Golden Heart (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles) (13 page)

Lazarus and the rest of the attackers pursued, whooping and yelling. The Confederates who still lived sought out cover in the streets and houses of the city, and the hunt was on. Splitting up into groups, the Cibolans ducked in and out of buildings, and the sounds of gunshots and the screams of bludgeoned men echoed around the ghost town.

Vasquez called up to the towers, “Put up your guns and get down here! It’s all safe now, we’ve come to liberate you!”

“I must say, it’s not altogether terrible to see you three,” said Captain Townsend as she exited the building at the foot of one of the towers and came towards them, her uniform muddy and torn. There was blood on it too. Not hers.

“If that’s the best you can do in the way of gratitude, I guess it’ll have to do,” said Vasquez. He still gripped his pistol.

“Relax, bandit, I’m not going to shoot you,” she said.

“You’ll have trouble if you do. These Cibolans here consider me a friend.”

Townsend eyed the mass of painted warriors at their backs. “Cibolans? So this is it, huh? The famous Cibola. Are you three rich as Croesus yet?” Her offhand remarks did not hide the excitement in her voice.

“Forget it,” said Vasquez. “There’s nothing here but peaceful natives. Reynolds hasn’t got the message yet and is going through all seven cities looking for gold, but finding only war.”

“Seven cities? So that part is true, then?”

“That part’s true, but there ain’t a nugget of gold here. They got no use for it. It’s all been a scam like Lazarus here has been saying all along.”

“No gold…” The disappointment was barely hidden on her face.

Lieutenant Thompson snorted and muttered, “I knew it,” under his breath.

Townsend glared at him. Lazarus was surprised that he was still following her orders. He was also surprised that she still kept him around after he nearly drew on her back at their underground base.

“Well, that just makes everything seem like a bloody waste of time,” said Katarina. Her dress was run to rags and her unkempt hair made her look wild, as did the smears of blood and mud on her cheek. She reminded Lazarus of the paintings of female French revolutionaries, leading the charge to victory, rifle in hand and banner held high.

“Katarina,” he said. “It appears our missions are at their endings. I must say, you have gone above and beyond in the pursuit of your orders. I would have thought that you would have returned home after bringing Vasquez and Pahanatuuwa into Townsend’s hands.”

“Vasquez and who?” The Russian replied.

“Hok’ee,” Lazarus explained. “We call him Pahanatuuwa now. That’s his real name. It’s a long story.”

“I had no choice but to remain with Captain Townsend’s partisans, thanks to you. It would hardly have gone down well with my superiors had I headed home moments after you broke those two out of custody. No, I remained to see the task carried through and promised myself that I would kill you when I got the chance.”

“We have a bigger enemy now,” said Vasquez. “That was the whole point of us sticking our butts on the line here. The Cibolans want to offer you an alliance. Provided you don’t try to loot their cities.”

“If there’s no gold then we have no reason to be here,” said Lieutenant Thompson firmly. “We might as well return back the way we came.”

“Your machine seems to have seen better days,” said Lazarus. “And Reynolds will undoubtedly send a return force to deal with you when he hears that you are in the area. We can’t stay here.”

“He’s right,” said Townsend. “The Worm will take days to fix, not to mention finding the mechanite to power her. She’s grounded for the time being.”

“Then you’ll come back with us?” asked Lazarus. “We can organize our next move against the Confederates together.”

Townsend nodded, but he could see that she was reluctant. They were trapped here. Although she hated to abandon her beloved Worm, she had no choice but to throw her lot in with the Cibolans. Her reluctance was outweighed by that of her lieutenant whom Lazarus could hear cursing under his breath as they headed away from the city.

Chapter Thirteen

In which our heroes descend into the Kingdom of the Gods

“We believed that you had all been killed by Reynolds’s bombing run,” Lazarus said to Katarina as they clambered up the stone steps to the northern city.

“That was a scouting patrol,” Katarina replied. “I wonder, was it you who told him that we were in that area?”

Lazarus was silent.

“You bastard.”

“Look, I didn’t exactly tell Reynolds anything. They were spotted from the bridge of that god-awful air fortress of his.”

“They were caught out in the desert chasing you. Now there’s nothing left of them. Just don’t mention it to Townsend. She lost a lot of good soldiers.”

Lazarus glanced uneasily at Captain Townsend, but she hadn’t overheard them. She was too distracted by the sight of the cliff city and its inhabitants which had turned out to meet them. But if Lazarus or any of his party had expected an ecstatic welcome praising their newest victory then they were to be disappointed, for more disturbing news had reached the northern city.

The first Lazarus knew of it was the sight of even more refugees that had arrived, swelling the pueblo’s population even further. Soon food would be a problem, not to mention housing and sanitary conditions. The news was that these new refugees had come from the eastern city. Pahanatuuwa spoke with Tohotavo, and revealed all to the outlanders.

“Reynolds has attacked the eastern city with his mortars,” he said. “The entire pueblo has been leveled and most of it has slid down into the valley. There are many killed, and all surviving are now homeless. Mankanang is calling an emergency meeting.”

