Merkabah Rider: Have Glyphs Will Travel

by Edward M. Erdelac

Vittorio turned to regard the Rider/Piishi. This time he drew his pistol from his belt, and waved it in a dismissing gesture.

  Behind, he felt Lozen grab hold of the knife at his side. She shoved him toward a cluster of brush dwellings in the distance.

  “I thought you knew each other, “Piishi said in his mind.

  “We do.”

  “Well he is not glad to see you.”

  In Nacozari the Indian had stuck a stick in the hornet’s next. Mendez was issuing orders for an expedition up into the mountains when the vaqueros arrived, three of them on horseback, and a distinguished looking old caballero in the lead, riding high in a silver spangled saddle atop a finely muscled roan.

  Faustus and Belden had left Kabede in the vardo to go over and listen to the hubbub at first light. The Indian had been with of a party of vaqueros who had been robbed by a lone Apache and followed him up into the mountains. The Indian said they had been ambushed by a dozen Apaches who had then beheaded the others.

  Among them was the son of a prominent local rancher, and when the old man and his hands rode into the plaza, Belden did not have to wait for him to introduce himself to know he was Don Elfego Alvarez.

  Neither did it escape their notice that the rifle the Indian bore was the one the Rider had inscribed and given to Piishi.

  As Corporal Mendez came out to meet him, buckling on a heavy saber, Faustus tugged Belden’s arm and led him back to the vardo.

  “The old man is gonna want blood,” Belden said.

  “Indeed yes. And I’m afraid that Indian’s going to pick up Piishi’s trail and lead them right to the stronghold.”

  “Might be for the best,” Belden said.

  Faustus looked at him.

  “If the Mexes take out those Apaches who’s to say everybody isn’t better off? Then they don’t make their pact with the Devil or whatever and the top dog war chiefs get rubbed out in one fell swoop.”

  “Piishi is with them,” Faustus said as they reached the wagon.

  Belden shrugged.

  “You ever been to a reservation, Mister Montague? Not the nice ones. I mean like San Carlos.”

  “I have.”

  “Well then you ought to know. How do you think the Apache are better off? Penned up and starvin’, their corn fields dyin’ out ‘cause they ain’t used to raising nothing but hell and hair? Maybe ridin’ wild like they’ve always done, killin’ settlers and stealin’ women? Or dead?”

  “They were here first,” Faustus said.

  “And we’re here now. Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t say these things ‘cause I hate Indians. Progressives wanna tame the Indian. Take away his religion, even his language, and replace it with Jesus and the King’s English. They think it’s the best thing for him. But I’m a realist. My uncle once tried to keep a pup he found draggin’ on a dead she-wolf’s teat. He raised it alright, but when it got big well, it was a wolf, not no coon hound. It took to killin’ his chickens, took a bite out the back of my aunt’s thigh. It wasn’t meant to be kept in a cabin. These Indians, they don’t want no part of how we live. But we ain’t goin’ away. So what’s really the best thing for ‘em?”

  “If you have to ask that then I guess that means you’ll stay here,” Faustus said, as he stepped into the vardo.

  “What word?” Kabede asked, standing up.

  “An Indian says a group of cattle hands were ambushed by the Apache a few hour’s ride from here. The Indian has the rifle the Rider gave Piishi. I know Piishi isn’t dead. He and the Rider are even now with Misquamacus. But in a few minutes Corporal Mendez is going to lead his men up into the mountains. The Indian will find the way to the stronghold.”

  “I say we wake up Joe,” said Belden, ducking inside. “Then we let these rurales do our work for us.”

  “That is not possible,” said Kabede. “The Rider cannot be awakened. Trying to do so could endanger him.”

  “You could go to him,” Faustus suggested. “Warn him.”

  “I will,” Kabede said, gathering up his staff and his rifle. “But bodily.”

  “What?”

  “I will join the Mexicans. If I can, I will keep them from finding the stronghold. If I can’t, at least I will be there to help the Rider.”

  “That sounds like a plan. I’ll go too,” Faustus said.

  “Well I ain’t stayin’ here,” Belden said.

  “You have to,” said Kabede. “Someone must watch over the Rider and the animals.”

