Zoan was staring at Dancy. “Go ahead, Dancy. Keep praying.”
Dancy nodded tremulously.
As if he were in a death trance, Benewah Two Color handed the cloth back to her. Dancy dipped it in the water, wrung it out, and began cleaning all of Cody’s bite wounds and tears from the wolf ’s claws. At her touch, they melted, dissolved, became unreal, never real, as if the skin had never been touched.
Finally she looked down at Cody’s death wound. She looked back up at Zoan. He smiled. “Go ahead. You think the others were just fine for God, but this one is too big?”
Shakily Dancy smiled back. “N-no, I guess not.”
She closed her eyes and whispered, “It’s just You, God. Guide my hands. And—and thank You.”
“What . . . what . . . ,” Cody breathed, stirring.
“Shh,” Dancy said softly. “Just—another—minute, Cody.”
Steeling herself, she applied the cloth to Cody’s side, where the wound began, and began to glide down his stomach.
The wound, the blood, the horror—all was gone.
Cody moved stiffly, but the growing strength in his body was evident. “Dancy? Zoan? I—something’s—different. I’m feeling— stronger—and I don’t hurt—” He rose up on one elbow, then looked down at his chest. His skin, with all the glow and elasticity of youth, bronzed by the sun, was clean and without mark. Cody’s narrowed eyes widened. “Zoan—Zoan?”
Zoan said, grinning, “No. Not me. And not Dancy, either. It was God, Cody. He healed you. Jesus Christ of Nazareth . . . ‘His name through faith in his name hath made this man strong . . .’ ”
The only sounds in the air outside the room where Cody Bent Knife lay were deep, tearing sobs from Little Bird and the harsh crunch of Niklas Kesteven’s footsteps as he paced the cold, hard earth.
All of the Indians were seated cross-legged on blankets and skins, not speaking, only waiting. They were, on the whole, a patient people. For generations they had been waiting for a man such as Cody Bent Knife to lead them out of their darkness. Now, with resignation borne of centuries of defeat, they waited for his death and the death of their visions of the Indian living again as master of his world.
Lystra Palermo, ever the practical schoolteacher, gathered the children around her and settled them in the cart, huddled under the new blankets that Cody and the others had brought from the Navajo reservation. When Lystra told the children to get into the cart and cover themselves with the new blankets, Little Bird screeched, “They’ve got his blood all over them, you stupid old woman! How dare you!”
Bluestone Yacolt grunted, “The price of those blankets was much too high, and they are cursed. We should burn them along with his body, and maybe that would free his spirit and those of the old ones who died that we have offended.”
Lystra was a high-tempered woman, and she had struggled for years to keep her fiery temper under control. Now it flared uncontrollably in her, but she was a lady of the old school, and she never would raise her voice in anger. She said calmly, “Bluestone Yacolt, I am an old woman, I am cold, and these children are freezing. Don’t be a sad and superstitious fool. I thank God for these blankets. And so should you.”
In a businesslike manner she picked up the top blanket, which was indeed stiff with blood. Little Bird darted forward and snatched it from her, then turned and ran a little way, crying hysterically. Lystra sighed, then helped Pip, the catatonic boy Dancy had practically adopted, and eight-year-old Torridon Carlisle into the cart. Tenderly she covered their shoulders with two of the blankets, casting foreboding glances at Bluestone and Little Bird.
But Bluestone and the rest of the Indians ignored her. All of them had a thousand-mile stare as if they could see past the canyon, past time itself, into the spirit-place they believed they had violated. From the expressions on their faces, it seemed to be a bleak vision, indeed.
Con, Rio, and Ric stood together, talking in low, uneasy tones.
They felt as if they should be doing something, for they were men who were accustomed to taking charge and initiating action. But there was nothing they could do, and for some obscure reason, they all felt guilty. Darkon Ben-ammi and Vashti Nicanor sat a little off to one side, by themselves, apparently observing in a clinical manner. Darkon’s face was heavy, and Vashti’s usually cool, aloof eyes were shadowed with sadness. Both liked Cody Bent Knife, but more important to them, they respected him. Not many people earned the two hardened soldiers’ respect.
