the Haunted Mesa (1987)

by L'amour, Louis

"We should have them. Such a record is priceless."

  The sun was warm on the rocks where they sat. "I think this is true, what you say. We who have been Keepers, we believe it is so."

  Tazzoc closed his eyes for a moment. "It is wonderful, your sun. So bright, so warm."

  "Yours is not so bright?"

  "Oh, no! Not bright at all! Our sky is not what you say ... clear?"

  "About the Archives? Does no one come there? No one at all?"

  "It is rare thing. Long ago many come--that was when The Voice spoke."

  "The Voice?"

  "It was what you call oracle. A voice that spoke what was to be, and we stood silent to hear. The Voice ruled, The Voice foretold, and The Hand did what The Voice said. Then The Voice became unclear, and The Hand would explain what The Voice intended. After a while The Voice ceased to speak and we had only The Hand."

  "You say people used to come when The Voice spoke. Was there a connection between The Voice and the Archives?"

  "The place of the Archives was what you call temple. A place in which to pray." Tazzoc paused, looking around at him. "All men need moments of silence. All men need to pray, if it is only to speak to themselves in the silence, to formulate their desires, and to say to themselves what they wish to be. Some of our people believed in the old gods, some did not, but all needed to pray."

  That made sense. The earliest writing known had been in temples where an account was kept of tithes paid or gifts to the gods. It had been so in Ur of the Chaldees, in Babylon, Nineveh, and Tyre. So in Tazzoc's world The Voice had been displaced by The Hand? A coup? Or had The Voice simply died out? Something of the same kind had happened to the Delphic Oracle in Ancient Greece, and there might be a pattern to such things.

  "Those Archives of yours? Do you have any idea of their range? The number of years covered?"

  "Oh, yes! I cannot claim to know them, but it is a part of our first training to know something of their origin. The first writing was on clay. These first tablets were lists of tenths paid to the temple. It continued after a number of years with added symbols, indicating that one who was behind in payments would pay later. Then there were lists of what belonged to the temple and where it was stored.

  "Then a man made a plea of being assessed too much, and told of his land and his house and what he possessed and what he could pay. In this way the words increased. The language grew.

  "The Archives are vast. Thousands of clay tablets and engravings on stone. Then there were many shelves of thin sheets of wood, used instead of clay, which was no longer practical.

  "Long ago twelve were numbered to care for the Archives, of which my family were directors. One by one they died or were taken away until I am alone. I come and go, a shadow they scarcely see."

  "Does anyone ever try to enter the Forbidden area?"

  "Who would wish to? It is feared. Those who belong there go. No others consider it."

  Yet if he could get in? Could he find Erik?

  Suddenly he remembered the golden map the old man had copied, and he had that copy. Was the Forbidden area included?

  "In your Archives," he said carefully, "is there a plan of the area?"

  "Oh, yes. Our ancient leaders planned everything with great care. There is a shelf with nothing but plans, designs of each building, each room. Except for the Death Doors."

  "Thewhat ?"

  "You see, it is a Forbidden place. Each knows where he must go, but he knows nothing else. Only The Hand knows all. Hence, the door you might open could be a trap, and there are many such, throughout the area."

  "A trap? How?"

  "Each room is dark when the door is opened. Not until the door closes do the lights go on, so if you try to enter a place you do not belong, you are trapped.

  "When the door closes, lights go on, but in the traps there are no lights, and there is no air. He who enters the wrong door is caught in a room with no chance of escape. Such rooms permit no sound to be heard outside."

  Tazzoc's eyes held a sort of triumphant glow. "A mistake means death. No one comes to look. No one cares. There are dozens of such rooms, so few guards are needed, and even if you were suspected of being an interloper, rarely would anyone interfere. Soon you will enter a wrong door."

  "How large are these cubicles? These rooms?"

  "Who knows? No one has ever come out to tell of them."

  "No one has ever escaped?"

