The Lady in Blue Page 2

  Feeling his way along the ground, not daring to turn away from the brilliant light that only now ceased blinding him, Sakmo tried to escape from the mouth of the Canyon of the Serpent. He should never have come near it. The narrow opening between rocks that led to the crest of the hill was cursed. His people all knew this. The five generations of shamans, witch doctors, and medicine men buried there had stated that this was the only place for miles around where one could commune with the ancestral spirits. It was indeed a fearful place. Why had he let himself be led there? What had possessed him to be lured toward the passage, a half circle in the Rock of the Initiates, if he knew of its dangers? And besides, the rock lay well beyond the area where he was keeping watch.

  It was still three hours before dawn. Then they would relieve him of his post, or find him dead. Sakmo remained tense, breathing hard, his senses sharp and a flood of questions surging through his brain.

  What sort of light is capable of knocking a Jumano warrior down with a single blow? A bolt of lightning? Could one of its sparks hide itself in the rock and then attack a man? And what next? Would it go on to devour him?

  The sentinel was unable to wrestle his thoughts under control. Then, in the middle of his awkward escape, he noticed that the meadow had become completely silent. Not a good omen, he said to himself, and his mind entered the dangerous terrain of irrationality. Would the light pursue him? The memory, still fresh in his mind, jolted him. The fire that had left him cowering in the dark looked as if it issued from the jaws of a monster. A trickster fox who could level the meadow with a single breath. That was how his tribe’s prophecies spoke of the end of the world: their universe would instantly perish in flames; a brilliant flash of light preceding the destruction of all forms of life. The catastrophic collapse of the Fourth World.

  If what had taken place in the narrow passage was a signal of the end, nothing and no one could stop it.

  Was it useless to run and sound the alarm?

  And how could he, blinded as he was?

  Sakmo was bewildered to find himself entertaining such cowardly thoughts. It took him a minute to understand what had happened, for the intruder was unlike anything he had ever experienced. The dazzling light that had seared his eyes had broken forth from the gap in the rocks without warning. What action could he take against such an enemy? Could another warrior in the village stop it? Perhaps it was better that his wife, his daughter, Ankti, and his people, would all die before they awakened. And what would become of him?

  “Ankti,” he whispered.

  In the shadows, drowning in utter silence, the warrior spun around to face the rock he had left behind him. If he was going to die, he reflected in a fraction of a second, he would do it like a man. On his feet, looking straight at his executioner. Perhaps someone in the future would remember him as the first sacrifice to the Monster of the End of Time.

  Sakmo was completely unprepared for what happened next.

  A brief phrase, enunciated slowly, broke the vast silence of the meadow. The voice was friendly and gentle, and called him by name.

  “Are you all right, Sakmo?”

  The question, perfectly phrased in Tanoan, froze him where he stood. Disconcerted, he frowned, while his hand moved instinctively toward the obsidian hatchet on his belt.

  Sakmo had been trained by his father, the great Walpi, head of the tribal settlement of Cueloce, as a protector of the living. Not of the dead.

  “Sakmo!”

  This time the voice reproved him with greater force.

  Thoughts of his brave father made him grit his teeth and prepare to defend his life with the sharp edge of his blade. Be it of this world or another, no light with the power of speech would finish him off without leaving some trace of itself on the red earth.

  “Sakmo . . .”

  As he listened to the sound of that voice for the third time, his hatchet traced a circle of defense in the air around him. His eyes were still closed. “Good-bye, Ankti,” he murmured. Whoever or whatever was calling out to him was already at hand. Sakmo could feel its breath and its unbearable heat. His weapon trembling in his left hand, the sentinel lifted his face proudly and awaited the inevitable. Opening his reddened eyes, directing his gaze toward the darkness of the sky, he sensed a silhouette, large as a totem, looming above him. A dire thought crossed his mind: it was a woman! A cursed female spirit was about to put an end to his life.

  Years before, in that very spot beside the Cueloce well, his father had prepared to die in battle.

  THREE

  LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

  SPRING 1991

  This dream keeps recurring?”

  Dr. Meyers leaned toward the couch where her patient was reclining, to observe her expression. Jennifer Narody, plagued by a persistent anxiety complex, had been having therapy sessions at Meyers’s plush office in the heart of the financial district for only two days. Linda Meyers was disconcerted: her patient appeared to be a thirty-four-year-old woman of sound mind, a sports fan with no family history of mental illness. In short, she was a well-balanced, financially secure, attractive individual. She had never been married; she was not in a long-term relationship, nor did it seem that she needed to be; and she got on well with her parents. Judging from appearances, she was a woman without serious problems.

  “Yes. I had the same dream two times in three days,” Jennifer said in a barely audible voice. She avoided the inquisitive stare of her psychiatrist by tossing her long mane of brown hair off her shoulders.“It’s not a nightmare, you know? But every time I lie down to sleep, I think it’s going to start all over again. And that’s getting to me.”

  “When was the last time you had it?”

  “This morning! That’s why I asked to see you so early. I can still see it . . .”

  “Are you taking the medication I prescribed?”

