Текст книги "Thunderhead"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston,Lincoln Child
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Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

But her jubilation was too intense to ponder this for long. Excitedly, she turned toward Black: poor Aaron Black, who had let his own boyish lust for golden treasure blind the mature archaeologist within. She had not tried to correct him, of course: no need to dampen his enthusiasm, when his support had been so important. Besides, once the initial disappointment and embarrassment was past, he would surely realize how infinitely more important the real find was.

What she saw of Black, in the murk of the kiva, shocked her. He looks terrible,she thought. The man’s flesh seemed to have shrunk on his frame. Two red, wet eyes stared hollowly out of a face caked in pale dust that was turning to mud on his sweating skin. In those eyes, she saw a brief, terrifying vision of Peter Holroyd, paralyzed with fear and illness, in the chamber near the royal burial.

Black’s mouth had gone slack, and as he stepped toward her he seemed to stagger. He took another step, reached into a bowl, and took out a necklace of micaceous beads, shimmering golden in the torchlight.

“Pottery,” he said woodenly.

“Yes, Aaron– pottery,” Sloane replied. “Isn’t it fabulous? The black-on-yellow micaceous that has eluded archaeologists for a hundred years.”

He looked down at the necklace, blinking, unseeing. Then, slowly, he lifted it, placing it around her neck with trembling hands.

“Gold,” he croaked. “I wanted to give you gold.”

It took Sloane a moment to comprehend. She watched him try to step forward, teetering in place.

“Aaron,” she said urgently. “Don’t you see? This is worth morethan gold. Much more. These pots tell—”

She broke off abruptly. Black’s face was screwed up, his hands pressed to his temples. Sloane took an involuntary step back. As she watched, his legs began to tremble and he sank against the inner kiva wall, sliding down until he was resting on the stone banco.

“Aaron, you’re sick,” she said, a sense of panic displacing her feelings of triumph. This can’t be happening,she thought. Not now.

Black did not respond. He tried to steady himself with outstretched arms, scattering several pots in the process.

Sloane stepped forward with sudden resolution, grasping one of his hands. “Aaron, listen. I’m going down to the medical tent. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

She climbed quickly up through the ragged hole and out of the kiva. Then, shaking the dust from her legs, she half walked, half ran, out of the cave, through the Crawlspace and into the silent city.

59

KNEELING BESIDE SMITHBACK, NORA stuffed a flashlight retrieved from the drysacks into her pocket and helped the journalist swallow a small cup of steaming bouillon. Just outside the tent, the portable propane stove ticked and sputtered as it cooled. Taking the empty cup from his hands, she helped him back onto the sleeping bag, stretched a woolen blanket over him, and made sure he was comfortable. She had replaced his soaked shirt and pants with dry ones, and his shock seemed to be passing. But with rain still drumming on the tent, moving him remained pointless. What he needed most, she felt, was some sleep. She glanced at the field wristwatch that had been strapped around the head tentpole. It was after nine o’clock. And yet, inexplicably, nobody had returned to camp.

Her mind turned back to the flash flood. The storm that produced it must have been enormous, awe-inspiring. It seemed inexplicable that anyone standing atop the plateau could have missed it . . .

She rose quickly. Smithback looked up at her with a weak smile.

“Thanks,” he said.

“You get some sleep,” she replied. “I’m going up to the ruin.”

He nodded, but his eyes were already closing. Grasping the flashlight, she slipped out of the tent into the darkness. Switching it on, she followed the cylinder of light toward the base of the rope ladder. Her bruised body ached, and she was as tired as she ever remembered feeling. A part of her half anticipated, half dreaded, what she might find in the ruined city. But Smithback had been cared for, and leaving the valley was now impossible. As expedition leader, she had no choice but to enter Quivira, to learn for herself exactly what was going on.

The raindrops flashed through the yellow beam like fitful streaks of light. As she approached the rock face, she saw a dark figure climb down the ladder and leap lightly to the sand. The silhouette, the graceful movement, was unmistakable.

“Is that you, Roscoe?” Sloane’s voice called out.

“No,” Nora replied. “It’s me.”

The figure froze. Nora stepped forward and looked into Sloane’s face, illuminated in the glare of the flashlight. She saw, not relief, but shock and confusion.

