Fallen Stars, Bitter Waters

by Gilbert, Morris

  Ric nodded, his clean-cut features wrinkled with sympathy.

  But he couldn’t think of anything to say, for in himself he could find no comfort to give.

  The meeting had gone on for more than an hour, and Slaughter, as usual, had not been able to be as firm as he’d like. It disturbed him, for he was accustomed to having men under his command. But the Indians were not soldiers. They had to be led, not ordered. He glanced around, studying them, especially Benewah Two Color. At seventy years old, he was thin and stooped, with only the one startling white streak of color in his otherwise matte black hair. He was the strongest member of the group, although he was probably the weakest physically.

  Cody Bent Knife became the object of Slaughter’s consideration. He was nineteen years old, a full-blooded Apache with black hair below his shoulders. He was not large, no more than five ten, but wiry as an antelope and could run all day, it seemed, without a break. He was a strange man, and Slaughter had never quite understood him or why the other Indians—especially the older men—were so blindly devoted to him. It was not the sort of loyalty that comes from a sense of duty; Slaughter understood that emotion very well. The other Indians were drawn to Cody as if he were some sort of lightning rod or ensign. Maybe they sensed in the young man a remnant of their past. Slaughter really didn’t know, but he did know that whatever he wanted the Indians to do, he’d have to get Cody’s approval.

  “We’re going to take the DPV to get resupplied,” Slaughter was saying. “You all know that we need—everything. Basic foodstuffs, cooking utensils, tools, supplies, blankets, winter clothes. Especially we need medical supplies. But I’m not sure exactly where to go first. You people are more familiar with this territory than I am. Any suggestions?”

  No one said anything for a long time, and Slaughter despaired of what to do next. No one seemed to know where to go to get the desperately needed items, and no one seemed willing to volunteer any help, either.

  Suddenly Zoan said, “We could get some of those things back at the lab, Captain Slaughter.”

  Everyone turned to look at Zoan with surprise. He rarely took any part in group discussions or in making decisions.

  Thoughtfully Slaughter said, “Yeah . . . yeah. That was a big facility, the ranch, I mean. It had quite a bit of farm equipment, tools, and—what about the biome animal care clinic, Dr. Ives? Was it as well stocked as most of the MAB projects are?”

  “There were plenty of medical supplies and pharmaceuticals in the veterinarian clinic,” Gildan said in a low voice. “But I’m not going back there, Captain Slaughter. Never.”

  Heavily Niklas Kesteven said, “You can count me out of this one, Captain. I’m no coward but . . .” His thick shoulders shrugged expressively. His and Gildan’s weeks in the ranch house—which was essentially a gravestone marker for the two hundred-plus friends buried underneath it—had taken a heavy toll on both of them. Niklas still had nightmares about it.

  Slaughter nodded with rough sympathy. “It’s all right, Dr.

  Kesteven, Dr. Ives. I’ll volunteer Darmstedt to go with me. If you’ll just give him a list of the pharmaceuticals and things we can use, Dr. Ives, he’ll be able to figure it out.”

  “Can I go, Captain Con?” Zoan asked.

  Con studied the nondescript young man. Con wondered if Zoan completely understood what had happened to all the people at the lab, which had been his only home and family his whole life.

  Con wasn’t sure if Zoan needed to return to that place of death, but then again, in some ways, Zoan was the strongest of them all.

  “Sure, Zoan,” Con finally said. “You can keep me and Darm-stedt straight.”

  Cody Bent Knife had listened carefully as Slaughter outlined the emergency though, indeed, he had little need of being told.

  Now he spoke up, his voice low and somewhat hesitant. “I know where we can get all the blankets and winter clothes we need. Some of the finest clothes ever made.”

  Instantly all of the Indians turned to face Cody. Slaughter asked, “Yeah? Where’s that?”

  “The Navajo reservation,” Cody answered with reluctance.

  “Oh, no, huh-uh, Cody!” Ritto Yerington grunted. He was twenty-five, six years older than Cody and twice his size. But he followed Cody as faithfully as a bullmastiff—usually. “That’s some bad medicine, Cody, and you know it.”

