p&c.thunderhead-第85部分

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lay　stamped　against　what　seemed　to　be　a　layer　of　plaster。　A　reversed　spiral　had　been　molded　into　the　seal。　
　Once　again；　Sloane　came　forward　to　investigate。　
　〃This　is　odd；〃　she　said。　〃This　seal　looks　fresh。　Take　a　look。〃　
　Black　examined　the　seal　more　carefully。　It　was　definitely　fresh…too　fresh；　he　thought；　to　be　seven　hundred　years　old。　The　mortared　door；　filled　with　rocks；　had　worried　him　from　the　start：　the　door　just　looked　too　invasive　to　be　part　of　the　original　sealed　structure。　And　it　was　odd　that　the　omnipresent　dust　had　not　settled　on　the　rocks　massed　in　front　of　the　door。　For　a　moment；　calamitous　despair　threatened　to　settle　on　his　shoulders。　
　〃It's　impossible　that　anyone　was　here　before　us；〃　Sloane　murmured。　
　Then　she　looked　at　Black。　〃This　sealed　doorway　has　been　extremely　well　protected。　There　are　several　feet　of　stones　sheltering　it　from　the　elements。　Right？〃　
　〃Right。〃　Black　felt　the　despair　vanish　instantly；　the　excitement　returning。　〃That　could　explain　why　the　seals　look　so　fresh。〃　
　Sloane　took　some　more　photographs；　then　stepped　back。　〃Let's　keep　going。〃　
　His　breath　ing　in　short；　excited　gasps；　Black　redoubled　his　efforts　at　clearing　the　wall　of　rocks。　
　
　
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　FAR　ABOVE　THE　FLOOD…RAVAGED　CANYON　OF　Quivira；　the　domes　and　hollows　of　the　wide　slickrock　plateau　were　warmed　by　the　late　afternoon　sun。　Gnarled　juniper　trees　dotted　the　strange　landscape；　and　Mormon　tea　bushes；　wild　buckwheat；　and　a　sprinkling　of　purple　verbena　grew　in　sandy　patches。　Small；　steep　gullies　intersected　the　landscape；　winding　through　the　red　sandstone；　the　deeper　potholes　along　their　rock　beds　still　shimmering　with　rainwater。　Here　and　there；　hoodoo　rocks　stood　above　the　land；　capped　with　a　darker　stratum　of　stone；　like　foul　dwarfs　crouching　among　the　trees。　To　the　east；　another；　smaller　rainstorm　was　advancing。　But　here；　a　thousand　feet　above　the　Quiviran　plateau；　the　sky　was　still　pleasantly　flecked　with　shredded　bits　of　cloud；　turning　from　white　to　yellow　in　the　aging　light。　
　In　a　hidden　gully　along　the　plateau；　two　pelted；　masked　figures　moved　in　stealthy　silence。　Their　progress　was　halting；　furtive；　as　if　they　were　unused　or　unwilling　to　move　about　in　daylight。　One　stopped　briefly；　crouched；　drank　from　a　pothole。　Then　they　moved　on　again；　angling　toward　a　patch　of　deep　shade　beside　a　fin　of　rock。　Here；　they　stopped　squatting　on　their　haunches。　
　Reaching　into　the　folds　of　his　fur　pelt；　one　of　the　skinwalkers　removed　a　buckskin　bag。　Silver　conchas　clinked　with　the　movement。　The　figure　produced　a　human　calvarium；　filled　with　dry；　shriveled　pellets；　like　gray　buttons。　The　second　skinwalker　produced　another　skull　bowl　and　a　long；　shriveled　root　in　roughly　the　shape　of　a　twisted　human　being；　laying　it　on　the　sand　beside　the　first　skull。　Both　began　to　chant　in　low；　quavering　tones。　An　obsidian　knife　flashed　as　the　tips　were　cut　off　the　dry　root。　
　They　worked　swiftly　and　silently。　A　hand；　decorated　with　white　clay　strips；　caressed　the　wrinkled　pellets。　Then　the　skinwalker　cupped　one；　two；　and　finally　three　of　the　pellets　in　his　palm；　pushing　them　through　the　mouthhole　of　his　mask　in　rapid　succession。　There　was　a　loud　swallowing　sound。　The　second　figure　repeated　the　action。　The　chanting　grew　faster。　
　A　tiny　twig　fire　was　built；　and　wisps　of　smoke　curled　around　the　sheltering　rock。　The　root　was　cut　lengthwise　into　thin　strips；　smoked　briefly　in　the　fire；　and　set　aside。　Feathers　were　placed　in　the　fire；　slowly　curling；　crackling；　and　melting。　Next；　several　live　iridescent　beetles　were　placed　atop　the　embers；　to　jitter；　die；　and　parch。　They　were　removed；　placed　in　the　second　skull　bowl；　crushed　into　flakes；　and　mixed　with　water　from　a　leather　bag。　
　The　bowl　was　raised　toward　the　north；　the　chanting　even　faster　now；　and　the　figures　drank　in　turn。　The　strips　of　root　were　placed　back　on　the　fire；　where　they　curled　and　turned　black；　sending　up　an　ugly　stream　of　yellow　smoke。　The　figures　bowed　their　heads　over　the　fire；　breathing　heavily；　rasping　in　the　smoke。　The　chanting　had　now　bee　a　frenzied　ditty；　a　low；　fast　quavering　sound　like　the　buzzing　of　cicadas。　
