When originally they fled they had been workers in the fields and only a few of the wise men had gone with them, so they had known little of their own world.
Raglan asked about The Hand. Was it one man or several? Where did he live? Where would Erik be held prisoner?
The man shook his head. “I do not know. There is a part of our city where none may go. He will have been taken there, I presume. Only by command of The Hand may anyone enter, and those who go do not often return.” He looked into Raglan’s eyes. “So you see? Not many wish to go.”
Raglan nudged a piece of wood deeper into the fire. “Why do you come to me?”
“I have said. You must not come. It is of no purpose.”
“And I have said that if I do not find him, many will come, and they will come with anger and determination and nothing will stand against them. Erik Hokart must be freed. If you wish your way preserved, you must help me.”
“I?” The idea astonished him. “What can I do? I am but a Keeper of Archives.”
“Are there in your Archives no tales of warriors? Of men who accomplished great things?”
The man’s eyes sparkled. “Many are the tales of glory and of bravery! Yet no one reads them now. No one but me and a very few others. The tablets gather dust. The halls are swept to no purpose. No one wishes to learn, for now they believe they know all things. I doubt The Hand knows of my existence, and the Varanel, his guards, pass me by without notice.”
His face was suddenly gloomy. “You spoke of my wishing to preserve our way. It is sacrilege, but I do not know if I wish it preserved.
“The lessons in the school are said by rote. No one thinks of what they mean. When tests are given there is much cheating and none seem to realize it is themselves they cheat.”
“You speak of your Archives. They are on stone tablets?”
“How else? Of the Tablets there are countless thousands, all neatly stacked, some tied in bundles when they are upon one theme.”
“All upon stone?”
“Some are upon baked clay. In those days our people were learning, and the Varanel were their servants. Now we no longer care to learn and the Varanel are our masters.”
There was a silence then, and the fire flickered, and then he said, “It is good to talk. It is good that someone listens. I am much alone, and that is why I wanted a way into your world. Our people have closed their minds. They do not look for knowledge, for they believe they now possess it all.”
“Yet they fear what our world can bring to them?”
“They do. I do not. Not really. I do fear, for I do not know what it is you are or what you have. You seem so secure, so sure in yourself.”
“Few of us are, my friend. It only appears so, but we do learn, and many of us love learning. Oh, we do have those who would stop learning where it is. Indeed, there are some who would have stopped it years ago, because what we learn endangers ideas they have long possessed. But there are men and women who want answers and they seek them in laboratories and libraries the world over. Our libraries,” Raglan added, “are like your Archives, but ours are used, day and night, and their contents are put into books to be sold so that those may study who cannot come to the libraries.”
“There are books about our people?”
“Many, and yet we know so very little. What we know has been pieced together from broken pots, ruins of cliff or pit houses, bits of moccasins, and remains of burials. Men and women work very hard to make sense from what we have discovered, but often greedy ones dig into the ruins and remove valuable evidence to sell it on the market, destroying forever our chance to learn.
“You see, we do not have your knowledge and we must try to date each fragment by where it is found, how deep in the earth, and in conjunction with what other materials. It is a slow, painstaking process but we are learning.”
“Our history is important to you?”
“All history is important to us. From each we learn a little about survival, a little about what causes peoples to decay and nations to die. We try to learn from others so we shall not make the same mistakes, but many of us learn simply for the love of knowing. One of the greatest lines in literature was from a Russian writer who said, “I do not want millions, but an answer to my questions.”
“Ah, yes. I like that.” Then gloomily he said, “We no longer ask questions. Except,” he added, “a little bit about your world. We want some things you have but we fear what may come with it.”
“You have a name?”
“It is Tazzoc.”
“I am Raglan, Mike Raglan.” He hesitated, then asked, “Have you ever heard the name Eden Foster?”
Tazzoc shook his head. “It is a name of you. Of one of your people?”
“Not exactly. The name is ours. The woman, I think, is one of yours, but she lives among us.”
“Among you? I did not know there were such.”
Raglan described her, but Tazzoc shook his head. “I know no one like that.”
“What of Poison Women?”
Tazzoc smiled. “It is a fable, a legend. Yet, in the long ago it was said there were such. If any exist today, only The Hand would know.”
“Could you enter the place where The Hand lives?”
“I? You jest. It is unthinkable. Only the Varanel may go there, and those who do not return. Oh, there are some who come and go. They are the servants of The Hand or the Lords of Shibalba.”
“Then it is possible?”
Tazzoc shook his head. “It is not. It is a Forbidden Place. This much I know. He who goes in goes directly to his place, and to no other. Even if you got in, you would be discovered at once.”
Raglan waited a slow minute, and then said, “In your Archives? Is there not a map, a drawing of your Forbidden City?”
Tazzoc did not answer.
Chapter 20
*
THE CANYON, WHEN he reached it, appeared to be about two miles long, perhaps a bit longer. The east side was rugged and steep; on the west the wall slanted steeply, broken in places by cracks down which a man might make his way. Otherwise the rocks looked slippery and difficult. With much experience at climbing, Mike Raglan knew such areas were more difficult than they appeared.
