Eye of The cat, page 6
I go to see the Faceless One.
Impervious to pain may I walk.
With beauty all about me may I walk.
It closes in beauty.
I shall not return.
Be still.
Ann Axtell Morris and her archaeologist husband Earl told the story of the two Franciscans, Fathers Fintan and Anselm, who traveled in the place of the white reed, Lu-ka-chu-kai, in the year 1909. There, south of the Four Corners, in the roadless and wild mountains, they rested one afternoon while their Navajo guide took a walk. Later the guide returned with a large, decorated ceramic water jar. Father Fintan, who knew something of Indian pottery, recognized the uniqueness of the piece and asked where it was from. The guide did not give the location. He did say that it came from an abandoned city of the Anasazi, the Old Ones, a place of many large houses and a high tower—a place where many such jars, some still filled with corn, lay about, as well as blankets, sandals, tools. But he had simply borrowed the jar to show them and must replace it, for one day the owners might return. But where was this place? The Navajo shook his head. He walked off with the pot. After half an hour he was back. Later the priests described the pot to the Morrises, who felt it to be from the Pueblo III period, a high point in southwestern culture. And surely the place would be easy to locate, knowing that it lay within half an hour’s walk from that campsite. They searched several times, without success. And Emil W. Haury spent half a summer there in 1927 but was not able to discover the lost city of Lukachukai. There is now a city in Arizona which has taken that name. Rugs are woven there. The story of a lost prehistoric city in those mountains somewhere to the northeast of Canyon de Chelly has since been dismissed as apocryphal.
It was the wind that gave them life. It is the wind that comes out of our mouths now that gives us life. When this ceases to blow we die. In the skin at the tips of our fingers we see the trail of the wind; it shows us where the wind blew when our ancestors were created.
Translated from the Navajo by Washington Matthews, 1897
The box hummed and the outline occurred, quickly to be filled in and solidified as they watched.
A tall, well-dressed black man of middle years smiled, stepped down and moved forward.
“Good to have you here,” Edwin Tedders said, shaking his hand and turning toward the others. “This is Charles Fisher, stage magician, mentalist.”
He indicated a pale woman whose blue eyes were framed by an ultrafine net of wrinkles, her blond hair drawn back and bound.
“This is Elizabeth Brooke, the artist and writer,” he said. “Perhaps you’ve read—”
“We’ve met,” Fisher said. “How are you, Elizabeth?” She smiled.
“Fine, for a change. And yourself?”
Her accent was British, her ring was expensive. She rose, crossed to Fisher and embraced him lightly.
“Good to see you again,” she said.
“We worked together several years ago,” she told Tedders. “I’m glad you could get him.”
“So am I,” Tedders said. “And this is Mercy Spender____”
Fisher moved to the heavyset woman with puffy features and watery eyes, a red spiderweb design beneath the skin of her nose. She wiped her hand before clasping his. Her eyes darted.
“Mercy…”
“Hello.”
“…And this is Alex Mancin. He works for the World Stock Exchange.”
Alex was short and plump, with a boyish face beneath graying hair. His eyes were steady, though, and there was a look of depth to them.
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Fisher.”
“Call me Charles.”
“Glad to meet you, Charles.”
“…And this is James MacKenzie Ironbear, a satellite engineer,” Tedders said, moving on.
“Jim.”
“Dave.”
James Ironbear was of middle height, solidly built, with long black hair, dark eyes and a dark complexion. His hands were large and strong-looking.
“We’ve worked together, too,” he said. “How’ve you been, Charles?”
“Busy. I’ll tell you all about it later.”
“And this,” Tedders gestured toward the large smiling man with narrow pale eyes who stood beside the bar, a drink in one hand, “this is Walter Sands. He plays cards, and things like that.”
Fisher raised his eyebrows, then nodded.
“Mr. Sands…”
“Mr. Fisher.”
. And so we are gathered,” Tedders said. “Everyone else has reviewed the chips.”
“I have, too,” Fisher said.
“Well, everyone else has an opinion. Do you think you’ll be able to detect the approach of the Stragean adept?”
“I’m not sure,” Fisher replied, “when it comes to an alien with some sort of training.”
“That’s what everyone else said. May I offer you a drink?”
“Actually, I’d like some food. I came from a different time zone. Haven’t had a chance at dinner yet.”
“Surely.”
Tedders moved to an intercom and pressed a button, ordered a tray.
“They’ll serve it on the second floor,” he said. “I suggest we all head upstairs and work things out there. It may be a bit more…removed…from any action that might occur. So if anyone wants to take a drink along, better get it now.” “I’ll have a gin and tonic,” Mercy said, rising.
“Wouldn’t you rather have a cup of tea?” Elizabeth asked her. “It’s very good.”
“No. I’d rather have a gin and tonic.”
