by J Gurley
She had not seen Kaffa approach until his staff fell hard across Madras’ arm. He stood behind Madras, his eyes filled with anger. His face was grim and his voice powerful, as he said, “Unhand my granddaughter, stone cutter. Perhaps you will fare better against an old man.”
Madras whirled on Kaffa holding his injured arm, but before he could take a step toward him, Teela pressed her dagger against his kidney. “Think carefully, Madras, before you make a foolish move that could be your last.”
“You threaten the High Priest and a member of the Council?” Chu Li yelled.
“If you attempt to force a marriage with Juresh, I will do more than threaten,” she replied coldly, though her blood ran feverish with indignation. “When Hramack and Kena return …”
“They will not return,” Chu Li spat at her. “Travin will see to that.”
“You place too much faith in Travin’s loyalty to you,” Kaffa said. “He is wise and knows Kena well. Perhaps he will listen to Kena and weigh his words against yours. Frightened people close their ears and minds to reason, but Travin is a hunter and does not frighten easily.”
Chu Li licked his lips as he listened to Kaffa. His gaze flitted from Madras to Teela and her dagger. “You cannot defy the will of the Council and the wishes of the village. Teela cannot remain unmarried at a time when the village has too few young women. Our young are the hope and future of Ningcha. At the rising of the new moon, I will announce her marriage to Juresh. If she refuses, people will reconsider sharing precious water with someone who ignores the wishes of the village.”
With that, he turned and stalked away. Madras remained motionless until Teela removed her dagger from his back; then, he too scurried away after the High Priest.
“Thank Yarah you came when you did,” she told Kaffa, trying to smile to keep from breaking down in tears. Her anger had sustained her in Chu Li’s presence, but now, she felt drained and foolish. The High Priest had given her less than a week to abide by his wishes, but she would never marry Juresh or any other boy in the village. Her heart belonged to Hramack or no one at all. She knew of too many loveless marriages arranged for political or social gain. Madras’ own marriage to Anila was one. She gave the stone carve three sons and doted over them, but her looks for her husband were filed with many things, but love was not among them.
“I saw Chu Li bound for the bridge and suspected he would have words with you.” He paused. “You should not have pulled your dagger on Madras.”
“He would have attacked you.”
“I hoped to provoke him. Attacking me would expose him for what he is, a frightened bully. Then people would ask the reason for his attack, and word of your accusation against him and Chu Li would spread.” He smiled. “I would see to it.”
“I … I didn’t know.”
“No matter, granddaughter. I was not eager for bruises or broken bones.”
“Oh, grandfather, they gave me less than a week to decide. What can I do? I cannot marry Juresh.”
“I believe Hramack and Kena will return before then. If they do not, you will have no choice. I am too old to offer much protection. Without water, you would die quickly rather than slowly, as we all are. If all else fails, you must marry Juresh. I will not watch you die.”
She felt hope slipping away. Had Kaffa given up? “Marriage to Juresh will be akin to death. Perhaps death by thirst would be better.”
He placed his arm around her shoulder, as he had done many times in the past when she was afraid or confused. “Have faith, granddaughter. All is not lost yet.”
As they walked back to her home, she glanced at the ridge of the canyon, praying for a glimpse of Hramack coming to her rescue, but there was nothing there.
*
Chu Li’s hand trembled with rage as he walked back to his home. His teeth ached where he had clenched his jaw tightly to endure Kaffa’s insults. He stopped and slammed the heel of his staff against the rock.
“Why did you allow that fool Kaffa to best you?” he snapped at Madras.
Madras cowed at the High Priest’s fury. “He caught me by surprise.” He grabbed the wrist Kaffa had struck with his staff. “He almost broke my arm.”
“And that snippet of a girl almost skewered you with her dagger,” Chu Li replied in a snit.
“I did not see you jumping in to aid me,” Madras replied.
“It would be unseemly for the High Priest to become involved in a brawl with an old man.” He shook his head and continued toward his home. “It matters not. His day is coming soon. Teela cannot refuse marriage with your son. It is within the law.”