In the bottom of the canyon there was a small forest of trees, none of which looked old. Here and there was a gleam of water, and he glimpsed what seemed to be Navajo sweathouses.
There were a few patches of open ground covered with what appeared to be bunch grass or other desert growth. He squatted on his heels and looked along the canyon, his eyes searching.
He did not know what he was looking for, or how to find what he sought.
He doubted it would be anything as obvious as the kiva, for the openings were transient, indefinite. For some reason at this point there was an anomaly, perhaps a break in the fabric of time and space. He knew little of such things and had no evidence that they could be, except for the occasional stories of mysterious disappearances.
Was there such a place as Shibalba? Or was it—and Kawasi and Tazzoc as well—part of an elaborate hoax?
He found a way among the rocks and handed himself down with care. It was part sliding, part climbing, and he descended with the awareness that getting in would be far easier than getting out. At one place he slid all of sixty feet down a steep rock face. When at last his feet reached the sandy floor of the canyon, his heart was beating heavily and he glanced around quickly.
Nothing. Just trees, sparse grass, and what might once have been a path, or more likely a game trail of some kind, although he saw no tracks of deer.
It was very still. Listening, he heard nothing, not even the stirring of cottonwood leaves. He walked in among the trees where it was shaded and cool, alert for any sound of movement. His hand moved to touch his pistol; then he walked on, aware again that he saw no tracks of any kind.
He considered what to do. Supposedly this was one of the places where occasional openings occurred, and if he found such an opening h
e must somehow mark it within and without so he could find it again. Yet if it was only an occasional opening it might never open again. He felt cold and he shivered.
What the devil was he getting into, anyway? He was a fool. He should climb out of this canyon, get into his car, and drive back to Tamarron and then fly home. To hell with it! Erik had gotten himself into this—let him get himself out as well.
He paused and looked carefully around. It was quiet, too damned quiet! Yet everything looked normal. If only there were some tracks! He couldn’t see a chipmunk or even a lizard.
Then, looking through the trees, he saw the stone walls and opening of what was apparently one of the Anasazi shelters for storing corn. It was high up in the rocks and he had no intention of climbing up there, but it served to indicate that men had once lived here at least. He walked on, then paused, seeing the ashes of an old campfire.
Not much in the way of ashes. Whoever built the fire had not kept it burning long, judging by what remained. No longer than a man might need to boil water for coffee. Or to send up a signal.
He poked at the ashes with a stick, scratching them away. Only a thin film on the earth beneath. Odd, that. Hardly worth the trouble of building a fire.
He walked out of the trees and began skirting them, staying in the open, looking up at the cliffs. Something caught his attention and he looked down the canyon where it seemed to widen out. He frowned, shaking his head. Was something wrong with his eyes? The air was shimmering as though with heat, but it was not hot.
Raglan moved under the shade of a tree and peered from under his shading hand. Was it heat waves or some strange atmospheric effect?
He remembered one time on the shore near Puerto Montt when he had looked across at the isle of Chiloé, miles away. He had been able to distinguish separate leaves on the trees due to some telescopic effect of the atmosphere. He supposed there were other such places, but the only time he had experienced it was on that coast of Chile, and natives told him it was often the case.
Yet here he was not seeing with that startling clarity. This was a shimmering of the atmosphere that blurred his sight. He could see the shadows of rocks beyond but could make out no detail.
Within the shimmering there appeared to be movement, as of something coming, something approaching. He drew back deeper into the trees but stayed where he could still see.
Yes, something was coming—coming from the mists or the heat waves or whatever they were.
A man, and then another, another, and still another! Four men, walking in a staggered rank, each holding a weapon of some sort, each clad in pale blue.
Each wore a sort of helmet, each a sort of breastplate of dull blue, covering stomach and chest but not the arms. Below the waist each wore a skirt not unlike that of a Roman legionnaire with alternate panels of a thin metal.
Now they moved to the side until a good twenty feet separated them from one another.
Raglan moved back through the woods, turned and ran a short distance, then moved out of the trees into a jumble of rocks. He made no further effort to hide, sinking to one knee. He was wearing a beige jacket with several pockets, beige slacks, and a dark-green shirt. If he remained immovable there was not one chance in a hundred they would see him, as his clothing merged perfectly with the background. Nevertheless, he unbuttoned the strap across his gun butt.
They were searching, obviously. Searching for him or for Tazzoc? Or someone else?
For a moment he thought of opening fire, yet suppose they were only some outfit making a movie?
The nearest one was all of fifty yards away now, a man of about his own height but seemingly lighter in weight. These, he guessed, were the Varanel, the Night Guards of Shibalba.
One of them turned his head and looked right at him, but seemed to see nothing. Careful not even to blink an eye, although it could not be seen at the distance, Raglan watched the men walk past. Suddenly, as if on command they stopped, moved out in a half circle, and then moved forward.