  “You know them Mexes’ll be ridin’ horses, Kabede,” Belden said, as Faustus shouldered into his blue coat and took a shotgun from a hutch.

  “The Lord will understand,” Kabede said, and leapt down out of the wagon.

  Don Elfego Alvarez knew well why his son Mauricio had chased the Apache into the mountains, even if his faithful servant Pies did not. Don Elfego’s own father had been a prospector, and had weaned him on a story of a legendary vein of gold guarded by the Apache. Don Elfego himself had dismissed the story. He had known many Apache and they cared nothing for gold. But Mauricio had listened to the old man’s sun-baked tales with wide, avaricious eyes. The boy had never been a good worker. Always, like his grandfather, looking for the fast way to wealth, even as their hacienda had slowly grown around him to sit on one of the biggest ranchos in the region.

  The boy had caught gold fever from his grandfather, and now it had killed him too. They would lay side by side, the old man having slipped off a mountain, Mauricio killed by Apache.

  The damned fool. He would go into the mountains and reclaim Mauricio’s body, if only for his wife’s sake. If this bandit Corporal Mendez wanted to hunt for the Apache, and Pies was willing to go with him, that was no concern of his. The less time he spent in the company of these miserable cutthroat rurales the better.

  “Corporal!” came a voice from across the plaza.

  A ridiculous looking old gringo in blue and a black in robes with a shepherd’s staff came across the plaza as the rurales mounted up.

  “What is it, old man?” Mendez called.

  The old man and his manservant broke into a trot until they stood at the feet of the horsemen. Twenty rurales were mounted in all, most of them, Don Elfego observed, hungover.

  “Corporal Mendez, sir,” said the old man, breathless from the short run, “if you’re mounting a punitive expedition into the mountains against the Apache, then I should like it very much if you would allow Mister Kabede and myself to join you.”

  Mendez smiled and translated to his lieutenants. All the rurales in earshot burst into laughter.

  When it had died down to a dull roar, the old man said,

  “We’d be willing to pay for the loan of a pair of horses of course, and we can bring our own guns.”

  “Hey,” said Mendez, wiping his eyes. “This isn’t going to be a sales opportunity, old man. You want to sell your piss and vinegar to the squirrels and the coyote?”

  “Nothing of the sort,” said the old man, ruffling. “I’ve no love for the Apache, Corporal. My wife was killed by those damned red niggers, and I welcome any opportunity to kill a few in her name.”

  “Oh is that so?” said Mendez, still amused. “How many have you killed so far—ah, not counting any you poisoned with that shit you peddle?”

  “Let them come along,” said Don Elfego.

  He didn’t know quite why he said it. He didn’t for a minute believe this old gringo was a widower. He looked like a mayate in his blue fineries. But the black intrigued him. He looked strong and able, if strange.

  “What, these?” Mendez said, turning in his saddle to look at him. “Don Elfego…”

  “We could use a couple sober men,” he said, cutting the corporal off. “I’ll lend them a pair of ponies to ride myself.”

  Mendez shrugged, obviously rankled. The little killer liked to think of himself as being in command, but he and his men were strangers here, and not welcome.

  The old gringo tipped his tall hat to him.

  “Much obliged,
señor…”

  “Alvarez. Don Elfego Alvarez. My son was killed.”

  The old man’s genial smile slipped.

  “My condolences, sir. I am Faustus Montague. My companion is Kabede.”

  Don Elfego nodded and ordered his man Silvanito to cut them a pair of horses.

  “Be sure and keep up,” he said in parting, and trotted ahead.

  To Mendez’s obvious displeasure, the rurales fell in behind.

  The light sifted in luminous slats between the brushes of the dim wickiup, slashing the reddish earth with sunbeams.

  The Rider and Piishi did not know how long they had sat alone before Misquamacus came inside and sat down across from them. They felt an unaccountable dread here as they waited, but could not discern a source.

  There was a hide parfleche in the corner, adorned with stones, fur and feathers. The old man entered, sat down, leaned over and sifted through it, producing a carved wooden pipe, one end fitted with a tarnished iron tomahawk blade.

  “Do you recognize this pipe, Rider Who Walks?” the old man asked, as he packed it with tobacco from a pouch.