　The　new　storm　advanced　from　the　east；　drawing　a　shadow　across　the　landscape。　Reaching　once　again　into　his　matted　pelt；　the　first　skinwalker　threw　handfuls　of　creamy　datura　flowers　into　the　fire。　They　quickly　shriveled；　releasing　billows　of　smoke　into　the　darkening　air。　The　figures　bent　over　the　smoke；　inhaling　greedily。　The　air　of　the　plateau　was　suddenly　perfumed　with　the　intensely　beautiful　scent　of　morning　glories。　The　pelted　backs　began　to　quiver；　and　the　silver　conchas　clinked　violently。　
　A　hand　rose　once　again；　sprinkling　black　pollen　in　the　four　cardinal　directions：　north；　south；　east；　and　finally　west。　The　skull　bowl　was　now　empty；　all　its　shriveled　contents　ingested。　One　of　the　figures　raised　its　head　to　the　sky；　a　heavy　stream　of　mucus　running　from　beneath　the　buckskin　mask；　two　palsied　hands　raised。　The　chanting；　angry　now；　rose　in　volume　and　urgency。　
　And　then；　quite　suddenly；　silence　fell。　The　last　wisps　of　smoke　drifted　across　the　face　of　stone。　And　with　terrible　swiftness　the　figures　were　gone；　racing　like　black　shadows　across　the　landscape；　disappearing　down　the　end　of　the　Priest's　Trail　into　the　gloom　of　the　valley　of　Quivira。　
　
　
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　ROSCOE　SWIRE　SAT　ATOP　A　BROKEN　BOULDER；　turning　a　worn　headstall　around　in　his　hands；　poetry　notebook　lying　forgotten　on　the　rock　beside　him。　He　was　profoundly　agitated。　Not　far　away；　near　the　edge　of　the　rushing　water；　stood　a　large　cottonwood；　listing　and　swaying　as　the　pressure　of　the　passing　water　tore　at　its　roots。　Long；　thin　loops　of　flotsam　dangled　from　several　of　the　lower　branches。　
　Swire　knew　those　loops　for　what　they　were：　the　gray；　ropy　guts　of　a　horse。　One　of　his　horses。　And　because　of　their　well…developed　herd　attachment；　he　knew　that　if　one　were　killed；　all　must　have　been　killed。　
　The　valley　had　grown　dark；　but　the　sky　above　was　still　painfully　bright。　The　place　seemed　suspended　between　night　and　day；　caught　in　that　mysterious　stasis　that　occurred　only　in　the　deepest　canyons　of　Utah。　
　Swire　glanced　toward　his　notebook；　toward　the　eulogy　to　Hurricane　Deck　he'd　been　trying；　unsuccessfully；　to　write。　He　thought　of　Hurricane　Deck：　his　three…day　chase；　the　spirit　of　that　magnificent　horse。　Arbuckles：　dim；　friendly；　capable。　He　thought　of　all　the　horses　he　had　lost　on　this　trip；　each　one　with　its　own　personality；　and　of　all　the　little　things　that　had　made　up　his　life　with　them。　The　quirks；　the　peculiar　habits；　the　trails　they　had　ridden　。　。　。　it　was　almost　more　than　he　could　bear。　
　And　then　his　thoughts　turned　to　Nora。　More　than　once；　she　had　made　him　very　angry。　But　he　had　been　forced　to　admire　her　bravery；　the　occasional　recklessness　of　her　determination。　It　was　a　terrible　way　to　die。　She　would　have　heard　her　own　death　ing；　would　have　known　exactly　what　it　meant。　
　He　glanced　around　the　valley；　a　vista　of　deepening　purples；　greens；　and　golds　beneath　a　bright　turquoise　sky。　It　was　a　beautiful　place。　And　yet　it　was　malevolent　in　its　beauty。　
　His　eyes　swivelled　up　in　the　direction　of　the　hidden　city。　To　think　those　three　were　up　there　now；　opening　the　kiva　as　if　nothing　had　happened。　They　would　get　the　glory。　And　Nora　would　get　a　memorial　plaque；　nailed　onto　some　wall　at　the　Institute。　He　spat　disgustedly；　sighed；　and　turned　to　collect　his　notebook。　
　Then　he　stopped　and　looked　around　again　at　the　darkened　canyon。　Except　for　the　rumbling　of　water　and　the　occasional　birdsong；　everything　was　quiet。　
　But　instinct　told　him　he　was　being　watched。　
　Slowly；　he　reached　over　for　the　notebook。　Turning　a　few　pages；　he　sat　back　with　an　air　of　indifference；　pretending　to　read　the　scribbled　lines。　
　The　feeling　did　not　go　away。　
　Swire's　sixth　sense　had　been　honed　over　many　hard　years　of　wrangling　horses　in　wild；　sometimes　hostile　country。　He　had　learned　to　trust　his　life　with　it。　
　His　right　hand　dropped　to　the　holster　and　rested　easily　there；　confirming　the　presence　of　the　gun。　Then　the　hand　rose　again；　this　time　to　thoughtfully　stroke　his　mustache。　The　roar　of　the　water　echoed　and　re…echoed　off　the　canyon　walls；　magnified　and　distorted。　The　edge　of　another　storm