The Other Time

by Mack Reynolds

  Don didn’t bother to look over his shoulder at his Indian companion. He fired again and again into the second animal. He hit it twice out of three shots, and the bloodhound collapsed. Gallant at its job, it tried to work its way to its feet once more and come on. But another arrow whizzed past Don’s head and sank into its carcass and down it went, this time to rise no more.

  Cuauhtemoc was staring at the gun. “It is one of the weapons of the teteuhs, but much smaller.”

  Don saved his breath. The Indian had leaned his lance against the cliff side and held his bow in his right hand, another arrow already notched on the bowstring. The quiver was over his right shoulder, handy to access.

  About a hundred feet down below, the Spanish, undoubtedly astonished at the sound of gunfire, had come to a halt. They took shelter behind rocks, and although Don Fielding couldn’t make out their words they were jabbering in obvious confusion.

  He doubted very much that they had brought any arquebuses with them. The heavy matchlocks were simply too awkward. They were undoubtedly armed with swords alone.

  But at that moment a crossbow quarrel spanged into the rock behind him and ricocheted off with a whine.

  Oh, oh. At least one of the enemy had brought one of the smaller size crossbows with him, the type that could be handled on horseback.

  Cuauhtemoc, an edge of apprehension in his voice, demanded, “What was that?”

  “A type of bow which shoots a small metal arrow. Stay well down. They are very dangerous, though clumsy and slow to load. However, he cannot fire at us without exposing himself.”

  The Spanish, although probably bewildered at the fact that they had heard four shots, one right after another, must have decided that Don, too, would take considerable time to reload. They probably thought he had some fancy four-barreled gun of some sort. Such were not unknown, particularly in Italy. At any rate, they made a rush.

  Don fired just once, got a satisfying scream of pain from the target, who must have been hit in an arm or some other body area not protected by armor. The four assailants dropped down behind rocks again.

  Don had noted the one who carried the crossbow and waited for him. Sure enough, in a minute or so the bearded, helmeted soldier, his teeth bared, reared over the large rock behind which he had been crouched and tried to take a bead. Don fired twice. One bullet missed by inches, whining off the stone cliff behind the other. The other splatted dead center in the soldier’s breastplate. Don had his answer. A .22 Long Rifle bullet would not penetrate the chest armor of the enemy. He was going to have to aim at more vulnerable portions of the body. And although he wasn’t a bad shot, he was no expert marksman.

  The crossbowman sank down quickly without getting off his bolt, and Don could hear excited jabbering again.

  Cuauhtemoc whispered, “Come. They will follow us no more.”

  He was right. Now that Don had caught his breath, it was possible for them to sneak away. It would be considerable time, he suspected, before the Spanish tried another rush. No man likes to attack, in the open, against weapons he doesn’t understand, particularly firearms. They left as quietly as possible and resumed the trail, taking full care to tread in such wise that no rocks were sent clattering back down the trail.

  It was but a short distance to the top of the steep way and within ten minutes they emerged on a plateau. There were more hills beyond and mountains in the distance.

  Don looked back thoughtfully. He said, “Between the two of us, we might be able to push a large boulder over and start an avalanche that would destroy them.”

  The Indian looked at him strangely. “No. The Tlacatecuhtli and the high council have not declared them enemies. It is one thing to defend oneself, even against gods, if one’s life is in danger, but to attempt to destroy them when one is safe is not proper.”

  Don couldn’t have brought himself to it at any rate. Last night he had killed a man. It was the first time he had ever seen a man die and he had done it. It had not been an easy experience. Self-defense, yes. It was his life or the other’s. Just as had been that shoot-out down below. But he was no killer at heart.

  Cuauhtemoc said, “Come, let us be off. They will never find us now, not without the gigantic dogs that smell one’s trail.”

  They hit off over the plateau.