  “Of course, but Valium has no effect on me. What I can’t understand, Doctor, is why the image of that glowing woman still obsesses me. You know what I mean? I see her everywhere. I need to get her out of my head!”

  “Have you dreamed of her at other times?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, but you shouldn’t worry.” As she tried to calm her patient, she quickly scribbled something on her notepad. “We’ll find a way to get the better of this recurring dream. Are you afraid?”

  “Yes, Doctor. And worried.”

  “Tell me, have you experienced any recent traumatic incident, such as a traffic accident or the loss of a loved one? Something that could have provoked a bout of depression or a fit of anxiety?”

  Jennifer closed her eyes. She took a deep breath and slowly let it out, concentrating in her search for the right answer.

  “Well, I returned from a long stay in Europe a few weeks ago. As soon as I got back to Los Angeles, I started having the dreams again. And this time they were so vivid and so insistent that I had no doubt I was seeing her again. At first I thought it had to do with the shift in time zones, or the change in surroundings.”

  “Then the dreams returned? You mean you experienced similar things in the past?”

  “I told you, Doctor. Years ago I had dreams about the Indians and this mysterious lady bathed in blue light. But I have no idea why!”

  “Tell me, Jennifer, what part of Europe did you visit?”

  “Rome.”

  “The Rome of Caesar and the Popes, of pasta and Frascati wine?”

  “Yes, have you ever been there?”

  “No, but I’d love to go someday.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely, but my husband is Argentinian. His family comes from Galicia in northern Spain, so every time we travel to Europe we end up staying in La Coruña, where his grandparents live.”

  “You never flew over to Italy? It’s so close.”

  “No.” Linda Meyers laughed. “I spend the whole time trying to speak Spanish to his family.”

  Jennifer seemed suddenly melancholy, as though her mind was elsewhere.


  “It’s too bad,” she finally ventured. “Rome is such a great city. The piazzas and markets, the narrow, winding streets, the steaming cappuccini and dolce far niente.”

  Meyers took note of the sudden change in her patient’s mood, and waited a moment before formulating her next question. Sometimes a memory or a landscape serves to open a breach in a patient’s subconscious. Perhaps in some recent experience that her patient had in Rome she could find the key that would shed light on her case. And so, with exquisite tact, she decided to move down that unexpected road.

  “Did anything happen in Rome that you want to talk about, Jennifer?”

  “What do you mean?”

  The liquid green eyes of her patient became wary.

  “I have no idea,” the doctor responded. “You tell me. Repetitive dreams are sometimes born of small obsessions, or unfinished business, all the worries that our brain tries to overcome by whatever means at its disposal.”

  “There were many things like that in Rome, Doctor. I left a good deal of unfinished business behind in Italy.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  This time Jennifer sought out her psychiatrist’s dark eyes. The evident sincerity of her features, set in a wide ebony face crowned with soft frizzy hair elegantly pulled back, had given Jennifer confidence from the first time they met. Simply by looking at Dr. Meyers without saying a word, she was able to let her therapist know that this was going to be a long story.

  “Take your time, Jennifer,” Dr. Meyers said, smiling. “I love Italy.”

  FOUR

  VENICE

  Good evening, Father.”

  As he passed through the gates of the abbey, San Giorgio’s porter greeted Baldi with one of his officious smiles. Fair warning.

  “I left the mail in your cell,” Brother Roberto announced with a flourish. “You’re in luck. Three big envelopes.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Isn’t that enough, Father? The ones you’re always waiting for. You know, from the saints.”

  Baldi raised his brows in mild disapproval at Brother Roberto’s unhealthy curiosity, and then hurried toward the stairs without a word. “The ones you’re always waiting for.” The old musicologist hesitated between steps. “. . . from the saints.”

  “Hold on!” shouted the round-faced young monk, a cherub out of a Rubens painting. He was waving a piece of paper in the air. “They called you today, too, not once but twice.”

  “Who?” Baldi yelled down from the landing. He was in a hurry.

  “They didn’t leave a name. But there was a meeting. In Rome.”

  “Then they’ll call again.”

  Baldi had already forgotten about the calls by the time he got to his room. He was happy to find his mail exactly where Brother Roberto had said he left it. Of all his mail, three packages stood out: two from Rome, and a third from an industrial city in the north of Spain. They had been sent by “Saint Matthew,” “Saint John,” and “Saint Mark.” In fact, they were exactly the type of mail he was waiting for. The letters from the “saints.”

  Those missives were the only connection to his previous life, a life no one at San Giorgio knew anything about. They arrived irregularly, rarely in groups of two, but never before had there been three at once. Realizing that his three colleagues had all felt the need to write him at the same time, he passed suddenly from happiness into a state of alarm.

  But there was another, more urgent reason to be startled. It was a sepia envelope bearing the unmistakable seal of the Secretariat of State of His Holiness the Pope. It had been stamped and dated two days before in Vatican City, and was postmarked Special Delivery. Baldi set aside the mail from the “saints” and focused on that one small envelope.

  “And this?” he said under his breath. The two calls from Rome began to haunt him.

  Fearing the worst, Baldi ran his fingers over the envelope before opening it. When he at last slit it open, a letter on thick, official stationery fell into his hands.

