Authors: Sam Cabot
B
eyond the house the long drive curved to head back to the road. Three pickup trucks and a half dozen cars, none of them new, stood in a frozen field down the slope. Livia pulled the rented Malibu in beside them and left it, stretching her legs in strides through the bracing air. She took out her cell phone and called Spencer.
“Livia. I trust you arrived safely?”
“No problem. This man Abornazine, he’s Peter van Vliet and he’s from one of the old families up here. In fact I’ve heard his name before. Katherine’s mentioned him to me. A big collector. He comes down to see her at the Met sometimes. She says he’s full of good stories.”
“And have you talked with him? Is Michael’s brother there?”
“Michael just went into the house but he asked me not to come. If his brother’s here he wants to see him alone.”
“But you haven’t wandered afield?”
Livia smiled at Spencer’s tone. “I’m nearby, Spencer, don’t worry. If he needs help, I’ll be there. How are you and Thomas doing?”
“Thank you for your reassurance. As for myself and Father
Kelly, our research has just begun but I’m afraid neither of us is upbeat.”
“The material’s not there? Father Maxwell was right?”
“On the contrary. I fear the good Father was less than forthcoming. Just when I had begun to re-examine my long-standing position on the untrustworthiness of the clergy, too.”
“A re-examination based entirely on knowing Thomas, I’m sure.”
“Indeed. Which proves the absurdity of using a sample of one.”
“What do you mean, though? About Maxwell not being forthcoming?”
“Despite his claim that he’d been able to discover only very little by, or about, Père Ravenelle, it’s become clear that rather more documentary evidence exists than he acknowledged—and that he’s seen it. Father Kelly, I must say, appears to have a gift for research, and I, of course, have many years’ experience of filling in gaps. Ravenelle might, or might not, be relevant to the story of this Ohtahyohnee mask in the present day. But the fact that Father Maxwell, the most recent researcher to investigate Ravenelle, won’t admit to his findings, gives one pause.”
“It certainly does. What is it that you’ve found, that he denies?”
“Ah. There’s the rub. Though we can see there is more to be had, it seems to be under lock and key at the Jesuit mother church.”
“I’m sorry?”
“La Chiesa del Gesù. Back home in Rome.”
“Oh.” Livia stopped at a rail fence and looked out over the frost-rimed garden rows at rest for the winter. “Can you tell anything about it?”
“No. Father Kelly, as one of his order’s bright lights, is allowed access at a fairly high level to the Jesuits’ private archives. Still, no matter the angle from which we approach, we are able to discover
no more than that contemporaneous documentation both by and about Ravenelle does exist, and that the last researcher to access it was Father Gerald Maxwell. Father Kelly informs me that the abstruse abbreviations in the various online catalogs are indications that such a one as he, were he at Il Gesù itself, would be permitted at least to review the description of the material, and possibly the material itself, though he can’t be certain of that from here.”
“Spencer, that sounds beyond ‘private.’”
“I agree, and the question that brings up is, what are they hiding? It seems the only way to find out, however, would be to dispatch Father Kelly to Rome.”
A breeze rattled the dry husks of cornstalks. “That might be a fool’s errand, though,” Livia said. “He might not get access even there. And if he does, we still don’t know that what’s there will matter to what we’re doing.”
“Now you mention it, I hate to say this, but I, for one, don’t actually have a firm grasp on what it is we are doing. If Michael’s found his brother, or at least has learned how to accomplish that task, perhaps our continued search for the mask—or indeed, our continued involvement in the situation at all—is no longer helpful.”
“I don’t know, Spencer. There’s something odd going on up here.” Livia described the scene to Spencer: the gardens and barns, the livestock. “We’ve been told there are dozens, maybe hundreds, of Indians here, living in tents, in RVs, in tipis. And more still coming. It’s as if they’re getting ready for something.”
“Have you any idea what?”
“No. I’m hoping Michael will be able to shed light on it after he talks to his brother. Though what happens then . . . Do you have any idea what he’s planning to do?”
