The Night Visitor (45 page)

He inquires politely: from what far world does she come… Does she have a name?

And so she tells him her name—and of her world and herself. Her mother and father are dead—now she lives with an old woman whose home is… or will be… by the mouth of a nearby canyon. She describes another child with pale skin… whose hair is like fine gold. And she reveals many great wonders that are yet to be. The girl also tells her tale of a great beast whose bones will lie undisturbed for ages and then be uncovered… The bones of a young man will also be found. And then she falls silent.

The wizard is also silent for some time, and heavy with sorrow. Then he tells her of many secret things… and much of what has been.

As they commune, the flames flicker.

The earth turns.

Young stars are born quietly in wombs of glowing dust.

Old stars expand like crimson cosmic balloons… and perish in terrible fury.

Their very cinders are swallowed up in the ultimate darkness of infinite gravity.

And forgotten.

Vagabond comets swing past earth's star in lonely, elliptic orbits.

And fall into the outer darkness from whence they emerged. And forgotten.

Immense herds of great beasts are slaughtered without thought of economy.

And perish to the last living creature.

And forgotten.

Great empires are born, and flourish. Grand cities are built on glistening seashores.

The nations rot from inner corruption and topple like aged trees. The cities crumble into rubble and are covered by the sands of time.

And forgotten.

Through all of these things, the flames of the distant camp-fires flicker.

The people are born. They hunger and lust and strive. And die.

Their whitened bones are scattered like fragments of chalk under the dust of ages.

And are… so it seems… lost to all memory.

But forevermore, nothing in creation… that was… or is… or is yet to be… shall be forgotten.

Not one strand of gray hair on the old woman's head.

Not the least sparrow that falls.

Not the most feeble cry of despair.

Because… amidst the churning chaos… an eternal flame flickers.

It is… so it may seem
… a
small light.

But the fullness of night cannot comprehend this radiance.

Nor can all the powers of darkness extinguish it.

Sarah felt herself being pulled back.

Butter Flye was tugging at her arm. “Wake up.”

Her limbs felt so very heavy.

“You're snoring again. I cain't sleep when you're makin' all that racket.”

But Sarah is barely aware of her surroundings. The Ute-Papago girl had seen the ages unrolled like a scroll before her eyes. She has seen it all. Now, she knows many things. Secret things. It was quite a long time before she found her voice.

She looked sideways at the smaller child. “Butter?”

“Yeah?”

“The man who took you away that night—was he like you? I mean… did he have blue eyes… and yellow hair?”

The white child hesitated, then nodded. “And he was really dirty.”

Sarah sat up on the edge of the bed. And considered all the
strange things that had happened. The mud-caked man who had taken Butter to the excavation tent—he was that young hunter who had waded into the water behind the elephant. The same night visitor who'd showed Aunt Daisy the “egg” which had struck him in the head. The little girl thought she under stood why—after such a very long time—he had come back. It was not only because he was awfully tired of being scrunched up there in the dark… under the elephant. There was another, more important reason. The Magician wanted his bones dug up. He wanted someone to know he had been murdered.

She knows. And because time is a great sea for spirits to swim in, she has told his uncle.

So now the fallen hunter can rest.

But Sarah is puzzled by one remaining mystery. Why did the Magician take Butter Flye to the excavation—and show her where his bones were hidden?
He could have taken me.
Perhaps it was because of Butter's blue eyes and golden hair. Yes… that was it. The hunter and the little white child—they were of the same tribe.

I
N THE HUBBUB
of animated conversation, happy squeals and squawks from the children, bubbling coffeepot, KSUT'S Christmas music program blaring over the small FM radio—it was difficult for those gathered in Daisy Perika's small kitchen to hear the approaching automobile. Only one among them—and he was expecting this particular visitor—heard the rhythmic throb of internal combustion engine, the protesting creak of springs and chassis. But Charlie Moon gave no sign that he noticed the arrival.

