Chapter Four

As desolate as the land around Fort Asher may have been, it was still a paradise compared to the wastes that began just a few dozen miles to the southwest.

Here, the land was all red stone, twisted by some unseen hand into bizarre and unlikely shapes. A thin layer of grime - more dust than sand - covered the rock. Not even the pathetic prairie grasses could find purchase in this place; what vegetation survived here was chiefly limited to a parched brownish moss. The silence was nearly absolute, broken only by the wind.

Further west, the land spread and flattened; the bizarre loops and arches of stone gave way to pillars, and those to towering mesas - great mounds of stone rising inexplicably from the otherwise featureless terrain, as if left there by an absent-minded god. The soil was fairer here, and tiny forests of shrubs grew in the shadows of those truncated mountains; the contrast of green foliage against the red stone was startling, unearthly.

From a distance, one would have been unlikely to notice the narrow ramp running up the side of one mesa in particular. Only upon careful examination would an observer have spotted the shallow steps carved into the stone of that ramp.

A pueblo village, invisible from below, sat upon the plateau at the top of the steps. It was here that the Ajiashathat lived.

They lived here, but it was not their home; they hadn't built it, but the people who had weren't using it any more. The Ajiashathat had been made to leave their home many years ago, and had lived for a while in a place not unlike Fort Asher. They lived here now because it was a good place to hide, and because it was against the law for them to be living outside of a reservation.

When they had first encountered the Spanish, they had been startled - not by having made contact with white men, but by having made contact with another people. When the explorers had asked them what they called themselves, they hadn't understood the question; the name by which their people were known, "Ajiashathat," was a result of that misunderstanding. In their language, the word meant "human beings."

Perhaps because they had lived in total isolation for as long as they could remember, the Ajiashathat were a unique people with unique beliefs; their culture had been the subject of Michael Evans' doctoral thesis, coincidentally. They believed, for instance, that the Gods had created the world especially for them, and that their religious rituals allowed the world to continue existing.

The people were attending to the preparations for one such ritual presently. This was proving to be more problematic than anyone had anticipated.

The problem was that the Ajiashathat had but one living shaman, and he had refused to perform the ceremony.

His name was Shinawenashkitat, which meant "Dancing Bird." He was old, grizzled, and wiry. He had seen too much of life, had enjoyed little of it, and had taken to being problematic as one of his only joys in the twilight of his life.

At present, the people were making a grave mistake, which was that they were trying to be reasonable with him. Very patiently, they reminded him that the ritual of blessing had always been performed at the harvest time - for as long as human beings had existed - and that a good yield of corn could only come as a result of the proper observances. Just as patiently, Dancing Bird reminded the people that they had no corn; tempers flared at this point, and the conversation quickly took a nasty turn.

Eventually the people prevailed upon him, and by sunset the preparations had been completed. The people gathered in the town's communal circle, awaiting the beginning of the service. Their quiet song rose to the heavens; as dusk fell, their prayers were answered. The God of the Harvest swooped from the shadows and into the center of the circle, were he began the elaborately choreographed ceremony that would ensure a bountiful yield.

Only a few minutes into the ritual, the God's dancing had become increasingly listless. At one point he nearly tripped over the hem of his robe; he barely managed to stay on his feet, and his solemn litany was interrupted by a barrage of venomous curses.

The God of the Harvest stopped dancing. He tore off his ornate wooden mask, and he was only Dancing Bird again. He stared for a moment at the people sitting in reverent silence around him, and their expectant faces told him that they were waiting for him to perform the dedication which would mark the end of the ceremony.

Dancing Bird took a deep, shuddering breath, and then began to deliver what was sure to be his final sermon.

"You are all very, very stupid," he began.

He turned slowly, his eyes blazing, and made sure that he'd captured everyone's attention before proceeding.

"For more than seventy years I have represented you before the Gods; you have demanded it of me. For the last ten of those years, I have resisted. I have told you that I do not wish to speak for the Gods, but you have insisted. If I do not perform the ceremonies, you have told me, then the Gods will desert us."

Dancing Bird tore off his robes and threw them into the fire.

"Have the Gods not deserted us?" he demanded.

There was silence around the circle. Someone towards the back let out an embarrassed cough, and then immediately wished that he hadn't.

"I tell you the truth now," Dancing Bird growled. "If our Gods had any power to lend you, then none of this would have happened in the first place."

The shaman's face began to flush a deep red as his voice grew progressively louder, rising quickly to a shriek. The crowd collectively glanced at one another, dread written on their faces.

"I am a fraud," Dancing Bird announced. "How is it that you still seek my intercession, when I have done nothing but deceive you your whole lives?"

An elder came forward and attempted to calm Dancing Bird, but he would have none of it.

"You should be throwing rocks at me!" he snarled.

Another elder had pinned Dancing Bird's arms behind his back, and was attempting to drag him away. A murmur was beginning to build within the crowd, and the overall tone was not friendly.

"You should be chasing me out of the village!" he screamed.

A dog pile was forming around Dancing Bird now, but his voice still came howling from the center of it.

"Well, I've had enough, and I'm not going to do it any more! I'm leaving, do you hear me? If you're too foolish to drive me into exile, then I'll exile myself!"

The people were shouting now, but Dancing Bird's voice rose above the clamor.

"I'm leaving tonight, and I'm never coming back, because you're all so stupid that I can't stand the sight of you!"

An hour later, Dancing Bird had gotten his wish. The people had thrown rocks at him, and had chased him out of the village. With a grin on his face and a slight limp in his step, he trudged away from the last remnant of his people, never to return.