The Beginning of Sorrows

by Gilbert, Morris

Con answered, “The man’s right. We can’t stay here, not even one night. No man should have to.” He turned to Niklas and Gildan, who were sagging against each other outside the doorway.

  “Tonight you’ll sleep. Tonight we’ll watch, and you can sleep.”

  Niklas bowed his head and wept.

  Chaco Wash, an indifferent stream fed by summer thunderstorms and starved by arid winters, meanders down northwest New Mexico from the San Juan River and peters out completely somewhere close to the Continental Divide. Ten or twelve miles of its wanderings came to be called Chaco Canyon, although it is really only a broad depression, from one-half to three-quarters of a mile wide with its deepest cut between mesas measuring about eight hundred feet. It is a desolate valley. Dull ocher and sienna sandstone rocks are the sole color palette. Pinon trees and tortured mesquites and stubborn desert grasses are the only textures. Haunting remains of long-dead peoples are the only evidence of a desiccated husk of life.

  A biting wind numbed Gildan Ives’s face as she forced herself to trudge wearily along the narrow trail. She had always heard that the night was darkest just before dawn, and now she could well believe it. No stars dotted the ebony canopy that draped itself over the desert, and she felt like a blind woman groping toward some sort of terrible disaster.

  Gildan had only thought that she felt old on her thirty-second birthday. Now she felt aged, weak, infirm. She had never been in any sort of condition to undertake such a journey. Niklas was a little better off; he appeared to have a measure of natural stamina. But Gildan had no reserve, no natural strength of body or will or mind. She was, perversely, a little peeved at Fire Team Eclipse. They were all so tightly conditioned, so confident, so controlled, so resolute.

  They even laugh sometimes, she thought irritably. How can they laugh and make jokes? They must not have been through the awful, horrid things I’ve been through . . . but it does seem that they would at least have the courtesy to—to give me a little more care and compassion!

  Actually, the team did care for her. They made sure that she didn’t harm herself, and they had allowed her to pack her belongings onto one of the heavily laden burros. They had given her and Niklas more water than their own allotments. But no, they had not babied Gildan, which was what she really wanted.

  That slayer Ric Darmstedt has tried to be nice once or twice, Gildan reflected bitterly, but it seems like that snooty Israeli woman just won’t leave him alone . . . He’d do better to forget her—she’s like a Ultimate Reality Cy-warrior—and concentrate on a real flesh-and-blood lady in distress . . .

  And Niklas, after two nights away from that horrid crypt, had reverted to his usual thoughtless self. He walked with Gildan and sometimes seemed to be trying to help her, but mostly he was moody and uncommunicative.

  Gildan sighed deeply, and it came out as a soft moan. Every joint and muscle in her body ached, and the bleakness of the night quenched her spirit. She longed to simply lie down and sleep. “I don’t think I can go on much longer, Niklas.”

  “You don’t have any choice.” He spoke with absentminded curtness. Niklas was reflecting that he had managed to withstand this journey because he’d done some hiking and rock-climbing on some of his diversionary retreats.

  Like that trip to the nameless Caucasus mountain, where I found the greatest treasure that man has ever known . . . , he thought bitterly. Or so I thought. I know this whole scourge is my ohm-bug . . .What did you do, Alia?

  What did I do?

  They had traveled at a torrid pace, always by night, and now they were ascending the last line of jagged sandstone hills just to the west of the Anasazi ruins and the mesas where herds of wild mustangs roamed. Or at least David Mitchell had so assured them. He had also stoutly maintained that if there were horses, there was water. The team seemed to accept this from the young sergeant as if it were a known fact, though Niklas had recovered enough of his natural rebellion to grumble about it. Still, here they were, and they had nowhere else to go. Especially Gildan and him.

  Gildan Ives stumbled and would have fallen if Niklas had not grabbed her arm and held her. Ordinarily Niklas had little sympathy for anyone except himself, but unexpectedly he felt a stab of pity for Gildan. Any virtue from the sentiment was marred, however, as he also felt a superior sense of pleasure to know that somewhere hidden under his strata of selfishness a little pity for someone else still survived. “You can make it, Gildan,” he said stoutly. “Don’t give up.”