  Ritto’s sister, Layna, put her hand on Ritto’s arm. “Maybe it’s best, Ritto.”

  “What’s the trouble?” Con asked, careful to keep his voice mild. The Indians didn’t like anyone interfering with their ways.

  Cody seemed to be framing an answer, but Bluestone Yacolt, who was half Apache, half Blackfoot, spoke up. He had startling turquoise blue eyes and was easily the most quarrelsome member of the group. “You’re going to bring a curse on all of us, Cody. I can’t believe you even said it out loud.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in the old ways, Bluestone,” Cody retorted.

  “I don’t,” Bluestone responded, “but that doesn’t mean we won’t be asking for trouble if we do this.”

  “Hindo Night Singer’s two youngest children don’t have any winter clothes, and Ravenna Crow Heart and Ventana Ute have to share one blanket,” Cody said with finality. “And everyone who came in from that pit in Albuquerque needs clothes and shoes and blankets.” Cody turned his back to Bluestone and Ritto to talk to Con Slaughter. “You see, Captain Slaughter, the Navajos always kept to themselves. Their reservation was huge, hundreds of miles square, and they rarely came off it. And they didn’t exactly welcome visitors, either.”

  “I thought all the reservations put in casinos, luxury hotels, golf courses, things like that, for diversionary facilities for the public,” Ric spoke up.

  “Not the Navajo. There was only one hotel ever built, but the road to it was so bad that it finally closed in 2002, just three years after its opening. After that not many people even saw a Navajo.”

  “Did the plague hit them pretty hard?” Gildan Ives asked with interest.

  “No one knows how it hit them,” Cody said with a shrug. “They stayed so much to themselves that no one was really sure how many of them there were. And they didn’t go to white men’s hospitals when the plague hit. They stayed right there in the desert. I heard that only fifteen of them left the reservation and joined the world.”

  “That’s true. I know because one of those fifteen was our father,” Layna Yerington said sadly. “Our mother died in the plague.

  And he lived only a year after we left the reservation. Ritto and I were too young to remember much. But our father told the woman at the Indian Child Care Home, and she told us.”

  Cody’s eyes on Ritto and Layna were full of pity, but his voice was dispassionate. After all, most of his people had much the same tragic history. “The Navajo, I think, were the greatest artisans of us all. They wove the finest blankets, used only the best deerskin for clothing, the softest leather for moccasins, the finest furs for winter cloaks. All of those materials have been illegal for decades, of course, but for some reason the Commissary ignored the Navajo trade. And there was just one storehouse—the Old Red Rock Trading Post.”

  “Where is that?” Slaughter asked quickly.

  “Just over the Arizona line.”

  Slaughter frowned. “To the east . . . and the lab is west.”

  “No,” Cody said quietly. “If anyone is going to go, I need to.”

  “My father said our people kept on making clothes and sending them to the trading post until all of them were dead. The few who lived didn’t touch anything.” Layna’s face was sad as she turned to study the ground.

  “We can’t disturb their burial ground,” Ritto said harshly.

  “Stealing from the dead is worse than stealing from the living.”

  “It’s not stealing,” Cody said mildly.

  “Yes it is!” Ritto argued. “And stealing the things they made for their spirit gifts—that’s even worse!”

  Cody did no
t speak for a time. He did not particularly care for this option, but he saw no other way. “I don’t believe that our spirit ancestors will begrudge us their gifts to save our lives.”

  Ritto shook his head, a gloomy expression on his dark face.

  “Look, Cody, that German who was here said the Commissary is in charge now. They’ve been pretty good to Indians. Why don’t we just go to Albuquerque or Santa Fe and buy the stuff ? I mean, we’re not involved in the dumb religious wars that the white people are having. Remember your visions?” His face grew savage, his obsidian eyes glittering. “Let them kill each other off ! It doesn’t have anything to do with us!”

  Cody stubbornly shook his head. “I’m sorry, Ritto, I can’t do that. All of you know you are free to go anywhere you please. I don’t ask anyone to stay with me, and I won’t think any less of you if you leave. But I’m going to get those things at the Navajo reservation.”

  Ritto bowed his head. The loyalty—even love—he had for Cody Bent Knife was strong. “I will go.”

