Llama Crossing

Prologue

Silence marked the emptiness that stretched ahead on the broken black ribbon of apshalt. Only heavy breathing from the large party of men and companions stirred the stillness. Anxious glances at the mountains ridging the western boundary of the narrowing valley spurred the pace faster.

Fog was massing against the ridge, a menacing moving mountain in the distance. Tendrils of mist broke free and poured down gullies, trickles that grew to rivers to fill this deserted valley.

At least they hoped the valley was deserted. There had been times in past years when the pilgrimages were disrupted by wild tribes of men who had wandered back into this desolation. Hunger and thirst had driven them from their holes, only to find more hunger and thirst when they could not steal nor take from another.

The boy was almost running to keep pace with the longer strides of the men and companions. His sandals flapped in quick rhythm as he hurried along. Broken pavement caught at his feet and he stumbled.

The white haired man just ahead slowed and reached to steady the boy. Travis Harden smiled down at the boy as they resumed the pace. His lips did not move. Watch your step, boy. We do not have much further.

Yes, Grandfather. I was afraid of the shadows in the ruins alongside us. I will watch better. The silent exchange from mind to mind was not shielded. Smiles and anxious glances from the men and boys nearest them showed the fears were not the boy's alone. Companions hummed reassurance in silky tones.

What do you fear, boy? Asked the right flank guard in the red and brown plaid coat. He carried an ancient shotgun in his hand and the pouch at his waist bulged with precious shells.

The boy took his grandfather's hand as he looked toward the guard. Last night the Rememberers told of the wild tribes that were here. Do they live in the fallen buildings that we pass through?

Do not worry thyself, boy. They do not live here. They raid from time to time from the hills to the east. But there is nothing to fear now. They will not dare risk attacking a party this large. They are scattered families, too small to call a tribe. They kill and feed upon one another so that none ever band together in numbers large enough to bother the likes of us. I was with one of the guard details three years ago when they last attacked. They are wild, but even animal minds such as theirs will remember for a time yet. The guard waved his shotgun barrel at the crumbling buildings. They cannot live here at any rate. There is no fresh water, no food. Even the rusting tins of food in the rubble of the old stores have long since been taken or spoiled.

The old grandfather squeezed the boy's hand. Listen to his words, boy. You need not fear. The Rememberers did not tell those tales to frighten thee, but rather, that you might know that it is wise to be alert. Now keep your mind on your walking. We are almost there. See, there are many ahead of us already moving up the grade into the fog that covers the peak. The pilgrimage is very large this year.

The guard nodded. I am not surprised. Your boy looks young for the rites. Did you not bring him a year early that he might be able to tell his children and grandchildren that his year of passage was 50 P.?. Fifty years ago it was that the world turned over.

Grandfather? Why do they call it pachacuti?

It is the word from our most ancient language, the language given us by the companions. Pachacuti means 'the world turned over,' 'a cataclysmic event separating eras in time.' We date now from the time of the great collapse, the time when society crumbled under the crushing population. By the old calendar the year is 2053 AD. That is why you have come here. It is your passage from childhood to manhood. You will hear from the Rememberers the tales of our roots and our new beginning.

But Grandfather, I don't want to become a man yet.

You are becoming a man, boy. You can only do the bidding of your body. But you must learn the way of yourself and our people. We do many things, have many laws that would seem strange or harsh to those who lived before the world turned. You must understand and accept what is. We can no longer follow the old ways. The land that is ours was old and worn out when we came to it. It is the same the world over. Man followed his drives and reproduced himself far beyond the capacity of Mother Earth to support him. He almost went the way of the other creatures that he pushed off the earth. He stands yet on the brink of extinction. The bands of wild men are fewer and fewer. That is why they attack more and more. They are becoming desperate.

But, Grandfather? Why do they not do as we do? Why do they not work together? The boy frowned and peered once again into the near darkness beside the road.

