrument over the noise of his bike, but that was patently impossible . . . wasn’t it? Still, the sound pulsed to the tempo of his own pulse. Then he was in the woods, following the trail again. But for all the distance between himself and Ur’wen’ta, the sound of the drumming never left him.
“What’s that?” Maggie said.
They were taking a well-deserved rest in the Silkwater Kitchen—she, Sally and Tucker. Chevier had been hanging around, bothering them, until they made it plain that he wasn’t welcome. The last they’d seen he was making his way into the garden with Fred on his heels, shaking his head and complaining.
“That’s Blue!” Sally cried as the sound registered. She jumped to her feet and ran for the side of the House it was coming from. The other two followed at a more subdued pace.
“Over here!” Jamie called.
He was standing by a window in the hall and pointing. Together they watched the trailbike come across the field, four or five tragg’a moving to cut Blue off. Tucker glanced out the window, then headed for the nearest outside door.
“Gannon!” he called as he reached the door.
Gannon entered the foyer, a question in his eyes.
“It’s Blue,” Tucker explained. “We’ve got to give him some covering fire.”
“Let him find his own way in,” Gannon said and wandered off.
Tucker swore at his retreating back, then flung the door open and took out his .38. He waited for the creatures to come close enough for him to make his shots count. Two of them were closing in on the bike. He fired once, more to let Blue know that he had some support than with any hope of hitting one of the creatures. He saw Blue’s bike skid, the two tragg’a rush at him, then shy away as the bike righted and sprang forward with a roar.
Now Blue was ahead of even the closest tragg’a. Tucker lowered his pistol and stepped out on the porch. Blue drove right up to the porch, up the steps and into the House. The roar of the bike thundered in the confined space. As Tucker slammed the door shut, Blue cut the engine and silence descended. Turning, Tucker saw Blue pull a stick with feathers attached to one end out of his belt and look at it.
“What do you know?” Blue murmured. “Sucker actually worked.”
“Just what the hell did you think you were—”
“Hey! Easy, Inspector. Before you go jumping all over me, did an old Indian show up here?”
“An old . . . ?”
“Blue!”
Sally came pounding down the hall and flung herself at him. Blue closed an arm around her and pulled her in tight. The hall began to fill up as Jamie and Maggie approached. Traupman descended the stairs. Gannon appeared from further down the hall. The latter had a grim look on his face and Blue knew he was in for some hard questioning. Tucker, though he seemed relieved to see him, had a grim look about his features as well.
“Suppose you tell us what you were trying to prove,” Tucker said, “going out—”
“I’d like to hear about Robert Mercier,” Gannon said. He fixed his cold eyes on the biker.
Like a shadow, Chevier appeared at Gannon’s elbow, methodically chewing a mint, one hand in the pocket of his sports jacket. Clearly, Chevier had a gun in there. Tension crackled in the air. Blue was caught between the implicit threat he read in the eyes of Mercier’s companions and the need to know what had happened to Ur’wen’ta. He could still feel the drumming inside him, only where was the Indian?
“We’re waiting,” Gannon said.
Tucker stepped forward, but before he could speak, Chevier whispered: “Keep out of this, Inspector. This is between us and Mr. Wonderful here. Got it?”
“So this is it, then?” Blue said softly.
He moved Sally aside and wished he’d stopped and thought about this happening before he’d come roaring in. His Weatherby was strapped to his back. Mercier’s .38 was in his pack. The Margolin pistol was in his pocket. All three of them might as well be on the moon. Tucker had his own gun still in his hand, but it was hanging down by his leg. By the time he got it up, Chevier could gun him down just by firing through his pocket.
“Just talk,” Gannon said. “If you make it good, there doesn’t have to be any trouble. For the rest of them, that is. You . . . well, you’ve got a problem.”
Gannon hadn’t meant to start something now. There were too many people hanging around, getting in the way. But he’d gotten edgy, doing nothing but waiting all day. He’d found nothing in Jamie’s study. Chevier’d come up with dick-all. And there was the biker, roaring into the hallway just asking to be hassled.
What was there to say? Blue thought. He could feel the sweat start up on his forehead, could sense the anger just waiting to rip out again. But this time he wasn’t going to be so lucky as he’d been with Mercier. There were too many people around, too many chances for someone to get hurt. He couldn’t risk it.
“Better put the gun down, Inspector,” Gannon said quietly. “No point in playing the hero at this point in the proceedings. The biker’s dead meat.”
Tucker weighed his chances and they weren’t good. Chevier was a pro. He hadn’t taken his eyes off of Tucker once since this little drama started up. That was because Tucker was the only one holding a piece.
“Uh . . . Mr. Gannon. . . .” Jamie began.
“Shut your mouth, Tams.”
As Tucker started to drop his gun, the front door opened. All eyes turned to see Ur’wen’ta standing there in a totem mask of a bear’s head topped with stag’s antlers, looking like a demonic figure out of a Bosch painting. Smoke wreathed about his clothing, smoke the color of his hair. The sound of his drumming filled the air. For long moments no one spoke, no one moved. Then the drumming stopped and the spell lifted.
“Jesus!” Tucker said and lifted his gun.
“No!” Blue lunged for the Inspector’s arm, belatedly remembered Chevier’s gun, but neither action was played through.
Ur’wen’ta’s drum spoke again, but this time it spoke its rhythm on its own, the drum skin resonating without a hand tapping against it. It breathed calm throughout the hall, stole the tension from each of those gathered there. The Inspector lowered his gun. Chevier took his hand from his pocket. The tightness even in Gannon’s features eased as the drumming thundered inside him
, inside them all.
Ur’wen’ta regarded Blue. This is your tribe? he signed.
Yes and no, Blue replied.
There is much anger present.
I know.
Blue frowned, wondering how to translate an explanation of what was going down.
It does not matter, Ur’wen’ta signed. Where is your drummer?
I will show you.
As Blue took the shaman upstairs to where Thomas lay, the others finally stirred.
“What happened?” Jamie asked. “One minute we were all set to kill each other, and in the next. . . .”
“He stopped us,” Traupman said. He looked up the stairs, features thoughtful. “Just like that. As though we were merely children that needed to be silenced. To him, we probably are children.”
“We better go see what they’re up to,” Tucker said.
“I don’t think it would be wise to disturb them just now,” Traupman said. “It seems that Blue’s found a shaman to cure Thomas Hengwr. We’ve done what we can with Hengwr. Let’s give the shaman his chance.”
“Screw that!” Gannon said.
He started for the stairs but pulled up sharp as Tucker lifted his .38. The Inspector looked at Gannon, then at the gun. The drumming still resonated in him, so when Gannon backed off, Tucker holstered the weapon. He should have taken Gannon’s and Chevier’s while he had the drop on them, but something in the rhythm of the drumming stopped him.
He could see Chevier and Gannon trying to work it out as well.
“Who was that Indian?” Maggie asked. “Where did he come from?”
“Blue found him, I guess,” Tucker replied. “Though where he found him. . . .” He glanced out the open door, slowly shut it. “Somewhere out there, I suppose.”
“Can we trust him?”