There was a circular trapdoor in the floor, painted in the blacks and oranges common in pueblo art. Around this, the chiefs and their wives gathered. Ordinarily women were not permitted within the kivas, not even in a matriarchal society as that of the Cibolans. Kivas were places for the men—the decision makers of the clan—to deliberate. But this was a special ceremony that might only occur once every several generations, and the fate of them all rested upon what was about to happen.
Tohotavo began conducting his ceremony, sprinkling the ground with corn and pasting the faces of Mankanang, Xuthala and the other royal members with cornmeal. He waved feathers of turkey and eagle and shook his necklace of shell and bone. He blew his flute as the covering was pulled back from the sipapu; the hole-like aperture in the centre of the room that was supposedly the entrance to the subterranean kingdom.
All were silent as the black maw gaped at them. The end of an ancient looking rope ladder could be seen vanishing into the darkness below. Air, old and musty, rushed out to meet them and made the flames flicker and dance wildly. It smelled damp down there. And dead.
The chiefs were the first to enter, each taking a brand from the fire with them to light their way. It took them some time before they called up from the bottom to say that they had lit the first beacons. Then the descent of the Cibolans began.
It took an age for the outlander’s turn to arrive. Women and children and priests and supplies all took precedence, and Lazarus could feel the tension in his comrades as they stood by, waiting to plunge into the unknown world. Even Captain Townsend and her rebels who had spent a good part of the last few years underground appeared a little on edge at the prospect of placing their trust in a people they didn’t know. Nobody knew better than they that subterranean tunnels were dangerous places that required meticulous checks and adherence to safety regulations to prevent structural collapses.
Finally, when there was nobody else left in the kiva but the outlanders and Kokoharu, who remained as their usher into this new realm, they began their own descent. Pahanatuuwa and Kokoharu went first, then Vasquez, who grinned like a Cheshire cat at being the first non-Cibolan to set foot in the sacred kingdom of the gods. Townsend and her partisans held back, still not sure about the whole business, which just left Lazarus and Katarina.
“After you, Madam,” said Lazarus.
She snorted at his chivalry and swung down the rope ladder. He clambered after her and arrived at the bottom in a pool of orange light. Pahanatuuwa and Kokoharu waited at the entrance to a long tunnel; the rest of the Cibolans having gone on ahead. They had left several sacks and bundles of supplies at the entrance for them to carry. Lazarus stood aside to let Captain Townsend down, and allowed his eyes to linger perhaps a little too long on the shape of her backside beneath the tight material of her blue cavalry trousers. He had rarely seen women in trousers before, and the sight was surprisingly invigorating.
“Ow!” he cried as the bundle of rifles Katarina had picked up swung against his ear.
“So sorry, Longman,” she said. “It’s a bit cramped in here.”
They headed down the tunnel which, unlike the tunnels of the Unionist Partisans, had been gouged entirely by hand. Steps were cut into the floor at occasional intervals, and Lazarus wondered how many generations of Cibolans had toiled underground, building these passageways. The walls were painted with images of kachinas and wild angular patterns of black, white and orange.
There was a lot of light at the end of the tunnel, and the sound of voices. The first sign that they were entering a different world was the change in texture of the walls. The murals were still present, but they were no longer painted. Instead, they had been carved out of some dark stone. The shadows were deep, and the highlights were sea-green where the light of the torches caught them.
“Turquoise…” said Vasquez, running his hands over the carven bricks that lined the passageway.
“And the floor!” cried Townsend. “It’s… it’s…”
They all looked down. The ground was dusty and lain with slabs of some substance softer than rock that muffled their footsteps. It had a dull sheen to it, but when a torch was held close it glimmered as if it held some potent power. Nobody said the word, as if afraid that to speak it aloud would cause all before them to dissipate in a cloud of vapor. Besides, the sight that greeted them as they exited the passageway had knocked all powers of speech from them. They had truly entered another world.