"Because they were not prepared when the world turned over. It was the same everywhere. Only the Congregation was prepared. We had only fourteen years, but we were ready. There is no other left such as us. We are the remnant of mankind. We alone have gathered the skills and the knowledge to survive. We alone found each other in time. We alone are able to make the new way that is necessary.

"Destruction was everywhere. Our greatest test was prevention of the nuclear holocaust that threatened man for the last fifty years before pachacuti. Even the Congregation could not have lived with a poisoned earth. Healing of the earth's wounds would not have been possible.

Will the Rememberers tell us how they prevented it, Grandfather?

No. That will not be a part of these rituals. We are come to the place where the Congregation was born, and saved. You must learn the way of our beginnings. You must learn how we came upon the think/talk that binds us together across the vast distances that separates our people. You must learn how we crossed paths with the companions. The companions were our salvation, and we theirs. We are the Congregation. But even we cannot survive alone. We are symbiotic species. We depend one upon the other. But, enough now. We must make camp quickly. The rites begin at the sun's rising.

No tales from the Rememberers marked the night. Rest and sleep by fires lit against the fog were needed to prepare for the dawn.

Even before the sun rose the pilgrims had awakened. They fasted to mark the day of the passage. Men, boys and companions sat facing the east in the enveloping mist.

The boy huddled deep under his heavy woolen poncho to ward off the chilling moisture. Grandfather, when will it begin? He thought.

It has begun. No more questions now. Prepare thyself for the day. Hold your aura within thee. Look around when the light grows. There are many here hidden by the fog. Many to pass into manhood. Many to renew themselves. Hold your questions. The road home is long; it is the time for thy questions; they will make the miles shorter and your knowledge greater.

The mist sat dark and cold around them. With the first diffuse light a drum started from below them. It was taken up by another, then another moving up the mountainside until all around them the rhythm was one. The old grandfather placed his hand on the boy's shoulder and began to hum/chant from deep in his chest and throat. The boy leaned against his grandfather and felt the vibrations against his cheek. The boy, too, took up the hum/chant.

Two large shapes, like twin mountain peaks, loomed in the dim light. A single flute sang in anticipation of the sun's first rays. All around were only white and grey shapes hovering, waiting until the sun rose above the top of the low fog.

Golden twin structures caught the sun. Massive girders glowed in the brilliant white sheen reflecting off the top of the fog. In the distance, silent jagged peaks were still shrouded in fog. Here and there, among the spires and squares of the ghost peaks, blinding reflections of the sun flashed and were gone.

The chosen Rememberers of both species rose in their places across the face of the mountain. They began to chant and sing in unison. Even in the sound-deadening fog none need strain to hear the song of the beginnings. The hum of the companions mingled with the voices of the men--tenor, baritone, bass--with a beauty that brought chills that could not be chased away by the sun's warmth:

Hear the tales of the beginnings

beginnings of two species

two species twice come together

species twice tested

still walking the same pathways

Pathways of safety and danger

pathways of joy and pain

pathways of past and present

pathways of today and tomorrow

hear the tales of the beginnings

***

Chapter 1

Marc Harden wished he could hide in an alcoholic fog. But he couldn't. He had come to terms with the loneliness--until the dreams came again. Dreams like all dreams, wispy bits of reality and fantasy. Changing now in his mind, solidifying, eroding consciousness. He must end it.

He dug through his dresser until he found his jogging clothes so long unused. A chant rang through his mind with the five-beat tones of Peruvian music,

I control my fate

I will choose my path

I am me, must be

The Peruvian music. He couldn't explain why he picked up that particular cassette at Haight-Ashbury Records yesterday. Now he deliberately placed it into his portable cassette player because at some nameless level he knew it was a key to facing and banishing his dreams and loneliness. Down on the street he willed himself into deep, regular breathing, started off with a slow lope and then settled into a strong, steady rhythm as he ran.

