by David Boop
Tommy stood up with a groan. Holding a hand to the purple blotch spreading across his ribs, he said, “Whatever it was, I never want to see it again.”
“You know, maybe my daughter is not so…betrothed after all.” The baron winked at Tommy. “She would be bear of wife though, da?”
“Papa!” Veronika chided her father as she worked, but her smile was all for Tommy.
The sound of horses made them look up. The remaining Russian soldiers, led by Marcus, came into view, rifles at ready.
“I thought you was dead for sure!” Marcus called out as they approached. He jumped down and ran over to hug Tommy.
Exhausted, Tommy just grinned and hugged him back.
“Where’s your pants?” Marcus stepped back and looked Tommy up and down. “Or is that how you chased that thing off?”
Tommy punched Marcus in the shoulder.
THE SIXTH WORLD
ROBERT E. VARDEMAN
“Professor, please. We’ll die!”
William McConnell ignored his assistant’s plea. Dunlap needed to learn proportion and not complain when the goal was so close. McConnell swiped cold rain from his eyes as he fought to hold down the frayed map scratched onto a piece of lambskin. The faint berry-ink stains had faded since he had bought the map from the scout in a Taos saloon. McConnell twisted about to get a better look as lightning lashed across the sky.
“Here. We’re almost here. See?”
Dunlap cowered by a rock, as if his life was threatened.
“Are you afraid of a little water? Grow a spine, sir! We are on the adventure of a lifetime, and we will advance science because of what we discover!”
New lightning filled the sky, turning the New Mexico Territory surreal. Shadows leaped to life and died almost instantly. What was illuminated came to him with incredible clarity. The rest remained hidden in afterglow and darkness. His research assistant was frightened, while he had never felt more alive.
“It’ll fry us for sure, Professor.”
As if God Almighty agreed, lightning struck a tree near the summit of the hill they climbed. The juniper exploded and sent down a rain of fragrant, molten sap. McConnell ignored the burning on his forearm. He hastily pressed his hand down on the map to smother a tiny blaze threatening to steal away the map to repairing his reputation. The faculty at Harvard had ridiculed him, even after long and detailed analysis of volumes found in the Warren Anatomical Museum. More than mock him, they had driven him from the academy, forcing him to take a petty job with the government. He would show them. Being assistant curator of the Army Medical Museum would lead him to greater recognition.
The map to that notoriety fluttered and flapped as a gust of wind rushed downslope from the lightning-struck tree, hot and wet and promising only new discomfort.
“The burial site is at the top, Dunlap. Press on. Show some gumption.”
“The tallest spires get struck by lightning, Professor. That’s why they put lightning rods there. I don’t want to become a lightning rod.”
“What do you know of such things?”
“My pa was a lightning rod salesman. He got himself struck putting up one on a barn in Virginia when I was nine. He got hit out of a clear sky. This isn’t a clear sky.” Dunlap curled up into an even tighter fetal ball as the wind began blowing harder.
McConnell shook his head. When they had embarked on this expedition from Washington, D.C., he had high hopes for the youth. Dunlap had shown great skill piecing together skull fragments brought in for examination. Nimble fingers and sharp eyes had allowed his work to come to McConnell’s attention, but the laboratory provided the true venue for the young man’s talents, not the field where real discoveries were made. Worse, during their travel here, Dunlap scoffed at many basic theories of phrenology that McConnell took as gospel. Solid work by the field’s great pioneers, Gall and Spurzheim and Binton, showed the way. His assistant refused to acknowledge their insights.
He instinctively reached back to touch the knapsack carrying the enticing piece of skull that had brought him into this wilderness. The outline beneath the canvas reassured him he was doing the right thing. The strange fragment had been found by an Army survey party two years ago in 1877, though where the artifact had been found was something of a mystery since the scout who had delivered it to the head surveyor had not noted the location nor had the surveyor considered it important until later examination. McConnell was happy the man had given it to the Army Medical Museum, even if he had done so hoping to have his name attached to a display.
