How the Stars did Fall (13 page)

That night while Turnbull and Tennyson slept, Faraday lay down on the ground of the mesa with Xingu, looking up at the chains of the Pleiades. And Xingu told Faraday what he knew about those great lights and the weight they had carried in the mind of the ancients—the ones who had hollowed out the mesa so very long ago. To them the stars above were not static bulbs but moving harbingers of the most ancient of days. Encoded messages sent out into time. And the ancients took those everlasting constructs as their guide and in imitation they did their own work in stone, setting down guideposts for those still to come. Oushanis was one of those, Xingu said, but there were many others hidden underground.

The white men woke before dawn and set out, taking the road north. They rode all day, past the dry land around the mesa into the chaparral and then into a stretch of pines and firs standing over the road like mendicant friars. They made their camp amidst those trees, tying their horses to the branches and setting down wood for a fire. Turnbull brought out his knapsack with all of his carvings and chose from within the cross, bringing it out and laying it on the grass. And he bowed his head and whispered a prayer. Tennyson placed a pot filled with water over the fire and poured a tin of beans and pieces of cured bacon into it and left it to boil.

“God forgive me,” Turnbull said.

“Forgive you for what?” Tennyson asked.

“Long have I resigned myself, accepting God alone as my portion, but now as I contemplate my freedom I feel my heart filling up with desire.”

“That just means you’re alive.”

“It means I am growing in my own estimation and God is diminishing in equal proportion.”

Faraday pulled from his back a skin he had filled with tiswin before leaving the mesa and handed it to Turnbull.

“Drink this,” Faraday said. And Turnbull did, and when he had finished he lay on the ground and slept. Tennyson slept, too, but Faraday found himself unable to rest, so he got up and fed the fire. He looked out into the woods. The height of the trees and the denseness of their leaves blotted out the light of the moon and much of the stars. Faraday set out into that oppressing dark, walking, keeping his footing by hugging the trees until he saw the subtle silver reflections of a pond. And he stood over the pond, studying it, catching here and there glimpses of his own face.

Moon found him crouched on the ground.

“Careful. My people have a legend that looking too long into a pool at night can cause you to lose yourself,” she said.

“Perhaps that would not be such a bad thing.” Faraday stood up and tried to discern Moon’s face amidst the dark. “What are you doing here?”

“I asked my father to let me go with you. He said no but I left anyway.”

“Go with me? Where do you suppose I am going?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ve lived my whole life on the mesa with only Xingu’s old stories to give me any excitement. I want to see the world.”

“I think you need to go back. In fact, I’ll take you back myself once the sun comes up. I can’t be responsible for you.”

“I will not go back. If you won’t take me, then I’ll go off on my own.”

“Goddammit,” Faraday said. “Alright. Better that I can keep an eye on you. And how long do you propose to travel with us?”

“Long as I want.”

“You’re really something.”

They left the camp a few hours later while it was still dark, riding hard north on the road until they reached the town of Cuevas just as the sun’s first rays breached the roof of the world. The town was small but well populated. At that predawn hour, Faraday was surprised to find quite a lot of movement on the town’s main street. One point in particular bustled with people. It was a saloon and Faraday salivated at the thought of eating real food again.

Only one table sat empty in the crowded saloon and Faraday picked it out, sat down and ordered. The waiter brought them thick slabs of bread, bowls of hot porridge, plates with bacon and eggs, and a pitcher with tea and another with coffee. Tennyson lathered a slice of bread with butter while Turnbull poured himself coffee. Once the slice was buttered enough, Tennyson took a big bite and noticed that a few men at another table were looking directly at him. When they noticed that Tennyson had seen them, the men turned to each other, pretending to discuss something. Tennyson made nothing of it and continued to eat.

The men that were eyeing Tennyson left their tables but returned just as Faraday and the others were finishing their meal. They came back with the sheriff of Cuevas and at the sight of the armed official, the saloon emptied. Faraday tried to get the others to leave with the rest of the patrons, but the sheriff of Cuevas and his men were upon them before they could get up. They aimed their rifles at Faraday and the others.