There were squeaks as the porch steps were climbed, then a light knock.

Daisy turned the radio down. The elderly Ute woman hobbled across the cracked linoleum and opened the trailer door.

Anne Foster was standing on the rickety porch, her arms filled with wrapped gifts. She flashed the dazzling smile. “Merry Christmas.”

Well, this was a nice surprise. Daisy stepped aside. “C'mon in, if you can find room. This place is crowded as a herd o' goats in a phone booth.”

The lovely woman didn't look directly at Scott Parris, who had got up from his straight-backed chair. Anne kneeled by the girls. And gave them each a box wrapped in iridescent blue paper decorated with floating angels.

The Ute-Papago child—fascinated by this woman's waves of strawberry-red hair—was very shy. “Thank you,” Sarah whispered. She immediately decided to save hers for Christmas morning. That was when Daddy and Mommy had always opened the presents.

Butter Flye was a product of more aggressive genes. She shook her box. It rattled. “What's in it?”

Anne laughed. “Open it and see.”

Butter began to tear at the wrapping. Under the angel-paper, she uncovered a pretty red box. Inside was a doll dressed in red silk pajamas. Fantastically chubby cheeks. Impossibly golden hair and periwinkle-blue eyes. The little girl looked up at the red-haired woman. “It's a nice box.”

“Nice
box?”

The child nodded earnestly. “Toe Jam'll like it. He's gettin' tired of livin' in that ugly old shoe box.”

Anne didn't dare ask what a Toe Jam was.

Daisy opened her present. It was—though the old woman did not realize it—a very expensive gift. A marvelous reproduction of a black-and-white Anasazi bowl. “Thanks,” she said. “It's nice.”
Just what every Indian needs. Another clay pot.

Moon nodded politely at the newcomer. Anne gave him the hint of a conspirator's smile, then flashed a sly look at Scott Parris. “How have you been?”

Parris shrugged. “Oh, okay, I guess.” He wondered whether she had a gift for him. And how come—on this particular evening when he happened to be here—she'd driven all the way from Granite Creek to Daisy Perika's home. Must be a coincidence.

Moon found a week-old newspaper that needed reading. Daisy, at a nod from her nephew, also found urgent things to
occupy herself with. Like sparkling clean dishes in the sink that—for some obscure reason—needed another rinse and wipe.

Anne took Scott Parris' arm. She whispered in his ear.
“I
want to apologize. For how
I
behaved the last time we met.”

He frowned thoughtfully. “When was that?”

So he's still miffed.
But she played along. “When you showed me our… your new house. It's really lovely. And it was very sweet of you to send that young policewoman to pick me up.”

“Alicia—Officer Martin…
told
you I sent her?”

“She didn't have to. I was expecting someone from the department. I knew you wouldn't let me walk all the way home. Later, I felt just terrible. Thinking of how I left you standing there… so alone.”

Well, not quite alone. His ears turned a dull red.
“I
'm glad you got home okay.”

Poor thing. She wouldn't tell him how she'd gone back to the Waring place and caught him holding hands with the pretty young policewoman. Not tonight, she wouldn't. “And I have a confession to make.”

He allowed himself a thin smile. “Policemen and priests hear lots of confessions.”

“I
know that you and Charlie helped Ralph Briggs sell the stolen artifact.”

This revelation fairly knocked the wind out of him. When Parris found his voice, he asked: “But how did you …?”

“I was there, of course. Doing my job. Being an investigative journalist.”

Snooping.
“Well, you shouldn't have been,” he grumped. “That was… ahh… police business.”

“Business, yes. Police business… I'm not so sure. Later,
I
found out you and Charlie kept most of the money. Poor Ralph Briggs only got ten percent.”

The Granite Creek chief of police frowned at the redheaded woman. “Where'd you hear that?”

Anne avoided the least glance toward Charlie Moon. “I have my ways. And my contacts.”