A large temple lay before them, hidden in a cavern that had been carved over hundreds of years. The ceiling was a black void above them and none could see how high it was. But it was high enough to cover a building the size of a museum or a large bank on Fleet Street. It rose, tier upon tier, lit from beneath by controlled fires that made every surface shimmer and gleam. Bricks the size of sheep had been laid on top of one another, made from the same substance as the floor in the tunnel.
“Gold,” said Lazarus finally and the others flinched, still fearing that it might all be whipped away from them like a bad joke.
“My God,” managed Vasquez. “It really does exist after all.”
“It’s unreal…” said Captain Townsend. “Such wealth, just sitting here beneath Arizona…”
“These temples are usually forbidden to all but our chiefs and priests,” said Pahanatuuwa. “Gold is the color of the sun and is a sacred metal to my people.”
“Temples?” asked Captain Townsend. “There’s more than one of these?”
“Seven such as this. One for each city. One for each spiritual direction.”
“Seven…” she whispered in a hoarse voice.
“You knew?” Vasquez asked his friend. “You knew the golden cities were real and you never told me?”
Pahanatuuwa replied in Navajo, and Lazarus took his reply to be along the lines of, ‘So what? Would it have made a difference if I had?’ He could understand that. This gold belonged to his people and none other.
The Cibolans had been making themselves at home within the temple itself, spreading out blankets, lighting fires and feeding their children. Mankanang and Xuthala had taken residence at the head of the temple, and Pahanatuuwa’s brother looked even more the proud king, surrounded by his subjects within a palace of gold. They ate, and then attended an audience with the chiefs.
While the chiefs and the priests gabbled away, Lazarus let his eyes wander around the temple. He had a sudden thought. “These blocks were smelted and cast,” he told Katarina. “But the North American tribes didn’t have that level of metallurgy until well after this place could have been constructed.”
“This valley has been isolated for so long,” said Katarina. “Maybe they learned the methods independently.”
“Or brought them from some other place. The Hopi have some links to the Aztecs of Mexico, particularly their language. The Aztecs smelted gold. Perhaps the Cibolans were an offshoot of that culture, much like the Hopi were, and migrated north. Only the Cibolans remembered their metallurgy whereas the Hopi forgot it.”
The scholar in him was so interested in the temple itself and the culture of the people who built it that he hadn’t been paying any attention to what was being discussed at the council. Pahanatuuwa was explaining the logic behind the decision to move beneath the earth.
“Each temple is connected by a series of tunnels,” he said. “We can stay hidden and strike out at Reynolds from any of the Seven Cities, and disappear before he can retaliate.”
“It’s undoubtedly an advantage,” agreed Lazarus. “But we have to be bloody careful none of the enemy gets wise to where the entrances to this underground kingdom lie. If Reynolds were to get his troops down here, these temples would quickly become tombs.”
“Quite right. That is why only select warriors will be chosen to go on raids. And you outlanders must remain hidden.”
“Now wait just a minute, pal,” said Vasquez. “I’m not going to sit down here on my rump while Reynolds cuts you fellas to pieces topside.”
“Its orders from the chiefs,” said Pahanatuuwa, his face apologetic. “It was a hard decision for them to allow you all down here in the first place. It has just been decided that no white man must ever leave the kingdom of the kachinas.” He glanced at Lieutenant Thompson. “Or black for that matter.”
“What!” exclaimed Captain Townsend, speaking for them all. “You can’t keep us down here indefinitely! We’re not your prisoners.”
“No you’re not,” Pahanatuuwa agreed. “You are our guests and must abide by our laws. Nobody defies the chiefs. This is done for your protection and for the protection of our civilization. They risked all by allowing outlanders to leave the valley before, and they came back in stronger numbers with weapons of unholy power. The chiefs want to end it now. The invaders must be killed and you, my friends, must never leave the valley.”
“Now you just tell your damned chiefs…” began Vasquez, his face red, but Pahanatuuwa was already walking away. Kokoharu had slipped her arm around him and, with a final apologetic glance, he left them standing there gaping.
“Well, of all the…” began Vasquez. “He sure has returned to his people, hasn’t he?”
