Prophecy (9 page)

The sun was starting to fall behind the plateau ahead as they picked up speed. Ryan pushed down on the gas, his speed increasing with that of the riders. It was clear that they had every intention of reaching the mountains by the time that the last rays shone over the now blackened outline of the range.

“Any sign of where we're headed?” Ryan asked
Krysty as the near side of the mountain became lost in shadows cast by the descending sun.

She shook her head. “Can't see jackshit, lover. We'll just have to trust in where they're leading us. Can't be far now, though. If they don't live on this side of the range, then they'll have to stop and make camp for the night, surely?'

“I wouldn't like to put jack on anything,” Ryan murmured.

The one-eyed man hit the switch for the headlights on the front of the wag, figuring that the battery and the fuel supply could take the extra drain. He cursed as nothing happened. The mechanism had to have been damaged by the way in which the wag had borne the brunt of the previous day's pursuit. He would have preferred a little light, as now he felt he was driving blind literally as well as figuratively.

Gradually, as their eyes adjusted to the lack of light that existed in the shadow of the mountain, they could see that they were being taken onto a trail that led them to the foot of the rock face. Around them, sheltered from the worst excesses of the elements, there were sprouting crops of trees and bush. The trail was worn deep into the soil, telling of regular use. The trees hung over, heavy with leaf and branch, sheltering wildlife that scattered and took cover as the warriors on horseback and the alien roar of the wag approached.

Yet there was no sign of human habitation. Both Ryan and Krysty, without having to speak, were sharing the same thought. If they kept on going, they would
run into the rock face. There was no sign of a path around, and there was nothing that suggested a camp or ville of any kind.

Then they saw it—an opening in the rock, hidden by bush and overhanging tree branches, the trail they were following veering away at a right angle. As they drew near, Ryan applied the brakes, following the lead of the horsemen, who slowed as they approached. He drew the wag to a halt, leaving the engine ticking, as some of the riders dismounted and began to move some of the brush that stood in front of the mouth of the opening.

One of the riders came over to them. He indicated an area around the mouth of the opening.

“Take your wag in there, then switch off. We'll move it to a safe location after you have been taken to our elders.”

“Your elders?”

The man chuckled. “Nothing for you to get your back up about, One-eye. They're the ones who sent us to look for you. They've been waiting for you for a long time, like you were told.”

Before Ryan could ask any further questions, the warrior turned and walked back toward the opening in the rock. Ryan looked at Krysty, shrugged, and put the wag into gear, guiding it toward the gaping black maw of the rock mouth.

Slowly the wag advanced on the black hole. But as they drew near, both began to see more of the place they were about to enter as a procession of dim lights spread a faded yellowing glow over the rock interior.

As the wag nosed into the cave, they could see that the original fissure had been taken and worked into an enlarged space by people working with primitive tools. There were paintings on the cave walls that were as faded as the lighting, though whether they had been daubed thousands, hundreds, or mere years ago was indeterminate.

The cave receded into the distance, curving away from the straight tunnel so that it became impossible to see where it ended. Responding to a gesture from one of the warriors, Ryan brought the wag to a halt and switched off the engine. As they got out of the vehicle, the warrior said, “Leave it here, now. We'll make sure it's secured and hidden from prying eyes. You follow him,” he added, indicating a man who had appeared at the farthest bend of the tunnel. “We have to clear any signs of our passage before we can join the tribe.”

“Why clear away tracks?” Ryan asked. “Do you fear intruders?”

“Few come this way. Why should they? There's nothing to bring them, and few know that we are here. But if anyone should stray this far from usual white-eye routes, we wouldn't wish for them to disturb us.” There was an edge to the way that he said that, leaving Ryan in no doubt as to what disturbance would mean for any unwitting intruder. “And if we make sure we leave no traces, then there is little chance that they may stumble upon us.” He dismissed them with a gesture and turned to join his colleagues.

Ryan and Krysty turned to face the man who was still waiting for them. His stance and expression gave noth
ing away, and he waited in silence as they walked toward him, speaking only when they were almost upon him.

“Welcome, outlanders. Few white-eyes see our domain. Fewer have the opportunity to go in peace and tell. The prophecy foretells of your coming. I pray for your sakes that you are not a false dawning.”

Without giving either of them the opportunity to comment, he turned and walked on ahead of them.

As they followed, they could see that the walls of the tunnel formed in the rock were covered in hieroglyph paintings that seemed to detail the history of the people who dwelt within the cave system—for neither of them had any doubt that this was more than just a simple hole in the rock—with paintings depicting scenes of skydark and the long winter that followed in its wake being followed by scenes in which the decorated people of the tribe emerged from hiding and rebuilt their homes in this place. There were also images of hunts, and scenes that appeared to depict rites that the men of the tribe went through to achieve the status that was the coming of age. These confirmed Krysty's earlier thoughts about the tattooing and scarification of the warriors who had found them.

As they moved along the dimly lit tunnels, they became aware that they were moving on an incline. As they went deeper into the heart of the mountain, they were also moving upward.

Along the way, there were other tunnels branching off this main route. All the passages were lit by tallow candles that burned slowly, smoke rising from them in
whorls that moved with such a slowness as to seem static. It occurred to both of them that the tunnel system should soon be filled with such smoke, choking anyone within. It was only on closer inspection that they could see that the candles were mounted near small fissures and cracks that attracted the slow-moving plumes. The mountain and cave system seemed to come equipped with its own natural ventilation system that had been put to good use by the tribe that made it their home.

