The flits passed on, most of them. The worst was over here, though she could hear bombs and the hum of the cutters moving south away from them. She heard a raucous cry, looked back and saw the hawk powering into the air. Rohant was flattened out in the second boat like she was in this one, unhurt as far as she could tell, the cats beside him, nervous and upset but untouched. Kikun was standing, doing a peculiar shimmying dance. She stared, not understanding, then turned to gaze at the devastation around her. It seemed impossible they were all still alive. She twisted round and focused on Kikun again. His dance went on and on. Gouts of steam floated around him, the air shimmered as it would with heatwaves in a desert summer, but this was neither desert nor summer. His body wavered and attenuated, was solid flesh again, his edges melted into the air, were sharp and definite again, melted and were sharp… Rohant said you were a god incarnate. I don't believe that, but you're something. Maybe it's Luck, maybe it's you. I don't know.
She sat up, rubbed at her eyes. Looks like the Powers have decided there's no way they can land us, so the next best thing is ash us. And every other warmblood here in the Fringes. Gods, let's get out of here.
Sbe grabbed the pole, levered herself onto her feet. "Rohant, you all right?"
He got up slowly, the cats growling and snapping at his legs as if they resented his moving. He was suffering from feedback, standing without moving, hands pressed to his eyes; he wasn't tied as closely to the cats as he was to the hawk, but there was enough linkage to drive him to the edge of his control. He lowered his hands, blinked, blinked again, then looked hazily about for the pole. When he found it, he bent with care as if he'd break if he moved too precipitously, caught hold of it and straightened up. Still saying nothing, he dug it into the mud of the bottom and stood waiting for her to start moving.
The next hours were nightmare. They worked mechanically through a slowly lessening silence as the Wetlands woke from the shock of the attack.
Kikun stopped dancing. He huddled between the cats, face pinched, eyes squeezed shut, saying nothing, seeing nothing, doing nothing.
Asteplikota lay on the pouches moaning. She didn't dare give him too much of a painkiller; the drugs she carried were calibrated to her body and that body wasn't born here or anywhere near the homeworid of-this offshoot of the Cousin races. It worked on him, thank whatever for that, but every time she popped him, she was half afraid she was going to kill him.
After an hour of steady poling, she peeled out a stimtab and swallowed it. It hit her hard. Empty stomach. But she had no appetite and was too afraid of a repeat attack to stop and rest and eat. And she had to get Asteplikota somewhere a local doctor could look at him. The coast, that's where he said to go, that's where she was going.
She could orient as well as Kikun was supposed to do, she never got lost when she knew where she was and where she wanted to go. She didn't know either now, but she had a line, Asteplikota's line. North and east. She held that line. North and east she went, as directly as she could.
The day developed stifling and muggy, dank and cold, an adjectival misery; she worked up a sweat as she worked the pole; the thick salt film lay in a sticky ooze over' all her body, the discomfort adding another small increment to her depression. The tangle of channels was overgrown and treacherous;-time after time the channel she chose pinched out on her and she had to back up until she found a branch she could pass into and go round the blockage. The first time this happened, she mindrode Sassa for a while, but the canopy was too thick; the hawk couldn't find open channels from above the trees. Besides, she was too weary, she couldn't summon the concentration to pole and ride at the same time; things got fuzzy on her very fast.
In one of those interminable backtracings she let too much time pass and the painpop she'd given Asteplikota wore off. He started screaming and twisting his body about as he tried blindly to get AWAY from the pain. Cursing and impatient, she fumbled through the kit for the popper. The stimtabs were making her hands shake, sometimes her whole body shook; she knew she ought to eat something, there were a few tubes of concentrate in with the rest, but she ignored them, she bad the feeling she'd simply vomit the stuff up again, there was no point in wasting it. She fumbled the shot, but finally managed to hit the artery and Asteplikota settled back into his stupor. The popper was almost empty, something new to worry about.
Rohant was looking back, waiting for her. She got to her feet, took up the pole and waved. And they were off again.
A few sleds passed overhead; the kanaweh were grid-searching now, mopping up any life forms they'd missed on their first pass, but there were no more cutters, no more frag bombs around the boats. Kikun shriveled further, seemed to shrink beneath his skin; it hung in folds about his bones. What she'd suspected before, she was sure of now; he was expanding that curious "not-here" he could project, that made eyes slide off him and minds forget him the moment the eyes turned away. He was covering them and the cover worked.
Clouds gathered as the day wore on. Under the trees it was so dark it might have been midnight. Shadith peeled off the last stimtab, swallowed it, glanced at Asteplikota; his face was flushed with fever, hot and dry. She sighed and got to her feet, looked back at Rohant, sighed again and started poling. Her arms felt like mush, the shaking was worse. She dug the pole in and shoved, pulled it loose, set it again. On and on…
The trees grew smaller and sparser, there was more weed and reed. A heavy breeze lifted, licked against her face; there was no relief in it, breathing that air was like chewing leather, with about as much sustenance and flavor in it. Clouds of pinhead biters drifted aimlessly on the wind, settled on her, crawled about licking up the sweat. On and on…
She heard a croak behind her. Rohant. She planted her pole, looked back. He was crouching, tasting the water. He looked up. "Salt," he said. "The coast."
WATCHER 4
A child saw the Three. Nataminaho smiled at her and beckoned. Opalekis-Mimo laughed so infectiously she laughed, too. Nikamo-Oskinin played the kittkew so sweetly she clapped her hands and wept with pleasure. Time, the Singer sang, Pakoseo-Time is now. Then they were gone. The child ran to her mother and told her tale. Dozens of children in dozens of villages in west coast Nakiskwen saw and said the same.
Dressed in pilgrim green, with staffs and sandals and a foodpack of a minimum size, extended families on the western side of the continent laid down their tools, walked off their lobs and started east.
The Wik priests came hurrying after them, tried to convince them to return. The family elders listened as they walked, shook their their heads when the priests were finished and continued on the Pilgrim Road, staffs pounding on the dirt, prayerbeads clicking through their bent and horny fingers.
Afer a short time, an old woman began one of the ancient chants:
Milwakiwim Oppalatin, Blessings be on Oppalatin.
Her powerful, if ragged contralto rang out and drew a humming echo from her kin. Milwakiwim Oppalatin.
CELL 59
Whooping and howling, the Kansi Riders (Plicik enforcers of the Landlaw) spurred their bull mos round and round the Maka landfolk who ignored them as best they could and kept moving South in stubborn silence, heading for the Pilgrim Road bisecting the Grass.