Roger Zelazny. Eye of cat
страница №5
...the rock,listening, tracing circles upon the poor with his fingertip. He
is given another gourd of balche to drink. As he raises it to
his lips he looks upward and pauses. It is not Dora who has
brought him the drink but a powerful youth, clad in the old
manner of the Dineh. At this person's back there stands
another man - larger and even stronger-looking. He is simi-
larly garbed, and the resemblance between the two is strik-
ing. "You seem familiar," Billy tells them. The first man
smiles. "We are the slayers of the giants Seven-Macaws,
Zipacna and Cabracan," he answers. "It was we," says the
other, "who journeyed down the steps to Xibalba, crossing
the River of Corruption and the River of Blood. We followed
the Black Path to the House of the Lords of Death." The
other nods. "We played strange games with them, both
winning and losing," he says. And they say in unison, ъWe
slew the Lords Hun-Came and Vucub-Came and ascended
into light." Billy sips his balche. "You remind me," he says
to the younger one, "of Tobadzichini, and you," to the other,
"of Nayenezgani, the Warrior Twins of my people, as I
always thought they must look." The two smile. "This is
true," they say, "for we get around a lot. Down here we are
known as Hunahpu and Xbalanque. Rise now to your feet
and look off yonder into the darker places." He gets up and
looks to the rear of the grotto. He sees there a trail leading
downward. Dora stands upon it, staring at him. "Follow,"
says Hunahpu. "Follow," says Xbalanque. She begins to
move away. As he turns and follows after her, he hears the
cry of a bird....
BILLY STEPPED FROM THE TRIP-
box and looked about. It was dark, with a tropical brilliance
to the stars. The air was cool and damp, bearing smells he
had long associated with jungle foliage. The coolness
seemed to indicate that the night was nearing its end.
He passed beyond the station's partitioning, where he
read the sign which identified it. Yes. Things were as he had
sensed them. He had come to the great archaeological park
of Chichen Itza.
He stood upon a low hill. Narrow trails led off in many
directions. These paths were faintly illuminated, and here
and there he saw people passing slowly along them. He
could discern the massive dark forms of the ancient struc-
tures themselves, more solid and deep than the night's lesser
gloom. Periodically, some portion of ruin would be bril-
liantly lighted for several minutes, for the benefit of night-
viewers. He recalled reading somewhere that this ran
through a regular cycle, its schedule available at various
points along the way, along with computerized commentary
and the answering of questions concerning the place.
He began walking. The ruin was big and dark and quiet
and Indian. It comforted him to pass along its ways. Cat
could not find him here. This he knew. He also understood
Cat's parting words. He had betrayed himself, in a sense, for
his final destination had been present in his mind even as he
had struck the random coordinates which had brought him
here. When he finally journeyed to that last place it would be
to face his enemy.
He laughed softly then. There was nothing to prevent his
remaining here until Cat's time limit had run out.
Some of the more fragile ruins he passed were protected
by force fields, others permitted entry, climbing, wandering.
He was reminded of this as he brushed against a force
screen - soft, harder, harder, impenetrable. It reminded him
of Cat's cage back at the Institute. Cat's had also been
electrified, however, providing shocks which increased in
direct proportion to the intensity of the pressure from
within. Cat had seldom brushed against it, though, because
of his peculiar sensitivity to electrical currents. In fact, that
was how Billy had captured him - accidentally, when Cat
had collided with the electrified force screen which had
surrounded one of the base camps during an attempt at
backtracking and ambush. The memory suddenly gave rise
to a new train of thought.
A light flashed on far to his right, and he halted and stared.
He had never been here before, but he had seen pictures,
had read about the place. It was the Temple of the Warriors
that he beheld, a bristling of columns before it, their
shadows black slashes upon its forward wall. He began to
move toward it.
The light went out before he got there, but he had the
location as well as the image fixed in his mind. He continued
until he was very near, and when he discovered that no force
field blocked his way he passed among the styli and began to
climb the steep stair on its forward face.
When he reached the level area at the top he located
himself to what he took to be the east and sat down, his back
against the wall of the smaller structure situated at the
center. He thought of Cat and of the death wish that was
defeating him because he could not adapt, because he was
no longer Navajo. Or was that true? He thought of his recent
years of withdrawal. Now they seemed filled with ashes. But
his people had many times tasted the ashes of fear and
suffering, sorrow and submission, yet they had never lost
their dignity nor all of their pride. Sometimes cynical, often
defiant, they had survived. Something of this must still be
with him, to match against his own death prayer. He dozed
then and had a peculiar dream which he could not later recall
in its entirety.
When he woke the sun was rising. He watched the waves
of color precede it into the world. It was true that there was
nothing to prevent his remaining here until Cat's time limit
had run out. He knew that he would not do this. He would go
on to face his chindi.
... After breakfast, he decided. After breakfast.
"I DON'T CARE!" MERCY
Spender said, raising the bottle with one hand, the glass with
the other. "I've got to have another drink!"
Elizabeth Brooke laid a hand upon her shoulder.
"I really don't think you should, dear. Not just now,
anyhow. You're agitated and -"
"I know! That's why I want it!"
With a snapping sound, the bottom fell out of the bottle.
The gin raced shards of glass to the floor. The odor of juniper
berries drifted upward.
