by Ryder Stacy
“Hey you groovy cats, we dig you, hear?” the Indian said with a broad smile as the two Americans appeared. “Come on over here and slap five, daddy-os. It’s cool—you fool—send you back to school.” The other riders still perched on their bikes hooted and laughed at their leader’s words. Rock and Perkins walked slowly up to the warpaint-streaked leader.
“We’re here in peace,” Perkins said smiling.
“Groovy, the cat’s a hep dude. Peace man,” he said, stretching his lips to their widest to reveal a mouth missing half its teeth. The chief held up his right hand, making a V with his fingers.
“Do what he just did,” Perkins said to Rockson from the corner of his mouth. “It’s important.” The two freefighters raised their hands and made the ancient hippie gesture of greeting with their fingers.
“Hello,” Rockson said. “We’re fellow Americans and we come with peaceful intentions.”
“Hey man, the cat speaks hip talk,” the Indian leader said, slapping his hands together in glee. “Where you at, daddy-o? You hip to the dharma—the road—the oneness?”
“I think he’s asking if we’re religious and he wants a yes answer,” muttered the archaeologist.
“We believe,” Rock said. “And believe in the right to believe.”
“Man, that’s a strange way of grooving to the smoothness, but you dudes seem okay. At least you ain’t Ruskies—you know Redskys.”
“We’re not Reds, we’re freefighters, Americans—and you?” Perkins asked, as he quickly scribbled in his small notebook.
“Hell man—we are the People. The Kerouac Warriors, the beat messengers of ethereal poetry, the chanted-out Tibetan hipster kung-fu fighters from the Outer Galaxies. We, my square peopleitude, are the Crazy Alligators.” The Indian leader folded his arms across his chest in satisfaction as the tribe mounted on their bikes behind him yelled out in unison.
“The Crazy Alligators!”
“Where your pad, man?” the Chief asked, his smile suddenly turning a trifle icy.
“West of here,” Perkins answered, understanding the strange lingo.
“West? Crazy man,” the leader laughed. “There is a west—huh? That’s strange. First time we heard that.” With that he turned to the cyclists and smirked, receiving loud guffaws from the tribe. He turned back to the freefighters. “Now if you all would just drop your boomtubes like nice boys,” he said grimly, pulling his pistol and leveling it at Rockson’s chest. “I think we can parlay at the Ginsberg’s house—that’s our top cheese—dig?”
Rockson stepped to the side and the chief pulled the trigger of his .45. But the slug hit empty air. Rock fanned the black beam over the whole assemblage of Crazy Alligators who fell from their bikes instantaneously as did the chief. Within a second every one of them was out. Perkins was groaning slightly and Rockson turned to him. The archeologist had his hand over his upper arm where a second shot from the motorcycles had hit him before the black beam had done its work.
“It’s just a nick,” Perkins said, gritting his teeth. Rock helped him tie a bandanna around the wound and the two freefighters joined by McCaughlin and Kim from behind the tree walked over and inspected their catch. Perkins, wincing occasionally from the pain of his scratch, had a field day going through the Indian’s saddlebags and taking notes on the decorations on their cycles.
“This is fascinating, absolutely fascinating,” the archeologist kept exclaiming as he noted the medicine pouches, the beat poetry books, yellow and disintegrating. There appeared to be three Indian societies represented among the motorcyclists: the Bear Claw Clan, all of whom had artificial bear claw scars on their left cheeks; the Coyote People, older men mostly with the mark of a coyote head cut into their left forearms; and the last group, mostly the young men including the chief who wore amulet necklaces containing Buddhist magical symbols and the long-feathered headdresses. Perkins clicked away with a small mini-camera he always carried in his jacket and wrote profuse notes. Rockson refused adamantly when Perkins wanted to take some skin and nail samples.
“But it would tell so much, Rock—”
“Absolutely not.” Rock shook his head. “These people, friends or enemies, are still people. I don’t want anything except a search for security reasons and some photographs for the archives—without their permission—got me?”
Perkins nodded gravely. “It’s a mistake, Rock. Science should—”
“Humanity over science, damn it, man,” Rock said a little angrily. “That’s how the war started—technology over decent human values. I won’t let us act in any way like the Reds.”