“Juresh is not pleased with the match. He is afraid of her. He would prefer Betha, the miller’s daughter, or Unis, daughter to Stennit the teacher.”
“Fool! What he wants is of little importance. We must put her in her place and humiliate Kaffa. Then, Kena’s house you so desire will be yours. Who knows, perhaps she will run away to die in the desert or take her own life and both our problems will be solved.”
Madras paled. “You would not …”
Chu Li waved his hand in annoyance. “Of course not, but she is a headstrong girl. Each act of defiance places distance between her and the people of Ningcha.” He touched his heart and raised his hand into the air. “Yarah’s will be done.”
At his door, he stopped and turned to Madras. “Go assure your son he will be safe.”
Madras turned his head aside and stared at the ground. “My family does not listen to me. First Eithan’s death and now Anseer is gone as well. They think tragedy follows me like a summer sand storm. My assurances will not console their grief.”
“Anseer and Travin will return, with or without our two fugitives.”
“It has been over a week. Without supplies or water …”
“Travin knows the desert. We left a water skin at the spring we found for his return journey.”
“What if … what if he brings Kena and Hramack back with him?”
“Stand strong, Madras. Even if he protests his innocence, the only two people who would have released them are Kaffa and Teela.” He chuckled. “We cannot lose either way.”
“I would not be in your boots if Kena returns alive, even with his hands bound.”
Madras’ barb stung deeply. He retaliated. “Nor would I be you if he learned the real reason his wife, Allana, was on the bridge during the sand storm.”
“That was an accident. I did not …”
“Silence. You did not kill her, but you coveted her. Your sin caused her death. Her blood is on your hands. Do not forget that.”
Madras seemed to deflate, as if his fear was the only thing holding him erect. Now, his guilt overwhelmed him. He leaned one arm against the pillar of Chu Li’s veranda. “How can I? Her face haunts me.”
“Go now. I must think and pray.”
As he watched Madras leave, he shook his head slowly. Madras was too weak to endure the machinations of politics. His large, calloused hands were gifts from Yarah for the carving of stone, but his mind was more fit for discerning the curves and angles hidden in the stone’s grain than keeping secrets. If Kena did return, a dark fear he kept pushed down inside, Madras could not be trusted.
Inside his home, he shed his smothering robes of office and rinsed his body with a wet rag, badly wanting a real bath, but even a High Priest could not waste precious water. He had no doubt that the water would flow again. His faith in Yarah often conflicted with the real world, but the return of the springs did occur on the same day each year. Historical records indicated a variation of weeks. It had never been this late, but he was a patient man. When the water returned, he would be heralded as the divine conduit to Yarah’s blessings.
He donned a lightweight robe over his naked body, worn unsashed to allow his flesh to breath. He often walked around in his home naked, but his confrontation with Kaffa had left him feeling too vulnerable. The robe was his concession to his fear, its thin material more a mental shield than a practical one. He desired
no wife and had no housekeeper. Either would intrude too much on his privacy. His home was his sanctuary away from the office of High Priest and the politics of the Council. The smooth stone of the floor was cool against his bare feet as he flopped down in his favorite wellworn leather chair, a cool glass of kalquat in his hand. The alcohol slowly released the tension of the encounter and relaxed him.
Staring out the window of his den toward the canyon rim, he felt a sense of satisfaction settling over him. Sacrifices had been made. More might be needed, but the life of the village was more important than a single life. Herat, the former High Priest, had been old and weak. There was no place for weakness in the world they had inherited from their ancestors. Only the strong were worthy of surviving. Heart’s weak heart was Yarah’s punishment for his reluctance to meddle in daily village life. He was too spiritual, too impractical, too easily led by others from Yarah’s true path. Kena’s medicine prolonging his life conflicted with Yarah’s will. He had not murdered the old High Priest; he had fulfilled Yarah’s will.
