Chapter One: No Way Home
A tall and imposing figure eyed the narrow ravine below. There, in a grove sparsely populated with aspens, strange folk were loitering. Repugnance made Enofor shake his head. These men squandered no opportunities to disturb the beasts of his forest. Theyd built a raucous fire, one much larger than they needed for cooking. They made no effort to moderate the volume of their voices. Any buck would detect their reek of tobacco, liquor and city air from a mile away. Enofor surveyed the paths the men had forced, and he asked himself this: were they deliberately trying to get themselves lost? Ignoring the forests natural routes, theyd opted instead to contest with briar and chaparral; and the way they hacked and stamped those trails made the wild man furious.
Why had these men penetrated so deep into his country, when they obviously werent accustomed to life in the wild?
The elder six were wearing wide-brimmed hats and heavy shirts topped with fur jackets or vests and red or black bandannas around their necks. They sat oiling and polishing their guns, kicking their boots up to warm their toes whilst muttering complaints about how long meal preparations were taking. Their repose contrasted sharply with the way the seventh and youngest lad limped, in obvious pain, on bare feet. He looked as if hed run away from home without bothering to dress fully or even eat for the three days previous. Only some dirty gray overalls and an off-white woolen shirt covered his beanpole frame. He was doing the mastiffs share of the chores: fetching water and setting it to boil, stirring the contents of the other two black pots that rested on a bed of coals, and simultaneously constructing lean-tos with wood hed gathered himself.
That one didnt join the others by choice, Enofor concluded, or I am a white-tailed doe.
The wilderness dweller stretched out with his thoughts, seeking one of his woodland Spirit Familiars. Squirrel was manifest within all his namesake creatures and yet, somehow, he existed beyond them as well. His presence was always a comfort and a balm for Enofor, but now the man had no time to indulge in pleasurable communion; he had a task to accomplish. Who were these people? What needs drove them? Squirrels utilized a complex gestalt of images and scents to delve into human thought forms. Their communications could provide Enofor with some insight- and indeed, in a moment the man received his answer. A volatile cocktail of guilt and fear- and pride and empty bravado, also- motivated these strangers. Enofor decided to take advantage of these weaknesses in order to save their captive.
And already Brieran complains about how many strays I bring home, he thought, and he chuckled.
He emerged from his concealment and strolled down the gentle slope. As he moved, his senses drank in the autumn colors: vibrant yellows, oranges and reds. They never ceased to thrill him. Seasonal changes made his being, his very blood, sing in response to their ancient and abiding rhythms.
The six ruffians were all armed, but Enofor knew that he would still intimidate them. His auburn hair fell in two thick braids halfway down his back. He was dressed in Smokawan fashion: brown buckskin shirt and leggings tapered with fringe at the sleeves and thighs and trimmed with weasel hair. A poncho of tightly woven willow shoots covered his head and thick brown moccasins protected his feet. Enofor took a moment to scatter some twigs and dirt through his thick beard to complement his newly adopted persona- that of a slightly deranged (and therefore easily deceived) woodsman. Then he emerged within the travelers line of sight.
One of the men noticed him, cried out, and the whole camp was instantly alert and hostile. The one to point Enofor out lifted his rifle and cocked it.
Identify yourself, old man! Come no closer til you do- and show us youre unarmed, too.
Enofor complied by emptying the barrel of his own rifle and dropping in onto the ground three feet in front of him. He deliberately employed the awkward verbal gait of a hermit accustomed to only talking to himself. I am Manwate! he said. I killed a great moose not far from here! If you help me carry him therell be enough for us all to feast on!
All this was true. Hed just slain the very Cunning Grandfather of Smokawan legend in a rocky ravine to the south. Enofor had planned to donate the meat to all of his wilderness companions who were about to face an arduous winter; but now the moose would have to be bartered.
So those were the shots we heard. The tall one was speaking now. His face was raw-boned and angular; his nose sharp and cheeks sunken. A sour expression seemed to have permanently molded his countenance. Maybe youll just show us where his carcass is, and well take it for ourselves, he said.
Exacerbating his stumbling dialect, Enofor strove to create the impression that his reason had grown feeble. He made his eyes look dim, opaque, and slightly out of focus.
I suppose you could, he said. But its bad luck to steal from a Magi. Cunning Grandfather is my kindred spirit. Hoodwink me, and hell rise up and dash away! Enofor made a quick sweeping motion with one arm; the extravagant gesture seemed to throw him off balance. Never would you set eyes on him again!
While he carried on this charade, part of his mind groped for all his slim knowledge of the new settlers, to whose lineage these men belonged. Their forefathers- like Enofors own- had fled the tyrannical Kingdom of Churan, bequeathing upon their children a legacy of struggle upon dusty plains and untamed wilderness. They were notoriously superstitious. Strangers to their own inner power, they perceived uncanny and menacing forces at work in the world at large. Considering the implications of this tendency, Enofor decided that his gambit was worth risking. But if I demonstrate real power too soon, he thought, they may simply kill me in their hysteria. So he stepped forward with a look of naivet, as if he believed his alleged wizardry would protect him.
How much for your boy? he asked. He is for sale, isnt he?
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