Deathlands 071: Ritual Chill Page 17

  Perhaps these would seem to be childish, ridiculous considerations. But Thompson took his position as chief seriously. The attempt to find a good sacrifice had taken time, and it was imperative that it be successful. He didn’t want to leave anything to chance, to cover all the possibilities. He didn’t want to be the chief who had condemned his tribe to a slow chill.

  “Okay,” he said doubtfully, “I just hope you’re right.”

  They left the hut, with both Mildred and Krysty in ecstatic states from the herbs contained in the leaf capsules fed them by the shaman. They would be quiet and compliant, lost in their own small worlds, for a few hours more.

  Outside, in the chill air, the chief was having his doubts about the planned sacrifice.

  “What if we’re wrong?” he said suddenly. “What if they’re not whole enough—the one-eyed man and the lunatic—what if all they do is bring down the wrath of the Almighty?”

  McPhee stopped and faced his chief. In a low tone, so that they could not be overheard, he said, “What does it matter? The way things are, we’re doomed in two or three generations at most. We have the choice of doing nothing and seeing it all go to shit, or trying this and maybe—just maybe—making it work. Now I don’t know about you, but I don’t really see that as a choice after all. Do you?”

  Thompson pondered that for a moment.

  “No,” he said finally. “No choice at all.”

  The Inuit continued to the final hut, where J.B. and Jak were waiting. Both had shown remarkable powers of recovery and were sitting upright around the stove, warming themselves and muttering to each other in terse undertones. They stopped abruptly when the door was flung open and the Inuit entered. Thompson and McPhee found themselves faced by hostile, blank stares emanating from the angular, otherwise expressionless duo.

  “Interesting,” McPhee murmured. “They ate as much as the others, but seem a whole lot brighter. Hasn’t stayed in their systems for as long.”

  “That important?” Thompson returned.

  “Maybe,” the medicine man replied enigmatically.

  Leaving his chief to ponder this how he may, McPhee made his way across the bare wooden floor until he reached the oasis of skins, blankets and furs the two men had made around the stove.

  “If you two gentlemen don’t mind, I’m going to examine you.”

  “And if we do?” J.B. returned, keeping his voice neutral.

  “Then I call for assistance and we beat the fuck out of you until you give in. Long as we don’t rupture an organ or rip off an arm, you can have as many bruises as you like.”

  “Like that, not seem choice,” Jak stated, unconsciously echoing the Inuit conversation outside their hut.

  With ill-concealed bad grace the two men allowed the Inuit medicine man to examine them. He was swift, efficient, and for the most part painless. Both men winced as his firm pressure probed into tissue areas that were still damaged and blood-engorged, but other than the humiliation of having their balls tweaked by a complete stranger, there was nothing that they could seriously object to in their current situation.

  Nonetheless, McPhee was quick enough to step back after finishing his examination, just in case they should decide to exact some revenge. He glanced across at his chief and gave a brief nod. Thompson returned this, and the two men left the hut. Jak and J.B. waited, listening to their footfalls on the earth outside as they receded into the distance, before speaking.

  “Need clothes, weapons. No plan,” Jak muttered, sniffing back a stream of mucus from his nose. “Need move before becomes fever,” he added.

  “We could try to break for it, but where have they stashed our clothes and supplies? Even if we can’t get at them, how the hell we gonna get more than a hundred yards like this, even assuming we could whack a guard and steal his clothes and blasters? Keeping all this around us to keep warm takes both hands, and without it we’ll freeze in seconds,” he added, clutching the furs to him for emphasis.

  Jak was silent. He knew J.B. was right, but he felt helpless. As though he had to wait for the Inuit to make the next move. Jak was an expert at waiting for prey, but this time he was the prey, and he found he had no patience when the situation was reversed.

  “Besides,” J.B. continued after a pause, “we’ve got fuck-all idea where the others are, or even how they are.”

