by Greg Keyes
“No,” the old man told him. “You come with us to the kiva.”
The kiva was close and dark. Alvar was closed in by firelit faces, by the sharp scent of sage and juniper. In the shadows of the great room, mysterious bundles bunched in small recesses, the colorful feathers and carved sticks of an alter (he did not know which kind) faintly visible. The floor was stone, as were the walls, and the ceiling was some sort of reinforced concrete. The freedom of the sky was gone, and once more Alvar was a prisoner in the depths.
Captured by primitives, he thought. Were they boiling water somewhere? Were they sizing him up for dinner? He knew better, of course, and these thoughts betrayed him to a returning, sardonic, sense of humor. Still, when the eerie chanting began, a chill stab of fear caught him through the back.
A column of light stabbed down into the darkness, from the hole in the center of the roof. It illuminated the ladder which Alvar had so recently descended at the non-to-gentle urging of his captors.
The old man and two old women came down the ladder, followed by the two women who had captured Alvar.
The light was shut off, and now only the flickering fire remained. Alvar wondered, off-handedly, how valuable the wood they were burning must be. Trees must be as scarce here as they had been near Santa Fe.
The rustling and whispering, the light, the dense smoke, and his own fatigue conspired against Alvar. When the old man began droning in slow, ponderous tones, he tried to pay attention. But it was some story, a part of the old migration myth, full of repetition and dense detail. Alvar caught his eyelids closing; he snapped them open and found that he had missed a significant part of the legend.
They began to droop again.
When he awoke, it was to a generally louder muttering, and the voice had changed. It was the woman, SandGreyGirl.
“. … from the stars,” she was saying. “My mother believed them to be Kachina.”
“So they may be,” whispered the old man. “Prophecies are fulfilled in strange ways. We have always known it, have we not, my children and grandchildren? That the Fifth World was created for us, just as was the Fourth? That it was made vague and incomplete, so that we must work to finish it?”
“But why should a Kachina take the form of Pela?” another, unidentified voice asked.
“I have explained that,” said the woman they seemed to call—and not call—Pela. The alien. Alvar searched her flame-revealed features, both eager and fearful to see some indication of her inhuman origin. All he could see there, however, was an attractive face, intriguing and sensuous rather than merely beautiful.
“This has been confirmed,” the old man whispered gravely. “She has been tested. This body was cloned from Pela’s cells.”
“We could do that,” someone countered. “So could the lowlanders. This does not prove her claim.”
“The ojo shows that I am not lying,” SandGreyGirl spoke into the assenting whispers. “I saw her ship land.”
“Still, that means nothing.”
“There is someone who can confirm this,” SandGreyGirl said. “Ask him. Ask the Parrot-Island-Man.” She gestured towards Alvar.
“Well?” asked the old man, quietly. A green light flicked on somewhere, arrowed its narrow beam in Alvar’s left eye.
“Keep your eye open. Tell us if you believe that there are three starships of alien origin in orbit around our world.”
Please don’t ask me too much, Alvar prayed. Perhaps if he could please them, make them trust him just a little. …
“There are,” he said. “I’ve seen them.”
The old man’s face relaxed. The green light persisted for a moment more and then mercifully retreated into the darkness.
“So. This would explain a lot,” the elder commented. “A lot. And you think the lowlanders want to use these ships against the Reed.”
SandGreyGirl nodded.
“That would be a worthy goal,” someone else pointed out. “Let the lowlanders find a way to fight the Reed. We all know it must eventually be done.”
“Oh,” said the elder. “But either master would be as bad for us. If the lowlanders had such power. …”
“Then we should control the ships.”
“These are Kachina, Movena! We do not control them.”
“Please!” Alvar’s heart quickened as he realized the shout came from the alien herself. Everyone else fell silent.
