“Cody, I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I don’t see anything around here except cactus and mesquite scrub. I don’t want to be so much like the Old Ones, and eat beetles and grubs and things. You sure you can come up with something a little more appetizing for all of us noble tribesmen?”
A murmur went through the others, some twenty of them, who had now caught up with the leaders. A big Navajo named Ritto Yerington stood watching carefully, listening with a surly look on his face. He was a tremendously strong man who could be mean and savage. Most of the time he just ignored Bluestone Yacolt’s foolishness, but he was getting tired of the way the man was nagging at Cody Bent Knife. Ritto had no idea how, exactly, nor why he had come to view himself as Cody’s personal bodyguard and defender, but there it was. He was it. His one other blind and undying loyalty was to his younger sister, Layna. She was totally dependent upon her brother and now came to stand quietly beside him, looking up at him for reassurance.
The argument, mild as it was, was very short, for Cody had learned that argument would not move people. Those who had come to him had been sent, he felt, and were a part of the puzzle that was a constant maze in his mind. He knew that somehow he had been brought to this place, this enormous plain of deserted and barren land. He knew that this small group that followed him had been chosen also.
For what he didn’t know.
Now, since he was weary and dusty and a little forlorn, he went over the questions he had repeated so often to himself that he was almost driven insane: Chosen—but chosen for what? Why are we here? Why this place?
As if in answer to his question, a voice suddenly broke the uneasy silence.
“Hello.”
Instantly Cody whirled and the eyes of all the travelers were fixed on the man who suddenly stood there before them. He was not armed, which was the first thing they all looked for, but stood quietly studying them out of deep-set eyes. He was a plain man, simply dressed. The very stillness of his stance and his smooth, unremarkable looks were precisely what made him seem so unearthly, so flagrantly unusual, appearing out of nowhere in this barren and forsaken place.
“Who are you?” Cody challenged him.
“My name is Zoan.”
“I’m Cody Bent Knife. What do you want?”
“Nothing. I just thought you might want to stop here and rest and eat.”
“Stop—here . . .” Cody was disoriented; he kept searching around for a frame of reference for this odd young white man. “Are you alone here?”
“Yes.”
The answer was brief but there was nothing churlish about it. Little Bird suddenly clapped her horse’s sides, pushing him forward. “You said you have something to eat?”
“Well, there are things to eat. We could catch some fish. I have some rice. If you want to come with me, you can have some.”
“Come where?” Cody asked cautiously.
“Over there. There’s a place over there, an old place. You’d like it, I think, Cody.”
Suddenly a grin transformed Cody Bent Knife from the grim wanderer into what he really was: a tired and hungry nineteen-year-old. “You’re telling me that you live in Chaco Canyon, Zoan? In the old Anasazi ruins?”
Zoan blinked, then answered with his customary brevity. “Yes.”
“You’re right. I know that place well, and I like it.”
“Me, too.”
“Well, it sounds good to me,” Bluestone interrupted. “I must be really hungry to have a mouthwatering episode for rice and fish.”
Benewah Two Color moved his horse with a touch of his heels. He brought the animal directly over Zoan. Zoan looked up and the gazes of the two men locked. Finally Two Color found something in the simple features of Zoan that seemed to please him. “My name is Benewah Two Color.”
Zoan, never having been taught the niceties of social introduction, responded, “My name is Zoan.”
Two Color exchanged a sly wink with Cody. “So I heard. Cody, I think we should stay, talk to this man. I believe he has words that we need to hear.”
Cody was startled. Very rarely did the old man say such things but Cody had learned to trust Two Color’s instincts. “All right,” he agreed.
Zoan’s eyes were roaming hungrily over the horses; to be more precise, he was looking at the blankets that they all had, instead of saddles. “You have lots of nice blankets.”
Amused, Cody agreed, “Yes. They are. Our people made them for many years, and we’ve kept them.”
“Can I have some of them?”
Little Bird asked suspiciously, “What do you need with so many blankets?”
“Because I’m going to have friends here this winter and I worry about them getting cold. I don’t want them to be cold.”
“Friends? What friends? Who?” Ritto Yerington demanded.
