Merkabah Rider: The Mensch With No Name (23 page)

The
Rider didn’t know what to say. Through his Solomonic lenses he could see that
this man was flesh as he was, and no white-eyed shed sent by Lilith to beguile
him. He had seen those serpentine things on the trail. They had not been
spirits either, nor any demon
he had
ever encountered.
They had given him much the same feeling as the invisible creature he had
encountered in the abandoned mine on Elk Mountain in New Mexico two weeks ago;
a feeling of disorientation. He had never expected to meet creatures such as
this, did not quite understand their nature. How could such things be?

“What
happened to those men on the trail?” He remembered Piishi’s words. “We were
attacked by…Piishi said they were soldiers of the Black Goat Man.”

The
Rider was reminded briefly of the Se’ir, the goat demon of the wastelands who
took the scapegoat bearing the sins of Israel in ancient times.

“The
Black Goat Man is the high priest of Shub-Niggurath, one of the false deities
called the Great Old Ones, or more properly, The Outer Gods. They were
worshipped by the people of K’n-yan in their blue-lit kingdom of Aztlan. This
was in the days before their servants, the Mexica, were liberated and led to
Texcoco by my master’s brother Mun Gsod, who then corrupted himself and was
called Huitzilopochtli and worshiped as a god by those people. The Outer Gods
are powerful beings of chaos
who
existed long before
the creation of this universe. Shub-Niggurath is consort to Yig, a Great Old
One,
a
serpent creature from another world in another
universe, whose minions, The Cold Ones, ambushed your party on the trail.”

The
Rider rejected this notion immediately. The Lord had created the universe in
seven days, angel, man, and demon, and of such entities as this Chaksusa spoke
there was no mention. He said as much.

“You
know as well as I that in but one of the Creator’s days, lives without number
may spawn, grow old, and die,” said Chaksusa. “Only God is absolutely eternal,
yet there are things within creation which may span the ages. The various
powers you yourself have had dealings with, for example. Conceive of this,
Rider; it is said that God made this universe in seven of His days, yes. But as
there are worlds within worlds, so too are their other universes. God rested on
the seventh day, it is written. But Creation is unending, and His works are
infinite. I present to you, that He took up His labors again on the eighth day,
and that there were universes before and after this one. A new universe is born
in fact, every seven of His days. This universe we inhabit is not the oldest,
nor will it be the last.”

The
Rider reflexively pulled his own beard. These were blasphemous precepts, unfit
for his ears.

“Before
you rend your garments,” Chaksusa said, putting up a creased and mollifying
hand. “See that this contradicts nothing you believe. The Creator is a living
God, as you who have stood so near His presence and felt the stirring of His
breath, know. But as there is good throughout the universe, so too is there
evil, and not all of its progenitors fall within the rank and file of your
Adversary’s army.”

The
Rider sat ordering his thoughts. Could this be true? He had seen what he had
seen, and knew that those things on the trail were not of this world. He had
also seen the invisible thing in the tunnel on Elk Mountain when it had shed
its camouflaging skin. These were like no creatures he had ever seen this side
of hell. Where else could these things have come from if not some other? Then
there were the mentions of these Great Old Ones (or was it Outer Gods?) he had
heard this past year, from varied mouths. There was this book of Zylac, with
its alien glyphs and wards—one of which, the Elder Sign, he had even seen
tattooed on man’s arm.
Shub-Niggurath.
That name had
appeared in his readings of that text as well. But how was it the rest of the
world knew of these things, and he did not? He felt his mind moving as he had
not felt it move since first piercing the membrane between worlds. These things
bordered on the same sort of blasphemy Adon had tried to teach him.

“I’ve heard the term ‘Great Old Ones’ before,”
the Rider said carefully. “The high priest of a Molech cult I encountered
mentioned
them,
and something about a coming Hour Of
Incursion. Then a few months ago I encountered a clutch of dybbukim—wicked
spirits who had escaped from the underworld of Sheol and possessed the body of
a man. They said it was their task to clear the way for The Hour of Incursion.
And then a man, who came to me with abilities like my own, he mentioned all
this as well.”

Chaksusa
frowned, and the corners of that frown deepened behind his beard.

“The
knowledge of these outlaw beings has been kept secret since they were expelled
to places of imprisonment eons ago.”

“Not
a very well kept secret,” the Rider said dryly. “It seems like everybody I run
into these days has something to say about them.”

“I had suspected in your planar travels you
might have learned something of them, but not from other men.” Chaksusa sighed.
“Their cults are spreading once more. Like your Canaanites returning to the
worship of devils masquerading as gods, so too the religion which the Great Old
Ones use to suppress their slaves is gaining strength again in the deserted
places of the world. Such as here, in Red House.”

“What’s
Red House?” the Rider ventured.

“The ruins of a citadel of a lost colony of the K’n-yan—an early
human society from another world.
They lived underground. This outpost
broke off from the main kingdom to pursue their worship of The Not
To
Be Named One. It lies at the base of these mountains.”

The
Rider blinked. Humans from another planet…it was not worth pursuing. But The
Not
To
Be Named One…that seemed familiar.

“The
Not
To
Be Named One?”

“Yes,
The
Mangum Innominandum. This is not the time to speak
of that one,” Chaksusa said, waving his hands as if to dispel all mention of
the name. “We must concentrate on the problem of Red House.”

“What’s
the problem?” the Rider smirked.
“Aside from snake men
waylaying travelers?”

Chaksusa
looked across the fire at him.

“Walk
into the other world with me, and you will learn.”

The
Rider tensed.