Down the passages they could hear voices, and the sounds of movement and life. Bowls and pans clashed, the smells of freshly cooked food wafted down before joining the smoke plumes in being slowly sucked out to the skies above.

“You cut these out yourselves?” Ryan asked. He didn't expect an answer, as their guide had so far been silent. So he was surprised when his query did elicit a response, although perhaps not so much at the terseness of the reply.

“Most of them were here when our ancestors found this place. Just worked them out a little.”

Krysty wondered if honeycombing a mountain with tunnels until it was almost hollow was ultimately a good idea, but held her peace. As long as the bastard didn't collapse on Ryan or herself, it was none of her damn business.

The paintings on the walls, despite their apparent age, were recent. As they continued, she studied them to gain some kind of insight into the people they had landed among. It seemed to her that these were a proud
warrior race who worshiped the sun, and believed in living as one with the elements. They took only what they needed, and replaced it with themselves as the time came to buy the farm. In many ways, they had a lot in common with the ways of Harmony, her home ville. Perhaps it wouldn't be too hard for her to find common ground with these people should Ryan find communication a problem.

A colder air now pervaded the tunnel, indicating that they were near the open air. Certainly, the incline of the tunnel, though not steep, had grown greater, and the ache in their calf and thigh muscles spoke of an ascent perhaps greater than they had realized.

The mouth at the apex of the tunnel became visible, if only because it was a hole of dark velvet, sprinkled with the distant lights of the night sky, against the fallow light that illuminated their way. The chill of the cold plains night prickled at their skins.

They emerged onto a mesa ringed with trees and shrubs that provided shelter from the winds that may sweep across the flat plains around, and at the same time provided cover from prying eyes for any who may wish to look from the ground.

This kind of mesa was more common farther south, where thousands of years of erosion had flattened mountain peaks. Here, where many hills and mountains were untouched in such a way, this kind of mesa had to be the result of the same postskydark disturbance that had caused the honeycomb effect in the mountain beneath.

Scattered across the flat rock floor, scattered with a
thin layer of topsoil, were wigwams and tepees, clustered around three fires that burned low and steady, sending dark towers of smoke into the black night. Around one such fire sat a man in a flowing headdress, who was accompanied by a larger man who wore animal furs. Both looked around, their faces shrouded in shadow, as their guide led Ryan and Krysty into the open.

The two men stood and strode over to them. The man in the headdress—obviously the tribal chief to judge by his dress and the amount of decoration and scarification that was visible even in the low level of light—was shorter than the man in the furs. He strode across the mesa with the air of a man who had been waiting for this moment, and could barely contain his excitement. Keeping a pace or two behind, the man in fur—who Krysty could recognize not from his dress but by something indefinable in his bearing as being the shaman of the tribe—was less obviously excited, but could be seen to be using the time to examine the two people who stood with the native guide.

The chief stopped in front of them and held up his hand in gesture of greeting.

“So finally you have come,” he said without preamble. “Now the prophecy can begin.”

The shaman stood behind him, saying nothing. Ryan could tell that whatever he said next would determine how they were to be treated.

“If it's been foretold, then so it must be,” he said carefully, “even though the fates may not tell us of our own role in its unfolding.”

“Very nice,” the shaman murmured, his voice pitched high for such a large man. “Thing is, it could mean anything. There are two of you, and you have arrived from the desert, maybe having endured a vision quest to determine what you must do with your lives. But maybe you've just got lost, and we found you.”

“Mebbe,” Ryan agreed. “But if we are the ones that legend foretold, it may be that we have to be ignorant of intent in order to be pure of heart.”

The chief held up his hand again; this time, it was more by way of a gesture of irritation. He turned to his shaman.

“Just what the hell are you two talking about?”

The shaman shrugged and smiled. “I think One-eye here was just trying to tell us that he has no idea what prophecy we're talking about, but he doesn't want to buy the farm over it.”

The chief sighed. “Well, shit, you can't blame him for that. There's no rule that says messengers have to know what the message is…that's what you're for.” He turned back to Ryan and Krysty. “The stars are in the right place, and legends of the Dakota Sioux have foretold of two people since we first came out of the ground after sky dark. You're right place, right time. That'll do for me.” He beckoned them toward the fire. “Follow us, and we'll tell you all that we know. Maybe that'll help you make sense of things.”

Krysty shrugged at Ryan's questioning gaze. These people were being friendly in a way that was alien to expectation at a time like this.

There had to be a catch.

 

T
WO DAYS LATER
, and at a distance as far removed from the dark mountains as it was possible to be, Mildred and J.B. finally arrived at their destination. As they rode into the heart of the ville, the tribe turned out to greet the riders who had traveled in search of a legend, and had returned with those who may just have fulfilled the old stories.

Despite the fact that, seemingly, the entire ville had come out of their wigwams and tepees to view the newcomers, it was uncannily quiet. The tribe seemed to be as silent as those who had ridden out to collect the two strangers. Mildred wondered if it was going to be difficult to work out just what it was that was expected of them. Would anyone actually open his or her mouth to tell them just exactly what it was the prophecy foretold?

The riders dismounted, Mildred and J.B. following suit. In among the tribe members who were there to greet them were two men who obviously held special significance. By their bearing, and by the way in which their dress differed, they were plainly the elders of the tribe. The way in which they moved in silence through the throng, cutting a swathe with ease, confirmed that.

“These are the ones you found,” one of them said as they reached the riders. It was a statement more than a question.