  It was another frustrating nail in the wall for Jak. Action without the knowledge of the others could endanger them all the more. But as things stood, they had no way of finding out what was happening to their companions, and any move they may make could do little more than endanger them.

  It was going to be a hell of a wait to see what happened next.

  NOTHING. FOR THE REST of that day, and into the night, nothing happened. In the three huts, the six companions rested or fretted, endlessly went over possible escape plans or drifted into dreams inspired by madness or fatigue. There was nothing else they could do except to lose themselves in their own interiors. It wasn’t something that they often had the opportunity to indulge, and for most, they would have preferred action.

  But not Doc. He was getting all too familiar with his interior landscape, and, ironically enough, with its propensity for almost constant change.

  DARKNESS DRAWS DOWN upon the land, just as it draws down upon my mind. Yet are they not the same thing out here? I am the emperor of all creation, and this is the world that I, myself, have defined. Darkness that is always greatest before the dawn: the concrete realization of a metaphor that is the signal for my own rebirth.

  Of course, it all makes sense: since the dawn of time—the dawn of light, if I may delight myself with yet another parallel—there have been rituals that describe the process of transformation from one state of awareness to another. Is that not, after all, what religion may be? So it makes sense that, to make the transformation in my own skull real, it becomes necessary to externalize that in the form of a ritual. Even if, as I believe, the world in which I currently move is entirely inside my own head and therefore internalized. Is it possible for me to externalize while internalizing? How paradoxical: the mind is nothing more than a maze that plays the most appallingly complex games with itself, twisting inside and out until there is little that makes sense. Yet everything makes sense.

  I feel that if the new me that emerges at the end of this understands anything because of the confusion of torturous tautologies that now beset me, then it will have been worthwhile.

  Hark, what light through yonder window breaks—it is the sun… No, that is not right. Correction, not accurate. But right. For it is the sun that breaks with the dawn, and the light that will fill my head will be greater than a thousand suns at the glory of rebirth.

  MORNING BROUGHT a sudden flurry of activity. As the day grew brighter, the chem clouds that had gathered so heavily for storms over the preceding days once more giving way to icy azure-blue tinged with cyan, so the Inuit emerged en masse from their dwellings, eating hurriedly before preparing the center of the ville for the rituals that were about to begin.

  The tarpaulin covering the center was taken down, so that the ceremonial tables faced the empty sky. The tables were washed down, their markings repainted afresh by a team of artists who knew exactly what should be inscribed. The bonfires on the corners of the center were once more restoked and rebuilt, fired up so that they began to smolder and grow in intensity for the day ahead.

  McPhee, in his hut, carefully brushed his ceremonial robes and hat, so that he would be presenting himself to the Almighty in his best aspect. This finished, he left the hut and stood on his stoop, watching the tribe go about the business of preparing the ville for the sacrifice. The fires were burning well. The tables were painted well.

  Looking over to the far side of the ville, he could see one of the Inuit carefully whetting the ceremonial knives that would be used to cut the beating hearts from the sacrificial victims. The long, curved daggers had originated long before skydark, and the blades were now thin with repeated blunt
ing and whetting, the stocks oft-repaired, tied with strips of hide. They didn’t look as fine as once they had. No matter, they had a sacred purpose and couldn’t be replaced. On the opposite side of the ville to this activity, food and drink was being prepared. Not the usual fare of the ville, but dishes and beverages that were laced with herbs and plant extract as dictated by McPhee, handed down to him from other medicine men, that would lift the celebrants into an ecstatic state that would bring them nearer to the Lord.

  He looked upon his work, and he was pleased. Stepping down, he walked across to Thompson’s dwelling, acknowledging the greetings of the Inuit as he passed. They were almost as taciturn and silent as ever, yet there was something about their demeanor that had altered. In just the slightest manner, they were lifted. The dwindling birth rate among them, and the subsequent slow chill of their society, had been casting a long shadow over their lives. This would reverse that trend. And if it didn’t? By the time the success or the failure of the sacrifice had been determined, McPhee would probably have long ago bought the farm. He was no longer young, and the years became harder. He gave them faith because that was his role; but could he be certain? He was at an age where he no longer believed in certainty. All he could do was have a greater faith than those he served.