Gildan was sitting cross-legged on a flat boulder, her back to the complex and the people gathered around. She stared into space, her pretty face haggard and lined. She had been attracted to Cody Bent Knife, but he had ignored her flirting, and then he had even been sharp with her when she tried more aggressive tactics.
Gildan had hated him for that. And now she hated him for putting her in this position. One couldn’t help feeling guilty for hating someone (and if the truth be known, wishing him harm) if he died, and especially if he died so horribly. Gildan, too, was staring far away in her mind, wishing she could be back where people behaved civilly, according to the rules. Back there—wherever it was—men seemed to find her more attractive and more desirable.
Gildan had never been so lonely and miserable in her life as she had been since she’d come to Chaco Canyon.
Victorine leaned against the stand of boulders where Gildan sat in desolate solitude. She was pale and nervous. She fidgeted with a stone she’d picked up, rubbing it, tossing it from one hand to the other, feeling the soft grit that could be so easily rubbed off the rocks in the canyon. Victorine couldn’t decide whether to march into the complex and snatch Dancy out of the horrible situation, or whether to go in there to offer help, or whether to hold her peace and stay still and calm and ready to help Dancy if she was upset, or whether to just cry. She didn’t see the continual concerned looks Con was furtively giving her. And it never occurred to her to pray.
Suddenly, in the leaden air, loud shouting came from inside the great room. Little Bird stopped her harsh sobs. Niklas Kesteven stopped pacing midstride.
“What the—” Con muttered.
It was, indeed, shouting, and not cries of grief.
Oddly it sounded like—Cody Bent Knife.
He came running out, shirtless and barefoot. His leather breeches were still covered with blood. But there was no mark on his body, except for three scratches on his cheek. “Look at me!” he shouted, throwing up his arms and whirling around. “I’m alive! I’m strong! I’m healed !” For sheer joy’s sake, he ran. He ran in a circle around the gathered crowd, shouting, “Ay-yi-yi-yi!”
Benewah Two Color had come out with him, and behind them came Zoan and Dancy together. All of them looked exhausted— much more worn out than Cody did—but all of them, especially Benewah, glowed with joy. The grave older Cherokee, whose face normally looked as if it would crack if he smiled, was grinning like a young boy.
Soon the three stopped, and their happy expressions slowly faded away. In the heavy silence, Cody’s triumphant cries rang out, but as he ran back to Benewah, Zoan, and Dancy, he suddenly grew quiet and whirled around to face the people gathered.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, genuinely astonished. “All of you look—”
He couldn’t describe how they looked. All had different reactions, and none of them were what Cody and the others had thought they would be.
The Indians, for the most part, seemed frightened. Some of the women jumped to their feet, grabbed their children, and started backing up, their black eyes wide and stark. Bluestone and Ritto stood up, staring at Cody—and the three behind him—with suspicion.
Con, Ric, and Rio seemed stunned with disbelief. Ric took a tentative step toward Cody, but then stopped, his face riven with confusion. Unconsciously Rio fingered his gun. Con just stared, his tanned, rugged face frozen.
Victorine, too, was still. She was the only person in the gathering who wasn’t looking at Cody. She was staring at her daughter with i
ncomprehension, as if she were having trouble recognizing Dancy. Beside her, Gildan had turned around, and her wide blue eyes were strained open with mild revulsion.
Niklas Kesteven was the first to recover. He hurried over to Cody and roughly ran his hands over Cody’s chest, arms, stomach, turning him like an errant child to study his back, stepping close to peer at his skin. “It’s impossible. This can’t be. There must be some explanation.”
Cody, who might be a Christian now but who had not had time to learn meekness, pushed Niklas hard, even though it was like pushing on a great heavy punching bag. “Yeah, there’s an explanation, Dr. Kesteven,” he said with a hint of crossness. “I prayed for God to save my soul, and while He was at it, He saved my life, too. Dancy healed me. Zoan prayed and sang, and Dancy healed me.”
Every eye swiveled toward Dancy Flynn Thayer, and she visibly shrank. The light, the joy, was gone from her, and she seemed small, vulnerable, a frightened sixteen-year-old child.