When the Indians awoke about an hour later they thought it odd that all their cycles had fallen over and they were lying beside them on the cold ground. It had seemed an instant ago that they were drawing their weapons. Now they had none in their hands. Immediately the chief picked himself up and shouted, “Magic! They are magicians.” He pulled the black protective amulet into his hands and began chanting OM MANI PADME HUM as fast as he could. The others joined in and the chorus of the ancient Buddhist symbology grew in intensity until Rockson yelled out.
“Enough—we are not magicians. We used a weapon we possess on you because you were about to fire on us. You’ve been unconscious for about an hour—but it isn’t magic.” The chanting died out and the chief, looking somewhat chastened, stepped forward again.
“You could have killed us cats. We understand man, that you are powerful mean dudes. And we want to be friends. Can you dig it, kemo sabe?”
“I can dig it,” Rock said, not without a trace of a smile on his dark rough-hewn face.
“Slip me five, Mr. Rock-around-the-clock. I’m Trickster Diety, and we are the craziest of the Crazy Alligators.” He held his palm out and Rock, having learned the ancient American form of greeting from Detroit, slapped him. Trickster and the Alligators let out a whoop of happiness.
“The cat knows the high five, look out,” Trickster laughed and slapped Rock back. Trickster invited the freefighters “No tricks from Trickster, man,” to their digs in a nearby mountain. With the Crazy Alligators taking Rock and the others on the back of their cycles, the party of thundering vehicles tore off across the dark fields to the Indians’ home. Rock kept his particle beam at the ready but the Alligators weren’t trying any funny stuff. At least not right now. The freefighters had never been on this type of vehicle and after a certain amount of nervousness at the speed of the things and the ground flying by so fast just beneath their feet they quickly grew to enjoy the ride. They made good time, with the cycles shooting across the terrain faster than any land vehicle Rock had ever seen. Rock was intrigued by the mobility of the cycles. He’d have to talk to Dr. Shecter about the feasibility of building some of their own back in Century City. Of course gasoline was the basic problem with any sort of combustion engine. The Alligators must have had some secret source of the precious fluid.
Within an hour and a half they were at the foot of a towering red rock mountain that Trickster yelled to Rock was their home.
“See that pile of boulders shaped like a man sitting in meditation to the left?” the chief yelled out above the din of the cycles. Rock, sitting on the rear of a cycle just behind Trickster nodded affirmatively.
“That’s the entrance, man. We got guards stationed everywhere. In the rocks. Though you can’t see ’em, they can see you. If the Reds show their head, they’re dead.” He laughed at the end of his little rhyme and motioned with his hand for the troop to move forward. There was a narrow shaft of darkness among the boulders and they rode into it, barely slowing down. Once inside the bikes moved single file through a narrow canyon. At first they turned on their big lights on the front of the bikes but within a minute or so they clicked them off again. The very walls of the solid rock tunnel glowed with a shimmering blue iridescence bright enough to see by. They rode for about five minutes when the narrow trail suddenly widened before them and they came into a vast stalactite-filled cavern that made the freefighters gasp. The
place was gigantic, and absolutely porcupined with the glowing blue spears of rock that made it look like some immense jewel.
“It’s so beautiful, Rock,” Kim said, on a cycle just behind Rock’s, as she sat behind a madly bedecked Indian with an almost Jackson Pollock type pattern of paint covering his bronze body. The cavern sloped slightly and the bikes rode through it as the hanging mounds of pure blue stone dripped luminous fluid that formed streams of glowing water. They came after several minutes to a tranquil black lake that disappeared in the distance. There was some sight of light far off at the other end.
“Heavy place, cats, right?” Trickster asked, as the Alligators brought their cycles to a stop on the banks of the lake.
“Heavy, man,” Rock said, dismounting from the steed of steel.