Even luckier had been hearing of the old timer in Taos who had a map made after that expedition showing the location where the peculiar skull had been found.
He knelt with the map between his knees, got his bearings when another lightning bolt filled the sky, and then rolled up the map. McConnell tucked it into a coat pocket.
“This has to be the place where the scout found the skull. It has to be. Come along, Dunlap. We might have to dig to find other fragments for you to piece together.” He faced uphill, glanced at his assistant and knew he would complete the trek alone. He began the steep climb.
Sharp rocks cut at his legs. More than once he fell forward and caught himself. Hands lacerated and lungs burning from the lack of air at this elevation, he fought forward to the crest and looked around. The blasted, smoldering juniper gave stark reminder of the danger he faced. He sucked in a lungful of air and choked. The mixture of fragrance and ash was intolerable for a city dweller. He took a step forward, then saw the dark rim. His excitement betrayed him. The frantic rush to the edge of the pit prevented him from noticing the crumbling lip.
McConnell tumbled downward and crashed into the mud twenty feet below. He moaned, rolled onto his side and looked up. A cry escaped his lips. The slick walls afforded no hand or footholds.
“Dunlap! Help! I’ve fallen into a shaft.” He propped himself up and realized how true that was. This wasn’t a naturally occurring hole. The sides were too smooth, bored down into the earth with cruel force. “Help!”
Two more bolts crossed the sky before a head timidly thrust out to look down. He caught his breath. His assistant had summoned the courage to answer his cry for help.
“Can you climb out, sir? I don’t have a rope or any way of pulling you up.”
“The sides are as slippery as if they have been polished.” McConnell poked about in the soft dirt but found nothing useful to aid in his escape. “You’ll have to figure out some way to get me out.”
“We saw those cavalry troopers earlier. They can’t be far off.”
“No, don’t leave me. Find a way to—”
He spoke to a stormy sky. Dunlap had left without even dropping him spare food or water.
* * *
McConnell slept fitfully at the bottom of the pit. When the sun poked over the lip of the pit, he sneezed, stirred and then sat up. The sky was pure blue, cloudless from his narrow perspective and absent of the violent storms that had torn away at the mountain the night before. He propped himself up and ran his fingers through the mud around him. Water so close, yet he would choke if he shoved the mud into his mouth. Then an idea came to him. He took out the lambskin map and held it up. Sunlight showed it to be thin. He scooped a double handful of mud onto his precious map, then caught it in a pocket before squeezing. Filtering the mud to get water proved more difficult than he thought, but a few drops made their way through and across his lips, revitalizing him enough to begin pawing deeper in the muck.
He was sure this was the spot marked on the map where he would find an intact skull made entirely of an iridescent material like mother of pearl. When more than an hour of sloshing around revealed nothing but the bones of small animals, he gave up. He lay back and stared at the tiny portion of sky. The sun had arced past the zenith. The narrow rock shaft cut out the afternoon light and turned the day to night. Stars accustomed to appearing when the sun set now peered down at him.
“My tombstone of stars,” he muttered
through cracked lips. He wanted to scream and shout for Dunlap to return, but he feared his assistant had abandoned him to die.
What would his assistant tell the others at the Army Medical Museum? Would Dunlap even return to Washington or would he hightail it to points unknown, avoiding such annoying questions?
McConnell idly ran his fingers into the damp dirt and let chunks fall. The soft sounds masked those above, but the appearance of a silhouette against the sky caused him to start. He struggled to his feet, craned back and called with all his might.
“Dunlap! You came back!”
“Who is Dunlap?”
He squinted and got a better look at the man above him. An Indian. Probably a Navajo, considering he had invaded their holy lands to seek out the rest of the iridescent skull.
“Get me out. Please, I beg you.”
