Titanium into flour, silver into talc—what must physics be like in that other place, he wondered. Gordon decided that when he was able he'd inventory what he had left in the way of weapons and supplies. Anything that used metal was probably going to be useless. Tonight, however, he would rest and try to learn a few words of another language: body parts, camp items, terrain and weather features, animals, plants, foods, a few verbs, an adjective or three. After that, maybe tribes, organization, defenses, weapons, what's going on in Pela's world, who calls the shots, and what gods justify insanity in this time and place.
Sooner or later he would have to address the big one for himself: stay in the village where Harith and the timespan bigwigs knew when and where to find him, or get the hell out of London before the meteor hit and turned the village into a bloody mud bath. And did he even want to survive almost a hundred and forty thousand years out of his own time?
He gestured toward his mouth, then pointed at his head.
"Chola,” answered Pela, touching her own head. “Amu,” she continued as she touched her mouth. Later, as she pointed at body parts, snow, things in the camp, and said the words, Gordon tired and the pain filled his head until it took him deep into the shadows and left him there.
* * * *
*II
The new sun came up soft and peach-colored, the beams of the new day caressing the freshly fallen snow through the cedars, the sound of a distant rooster greeting the light followed soon by the momentary barking of a dog down in the village. Gordon listened to the sounds, allowed his gaze to note and record every aspect of his surroundings before it settled on the wisps of smoke from the fire's coals climbing into the icy air. Wood smoke. The smell of it brought Hosteen Ahiga before his mind's eye, the old man in the reservation hat always outside the New Meeting House on the Jemez Mountain Trail near Buffalo Hill Road, sitting on a bench next to the Coke machine, smoking cigarettes. Adults driving by would wave, call out greetings. Those walking by would nod their heads in acknowledgement, present a new wife, husband, baby, or a child who had accomplished something special. The only response they'd ever get from the old man was a nod. Once in a rare moment he would repeat the name of a presented child. His gaze, however, was always fixed out there on some vista invisible to other eyes. Young boys making fun of him would call him Iron Eyes Ahiga and say the old man waits for the return of Goyaaté, the leader the Bilagana called Geronimo.
That February afternoon when Gordon was eleven, after another day fighting in school, he ran away from the place and hitched a ride to the trail, hoping to get a ride down to Route 44 and from there to anywhere. Life as a Pueblo Indian sucked, and life as the son of a Navajo witch sucked even more. Walking south toward Buffalo Hill Road, Gordon passed by the meeting house and saw Hosteen Ahiga next to his Coke machine, sitting, smoking, staring with unblinking eyes at whatever it was he was seeing. The old man had on a heavy olive-colored wool coat with dull rust-colored horizontal stripes in homage to the winter.
Unfocused anger was Gordon's constant childhood companion, its occasional focusing landing him in most of his difficulties with authority. At that moment the apparent unremitting serenity of another angered him more than anything else. He climbed the meeting house steps and stood in front of Hosteen Ahiga. The old man smelled like wood smoke. Gordon stared with his own unblinking gaze into the old man's eyes. After a minute of this futile attempt at staring down Iron Eyes, Gordon began to suspect the old man was blind. He was not, however. At last Hosteen Ahiga said, “Grandson, my mother was Joan Blackdeer of the Coyote Pass People. My father was George Ahiga of the Folded Arms People. You are Gordon Redcliff. Your mother, Nascha, was born to the Coyote Pass People, which makes you Coyote Pass. Your father—"
"My father is gone,” Gordon rudely interrupted the old man.
Hosteen Ahiga's face cracked the tiniest of smiles, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepening. “Fathers and mothers never go completely, Grandson.” His eyebrows went up as his shoulders gave an apologetic shrug. “That's DNA for you,” he added.
Gordon, fighting to keep his angry expression and attitude, said, “What about my father, old man?"
"Niyol Redcliff was born to the Bear Enemies People in Santa Clara. Eleven years ago he stood where you are standing and told me he was going to Hollywood to get into movies."
"Did he tell you, Grandpa, why he ran? Why he left us?"
