Novel 1987 - The Haunted Mesa (v5.0) (34 page)

“We are betrayers all. Perhaps even I. I am no longer sure. Go, find your way. We have talked this little time, one to another. It has been good, very good! I go.”

Who was Camha? He had entry to the Forbidden. He knew where the Hall of Archives was, and he had spoken well.

Again Raglan was alone beside the green door. What awaited him within? Would he find Tazzoc there? Or would the Varanel be waiting? Or the Lords of Shibalba?

Erik would be guarded. Or would they believe guards essential in such a place? If he was guarded, the guards themselves might indicate his place of imprisonment.

This Hall of Archives had once been a temple, and that needed thinking about. A place of worship? Or simply the place from which an oracle had spoken? From which The Voice used to speak?

That would imply there must be a secret place where The Voice might be, and from which it might speak. In his travels he had visited other such places and there had been a hidden place from which the oracle spoke.

This Voice, too, had faded out. Its clear message became mere gibberish, like that of the Delphic Oracle and others. But the priests of gods or oracles do not willingly relinquish the power The Voice provides. There had been cases where the priests usurped the power and spoke for The Voice, pretending to be it.

Hence there had to be a place from which they could speak. If he could find that place, he might reactivate The Voice.

The Hand did not come to the Hall of Archives, and according to Tazzoc, no others came. Hence, the place of the oracle might have, over many years, been forgotten.

Surely, The Voice must not only have had a secret compartment from which it spoke, but also a way to reach that compartment unseen.

A passage that might go right to the apartments of The Hand? A way to discover where Erik was kept?

Someone had said—perhaps it had been Kawasi—that The Hand knew what people thought and said. Even her people knew of speaking tubes, so certainly the older people would know of them as well.

First, to enter the Hall of Archives. He dropped his hand again to the latch. He opened the door and stepped inside. The heavy door closed behind him.

It was a harsh, cold, definite sound. The door shut hard, and something clicked in its lock.

He was inside. Would he ever get out?

Chapter 36

T
HE DOOR BY which he entered opened on the left of the main hall, a vast space beneath a vaulted ceiling. The floor of the central hall lay some fifty feet lower than the level at which he entered, and on a dais approximately a hundred feet away was a massive table in front of three high-backed chairs. The space in the hall before them was empty.

On either side of that space and sloping back to the wall was a series of tiers, resembling bleachers. These were banks of shelves of books, each one bound top and bottom with slabs of thin wood, like Tibetan books. Before each line of shelves was a walk, and at intervals steps leading to the tiers above and below.

Raglan's eyes searched the room. He saw no one. Behind the three chairs was a concave latticed wall.

On his right a stair led down to the main hall, with a line of massive columns, one to every other tier, each at least four feet in diameter at bottom, tapering as they rose.

At some time in the distant past ceremonies must have been held here, and the great doors would have been thrown open for processions to enter and approach the dais.

Once more his eyes swept, then searched, the vast hall. Of course, something or someone might be hiding down there among the shelves of books, or might be watching from behind the lattice of that concave wall.

Somewhere here were the maps he wished to see, perhaps to find some clue to the place where Erik was held.

This hall, vast as it was, could be no more than a mere corner of the huge building that was the Forbidden, and the maze, if it was truly such, lay outside this room. Yet the place where he now stood gave him a sense of great age.

Tilting his head back, he looked up at the vast space above him. Around the hall, above the tiers of shelves, there were balconies. No doubt it would have been from those balconies that the Lords of Shibalba looked down upon the processions below.

He was not afraid, he told himself. What he felt was awe, but there was something else, too—some uneasiness such as he had never felt before.

“The Archives of my people.” The voice came from behind him and he almost jumped, he was so startled. He fought down the urge to turn quickly. It was Tazzoc.

“They are impressive.” Raglan nodded toward them. “Those I see seem to be on some sort of paper. I expected clay or stone.”

“Those are stored below, in another room even larger than this.” Tazzoc paused. “Do you have anything to compare?”