“Don’t move. Don’t you dare move,” the sheriff said.

The sheriff took all four of them to the town’s jail, a dusty old gray brick house, and locked them inside cells. There they were left, deprived of food and water. After what seemed like hours, the sheriff returned, holding up for the prisoners to see a wanted poster bearing the likenesses of both Faraday and Tennyson.

“You fellas in some dire straits,” the sheriff said. “Best if you confess to the crimes herein described. I will tell the judge if you are cooperative.”

Faraday thought on that for a moment before spitting in defiance. The sheriff wiped the spit off his boot and opened the cell. He pulled his gun out and hit Faraday across the face with it, the slash sending blood onto the wooden floors. More blows followed until Faraday slumped to the ground, his face swollen and dusty. While Faraday lay there writhing in pain, he let his mind wander. He pictured the key to his shackles and he found it. A little bronze thing. He saw it hanging from the wall in an adjacent room. But knowing where the key was profited him nothing, so he sat back and waited while Moon tended his wounds as best as she could. They spent the night in that jail.

The next day, they were shackled and loaded into a wagon. Faraday pleaded for answers but the sheriff gave them none. Two men drove the wagon out onto the road until they had left Cuevas well behind. Then they stopped and dropped down, drawing their revolvers from their holsters and pointing them at Faraday and the others.

“Go on to the back of the wagon,” one of the men told Faraday. “You’re worth more to us alive, but you best be sure I’ll kill you if I have to and just take the loss.”

“What do you mean to do?” Faraday asked.

“None of your goddamn business,” the man answered while the other pulled Moon out of the wagon by force, nearly ripping her clothes in half while doing so. They had begun to unbuckle their pants when the low whistle of an arrow pierced the sky and punctured one of the men’s neck. The arrowhead ruined the man’s throat and he fell a gurgling mess, the blood bubbling out of his mouth. The horror of this scene drove the other man into a frenzy and he began to fire wildly in every direction. One bullet entered the wagon and missed Turnbull by a hair. A second arrow put an end to the man’s flailing. An Indian appeared, tall and wearing a red death mask. First he knelt beside each body, making sure the men were dead, and then he took a knife from his waist and scalped the bodies, leaving the domes of their heads red and inflamed. He found Moon still in shock on the ground and helped her up, speaking to her in the Ohlone tongue. Faraday listened while they argued, with Moon eventually prevailing. She found the keys to their shackles on one of the bodies and freed Faraday and Turnbull and Tennyson.

“This is one is called Tenhorse,” Moon said, referring to the Indian who had saved her. “My father sent him after me.”

“Thank God he did,” Turnbull said.

But their talk was soon cut off, for the sound of the gunfire had reached Cuevas, and the sheriff and his men emerged riding hard after them, holding up their long rifles and firing into the air.

“Let’s go,” Faraday said. Taking the wagon, they fled into the chaparral. But the heavy, laborious thing could not keep pace with the horsemen and before long the men of Cuevas were upon them with weapons drawn and ready. Tenhorse’s hands were a blur as he nocked arrow after arrow, dropping the men from their horses before they could take aim at anyone from their party.

Still, a few of the men from Cuevas shot true. Turnbull took a shot right in the head and died instantly. Tennyson took on in the stomach and he screamed in pain.

Eventually the men from Cuevas ran out of bullets, but their pursuit continued unabated. It began to rain. The wagon hit upon a boulder and tumbled to the side, flinging the occupants out. The rain fell so hard they could barely make out the terrain ahead. Faraday and Moon slogged through the wet and muddy land as hard and as fast as they could until they fell exhausted, letting the rain pelt them in the face, their nostrils filled with the smell of moist grass. The pair lay on the grass. They dared not speak or move. Slowly the moisture in the rain collected in their clothes, soaking through to their skin, until Moon lightly trembled in the cold. Turning to her, Faraday slithered closer and tried to embrace her, but she pushed him away.

“I can find the others,” he said.

Then he closed his eyes and sought first for Tennyson, but he could not see the man and feared the worst. He tried to find Tenhorse next. He could see the Indian, but faint and fading.

“I know where Tenhorse is.”

