Free The Skrayling Tree by Michael Moorcock Page B

Gentle, grassy drumlins gave this landscape a deceptively peaceful air, like an English shire extended forever. I had enjoyed
     far more bizarre experiences, but nothing quite like holding a conversation about the socioeconomics of dream-visions on the
     rolling back of a gigantic pachyderm with a mythological hero who had enjoyed the privilege of seeing his own future epic
     and was now bound to live it.
    “There are bargains one strikes,” said Ayanawatta with a certain self-mockery, “whose terms only become clear later. It taught
     me why so few adepts venture into their own futures. There’s a certain psychological problem, to say the least.”
    I began to take more than a casual interest in our conversation, which showed how close to my training Ayanawatta’s was. Like
     the dreamthieves, I had a rather reckless attitude towards my own future and spawned fresh versions without a thought. A more
     puritanical moonbeam walker took such responsibilities seriously. We were disapproved of by many. They said too many of our
     futures died and came to nothing. We argued that to control too much was to control nothing. In our own community Law and
     Chaos both remained well represented.
    A sharp, rapid cawing came from our right, where the forest was still dense and deep. Someone had disturbed a bird. We saw
     White Crow running out of thetrees. I was again struck by his likeness to my father, my husband and myself. Every movement was familiar. I realized that
     I took almost a mother’s pleasure in him. It was difficult to believe we were not in some way related.
    White Crow’s moccasins and leggings were thick with mud. He was carrying his longest spear with a shaft some five feet long
     and a dull metal blade at least three feet long. In the same hand was a straight stick. He had been running hard. Bes stopped
     the moment she saw him, her trunk affectionately curling around his waist and shoulders.
    He grinned up at me as he rose into the air and patted his beast’s forehead. “Here’s your bow, my lady Buffalo!” He threw
     the staff to me and I caught it, admiring it. It was a strong piece of yew wood, ready-made for a new weapon. I was delighted
     and thanked him. He drew a slender cord from his side-bag and handed that up. I felt complete. I had a new bow. I had left
     my old bow, whose properties were not entirely natural, in my mother’s cottage when I closed it up, thinking I would have
     no further need of it in twentieth-century Britain.
    “They are following us without doubt,” said White Crow, slipping down to the ground, his face just below my feet. He spoke
     softly. “About half a mile behind us. They hide easily in the long grasses.”
    “Are you certain they mean us harm?” Ayanawatta asked him.
    White Crow was certain. “I know that they are armed and painted for war. Save for me, they have no other enemiesin these parts. They are a thousand miles at least from their own hunting grounds. What magic helped them leave their normal
     boundaries? The little devils will probably try for us tonight. I don’t believe they realize we know they are there, so they’ll
     be expecting to surprise us. They fear Bes’s tusks and feet more than they fear your arrows, Ayanawatta.”
    Ayanawatta wanted to maintain our speed. It was easier at this stage to continue overland, because the river curved back on
     itself at least twice.
    We had left the forest behind us and rode towards the distant range. The great pachyderm had no trouble at all carrying her
     extra passengers, and I was surprised at our pace. Another day or two and we should be in the foothills of the mountains.
     White Crow knew where the pass was. He had already made this journey from the other direction, he said.
    I could now make out the mountains in better detail. They were the high peaks of a range which was probably the Rockies. Their
     lower flanks were thick with pine, oak, ash, willow, birch and elm, while a touch of snow tipped