The Rider lost track of how long they prayed. When he had finished, the other man’s chanting continued, and intermingled with a low singing that arose from Piishi. He sat listening to their strange song, in a kind of wonder at it and at the coincidences of life that had brought the three of them here to this place. It was a song he knew had never been sung before and which he would never hear again. Though he did not understand it, he felt his eyes grow wet.
It ended abruptly, and the ensuing silence was deafening in its absence. Chaksusa rose and went into his hut, returning shortly with the means to treat their wounds: poultices, various herbal remedies and clean linen bandages. He ministered to Piishi in silence and the Apache stared into the fire and allowed it. When he was finished, Piishi stood and left the fire, moving back up the canyon trail with his rifle to keep watch.
“How did you know I was of the Sons of the Essenes?” the Rider asked, as Piishi moved to attend to his own cuts.
“My master instructed me in your traditions,” said Chaksusa, turning and inspecting his arm in firm, but smooth healer’s hands. “It was one of his Order who taught them to your Teacher of Righteousness.”
The Teacher of Righteousness, legendary founder of the Essene monastic sect from which his own secret merkabah order, the Sons Of The Essenes was descended, and “to whom HaShem made known all the mysteries of the words of His servants the prophets.”
The Rider met this claim with skepticism.
“And what’s the name of your master’s order?”
“These are things of other worlds,” said Chaksusa dismissively, “and no longer of much concern to this one. You know of the worlds within worlds, for you have ridden on the supernal winds and crossed the shadowy channels that flow to and from this plane. There are other worlds yet, Rider, beyond even the glorious heaven and deep hell that you know, and yet within their dominion, for all are the domain of the One. You shall see tonight that the universe is a home to many things strange and terrible, and you may know fear again.”
The Rider didn’t know what to say. Through his Solomonic lenses he could see that this man was flesh as he was, and no white-eyed shed sent by Lilith to beguile him. He had seen those serpentine things on the trail. They had not been spirits either, nor any demon he had ever encountered. They had given him much the same feeling as the invisible creature he had encountered in the abandoned mine on Elk Mountain in New Mexico two weeks ago; a feeling of disorientation. He had never expected to meet creatures such as this, did not quite understand their nature. How could such things be?
“What happened to those men on the trail?” He remembered Piishi’s words. “We were attacked by…Piishi said they were soldiers of the Black Goat Man.”
The Rider was reminded briefly of the Se’ir, the goat demon of the wastelands who took the scapegoat bearing the sins of Israel in ancient times.
“The Black Goat Man is the high priest of Shub-Niggurath, one of the false deities called the Great Old Ones, or more properly, The Outer Gods. They were worshipped by the people of K’n-yan in their blue-lit kingdom of Aztlan. This was in the days before their servants, the Mexica, were liberated and led to Texcoco by my master’s brother Mun Gsod, who then corrupted himself and was called Huitzilopochtli and worshiped as a god by those people. The Outer Gods are powerful beings of chaos who existed long before the creation of this universe. Shub-Niggurath is consort to Yig, a Great Old One, a serpent creature from another world in another universe, whose minions, The Cold Ones, ambushed your party on the trail.”
The Rider rejected this notion immediately. The Lord had created the universe in seven days, angel, man, and demon, and of such entities as this Chaksusa spoke there was no mention. He said as much.
“You know as well as I that in but one of the Creator’s days, lives without number may spawn, grow old, and die,” said Chaksusa. “Only God is absolutely eternal, yet there are things within creation which may span the ages. The various powers you yourself have had dealings with, for example. Conceive of this, Rider; it is said that God made this universe in seven of His days, yes. But as there are worlds within worlds, so too are their other universes. God rested on the seventh day, it is written. But Creation is unending, and His works are infinite. I present to you, that He took up His labors again on the eighth day, and that there were universes before and after this one. A new universe is born in fact, every seven of His days. This universe we inhabit is not the oldest, nor will it be the last.”
The Rider reflexively pulled his own beard. These were blasphemous precepts, unfit for his ears.