It wasn't long before the ache rode Marc's shoulders, his sacral nerve, his groin, his thighs, his calves, but it focused the haunting hollowness inside him. He ignored the sweat rolling out of his mass of dark curly hair, running over his strong, prominent brow and his nose broken long ago in a school fight. His brown eyes were nearly black with concentration. He ignored the faint ringing in his ears and the jumble of colors in his mind that warned him it was dangerous to continue running. His breath was ragged, another warning he was out of shape, out of touch with his body.

He turned into Golden Gate Park and adjusted the volume on his headset until the ringing blended into the music. The plaintive loneliness of the Andean flute and drum were part of the dreams that drove him out in the foggy dawn, dreams that enveloped him like the swirling mist that made ghost shapes of the trees and bushes around him and floated the sea promise to his nostrils.

The rising surf roaring in his ears sent his heart surging. How can I hear the ocean through my earphones and the wailing flute? He brushed the question aside and ran harder, his feet pounding faster under him until he could only see his running shoes flick forward, forward to the beat of the drums in his ears. The greenery blurred past him on either side. He was almost there, almost to that point when a runner's body produces the addictive chemicals that mask the pain and give the delicious sense of well being and clarity he needed. Thinking, feeling were almost lost in the speeding pathway below him.

He felt the endorphins wash across his brain, lifting him toward that magic space he needed, floating free of worry, of pain, of fear, of feeling anything but that release. He couldn't reach it! It was there, all around him, but he couldn't grasp it! He gasped for air, stumbled, caught himself, then dropped onto a grassy knoll and squeezed his arms against his chest, cradling his pounding heart.

He lost track of time as his heartbeat raced and ghost runners drifted by on the path. Some slowed and peered gingerly down at his panting body, then spurted forward as if they suddenly realized that strangers were to be feared. Others sped up when they spotted him, then focused intently beyond him.

The sun was already burning away the fog when Marc rose stiffly from the grass. The exhilaration of the run was lost to memory of the void.

He swept his headset down to swing around his neck, but he still couldn't feel connected to anything around him: the alcohol stink of street people; frying bacon wafting through the ornamental iron bars of a townhouse; colognes and aftershaves on men in pinstriped suits and power ties; perfumes and powders on women with painted smiles; dog droppings around every tree island of the sidewalk; orange mountains encircled with celery spokes in fruit stand bins; gasoline fumes and honking horns. Snatches of thoughts! Damn beggars. Boss'll kill me if I'm late. Snatches of thoughts? Yelling voices. Hallucinations? Yelling voices. Thoughts. Honking horns!

A voice, somehow familiar, yelling. Watch out! Marc! Marc!

A hand grabbed his shoulder, pulled him back to the curb and eased him down onto the sidewalk with his back propped against a lamp pole.

Randy Trotta's face seemed to waver, then slowly focus until his Roman nose settled securely into the middle of the olive complected wrinkles that radiated out from dark, concerned eyes. Randy rubbed his hand back through his thinning salt and pepper hair as he squatted beside Marc. What the hell's the matter with you?

Marc couldn't shake off his confusion. I... I... What...?

You walked out into the street. Almost killed your damn fool self!

Randy? What are you doing ...?

Never mind about me. Do you need a doctor?

No. I don't think .... No. Just help me into the courtyard. I don't think I can make it up the steps to my flat yet.

Randy helped Marc to his feet and across the street. He got Marc settled into the courtyard they shared as neighbors, and said, You all right for a minute?

Yes, I think so. Marc settled into the green resin chair, taking care not to throw too much weight on either of the arms of the lightweight chair.

You wait right there. The old man disappeared across the courtyard, and returned in a few minutes carrying a steaming mug. This coffee'll straighten you out. Sorry it's not fresh, but I nuked it for you.

Marc held the cup tightly and sniffed the hot steamy aroma until he felt capable of sipping without spilling it.

Randy's yellow orange tiger striped tomcat, FuzzyButt, wandered into the courtyard. He meowed and padded across the yard to sniff at both of them. He rubbed his eyes, body and tail against the men one after the other, then jumped into Randy's lap.