The old man nodded, his unrelenting gaze fixed on Gordon's eyes. “He said your mother was crazy as a corset full of frogs, and he couldn't stand it anymore."
Gordon blinked and looked down. “Why didn't he take me?” he asked.
Hosteen Ahiga allowed the question to answer itself as he shifted his gaze down the Jemez Mountain Trail, windrows of dirty snow beneath darkening clouds that promised yet another winter storm. He looked back at the boy. “Your mother is sick, Gordon. There is nothing anyone can do for her except be there."
"The Christians over on Mission Road say they pray for her,” said Gordon. “Prayer is talk, and talk is cheap."
The front rim of the old man's hat dipped slightly. “As I said, there is nothing anyone can do for her except be there. Being there was too much for your father.” Hosteen Ahiga leveled his gaze at Gordon. “Perhaps you are stronger."
Gordon looked down the road that promised to leave all his nightmares behind. He heard the old man say, “Coyote teaches much, Grandson, but his lessons are expensive. The Trickster's wisdom is to lead us down paths right into trouble just to show us why those aren't the paths we should have traveled."
"Useful knowledge delivered too late, you mean,” cracked Gordon.
"Better late than never,” countered the old man. “But when a path seems attractive, take a moment to ask yourself why it seems that way. It might be that it is the path you should follow. Maybe, though, what makes it attractive is something that needs fixing here. Every path has a lesson for those sharp enough to see it."
Gordon sat next to the old man in the cold for two more hours, the new storm fast upon the pueblo, listening to the old man, watching the snowfall, hearing from Hosteen Ahiga many of the things he should have heard from parents, grandparents, uncles, teachers, and friends. Then Gordon turned up his collar against the storm and walked across the river up into the foothills to Nascha Redcliff's hogan. The next morning before sunrise, standing with his mother in the new snow upon Bear Rock, Gordon helped Nascha bring up the sun and defeat evil.
Seven years later, near the end of Gordon's senior year in high school, Nascha Redcliff died in her sleep. Hosteen Ahiga, one of his sons—Jim Ahiga—and council member Michael Sweet came and did what no one could do when Gordon's mother was alive: bring her into the Diné. Naked except for moccasins and ashes, Hosteen Ahiga and Michael Sweet washed and dressed Nascha's body. By the time they were done Gordon and Jim Ahiga had finished chopping through the logs on the hogan's north side. Iron Eyes and Mike passed Nascha's body through the corpse hole where it was received by two Bilagana funeral home men who took care of the burial. Hosteen Ahiga plugged up the smoke hole and Mike Sweet boarded up the east-facing entrance, abandoning the hogan forever to Nascha's ghost. Before the sun was down, Nascha Redcliff's body was buried and Gordon was sitting next to Hosteen Ahiga on the meeting house bench waiting on the bus to his future.
"Now she is Diné,” said Gordon.
"Better late than never,” said the old man, a twinkle in his eyes. “Mike said the school would send you your diploma."
"Thank you for your help. I didn't thank your son or Mike Sweet. Could you tell them how much I appreciate their help?"
Hosteen Ahiga nodded. “I will tell them."
The exaggerated hiss of the bus stopping across the road signaled the need to end goodbyes. Before Gordon could say anything to the old man, Hosteen Ahiga handed the boy a small package wrapped in blue cloth and tied with a thin strip of leather. “Take this, Grandson. In the times to come, wear it when you can."
Gordon o
pened the package and in it was a black hand-tooled leather belt with silver tip and buckle. The leather in the belt's center was worked and stained into an image of Coyote. The rest of the belt was dotted with stars against a night sky. The buckle also carried an image of Coyote, one eye closed in a wink. On the inside of the belt was the maker's name: U. Ahiga. “You made this? Are you U. Ahiga?"
Hosteen Ahiga nodded.
"This is beautiful. Thank you.” Gordon put on the belt. After admiring his present, Gordon frowned and looked at the old man. “What does the U stand for? What's your first name?"
"Ulysses. My father named me after Ulysses S. Grant."
"Why? He was a terrible president."