  "How is it possible? The walls are stone, many feet in thickness. When there is no air, one dies."

  "Does no one ever make a mistake?"

  "Who cares? And who would know?" Tazzoc smiled. "No one has ever complained."

  "The area must be large?"

  "Many of what you call acres. There may be ten such rooms. More likely there are fifty. Perhaps no one remembers."

  "Are there such rooms in your place of the Archives?"

  Tazzoc shrugged. "There are doors I do not open. Who knows? The Hand does not care for those who blunder, or who try to go where they are not wanted. From the earliest time we are told not to open doors that are strange to us."

  How, in such a maze, was he to find Erik Hokart? Yet where he was held, others must have been kept before him, so someone would know.

  The old man Mike had met in Flagstaff so many years ago had found gold--found it in some apparently abandoned place. "I would be interested"--he spoke slowly so that Tazzoc could follow--"in a history of your people. From what you say, yours is a small country, rigidly ruled. Apparently your people do not know of those who fled to another part of your country--"

  "This could not be."

  "I have met a girl from such a group. She is a descendant of He Who Had Magic."

  Tazzoc shook his head doubtfully. "It is a wild tale. It would not be permitted. Besides"--he shrugged--"where would they go? How would they live?"

  "There are no places in the mountains? Or the desert?"

  "No one ever goes there. These are fearsome places."

  "Have you no records in your Archives of travel to such places in the long ago?"

  Tazzoc was uncomfortable. He peered uneasily around. "There were tales, wild tales told by irresponsible people. They are not believed. There is a section of the Archives ... It was forbidden to look there."

  "And you have not? Your father did not, nor your grandfather?"

  Tazzoc was uneasy. "There was said to be another place of Archives, forbidden to us. Some said it was only a tale, that such a place did not exist. It was a place for The Voice when long ago people had to go to its temple, a journey of many days. Then The Voice came closer and lived in the Forbidden area. A pilgrimage was no longer needed."

  A temple where The Voice had been, an ancient place for archives, now abandoned. Could that be the place? Certainly, such a place would not have been casually built. Might there not be another opening there? A permanent one?

  The old cowboy from Flagstaff might have gotten through near such a place and found the gold, and a way he could use at certain times.

  "Tazzoc, I must come to your world. I must help my friend escape. If he does not, others will come and your world will end. Men of great power desire his return, and if they do not find him soon, they will he searching these hills. I have told this to the woman, Eden Foster.

  "If there is violence, your precious Archives may be destroyed. I do not wish that, nor do you. If you could help me, we could save them, possibly even bring them back to our world where they would not gather dust but would be studied."

  Tazzoc was silent for a long time. Finally, he shook his head. "I do not know. I wish the Archives saved, but to free your friend? It is impossible. Nobody would dare such a thing, and you are but one man ..."

  "One man can often succeed where many would fail. You see," Mike added, "our scholars would like to know what happened to what we call the Anasazi after their return to your world. They seemed a good people, a people who were progressing toward something important. In your Archives there would be records, perh
aps, of what they did and what they thought. This is important to us. The Anasazi had learned much of building and were learning more. They had become skillful farmers within the bounds of what was possible for them. No doubt, had they not been attacked by nomadic Indians they would have survived the drought and expanded their irrigated areas. They would have expanded their trade, also, and exchanged ideas and farming methods with the Maya."

  Tazzoc got to his feet. "I have been too long away. Much as I wish it, I cannot help. I know nothing, and I speak with few. If questions were asked I would be seized and questioned."

  He paused. "This much I can do. I can bring a cloak such as this, and shoes such as mine. I can show you the portal through which I go, and the route I take. The rest is up to you."

  When Tazzoc had gone, Raglan sat alone, thinking. So, then. He was going. It was no longer a vague idea, no longer something about which to think. It was up to him now.

  But what of Erik? What washe doing? Mike could not believe he was not thinking, contriving, planning. What materials could he find? What subterfuge could he employ? Would he try to escape? To communicate?