“This whole notion of controlling me is misguided. I have no more power than any of you. The ships in orbit—my sisters—do. But they are in poor repair. Their minds are not what they used to be. I came here to see if I thought your race was worth saving, and if you were, I hoped to help you prevent my sisters from sterilizing this world. Even I don’t know how to go about that. I’ve either forgotten or I never knew. Now, while you people argue about which of your factions will possess me or cajole me or whatever it is you think you can do with me, your death is hanging above you heads. Your death and the death of everything you have worked for. Can you understand that?”
Alvar found that he was holding his breath; the only sound was the scrapping of bare skin and linen on stone as a few people shifted. What the hell had he and Teng come into?
Tuchvala’s words hung in the air like thick, resinous smoke. Sand felt that they would choke her. Looks of indignation were fading, as the old people quickly realized that what Tuchvala had to say was more important than any breach of proper speaking order. Yuyahoeva cleared his throat softly.
“I. … we’re sorry, grandau. …” he broke off, confused. “What should I call you?” he began again.
“Sand calls me Tuchvala. That will do.”
There was a murmur at that, at the sense of the name. It seemed to hold a foretelling, just as it held the past.
“Go on, then, Tuchvala.”
“I don’t have much more to say,” Tuchvala continued, after a moment. “We are very old, my sisters and I. We came here when this world was as the universe made it. I tell you truthfully, I do not see how I can be one of your Kachina. Do Kachina become senile? For my sisters and I are that. Up there, we see a world spoiled, with no free alcohol, with too much nitrogen, too much oxygen. Down here, in the body I have now, I can see more clearly. Your danger comes not from me, or even from other human factions. It is my sisters who can destroy you all.”
“And you don’t know how to stop them?”
“I can only plead with them, offer my experiences as proof that you are alive and worthy of etadotetak.”
“What is that?” Yuyahoeva asked of the spitting sound Tuchvala made. She explained briefly, as she had explained it to Sand.
Yuyahoeva bowed his head down.
“Perhaps we are not worthy,” he said. “We are as you see us, squabbling and factional.”
Tuchvala nodded affirmation. “I have seen you kill one another, and I admit that I find this conflict over me to be excessive. Still, my sisters and I have no business interfering with your lives. Our time—and the time of our Makers—is long gone. I believe them dead.”
An old woman piped up, and Sand winced. It was Hanomokuwa, Chavo’s mother. Her face, even flushed with firelight, seemed drawn and pale. Her words were bitter and clipped.
“We believe that the Kachina made this world for us.” She looked around dazedly.
“My son is a Kachina.”
There was an embarrassed mumble of agreement from the crowd. Sand felt tears threatening to sting her eyes.
Tuchvala shrugged. “Maybe so. Maybe my Makers are just a dream I had in the long spaces between the stars. Anything seems possible to me now.”
Hanomokuwa had risen to her feet as Tuchvala spoke, and she seemed to drift through the kiva like a ghost; her linen dress barely rustled. Sand gripped Tuchvala’s arm protectively as her aunt approached. The old woman stopped in front of Tuchvala, slowly squatted dow
n on her heels. Tuchvala sat impassively as the old woman reached out a finger and stroked it along her face.
“Sweet little Pela,” she whispered, so that only Sand and Tuchvala could hear her clearly.
“Such a sweet thing. You knew my Chavo, didn’t you? Sand, you knew him.”
“I knew your son,” Sand said.
“Tell me why he died, Pela. You’ve come back from Masaw, little one. Tell me why he died.”
Sand could feel Tuchvala trembling, and she gripped her arm more tightly, hoping to reassure her. The old woman’s eyes wandered glassily over their faces for another moment, and then she slowly rose.
“He knows,” she muttered, and she moved towards the Parrot-Island-Man. Sand turned so that she could see his face. It was drawn into a bizarre grimace of fear and what might be remorse. Tears glistened in his eyes.
“We didn’t mean too—I didn’t. …” he mumbled.
Hanomokuwa knelt in front of the man, and he squirmed back, avoiding her gaze.
“Why did my Chavo die?” she asked him. The only other sound was that of wood popping in the fire.
