by Kage Baker
And we certainly had time to do what we’d come to do. Seventy years at least before Father Serra, bless or damn his well-meaning soul as you like, limps up the coast to found his mission system. Twice that long before the Yankee boys see Spanish estates the size of minor kingdoms, all empty and pastoral, and decide these lazy Gentes de Razón must be pretty damn dumb not to see the money they could be making if they’d cut down the oak trees and build towns. Two hundred years and then some before the engineer Mulholland throws open the sluice on his new aqueduct and yells, “There it is—take it!” as somebody else’s water cascades down to a host of real estate developers and orange growers. Putting in five words the creed of everyone who’ll ever lay eyes on this poor California.
Well. Come genocide, come developers, come pollution and urban war. Let ‘em do their worst: we can clone even Eden, if we get there before the Serpent and take samples.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I LED EVERYBODY UP THE back of the big hill that overlooked the village. We paused on the summit to look down at the little houses and work yards and the tiny figures going to and fro. “Humashup,” I announced.
“Okay, we’re fanning out,” announced the head security tech, and he and the other members of his team vanished into the sagebrush, leaving their packs for the rest of us to carry. Within seconds even we couldn’t tell where they were, but we knew they’d be down there doing invisible surveillance.
“It’s perfect!” said Imarte, eyes shining. “Look, there are children playing the hoop game—and that must be the cemetery—oh my god, they’re making canoes over there!”
“See the shell mound?” Beckman said, shading his eyes. “That’s not a midden. Those are money shells. And that man’s cutting abalone shell for inlay work …” The others crowded close to see, muttering excitedly. Only Mendoza stood apart. I looked over at her.
She’d barely noticed the village. She was staring beyond it into the land, green and rolling with huge oak trees like gods, rolling away to green and blue mountains. She was breathing in the scent of the aromatic brush on the hills, the sage and the agave with its white spires of clustered flowers. She was taking in the cloud shadows and the pattern the wind made coming across the savanna before it funneled into the canyon and carried away the smoke from the cooking fires of Humashup.
I know it’s pretty wild and empty, but it won’t be so bad, I transmitted to her. No reply, but a sound I couldn’t describe exactly, kind of a throbbing sound, kind of a storm sound. What was she tuning in to that I couldn’t hear? She turned her head slowly to stare at me, and her eyes were a thousand years away. I shivered. Last time I’d seen that look, it was on a nun whose palms had suddenly and inexplicably begun to bleed. You okay, Mendoza?
Her brows drew together in a faint frown, as if she’d just noticed me.
“This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen,” she replied. “How could anybody cut down those trees?”
I went and took her by the arm. “Nobody’s going to start for a while, but you’ve still got plenty of work to do. Come on.”
There’s always a letdown after first contact with an endangered species. You get real moved at the thought of saving all those mortal lives, and then you actually meet the mortals and it’s sort of a disappointment. Except for the anthropologists. They love mortals. Good thing, too.
In spite of my careful preparation for this moment, the people of Humashup did not take it well when they beheld a crowd of green beings descending the green hillside. Men stared and rummaged for their spears, women ducked inside their houses, children ran screaming after the women who had ducked inside the houses.
“Children! Children! There’s nothing to be afraid of!” I barked. “Don’t you know friendly spirits when you see them?” Sepawit had come out of the council house and was standing there with his mouth open, watching us approach. I caught his eye. He turned and waved his hands frantically.
“It’s all right, everyone! It’s only Sky Coyote and his spirits! It’s green men, not white men! Come on back, all of you!”
Actually it took about an hour to calm down the populace of Humashup and entice them to an orderly assembly, during which time my fellow immortals stood awkward and embarrassed in their viridian near nudity. Except the anthropologists: they ran around with little cries of delight, taking notes and holo shots of everything.
