Department 19, The Rising, and Battle Lines

by Will Hill

  The village had once been a series of stepped plateaus, the entrances to the houses raised two and a half metres above the surface of the mesa, with the carved wooden ladders that provided access leaning against the stone walls. Most of the original settlement was gone, beaten and battered by the passage of the centuries, but to the south, towards the edge of the mesa, beyond the sign telling tourists to go no further, stood what was left. Smith could see the broken spire of one of the oldest churches in America looming from beyond the rise to the south, and slowly headed towards it.

  He didn’t know why, not exactly; the vision that had compelled him to come to this ancient place had not dealt in specifics. Smith crept along the crumbling stone wall, past the sign, over the rise at the edge of the mesa, and then stopped dead.

  A man was standing in the dust, staring directly at him.

  He was old, his face lined and weathered, his skin the colour and consistency of leather, dried and tanned by the relentless desert sun. He was clad in traditional Hopi dress: a multicoloured breechclout that hung just above his knees and deerskin moccasins to protect his feet. His hair was bound into a Hömsoma, a tight figure-of-eight bun, and he wore a cloth band around his forehead. He was staring at Smith, a gentle smile on his face.

  Smith stepped away from the wall, clearing his range of movement; his arms swung loosely at his sides, and he rolled forward on to the balls of his feet, ready for any eventuality. Then he regarded the man with a neutral expression, and asked him who he was.

  For a long moment, the old man did not reply, then his smile widened, displaying a broken mountain range of chipped and yellowing teeth, and he spoke.

  “I am Tocho. You are welcome here, traveller.”

  Smith took a step towards the ancient Hopi man.

  “Thank you,” he replied, carefully. “I am Robert Smith.”

  The old man laughed. “That is not your name.”

  Smith felt a tremor of panic rumble through him. He was floundering, taken aback by the presence of this ancient figure, who had caught him completely off guard, who seemed unsurprised to see him and who somehow knew that the name he had given was false.

  How does he know that? Who the hell is this man?

  “That’s right,” Smith replied, refusing to back down. “That’s not my real name.”

  The old man regarded him closely. “A man who is lying to himself will find no truth here,” he said.

  “I’m not lying to myself,” replied Smith. “I’m lying to you.”

  The Hopi elder laughed again, a short sound, like a bark, that echoed through the stone and dust of the settlement.

  “That is fair,” he replied, and walked towards Smith, his moccasin-clad feet silent on the parched ground of the mesa.

  Smith did not retreat, but he shifted his weight away from the approaching man, ready to run if it became necessary to do so. But as Tocho approached, his dark eyes sparkling in their deep, lidded sockets, his lined face breaking into a wide smile, Smith realised that he had nothing to fear from the man, who extended a hand as he came to a halt before him. Smith took it, cautiously, and then felt his arm almost wrenched from his shoulder as the old man pumped it vigorously up and down, his grip like a vice. When he released Smith’s hand, he clapped him hard on the back, and turned him towards the western edge of third mesa.

  “Come,” said Tocho. “What you are looking for is this way.”

  The two men walked quickly through the remnants of Old Oraibi. As they passed the crumbling church on their right, Tocho asked Smith why he had come.

  He considered telling the old man the truth – that a raving, clawing lunatic on the Lower East Side of New York, his body covered in occult tattoos and self-inflicted scars, had spoken to him in his father’s voice and told him to – but decided against it, even though there was something about the old man that made him want to trust him.

  “I can’t tell you that,” Smith replied. “I’m sorry.”

  Tocho nodded, then, as they cleared the last of the fallen stone walls and moved towards the ridge that marked the edge of the mesa’s flat top, spoke again.

  “Why are you hiding your name?” he asked. “A man’s name has power. To deny it is to sacrifice that power.”

  “I can’t tell you why,” replied Smith. “It wouldn’t be safe.”

  “No harm will come to you here,” replied Tocho.

  “It’s not my safety I’m thinking about.”

