“Silence,” he said, and Alia felt as if someone had hit her on the head hard, and it had stunned her. Naturally she fell silent.
“America . . . that accursed, sprawling—” He went on in a language that Alia didn’t understand, but the rebellious little imp in her mind insisted that it did, too, sound like growling . . .
“They’re fighting me,” he said. He turned to her again, and Alia felt a relief all out of proportion that it was Tor von Eisenhalt, the man, though his expression was forbidding. “It would seem that the sheep are putting on wolf ’s clothing, Alia. Foolish, weak-minded, stupid little children are trying to fight me. Me!”
“Who, sir? Who is fighting you?”
He studied her. “You must find them, Alia. You will find them.”
Despairing, Alia cried, “But, sir, I don’t know who they are! I don’t—I can’t see!”
He nodded. “I know. I know. It’s all right, Alia. I will show you. They will be some of your renegade religious crazies, a small group, hiding . . . not in the camps . . . somewhere . . . in the West, I believe. California maybe?”
“I’ll find every last one of them, sir,” Alia stated evenly. “I swear to you that I’ll find every one of them who would dare to try to fight you.”
He smiled, and the smile was as terrible as his wrath. “Don’t kill them, Alia. Just bring them to me. Especially the young ones.”
The noon sun seemed to grow bigger, hotter, as the two stood there in the square of light.
The sun was hidden in Chaco Canyon, for it was just past the dawn, and the lowering clouds hid the sun from them, and it also hid the canyon from ravening eyes. Zoan and Dancy and Benewah Two Color were praying for Cody Bent Knife, and his body was being healed of a deadly hurt. The light shone bright around them.
For now, Tor von Eisenhalt, the Wolf, could not see.
NINETEEN
ASKIM OF ICE caught the bright afternoon sunlight.
Overhead the pale sun seemed almost without heat, and the spectators who had come to line the circumference of the pool wore heavy clothing and their breath made puffs like incense rising up in the frigid air.
Zoan wore only a pair of faded Ty-jeans and a thin blue shirt, but he never seemed to feel the cold. Usually his face was empty, but now he looked happy as he stood hip deep in the water. He was dwarfed by the tall men who stood beside him, Con Slaughter on his left and Ric Darmstedt on his right.
Standing on the very brink of the pool, watching with frowning concentration, were Rio Valdosta and Vashti Nicanor. Colonel Darkon Ben-ammi had flatly refused to attend the baptisms.
Niklas and Gildan had disdainfully refused. But all of the Indians were there, and so were the “civvies,” as the refugees from the Albuquerque Isolation Facility had come to be called.
Victorine Flynn Thayer stood very close beside Dancy, holding her cold hand. She had found it difficult to accept the fact that these two fighting men had given their lives to Christ, when neither of them had ever said a great deal about God. Especially Con . . . he always closed up tight as a vise whenever Dancy mentioned the Lord to him . . . It struck her with a sudden pain when she realized that she had never talked to Con Slaughter about the Lord. She rarely spoke or thought about her Savior much at all these dark days. The focus of all her thoughts was Dancy Flynn Thayer.
The baptism itself was simple, as was everything that Zoan did. He asked, “Are you ready, Captain Con?”
Con nodded, and Zoan put his hand on the back of the taller man’s neck. With his left hand he closed Con’s mouth and pinched his nostrils together and then said, “I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” The words echoed over the open space as he lowered the big man backward until he was completely immersed. Con was a full half foot taller than Zoan, and the smaller man struggled a bit. Ric stepped forward to help. “Is this—legal, Zoan?” he asked.
“Sure,” Zoan said. “We’re all brothers in Christ.”
When Con came up, he shook his head, wiped the water from his face, and then said calmly, “Thank you, Zoan.”
Zoan nodded. “Will you help me with Lieutenant Ric?” he asked, then turned to Ric. He baptized the big man, saying the words again. When he came up, Ric gasped with the shock of the water, but his eyes were bright, and he laughed exultantly. “Thank you, Zoan, and Captain Slaughter, it’s a real honor.” The two men rather awkwardly embraced.