“You,”breathed Sloane.

Nora heard consternation, even anger, in her tone. “Just what is going on?” she asked, trying to keep her voice under control.

“How did you—” Sloane began.

“I asked you a question. What’s going on?” Instinctively, Nora took a step back. Then, for the first time, she noticed the necklace that lay around Sloane’s neck: large beads, obviously prehistoric, glittering yellow– micaceousyellow—in the glow of the light.

As Nora stared at the necklace, what had begun as a smoldering fear burst suddenly into fierce conviction.

“You did it, didn’t you,” she whispered. “You broke into the kiva.”

“I—” Sloane faltered.

“You deliberately entered that kiva,” Nora said. “Do you have any idea what the Institute will say? What your fatherwill say?”

But Sloane remained silent. She seemed stunned, as if still unable to comprehend, or accept, Nora’s presence. She looks as if she’s seen a ghost,Nora thought.

And then, in an instant, she realized that was precisely it.

“You didn’t expect to see me alive, did you?” she asked. Her voice was steady, but she could feel herself trembling from head to foot.

But still, Sloane stood rooted to the spot.

“The weather report,” Nora said. “You gave me a false weather report.”

At this, Sloane suddenly shook her head vigorously. “No—” she began.

“Twenty minutes after you came down from the rim, that flash flood hit,” Nora broke in. “The entire Kaiparowits drains through this canyon. There was a gigantic thunderhead over the plateau, there had to be. And you sawit.”

“The weather report out of Page is a matter of public record. You can check it when we get back . . .”

But as she listened, an image came unbidden to Nora’s mind: Aragon, the flood shredding him to pieces as it pulled him along the pitiless walls of the slot canyon.

She shook her head. “No,” she said. “I don’t think I’ll do that. I think I’ll check the satellite images instead. And I know what I’ll find: a monstrous storm, centered directly over the Kaiparowits Plateau.”

At this, Sloane’s face went dead white. Beads of rain were collecting on her wide cheekbones. “Nora, listen. It’s possible I never looked in that direction. You’ve gotto believe me.”

“Where’s Black?” Nora asked suddenly.

Sloane stopped, surprised by the question. “Up in the city,” she said.

“What do you think he’ll say when I confront him? He was up on top of that ridge with you.”

Sloane’s eyebrows contracted. “He’s not well, and—”

“And Aragon is dead,” Nora interrupted, speaking in a barely controlled fury. “Sloane, you were going to break into that kiva, no matter what the cost. And that cost was murder.”

The ugly word hung in the heavy air.

“You’re going to prison, Sloane,” Nora said. “And you’ll never work in this field again. I’m going to make sure of that personally.”

As Nora stared at Sloane, she saw the shock, the confusion, in her eyes start to turn to something else.

“You can’t do that, Nora,” Sloane replied. “You can’t.” Her voice was suddenly low, urgent.

“Watch me.”

There was a flash of jagged lightning, followed almost instantly by a great peal of thunder. In that instant, Nora glanced downward, shielding her eyes. As she did, she saw the dull glint of the gunmetal tucked into Sloane’s belt. Looking up quickly again, she saw Sloane watching her. The woman seemed to straighten up, draw a sudden breath. Her jaw set. In a face full of lingering surprise, Nora thought she saw a resolution begin to form.

“No,” she murmured.

Sloane looked back at her, unblinking.

“No,” Nora repeated, more loudly, backing up into the darkness.

Slowly, tentatively, Sloane’s hand dropped toward the gun.

In a sudden, desperate movement, Nora snapped off her light and wheeled away, sprinting into the close, concealing darkness.

The camp lay a hundred yards off—no protection there. Sloane stood between her and the city. And the flood had cut her off from the other side of the valley. In the direction she was headed, that left only one option.

Her mind worked furiously as she ran. Sloane, she realized, was not the kind of person who could bear to lose. If she had refused to even leave Quivira without opening the kiva, was it possible she would allow Nora to take her back to civilization—in shame and humiliation—to face life in ruin? Why did I provoke her like that?Nora raged at herself. How could I have been so stupid?She herself had demonstrated to Sloane exactly how stark her choice was. Nora, effectively, had signed her own death warrant.