"What ..."
Walter Sands smiled.
"Mean of me," he said. "But we still need you. I know
you'd like to go and rest in the home again. It will be harder
for us if you drop out now, though. Wait a while."
Mercy stared downward. A look of anger passed and her
eyes brimmed, sparkled.
"It's silly," she said then. "If he wants to die, let him."
"It's not that simple. He's not that simple," Ironbear said.
"And we owe him."
"I don't owe him anything," she said, "and we don't even
know what to do, really. I -" Then, "We all have something
that hurts, I guess," she said. "Maybe... Okay. I'll take
some tea."
"I wonder what hurts the thing that's after him?" Fisher
asked.
"The data are incomplete on the ecology of the place it
comes from," Mancin said.
"Then there is only one way to find out, isn't there?"
asked Ironbear. "Go to the source."
"Ridiculous," Fisher said. "It's hard enough touching a
human who's gone primitive. The beast seems able to do it at
short ranges because they share some bond. But to go after
the thing itself and then - I couldn't."
"Neither could I," said Elizabeth. "None of us could. But
we might be able to."
"We? Us? Together? Again? It could be dangerous. After
that last time -"
"Again."
"We don't even know where the cat-thing is."
"Walford's man can order another check on TripCo's
computer network. Locate Singer again and the beast will
soon be there."
"And what good would that do us?"
"We won't know till we get that information and give it a
try."
"I don't like this," said Fisher. "We could get hurt. It's a
damned alien place you're talking about. I touched one of
the Strageans yesterday and had a headache for half an hour
afterwards. Couldn't even see straight. And they're similar
to us in a lot of ways."
"We can always back out if it gets too rough."
"I've got a bad feeling about this," Mercy said, "but I
guess it does seem like the Christian thing to do."
"The hell with that. Is it going to do any good?"
"Maybe you're right," Mancin said. "It doesn't seem all
that promising when you analyze it. Let's tell Walford how
Singer did it, tell him about the beast and the deal they made.
Then get the computer check to narrow the field. They can
send an armed force after it."
"Send it after the thing that killed the thing an armed force
couldn't stop?"
"Let's locate them," Ironbear said, "find out what we can
and then decide."
"That much makes sense," Sands said. "I'll go along with
it."
"So will I," said Elizabeth.
Mancin glanced at Fisher.
"Looks as if we're' outvoted," he said, sighing. "Okay."
Fisher nodded.
"Call Tedders. Run it through TripCo. I'll be with you."
BILLY STEPPED THROUGH INTO
his hogan, leaving the transport slip in place. He switched on
the guard and turned off the buzzer. He was not receiving
calls just now.
His secretary unit told him that Edwin Tedders had called
several times. Would he please call back? Another caller left
no name, only the message, "They grew them with insula-
tion, I learned. You knew that, didn't you?"
He turned on the coffee maker, undressed and stepped
into the shower. As he was vibrated clean, he heard the
rumble of thunder above the cries of the nozzles.
When he had emerged and dressed himself in warmer
clothing he took his coffee out onto his porch. The sky was
grey to the north and curtains of rain hung there. A fast wind
fled past him. To the south and the east the sky was clear.
Light clouds drifted in the west. He watched the rolling
weeds and listened to the wind for a time, finished his coffee
and returned to the inside.
Billy picked up the weapon and checked it over. Old-
fashioned. A tazer, it was called, firing a pronged cable and
delivering a strong electrical jolt at the far end. They had
fancier things now which ionized a path through the air and
sent their charge along it. But this would do. He had used a
similar device on Cat before, once he had learned his weak-
ness.
Then he honed a foot-long Bowie knife and threaded his
belt through the slits in its sheath. He inspected an old 30.06
he had kept in perfect condition. If he could succeed in
stunning Cat, it could pump sufficient rounds through that
tough hide to hit vital organs, he knew. On the other hand,
the weapon was fairly heavy. He finally selected a half-meter
laser snub-gun, less accurate but equally lethal. He planned
on using it at close range, anyway. That decided, he set to
putting together a light pack with minimal gear for the trek
he had in mind. When everything was assembled, he set an
alarm, stretched out on his bedroll and slept for two hours.
When the buzzer roused him the rain was drumming on
the roof. He donned a waterproof fleece-lined jacket, shoul-
dered his pack, slung his weapons and found a hat. Then he
crossed to his communications unit, checked a number and
punched it.
Shortly the screen came to life, and Susan Yellowcloud's
wide face appeared before him.
"Azaethlin!" she said. She brushed back a strand of hair
and smiled. "It's been a couple of years."
"Yes," he said, and he exchanged greetings and a bit of
small talk. "Raining over your way?" he finally asked.
"Looks as if it's about to."
"I need to get over to the north rim," he told her. "You're
the closest person I know to the spot I have in mind. Okay if
I come over?"
Sure. Get in your box and I 11 key ours.
He stepped in, pocketed his strip and punched TRANS.
He came through in the corner of a cluttered living room.
Jimmy Yellowcloud arose from a chair set before a
viewscreen to press palms with him. He was short, wide-
shouldered, thick around the waist.
"Hosteen Singer," he said. "Have a cup of coffee with
us."
"All right," Billy said.
As they drank it, Jimmy remarked, "You said you're
going over to the canyon?"