Zoan turned to motion Cody and Benewah Two Color into the water, only to see Rio Valdosta wading out toward him, his face grim with determination. He was like a great tank lumbering along, the water making small waves from his stocky body as he moved.
When he reached the three men, he looked at Con Slaughter and said, “I’ve always followed you, Captain. If you’re gonna live and die as a Christian, then I’m gonna live and die with you.”
“It—it doesn’t work like that, Sergeant Rio,” Zoan said with some distress. “This is what a man does for himself. He gives himself to God, not for his loyalty to somebody else, no matter how much you admire him.”
“I know that, and I understand that this is between me and
Jesus. I’ll get all the finer points down later, but I’m telling you right now—” He turned and spoke louder so that those on the bank heard him clearly, “I’m asking Jesus Christ into my heart. I’ve always been kinda embarrassed about it—who knows why—but I’ve read the Bible enough to know that it means He takes first place in my life. And Captain Slaughter is the gutsiest man I’ve ever known. If he’s not ashamed, then I’m sure not going to be.”
Zoan smiled. “If you will follow Jesus, then it is right you should be baptized.”
Rio’s sturdy form was steady as he nodded. “I believe in Jesus Christ as the Son of God.”
“Then in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I baptize you.”
Rio came up from the water, and the three men waded ashore where they wrapped themselves in blankets and laughed and talked loudly, as men will.
Zoan said, “Cody, Benewah.” When the Indians came to him, he said exultantly, “Now we’ll really be brothers.”
“Yes,” Cody said and smiled up at the pale sun.
Zoan was struck again by the three long red scratches on Cody’s face. They were going to leave ugly scars on the handsome young Indian, but Cody had just laughed and said that maybe God knew he was vain about his looks, and that’s why He hadn’t healed them.
“I live,” Cody said quietly, “and that’s a miracle. This baptism is the same miracle. Now I die, but I will be alive in Him.”
Zoan baptized his two best and closest friends, true friends of the heart. Benewah was smiling, but shivering, so Cody and Zoan hurried to help him ashore. Cody was astounded when he reached the bank and looked up at Ritto Yerington. Easily the largest, heaviest man in the group, Ritto was standing rigid, his fists clenched, bloodless, at his sides. But what amazed Cody was that tears were streaming down Ritto’s coppery cheeks.
“Ritto, my brother. Let me pray with you,” Cody said kindly, laying his hands on the man’s thick shoulders.
Ritto seemed to collapse. Beside him his sister, Layna, her head drooping so that the black satin fall of her hair hid her face, was sobbing. Turning, she threw her arms around her brother and whispered, “Ritto, Ritto, we have to come to God. We have to know Him . . . We’re so lost . . . we’ve been so lost, so alone, all our lives . . .”
“Listen, listen to me,” Cody implored them. He loved these two—especially Ritto, who had always loved Cody Bent Knife as fiercely as he had hated his enemies. All of the Indians, who kept a certain stolid distance from white people, drew near and listened eagerly as Cody simply and calmly explained his dedication to Jesus.
Finally Ritto nodded and said, “Yes, Cody. Yes, I must have this Jesus. If you say that He’s our Father God, then I must come to Him.”
The huge Indian, holding his sister by the hand, waded out into the pool. It was all that both Zoan and
Cody could do to handle him. Ritto, with understanding, had taken them out into even deeper water so that they didn’t have to lift his massive weight, but even so it was a struggle. Ritto, however, came out of the water so handily, he almost leaped from his own great strength.
The Indians gathered around them, talking and asking questions. Lystra Palermo, with Torridon and Pip in tow, joined them. The Indians had tacitly accepted them, partly because Torridon had made fast friends with Hindo Night Singer’s two youngest children, and partly because they had a vestige of an old superstition that Pip with his mental illness was special—touched by the gods, they thought.
Zoan and the soldiers were together in a tight group. Vashti had hurried to put a blanket around Zoan, though he didn’t appear to be cold. Ric came up to her, grinning. “Do I look different, Colonel?”
She considered him coolly. “You look wet. That’s different.”
“I feel different,” he said with boyish excitement. “I am different. Think you’ll still like me, Colonel, sir?”
