Mo'at came to Janelle that night. "I heard of your adventure with the tawtute," commented the Tsahik.
Janelle laughed. "Mìnkxetse talks too much." Actually, that was an outright lie. If he could be accused of anything, it would be hardly speaking at all.
The Tsahik chuckled, "Our men call us gossips, but they are far worse than any woman for idle talk." She watched Janelle's nimble fingers expertly knotting what looked to become a bracelet. "I have not seen a knot pattern like that before," she noted. "It is very intricate."
"It is a pattern that my father taught me," replied Janelle. "The Cree had many such crafts – I only know a few of them." She put aside the strip of knotted material and gazed steadily at the Tsahik. "Unfortunately, you need five fingers for this pattern to work. I tried teaching it to Sylwanin, but all that came of it was a ball of tangled twine."
"Some things are like that," said Mo'at. "Like your bracelet, there are tasks that may only be completed by one person in all of life. If another tries to complete such a task, all that is left at the end is a mess."
Janelle nodded. It looked like this discussion with Mo'at was going to be one of those conversations – full of hidden meaning. "I understand what you are saying," said Janelle.
"You were sent here for a reason," said Mo'at. "It is time, now, to start to fulfil that reason."
The former dreamwalker sighed. Mo'at was right, and it was time for Janelle to recount what she knew. "The Cree were many clans of people, a strong people like the Omaticaya, that lived in a cold, wild land. The brief summers were plentiful, giving the clans good hunting and time to survive the hard winters, and they were happy in the care of the Sky-father and Earth-mother. There were other nations on this land, and not all were friendly to the Cree. Sometimes there was war, but between the enemies and the Cree there was always respect.
"Then a strange people came to the land, with many new and wonderful things, but they did not respect the ways of the Cree and the other nations. The strange people were strong in the ways of war and trickery, and they wanted the land for themselves. Those nations to the south of the Cree chose to resist the strange people by the way of the bow and the knife. They were slaughtered and crushed into submission, and many died, losing the land.
"The Cree chose a different way. They saw the power of the strangers, and knew that they would lose in a test of strength. Instead, the Cree chose the way of trade and negotiation. There was no bloody slaughter of men, of women and children, as happened to the nations of the south. Instead, the strangers brought sickness and evil drugs, weakening the spirit of the Cree. The strangers offered to help the Cree in their troubles, teaching them new ways if they would trade land for knowledge. Over hundreds of years, many of the Cree were seduced by the message of the strangers, and they were twisted away from the knowledge of the Sky-father and Earth-mother, losing the love of the land that made them. Those that followed that path were no longer Cree, although they called themselves by that name. Instead, they had become as one with the strangers.
"There were few Cree that followed the old ways, the ways of our ancestors, when I was a child. My father and mother became estranged, and hated each other. My mother deserted the old ways, and used the law of the strangers to tear me from my father. He died, and then she did the same to my Grandfather, tearing him away from the land of our ancestors, making him die from despair. He was the last shaman of the Cree, and I was alone. The old ways were done."
The Tsahik had listened attentively to her story. The tale that Janelle recounted unfolded much as she expected. It was obvious to her that the strangers in the story were the people that became the tawtute, the ones that had come to this world from a place far away. Mo'at said, "The strangers are the tawtute."
"Srane," agreed Janelle.
"A difficult tale to tell," added Mo'at. She paused to ask, "Why are the tawtute as they are?"
Janelle knew the answer to this question. "The tawtute are blind. In of themselves, the tawtute are not good, or evil. Instead, the tawtute are possessed by an idea, an idea that gives them great strength and power. It is because of this idea that they do not See the land, and the land does not See them. The idea forced them away from their mother, so they no longer care for her. It drives them to great labours. It drove them to lay waste to the land, and then it drove them from their own world to this one, where they will do the same."
Mo'at sat quietly for a time. "You have given me much to think upon, Zha'nelle. Thank you for recounting your story."
Her mouth twisting, Janelle replied, "I would say it was a pleasure to be of assistance..."
"...But you did not enjoy telling this story," completed Mo'at. "I understand, Zha'nelle."
Janelle picked up her knotwork from where she had placed it, and restarted her intricate task. Mo'at watched her fingers fly for many minutes, until she spoke again. "It is time for you to become truly Omaticaya," said Mo'at. "My daughter will prepare you for Iknimaya."
"Srane," repeated Janelle.