  He'd told Mike that as a boy he had made a crystal wireless set. Could he do it now? Would radio waves cross the divide between the two worlds? What was he doing over there? Or was he doing anything? Was it possible for him to help Mike, or himself?

  Above all, what did theyknow ? What science did they have? What were the weapons the Varanel carried? What was their range?

  His life depended on the answers to his questions. His life, and who knew how many others'? What were they thinking of, beyond that veil? What evil awaited him?

  Chapter XXV

  Mike Raglan decided that if he were Erik, and a prisoner of those who had no reason to keep him alive, his first thought would be escape. If immediate escape seemed out of the question, he would try to convince his captors he was worth more alive than dead. The authority to whom he must appeal would be The Hand, but if he could not be reached, then the Varanel.

  From what Kawasi and Tazzoc had said, a watch was kept on everyone. How this was done he did not know, but Erik's knowledge was electronics, so if he could convince them he could build equipment useful to them, he might be kept alive. He might also gain access to equipment useful in an attempt to escape or communicate. But what if they already possessed methods superior to any he knew?

  After all, our world had progressed along certain well-trodden paths of inquiry, but were they the only ones? Our thinking had been channeled into courses assumed to be the only avenues of communication, but what if there were others of which we knew nothing?

  Suppose their methodology was entirely different? The Newtonian conception of physics, for example, has been completely upset by Einstein, first, and then by the quantum theory. Nor will this be the end. Of one thing only can we be sure: What is today accepted as truth will tomorrow prove to be only amusing.

  The Anasazi had returned to a world they had previously fled, but no doubt many had remained behind, and the two had combined to produce what now lay just beyond the window in the kiva. Some, probably those who had returned, had abandoned the world they found and gone to the mountains, where they had carried on much as they might have in our world.

  What was the evil they had fled? It would be simple to suggest something tangible such as a monster of some sort, a plague, or encroaching enemies, yet was that actually the fact? Had the evil been religious practices such as those known to the Aztec and the Maya, where human sacrifices ran into the thousands and the stench of their bloodstained altars, like those of the Carthaginians, had to be overcome by incense?

  Or was the evil something more subtle, such as religious bigotry and ignorance? For those who sacrificed the hearts of thousands to keep the sun in the sky no doubt believed themselves right and correct in what they were doing.

  What he seemed to be facing was an autocratic government ruled by The Hand, and supported by the Varanel, a small military clique of superbly trained fighting men. These had succeeded in keeping control by restricting exploration, ideas, and the world in which they all lived, but such rulers were apt to be highly suspicious, paranoid, and fearful of strangers and the ideas they might import.

  Erik was an intelligent, perceptive man. He would undoubtedly grasp the situation immediately and begin planning their escape. He had used the plural, had spoken of "us," which implied he was not alone. Although that did not necessarily mean a woman, it was a fairly safe bet it was. Was she a prisoner also? Did they know about her? Or was she an outside ally upon whom he might count for assistance?

  Erik would be a prisoner somewhere in the Forbidden area. This large block of structures was restricted, it seemed, to the use of The Hand, the Lords of Shibalba, and the Varanel. Judging by the comments of Tazzoc, only a part of this block of structures was in use and many areas had been abandoned, such as the Hall of the Archives. Tazzoc was no doubt accepted as one of the servants who occupied themselves in maintaining the area.

  So then, Mike must gain entry to the Forbidden area, examine one of the plans, locate the place where Erik was held, break him out, and escape.

  Simple enough to frame in words--quite something else to accomplish.

  First, Tazzoc must bring him the costume. Then he must study and rehearse walking like Tazzoc, with Tazzoc's stoop-shouldered carriage. Once inside the Hall of Archives he must go to the shelves of maps, find those needed, and study them. Once he knew where to go he must move quickly, careful to arouse no suspicion, and free Erik. Then they had to get away, and an escape route must be planned before that time.