“Before you rend your garments,” Chaksusa said, putting up a creased and mollifying hand. “See that this contradicts nothing you believe. The Creator is a living God, as you who have stood so near His presence and felt the stirring of His breath, know. But as there is good throughout the universe, so too is there evil, and not all of its progenitors fall within the rank and file of your Adversary’s army.”
The Rider sat ordering his thoughts. Could this be true? He had seen what he had seen, and knew that those things on the trail were not of this world. He had also seen the invisible thing in the tunnel on Elk Mountain when it had shed its camouflaging skin. These were like no creatures he had ever seen this side of hell. Where else could these things have come from if not some other? Then there were the mentions of these Great Old Ones (or was it Outer Gods?) he had heard this past year, from varied mouths. There was this book of Zylac, with its alien glyphs and wards—one of which, the Elder Sign, he had even seen tattooed on man’s arm. Shub-Niggurath. That name had appeared in his readings of that text as well. But how was it the rest of the world knew of these things, and he did not? He felt his mind moving as he had not felt it move since first piercing the membrane between worlds. These things bordered on the same sort of blasphemy Adon had tried to teach him.
“I’ve heard the term ‘Great Old Ones’ before,” the Rider said carefully. “The high priest of a Molech cult I encountered mentioned them, and something about a coming Hour Of Incursion. Then a few months ago I encountered a clutch of dybbukim—wicked spirits who had escaped from the underworld of Sheol and possessed the body of a man. They said it was their task to clear the way for The Hour of Incursion. And then a man, who came to me with abilities like my own, he mentioned all this as well.”
Chaksusa frowned, and the corners of that frown deepened behind his beard.
“The knowledge of these outlaw beings has been kept secret since they were expelled to places of imprisonment eons ago.”
“Not a very well kept secret,” the Rider said dryly. “It seems like everybody I run into these days has something to say about them.”
“I had suspected in your planar travels you might have learned something of them, but not from other men.” Chaksusa sighed. “Their cults are spreading once more. Like your Canaanites returning to the worship of devils masquerading as gods, so too the religion which the Great Old Ones use to suppress their slaves is gaining strength again in the deserted places of the world. Such as here, in Red House.”
“What’s Red House?” the Rider ventured.
“The ruins of a citadel of a lost colony of the K’n-yan—an early human society from another world. They lived underground. This outpost broke off from the main kingdom to pursue their worship of The Not To Be Named One. It lies at the base of these mountains.”
The Rider blinked. Humans from another planet…it was not worth pursuing. But The Not To Be Named One…that seemed familiar.
“The Not To Be Named One?”
“Yes, The Mangum Innominandum. This is not the time to speak of that one,” Chaksusa said, waving his hands as if to dispel all mention of the name. “We must concentrate on the problem of Red House.”
“What’s the problem?” the Rider smirked. “Aside from snake men waylaying travelers?”
Chaksusa looked across the fire at him.
“Walk into the other world with me, and you will learn.”
&nb
sp; The Rider tensed.
“You are pursued by demons. They corrupt your food and your drink,” Chaksusa said. “The protection you bear is a double edge sword. Though they cannot attack you directly, you cannot perceive or drive them away either. In this way, they will kill you eventually. But they cannot pass here, within my presence. Here you are safe. Walk with me, and when this business is finished, I will do all I can to help you.”
The Rider nodded slowly. It was true that he didn’t feel that overhanging presence, the malignity that had traveled with him these past weeks. The knowledge of this made his eyes flutter. He wanted greatly to collapse and sleep, but he shook his head. What would it mean to lay down to sleep near this man? Who was he really? Before he lowered his every defense, he had to know.
The Rider was used to stepping between the shadows, and being a practiced hand, could do so almost with minimal effort. There was little he feared in the realm of spirit, but this instance was unique. He had not passed into the umbra accompanied by another living soul since his novitiate days, and never with a stranger. He still didn’t entirely trust the things this Chaksusa expounded upon. Maybe this man was a servant of the Adversary, or a mortal henchman of Lilith’s who had set a trap for him in the other world. He might even be tied to the Rider’s wayward master somehow.
