The Grey Pilgrim

by J. M. Hayes

  Sasaki shook his head. Only the child….

  He stepped silently from the shadow of the spirit wall and used his sword. He took the wounded one from behind. The man’s head seemed to gape at Sasaki in surprise as it rolled across the stones to lie beside the child. His body sprayed the courtyard with crimson and took two steps before it fell. Sasaki was equally quick and efficient with the man’s companions.

  When it was over, the woman still lay sobbing, staring vacantly at the sky. The man on the roof continued to cling to the tiles. Sasaki stood and looked up at him long enough for it to be clear that they saw each other. The man’s eyes watched from the darkness. Only the small stream of urine that flowed down the blue tiles to splash onto the courtyard and mingle with the blood and wine gave Sasaki any indication, other than his eyes, that the man knew he was there.

  Sasaki watched until he knew that if he stayed any longer he must go up and kill that one too. It was not something honor required. He turned, instead, deliberately exposing his back, and walked slowly out to the street.

  On his way back to headquarters he passed the ribbon seller’s stand. Someone had strangled him with his ribbons.

  A Renegade Village

  After supper Jujul walked through their new village, a place called Black Caves. His people were already settled in. The transition was relatively easy for a folk so nearly nomadic.

  It was Fair Cold month, the White Man’s November. There were no crops to till, no weeding or planting or harvesting. Only a little gathering and hunting and a few skinny cattle to herd. Their evening meal complete, his people relaxed. Some of the young men were playing kickball behind one of the corrals. Not far away, another group ran relay races, hiding their shadowy forms in a cloud of dust turned golden by the setting of Father Sun. A group of women sat near the coals of a fire and played the game of the four black and white sticks. One laughed happily as she scored while her companions complained about their lack of luck and the gossip they shared was momentarily lost to the demands of the game.

  He walked past them and climbed slowly up to the mouth of the largest cave. He limped. Winter is hard on an old man’s old wounds. The cave was black with the soot of the fires of countless generations of O’odham. All the caves here were the same. It was how the place came by its name. He knelt at the mouth and lit the fire that had been laid there.

  They had built only a few houses so far. For the time being, the shallow caves sufficed. This, the largest, took the place of their meeting house. The men would see the fire and know there was to be a council meeting. They would come, but it was tradition that the chief summon them. Jujul raised his voice and roared his invitation to the evening. Then he sat and smoked while he waited.

  They had gone east because it would be expected for them to go south. His band normally spent part of its year below the border with Mexico. Larson and the others who wanted to arrest him and take his young men would probably find that out. They would only have to ask the tribal council. One of the few things Jujul knew about American law was that it did not extend into Mexico. For both reasons, then, it was a logical place to go. That was why he had chosen this direction instead. The Anglo’s army would comb the desert along the border, searching for some sign of them, and they would bring powerful weapons to the task. They had automobiles and trucks and far-seeing glasses. They could use their far-talkers to speak across great distances. They could even send winged machines to prowl the winds in search of his people. If the village went south and the Americans looked for them, there was a real chance they might be found.

  We are the Desert People, he thought. This is our land. I will not allow the Whites to find us unless I choose to let them. Since the search would concentrate to the south, he had gone in another direction, toward the edge of the Reservation and the White Man’s village of Tucson. One cannot find that which is not where one looks.

  He had first visited Black Caves with his father. The place became deserted during his childhood, but when they had passed through it on their way to visit relatives at the place where the river sank and the grand white mission of the Catholics stands, the place called San Xavier del Bac, it had been a thriving village. The water in the springs here had turned bitter after the long ago day when the earth moved, and, though it was still plentiful and safe to drink, the People abandoned it. Now Jujul needed it. His band could put up with bitter water for a time.

  Jujul liked the place. There were few villages nearby. Ample game roamed the vicinity and they had found plenty of roots and berries and wild seeds. They were near the invisible border of the reservation, close to White ranches where they could trade, so long as they did not let it be known who they were. Close, also, to the San Xavier Reservation where many cousins from his clan would welcome visits from members of his village. There was interaction there. Whites and Mexicans lived and worked alongside the People. News could be gathered, information about how the Anglos intended dealing with his village. And information was what he needed.

  He had sent people to the San Xavier and a few other villages already. He had also sent a party of young people to trade at one of the nearby ranches. That group was back. It was what he wanted to speak of at tonight’s council.

  All the men in camp would come. It was their right and duty, but only the mature ones, those who had lived at least thirty summers, would be allowed to speak. It was a place for wisdom, not passion or intuition.

  The men filed in. They nodded greetings as they passed Jujul and took their places in the circle, places won by right of age or a history of sage advice. The young men crowded in behind in no particular order. Most of the women casually wandered up the slope and found comfortable spots to sit and gaze at the place where Father Sun had gone to rest. They could watch as the stars came out of hiding, and, incidentally, overhear whatever might be discussed in the village council. Women had no official place there, no voice in the proceedings, but woe to the man who did not take his women’s opinions into careful consideration before he had his say.