  Cuauhtemoc seemed to know the way in spite of the fact that he avoided the path. They headed for the far mountains at a walk. Both were too exhausted for more. And now that it was over, Don was beginning to get the reaction to the high excitement and the fray. He was no man of action. There had been two wars in his time, but he had considered himself a conscientious objector in both cases and had pulled every string he could to escape the draft.

  Cuauhtemoc looked at him from the side of his eyes, an amused element there. He said, “Your hand trembles, teteuh. You are obviously not a warrior, though you conduct yourself in emergency as a true man must.”

  “I am not a warrior,” Don said. “I am a scholar. And I am not a god.”

  “Then what does one call you?”

  “My name is Don Fielding. And my thanks for your assistance, particularly when you thought you were fighting against gods.”

  “Don Fielding. All of you gods have strange names.” Don sighed.

  As they walked, he checked the magazine of his gun. He cursed himself for not having thought of bringing his partially full box of cartridges along with him when he had gotten into his things to retrieve his shoes and gun. He had only three shots left; one in the barrel, two in the clip. If the Spanish resumed the chase, he was done for.

  He said to the other, “And how will you explain all this to your uncle, the First Speaker? It is not usually the activity of an ambassador.”

  Cuauhtemoc laughed and said, “I won’t. The first lesson an ambassador must learn is diplomacy. What my uncle knows not will worry him not. Already, he worries too much when it comes to the teteuhs.”

  “They are not gods,” Don Fielding sighed again. He must get this idea over, he believed. If the Tenochas continued to think the Spanish gods, then there was no refuge for him in Tenochtitlan. He would be handed over to his foes upon their demand. One does not oppose gods.

  The other did not reply directly to that but said, “Tell me more of these three gods from across the seas which La Malinche mentioned.”

  Trying to keep his own viewpoint as an agnostic neutral, Don Fielding explained as best he could in Nahuatl the Christian belief. It wasn’t as difficult as he had expected to get the fundamentals over to the Indian. In Tenochtitlan, too, they had gods who were born of virgins and native gods also often had more than one aspect. The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, three, still only one, did not bewilder Cuauhtemoc.

  “But what are your own beliefs, Don Fielding?” the Indian asked, after assimilating what he heard.

  How did you explain the agnostic viewpoint to a superstitious native?

  Don said, seeking out his words carefully, “Man is the only thinking animal.” He remembered the recent—for him recent—experiments with the porpoises and added, “So far as we know.”

  “Animal?”

  “Yes, animal. For we too are animals, though the most advanced.

  “Go on, Don Fielding. This I do not understand.”

  “Being a thinking animal, a reasoning animal, he seeks answers for everything he sees. Unfortunately, he cannot always find them. His intelligence is not that great. So what he cannot answer he ascribes to some greater power, some mystery. He invents gods. He cannot understand such things as lightning, storms, rain, so he ascribes them to gods. He rebels against death and invents an afterlife, a heaven or a hell, or both. The priests, often with selfish ends in mind, lay out a code which must be followed, supposedly, if the gods are to be appeased. And if they are able, they punish those who do not conform here on earth—not waiting for the gods to handle the punishment in an afterlife.”

  “You make my head ache, Don Fielding. One thing I may warn you about.”

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p; “Yes?”

  “Do not let Xochitl hear such things from your lips when we arrive in Tenochtitlan.” The Indian chuckled deprecation.

  “Xochitl? Who is he?”

  “The High Priest of Huitzilopochtli, the Hummingbird God, who is the chief god of the Tenochas. Speak thus and you will wind up on the altar, your heart torn from your chest. It is said to be a worthy way to die; however, I personally have never so regarded it though tell no priest I said so.” The other laughed his deprecation again.

  Don Fielding liked this one. In his Mexican travels he had found the Indians largely on the dour side, but it came to him that the Indians of his period had plenty to be dour about and it was probably brought out in them especially in the presence of a white man. Cuauhtemoc was more often smiling and there was a good deal of laughter in his conversation. Cuauhtemoc, Cuauhtemoc. He searched his memory. He seemed to have heard the name before, or at least read it. Although he was a Mexican specialist, he hadn’t particularly made a big issue of the conquest of the Aztecs, though he was reasonably familiar with it. Cuauhtemoc? Possibly it was pronounced differently than the manner to which he was accustomed. Lord knows, he had already run into several different ways of pronouncing Montezuma.