"Yes."
"Not down in it, I hope."
"I'm going down in it."
"The spring flooding's started."
"I'd guessed."
"Nasty-looking gun. Could I see it?"
"Hey, laser! You could punch another hole in Window
Rock with this thing. It's old, isn't it?"
"About eighty years. I don't think they make them just
like that anymore."
He passed it back.
"Hunting something?"
"Sort of."
They sat in silence for a time, then, "I'll drive you over to
wherever you want on the rim," he said.
"Thanks." '
Jimmy took another sip of coffee.
"Going to be down there long?" he asked.
"Hard to say."
"We don't see much of you these days."
"Been keeping to myself."
Jimmy laughed.
"You ought to marry my wife's sister and come live over
here."
"She pretty?" Billy asked.
"You bet. Good cook, too."
"Do I know her?"
"I don't think so. We'll have to have a squaw dance."
A sudden drumming of rain occurred on the north side of
the house.
"Here it comes," Jimmy said. "Don't suppose you'd care
to wait till it stops?"
Billy chuckled.
"Could be days. You'd go broke feeding me.,"
"We could play cards. Not much else for a ranger to do
this time of year."
Billy finished his coffee.
"You could learn to make jewelry - conchos, bracelets,
rings."
"My hands just don't go for that."
Jimmy put down his cup.
"Nothing else to do. I might as well change clothes and go
along with you. I've got a high-powered hunting rifle with a
radar sight. Knock over an elephant."
Billy traced a design on the tabletop.
"Not this time," he said.
"All right. Guess we'd better get going then."
"Guess we should."
He let Jimmy drop him on the northward bulge of the rim
above the area containing the Antelope House ruin. Since he
bad had the ride he had decided to come this much farther
eastward. Had he walked over, he would have descended at
a point several miles farther to the west. Jimmy would have
taken him even farther eastward had he wished, but that
would have been less useful, starting him at a place beyond
the point where Black Rock Canyon branched off from
Canyon del Muerto proper. He wanted to pass that point on
foot and confuse the trail there. If he made things too easy
Cat would become suspicious.
Staring downward into the broad, serpentine canyon, he
saw a wide band of dully gleaming water passing down its
center, as he had suspected, It was not yet as deep as he had
seen it on occasions in the past, rushing with the seasonal
meltoff between orange, salmon and gray walls, splashing
the bases of obelisklike stands of stone, cascading over
irregularities, rippling about boulders, bearing the mud and
detritus of its passage on toward the Chinle Wash, creating
pockets of quicksand all over the canyon floor. Several
hundred of the People made their homes there during the
warmer months, but they all moved out for the,winter. The
place would be deserted now.
A light rain was falling, making the wall rocks slippery. He
cast about for the safest way down. There, to the left.
He moved to the spot he had selected and studied it more
closely. Yes. It could be done. He checked his pack and
commenced the descent. The way led down to the high, firm
talus slope which followed the wall's base.
Partway down, he paused to adjust his pack, brush off
moisture and look sideways and back in at the petroglyph of
a life-sized antelope. There were a number of them about,
along with those of other quadrupeds, turkeys, human fig-
ures, concentric circles; some of them continued onto the
fourth-story level of the large ruin built against the base of
the cliff. His people had done none of these. They went back
to the Great Pueblo period, in the twelfth to fourteenth
centuries, work of the old Anasazi. He worked his way
down and around, and the going suddenly became easier.
Here the slant and overhang of the wall protected him from
the rainfall.
When he reached the bottom he turned to the east, the
splashing waters off to the right, faded grasses and scrubby
trees about him on the slope. He made no effort to conceal
his passage but advanced with long, purposeful strides.
Across the water at the base of the opposite cliff stood Battle
Cove Ruin, a small masonry structure with white, red,
yellow and green petroglyphs. It, too, went back to the
Great Pueblo days. As a boy he might have feared such
places, feared rousing the vengeful spirits of the Old Ones.
On the other hand, he would probably have gone through
them on a dare, he decided.
Jagged lightning danced somewhere in the east - ik-
ne'eka'a. A slow roll of thunder followed. He felt that Cat
was probably in Arizona by now, having seen the Canyon de
Chelly Monument in his mind, the Canyon del Muerto
branch in particular. Locating the trip-box at the Thunder-
bird Lodge would be kind of esoteric, though. Doubtless Cat
would have arrived by way of Chinle - which meant that he
stil had a long way to come, even if he had gotten in a few
hours ago.
Good. Black Rock Canyon was not that far ahead.
The track of the wind upon my fingertips,
mark of my mortality.
The track of the rain upon my hand,
mark of the waiting world.
A song that rises unbidden within me,
mark of my spirit.
The light of that half-place
where his mount danced for Crazy Horse,
mark of that other world
where powers still walk, stones talk
and nothing is what it seems to be.
We will meet in an old place.
The earth will tremble. The stones will drink.
Things forgotten are shadows.
The shadows will be as real
as wind and rain and song and light,
there in the old place.
Spider Woman atop your rock,
I would greet you,
but I am going the other way.
Only a fool would pursue a Navajo
into the Canyon of Death.
Only a fool would go there at all
when the waters are running.
I am going to an old place.
He who follows must go there, too.
