Rincewind and the Redskins – 5
As the first light of dawn stole over the horizon, the gathered chiefs, one after the other, repeated the single word.
"War." (1)
The Bull nodded his satisfaction, part of his mind dwelling on strategies for the coming battle, although most of it was concentrating on sitting upright and wondering about the possibilities for breakfast. After an all-night pow-wow, he always felt incredibly hungry, for some reason he'd never quite been able to fathom out.
As the host chief, he was first to stand and leave the circle. Dancing Weasel tapped his arm.
"There's this other thing to see to, guv'nor." he said. "Anana Ogg needs a quick word in your ear. She thinks she's got you your Wizard".
Although the sacred space of the pow-wow was male-only according to ancient custom and taboo, Anana Ogg breezed into it as if the rules applied to other people and not her.
"Wotcher, Bullshitter!" she said, affably. "You have got to see this!"
"One of our scouting patrols brought him in, boss" said Weasel. "As luck would have it, you remember those two idiots from Ankh-Morpork? The brothers who thought they were coming back on holiday for a few months? Thought they could fit in a quick vision quest, and then go home again? They speak the heathen lingo and hey can talk to him."
"You can't help where you're born, Weasel!" said Anana Ogg, chiding him. "OK, so they can't ride, can't hunt, can't erect a tepee, can barely make a fire, can only work out which way round you hold a tomahawk on the second try, but their hearts are Latoka. And that's what counts! And they bin sent here to us, now, for a purpose. You can count on that."
"Get me one of them." the Chief said, decisively. "What do you make of this Wizard, Great Ogg?"
"And you can leave out the great-mother-cow-who-nurtures-her-nation bit, OK? I'm too old for that!"
Bull noticed the other chiefs were listening in, intent.
"What do you make of this white medicine man, anyway?"
She shrugged.
"He's a weird one, alright. His manitou is strange and twisted through a dozen different worlds at once. When I read him, right, I sees he's been to many places and walked among many peoples. Not willingly and not by his own choice, but the main thing is, he's walked thousands of miles in many pairs of moccasins, right? I also seen who his patron spirits are. She Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken looks after him, probably 'cos he amuses her. And the other patron spirit who takes an interest is that bugger Coyote. Although he doesn't know Coyote as we know him, he's seen that bloody nuisance in other shapes and other skins, right? Between them two, they ain't half buggered his life up. Even the Black Buffalo don't know when he'll be able to take this lad, and that's odd, 'cos the bony old bugger is usually pretty definite about these things."
Bull winced at mention of the silent, black, skeletal God who ushered souls of the dead into the next worlds.
"Let's take a look at him".
___________________________________-
Ridcully and Stibbons stood either side of the Luggage, trying to communicate with it. It stood in mute bloody-mindedness, as if suffering them to come this close only with an effort. Stibbons braced himself to run. Ridculy leant oveer, with his usual maddening lack of fear and trepidation, and said
"Look, it's quite simple. We know you'll find him eventually. All we're askin' is that you carry a thaumic tracker, so that we can find both of you and bring you back. Now if you'll kindly open yer lid so I can drop it in..."
Stibbons held out the small black box encouragingly, feeling like a pet-owner who has just been assured by the vet (who doesn't have to do it) that getting a pill into a stubborn domestic animal is the easiest thing in the world, and like generations of cat-owners the Multiverse over is learning the hard way that if the animal doesn't want to take a pill, you're basically stuffed.
Ridcully carried on trying to use gentle persuasion, which for him was as difficult as Henry the Eighth trying to negotiate a marriage annulment without reaching for a handy executioner.
"Look here, old chap, we want him back. You're hard-wired to recognising that you serve Rincewind and your job is to make his life as easy and safe and comfortable as you can. Surely you can see, or feel or sense or intuit or whatever it is you do, that this makes it easier for him?"
The Luggage looked visibly uncertain. Ridcully seized the moment.
"And you know that wherever he is, he's likely to be in a place where he can't get these…" he brandished a sack of potatoes, triumphantly, "and these stop the fella goin' Bursar, right? So if you take these to him, you're fulfillin' your fundamental imperative, right?"
There was a pause. Then the Luggage's lid opened and it sat, expectantly.
Ridcully grinned and upended the sack of potatoes. Halfway through pouring them into the Luggage, he nodded at Stibbons, who stepped forward and dropped the thaumic tracker into the tuberous stream. Eventually the lid closed, and the Luggage glared at the two Wizards as if it suspected it had just been conned, in some indefinable way, but it was too much of a waste of its valuable time to take it up with you now, OK? It had things to do, but Gods help you if you've just put one over on me.
With a nod of its lid, it turned, and ran full-tilt in a rimwards and turnwise direction. Just before it hit the far wall of the High Energy Magic building, there was an octarine flash, and it disappeared.
Ridcully and Stibbons shook hands.
"Lesson to you, lad. You catch more monkeys if you bait the trap with honey. Now let's wait and see where it went, OK?"
They waited a few minutes. Then there was the familiar clicking and scratching from HEX's output. They leant over to read what was being written.
+++I AM RECEIVING SIGNALS FROM THE THAUMIC TRANSMITTER+++ RINCEWIND IS ON THE CENTRAL HOWONDALANDIAN PLAIN+++ IN THE YEAR 1903+++ A WAR IS IN PROGRESS AND HE IS ABOUT TO BE CRUCIAL TO THE OUTCOME OF A BATTLE+++ THE WHIM OF SEVERAL GODS IS INVOLVED+++
____________________________________-
Rincewind leant on his post, gloomily. A dog howled in the night. He wondered if it was Hoki, or Scrappy, or Coyote, or whatever he called himself on this continent. A tall dark figure passed, glanced at him, then did a double-take.
