Coyote Horizon (36 page)

“But surely not everything?” The
chaaz’maha
raised an eyebrow. “The Order, for instance. Or my name . . .”

“No doubt people have heard about the Order. Everyone who built The Sanctuary has gone home, and they’ve probably told their families and friends about where they were and what they were doing. That couldn’t be helped.” Walking Star absently ran a fingertip across the top of a bureau, scowled at the dust it collected. “As for you . . . well, that may or may not happen. Your appearance has changed a bit, and you’re no longer using the name your mother gave you . . .”

“Hawk is too aggressive for what I mean to do. You said that yourself.”

“Not to mention the fact that you’re wanted by the law. But if you’re successful, someone will eventually recognize you. That, too, is inevitable. However, your actions will determine just how long it’ll be before your identity . . . your former identity, that is . . . becomes known.”

Hawk Thompson was quiet for a few moments as he contemplated what his own teacher had said. “If I’m to be the
chaaz’maha
,” he said at last, “I can’t keep a low profile. Perhaps a good teacher doesn’t baffle his students, but neither does he hide in a corner of his classroom and wait for them to come to him. Sooner or later, he has to stand and deliver . . .”

“And let ’em throw spitballs at him,” Melissa added.

The two men stared at her for a second, then they broke down laughing, with Walking Star clutching the side of the bureau for support and the
chaaz’maha
doubled over in his chair. Melissa started to laugh at her own remark, then she abruptly gasped. “Aggh . . . I think the baby just kicked at that one!”

“Are you okay?” The
chaaz’maha
was on his feet in an instant, rushing to kneel by her side. “Was he too rough?”

“Not really . . . and I’m telling you, he’s a she. A mother knows.” Melissa took deep breaths, finally relaxed. “I’ll be fine, just as long as I get something to eat soon.” She grinned at the
chaaz’maha
. “I know we’ll get plenty of fish here . . . but what I want with it is some chocolate ice cream.”

Holding her hand, the
chaaz’maha
looked up at Walking Star. Neither of them said anything, but they didn’t have to search each other’s mind to know what the other person was thinking. By the LeMarean calendar, Melissa was due in less than a month; where the three of them would be by then, they didn’t know, but it would have to be some place where there was a doctor, or at least a competent midwife. Not only that, but none of them had any idea what effect her initiation into the Order would have upon her pregnancy, which had occurred at nearly the same time she’d insisted upon crawling into the sweat lodge where the captive ball plant lay.

“Chocolate ice cream.” The
chaaz’maha
regarded Melissa with loving eyes. “I’m sure someone here knows how to make it.”

Melissa smiled and nodded, but Cassidy remained silent as he returned to the window. No sign of the innkeeper. He was probably talking to the law.

“We’ll find out,” he murmured. “Sooner or later.”

 

 

 

As Walking Star expected, it wasn’t long before they were paid a visit by the chief proctor.

Around twilight, the three of them went downstairs to the tavern, which opened for business as shadows began to lengthen upon the street outside. It was a large, wood-paneled room with beer-stained tables and a fireplace near the bar; like the guest rooms, it was comfortable, but hardly luxurious. A voluptuous woman who’d been stuffed into a low-cut dress had just finished opening the windows; she eyed them with suspicion as they came in, but nonetheless offered them a table near a window before going to the bar to fetch a pitcher of water and some crudely printed menus. The
chaaz’maha
searched her, and was satisfied to find that McKay had instructed her to give them the regular menu. He learned that her name was Bess, and it was rather sad to also discover that she’d gotten her job by sleeping with the innkeeper, whom she’d once loved but had since come secretly to despise.

The tavern fare was plain—sandwiches, soup, and stew, most of it made from one sort of fish or another—but they were too hungry to complain even had they been of a mind to do so. No chocolate ice cream, though; Melissa’s craving for it would have to go unsatisfied. Bess’s attitude softened a bit when she heard the request; she understood pregnancy, having once been knocked up in her younger days—the child, alas, had been lost in a miscarriage—and so she promised to bring Melissa a slice of rhubarb pie from the kitchen. Yet she was puzzled, even faintly annoyed, that none of her customers ordered ale; one of the few things she liked about her job was the Laughing Sailor’s home brew, which she imbibed herself at every opportunity.

So they sat in silence, speaking to one another only when necessary while sharing the small, tactile sensations that so many overlooked from moment to moment of ordinary human existence. Each was capable of blocking out the others, of course—one thing they’d learned from
Sa’Tong
was the sort of mental discipline they needed to keep from going mad—so Melissa was considerate enough not to send the occasional squirms and aches of the unborn child within her, just as Walking Star didn’t ruin everyone else’s appetite when Beth brought out their food by broadcasting his low opinion of the redfish stew he’d ordered.

They ate quietly, taking their time, while the tavern gradually filled with its regular customers. One or two at a time, they arrived, the people who came here every night after work: fishermen, shop owners, longshoremen, the people who worked in the processing plant, a school-teacher, a farmer, a mousy girl trying to find a guy who would buy her a drink. Hard-eyed men and women, for the most part, accustomed to living in a small town on the edge of civilization, vaguely dissatisfied with their existence yet not knowing what to do with it except eat, drink, screw, and get through another day without giving in to desperation.