  The words hung in the air, barbed and unsettling. Tocho stopped, and stared closely at Smith, who forced himself to remain still under the ancient man’s steely gaze. Then abruptly, Tocho began to walk forward again, and Smith fell in beside him.

  “I do not believe that you are an evil man,” said Tocho, softly. “Although I believe that you have done evil things. Am I right?”

  “You are,” replied Smith. “You see a lot. You weren’t surprised to see me today, were you?”

  Tocho smiled. “I was given warning of your arrival.”

  This time it was Smith who stopped. He reached out and grabbed the old man’s arm, and turned him so they were face to face.

  “By who?” he asked. “If there are people watching me, then I need to know. Now.”

  Tocho glanced down at the hand gripping his arm, and Smith removed it. He had gripped the old man’s flesh so tightly that four fingermarks stood out, bright white on the dark skin, but the old man had not even grimaced.

  “Spider Grandmother told me you were coming,” he said, eventually. “She told me I was to help you, that you were a traveller in need of direction.”

  “Spider Grandmother?” asked Smith. “Who the hell is she?”

  “She is the messenger,” replied Tocho. “The link between my people and Tawa, the Creator, who made the first world out of Tokpella, the Endless Space. She speaks to us, and we listen. She bids us, and we do as we are told. Do you understand?”

  “No,” replied Smith, and smiled. “Not in the slightest.”

  Tocho returned his smile. “It doesn’t matter. I do.”

  The old man stepped forward again, and Smith followed him. As they approached the edge of the mesa top, Smith saw a plume of smoke rising into the sky. Then, as they crested the ridge and looked down the steep desert landscape, he saw where they were headed.

  Dug into a small plateau on the steep ridge was a sweat lodge.

  The hut was small, and had been sunk at least half a metre into the dry ground. It was low and roughly rectangular in shape, made of animal hides tied tightly across a wooden frame. Beside it, a fire had been built in a circular depression, and placed in the middle of the flames were a number of flat, round stones. Heat was shimmering from them, distorting the idling column of smoke into a twisting, pulsing thing that appeared to be alive.

  “Follow me,” said Tocho, starting down the slope. Despite his obvious old age, the Hopi elder moved quickly down the side of the mesa, as sure-footed as a mountain goat, and Smith struggled to keep up with him. The ground moved beneath his feet, his arms wheeling at shoulder-height as he fought to keep his balance. He managed not to fall, though, and skidded to a halt beside Tocho, who was staring into the fire.

  “Jesus,” Smith said, out of breath. “That was crazy. I nearly broke my neck.”

  Tocho looked at him. “But you didn’t,” he replied. “Go inside and sit down. I’ll follow you in a moment.”

  The old man turned his gaze to the fire and the arrangement of stones that lay in the middle of it, so Smith did as he was told. He pulled open the loose flap of hide that passed for the lodge’s door, stooped down and climbed inside.

  The heat was incredible.

  Desert sun had beaten down on the lodge since dawn, twelve hours earlier, and sweat immediately burst from Smith’s pores, soaking his shirt and running freely down his forehead. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, looking around the small hut. A pit had been dug in the middle of the structure, and there were two flat areas, one either side of the pit. Sm
ith clambered across the central depression, then sat down on the hard, burning ground. There wasn’t enough room for him to do anything other than sit upright, so he crossed his legs beneath him, and waited for Tocho to appear.

  He didn’t wait long. After less than a minute, the door twitched open and the old man appeared, clutching a large bottle of water in one hand and a leather harness in the other. As soon as the flap fluttered shut behind him, Tocho lowered the leather harness into the pit in the middle of the hut, and shook it open. The flat stones, which had been cooking in the fire until they were close to white-hot, fell to the earth and the temperature inside the lodge exploded, a wall of scalding, expanding heat flooding the structure, so hot and overpowering that Smith’s first instinct was that he had to get out, that he must get out, that he would die in here if he didn’t. Tocho saw the panic in the stranger’s eyes, and spoke to him, his voice low and soft.

  “Let it pass,” he said. “Let the heat fill you and move on. Let it pass.”

