‘Wait a moment, Touchstone,’ said Methras with a smile. ‘I understood the part about the child. But how did the Shaman call the dolphins?’
‘He stood on clifftop. Make chant. Light singing smoke fire. Dusk they came. Twenty Osnu. All the way to shallow water. Shaman he carry child out to them. Then Osnu spoke. High sing-song. No words. Shaman take child. Put him in water, hands clasped on Osnu fin. Osnu swim around bay, pull laughing child with him. That day child spoke. Osnu magic.’
‘And this you saw? Truly?’
‘These eyes saw. Osnu magic.’
‘Good magic,’ agreed Methras, and together they leaned on the rail and watched the dolphins in silence. After a while Methras straightened. ‘One day I would like to swim with them,’ he said sadly.
‘They heal you too,’ Touchstone told him.
‘I don’t need healing.’
Touchstone shook his head. Reaching out he placed his hand on the soldier’s chest. ‘Empty place here. Need filling,’ said Touchstone.
‘You see too much, my friend,’ said Methras. Then he turned and was gone.
A great black and white shape crested the waves. The dolphins scattered. The killer whale dived after them.
‘You catch nothing today,’ whispered Touchstone.
The sun dipped low on the western horizon, sinking fast into a blood-red sea. As darkness fell the ship’s lights came on. Touchstone cursed. The globes were unnatural. They disturbed his spirit.
Closing his eyes against the brightness he sang the song of the Osnu, his voice rich and deep.
Chapter Eleven
There was little about Ren-el-gan to suggest its importance to the tribes. A flat area of sandy desert overshadowed by high mountains, its only man-made structure was a well wall constructed of sandstone blocks. A bucket stood on the wall, a slender rope tied to its handle and fastened to the lych pole above the well. There were no statues, no monuments, no inscriptions carved into the rock faces close by.
Yet it was here that the tribes came for the Gathering. Here, to the Well of Life, from which the Source of All Creation had produced the water that softened the clay, and moulded the body of the first man.
Ren-el-gan was a holy place. Blood was not spilt here.
To the east lay the Dream Desert, vast and largely uninhabitable. In the heat of summer the desert floor would leach all moisture from a man in less than a day, and kill a horse within two. And every year it grew. To the south lay the once-verdant river valleys of the Patiakes, the Goat People. To the north, across the mountains, the lands of the Erek-jhip-zhonad and a score of lesser tribes stretched for almost 700 miles.
But it was to the west that the eyes of the tribes were turned. The rich cities of the seashore filled their minds, liberating their imaginations. As the desert slowly sucked the life out of their lands the tribes looked to the rich grasslands around the cities as the answer to their growing problems. If the cities were under their sway all the riches of the Avatars would be theirs. No longer would they worry about the spring rain and the vanishing grass. Instead they would own fine houses and perhaps, like the Avatars, learn the secret of perpetual youth.
A half-mile from the Well of Life, under a silken canopy, Judon of the Patiakes sat on a huge, ornate throne, his vast bulk filling the seat, his fat silk-clad body squeezing the softness from the cushions beneath and behind him. On either side of the throne stood his two bodyguards, large men with cold eyes. Before him, on rugs set upon the ground, sat the leaders of eighteen major tribes.
‘Why should we pay taxes to the Avatar?’ Judon asked them. ‘Who granted them ownership of our lands? Why do we allow them to dominate us, to keep us impoverished while they grow rich upon our sweated labours? The time has come, my friends – my brothers! – to rid ourselves of these leeches.’
‘And how do we accomplish this?’ asked an elderly leader. ‘Their weapons would tear an army asunder. I myself took part in last year’s revolt. Eight thousand died upon that battlefield.’