A little known chapter of the Teachings of Nuama, re moved from the original and set aside decades ago, listed the names of the original settlers of Ningcha. It took little mastery of science or genetics to see that they were a dying people. Centuries of interbreeding was slowly weakening them. Teela and Hramack both possessed remarkably strong genes. Their offspring would strengthen the line, but creating one powerful genetic line did not help Ningcha survive. Teela had to marry another. Her marriage to Juresh served two purposes: spreading her genetic traits and forging a strong alliance with Madras. It would have been good for the village.
Kena had long been a thorn in his side, but Kena’s propensity for exploration had offered a ready means to weaken him. Hramack, reduced in status to a mere herder, could not marry Teela. If he had not so foolishly fled the village, he would have eventually wed one of the weaker families’ daughters, thereby adding vigor to their line. Now, the threat of losing both sets of DNA in order to retain his hold over the village was a distinct possibility.
He finished his drink, enjoying the soothing effects of the kalquat, and considered a second, but that would be giving in to his desires. One drink was sufficient to clear his mind of troubling thoughts but not enough to dull his senses. There was still much to do. He needed to go examine the old laws with clear-headed diligence before announcing the upcoming marriage. Kaffa was old but he was no fool. He had access to the old books only the Council did. He would oppose the marriage any way he could. If a loophole existed, he would find it. After that, he would prepare for the evening prayers.
It delighted him that the villagers were so pliable, as if waiting for a strong leader. Once he had planted the idea that Kena’s probing of the dead past had started their troubles, they needed little persuasion to escalate their search for more causes. Kaffa and his brash granddaughter, Teela, treaded on a narrow ledge over a deep chasm by opposing him as High Priest. A frightened populace would have no compulsion about pushing him from his lofty perch to save their families.
He smiled. Amid a crisis, opportunity arises. He had worked too long, planned too carefully to allow a wisp of a girl and two fugitives to stop him. He gave a moment’s thought to the threat Madras posed, but dismissed the stone carver as too frightened to worry about. His best interests and those of the office of the High Priest were too intertwined to unravel. The stone carver was bound to him body and soul.
Still, he worried that Travin had not returned.
22
Mt. Lincoln Pumping Station
On the fifth day after Travin’s death, the tunnel began to slope sharply upwards, making the journey more difficult. Hramack’s muscles ached until he finally ignored their protests, but after each halt to eat or sleep, they made their overtaxed presence known anew. Injured Grey Eagle had an especially difficult time keeping up the pace, but he steadfastly refused to yield his position in the lead. Hramack marveled at the aged warrior’s stamina, matched only by his stubbornness.
The sides of the tunnel gradually narrowed until Hramack could touch both sides with outstretched arms. The smooth, seamless sides shined as if polished. None of the men had ever seen such a material before. No joining marks marred its surface. At one point, one of the men attempted to scratch his initials on the wall, such as men have done for eons, leaving their mark for posterity. The tip of his hardened steel knife left no trace on the durable surface. Hramack yearned to learn just a minutia of the lost knowledge of his ancestors. Life would become much easier on his people.
One thing bothered him. “Yarah did not intend the water for Ningcha,” he said. It was meant for Albuquerque. It was just an accident that created the Pools of Yarah.”
Instead of rebuking him for his lack of faith, Kena replied, “Accident? If not for the earthquake, the water would not have been there for Arun Kane’s people. Do you not see Yarah’s hand in this?”“I see earthquakes. Is each quake an act of Yarah?”“Perhaps. Did the earth tremble to provide water for Kane’s people, or did Yarah move Kane to search for the water where the quake had stopped it? Is it cause and effect or effect and cause? Searching for answers that cannot be answered serves no purpose. Accept the outcome and believe it was Yarah’s will, or believe it a happy accident. I prefer faith. Without faith of some kind, life becomes hollow and meaningless, moving from birth to death in a random series of events that mean nothing. Do you have faith that we will find the answer?”
