p&c.thunderhead-第91章

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　BEIYOODZIN　MADE　HIS　WAY　ACROSS　THE　slickrock　plateau；　far　above　the　valley　of　Quivira。　The　heart　of　a　second；　smaller　storm　was　passing　overhead　now；　and　it　was　very　dark。　Beneath　his　feet；　the　irregular　rock　was　slick　with　rainwater；　and　Beiyoodzin　walked　with　great　care。　His　old　feet　ached；　and　he　missed　the　presence　of　his　horse；　tethered　back　in　the　valley　of　Chilbah。　The　Priest's　Trail　was　impassable　for　all　but　the　two…legged。　
　The　trail　markings　were　irregular　and　vague…a　small；　ancient　cairn　of　rocks　here　and　there…and　the　way　was　difficult　to　make　out　in　the　darkness。　Beiyoodzin　needed　all　his　skill　simply　to　follow　it。　His　eyes　were　not　as　strong　as　they　had　once　been。　And　he　was　all　too　aware　that　the　single　most　difficult　stretch　lay　ahead：　in　the　tortuous；　dangerous　descent　along　the　ridge　of　the　narrow　slot　canyon　at　the　far　end　of　the　valley。　
　He　wrapped　the　sopping　cloak　tighter　and　moved　on。　Though　his　grandfather　had　hinted　of　it；　Beiyoodzin　had　never　believed　that　the　Priest's　Trail　could　be　so　demanding；　or　so　long。　After　arrowing　up　the　secret　cut　in　Chilbah　Valley；　it　followed　a　long；　plex　route　across　the　high　plateau；　wriggling　for　miles　through　the　stunted　junipers；　in　and　out　of　dry　washes　and　steep　little　ravines。　He　urged　his　tired　body　to　move　faster。　It　was　late；　he　knew；　perhaps　too　late。　There　was　no　telling　what　might　have　happened；　or　what　might　be　happening；　in　the　valley　of　Quivira。　
　Suddenly；　he　stopped　short。　There　was　a　smell　in　the　air：　a　lingering　smell　of　woodsmoke；　damp　ash；　and　something　else　that　brought　his　heart　into　his　mouth。　He　looked　around；　eyes　wide　to　the　darkness；　letting　the　occasional　tongues　of　lightning　guide　his　way。　There　it　was…in　the　shadow　of　a　large　rock；　as　he　knew　it　would　be…the　remains　of　a　small　twig　fire。　
　He　looked　around　quickly；　carefully；　making　sure　he　was　alone；　making　sure　the　creatures　who　had　made　this　fire　were　long　gone。　Then　he　crouched；　sifting　the　ash　with　his　fingers。　He　pulled　the　remains　of　root　strips；　burned　and　brittle；　from　the　small　pile；　rubbing　them　appraisingly　between　his　fingers。　Then；　brow　furrowing；　he　began　to　sift　more　quickly；　fingertips　impatiently　brushing　the　ash　aside。　One　hand　closed　on　something；　and　he　drew　in　his　breath　sharply：　the　petal　of　a　flower；　limp　and　withered。　He　brought　it　to　his　nose。　The　scent　confirmed　his　worst　fears：　beneath　the　heavy　smell　of　woodsmoke；　he　could　still　make　out　the　lingering　odor　of　morning　glories。　
　He　stood　up；　brushing　his　fingers　on　his　wet　trousers　in　agitation。　Once；　as　a　child　in　the　village　of　Nankoweap；　he　had　seen　a　terrible　thing：　a　very　old　man；　a　bad　man；　partake　of　the　forbidden　datura　flower。　The　man　had　flown　into　a　rage　under　the　influence　of　the　drug；　lashing　out　violently　at　all　in　his　path　with　several　times　his　normal　strength。　It　had　taken　half　a　dozen　young　men　of　the　village　to　subdue　him。　
　But　this　was　worse。　Much　worse。　Those　he　was　tracking　had　taken　datura　in　the　ancient　way；　the　evil　way；　mixing　it　with　psilocybin　mushrooms；　buttons　of　the　mescal　cactus；　forbidden　insects。　The　unholy　spirit　would　take　possession　of　them；　bring　great　strength　to　their　limbs　and　a　murderous　frenzy　to　their　minds；　make　them　oblivious　to　their　own　pain；　or　the　pain　of　others。　
　Kneeling；　he　said　a　brief；　fervent　prayer　in　the　darkness。　Then　he　rose　again　and　continued　down　the　trail　with　redoubled　speed。　
　
　
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　BONAROTTI　SAT　LISTLESSLY　ON　THE　SMOOTH　rocky　ground　of　the　Planetarium；　his　back　against　the　unyielding　wall；　elbows　resting　on　upraised　knees。　He　stared　out　into　the　darkness；　beyond　the　curving　shelf　that　hid　the　great　city。　The　valley　was　dark；　lit　infrequently　by　livid　forks　of　lightning。　A　thin　curtain　of　water　fell　across　the　entire　length　of　the　overhanging　lip　of　rock；　cloaking　the　entrance　to　Quivira。　There　was　no　longer　any　reason　to　leave　the　fort　of　the　dry　city。　In　fact；　there　was　no　reason　to　do　anything；　except　wait　out　the　next　several　days　with　as　much　fort　and　as　little　inconvenience　as　possible。　