  All the members of the small party were filthy, and their water had run low so that thirst had become a torment. The soldiers had endured this stoically, and as Gildan had so bitterly reflected, even made acidic jokes about it sometimes. But Gildan’s tongue felt swollen in her mouth and her lips were cracked. She had drunk the last of her water and was too ashamed to ask for some of Niklas’s share, which he probably wouldn’t give her anyway. The ground was sandy and the sand poured into her low quarter shoes. Grabbing onto Niklas’s arm, she had to stop, balance herself as best she could on one leg like a wild stork, and shake the rock out.

  “I’d give anything for a bath,” she mourned. “I’ve never been so dirty in my life! I didn’t know there was so much dirt in the world!”

  “A bath!” Niklas laughed harshly. “I think that’s the least of our worries. If I had a bath, I’d drink it dry.”

  “Ma’am? Are you all right?” Vashti Nicanor’s polite voice sounded behind them. Tonight she was the “pickup man,” which meant walking last, leading the burros. Gildan thought it was an oddly apt name for Colonel Vashti Nicanor.

  “I had a rock in my shoe,” Gildan answered stiffly.

  “Are you all right now?”

  “No, I’m not. I’m tired to death and thirsty and filthy and my foot is killing me.” Gildan hated herself for sounding so petulant, but something about this calm and competent woman made her want to screech long and loud.

  “I am sorry, Miss Ives. But we must move on. I’ve lost sight of Lieutenant Darmstedt.” Ric was walking just ahead of Niklas and Gildan.

  “I doubt that very seriously,” Gildan snapped, then walked ahead with such a flounce that Vashti reflected dryly that of all Gildan’s ills at least her foot must feel better.

  Finally Con Slaughter called a halt to confer with David Mitchell. “It’s almost daylight, Sergeant Mitchell. We’re going to have to make a hole here pretty quick. What do you think?”

  The rest of the team gathered around, while Gildan curtly agreed to hold the burros while Vashti conferred with the team. Niklas sank to the ground. Actually, she liked the little burros, as she did all animals. She petted Cookie’s soft nose and whispered baby talk to him.

  “All I can tell you, sir,” David was saying as he closely perused his map by a pencil-fine red flashlight, “is that I’ve noted that what seems to be the largest herd runs most often in the northeast quadrant of the canyon.”

  “Okay, switch off the light,” Con said cautiously. He turned and considered the relatively low and gentle slope they faced. With quick decision, he said, “No time for a recon and report, so let’s double-time it up to the top of this hill. Maybe there’ll be a shelter close enough in a northeast line so we can head that way and find water before we have to dig in.”

  “Sounds good, Captain,” Rio Valdosta said. He took a deep breath and eased the straps of his heavy pack for a moment. When Slaughter effortlessly trotted off, he was right at his side. The others hurried to keep up. In the rear, the raw hacking of Gildan Ives’s rough breathing sounded as loud as a blaring horn to the fire team.

  They had almost reached the top when David Mitchell half whispered, “Captain Slaughter.”

  “What?”

  “Can’t you smell that, sir?”

  Slaughter sniffed the air carefully. “I don’t smell anything except myself, Sergeant. What is it?”

  “Smoke, sir. Wood smoke.”

  Instantly Slaughter ordered, “Everyone down!” He threw himself down flat, and the rest of the team was
belly-down in an instant. Vashti, as pickup man and mule driver, was still near the bottom of the slope. Quickly she led the burros back down to the bottom and lined them up in single file across the shallow gorge of the hill’s base. It wasn’t much cover, but it was the best she could do in a hurry. Then she flattened herself in the sand, too. Niklas was slower than the soldiers, but grunting, he did kneel, then lay down. Gildan knelt but fidgeted, protesting, “I just hate it when we have to do this! It’s so dirty!”

  Just ahead of them, Ric Darmstedt whispered furiously, “Please be quiet, ma’am! A little dirt won’t hurt you.”

  “A little,” Gildan retorted sarcastically, but she did lie down and cover herself with an extra poncho.

  “Okay, Sergeant, you get to play with the big gun again,” Slaughter growled, handing over his precious 12-gauge. “We’ll crawl to the top. The rest of you break out your nines and wait for my signal.” The fire team still had their short-range walkie-talkies, which, luckily, were powered by 1.5 volt batteries. But unluckily, carrying extra batteries was too much weight, so they had to stingily conserve all battery-powered equipment.