  Traditionally, a village must be in unanimous agreement over any matter before it could be acted on, but that practice had weakened over the centuries since they came in contact with the Spaniards, then the Mexicans and Anglos. In practice, Jujul always tried to achieve that unanimity, but, if necessary, he held the deciding vote. It was a vote he seldom cast. Wisely so, for he had no wish to be replaced as governor of his village.

  Jujul took his place at the head of the circle and they began without ceremony. He talked about the day’s events, what hunter had brought in game, which foragers had added to their larder. There were no interruptions, no comments as there might normally have been.

  “You all know,” he told them, “Fast Walker and his group have returned from trading with the rancher.” There was murmured agreement. Fast Walker stiffened his spine with pride. Jujul had sent him because he was a man who needed to be kept busy. Like most of the young men, he’d taken too much pleasure in the rock throwing and been hard to restrain from killing when Larson came back with the others. Like all young people, he did not comprehend the possibility of his own death. All he saw in these events was adventure. He had liked it, and wanted more. But Fast Walker was clever. He could follow instructions when he understood the reasons. The village needed to find out what the Whites were doing about them, but they needed to do so in ways that would cast no suspicion. Jujul sent him with a few cattle to trade for ammunition and tools, and impressed on him the need for secrecy. He had Fast Walker and his men take along their wives, making it less likely they might persuade themselves they were on a raid.

  “I hoped the rancher, a man whose name is Burns, would not know about the affair at our village. I thought, perhaps, we shamed Larson and the tribal police sufficiently so they might not talk of this thing. I told Fast Walker and his people that they must be very cautious in asking about the event, but they did not even have to ask. It was the favorite topic of conversation of the rancher and his hands,
many of whom are themselves O’odham. When our people were asked if they had heard the news, they pretended they had not. They were immediately told several versions, each noteworthy for its elaborate detail, and its inaccuracy. Larson apparently vilified us, claiming we were dangerous, cold-blooded killers who struck without cause or warning. He might have been widely believed but for contrary statements from Deputy Sheriff Gonzales and the White Man with him.

  “Now, it seems, the Whites are of mixed council as to how we should be dealt with. Some even side with us and say we, not Larson and his police, were right. Others wish to hunt us down, make us examples, so our tribe will not forget what happens to those who challenge the White Man’s rules.”

  As he spoke, Jujul unconsciously stroked the pouch at his belt in which he kept the paper the federal man who had been with Gonzales left along with the gift of tobacco. It was a puzzling thing. He knew White Men used paper to send messages. Its marks and squiggles were undoubtedly meant to convey some meaning to him, but he had no idea what it might be. It was one of many things he needed to learn about the people who must now be regarded as his enemies.

  His was a small band, less than two hundred, even counting those too young or ancient to chew their own food. The Anglos were said to be a mighty people, but Jujul knew almost nothing about them. He had purposefully avoided them for more than twenty years. Few of his people had ever lived among the Whites, and those had only worked at their ranches. Some of the men had been to tribal headquarters at Sells, but Sells was a mixed community with pieces of three cultures. It did not seem a good place on which to base too many assumptions. None of his people had ever visited the Whites in their own villages. Thus, Jujul did not know how they lived or what they wanted. His only clues to how they would fight were based on two encounters and only one of those had been against warriors. He needed knowledge, and, surprisingly, he had been offered a chance to get it.

  “The trading of cattle is a new thing for Fast Walker, so I will not blame him for getting too little ammunition and too few tools for our stock.” Fast Walker’s spine slumped a little. Best to instill some humility to offset his growing pride.

  “Perhaps, because he was able to make such a profitable trade, the rancher Burns has offered us a valuable gift. It seems there is a White Woman who seeks to become a sort of elder among her people. Such elders achieve their status through the acquisition of knowledge. Apparently, each elder concentrates on knowledge of a very specific sort. This seems most peculiar, but the Whites are a puzzling people and we need to know more about them. This woman wishes to become an expert among her kind on the Tohono O’odham. She desires to gain that knowledge by living with the People and observing us. She does not wish to learn from those who live near and among White Men. She wishes to find a remote village, one which maintains the traditional ways. She will bring many valuable gifts to whoever will accept her—blankets, cloth, tools, and much more. Such things might be considered ample recompense for her support during the time she would live among them, but I am told it is her intention to work alongside the women and, so much as is possible for an outsider, live and contribute as would any member of the village.

  “Burns, perhaps because of our ineptitude at the art of trading, thinks we may be the sort of village she would like to study. He has offered to tell her about us and see if she might come to us if we will have her. Our cousins who work for Burns say she has visited with them and, though they found her strange, she seemed kind and sympathetic. She speaks our language. They believe she would be harmless and entertaining to the village that accepts her.

