Shadowrun Legends: Find Your Own Truth: (Secrets of Power Trilogy, Book Three) by Robert N. Charrette

Author:Robert N. Charrette [Charrette, Robert N.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Catalyst Game Labs
Published: 2016-03-10T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 26

“Coyote knows all, sees all,” the shaman said. “Tells little.”

“Like you,” Sam observed.

“Hey, hey, pup. Sing a sour song and you jinx the magic. Sky ain’t gonna change color to suit you. A shaman is what he is because he is what he is. Ya gotta know to do and do to know. Got that?”

“Sure,” Sam replied dubiously. Clear as mud.

The last two days had been full of exercises in frustration. The old man had led him deeper into the wilderness, hauling packs when they left the Hummer behind. Most of the time, Sam’s questions and comments fell on deaf ears. The old man only spoke when he wished, and then half the time he spouted nonsense commentaries on life or nature. The other half was split between totally incomprehensible monologues in a language Sam guessed was his native Ute dialect and almost equally incomprehensible orders.

So far Sam had listened to how the wind made piñon trees sigh, observed ants scurry about their business, smelled and compared the scents of yucca leaves and flowers, and watched buzzards wheel in the canyon updrafts. Time and again, he had gathered a variety of plant materials and animal remains, only to have the shaman leave them behind the next time they stopped. He felt more like he, or his patience, was being tested rather than taught.

They had climbed a long series of switchbacks up a bluff and were now heading across a gradually sloping mesa top. On the way up, Howling Coyote had taken a detour and led Sam out on a precarious spur of rock. The stretch of plain that ran to distant mountains left Sam in awe. The prairie seemed to go on for a hundred kilometers. The shaman had tugged Sam around to face south and pointed to a series of peaks in that direction.

“See. It ain’t me,” Howling Coyote had said. “He’s still sleeping.”

Sam hadn’t understood what the old man meant and said so.

“The Ute, pup. He’s still sleeping,” was all the shaman would say on the subject.

They moved on, and came to a place where a wide circular depression was marked by stone walls. In sharp contrast to the dusty soil and sparse vegetation elsewhere, the grass here was bright and green within the hole. Traces of ditches, some with stones, could be seen through the stunted trees.

“Thirsty, pup?”

“Yes,” Sam replied. His lips were dry, and even his lungs felt seared by the parched air.

The shaman sat on the wall and dangled his feet over the edge into the depression. There was perhaps two centimeters clearance between the soles of his feet and the earth. “Ah, nice and cool,” he said. “Have a drink if you’re thirsty.”

Sam looked at the grassy depression toward which the old man gestured. He could see no sign of water. Just grass. The shaman swung his feet back up, with a heave rising to his feet and padding off down a path between the fragrant piñon.

Sam was shocked to see Howling Coyote leave damp footprints.

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