From: bassman@u.washington.edu (Ogdred Weary)
Subject: Mist Shrouds Moon
Date: 14 Jul 1994 08:44:31 GMT

Here's a short story I wrote a long time ago and just touched up a bit.  It's
pretty low-tech for cyberpunk, so if you're looking for bioware and auto-
shotguns, bail out now.

Any comments, suggestions or even flames appreciated!  If you like it or hate
it, let me know.

Copyright 7/14/94 by Gregory Katz

    The Shaman woke with the mist that shrouded Moon.  He rolled from his bench
in Pioneer Square quietly so as not to disturb his brothers sleeping nearby,
then stretched his arms above his head, palms cupped towards the ground,
fingers curled around invisible melons.  After a moment he straightened his
fingers, his arms and back tensed.  His hands flew to his sides like the
closing of a fan or a beat of Eagle's mighty wings.  As the Shaman took off his
old brown coat, a piece of newspaper whipped around his calf and heel, then was
gone, gathered in the summoned Wind's great palm.
    The Shaman, now stripped to the waist, began to remove his ancient boots,
now standing motionless in the rising wind on one leg, now on the other.  His
bare feet were warmed by Mother's bosom, hidden deep beneath the worn bricks,
sewer mains, and the lost city that is Underground Seattle.  His tangled black
hair whipped and snapped, but not one strand or bead touched his eyes.
    As the mist cleared the Shaman inclined his head respectfully to falling
Moon, then stepped to the center of the Square.  He spaced his feet carefully
so as to show proper respect for Mother; legs three hand-spans apart at the
heel, weight balanced evenly, knees straight but not locked.  Mother smiled and
warmth rose through the Shaman's lean legs.  His spine shivered and he bowed
his head in thanks for Mother's boon, then drew the long knife from his belt.
The knife spun in his weathered hands, balanced on its tip in the center of his
right palm, then a pulse of his wrist and it hopped to his left palm.  The
Shaman's flesh remained undisturbed, waiting as Mother waits, quietly,
patiently.
    Finally, after Moon had fallen behind the concrete walls and glass towers
of the Fools, he grasped the knife by its handle in his right hand, then swung
it in an arc around his body, his dark eyelids shut.  The streetlamps
extinguished themselves as the blade passed its extended essence through them,
one by one.  Then the Shaman turned the blade downward and drove it through his
left palm.
    The blade of his grandfather's knife was easily eight inches long, and
three inches of its tip hung beneath his left hand as he removed his right
from the pommel.  Blood pooled in his palm, but none left his hand or travelled
down the blade to fall to the stones under his feet.  Silently the Shaman
removed the knife from his hand and tucked it into his belt.  His blood began
to gather into a sphere in his left palm, filling some invisible bowl.
    When the ball was complete it hovered a finger's breadth above his steady
palm, and the Shaman felt ready to begin the incantation.  He swept his right
hand twice around the globe of his blood, fingers mimicking the good wing of a
pinwheeling, crippled bird.  The ball of blood turned a vivid blue, now
transparent as glass, now opaque as the floor waters of the sea.  Then he
raised his left arm skyward, his eyes following the little sphere of Water as
it rose, spinning but true to its course for the heavens.  When the sphere was
out of sight the Shaman brought his eyes to level, returned his arm to his
side, and then swept both arms up above his head so that his palms smacked
together, fingers splayed.
    Thunder brought its fists down on the drums and Seattle rang with the
sound.
    The Shaman's arms flew in an instant to stop stretched out even with his
shoulders, his fingers crooked and bent for the ground.
    Lightening burst from nowhere to light the towers of the Fools and the
exultant face of the Shaman, his eyes shining in triumph.
    And now the clouds began to gather, filling the heavens with their
turbulent darkness, and spitting their strands of crooked light.  In the
intermittent flashes, the Shaman displayed a brown-toothed grin as he donned
his shirt, coat and boots.
    As the Shaman left the Square, the rain crashed into the pavement in a
giant glass sheet, then shattered to fill the gutters with its shards.

                                      ***

    In the morning the scanners of a black police car of the Seattle Historic
Preservation District spotted a corpse collapsed awkwardly against a garbage
can green with oxidation.  The car piloted itself around the perimeter of the
vagrant-laden Square and requested a wagon from the coroner's office.
Following procedure, one black-helmeted cop left the vehicle to identify the
body.
    As officer Tsutakawa flipped the bum onto his back to get a better angle
for the subdermal tattoo scanner his helmet recorders noted the broad Native
American cheekbones and the long and rusty kitchen knife driven through the
man's left hand.  The old bum had died clutching his wound to his chest and his
ancient coat was gelatinous with blood.  The officer's helmet recorded body
temperature, estimated time of death, took retinal and finger prints and
scanned the ID tattoo under the skin of the corpse's left forearm.  A soft
voice played in both cops' ears:
    "Raymond Aiken, a.k.a. Raymond Running Wolf, self-proclaimed leader of the
Chippewa Indian Nation.  Age 46, next of kin unknown.  Place of residence
unknown, place of employment unknown.  Presumed indigent.
    "History of medical incarceration for mental instability.  Schizophrenic
with self-destructive tendencies and violent outbursts.  Drug-sacs implanted
July 3rd, 2021 to control outbursts."
    A chime informed Officer Tsutakawa that the scanners were finished, so he
let the body fall to the damp and fault-crisscrossed sidewalk with a thud and
retired to the safety of his patrol car.