Authors: Michael Moorcock

The Skrayling Tree (24 page)

“My master inspires in me the greatest devotion.”

“Aye. That devotion evaporates when you are forced to eat your own private parts,” said Gunnar with a reminiscent chuckle.

He had regained whatever he had momentarily lost in his terror to get away from the house. Such weaknesses in one who was
usually as courageous as he was ruthless! It made me curious. No doubt this curiosity was shared by his men, who trusted him
only while his judgment remained impeccable. He knew, as well as anyone, that if he began to falter, there were thirty souls
ready to challenge him for the captaincy of
The Swan.

He had fired them with dreams of kingdoms. Now Klosterheim promised to take them to the Golden City.
But Gunnar had by now seen the sense of that. He was no longer disputing our need for the skullface and others.

“And I must admit,” added Klosterheim, “to have had some real trouble from the one who calls himself White Crow. One of your
people, Prince Elric?”

“It is not a familiar name in Melniboné,” I said. These humans believed anyone who was “fey” to be of Faery or some other
imagined supernatural elfland.

I looked across at the shore with its great, wooded hills, its deep, ancient forest rolling like green waves back into the
interior. Was this truly Atlantis, and did the continent surround the World’s Pole? If so, would I find what I sought at the
center, as I predicted?

“Tomorrow,” Klosterheim continued, “we shall meet with my tribe, and together we shall find the Shining Path to the Golden
City. Now we have allies, and all the prophecies combine to say the same thing. White Crow will give us no more trouble now.
He’ll soon vanish from this realm forever. That which he stole shall be mine. This is what the oracle says.”

“Aye, well,” grumbled the faceless earl, “I have a habit of mistrusting oracles as well as gods.”

Again Klosterheim offered us the hospitality of his home, and again Gunnar declined it. He repeated that Klosterheim should
accept a place in the ship. Klosterheim hesitated before refusing. He had matters he must settle before joining us in the
morning. He stated that his hall was our hall, and he had good venison and a full vegetable cellar if we cared to join him.
My own appetite not being hearty and it being politic to keep my alliance
with Gunnar in place, I refused. Accepting this with a baffled shrug, Klosterheim turned and made his way through the tangled
undergrowth. There were no well-trodden paths to his house. From within came the agitated cackling of a bird.

It was now noon. The sun blazed through the gold and green of the late-autumn trees from a sky the color of rust and tarnished
silver. I followed Klosterheim with my eyes as far as I could, but he was soon hidden in the brushy shadows.

Who was the young skrayling? A local leader, no doubt. Clearly Klosterheim hated the man. Yet what had he meant? White Crow
was of my people? Was this land occupied by descendants of Melnibonéans?

The place being no longer occupied by Norse settlements, Gunnar was reassured. Once we were back aboard he gave the order
to row towards the shore. He saw a good, low-rising beach with easy anchorage. We could easily wade from the boat to the shingle
now. Soon Gunnar had men cutting down branches and setting up camp while the ship was secured and the guard determined.

At supper he asked me what I thought of Klosterheim. Was he a magician? I shook my head. Klosterheim was not himself a sorcerer
but was employing sorcery. I did not know where he got this power or if he had other powers. “He’s waited as long as he has
and built that house for himself knowing he might have to wait for us even longer. Such patience must be respected. His need
for an alliance might be of mutual benefit. He won’t, of course, keep any bargain he might make with us.”

Gunnar chuckled at this. The sound echoed in his helm and ended suddenly. “We’ll keep no bargain we make with him. Who wins
has the quickest wits and anticipates the others’ moves best. This is the kind of game I like to play, Elric. With life and
death to win as the only stake.” Having escaped the terrors of that house, he was in unnaturally good spirits. I suspected
an element of hysteria under his repeated reassurances that the future looked better than ever. With a larger fighting force,
our chances of taking the City of Gold were immeasurably improved.