She dashed as quickly as she dared along the rocky base of the cliff, making for the landslide at the far end. Fitful tongues of lightning guided her way. Scrambling up the talus of broken boulders, she searched for a hiding place, not daring to use her flashlight for fear of betraying her position. Halfway up the slope she found a suitable hole: narrow, but still large enough to fit a human body. She wedged herself as far inside as she could and crouched in the darkness, gasping for breath, trying to sort things out, raging with frustration and despair.

She glanced around her hiding place. She had managed to crawl fairly deeply into the landslide. Still, it was only a temporary option: it would only be a matter of time before Sloane searched her out. And Sloane had the spare gun.

Her thoughts returned to Smithback, lying asleep in the medical tent, and her hands clenched in anger. He was a sitting duck. But no: there was no reason for Sloane to enter the tent and find him. Even if she did, there was a chance she would not kill him. Nora had to cling to that hope—at least, until she found some way to stop Sloane.

There hadto be a way. Bonarotti and Swire were out there, somewhere. Unless they were part of the conspiracy, too . . . she shook her head, refusing to let herself follow that line of speculation.

Perhaps she could find a way to sneak back into the camp, steal away with Smithback. But that would mean hours of cautious waiting, and one way or another Sloane would certainly act before then. Nora knew she couldn’t climb up to the rim and escape—not with Smithback behind, injured, in the valley. As she crouched in the darkness and turned over her options, it dawned on her, with a desperate kind of finality, that in fact there were no options at all.

60

BEIYOODZIN MADE HIS WAY ACROSS THE slickrock plateau, far above the valley of Quivira. The heart of a second, smaller storm was passing overhead now, and it was very dark. Beneath his feet, the irregular rock was slick with rainwater, and Beiyoodzin walked with great care. His old feet ached, and he missed the presence of his horse, tethered back in the valley of Chilbah. The Priest’s Trail was impassable for all but the two-legged.

The trail markings were irregular and vague—a small, ancient cairn of rocks here and there—and the way was difficult to make out in the darkness. Beiyoodzin needed all his skill simply to follow it. His eyes were not as strong as they had once been. And he was all too aware that the single most difficult stretch lay ahead: in the tortuous, dangerous descent along the ridge of the narrow slot canyon at the far end of the valley.

He wrapped the sopping cloak tighter and moved on. Though his grandfather had hinted of it, Beiyoodzin had never believed that the Priest’s Trail could be so demanding, or so long. After arrowing up the secret cut in Chilbah Valley, it followed a long, complex route across the high plateau, wriggling for miles through the stunted junipers, in and out of dry washes and steep little ravines. He urged his tired body to move faster. It was late, he knew; perhaps too late. There was no telling what might have happened, or what might be happening, in the valley of Quivira.

Suddenly, he stopped short. There was a smell in the air: a lingering smell of woodsmoke, damp ash, and something else that brought his heart into his mouth. He looked around, eyes wide to the darkness, letting the occasional tongues of lightning guide his way. There it was—in the shadow of a large rock, as he knew it would be—the remains of a small twig fire.

He looked around quickly, carefully, making sure he was alone; making sure the creatures who had made this fire were long gone. Then he crouched, sifting the ash with his fingers. He pulled the remains of root strips, burned and brittle, from the small pile, rubbing them appraisingly between his fingers. Then, brow furrowing, he began to sift more quickly, fingertips impatiently brushing the ash aside. One hand closed on something, and he drew in his breath sharply: the petal of a flower, limp and withered. He brought it to his nose. The scent confirmed his worst fears: beneath the heavy smell of woodsmoke, he could still make out the lingering odor of morning glories.

He stood up, brushing his fingers on his wet trousers in agitation. Once, as a child in the village of Nankoweap, he had seen a terrible thing: a very old man, a bad man, partake of the forbidden datura flower. The man had flown into a rage under the influence of the drug, lashing out violently at all in his path with several times his normal strength. It had taken half a dozen young men of the village to subdue him.

But this was worse. Much worse. Those he was tracking had taken datura in the ancient way, the evil way, mixing it with psilocybin mushrooms, buttons of the mescal cactus, forbidden insects. The unholy spirit would take possession of them, bring great strength to their limbs and a murderous frenzy to their minds; make them oblivious to their own pain, or the pain of others.