A snort of disgust echoed down. For a long minute he thought he was being abandoned again. Then a horsehair rope snaked down and banged softly against the smooth wall. He wasted no time slipping it around his waist and tying it securely. A tug signaled his savior he was ready to leave his prison.
The rope cut into his middle. He ignored the abrasion as he tried to find footholds on the way up. There were none. Giving up on this, he let the Indian do all the work of getting him free. He popped over the rim and flopped belly down on the ground, sobbing in gratitude.
“You are filthy.”
McConnell looked up. His guess had been right. The Navajo wore a headband made from an old neckerchief. Two slashes of red paint on his right cheek might be war paint. The man’s wrinkled face spoke of age, but he moved with the litheness of a young brave. Strong hands slid under McConnell’s armpits and lifted him as if he were a small child. Once he got his feet under him, he saw that he towered over the man. Deerskin britches and shirt hid much of the man’s stocky body. What McConnell could see of the chest spoke of hardship. Scars crisscrossed the flesh. Incongruously, he wore a bowler tipped far back on his head.
He stared into dark eyes and felt as if he was being pulled away from his own body. He blinked and looked down.
“I apologize for my dishabille. It is quite dirty down there.” He started to introduce himself, then stared, mouth clamped shut when he realized where he had seen the bowler before.
“The one you called to. Did he wear this?” The Navajo touched the bowler’s brim when he saw McConnell’s interest. He took it off and pointed to a bullet hole through the crown. “He had no more use for it.”
“You killed him?” McConnell fought conflicting emotions. The Indian had killed his assistant and yet had rescued him. That made no sense.
“Those who would kill me shot him.” The Navajo looked stern. “They are my people.”
“Your own people want you dead?”
“I am Red Horse, a powerful medicine man. My seeking of knowledge has angered clan elders.”
The Indian held out the bowler for him. McConnell couldn’t bear the idea of wearing Dunlap’s hat, not after he had been killed while wearing it. Blood smeared the inside sweat band. Dunlap had died a messy death. He handed it back. Red Horse settled it on his head at a jaunty angle.
“They scalped him?”
The Navajo looked surprised, then smiled and shook his head.
“Waste of time. No, we take horses, not scalps. They are more valuable. They are like your money, only we ride until they collapse, then we eat them. You cannot do that with paper money or gold coins.”
McConnell again pushed away confusing emotions and tried to think logically.
“They took our horses?” He touched the bag where he kept the piece of skull that had led him here. This much had been saved. “How far to this place?” He fumbled out the map and held it up. The berry juice had smeared and the skin had torn in places, making its use as a map problematic.
Red Horse shrugged. McConnell refused to give up. The world had turned more dangerous around him, and on foot, his death seemed more likely than not. He could only press onward. He held out the skull fragment.
Red Horse recoiled at the sight and began a low chant that might have been a curse.
“I want an intact skull. It is for a museum in Washington.”
The medicine man stopped chanting. “Where they have Cap’n Jack’s skull?”
The question shocked him.
“How do you know that? Have you been there?”
“I learned English at a Pennsylvania school. I have seen the collection gathered after the Modoc War.” Red Horse spat. “Cap’n Jack should never have believed Wovoka and his false Ghost Dance.” The Navajo spat again. “Diné magic is stronger.”
“Science is strongest of all.” He held out the skull fragment and ran his fingers over it. “If I get an entire skull, I can determine the characteristics of the creature by the bumps and depressions.” He stroked over the piece using only his fingertips. “There are twenty-seven organs represented in a human skull and only nineteen in an animal’s. I need to find a complete skull to learn what—”
“Why not study the monster while it is alive?”
McConnell kept speaking, telling of the details he could find until what Red Horse said penetrated. He faced the Indian and stared. Red Horse averted his eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“On that mountain.” Red Horse lifted his chin to direct McConnell’s gaze to a nearby hill.
“I don’t understand. You mean there are complete skulls there?”
“Complete.” The Navajo nodded solemnly. “Complete living monsters, too.”