  No matter how much they might try to avoid being seen, they must expect pursuit. That was where Volkmeer would be useful. He could stand by the window and stop any pursuit. If only Mike could communicate with Erik, get word to him somehow to let him know what was planned, or to discover what he himself was doing, if anything.

  He tried to consider every possibility, yet even as he considered the situation, coolly, he was frightened, appalled at what he was about to do. He was going into an enemy area without adequate intelligence, no knowledge of their capabilities or weapons, and in a place where he would be quickly identified as a stranger. He would be one man against thousands, one man alone.

  Of course, if possible, Erik would try to communicate with him. Suddenly he remembered the sunflower on the dog's collar, the sunflower on the sweater he wore.

  Had that not been communication? But with whom? With Kawasi or someone else? Someone who was not only friendly but who had been able to pass through from the Other Side. Someone who had needed a pencil but had not known how to sharpen it.

  Often before this, Mike had gone into dangerous country. There had been bandits in western China when he had been traveling there, and in other areas his motives had been suspected. He was investigating ancient mysteries but was often suspected of being a government agent or a spy for one faction or another. More than once he had been in trouble, and in the process of knocking around he had picked up a variety of skills for protecting himself. He had a feeling he would need them all.

  He checked his pistol, then his boot-knife. Another knife he slung down the back of his neck under his shirt. The idea of the sunflower returned. These sunflowers were unlike those he had known in the Middle West, which were often as large as dinner plates. These were wild sunflowers and much smaller, but they grew everywhere. Obviously, they had some significance to the person who took the pencils and who had provided Erik with a sweater.

  Raglan built a fire from the wood he had gathered, a small fire for coffee and comfort.

  Where was Volkmeer? The old rancher no doubt had business to arrange before he could be gone for several days, but he should be along soon. The possibility that the old cowboy and miner he had known could have become well-off had never occurred to him. Yet why not? Volkmeer was a shrewd, patient man, who must have had ambitions, although he had never voiced them that Raglan could recall. Like many a western
man, he had dabbled in mining, prospecting occasionally, and sometimes working a lease in some mine. Gold in the San Juan River Canyon had never appeared in paying quantities. Several mining ventures had been tried, only to fail because of the extremely small size of the flakes. Occasional pockets had been found, he supposed.

  Chief was lying just inside the door of the ruin. Mike Raglan stepped around him and went into the night. It was very dark and very still. The air was fresh and cool. The time was soon. If Tazzoc got back with the extra cloak, it would be time to move, yet he would see Eden Foster one more time. After all, he had given her forty-eight hours and she might accomplish something.

  He looked off toward No Man's Mesa. It lay dark and ominous, a little south and west of where he stood. The Hole would be almost due west, and perhaps a shade north. Suddenly there was a light pressure against his knee.

  It was Chief. He dropped a hand to the big dog's head and scratched the back of his ear. "I'm going to leave you here when I go," he said. "If I don't show up, you go find Gallagher. He's a good man and he would treat you right."

  Come to think of it, Chief was probably the only one who would miss him--Chief and perhaps his agent. Somehow in traveling about the world, writing, thinking, he had not made friends. Acquaintances, yes. Temporary friends whom he probably would not see again, but no friends as such. He had no family, and had never had, for that matter. He was a man alone.

  "When this is over, Chief, we're going to change that. We're going to settle down, establish ourselves and have some friends."

  He'd been busy, he told himself, and to have friends you had to stay someplace, put down roots. For a while back there, when he was a youngster working on the paper, he had been about to make friends. He hadn't, though. He was an outsider there, too. He didn't fit in. Wherever he'd gone, he had been a stranger. Conversations had a way of getting around to high school or college days, or to mutual associations in the town they were living in, and in all that he had no place.

  "The truth of the matter is, Chief," he said softly, ruffling the hair on the big dog's neck, "if I didn't come back, nobody would care very much."