Got us all marked with pheromones, FB? Gonna let us off without a spray, are you? Randy waited for FuzzyButt to knead out a comfortable lap spot. Gonna let us stay in your territory, huh? Randy stroked the yellow fur and, for a long time, watched Marc sip his coffee. Finally, he asked Marc, Want to tell me what that was all about? I always thought you were one of the saner neighbors around here.

Marc took a deep breath. I don't know how sane I am right now. I'm not sure what happened myself.

Just take your time. I see you've been jogging. When did you start back up again?

This morning. I had to get out of the house, to try to figure out these dreams I've been having.

Dreams? Randy stroked FB's tail. Nightmares?

Marc shook his head, No. Not nightmares. More like like stories.

What's so bad about that?

Nothing's bad. It's just that they keep coming. About the Andes. The Incas.

Randy leaned forward in his chair. Don't sound like anything to send you out into traffic.

No. Well, it's just that I don't know where they're coming from.

Something you read? Or saw on TV, maybe?

No. And the detail is so…, so real.

Still don't seem like much of a problem to me, said Randy.

Marc stood up and made sure his legs didn't wobble. When he felt secure, he paced restlessly. The problem is me. How they make me feel. When I'm in the dreams, I feel like I belong. You know, not so lonely. When I wake up, I feel deserted, depressed.

Randy rubbed behind FB's ears. We're all lonely from time to time.

I feel lonely all of the time. Now especially.

Why now?

Because I miss my family. My parents, my kids, my old buddies, even my ex wife.

Are you thinking of going back east?

Marc shook his head. It wouldn't do any good. My old buddies have scattered across the country for jobs. My parents are dead. My ex and I found we didn't like each other very well after we grew up. Kids say they don't care about seeing me. Nothing to go back to. That's why the dreams depress me.

How so?

Marc stopped his pacing and turned toward Randy. In the dreams I feel like I belong. This ayllu I don't even know why I know that word this clan, is so close knit, I feel safe and loved, a part of them. When I wake up I'm lost again. Marc was reluctant to ask the question that popped into his head, but decided to risk offending Randy. Randy, you're gay, and that must be even more lonely that being straight. How can you cope with that much loneliness?

Randy smiled. Same as you. Oh, maybe, because gays have to be just a little better at survival than heteros, we learn to deal with it earlier.

Better at survival? Why better? Marc asked.

Because we face all the problems you do, plus the kicker that overlays it all.

You mean, your sexual preference?

Sexual orientation. We don't choose. It's more than that. It's accepting, liking ourselves, even though literally all our experiences say we have no worth.

That's what I mean. Isn't that unbearably lonely?

Yes, it can be for some. But the healthy ones of us go beyond acceptance, even revel in our uniqueness. Randy shrugged. A necessary compensation? Who knows? When we do that, though, we are freed to love and be loved, just like you.

Marc sat down and rubbed his temples. Not like me. Being heterosexual doesn't make me free, either. Marc shifted in his chair. Do you, uh, Do you believe in God?

Randy laughed. I was raised Italian Catholic. I'd be a fool to say I've been able to shed all of it.

Then you do believe?

Randy shook his head. No, not like I was taught. I believe in something higher than myself, a pattern, an influence from outside. I don't know what to call it. God? Nature? I don't know. Why is it important right now?

Marc was silent, afraid to say out loud what he felt. He had known Randy for only about a year, but the old man was the closest to a friend Marc had. Finally he decided it was a greater risk to keep his feelings bottled up any longer.

Randy, I know it sounds crazy, but, back there when you pulled me out of the street, I thought I was hearing voices in my head.

Randy raised his eyebrows. Voices from God?

No. Nothing like that. Not really voices, more like thoughts of people passing me.

Maybe overexertion from your run?

Maybe. But that wouldn't explain the dreams, would it?

The dreams of Peru you mentioned before?