  “I believe we should ask her to come live with us.” The council immediately erupted with exclamations of amazement and denial. Jujul ignored them and, after regaining their attention, calmly explained it was necessary to learn something of the White Man’s ways, and it was unlikely they would find a better opportunity. There seemed little chance this was a ruse. The Anglos put too much value on their women to risk one as part of some wild scheme to catch a renegade village. Her purpose was almost certainly legitimate. And, if she should discover who they were, there was little, other than their location, she might learn which could be a danger. But, oh, what they might learn from her!

  Pedro Round-Frog argued that the Whites possessed too much magic. “We cannot take the chance that she may use it to tell her people where to find us,” he said. Some of his friends nodded at his wisdom.

  “Then we shall be certain she does not know,” Jujul told them. “The party we send to bring her here can do so by a long, circuitous path. Our new home lies on the west slope of a range which hides the sacred mountain from view. If we make at least part of her journey on a cloudy night when she can see neither stars nor landmarks she will not know exactly where she has been taken.”

  That brought Round-Frog and his followers to the Chief’s side, but Rat Skin still held out, and he spoke for two others. He rocked back on his bony haunches and grasped his arms around his knees as he spoke. Whether it was done out of emotion or to keep his thin old body warm, Jujul could not tell.

  “Their magic is just too powerful,” he whined. “She may still have ways to know where she is. She may still have ways to far-talk to her people and bring them down on us.” It was a frightening thought. They all knew the Whites were capable of amazing exploits. Jujul noticed a wavering among those who had come to side with him.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “It is true, the White Men have great powers. But their powers are in the things they make. They have no personal magic. The things they do that seem fabulous to us are always done with the aid of some tool. Perhaps there is magic in their tools, but I do not think so. We use many of these tools—rifles, knives, skillets, axes. What magic do they have? None. They are only tools. The woman offers gifts as part of the bargain she would make with the village that takes her. If she is a spy, and I doubt that she is, it is among those things she would hide the tools to use against us. We can still take her in and learn from her. On the trail here, the party that escorts her can cache everything she brings. That should render her harmless. They can even supply her with clothing and leave her own behind. Let her come to us with nothing from the outside. We can watch the cache and see if her people come to it. If they do not, we can assume she is not a spy, and we can gain much wealth at some later time, when we have learned what we need from her and sent her back to her people.”

  The men sat, nodding, talking among themselves. They were reassured. From out of the darkness on the slope below the cave they heard the voice of Cornsilk, Rat Skin’s senior wife.

  “I cannot imagine being afraid of any single woman, no matter what color her skin, can you my sisters? And I have never seen a White Woman. It would please me to discover in what ways we are different and in what ways the same.” It was a casual comment, gossip among women who sat watching the stars, but spoken in a voice that clearly carried into the council cave and cast aspersions on her husband’s bravery.

  Rat Skin chewed his nearly toothless gums in suppressed fury, but he knew when to give in. “I fear there is great danger here,” he said, in a voice as thin as his shanks, “but Jujul is right when he says we must learn about our enemies. I do not like it, but I also say, let her come.”

  The two who had followed his lead continued to do so.

  “Yes,” one said.

  “Let it be so,” agreed the other.

  Jujul had won. They would invite this strange White Woman. With luck, she would come.

  As the men began to rise and depart from the council he pulled out the bent and frayed paper the stranger named Fitzpatrick had left. There was so much to learn. What message, if any, had been sent him? And, if it was important, why entrust it to so fragile a material? What manner of man was this Fitzpatrick? Could he be reasoned with, or might Jujul have to kill him? So much to learn, so very much. At least now there would be a chance to learn it.

  An Immortality Few Earn

  Kempeitai Headquarters in To
kyo occupied a modern building of insipid European design only a few blocks from the American Embassy. The army staff car delivered Sasaki there after only one minor accident. The bicyclist they struck wasn’t seriously injured, if the tenor of his curses was an indication, but the chauffeur and his escorts didn’t stop to find out.

  An unusual snow had recently fallen democratically upon the roofs of rich and poor alike, thatching them with the same thin blanket of sooted white. The snow had been shoveled from the streets and lay in melting piles along the sidewalks, dikes to hold back the traffic from the shops and homes behind—a congested flood that moved with the sluggish uncertainty of a serpent caught by an early cold snap.

  The car pulled up at the main entrance and Sasaki and his heavily armed attendants spilled into the smoke-tinged air. Sasaki automatically scanned his environment, weighing threats and evaluating opportunities. As usual, these men who had surrounded him from the moment he returned to his headquarters in the ribbon seller’s city stationed themselves in a professional manner. He was contained or he was dead. There might come a time to choose the latter option, but not yet.

  Guards at the entrance came stiffly to attention in recognition of his rank, or the authority of his companions. Inside, it was warm from the steam heat and concentrated tension of those crowding the building’s foyer. Not many people awaited appointments with the military police without trepidation. There would have been nearly as much sweat here had there been no heat.

  They took him to a reception desk where a small clerk with thick spectacles shuffled one pile of paper into three, then recombined them into a new order. Sasaki had the feeling he could make the job last a week.