Windmark, raintouch, songrise, light,
with me, on me, in me, about me.
It is good to be a fool when the time is right.
I am a son of the Sun
and Changing Woman.
I go to an old place.
Na-ya!
When Cat emerged from the trip-box at Chinle he wore a
dark cloak, glasses and floppy-hat disguise. The station was
empty now, though he could see a couple of minutes into the
past in a limited fashion with his infrared vision and knew
from the heat signatures that two people had recently been
standing inside the doorway for a while. He moved forward
and looked outside. Yes. A man and a woman were walking
away. Presumably one had met the other here and they had
stood talking for a time before going on their way. As he
watched, they crossed the street and entered a cafe to his
left. Their thoughts served to remind him that for many
hours he had been growing hungry. Without moving, his eye
also took in countless images of the nearby wall map. He
was getting the idea of such things better now, and he would
remember all of the markings on this one. When he saw
something which corresponded to a feature, he would have
his directions, though he felt he already knew them. In the
meantime, he would follow his feelings and his hunger while
gaining impressions.
He departed the station. Half of the sky was overcast and
the clouds seemed to be moving to cover more. He felt the
dampness and negative ionization in the air.
He passed along the street. Three men rounded the corner
and stared at him for an unusually long while. Stranger.
Odd. Very odd, he read. Something funny about that one,
the way he moves... Images then. Childhood fears. Old
stories. Similar in ways to Billy's stream of consciousness.
More people approaching from the rear. No design to their
movement in his direction. But the same curiosity flowing.
He selected. He broadcast fears and old forebodings:
Flee! Man-wolf, shapeshifter! Gnawer of corpses! I will
shoot corruption into your bodies, blow the dust of corpses
into your lungs. Wolf, wearer of the skin. I will track you and
rend you!
The men at his back hastily turned into an open shop.
Those before him halted, then quickly crossed the street.
Almost amused, he continued to broadcast the feelings for a
time after they had departed. It cleared the way before him.
People would begin to emerge from buildings and halt, then
return within, as if suddenly recalling something undone
inside, experiencing the resurgence of childhood fears. Bet-
ter to give in and rationalize later than to brave them out for
no reason.
But they are real, he reflected. I am the shapeshifter who
could strike you down without effort. I could have stepped
from your nightmare legends....
He picked the direction of the Chinle Wash from a retreat-
ing mind, turned at the next corner and again at the follow-
ing one.
Silly. No one in sight now. There will be no trouble, he
decided.
Stretching and contracting, he bent forward. Soon he was
loping along the street. Not far, not too far. This way was
indeed north. The town thinned out, fell away. He departed
the roadway, ran beside it, cut across country. Better,
better. Soon now. Yes. Downhill. Trees and desiccated
grasses. A faint flash of light. Much later, a soft growl from
the eastern sky.
Down, down into a barrenness of sand and moist earth,
detached tree limbs and half-sunken stones. Firm enough,
firm enough to run and -
He halted. Ahead, a primitive sentience, wandering.
Automatically he fell into a stalking mode of progress.
Hunger remembered in this almost delicious spot, save for
the moisture. Slow now, beyond the next bend...
He halted again as soon as he saw the canine, a lean, black
dog, sniffing about the heaps of rubble. Parts of it might do,
if he diluted them....
He sprang forward. The dog did not even raise its head
until his third bounding movement, and by then it was too
late. It let out one short whimpering noise before the pro-
jected feelings hit it, and then Cat's left paw shattered its
spine.
Cat raised his muzzle from tearing at the carcass and
swiveled his head so as to cover every direction, including
straight up, with his many-faceted gaze. Nothing. Nothing
moving but the wind and its consequences. Yet... He had
felt as if something were watching him. But no.
He fell to tearing the bones free, breaking them, grinding
them, swallowing them along with large gulps of sand. Not
as good as crunching the tube-crawlers back home, but
better than the synthetic fare they had given him at the
Institute. Much better. In his mind, he roamed again the dry
plains, fearing nothing but -
What? Again. He shook himself and ran his gaze entirely
around the horizon. There was nothing, yet he felt as if
something were stalking him.
He dropped into a lower position, spitting out pieces of
dog, baring his fangs, listening, watching. What could there
be to fear? There was nothing on this planet that he would
not face. Yet he felt menaced by something he did not
understand. Even when he had met with krel, long ago, he
had known where he stood. Now, though...
He sent forth a paralyzing wave of feelings and waited.
Nothing. No indication that anything had felt it. Could this
be like dreaming?
Time ticked nets about him. The sky flared briefly beyond
his right shoulder.
Gradually the tension went out of him. Gone now.
Strange. Very strange. Could it be something about this
place?
He finished his meal, thinking again of the days of the hunt
on the plains of his own world, where only one thing could
cause such uneasiness in him....
It struck.
Whatever it was, it fell upon him like a boulder out of
nowhere. He bunched his legs beneath him and sprang
straight up into the air when it hit, head thrown back, a sharp
hissing noise passing his throat. For an instant, his vision
swam and the world grew dim. But already his mind was
spinning. This he could understand, after a fashion.
Among his kind the mating battles were always preceded
by a psychic assault from the challenger. This was somehow
similar, and he possessed the equipment to join it.
