Excerpt from TOTEM, edited out to for brevity's sake, but still gives a taste of the world and flavor of the writing:
PROLOGUE
Tosh Cloudtree sharpened the antique drawknife to a razor edge and smiled when it reflected torchlight. “Sharp enough to skin you, my friend,” he said. Hanging the double-handled blade from one of the four sawhorses, he ran a strong, weathered hand along the thirty-foot cedar log. His long black hair, now more than half grey, fell forward when he rested his cheek along the rough, fragrant bark. Straight as an arrow. The tree once grew deep in the woodlands of the Northwest, and yet here it was, in the bitterly dry Arizona desert, home of the pinion and the juniper, the cottonwood and the weak, sappy pine. None of them suitable for a totem pole.
The trouble it took to bring the cedar to the cave, after the world collapsed in on itself, was tantamount to sacrilege in and of itself. The others thought he was joking when he requested it--demanded it. But Tosh knew what had to be done. He wouldn’t leave the next initiate with the unanswered questions he once faced. Secrets, thicker than blood, coagulated in his being. He kept most of them; he appreciated that some knowledge was dangerous. But oral tradition was too unreliable for this secret.
An explosion echoed from the rock-hewn hallway.
What the hell? The drawknife clattered to the cave floor as Tosh leapt towards the exit. He ran across the temporary bridge, reaching into his satchel to confirm what he already knew. The boy stole the mask.
Tosh didn’t need light to find his way through the pitch-blackness. A rumpled figure lay prone near the opening of the cave, broken rock scattered around him. Hotonga, you fool!
Tosh knelt beside him and touched the boy’s neck. A strong pulse, but that’s not all he sensed. He yanked the boy to a sitting position and unstrapped the doeskin mask from Hotonga’s head. After dusting it off, he replaced it in his satchel, where it belonged: next to his own mask. Tosh closed his eyes and focused energy into the tips of two straightened fingers. With an exhale, he pressed the boy in several points on his chest in rapid succession.
Hotonga remained unconscious.
Tosh sighed—then slapped him.
Hotonga roused, blinking rapidly. “Wha?”
“Thank Masow’a for not being ready to accept your pitiful soul into the house of the dead.”
Hotonga shot back a glare full of accusations.
Brows raised, Tosh examined a broken stone in the diffuse light. “You were supposed to remove that boulder with a pick, not a mask you’re not ready for.” Tosh stood and pulled the thirteen-year-old boy to his feet. “Why don’t you try something easier for a while? Tile setting.” Where I can keep an eye on you. Tosh pushed him forward into the dark tunnel.
“But how do you see, Pathfinder?” Hotonga stepped hesitantly, both hands out. “You’re not wearing your mask.”
“I see everything, Hotonga, you’d do well to remember that.” Tosh nudged him to the right to avoid the wall.
Back in the rounded cave, Tosh appraised Hotonga’s ornately carved tiles. They showed promise, but Hotonga’s questions were relentless. Tosh hadn’t carved a totem pole in a long time, and he didn’t want distractions—yet distractions were better than a dead initiate.
Tosh’s tribe suggested that a booby-trapped secret cave might be over-the-top. Not if it’s built right, he’d replied. So he traveled between Hopi villages until he found a boy to initiate, one who would help him create this sanctuary, where the Totem People might initiate their own.
“I am ready to use the Builder’s mask, Pathfinder,” the thirteen-year-old boy said, wiping sweaty grime from his face.
“Don’t call me that.”
“But, you are my Pathfinder, and I am your Builder.”
Tosh smiled sadly. “I do my best, but I am no Pathfinder. That title will always belong to another, while I live. And you’re an apprentice Builder, Hotonga. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
The boy took a step forward, a scowl outlined in cropped, black bangs. “But a Builder must be initiated by a Pathfinder. The legends say—”
“The legends say a great many things. That is why I will write my books: to set the record straight.” Tosh adjusted the tall log on the sawhorses till he nodded in satisfaction.
“Path—Master Cloudtree,” the boy amended, hefting a large stone tile. “It is forbidden to write secrets like these. And in English? The language of the conqueror, no less.” Hotonga shook his head at his elder, as if he were an aged clan chief.
“That is why we’re building this cave of secrets, Hotonga.” Tosh tested the drawknife against the dry bark. “Besides, young-student-who-acts-older-than-he-is, there aren’t any English around here to mind if I borrow their language. Ironically, the Indian nations only have one language in common. The language that was once crammed down our people’s throats.” His mouth smiled, but crow’s-feet around his eyes showed sadness.