Victorine rushed forward, threw her arms around her, then shoved Dancy protectively behind her, like a she-bear protecting her cub. “What are you all looking at?” she hissed. “She’s just a child! Stop—staring at her!”
Uneasily Zoan said, “Wait a minute. You don’t understand. Dancy didn’t heal Cody. He just doesn’t realize that he shouldn’t— say it that way. God healed Cody. Just God. Cody had faith, he believed, he confessed his belief in Christ Jesus, and by faith he was saved and by faith he was healed.”
Niklas nodded in a clinical manner, then asked in a cool voice, “But what were the physical circumstances, Zoan? I mean, how exactly did those wounds go away?”
Benewah Two Color stepped forward because Zoan seemed confused, and Cody seemed lost in amazement at the hostile reactions of the people he loved. Benewah said in a low, reverent voice, “I was a witness, Doctor. I will tell you that I saw, and I know that God our Great Father healed Cody. Zoan was singing a song of life, and the girl was tending him with cleansing waters. And I? I was witnessing, and then I was praying to Jesus, the Son, and our Father God. And so was Cody healed.”
Niklas nodded absently. “Water? Cleansing water? What is this?”
“They don’t understand, Benewah,” Cody said sadly.
“They will,” Benewah said calmly. “We must make them understand. We must tell them.”
People had been backing away, distancing themselves from Cody, but now they were almost unconsciously creeping forward. They had been staring at Cody, but now they looked only at Dancy. Somehow, she and her mother had become the center of an ever-tightening circle of people. Not every face was merely curious; not every expression was friendly. Some people looked fearful; some looked awed. But some looked resentful, and some had ugly expressions of suspicion.
Victorine stared around at her friends and comrades with a sudden dreadful comprehension. “Oh, no, you don’t! She’s not going to be your little patron saint, and she’s not some whacked-out psychic, either! She’s just a little girl, and—oh, get out of my way!”
Victorine Flynn Thayer, a tall, dark woman with flashing eyes, could be commanding, indeed. The crowd parted as she strode forward on long legs, hauling Dancy with her like a small rag doll.
They marched off toward the pool and soon disappeared in the ravine leading up to it.
A foul wind, sharp and long, swooped down into the canyon from the east. The snow began.
German Foreign Ministry, Berlin December 15, 2050
“. . . not permanent or inclusive of each member of the generation but seem to be almost an attempt at experimental evolutionary defensive permutations by the organism so that our studies are continually diverted from the intended goals . . .”
Dr. Gudrun Schaecht, a young woman with a lumpish face and thick body, droned on and on about the ohm-bug. Alia Silverthorne’s mind wandered; she wondered about many things. Alia wondered why Minden Lauer and President Therion were always present at all of Tor’s meetings now, even with his military advisers. She wondered why Count von Eisenhalt was letting this woman speak to him in such a supercilious manner.
Mostly she marveled that Dr. Gudrun Schaecht truly seemed to have no hint of the danger she was putting herself in by attempting to make excuses to Tor. True, the woman was brilliant. But she was somewhat unworldly in that she seemed to think and see only in terms of her little world of microbiology. Surely Dr. Schaecht was aware that her predecessor had been gone for three weeks? That is, he had disappeared; he had been erased from this world. The last anyone had seen of him, he had been on his way to a private meeting with Tor von Eisenhalt. No one, including his wife and three children, had seen him since.
There had been no investigation, of course. No one on this earth would dare to question Tor von Eisenhalt about it. And no one would question Tor even if he killed and ate this woman right here and now . . .
Alia was shocked at her own idle musings. Killed—and ate the woman? What in the world am I thinking? What’s happening to me? Am I going totally insane?
But Alia Silverthorne was nothing if not stubborn and determined, and she put the thought—and horrible vision—out of her mind. Lately she’d had to do that often. It seemed that something—her imagination, her innermost thoughts, the most secret and hidden parts of her brain— had been intruding on the conscious workings of her mind. Quickly, hastily, so she wouldn’t have to think about it too much, she made a decision to ask Doctor for something to calm her. She was already taking a strict and strong regimen of various body and mind enhancers, and she thought they might be resulting in some odd side effects. Doctor would know—she jumped at the sound of Tor’s voice.