The man didn’t answer, though it seemed that he might like to, by the way his mouth worked silently. Hano drew back her hand, very slowly and deliberately, then brought it around in a stinging slap to the Parrot-Clan man’s face. He rolled his head around with the blow, and then dropped it onto his chest, continuing to cry. Sand smothered a small spark of pity for him. He was of our Father’s clan. He had helped kill Chavo.
And saved your life maybe, an unexpected thought reminded her. Because the woman, Teng, had not killed Chavo. She had killed the Whipper.
Hano calmly sat down next to Alvar, folding her stiff old legs beneath her. She sat facing him, less than a meter away, Her liquid eyes searching him mercilessly.
Yuyahoeva sighed into the silence.
“We still must decide what to do, Tuchvala. You understand that. As difficult as our struggles might be for you to understand, they are very real. The division between us and the lowlanders is difficult to lay aside. Yet, if what you say is true, perhaps we should make the effort. It would be ironic indeed if your sisters kill us while we squabble over them.”
Another elder—no relation to Sand at all—spoke up.
“If you could convince your sisters to let us be, what then? Would they aid us against the Reed?”
Tuchvala stared at the man.
Yuyahoeva turned to him, and though he spoke mildly, it was clearly a rebuke. “Cousin. Haven’t you been listening? This is a question for another time. For when we and our children are safe. For now, I think, we have to help this Kachina help us. We have to put her in touch with her sisters.”
“How? How can we do this?”
Sand cleared her throat. Yuyahoeva looked at her expectantly.
“We need a powerful transmitter,” she said. “Like the ones we use to communicate with the Kachina satellites.”
Yuyahoeva nodded. “We have such a transmitter. It will be done.”
A young man spoke up. His voice was flat with anger or some other fierce emotion, and Sand realized that he was a clan uncle of Chavo’s.
“There is another matter,” he grunted. “The matter of the lowland flyers. They have settled in a perimeter around our lands.”
“But not violated them,” Yuyahoeva pointed out. “They have not yet broken the unspoken truce.”
“We should be ready in case they do,” the young man snapped.
Yuyahoeva turned his ancient gaze upon the youngster.
“We already have. The warriors are preparing now.”
“Then may I join their preparations?” the other man asked stiffly.
“You have no head for council,” said the old man. “So you might as well. Go on.”
The young man nodded bruskly and pushed towards the ladder, but stopped at its base.
“What about him?” He said, abruptly, pointing to the Parrot-Clan man. “Him and that two-heart who killed my cousin?”
Yuyahoeva fixed him with a hard stare.
“Go on, I said.”
The warrior hesitated for another moment, and then went up the ladder. Light stabbed down briefly as he opened the trapdoor, then vanished.
Yuyahoeva craned his neck to look around the assembly before speaking again, as if by the touch of his gaze he could draw the all together.
“Parrot-Clan man. Come forward.”
The stranger rose shakily, avoiding Hano’s eyes, which followed him as he moved towards the center of the circle.
“I will do you a courtesy,” Yuyahoeva told him. “I will not use the Ojo de verdad at this point. I will give you a chance to tell the truth yourself.”
The man looked up, and the firelight gleamed on the tear-tracks.
“I’m sorry about the boy,” he said at last. “Teng and I … he was trying to kill me. Teng was just defending me.”
“She killed a Kachina,” Yuyahoeva growled.
“I know. She doesn’t know better, grandfather. She is from Earth.”
“Why did she come here? Tell me.”
The young man clasped his hands together and stared at them.
“My name is Alvar,” he said at last. “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you any more than that. I would have to lie, and I don’t want to lie to you people. I don’t want to do anything else to you people. Even if you use the ojo, you will only know that I am lying. You won’t know what the truth is.”
“There are other ways to get that,” hissed one of the elders.
“I know,” Alvar replied, miserably.
“We must know what the Reed intends. You can see that, can’t you?” Yuyahoeva said gently.
Alvar nodded, but said nothing.
