Coyote Horizon (37 page)

“This is difficult for you, I know,” the
chaaz’maha
went on. “A lot to take in all at once. But you have to trust me when I tell you that I’m not crazy, that what I’ve said is the truth, and that my companions and I mean you no harm. I am a teacher, and I have come here to teach. No more, no less.”

The proctor didn’t respond. Looking away from the
chaaz’maha
, he seemed to notice for the first time that the room had gone quiet. Even Bess, who’d just then returned to the table with a pint of ale in hand, stopped what she was doing to listen to what the stranger had to say. Shifting his gaze toward her, the
chaaz’maha
opened his mind to hers.

“All right,” Wolff said at last, “I believe you . . . or at least the part about not wanting to do any harm.” He didn’t notice that Bess’s hand trembled as she placed the ale on the table before him, or that she lingered for a second longer than necessary, bending over to let the
chaaz’maha
have a good look at her breasts. “Just so you know that I’ve got a low tolerance for troublemakers, and our jail is a lot less comfortable than the upstairs rooms.”

The
chaaz’maha
paid no attention to Bess or her clumsy attempt to interest him sexually. “You’ll have no trouble from us, Rhea. We appreciate your desire to maintain the peace.” He paused, then added, “Perhaps you’d like to read the
Sa’Tong-tas
yourself. It may give you a better idea of who we are.”

Wolff hesitated.—
Great just what I need another missionary oh what the hell take it be polite can’t do any harm maybe worth a laugh right?
“Sure. I’d like to see it.”

The
chaaz’maha
pulled out a pad, and the proctor did the same; it took only a few seconds to download the
Sa’Tong-tas
into Wolff’s comp. The version that the
chaaz’maha
gave him wasn’t identical to the one he’d received from Taf; pads didn’t have sufficient power or memory to emulate the
hjadd
AI within the original
Sa’Tong-tas
, and he’d learned that it was incompatible with the operating systems of human-made comps. So he and Walking Star had spent most of the previous year transcribing the
Sa’Tong
, including the Codicils and the various Poems of Wisdom and Peace, into Anglo text that could be read easily by their fellow humans, with the pad itself translating it into other languages.

“If you like what you read,” he said once they’d disconnected the pads, “feel free to pass it along to others.”

“I’ll do that.”—
Like hell
. Wolff folded his pad and tucked it in his pocket. “So . . . how long do you think you’ll be staying?”—
Not long I hope you guys are really strange.

“Perhaps just a few days. As I said, you’ll have no trouble from us.” The
chaaz’maha
glanced at his companions; without a word, the three of them stood up as one, pushing back their chairs to leave the table. “Pleasure to meet you, Rhea. I hope we’ll have a chance to talk again soon.”

He blocked his mind from the proctor’s thoughts, not wanting to hear more, but as he turned away from Wolff, he found Bess still hovering nearby. She hastily glanced away, but it wasn’t hard to miss the blush that appeared on her face. The
chaaz’maha
didn’t hesitate; stepping closer to her, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a colonial.

“This is for you,” he said, offering the coin to her. “Thank you for your hospitality. I assume the cost of our meal will be added to our bill, yes?”

“Yeah . . . yes, of course.” Flustered, Bess accepted the tip. “You . . . you can pay up in the . . . the morning.”

“Thank you.” He smiled, then moved a little closer. “Hate is not a substitute for love,” he whispered, his voice so soft that only she could hear it. “If you can’t love the one you’re with, then don’t hate him instead. Just find another who’ll be willing to accept your gift.”

Her eyes widened.—
God oh god oh god how does he know like he’s looked into my soul and I dunno I need to talk to him I really need to talk to him . . .

“I’ll be around,” he added. “Come see me anytime you want.”

And then he walked away, with Melissa and Walking Star falling in behind him. No one stood in their way as they strolled through the crowded tavern, but nonetheless a tide of confused and conflicting thoughts swept them from the room. Smiling to himself, the
chaaz’maha
reached up to raise his hood. If he’d sought to make an impression, then . . .