“Sounds like you twisted Briggs' arm,” he growled.
Little
twerp must've talked. Or maybe it was some big twerp.
He shot a mildly suspicious look toward Moon.

The Ute policeman kept his face behind the newspaper.

Anne did have contacts. A cousin who worked at Granite Creek's oldest bank had—for the price of lunch—revealed the fact that Scott Parris had cashed in his life insurance to make a down payment on the Waring property.

“So,” Parris said wearily, “I guess you want to know why we took the money. And what we did with it. Well,” he added with a stubborn jut of his chin, “I can't tell you.”

“No need,” she said innocently. “Whatever you and Charlie did, you must have had your reasons.”

He was staggered by this generous expression of trust. And felt somewhat guilty… of several misdemeanors he could not quite recall.

Moon who was looking at the want ads, had heard just enough of the whispered conversation. Boy, this was some kinda slick woman. He had already told Anne Foster that all the money they'd raised from Briggs' sale of the artifact was for a blue-eyed blond girl—the survivor of Horace Flye, who was rightful owner of the “artifact” her father had made with his own hands. Charlie Moon had used “his” half of the proceeds to set up a trust fund for the child, funded by no-load mutuals. Scott Parris had located the little girl's paternal grandmother in Arkansas. He'd bought them a nice farmhouse on twenty acres near Pine Bluff. It had green shutters. And a huge yard shaded with maples. After the holidays, the Granite Creek chief of police would take Butter back to Arkansas for a reunion with Grandma Flye. And a housewarming. Parris did not yet know it, but he would invite his sweetheart to go along with him. Anne would drop a hint when the time was right.

As the evening wore on, Charlie Moon noticed that his elderly aunt seemed somewhat distracted. Daisy was glancing this way and that—like she suspected somebody was hiding in a dark corner. About to leap out and grab her. Probably she was just overtired.

Daisy Perika was weary. For two nights, she had suffered an annoying experience. As she drifted off to sleep, the
shaman would feel the presence of a troubled spirit. It muttered unintelligible things in her ear, tugged at her covers, haunted her dreams. Losing sleep was bad enough—but now it had gotten worse.

Today the haunt was present while she was wide awake.

She could not see his form clearly—it was but an indistinct shadow that flitted at the corner of her eye. But the Ute elder could smell the distinctive odor of tobacco as he passed by. And sometimes, she could feel his breath on her neck. What was this ghost doing in her home—did it intend to speak to her?

As if discerning her thoughts, the presence whispered into her ear:
Hello, old woman. Merry Christmas!

This unexpected greeting naturally startled the Ute elder, who dropped a saucer in the sink. Daisy thought of a tart reply but Charlie Moon was giving her one of those funny looks. Like maybe she was feebleminded. So she held her tongue.

It did not matter. The disembodied voice was quite willing to carry on a monologue.
Well, it looks like my daughter did get her house for Christmas. So I guess somewheres a bullfrog has learned to play the five-string banjo and sing ‘Yeller Rosa Texas.' I could sure go for a cuppa that coffee but I don't
know where I'd put it. Heh heh.

What meaningless nonsense—this must be the spirit of a lunatic? Or worse still, maybe it was one of them awful demons Father Raes had warned her about. The shaman decided that the best course of action would be to ignore the ghost—maybe it would go away. And so she did. The voice was silenced, but the pungent odor of tobacco hung in the kitchen like an invisible fog. She wondered if any of her visitors had noticed the almost overpowering smell. They had not.

Moon left the newspaper in his chair. He put his arm around his aunt's shoulder. “You want some help with the dishes?”

She shrugged off the hug. “Get outta my way, you big jug-head.”

Well, she seemed normal enough. Poor old thing was probably
just jittery because of all the company. And the holidays had a way of unsettling some people.

Anne had seated herself at the kitchen table; Daisy poured her visitor a cup of black coffee. Anne took a sip. Tasted it. Tried not to swallow.

Daisy slapped her on the back; Anne gulped and swallowed.

The old woman grinned. “You like it?”