  “Is it the pipe we once smoked together?”

  “It is.” He lit it and inhaled deeply, the smoke curling over his face, rich and woodsy smelling in the closeness.

  “That was a long time ago,” said the Rider.

  “Not so long,” said Misquamacus. “My Apache brothers do not believe in the sacred pipe. But you and I will smoke in the old way, and there will be no lies between us.”

  He made to hold it out to the Rider, then paused, and the Rider looked at Piishi’s extended hands with the old man between them. Misquamacus was looking down at the pipe, as though he had absentmindedly forgotten its purpose.

  “Did I ever tell you about this pipe, Rider?” he asked, in Apache.

  “No,” the Rider answered in kind.

  “It is not Indian made. The wood is native, sure. But see the steel inlay work?” he said, pointing to the intricate metalwork lashed to the solid handle. “Probably it is German. I received it from an Englishman over two hundred years ago, when I lived among the Wampanoag. Back then, it was used in negotiations with the white man. The pipe was for peace, and the hatchet for war. Simple symbols that even two men who spoke different languages could understand. The work of two peoples, merged.”

  The old man’s eyes lifted and fixed upon him, dark and serious. “Which end should I give you, Rider? The hatchet or the pipe?”

  The Rider said nothing.

  The old man held the pipe out and the Rider took it, turned it, and inhaled, the heavy flavor swirling in his lungs, irritating. He blew it out, but managed not to cough.

  “You mean to tell me you were alive two hundred years ago?” the Rider asked.

  “I have lived many lives, Rider,” said Misquamacus. “I came from the sky to the Painted Woods and lived as an Awatixa between the Heart and Knife Rivers. Lixua Araxaash, they called me then. Charred Body. I gave the worship of the Dark Man to them. That was long before the white men brought their God.” He held the tomahawk pipe, and traced one weathered finger along the haft between the pipe bowl and the axe head.

  The Rider felt Piishi’s pulse quicken.

  “What do you mean you came from the sky?”

  “I became foolish,” he went on, ignoring the question. “I took it upon myself to save the Mexica from slavery to the people of Aztlan. The Mexica worshiped me for it. I led them to Texcoco, and built two great cities. We were masters of the Earth.”

  “These words are familiar,” said Piishi.

  “Yes,” said the Rider. He too remembered this story. Chaksusa the blue monk had told it to him before he had gone to Red House, and Faustus had alluded to it himself the last night in Camp Eckfeldt. He had said that the brother of the blue abbot had done these things. Faustus’ brother. A being from another world. They had come together from their own universe, pursuing one of the Old Ones into this one.

  Mun Gsod was what Chaksusa had called his master’s brother. Were Misquamacus and Mun Gsod the same? If this was Faustus’ brother from another universe, why hadn’t the old man told them? And who was The Dark Man?

  “What was it the Mexica called you?” the Rider said. “Was it Mun Gsod?”

  “No,” Piishi said, “that wasn’t right.”

  “No,” said Misquamacus, shaking his head, smiling faintly. “That was not my name. Huitzilopochtli, they called me. The Hummingbird.”

  “Yes of course. Mun Gsod must have been the name the Tibetans called him,” the Rider thought. He had no idea what Mun Gsod’s real name was. No idea what Faustus was truly called, for that matter.

  “I was Tlaxcaltecan too,” said Misquamacus. “They called me Xicohtencatl then. I had a good, long, fat life among those people, in Tizatlan.” He smiled fully, remembering. “I had a son.” Then his smile faded to a thin, straight line. “That was the first time I met the white man. It was Cortes and his Spaniards. They came to Tizatlan for help against the Aztecs. They brought us gifts. They brought us their God. I was even baptized. But my son never trusted them, and against my wishes he attacked them. He would have ground them beneath his heel too, but for the dealings of lesser kings. They forced him to sign a peace treaty. Oh, the white men and their treaties. Would that my son had been allowed to finish his work. How different things would have been. As it was, he led the Tlaxcalans into Tenochtitlan, and helped to tear down my own temples.” Misquamacus chuckled here. “For his bravery and his brilliance, Cortes hanged him.