—I know him I know him I’ve heard that voice before back in Liberty the
Sa’Tong-tas
he told me about it
I know him
!

From somewhere in the crowd, one thought came through as clearly as if it had been a shout from across the room. The
chaaz’maha
stopped, and for a second he had an impulse to turn and look back. He restrained himself, though, and instead continued to walk toward the door.

He recognized the individual to whom those thoughts belonged. But it would have to be up to him if they’d ever meet again.

 

 

 

The following morning, the
chaaz’maha
and his small entourage began making themselves visible in the community. They didn’t linger in their rooms all day, but instead left the Laughing Sailor shortly after breakfast and set out to walk around town. Although they wore their robes, no longer did they keep their hoods raised; Walking Star advised the
chaaz’maha
that continuing to hide their faces would only cause suspicion, and that was the last thing they wanted to do. So everyone they encountered saw the
hjadd
symbol tattooed on the
chaaz’maha’s
forehead, and that added to his mystique.

They made their way to the row of shops near the waterfront, where they found a grocery that sold homemade chocolate ice cream. Overjoyed, Melissa bought a couple of pints, even though the
chaaz’maha
laughingly reminded her that she probably wouldn’t be able to eat one before the other melted. She responded by buying three spoons as well; the three of them sat on a bench overlooking the wharf, with the
chaaz’maha
and Walking Star sharing one carton while Melissa gorged herself on the other.

Once they were done, they continued their stroll, stopping now and then to see what few sights Carlos’s Pizza had to offer: the processing plant, the school, the meetinghouse and the town hall next door, the various boat builders and nautical supply shops that catered to the local fishermen. They could have been no more than tourists who’d found an unlikely spot for a vacation, except that the locals were even more curious about them than they were about the village. Wherever they went, people stopped what they were doing to stare at them . . . or, more precisely, at the
chaaz’maha
. Carlos’s Pizza was a small town, after all, and news traveled fast; rumors had circulated about the stranger staying at the Laughing Sailor who claimed to be a
hjadd
holy man, and even if the description wasn’t wholly accurate, it was enough to rouse interest.

The
chaaz’maha
wasn’t surprised. In fact, he was pleased. He wanted the townspeople to see him, meet him, talk to him. Even though he rarely had any direct questions—most of the time, he received innocuous queries like
where are you from?
and
how did you get here?
and
how long will you be staying?
—he found them in their minds nonetheless.
Who are you? Why are you here? Are you really what you say you are?

Having made that initial sojourn, the three of them returned to the inn. Melissa was tired, so after lunch—once again, she ate heartily, feeding both herself and the baby inside her—she went upstairs to take a nap, while the
chaaz’maha
and his tall, silent companion went out on the front porch, where they took seats in the bamboo rocking chairs overlooking the street. And there they waited to see who would come to see them.

They didn’t have long to wait. Not surprisingly, their first visitor was Bess. She’d apparently decided not to put on the low-cut dress that McKay insisted that she wear for the titillation of his customers, but instead a more demure outfit that she saved for special occasions. As Walking Star sat quietly nearby, she and the
chaaz’maha
spoke for a little more than an hour, keeping their voices low so that her boss couldn’t overhear them from inside. When they were done, the
chaaz’maha
downloaded a copy of the
Sa’Tong-tas
into the battered pad Bess had brought with her, then she left, going home to rest awhile before returning for work. Only the
chaaz’maha
knew that it would be her last night at the Laughing Sailor; she was already planning to tell McKay that he’d have to find another serving wench, and then burn that damn dress.