His ambitions were beyond me. I was prepared to bide my time and see what transpired. I, too, had my own ambitions and goals
and did not intend to let either these or some mysterious dreamthief’s apprentice stand in my way.

Next morning we roasted and ate a doe Asolingas and his friend killed. A little canoe rounded the island and slid rapidly
towards us. The black-clad Klosterheim paddled it. I went down to the beach to greet him. Not a natural oarsman, he was out
of breath. He let me help him beach the craft, gasping that the Pukawatchi were now assembled and awaiting us above the ridge,
where they had built a peace camp. He pointed. Smoke puffed into the dawn sky.

The Pukawatchi, he explained, were not from these forests. Originally they had come with him from the south in search of their
sacred treasures stolen by White Crow the trickster. The tribe had linked its destiny with his. Now they felt ready to ally
with us and attack their ancient enemies.

We dragged
The Swan
ashore and disguised her deep in the forest. We removed all our war-gear, which included the great blue, red and white shield
Gunnar had shown me that first night. As I had no shield, he loaned me that one. But there was a strict condition. Before
we left the deckhouse, Gunnar flung me a cover. He helped me tie it over the outside of the shield. We would need that shield
later, he said, and he did not want the Pukawatchi to see it. If I showed it, under any circumstances, it could be the end
of us. I suspect Gunnar also thought the shield stolen. If it were discovered, he would rather I be thought the thief. It
made no difference to me. Even with its cover, the thing was light, useful if attacked by spears and arrows, and practical
if I needed something to throw at a horse to bring it down. Not that Klosterheim had said anything about horses when I asked
him how long we had to go. He described everything in terms of marches. As one who hated to walk, who had ridden the wild
dragons of Melniboné, I was not used to marching. Nor did I enjoy the prospect.

Following what appeared to be deer trails, we lumbered through the forest in our war-shirts and our iron helmets like so many
ancient reptiles. I was impressed by the Viking hardiness. They had scarcely rested before they were again on the move, their
legs doing the same kind of work their arms had done earlier. Gunnar knew the Norseman’s secret of the loping march, which
they had learned from the Romans.

We went uphill and down, through the heavy, loose soil, the root-tangled undergrowth of an endless greengold
forest. Hawks circled above us. Unfamiliar birds called from the trees. Our rhythmic tramping was relieved by what we saw.
Rivers dammed by beaver, curious raccoons, the nests of squirrels and crows, the spoor of deer, bear and geese.

Then Klosterheim slowed us, lifting both hands in reassurance. We came out of the trees into a deep autumn meadow beside a
narrow, silver stream where some forty lodges had been erected, their cooking smoke moving lazily in the air. The people reminded
me very much of the Lapps I had encountered in the service of the Swedish king. They had much the same features, being rather
short, stocky and square. They had dogs with them and all the other signs of an established camp. Yet something was slightly
awry about the scene. They had posted no guards and so were surprised when we came into their village, Klosterheim leading
the way.

There was an immediate cacophony when they saw me. It was something I was used to, but these people seemed to have some special
animosity towards me. I remembered Klosterheim’s reference. I could see he was trying to reassure them that I was neither
their enemy nor one of their enemy’s tribe.

He said something else I did not hear which cheered them. They began to sing, to raise their spears and bows in greeting.
All were fairly short, though one or two of them were almost as tall as Klosterheim. They had certainly not gone soft during
their wait. Displaying the physiques of men who lived by hunting, they wore jerkins and leggings of buckskin, softened and
tightly sewn and decorated with all kinds of pictograms. The shoulders and sleeves of the jackets, the back and bottom edges
of the leggings, were sewn with fringes of buckskin, handsome costumes on a somewhat unlovely people. The clothing all looked
as if it had been cut down to fit. I asked Klosterheim how his tribe had learned to make such fine cold-weather garments.

