Merkabah Rider: Have Glyphs Will Travel (20 page)

“Now I regret that I must come to
put you to another task. A dark power is rising once more among the Indians.”

“Not Shub-Niggurath,” the Rider
breathed, for he did not want to face that thing again.

“No,” said Faustus, chewing his pipe
stem. “No, I don’t think so. The truth is, I do not know what it is. But I know
it is bound to you.”

“To me?” said the Rider, taken
aback. “Why to me?”

“Do not trust him, Rider,” said
Kabede. “I urge you.”

“Do not, if you do not,” Faustus
said, rising from his seat. “But trust a friend, if not me.”

He motioned to the vardo and the
front door opened. An old Indian stooped and emerged, descending the step and
walking around the camels to the fire. His long grey hair was kept from his
face by a broad Apache headband, and a long cloth swayed between his white
leggings.

When the light fell across his face,
the Rider rose.

It was not an old man at all. It was
Piishi of the Chiricahua Apache. Piishi, who had killed Shub-Niggurath’s
servitor the Black Goat Man with one well-placed throw of a star born knife at
the lip of the deep well beneath Red House.

His hair had turned prematurely
white after facing the Outer God, his eyes and the soul which looked out
through them had aged a great deal, and his face was lined prematurely, but he
was still a relatively young man, only a little older than Kabede.

“Rider Who Walks,” said Piishi.

“Piishi,” said the Rider, smiling
slightly. “It’s good to see you again.”

“When we met, you asked me if I knew
one called Misquamacus,” Piishi said without further preamble, settling by the
fire.

The Rider thought. It was true. A
band of Indian warriors had come upon him in the night, and admittedly
frightened, he had mentioned the shaman whom he had once helped in the years
after the war. Misquamacus had claimed to be the greatest shaman of all the
Indian nations, had told him that every tribe knew him.

Piishi of course, had never heard of
him.

“I remember,” the Rider said.

“A prophet is going among the people
at San Carlos. He says he has seen visions of all the Indians of every nation
dying at the white man’s hand. This is nothing new, but he has power. I have
seen him stop the day, so that the sun and the birds hung in the sky. He has
secret army of Indians who come and go on the wind, and he preaches that a
final war is coming with the white man. He has called for a great meeting of
the people at Pa-Gotzin Kay. His name is Mis-kwa-macus.”

The Rider rubbed his beard.

“Do you know this man of whom he
speaks?” Kabede asked.

“I did. A long time ago. He was a
Cheyenne medicine man. We became friends, of a sort, but he never had any love
for white people. His pregnant wife was murdered at Sand Creek by Chivington’s
men. When I knew him, he had hunted down and killed several soldiers of the
Third Colorado by himself.”

Not entirely by himself. The Rider
had blundered into Misquamacus’ tragedy not long after he had mustered out of
the army at Ft. Leavenworth, and he had helped him secure his revenge in the
end. This was what had earned the medicine man’s respect, but this was between
himself and Misquamacus, and he didn’t see a point in bringing it up here.

“He used a lot of dark power, and
Indian magic I didn’t really understand. I kept him from going over the brink.
Then I saw him home to his band in the Nations. That was about fourteen years
ago.”

“I do not think this man is
Cheyenne,” Piishi said. “He knows our ways too well.”

The Rider shrugged.

“Did he have a scar over his left
eye?”

“Yes,” Piishi said.

“It’s him,” the Rider said. “How
many medicine men are there named Misquamacus?”

“It is not a Dine name,” Piishi
admitted.

“Then perhaps you have some sway
with him,” Faustus suggested.

“If he’s preaching death to the
white man,” the Rider said, “I would think very little.”

“Many have already joined him,”
Piishi said. “But his power does not come from Usen. He calls for the people to
turn away from Usen.”

“Usen?” Kabede asked.

“The one God,” Piishi said. “The
Creator.”

“What power does he tell the people
to look to?” the Rider asked.

