Douglas Preston - Thunderhead

“Chilbah?” Smithback asked.

The man nodded. “The valley over the big ridge back there. I saw you the other day, from the top.” He turned to Nora. “And I guess you saw me. And now you’re here, because someone killed your horses and you thought it might be me.”

“We only found one set of tracks,” Nora said carefully. “And they led right here.”

Instead of answering, the man rose, tested the rabbit with the point of his knife, then sat back down on his heels. “My name is John Beiyoodzin,” he said.

Nora paused a moment to consider this reply. “Sorry we didn’t introduce ourselves,” she replied. “I’m Nora Kelly, and this is Bill Smithback. I’m an archaeologist and Bill is a journalist. We’re here on an archaeological survey.”

Beiyoodzin nodded. “Do I look like a horse murderer to you?” he asked suddenly.

Nora hesitated. “I guess I don’t know what a horse murderer should look like.”

The man digested this. Then the glittering eyes softened, a smile appeared on his face, and he shook his head. “Jackrabbit’s done,” he said, standing and flipping the spit up with an expert hand. He leaned it on a flat rock and expertly carved off two haunches. He placed each on a flat thin piece of sandstone and handed them to Nora and Smithback. Then he unwrapped the chiles, carefully saving the tinfoil. He quickly slipped off the roasted skin of each chile and handed them over. “We’re a little short on amenities,” he said, skewering his own piece of rabbit with a knife.

The chile was almost indescribably hot, and Nora’s eyes watered as she ate, but she felt famished. Beside her, Smithback was attacking his own meal avidly. Beiyoodzin watched them a moment, nodding his approval. They completed the little meal in silence.

Beiyoodzin passed the canteen around and afterward there was an awkward pause.

“Nice view,” said Smithback. “What’s the rent on this joint?”

Beiyoodzin laughed, tilting his head back. “The rent is in the getting here. Forty miles on horseback over waterless country from my village.” Then he looked around, the wind stirring his hair. “At night, you can look out over a thousand square miles and not see a single light.”

The sun was beginning to set, and the strange, complicated bowl of landscape was turning into a pointillist surface of gold, purple, and yellow. Nora glanced in Beiyoodzin’s direction. Though he had never actually denied it, somehow she felt certain he was not the one they were searching for.

“Can you help us find out who killed our horses?” she asked him.

Beiyoodzin glanced at her intently. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “What kind of survey you doing?”

Nora hesitated, uncertain if this was a change of subject or the beginning of some revelation. Even if he hadn’t killed the horses himself, perhaps he knew who had. She took a deep breath, confused and tired. “It’s kind of confidential,” she said. “Would it be all right if I didn’t tell you right now?”

“It’s in Chilbah Valley?”

“Not exactly,” said Nora.

“My village,” he said, gesturing northward, “is that way. Nankoweap. It means ‘Flowers beside the Water Pools’ in our language. I come out here every summer to camp for a week or two. The grass is good, plenty of firewood, and there’s a good spring down below.”

“You don’t get lonely?” Smithback asked.

“No,” he said simply.

“Why?”

Beiyoodzin seemed a little taken aback by his directness. He gave Smithback a curiously penetrating look. “I come here,” he said slowly, “to become a human being again.”

“What about the rest of the year?” Smithback asked.

“I’m sorry,” Nora jumped in. “He’s a journalist. He always asks too many questions.” She knew that in most Native American cultures it was rude to show curiosity and ask direct questions.

Beiyoodzin, however, merely laughed again. “It’s all right. I’m just surprised he doesn’t have a tape recorder or a camera. Most white people carry them. Anyway, I herd sheep most of the time, and I do ceremonies. Healing ceremonies.”

“You’re a medicine man?” Smithback asked, unchecked.

“Traditional healer.”

“What kind of ceremonies?” Smithback asked.

“I do the Four Mountain ceremony.”

“Really?” Smithback asked with obvious interest. “What’s it for?”

“It’s a three-night ceremony. Chanting, sweats, and herbal remedies. It cures sadness, depression, and hopelessness.”

“And does it work?”

Beiyoodzin looked at the journalist. “Sure it works.” He seemed to grow evasive in the wake of Smithback’s continued interest. “Of course,” he went on, “there are always those even our ceremonies can’t reach. That’s also why I come out here. Because of the failures.”

“Some kind of vision quest?” Smithback asked.

Beiyoodzin waved his hand. “If you call coming out here, praying, and even fasting for a while, a vision quest, then I suppose that’s what it is. I don’t do it for visions, but for spiritual healing. To remind myself that we don’t need much to be happy. That’s all.”

He shifted, looking around. “But you folks need a place to lay your bedrolls.”

“Plenty of room out here,” said Nora.

“Good,” said Beiyoodzin. He leaned back and threw his wizened hands behind his head, resting his back on the rock. They watched as the sun sank below the horizon and darkness came rolling over the landscape. The sky glowed with residual color, a deep strange purple that faded to night. Beiyoodzin rolled a cigarette, lit it, and began puffing furiously, holding it awkwardly between thumb and index finger, as if it were the first time he had smoked.

“I’m sorry to bring this up again,” Nora said, “but if you know anything about who might have killed our horses, I’d like to hear it. It’s possible our activities might have offended someone.”

“Your activities.” The man blew a cloud of smoke into the still twilight. “You still haven’t told me about those.”

Nora thought for a moment. It seemed that information was the price of his assistance. Of course, there was no guarantee he could help them. And yet it was critical they find out who was behind the killings. “What I’m about to say is confidential,” she said slowly. “Can I count on your discretion?”

“You mean, am I going to tell anyone? Not if you don’t want me to.” He flicked the cigarette butt into the fire and began rolling another. “I have many addictions,” he said, nodding at the cigarette. “That’s another reason I come out here.”

Nora looked at him. “We’re excavating an Anasazi cliff dwelling.”

It was as if Beiyoodzin’s movements were suddenly, completely arrested, his hand freezing in the act of twisting the cigarette ends. Then he was in motion again. The pause was brief but striking. He lit the cigarette and sat back again, saying nothing.

“It’s a very important city,” Nora continued. “It contains priceless, unique artifacts. It would be a huge tragedy if it were looted. We’re afraid that these people might want to drive us away so they can plunder the site.”

“Plunder the site,” he repeated. “And you will remove these artifacts? Take them to a museum?”

“No,” said Nora. “For now, we’re going to leave everything as is.”

Beiyoodzin continued to smoke the cigarette, but his movements had become studied and deliberate, and his eyes were opaque. “We never go into Chilbah Valley,” he said slowly.

“Why not?”

Beiyoodzin held the cigarette in front of his face, the smoke trickling between his fingers. He looked at Nora through veiled eyes. “How were the horses killed?” he asked.