Coyote Horizon (24 page)

They were interrupted by the door opening again. Swamper walked in, carrying a tin pot of coffee and a couple of ceramic mugs. He placed them on the table, then quietly turned and left once more. Walking Star picked up the pot and poured coffee into one of the mugs. “The truth of the matter,” he continued, “is that we’re more like a commune.” He paused to offer the mug to Hawk. “If you want to call us anything, you can use the name we’ve chosen for ourselves.”

“The Order of the Eye?” Hawk couldn’t help but smile. He’d been wondering about that. “Which one? The left or right?”

“The third, actually.” Walking Star didn’t seem to take offense; there was a wry grin as he poured coffee for himself. “The one that looks inside the mind itself, perceiving one’s own soul. Which is what we’ve endeavored to do here, and which is why we’ve decided to isolate ourselves as much as possible from everyone else.”

“I see.”

“If that’s a joke . . .” Walking Star started to smile, then he shook his head. “No, it isn’t, is it? But, no, you’re wrong. You
don’t
see . . . nor will you ever, unless you answer my question. You’ve told me how you and your friend came here, but I still haven’t learned the reason why.” He stopped. “If you’re trying to find God, or the meaning of life, or anything like that . . .”

“That’s not why I’m here.” Again, Hawk found himself hesitating. He covered his reticence by taking a sip of coffee; it was hot and strong, and somehow gave him the courage to go on. Putting the mug down on the table, he took a deep breath. “Until a couple of months ago, I was a customs inspector in New Brighton. Lonesome, depressed, and pretty much waiting to die. And then . . . well, something happened.”

 

 

 

Shortly before sunrise, Hawk returned to camp. Although he went across the field by himself, he no longer dreaded the ball plants as much as he had earlier. He’d spent the night in conversation with Walking Star, and he’d learned from him of their significance to the Order. There was nothing there that could harm him.

The camp was just beginning to wake up when he closed the gate behind him. The other men in his tent had already noticed that he hadn’t slept there that night; a couple of them asked where he’d been, but he ignored them as he began to gather his belongings, shoving everything into his bag. His money was where he’d concealed it, a rolled-up bundle of colonials in the bottom of an old sock; he wouldn’t need it, but neither was there any point in giving it away. After a few minutes, the others realized that Henry was up to something; one of them hurried out of the tent, and Hawk knew that he was probably on his way to the office shack.

It didn’t matter, though. His time with the construction crew had come to an end. Pulling his bag across his shoulder by its strap, Hawk sauntered over to the mess tent. As he expected, he found Melissa in the kitchen, stirring the vat of oatmeal that she was about to carry out to the chow line. Her eyes widened when she saw him enter, and she was even more surprised when he told her, openly and without any subterfuge, to drop what she was doing and pack her bag.

“We’re leaving?” Melissa’s voice was little more than a whisper; she glanced warily at the two other cooks, who stared at them in astonishment. “What . . . you mean, now?”

“Yes. Right now.” Hawk gently took the ladle from her hand, placed it on the counter next to the stove. “We’re done here. No reason to stay any longer.” He smiled at her. “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be fine. But it’s time for us to leave.”

“But . . .” Bewildered, she glanced at the vat. “What about breakfast? I was just about to . . .”

Her voice trailed off, and Hawk had to keep from grinning. He hadn’t appreciated just how important the job had become for her; over the course of the last month she’d found an occupation that didn’t require lying on her back. It might not be much, but at least it had given her a measure of self-respect that she didn’t have before.

“If you don’t want to go,” he said quietly, “you don’t have to. You can stay here, if you really want. But I’ve talked to Walking Star and he . . .” Realizing that the others were listening, he shook his head. “Look, I think he’s got the answer . . . or actually, a way for me to find the answer. So I’ve got to go.” He paused. “I’d like for you to come with me, but if you don’t . . . I mean, if you want to stay behind . . .”

“No. I’m with you.” Melissa turned toward the chief cook. “Sorry, Deb,” she said, reaching back to untie her apron, “you’re going to have to finish up without me. I quit.”