“This is astounding. I can compare the skulls with the actual animal, alive, in its native habitat. But what kind of animal is it? I have no idea from this small piece.”
“Monsters,” Red Horse said. He held out his hand to waist high. “Like us.” He cast a quick look at McConnell. “Gray skin, not white or copper.”
“Like us?”
“Arms, legs. Not enough fingers. Head.” He drew a curious shape in the dirt with his toe.
McConnell dropped to his knees and lightly traced his finger around the drawing. He looked up.
“I must examine this skull. I have a craniometer to take precise measurements, but if needed, I can use my fingers. I am quite good at interpreting—”
Red Horse clamped a leathery hand over his mouth. He tried to pull away, but the Navajo clamped his other hand over the back of his head. McConnell struggled, then settled down.
“That one,” Red Horse said, looking at a tall peak. “Close to holy peak, White Shell Mountain. I seek them out, too, but not for their heads. The monsters come from the Fourth World there into this, the Fifth. They follow the reed that First Man climbed.”
McConnell had no idea what the medicine man meant.
* * *
It took all his breath to keep up with the pace the shaman set toward the mountain. As they circled the hill with the curious pit bored into it, McConnell summoned the courage to ask Red Horse why his own people had exiled him.
“I was banished because I seek to find the opening to the Fourth World. Our most powerful ancestors came up from the seas to this world. The gray monsters lead the way.”
“Why? The ones with shiny skulls? Are they part of your mythology?”
“Religion,” Red Horse said coldly. “It is my religion.”
“Sorry. Mine is different. I—”
“I learned your ways in boarding school. The Hero Twins killed the monsters in this world.”
“The Fifth World.”
The Indian nodded curtly. His stride lengthened, forcing McConnell to trot to keep up. This might have been a ploy to prevent more questions from being asked, but McConnell was a scientist and always curious. In spite of the pace, he gasped out, “You think the gray people are coming to this world from the Fourth?”
“They are not people. They might be monsters. They fly about.” He put his hands together and made flapping motions. “Only they do not fly like a bird. They hide inside metal skins
and soar about the mountain.”
“Why are we going there? Do they have a camp there?”
Red Horse took a long minute before he answered.
“They come from the Yellow World to the White world. They are monsters of the Fourth World coming to this one.”
“You’ve seen them come out of the ground?”
“They go into the ground on that mountain. Never have I seen them come out.”
“But you have seen the colored skulls?”
“We each want what we want.” Red Horse snorted. “When a gray monster dies, the flesh goes away like snow in sunlight, leaving behind only the shining skeleton. Its spirit returns to the Yellow World.”
When McConnell began stumbling and fell for the second time because of the frantic pace, Red Horse halted for a rest. They collapsed to the ground, but Red Horse remained upright and alert, head cocked as he listened to the world around them. McConnell tried but heard only the dull thudding of his pulse in his ears.
He propped himself up and asked, “Could I examine your skull?”
“You would find the animal parts in my soul?”
McConnell laughed. The medicine man listened more carefully than he had thought to his description of phrenology.
“You’re quite human. I want to determine your character.”
“If you cannot see my character through what I do and believe, bumps on my head will tell you nothing.”
“That’s not so. We all have a face we show the world. Our inner self is hidden but can be revealed through phrenology. Your personality and character traits become obvious because of the way they force themselves up from your brain. See?” He pulled out the skull fragment and held it up to catch the sun’s setting rays. “These depressions show intelligence, great intelligence. That’s all I can learn because of this being so small.”
“Gray monsters are small. No more than this high.” Red Horse held out his hand at about three feet.
“Stature isn’t important. The reflection of your essence in your skull is. Even a small child shows its character, though often undeveloped.” He launched into a description of how a baby’s skull formed and how this was guided by personality. Red Horse listened, but McConnell knew it wasn’t to his lecture. He had given this so many times while at Harvard that it came easily to his lips. Dunlap had often praised his skill at delivering this very lecture.
