Free Soul Catcher by Frank Herbert

helicopter’s
thunderous vibration loosed a key rock in that delicate balance on
the slope. The movement of the slide built momentum with ponderous
inevitability. Tufts of dust puffed in the tumbling gray. The rocks
gathered speed, raised a storm noise that drowned out the
mechanical intruder. The machine climbed out of the clearing just
above a rising cloud of dust that lifted into the wind. The odor of
burnt flint drifted into the notch past Katsuk.
    Abruptly, a flock of ravens that had perched
silently in the grove behind Katsuk through all the disturbance
took flight. Their wings beat the air. Their beaks opened. But no
sound of them could be heard above the avalanche.
    The entire slope was in motion now. A great
tumbling maelstrom of rock roared downward into the trees, buried
the bracken, hurled bark ships from the trunks. Smaller trees and
brush snapped and were smothered beneath the onslaught.
    As slowly as it began, the slide ended. A
few last rocks bounded down the slope, leaped through drifting
dust, crashed into the trees. The ravens could be heard now. They
circled and clamored against this outrage in their domain.
    From a circling path high over the clearing,
the helicopter played background to the ravens.
    Katsuk peered up through the limbs at all
the motion.
    The helicopter drifted out to the right,
came in for another pass over the subsiding dust of the rockslide.
The handkerchief was gone, buried beneath tons of rocks. Katsuk
distinctly saw one of the men in the bubble canopy gesture toward
the ravens.
    The flock had opened its ranks, whirled, and
called raucously around the intruder.
    The machine slid across Katsuk’s field of
vision. It climbed out over the tree and its downdraft sent the
birds skidding.
    Some of the ravens settled into the trees
above Katsuk while their mates continued dipping and feinting
around the helicopter.
    The machine climbed out westward, set a
course toward the ocean. The sound of its engines faded.
    Katsuk wiped wet palms on his loincloth. His
arm brushed the knife at his waist, made him think of the boy in
the cave.
    A handkerchief!
    The ravens had protected him—and the
rockslide. The spirits might even have started the slide.
    As certainly as if he had heard the man’s
voice, Katsuk knew the searcher who had gestured at the ravens had
explained that the birds were a sure sign no human was around. The
aircraft had gone elsewhere to search. Its occupants were secure in
the message of the ravens.
    Head bowed, Katsuk silently thanked
Raven.
    This is Katsuk who sends gratitude to Thee,
Raven Spirit. I speak Thy praise in a place where Thy presence was
made known ...
    As he prayed, Katsuk savored appreciation of
the ignorant hoquat beliefs. Whites did not know The People had sprung from Raven. Raven always guarded his children.
    He thought about the handkerchief. There had
been one in Hoquat’s pocket. Surely, that was the one on the
slope.
    Instead of angering him, the defiant gesture
ignited a sense of admiration. Darling ... clever ... little
Hoquat devil! Even the most innocent remained sly and
resourceful. Hands tied behind him, terror in his heart, he still
had thought to leave a sign of his passage.
    Awareness growing within him, Katsuk studied
the small seed of admiration he now held for Hoquat. Where could
such a feeling lead? Was there a point of admiration that might
prevent Hoquat’s death? How much were the spirits willing to test
Katsuk?
    The boy had almost succeeded with that
handkerchief.
    Almost.
    This then was not the real test. This was a
preliminary skirmish, preparation for something greater to
come.
    Katsuk felt wild awareness telling him why
the boy had failed. Something was tempering them here—both of them.
Katsuk sensed that his own thinking had changed once more, that
these events had been anticipated. The blur of black wings, that
waterfall of ravens, had seized upon his awareness. He was being
watched and guarded.
    Fear had searched all through