She looked uneasy. “We have never killed one. I do not think we can.”
One of the older men spoke, relating some incident. The others nodded. Kawasi explained. “Long ago a madman tried to kill one. He struck him three times with a blade. Nothing happened.”
“They wear armor,” Mike explained, “under those blue jerkins or whatever you call them. Those whom I saw were wearing some kind of armored vest or shirt. I am sure of it.” He paused a moment. “Has anybody ever tried hitting them on the legs? Or in the throat?”
“We do not attack the Varanel,” she insisted.
He shrugged, irritated. “Then you might as well surrender and become slaves. It seems to me you have no choice.”
“Nobody has ever struck a Varanel!” Kawasi said.
“I struck a couple of their boys and it worked very well. I’ll admit they seemed surprised. From what you say, it must have been quite a shock to them.”
Raglan glanced from face to face. These people seemed no different from others he knew, yet different they must be, for this was a world he had never known. Were they a softer, gentler people than his own? Or had they lived so long in isolation that they no longer remembered what the real world was like? These were descendants of the cliff dwellers, a people who had chosen to retreat from drought and attackers, to return here and take shelter. Were they hiding from danger? Or were they afraid of their own instincts?
They had evolved, but how much and in what ways? This apartment of Kawasi’s was a lovely place, but so far he had only glanced at it. How far had it developed from the simple structures at Mesa Verde or Chaco Canyon? Was it only the single-line development from then until now without any input from the outside?.And how far apart were the two worlds, this one of Kawasi’s and that other, darker world ruled by The Hand?
His own world had developed in constant strife—struggle against the elements and the greed of other men. Was war a natural thing among men? Was it a part of their development? Or their path to extinction?
“You have no contact with the world of the Varanel?” he asked.
“None, and we wish none. Here”—she gestured about her—”we live in peace. We run water upon our plants. We grow fruit on trees and bushes. We have found many sources of water, and each has been improved. We have learned each place where there is dampness, and we have planted there. If there is space for but one plant, we have that one plant. Each bit of ground is used. We have learned to gather the rain from off the mountains, letting it run into our pools or our ditches. Nothing is wasted. The food left over, the leaves that fall, all is returned to the soil. We gather the droppings of animals and we crush the hulls of nuts. Each of us works in the fields or forest.”
“You have animals?”
She nodded. “We raise what you call cattle, and sheep as well. No goats. They are too destructive and will eat every growing thing, given the chance, even the bark from the trees. Long ago we decided there would be no goats, for wherever there are goats there is desert. If there is no desert, in time goats will create it.”
“There are forests in your mountains?”
“We cut down only trees that are dead or dying, and we gather every fallen branch for fuel.” She lifted her eyes to his. “It is not easy, our life. Each has a plot to cultivate. Some have several plots. Each year we try to put by some grain for the bad years when no rain comes.”
“You must make a choice,” Raglan suggested, “to fight the Varanel or to lose all you have.”
“We cannot fight them. It is impossible.”
The young man who had been standing aside spoke then. “I will fight them,” he said.
They turned on him, astonished. “You, Hunahpu? You would dare fight the Varanel?”
Kawasi translated as he spoke: “I have talk to John-nee. He has fought them. He has beaten them. They come no more to seek him. We do not wish to die. They do not wish to die. If some are killed, they will go away and come no more.”
They talked excitedly, angrily, among themselves, and Raglan turned away. Whatever they decided to do was none of his affair. He had come for the purpose of finding a way to free Erik, and that was just what he must do. Yet one thing came to mind.
“Kawasi? Is there any other way for the Varanel to enter your valley?”
“Yes, but it is far from here.”
“To guard this path would be easy, but it must be guarded at once. You have weapons?”
“Bows and arrows, spears, and blowguns.”
“And the Varanel?”
“They have other weapons. I do not understand them. Something penetrates and does something to your inside. After a time you sicken and die. It can be within minutes, sometimes days. It is not a poison.”
“I would suggest you guard the path. Is there a place where you could roll stones upon them? Look, it is none of my business but you need someone willing to fight, someone who can think in terms of combat.”
He paused. “That young man? Hunahpu? Why not put him in charge? He at least is ready to fight. If you do not have the weapons, use what you have, think, contrive! There is always a way!”
This was not his fight. He wanted to get Erik and get out of here, get back to his own world and forget all this. Even—No, not Kawasi. He did not want to forget her.
Ignoring them, he crossed to a divan and got out his old canvas map. It made no sense. If he just had a landmark, something to indicate a location.
Suddenly, he found it. That leaning tower of rock, like a gigantic finger? It was there, on the very edge of his map! It might be different, but … No, there was the trail down the mountainside, that dotted line! Beyond was a maze of mountains, cliffs, peaks, canyons, and in the midst of them a small red cross. What did that mean?
To the south was open country with lines marking what must be irrigation ditches, and then a cluster of black squares that must be buildings; then, at the end of the valley, a massive black structure—that had to be the Forbidden! He studied it with care, the wide avenue leading up to it, the great gates, and the smaller door beside the gates.
Suddenly he was aware the others had gathered about and were studying his map. Excitedly, one put a finger on the Forbidden, and then to something he had not yet seen, a path leading from the mountains and coming up to the Forbidden from the side, a path that seemed to end in a blank wall.
“What is it?” he asked Kawasi.
“There is no such trail,” she said. “But such a trail might lead to an entrance nobody knows.”
“This map,” Raglan explained, “was copied from an ancient map found in a ruin. It may be there was such a trail and it has been forgotten, perhaps even by The Hand, and the Varanel.”
Kawasi looked at him, startled. Then she shrugged. “Who would go there? It is a place of death. A place from which no man returns.”
“I am going there,” he replied, “and through the door beside the gate. That is where Erik is, and I am going after him.”
Raglan got to his feet and rolled his map. “And when he is free I am coming for you. I want you to go back with me.”
“And leave my people? They need me.”
“There is Hunahpu,” he replied.
Startled, she looked from him to the young man who stood aside, waiting.
“Put him in charge of defense,” Raglan suggested. “He at least is ready to fight. I think he will do well.”
Day was breaking and the sky was faintly yellow. He went to the window and looked out across the terrace at the looming black mountains beyond. It was a starkly beautiful land and reminded him of Machu Picchu in the Peruvian Andes, the hidden city of the Incas.
All about were towering cliffs, and below were green fields of maize, squash, beans, and other crops he could not distinguish at the distance. The pueblos were like those seen in New Mexico, except these were much larger, the work more finished, and there were roof gardens everywhere, some of them carved out of cliffsides. Water had been brought from the mountains and piped into the buildings and the ditches.
“Is this your only city?”
“Oh, no. Others are larger than this, and farther up the canyons. Some are in caves, as at Mesa Verde.”