9 Tales Told in the Dark 5

by 9 Tales Told in the Dark

  They hadn’t a reliable water supply in the cave. Moisture trickled through their limestone roof after rains, and they collected that, but mostly that precious substance derived from run-off catchments within Canyon Diablo. Expeditions for water gave the men more regular exercise than their rare scavenging for wood or other minor matters.

  This much, and some more, casual observation granted. The hard-core stuff came from Parker and Vorchek, mainly the latter, who closeted himself at whiles in the ceremonial tower with Mogo-Dee-Neena and his cronies, where were learned the nuts and bolts of this dark, gloomy, and most modern Anasazi land.

  Around about the third day, maybe fourth, old Vorchek, bursting with delectable information, could restrain himself no further. He must pontificate, as he was wont to do in his tiresomely esoteric and arcane classes. Commonly prone to tuning him out, which deplorably punished my grades, here I was more a captive audience, and the oddity of what he interminably speechified tended to stick with me. He spoke, puffing at his pipe between pithy utterances, in our communal chamber, with Theresa holding a flashlight while she fluttered his copious notes.

  He said, “Where, my friends, to begin? We come among the last descendants of the kingdom of the Anasazi, a once mighty and aggressive empire that ruled territories spread across parts of what are now four states. Our hosts maintain their oral histories, tell of much that has been concealed from or unsubstantiated by scholars. The Anasazi had great kings, and like those of olden Mexico they ruled with an iron hand and fought for glory and loot. Eventually their enemies combined, subject peoples revolted, and the armies of the terrestrial Anasazi were crushed. A thorough massacre followed, so bitter was the enmity, and to salvage their race the losers fled into this subterrane vastness, a realm which they had previously discovered and used for unspecified rituals. Here, unknown to the victors, the pitifully few survivors endeavored to hold fast to their ancient ways, modifying them only so far as the new circumstances demanded.

  “Down here they have dwelt ever since, with their kings-- an unbroken royal line, they inform me!-- their medicine men, the wise ones; and their warriors, for they fear still the outer world, dreading the revelation of their retreat to those outside, all of whom they group under a single heading, employing a rather frank and, I must tell you, despicable term. They do not seek to expand their horizons-- centuried legends warn them against it-- but they zealously protect their circumscribed domain, nor do they suffer meddlers-- they employ a word indicative of ‘spies’-- to trespass on this, their last sacred holding. That, if nothing else, explains the long history of vanishment in this territory, which I think we all realized without this confirmation.”

  Professor Vorchek grew exceedingly long-winded when he lectured on the tenets of their current society. “I discern an amazing adaptation of a sunlit, widespread culture to this bleak, confined one. King Elech-Tee-Daya rules as did his fathers of yore, in company with his wise ministers. Their persons are sacrosanct, ennobled by their numerous gods, the king’s whims law. Their political system is crude, yet apparently effective, for it has sustained them through the darkest of ordeals. I place them on the chieftain level of culture, with all power centered in the strongest man of the ruling family. Attend to the youth and obvious physical prowess of Elech-Tee-Daya. He came to the throne by challenging his father to personal blood combat, slaying him and seizing the skull totem, the emblem of office. This accords with custom. All young, strong claimants to power have risen by destroying their predecessors, in each case a father or uncle. It is their way, and has been since time immemorial.

  “Each member of the tribe serves at the king’s behest, in principle acknowledging no bureaucratic middlemen, although in practice I deduce the profound influence of the king’s counselors, who I gather are likewise dangerous to cross. The king issues his orders. They are obeyed. This is a hard society. They make no allowance for divergent views. Rigid custom controls every action, public or private.

  “Was it ever so? I choose to wonder. Necessity enforces austere conformity. They live as they do this betombed existence because, as they see it, this is the only chance for them to continue as a folk. I do not quickly gainsay them.”

  He went on and on about the “social spheres”, “circles of polities”, “hierarchical indices”, and such drivel, until finally Theresa rolled her eyes and exclaimed, “Do get on with it, Professor.”