“Thank you all for coming,” I said at last, pacing before the silent and staring village. “You mustn’t be afraid of my servants! Why, except for the fact that they’re green, they look just like you, don’t they? And you all know I’d never do you harm. I’ve brought them here to collect things. You see, I’m not just saving all of you, I’m saving this world. I’ll want to build it again someday, so I’m having my servants collect a little of everything: the plants, the animals, the stones and shells. They’re also here to collect wisdom, to collect your knowledge of these things. You must help them by answering any questions they ask you. Be truthful. Don’t lie about anything. After all, if you lie, I might make some mistakes the next time I create this world.”
The crowd took that in, and there were a lot of thoughtful nods as they accepted it. The concept of an infallible deity was going to be something new to the Chumash.
“I mean, you wouldn’t want me to make a world where the creeks flowed blood, or the oaks grew bones instead of acorns, would you?” Scattered laughter and shudders.
“We do things a little differently in the World Above. When we spirits relax, we like to sit down to a big heaping bowlful of rabbit pellets with a few rattlesnake heads scattered on top for that extra burst of flavor”—screams of delighted laughter—”but somehow I don’t think that would suit you folks very well. So it’s very important for you to give good, truthful answers to the spirits. Otherwise, who knows what people could find themselves eating?
“Now, tell me: Who are the best hunters here? Who’s the best at bringing down the deer, the ducks and geese?” Quite a few skinny guys stepped forth uncertainly. I nodded to MacCool and the anthropologist Giovanna. They advanced out of the group.
“Good! Now, this man is the Spirit Who Catches Animals. He needs to catch two of all the animals you hunt. That woman is the Spirit Who Collects Hunting Wisdom. All of you hunters go over there with them and talk for a while, all right?”
They went obediently, and I beckoned to Mendoza and her team anthropologist, Dalton.
“Now, who among you ladies is the very best at gathering roots out of the earth, or greens in the rainy season? You members of the Deer Grass Gatherers’ Union, where are you? You herbal healers, you women of wisdom, where are you? Only the wisest, mind you.”
A number of hefty dames pushed their way forward, elbowing one another out of the way. There was a brief nasty squabble about which of them was the wisest woman of wisdom, and in the end I had to promise them they’d all get a turn at talking. I sent them away with the Spirit Who Collects Plants and the Spirit Who Gathers Herb Lore.
The rest of it went pretty peacefully. There was the Spirit Who Fishes, and the Spirit Who Collects Dirt, and the Spirit Who Wants to Know about Your Sex Life, and so on. Various elements of the population went off to sit under oak trees and talk with them, until at last there were only Beckman with his satchels and me. My executive pals from the steam bath had been waiting in a group, eyeing the satchel.
Nutku put up his hand. “That’s the Spirit Who Buys at Retail, right?”
“Yes! This is the spirit whose coming I foretold to you.” I grinned, tongue lolling. They converged on Beckman like sharks on a swimmer.
“Hey, spirit. I’ve got canoes! Beautiful canoes, all redwood models, with every luxury feature. Retrievable paddles, spear racks, mother-of-pearl inlay, I’ve got two-seaters, three-seaters, hell, I’ve even got a couple of war canoes at prices you won’t find anywhere else!”
“You want baskets? I’ve got the best. Two-color, three-color, even four-color, large and small. Unbelievable pattern
s, also custom work!”
“No finer pots and bowls anywhere, guaranteed not to crack, and they’re fireproof! Polished, carved, and inlaid by the finest craftsmen. We also carry utility vessels, hand mills, storage basins, durable kitchenware in designs that’ll grace the poorest camp or the richest house. Ask me about our line of novelties, too!”
So they bore him off, and I heard his voice lifted and the rattle of his coin.
Neat stuff was acquired and sent back to the base for storage every night, already tagged and context-catalogued. Chumash kitchenware. Chumash clothing. Chumash tools. Chumash medical supplies. Chumash sporting goods. Chumash diapers. Chumash birthday presents.