“When are you going to teach me totem-craft, Master?” the boy asked, caressing the cedar like a baby, unable to hide his eagerness.
Tosh’s smile locked in place, but his eyes glanced up, involuntarily suspicious. It was only natural after years of betrayal. “I’m not going to. It’s called division of information. If someone ever captures you, and tries to beat it out of you, you won’t know everything.”
Hotonga scoffed. “FAH! If anyone dared to capture me, I would use my mask. I--I would strike them down with lightning.”
Now Tosh smiled for real. “Oh? You can call lightning? I am impressed, for that is not one of the powers normally available to the Builder. Earth, water, plants, and minerals: these are your domain. If you are patient enough to learn them.”
The boy pointed at the man in accusation. “But you said any of the three Totems could use the powers of the other! Was that another lie?”
“I said it’s possible, in times of need.” Tosh gripped the drawknife by both deer-antler handles and pulled it towards himself along the log, peeling a strip of fuzzy bark off. “It isn’t easy, Hotonga. Nothing to do with these masks has ever been easy. If you aren’t ready, if you hold back, they won’t work.”
“But I am ready! You know I hold nothing back.” The boy’s jaw set in pride.
“And if you give too much of yourself . . . that mask will leave you an empty husk. That is why I hold you back. That is why I keep the mask intended for you.”
Hotonga’s smooth boyish features took on stern angles. “What happens if you die before we finish this . . . place. You’ve told me almost nothing. Will you take these secrets to your grave?”
Despite the childish bluster, his words struck a chord in Tosh. He weighed them in his mind and heart. Was it time? “No. You’re not ready,” Tosh said with finality. He wasn’t convinced he’d chosen correctly. The weight of such power corrupts easily.
“Fine!” The boy stalked off, out of the round chamber, across the footbridge, through the dark passageway, undoubtedly into daylight.
Tosh sighed. The boy was ready for knowledge, if not instruction. And Tosh’s story was nothing if not a cautionary tale. So why wouldn’t he tell it? Afraid he’ll hate me? Maybe.
Tosh set down the drawknife, and picked up the leather satchel that he always kept near. Next to the items of power was a simple yellow leather-bound journal. He hesitated. The blank page had been staring at him for weeks, years even. How to begin? Where, when?
His birth? Too early. Everything seemed normal up until the dreams began.
Yes. The dreams.
PROLOGUE
Tosh Cloudtree sharpened the antique drawknife to a razor edge and smiled when it reflected torchlight. “Sharp enough to skin you, my friend,” he said. Hanging the double-handled blade from one of the four sawhorses, he ran a strong, weathered hand along the thirty-foot cedar log. His long black hair, now more than half grey, fell forward when he rested his cheek along the rough, fragrant bark. Straight as an arrow. The tree once grew deep in the woodlands of the Northwest, and yet here it was, in the bitterly dry Arizona desert, home of the pinion and the juniper, the cottonwood and the weak, sappy pine. None of them suitable for a totem pole.
The trouble it took to bring the cedar to the cave, after the world collapsed in on itself, was tantamount to sacrilege in and of itself. The others thought he was joking when he requested it--demanded it. But Tosh knew what had to be done. He wouldn’t leave the next initiate with the unanswered questions he once faced. Secrets, thicker than blood, coagulated in his being. He kept most of them; he appreciated that some knowledge was dangerous. But oral tradition was too unreliable for this secret.
An explosion echoed from the rock-hewn hallway.
What the hell? The drawknife clattered to the cave floor as Tosh leapt towards the exit. He ran across the temporary bridge, reaching into his satchel to confirm what he already knew. The boy stole the mask.
Tosh didn’t need light to find his way through the pitch-blackness. A rumpled figure lay prone near the opening of the cave, broken rock scattered around him. Hotonga, you fool!
Tosh knelt beside him and touched the boy’s neck. A strong pulse, but that’s not all he sensed. He yanked the boy to a sitting position and unstrapped the doeskin mask from Hotonga’s head. After dusting it off, he replaced it in his satchel, where it belonged: next to his own mask. Tosh closed his eyes and focused energy into the tips of two straightened fingers. With an exhale, he pressed the boy in several points on his chest in rapid succession.
Hotonga remained unconscious.
Tosh sighed—then slapped him.
Hotonga roused, blinking rapidly. “Wha?”
“Thank Masow’a for not being ready to accept your pitiful soul into the house of the dead.”
Hotonga shot back a glare full of accusations.