  “I’m in,” Bluestone Yacolt grumbled. “Been following you around like some dumb Tonto for too long now. Bad habits die hard.”

  Little Bird said in defeat, “Then I’ll go with you, too, Cody.”

  Cody merely nodded.

  Relieved at having some of the burden of logistics taken from him, Slaughter said, “All right. My team will leave as soon as we can get the DPV loaded. I suppose the rest of you will ride.”

  “Yes. We have plenty of horses,” Cody said. He was still troubled, and his face was etched with lines that made him look older.

  Zoan stepped up to Cody and laid his hand on the Indian’s chest, next to his heart. It was a sign between them. He looked up into Cody’s eyes, dark and wary, and said quietly, “Go with God, my friend.”

  As the DPV sped through the night, both Ric Darmstedt and Con Slaughter were glad that Zoan was there. They were traveling without lights, for they did not want any planes overhead to spot them on simple visual. Though the DPV had a neat camo kit that could be thrown over the vehicle in about thirty seconds, they avoided traveling during the day. The air traffic over the wasteland had lessened somewhat, but the odd Tornado squadron or Dagger flew over sometimes. Zoan, who could not comprehend the GPS, seemed to instinctively know their position all the time, and then, of course, he could see in the dark.

  “Turn this way,” Zoan said, pointing to his left. “You go across this wide plain to those three hills. See?”

  “No,” Con muttered. “And take my word for it, Zoan, it ain’t no fun to drive blind.”

  “I could drive,” Zoan volunteered.

  “No!” Con and Ric both exclaimed. They’d tried that once.

  Zoan didn’t seem to understand that hurtling through total darkness was too nerve-racking for the two soldiers. Zoan tried to drive slowly, but it seemed silly to him, and he kept creeping up to what seemed like outrageous speeds. He liked driving fast. He hadn’t exactly told Con and Ric that no one had ever taught him to drive, much less let him try.

  At any rate, it was a little less tense for Con to drive. Ric was suffering—he would have liked to feel that he was in control, too—but he was Con’s subordinate, so he had to tough it out.

  The hills reared up in front of them, and Zoan asked, “Now can you see them?”

  “Yeah, Zoan, they’re right in front of us,” Con blustered.

  “I know, but I don’t understand what you can’t see,” Zoan said innocently. “Anyway, you follow this biggest hill around to the right, and there’s a road curving between it and the other one.”

  It was true. They came out onto another plain, but this one had brown remnants of grass.

  “How much farther is it?” Con asked impatiently.

  “I can never see those klicks you’re always talking about,” Zoan answered, “but it’s about five minutes from here.”

  Zoan’s estimate was right. They followed a winding track through the wide expanse of fields and pasture to the ranch house.

  Zoan eagerly jumped out of the DPV. He breathed deeply of the biting desert night. He had grown up here. He had known every inch of these fields. He had missed them, though he hadn’t missed the lab. “I know where all the medicines and things are, and there’s some other things I want to get. I’ll meet you back at the house.”

  Ric said, “Here, Zoan, take a flashlight—”

  But he disappeared without a sound.

  Con said dryly, “He can see better without it than we can with it.”

  “Yeah, what was I thinking?” Ric muttered. “The Lizard Man with X-ray vision.”

  Both of them turned to the empty, dark house. Like all deserted houses, it looked a little spooky. But then, both Con and Ric thought that their childish fears had a lot to do with the fact that they knew two hundred people were in the lab buried underneath. Neither of them said anything, however, as they entered.

  Dust had gathered everywhere, and decay had already begun to show its effect. The thin beams of their lights waving around somehow made the dark, unseen corners even worse. Con admitted, “This place is creepy. But come on, let’s get it over with and get outta here.”

  They worked steadily, hauling everything they could find that might be useful to them out onto the wide front porch. They brought out all the cooking pots and pans and utensils, the canned and dried food, the cleaning supplies, even the pillows from the sofas and chairs. Finally they stood together at the entrance to the bedroom where the elevator down to the lab was located. Con was past being embarrassed; neither he nor Ric was a squeamish man. But it was a place of death, of a particularly horrible kind, and the very air seemed heavy with it. They stared at the splintered paneling that Dr. Niklas Kesteven—another man who was not subject to hysteria— had torn so desperately, and the cruel titanium steel door behind.