The anthropologists became great favorites, because they were so friendly. They recorded endless hours of Chumash voices speaking at great length on every conceivable subject. Their eyes recorded weeks of footage of Chumash life. Women pounding acorns. Men carving stoneware. A birth. Sports. A death. Courtship. Commercial fishing. They collected the people, too: DNA samples were taken, and each individual was catalogued and described under his or her entry by gender, age, profession, and genetic code. All two hundred and thirty-six or -seven inhabitants of Humashup, tidily listed for the big cargo manifest.
This is not to say that things went smoothly, however … though the Chumash weren’t the problem.
“A feast?” Bugleg looked blanker than usual. “At night?”
“Yes, sir. The Chumash would like to throw us a party.” I pulled out a chair and sat down, since I hadn’t been invited to. “They’d like to show off some of their dances and stuff, and the anthropologists are thrilled. It’ll be a great opportunity to record cultural material actually on location, you see. Their ceremonies and rituals aren’t just performed every day. They’re making a special occasion for us.”
“Rituals,” Bugleg repeated. “Ceremonies. Is that the same thing as a cult? That sounds scary. They’re not going to kill people, are they?”
“No, no, no,” Lopez hastened to assure him. “This will be a peaceful celebration, sir. And though it does require that we relax our regulations concerning base curfew for one night, it should prove well worth it.”
“Why do we have to do that?”
“Why, so the operatives can all attend, sir,” I explained. “They’ve been working pretty closely with the Chumash, and if they didn’t show up after being invited, it would cause hurt feelings. Plus, the operatives really want to go. So it’ll be all those who have gone on the collecting trips and the security teams who’ll guard the perimeter, and everybody’ll be out all night. Now, to do this, we need you to sign your name on this plaquette that says it’s okay, because the rules say officially we can’t have that many base personnel out after dark at one time.” And I pushed the plaquette before him and put a stylus into his nerveless hand.
He wasn’t happy. “I don’t know. It doesn’t sound safe.”
“Oh, no, sir, it’s safe. I mean, what can hurt us? We’re immortal, remember?”
“I know that.” He pursed his lips. “I didn’t mean for you. I meant for us. We’d be alone here with all the security techs away from us. What if the natives attacked? If they play their drums and dance, they might attack. What would happen then?”
“Oh, but sir, they won’t do that,” Lopez assured him. “The operatives will be right there with them. If the Chumash tried anything of the kind, they’d all be stunned into submission, you see?”
“Though they won’t do anything like that, sir, honest,” I stated. “They’re nice people, when you get to know them. Really.”
“But they have rituals and dances,” said Bugleg in distaste. “And they catch animals and kill them.” His eyes widened as a horrid thought occurred to him. “A feast is where they catch an animal and cook it on a big fire, isn’t it? Are they going to do that?”
Lopez and I looked at each other.
“Well, only an animal that’s already dead, sir,” Lopez told him at last. “It’s not as though it’s being hurt in any way.”
“But there’ll be—bones, and muscles, and …” Bugleg’s face was going pale, either with the slaughterhouse mental pictures he must have been forming or with the effort of forming them, it was hard to say which.
“It’s true, sir, meat in its natural state does have bones in it,” I agreed. “But the natives are okay with that, and so are we. We’re used to it, remember.”
“But I’m not!” He clenched the edge of the table. “This is gross. And I just thought of something! You’re all, ‘Only dead animals will be cooked,’ but that still means somebody will kill the animals, doesn’t it? And you can’t do that! You can’t have rituals and … and all that other stuff! I won’t sign permission. It’s too nasty and scary.”
“Oh, we won’t kill anything,” I told him earnestly. “The Chumash will be doing the hunting. Honest.”
“But they’ll be killing animals and you’ll eat them. No. Nobody in the Company can do this while I’m in charge. You Old People get away with a whole lot, but you can’t do this.” He folded his arms. “No weird rituals.”
