That made sense. The earliest writing known had been in temples where an account was kept of tithes paid or gifts to the gods. It had been so in Ur of the Chaldees, in Babylon, Nineveh, and Tyre. So in Tazzoc’s world The Voice had been displaced by The Hand? A coup? Or had The Voice simply died out? Something of the same kind had happened to the Delphic Oracle in Ancient Greece, and there might be a pattern to such things.
“Those Archives of yours? Do you have any idea of their range? The number of years covered?”
“Oh, yes! I cannot claim to know them, but it is a part of our first training to know something of their origin. The first writing was on clay. These first tablets were lists of tenths paid to the temple. It continued after a number of years with added symbols, indicating that one who was behind in payments would pay later. Then there were lists of what belonged to the temple and where it was stored.
“Then a man made a plea of being assessed too much, and told of his land and his house and what he possessed and what he could pay. In this way the words increased. The language grew.
“The Archives are vast. Thousands of clay tablets and engravings on stone. Then there were many shelves of thin sheets of wood, used instead of clay, which was no longer practical.
“Long ago twelve were numbered to care for the Archives, of which my family were directors. One by one they died or were taken away until I am alone. I come and go, a shadow they scarcely see.”
“Does anyone ever try to enter the Forbidden area?”
“Who would wish to? It is feared. Those who belong there go. No others consider it.”
Yet if he could get in? Could he find Erik?
Suddenly he remembered the golden map the old man had copied, and he had that copy. Was the Forbidden area included?
“In your Archives,” he said carefully, “is there a plan of the area?”
“Oh, yes. Our ancient leaders planned everything with great care. There is a shelf with nothing but plans, designs of each building, each room. Except for the Death Doors.”
“The what?”
“You see, it is a Forbidden place. Each knows where he must go, but he knows nothing else. Only The Hand knows all. Hence, the door you might open could be a trap, and there are many such, throughout the area.”
“A trap? How?”
“Each room is dark when the door is opened. Not until the door closes do the lights go on, so if you try to enter a place you do not belong, you are trapped.
“When the door closes, lights go on, but in the traps there are no lights, and there is no air. He who enters the wrong door is caught in a room with no chance of escape. Such rooms permit no sound to be heard outside.”
Tazzoc’s eyes held a sort of triumphant glow. “A mistake means death. No one comes to look. No one cares. There are dozens of such rooms, so few guards are needed, and even if you were suspected of being an interloper, rarely would anyone interfere. Soon you will enter a wrong door.”
“How large are these cubicles? These rooms?”
“Who knows? No one has ever come out to tell of them.”
“No one has ever escaped?”
“How is it possible? The walls are stone, many feet in thickness. When there is no air, one dies.”
“Does no one ever make a mistake?”
“Who cares? And who would know?” Tazzoc smiled. “No one has ever complained.”
“The area must be large?”
“Many of what you call acres. There may be ten such rooms. More likely there are fifty. Perhaps no one remembers.”
“Are there such rooms in your place of the Archives?”
Tazzoc shrugged. “There are doors I do not open. Who knows? The Hand does not care for those who blunder, or who try to go where they are not wanted. From the earliest time we are told not to open doors that are strange to us.”
How, in such a maze, was he to find Erik Hokart? Yet where he was held, others must have been kept before him, so someone would know.
The old man Mike had met in Flagstaff so many years ago had found gold—found it in some apparently abandoned place. “I would be interested”—he spoke slowly so that Tazzoc could follow—”in a history of your people. From what you say, yours is a small country, rigidly ruled. Apparently your people do not know of those who fled to another part of your country—”
“This could not be.”
“I have met a girl from such a group. She is a descendant of He Who Had Magic.”
Tazzoc shook his head doubtfully. “It is a wild tale. It would not be permitted. Besides”—he shrugged—”where would they go? How would they live?”
“There are no places in the mountains? Or the desert?”
“No one ever goes there. These are fearsome places.”
“Have you no records in your Archives of travel to such places in the long ago?”
Tazzoc was uncomfortable. He peered uneasily around. “There were tales, wild tales told by irresponsible people. They are not believed. There is a section of the Archives … It was forbidden to look there.”
“And you have not? Your father did not, nor your grandfather?”
Tazzoc was uneasy. “There was said to be another place of Archives, forbidden to us. Some said it was only a tale, that such a place did not exist. It was a place for The Voice when long ago people had to go to its temple, a journey of many days. Then The Voice came closer and lived in the Forbidden area. A pilgrimage was no longer needed.”
A temple where The Voice had been, an ancient place for archives, now abandoned. Could that be the place? Certainly, such a place would not have been casually built. Might there not be another opening there? A permanent one?
The old cowboy from Flagstaff might have gotten through near such a place and found the gold, and a way he could use at certain times.
“Tazzoc, I must come to your world. I must help my friend escape. If he does not, others will come and your world will end. Men of great power desire his return, and if they do not find him soon, they will he searching these hills. I have told this to the woman, Eden Foster.
“If there is violence, your precious Archives may be destroyed. I do not wish that, nor do you. If you could help me, we could save them, possibly even bring them back to our world where they would not gather dust but would be studied.”
Tazzoc was silent for a long time. Finally, he shook his head. “I do not know. I wish the Archives saved, but to free your friend? It is impossible. Nobody would dare such a thing, and you are but one man …”
“One man can often succeed where many would fail. You see,” Mike added, “our scholars would like to know what happened to what we call the Anasazi after their return to your world. They seemed a good people, a people who were progressing toward something important. In your Archives there would be records, perhaps, of what they did and what they thought. This is important to us. The Anasazi had learned much of building and were learning more. They had become skillful farmers within the bounds of what was possible for them. No doubt, had they not been attacked by nomadic Indians they would have survived the drought and expanded their irrigated areas. They would have expanded their trade, also, and exchanged ideas and farming methods with the Maya.”
Tazzoc got to his feet. “I have been too long away. Much as I wish it, I cannot help. I know nothing, and I speak with few. If questions were asked I would be seized and questioned.”
He paused. “This much I can do. I can bring a cloak such as this, and shoes such as mine. I can show you the portal through which I go, and the route I take. The rest is up to you.”
When Tazzoc had gone, Raglan sat alone, thinking. So, then. He was going. It was no longer a vague idea, no longer something about which to think. It was up to him now.
But what of Erik? What was he doing? Mike could not believe he was not thinking, contriving, planning. What materials could he find? What subterfuge could he employ? Would he try to escape? To communicate?
He’d told Mike that as a boy he had made a crystal wireless set. Could he do it now? Would radio waves cross the divide between the two worlds? What was he doing over there? Or was he doing anything? Was it possible for him to help Mike, or himself?