Cody exchanged a quick glance with Two Color, gave Ritto a slight shake of his head to signal quiet, then turned back to Zoan.
With an intentness that belied the mundane conversation, he said, “We’ll trade you some blankets.”
“Trade?”
“Yes, trade. You know what that means, don’t you?”
“No.”
“The little guy’s just a simpleton, Cody,” Bluestone Yacolt grumbled. “What are you wasting time on this silliness for?”
Patiently Cody addressed Bluestone. “He is not a simpleton, Bluestone. Look at him, watch his face, see his eyes. He’s something more. Anyone with eyes to see would know it. So would you please just give me a chance to talk to the man?” Turning back to Zoan, Cody observed that he had ignored this very personal conversation concerning himself. He was stroking the horses’ noses while keeping his oddly deep eyes fixed on Cody Bent Knife.
“So, Zoan. Trade means that we give you something and you give us something in exchange for it. What do you have to trade?”
Zoan’s face assumed a puzzled expression. “Everything here,” he swept his arm in a wide, all-encompassing gesture, “belongs to God and to His people that are coming. So if you are His people, it already belongs to you and you can take anything you want.” He thought for a moment, then added, “If you’re not His people, I guess you’d better leave everything here.”
An unpleasant discomfort came over Cody Bent Knife. He sensed something about Zoan that was certainly unworldly, but was also something deeper, something alien, something—unearthly. In his life he had met men and women, cruel, dishonest, who had broken every law of God and man, and whose spirits were unearthly, all right, because they were twisted and distorted and sickened. But that certainly wasn’t the case with Zoan. He had a strong spirit, this one did—in spite of his tiresome belief in the white man’s God.
“Oh, grief, a dunkhead,” Little Bird grumbled. Then her dark eyes narrowed and she challenged Zoan, “Do you mean commissars are looking for you? Who are these people that are coming? Why are they coming here?”
“Don’t you know?” Zoan asked in wonder. “I thought everyone knew.”
“Knew what?” Little Bird repeated impatiently. Like Cody she felt a touch of the surreal when talking to this young man.
“It’s God’s children that are coming. This is their last home.”
“What do you mean? Are they going to die?” Cody harshly demanded.
Zoan’s face grew troubled. He sought Cody Bent Knife’s gaze and something was exchanged between the two. Zoan knew that this was a man that he could trust. He had a sure and certain knowledge that the two of them, as different as they looked on the outside, were alike. The others he was not sure of, but he knew that he could speak the truth to Cody Bent Knife.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” he said softly. “But I know it’s going to be winter soon. It’ll be cold . . .” He fell silent for a moment and not a soul spoke.
Zoan took a deep breath and finished in a stronger and surer voice, “I know that the darkness is coming. And I know that we are the last children.”
“We—you and I?” Cody asked in
a slightly choked voice. Zoan answered simply, “We are the Omega people.”
NINE
I FOUND SOMETHING YOU might like,” Tessa Kai said nonchalantly.
“I know I will. You always ‘find’ good things for me, Grandmother T. K.,” Dancy said enthusiastically. “Where is it?”
“In my bag, Dancy, but let me come in and sit down first. And I want some coffee. And don’t tell me I can’t have any; I’m an adult and you’re just a child, and I’m not going to allow you to start acting like the horrible pint-size tyrants that people raise these days.”
“I’m not pint-size,” Dancy said indignantly. “And I’ll get you some coffee, but you’ll have to tell Mother that you made me.”
“Tyrant,” Tessa Kai said affectionately. She eased herself onto one of the bar stools at the generous kitchen counter. Tessa Kai Flynn was a small woman, only five feet two, and she had to tiptoe to maneuver into the tall chair. When she finally got situated, she swung her legs back and forth in an endearingly childlike way. That was how she was: At sixty-six years old, she was a mixture of outspoken Irishwoman of bedrock common sense, and fey dreamer from a misty faerie-land, childlike in joy and wonder at life. A bereaved and grieving widow, mischievous girl, loving mother and grandmother, Tessa Kai had been bemused by her grave and somber daughter Victorine, but she had been overjoyed by her granddaughter Dancy, who was much like her. Only prettier, lovelier, she thought. I always looked like a sly little elf, but Dancy looks like a water sprite, maybe . . . How odd that she resembles no one in the family . . . except in her hard looks, sometimes. Reminds me of her grandfather. And her mother.