  The air was so hot that it burned Smith’s nose and mouth as he inhaled, so he held his breath.

  “Small breaths,” urged Tocho. “Focus. Small breaths.”

  Smith’s eyes were watering in the heat, his head pounding, but he did as he was told. He took a tiny breath in through his nose, and let it out of his mouth. Then he took another, and another, and as the first blast of heat began to subside, he opened his lungs and filled them again. The sweat still poured across him, his head still swam, but he realised he could bear it.

  “I’m OK,” he gasped. “I’m OK.”

  Tocho nodded, then handed him the bottle of water, taking care not to reach over the pit of stones. Smith took it, his hand slick and trembling, and wrenched the cap off. He raised it towards his mouth, and a bitter scent stung his nostrils. He paused.

  “Mescaline?” he asked. “I thought this was a purification ritual?”

  Tocho grinned at him. “I don’t believe you’re looking for purity.”

  Smith considered for a moment, then tipped the bottle and took a long swallow. The water diluted the bitter taste of the peyote extract, but it still crawled across his tongue like desert sand, leaving him with a feeling of nausea as he focused again on his breathing, and settled into the heat.

  “Are you ready?” asked Tocho. Smith nodded, and the ancient Hopi took a small flask from his breechclout and tipped the contents on to the stones. Sandalwood oil fizzed and sizzled on them, the air thickening with renewed heat and pungent, sickly incense.

  “Close your eyes,” said Tocho. “And breathe.”

  Smith did as he was told.

  The heat surrounded him, thickening the air until it felt like he was breathing hot water, but he focused – in, out, in, out, in, out – and felt his throat open. The panic, which had risen through him again when the sandalwood oil had hit the stones, subsided. His head felt fuzzy, from the heat or the mescaline, he couldn’t tell which. He kept his eyes closed, even as sweat ran into them in sharp, salty rivers. He fumbled blindly for the water bottle, found it, took a long, bitter swallow, then placed his hands on the ground at his sides, gritting his teeth as his palms met the burning desert.

  His head felt heavy, so he allowed it to slump forward against his chest, as pale streams of colours began to slide across the backs of his eyelids, brightening and intensifying and erupting into spirals and loops and whirls. He stared at the lights, unable to open his eyes, and felt saliva slide from his mouth, which had fallen open. It sizzled when it touched the bare skin where his shirt was open, a loud boiling sound that Smith understood, somewhere in the back of his mind, couldn’t be real.

  The temperature began to drop, slowly at first, then faster and faster. Colours danced and spun behind his eyes, then receded to the corners where he could no longer follow them. Cautiously, he allowed his eyelids to part, then opened them wide.

  Tocho and the sweat lodge had almost disappeared.

  There remained a faint, translucent image of the old Hopi man, his arms and legs folded, his gaze fixed firmly on Smith, and the wooden frame of the hut was still just barely visible. But around and through them, Smith could see the great expanse of the mesa and the desert beyond it.

  As he watched, the shadows cast by the shrubs and cacti moved steadily, and he looked up. The sun was moving rapidly across the sky, heading for the horizon before him. It sank towards the earth, the mesa darkening as it did so, and then it was gone, taking the last of the day with it.

  The smouldering fire to Smith’s right cast a pale red glow on the area around him, and as he looked, he saw that the sweat lodge, and the man who had brought him to it, were now completely gone. He was sitting cross-legged, alone on the hard desert floor. He shivered, as the last of the sun’s residual heat faded away, and attempted to stand up.

  He couldn’t move. His legs felt as though they were made of concrete, and he could not uncross them, let alone stand on them. As he tried, he pitched forward at the waist, and mercifully, his arms responded to his urgent command: he was able to put them out and steady himself. But the sensation didn’t frighten him, nor did the rustling noise that began to emanate from the scrubland in front of where he sat; his instincts, which were so finely honed that they remained active even as his conscious mind drifted away, told him he was in no danger in this place.

