Novel 1987 - The Haunted Mesa (v5.0) (31 page)

“
You
have seen Mesa Verde?”

“Oh, yes! I go with tour-ist. A park ranger explained it all very nicely.”

“Was he right?”

“He did not speak of the always watching for enemies. At first they did not find us. They killed people in the flat lands and took their grain. We watch, and make no sound, but finally they find and attack my people. Some enemies were killed and some fell from cliffs when they try to come down toeholds cut from the rock. They did not know the steps were keyed.”

“Keyed?”

“Coming down the cliff you must begin with the correct foot or you would come to a place where you could not go down or back up. Our enemies hung there until they tired and fell. It is very far to fall.”

Chapter 33

T
HE OLD MEN clustered about the map, brows furrowed, intent upon its every line. “We do not have things such as this,” Kawasi said. “Although some tell that He Who Had Magic knew of such.”

“It is a design,” Raglan said, “showing how the land lies. I study it to see how I must approach the Forbidden and how to escape when I am free of it.”

“Nobody has ever escaped,” an old man said.

Raglan was irritated. “You have been telling yourself that for years, and somewhere, sometime they told you that. I shall go in, and God willing, I shall come out, but do not tell me again that it cannot be done. Do not tell yourselves that.”

Raglan got to his feet. “Tell Hunahpu,” he said to Kawasi, “that he must find men who believe as he does, men who will fight the Varanel. Then he must think of how to defeat them. Use the country against them. Destroy the trail if need be. Stop them, or you will all be slaves.”

“And you?”

“I shall do what I have come for. I shall find Erik and free him.” His eyes turned to hers. “Then I shall come for you.”

Their eyes held. “I do not know if I can go,” she protested. “My people need me.”

“Not unless you can lead them. Do you not see what is happening? The same thing that happened before when your people fled to this side. They fled because they were afraid, and they had no organized leadership. To defeat such an enemy you cannot have each person deciding what he or she will do. When nomadic Indians attacked your people, they drifted away, family by family, until nobody remained who could or would resist. It was the same when you abandoned your homes and fled back to this world.

“To protect yourselves you must have organization. You must work together. If you are to follow the old ways, Kawasi, your people are doomed.”

He waved a hand. “Are you prepared to lose all this? To have someone else reap where you have sown? You have no choice, Kawasi. You must fight or be enslaved. Some of you will undoubtedly be killed—certainly you will be, for you are a leader and a possible focal point of resistance.”

“You could help us.”

“I could do nothing for you that you cannot do for yourselves if you but wish to. It is far better you are led by one of your own. I am not a hero. I shall try to help my friend escape because he relies upon me.

“You are a great people or you could not have built all this, but if you will not save yourselves I cannot save you. Hunahpu will fight. Help him.”

“What of us?”

“If I get Erik safely home, I shall come for you, unless you can escape and come to me. We are equal, you and I, but you have your duties and I mine. Let us be about them.”

No, he told himself, he was no hero. If he was, he would stay here, lead them to victory, and then save his friend. Or die trying.

Well, he did not want to die. He did not want to be where he was. He would have liked to be safely out of it with Kawasi beside him.

He shouldered his pack. Hunahpu was watching him, and Raglan turned again to Kawasi. “Tell him to ambush them. To aim for their throats, their legs, their faces. Get on the cliffs above them. Roll rocks down. Kill them any way you can, but kill them.” He stared into Hunahpu's eyes. “You must show them that a Varanel can be killed.”

He turned to Kawasi. “Where is the other way out? I must be going.”

From the terrace she pointed the way. He turned again to her. “I can do nothing for your people they cannot do for themselves, but if you are to exist, you must fight. You must defeat the Varanel. There are but five hundred of them, and you will have more men than that.”

“Where will you go?”

He gestured toward the wild and broken country. “I go there. I am going to find the ruin left by He Who Had Magic or whoever was before him. There is a map there, and I wish to see it. Then I shall enter the Forbidden and find Erik.”