  “Yes, sir,” Rio breathed happily, caressing the deadly-looking gun.

  Shaking his head slightly at Rio’s love affair with his shotgun, Con said, “Eyes wide, Rio. Shoot if you see anything that needs killing.”

  Carefully Slaughter moved upward, using his elbows to propel himself along. The desert quiet was so absolute that all sounds seemed to be magnified. He could plainly hear his own breathing and that of Sergeant Valdosta, the tumbling of small pebbles and the soft swish of the sand as they scrambled up. At the pinnacle, a five-foot shelf of rock angled slightly upward. Carefully Con pulled himself up, and at the same time put the binoculars to his eyes.

  What he saw, at first, made no sense. He thought the binoculars were faulty, and shook them slightly, but it didn’t change the meaningless image.

  Then his brain clicked, and he recognized what was framed in the binocular’s lenses. It was—a giant boot!

  “Hello.”

  Whatever Slaughter was expecting in that tense moment, it was not the calm greeting that he heard. Con almost dropped the binoculars, then snapped his head up at an impossible angle to see the shadow of a man looming over them.

  At the same time he heard the dangerous sound of a 12-gauge round being chambered: CHUK-CHOCK!

  “Hold up, Sergeant,” he commanded sharply.

  Rio Valdosta could not decide whether to shoot Zoan first—or the jaguar that had come to stand beside him. His finger tightened on the trigger, he was that much on edge. But Slaughter said calmly, “He’s unarmed, Rio.”

  “That tiger isn’t,” Valdosta said acidly.

  “She’s Cat. I’m Zoan.”

  Con Slaughter scrambled to stand up, with Rio crowding so protectively close to him they almost both fell down. He gave his sergeant a step-back signal, and reluctantly Rio gave him about two inches. Con said to Zoan, “I’m Captain Concord Slaughter of the 101st Airborne, Fire Team Eclipse. This is Sergeant Rio Valdosta.”

  “I’m Zoan. You’re soldiers, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, we’re soldiers,” Slaughter said, glancing at Rio. Their looks said, Desert-fried brains . . .

  Zoan was peering around them. “Why don’t the rest of your friends come up?”

  Con Slaughter swiveled his head around quickly to see if his team had shown itself, but he could see no sign of the team, even the civvies. “How do you know about them?” he demanded sharply.

  “Why, I see them—right there. And anyone could hear those four burros down there. What are they chewing on?” Zoan asked with mild interest.

  Valdosta also turned and squinted against the darkness. With NVG’s you might be able to see some kinda suspicious-looking lumps, but with the naked eye . . . can’t see a thing. If that guy can see the rest of the team, he must have eyes like—like that tiger’s, there.

  “Who are you?” Slaughter demanded.

  “My name is Zoan. This is Cat. Are you thirsty?”

  “Wha—uh—” As happened to many people, Con Slaughter felt as if he were having some sort of synaptic lapse as he conversed with Zoan.

  “We can go get some water.” Zoan peered up at Slaughter, his eyes wide and dark, and then he nodded with finality. “Let’s go get some water for you and them and the burros and then I’ll take you to meet my other friends.”

  An alarm went off in Slaughter’s head. “Wait just a minute. How many of you people are there? Who are they?”

  “There are thirty-three of us. We’re all friends.”

  Slaughter’s eyes narrowed speculatively, while Rio caught his attention and gave his head a slight shake. “I’m not so sure we’re all going to be such good friends, Zoan,” Con said cautiously. “I need to know who’s here, where they are, what they’re doing, and I need to know why you’re all here.”

  The sky overhead was beginning to clear now and the first faint gleams from the east lit Zoan’s curiously placid face. “We’re all friends,” he repeated softly, then added, “God sent you here, didn’t He?”

  Valdosta snorted and Con frowned. “I’m afraid not. We’ve got other business.”

  Zoan nodded. “I know. You’re tired, and thirsty, and scared. But God did send you here, Mr. Slaughter. All of you.”

  In the clear air of the desert, the rays of the sun penetrate quickly. Now, almost as if pulled upward by an invisible cable, the burning globe was being lifted over the jagged tops of the saw-toothed mountains far in the distance.