The
chaaz’maha
knew how they felt. He’d once been just that way himself. Sitting with his back against the wall, hood raised above his head, he watched them with shrouded eyes. During the year he’d spent in The Sanctuary, he’d learned how to search thoughts of others without the irritating cerebral tickle that Walking Star’s less-adept students sometimes caused. So no one in the tavern became aware of what he was doing as he opened his mind to theirs, allowing their stream of consciousness to cascade upon his like cool summer rain:

The last came from the stout, thickset young man who’d just walked into the tavern. The
chaaz’maha
didn’t have to search him to know that he was the chief proctor; the blue shirt he wore, along with an air of quiet authority, was sufficient. The only surprise was that he was no older than the
chaaz’maha
himself; in his midtwenties, by Gregorian reckoning, he was almost too young for the job.

Pretending nonchalance, the proctor strolled over to their table. “Hi, folks. Understand you’re new in town. Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all. Please do.” Neither Walking Star nor Melissa said anything as the
chaaz’maha
beckoned him toward an empty chair.

“Thanks.” The proctor sat down, then turned toward Bess and raised a finger. The barmaid was lighting the oil lamps; she nodded, then headed for the bar. “Can I get you anything?” the proctor asked, glancing at the half-empty glasses around the table. “Or are you not drinking?”

“Only water, thank you,” the
chaaz’maha
replied.

—Not drinking in a bar weird but at least I won’t have to worry about them getting drunk will I?
“Just thought I’d ask.”—
Go ahead introduce yourself.
“I’m Rhea Wolff, the chief proctor. Mr. McKay told me that he had some new guests. We don’t get many visitors, so I thought I might drop by and . . . well, see if there’s anything I could do for you.”

“Thank you, Constable Wolff . . .”

“Rhea.” A smile flickered across his face. “We’re informal here in Carlos’s Pizza.”

“Of course.” The
chaaz’maha
gazed back at him. “No, there’s nothing you can do for us, but my friends and I appreciate the offer nonetheless.”

“Uh-huh.”—
Don’t say much do you pal?
“So . . . who are you, anyway?”

The
chaaz’maha
gestured to the others. “My companions are Melissa Sanchez and Joseph Walking Star Cassidy. I am the
chaaz’maha
.”

Wolff blinked.—
What did he say what the hell what kind of name is that?
“Chas . . . chas . . . I’m sorry, but I don’t . . .”

“Chaaz’maha.”
He repeated it slowly, drawing out the syllables. “It’s a
hjadd
word. Roughly translated, it means ‘spiritual teacher.’ Which is what I am . . . or rather, what I have become.”

—What kind of nut is this guy oh boy . . .
“Uh-huh, I see.” Wolff’s expression remained neutral, trying to hide thoughts that the
chaaz’maha
could read as easily as if the proctor had written them on a piece of paper. “And . . . um, so what was your name before you became a
hjadd
?”

The
chaaz’maha
smiled. “I’m afraid you’ve misinterpreted what I just said. As you can clearly see, I’m not a
hjadd
, nor do I believe I am. See?” He reached up to lower the hood of his robe, revealing his face for the first time since he’d walked into the tavern. “I’m human, just as much as you are. As for my previous name . . .” He shrugged. “No longer important. I don’t use it anymore. I am the
chaaz’maha
. That’s all that matters.”

Before Wolff could give voice to his next question, the
chaaz’maha
tapped a finger against the tattoo on his brow. “This is the
hjadd
symbol for
chaaz’maha
. It’s customary for teachers of
Sa’Tong
to wear it so that anyone who mets them will know who they are.”

—How did he know I was going to ask that this guy is really giving me the creeps . . .
“Uh-huh, I see.” The chief proctor peered more closely at the tattoo. “Nice, very nice indeed. You think I could get one just like it?”

The
chaaz’maha
shook his head. “I’m sorry, no. Not unless you become a disciple of
Sa’Tong
and learn to adhere to its codicils, and even then you couldn’t become a
chaaz’maha
. . .”

“It’s difficult to explain,” Walking Star said, speaking for the first time. “You’ll just have to trust him when he says that he is who he says he is.”

—Yeah right anything you say big guy.
“I see,” Wolff said slowly, patronizing him. “So . . . um . . . let me get this straight. You call yourself the
chaaz’maha
, and you . . .”

“I don’t
claim
to be a teacher of
Sa’Tong
.” The
chaaz’maha
shook his head again. “I
am
a teacher of
Sa’Tong
.”

—How the hell does he know what I’m about to say this is really weird man . . .
“Pardon. Didn’t mean to offend you.”

“No offense taken.” The
chaaz’maha
smiled. “And before you ask . . .
Sa’Tong
is a system of spiritual beliefs practiced by most of the intelligent races of the galaxy. The
hjadd
are but one race that has adopted it. Its book, the
Sa’Tong-tas
, was recently given to me by Jasahajahd Taf Sa-Fhadda, the cultural ambassador of the
hjadd
, with the intent of spreading its wisdom to humankind. I have undertaken the task of doing so . . . in other words, to become the
chaaz’maha
for the human race.” He paused. “Do you understand now, Rhea?”

As he spoke, the
chaaz’maha
became aware that conversation around them had died, as all the tavern’s patrons turned their attention toward him. A cacophony of thoughts flooded his awareness, some so distracting that they threatened to overwhelm him. He wasn’t prepared for that, so he moved his left hand beneath the table to surreptitiously rub his thumb against the nail of his index finger, something that Walking Star had taught him to do as a way of blocking out unwelcome distractions. One by one, the unspoken voices of everyone else in the tavern faded away, until the only thoughts he heard were those of Rhea Wolff.