“Oh, yes! We have the Library of Congress, and many university and public libraries in my country, but other countries have vast libraries, too.”

“On
stone
? Or
clay
?”

“Actually, no. Most of those are in museums where scholars may have access to them, but many have been copied and are available in easily held books or on tape.”

“Tape?”

“A mechanical means of recording books and oral transcriptions. It enables a library such as this to be stored in a much smaller space.”

Tazzoc nodded. “There is a tale—I cannot speak for its truth—that we had such devices many years ago, and that The Hand has them now. It is also said that fresh ones are constantly made to enable him to see whatever he wishes of our activities without leaving the Forbidden.”

“And you do not know where he lives?”

Tazzoc gestured. “Somewhere in there, at the center of what you call a maze. It is in there your friend will be. Somewhere near the center.”

“You spoke of maps? Of plans?”

Tazzoc led the way, walking quickly along the face of one tier of shelves. Raglan could see that each shelf held stacks of books tied with string. The wooden backs were inscribed with characters.

Turning suddenly, Tazzoc climbed a steep stair, passing several tiers of shelves, and then in a back corner he indicated a row of shelves. “It is here.”

“Tazzoc? If we come out of this, there will be a place for you in our world if you wish to go. If not, I believe meetings could be arranged with our scholars. They would be fascinated by your Archives, and you would have a place of honor among them. Above all, copies of your Archives could be made so they would last forever.”

“I would like that.” There was pathos in his voice. “Often I am lonely. There is a need to talk, to share thoughts, to learn what others think. Here, I have only the Archives.”

Raglan lifted a book from the shelf and carefully took off the wooden slab that covered it. The thick paper, not unlike papyrus, was covered with characters. He put it aside and opened out the chart that followed.

The making of maps and plans must have long preceded what man conceived of as civilization, for the finding of places, the returning to them, or the giving of directions to springs or rivers must have begun shortly after man first began to wander the land. The Egyptians had made a god of Khonsa, the maker of plans, and Raglan had once been permitted to examine the Turin Papyrus, dating from 1320
B.C
. which located an Egyptian gold mine. The Romans had drawn careful road maps for the use of their legions or the couriers who followed them.

The first map was a remarkably clear rendition of the area around the Forbidden. The mountains from which he had come and where the Anasazi had rebuilt their world were indicated only by some jagged lines, although at one point there was a crowded area of squares, rectangles, and small circles that must indicate the ruin he had visited. Near this place was a remarkably well drawn picture of a giant lizard. Tazzoc disappeared into the lower areas and Raglan turned to the shelves. Swiftly, he checked book after book, searching for the plan of the Forbidden. Tazzoc had assured him it was here, although he had not seen it in years. When he reached the very lowest shelf he found it, a larger, flatter book.

Dusty and old, it had probably not been examined in many years. The top of the tier of shelves on the level below was over waist-high and formed a convenient desk for opening the books. With extreme care he undid the knots that held the pages together, then lifted off the thin slab of wood that was its top. Unfolding the crackling paper, he spread out the plan.

Remember, he warned himself, you are dealing with an alien mind. Yet the plan before him had been carefully drawn, possibly by the very architect, if such there had been, who designed the building.

There was a maze, and, a little back of center, a rectangle that indicated what was probably the focal point, the dwelling and executive mansion of The Hand. Nearby was another area of six rooms of equal size which might be cells for prisoners, and beside them a larger space that might be a guardroom.

The Hand's area, if such it was, was not diagrammed. No rooms were indicated. Deliberately, no doubt, his area remained a mystery.

Accustomed to study, Raglan had given the map a quick once-over, and now he began to check details. In the left-hand lower corner was an area that had to be the Hall of Archives; in the right-hand corner opposite, an area not quite so large that seemed to be the quarters of the Varanel. Between the two the great gates opened into a court and, beyond it was the entrance to the maze.