"True. But Ulysses S. Grant was a great warrior, Grandson, who wrote a great book that my father read from cover to cover and finished the last page just before I was born.” He grinned widely and laughed. “I much prefer Iron Eyes."
Laughing, Gordon got on the bus that would take him to the Army recruiting station in Albuquerque. He took a seat, waved at the old man through the window, and saw the old man wave back as the bus pulled away. In basic training five weeks later he was notified that Ulysses Ahiga had died in his sleep two days before. He had been just short of his ninety-sixth birthday. Wood smoke: Hosteen Ahiga always smelled like wood smoke in the winter.
"God'n head,” said Pela, interrupting his reverie. Gordon turned and looked at this woman from another time lying next to him. She tapped the side of her own head with the heel of her left hand, “God'n head full ashili.” With her hand she made like a multi-legged creature crawling across the ground. Bugs. Pela drew a picture in snow. Ants. His head was full of ants. He smiled. His head was overfilled with thoughts, worries.
"Pela sees much,” he said. He looked at her crestfallen expression. “That is good,” he quickly added. Her smile returned.
"God'n head hurt better?"
"Some better.” He held the thumb and index finger of his right hand closely together.
"Tahi,” she said.
"Some better a little,” he answered her.
She pulled down the furs covering her, climbed over Gordon, and began coaxing the fire to life by placing scraped birch bark, dried grass, and tiny cedar slivers on a few coals and blowing upon them. When she had a flame, she began adding sticks. “God'n ants what?” she asked, without looking back at him. What was he thinking about?
"Old man."
"Father?"
"Tribe elder; gifted in years.” Gordon tried to represent what Hosteen Ahiga had meant to him with the words he knew in Pela's language. Still much to learn. “Good man,” he said. “Like father."
"How many summers?” she asked.
He thought for a moment, then flashed nine sets of ten fingers at her followed by five fingers of one hand and one from the other. She appeared stunned at the age Gordon claimed for the elder. “Much gifted in years,” she said.
Gordon pulled down his cover, rolled painfully to his side, struggled to his feet, and stood holding onto the lean-to's cross pole for support until a wave of dizziness passed. As he reached down to get his white fur poncho, every muscle in his back and legs protested.
He slipped on the poncho, a pain in his right shoulder making him grunt. With his fur poncho on, he grabbed again at the cross pole as another wave of dizziness washed over him. When he could again risk opening his eyes, he saw on the bed of cedar boughs his new hat. He bent over a second time and picked it up. The circle Pela had cut from the white fur poncho to make a hole for his head served as the top of the head covering. Its sides, however, were made of a deep black fur that felt like mink. He touched its softness with his fingers, stroked it against his cheek, and smelled the herbs with which Pela had treated the pelts. It smelled of balsam fir. He placed the hat on his head, and it fit comfortably over the tops of his ears to keep them warm. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Pela looking up at him.
"God'n like hat? Want change? I fix."
"I like hat.” He didn't have the word for perfect. “I like hat very much."
A river of pain flowed behind his eyes, he held the cross pole tightly as his knees sagged. As the pain lessened, he felt her standing next to him. “Head hurt not so better,” he said with a smile. Time. He didn't have the word for time. “Better a little soon.” He squeezed her arm.
She nodded, feigned business as usual as she turned and added another stick to the fire. He frowned against the pain, thinking that Pela was waiting for something. The thinking was hurting his head right then, and he turned and began pulling himself toward the graves, one halting step after another. Once past the shelter, he stood looking across the valley with its still unfrozen waters.
Gordon looked down at the river, reviewing his lessons from Pela. The river's name was Avina. She was the goddess who gave them water, fish, reeds, sewing thread, medicinal and beauty herbs, shellfish, skin mud, and building mud. Avina cleaned their clothes and bodies and rose once or twice a year to replenish the intervale lands for planting. The gentle river gave no hint that soon she would become an endless towering column of mud, rocks, and shattered trees that would seal this entire valley with death.