Tor demanded, “Dr. Schaecht, are you saying that you cannot kill this organism?”
The woman’s muddy brown eyes suddenly grew wary. “Why, why—no, sir. We can kill it. Any physical entity can be killed under controlled circumstances.”
“You’re wrong,” Tor said in a deadly quiet voice. “This is a waste of my time. March 23 will be six months after the autumnal equinox.
I will be generous. I will give you until April 1.”
Dr. Schaecht looked confused, and then the first hint of fear began to show. Tor seemed to be pleased, and when he spoke again, his voice was its usual deep, commanding tone. “So, Dr. Schaecht, I have just one more question for you. What do you need? You can have anything— equipment, personnel, consultants—anything. What do you want?”
Dr. Schaecht’s first thought was more time, but she had finally become aware that she was treading on a dangerous road, full of pitfalls, and she’d better watch her steps very carefully. Taking a long, deep breath, she began, “Sir, I would like to have two more lab technicians, and I have two biochemists in mind if you would be so kind as to add them to the staff—”
She cut off her words midsentence.
Tor von Eisenhalt abruptly sat upright, and his face clearly showed that he was angry. Enraged, in fact. Every man and woman in the room—except Alia, Minden, and Luca—flinched, and some shuddered with abject fear.
Dr. Schaecht frantically thought, What did I say? What did I do? Am I going to die?
Suddenly, jarringly, Tor jumped out of his chair and hurried from the room.
Gathering all her courage, Alia followed him. Minden and Luca had become his constant companions, and Alia was always with them, for she was their personal—and only—bodyguard. But she felt privately that she must guard Tor, too. He can’t be killed, she thought for the thousandth or maybe the millionth time, but he can be hurt. For some reason, this mantra came to her so much that she wholly believed it to be true. It terrified her.
She followed him almost at a run, for Tor was a tall man with long strides, and Alia was small, though she was strong and sturdy. He marched through the long hallways, his steps making no sound on the thick carpeting. No expense had been spared for the renovation of the old Reichstag; it was a Gothic palace, with stern statues of warriors and bas-relief carvings of great battles everywhere. Tor went ou
t a side door to a small, secluded garden near the west wing. Alia doggedly followed him. Tor had always seemed to be slightly amused at her lap-doglike devotion.
It was noon, but the sun was too weak to give much warmth. In the small square of garden, the grass had long since withered, and a few dead leaves from the great oak tree crackled underfoot. Alia knew that they would be raked up by the afternoon. Germany, all of it, was the cleanest, most well-kept country she’d ever imagined. There was never an iota of litter in public places, the sidewalks were never dirty, and it was amazing to her that every window in every building always sparkled like polished diamonds.
Tor stopped with his back to Alia, so she stopped, too, and studied him. He lifted his head, and Alia could have sworn he was sniffing . . . but no, that was ludicrous . . . It must be another of the peculiar imaginings that had plagued her for so many months now . . .
She didn’t know how long they stood there. Tor stood absolutely still, not speaking, not moving. Alia fidgeted a little; she fingered the pistol at her side, and her gaze continually swept around the small garden, noting the two pathways converging on the small enclosed square, the shortest way to the street, the shortest way to the entrance of the building behind them.
Abruptly Tor turned and looked at her with a gaze that froze her bones. “You,” he said in a low growl. At least, Alia thought she heard a growl . . . growling . . .
“Do you hear it?” he asked her. He seemed clinically curious.
Alia licked her lips. “Hear—I—I hear the wind, sir. Just the wind.”
He nodded, then turned his back to her again. Alia had the strangest feeling that if she walked around to look at his face, it would not be Tor von Eisenhalt’s face at all. It would be someone—no— something else entirely, something not human, something not even animal . . . something . . . Some thing . . .
With an almost physical effort, Alia controlled her mind. “Sir,”she said between gritted teeth, “you should not go anywhere without protection. I know you—feel—confident that—you—that no one— that nothing—”
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