She moved off to the bar and prepared herself a large drink. Elizabeth and Tedders exchanged glances. He shrugged.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Mercy said, her broad back still toward them, “but you’re wrong.”
Walter Sands, standing beside her, grinned and then turned away.
Tedders led them from the room, and they followed him up a wide staircase.
It was a front room to which he conducted them. There was a large table at its center, a small piece of equipment on it. A half-dozen comfortable-looking chairs were placed around the table; there was a couch to the left and four smaller tables near the walls, left and right. Three trip-boxes capable of accommodating a pair of people each had been installed along the rear wall. Tedders halted in the doorway and gestured along a cross-corridor.
“Charles,” he said, “your bedroom is the second door to the left up that way.”
He turned back.
“Make yourselves comfortable, everyone. This is where you will be working. We should have two people in here at all times, listening for the alien while the others rest. You can pair off as you wish and make up your own duty roster. That small unit on the table is an alarm. Slap the button and irritating buzzers will go off all over the place. If you are in your rooms and you hear it, wake up fast and get over here. You can use the trip-boxes to get out if all else fails—” “Wait a minute,” Alex Mancin said. “All of this is of course essential, but you’ve just raised a question that’s been bothering me and probably the others, too. Namely, how far does our responsibility here extend? Say we detect the alien and give the alarm. What then? I’m a telepath, but I can also transmit thoughts to others—even nontelepaths. Perhaps I could broadcast confusing images and downbeat emotions to this creature. Maybe the others can do other things. I don’t know. Are we supposed to try?”
“A good point,” Walter Sands said. “I can influence the fall of dice. I might be able to affect someone’s optic nerves. In fact, I know I can. I could leave a person temporarily blind. Should I try something like that—or do we just leave the defense to the tough guys once the enemy is in sight?” “We can’t ask you to jeopardize your lives,” Tedders replied. “On the other hand, it would be a great help if you could manage something along those lines. I’m going to have to leave that part to your discretion. But the more you can do, the better, even if it is only a parting shot.”
“Charles and I once combined the force of our thinking to pass a message under very trying circumstances,” Elizabeth said. “I wonder what would happen if all of us attempted it and directed the results against the alien?”
“I guess that’s for you to work out,” Tedders said. “But if you’re going to try it, don’t just blast away at anything indiscriminately. We may have outside help.”
“We will learn quickly to recognize the guards if we haven’t already done so,” Sands said.
“But you may occasionally pick up the thoughts of someone who is not one of the guards,” Tedders stated. “I don’t want you trying to fry his frontal lobes just because he seems a little different.”
“What do you mean? Who is it?” Mercy inquired. “I think you’d better explain.”
“His name is William Blackhorse Singer, and he’s a Navajo Indian tracker,” Tedders replied. “He’s on our side.”
“Is that the guy who practically filled that Interstellar zoo out in California?” James Ironbear asked.
“Yes.”
“What, specifically, will he be up to?”
“I’m not certain. But he says he’s going to help.”
They all stared at Tedders.
“Why don’t you know?” Fisher said.
“He thinks the alien might be a telepath, too. He doesn’t want to risk her learning his plans from us. And he thinks he might be able to block a telepath, at least part of the time.”
“How?” Sands asked.
“Something to do with thinking in a primitive fashion. I didn’t understand it all.”
“The Startracker,” Ironbear said. “I read about him when I was a kid.”
“He a relative or something?” Fisher asked, moving toward a chair and seating himself.
Ironbear shook his head.
“My father was a Sioux from Montana. He’s a Navajo from Arizona or New Mexico. No way. I wonder how you think primitive?”
A man carrying a tray came up the hall. Tedders nodded toward Fisher as he brought it into the room. It was delivered and uncovered. Fisher began his meal. Ironbear seated himself across from him. Elizabeth drew out the chair to Fisher’s right, Sands the one to his left. Mancin and Mercy Spender seated themselves with Ironbear.
“Thank you,” Mancin said. “We are going to have to discuss this now.”
“You will have no objections if I record your discussion?” Tedders said. “For later reference.”
Sands smiled and an olive left Fisher’s salad and drifted toward his hand.
“If you have a machine capable of recording our deliberations I would be very surprised,” Mancin said.
“Oh. In that case, I guess there is no reason for me to remain here. When should I check back with you?”
“In about an hour,” Mancin said.
“And could you send up a large pot of coffee and some cups?” Ironbear asked.
“And some tea,” Elizabeth said.
“I’ll do that.”
“Thanks.”
Tedders moved toward the door.
Mercy Spender looked at her empty glass, began to say something and changed her mind. Elizabeth sighed. Sands chewed the olive. Ironbear cracked his knuckles. No one spoke.
It is said that you Papagos have songs of power which give you control over all things.” “So it is said.”
“Is it not true?”