Melissa had even less to take with her than Hawk did. She was in and out of her tent in only a few minutes, carrying her bag under her arm. By then, a small crowd of workers had gathered nearby, watching the two of them as they prepared to depart. Melissa had just joined him again when Jerry appeared. Apparently the project supervisor had been caught taking a morning shower in the bathhouse, because his hair was wet and he was still buttoning up his shirt.

“Henry, what do you think you’re doing?” Despite his irritation, it was clear that Jerry was confused more than anything else. “Who said you could leave?”

Again, it took a lot of self-control to keep from laughing out loud. “Didn’t know I had to ask permission,” Hawk replied. “Sorry, boss, but I quit. Thanks for the job, but . . . well, I’ve got something else to do.”

The supervisor stared at him, speechless for a moment. Hawk realized that this was probably the first time anyone had walked off the project of their own accord. “Your contract . . .”

“Says I can terminate my employment anytime I wish, so long as I notify you.” Hawk shrugged. “Sorry for the short notice.”

“You know, of course, you’ll be forfeiting your bonus . . .”

“I can live with that,” Hawk said. Melissa remained quiet, but reluctantly nodded. “Like I said, thanks for the work, but it’s time for us to go.”

Hawk started to turn away, but Jerry still wasn’t satisfied. The supervisor planted himself in front of him and Melissa. “I don’t know where you think you’re going, but if you think I’m going to call in a gyro . . .”

“Don’t need a ride. Just our own two feet.” Hawk nodded toward the fence. “We’re headed that way. Got an invitation from the—”

“You spoke with them?” Jerry became angry. “I thought I told you . . .”

“Yes, you did. Right after we got here.” Hawk grinned. “Guess that means we’re fired. Same difference. Excuse me . . .”

He moved to walk past the supervisor. Jerry started to raise his hands to stop them. He seemed to realize that further argument was pointless, though, because he lowered his arms and reluctantly stepped aside.

“All right, go on,” he muttered. “Do what you want. But if this is some kind of joke . . .”

“Believe me,” Hawk said, “I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.” And then, with Melissa at his side, he continued toward the gate, and the destiny that awaited him.

 

 

 

Hawk sat on the front step of Walking Star’s cabin, idly watching as the members of the Order went about their afternoon chores. Once again, he was struck by how uncommonly quiet the place was. Although everyone was busy with one task or another—washing clothes, gathering and stacking firewood, planting vegetable gardens, making minor repairs to the cabins—they seldom spoke to one another, instead working in silent unison, as if they shared the same consciousness.

Which, indeed, they did. If what Cassidy had told him was true, then the Order had discovered a way to become telepathic. Hawk didn’t know which was more unsettling: the idea that someone could read another person’s mind, or the notion of someone deliberately allowing himself to be stung, again and again, by swarms of pseudowasps. But even that thought, in itself, was enough to convince him; a passing acolyte paused to glance sharply in his direction. Hawk stared back at him, and received a faint nod from within a raised hood. Yes, he’d been heard . . .

Unnerved, Hawk stood up from the steps. When he’d last seen Melissa, she was unpacking their belongings in the vacant shack that had been set aside as their temporary quarters; perhaps she might like some help. But he’d just begun to walk away when the door opened, and he looked back to see Cassidy step outside.

“Going somewhere?” There was a knowing smile on Walking Star’s face, as if he’d just shared a private joke with someone else. Perhaps he had. “Not having any second thoughts, are you?”

“Even if I was . . .”

“There’s not much you can do about it now. Jerry wouldn’t take you back even if you asked him.” A pause. “Not that you really intend to do so,” he added, “but it did cross your mind. About five minutes ago, in fact.”

Hawk felt his face grow warm. “Do you really have to do that? I mean, couldn’t you give me at least a little privacy?”

“Sorry. Can’t help it.” The smile faded, replaced by Cassidy’s usual stoicism. “None of us can. To us, it’s as if you’re some poor guy with Tourette’s syndrome, unable to control himself from saying out loud everything that comes into his head. That’s why I had you sit out here while I was studying this thing you brought me . . . even then, I could hear your thoughts.”

Hawk nodded. This was why the Order deliberately avoided the construction site. Too many people over there; too many stray thoughts. “How do you guys stay sane? If this happened to me . . .”