“None. If indeed his brother is responsible for the death of this
young woman, Michael is in a difficult position. I suggest we take our lead from him.”
Slipping the phone into her bag, Livia headed back toward the house. She wanted to stay close to Michael, in case she was needed, though since he’d gone inside she hadn’t sensed any disturbances. No voices raised in anger, not the sudden smell of fear or the heat of fury. All these were physical responses to emotion. They were detectable by the Unchanged at various levels depending upon an individual’s sensitivity to others, an attribute that, when brought to the fore, was referred to as empathy. One of the alterations in Noantri bodies produced by the microbe was an amplification of the senses, no different in kind from the enhancement of Noantri muscles, the strengthening of Noantri bone. A body with no need to shore itself up, to compensate for deterioration, or to spend effort counteracting natural decline, could focus on optimizing the potential of each cell. That, at least, was the current thinking among Noantri scientists studying the microbe itself. Add to that the years, the decades and centuries of learning from experience of the world, and the Noantri ability to read people’s emotional states lost all its mystery.
It was this ability that made Livia pause on her way up the slope. She was passing a field where horses stood, grazing as they could on the frozen grass, though from their glistening coats and solid flanks she could see that they had the benefit of a plentiful winter diet. Livia had grown up with horses, still rode at a friend’s farm outside Rome as often as she could arrange it, and the sight of them always both calmed and charmed her. As she stopped to watch these, though, she became aware that something was not right. Not here, among the horses, but in an outbuilding beyond the horses’ enclosure. Animals had no structure of rational thinking as a barrier
between the world and their senses. They were therefore more responsive to the emotions of others than most Unchanged, more than some Noantri. The rapid heartbeat of anger, fear’s acrid smell, and the bone-shaking tension of frustration radiated palpably from the outbuilding and accounted, she was sure, for the way the horses avoided that end of the field, leaving a semicircle of unmunched grass as though a line had been drawn.
Livia followed the fence around the field. It was probable that this was nothing important, and certainly it was none of her business. A sick animal, most likely, one needing to be isolated for its own sake or that of the others. Though she was unsure—an animal? If so, what kind? The sweat in the air smelled like a man’s, but the heartbeat was so rapid that a man surely couldn’t sustain it for long. Yet it didn’t slow.
No one was near when she approached the building, a new-looking metal shed. A heavy lock secured the door and the windows had been soaped up inside. Through the film Livia could see thick black bars. One whole side of the sloping roof consisted of a large skylight in a metal frame. Livia studied the steel sheets of the roof’s other slope. They looked capable of bearing her weight.
The agitation of whatever was inside the shed increased as Livia drew near. It heard her coming, maybe smelled her as she smelled it. From close up she re-examined the roof, but it offered no surprises, as the ground around it offered no stepping-stones or springboards. If she wanted to be up there she’d have to jump.
So she jumped. Even her Noantri strength couldn’t get her up onto the slope from a standing start but it got her to where she could clutch two of those raised square seams in her leather-gloved hands. Some contracting of the biceps and triceps, a swing of a leg and the thump of a boot, and Livia was on the roof.
Whatever was inside the building went completely silent when she landed. She could still sense the quick breathing and the heartbeat, but it stopped all movement and sound.
Staying low to keep her balance in the wind, Livia crab-walked to the roof ridge and lay flat. She pulled herself up until she could peer over the ridge and down through the skylight.
Looking back up at her, unblinking, was a man.
He was naked. His upturned face was not far from hers because he sat, not on the floor of the shed but on a beam six feet above it. Not sat; he perched. Feet and butt on the beam, knees up, arms at his sides balancing lightly.
For a moment their eyes locked, he and she both frozen. There was a strangeness to his eyes: rounder than most, irises yellow and completely surrounded with white. His hair was white, also, and appeared both shaggy and fine. His scent, now that she was closer, was peculiarly layered, something in it she couldn’t define. Livia stared, fascinated.