“You
are pursued by demons. They corrupt your food and your drink,” Chaksusa said.
“The protection you bear is a double edge sword. Though they cannot attack you
directly, you cannot perceive or drive them away either. In this way, they will
kill you eventually. But they cannot pass here, within my presence. Here you
are safe. Walk with me, and when this business is finished, I will do all I can
to help you.”

The
Rider nodded slowly. It was true that he didn’t feel that overhanging presence,
the malignity that had traveled with him these past weeks. The knowledge of
this made his eyes flutter. He wanted greatly to collapse and sleep, but he
shook his head. What would it mean to
lay
down to
sleep near this man? Who was he really? Before he lowered his every defense, he
had to know.

The
Rider was used to stepping between the shadows, and being a practiced hand,
could do so almost with minimal effort. There was little he feared in the realm
of spirit, but this instance was unique. He had not passed into the umbra
accompanied by another living soul since his novitiate days, and never with a
stranger. He still didn’t entirely trust the things this Chaksusa expounded
upon. Maybe this man was a servant of the Adversary, or a mortal henchman of
Lilith’s who had set a trap for him in the other world. He might even be tied
to the Rider’s wayward master somehow.

He
took the time to make preparations. Though he had not undertaken the usual
three days’ fasting and prayer, he drew his Solomonic circle in the dust around
himself now, and did not invite his host into it. In an hour’s time, after
donning the phylacteries and reciting the ancient incantations and prayers,
calling upon the protection of the Lord and his angels by name, he was at last
ready.

Seated
in the circle,
all that
he was slipped through the
corona of his head into the night beyond night, like embers rising from the
fire and dispersing.

* * *
*

To Piishi, the two men had simply prayed themselves into the sort of dozing
state he had seen holy men of his tribe undertake when communing with the
spirits. Tats’adah and Rider Who Walks sat with their chins on their chests,
Rider in his circle in the dirt and Tats’adah clutching his wooden beads,
fingers interlaced in their magic way.

A
draft blew down into the fissure, stirring the fire and dust. He knew their
spirits were in the other place. He suddenly felt very much alone, and hugged
his rifle to him, staring up the pass and thinking of his friends who had died
in the darkness, their blood burning from the poison of the monsters.

He
thought of them now as friends, but the man whom he had put down had been
Navajo. On any other day they would have met as enemies. The Black Goat Man’s
monstrous soldiers had been coming down and raiding the villages more than ever
before, and the tribes had come together and sent some of the best fighters of
their clans to go and see old Tats’adah. Piishi had never seen the strange old
man before. He was not white, but he was not Indian or Mexican either. It was
as if he was of no one people. The old men had known him when they were boys,
it was said.
Twelve times before he had come to their aid
against the Black Goat Man, the thunderbirds, and the witches.
So now he
was called Tats’adah.
Thirteen.

Piishi had come from a band of the Red People
of the Chiricahua. Another man had come from the White Mountain people and
another from the Lipans. They were all dead now. He glanced over his shoulder
at the two holy men. Never had Tats’adah needed help before that he knew of. He
wondered at the strange white man who knew the roads of the spirit world as he
himself knew the arroyos and strongholds of this country. He wondered if he
would live through this night.

* * *
*

When the Rider opened his ethereal eyes to the strange colored mists of
the Yenne Velt, he thought he had been somehow betrayed. The little canyon was
filled as if it were an amphitheatre by dozens of spirits.

At
first he thought they were the children of Lilith and her succubi, at last
broken through the defense of Nehema’s rosette token and come to claim him, to
draw and quarter his soul.

They
were not demons. They were ghosts, nothing other than human. He should have
perceived them before, even in the material world; should have paid attention
to the shadows on the canyon walls unaccounted for, the preternatural coolness.
His abilities really were fading.

They
were the long-haired, death-pale shades of half naked Indians almost without
exception, crouching silently, staring patiently with hollow, mournful eyes and
sunken faces. Among them were scattered strong looking black men in antique
dress; these wore bands of gold in their ears and laced tunics with long
breeches and boots such as the Rider had seen worn in woodblocks. These men,
who he guessed to be Moorish, wore ornamental daggers and stood with arms
folded among the Indians, looking into the fire as though it were home.

One
apparition stood out among them all. This was a tall European wearing an old
Spanish helm and a war battered breastplate of fine though tarnished engraving.
He wore a pointed, cultivated beard and drooping mustaches, filigreed with
silver that bespoke experience, as did his dark, thoughtful eyes. He sported a
rakish gold hoop in one ear, and girded about him was a fine baldric bearing a
rapier whose gilded hilt was of swept, baroque design. A silver-chased
matchlock pistol protruded from his sash.

More
jarring than their antique appearance was their shared condition; all displayed
the grievous wounds that rendered them ghosts. Some bore gaping, blackened
musket holes where eyes had once ridden, and some had bellies slashed to
ribbons and held ropes of draping organs. Some lacked limbs or fingers or ears
or noses, and the most unfortunate were wanting of all and rolled or squirmed
in the dirt like ecstatic Sikhs.

Yet
they all shared one common wound, like a congregation of devotees self-scarred
in some grisly ritual of eldritch adoration; they all had a ragged, bloody hole
in their chests where their hearts should have been.

The
Rider rose, as did the shimmering image of Chaksusa, and he motioned to the
Rider as if to present the man in armor.

“Rider,
in life, this was Don Amadeo Cifuentes de Arriaga,” said Chaksusa’s avatar.

The
tall conquistador swept off his helm, revealing a bloody corona devoid of hair,
flesh, and bone.

“Señor,”
spoke the shade.

The
Rider bowed his chin politely, unfazed by the man’s terrible mortal wound. He
had seen its ilk before, and worse, in the war.

“Who
are these?” the Rider asked, gesturing to the silent audience.