A lone buzzard swung against the sky in solitary awareness that it had only to wait. All things came to it in the end. Would there be buzzards over there? Or eagles? Were there gateways in the sky through which they could pass? Uneasily, he watched the buzzard, then shifted his eyes to the red rock land around him and searched it with care, knowing there could be eyes where none seemed to be.
He looked around, feeling himself observed, but saw nothing. He walked across the mesa and down the steep slope on the side away from the river, going back the way he had come and, after some time, finding his way down the steep cliffs to the bottom of the Hole.
The first thing he saw were mountain-lion tracks. A big lion, and one there not long before. The place seemed empty, and it was quiet. Leaves whispered their secrets into the stillness, then held still, listening for replies that never came. He walked along, his footsteps the only sound, slight as it was.
Indian painting on the walls. In places the desert varnish had slipped away, and what stories might have been written there, lost. He found his way along a narrow, ancient path. Surely, in such a place where there was shade and water, there must have been Indians. But the trees were not old, perhaps no more than forty years in place, and what had it been like before? Had there been other trees? Burned perhaps, or their timbers used by Indians in building or for fuel? There were sand heaps. What lay beneath them?
Navajo sweathouses, only the cedar posts left, leaning together. And those other huts, built by someone other than Navajos, he believed. By Paiutes? He did not know, but the shape was different. They were not hogans.
Here was where he had seen the Varanel, but how had they come to be here? Pursuing someone? Or something? He stopped, his back against a sandstone wall, to look carefully around. Somewhere here there was an opening into that other world.
Tracks! The Varanel must have left tracks.
His back to the red rock wall, he studied the canyon before and around him, searching the rocks for some variation, some anomaly, some indication. He found nothing. He touched the butt of his gun for reassurance and it felt good under his hand. Again his eyes searched the terrain, and then he left the wall and went down into the trees. Over there, where he had first seen the Varanel, there was a vagueness, a shimmering. He could feel his heart beating heavily.
He moved forward through the trees; then, stopping against the trunk of one tree, he looked carefully around. Someone was here. His every instinct told him something was here.
He moved across the open space to another tree, merging his body with the tree trunk. Again, warily, he looked around. If somebody watched him now, where could they be? Keeping his eyes straight ahead, using his peripheral vision, he waited for movement.
Where? And who? Or should it be what? There were strange creatures on this side, but what might lie over there? What kind of appalling monsters might there be?
Suppose they were invisible? There were sounds beyond the reach of the human ear. Dogs could hear them, insects possibly. What if there were colors beyond the range of the human eye? Colors no human could see? Suppose some such thing approached him now?
If men could pass through from one side to the other, what about animals? Chief had done it, going both ways. But what of their animals? Might they not have wild animals of some kind unsuspected?
Moving as a shadow moves, or as the wind, he went to another tree and still another. There he crouched, waiting and watching, alert for any breath of sound. From where he now waited he could look across the open space where he had seen the Varanel.
Empty. Nothing.
He touched his tongue to dry lips, not liking the thought of moving away from the shelter of the trees. He would be exposed, vulnerable. The worst of it was, he did not know what to look for, or exactly what he would do when he found it.
He shivered, although the day was not cold. He should get out of here, back to the camp in the ruin, back to something like security, back where he knew where he was and what must be done. Yet he had found nothing. The day would be lost, and there was so little time.
What was Erik doing? Was he tied hand and foot? Was he imprisoned in a cell? Dying in one of those tombs? Or had he somehow won a reprieve? Convinced them he had more to offer by living?
He moved along the border of trees, looking across to where the Varanel had gone. He could see nothing but a sweep of sand, some desert growth, and, beyond, a low ridge of sandstone. Where had they come from? Where had they gone?
He watched; then his eyes went to the lone buzzard in the skies overhead. Suddenly, with a chill he wondered: What if that was not a real buzzard? Or was a trained bird? Trained to observe him?
That was nonsense. He was thinking foolish thoughts. He moved on to another tree, almost on the edge of the sweep of sand, and there he waited again, listening. Did he hear a sound? A sound of singing? Of chanting? Somewhere a long way off? He glanced around again.
He would withdraw. It was growing late, and he must return to the ruin before he broke a leg scrambling over rocks in the darkness. He heard the chanting again, many voices singing a monotonous song of few words. It was not his imagination, but where did it come from?
They must be close, very close, for he sensed they were singing in low tones. Uneasily, he pressed closer to the bark of the tree, trying to locate the source of the sound. It seemed to come from somewhere out there before him.
If he was attacked, and he killed one of them on this side of the curtain, how would he explain the body? Who would believe such a fantastic story? He had no evidence to present but the daybook, which could be considered a piece of pure fiction. After all, he was a writer with books to sell and it might be considered an elaborate publicity scheme. So to get help from the proper authorities was out of the question.
Nobody would accept the story for reality. Mike Raglan knew he must accept the fact that he lived in a world concerned with the deficit, with the arms race, with coming elections. People were thinking about paying rent, keeping up payments on a house or car, and planning for a vacation where at least some of them would come to Mesa Verde and wonder at its builders who lived so long ago. They would wander through the ruins while a park ranger explained them, and when they returned home to Vermont, Iowa, or wherever, they would repeat what they had heard and show the pictures they had taken.
What if he were kilted out here, now? His body might not be found for years, for who came to this lonely, forgotten place? Standing among the trees, looking up the sunlit canyon, Mike Raglan knew he was alone.
Alone as he had never been, alone with a reality no one could share, facing a situation for which he had no answer and where he could expect no help. Whatever was done he must do himself.
What of Volkmeer? Well, what of him? Where did his loyalties lie? With a man who had helped him once, long ago? Or with a people who had given him wealth such as he had never expected to own, and which might, by some means, be withdrawn?
All he had expected of Volkmeer was somebody to cover his retreat, if pursued. Somebody to help him at that last minute when he might be at the end of his strength. He could forget that. He was on his own. Yet, when had it not been so? He had never had any help from anybody. What he had done had been done by him and him alone.
Something moved in the trees behind him. He dropped his hand to his gun and turned sharply around.
XXX
It was Kawasi.
She stood alone under the trees, watching him. His eyes swept the trees and brush about her, finding nothing of which to be doubtful.
“I have missed you.” It was not what he intended to say, nor what he wanted to say or should have said, but it was the simple truth. He had missed her.
“I cannot be long away. They wait for my words.”
She made a quick, inclusive gesture. “This place where we are? This is sacred place. This is special place for my people. Some say it was from here we first went into your world, but I do not know if this be true.”