They had seen the nearest sweathouse. Moving slowly, weapons lifted, they converged upon it.
They gathered around it, unable to decide what it was, no doubt thinking it some sort of a dwelling.
No, not that. They would know what it was if they had any memory of the past, for it was at least possible the Anasazi had used something of the kind.
They stood together, talking. From time to time they scanned the rock walls of the canyon. Suddenly, Raglan heard the distant mutter of a plane. Not many flew over here, but there were always a few. It was coming closer.
The Varanel had scattered, staring up at the sky. One saw the plane, and pointed.
Amazed, they scattered out a bit more, all staring at the distant plane. Then they drew together. Even at this distance he could hear the low mutter of their voices. Then, as one man, they darted for the shelter of the trees. Now he could no longer hear them, and could scarcely see one of them.
Where had they come from? Out of that shimmering haze? Was that the opening? How many of the Varanel were there? If they were to be the enemy he must know more about them, and it was obvious they had come here hunting for someone. Raglan suspected they had followed Tazzoc, but perhaps they had been sent for him.
They looked to be tough, capable men, and he was not inclined to underrate a possible enemy, particularly one of whom he knew so little. Feared men they obviously were, but for what reason he could not know or even guess at this point.
Mike Raglan considered himself no hero. He had no desire to risk his life for Erik Hokart but he was compelled by the realization that if he did not do what he could, he would be forever haunted by the man he had deserted when in dire need.
Assessing the situation, Raglan found nothing in it to please him. He had no allies. Gallagher could not be considered as such, for he was quite simply an officer doing his duty. He might seriously try to find Hokart, might even believe the story Raglan offered, but his help would only be here and upon this plane, when it fell within his jurisdiction. In Gallagher’s place Mike would undoubtedly have done the same.
What of Eden Foster? Who or what she was he did not know. He believed her an enemy. He had seen in her house the book stolen from his condo, which indicated a connection. That she was intelligent was obvious. And she had somehow managed to establish connections with important people, none of whom would be inclined to believe anything against her, especially anything as preposterous as his story would be.
He heard no sound from the trees. The Varanel had either gone on down the canyon or were crouching there, waiting. Did they know about planes? Had they anything of the kind themselves? How different was their world?
Kawasi had told him little, but Tazzoc had talked readily enough and Mike had been reading between the lines as he talked. Yet, were his conclusions correct?
His best chance was to remain right where he was. Glancing back in the direction from which the Varanel had come, he could see nothing different. Either the shimmering in the air had ceased or he was positioned wrong to see it.
Where was Tazzoc? He had left some time before, as quickly as he had come, but where was he now? If he were discovered it would be the end of him.
A Keeper of the Archives! What a lot he might know! Yet he said there was little or no interest in them, and he was virtually a forgotten man, called upon for nothing, ignored in his forgotten little corner.
That implied a decadent civilization, a declining culture, yet there had been nothing decadent about the Varanel. They had moved with precision and with care, and when the plane appeared they had immediately taken cover.
Suddenly, he saw them again. They came from the trees, their weapons in their hands, moving forward, some fifty yards separating them now. One of them came abreast of him at not more than fifty yards, but although his head and eyes were continually moving, Raglan was not seen. He crouched, pistol in hand, waiting.
They went on by, neared a wall of rock, and closed ranks, then disappeared.
He waited several minutes, then moved into the trees. Once there, he stood against a tree trunk and waited, watching. He could see no movement, and he could hear nothing. He holstered his pistol and moved back into the woods. He must find a way out, and get back to the ruin on the mesa.
Raglan was discouraged. He had hoped in the canyon he believed was Johnny’s Hole to find an opening into the Other Side that was unknown to them, but apparently there was no such place. No sooner had he appeared than the Varanel were there. Had they known of his coming?
Wherever he looked he found sheer cliffs of rocks difficult to climb, or places too visible from the valley floor. He needed a place where he could climb unseen, and unexposed to attack.
He found it at last, a narrow way to the top, yet it was almost dark when he sighted the ruin. Suddenly, he had a bad feeling about it. Standing beside a juniper, he looked across the rocky waste and studied it with doubt. His decision was made on the instant. He was closer to his car. He would go there. In all this time Chief had stayed close and quiet, only at times voicing a deep rumbling growl in his chest, but usually pressing against him as if in warning.
Now Chief, sensing his objective, moved toward the car and, when he made sure no enemy waited, stood beside the door.
As quietly as possible, Raglan unlocked the door and got in, motioning Chief up beside him. He locked the doors, then started the car and moved out. A backward glance in the mirror showed nothing behind him, and in the gathering darkness the ruin was no longer visible.
He passed no other cars upon the highway, once he reached it, and turned toward the town, wanting to return to Tamarron but giving up the idea in favor of the chance of seeing Gallagher again. He returned to the motel where he often stopped, left his car, and walked down to the café.
Novel 1987 - The Haunted Mesa (v5.0) Page 15