“I believe you.” Gordon looked away from Kag Ati into the shadows beneath the cedars. He saw the reflection of yellow eyes watching him. No joke too old for the Trickster, thought Gordon. Go down this path, Kag Ati. Learn why you should not have gone.
“The path is your own,” came a distinct voice into his head. He looked again and saw the light distorted between himself and the fire. The voice had spoken in Arabic.
“Taleghani?” he thought, calling with his mind. “Can you understand me, doctor?”
“Can you understand me?” he whispered out loud.
“Now you can understand me,” the voice in his mind answered. Then the voice said, “Of what use is a terminal lesson, Gordon? Look to Bel.”
Back at the fire, Kag Ati was on his platform. By one hand held Gordon’s leather pack high above him. “This the true magic of God’n. All in here. His tale how old men become strong by putting down Gift of Many Summers—” He swung his free hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Ha!” he bellowed.
Gordon listened as some of the crowd joined Kag Ati’s sentiment with laughs and jeers. Some remained silent, though. Gordon lifted his head and studied those he could see. Some frowns, some whispers. Some knew stingroot was the problem because they had put it down and had become strong again. They were intimidated, however, by the vocal displays of those who didn’t want to part with their drug, particularly that of the Clan Father himself.
Look to Bel, the ghost had said. If he existed, Bel, god of agreements, truth, and honor, was watching. Even if he didn’t exist, Gordon’s honor did and was at peril. He had lied to Kag Ati. The lie seemed a bigger mistake than dying at the hands of an ignorant addict. Coyote watched; Coyote always watched, and now he had help from another dimension.
Gordon struggled to his feet and shouted over the heads of the people. “Kag Ati,” he called. “What is in that bag will not make you strong. Putting down the Gift of Many Summers will make you strong. Using stingroot is what makes you weak.”
As dead silence filled the clearing, one of the guards came to knock Gordon back to the ground. The Clan Father called, “Bring God’n here.”
Two guards led Gordon through the closest side of the people’s ring, to the right of the fire, and before Kag Ati. “Manga Hadjat!” called the Clan Father to other guards. “Bring the naticha!”
In a few moments the other prisoner, shaman of the Cleft Mountain People, was dragged before the Clan Father. Manga Hadjat’s hands were bound behind him, his face bruised, old blood crusted in his moustache and furs. Gordon could see from the looks on the faces around the fire that many were shamed by Manga’s treatment. Kag Ati brought down the hand holding the bag. Holding it in front of the naticha he said, “This is the strength of God’n. We keep root! Say it. Say it!”
“I tell you only what I know,” said the naticha quietly but with a tone that seemed to Gordon as though Manga had already accepted his own death. “My oath before Bel, Clan Father, was to bring you truth—bring the people truth—that all may live, prosper, and walk in peace and joy.”
“What of this bag?” demanded the Clan Father.
“I know nothing of it, Kag Ati. I do know that putting down the Gift of Many Summers returned my gift of youth, that doing so has brought back the strength to several in this party.” He stood upright and looked around at the faces. “I know some of those who put down the root and became strong.” He turned slowly and settled his gaze on the Clan Father who looked at Gordon and held out the bag.
“And you say, God’n?” demanded Kag Ati.
“What’s in that bag will kill you, Kag Ati. It won’t make you strong”
“You say everything I need is in here, God’n.”
“I lied.” He glanced at the naticha. “Truth,” he said. “I was afraid and I lied.” He looked at Manga. “I live easier with myself by saying truth, Clan Father.” He looked back at Kag Ati. “What is in that bag will kill you.”
“Magic makers,” Kag Ati said disgustedly. “Seers of things to come. Ha!” He nodded to the guards and both Gordon and the naticha were forced down to the hard packed snow. When Gordon looked up again he saw Kag Ati standing upon the raised place before his fur covered bench. He held the bag aloft and said, “I show you all truth! The truth of strength! The truth of Kag Ati!” He sat upon the bench, placed the bag in his lap, and waited. Half a minute, a minute, and Kag Ati’s frowning face frowned more deeply. He licked his left thumb then stared down at the bag.
“It will kill you, Clan Father,” Gordon repeated quietly. “I know this.”
Ignoring the warning, Kag Ati opened his knees and pulled the pack deep into his crotch. “God’n wrong,” the Clan Father said confidently. All waited for one minute, two, then for a split second it looked as though Kag Ati were holding an illuminated silver beach ball in his lap. Then ball, pack, the Clan Father’s genitals, inner thighs, a good bit of his abdomen, as well as his hands up to the wrists were gone. Mercifully his horrible screaming didn’t last long.
Once Kag Ati lapsed into unconsciousness, the only sounds came from the huge fire as the burning wood hissed and popped. Still looking at the Clan Father’s bloody dead form, Gordon said to the guards, “Cut me free and release the naticha.” He looked at the closest guard. “Now.”
As though released from a spell, the guards bent to the tasks of releasing Gordon and Manga Hadjat, their eyes stealing momentary glances at their leader collapsed upon the bench, his horror of a wound facing the people. Gordon walked over and climbed up the step to Kag Ati’s bench. Bending over he checked for a pulse in the Clan Father’s neck. Nothing. Kag Ati was dead.
As they watched the men of the Cleft Mountain heap the wood on Kag Ati’s funeral pyre, Gordon looked to his left. Manga was watching the fire. “Manga,” said Gordon, “who will lead the Cleft Mountain people?”
“You killed him, God’n. If the gifted agree, you are the new Clan Father.”
“I did not kill Kag Ati. I tried to keep him alive and failed. He died at his own hand because he would not listen to your truth or mine. Let the gifted of the Cleft Mountain people choose your Clan Father. They know the people best. Together they know the best for them.” He turned and saw the guard who had cut free his bonds standing with five other guards. They were separate from the others, all looking down, their weapons on the snow. Some women and children a few paces off were gesturing and silently trying to get the attention of the guards to wave tearful good-byes. “What is that?” Gordon asked Manga.
“They are all hunters. Kag Ati made them his personal bodyguards when he became Clan Father and threw Gru Amti and his guards into the flames. They expect to be forced to join Kag Ati in the fire.”
Gordon went to the guard who had cut him loose. “By what name are you called?”
“Avak Tav, new Clan Father.”
“I am not Clan Father. Manga will explain that. My name is Gordon. Avak Tav, can you find the way to Red Cliff?”
The guard frowned. “I am not to die?” He held a hand out to the other guards. “God’n, we are not to die?”
“Not by my hand,” said Gordon. “You are all hunters,” he said to them. “Be hunters again. We will need many hunters for what is to come.”
“I guide you to Red Cliff,” said Avak Tav. “May I tell my family?”
Gordon nodded and motioned to the guard who had first addressed him with a slap on his chest. “Chayma Azi,” he called. “Gather up all here who can ride and have the horses prepared. The riders will need food to carry. They will go a long way. Food for the horses, as well.”