　He　knew　that　he　should　feel　vastly　more　disappointment　than　he　did。　Initially…during　the　first　minutes　of　his　realization　that　the　secret　kiva　held；　not　gold；　but　merely　countless　ancient　pots…the　feeling　of　dismay　and　shock　had；　in　fact；　been　overwhelming。　And　yet　now；　here　on　the　outskirts　of　the　city；　all　he　felt　was　a　vast　ache　in　his　bones。　The　gold　would　not　have　been　his；　anyway。　He　wondered　why　he　had　worked　so　hard；　gotten　so　uncharacteristically　caught　up　in　the　excitement　of　the　moment。　Now　his　only　reward　were　limbs　that　felt　unnaturally　heavy。　The　butt　of　the　big　revolver　dug　into　his　right　side。　Minutes　before；　he　thought　he　had　heard　the　quick　patter　of　feet　running　across　the　central　plaza；　followed　by　an　angry　buzz　of　conversation　in　the　valley　below。　But　he　had　not　been　certain；　over　the　annoyingly　steady　burble　of　rain。　His　ears　felt　clogged　and　painful；　perhaps　he　had　imagined　the　sounds。　And　he　felt　little　interest　in　exploring　further。　
　With　great　effort；　he　dug　into　his　breast　pocket　for　a　cigarette；　then　sounded　his　trousers　for　a　match。　He　knew　that　smoking　was　forbidden　in　the　ruin；　but　at　the　moment　he　could　not　have　cared　less；　besides；　he　somehow　felt　that　Sloane　would　be　more　tolerant　of　such　things　than　Nora　Kelly　had　been。　Smoking　was　about　the　only　fort　he　had　left　in　this　godforsaken　place。　That；　and　the　secret　cache　of　grappa　he　had　secreted　deep　among　his　cookware。　
　But　the　cigarette　proved　no　fort。　It　tasted　terrible；　in　fact：　like　cardboard　and　old　socks。　He　took　it　out　and　peered　at　it　closely；　using　the　fiery　tip　for　illumination。　Then　he　inserted　it　once　again　between　his　lips。　Each　fresh　inhalation　of　smoke　brought　stabbing　pains　to　his　lungs。　With　a　cough；　he　pinched　it　out　with　his　fingers　and　dropped　it　into　his　pocket。　
　Something　told　Bonarotti　that　the　fault　did　not　lie　with　the　cigarette。　He　thought　briefly　about　Holroyd；　and　how　he　had　looked；　in　those　agonizing　minutes　before　he　died。　The　thought　sent　a　galvanic　twitch　to　his　limbs；　and　he　rose　instinctively　to　his　feet。　But　the　sudden　motion　drained　the　blood　from　his　head；　his　body　grew　hot；　and　a　strange　low　roaring　sounded　in　his　ears。　He　put　an　arm　to　the　cliff　face　to　steady　himself。　
　He　took　one　deep　breath；　then　another。　Then　he　tried　putting　one　foot　in　front　of　the　other；　gingerly。　The　world　seemed　to　reel　around　him；　and　he　steadied　himself　against　the　wall　again。　He　had　only　been　seated　for　fifteen　minutes；　maybe　half　an　hour；　at　most。　What　could　be　happening　to　him？　He　licked　his　lips；　staring　out　into　the　center　of　the　city。　There　was　a　painful　pressure　in　his　head；　and　the　hinges　of　his　jaws　throbbed　with　a　mounting　ache。　The　rain　seemed　to　be　easing　up；　and　yet　its　steady；　monotonous　drone　was　being　increasingly　irritating　to　his　ears。　He　began　moving　toward　the　central　plaza；　lurchingly；　without　purpose。　Lifting　his　feet　seemed　an　act　of　supreme　difficulty。　
　In　the　darkened　plaza；　he　stopped。　Despite　its　openness；　he　felt　the　three…story　roomblocks　crowding　in　on　all　sides；　their　blank　windows　like　skeletal　eyes；　staring　stonily　at　him。　
　〃I　feel　sick；〃　he　said　matter…of…factly；　to　nobody　in　particular。　
　The　sound　of　the　drumming　rain　was　torture。　Now；　his　only　wish　was　to　escape　it：　to　find　someplace　dark　and　still；　where　he　could　curl　up；　and　cover　his　ears　with　his　hands。　He　turned　slowly；　mechanically；　waiting　for　another　slash　of　lightning　to　reveal　the　city。　A　blaze　of　yellow　briefly　illuminated　the　doorway　of　the　nearest　series　of　roomblocks；　and　he　shambled　toward　it　to　the　acpanying　sound　of　thunder。　
　He　paused　in　the　entryway；　a　brief　sense　of　alarm　piercing　the　haze　of　sickness　and　disfort。　He　felt　that；　if　he　did　not　lie　down　immediately；　he　would　collapse　to　the　floor。　And　yet　the　blackness　of　the　room　before　him　was　so　plete；　so　intense；　that　it　seemed　to　be　crawling；　somehow；　before　his　vision。　It　was　a　repellent；　almost　nauseating　phenomenon　Bonarotti　had　never　seen　or　imagined。　Or　perhaps　it　was　the　sudden　smell　that　nauseated　him：　the　ripe；　sickly　sweet　scent　of　flowers。　He　swayed　where　he　stood；　hesitating。　
　Then　a　fresh　wave　of　lightheadedness　overwhelme