Merkabah Rider: Have Glyphs Will Travel (24 page)

“
Cuántos
hombres
?” Mendez called from outside.

“
Dos
hombres
,” the boy in the wagon answered in high voice, and continued to
search. “
Un moreno, y un gringo
.” He
pulled out drawers and turned them upside down, swept his hand along shelves,
sending bottles and philters crashing to the throw rug. He glanced at the wall
of scrolls with disinterest.

“
No
veo nada, Corporal
,” said the boy. His eyes fell on the curtain along the
back. “
Espara un minuto.
”

“
¿Qué
ves?
Mendez asked.

The Rider tensed as the boy put his
hand on the curtain. If he unveiled Piishi, the Apache would be forced to kill
him. In the middle of all these
rurales
,
none of them would make it out alive.

Pimpollo seemed to sense the Rider’s
apprehension, and he pointed his pistol at him as he drew back the curtain.

There was no one there.

“Pimpollo!” Mendez called. “
¿Qué ves?”

“
Tal
vez nada,
” the boy said, starting to turn away. Then he saw the little door
of the psychomanteum.
“Tal vez algo…”

The Rider and Kabede looked at each
other. There was no other place Piishi could be.

As soon as the boy stooped and put
his hand on the door handle, The Rider’s hand moved slowly toward the butt of
his pistol, and Kabede touched the curved dagger on his belt.

From the doorway they both heard a
deadly click, and saw that another of Mendez’s
rurales
was in the doorway, a Remington revolver cocked and aimed
at them. This wasn’t one of the drunken Mexicans Faustus had dispersed with
miracle water, wooden dolls, and scapulars. This one was sober as a parson and
carried a hint of eagerness in his dark eyes. He wanted them to do something.
He looked a little disappointed, that the sound of his pistol had warned them
of his presence.

There was nothing they could do. The
Rider’s only hope was that the ensuing confusion Piishi’s surprise attack
caused would give them an eighth of a second to draw and kill the one in the
door. They weren’t expecting a Chiricahua Apache in a medicine wagon. That was
the only advantage they could claim.

The door swung open, and the boy
paused, staring inside. Then he closed it again. He straightened, his entire
composure slackened. He looked bored.

“No
es una mierda aquí, jefe,”
the boy announced.

The Mexican in the doorway nodded
and stuffed his pistol back in his
buscadero
holster. He turned and left without a word. In a minute the boy was outside
too, the whole vardo rising, springs squeaking as they departed.

The Rider and Kabede looked at each
other again.

Where the hell was Piishi?

They went outside.

“Just a necessary precaution,
señor
,” Mendez was saying to Faustus as
they stepped off the front porch.

Mendez’s eyes lit on them, stayed on
Kabede, but he didn’t address them.

“My assistants,” Faustus explained. “Mister
Rider, my brewer, and Mister Kabede.”

“Here I thought you said that stuff
you gave my men was brewed in Tibet,” Mendez remarked. He looked at the Rider. “You
don’t look like no Tibetan. I hope for your sake there’s no rattlesnake heads
or strychnine in those bottles.”

“Just liquor and caramel,” the Rider
said.

Mendez nodded and turned his
attention to Kabede.

“What does he do?”

“He takes care of the camels,”
Faustus said.

“Doesn’t he speak English?”

“Only Arabee.”

Kabede blinked as if he were only
vaguely aware he was being discussed.

Mendez folded his arms, his
expression dulling. He was tired of them now, and wanted to get back to
whatever he had been about prior to their arrival.

“Well then. Just where are you all
going?”

“We’re on a grand tour of your
country, Corporal Mendez,” Faustus said, gripping his own lapels and drawing
himself up impressively. “We intend to distribute our miraculous wares all the
way down to Mexico City.”

“You might want to wait here a few
days,” he said, dismissing his men with a wave of his hand. “The goddamned
Apaches are in the mountains.”

“Apaches?” Faustus repeated. “Are we
in danger?”

“You were in danger on the road,” he
said, yawning and flicking the butt of his cigarette off into the night. “You’ll
be safe enough here. You can camp in the plaza or find an inn, whichever.”

He turned and went off into the
dark, big silver
chihuahua
spurs
clinking on his boot heels.

“Till the
rurales
decide to get their money back,” Belden muttered. “We
shouldn’t stay here.”

“We have no choice, Mister Belden,”
Faustus said. “But we shall keep watch from now on.”

“Where’s Piishi?” the Rider hissed,
gripping Faustus’ sleeve.

“What do you mean?” Belden asked.

Faustus shushed them and gestured
for them to follow him into the vardo.

Once inside, he closed the door, got
down on his knees, and rolled away the Turkish rug on the floor.

There was a trapdoor underneath, and
he pulled it open, revealing the dirt beneath.

“Piishi is already on his way to
Pa-Gotzin-Kay. He left us on the road.”

“What? On foot?” Belden exclaimed.

“He can cover more ground on foot
than you can on horseback.”

“What if he just lit out? What if he
got caught on the road?”

“No chance,” said Faustus,
straightening and going to a trunk. He threw it open, knelt for a moment, and
came up with a shoulder holster rig and a nickel plated Navy pistol. He took
off his coat and slipped the rig on.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to
interfere?” Kabede observed.

“Yeah, I expect there’s no greater
way to interfere in a man’s life then killing him,” Belden said.

“I’m not killing anyone if I don’t
have to,” Faustus said, putting his coat back on and kicking shut the lid of
the trunk. “Just want to be sure no one interferes with us.”

The Rider broke out into an immediate
sweat, for he knew what was coming.

