Cibola

Prologue

Fray Marcos de Niza muffled a curse as he dragged his shirtsleeve across the still-wet ink. He pushed the offending piece of fabric up to his elbow and surveyed the damage. Only a smear in the upper left corner. Nothing too grave. That ought to teach him to blot with better care.

Sighing, he turned away from the log book and refilled his cup. He held the bottle up to the light and swirled it around, looking mournfully at the very last of his wine. Three fingers, no more. Hopefully, something of a decent vintage would soon arrive at this remote outpost civilization had forgotten. He reflected on his fall from grace, and hoped that word of it had not reached his family back home. He wondered if his father still lived. If so, he hoped his father had not heard tell of what he had done. If only he could tell him the truth. If only he could tell the world the truth. If so, he would not have been sent to this place to do nothing of value. Oh, they promised him he would return to Mexico some day, when he was no longer “needed” here. It was probably true. Whenever Coronado forgave him, he would be permitted to come slinking back, tail between his legs.

Had it all been worth it? Of course it had. There were too many reasons that what he had discovered could not come to light. The truth of it alone might do the church irreparable harm. It had even shaken his faith, strong as it was. There was a greater reason, though. Who could be trusted with such power? Certainly not Coronado. Not the king, not even the Pope. Perhaps no one.

But was it right and proper for him to hide this secret for eternity? He was confident that he and Estevanico alone knew the true story. He had removed the sole written record of it from the library in which he had found it, and the final key was in Estevanico’s hands… at least for now.

No. He could not let it die with him. It was not his secret to keep. This was God’s secret, to be revealed in His time to the man of His choosing. Marcos would continue with the plan that had been laid upon his heart. He would leave a single clue for the world. If God wanted it to be found, it would be found. If not… well, it was in His hands. Marcos returned to his journal.

Sun-on-Lizard ducked down behind the stone outcropping and peered out upon the moonlit landscape. Silver light illumined the rocky plain, casting all in a ghostly glow beneath the blanket of darkness. It was a night for spirits.

The sound came again, much closer now. One less experienced might have missed the faint brush of foot on rock. Someone was moving almost silently through the night. It was possible that whoever it was meant no harm, but he would not take any unnecessary risks. Finding a comfortable position, his weight balanced on the balls of his feet, he settled in to wait. Patience, his grandfather had said, was a good thing, and Sun-on-Lizard had plenty.

With great care he lay the two small rabbits on the ground; a poor fare for an overlong hunting trip. He had been foolish to stay out so late. He did not fear the coyotes, but they could be more than an annoyance in this land where even the meanest game was hard won. And if the stories could be believed, there was more to be feared in this particular place. Slipping his short bow from his belt, he strung it with a practiced ease. Three arrows remained in his quiver, but he let them stay there. Should the need arise, he could put an arrow in the air faster than anyone he had ever met.

He stared up at the velvet blanket of the night sky, sprinkled with stars and washed in pale moon glow. He had grown up with stories of the star pictures, and the stories of the ancient ones in the sky. His brother, Sits-at-Fire, had always been fascinated with the lore, but he had no interest in such things. He believed in the earth beneath his feet, the bow in his hand, and the challenge of the hunt. He respected his adversaries, even the small rabbit, and appreciated a resourceful quarry. He always thanked the game that fell to his bow for providing him with food and clothing. Yes, there were enough things of this earth to contemplate that he need not concern himself with things of the sky.

Once again the shuffling sound whispered across the rocky landscape, and a glint of silver caught his eye. A dark figure appeared from behind a distant rock formation, moonlight outlining his dark form. Another figure emerged, and then a third. Sun-on-Lizard sucked his breath in between his front teeth, and he narrowed his eyes. It could not be! As the figures drew closer, he saw that he had been right. They had the heads, arms and legs of men, but their bodies were covered in snake scales! His left hand tightened around his bow, and he grasped an arrow in his right. Could such creatures be killed? Suddenly wishing he had listened to more of the elder’s fireside tales, he hunched as low as he could without obscuring his vision. He willed himself to be a shadow, a dark patch on the night landscape.