Mo'at stood to leave. "There is one other thing," said the Tsahik. "If you wish to live to mate to Mìnkxetse, I would keep your distance from the tawtute from now on. Do not return to the schoolhouse clearing."
It was good advice, thought Janelle. She had risked too much already.
Sergeant Westin had brushed off the objections of the medical staff, and discharged himself from the hospital. If he couldn't tough out a little pain and discomfort, then he had no place on this world. He made his way up to the science level, where the geeks lived.
Westin had never come up here, but he knew the layout of the entire base like the back of his hand. Like the good soldier that he was, Westin had memorised all the floor plans of the entire complex. He knew that he might have to fight here, and there was no way he was not going to be prepared.
As it was so late, the corridors were empty, so there were no lamebrain scientists to stare at the bandages around his neck. He had no need of them – he knew exactly where he was going, and the little mice could stay tucked up safe in their little nests for all he cared. When he opened the door of Dr Augustine's office, Westin was amused when the bitch looked up from her desk , and with a voice laden with utter contempt for a mere grunt, asked, "Well?"
Unlike the other geeks, Augustine had a reputation amongst the soldiers of being a total hard-ass, a bitch that chewed on lumps of rock and shat out 50-cal cartridges. She would have done well in the Corps, thought Westin. He hooked a visitor's chair with one foot and spun it around, straddling the chair with his chest resting against the back. She would not understand the respect that he was showing her, that by sitting like this Westin was demonstrating he thought she was dangerous.
Augustine continued to glare at him, as though he was a cockroach that she was trying to kill by the sheer force of her mind. Westin suspected that she was actually capable of doing it, too.
He scrawled out a message on the data tablet he was carrying – 'Manitowabi saved my life today' – and spun it around so she could read the glowing words.
The expression of contempt disappeared from Augustine's face. Interesting, thought Westin. In a way, she is quite attractive, if you happened to like tall, bitchy older women with reddish hair and nice tits. And it just so happened that Westin did.
"That's a very interesting statement to make, Sergeant Westin," she said, conceding that she knew his name and rank. The tall woman rose to her feet, walked around the desk, and shut the office door behind him. "Dr Manitowabi died some months ago." She walked back to the desk, opened one of the drawers and removed a bottle of bourbon and two tumblers. "Would you like a drink?"
Bless the woman, he thought, and nodded once. Augustine poured out two fingers into each tumbler, neglecting to cut the precious liquid with any crap. Where had this woman been all his life? She slid one of the tumblers over to him, and looked him in the eye as she drained her own glass. He lifted the tumbler to his lips, allowed the fiery alcohol to wash over his tongue, and burn its way down his gullet. It was a little difficult to swallow, but well worth it.
When he set the tumbler back on the desk, she refilled both glasses. It was official. Westin was now in love. Or more probably lust.
He didn't take up the glass quite yet. Instead, he wrote on the tablet again. 'Okimura knows too. He is weak, and will talk. Eventually.'
"I imagine you feel a sense of obligation," commented Augustine.
Of course the bitch knew that Manitowabi was alive in her Avatar body, thought Westin. What a piece of work, to sit on that news for months. Any other of the geeks would have exploded from sheer frustration.
Augustine continued, "Perhaps you should do something about it." One of her eyebrows curled up, challenging him to take action. "I'll have another glass waiting for you when you get back."
Westin drained the bourbon again, welcoming the burn. The cold bitch had just told him to off Okimura, right now. He stood up and left the office. Ten minutes later he was back, and the promised tumbler of booze was there on the desk.
"Is it done?" she asked. Westin nodded once. "Good," she said. "Drink up. There is plenty more where this came from."
The surgeon looked down at Okimura's corpse. "Poor bastard," he said. "To come all this way and die like this."
"Yeah," agreed the medic. "Slipping over in the bathroom and trying to take out the shitter with your head is a pretty stupid way to go, especially after escaping the damn viperwolf attack yesterday." There was a distinct dent on the rim of the metal bowl. His hand felt the shape of the dent - the shape left by the impact of a skull. The medic commented, "He hit damn hard."
"That's what it looks like," said the surgeon, his nose wrinkling in distaste. He preferred death to be nice and tidy, in a hospital bed, instead of corpses found lying in pools of blood and shit. It was so much more pleasant, and easier to clean, he thought. "And that's exactly how I am going to write it up."