  He told us of their gods, a nasty bunch by his account. Like the natives themselves, their deities all sported long, gloppy names, and they all required constant, frightful abjection and brutal sacrifice on the part of their worshippers. Their supreme god was the worst of the lot. Xenna-Ina-Foor, they called him, and Vorchek seemed to find the title unusually interesting-- I gathered that it matched up with elements uncovered in morbid scholastic studies of his-- although he stumbled over the precise meaning. God of Death, God of Darkness, God of the Blood Feast; whatever it really meant, Xenna-Ina-Foor was an especially abominable conception, and the Indian informants hinted at repellent ceremonies associated with their devotion to him. The professor summed it this way: “Despite a certain timidity pertaining to this matter, one brazen statement, possibly a slip, from Mogo-Dee-Neena convinces me that living human sacrifice is the primary mechanism by which the devout express their piety. We may factor this, as well, into our historical evidence.”

  You could bank on that. The Anasazi, we’d decided, kidnapped strangers who came too near their domain. Maybe they didn’t just bump them off out of hand. That reminded me, for the hundredth time, that we were stuck right in the heart of their territory, and we hadn’t the slightest idea what they intended for us. I was sure they didn’t mean to release us.

  VI. A Prevailing Mystery

  Why should they? There was nothing in it for them. What bugged me was how little concerned the others were about that, to judge from their outward behavior. Okay, so Vorchek, and to a lesser extent Parker, were plain nuts, and Theresa would go along with anything her lord and master decreed, but didn’t they fear the consequences of getting themselves trapped down here? They didn’t sweat and fidget like I did, and yet there were signs that some ongoing cause for concern ate at them, too. I even thought I could put my finger on it. Curiously, it had to do with food.

  We hadn’t touched a morsel of native fare since arriving, Vorchek’s admonitions holding good, though with mounting disdain on my part. The locals, I’d already figured out, tended to eat their stuff raw (“A savings on wood, a limited commodity,” said the professor), which gagged me, but they’d cooked for us, apparently being aware of our finickiness in that respect. Since our hosts were obliging, why not oblige them?

  “I’m hungry,” I moaned, during the tail end of the exhaustive question and answer period following Vorchek’s rant. “I’m sick of crackers and beef jerky and canned peaches. I need real food. I’m starving!”

  “You aren’t,” snapped Dr. Parker. “Play it safe, Finn, and be happy with what you’ve got. It could be a whole lot worse. Vorchek, that leads us, doesn’t it, to the final sealed chapter concerning the Anasazi. Against all probability, we have learned practically nothing about the Anasazi food supply. Now, I admit to being an amateur at anthropology, and I don’t mean to tread on your toes, but it seems to me vital that we dig into that one. This business may have a personal application.”

  They grew quiet, looked at each other tensely, as if they shunned a dangerous subject. Theresa shook her head at last, said plaintively, “I remind you, Professor, that I read your field sources, too.”

  Vorchek replied, “You refer to Terngow’s study, and the report from the Carlisle Well site. Yes, my dear, that pertains.

  “I deduce that the Anasazi maintain a large herd in an isolated chamber reached through that lower tunnel, access to which they have denied. I would give much for a single glimpse of that herd. The possibilities stagger me.” He paused, re-lit his pipe, puffed thoughtfully. “The archeological data are extremely ancient. Much can cha
nge with centuries. My mind is not clear. We have time. Time may provide us the key.”

  Suddenly nobody wanted to talk any more. I was game. Their shenanigans bored. Private issues filled my thoughts.

  For once, I did something on my own. Later, when Parker dumped on me his mineral collection, ordering me to sort the specimens by crystal content, I waited until he took off on another round of rock chipping, threw aside the bag and went hunting for myself. I made for the nearest working ground, incredulous at my unaccustomed daring, sauntered hesitantly among the women, industriously engaged in preparing the next meal, be it breakfast, lunch, or dinner. There were pretty girls in that group, their alluring lack of attire stimulating me despite my fear. They never smiled, seldom looked up at me. Greasy broken bones littered the floor as they mechanically labored to chop strips from fleshy slabs with stone axes. I attracted the attention of one lady, not the best looking, unfortunately-- a crone, really-- but she waited on me, which the others wouldn’t. I pantomimed my need, hand to my mouth, pat to my stomach, made my point. She handed over to me a thick slice of juicy, dark meat. This piece, I knew with famished confidence, wasn’t poisoned. I bowed, waved, grinned, zipped away like an Olympic sprinter.