Yes. They started as just fragments, but they're becoming more coherent. And I often see them like, like I'm looking through someone's, something's, eyes. Eyes that see through a rainbow haze.

Randy woke FB and set him on the ground. Like through a prism? A crystal?

Yes! How do you know about them?

Randy laughed. I'm full of mostly useless knowledge. Before I retired, I was the best research librarian on the Pacific Rim. If I had been born earlier, I would have had the more respectable title of Renaissance man. Today, I'd be called a generalist. I know a little about most everything, not enough about anything. Most important of all, I know where to look for answers.

Marc's laugh was forced. That's what I need. Answers. That's why I'm going to Ernest Abernathy's Camp Meeting at the Cow Palace tomorrow.

Abernathy? That new TV evangelist that's getting the mainstream denominations so stirred up? What do they call themselves? The Congregation?

Yes, that's the one. Marc refused to look Randy in the eye. I've been videotaping all his broadcasts.

What's a cult like that got to do with you?

Marc shook his head. I don't know. But my dreams started the same night I saw Abernathy on TV. And everywhere I turn, his name keeps coming up.

That's hardly reason enough to screw yourself up with an outfit like that. Those people are hooked worse than drug heads hyped on heroin.

There's something else, Marc said. The Believers all talk about an--an ecstasy--a trance filled with rainbows.

***

Chapter 2

The colors smashed into splinters inside Marc's bursting head, driving all memory of yesterday out. There was no harmony, only discord to match the pain that ricocheted inside his skull. He lay still, waiting, hoping the pain would stop. The weak dawning light outside his window increased the pain as if it were the full glare of daylight. He stumbled from the bed, barely able to find the window shade cord. He fumbled with the timer on his television, barely able to concentrate enough to set it for a mid-afternoon alarm.

The effort proved too much. Marc fell back on the bed. He tried to think through the pain. But he could only wait and let it run its course. Forced beams of bright sunlight pierced through the pinholes in the window shade before he felt any change.

Eventually the colors fell into smoother, undulating patterns, but with the loneliness of only greens, blues, violets. The pain, too, subsided into long swells, troughs of relief between the crests. The afterimage of fading rainbows and a dull ache at his temples remained.

At last he felt himself slipping back into sleep, into a dream/reality that was strong and clear, blazing brightly in his mind--

Father Sun smiled above the towering peaks that his people of the Andes might worship him. Traces of dew glistened in the first glimmers of his bright light like the brilliant stones Sapa Inca wore to honor the god. Here there were no stones of fire.

Mamaquenual moved with care down the steep pathway. Below her the village lay clear of fog, basking in the early morning wash of light. In her heart, Mamaquenual knew her huaca, godspirit, had interceded with Father Sun. Her offerings had been accepted.

The village market was already filled with vibrant colors and the first low dust devils from bare feet dragging with pleasure through the vanishing dampness. Already Father Sun was drawing his crystals back into his bosom. Rainbows caught in spider webs under the thatched eaves of the adobe huts surrounding the square.

Mamaquenual paused at the edge of the village. She set down the llama's wool sacks and pulled her coarse blanket closer around her. Her smooth copper face was summer plumped and shadowed by her broad brimmed felt hat. The morning cold would soon be gone, but Mamaquenual must look her best this day. Soft alpaca wool touched her arms and neck with warmth as her best shirt and skirt billowed from underneath the coarse poncho. That for which she was named, the tree of roses, was woven with pride amidst the brilliance of colors and patterns she had learned from her mama and her grandmama, and through them, from all the ancestors of her ayllu.

The ayllu, the clan family, wore their yellow and green llauto about their heads with pride. It had been a mark of the ayllu even before the Inca decreed the headband colors displayed for identification. Mamaquenual, too, nurtured a secret pride. The flower which was her name was embroidered carefully on the headband so that it was hidden well in the dark shine of her hair. The law of the Inca requiring each to bear the mark of his ayllu unchanged gave her no fear. For