Kneeling, he said a brief, fervent prayer in the darkness. Then he rose again and continued down the trail with redoubled speed.

61

BONAROTTI SAT LISTLESSLY ON THE SMOOTH rocky ground of the Planetarium, his back against the unyielding wall, elbows resting on upraised knees. He stared out into the darkness, beyond the curving shelf that hid the great city. The valley was dark, lit infrequently by livid forks of lightning. A thin curtain of water fell across the entire length of the overhanging lip of rock, cloaking the entrance to Quivira. There was no longer any reason to leave the comfort of the dry city. In fact, there was no reason to do anything, except wait out the next several days with as much comfort and as little inconvenience as possible.

He knew that he should feel vastly more disappointment than he did. Initially—during the first minutes of his realization that the secret kiva held, not gold, but merely countless ancient pots—the feeling of dismay and shock had, in fact, been overwhelming. And yet now, here on the outskirts of the city, all he felt was a vast ache in his bones. The gold would not have been his, anyway. He wondered why he had worked so hard, gotten so uncharacteristically caught up in the excitement of the moment. Now his only reward were limbs that felt unnaturally heavy. The butt of the big revolver dug into his right side. Minutes before, he thought he had heard the quick patter of feet running across the central plaza, followed by an angry buzz of conversation in the valley below. But he had not been certain, over the annoyingly steady burble of rain. His ears felt clogged and painful; perhaps he had imagined the sounds. And he felt little interest in exploring further.

With great effort, he dug into his breast pocket for a cigarette, then sounded his trousers for a match. He knew that smoking was forbidden in the ruin, but at the moment he could not have cared less; besides, he somehow felt that Sloane would be more tolerant of such things than Nora Kelly had been. Smoking was about the only comfort he had left in this godforsaken place. That, and the secret cache of grappa he had secreted deep among his cookware.

But the cigarette proved no comfort. It tasted terrible, in fact: like cardboard and old socks. He took it out and peered at it closely, using the fiery tip for illumination. Then he inserted it once again between his lips. Each fresh inhalation of smoke brought stabbing pains to his lungs. With a cough, he pinched it out with his fingers and dropped it into his pocket.

Something told Bonarotti that the fault did not lie with the cigarette. He thought briefly about Holroyd, and how he had looked, in those agonizing minutes before he died. The thought sent a galvanic twitch to his limbs, and he rose instinctively to his feet. But the sudden motion drained the blood from his head; his body grew hot, and a strange low roaring sounded in his ears. He put an arm to the cliff face to steady himself.

He took one deep breath, then another. Then he tried putting one foot in front of the other, gingerly. The world seemed to reel around him, and he steadied himself against the wall again. He had only been seated for fifteen minutes; maybe half an hour, at most. What could be happening to him? He licked his lips, staring out into the center of the city. There was a painful pressure in his head, and the hinges of his jaws throbbed with a mounting ache. The rain seemed to be easing up, and yet its steady, monotonous drone was becoming increasingly irritating to his ears. He began moving toward the central plaza, lurchingly, without purpose. Lifting his feet seemed an act of supreme difficulty.

In the darkened plaza, he stopped. Despite its openness, he felt the three-story roomblocks crowding in on all sides, their blank windows like skeletal eyes, staring stonily at him.

“I feel sick,” he said matter-of-factly, to nobody in particular.

The sound of the drumming rain was torture. Now, his only wish was to escape it: to find someplace dark and still, where he could curl up, and cover his ears with his hands. He turned slowly, mechanically, waiting for another slash of lightning to reveal the city. A blaze of yellow briefly illuminated the doorway of the nearest series of roomblocks, and he shambled toward it to the accompanying sound of thunder.

He paused in the entryway, a brief sense of alarm piercing the haze of sickness and discomfort. He felt that, if he did not lie down immediately, he would collapse to the floor. And yet the blackness of the room before him was so complete, so intense, that it seemed to be crawling,somehow, before his vision. It was a repellent, almost nauseating phenomenon Bonarotti had never seen or imagined. Or perhaps it was the sudden smell that nauseated him: the ripe, sickly sweet scent of flowers. He swayed where he stood, hesitating.

