“And you have not? Your father did not, nor your grandfather?”
Tazzoc was uneasy. “There was said to be another place of Archives, forbidden to us. Some said it was only a tale, that such a place did not exist. It was a place for The Voice when long ago people had to go to its temple, a journey of many days. Then The Voice came closer and lived in the Forbidden area. A pilgrimage was no longer needed.”
A temple where The Voice had been, an ancient place for archives, now abandoned. Could that be the place? Certainly, such a place would not have been casually built. Might there not be another opening there? A permanent one?
The old cowboy from Flagstaff might have gotten through near such a place and found the gold, and a way he could use at certain times.
“Tazzoc, I must come to your world. I must help my friend escape. If he does not, others will come and your world will end. Men of great power desire his return, and if they do not find him soon, they will be searching these hills. I have told this to the woman, Eden Foster.
“If there is violence, your precious Archives may be destroyed. I do not wish that, nor do you. If you could help me, we could save them, possibly even bring them back to our world where they would not gather dust but would be studied.”
Tazzoc was silent for a long time. Finally, he shook his head. “I do not know. I wish the Archives saved, but to free your friend? It is impossible. Nobody would dare such a thing, and you are but one man.…”
“One man can often succeed where many would fail. You see,” Mike added, “our scholars would like to know what happened to what we call the Anasazi after their return to your world. They seemed a good people, a people who were progressing toward something important. In your Archives there would be records, perhaps, of what they did and what they thought. This is important to us. The Anasazi had learned much of building and were learning more. They had become skillful farmers within the bounds of what was possible for them. No doubt, had they not been attacked by nomadic Indians they would have survived the drought and expanded their irrigated areas. They would have expanded their trade, also, and exchanged ideas and farming methods with the Maya.”
Tazzoc got to his feet. “I have been too long away. Much as I wish it, I cannot help. I know nothing, and I speak with few. If questions were asked I would be seized and questioned.”
He paused. “This much I can do. I can bring a cloak such as this, and shoes such as mine. I can show you the portal through which I go, and the route I take. The rest is up to you.”
When Tazzoc had gone, Raglan sat alone, thinking. So, then. He was going. It was no longer a vague idea, no longer something about which to think. It was up to him now.
But what of Erik? What was he doing? Mike could not believe he was not thinking, contriving, planning. What materials could he find? What subterfuge could he employ? Would he try to escape? To communicate?
He’d told Mike that as a boy he had made a crystal wireless set. Could he do it now? Would radio waves cross the divide between the two worlds? What was he doing over there? Or was he doing anything? Was it possible for him to help Mike, or himself?
Above all, what did they know? What science did they have? What were the weapons the Varanel carried? What was their range?
His life depended on the answers to his questions. His life, and who knew how many others’? What were they thinking of, beyond that veil? What evil awaited him?
Chapter 25
*
MIKE RAGLAN DECIDED that if he were Erik, and a prisoner of those who had no reason to keep him alive, his first thought would be escape. If immediate escape seemed out of the question, he would try to convince his captors he was worth more alive than dead.
The authority to whom he must appeal would be The Hand, but if he could not be reached, then the Varanel.
From what Kawasi and Tazzoc had said, a watch was kept on everyone. How this was done he did not know, but Erik’s knowledge was electronics, so if he could convince them he could build equipment useful to them, he might be kept alive. He might also gain access to equipment useful in an attempt to escape or communicate. But what if they already possessed methods superior to any he knew?
After all, our world had progressed along certain well-trodden paths of inquiry, but were they the only ones? Our thinking had been channeled into courses assumed to be the only avenues of communication, but what if there were others of which we knew nothing?
Suppose their methodology was entirely different? The Newtonian conception of physics, for example, has been completely upset by Einstein, first, and then by the quantum theory. Nor will this be the end. Of one thing only can we be sure: What is today accepted as truth will tomorrow prove to be only amusing.
The Anasazi had returned to a world they had previously fled, but no doubt many had remained behind, and the two had combined to produce what now lay just beyond the window in the kiva.
Some, probably those who had returned, had abandoned the world they found and gone to the mountains, where they had carried on much as they might have in our world.
What was the evil they had fled? It would be simple to suggest something tangible such as a monster of some sort, a plague, or encroaching enemies, yet was that actually the fact?
Had the evil been religious practices such as those known to the Aztec and the Maya, where human sacrifices ran into the thousands and the stench of their bloodstained altars, like those of the Carthaginians, had to be overcome by incense?
Or was the evil something more subtle, such as religious bigotry and ignorance? For those who sacrificed the hearts of thousands to keep the sun in the sky no doubt believed themselves right and correct in what they were doing.
What he seemed to be facing was an autocratic government ruled by The Hand, and supported by the Varanel, a small military clique of superbly trained fighting men. These had succeeded in keeping control by restricting exploration, ideas, and the world in which they all lived, but such rulers were apt to be highly suspicious, paranoid, and fearful of strangers and the ideas they might import.