She was startled for a moment, her raven’s-wing eyebrows raised. She quickly recovered, however, and grumbled, “You were a Gentile before, and I liked you. You’re still a Gentile, so I suppose no irreparable harm’s been done.”
“A Gentile, huh?” He laughed, a genuine, rich laugh. Ric had been laughing a lot in the last few days. “As opposed to a Jew?”
“Of course,” she rasped.
“A Jew? A child of Israel? One of the chosen ones—like you?” he teased, his blue eyes sparkling like struck steel.
“You’re still an idiot, too,” she said dryly.
“Yeah,” he agreed, “but the sad part is that you still like me, Vashti.”
“That’s ‘Colonel, sir,’ to you, Lieutenant,” she said sternly, taking his arm. “C’mon, all of you get out of those wet clothes. That’s an order . . .”
Standing apart from them, Victorine and Dancy watched the two knots of people talking and laughing. For once, no one noticed them. Most of the time, people gave Dancy sidelong looks and sidled up to her as if they were frightened of her or in awe of her. Everyone but Zoan, Cody, Benewah, and Con seemed uncomfortable around her. Dancy hated it, but since she was still a child in many ways, she didn’t know how to handle it.
But Victorine did—or at least she thought she did. “C’mon, Dancy,” she said, her voice filled with anger. “Let’s go for a walk.”
Hand in hand, they turned and walked alone for a long time by the stream.
Cody heard no sound, for Zoan appeared at the open door with his characteristic ghostlike silence, but Cody sensed his presence. Without turning he said, “Hello, Zoan. Come in.”
Cody was standing at the window at the back of his hut, by his bed. He’d pulled aside the Navajo blanket he’d hung over the square opening and was staring out at the frosty night. It was breathtakingly beautiful, with the light dusting of snow and the unending vista of the heavens.
Zoan did not answer as he came to stand by his friend.
The two men stood, silent, motionless, for a long time.
Zoan had been out for hours, walking alone in the frozen wastes. Thoughts had formed in his mind, disturbing thoughts, troubled thoughts. As usual, however, he had not been able to figure out how to express them. He did know that somehow he could make Cody understand.
Cody waited patiently.
Zoan finally said, “I’ve been walking and thinking.”
Cody nodded and waited.
Zoan’s smooth, unmarked forehead drew together in worry creases. “You remember I once tried to tell you about that Man-Wolf, Cody?”
Cody nodded, and slowly his fingers went up to brush lightly the three raw welts on his cheek. “Yes, I remember, Zoan. I’ve been thinking about that a lot since that thing attacked me and almost killed me. Would have, but for the grace of God.” He hesitated, then his voice dropped with uncertainty. “Do you think, Zoan, that the wolf that attacked me was . . . real? I mean, was it just—a wolf or—or—something else?”
“I don’t know, Cody,” Zoan said, and he sounded afraid. “I don’t understand much sometimes. But I’ve been having these dreams . . . bad dreams. About wolves, hunting, always hunting . . .”
Cody frowned. “Dreams . . . I think your dreams probably have a meaning, Zoan. I think maybe what they mean is that he’s looking for us. The—the Man-Wolf. Maybe the wolves that attacked us are like his servants or something, but—they don’t know everything. They don’t understand everything . . .”
Suddenly Zoan’s face cleared. “I think that’s true, Cody. I think you’re right. Just like sometimes I can’t understand everything. I know the devil doesn’t know everything, can’t see everything.” With a touch of unhappiness returning he murmured, “But he is looking . . . he would be looking for strong Christians, Cody. Like you. Like Dancy.”
“Like you, Zoan,” Cody added, almost whispering.
Zoan nodded, then sighed. “Yes, he’s been looking for me. I can see him sometimes. I mean, not with my eyes. I just—see him in the dark.”
“I know,” Cody said. “You’re not afraid, are you?”
“Yes,” Zoan answered honestly. “I am.”
Cody returned his searching gaze out into the night. “I am, too, Zoan. But that’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know. In fact, I think we’d be loco if we weren’t afraid.”
Zoan didn’t answer. Both of them stared out, unseeing, into the night for a while longer. “There’s more,” Zoan finally said. His voice was as soft and light as a snowflake.
Cody swallowed hard. “I thought so.”