Brows raised, Tosh examined a broken stone in the diffuse light. “You were supposed to remove that boulder with a pick, not a mask you’re not ready for.” Tosh stood and pulled the thirteen-year-old boy to his feet. “Why don’t you try something easier for a while? Tile setting.” Where I can keep an eye on you. Tosh pushed him forward into the dark tunnel.
“But how do you see, Pathfinder?” Hotonga stepped hesitantly, both hands out. “You’re not wearing your mask.”
“I see everything, Hotonga, you’d do well to remember that.” Tosh nudged him to the right to avoid the wall.
Back in the rounded cave, Tosh appraised Hotonga’s ornately carved tiles. They showed promise, but Hotonga’s questions were relentless. Tosh hadn’t carved a totem pole in a long time, and he didn’t want distractions—yet distractions were better than a dead initiate.
Tosh’s tribe suggested that a booby-trapped secret cave might be over-the-top. Not if it’s built right, he’d replied. So he traveled between Hopi villages until he found a boy to initiate, one who would help him create this sanctuary, where the Totem People might initiate their own.
“I am ready to use the Builder’s mask, Pathfinder,” the thirteen-year-old boy said, wiping sweaty grime from his face.
“Don’t call me that.”
“But, you are my Pathfinder, and I am your Builder.”
Tosh smiled sadly. “I do my best, but I am no Pathfinder. That title will always belong to another, while I live. And you’re an apprentice Builder, Hotonga. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
The boy took a step forward, a scowl outlined in cropped, black bangs. “But a Builder must be initiated by a Pathfinder. The legends say—”
“The legends say a great many things. That is why I will write my books: to set the record straight.” Tosh adjusted the tall log on the sawhorses till he nodded in satisfaction.
“Path—Master Cloudtree,” the boy amended, hefting a large stone tile. “It is forbidden to write secrets like these. And in English? The language of the conqueror, no less.” Hotonga shook his head at his elder, as if he were an aged clan chief.
“That is why we’re building this cave of secrets, Hotonga.” Tosh tested the drawknife against the dry bark. “Besides, young-student-who-acts-older-than-he-is, there aren’t any English around here to mind if I borrow their language. Ironically, the Indian nations only have one language in common. The language that was once crammed down our people’s throats.” His mouth smiled, but crow’s-feet around his eyes showed sadness.
“When are you going to teach me totem-craft, Master?” the boy asked, caressing the cedar like a baby, unable to hide his eagerness.
Tosh’s smile locked in place, but his eyes glanced up, involuntarily suspicious. It was only natural after years of betrayal. “I’m not going to. It’s called division of information. If someone ever captures you, and tries to beat it out of you, you won’t know everything.”
Hotonga scoffed. “FAH! If anyone dared to capture me, I would use my mask. I--I would strike them down with lightning.”
Now Tosh smiled for real. “Oh? You can call lightning? I am impressed, for that is not one of the powers normally available to the Builder. Earth, water, plants, and minerals: these are your domain. If you are patient enough to learn them.”
The boy pointed at the man in accusation. “But you said any of the three Totems could use the powers of the other! Was that another lie?”
“I said it’s possible, in times of need.” Tosh gripped the drawknife by both deer-antler handles and pulled it towards himself along the log, peeling a strip of fuzzy bark off. “It isn’t easy, Hotonga. Nothing to do with these masks has ever been easy. If you aren’t ready, if you hold back, they won’t work.”
“But I am ready! You know I hold nothing back.” The boy’s jaw set in pride.
“And if you give too much of yourself . . . that mask will leave you an empty husk. That is why I hold you back. That is why I keep the mask intended for you.”
Hotonga’s smooth boyish features took on stern angles. “What happens if you die before we finish this . . . place. You’ve told me almost nothing. Will you take these secrets to your grave?”
Despite the childish bluster, his words struck a chord in Tosh. He weighed them in his mind and heart. Was it time? “No. You’re not ready,” Tosh said with finality. He wasn’t convinced he’d chosen correctly. The weight of such power corrupts easily.
“Fine!” The boy stalked off, out of the round chamber, across the footbridge, through the dark passageway, undoubtedly into daylight.
Tosh sighed. The boy was ready for knowledge, if not instruction. And Tosh’s story was nothing if not a cautionary tale. So why wouldn’t he tell it? Afraid he’ll hate me? Maybe.
Tosh set down the drawknife, and picked up the leather satchel that he always kept near. Next to the items of power was a simple yellow leather-bound journal. He hesitated. The blank page had been staring at him for weeks, years even. How to begin? Where, when?
His birth? Too early. Everything seemed normal up until the dreams began.
Yes. The dreams.