There were twenty outrigger canoes on the white sands of the shore of the lake which stood quiet and shiny as a mirror. The canoes had bizarre names painted on their bows like Disneyland One and Roadrunner Three. Perkins ran around frantically jotting the names down, muttering it had something to do with the lost legendary city of Hollywood. The cyclists split up into groups ten to a boat. Rock and his team were in the lead canoe with Trickster and several Indians who grabbed oars from the floor of the craft. The canoes were long, nearly thirty feet, but very slender with a balancing outrig to the right of the boats. The glow of the rocks faded as they paddled out across the black water. Soon it was utterly black except for the glowing compass dial that Trickster held in his hand at the front of the canoe. He muttered to Rock, “Compass doesn’t tell north—it just points to the Great Hall. There’s so much spiritual energy around the Ginsberg—the leader of our underground Pueblo—that the compass always leads us home. And good thing, too, man, because there’s a huge waterfall off this lake about a mile to the right. Bottomless, the legends say.”
“How big is this lake?” Perkins asked.
“No one knows. We are content, man, to groove on the area we have and be happy. There are stories that these glowing people roam the unexplored edges of the caves down here. Have you dug on these glowing cats?” Trickster asked as he paddled slowly and smoothly with a long wooden paddle.
“Yes—the Glowers—many of our freefighters have seen things in the distance,” Rock said, his arm protectively around Kim who seemed a little cold and scared in the immensity of the lake’s darkness. “But never face to face. If they are real and not just some apparition created by radioactive conditions, they seem to not want to be too social.”
“Well, they aren’t human,” Trickster said a trifle nervously. “They sail their huge boats out there on the lake, glowing in the dark. I saw one as a kid—gives me the willies to even think about it. But they don’t bother us thanks to the power of the Ginsberg.” When Trickster stopped talking, all that could be heard in the impenetrable darkness were the grunts of the men and the oars lapping away at the flat water.
They arrived, after about twenty minutes of rowing at the opposite bank where the glowing blue rock again permitted them to see. As they hit the sand and jumped out, the freefighters could suddenly see that what had at first looked like a sheer black face of a mountain was in fact the cliffside city composed of hundreds of adobe buildings piled atop one another in an immense hodgepodge of sand and stone.
“How many people live here,” Rock asked Trickster as they walked along the sandy shore toward the city.
“Four—five thousand. I don’t know, man. We don’t keep track of that sort of stuff. We found this place seventy years ago—that is—my grandfather was wandering in the wilderness when he found the hole in Red Mountain and came inside. The Chumec Indians built this whole thing for protection some ten thousand years ago and we moved in like cockroaches into a tenement—dig?”
The cliff dwellings of the Chumecs, now occupied by the Crazy Alligators, had been hand hewn into the mountainside. Rock looked up, taking in the impressive living sculpture. The rock had a brownish almost rusty appearance, he noted, probably containing a high iron content. That explained the magnetic pull—hence the compass that Trickster used to guide them in. So it was the iron, not the supernatural powers of the Ginsberg, that made the needle always swing toward the mountain city. But superstitions were best not challenged, as Perkins was always telling him, so Rock would keep that fact to himself. But it made him feel a little more at ease since he had been beginning to wonder whether there might actually be a psychically powerful monk at the head of these beatnik Indians.
With Trickster in the lead the freefighters walked up the steep steps that laddered the slopes of the rock mountain. Hundreds of faces appeared in the square stone windows and doors, taking in the strangers with curiosity. Children ran down the steps, their eyes huge, pupils as big as grapes. Many of them had never seen real daylight, living their lives under the artificial light of the glowing blue stones that seemed to hang from the huge underground cavern’s every square inch. They giggled and touched the party of Americans. Kim delighted in the beautiful young Indian children who gawked at her long blond hair. Both boys and girls wore pigtails, and the girls, most not more than ten, were extremely well developed. Rock suddenly realized he hadn’t seen any old people or crippled or sick people.
“Where are your old people, Trickster?” Rock asked as the party continued to make their way higher and higher up the mountain city.
“The old are sent to the waterfall on the lake, on flaming rafts to join the spirits at the bottom of the bottomless cavern into which the waters fall.”
“They’re killed?” Kim asked horrified.
“They are sent to their creator,” Trickster said simply. Kim squeezed Rock’s hand.