Then he opened his mouth and screeched. He lifted his arms and, still balancing on the beam, raised and lowered them. As if he were flapping wings. As if he were trying to fly.
The screeching continued. Livia could feel fury and fear pushing against the skylight glass; she could feel a murderous bloodthirst starting to rise. She eased away from the ridge, slid down the slope, and jumped to the ground.
A
long-haired young woman in boots, jeans, and a flannel shirt—Indian winter regalia, Michael thought—smiled as she admitted him to a wide central hall. Polished wood and gleaming white walls surrounded them, a patterned marble floor lay under their feet, and a leaded glass window lit the curving staircase. Open doors on left and right revealed high-windowed rooms with carpets on parquet floors. A third doorway, farther back, offered a glimpse of a dining table among walls of paneled oak.
These European spaces were built to hold European objects: Revolutionary-era oil paintings, thin-legged wooden chairs, delicate blue-and-white china. Art and furniture to evoke centuries of tradition, to comfortingly connect the frightening, raw New World to the tamed fields and pacified forests of the Old.
What Michael saw, though, was Native pieces everywhere. The carpets on the parquet were Navajo rugs; Hopi masks hung from the moldings. On a rough chest stood a pair of Mohawk wedding baskets, the kind his parents had exchanged in the Longhouse. Ojibwe dream catchers swayed overhead, and a beaded, fringed shawl lay over the railing. The dining table was made of thick,
uneven timbers and surrounded by hand-built chairs. The air jangled with the mismatched confusion of it all.
With a shyness that surprised him, the young woman asked, “You’re Michael Bonnard?” and when he said he was she smiled again and ushered him to a fourth, closed door. She knocked, opened it, and said, “Abornazine, he’s here.” Giving Michael another quick look—an almost awed one, he thought, as though he were a person of note—she stood aside for him to enter, then withdrew.
Across the room a white man sat smiling behind a desk in front of the windows. His weary, weathered face was framed by long gray braids. Turquoise-studded silver bracelets circled his wrists and a medicine bag lay against his chest.
“Gata,” he said. “You are welcome here.”
Michael strode forward, tamping down a flash of anger at hearing his Indian name used by someone he hadn’t given it to. “Peter van Vliet?”
“Abornazine.”
Ignoring the correction, Michael said, “I’m looking for my brother. Edward Bonnard.”
“Tahkwehso.” Van Vliet nodded. “I’ve sent for him.”
A new voice spoke. “And I am here.”
Michael spun around.
Edward stood in the open doorway, black hair loose around his shoulders. “Welcome, brother.” The fringes on his buckskin jacket swayed as he walked into the room. He held his right hand out. Michael hesitated, was immediately ashamed, and stepped forward. He gripped Edward’s forearm as Edward gripped his.
“Thank you,” Edward said. “I thought you might not greet me.”
“You’re my brother.”
“But we fought.”
“We’ve fought before.”
Edward gestured to Michael’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. Have you—”
“I’m fine.” Michael cut him off.
“And your friend—I didn’t mean to—”
“Spencer’s fine, too.”
Edward’s dark eyes held Michael’s. “That’s very good. Brother, I’m surprised to see you here. I don’t know how you found this place but I hope I can hear you say you’ve come to join us.”
“I’ve come to talk.”
“You’re angry.”
“Yes.”
Into their silence, van Vliet spoke. “I think when you understand our work here, your heart will change.”
Michael looked wordlessly at van Vliet, then turned back to Edward. He spoke in the Mohawk language. “Will you walk with me?” He nodded to the field beyond the windows.
“Happily.” Edward answered in Mohawk, also. “Since we began here I’ve wanted to tell you, to show you our lives and our work. It’s been my dream that you’ll join with us. Even, that you’ll lead us. That would be your right and nothing would please me more.” Edward moved around the desk to stand beside van Vliet. Switching back to English, he said, “But we’ll talk here.”