He could not tell exactly what it was doing inside his head,
but he struck at it with all of his hate, with the desire to rend.
And then it was gone.
He fell across the carcass of the dog, teeth still bared,
slipping back into an earlier mode of existence. Where was
the other? When would he strike? He ranged with all of his
senses about the area, waiting. But there was nothing there.
After a long while, the tension flowed away. Nothing was
coming. Whatever it had been, it was not one of his own
kind, and it had not been a battle challenge that he had felt. It
troubled him that there was something in the area which he
did not understand. He turned toward the north and began
walking.
Mercy Spender and Charles Fisher, who sat at either side
of him, reached to catch hold of Walter Sands's shoulders as
he slumped forward.
"Get him up onto the table - quick!" Elizabeth said.
"He just fainted," Fisher said. "I think we ought to lower .
his head."
"Listen to his chest! I was still with him. I felt his heart
stop."
"Oh, my! Somebody give us a hand!"
They moved him onto the table and listened for a heart-
beat, but there was none. Mercy began hammering on his
chest.
"You know what you're doing?" Ironbear asked her.
"Yes. I started nursing training once," she grunted. "I
remember this part. Somebody send for help."
Elizabeth crossed to the intercom.
"I didn't know he had a bad heart," Fisher said.
"I don't think he did either," Mancin replied, "or we'd
probably have learned that when we gave each other a look.
The shock when the thing struck back must have gotten to
him. We shouldn't have let Ironbear talk us into going in."
"Not his fault," Mercy said, still working.
"And we all agreed," Fisher said. "The time seemed
perfect, while it was remembering. And we did learn some-
thing..."
Elizabeth reached Tedders. They grew silent as they lis-
tened to her relay the information.
"Just a moment ago. Just a moment ago," Fisher said,
"and he was with us."
"It seems as if he still is," Mancin said.
"We're going to have to try to reach Singer," Elizabeth
said, crossing the room and taking her seat again.
"That's going to be hard - and what do we really have to
tell him?" Fisher asked.
"Everything we know," Ironbear said,
"And who knows what form it would take, that strange
state of mind he's in?" Mercy asked. "We might be better
off simply calling for that force Mancin suggested."
"Maybe we should do both," Elizabeth said. "But if we
don't try helping him ourselves, then Walter's attack was for
nothing."
"I'll be with you," Mercy said, "when we do. Some-
body's going to have to take over here pretty soon, though,
till the medics trip through. I'm getting tired."
"I'll try," Fisher said. "Let me watch how you do it."
"I'd better learn, too," Mancin said, moving nearer. "I do
still seem to feel his presence, weakly. Maybe that's a good
sign."
Sounds of hammering continued downstairs, from where a
shattered wall was being replaced.
He crossed the water above a small cascade, knowing
things would be relatively solid at its top. Then he moved
along the southern talus slope, leaving a clear trail. He
entered Black Rock Canyon and continued into it for per-
haps half a mile. The rain came down steadily upon him and
the wind made a singing sound high overhead. He saw a
cluster of rocks come loose from the northern wall far
ahead, sliding and bumping to the floor of the canyon,
splashing into the stream.
Keeping watch on driftwood heaps, he located a stick
sufficient for his purpose. He walked near the water's edge
for a time, then headed up onto a long rocky shelf where his
footprints soon vanished. He immediately began to back-
track, walking in his own prints until he stood beside the
water again. He entered it then, probing with the stick for
quicksand pockets, and made his way back to the canyon's
mouth.
Emerging, he crossed the main stream to its north bank,
turned to his right and continued on along Canyon del
Muerto toward Standing Cow Ruin, concealing his trail as he
went, for the next half-mile. He found that he liked the
feeling of being alone again in this gigantic gorge. The stream
was wider here, deeper. His mind went back to the story he
had heard as a boy, of the time of the fear of the flooding of
the world. Who was that old singer? Up around Kayenta,
back in the 1920s... The old man had been struck by
lightning and left for dead. But he had recovered several
days later, bearing a purported message from the gods, a
message that the world was about to be flooded. In that
normal laws and taboos no longer apply to a person who has
lived through a lightning-stroke, he was paid special heed.
People. believed him and fled with their flocks to Black
Mountain. But the water did not come, and the cornfields of
those who fled dried and died under the summer sun. A
shaman with a vision that did not pay off.
Billy chuckled. What was it the Yellowclouds had called
him?" Azaethlin" - "medicine man." We aren't always that
reliable, he thought, given to the same passions and misap-
prehensions as others. Medicine man, heal thyself.
He started past a "wish pile" of rocks and juniper twigs,
halted, went back and added a stone to it. Why not? It was
there.
In time, he came to Standing Cow Ruin, one of the largest
ruins in the canyons. It stood against the north wall beneath
a huge overhang. The remains of its walls covered an area
more than four hundred feet long, built partly around 'im-
mense boulders. It, too, went back to the Great Pueblo days,
containing three kivas and many rooms. But there were also
Navajo log-and-earth storage bins and Navajo paintings
along with those of the Anasazi. He went nearer, to view
again the white, yellow and black renderings of people with
arms upraised, the humpbacked archer, circles, circles and
more circles, the animals.... And there, high up above a
ledge to his left, was one of purely Navajo creation, and
most interesting to him. Mounted, cloaked, wearing flat-
brimmed hats, carrying rifles, was a procession of Span-
iards, two of them firing at an Indian. It was believed to
represent the soldiers of Lieutenant Anthony Narbona who
fought the Navajos at Massacre Cave in 1805. And below
that, at the base of the cliff, were other horsemen and a
mounted U.S. cavalryman of the 1860s. As he watched, they
seemed to move.