“You’d go crazy? We were about to, before we learned how to discipline ourselves.” Walking Star nodded toward the others. “You can’t tell from watching, but everyone here has their own method of blocking out the thoughts of those nearby. Little songs. Memorized poems. Focusing on the tactile sensations of every passing moment.” His expression darkened. “Some are better at it than others. Ash, for instance . . . you haven’t met him yet, but he’s one of our strongest mind readers. Probably a latent telepath even before he joined us. But since then, he’s become a drunk, able to get along only by putting away a jug of bearshine every day. We’ve had to build a still just for him.”

“I couldn’t imagine . . .”

“Doing this yourself?” Seeing the annoyed look on his face, Cassidy shook his head. “Just guessing. Believe it or not, I wasn’t reading your mind just then. I was doing this instead.” He raised his left hand from within the folds of his robe, and Hawk saw that the tips of his thumb and forefinger were constantly rubbing against each other, making soft snaps. “Doesn’t take much concentration, but it lets me think about other things.”

“Like
Sa’Tong
.”

“Uh-huh. Like
Sa’Tong
.” Cassidy let out his breath, then turned to step back into the cabin. “Come on in. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

The
Sa’Tong-tas
was where Hawk had left it, resting on the tree-stump table next to Walking Star’s chair, its case beside it. The small orb that topped the gold frame was dark, but he had little doubt that, only a few minutes ago, it had glowed brightly, its voice extolling its wisdom. For the last couple of hours, he’d left Walking Star alone with it: a calculated risk, leaving the precious artifact with someone whom he’d just met, but he intuitively knew that the
Sa’Tong-tas
was something that had to be experienced rather than explained.

“You’re right. This really is . . . something new.” Walking Star moved about the cabin, opening curtains that he’d drawn shut against the afternoon sun. “And while it’s not unlike the sort of thing we’ve been exploring ourselves, it’s very different than conventional religion . . . conventional human religion, that is.”

“What do you mean, ‘the sort of thing we’ve been exploring ourselves’?”

“The Five Codicils.” Walking Star motioned to the other chair, then sat down himself. “One of the things that happens when you become telepathic is an acute awareness of other people’s emotions. Every day, each and every one of us has these little moments . . . unintentional insults, casual snubs, envy, lust, hatred, even brief thoughts of homicide . . . that we carefully hide from each other. So long as your mind is your own, you’re able to do that . . . unless you’re a ’path, in which case nothing is hidden. And if everyone around you is a ’path, too, then there are no secrets, unless you constantly recite ‘Annabelle Lee’ in the back of your mind at all times.”

He gazed at the
Sa’Tong-tas
. “So the Second and Third Codicils . . . ‘do no harm to others, or to yourself’ and ‘the only sin is any action that leads to others being hurt, or harm to one’s own self’ . . . are much like our own code of conduct. It’s how we’ve been able to survive as a community, and more than once we’ve wondered how much better off the rest of the human race would be if they adhered to the same general principles.”

“I’ve had the same thought myself.”

“Have you?” Walking Star raised an eyebrow. “I wonder if the
hjadd
who gave this to you had that very idea in mind. After all,
Sa’Tong
is the spiritual practice . . . ‘religion’ really isn’t an appropriate term for it, is it? . . . to which the rest of the galaxy adheres. So this gift may have been hisher way of introducing
Sa’Tong
to humankind. Find one person, give them a
Sa’Tong-tas
, then stand back and let nature take its course.” He paused. “Did you get to the part where it talks about
chaaz’maha
s?”

“
Chaaz’maha
s?” Hawk shook his head. “Sorry, no. Haven’t gotten much further from where I left off after my session. Since we left New Brighton, there hasn’t been a chance for me to continue my studies. When we were in Liberty and New Boston . . .”

“You didn’t want to pull this out, for fear of being exposed. I understand.” Catching the irate look on Hawk’s face, Walking Star shook his head. “Apologies. Couldn’t help myself. At any rate, a
chaaz’maha
is a spiritual teacher . . . much like the Great Teacher himself, the
chaaz’braan
. . . who takes it upon himself to spread the word of
Sa’Tong
to the members of his race. Historically, this is how
Sa’Tong
has been propagated. One person, tasked with the job of enlightening others of his own kind.”