Van Vliet’s gaze stayed steady on Michael. “You’d honor me, Gata,” van Vliet said, “if you sit while we talk. I can see you’re tired and in pain. Shall I call a healer?”
Michael didn’t move. “I’m a doctor. Peroxide, antibiotic ointment, gauze, adhesive tape. I said I’m fine.” None of that, he knew, was as good at its job as the teas and poultices his grandmother used to brew. If there really was an Indian healer here his shoulder and
side would benefit from a visit. But what was an Indian healer doing here? What were any of these people doing here? “What is this place?”
“My home,” said van Vliet. “And therefore the home of my friends.” He spread his hands. “My ancestors named this place ‘Eervollehuis.’ Honorable house. No honor is to be found in the lives they lived. But sheltering the work Tahkwehso and I are doing here, the house will earn its name.”
“Your work?”
“In this place,” Edward said, “our lives will start to change.
All
our people’s lives will start to change. That’s our purpose here—to begin that change.”
“Double-talk,” Michael said. “Another off-rez Indian settlement, another taking-back-the-land? Old news. And whatever your so-called purpose is, a young woman died last night so you could accomplish it. Or am I wrong?”
“No,” said Edward, without heat. “You’re not wrong.”
Michael didn’t let his face change, but he felt as though he’d been stabbed. Until that moment he hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted to be mistaken about what had happened at Sotheby’s. Nor how sure he’d been, at the same time, that he was right.
“She gave her life,” Edward said. “The cause was just. Once our goal is accomplished, we’ll honor her gift.”
“I don’t think she’ll care.”
“The dead hear our words.”
“Edward.” Michael looked at his brother. “Edward. Why?”
“She might have said what she’d seen.”
“Who’d have believed her?”
Edward nodded. “Brother, you may be right. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I’d Shifted.”
Michael’s eyes flew wide. He looked to van Vliet, smiling behind his desk.
“No, it’s all right,” Edward said. “He knows. Some of the others also know.”
“The identity of a Shifter?” Michael spoke in disbelief. “You’ve revealed yourself?”
“And though I’ve said nothing to them, the ones who know about me also wonder about you.”
Michael looked over his shoulder at the door. “That young woman—the way she looked at me—”
“Yes. Kuwanyauma. She’s Hopi but she was educated in white schools.” He smiled. “Your own scientist ways, she understands them. Her learning in genetics tells her that my twin may well have the same Power I have.”
Michael continued to stare at his brother. “I don’t understand. The Law, our grandfathers—why did you do that? Why did you reveal yourself?”
“It was necessary. Some of the ones who come, come believing, but some are skeptical. They come in hope but they have strong doubts. Abornazine says doubt can obstruct the Awakening and the Shift.”
“Of course it can. You don’t need him to tell you that. Anything that interferes with the intense emotional state. That’s Grandfather’s teaching.”
“Gata, the wisdom you possess is precious,” van Vliet said. “Please stay and share it with us. With the people.”
“I have no wisdom. What I have is knowledge. From the traditional people, and also the good that can be taken from the white world.”
“There is none,” Edward said shortly.
“Really? Yet you stand beside a white man in a white man’s house and ask me to stay. Tell me: the people who come here—what is it they come believing? Hoping?”
“They believe in the Awakening Ceremony. They hope it will succeed.”
“The Ceremony?” Michael stared. “You’ve revealed the Ceremony? Edward, what are you doing? Are you throwing away everything we were taught?”
“Of all men, you can ask me that?”
“I’ve never broken my oath.”
“Your life is a broken oath.”
“My life has been about us! My research, my work—”
“White man’s science. It destroyed us.”
“No. White man’s greed did that. Science is neutral. Edward, you’ve always refused to hear, but listen now. Come walk with me.”
Edward shook his head. “Speak, but speak here.”
“No.”
“Then”—van Vliet stood, silver bracelets jingling—“then, Gata, listen. You and Tahkwehso, you’ve been taught, you’ve trained, you’ve practiced. You’re the only ones. When the Shifters Awaken they’ll need someone to teach them. Someone to help them. Tahkwehso is just one man. Please stay with us and help your brother. Help your people.”