  They came upon the road again, if road it could be called. It was little more than six feet wide and consisted of packed dirt. But at least it was considerably easier to navigate than the open field. They walked side by side. Don Fielding said, ‘Where does this lead?”

  “To Tenochtitlan. It is the main road from our city to the eastern area. From there it turns south along the coast to Xicalango, the great trading center where our pochteca traders meet with those of the Mayans.”

  Don had once visited the ruins of Xicalango, which were about twelve miles south of Vera Cruz.

  He said, “And how far are we from Tenochtitlan?”

  “Perhaps nine days travel.”

  “Nine days! Without food? Without even water?”

  The Indian looked at him in surprise. “How could you have traveled so far from this land of yours to the north without knowing more of our roads?”

  Don couldn’t think of an answer to this and it sounded irrelevant to their problem, but he was in no position to try and explain to Cuauhtemoc his manner of appearing on the present scene. Particularly when he didn’t know himself.

  The other’s question made more sense in about half an hour when they came upon what Don Fielding at first thought was a small settlement of adobe houses along a narrow stream. On their approach, however, it turned out that they were deserted. There were about twenty rooms in all, most of them on the small side and all grouped around the inevitable central courtyard.

  After they had both drunk at the stream, they entered the enclosure and explored several of the rooms which they found spotlessly clean—as all the Indian habitations seemed spotless—but all but barren of contents. One room was evidently that for which Cuauhtemoc sought. It, an exception, contained quite a few baskets with lids, several leather bags, and quite a few pots of varying size. He explored around in them and came up shortly with a handful of what turned out to be dried venison, Don realized when he tasted it. Jerky, they called it in the American Southwest. There were also various empty pots and bowls and Cuauhtemoc handed him one of the former which was smoke-blackened about the bottom.

  “Water,” he said.

  Don took it and went down to the stream, gnawing on the venison as he went. It tasted as good as anything he could ever remember having eaten. The last meal had been nearly twenty-four hours before and he’d had a good deal of exhausting exercise since then. He dipped the pot half full of water and returned with it to his companion.

  Cuauhtemoc had also located a supply of mesquite wood cut up into handy sizes and began laying a fire in a corner of the courtyard where there were rocks, making an improvised open-air stove. Don put the pot down and watched him. The Indian had located fire-making equipment as well. A small bow with a loose string, a block of soft wood, nearly punk, and a spindlelike stick of what was evidently some very hard wood. He took it up, inserted the spindle in the loose string of the bow, and began to saw back and forth to twirl it point-down in the wood block.

  Cuauhtemoc sawed away with his bow making the spindle whirl. He had the fire going in surprisingly short order. He heaped sufficient wood on it and then placed the pot of water above.

  Both of them then returned to the storeroom and investigated the baskets further. There were beans in some, dried peppers in others, a considerable quantity of what looked like some type of sweet potato Don had never seen before, quantities of dried fish and dried shelled com, as well as various other staples. Cuauhtemoc dug out a selection, handed part of it to Don to carry, and led the way back to the fire. He tossed the whole conglomeration into the stew pot and stood back to look down on it with satisfaction. Don said, “Who supplies all this?”

  The young Indian looked at him, frowning slightly. “Those who live in this vicinity.”

  “Well, why?”

  “But it is the custom. The wayside shelters are maintained by the inhabitants of the area. Thus it is along every road in all the land from the far north to the far south and from the east sea to the west. How, otherwise, could the pochteca traders and any else who travel, survive? One cannot carry sufficient food to last more than a few days.”

  Don said, “You mean that anyone who comes along is free to help himself to as much of this food as he wants?”

  The other looked at him as though Don was out of his mind. “Why not?”