“Here’s coffee,” Dancy said, setting down a mug of coffee with heavy sugar and cream. “Now where’s my present?”
“Right here, Dancy-doodle,” Tessa Kai said indulgently. Reaching into her voluminous black leather bag, she pulled out a bright square of pink and blue. “It’s a scarf. It’s very old, darlin’, but I’ve either forgotten or never knew whose it was.”
“Oh, it’s gorgeous, T. K.!” Dancy breathed. She caressed the filmy fabric.
Tessa Kai wrinkled her pert nose. “Well, I don’t know about gorgeous. The artwork is a little blurry, isn’t it?”
The scarf was hot pink bordered in white. At each corner was a likeness of a ballerina, with a blue tutu, white tights, blue satin shoes, black hair, and a blue comb.
“It’s not blurry, it’s Impressionistic,” Victorine told them as she came out of her bedroom on a cloud of delicate scent. “Have you seen my silver earrings, Dancy? The ones that look like little arrowheads?”
“They’re in the blue porcelain bowl in your bath, Mother,” Dancy replied. Victorine whisked back into her bedroom and Dancy called after her, “What’s Impressionistic mean?”
Victorine called back something unintelligible. Tessa Kai shrugged, then laid the scarf out on the smooth acrylic counter, running her hands over the delicate fabric. “Well, to me they look like blobs; I’m not too impressed with Impressionists,” she maintained caustically. “But it does feel nice, doesn’t it?”
“It’s—so soft and gauzy,” Dancy agreed. “What is it?”
“It’s called rayon. I used to love to have clothes made of rayon,” Tessa Kai said dreamily. “Even though it never was a very practical fabric. It unravels easily and doesn’t wash well.”
Dancy sighed. “I wish we could afford to buy stuff like rayon. I hate Tyvek fabrics. I wish we still could get real cotton and silk and satin.”
“I wish we could afford real food,” Tessa Kai grumbled, taking a sip of her coffee. “I hate Proto-Synthesis. Them and their fake food. Proto-Syn cream, Proto-Syn green beans, Proto-Syn meat, Proto-Syn bread, Proto-Syn coffee. At least the sugar is real, only the good Lord knows why we still get that.”
“I know, especially the green beans, they taste like amalgam paper”—Dancy shuddered—“even though they look real. It’s just like the clothes. Ty-cotton looks like cotton, Ty-silk looks like silk, but they feel just like Tyvek. Ick-stick. They’re just not the same, are they? But then, I guess I’d never know the difference if you didn’t spoil me so much, always puddling around in your mysterious boxes and ‘finding’ me things like this.”
Tessa Kai was a dedicated pack rat. Her condo, except for the living-dining-kitchen area and her bedroom, had every space stuffed with boxes and trunks. Sometimes she let Dancy look into a trunk or a big box, and Dancy thought it was just like nesting dolls; boxes inside of boxes, and when one got to the smallest, always a treasure inside: old buttons, or gold pieces, or old paper money, or feathers, or rocks, or thimbles, or silk flowers.
“Well, darling, I know the ballerinas aren’t very good, I don’t care what your mother says,” Tessa Kai staunchly returned to important matters. “But the colors are so wonderful for you, and I thought you might be able to fold it, you see, and maybe wear it around your neck, tucked under one of your jackets—”
“No, no, I like the ballerinas, T. K.!” Dancy insisted. “They’re the quirk!” She took the scarf, folded it into a triangle, and fastened it around her waist, so that one ballerina showed at her hip.
“The quirk?” Tessa Kai repeated, bewildered. “So—that’s a good thing?”
Dancy merely laughed and hugged her.
Victorine came back in, fastening an earring, frowning a little. “Dancy, are you going to wear that when our guests arrive?” Dancy was wearing a white shell with cut-in shoulders, a short pink skirt, and white Ty-leather boot leggings.
“Sure, Mother Vic. Why not?”
“It’s the quirk,” Tessa Kai said airily.