The maze was not simply a winding passage but halls, between long lines of rooms. Some of these would be the death traps, but which ones?

Was there any indication on the plans? Here and there were minute notations, but in characters he did not comprehend. Surely, the trapped rooms would be indicated on this plan, and even though he did not know the language, each trap must be indicated by a similar character. Within a few minutes he had noted twenty-six rooms marked by the same figure. Two were even side by side.

A quick scanning on the design showed no other figure that marked more than two rooms, and that only in one case. Yet how to remember which rooms were the ones marked? He ran his eyes along the hallways, noting the number of rooms. He glanced again at the map, then looked more carefully. This was a plan, not necessarily the one from which the structure had been built, but a plan as it must have been on completion. Of course, it would have been altered since, in which case all bets were off.

But…Puzzled, he studied the map again. In those rooms marked by the figure he suspected to indicate the traps, there was something else. Something just inside the door.…

Time was passing, and he had no time. Worried, he studied the plans anew. It seemed that the floor inside the trap rooms fell steeply away in a sort of ramp. Anyone stepping in would step down…?

No steps, just a short, steep ramp by the looks of it. A slippery ramp, perhaps? And the heavy door closing behind him? No chance to turn quickly and get out, nothing against which to brace himself to push against the door.

Simple, but effective. If one glimpsed the fact that he was entering a trap, there was no effective way to escape it. Raglan felt a chill. What was he getting into, anyway?

Getting
into? He was already in. Now to get Erik and get out.

And who was it he must avoid?

Zipacna, a man he had not seen, a tall man, a strong man, a man to be avoided at all costs.

Folding the map, he returned it and retied the strings, replacing the book upon its shelf.

But what was
that
?

A smaller map had fallen to the floor. He stooped to pick it up, then heard someone coming. Those footsteps were not Tazzoc's. He dropped to his knees and, still gripping the map, flattened himself out on an almost empty lower shelf.

Someone was coming. Somebody who paused, maybe looking around, then came on. Coming his way. His hand went to his waistband, and he stayed, listening.

The footsteps came on, paused. Sandaled feet, a robe of fine material. Then the feet moved on. There was a rustling. After a moment there was a voice, a commanding voice.

“Tazzoc!” Words followed, but he could understand nothing. From a distance Tazzoc was replying, quietly, submissively. There were moments of conversation and then, after a few minutes, a door opened and closed.

Raglan lay perfectly still. Who had gone? Was it Tazzoc or the other?

Minutes passed until he heard footsteps again. This time he recognized the step. It was Tazzoc. Raglan slid out of his hiding place.

“You are here! I was afraid, terribly afraid!”

“Who was it?”

“It was Zipacna. He never comes here, so why did he come today?” Tazzoc was frightened. His hands shook, and he kept looking around. “You must go! Now! I cannot risk it! If you should be found here I would be ruined! Destroyed! Please, please, go now! At once!”

“I am going, but you know nothing, have seen nothing.” Turning, Raglan walked swiftly away, then ran up the stairs to another level, then still another. Light fell from a narrow window behind a balcony. Pausing, he looked at the map that had fallen from the book.

It was very old. Undoubtedly it had some connection with the map of the Forbidden or it would not have been tucked away in that book. Staring at it, he recognized nothing. Then realization came to him.

It was this room! It was the Hall of the Archives when it had been a temple, before the great structure of the Forbidden had been added. It was this room that had been the Holy of Holies.

No archives then, but rows of seats looking down on the flat rectangle below, which must have been a ceremonial center or an arena.

He must get out of here. Suppose Zipacna had seen him, and simply gone to call the Varanel? If he was to find Erik he must be moving. Yet the map in his hands gripped his attention.

There was the table with the three chairs overlooking the arena, and that latticed screen, all of stone, that stood behind it.

At a corner of the stone screen there was a part of the screen that could open, allowing passage into the area behind it, but at the back there appeared to be a passage opening into the maze, and a way through the maze to the apartments of The Hand!