“Poor buggers,” said Lazarus as he looked around at the weeping and the wounded who had made their way along the mountain ridge. The northern city was now the only pueblo left to the Cibolans.

“Another strike against all that is decent in the world by that bastard Reynolds,” said Captain Townsend. She seemed genuinely disturbed by the wailing of the children and the look of helplessness on the faces of their parents.

“We brought him here,” said Lazarus. “That damned map we have all been chasing.”

“This wouldn’t have happened if you had let me keep it!” she snapped. “But now look where you have led us!”

“I had my mission…” said Lazarus lamely.

“Damn your mission! And damn you!” She stalked off, apparently intent on helping the wounded.

“She’s something of an idealist,” said Katarina. “She doesn’t understand people like us who aren’t fighting a revolution; people who have orders instead of morals.”

“Fine words from somebody who’s supposed to be on her side.”

“Oh, she’s a good leader but her own history colors her judgment.”

“How so?”

“She grew up in an orphanage. Her parents died during Sibley’s invasion of New Mexico Territory. That’s why she hates the Confederates more than anyone I’ve met.”

Lazarus wondered if she hated them more than Pahanatuuwa. Everybody seemed to have their own axe to grind in this world.

Mankanang’s meeting was held within the hour. The chiefs from the other cities, as well as the priests for each clan formed something of a council, but all were permitted to attend. Mankanang’s room was more packed than it had been when Lazarus and the others had first been brought there. After much debate, Pahanatuuwa told the outlanders what had been proposed.

“My brother is against the idea but he has been outvoted. The other chiefs and the priests believe that the only way to defeat the enemy is to open the
sipapu
; the gateway to the kingdom of the
kachinas
.”

“What on earth does that mean?” Lazarus asked. He knew that ‘kachina’ roughly translated to some sort of demi-god in the religion of the pueblo peoples, but this ‘kingdom of the gods’ was beyond his comprehension.

“Below this land lies another land wholly separate but linked to each of the Seven Cities by gateways,” Pahanatuuwa explained. “It is a mirror of this world; similar, yet different. My people believe that our ancestors emerged from under the earth and so, in times of crisis, we return below ground.”

Lazarus still wasn’t sure what all this meant and neither were his companions, but the Cibolans seemed to be in a state of great excitement at this news. Apparently the kingdom of the
kachinas
was out of bounds, except on very rare occasions. He wasn’t too sure how much of this underground kingdom was real and how much was metaphorical. He noticed Mankanang arguing with Tohotavo in the corner of the room. The other chiefs got involved and Mankanang appeared to be overruled.

“What’s the fuss?” he asked Pahanatuuwa.

“My brother doesn’t believe that white men have any right to enter the kingdom of the
kachinas
. He thinks you should all stay here and die with your fellow invaders.”

“Now that’s a bit much! Haven’t we fought hard enough to prove that we have no ill intentions towards your people?”

“That is what the other chiefs have argued. My brother is a vindictive man, full of spite. He doesn’t even want me to be allowed to enter.”

“You? But you’ve saved countless lives here!”

“No. I have saved some of the lives I had already put in danger.”

“You’re too hard on yourself.”

He did not answer.

With the onset of evening, all had been prepared. Food and ammunition had been organized into bundles for the descent into the underworld, and the wounded attended to by able bodied men and women. Tohotavo led the procession into the great kiva of the pueblo. Shaped like a massive well covered with a painted mud roof, the kiva was a round subterranean room. Lazarus had read that the kiva was the ceremonial lodge or temple of the pueblo peoples, and every pueblo had several to cater to all its inhabitants. It was where the young boys slept away from their families before they reached manhood, in order to be closer to the underground spirits.

A fire burned low and smoky in the dim interior, and the poor light made the paintings on the walls stand out like livid, wild-eyed dancers. Lazarus focused on one that had a black face, red lips and a lolling red tongue. It was not hard to imagine a Moor visiting this valley in the time of the conquistadores and making such a name for himself that he was remembered as a
kachina
; a demi-god.
Perhaps Estevanico had been the one who had made the map after all
.

There was a circular trapdoor in the floor, painted in the blacks and oranges common in pueblo art. Around this, the chiefs and their wives gathered. Ordinarily women were not permitted within the kivas, not even in a matriarchal society as that of the Cibolans. Kivas were places for the men—the decision makers of the clan—to deliberate. But this was a special ceremony that might only occur once every several generations, and the fate of them all rested upon what was about to happen.

Tohotavo began conducting his ceremony, sprinkling the ground with corn and pasting the faces of Mankanang, Xuthala and the other royal members with cornmeal. He waved feathers of turkey and eagle and shook his necklace of shell and bone. He blew his flute as the covering was pulled back from the
sipapu
; the hole-like aperture in the centre of the room that was supposedly the entrance to the subterranean kingdom.