  By this time, he had reached Thompson’s hut and had banged on the door. A surly grunt from within told him that the chief beckoned him to enter. Inside, the Inuit chief was wearing his own ceremonial suit, made of dyed skins stitched together to emulate an old Inuit costume from before the settlers arrived. This mixture of the old heathen and the old Christian gave the faith of the Inuit a fervor that few could match. A fervor that the chief did not, at this moment, seem to share.

  “What’s eating you?” McPhee said without preamble.

  Thompson looked at him, his eyes narrow. “This isn’t going to work. We’re going to chill them for no reason.”

  “How do you know it won’t work?”

  “It hasn’t before,” Thompson replied. “We’ve done it, and for what…nothing.”

  “Maybe the sacrifices haven’t been right,” McPhee reasoned.

  “Maybe there isn’t an Almighty,” Thompson snapped back.

  McPhee moved with a surprising speed for one so old and stout. Before the Inuit chief had even the time to blink, the medicine man was on him and had him by the throat.

  “Don’t you ever say that,” McPhee growled. “Even if you think it’s true, don’t ever say it. You’ve got fears? I’ve got fears—shit, we’ve all got fears, man…but you’re the leader of this tribe and it’s up to you to lead us by example. That means that you keep whatever you’ve got to worry you in here.” He emphasized his statement by beating his own chest. “And you don’t let anyone else see that it’s worrying you. You keep firm, you keep sure. You do, and I do. It’s the only way to keep the people together. And even if we ain’t got a future—more so if we ain’t—that’s what matters. Do you understand that?”

  Thompson was silent. There was a pause before he nodded slowly. He’d never heard the medicine man talk in this way, and had no idea that was how he felt. It didn’t make things better, but it did help him in a way: to know that he wasn’t alone in his fears was something. And yes, McPhee was right. They had to stand firm, stand together. It was the only way to keep the tribe going, no matter what.

  And maybe this time the Lord would smile on them and these strangers would be who they had spent so long searching for…they would bring absolution and the mercy of the Almighty.

  “Let’s do this,” he said with a brief nod.

  A grin cracked the medicine man’s weathered visage. “Yeah, let’s.”

  The two men walked out of the hut and into the cold morning sun. The preparations were almost complete, with the sacrificial knives and tables prepared and the sacrificial feast readied. The people of the tribe had, for the most part, completed their tasks in contribution to what was about to occur. They were now milling around, looking expectant. There was an undercurrent of excitement and hope that carried itself across to the chief and the medicine man as they strode across the center of the ville. If they needed reminding why they had to do this, then the eyes of the people upon them was reminder enough.

  McPhee examined the tables, then beckoned to one of the Inuit to bring him the sacrificial knives. He examined these, feeling the edges. They were sharp enough to cut his skin with only the slightest pressure. When the moment came, he knew that the fatal wounds could be delivered swiftly and mercifully, for he had no real desire to cause pain. To him, this wasn’t about sadism, it was about pure function. As the hunters were content to leave behind those who fell by the wayside, so he saw the sacrifice as something that was necessary. Quick, clean, and with no malice. Besides which, it would please the Lord all the more if the sacrificial lambs reached him in a beatific state, without the anguish of pain and fear to tarnish their souls.

  To this end, not only did he wish the chilling to be swift, he had also arranged for the victims to be fed another concoction of herbs that would anesthetize their pain and awareness.

  He took a deep breath, turned to the chief and gave the smallest inclination of the head.

  Thompson raised his arms. “It begins,” he intoned solemnly.