“We have no control over the minerals beneath our land.”
“Why is this?”
“We are not Navajos.”
“I do not understand.”
“The Navajos have a treaty with the government which gives them these rights.”
“And you do not?”
“To have a treaty with the government you must first have made war upon it. We never looked ahead to see its benefits and we remained at peace. A treaty beats a song of power.” “You make it sound like a card game.”
* * *
“The Navajos cheat at cards, too.”
“Coyote, you learned the secret of the floating-water place. You kidnapped the child of Water Monster whom you found there. As a result of your tampering with these forces you have unleashed floods, disasters, upheavals of nature. These have led to death, disorder and madness among the People. Why did you do it?”
“Just for laughs.”
* * *
“I understand that Begochidi-woman, Begochidi, Talking-god and Black-god created the game animals, and so they have control over the hunt?”
“Yes. They can help a hunter if they wish.”
“But you no longer hunt as much as you used to.”
“This is true.”
“Then they have less work these days.”
“I imagine they find ways to keep busy.”
“But, I mean, are these the full parameters of their functions as totemic beings within the context of your present tribal structure?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is that all they do?”
“No. They also revenge their people upon anthropologists who tell lies about us.”
* * *
In the center of my house of yellow corn I stand, and
I say this: I am Black-god who speaks to you.
I come and stand below the north. I say this:
Down from the top of Darkness Mountain which lies
before me a crystal doe stands up and comes to me.
Hooftip to kneetip, body to face, followed by game of
all kinds, it walks into my hand. When I call to it,
when I pray for it, it comes to me, followed by
game of all kinds.
I am Black-god who speaks to you. I stand below
the north.
They come to me out of Darkness Mountain.
Mercy Spender,
born at an illegal distillery in Tennessee, orphaned at the age of 5, raised by an eccentrically religious aunt on her mother’s side
& her deputy sheriff husband, who was taciturn & mustachioed, liked bowling & fishing
& sang in a barbershop quartet,
along with two older girls
& a boy who raped her at age 11, Jim, now a real estate appraiser,
lost any desire for further education at age 12, sang in the church choir
& later in a bar called Trixie’s, had a series of tediously similar love affairs, began drinking heavily at age 19, discovered the joys of the Spiritualist Church at age 20,
where her peculiar abilities blossomed shortly before her commitment to a drying-out sanitorium in South Carolina, where she found peace in the shelter of the therapeutic community,
spent the following 12 years singing, playing the organ, giving readings & comfort at the Church
& drinking & returning to the therapeutic community for peace & shelter & drying out,
& singing & comforting & supporting & reading
& drying out & we understand, sister, rest with us, the same under skin, all Alex Mancin, born in New Bedford, passed through a number of private schools, doing well without trying hard, mastering the complicated computer World Economy game
model by age 11,
J.D., Yale, M.B.A., Harvard Business School, passing through three marriages, doing less well without trying any harder,
by age 36
father of two sons (twins) & three daughters
for whom he feels as much affection as he has ever felt for anyone,
aware of everyone’s opinion about him
because of his strange sensitivity to thoughts
& not really caring a bit,
passionately devoted to a kennelful of Italian greyhounds,
like Frederick the Great, whom he also admires,
& far more concerned about canine thought-processes than those of people,
an absolute master of the money market, rich as Croesus, slow to anger & very slow to forgive, greatly concerned about his appearance & dress, wondering occasionally whether there is something he is
missing, seeking—every two or three years (unsatisfactorily)— for omitted fulfillments in orgies of high cultural immersion
& passing love affairs with very young women,
highly intelligent & partially numb a piece of everyone, none of us complete, brother, save when together, like this
Charles Dickens Fisher,
born in Toronto of a physician father & sociologist mother, became fascinated by illusion at an early age, put on magic shows for his sisters, Peg & Beth, was a good student though not an outstanding one, read the lives of the great illusionists,
Houdin, Thurston, Blackstone,
Dunninger, Houdini, Henning,
learned that he could cast illusions himself
with no other equipment than strong thoughts,
left school & became an entertainer
against his parents’ wishes,
grew famous as an in-person showman
(his illusions would not televise),
was later approached by the government
on the basis of an uncanny mentalist act he subsequently tried,
has since done considerable security work both in & out of government,
never married, always maintaining that the life he leads is too demanding of his time & energy, that he will not change
& that he will not be unfair by subjecting another person to confinement in a pigeonhole
in his schedule,
is actually afraid to commit himself
too strongly to another human being or to give up the emotions of audience attention he feeds upon,
possesses the compassion of a full empath, has a few good friends & many acquaintances, is aware of his deficiencies
& mocks himself often,
tends to grow maudlin around the holidays, still dotes on his sisters & their children, has never been fully reconciled with his parents, sometimes hates himself for disappointing