“Oh how awful,” she whispered. Rock was about to say something about cruelty and lack of compassion when Perkins whispered in his ear.
“Don’t criticize, Rock. We don’t know enough about their situation. Besides we’re on their land. We’d better be careful about anything we say for now.” They proceeded up the steps until the top which leveled off to a wide plateau covered with more of the adobe mud and brick buildings—these the largest of all, some nearly a hundred feet high. They entered what was obviously the main building, brightly festooned with Indian markings and totems, through a door nearly three times human height.
“Behold the Temple of the Ginsberg,” Trickster said. “But first let us arrange for your accommodations, man and some chow-chow for some hungry squares.”
Twenty
They entered a large ceremonial hall filled with long oak tables and candelabras hanging from the vaulted ceilings.
“Is this where we meet the Ginsberg?” Perkins asked, excited.
“No fool, be cool,” Trickster snapped back. “We engage in dining, you know, ceasing the gurglings. The Ginsberg holds court tomorrow. Hey man, let’s bring on the eats,” Trickster yelled out, jumping up on top of the table. Within minutes a small parade of maidens in short leather rawhide miniskirts and raccoon skin halters brought out trays of steaming food. Rockson speared a slice off the tray of meat in front of him and sniffed it, then tasted it carefully.
“It’s buffalo, man,” Trickster said, grabbing a whole side of beef with a bone handle and began chewing on it furiously. Flagons of foaming beer were brought out, cold, sparkingly tasty. “To our groovy, crazy new friendcats,” Trickster said, raising his glass. “May we always have far-out times together.”
“Groovy crazy,” Rock said with a broad smile and he, Kim, Perkins, and McCaughlin happily swigged down the delicious brew. They ate and drank with the Indians whooping it up and dancing on the tables from time to time. It was hardly the way they had dinner back in Century City, Rock thought, but it sure as hell was fun. After about an hour, the heads of the freefighters began to spin. Things in the room, the spears on the wall, the large dayglo-painted shields that dotted the walls seemed to tilt at off angles. The singing of the Crazy Alligators and their mad slang seemed more and more hilarious to the freefighters. Kim looked like an angel to Rock
and the touch of her hand across the table sent chills up his spine.
“Hey, what’s in this brew?” he asked Trickster, whose face seemed to be melted into rainbow trails. The smile on the chief’s face looked wide as an atomic chasm as he answered.
“Why it’s just good ol’ Mexiquatyl Beer. Hallucinogenic mushroom brew, like we always chug.” Rock looked over at Perkins inquisitively.
“Probably from the peyote family, Rock. Moderate hallucinations. Nontoxic unless you’re stricken with beri-beri. Anybody here got beri-beri?” he asked, falling back in his seat in an explosion of laughter. Two young nubile maidens sat on his lap crushing their firm breasts against him. Rock sighed. He always prided himself on staying off things like this—but at least it wasn’t dangerous. In fact, everyone seemed to be having a good time. He shrugged and decided to go with it.
“What the hell, you only live once, right Kim?” He leaned over and kissed Kim on her bare ivory neck. She beamed and kissed him. The touch of her lips were like ice-fire, so passionate. Rock nearly swooned before he pulled himself away, his manhood suddenly bulging in his fatigues.
“Perhaps we should go somewhere more private,” Kim said, looking shyly down at the floor. Indeed, many of the braves were slipping away with female friends, and McCaughlin and Perkins seemed quite content with the bubbly creatures who nipped at their cheeks and slid their hands down to firmer targets.
“Your guest of honor suite is two flights up those spiral stairs over there,” Trickster piped up. “There’s a Chumec-sized bed. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He laughed uproariously. Rock and Kim rose and made their way unsteadily through the raucous throng and to the stairs which were illuminated by the ever present glowing blue rocks. They were slightly dizzy from the ascent as they pushed open a large wooden door. Holding his angel in his arms, Rock whisked her over the threshold to a nicely furnished chamber with a hearth in the center burning merrily up through a raised circular chimney. The bed was at the far end of the room—an impossible walk that seemed like miles under the influence of the drug.