Part 23 (1/2)

When he was finished, Mary shook her head. ”No bells,” she said. ”But you could have been describing any number of players in Sioux.”

Falcon nodded, finished off his beer. ”Yeah. Well, thanks, Mary. I owe you one.” He started to get off the bar stool.

”Hold it.” She grabbed his forearm in a surprisingly strong grip. ”I've answered your questions; maybe I've got some of my own.”

He resettled himself on the stool. ”Shoot.”

”What totem do you follow?”

He grimaced. ”None.” Then added fiercely, ”Yet.” Mary looked perplexed. ”No? But ...” Her voice trailed off.

”But what?”

”But I felt ...” She paused, apparently trying to order her thoughts. ”I felt the power of the spirits.”

”Huh? When?”

”When I cast the illusion of you running from the OMI guards. I felt the power in you, I felt you sense my song.”

He stared at her. He remembered his reaction at the sight of his magical double across the alley. He did sense something strange about it. It wasn't right, he recalled. I felt it. Is that what she's talking about?

”I felt . . . something,” he said quietly.

”You sensed my song,” she repeated firmly. ”Only one who has heard the spirits could do that. But”-she looked puzzled again-”you say you don't follow the path of the totems.”

”I tried,” he told her, then quickly explained about the book by H. T. Langland, about his attempts to hear the call of the spirits. ”I . . .” He hesitated, embarra.s.sed. ”I was on a vision quest.” He glared at her challengingly, daring her to laugh or contradict him.

But Mary Windsong didn't do either. She just scrutinized his face. ”A vision quest,” she said slowly. ”Yes.” She paused again. ”Do you want to complete your vision quest, Falcon? I think I might be able to help you.”

He didn't answer immediately, just stared at the young woman. Is she serious? he wondered. Or is she just stringing me along, taunting me because she does something I can't?

But Mary's face showed no hint of a mockery. She only sat there, calmly watching him, waiting for his answer. ”How?” he asked huskily.

Mary shrugged-a little embarra.s.sed. Falcon thought. ”There are ways to ... to aid a vision quest,” she said. ”Techniques some shamans have developed. You can help someone along, be their . . . their 'spirit guide,' I call it, but that's not quite right.”

”How does it work?”

She met his gaze, and he felt a tingle run through his body-almost an electric shock. ”I'll show you, if you like,” she said quietly.

He hesitated. ”Does that mean I have to follow your totem?”

Mary shook her head. ”Not necessarily ... All the guide does is take you to the plane of the totems. Whatever happens after that”-she shrugged again -”that's up to you and the totems, not me.”

”But how does it work?” he asked again.

She was silent for a moment, seeming to order her thoughts. ”Sometimes the totems are speaking to you,” she said slowly, ”but your own mental walls keep you from hearing. A spirit guide can help break down those walls-help you hear the voice of the totems-if the voices are there to be heard.”

”It's safe?” he asked.

She smiled grimly. ”Safer than some other techniques people use,” she answered.

”So it's safe,” he pressed.

”I didn't say that,” Mary corrected him. ”The technique itself is safe. But sometimes people use it to hear the call of the totems when the totems aren't calling . . . if that makes any sense. Then there can be . . . problems. Do you want to try it? It's your decision. I can guide you, to the best of my abilities, but-”

”But if I'm wrong, if the totems aren't calling . . . what can it do to me?”

She looked at him steadily. ”It can kill you,” she said softly. ”But I don't think that's a danger with you. I felt the Power in you, and I'm not usually wrong about these things.”

Falcon stared at her. It sounded so enticing, so simple.

Should he try it?

Walking the path of the shaman-it was what he'd always dreamed about. And here was this girl-this shaman-offering him a chance to realize that dream. She said I sensed her song, he thought. Did I? I sensed something. Do I risk it?

And what about Sly? Could he really make the decision in isolation? He and Sly were chummers, comrades.

If he died, she'd be alone. (And I'd be dead! he reminded himself.) But what could he really do to help Sly anyway? She had to deck into Zurich-Orbital, and he couldn't follow her into the Matrix. She didn't need him to do what she had to do. If he failed-if he died-it wouldn't alfect her that much.

And if I succeed, I'll be a shaman, Falcon thought. And as a shaman, I could help Sly a lot more after she's made her Matrix run. Afterward, when things are winding down. I'd be able to help her more, wouldn't I?

And I'd be a shaman.

He glanced at his watch. Midnight, or close enough. What had Sly said? That she needed to get some utilities and some tech toys before making her run on Zurich-Orbital. That would take some time, wouldn't it? Time enough for me to do this. . . .

Turning to Mary, Falcon swallowed through a throat suddenly tight. ”Let's do it,” he said hoa.r.s.ely.

Mary led Falcon into The Buffalo Jump's back room, an airless, windowless broom closet furnished in Early Squalor. Following Mary's instructions, the ganger settled himself on the floor, forcing his legs into an approximation of the full-lotus position. The young shaman crouched facing him, placed a small metal bowl between them. Wordlessly, she opened the beaded pouch on her belt, pulled out various kinds of leaves and what looked like dried herbs, all wrapped in small swatches of velvet. Some she tossed right into the bowl, others she crushed between her palms before adding them to the mix. Sharp odors stung Falcon's nose, caught in the back of his throat.

From the bag, Mary also extracted a small fetish with a feather tied to it by a slender leather thong. It was the skull of a tiny animal-a mouse probably, Falcon thought. She closed her eyes, pa.s.sed the fetish over the bowl. Then she set it down on the floor, opened her eyes again.

Mary looked searchingly into his face. ”Are you ready?” Her voice was quiet, but intense enough to give him chills.

Falcon only nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

”Close your eyes,” she instructed. He did, a moment later feeling her palms cool against his cheeks. They smelled strongly of the herbs she'd crushed between them. ”Breathe deeply,” she said. Her palms were soft but firm, cool but alive with some kind of energy Falcon couldn't have named. The feel of her flesh against his was rea.s.suring, comforting.

Then the hands were gone. ”Keep your eyes closed until I tell you to open them,” Mary told him softly. He nodded, then heard a click, a quiet hiss. His nostrils filled with pungent smoke, probably from her burning the leaves and herbs.

”Breathe deeply.”

He did so, drawing the warm smoke deep into his lungs. At first the membranes of his nose and throat burned and stung, but numbness quickly replaced the pain. The vapors seemed to fill his head; he could feel them billowing through his mind, mingling with his thoughts. Then Falcon felt as though he were pivoting slowly backward-just like being too drunk. He wanted to open his eyes, to stop the dizzying movement, but he kept them tightly shut.

”Breathe deeply,” Mary repeated, her voice sounding so far away. ”Breathe steadily.”