Robert Charrette - Find your own truth

Sam was annoyed. "Nor does magic."

"Nor do you," Howling Coyote said in near perfect imitation of Sam's exasperated tone. The old man swung a foot up onto the ladder. "Eat. Sleep. Think. Whatever. Just don't let the fire go out. Got something I gotta do. Ya stay put now, pup."

The shaman climbed the ladder, momentarily blocking the sunlight and plunging the kiva into deeper gloom. In a surge of momentary panic Sam nearly swarmed up the ladder after the shaman, but he forced the urge away. He spent two days regretting his decision to stay.

Each morning Howling Coyote told him to sit in the holy place of the kiva and dream. It was not welcome advice, for Sam didn't like the dreams he was having. But he did as the old man bid, sensing that his chance of learning anything from Howling Coyote, and therefore Janice's salvation, depended on his obedience. Wasn't the student always expected to be obedient to the master? It had been that way in his ancestral Europe and it was a way of life in the Orient. Why would the Native Americans be different? So Sam sat in the darkness, pacing the confining periphery of the kiva when the forced inactivity became too much. He spent a lot of time trying to guess the time of day from the angle of sunlight creeping in past the fiber mat grill Howling Coyote had placed over the opening. The boredom was so intense that he slept a lot. And when he slept, he dreamed. On the third day, Sam awoke to find Howling Coyote gone. Without the shaman to prohibit him from leaving, he decided he had grown thoroughly sick of the dark kiva. Climbing the ladder into the harsh light of mid-afternoon, Sam blinked and shook his head in wonder. He had thought it was only morning, and blamed the timeless dark of the kiva for the glitch to his biorhythms. Then again, had it been only three days? He hoped so; time was passing too quickly as it was. Hearing the faint strains of the shaman's voice chanting, Sam followed the sound to the edge of the cliff. The song came from somewhere below. Sam spent some time looking around, until he finally found what resembled a path downward. He had to scramble in a couple of places, but he made his way to a narrow level area and followed it along the edge of the sandstone bluff. l\irning the comer of an outcrop, he came suddenly upon a structure more elaborate than those he had seen in the opposite wall of the canyon. Building after ruined building was crammed into the gash in the cliff. In one place a tower reached up almost four stories, molding itself to the curving overhang of the cleft. Hard-packed earthen surfaces with square holes in their centers marked kivas. Sam skirted the exposed circular wall of one in order to follow the chanting.

He left the sunlight behind as he edged through gaps in building walls to move deeper into the ruin. His progress slowed as the spaces became more restricted. Often, he had to turn on his side to crawl through openings that weren't wide enough for his shoulders to pass. Deep within the ruin, he found Howling Coyote daubing ochre paint onto the sandstone rock face that formed the back of the cleft. Sam said nothing and watched.

In deft strokes, the shaman was sketching a stick man bent over a tube or rod that touched his head. Lines feathers, Sam presumed arched from the stick man's head. The central figure completed, the shaman spun spirals above and below the stick man. To the right and left he placed rows of dots, then stepped back to observe his work. Sam gave in to his curiosity and started to ask the old man what he was doing, but was shushed to silence before he said a word.

Howling Coyote backed away from the painting, almost into the sunlight, and sat down. He drew a wooden flute from his belt and began to play a haunting melody composed mostly of single, long notes in terspersed with fluttering clusters of rising and falling tones. Sam walked over and seated himself at Howling Coyote's side. The music gradually became softer and finally trailed off into silence. Lulled by its beauty, Sam was startled when Howling Coyote spoke.

"He's coming."

"Who?"

"Him." The shaman pointed at his painting.

A tall, gangly being emerged from the rock, his form thickening from rosy translucency to opacity. His slanted eyes of deep, deep black were pools of oblivion against the night dark of his skin. His ears were pointed. Despite his fierce expression and the red glow that surrounded him, Sam perceived that the newcomer was no devil, just an elf. A strangely powerful and skinny one, perhaps, but an elf all the same.

"That's the guy who tried to kill me in Denver!" Sam reached for his gun, but the Indian's hand snaked out and clamped onto his wrist. Sam relaxed, and the shaman released him. It was time to trust his teacher.

The shaman stood, cloaked in an aura of power. "Hoka-hey, Wata-urdli. You've come a long way on your road of stone to die."

"Peace, Howling Coyote." The elf raised empty hands and presented the palms. "This is not a good day to die. I wish you no harm."

"Come in peace, stay in peace." The profound majesty of the Indian shaman shattered as the sprawl-runner crawled out. "Otherwise leave in pieces."

If the elf noticed a change, he gave no sign. "Save your hostility for what you harbor, old man."

The Indian squatted and dug around in his pouch. Finally he pulled out a pouch and a chipped clay pipe. He held them out to the elf. "Wanna smoke, Urdli?"

A brief look of disgust crossed the elf's face, but when he spoke his voice was even and his tone polite. "I accept your offer, and as long as I stand in this place, bind myself by its terms. You will forgive me if I do not actually perform the ritual. You have my word as bond."

"I hear you. The puppy hears you. The spirits hear you. They will rise and devour you if you lie."

"As I said, I bind myself to the peace of this place.''

Howling Coyote grunted.

Sam was bewildered by the exchange, but the elf and the shaman seemed satisfied with each other. "What's going-"

"Shut up, Anglo." Howling Coyote glared at the elf. "Urdli came to talk, it seems. Got any objections to talk? No? Didn't think so, since ya like to do so much of it yourself. The elf wants to talk, let him. I'll listen."

The elf nodded. "I did come to talk. Let me tell you a tale." Without waiting for permission, the elf started. "Long ago, this world knew magic. It was a better time then; all lived in accordance with their natures. The world was not perfect, but it was happier. In time changes came, and the magic grew weak. Many wonderful things perished. Some evil things as well, but evil always seems less vulnerable to the lack of magic. For a long time there was no mana, but the time of lack was only an interval. The mana returned and brought us to the Sixth World."

"Aztec number," Howling Coyote interrupted. "Hopi got a different count. Aleut, too."

The elf shrugged. "The number is unimportant, but the concept should be understood. Mana has waxed and waned. There was a time when the mana was low, too low for the true nature of the world to manifest. And in those days a tradition was handed down, a sacred trust. Dedicated individuals swore to guard a place. You would not know of this place, but I know it as Imiri ti-Versakhan, the Citadel of Remembrance. It was a place meant to make the low time safer, and it was a bastion against the return of evil should the mana return. Terrible things were kept there, locked away so they could do no harm."

Sam felt a sinking sensation in his stomach. He was beginning to guess what the elf was leading up to. Apparently oblivious to Sam's sudden pallor, Urdli continued.

"Recently, the ancient citadel was assaulted and despoiled. Through the actions of the intruders, something escaped bondage, something terrible." "Spider." Howling Coyote turned his head and spat. "You know." Urdli was silent a moment. No one else spoke either. "How?"