I gave Lopez a long, meaningful glance.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute, I know what the trouble is!” I slapped my brow. “You thought—but how silly—I somehow gave you the impression that there were animal sacrifices going on. Wasn’t that dumb! No, no, sir, no actual real live animals will be killed for this feast. No, we explained to the Chumash our feelings about that. It so happens they’ve got an ingenious way of fabricating protein out of, uh, acorn meal and soya flour, which they then sculpt into the shapes of animals, and that’s what’s actually consumed at the feasts. See?”
Bugleg wasn’t quite that dumb. “But you were all, ‘Meat in its natural state does have bones in it,’ “ he quoted. “You said about eating blood and bones and muscles. I heard you.”
“Well, sure, but not at a party,” I explained. “Hey, I can’t fool you. You know that savages eat meat sometimes, and you know we Old Ones do too now and then. But, my God, you don’t think we’d do it where anybody else could see! At a party? In front of other people? Gosh, even the Chumash would think that was crude. No, seriously, sir, the only animals we’ll be eating will be pretend ones.”
“Oh. Okay.” There was actual comprehension in his eyes. He knew about hiding appetites where nobody could see them. I wondered what the games in his private entertainment console were like. “I guess that would be all right.”
“Thank you for understanding, sir.” Lopez guided his hand to the signature line. “This will help ensure that the mission is a tremendous success. Your superiors in the Company will be very, very pleased with you.”
“That would be nice,” he replied, obediently signing. “But it’s more important to be sure no animals die.”
It dawned on me then that he was actually standing up for a principle here, not just being ignorant and squeamish. I felt bad about lying to him, for a second or two. Lopez caught up the plaquette as soon as it had registered Bugleg’s signature. “Authorization cleared! Let the festivities commence.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
IT BROUGHT BACK MEMORIES, LET me tell you, hurrying through the dark canyon to the distant lights, with smoke and excitement on the wind. Party time! Behind me on the trail, they might have been tribal members and not anthropologists, all giggly with anticipation. How often are you invited to go back to the first days of the world, when evening dress consisted of feathers and beads?
The Humashup Municipal Sports Field had been co-opted for the party, neatly swept and fenced around with woven tule screens to keep out the wind. Only the side facing the sacred enclosure was open, framed by a doorway of whale ribs painted red, and a big fire burned there to light the dancing ground. Outside the field were cooking fires where people were lined up for helpings of barbecued venison and abalone-shell bowlfuls of acorn mush. One or two from each family were sent on the line to get as much as they could carry back to the others, who had staked out pl
aces with picnic blankets and woven drinking jugs. Everybody stopped what they were doing, though, to stare as we made our entrance: Sky Coyote and his spirits!
I wore my usual fur ensemble, but the rest of the team members hadn’t been able to bring themselves to tough it out in green makeup alone, so they were wrapped in an interesting assortment of capes and cloaks of European design. Eclectic wasn’t a strong enough word for the combination of cottonwood fiber G-strings and Florentine velvet brocade.
“Children! Good to see you again.” I held out my forepaws as we swept in. “I hope we’re not late?”
“Not at all, Sky Coyote, not at all.” Sepawit rose from his party blanket, handing off a greasy toddler with a half-chewed rib bone to Mrs. Sepawit. “Please! We’ve saved a place of honor for You, here by the banners.” He stepped through the crowd, escorting us to our seats. People scrunched over to make way for us, and there were several admiring and envious comments on the fashion parade. “We’ve even set out a buffet for You, here in the corner. Plenty of venison and side dishes, courtesy of the ladies of the Eelgrass Gatherers’ Union, and lots of jugs of manzanita punch and chia tea. If there’s anything else we can provide, we’ve got servers ready to fetch it for you immediately.”
What a fabulous view! Imarte rhapsodized. Look at this, look, we’re right in line with the sacred enclosure!
“This place pleases us,” I announced. “Be seated, spirits. Sepawit, have I got time for a whizz before the ceremonies commence?”
“Certainly, Sky Coyote. This way.” Sepawit and I stepped away discreetly through a break in the screen wall to where a latrine trench had been dug, special for the evening’s festivities. We faced out into the dark and addressed the trench.