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slowly. "His father, my son, was killed in the last world war. There is a
picture of him on the table to your right." Sam peered over the side of the
couch. There was a faded black-and-white photograph of a man in uniform in a
small flat glass case. It centered a circle of shiny medals and two oak leaf
clusters,. Sam noticed the medical insignia. "His father was a doctor,
then?" John Whitehorse smiled. "All the Whitehorses have been men of medicine.
As I am, and my father was, and my grandfather. Beyond that I do not know for
certain, but it is so said in Council. "We wished it for Willie, too, but. .
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." He stopped. "Why are you here, Mr. Parker?" 204 Wolfstroker "I took charge
of the body. I wanted to make sure there was someone who could aff would want
to bury him." Whitehorse nodded. "Do you know how he died?" "There was some
news in the paper that comes from Denver," said the old man, "but not much."
He seemed sad. "It was a very small item. I had to look hard for it." "There
was a riot," Sam began. "Fourteen people were killed. A great many were
injured. An important building, the Atheneum, was nearly torn down by the
audience during Willie's performance. Many of them don't remember what
happened. This sort of thing has happened before at similar concerts, but
never anything approaching the scale and violence of this one. "Two of the
musicians who were playing with Willie suffered severe shock. One of them is
still being treated by doctors. He may not be able to play again, I'm
told." John Whitehorse nodded. "They were close to Willie and they followed
him too far. I am glad they did not die." "As for Willie," continued Sam,
watching the old man with eyes that had lately seen too much, "the story being
passed around is that he'd doused his guitar with gasoline. Then he set it
afire as a gimmick, an audience-pleaser but it spread to his clothes before he
could get rid of it. I believe he would bum hot he had enough alcohol in
him but that's not what happened. There was no gas on that guitar, was
there?" John Whitehorse looked tired. "Nadonema, the wolf." Sam's mouth
tightened, but he looked satisfied. "Yeah, the wolf. Everybody thought it was
done with trick lights, with mirrors. How was it done, old man?" "From birth
every Whitehorse is made brother to a creature of the forest. I am kin to the
bear. To help make big medicine, he will make a picture of it in his mind and
try to partake of its strength. It is a great power that takes much time and
experience to learn 205 WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE ... well. Willie was very
young and made his medicine too strong. Or perhaps, for some reason, he did
not care." "And his music?" Sam asked quickly. "No Whitehorse can make
medicine without music, Sam Parker, nor music without some medicine." Then
Collins was right, Sam thought. Music opens the blocks between minds. Pity the
psychologist couldn't be here. He was number eleven on the coroner's list. But
Sam was still skeptical. "C'mon, old man. Next you'll be telling me you can
make it rain and cure warts." "Not I, Sam Parker. I am a modern man and have
thrown off the superstitions of the ignorant past.".And he smiled softly. "Go
ahead and laugh at me, then," invited Sam. "There was a guy named Collins,
though, who thought there might be some connection between today's music and a
crazy sort of mind contact I don't really understand, At first I thought he
was nutty as a loon. Now..." "Do you know, Sam Parker, an interesting thing
has come about." John Whitehorse leaned close. "For the first time in this
land a generation of whites is growing up that is concerned about the earth
and the plants and animals that are their brothers. Is it so surprising that
they should be more responsive to their music? Music is the key to so many
things. That they should feel deeper and believe stronger and think purer
thoughts than you and yours? "Perhaps it may take one more generation. But as
always happens things will come full round one day, and the Indian will have a
way to reclaim what is his." "Yeah, well, I appreciate that, Mr. Whitehorse."
The old man's sudden earnestness made Sam nervous. After all, the guy'd lost
his son, and now his grandson. He could be pardoned an occasional private
madness. Sara stood. "If you'll excuse me now, I've got to make a connecting
flight to New York. 206 Wolfstroker "Willie had a great gift for lyrics and
music, that's all. Maybe unique. It won't happen again, but it was great while
he had it. You'll forgive me if I find your picture of adolescent medicine men
taking over the country just a little amusing." "I suppose it does seem rather
humorous, Mr. Parker. No doubt you are right. You are kind to an old man who
wishes for too much. Still," and he looked at Sam with diamond eyes, "it would
be fun to think on what I have said the next time listeners at a concert do
not behave in a manner understandable to their elders." "Sure, sure. Thanks
for your hospitality, Mr. White-horse." He glanced over at the cradle. The
baby had a coal smudge of black hair with oddly familiar dark-pool eyes. He
looked back at Sam innocently. "Your father was quite a phenomenon, Bill
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White-horse. I hope your great-grandfather raises you well." The baby had a
little Hopi-like doll rattle in one hand. He gurgled and shook it, rattling
the seeds inside against the tissue-thin wood. Parker shivered from head to
foot. 207 Ye Who Would Sing I love classical music. I love the mountains and
the forest. The forest plays its own songs with wind and rain and the musings
of small creatures, but what if it could do even more?.. . . Caitland didn't
hate the storm any more.than he had the man he'd just killed, but he was less
indifferent to it. It wouldn't have mattered, except that his victim had been
armed. Not well enough to save himself, but sufficiently to make things
awkward for Caitland. Even so, the damaged fanship could easily have made it
back to the Vaanland outpost, had not the freakish thunderstorm abruptly
congealed from a clear blue sky. It was driving him relentlessly northward,
away from one of the few chicken scratches of civilization man had made on
this world. If adrenalin and muscle power could have turned the craft,
Caitland would have done better than anyone. But every time it seemed he'd
succeeded in wrenching the fan around to a proper course, a fresh gust would
leap from the nearest thunderhead and toss the tiny vehicle ass over rotor. He
glanced upward through the rain-smeared plex-idome. Only different shades of
blackness differentiated the sky above. If the Styx was overhead, what 208 Ye
Who Would Stng lay below? granite talons and claws of gneiss, the empty-wild
peaks of the Silver Spar Range. He'd been blown further north than he'd
thought. Time and again the winds sought to hammer the fan into the ground.
Time and again he somehow managed to coax enough from the weakening engine to [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]