“It is—”

“Don't tell me it is impossible. I shall do it because I must.”

For a moment he took her by the arms, looking into her eyes. “Do not doubt that I love you. Do not doubt that I shall return.”

When he was on the trail up the canyon he looked back. She stood on the terrace looking after him, and he lifted a hand. “You're a damn fool,” he said aloud. “If you were even half smart you'd take that girl and run. You'd get out of here before the roof falls in.”

That quake or whatever it was? How much time did he have? He no longer remembered how much time had passed. Five hours? Six, perhaps? He would have to hurry.

When he left the canyon of the green fields, he entered upon a trail where no tracks appeared. If any had come this way, it had been long ago, indeed. He went along the trail, climbing steeply up, working his way around boulders and into a forest. Needles lay soft beneath his feet. Bears were here, and mountain lions, too. He saw their claw marks on trees, and droppings beneath his feet.

He walked on, aware of all around him, yet moving swiftly. He was, he knew, cutting across the wild country and actually drawing closer to the valley of the Forbidden. Nowhere did he see any tracks of men or any sign of hunting, trapping, or woodcutting. The forest here seemed not to be used. What he was seeing was a society that had drawn more and more into itself, a tight, narrow little world fearful of all that lay outside and controlling all that lay within. Centuries of domination had left the people with no belief in resistance. He doubted if the idea even occurred to them, and if it did, it was quickly stifled by the same defeatist comments he had heard among Kawasi's people.

Yet the Anasazi had evolved. Their architecture was better, their fields better cultivated, their irrigation system advanced. Given outside stimulation there was no guessing what heights they might have achieved.

He paused to catch his breath. This air was not the same, for the altitude, judging by the plants and flowers, was not great. He was in a forest region which in his own world would be aspen country, with spruce above and around him.

From a break in the forest he looked for his finger of rock, found it, and took a bearing. Not far now.

Suddenly he stopped. He looked carefully around, unbuttoning his coat to get quicker access to his pistol. He had seen a track, the track of a fairly tall man, but not heavy.

His eyes found nothing. Ahead of him he could hear a waterfall. Not a large one, but a fall nonetheless. He let his ears become accustomed to its sound and then began to sort other sounds from it, distinguishing one after another.

Somebody had been here, somebody who wore moccasins and was over six feet tall. The Indians he had seen were mostly not over five feet eight inches.

Zipacna was tall, they had said. And he might be the most dangerous of all.

Who was he? What was his relationship to The Hand? Was he a minor captain? An important one? A deputy leader? An adviser? Just
what
was he? Kawasi had feared him, so he would be wary.

Raglan went down a steep aisle among the trees. Below him there was bright sunlight, leading to an open place, out from among the trees.

Pausing beside a tree, Mike Raglan surveyed the area before him. Down through the trees lay a small meadow; beyond it, a stream. His eyes had not yet become accustomed to the odd light, but there was no glare. It was a vague, yellow light, like that sometimes seen in the plains country of the Midwest before a storm. Here no storm impended, nor any change in the weather he could detect.

He waited, watching, unwilling to go down into that open meadow, yet knowing he must. Beyond it some of the rocks seemed to have a formation that did not look natural, as if they had been shaped by hand.

When that old cowboy whom he met in Flagstaff had broken through to the other side, it had been near a ruin, a ruin where he had found a map on a gold plate. The old man had copied only part of that map, showing how to return to where he found the gold. It was the rest of that map Raglan wished to see.

The Forbidden was a huge building, several times larger than the Pentagon, and it was a maze of rooms and passages. If there was a map, it would make it much easier. Of course there were other maps in the Hall of Archives, but this one, scratched on a gold surface, might be much the best.

Moving forward a few feet, he stopped behind another tree. He had found no more tracks, and the meadow before him was empty. He went swiftly down, crossed the meadow, and went up into the trees and the forest of rocks beyond. Almost at once he came upon a corner of the ruin.