Erik was an intelligent, perceptive man. He would undoubtedly grasp the situation immediately and begin planning their escape. He had used the plural, had spoken of “us,” which implied he was not alone. Although that did not necessarily mean a woman, it was a fairly safe bet it was.
Was she a prisoner also? Did they know about her? Or was she an outside ally upon whom he might count for assistance?
Erik would be a prisoner somewhere in the Forbidden area. This large block of structures was restricted, it seemed, to the use of The Hand, the Lords of Shibalba, and the Varanel. Judging by the comments of Tazzoc, only a part of this block of structures was in use and many areas had been abandoned, such as the Hall of the Archives. Tazzoc was no doubt accepted as one of the servants who occupied themselves in maintaining the area.
So then, Mike must gain entry to the Forbidden area, examine one of the plans, locate the place where Erik was held, break him out, and escape.
Simple enough to frame in words—quite something else to accomplish.
First, Tazzoc must bring him the costume. Then he must study and rehearse walking like Tazzoc, with Tazzoc’s stoop-shouldered carriage. Once inside the Hall of Archives he must go to the shelves of maps, find those needed, and study them. Once he knew where to go he must move quickly, careful to arouse no suspicion, and free Erik. Then they had to get away, and an escape route must be planned before that time.
No matter how much they might try to avoid being seen, they must expect pursuit. That was where Volkmeer would be useful. He could stand by the window and stop any pursuit.
If only Mike could communicate with Erik, get word to him somehow to let him know what was planned, or to discover what he himself was doing, if anything.
He tried to consider every possibility, yet even as he considered the situation coolly, he was frightened, appalled at what he was about to do.
He was going into an enemy area without ad
equate intelligence, no knowledge of their capabilities or weapons, and in a place where he would be quickly identified as a stranger. He would be one man against thousands, one man alone.
Of course, if possible, Erik would try to communicate with him. Suddenly he remembered the sunflower on the dog’s collar, the sunflower on the sweater he wore.
Had that not been communication? But with whom? With Kawasi or someone else? Someone who was not only friendly but who had been able to pass through from the Other Side. Someone who had needed a pencil but had not known how to sharpen it.
Often before this, Mike had gone into dangerous country. There had been bandits in western China when he had been traveling there, and in other areas his motives had been suspected. He was investigating ancient mysteries but was often suspected of being a government agent or a spy for one faction or another.
More than once he had been in trouble, and in the process of knocking around he had picked up a variety of skills for protecting himself. He had a feeling he would need them all.
He checked his pistol, then his boot-knife. Another knife he slung down the back of his neck under his shirt.
The idea of the sunflower returned. These sunflowers were unlike those he had known in the Middle West, which were often as large as dinner plates. These were wild sunflowers and much smaller, but they grew everywhere. Obviously, they had some significance to the person who took the pencils and who had provided Erik with a sweater.
Raglan built a fire from the wood he had gathered, a small fire for coffee and comfort.
Where was Volkmeer? The old rancher no doubt had business to arrange before he could be gone for several days, but he should be along soon. The possibility that the old cowboy and miner he had known could have become well-off had never occurred to him. Yet why not? Volkmeer was a shrewd, patient man, who must have had ambitions, although he had never voiced them that Raglan could recall. Like many a western man, he had dabbled in mining, prospecting occasionally, and sometimes working a lease in some mine. Gold in the San Juan River Canyon had never appeared in paying quantities. Several mining ventures had been tried, only to fail because of the extremely small size of the flakes. Occasional pockets had been found, he supposed.
Chief was lying just inside the door of the ruin. Mike Raglan stepped around him and went into the night. It was very dark and very still.
The air was fresh and cool. The time was soon. If Tazzoc got back with the extra cloak, it would be time to move, yet he would see Eden Foster one more time. After all, he had given her forty-eight hours and she might accomplish something.
He looked off toward No Man’s Mesa. It lay dark and ominous, a little south and west of where he stood. The Hole would be almost due west, and perhaps a shade north. Suddenly there was a light pressure against his knee.
It was Chief. He dropped a hand to the big dog’s head and scratched the back of his ear. “I’m going to leave you here when I go,” he said. “If I don’t show up, you go find Gallagher. He’s a good man and he would treat you right.”
Come to think of it, Chief was probably the only one who would miss him—Chief and perhaps his agent. Somehow in traveling about the world, writing, thinking, he had not made friends. Acquaintances, yes. Temporary friends whom he probably would not see again, but no friends as such. He had no family, and had never had, for that matter. He was a man alone.
“When this is over, Chief, we’re going to change that. We’re going to settle down, establish ourselves and have some friends.”
He’d been busy, he told himself, and to have friends you had to stay someplace, put down roots. For a while back there, when he was a youngster working on the paper, he had been about to make friends. He hadn’t, though. He was an outsider there, too. He didn’t fit in. Wherever he’d gone, he had been a stranger. Conversations had a way of getting around to high school or college days, or to mutual associations in the town they were living in, and in all that he had no place.
“The truth of the matter is, Chief,” he said softly, ruffling the hair on the big dog’s neck, “if I didn’t come back, nobody would care very much.”