Hramack did not answer, but his thoughts were troubled. He continued to study the tunnel walls as if it would provide an answer. He was so intent on it that he almost stumbled into Kena’s back as he stopped suddenly and stood staring ahead. The look of utter disbelief on his father’s face frightened him. Hramack glanced around and saw that the tunnel abruptly ended in a large, featureless chamber with no exit other than the one through which they had traveled for three weeks. A dead end. Hramack fought down the scream of bitter disappointment that crawled up his throat. The journey was over. They had failed.
Grey Eagle glared at Kena. “What do we do now, Kena?” he demanded. “Somewhere along the route, we passed the true source of the water. We will have to backtrack to find it.”
The men of Pueblo Nuevo began to mutter softly. Hramack feared a mutiny brewing.
“My men are tired and are becoming restless to return to Pueblo Nuevo,” Grey Eagle continued. “We must do something quickly, or I will be forced to lead them home.”
“No, Grey Eagle,” Kena pleaded. “Can’t you see? All this must mean something.” He began waving his hands frantically in the air, indicating the enigmatic chamber. “Can’t you feel the moisture here? We are very close. Have your men spread out and search the walls. There must be something here, something hidden. Search everywhere.”
Hramack had noticed the slight rise in humidity, too, but a jumble of frustration and disillusionment made it difficult to wonder at a reason. They had fought Marauders and natural disasters to cross the Empty Wastes. Men had died to achieve their goal. Now, their deaths would be in vain. He wanted to lash out at something, anything, but he was too tired. His gaze sought his father’s eyes, expecting to see disappointment in them. Instead, Kena had begun to examine the wall with the intense concentration he had often seen in his father as he searched for an answer.
A blind panic had seized the others, though. They ran about the chamber staring at the featureless walls in a haphazard fashion, bumping into one another in their haste to discover an exit. Hramack doubted they would find anything in their disorganized frenzy. He dropped his pack to the ground, sat on it, and began to think, forcing back the dark gloom threatening to overwhelm him.
If the water originated from this point in the tunnel, there must be a way for it to enter the chamber. Hramack was certain they had not passed another opening, not since the one at Colorado Springs. He examined the ceiling more closely, using a technique his father had taught him about observations when he was young. “Observe the whole,” Ken
a had said, “and discern the patterns. The details will become obvious.” As he slowly scanned the ceiling of the chamber, he noticed a series of barely visible circular marks set at regular intervals that he at first had mistaken for random decoration. Now he realized they were neither random nor decorative. They served a function, but what function?
He expanded his view to incorporate the entire chamber, ignoring the human figures moving about breaking up the pattern. His attention focused on a slight variation in shading near one grouping on the wall. It was smoother, as if from many hands polishing its surface. He pushed and probed the area for several minutes with no results.
Kena noticed his son’s actions and came over. He eyed the circular spot for a few minutes, and then pressed his palm flat against the surface in the worn spot. To Hramack’s astonishment, the wall emitted a humming sound and two sharp clicks deep within the stone. The stone beneath Kena’s palm began to glow. As he jerked his hand away, a faint line encircled an area two meters in diameter. Then, the outlined area began to recede into the wall. When it had sunk a few centimeters into the wall, it split in two, each half sliding into opposite sides of the opening, revealing a man-sized passageway beyond.
“Marvelous,” Hramack exclaimed at the manner of the door’s opening.
The passageway led sharply upward in a series of shallow steps. A pale white glowing strip in the ceiling illuminated the way. With a renewed sense of purpose, the group began their ascent. For a quarter of an hour, they moved upward, turning first one way, and then another as the passage meandered in a seemingly random manner. They had no choice but to continue upwards. No other exits appeared to them. Even Grey Eagle’s keen sense of direction failed him.
At last, the passage ended in a large corridor filled with machinery and lined with small rooms. The air hummed with the sounds of pumps and the throb of equipment still operating after hundreds of years. This is wonderful, Hramack thought. What will we find here? Now Hramack felt certain they could fulfill their odyssey. His keen sense of smell detected water – a great deal of water.