“We have to—let him find us, Cody,” Zoan said, almost as if he were pleading. “I’m—not sure—but I know—that God’s telling me that we have to—let him see us. We—we can’t hide anymore.
I can’t hide anymore.”
“I know,” Cody said, and he sounded weary. “And I know why, too. I’ve been too afraid to face it, to admit it to myself.” He turned to Zoan and laid his hand on the smaller man’s heart. He took Zoan’s hand and placed it on his own chest. “Our hearts, our blood, between us, Zoan, my brother. We two together are strong.” Zoan nodded wordlessly, watching Cody’s face with his unfathomable gaze. “It’s because of a man, one man, one frail man named Jesse Mitchell,” Cody told him quietly. “I felt it when Little Bird spoke to me about him, even before I was listening to God speaking to me. And now I know because God has told me. We can’t ever let him—the Man-Wolf—find Brother Mitchell. We can’t even let him—look that way.”
The two men broke their brothers’ embrace, and together, they left the cabin. Cody said heavily, “We have to tell the others. I guess we need to talk to Captain Slaughter and the soldiers first. But everyone has to know. People have to—make their own decisions.”
“I know,” Zoan said gravely, but he felt tremendous relief. Cody had understood. Better than that, Cody had known.
Zoan wasn’t alone anymore.
“Wait a minute!” Con rasped in his trademark throaty half-whisper. “Let me get this straight. You’re telling me that we’re nothing but cannon fodder?”
“I don’t know what that is,” Zoan said solemnly.
“Dead is what that is!” Rio said heatedly. “Forty-five dead corpses!”
“Dead corpses?” Zoan asked, a puzzled look on his face. “What other kind is there?”
Ric broke in. “Maybe not, Rio. We’re pretty tough. I’m not just talking about the team, but everyone here is tough in his own way.”
Rio shook his head stubbornly. “Look, for all my big talk, sirs, you and I both know that the only hope we have is in stealth! You know, black ops? The kind where they don’t even know we exist— much less where we are? And now you’re telling me we’ve got to paint a target on our foreheads and say, ‘Hey, Mr. Werewolf, over here! No, don’t look that way. Come over here and kill me!’”
Incredulously Colonel Darkon Ben-ammi said, “Stop right there. Do I understand that you, Captai
n Slaughter, and you, Lieutenant Darmstedt, are considering some sort of—foolish— gesture, just as a decoy? For some little old man in Arkansas that you’ve never even met? Is this some dunkhead madness, or are you all truly insane?”
Con was far from offended; the corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement. “Sir, I’m not insane, and neither is Darmstedt.
We’re not considering any action at all right now. I just want this information, sir, all of it.”
“This is not information,” Darkon muttered. “This is contusions.” “Delusions,” Vashti corrected him gravely.
“Ja, ja, whatever.”
Con managed to keep from laughing as he turned back to Zoan and Cody. “I believe you,” he said sturdily, “and I even think in some weird way that I knew something like this was coming.
Still, I’m a practical man. Do you think we have any other kind of options here? Is there anything else we can do?”
Zoan considered this before answering in a slow, kind voice, his eyes on Darkon Ben-ammi. The older man quickly averted his angry gaze. “Nobody has to stay here, Captain Con. Anyone can leave anytime. Cody says there’s no shame in being afraid, especially of something you—you don’t know how to fight.” He took a deep breath. “But I’m here, and Cody’s here, and I’m pretty sure Dancy’s going to stay here. I know the—Man-Wolf is going to be trying real hard to find us. Especially Dancy.”
“Wait just a bloody minute!” A furious voice sounded from the doorway. Victorine stamped into the room, propped two tense white fists on her hips, and growled, “I’ve been listening to all this crazy talk! Who do you people think you are? What are you? Do you actually think for one instant that I’m going to allow my daughter to be some kind of a—a rallying point for your stupid, hopeless little war? Well, you can think again!
You’re all crazy, and you’re all going to die! But Dancy Flynn Thayer is not!”
Whirling furiously on one booted heel, she marched out. Con leaped to follow her.
“I think she’s mad,” Zoan said morosely.
Fallen Stars, Bitter Waters Page 29
