Raglan nudged a piece of wood deeper into the fire. “Why do you come to me?”
“I have said. You must not come. It is of no purpose.”
“And I have said that if I do not find him, many will come, and they will come with anger and determination and nothing will stand against them. Erik Hokart must be freed. If you wish your way preserved, you must help me.”
“I?” The idea astonished him. “What can I do? I am but a Keeper of Archives.”
“Are there in your Archives no tales of warriors? Of men who accomplished great things?”
The man’s eyes sparkled. “Many are the tales of glory and of bravery! Yet no one reads them now. No one but me and a very few others. The tablets gather dust. The halls are swept to no purpose. No one wishes to learn, for now they believe they know all things. I doubt The Hand knows of my existence, and the Varanel, his guards, pass me by without notice.”
His face was suddenly gloomy. “You spoke of my wishing to preserve our way. It is sacrilege, but I do not know if I wish it preserved.
“The lessons in the school are said by rote. No one thinks of what they mean. When tests are given there is much cheating and none seem to realize it is themselves they cheat.”
“You speak of your Archives. They are on stone tablets?”
“How else? Of the Tablets there are countless thousands, all neatly stacked, some tied in bundles when they are upon one theme.”
“All upon stone?”
“Some are upon baked clay. In those days our people were learning, and the Varanel were their servants. Now we no longer care to learn and the Varanel are our masters.”
There was a silence then, and the fire flickered, and then he said, “It is good to talk. It is good that someone listens. I am much alone, and that is why I wanted a way into your world. Our people have closed their minds. They do not look for knowledge, for they believe they now possess it all.”
“Yet they fear what our world can bring to them?”
“They do. I do not. Not really. I do fear, for I do not know what it is you are or what you have. You seem so secure, so sure in yourself.”
“Few of us are, my friend. It only appears so, but we do learn, and many of us love learning. Oh, we do have those who would stop learning where it is. Indeed, there are some who would have stopped it years ago, because what we learn endangers ideas they have long possessed. But there are men and women who want answers and they seek them in laboratories and libraries the world over. Our libraries,” Raglan added, “are like your Archives, but ours are used, day and night, and their contents are put into books to be sold so that those may study who cannot come to the libraries.”
“There are books about our people?”
“Many, and yet we know so very little. What we know has been pieced together from broken pots, ruins of cliff or pit houses, bits of moccasins, and remains of burials. Men and women work very hard to make sense from what we have discovered, but often greedy ones dig into the ruins and remove valuable evidence to sell it on the market, destroying forever our chance to learn.
“You see, we do not have your knowledge and we must try to date each fragment by where it is found, how deep in the earth, and in conjunction with what other materials. It is a slow, painstaking process but we are learning.”
“Our history is important to you?”
“All history is important to us. From each we learn a little about survival, a little about what causes peoples to decay and nations to die. We try to learn from others so we shall not make the same mistakes, but many of us learn simply for the love of knowing. One of the greatest lines in literature was from a Russian writer who said, ‘I do not want millions, but an answer to my questions.’
“Ah, yes. I like that.” Then gloomily he said, “We no longer ask questions. Except,” he added, “a little bit about your world. We want some things you have but we fear what may come with it.”
“You have a name?”
“It is Tazzoc.”
“I am Raglan, Mike Raglan.” He hesitated, then asked, “Have you ever heard the name Eden Foster?”
Tazzoc shook his head. “It is a name of you. Of one of your people?”
“Not exactly. The name is ours. The woman, I think, is one of yours, but she lives among us.”
“Among you? I did not know there were such.”
Raglan described her, but Tazzoc shook his head. “I know no one like that.”
“What of Poison Women?”
Tazzoc smiled. “It is a fable, a legend. Yet, in the long ago it was said there were such. If any exist today, only The Hand would know.”
“Could you enter the place where The Hand lives?”
“I? You jest. It is unthinkable. Only the Varanel may go there, and those who do not return. Oh, there are some who come and go. They are the servants of The Hand or the Lords of Shibalba.”
“Then it is possible?”
Tazzoc shook his head. “It is not. It is a Forbidden Place. This much I know. He who goes in goes directly to his place, and to no other. Even if you got in, you would be discovered at once.”
Raglan waited a slow minute, and then said, “In your Archives? Is there not a map, a drawing of your Forbidden City?”
Tazzoc did not answer.
XX
The canyon, when he reached it, appeared to be about two miles long, perhaps a bit longer. The east side was rugged and steep; on the west the wall slanted steeply, broken in places by cracks down which a man might make his way. Otherwise the rocks looked slippery and difficult. With much experience at climbing, Mike Raglan knew such areas were more difficult than they appeared.
In the bottom of the canyon there was a small forest of trees, none of which looked old. Here and there was a gleam of water, and he glimpsed what seemed to be Navajo sweathouses.
There were a few patches of open ground covered with what appeared to be bunch grass or other desert growth. He squatted on his heels and looked along the canyon, his eyes searching. He did not know what he was looking for, or how to find what he sought.
He doubted it would be anything as obvious as the kiva, for the openings were transient, indefinite. For some reason at this point there was an anomaly, perhaps a break in the fabric of time and space. He knew little of such things and had no evidence that they could be, except for the occasional stories of mysterious disappearances.
Was there such a place as Shibalba? Or was it—and Kawasi and Tazzoc as well—part of an elaborate hoax?
He found a way among the rocks and handed himself down with care. It was part sliding, part climbing, and he descended with the awareness that getting in would be far easier than getting out. At one place he slid all of sixty feet down a steep rock face. When at last his feet reached the sandy floor of the canyon, his heart was beating heavily and he glanced around quickly.
Nothing. Just trees, sparse grass, and what might once have been a path, or more likely a game trail of some kind, although he saw no tracks of deer.
It was very still. Listening, he heard nothing, not even the stirring of cottonwood leaves. He walked in among the trees where it was shaded and cool, alert for any sound of movement. His hand moved to touch his pistol; then he walked on, aware again that he saw no tracks of any kind.
He considered what to do. Supposedly this was one of the places where occasional openings occurred, and if he found such an opening he must somehow mark it within and without so he could find it again. Yet if it was only an occasional opening it might never open again. He felt cold and he shivered.
What the devil was he getting into, anyway? He was a fool. He should climb out of this canyon, get into his car, and drive back to Tamarron and then fly home. To hell with it! Erik had gotten himself into this—let him get himself out as well.
He paused and looked carefully around. It was quiet, too damned quiet! Yet everything looked normal. If only there were some tracks! He couldn’t see a chipmunk or even a lizard.
Then, looking through the trees, he saw the stone walls and opening of what was apparently one of the Anasazi shelters for storing corn. It was high up in the rocks and he had no intention of climbing up there, but it served to indicate that men had once lived here at least. He walked on, then paused, seeing the ashes of an old campfire. Not much in the way of ashes. Whoever built the fire had not kept it burning long, judging by what remained. No longer than a man might need to boil water for coffee. Or to send up a signal.