A little while later, someone else arrived, a tough-looking sailor who served as second mate on a fishing schooner. Upon searching him, the
chaaz’maha
recognized this person as the same individual who’d been idly contemplating lashing his captain to an anchor and throwing him overboard. The sailor was just as aggressive that afternoon as he’d been the previous evening; there was a lot of pent-up hostility deep inside, and he’d come to the inn with the half-formed notion of finding the weirdo who claimed to be a holy guy and picking a fight with him. As he stomped up the front steps, Walking Star rose from his chair to stand beside the
chaaz’maha
, his arms folded across his chest; that intimidated the sailor just enough to give the
chaaz’maha
a chance to start talking. Their conversation was a little longer than the one he’d had with Bess, but in the end, the sailor had come to see, albeit reluctantly, that violence wasn’t only futile but in fact was ultimately self-destructive, and if he really wanted to show his captain that he knew what he was doing, he’d concentrate more on doing his job and less on thinking about ways to murder him. The sailor didn’t own a pad, but he said that he’d come back later once he borrowed one from a friend; humbled, he shook the
chaaz’maha’s
hand, then ambled away, feeling oddly at peace with himself.

Yuri reappeared. He’d spent the evening thinking about the things the
chaaz’maha
had told him during the long ride from New Boston, and he wanted to know more. They spoke for a little while, then the
chaaz’maha
copied the
Sa’Tong-tas
into the pad the drover had brought with him. Yuri left again, but not before telling the
chaaz’maha
that he thought he’d like to see his wife again, and perhaps the time had come for him to buy her passage to Coyote from Russia.

And so it went, not only for the rest of that day, but also the next day, and the day after that. One by one at first, and then in twos and threes, the people of Carlos’s Pizza came to see the man with the odd tattoo on his forehead. Sometimes they were curious, other times they were skeptical, but more often than not they were desperate, scared, depressed, or angry at the way life had treated them. The only common factor was that they had questions for which they had no answers and were willing to listen to what the stranger had to say.

The
chaaz’maha
delivered no sermons, nor did he treat the inn’s front porch as if it were a church. When he spoke, it was with only one person at a time, and often he spent more time listening to others than talking. Searching their minds, he was able to determine what troubled them even if they didn’t articulate the problem themselves, and responded in kind. Sometimes Walking Star or Melissa joined him on the porch, but after a while he grew confident enough to be able to sit out there on his own, meeting with whoever happened to show up. He refused offers of money, politely saying that he didn’t need any, although he was always grateful when someone was thoughtful enough to bring him some water or perhaps a snack.

He never claimed to know the mind of God, except to occasionally say that the only holy spirit was that which all beings carried within themselves. And that may have been what finally persuaded Grey Rice to pay him a visit.

Indeed, Rice had never been far from the
chaaz’maha
. From his very first day in Carlos’s Pizza, the young Dominionist minister—or rather, former minister—had lurked nearby, often following him down the street or quietly standing at a corner of the porch, maintaining a discreet distance while staying just close enough that he could hear what the
chaaz’maha
had to say. Walking Star was wary of his presence, and Melissa didn’t recognize him until the
chaaz’maha
reminded her of who he was; when Cassidy searched Rice, he didn’t find any hostile thoughts, only a sense of curiosity. So the
chaaz’maha
continued to ignore him, giving Rice a chance to come to him if and when he felt like it.

It was late afternoon of their fourth day in Carlos’s Pizza when Rice finally decided to approach the
chaaz’maha
. By then, it was almost dinnertime; the
chaaz’maha
had been talking to townspeople all day, and his throat was raw and his stomach was beginning to rumble. Melissa was taking a nap, and Walking Star was off on an errand. The
chaaz’maha
was about to get up from his chair when he heard footsteps on the porch, and when he looked around, he saw Rice strolling toward him.

“Hello, Reverend Rice,” he said. “I was hoping you’d eventually come to see me.”

That stopped Rice dead in his tracks. “So you remember me.”

“Of course, I do,” the
chaaz’maha
replied, although he didn’t say how. In the year and a quarter since they’d last spoken to each other, Grey Rice’s appearance had changed. No longer wearing the black vestments of a Dominionist minister, he’d also lost weight; his long hair had become shaggy, and an unkempt beard covered his lean face. But the most noticeable difference was his eyes; once confident and open, they were now shrouded and hollow, filled only by a deep sense of loss. The
chaaz’maha
didn’t need to search him to know that Rice was in pain.