“What are you talking about? Are you saying there’s someone here who can perform the Ceremony?”
“I can,” said van Vliet.
Michael looked at him hard. “No,” he said. “Ceremonies are passed through generations. The Awakening is no different. Families have rights to their objects, to their dances. A medicine elder will pass the Ceremony to a son or daughter, a niece, nephew, cousin.
Not a stranger. Not a white man.” He turned to Edward. “I’ve found six. Hopi, Cree. Two women among the Coeur d’Alene. A Seminole in Oklahoma and a Saulteaux Ojibwe, in Saskatchewan. Edward, this is my work. This is what I’ve been doing, all our lives. You’ve refused to hear my story but I can tell you. I can—”
“There was a Navajo,” van Vliet interrupted. “Atsa. He taught me.”
Michael frowned. “Atsa died ten years ago. Before I began searching. I was never able to speak to him.” Reluctantly, he added, “I’d heard rumors.”
“They were true. He was a hundred and three when he died. I had lived with him for nearly a year. I was his student. I learned many things. One was the Awakening Ceremony.”
“He taught a white man?”
Van Vliet shrugged. “None of his children, no one around him, wanted to learn. They scoffed. He knew my heart was sincere.”
In the silence Michael became aware of the ache in his shoulder, the burning in his side. “The children here,” he said, “have you done the Ceremony for any of them?”
Van Vliet and Edward exchanged a look Michael didn’t understand. “I’ve done it seven times,” van Vliet said.
“With what result?” If, at that moment, Michael had been asked whether the scientist or the Shifter in him wanted the answer more, he couldn’t have said.
Van Vliet shook his head. “Not successful.”
Michael felt an odd sensation: relief, gratification, and disappointment in equal measure. “That’s what I thought. You were taught nothing.” He could see the scene: a Navajo grandfather, his children scattered, no one to take notice of him. Van Vliet was
company, he was someone to tell stories to in the chill of the desert night, someone to teach dances and songs to in the blazing heat of the day. But the Awakening Ceremony, its correct way, its chants and its secrets? Not that.
“You’re wrong,” said van Vliet. “Four times when I did it, the Shift was provoked. But each time something . . . went wrong.”
Michael’s stomach tightened. Before he could speak, Edward said, “It’s why we need the mask, brother.”
“I worked so hard,” van Vliet went on. “I tried to learn the intricacies, to master everything Atsa wanted to teach me. I fasted, I sweated, I danced for hours under the hot sun. Everything he asked. But I was only able to do the Ceremony once under his direction, and that child didn’t react. And then Atsa died. His family didn’t want me to stay, wouldn’t let me take his drums or dolls. So I came back here. I’ve spent the last ten years collecting the objects I thought I needed. When I met Tahkwehso I knew the time for the work had come.”
“And I knew the same,” Edward said. “We were brought together for this. For the people.”
“I’ve done the Ceremony seven times,” van Vliet went on, “four with results that prove I’m doing it correctly. But it’s not enough. The objects I have aren’t powerful enough to make up for my lack of nuance, of skill. I need the mask.”
“Four results from seven Ceremonies?” Michael shook his head. “You’re doing nothing. You’re just seeing what you want to see. It’s much too high a percentage for the genetic reality.”
“Brother, your genetics—”
“Edward! Truth is truth. Four out of any seven children won’t have the Power, no matter how well the Ceremony’s done.”
Again, Edward and van Vliet looked at each other.
“You say something went wrong,” Michael said warily. “What was that? The children—what happened to the children?”
“Not children, brother. The farmers, the ranchers. Auto mechanics, housewives, teachers, and steelworkers. From the reservations, and from the cities. Men and women. Not individually, and not children. There’s no time for that. In groups, for adults. That’s why these people have come. Abornazine has been doing the Ceremony for them.”