“He has not told us. He says he will
reveal it at
Pa-Gotzin Kay
in ten
days.”

“What’s
Pa-Gotzin Kay
?”

“It is a secret stronghold high in
the Mother Mountains, near the town the Mexicans call Nacozari in Mexico. I
know the way.”

“We have no time to divert to
Mexico,” said Kabede.

“Divert? Where do you have to be?”
Faustus asked wryly. “For that matter, what’s your plan to fight Adon and his
Creed? Have you yet learned
his
plan?”

“Have
you
?” Kabede snapped.

“No,” Faustus admitted. “But my
people have been trying, to their detriment.”

“What do you mean to
their
detriment?” asked the Rider.

“I mean a war has been going on for
quite some time now, Rider. The Sons of the Essenes have not been the only
casualties, and Adon is not the only general the Great Old Ones have fielded.
Secret societies have risen and fallen in the last twenty years to hinder or
hail the Hour of the Incursion. The blue monks of Shambhala are all but gone,
but we have accounted for some of Adon’s Creed. Ten of my disciples died on a
mesa at a place called Stallions Gate in New Mexico with the traitor of Ein
Gedi, the Merkabah Rider called Ha’h’ayal. And of the other six who betrayed
their enclaves, a man who called himself Barana fought us in Krakow, and is no
more.”

“Ha’h’ayal,” the Rider repeated. “It
means ‘The Soldier.’ And ‘Barana…’”

“Polish for ‘The Ram,’” Faustus
said.

The Rider looked at Kabede.

“Can you confirm those names?”

“Here?” Kabede whispered. “Now?”

The Rider nodded.

Kabede reluctantly reached into his
satchel and produced the Order’s
Book of
Life
from which he’d torn the page containing the Rider’s true name. He
began to thumb through it.

The whole time, Faustus’ eyes
widened.

“Ari Mizrachi, called The Soldier.
Of the Ein Gedi Enclave.” He thumbed a few pages, and nodded. “Marek Stroński,
The Ram, of Krakow,” he said. “They were both Sons of the Essenes. That much is
true.”

Faustus’s expression flashed with
naked anger as Kabede recited the names.

“You knew their true names all along…
and you didn’t tell me
? Do you know how
many of my students died fighting these men?”

“How could I trust you? I did not
even know if you were devil or angel. Nor did I know who among my Order had
turned traitor. Mine is a sacred trust. I would never have given you the names
of brother riders even if I could have done so with a clear conscience.”

“Knowing their names might have
spared lives. The lives of men and women who even now could have faced the
Great Old Ones at your side!”

“Tell us who else betrayed the Order
and we’ll tell you their names,” the Rider said.

Kabede wheeled on the Rider.

“How do we know his knowledge isn’t
faulty? How do we know he is not allied with these things?”

“He’s not,” the Rider said tiredly. “I
met one of his blue monks. He gave his life to stop one of The Old Ones.
Anyway, even if he were in league with the enemy he would’ve attacked us by
now.” Then, he said to Faustus, “Give us the names and we’ll trade you. What’s
done is done.”

Faustus glowered, but nodded. “Alright.
My network has discovered the surviving traitors came from Thessaloniki,
Amsterdam, Berlin, Livorno, and Owernah.”

“We already know about Het Bot, The
Bone of Amsterdam. The Sword and The Shield from Berlin and Owernah are both
dead,” the Rider said.

“Il Ferro is the name the Italian
traitor goes by,” said Faustus, “and the Greek is known as To Tóxo.”

Kabede went through the book again.

“Leone Romoli from Livorno, The
Iron. Noe Cerf of Thessaloniki, The Bow.”

“Now,” said the Rider. “Tear their
pages out and throw them in the fire.”

Kabede stared.

“I cannot do that.”

“They’ll die within the year if you
do, and we’ll be rid of them. Do it.”

“The names of some of my own
brothers of the Balankab Enclave are on those pages.”

“Is your name on one of those pages?”
the Rider asked sharply.