Yuyahoeva clucked his tongue.
“As Mother-Father of this council, I suggest that we end this meeting. Our time can be better spent, if we are in agreement on certain points. Shall we help this woman who has come to us, this Tuchvala?”
“She is Kachina!” someone murmured, and a susurrus of agreement expanded into the darkness of the Kiva.
“I want to talk to the leader of the lowlanders, to Hoku. Does this seem reasonable?”
Another mutter of general agreement, though much less enthusiastic than the earlier one.
“Good. Then that is all I have to say. Ascend into the Fifth World.”
Sand sat still with Tuchvala as the gathering broke up. Two guards led the prisoner, Alvar, away. When everyone else was gone, Sand came slowly to her feet.
“I hope you know what to say to your sisters, Tuchvala.”
“So do I,” she replied.
Chapter Twenty
Yuyahoeva met Sand in the sunlight. He gently took her by the arm, and the three of them—Sand, the old man, and Tuchvala—walked towards the edge of the cliff. They stood staring at the void, at the mystery of distance. The old man rolled a cornhusk cigarette, lit it, and passed it over to Sand. She took a little puff and handed it to Tuchvala, who examined it curiously.
“Inhale through the other end, Tuchvala. Not too deeply, though.”
They offered smoke to the six directions, and the wind took the blue streamers quickly away. Sand smelled rain in the air, passing near.
The old man nodded out at the vastness.
“I may have been wrong, daughter,” he said at last. “I think you were right about your mother. I think the lowlanders killed her.”
“Because she knew all of this,” Sand said, miserably.
“She never told us,” Yuyahoeva said.
“She was going to. She left me a book. She was planning to tell you, but only when she was sure you would listen.”
Yuyahoeva nodded. He turned his seamed face up towards the sky.
“Sand, would you and Tuchvala come with me to my wife’
s house? I’d like to talk with both of you a little more.”
Kalnimptewa was a gracious woman, about forty years old with a delicate, thin face and a shock of grey in her long hair. She smiled minutely as she set out the plate of piki and corn soup in front of Sand.
“Thank you, grandmother,” Sand whispered. Her belly had forgotten hunger during the chase, but the memory was back, with a vengeance. How long since she had eaten? Before her mother died?
She dipped the roll of paper-thin blue cornbread into the broth and took a bite, savored the bread as it fell apart in her mouth. Yuyahoeva and Kalnimptewa kept their silence as the two young women wolfed down their food. When the piki was gone, the elder woman left and returned with a tray of steamed tamales and a pitcher of fruit juice. Stopping only briefly to show Tuchvala how to unwrap the savory rolls of cornmeal, Sand plunged into those too. She looked up to catch Yuyahoeva watching her with gentle amusement.
“Sorry, grandfather,” she said. “It’s been a long while since I’ve eaten.”
He nodded. “You’re too thin anyway. Eat all you want.”
Sand did. When her stomach felt comfortably packed, she pushed the intricately patterned plate away, finished off her peach juice, and sighed. Tuchvala imitated her, almost a parody, and the other three laughed, then laughed again at her puzzled expression.
“You look so much like Pela, when she was young,” Kalnimptewa remarked, her gaze traveling over Tuchvala. “It is so hard to believe you are what you say.”
“I don’t really know what I am anymore,” Tuchvala replied, thoughtfully. “I’m not what I was.”
Yuyahoeva settled back in his chair. “Fascinating,” he said, wagging his head from side to side. “When a human being wears the mask of a Kachina, he becomes something different. He becomes the Kachina. I never thought to wonder what might happen to a Kachina wearing a human mask.”
“Is that what I am?” Tuchvala asked. I know your stories. I don’t think I am one of your spirits.”
“I’m an old man,” Yuyahoeva told her. “I see things the way I want. But here you come in the skin of my dead granddaughter. You come from the sky, from far away, and you are one of the creators of this world—at least as we know it. In my eyes, if you are not a Kachina, then the difference is too small to measure. Can you understand that?”