Faustus must have seen him blanch,
for he nodded.

“Yes, Rider. The time’s come. Are
you ready?”

“How will I find him?” the Rider
stammered.

Faustus went to one of the wall
hutches and frowned at the empty drawer. He stepped nimbly over the fallen
contents below, peered at them, and finally produced a small rawhide necklace
bearing a bead of dark glass on the end. He held it out to the Rider.

“Wear this. Piishi bears a matching
one. It will guide you directly to him. He’s expecting you.”

The Rider took the necklace and
slowly slid it over his head as Faustus went to the back of the wagon and
opened the psychomanteum door.

The Rider watched the opening as
Faustus turned and began sifting through the mess for something else. The
opening seemed like the mouth of a tomb to him. A tiny grave waiting to swallow
him whole. He put the necklace on and leaned against the wall.

Belden touched his arm.

“You alright?”

“You don’t have to do this,” Kabede
said.

“Yes he does!” snapped Faustus,
producing a candle and a box of matches. “There’s no other way. We can’t get
out of town with out drawing a tail of
rurales
and the Apaches would never let us into the mountains.”

The Rider nodded, swallowing, though
his mouth and throat were completely dry.

“He’s right.”

The Rider went to stand before the
psychomanteum, and Faustus pressed the candle and matchbox into his hands.

“Be strong,” Faustus urged. “We’ll
keep watch over your body.”

That was fine, but the Rider was
worried he wouldn’t even be able to summon the will to leave his body in that
confined space.

He hunkered down on his heels and
stared for an inordinately long time into the little space.

“Rider,” Faustus prompted after a
bit.

The Rider nodded, took off his hat,
and crawled inside. His head brushed the ceiling, shoulders too, and his
Volcanic clunked as he shifted, turned and sat cross legged facing the door.

He had to use both hands to set the
candle in the silver holder, and when he drew out the match, it shook violently
in his hand.

He was pouring sweat. Why was he
afraid? This was ridiculous. The little room wouldn’t run out of air, and his
friends were outside if something should happen.

He looked out through the silvery
dark frame of the aperture at the faces of Faustus, Kabede, and Belden.

“Concentrate,” Faustus said. “The
charm will take you to Piishi.”

The Rider nodded.

Without ceremony, Faustus swung the
door shut. It clanked loudly in the closeness as it closed, and the Rider’s
fingers were nearly caught in it as he uncontrollably lunged out to try and
stop it. He heard the click as Faustus turned the handle, shutting him in the
box.

It was a box. That was what he kept
thinking. His breathing came in spastic huffs, and he pressed his palms against
the walls on either side of him. They were cool. How could they be cool when it
was so hot in here?

He squinted at the shadows moving in
the darkness. He knew they were his reflection, but they sent a terror in him.
He remembered suddenly the sensation of Lilith’s little clawing children
swarming over him, biting, scratching. The fluttering of wings in his face, the
little bodies weighing him down with their collective weight, smothering him.

So that was where this fear had come
from! Realizing that didn’t lessen its effect any. His breath burned in his
chest. Even his own body seemed too constricting on his lungs, retreating from
the dark cool walls that brushed his elbows and knees, squeezing his pounding
heart. Had the walls of the box touched his joints before? Was the room getting
smaller? Was this some hideous magical trap he had unwittingly crawled into?

It was so dark and close; like a
pocket.

He put one hand to the ceiling and
one to the floor and pushed. They were coming together to crush him-he knew it!
Then he felt the match he’d dropped under his hand. He drew it into his
fingers. He needed light. He
had
to
have light.

He ran the matchpoint along the heel
of his boot. Nothing. Nothing because there wasn’t enough air left to feed even
a match flame.

No! He tried again. This time the
little match flared to life.

And the room opened into eternity.
The walls, the ceiling, the floor, they all retreated from him as though from
the light. From harrowing claustrophobia, he was flung suddenly into a dizzying
vertigo. He felt as if he would tumble forever, his panicked flailing
multiplied an infinite number of times by the reflections all around, and by
the innumerable reflections of reflections.

Then he slumped back against the
wall, and realized it was just an illusion.

But his fear was gone. That had been
an illusion too.

He set the wavering light against
the wick of the candle before him and the flickering warm light flooded the
psychomanteum.

He stared at himself as he never had
before, observed himself from angles he had never been able to. He saw the
crown of his own head, which he had seen many times before when emerging from
his body, but he also saw beneath his own bearded chin, up into his nostrils,
and behind his ears, with a clarity he had never experienced before. It was
surreal.

His breathing, his heartbeat slowed.
He was ready.

He murmured his prayers, focused on
the light of the millions of candles, and slipped out of his body, sinking
through the mercurial floor.

Finding himself outside and beneath
the vardo, he crawled out from under it, into the night.

The bead on the necklace which
Faustus had given him, or rather, its etheric counterpart, leapt from his chest
like a magnet and stood straight out, anchored to him only by the string. He
felt an insistent pull.

He took out the shamanic horse
fetish-the one Misquamacus himself had given him so long ago. Strange that the
gift would find its way back to the giver. In moments the fiery horse was
between his knees, and he was streaking off into the dark mountains.

The Mexicans had surprised Piishi.

It was not something he was proud to
admit. One Dine warrior of the Chi’hine band should have been invisible to the
Mexicans, but they had an Indian tracker among them, one of the Running
Indians, the ones the Mexicans called the Tarahumara. The Tarahumara were not
really warriors, but were indefatigable runners. They hunted by chasing down
game until the animal simply dropped dead of exhaustion.