He rubbed his eyes. They really were moving. And it
seemed as if he had just heard gunshots. The figures were
three-dimensional, solid now, riding across a sandy waste....
"Always down on us, aren't you?" he said to them and to
the world at large.
He heard curses in Spanish. When he lowered his eyes to
the other figure, he heard a trumpet sounding a cavalry
charge. The great rock walls seemed to melt away about him
and the waters grew silent. He was staring now at a totally
different landscape - bleak, barren and terribly bright. He
raised his eyes to a sun which blazed almost whitely from
overhead. A part of him stood aside, wondering how this
thing could be. But the rest of him was engaged in the vision.
He seemed to hear the sound of a drum as he watched
them ride across that alien desert. It was increasing steadily
in tempo. Then, when it had reached an almost frantic
throbbing, the sands erupted before the leading horseman
and a large, translucent, triangular shape reared suddenly
before him, leaning forward to enfold both horse and rider
with slick membranous wings. More of them exploded into
view along the column, shrugging sands which yellowed the
air,' falling upon the other riders and their mounts, envelop-
ing them, dragging them downward to settle as quivering,
gleaming, rocklike lumps on the barren landscape. Even the
cavalryman, now brandishing his saber, met a similar fate, to
the notes of the trumpet and the drum.
Of course.
What other fate might be expected when one encountered
a krel., let alone a whole crowd of them? He had given up
quickly on any notion of bringing one back to the Institute.
Two close calls, and he had decided that they were too
damned dangerous. That world of Cat's had bred some very
vicious creatures....
Cat. Speak of the Devil... There was Cat crossing the
plain, lithe power personified....
Again, amid a shower of sand, the krel rose. Cat drew
back, rearing, forelimbs lengthening, slashing. They came
together and Cat struggled to draw away....
With the sound of a single drumbeat, the scene faded. He
was staring at anthropomorphic figures, horses and the large
Standing Cow. He heard the sounds of the water at his back.
Peculiar, but he had known stranger things over the years,
and he had always felt that a kind of power dwelled in the old
places. Something about this manifestation of it seemed
heartening, and so he took it as a good omen. He chanted a
brief song of thanks for the vision and turned to continue
along his way. The shadows had darkened perceptibly and
the rock walls were even higher now, and for a time he
seemed to regard them through a mist of rainbows.
Going back. A part of him still stood apart, but it seemed
even smaller and farther away now. Parts of his life between
childhood and now had become dreamlike, shimmering, and
he had not noticed it happening. He began recalling seldom
used names for things around him which he had thought long
forgotten. The rain increased in intensity off to his right,
though his way was still sheltered by the canyon wall. A
trick of lightning seemed to show momentarily a reddish
path stretching on before him.
"A krel, a krel," he chanted as he walked, not knowing
why. Free a cat to kill a Stragean, find a krel to kill a cat...
What then? He chuckled. No answer to the odd vision. His
mind played games with the rock shapes around him. The
Plains Indians had made mare of a cult out of the Rock
people than his people had. But now it seemed he could
almost catch glimpses of the presence within the forms. Who
was that bellicano philosopher he had liked? Spinoza. Yes.
Everything alive, all of it connected, inside and out, all over.
Very Indian.
"Hah la tse kis!" he called out, and the echo came back to
him.
The zigzag lightning danced above the high cliff's edge and
when its afterglow had faded he realized that night 'was
coming on. He increased his pace. He felt it would be good
to be past Many Cherry Canyon by the time full darkness
fell.
The ground dropped away abruptly, and he made his way
across a bog, probing before him with his stick. He cleaned
his boots then before continuing. He ran a hand across the
surface of a rock, feeling its moist smoothnesses and rough-
nesses. Then he licked his thumb and stared again into the
shadowy places.
Moments came and went like dark tides among the stones
as he strode along, half-glimpsed images giving rise to free
association, racial and personal.
It seemed to sail toward him out of the encroaching
darkness, its prow cutting a V across his line of sight. It was
Shiprock in miniature, that outcrop ahead. As he swung
along it grew larger and it filled his mind....
Irresistibly, he was thrown back. Again the sky was blue
glass above him. The wind was sharp and cold, the rocks
rough, the going progressively steeper. Soon it would be
time to rope up. They were approaching the near-vertical
heights....
He looked back at her, climbing steadily, her face flushed.
She was a good climber, had done it in many places. But this
was something special, a forbidden test....
He gnashed his teeth and muttered, "Fool!"
They were climbing tse bi dahi, the rock with wings. The
white men called it Shiprock. It stood 7,178 feet in height
and had only been climbed once, some two hundred years
earlier, and many had died attempting the ascent. It was a
sacred place, and it was now forbidden to climb upon it.
And Dora had liked climbing. True, she had never sug-
gested this, but she had gone along with him. Yes, it had
been his idea, not hers.