He studied the path. No tracks, yet much of it was bare rock, and tracks might not show. He rounded the corner and stood at the upper edge of a shallow valley of ruins, a valley not of meadow and grass but of bare red rock created by what he could not guess. At a glance he realized the ruins were ancient, older than anything he had ever seen, anywhere.

Mike Raglan had looked upon many ruins, but his first impression of this was one of extreme age. His second was a creeping sense of horror—why, he could not say. The area he overlooked must cover more than fifty acres of ruined walls, toppled columns, a surprising number of intact roofs. He sat down on a flat rock, fallen off a wall, and studied the situation. He didn't like it.

Carefully, inch by inch, he studied the ruin before him, taking his time to fix the layout in his mind. This might be where his old friend had come through; this might be where he had found the gold.

How many men could have taken enough and never returned? Few men were content with just enough. Few could resist the lure of just a little bit more. A comfortable life was rarely sufficient. Most men and women wanted wealth, and that old cowboy had known where it was and how to get it. Had there been something else, something he had not told?

Nothing moved. The valley of the ruin was high on a ridge of some sort, and the broken edges that surrounded it seemed to be the edges of a flat surface, like a mesa top.

Still he did not move. Yet time was nudging him to act.

He shuddered. What was wrong with him? Why was he apprehensive? He had explored many ruins in Egypt, Tibet, the Takla Makan, and in India. He ran his eyes over these ruins again. There was little time, and he must get on with it, yet still he did not move. Occasionally there came to his nostrils a vaguely unpleasant odor that was somehow familiar, but he could not place it.

Did anything live down there? Had animals moved into the old temples? If there were temples.

Raglan got to his feet, glancing around him once more. He saw nothing. Then he started down the path into the ruin.

He saw no birds, no chipmunks, not even a lizard. Did nothing live here? He paused again, wary of the ruins. No flies, no bees, not even a whisper of movement. He walked on, his feet making small sounds in the grass.

It must have been an imposing city in its day, if such it had been. The ruins bore no resemblance to any pueblo he had seen. He walked down a space between buildings. It was not a street or even an alleyway, simply a space, now overgrown with grass. Before him was a stone basin at least ten feet in diameter, but it was dry. On the far side was an opening as of a good-sized pipe through which water must have come into the basin.

He walked around it and saw opposite him a door, a very tall, narrow opening and beyond it, only darkness. He stepped closer, and peered within. He could see nothing. He started forward, then stopped.

It could wait. First he must see what lay outside. He stepped back from the entrance and looked quickly around, then walked away, suddenly relieved. Twice he glanced back over his shoulder.

What
was
the matter with him? Why had he not gone inside? After all, he suddenly recalled, he had a flashlight. Scarcely more than an inch in diameter and ten inches long, but extremely powerful, the light would have pierced that blackness like a sword blade.

He walked on, stepping over fallen columns, skirting great blocks of masonry. Several buildings had caved in, and many were intact. Nevertheless the columns and the decorative stonework showed signs of aging such as he had never seen in Greece, Egypt, or the Hittite ruins in Turkey. Whatever this had been, it must be older than anything known on earth, yet the architecture, although different, showed evidence of considerable development. This had been no beginning civilization, but one that had grown, developed, and matured.

He looked around him again. All was still. Nothing moved, now, not even the wind.

He walked down another opening between buildings and suddenly another opened before him. The pillar at the side of the door had fallen across it, one end still partly in place. The door was not blocked, however; he could easily go either over or under the pillar. It was a good-sized building but this was some sort of a side entrance. Within, as in the other building, all was black and his eyes would not penetrate that darkness. He started forward. This time he would see what, if anything, was inside.

He stepped up to the door and peered inside. Directly before him was a screen, placed so one had to turn either right or left to go around it. He had seen the same effect several times in Asia. The idea was that evil spirits have to travel in straight lines and so could not follow beyond the screen. Smiling at the idea, he started to duck down under the pillar.