  This was the cue the Inuit had been waiting for. Now that he had spoken, they began to act. The majority gathered in a circle around the now exposed clearing, separating only where the heat and flames of the now roaring fires kept them apart. Twelve of the Inuit peeled off toward the huts that housed the victims, four per shack. The inhabitants had already been fed that morning, their meal laced with the drug. It was unlikely that they would present any problem; regardless, they were to be well guarded.

  As the eyes of the settlement rested upon them, the companions were led from the huts, bleary and confused. The herbs had done their job well, and they would be presenting little problem to anyone. Jak and J.B. had debated leaving their meal, perhaps concealing the evidence lest it be discovered and forced upon them. They didn’t know that it was laced with herbs to pacify them, but were too cautious and long in the tooth to trust the Inuit on this, of all mornings. But their hunger had overtaken them and they had wolfed down the food. Ryan had felt the same, separated from them as he was, but once again his ravenous appetite had got the better of reason. Doc had calmly partaken of the meal and seemed not to care. Mildred and Krysty were still dazed from their infusions of the evening before and so had succumbed without opposition to the meal placed in front of them.

  They were led through the silent crowd, the only one seeming to take in what was happening being Doc. Even then, it seemed that he had to be a fool to those who watched, as he smiled benignly upon them, apparently little realizing that he was being led to his own chilling.

  The companions were laid on the sacrificial tables, so placid and compliant that they didn’t need to be secured in any way, which was exactly how the medicine man wanted it. They had to go willingly to meet the Almighty, not trussed like livestock awaiting slaughter, squealing in fear.

  The medicine man moved between them, chanting softly and anointing them with the heavy, aromatic oil that he had used on them previously. Content with this, he then stepped across to take one of the ceremonial knives, raising it above his head.

  “Our Lord, who is in the skies, bring to us this day our sustenance. Forgive us our misdeeds, as we will forgive those who attempt to offend against us. Lead us into glory, for yours is the everlasting land of light. Amen.”

  The Inuit joined him on the last word of the chant, signaling his next action. Slowly he moved among the companions, using the knife to score a thin line on each foot, taking their arms and turning them so that he opened each palm and made a small incision therein. All the while, with each cut, he said softly, “The scars of the Lord, to make you one with him.”

  When this was done, and the blood was drying on the small cuts that were intended to identify the sacrifice with the deity
to which they were offered, the Inuit lined up to partake of the food and drink prepared specially for the sacrifice. They moved forward slowly to meet the shaman, one by one. As each stood in front of him, he gave them a small oatcake that they ate before sipping from a cup he constantly refilled from the brew by his side. While Thompson looked on, McPhee said to each one, “The fruits of the Lord made food and water.”

  To service the entire ville in such a manner took some time. This, however, was part of the plan. While they were partaking of the offering, the wounds on the sacrificial victims were closing and beginning to scar.

  As the last Inuit moved away from the shaman and he took the sacrificial dagger offered to him in readiness to begin the business of chilling, he was surprised to hear a voice issuing from the area of the sacrificial tables. Surprised because it wasn’t a voice familiar to him. Not one of the Inuit, nor of those who lay prone on the tables. It was rich and resonant, with a thick Scots burr to it.

  “What is this? Am I to be dispatched from this world before I have even had a chance to sample it? Is this how ye treat one who returns after so long?”

  McPhee was bewildered. He looked at his chief. Thompson’s face was no longer its usual impassive mask. Instead his jaw had dropped, his eyes widened in amazement.

  “Come, are ye not going to speak to me after I have come so far to be with ye?”

  That voice again. There was something familiar, but yet… McPhee turned to face the same direction as his chief—and, indeed, of the vast majority of the Inuit—and was astounded at the sight that greeted him.

  Doc Tanner was sitting upright, his eyes no longer staring unseeingly. His face no longer the bland rictus of an insane smile. Instead it seemed to be full of a life that they hadn’t seen from him before.

  “What do I have to say to stir some action from ye? Am I to freeze before someone offers me a coat?”