“No,” Kabede said.

“What about Adon’s name?” Faustus
asked. “Might we not stop him if we know his true name?”

Kabede shook his head.

“He won’t have used his true name.
The Order would never have accepted him if he had.”

“How do you know this?” Faustus asked.

Kabede looked at the Rider again.

“Kabede thinks Adon is actually
Elisha ben Abuyah, a sage from the first century.”

“Elisha ben Abuyah,” Faustus
repeated slowly. “I don’t know him.”

The Rider related the tale of the
Four Sages who entered Paradise, and Faustus nodded.

“It does make a great deal of sense,”
he said, when it was over.

“What name is Adon listed as in the
Book of Life
?”

“Jethro Auspitz,” said Kabede
automatically. “I already looked him up.”

“It’s alright, Rider,” said Faustus.
“Knowing the true names of the turncoat riders will help us quite enough. Since
betraying your Order, each of the Creed as they have come to be known, has
trained subordinates under Adon’s direction, forming their own private
societies dedicated to bringing about the Hour of Incursion. My blue monks have
fought the necromancers of the Society of Bone several times already. The
numbers of the enemy are growing, while ours are less every day.”

“Who else fights with us?” the Rider
asked.

“Not many. Individuals who have come
upon the truth in their own way, mostly. The Order of the Peacock Angel, but
their motives are selfish and they cannot be trusted. The Nine Unknown Men, but
they keep to themselves. The Caste, The Kun-Sun Dai, The Watchers, The
Theosophical Society, but they are mostly disorganized, or working from
half-truths. I’m afraid most are unaware of or,” he looked at Kabede, “unwilling
to believe in the Hour of Incursion.”

“Do you know when it’s due?”

“One of my disciples was focusing
solely on that, but he was assassinated before he could pinpoint the date,”
Faustus sighed. “He theorized the autumnal equinox of this year.”

The Rider swallowed, and glanced at
Kabede, who looked gravely back.

“September twenty second,” the Rider
said, mechanically intoning the words like a machine chiseling an epitaph. Also
The Day of Atonement.

“Yes,” said Faustus. “It’s no wonder
their activities are increasing.”

He motioned with his pipe to Piishi.

“If the Apache decide to join their
ranks, we will be effectively unable to move anywhere in the Southwest.”

“That is true,” Piishi said. “Vittorio
and Juh and the others will hear Mis-kwa-makis out. If they decide to lend
their strength to his, the Great Old Ones will rule this land.”

“And I am convinced that somewhere
in the heart of this land,” Faustus continued, “The Creed or some other allied
group will usher in The Hour of Incursion, and no one will be able to stop it.
Their operations here have been too concentrated as of late.” He blew smoke. “Unless
it’s all a grand diversion, of course.”

“It seems to me that Jerusalem would
be the center of their plot,” said the Rider. “The Talmud says that the
Foundation Stone beneath the Temple Mount is the junction point of Heaven and
Earth. It’s the stone the Lord threw into the waters of Chaos, from which the
earth expanded. Adam offered sacrifices upon it, and the Patriarch laid Isaac
upon it. Wouldn’t it make sense that they’d try to open some kind of gate
there?”

“I’ve thought of that too,” Faustus
said. “Many of your people’s religious works point to it. The last of my agents
are there, watching the city. But I’m not convinced. The Creed has concentrated
its greatest efforts in this land. Why would Shub-Niggurath herself appear
here? And why is Misquamacus raising an army here?”

“You’re certain it’s the Great Old
Ones Misquamacus serves?” said Kabede. “What about Lucifer?”

“He didn’t strike me as wanting to
take an active hand in anything,” the Rider said. “If it’s not Shub-Niggurath,
what else could it be? How many of these things are here?”

“I don’t know for certain,” said
Faustus. “I know of one that sleeps in the depths of the ocean. There is
Shub-Niggurath and Yig, and there is the one my brother and I pursued here.”