RINCEWIND? I DIDN'T EXPECT TO SEE YOU IN THIS TIME AND PLACE.
"Oh, hello" Rincewind muttered, wondering if this was a result of his being tired, exhausted, hallucinating, or whatever. He was reasonably sure he'd not received any mortal injury in the last few minutes, and he'd need to be a lot more tired than this to die of exhaustion, and One-Man-Bucket had seen to it he wouldn't die of thirst.
JUST A ROUTINE VISIT, RINCEWIND. I'M HERE TO ESCORT AN OLD WARRIOR TO THE HAPPY HUNTING GROUNDS. ALTHOUGH ALL THESE BLESSED TEPEES LOOK THE SAME TO ME.
Death shook his skull, and sighed.
THIS IS A BUGGER OF A PLACE TO WORK IN. SOME OF THEM EXPECT TO SEE ME AS A GIANT BLACK RAVEN. OTHERS EXPECT A GIANT BLACK BEAVER. THE LATOKA EXPECT TO SEE A SKELETAL BUFFALO WITH A BLACK MANE. SINCE THE COMMON DENOMINATOR IS THE COLOUR BLACK, I CAN ACCOMMODATE THAT, AT LEAST. LOOK, YOU HAVEN'T SEEN WAR AROUND HERE LATELY, HAVE YOU? WE'RE MEANT TO TEAM UP IN A FEW DAYS TIME. BIG JOB ON.
"Not since the Counterweight Continent, no." Rincewind said. He nodded towards Death's scythe.
"Look, you couldn't cut me down, could you?"
Death shook his head.
I RATHER BELIEVE YOUR CUTTING-DOWN IS IMMINENT. INCIDENTALLY, YOU AREN'T EVEN MEANT TO BE BORN FOR AT LEAST ANOTHER SIXTY YEARS, SO WHAT BRINGS YOU HERE?
"Magical accident at the university threw me back in time. I'm surprised you know who I am, incidentally? Shouldn't I be a stranger to you right now?"
OH, I KNOW YOU, ALRIGHT. THE WAY TIME PASSES FOR ME IS NOT AS LINEAR AS IT - NORMALLY – IS FOR YOU. THE NODES CAN SEND ME ANYWHEN. AH, WE HAVE VISITORS.
Anana Ogg walked up to Death and nodded, as between people who are familiar with each other.
"Just down there, Sonny Jim. Third tepee on the right. The one with the three rampant buffalo painted above the flap. Let me know when you're done, and I'll parcel him up for the funeral ground."
THANK YOU, MISTRESS OGG.
"You're welcome, Black Buffalo. Know this bloke, do you?"
OUR PATHS CROSS. FREQUENTLY. RINCEWIND IS AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.
Death nodded at Rincewind, and stalked off to do his Duty.
Anana Ogg stood and looked at the Wizzard.
{{So you know the Black Buffalo, do you? Interesting. You handle some strong medicine, my friend}}
Rincewind politely let the unintelligible words pass over him.
He felt his bowels tremble as a dozen or so Indian chiefs, in bonnets and ceremonial headdress with many feathers, approached and stood in a half-circle, regarding him with inscrutable faces. He know these were important people who he had to impress. He just didn't know how to go about doing it.
He heard a familiar petulant whine, and turned his head to see One-Man-Bucket, evidently roused from sleep, being escorted by two warriors to the presence of the chiefs. He heard a brief conversation in the Latoka tongue.
{{Doesn't look up to much, does he?}} said the chief with the most feathers and the slightly glazed eyes.
{{Like I say, there's strong medicine there. He conceals more than he reveals}} said the old lady.
{{I should bloody well hope so!}} said another Chief, who was promptly slapped round the ear by the old lady, knocking his bonnet slightly askew.
{{Are you doubting my word, lad? 'Cos if you are, I'll knock you into the middle of next week! }}
{{Sorry, our mum!}}
One-Man-Bucket addressed the Indian chiefs, speaking in the Latoka tongue. Then he turned to Rincewind.
"Just told them where you're from, friend. I've explained that there's a place of power where white medicine men go to learn and study and you were sent here from the University. Look, you don't need telling that these are important blokes, right? The Chiefs of the twelve tribes, you know? Impress them, and you're home and dry. If not, it's.."
"The Sun Dance. Right" Rincewind said, wearily. He heard a rushing of feet behind him. He saw the Chiefs stand back a pace and look at each other in consternation. Then he found himself flying through the air. Dazed, he and his pole hit the ground. He felt the shock of something crunching through the wood of the pole, and also through the hide rope that bound him. His hands suddenly freed, he sat up and tried to rub life back into his wrists, a cleanly cut length of hide dangling from each arm. Belatedly, he looked around.
"Oh, it's you." he said, to the Luggage. " I was wondering when you'd get here."
Chief Bull looked at Chief Flaming Lance.
"Did I just see that?" he asked, wondering if the holy herb was still at work.
"It's for real, Bull. I saw it too."
"So did I, Bull" confirmed Chief McSweeney (2) of the Choctaw.
"Give the white medicine man all he needs. Treat him as one of the Tribe. I'll talk to him later when my head's straighter." Bull said, and retreated hastily.
Rincewind, assisted to a tepee by One-Man-Bucket, fell onto a pile of animal skins and slept deeply and soundly. The Luggage stood guard and snapped at anyone who came too near. The new life of the Indian medicine man to be known as {{He-Who-Washes-The-Wind}} was about to begin.
(1) Although the High Chief of the Ojibwe actually said "This is serious shit, man. We got to waste the motherlovers before it gets heavy"
(2) A very long-established and honoured Indian clan.