  We’d brought with us a butane burner, unused until then because we were hoarding our two crummy cans of chicken noodle soup. When I returned to our rooms my dear friends were nowhere in sight, nor did I expect them for hours. I fired up the burner, deposited the boneless steak in the aluminum pan, gave it the sizzle treatment. It stuck to the pan right away, and I had to keep poking at it with a fork, turning it when the red juices sputtered and crackled. I got it well done, without too much scorching. I dug in, glancing guiltily over my shoulder to make sure no one saw me. It was good. It was great. Eating a rich, cooked meal, I felt like a new man.

  As I wolfed it I analyzed. See, I was trying to be scientific, which would score points for me later. It wasn’t beef, nor pork-- not the kind bought in stores, anyway-- certainly not fowl. I guessed it was sheep steak, since I didn’t know anything about that. The salient points, as Vorchek would say: firm, heavy, not much marbling, pungent, filling; this meal satisfied my craving with remarkable swiftness. Could it be venison? I admitted the possibility. My few experiences with that had been lathered in onion soup mix, which masked the taste, but there was a similar strength to the taste, much greater here. Also, those cracked bones I saw might have come from deer. Some of them were long and slender enough. Yes, that had to be it.

  He said, “What have you done?” I choked. Professor Vorchek stood in the doorway, mired in shadow, his voice and outline unmistakable. For a minute I fumbled and whined like a child. Then I thought better.

  “I haven’t done anything wrong,” I growled defiantly. “Call it research. You like that, don’t you? This is my kind. I have plenty to report, all of it good.” Saying that, I delighted in swallowing the last scrap with him watching, stock still.

  He stepped past me. He ruffled a folder lying on the stone bench. “I forgot my notebook,” he said at last. He took up his camera bag. Then: “Mr. Walters, you show initiative. I did not expect it of you. Would you be interested in accompanying me on an exploratory jaunt?”

  “You’re not mad? You won’t scold me?”

  “Really, son, you amuse me. You were hungry. You indulged your appetite. I gather that the comestibles agreed with you. Where is the harm? I came to test many hypotheses. One comes now to the fore. I require your aid. Are you willing?”

  “That I am.” I was so relieved not to be treated like dirt that I was willing to show my appreciation with cooperation, as long as he didn’t drag me into something alarming. “What do you have in mind?”

  “As I said, a jaunt. Let us go.” I followed him from the room, at his insistence ignoring my dirty dishes.

  We traversed the lanes through the pueblos, struck off into the barren land down slope. Beyond the buildings we managed to elude close human presence, didn’t see anyone else until we neared the far lower wall of the cavern. From there, standing amidst a batch of stalagmites, I could distantly see in the faintly glowing rock facing a circular dark hole. Two warriors stood guard there, flanking the opening.

  I knew what that was. From there ran the tunnel to the mysterious Anasazi herds. I’d explained to Vorchek my venison theory, to which he’d merely grunted. I’d thought that was the end of it. Now here we were, a pretty coincidence. This was a lot closer than I’d been to this spot before.

  Vorchek said this to me, and the words sounded like the knell of doom: “Son, I shall go forward from this point, distract those men, draw them away from the tunnel. When I have accomplished that, you will covertly advance, dodge into the tunnel, plumb the interior as far as you can. Do I make myself clear?”

  I had to master my rapid breathing before I responded in muted, squeaky tones. “Too clear. Professor, you’re crazy. They’ll catch me. They’ll kill me. They won’t hesitate. Remember, you already bumped off one of them. They owe us.”

  “Nonsense, Mr. Walters. These Indians are consummate realists. I doubt that they are keeping score. Death is an ever present fact of life for them. Regardless, I shall hold their attention until you return. You need focus only on what is before you.”

  “What if it’s dark in there? As soon as I turn on my flashlight, I’ve had it.”