The gaunt man smiled. “They discovered in the usual way. These lodges and most of these tools and weapons are what were left
after the Pukawatchi came upon the original owners. The Pukawatchi have a policy of taking no long-term prisoners unless they
need to replace their own dead. In this case the attack thoroughly surprised the tribe, whom my people wiped out to a child.
So there are no more Minkipipsee, as I believe the indigenous folk termed themselves. You have no cause to feel insecure.
Nobody cares to avenge them, even for the sport of it.”

We entered the camp proper, a large public area encircled by the lodges. The tribe sent up a great wail of greeting. They
seemed to be waiting for something or someone, and meanwhile they were painting for the war trail, Klosterheim told me. Something
about their square, stern faces reminded me of Dalmatia. Daubed with white, scarlet and blue clay on their bodies, they smeared
yellow clay on their hands and foreheads. Some wore eagle feathers. The men’s weapons were elaborate, carved lances tipped
with bone, obsidian and found metal. Both men and women raised their voices in this strange ululation, which
sounded to my unpracticed ear more like a funeral lament. We responded as best we could and were made welcome.

These woods were not lacking in game. There were patches of vegetables where the Pukawatchi had made gardens. Again our party
ate well. The men relaxed. They asked the skraylings if perhaps they could spare a little beer or wine, as they did not know
what to make of the proffered pipes. They had the sense, however, to note that none of our hosts was drinking anything but
water and a rather unpleasant tea made from spearmint and yarrow. Eventually, after trying the pipe, they resorted to explaining
in some detail how beer was brewed.

With due ceremony we were introduced to the rather sour-faced individual whom Klosterheim called Young Two Tongues or Ipkaptam.
With a scar across his cheek and lip, as if from a sword cut, his was a handsome, ungiving face. He had become the sachem,
or speaker, of these people on his father’s death. “Not because heredity demanded it,” said Klosterheim in Greek, “but because
he was known to have medicine sight and be lucky.”

The local language was largely impossible for the Vikings to understand. The Pukawatchi thus tended to focus their attention
on Gunnar and myself. We must have seemed demigods or, more likely, demons to them. They had a name for us which was impossible
to translate.

But there was plenty to eat. The women and girls brought us dish after dish to enjoy, and soon a convivial atmosphere developed.

Klosterheim quelled the uncertainties of the still grim Ipkaptam, who had added more paint to his face. When Klosterheim suggested
we retire to the speaking lodge to discuss our expedition, Ipkaptam shook his head and pointed first at my sword and then
at my face, uttered the word “Kakatanawa” more than once and was adamant that I not be allowed into their councils. Klosterheim
reasoned with him, but Ipkaptam stood up and walked away, throwing down an elaborate bag, which had been attached to his belt.
I took this to mean he did not intend to share his wisdom with us.

Kakatanawa!
The same word, spat as an oath and directed at me. Klosterheim spoke to him, brutally, urgently, no doubt encouraging some
sort of common sense, for gradually Young Two Tongues glowered and listened. Then he glowered and nodded. Then he glowered
and came back, fingering his scars. He picked up his bag and pointed to a large tepee set aside from the others near a stand
of trees and a tumble of rocks. He spoke seriously and at some length, gesticulating, pointing, emphatic.

He grumbled something again and called to some women standing nearby. He gave orders to a group of warriors. Then he signaled
that we should follow him as, still sour-faced, he walked grudgingly towards the big lodge.

“The talking lodge,” said Klosterheim, and with a crooked grimace, “their town hall.”

Gunnar and I followed Klosterheim and his friend towards the talking lodge. I gathered we were to prepare
our assault on the City of Gold. Our weapons were left in the safekeeping of our men. Their own war-tools were so superior,
they had little to fear from any “skraylings.”

Nonetheless I entered the shaman’s lodge with a rather uneasy sense of privilege.

CHAPTER TWELVE
The Vision in the Lodge

Ask me not my name or nation,

Ask me not my past or station,

But stay and listen to my story

Listen to my mystic calling

How I saw my path unrolling,

How I dreamed my dream of patience,

Dreamed how all might work together

Make their laws and peace together

Make their lodges one great cover,

And a mighty people fashion