  “Dear Saint Luke,” he read. “You must immediately cease all aspects of your investigation. The Holy Father’s scientific advisers request your presence in Rome so as to clarify the details of your latest indiscretion. Do not delay your visit beyond this Sunday. Contact the secretary of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, or in his absence, the Institute for External Affairs. They will give you more details.” It was signed, incredibly, “Cardinal Zsidiv.”

  He could barely breathe. It was Thursday, and they wanted to see him in Rome before Sunday!

  But there was something even worse than the extreme rush. Unless his memory failed him—and it was usually reliable—this was just the second time in nineteen years that they had rebuked him for an “indiscretion.” He had paid for the first with his exile to this island in Venice. What price would he pay for the second?

  FIVE

  GRAN QUIVIRA, NEW MEXICO

  SPRING 1629

  Sakmo decided to attack.

  But before the warrior could face his assailant and split open its head with his hatchet, a second flash of light arrived. His eyes barely had time to register the tall, mysterious silhouette that was now gazing at him when a gust of wind, as hard as a piece of dry wood, knocked him backward to the ground.

  “Sakmo,” the voice repeated.

  His end was near. He could feel it now. Life would slip away from him in the time it took a breath to escape his body.

  What would become of his family?

  And his tribe?

  What awaited him on the other shore of life?

  The valley was once again overflowing with a mysterious, almost tangible clarity. The warrior, meanwhile, lay on the ground while the light fell all around him. The nearby houses of Cueloce, all of stone, the Cemetery of the Ancestors, the great kiva in whose underground recesses his people held their ceremonies, even the banks of the three lakes remained bathed in a blue glow. A humming noise, a thousand times louder than a multitude of locusts, was ringing in his ears, plunging him into despair. Was this what they call death?

  The tremendous humming filled everything, even his body, with its pulse.

  Seconds later, his hunter’s strength failing him, he lost all awareness that his enemy was close by, as darkness took hold of his mind.

  And, then, silence.

  • • •

  When the young warrior came to, his face was covered with scratches, and he had no idea how much time had passed. His head throbbed. His hatchet lay a short distance away, but he did not have the strength to crawl over to recover it.

  “Dear Sakmo . . .”

  The voice that had terrified him thundered from above once again. It seemed as if it came from everywhere.

  “Why did you run away from me?”

  Disoriented, the son of Walpi took care not to respond. Still lying facedown on the ground, he summoned his courage to decide on a course of action. His small stone knife, the same one he used to skin animals, was fastened to his belt.

  A warrior’s instincts ran though his veins once again.

  “I have made a long voyage to be with you,” the voice said, more hesitant with each word. “You have nothing to fear. I will not harm you.”

  The voice of the spirit was serene, sincere. It spoke the same dialect as he did. And it did so directly, with no sense of haste. Sakmo noticed that the locusts were no longer humming and the light itself had become softer, allowing him to open his eyes gradually and once again take hold of his fate.

  At first they appeared to be spots, and then blurry outlines, and finally, after a few moments, Sakmo was able to distinguish a thin line of red ants traveling beneath his face.

  He could see again.

  It was then, once he had turned over, that he saw his enemy’s face clearly for the first time.

  “By all my ancestors . . . ,” he muttered.

  Floating above him, a few inches away, was the form of a woman, just as he had intuited. The figure seemed almost like a wood carving
, and yet, a living being, with large, clear eyes. He had never seen skin so white. She was holding her hands apart; her fingers were smooth and delicate. And her clothes were the most unusual he had ever seen. What particularly struck his attention was the vivid blue cloak that covered her dark hair, and the thick rope around her waist, which held her garments securely. The woman smiled, as if taking pity on him.

  “Do you know what day it is?”

  The question only confused Sakmo. The spirit had spoken without moving her lips. He remained silent.

  “The year of Our Lord sixteen hundred and twenty-nine. It has taken me a long time to find you, Sakmo. Now you will help me.”

  “Help you . . . ?”

  Sakmo touched his belt, felt for his knife, and slowly pulled it out of its sheath, concealing it with his arm. The woman whose skin exuded light seemed to radiate gentleness. He no longer had any doubt: Sakmo was face-to-face with the Blue Spirit of the Plains. His father had spoken to him about her once.

  “Is this the end of the world?”

  The woman, without moving her lips, became even more resplendent when she heard the sentinel’s question.

  “Not yet, my son. I have come to announce something to the people of your village. But someone like you was needed. Do you understand? There is very little time, Sakmo, before the arrival of the true God. You must prepare your people. Only you can keep blood from being shed.”

  “Are you going to kill me?” he asked, grasping his knife.

  “No.”

  “Why have you chosen me?”

  “Because of your sign, Sakmo.”

  “My sign?”

  “Look at your arm.”

  Until that moment, the young Jumano warrior had not thought anything of the dark red mark on the inside of his left forearm. It was the size of a serpent’s bite, but in fact it resembled a rose.

  “It is the sign of those who can see.”

  The woman leaned over near the Indian, extending her hand until it gently brushed the top of his shaved head. A shiver went through him. His arms dropped to his sides and his fingers relaxed. The stone knife fell to the ground.