  The rustling got louder and louder, and Smith waited for the source of the noise to show itself; he was curious, rather than afraid, to see what it was. Slowly, the scrub parted and the thick, angular head of a reticulated python emerged. Its forked tongue darted in and out of its mouth as it slowly slid across the desert floor, its huge weight sending small rivers of sand cascading down the slope.

  Smith watched as the snake slid its entire body into the clearing in which he sat, and gasped. The python was four metres long, at least, as thick as his waist at its midpoint. Its skin gleamed in the glow of the fire, the beautiful, incredibly complex patterns appearing to move independently as the huge muscles flexed beneath the surface, pushing the snake forward.

  As it neared Smith, the snake’s tail began to coil, followed by the body itself; the huge snake spun upwards, resting on a tapering series of coils, until its head was level with his own, its black eyes staring into him.

  Smith stared at the animal, transfixed. Then, as he felt himself teeter towards the brink of being lost in its expanding black eyes, it began to change. The smooth lines of the snake bulged and twisted, and the heavy, angular head drew back on itself, stretching and widening. In less than ten seconds, the transformation was complete, and Smith felt a grin spill across his face, the unashamed, childlike grin of someone who has just seen something wonderful.

  Where the snake had been there now sat a handsome, middle-aged black man, stretching his arms out above his head and twisting his neck from side to side. Smith heard a series of clicks, before the man lowered his limbs and regarded him with a smile.

  “Metamorphosis is a bitch,” he said. “Even here. I spend the first five minutes worrying that I didn’t do it right, like if I take my shoes off, I’m going to find I got snakeskin toes. You know what I’m saying?”

  Smith shook his head, and the man smiled at him.

  “You don’t, do you?” he said. “You don’t belong here at all. Who opened the path for you?”

  “One of the Hopi,” replied Smith. “I’m in Arizona. Or I was.”

  “You still are,” confirmed the man. “Your body doesn’t move. Your mind, on the other hand…”

  “So I’m dreaming?”

  “In a way. This is the inner reality, the space between. It’s not really a physical place. More metaphysical, if you follow me?”

  “And you live here?” asked Smith, his head spinning.

  The man grinned. “I live in New Orleans,” he replied.

  Smith took a closer look at the man, who was sitting with his legs crossed easily beneath him, his face open and friendly. Over the left breast pocket of his denim shirt was a sticker, the k
ind that employees of electronics shops wear.

  HI!

  My name is

  Papa Lafayette

  How can

  I help you?

  “Papa Lafayette,” he said, softly.

  “That’s me,” replied the man. “What can I do for you, now that you found me?”

  “Found you?” asked Smith. “I didn’t know I was even looking for you.”

  “But you were, whether you know it or you don’t. So what’s going on? I don’t have all night.”

  Smith paused, and gathered his thoughts. His mind was slipping around him, drifting and sweeping in a mescaline haze, but he forced himself to concentrate.

  “I’m looking for answers,” he said.

  “To which questions?”

  “Questions about vampires.”

  Papa Lafayette grimaced. “I’m no expert on the supernatural,” he said. “I doubt I have the answers you’re looking for.”

  “Then what are you doing here?” Smith asked. “Why are we talking to each other? A madman told me to come to Oraibi, so I did. Tocho, the old man, was expecting me, and he told me that this was the next step, and I believed him, and here I am. With you. So why do you think that is, if you’re telling me you can’t help me with what I need to know?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Papa Lafayette, his expression back to its usual easy half-smile. “Genuinely, I don’t. Vampires are creatures of the earth, of blood, and death. I deal in the spiritual.”

  “So I ask you again. Why are we here?”

  Papa Lafayette sighed. “I felt a compulsion to enter the inner world tonight,” he said softly. “As powerful as I’ve ever felt. This, this conversation, is not what I was expecting to find. But…”

  “But what?”

  “But I believe in fate, and destiny. I believe that everything is connected, and I believe that something felt it was important that you and I meet here, in this place, at this time. So ask your questions. I will answer them if I can, I promise you that.”