He walked back to the ruin, glancing around in the outer room, where the blueprints were gathering dust. He and Erik were two of a kind. If Erik had not thought to notify him, nobody would have known what happened to him. Although, apparently, that had changed for him over there, for when he had written of escaping he had said “us.” Somebody would be coming back with him. He was no longer alone.
It would be easier to cope with what lay on the other side if he knew more of what they believed. Basic beliefs are important, even when they are largely ignored. In our world, with each religious system there is a code of ethics or something of the kind, a sort of behavior that is considered right and just. To understand any people, one must have some idea where they are coming from, and so far he had nothing beyond obedience to The Hand, the Lords of Shibalba, and enforcement by the Varanel.
The moon was rising and the canyons were gathering deeper shadows. The river caught the moon’s reflection and gave it back to the sky. He built his fire up and listened, but there were no sounds in the night.
What could Erik do? Would he have access to materials? Could he construct some means of communication? Would anything of the kind work across the divide? Could he put together some kind of weapon? Had he been able to convince them that he could be important to them? Had he even tried? Was he given a chance even to talk? Above all, what was The Hand like? A superbrain? An ignorant man? A paranoid?
Eden Foster was his representative here, but was she the only one? Who controlled his goon squad?
Above all, what did The Hand want? A better spy system with which to watch his own people, no doubt, but information from here as well, and some equipment. Above all, he wanted no suspicion of their existence.
His own people were severely restricted in their movements, and no hint of dissension or the possibility of it was allowed to exist. Yet some of his people must know of the existence of those who had been followers of He Who Had Magic, such as Kawasi.
Mike liked having the old stone wall behind him. Liked the protection it provided. Yet he was uneasy, always uneasy.
Where was Volkmeer? And Gallagher?
Suddenly, his skin prickled. Something—something moved out there in the darkness.
Every sense alert, he waited. He had heard no car, seen no reflected lights. He touched the butt of his gun, and the feel of it was reassuring. He waited, listening.
And he heard it again.
Something was out there, something coming closer.
Over in the kiva, a small stone fell, rattled among rocks, then fell again.
Of course, a car might come without his hearing it. What of Gallagher that time?
Who, he wondered, were his enemies? Did he have any allies whom he could trust?
Gallagher, probably, and Volkmeer.
The thought left him empty. How much could they help? How much did they actually believe? Did they believe what he said, or were they just humoring him?
Stark black towers against the sky, island mesas, bathed in white moonlight. Not far to the south a place called Oljeto, meaning Moonlit Water. How well the Indians had named it!
The night was chill. He shivered. From the cold? Or because of something else out there? What was it that lurked in the shadows, sometimes heard but never seen? Was it those creatures, the Hairy Ones?
He would talk again to Tazzoc. He would listen to his voice, he would learn to imitate his walk, he would take the cloak with him, belt it as Tazzoc did, and with luck he could get into the Hall of the Archives and from there to the place where Erik was held.
He would go into that other world and he would find Erik, and when they returned they would blast this kiva, or close it off somehow. They had to, because somehow he knew there was something wrong over there, something twisted and strange.
He remembered Tazzoc suddenly, and how the old scholar had seemed to
revel in the knowledge of the secret doors and of the trapped men. Was it the cleverness of it? Or was there something more? Something evil, even in him?
He unrolled the sleeping bag but did not get into it. Instead, he lay down on top of it and pulled his windbreaker over him. A sleeping bag was fine but he couldn’t get out of it fast enough. And tonight he might have to.
Did the shadows move out there, or was it his imagination?
He got up again and added fuel to the fire, and then he lay down with a flashlight close to his hand, as well as the pistol.
What he needed was a good night’s sleep, and he would not get it tonight. Something moved, or was it the dancing of the flames? Had there been a shadow, a…
Chapter 26
*
TRUSTING TO CHIEF, at last he fell asleep. Several times the big dog growled, low and deep in his chest, but Mike Raglan slept on, unaware.
He awakened in the cold clear light of dawn, and looked beyond the thin tendrils of smoke rising from the ashes of his fire to the distant blue bulk of Navajo Mountain.
He lay there, hands clasped behind his head, just resting. These last few moments before rising often offered the best rest of the night. Lying there, he reviewed his situation and the moves remaining to him.
Today he would return to Tamarron and he would drive into town and talk to a banker whom he knew. If he did not come back from this venture, he wanted his affairs in order.
He must check at Tamarron to see if any messages awaited him. On his return he would visit Eden. The time might not be up, but he had decided he would wait no longer.
Both Erik and Kawasi knew of his place at Tamarron, as did his enemies, if such they could be called. He got up, shook out his boots, and put them on. The morning was incredibly beautiful. There was no movement on the river but he expected none. Few boats came this far up and the river runners passed quickly by. Glancing over at No Man’s, he saw its top bathed in sunlight, its base still deep in shadow. Ominous, but magnificent, too.
Novel 1987 - The Haunted Mesa (v5.0) Page 19