He took the time to make preparations. Though he had not undertaken the usual three days’ fasting and prayer, he drew his Solomonic circle in the dust around himself now, and did not invite his host into it. In an hour’s time, after donning the phylacteries and reciting the ancient incantations and prayers, calling upon the protection of the Lord and his angels by name, he was at last ready.
Seated in the circle, all that he was slipped through the corona of his head into the night beyond night, like embers rising from the fire and dispersing.
* * * *
To Piishi, the two men had simply prayed themselves into the sort of dozing state he had seen holy men of his tribe undertake when communing with the spirits. Tats’adah and Rider Who Walks sat with their chins on their chests, Rider in his circle in the dirt and Tats’adah clutching his wooden beads, fingers interlaced in their magic way.
A draft blew down into the fissure, stirring the fire and dust. He knew their spirits were in the other place. He suddenly felt very much alone, and hugged his rifle to him, staring up the pass and thinking of his friends who had died in the darkness, their blood burning from the poison of the monsters.
He thought of them now as friends, but the man whom he had put down had been Navajo. On any other day they would have met as enemies. The Black Goat Man’s monstrous soldiers had been coming down and raiding the villages more than ever before, and the tribes had come together and sent some of the best fighters of their clans to go and see old Tats’adah. Piishi had never seen the strange old man before. He was not white, but he was not Indian or Mexican either. It was as if he was of no one people. The old men had known him when they were boys, it was said. Twelve times before he had come to their aid against the Black Goat Man, the thunderbirds, and the witches. So now he was called Tats’adah. Thirteen.
Piishi had come from a band of the Red People of the Chiricahua. Another man had come from the White Mountain people and another from the Lipans. They were all dead now. He glanced over his shoulder at the two holy men. Never had Tats’adah needed help before that he knew of. He wondered at the strange white man who knew the roads of the spirit world as he himself knew the arroyos and strongholds of this country. He wondered if he would live through this night.
* * * *
When the Rider opened his ethereal eyes to the strange colored mists of the Yenne Velt, he thought he had been somehow betrayed. The little canyon was filled as if it were an amphitheatre by dozens of spirits.
At first he thought they were the children of Lilith and her succubi, at last broken through the defense of Nehema’s rosette token and come to claim him, to draw and quarter his soul.
They were not demons. They were ghosts, nothing other than human. He should have perceived them before, even in the material world; should have paid attention to the shadows on the canyon walls unaccounted for, the preternatural coolness. His abilities really were fading.
They were the long-haired, death-pale shades of half naked Indians almost without exception, crouching silently, staring patiently with hollow, mournful eyes and sunken faces. Among them were scattered strong looking black men in antique dress; these wore bands of gold in their ears and laced tunics with long breeches and boots such as the Rider had seen worn in woodblocks. These men, who he guessed to be Moorish, wore ornamental daggers and stood with arms folded among the Indians, looking into the fire as though it were home.
One apparition stood out among them all. This was a tall European wearing an old Spanish helm and a war battered breastplate of fine though tarnished engraving. He wore a pointed, cultivated beard and drooping mustaches, filigreed with silver that bespoke experience, as did his dark, thoughtful eyes. He sported a rakish gold hoop in one ear, and girded about him was a fine baldric bearing a rapier whose gilded hilt was of swept, baroque design. A silver-chased matchlock pistol protruded from his sash.
More jarring than their antique appearance was their shared condition; all displayed the grievous wounds that rendered them ghosts. Some bore gaping, blackened musket holes where eyes had once ridden, and some had bellies slashed to ribbons and held ropes of draping organs. Some lacked limbs or fingers or ears or noses, and the most unfortunate were wanting of all and rolled or squirmed in the dirt like ecstatic Sikhs.
Yet they all shared one common wound, like a congregation of devotees self-scarred in some grisly ritual of eldritch adoration; they all had a ragged, bloody hole in their chests where their hearts should have been.