“Take us there.”

Crawling with their elbows digging into the mud, Faraday led Moon towards the spot where Tenhorse bled. They found Tenhorse just as Faraday had seen him. The Indian sat on the ground, one hand covering a wound in his stomach. Moon tenderly pushed his hand aside and felt the hole the rifle ball had made. She stuck two of her fingers inside and Tenhorse muffled a cry, and when Moon’s fingers reappeared they held the bloody ball precariously between her nails. Then Moon grabbed Tenhorse’s hand and placed it over the wound, pushing it against the Indian’s flesh to try to stop the bleeding.

“We need shelter,” Moon said.

So Faraday looked for shelter and he found a lodge not far from where they stood and he saw in it a fire and food cooking over it.

They moved out, each holding on to one of Tenhorse’s arms, for the Indian could not walk without help. It was slow going. On the way they found a creek and there they stopped and drank and wet their faces. On the final stretch to the lodge the rain ceased and the sun came out again, transforming the landscape into a piece of Eden, idyllic in its beauty, with butterflies perching on flowers and small birds flying from tree to tree. At one point a fox peeked out from behind a bush and then retreated back into cover.

They dropped him at the foot of the lodge. Tenhorse, now awake, sat up. Faraday knocked on the door. No answer. Then he walked around the perimeter of the lodge, trying to find a window or a sign of the resident. But he found nothing. Satisfied that no one was near, he kicked in the door to the lodge. Inside he found simple furniture and a fireplace and some morsels of food left on a plate, and these he stuffed into his mouth, leaving some for Moon and Tenhorse. Then in a chest he found a revolver and bullets and after making sure the revolver was loaded he secured it to his trousers and put the bullets in his pocket.

Faraday probed out with his mind, feeling the terrain around him, a swath of land that could hide nothing from him. He saw a few deer, a fox, birds and many insects, but no living man or woman. Over the last three days his ability had been a comfort to him and every time he looked out, the images came back easier and clearer. No longer did he need to think of some specific object or person to find. Instead, he felt as though he could see everything, hold all of it in his mind at once. At least everything that lay within the radius of his power. Faraday’s acute awareness of the limitation of his powers increased proportionally with the growing ease with which he could access them. He knew precisely how far he could look. Anything beyond that line he might as well have no power at all. Except when he touched Moon. Then the power was limitless, or at least enough so that he could not tell the difference.

The modest fireplace in the lodge still burned but the pile of kindling next to it was almost spent. The few pieces left waited next to the fire, their fates certain like those of condemned sinners. Tenhorse lay on the only bed, his body still recovering. The rags over his wound were red and dirty, and Moon sat next to him, offering him water.

All throughout the day, Faraday kept a lookout both with his eyes and with his mind, worrying constantly that the owner of the lodge would return and catch them unawares. At night, he took some blankets and laid them out on the floor for Moon and himself. They agreed to take turns watching the door. Faraday would go first. But before resting, Moon unwrapped Tenhorse’s bandages. The wound still festered, the engorged flesh purple and sickly, and Moon covered it up again with fresh linens. Tenhorse’s body contorted at the pain, trying to gain some foothold from which to defend itself against that assault.

“We can’t stay here forever,” Moon said.

“We will head to my father’s farm. It’s not far. Maybe two days walking.”

“Very well.”

“How is he?” Faraday said.

“Better, but the pain is still great.”

“Ask him to try to stand up again.”

Moon did just that, speaking in her Ohlone tongue, and Tenhorse very deliberately lifted himself up, his jaw clenched. The Indian warrior stood up straight, one hand still guarding the injury, and walked slowly from the bed to the door and back again. Then he spoke to Moon.

“He says we can leave tomorrow. That he will walk,” Moon translated for Faraday.

Faraday was up before daybreak, already out in the woods gathering kindling. The marshy grass still held much of the moisture from the rain and it squished and squashed underneath Faraday’s boots. He did not have the revolver with him, having left it with Moon. Then he heard the clacking of hooves piercing through the birdsong. Taking what he had gathered, Faraday walked briskly back to the lodge and told Moon to get down and away from the windows.