That night there was dancing by the priests to ward off the invaders. Their shadows were thrown up by the flames of the fires against the gold walls, and they leaped around causing a kaleidoscope of crazy images that made the outlanders feel like they were in a bad fever dream. The ecstasy they had experienced at finding that the myth of the golden cities was real had evaporated at the reality of their situation. They were in a gilded prison, in the very literal sense of the term. Lazarus could take no more and went for a walk around the cavern to clear his head.
He breathed the damp underground air deeply, trying to picture clear mountain views or even the fug of London to stave off his growing feeling of claustrophobia. Guards patrolled a perimeter around the edges of the cavern, and scouting parties were investigating the tunnels and reporting back regularly. He followed the wall of the temple around to see how far back it went. As he passed a pillared room, he heard the voices of Captain Townsend and her lieutenant engaged in a heated discussion.
“Not long ago you were all for leaving this valley,” Captain Townsend was saying. “You thought I was chasing a fairy tale, as I recall.”
“That was before we found all this gold buried underground!” Thompson argued.
“So now what? You want to stay and play friendly with these people?”
“For the time being. Until we can figure out a way to ship this gold north to the Union.”
“The Union…” said Townsend with bitterness. “The Union would only spend it on war machines and guns. Just a sack full of this stuff would buy up three orphanages.”
“Orphanages? Does your plan for the partisan movement end there? I appreciate that you are driven by the memories of your childhood…”
“Aren’t we all, Lieutenant? Don’t pretend to me that you joined the partisans due to anything but your resentment at growing up on a slave plantation. The only difference between you and I is that your people were freed by an amendment to the constitution. Children still work as slaves in factories and mines paid for by the Confederate government—beaten and malnourished, choked by soot, losing fingers in machinery, living in such cramped conditions that they develop deformed spines—it’s sickening, and we can end it all in Arizona Territory with just a fraction of the wealth here.”
“Captain—Theresa—please, think for a moment. Even if we could wrestle some of this gold from these people, everything we take belongs to the Union, not to your personal liberation fund. The rest of the men have been grumbling about your leadership. They think you are losing your way.”
“I am still your Captain,” Townsend snarled. “And you will address me as such. I decide what is to be done with the profits our unit makes. And if you or anybody under my command insists on refusing to follow my orders, then I suggest that you all damn well stay out of my way.”
Lazarus blinked in surprise. He knew Thompson wasn’t a cold-hearted man, just loyal to his precious Union. Townsend was no tyrant, but her passion for her cause had turned her into a single-minded woman teetering on the brink of madness. This argument was a continuation of the one he had used to his advantage before their escape at the partisan base. Perhaps this friction between captain and lieutenant had been going on for quite some time now. That was dangerous. With enemies all around, splintering in the ranks now was something to be avoided at all costs.
Chapter Fourteen
In which a member of the party escapes
“Well perhaps you ladies and gents are content to keep your backsides in the shade,” said Vasquez, “but that’s my pal out there leading the advance and I ain’t gonna let him take a bullet for me.”
They were at the foot of the ladder that led up to the kiva in the northern city. Lazarus, Vasquez, Katarina, Thompson and a collection of partisans had accompanied the assault force that Pahanatuuwa had led down to the river. They may be forbidden from leaving the underground kingdom, but Lazarus for one wasn’t going to let that stop him from aiding the Cibolans in any way he could. So, they had carried weapons for the warriors and seen them off, waiting to receive wounded on their return.
Lazarus was aware of Thompson’s eyes staring at him in the dark. He knew the man didn’t trust him, much less like him or any of their present company. The three men in blue uniforms at his back kept their hands on their pistols, nervous at being divided from the rest of their group. Captain Townsend had led a secondary unit through the tunnels towards the ruins of the eastern city, to hold the gateway open should the Cibolans be forced to retreat that way.
“I’m gonna go up and take a peek,” said Vasquez. He put one foot on the bottom rung of the ladder.