  “I died in the jungles, and when I returned, I spent a hundred years wandering. I was with Sassacus for a time against the English—”

  “What do you mean, you died?” the Rider interrupted.

  “My death prefigures my rebirth, Rider,” was all he said. “I went among the Wampanoag and the Narragansett. I taught secrets to an Englishman named Billington. I thought I could corrupt the whites, bring their worldly power under my hand, but Billington was a fool, and was consumed by the Old Ones.”

  “The Old Ones.”

  “Yes, Rider,” said Misquamacus, his old eyes flashing. “You know of the Great Old Ones now, don’t you? We Indians have always known of them. The Maroons of Jamaica knew them too. After we burned Providence, I was captured and sold there as a slave, but I escaped into the hills. I fought the white man there with my black brothers, and we shared our secrets. That was a long, hard fight. But wherever there are white men, they must be fought. Even unto death.” He trailed off, staring through a space in the dark wickiup somewhere over the Rider’s head. “Even unto death.

  “I returned to Billington’s Wood after that, and used the descendants of Billington to take me to England. I moved among the magicians of the whites there. By then I understood their greed, you see. Billington had taught me that once given a taste of the Great Old Ones, the white man will pursue them to their own destruction. I became the Old Ones’ preacher, and I told of them wherever I went. Then I came back here, to the lands where I once lived. I was Lakota and Kwahadi, Nuwuvi and Dineh. I traded knowledge for knowledge. I gathered followers. Some of them are here today.”

  “Then you’re a servant of the Great Old Ones,” the Rider said. “But when I knew you, you weren’t.”

  “Love can turn a man’s heart,” said Misquamacus slowly. “Even mine. But violence, hatred and madness may turn it back. It turns back so easily, Rider.”

  “After you avenged your wife you said the fire of your anger had burned out.”

  “Yes. Paveve’keso was a good woman. I loved her very deeply. She turned me from the Great Old Ones for a time. My heart was hardened again at the Washita River. After we parted ways, Rider, I returned to my wife’s band to visit my relatives. I lived with them two years. The Dog Soldiers made war on the whites, but I remembered your words to me. I made no war. I sought peace with the white man. I played the fool. I even went to Medicine Lodge with Black Kettle and signed another damned treaty. Then one morning Long Hair Cu
ster attacked our winter camp on the Washita. He killed the women and children. Most of them were shot in the back. It was Sand Creek all over again. My Cheyenne relatives were all killed. I knew then the white man must be rubbed out for all time. I joined the Lakota at Greasy Grass and we killed that bastard Custer and all his soldiers in the time it took a hungry man to eat. But it was not enough. Since that time, I have brought the message of the Old Ones to my own people. I have gathered an army. After tonight, the white men and Mexicans squatting in their square houses in Apacheria will be cut down. We will move outward from here, scouring them from the Earth.”

  “He has suffered,” said Piishi. “It is right that he should want revenge.”

  “But what’s the cost?” the Rider responded, as much to Piishi as to Misquamacus. “What will the Old Ones ask in return for your revenge? If you know them so well you know what they want of this world. Do you think they’ll stop at the destruction of the whites and the Mexicans? Do you think they’ll allow your people to live?”

  “No,” said Misquamacus, leaning forward. “And it doesn’t matter. I have been to the future and returned, Rider. The Dark Man has shown me the fate of the Indian. If the whites are allowed to continue, we will wind up poisoning ourselves and crouching in the dust and dead grass of lands that are not our own. We will seek the glories of the old days in the dregs of the white man’s bottles. We will be broken. I would rather die. I would rather all of us die.”

  “He cannot say this! The decision is not his. He is not truly human!” Piishi raged within.

  “You think those words will convince the Apache you’re right?” the Rider asked. “Do you think they’ll sell their souls and the souls of their children for revenge?”

  “I have more than just words, Rider,” said Misquamacus, replacing the pipe in his hide bag. “I have much more than just words.”

  “I knew a man,” the Rider said, as Misquamacus rose to his feet. “A good man, who burned with righteous anger, but was good enough to know when to step back from the edge of Hell.”

  “That man is gone,” Misquamacus said simply. “He drowned in blood at the Washita River. Your words cannot be heard anymore. Not above the gunshots and the screams of our babies.”