In his mind's eye, he saw their diminutive figures upon its
face, reaching, hauling themselves higher, reaching. His
idea. Tell him why. Tell Hastehogan, god of night, why - so
that he may laugh and send a black wind out of the north to
blow upon you.
Why?
He had wanted to show her that he did not fear the
People's taboo, that he was better, wiser, more sophisticated
than the People. He had wanted to show her that he was not
really one of them in spirit, that he was free like her, that he
was above such things, that he laughed at them. It did not
occur to him until much later that such a thing did not matter
to her, that he had been dancing a dance of fears for himself
only, that she had never thought him inferior, that his action
had been unnecessary, unwarranted, pathetic. But he had
needed her. She was a new life in a new, frightening time,
and -
When he heard her cry out he turned as rapidly as he
could and reached out for her. Eight inches, perhaps, sepa-
rated their fingertips. And then she was gone, falling. He
saw her hit, several times.
Half blinded with tears, he had cursed the mountains and
cursed the gods and cursed himself. It was over. He had
nothing now. He was nothing....
He cursed again, his eyes darting over the terrain to
where, with a flick of its tail, he would have sworn a coyote
had stood a moment ago, laughing, before it vanished into
the shadows beyond the rise. Fragments of the chants from
the old Coyoteway fire ritual came to him:
I will walk in the places where the black clouds come at
me.
I will walk in the places where the rain falls upon me.
I will walk in the places where the lightning flashes at
me.
I will walk in the places where the dark fogs move about
me.
I will walk where the rainbows drift and the thunders roll.
Amid dew and pollen will I walk.
They are upon my feet. They are upon my legs....
When he reached the spot where he thought he had seen
the creature, he searched quickly in the dim light and
thought that he detected a pawprint. Not important, though.
It meant something. What, he could not say.
He is walking in the water....
On the trail beyond the mountains.
The medicine is ready.
... It is his water,
a white coyote's water.
The medicine is ready.
As he passed Many Cherry Canyon he was certain that
Cat was on his way. Let it be. This thing seemed destined, if
not with Cat at his back then in some other fashion. Let it be.
Things were looking different now. The world had been
twisted slightly out of focus.
Dark, dark. But his eyes adjusted with unusual clarity. He
would pass the cave of the Blue Bull. He would go on. He
would take his rations as he walked. He would not rest. He
would create another false way at Twin Trail Canyon. After
that, he would obscure his passage even further. He would
go on. He would walk in the water.
Come after me, Cat. The easy part is almost over.
Weak flash. The wind and the water swallow the thunder.
He is laughing and his face is wet.
The black medicine lifts me in his hand....
The Third Day
WHEN THE CALL CAME
through that Walter Sands was dead, having failed to re-
spond to treatment, Mercy Spender said a prayer, Fisher
looked depressed and Mancin looked out of the window.
Ironbear poured a cup of coffee, and for a long while no one
said anything.
Finally, "I just want to go home," Fisher said.
"But we reached Singer," Elizabeth replied.
"If you want to call it that," he replied. "He's gone
around the bend. He's... somewhere else. His mind is
running everything through a filter of primitive symbolism. I
can't understand him, and I'm sure he can't understand me.
He thinks he's deep under the earth, traveling along some
ancient path."
"He is," Ironbear said. "He is walking the way of the
shaman."
Fisher snorted.
"What do you know about it?"
"Enough to understand some," he answered. "I got inter-
ested in Indian things again when my father died. I even
remembered some stuff I'd forgotten for a long time. For all
of his education and travels, Singer doesn't think in com-
pletely modern terms. In fact, he doesn't even think like a
modern Indian. He grew up in almost the last possible period
and place where someone could live in something close to a
neolithic environment. So he's been to the stars. A part of
him's always been back in those crazy canyons. And he was
a shaman - a real one - once. He set out several days ago to
go back to that part of himself, intentionally, because he
thought it might help him. Now it's got hold of him, after all
those years of repression, and it's coming back with a
vengeance. That's what I think. I've been reading tapes on
the Navajos ever since I learned about him, in all of my
spare moments here. They're a lot different from other
Indians, even from their neighbors. But they do have certain
things in common with the rest of us - and the shaman's
journey often goes underground when things are really
tough."
" 'Us'?" Mancin said, smiling.
"Slip of the tongue," he answered.
"So you're saying this vicious alien beast is chasing a
crazy Indian," Mercy stated. "And we just learned that the
authorities won't go into those canyons after them because
the place is too treacherous in the weather they're having.
Sounds as if there's nothing we can do. Even if we coordi-
nate as a group mind, the beast seems able to strike back at
us pretty hard - and Singer can't understand us. Maybe we
should go home and let them work it out between them-
selves."
"It would be different if there were something we could
do," Fisher said, moving to stand beside Ironbear. "I'm
beginning to see how you feel about the guy, but what the
hell. If you're dead, lie down."
"We could attack the beast," Ironbear said softly.
"Too damned alien," Mancin said. "We don't have the
key to his mind. He'd just slap us away like he did last time.
Besides, this mass-mind business seems very risky. Not too
much has really been done with it, and who knows how we
might mess ourselves up? In any kind of cost-benefit analy-
sis of it there's little to gain against unknown risks."
Ironbear rose to his feet and turned toward the door.
