Free Who Hunts the Hunter by Nyx Smith Page B

voice as deep as the earth, the spirit says, “You are welcome in my hearth.”
    Bandit replies, “I thank you.”
    The spirit bows, then says, “It has been many years since the sounds of frolicking children have carried through my vestibules and halls. I am old. The years have taken the color from my brick and the vigor from my mortar. Soon, the time will come when only memories will inhabit my domain, and that will be very sad. For what am I if I give no refuge? I would have no purpose. I would have no more ties to the plane of my own substance.” The spirit pauses, and smiles."I am grateful to hear the joyful noise of children again. They are welcome here. She who brings them is welcome most of all.”
    “I thank you.”
    The spirit bows and fades from view. Bandit takes one step further and enters his lodge. And then he is alone.
    Alone in his alone place, his place of long magic.
    The space is not large, just tall enough for him to stand, just large enough for him to do magic, and to store what must be stored in a safe and secret place. The lodge, like the apartment, is contained within a portion of the sub-basement no longer used by anyone but him, Shell, and the kids. Before making any changes, before making this private den, he took the unusual step of consulting with the spirit of this place. The spirit had welcomed him, invited him to make his den, to do his magic here. It had seemed gladdened to provide a sort of refuge. It has since manifested many times to speak with him, to tell him of the ways of spirits like himself, and of the ways of Man.
    But it is not Man or men that trouble him tonight. It is the wallet Shell snatched yesterday, the ID card in that wallet, the image of the woman on that card. The woman’s image resembles someone he once knew. He wonders if that is coincidence, or if it is not, and what he should do about it.
    For a time, he sits cross-legged, facing the small trunk that serves as his ritual altar. The candle glowing there gives him light to see the many artifacts of his lodge, the containers of colored sand and minerals, boxes of crystals, pelts, bones, drums, rattles. What the candle’s light does not show him is the answer he desires.
    He lifts his flute, fingers the carefully engraved wood, watches the sheen of light from the candle coursing over the flute’s waxy finish. When he lifts the flute to his lips, he does not play any particular arrangement of notes, no set melody. He lets the music flow from within. He lets his spirit make the song.
    Before long, the light of the candles wavers. Bandit realizes he is no longer alone.
    The figure at the rear of his lodge looks like an old man. Bandit calls him Old Man. That is the name that seems right. He once thought that Old Man looked kind of Asian, but he was wrong. Old Man looks Amerind. His thin gray hair flows down past his shoulders. He wears clothes of natural leather, tan and dark brown, and necklaces and beads like native peoples wore long before the Awakening. Bandit once thought that Old Man might be Raccoon wearing a human mask, or some sort of spirit guide. In this, too, he was wrong.
    “I guess you want something,” Old Man says."You called.”
    Bandit nods. He considers turning to face Old Man, but decides against it. He faces the front of his lodge, the focal point of his magic. That is as it should be. That is the way of the shaman."I’m troubled.”
    “I figured that. What about it?”
    Bandit draws a breath, and says, “The shaman’s path can be hard to know. I began by learning magic and ignoring people. I tried to do what cannot be done. The shaman must be one with nature. People are part of nature and cannot be ignored. I tried to know nature, but not all of it, and so my magic was flawed, and I could go no further.”
    “I know all that,” Old Man says."What’s your point?"
    "Now I’m trying to learn about people. I’ve opened myself to people, I guess. I’m learning again. Discovering new