  Con Slaughter sighed and said resignedly, “Well, right now we need water and we need cover. If you can give us that, we’d appreciate it.”

  “You mean you want to hide?”

  Rio muttered threateningly, but Con just answered dryly, “Uh, yeah, that’s about the size of it. My sergeant, here, just doesn’t like to call it that.”

  Zoan, of course, had no notion of such dry humor. He said earnestly, “I can show you where to hide. The German soldiers won’t find you here, though.”

  Instantly Con Slaughter stiffened and the dark mahogany eyes of Rio Valdosta bored into the strange man in front of them. “How do you know?”

  Zoan’s voice was the calmest thing on the plateau. “Because this place is the cleft of the rock, where God’s hiding His people. You can all rest here and be safe. For a while, anyway.”

  Slaughter hesitated only a moment, as he studied Zoan’s face. The he ordered calmly, “Sergeant, go down and bring the team up.”

  To Rio’s credit, he hesitated only a fraction of a second, in spite of his grave misgivings. But Rio Valdosta had never questioned an order in his life, and he trusted Con Slaughter more than he’d ever thought he would trust an officer. “Yes, sir!” he said snappily, then turned and agilely slid down the slope.

  When he reached the group, who were still obediently huddling face-downward in the sand, he said, “Captain Slaughter says we’re going up.”

  “Who’s up there? Did you find anything?” Lieutenant Darmstedt asked as everyone struggled to their feet.

  “A half-wit and a lion,” Rio intoned.

  “What?”

  “You’ll see, sir.” Rio turned and hurried back up to be close to Captain Slaughter. He still was holding the 12-gauge at half-mast and watched Zoan and Cat with equal suspicion.

  Zoan walked ahead, with Cat padding along beside him. At a safe distance Con and Rio followed. The team was close behind, though Niklas and Gildan and Vashti, with the burros, straggled a little.

  Without looking behind, or to the right or left, Zoan led them to a deep crevice between two of the peaks, then took a sharp left into a deep ravine. The floor of it climbed upward at a steady angle, though it zigzagged raggedly back and forth. The ground, however, was hard and easier to negotiate than the sandstone crust of the hills.

  David Mitchell sidled up to Con Slaughter to ask, “Who is he, sir?”

  “His name is Zoan. That’s Cat,” Slau
ghter replied wryly.

  David Mitchell stared at Zoan’s back and murmured under his breath.

  “What’s on your mind, Mitchell?” Con asked curiously.

  “Did you see his eyes, sir?”

  “Yeah. Weird-looking. Pupils dilated. I think he’s on some kind of drugs.”

  “I don’t think so, sir,” David Mitchell said softly.

  “Why not?”

  “Well, sir—I think he’s the Lizard Man.”

  “He’s the what?”

  “The Lizard Man, sir. You remember? The Lizard Man, with X-ray vision.”

  “Mitchell, it’s been a long night. What are you talking about?”

  “You remember on her trial run, Baby BAD found him.

  Riding with that wild herd of mustangs, sir. I just remembered it.”

  The memory of that first recon with the Israelis swept over Slaughter. “Yeah, sure! I’d forgotten about that. What was it Baby BAD found?”

  “Minute traces of reptilian DNA. Highly acute vision, both regular and night. Ultrasensitive hearing.”

  Slaughter pondered what his sergeant had said, then muttered, “He’s different all right. I want you to talk to him, Mitchell. He’s some kind of dunkhead nut.” With a quick sidelong glance, he added, “No offense.”

  “None taken, sir,” David said cheerfully. “Us dunkheads understand one another pretty well.”

  Just behind Zoan, they heard the welcome sound before they saw it. A slight musical whisper of water, as delicate as wind chimes tripping over flat stones, sounded as they entered the grotto of Zoan’s hidden pool. Zoan and Cat watched curiously as the soldiers filed in, then the two civilians, and finally Vashti Nicanor. She’d left the burros tied up in the ravine, but she brought a bucket to take them some water first. Con watched with approval. You had to treat your work animals well. Niklas and Gildan threw themselves down and drank and splashed loudly. The soldiers were more cautious, Con noted with great satisfaction. They looked around, then paired off into their normal two-man buddy teams. One drank while the other watched. Darkon Ben-ammi helped Vashti water the burros, then they came and settled on a big, flat rock overhanging the stream to drink.