Kokoharu stepped forward, her dark eyes alive with warning. She had accompanied them to await the return of her beloved Pahanatuuwa and to keep the outlanders in check should they decide to defy the ruling of the chiefs.
“I appreciate your concern, doll,” Vasquez said, “but we both love that big fella and if you could understand a word I’m saying, you’d know that I only have his best interests at heart.”
“I don’t advise it, Vasquez,” said Lazarus. “She might tell the chiefs, and then what sort of bother would we be in?”
“I’m only going up to that kiva thing of theirs and taking a look-see. I won’t cause no trouble and Kokoharu here is a sweet thing ain’t ya? She won’t tell.”
He winked at her and she watched him ascend the ladder, her eyes filled with frustration. They stood back as a shower of red dust floated down in the wake of his scrabbling boots. They waited some time until they heard Vasquez call down to them; “Hey, limey! Get your ass up here!”
“That foolish bastard will have us all executed or some damn thing,” said Thompson.
Lazarus ignored him and climbed up the ladder, ignoring also the voiced concerns of Kokoharu. She followed him up into the kiva. Lazarus made his way over to the door where Vasquez was leaning, keeping himself in the shadows and peering through his telescope.
“Take a peek,” he said, handing the brass instrument to Lazarus.
Reynolds’s troops had begun the construction of a bridge over the river that sealed the northern city off from their advance. The destruction of this bridge was the object of the Cibolan attack, and through the grimy lens of the telescope Lazarus could see that they were having a rough time of it.
“It’s an almighty skirmish,” said Vasquez. “I wouldn’t call it a battle ‘cause Hok’ee ain’t dumb enough to lead a full-on attack. He’s hitting them hard and fast and vanishing again, but they’ve been quick to retaliate.”
He was right. Even from their position high on the northern cliff face, Lazarus could see the Cibolan bodies littering the river. The bridge still stood, and Confederate troops were heading into the trees to flush them out. A large group of mechanicals had made its way between the Cibolans and their exit line.
&
nbsp; “They’ve been cut off!” said Lazarus. As he said it, there was an enormous explosion from one of the Confederate batteries that knocked down several trees in a shower of earth.
“Holy Christ!” exclaimed Vasquez. “It’s over. There’s no standing up against that firepower. If they can’t make it back here then they’ll head towards the eastern city to Townsend and her people.”
“We should head over there and help them. There’s nothing to be done from here.”
Kokoharu danced from one foot to the other in anxiety, knowing that something was terribly wrong but not understanding what. Lazarus took her by the arms and tried to explain that they had to make for the eastern city. He wasn’t sure if he got through to her or not and had no more time to spend on the matter, for soon Townsend’s group would be receiving the first of the wounded.
They fled through what felt like an endless warren of tunnels. The underground kingdom was more than just the seven golden temples connected by single passageways. There were a myriad of storerooms, dwellings, kivas and other nooks and crannies, the purpose of which was unknown to Lazarus. Kokoharu did them proud however, clearly having taken his meaning. She led the way, her fleet feet pounding down the stone floors like she was a hare fleeing the hunter.
They found the tunnels near the eastern city in a bloody nightmare of confusion. They pressed themselves against the walls as rebels and Cibolans ran past bearing wounded on woven pallets. The air was hot and dense, and the close confines made the voices and screams a cacophony of ear-splitting noise.
“There’s too many people here!” cried Vasquez. “These tunnels are liable to become choked up. Where the hell is Townsend?”
There were plenty of bluecoats but no sign of their leader. Pahanatuuwa squeezed passed, his right arm still smoking. Vasquez grabbed him. “Condolences, pal!” he roared in his ear. “We’ll get that bridge another time. Just tell us what to do.”
“Fall back to the northern temple,” the Cibolan replied. “We have enough to carry the wounded and to seal the exit.” His eyes searched for Kokoharu and found her already tending to a man riddled with bullets in a nearby enclave. He barked something at her and she threw him a sour glance. Evidently she wasn’t prepared to give up on her patient just yet.
Golden Heart (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles) Page 12