"Fuck your cost-benefit analysis," he said as he left the
room.
Fisher started after him, but Elizabeth caught his eye.
"Let him go," she said. "He's too angry. You don't want
a fight with a friend. There's nothing you can say to him
now."
Fisher halted near the door.
"I couldn't reach him then, can't reach him now," he said.
"I know he's mad, but... I don't know. I've got a feeling
he could do something foolish."
"Like what?" Mancin asked.
"I don't know. That's just it. Maybe I'd better..."
"He'll brood for a while," Mancin said, and then come
back and try to talk us into something. Maybe we ought to
agree to try to reach Singer and get him to head for some
safe spot where he can be picked up. That might work."
"I've got a feeling it won't, but it's the best suggestion so
far. How'll we know where a good spot is?"
Mancin thought for a time, then, "That friend of Singer's,
the ranger," he said, "Yellowcloud. He'd know. Where's the
printout with his number on it?"
"Ironbear had it," Elizabeth said.
"It's not on his chair. Not on the table either."
"You don't think... ?"
Ironbear, wait! Elizabeth broadcast. We're going to help!
Come back!
But there was no response.
They headed for the stair.
He was nowhere on the premises, and they guessed that
he had tripped out from one of the downstairs boxes. They
obtained the number from Information, but no one answered
at Yellowcloud's phce. It was not until half an hour later,
while they were eating, that someone noticed that a burst-
gun was missing from the guard room.
PETROGAFFITI
COYOTE STEALS VOICES FROM ALL LIVING THINGS
Nothing was capable of movement following Coyote's
theft of sound from the world. Not until he was persuaded to
call the Sun and Moon to life by giving a great shout and
restoring noise to the land
NAYENEZGANI CONTINUES CIVIC IMPROVEMENT PLAN
At Tse'a haildehe', where a piece of rock brought up from
the underworld was in the habit of drawing itself apart to
form a pair of cliffs and closing again whenever travelers
passed between. Nayenezgani today solved the problem by
the ingenious use of a piece of elk's horn
2-RABBIT, 7-WIND. HOME TEAM SUCCESSFUL.
Quetzalcoatl, arriving this morning in Tula, was heard to
remark, "Every man has his own rabbit." This was taken as
a good sign by the local population, who responded with
tortillas, flowers, incense, butterflies and snakes
Commercial traveler,
passing through
KIT CARSON GO HOME
I KILLED THREE DEER ACROSS THE WAY
BET THEY WERE LAME
SINGERS DO IT IN COLORED SANDS
FOUR APACHES KILLED A NAVAJO NEAR HERE
THAT'S HOW MANY
IT TAKES
SPIDER WOMAN DEMONSTRATES NEW ART
"I believe I'll call it textiles," she said, when questioned
concerning
SOMEDAY VON DANIKEN WILL SAY
THIS IS AN ASTRONAUT
(place here eye1.tif)
PORT SUMNER SUCKS
CHANGING WOMAN PUZZLED BY SONS' BEHAVIOR
"I suppose they get it from their father," she was heard to
say, when told of the latest
BILLY BLACKHORSE SINGER AND
HIS CHINDI PASSED THIS WAY
O-SINGER, O-CHINDI, AT END OF FIRST HALF
BLACK-GOD IS WATCHING
THE YELLOW MEDICINE LIFTS ME IN HIS HAND
WHEN IRONBEAR OCCURRED
within the trip-box in Yellowcloud's home, the first thing to
catch and hold his attention was a shotgun in the other man's
hands, pointed at his midsection from a distance of approxi-
mately six feet.
"Drop that gun you're carrying," Yellowcloud said.
"Sure. Don't be nervous," Ironbear answered, letting the
weapon fall. "Why are you pointing that thing at me?"
"Are you Indian?"
"Yes "
"Ha'at'i'i'sh biniinaa yi'ni'ya?"
Ironbear shook his head.
"I don't understand you."
"You're not Navajo."
"Never said I was. Matter of fact, I'm Sioux. Can't talk
that either, though. Except maybe a few words."
"I'll say it in English: Why'd you come here?"
"I told you on the phone. I've got to find Singer - or the
thing that's after him."
"I think maybe you're what's after him. It's easy to get rid
of bodies around here, especially this time of year."
Ironbear felt his brow grow moist as he read the other
man's thoughts.
"Hold on," he said. "I want to help the guy. But it's a long
story and I don't know how much time we've got."
Yellowcloud motioned toward a chair with the barrel of
his weapon.
"Have a seat. Roll up the rug first, though, and kick it out
of the way. I'd hate to mess up a Two Gray Hills."
As he complied, Ironbear probed hard, trying to penetrate
beyond the stream of consciousness. When he found what
he was seeking, he was not certain he could wrap his tongue
around the syllables, but he tried.
"What did you say?" Yellowcloud 'asked, the weapon's
barrel wavering slightly.
He repeated it, Yellowcloud's secret name.
"How'd you know that?" the other asked him.
"I read it in your mind. I'm a paranormal. That's how I
got involved in this thing in the first place."
"Like a medicine man?"
"I suppose in the old days I would have been one.
Anyway, there was a group of us and we were tracking the
thing that's tracking Singer. Now the others want to quit, but
I won't. That's why I want your help."
The rain continued as he ta...