All were silent as the black maw gaped at them. The end of an ancient looking rope ladder could be seen vanishing into the darkness below. Air, old and musty, rushed out to meet them and made the flames flicker and dance wildly. It smelled damp down there. And dead.

The chiefs were the first to enter, each taking a brand from the fire with them to light their way. It took them some time before they called up from the bottom to say that they had lit the first beacons. Then the descent of the Cibolans began.

It took an age for the outlander’s turn to arrive. Women and children and priests and supplies all took precedence, and Lazarus could feel the tension in his comrades as they stood by, waiting to plunge into the unknown world. Even Captain Townsend and her rebels who had spent a good part of the last few years underground appeared a little on edge at the prospect of placing their trust in a people they didn’t know. Nobody knew better than they that subterranean tunnels were dangerous places that required meticulous checks and adherence to safety regulations to prevent structural collapses.

Finally, when there was nobody else left in the kiva but the outlanders and Kokoharu, who remained as their usher into this new realm, they began their own descent. Pahanatuuwa and Kokoharu went first, then Vasquez, who grinned like a Cheshire cat at being the first non-Cibolan to set foot in the sacred kingdom of the gods. Townsend and her partisans held back, still not sure about the whole business, which just left Lazarus and Katarina.

“After you, Madam,” said Lazarus.

She snorted at his chivalry and swung down the rope ladder. He clambered after her and arrived at the bottom in a pool of orange light. Pahanatuuwa and Kokoharu waited at the entrance to a long tunnel; the rest of the Cibolans having gone on ahead. They had left several sacks and bundles of supplies at the entrance for them to carry. Lazarus stood aside to let Captain Townsend down, and allowed his eyes to linger perhaps a little too long on the shape of her backside beneath the tight material of her blue cavalry trousers. He had rarely seen women in trousers before, and the sight was surprisingly invigorating.

“Ow!” he cried as the bundle of rifles Katarina had picked up swung against his ear.

“So sorry, Longman,” she said. “It’s a bit cramped in here.”

They headed down the tunnel which, unlike the tunnels of the Unionist Partisans, had been gouged entirely by hand. Steps were cut into the floor at occasional intervals, and Lazarus wondered how many generations of Cibolans had toiled underground, building these passageways. The walls were painted with images of
kachinas
and wild angular patterns of black, white and orange.

There was a lot of light at the end of the tunnel, and the sound of voices. The first sign that they were entering a different world was the change in texture of the walls. The murals were still present, but they were no longer painted. Instead, they had been carved out of some dark stone. The shadows were deep, and the highlights were sea-green where the light of the torches caught them.

“Turquoise…” said Vasquez, running his hands over the carven bricks that lined the passageway.

“And the floor!” cried Townsend. “It’s… it’s…”

They all looked down. The ground was dusty and lain with slabs of some substance softer than rock that muffled their footsteps. It had a dull sheen to it, but when a torch was held close it glimmered as if it held some potent power. Nobody said the word, as if afraid that to speak it aloud would cause all before them to dissipate in a cloud of vapor. Besides, the sight that greeted them as they exited the passageway had knocked all powers of speech from them. They had truly entered another world.

A large temple lay before them, hidden in a cavern that had been carved over hundreds of years. The ceiling was a black void above them and none could see how high it was. But it was high enough to cover a building the size of a museum or a large bank on Fleet Street. It rose, tier upon tier, lit from beneath by controlled fires that made every surface shimmer and gleam. Bricks the size of sheep had been laid on top of one another, made from the same substance as the floor in the tunnel.

“Gold,” said Lazarus finally and the others flinched, still fearing that it might all be whipped away from them like a bad joke.

“My God,” managed Vasquez. “It really does exist after all.”

“It’s unreal…” said Captain Townsend. “Such wealth, just sitting here beneath Arizona…”

“These temples are usually forbidden to all but our chiefs and priests,” said Pahanatuuwa. “Gold is the color of the sun and is a sacred metal to my people.”

“Temples?” asked Captain Townsend. “There’s more than one of these?”

“Seven such as this. One for each city. One for each spiritual direction.”

“Seven…” she whispered in a hoarse voice.

“You knew?” Vasquez asked his friend. “You knew the golden cities were real and you never told me?”

Pahanatuuwa replied in Navajo, and Lazarus took his reply to be along the lines of, ‘So what? Would it have made a difference if I had?’ He could understand that. This gold belonged to his people and none other.

The Cibolans had been making themselves at home within the temple itself, spreading out blankets, lighting fires and feeding their children. Mankanang and Xuthala had taken residence at the head of the temple, and Pahanatuuwa’s brother looked even more the proud king, surrounded by his subjects within a palace of gold. They ate, and then attended an audience with the chiefs.

While the chiefs and the priests gabbled away, Lazarus let his eyes wander around the temple. He had a sudden thought. “These blocks were smelted and cast,” he told Katarina. “But the North American tribes didn’t have that level of metallurgy until well after this place could have been constructed.”

“This valley has been isolated for so long,” said Katarina. “Maybe they learned the methods independently.”