The Rider rose, as did the shimmering image of Chaksusa, and he motioned to the Rider as if to present the man in armor.
“Rider, in life, this was Don Amadeo Cifuentes de Arriaga,” said Chaksusa’s avatar.
The tall conquistador swept off his helm, revealing a bloody corona devoid of hair, flesh, and bone.
“Señor,” spoke the shade.
The Rider bowed his chin politely, unfazed by the man’s terrible mortal wound. He had seen its ilk before, and worse, in the war.
“Who are these?” the Rider asked, gesturing to the silent audience.
“These?” said Don Amadeo. “These are my charges. Men who, in my folly, I led to a shared death, and who have sought release from their unholy state for nearly two hundred years. I squandered my family’s wealth and lost my lands in foolish business ventures, you see, and so I came to New Spain seeking to redeem myself. But this was a young man’s adventure, and I had passed my prime. I followed Coronado north, up the river the Indians called the Nexpa to these lands in search of the fabled golden city of Cibola reported by Friar Marcos. When Coronado was wounded, I went with de Cardenas in search of the Tusayans, and I bloodied my hands at Tiguex when that villain Viegas raped a Tiwa woman and went unpunished.”
The Rider looked to Chaksusa, and around at the expectant spirits.
“How did you meet your end?”
“After Coronado followed the Turk up to Quivira and found nothing, he tricked the majority of the nobles into signing a petition to return to New Spain, so as to absolve himself of negligence. I was not one of the ones who signed. My Moors and I had not come for the blood of poor Indians. We had come for gold, and so we were understandably bitter on the road back to Mexico City. I blame my own greed for what befell us.
“We had four friars with us on the expedition. One, Padilla, had stayed behind in Quivira to preach to the Indians there. Among the others there was a man who claimed the title of friar yet was not recognized by the other monks. He was a hunchback named Mauricio, and claimed to have accompanied Estavanico years before and learned from the Zuni Indians of a fabulous underground treasure trove where the elusive native gold we had so long sought had been cached upon sight of ou
r expedition. He said it was beneath the ruins of Chichilticale, the old Red House fortress that borders the desert.
“I did not fully trust this Friar Mauricio, but he had with him a pair of old Querechos from the north country who corroborated his story. Friar Marcos had warned me that Mauricio was not a man of God, and had used the women that the Indians had given to Estavanico…harshly. Yet we were going home empty handed, and along the trail we found many young noblemen who had spent the winter garrisoned along the supply route. These hated Coronado and had won neither glory nor gold. Mauricio had a certain…intensity to him. He whipped these young men into a lather, filling their ears with talk of gold, and so they came to me, asking me to lead them. They didn’t want to share the wealth with Coronado or the crown, you see. We broke off from the main expedition somewhere south of Cibola, and I led twenty caballeros and these you see around you off in search of this treasure beneath Red House.
“Friar Mauricio was our guide, and we all thought him half-mad. There was talk that he had been tortured by the Zuni and found wandering in the desert. Knowing this, I think I made allowances for him, pitying his condition. He preached to those who would listen in the evenings, squatting in his dark robe among a circle of rapt listeners, gesturing wildly when he spoke of angels and hell. I think he fancied himself some desert prophet out of the Bible. One of the Indian converts came to me and told me he spoke blasphemies against Christ to the other nobles, but when I questioned him and his growing congregation, they denied this.
“Yet night after night it seemed that our camp grew further divided between the nobles and some of their slaves who followed Mauricio and his Querechos, and my Moors and Papago bearers. The Indians brought me a strange knife with a handle of lightning-struck wood, which they said was magic and was the only thing that would slay Mauricio. By the time we reached these mountains, even the Moors entreated me to kill him, citing some supernatural dread. I berated them openly, but secretly I had come to fear his influence. I was certain that if I killed the mad monk his followers would rise up against us, and I did not want to command slaves against my own countrymen in the desert.” Here the ghost paused, wrinkling his face as if to spit.
Merkabah Rider: The Mensch With No Name Page 16