He looked up at the sky: Davimo, god of the day sky. Smoke climbed up to the god's face from dozens of smoke holes. He heard a voice. As Pela worked at the fire, preparing to cook, she was singing to something up in the sky, but not Davimo. She would be singing to Tana, the winged wolf-woman goddess of maidens and widows. In this age, no woman considered herself complete without a man. Conversely, no man considered himself complete without at least one woman. In his entire life, Gordon had never felt complete. Perhaps, he mused, it was the lack of a woman. Allowing the thoughts to fall from his mind, he turned and looked at the graves, momentarily seeing again those heat ripples rising from a cold and lonely place.
As near as he could understand from Pela's description, Mehmet had been missing part of his head. He'd probably caught a piece of the imploding hull as the metal weakened, Gordon speculated. Pela said Taleghani hadn't had a mark on him. Old guy, though. Probably had a chest full of modern medical miracles—replacement valves, pacemaker, wire leads. Suddenly everything metal powders and stops working, stops conducting electricity. The former Egyptian major who couldn't be trusted with a loaded sidearm and who wanted to bring Squanto from the past to speak to the future was now alongside his devoted student, groceries for prehistoric worms.
"My religious sensitivities,” muttered Gordon to himself in Towa, recalling Taleghani's question from another age. He pulled the remains of his belt from its loops, held it out, and looked at the leather image of Coyote. Gordon draped the belt around his neck, looked up, held out his arms, faced his palms toward the sky, and searched below the tree branches for shadows. After a moment, one of the shadows seemed to move.
"I see you, Coyote. You reach back even to here,” he said. “No such thing as a joke too old for the Trickster, eh?"
The shadow didn't move.
"So, here I am, Gordon Redcliff, your tool and plaything. I'm still on this side of the dirt and once again have no explanation for that. Since I am still alive, however, I have two small requests to make of you, Yellow Eyes: one new, one old. The new request is this: Give up just a little bit of your joke. Let the ghosts of the two Bilagana, Ibrahim Taleghani and Mehmet Abdel Hashim, let them walk among Pela's people so they can see and learn what they can before the meteor hits, the mountain shatters, and Pela's people vanish. Ibrahim and Mehmet paid a big price to touch this part of the past. Is it so much to ask to let them steal a look at what they paid so much to see?"
He lowered his hands and looked up from the shadows to the few clouds hanging motionless before the rising sun. “The old request, Trickster? It is what it has always been: Before you close my eyes for good, Coyote, let me understand the joke."
Gordon pulled the fur wrap more tightly around his shoulders and stood for a moment in silence. The shadow in the deep woods moved again and then was gone.
After a pause, Gordon walked beyond the graves to where the timespanner vehicle had been. All evidence remaining of the vehicle consisted of three crazily tilted cedars, their facing trunks stripped of bark and branches, and a lumpy pile of greenish powder at their bases lightly covered with snow, strips of gray plastic molding and gasket material sticking up from the mound here and there. Some of the lumps were chunks of hull that hadn't powdered completely. A touch was all it took. He dug into the powder with a stick and his hands. It was like playing in hellishly cold, coarse, dry wheat flour. He felt something hard and pulled up something large and plastic. The couches were still whole. They'd make great patio furniture for some leisure-burdened ancient, once leisure and patios were invented. He pulled the other two couches from the dust and placed them aside.
He found the plastic containers of food bars and water as well as his pack and the doctor's. The thin plastic was cracked and shattered. The food supplies that were not encased in metal appeared all right as well as a few of the medical supplies. His personal knapsack was made entirely of leather and was in excellent shape. Taleghani's knapsack relied upon metal rivets, buckles, and rings and had fallen apart. Something red and sticky had burst inside, as well, and had eaten the fabric. Inside the pack were the remains of Taleghani's changes of clothes, camera, and recording devices—all useless.
The rifle's plastic stock, the lenses from the scope, the smokeless powder from the ammunition now contaminated, and the shockcomb were all that remained of the weapons. He regretted the loss of the fighting knives. He had noted Pela doing her cutting with a flint knife. Gordon saved the lenses from the scope and placed them in his bag.
Analog SFF, July-August 2009 Page 35