  “Your uncle, Motechzoma, enforces this? He requires all the tribes to do it?”

  “No, he does not require it. Why should he have to?” Cuauhtemoc said, mystified.

  “But suppose enemies of the local tribe come along? They too are free to help themselves?”

  “The pochtecas are enemies of no man. They are traders; and what could any of us do without trade? If one tribe annoys the pochtecas of another, it means war. Others who travel are ambassadors. They too are touched by no man; it is unheard of.”

  “Well, other travelers.”

  “What other travelers?”

  Cuauhtemoc had him there. He supposed that other than traders and ambassadors, practically no tribesman had any reason to go from one area to another, save during wartime and then, Don assumed, all bets were off. Actually, it made a lot of sense. What you lost when somebody crossed your territory you gained when you crossed someone else’s.

  They squatted Indian-fashion next to the fire until the stew was done.

  Cuauhtemoc was no chef but the mess was at least filling and they emptied the pot without strain. Following their meal, the Indian thriftily put out the fire and led the way with the dirty cooking pot and the bowls from which they had eaten to the stream. They washed them out, using sand, and returned them to the storage room.

  This too made sense, Don decided. Each traveler cleaned up after himself so that the next man along would find everything equally spotless.

  Following that, they returned to the stream, shed their clothing, and bathed in the icy water, to Don’s relief.

  He said, “How far between are these wayside shelters?”

  “Half a day’s journey.”

  Probably about fifteen miles, Don decided. You should be able to do thirty miles a day on a level road. He imagined that they were closer together in the more rugged areas, such as the mountain passes. Fifteen miles should be near enough that you could make it to the next shelter in case you were overtaken by rain, snow, or whatever.

  They returned to the shelter and sat up against one of the adobe walls, taking in the sun. Don Fielding wished he had one of his few remaining cigarettes, but they were with all the rest of his things in the porter’s bundle. He looked at his watch. It was pushing noon. He wondered if Cuauhtemoc planned to spend the balance of the day here. Not that Don Fielding was in any hurry; the exhaustion was beginning to catch up on him and his body ached.

 
The Indian was staring at the watch. “What is that?”

  Don unstrapped it and handed it over. “Put it to your ear.

  “It makes a chewing sound! There is a tiny worm inside!”

  Don said, “It is a very delicate mechanism of metal. You see the tiny arrows on the face there?” He pointed.

  “This one moves!” He was talking about the second hand.

  “Yes, all three move at different speeds, all at a steady pace. According to their position you can tell the time.”

  The other was astonished. However, he pointed up at the sky. “But what is wrong with the sun?”

  Don said, “For one thing, when it is very cloudy, you can’t see the sun. And you can’t see it ever at night.”

  “But who cares what time it is at night? What makes it run; what makes it eat? A small animal inside? A small devil?”

  Don Fielding shook his head. How did you go about explaining a watch’s mechanism to a Neolithic barbarian?

  He tried, but without success, and finally gave up. Cuauhtemoc decided it was all magic and gave up too.

  “You are a magician?” he asked finally.

  Don denied it, but he doubted that the denial was going to stick. How else to explain such things as guns and wristwatches?

  The train of the fifty others caught up with them about two hours later. They filed into the shelter and immediately set up camp. They didn’t seem to be particularly surprised to find Don and Cuauhtemoc. Don wondered if they had spotted the two dead dogs or if they had come by another route.

  Axayaca said merely, “The teteuhs who rode the deer after you returned to Zempoala.” He looked at Don Fielding expressionlessly. For some reason, this one had taken a dislike to him, Don decided. He didn’t know why.

  For the first time, he realized that three of this expedition were women. Muscular, vigorous girls, who had obviously been brought along to do some of the chores usually relegated to women. They were tiny, by American standards, possibly four foot eight. They entered the storeroom, came forth with com and hollowed out stone metates and began to grind com flour with stone rollers. When they had a quantity, they brought water and made the paste-dough which was the basic ingredient of tortillas.