A vagrant breeze, cool and dry, wafted toward him. He inhaled deeply, but caught no odd scent. Of course, the snake had no scent of which he was aware. At least he was downwind of the strange creatures. They moved closer, and with each approaching step his heart pounded faster. Blood coursed through him, the vein in his temple pulsating with every beat of his heart. They were coming right at him. He would fight them if he must. There were three of them, and he had three arrows. He made up his mind that he would aim for their heads. That part of them, at least, appeared human, and as vulnerable as his own. It was only the serpentine scales that made them look unassailable.

He nocked his first arrow and drew it halfway. He was about to spring up and fire when the three suddenly veered from their path, the one in the lead gesturing toward a particularly bright star. They headed off to his right, to the north. As they made their way, Sun-on-Lizard had a good view of the snake men, and what he saw made him grin.

They were not beasts, but men. Men wearing the hard, silver vests of which he had heard tell. The same clothing worn by the fabled outlanders with their cloud-white faces and thunder sticks. Another story he had never believed. Sun-on-Lizard had traveled farther than anyone in his village, down to the red rocks and up to the great salt water, and he had never seen a man with a white face and a stick that made fire. Of course, he had not seen their silver vests before today, either. It struck him as more than passing strange that the men he saw were not white-faced, but dark. It was difficult to tell in the darkness, but the first two looked to be of the Dineh, as they called themselves, or perhaps some other southern tribe. The third man, though, was a head taller than the others, and as dark as night. So dark, in fact that his head seemed to vanish when he passed through the darkest shadows. Sun-on-Lizard had never seen such a man. When they were almost out of sight, he made up his mind to follow them. He had to know more.

Sun-on-Lizard rolled the pebble around in his mouth, trying to stave off thirst with the cool, round stone. Two nights and two days had told him precious little about his quarry. He was quite proud of himself that he had avoided detection during that time. He kept his distance in the daytime, remaining just out of sight, and relying on his tracking skills to keep him on the proper path. Twice he feared he had lost them, but in each instance a small sign reassured him. He had sharp eyes, and could find a scuff on a dusty stone, or a pebble pressed into the sand by the soft tread of one trying not to leave a trail. He had to admit, the Dineh moved well, as did the dark fellow. From one that size, he would have counted on more than the occasional marking to indicate his passage.

It was full dark now, and he lay secreted within a rock fall surmounted by scrub brush. The rabbits were long gone, roasted over a banked and shielded fire the night before. He had eaten a bit of dried meat before creeping up on the others’ camp. A discontented stomach could make all his stealth for naught. Reclining on his left elbow, he peered out from his hiding place at the strange trio of men. Or at the strange duo, rather. The dark fellow was gone. Careful not to move too hastily, he scanned the area around his hiding place, but saw nothing.

He focused all his senses on the two men seated at the tiny fire. They had stripped off their serpentine vests, and now looked much less sinister in their native garb. The one on the left, a squat, muscular fellow with a scarred face and shaggy black hair was roasting lizard tail skewered on a long, sharpened stick. The other, equally short, but with a leaner build and a raptor-like face, sat with his knees against his chest, and his hands clasped together. They were speaking softly, but he could not make out the words. Of course, he spoke very little of their tongue.

A sound behind him caught his ear, and he whipped his head around, his hand going to his knife. The dark man stood behind him, a long knife at the ready. His smile shone in the darkness, and his eyes caught the starlight like dark pools. Sun-on-Lizard saw no threat in the man’s countenance, but he did not doubt that the fellow could and would kill him if he so chose. He had the high ground and the better weapon. If Sun-on-Lizard were in the clear, he might be able to throw his knife at the man and get away, but not lying here within a tangle of brush. He spat the pebble from his mouth.

“You track well,” he said to the big man, not that the fellow would speak his tongue. “You leave little sign with your passing, and I did not hear you coming up behind me.”

“I thank you for the compliment,” the man said in a rich voice, deep like the bottom of a canyon. “You are not without skill yourself. My name is Estevanico. Put away the knife and come sit by my fire.” He leaned down and proffered an ebony hand.

It took Sun-on-Lizard a moment to recover from the shock of the strange fellow speaking his language. “I suppose you would have already killed me if that was your intention,” he said, sheathing his knife and grasping the man’s hand in his.

Estevanico hoisted him to his feet as if he was a child. The big man regarded Sun-on-Lizard with big, brown eyes for a long, silent moment before answering. “That remains to be seen.”