“Oh,” Victorine said uncertainly. “I suppose it will be all right. No reason for you to have to look like a mortician, as I do.” She was wearing a long black cheongsam made of Typoly that still managed to flow a bit. The tunic had a mandarin collar and slits up the sides to the hip, with black pants underneath, black hose, and flat black shoes. Her hair, which she kept unfashionably long and full, was pulled back into a severe chignon with two silver hair sticks. Her only other accessories were the small silver earrings.
“No, Mother, I think you have true zazz,” Dancy said stoutly. “Really.”
“Is that good?” Victorine sighed, smoothing her already-immaculate hair.
“Better than quirk,” Dancy said solemnly.
“All right, I’ll have to take your word for it, my love.” Victorine hesitated, biting her lower lip. Dancy and Tessa Kai watched her, puzzled; usually by now Victorine was in seamless chatelaine mode, unruffled and serene. The helicopters would arrive at any time now, and Dancy would barely see her mother until the “guests” left.
Since Dancy had reached sixteen and overnight had turned into a bright and vivacious—and lovely—young girl, Victorine had managed to keep her away from the arrogant male commissars. She had tried to accomplish this, hoping Dancy didn’t notice too much, as Victorine didn’t want to frighten her. Dancy, of course, knew and understood it all too well, but she never gave any hint to her mother.
Victorine kept watching her daughter and mother with an uncertainty and reluctance that were odd for her. Finally she stammered, “I—I don’t know how many guests we’re having, or how long they’re staying. Commissar Silverthorne never let me know the final plans. I expect that it’s going to be more work than usual though, considering the circumstances, so Gerald is coming to help me. Perhaps it would be better, Dancy, if you went home with Tessa Kai. I know I’ll be late with dinner tonight, so why don’t we make plans to have breakfast together?”
“That’s fine. I’m going to drag out a bunch of boxes and paw through them,” Dancy said, giving her grandmother a sly look.
“No, you’re not. You might get to look through one box, but you will most certainly not paw through it, Miss Fit.” The pun was one of Tessa Kai’s favorite nicknames for her granddaughter, and it usually made Dancy giggle. But now she stared at her mother, with an understanding and concern far beyond her years.
“Mother, why don’t we all pray before they get here?” she asked. “We haven’t done that in a long time.”
Victorine was surprised, then a little embarrassed. Dancy was right, the three of them always used to pray together before any of their difficult guests arrived. When had they stopped doing that? Why had they stopped? Victorine really didn’t know. “All right, that’s a good idea, Dancy,” she said quietly, stepping forward to stand close.
The three joined hands and bowed their heads, and without hesitation Dancy prayed, “Dearest Father, we ask for Your protection, Lord, for me and Grandmother Tessa Kai. But right now we especially ask for protection for my mother, as You have set a table before her in the presence of her enemies. Walk with her, speak for her, see for her, hear for her. Amen.”
Victorine was astounded by Dancy’s odd prayer, and exchanged startled looks with Tessa Kai. But Dancy seemed not to notice, as she grabbed her grandmother’s hand and teased, “I’m going to run on over to your condo, T. K., and start in that first spare bedroom.”
“You wait for me, little girl. And I despise this trend in young people addressing their elders by their proper names—or worse. So don’t call me ‘T. K.’”
“O-K, T. K.” Dancy retorted merrily.
Tessa Kai, struggling to climb off her “high chair,” opened her mouth to reply, but the sonorous voice of the Cyclops sounded from the wall in the open living room.
“Victorine, autos are arriving at the gate. Switching to camera one.”
Victorine whirled in astonishment. “Autos?”
“Confirmed,” Cyclops said, not being able to distinguish a rhetorical question from an interrogatory. “Three autos confirmed arriving at the gate.” The great screen showed the live shot of three long black cars pulling into the condo’s front parking lot.
Dancy asked, “Grief, are those old fossil-fueled autos?”
“No, darling, they’re electric, but one hardly ever sees such luxurious ones—” Victorine answered.
“Confirm alert,” Cyclops insisted.
“Thank you,” Victorine said hurriedly, then turned back to Dancy.
The Beginning of Sorrows Page 14