  “Do not do that,” he sternly advised. “No lights, boy, I beg of you. I am counting on the farther recesses possessing the luminous lichen. The men have not borne torches into that tunnel. You see, logic is on our side.”

  I continued to argue desperately, but he wore me down with double-talk, facile praise and promises of scientific glory. He had to know, and I had to find out.

  VII. The Secret of the Herd

  He strolled out into the open, swinging his arms and muttering loudly to himself, moving on a wide diagonal to the guarded tunnel. The warriors were on him like hounds, jabbering and shaking their spears. Vorchek edged to the left while bickering with them, side-stepping into another outcropping of standing cave formations. His buddies stuck with him. Then-- maybe for just a few seconds-- the trio were out of sight. I nerved myself to make my move. Foot forward, next foot, picking up speed, still faster I surged onward, constrained only by the icy terror of making noise. This, I told myself, would get me in with Vorchek, pay off later when we returned to the surface and sanity, and I would surely collect. I reached the tunnel mouth, adorned by skulls, painted and otherwise. There were stacks of those grisly objects piled against the stone. Why always these blasted skulls?

  In I went. It got dark very fast. For a moment I hung there in what seemed pitch darkness, awful enough to justify flight. Then my adjusting eyes detected dim luminosity ahead, a hint of green. I understood that. I could proceed, and a wisp of curiosity propelled me in fits and starts.

  I entered another cavern chamber, much like the living cave, although much smaller. By the faint greenish light I received an impression of a rough-floored, irregular cavity sloping steeply toward solid walls. One large, roundish area lay in a depression, and at the bottom of this I saw a darkly gleaming pool of water, shallow, constrained by an artificial rock barrier. Beyond that I spied a low pueblo, of the shoddiest make, its roof scarcely head high. It had no windows, a single ironwood door bound with a thick wooden bar.

  This much I immediately saw. Two other senses came into play. Firstly, the place stank. My nose recoiled from a dense, miasmic animal odor. There were plenty of odd smells in the last chamber, but this was something truly repugnant. It was an unclean odor. Secondly, I heard hateful noises. From within that strange, sealed pueblo emanated a loathsome moaning and mewing from many throats that I couldn’t connect to any living thing. In a flash of inspiration I realized this was the location of the secret Anasazi herd. They kept their animals, whatever they were, tightly penned inside that shabby building.

  I forced myself out of the tunnel to the cover of a big, dusty stalagmite, crouched there, daring myse
lf to advance, when the sound of distant footfalls cooled my weak ardor. Presently five men came around the structure, each armed with a spear and a big club studded with sharp stone bits. Three of the men carried coiled ropes wrapped around their arms, fashioned from material I didn’t recognize. They spoke among themselves. A hideous moaning howl issued from within the pueblo. It occurred to me, stupidly, that animal rights organizations could go to town on this set-up. A warrior banged on the wall with his club. The howling ceased.

  The men gathered about the door. One lifted the bar, a second pulled the door open. Stooping, they entered with spears forward, clubs ready. Commenced a terrible commotion, the warriors shouting, the unseen beasts spouting the weirdest grunting and snarling. Shortly the warriors emerged, with three of their livestock carefully bound.

  I can describe what unfolded next very simply. The Anasazi led the creatures to water, let them drink. I could still hear bestial sounds from the pueblo, which I ignored, being enthralled by what I saw. The Indians gave the animals their fill, then scrutinized them for a spell, prodding them with their spears and engaging in muted discussion. They reached a decision. They picked up implements from the stony bank of the pool. These were hefty stone knives. Without any fuss they slit the animal’s throats. More implements were taken up from the rock floor. The Indians started in on the butchery.

  There it is. Easy to tell, sounding almost normal. Animal husbandry wasn’t my bag, but I understood most of what I watched. These men were gathering meat for their people, to be taken up and prepared by their women. Maybe a large family was planning a feast.

  Unfortunately, that wasn’t all there was to it. I recognized the species of their livestock so soon as they drove the three beasts through that doorway. That sight froze me with anguished horror; what followed seared my brain and stoked a frenzy of fright that overcame caution. I leaped up with a scream and, never looking back, fled into the tunnel.