  “Think Zoan understands what happened here, sir?” Ric whispered.

  Con considered the question, then answered, “Yeah, I think he knows and understands, maybe better than we do. There’s nothing in here we need, Lieutenant. Let’s get trekkin’.”

  They went back out on the porch and stared doubtfully at the pile of supplies they’d gathered. “We’re never gonna get all that in the DPV,” Con said.

  “Betcha they’ve got some trailers in that barn, sir,” Ric said. “I could rig up a flatbed if I had any kind of frame, and this old girl will sure pull it.”

  “Yeah, okay, let’s search these outbuildings, see if we can find Zoan.”

  “We won’t find him unless he wants us to, that’s for sure, sir,”

  Ric rasped. “That man’s a walking stealth weapon. Can see in the dark, never makes a sound, can hear the bunnies talking over in New Mexico. And there’s the fact that he’s invisible.”

  Con snorted agreement. They walked and were suddenly conscious of how quiet the night was—it was unusual, for there was no wind—and how loud their movements and voices were. Then Con asked in a casual tone, “Ric, you ever think about Zoan’s— uh—dunkhead thing?”

  Ric frowned, then said with exasperation, “Yeah, okay, sir, I’m busted. I have been thinking about the dunkhead thing. A lot. I kinda thought, sir, that if I came along and—you know—Zoan was here, and not—uh—distracted—I might just, you know, ask him about it.”

  Con grinned, and though Ric couldn’t see his face, he could hear the wry amusement in his captain’s voice. “You thought that, did you, Lieutenant? Funny. I was kinda thinking the same thing.”

  The two men looked at each other, and Con shrugged his shoulders. “Why is it so embarrassing? I guess people have always made fun of Christians, but, hey, Mitchell isn’t weird. David Mitchell, he’s a good guy and he’s tough.”

  “I know,” Ric agreed. “Is it because we think of them as being sissies? No, that’s not right. People make fun of women Christians, too. I don’t know. I guess, sir, that we need to ask Zoan. It does seem that we’ve brought him out here, under false pretenses, for that.”
>
  “Sure does, Lieutenant,” Con agreed. “Let’s get loaded and get out of here first, though. I don’t care if we stop just over those hills. We’re not staying here. Tonight in camp we’ll surround him and make him talk.”

  “Seeds,” Zoan said. “I’ve figured out how to make a garden in the canyon, and I knew there were lots of seeds in the agri barn.” He grinned. That was unusual, for Zoan rarely smiled, though he didn’t look sour or morose. When he smiled, he looked like he was about twelve years old. Con had trouble believing that Zoan was actually twenty.

  “You never told me about your parents,” Con said to him, settling back against a rock and sipping his hot black coffee.

  Zoan stared into the campfire a long time. Then he said, “I don’t have any—not like you do, I mean.” Then he looked up at Con, and the child’s smile played across his still features again. “But I was adopted by God through my Lord Jesus Christ. That’s good enough for me. That’s good enough for anybody, don’t you think, Captain?”

  “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, Zoan,” Con said, but without the usual hint of impatience. “Do you, Darm-stedt?” “No, sir,” Ric said.

  “Zoan, explain it,” Con ordered.

  Ric laughed, but only inwardly. Well, that’s like you, Captain, to give a military order to help your soul. An old memory came to him, a story from the American Civil War. A Confederate colonel had been informed that twenty men from another regiment had been converted and baptized. Lieutenant, the irate colonel had commanded, detail forty men and have them baptized at once!

  Zoan did not take offense—he never did. He folded his hands in his lap and stared down at them for long moments. It was a way he had, for not once had Con or Ric heard him give a quick answer to a question. Always there was the period of incubation.

  “We’re not just the products of our mothers and fathers. No one is. We were all made by God,” Zoan said simply. It was not an argumentative tone, but it did away in a few words with the theory of evolution. “In the beginning God made the heavens and the earth, and then He made man and man was like God,” Zoan went on very slowly. They were thoughts from deep within him; this was the first time he’d ever said them aloud.