Then a fresh wave of lightheadedness overwhelmed him, and he plodded forward, disappearing into the gloom of the doorway.

62

SQUINTING AGAINST THE LIVID FORKS OF LIGHTNING, Sloane watched Nora vanish into the storm. She had to be heading for the rockslide: there was no place else to hide in the direction she was headed. As she stared after Nora, Sloane could feel the cold unyielding weight of the gun butt, pressing against her palm. But she did not draw the weapon, and she made no move to pursue.

She stood, hesitating. The initial shock of seeing Nora come walking up, alive,out of the gloom was wearing off, leaving turmoil in its place. Nora had called her a murderer. A murderer.Somehow, in her mind, Sloane could not think of herself as that. Playing back the accusation, remembering the look on Nora’s face, Sloane felt a deep anger begin to smolder. Nora had asked for the weather report, and she had given it, word for word. If Nora hadn’t been so headstrong, so stubborn, so insistent on leaving . . .

Sloane took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She had to think things through, act with care and deliberation. She knew Nora was not an immediate physical threat: Sloane herself had the spare gun. On the other hand, Nora might stumble across Swire, or Bonarotti, out there in the night.

She drew the back of her hand across her forehead, scattering raindrops. Where were Swire and Bonarotti, anyway? They weren’t in the city, and they weren’t in the camp. Surely, they wouldn’t be standing around somewhere, in the darkness and pouring rain. Not even Swire was that muleheaded. It made no sense.

Her mind wandered back to the magnificent discovery they had just made. A discovery even more astonishing than Quivira itself. A discovery that Nora had tried to prevent. At this thought, Sloane’s anger increased. Things had been going better than she could ever have hoped. Everything that she had ever wanted was up in that kiva, waiting for her to claim its discovery as her own. All the hard work was done. Bonarotti, even Swire, could be brought around. Sloane realized, almost with surprise, that things had gone too far to turn back: particularly with Aragon and Smithback dead. The only thing that stood in her way was Nora Kelly.

There was a faint cough in the darkness. Sloane pivoted, instinctively yanking the pistol from her belt. It had come from the direction of the medical tent.

She moved toward the tent, pulling her flashlight from a pocket and cupping its end to shield the glow. Then she stopped at the entrance, hesitating. It had to be Swire, or perhaps Bonarotti: there was nobody else left. Had they overheard Nora? Something close to panic washed over her, and she ducked inside, gun drawn.

To her immense surprise, there lay Smithback, sleeping. For a moment, she simply stared. Then understanding flooded through her. Nora had only mentioned Aragon’s death. Somehow, both she and Smithback had survived.

Sloane slid to her knees, letting the flashlight fall away, resting her back against the sopping wall of the tent. It wasn’t fair. Things had been working out so perfectly. Perhaps she could have found a way to deal with Nora. But now Smithback, too . . .

The writer’s eyes were fluttering open. “Oh,” he said, raising his head with a wince. “Hi. And ouch.”

But Sloane was not looking at him.

“I thought I heard shouting just now,” Smithback said. “Or was I just dreaming?”

Sloane waved him silent with her gun hand.

Smithback looked at her, blinking. Then his eyes widened. “What’s with the gun?”

“Will you shut up? I’m trying to think.”

“Where’s Nora?” asked Smithback, suspicion suddenly clouding his face.

At last, Sloane looked back at him. And as she did so, a plan began to take shape in her mind.

“I think she’s hiding in the rockfall at the end of the canyon,” she replied after a moment.

Smithback tried to ease himself up on one elbow, then slumped. “Hiding? Why? What happened?”

Sloane took a deep breath. Yes,she thought quickly: it’s the only way.

“Why is Nora hiding?” Smithback asked again, more sharply, concern crowding his voice.

Sloane looked at him. She had to be strong now.

“Because I’m going to kill her,” she replied as calmly as she could.

Smithback gasped painfully as he again tried to rise. “I’m not following you,” he said, sinking back again. “Guess I’m still delirious. I thought you said that you were going to kill Nora.”

“I did.”

Smithback closed his eyes and groaned.

“Nora’s left me no choice.” As she spoke, Sloane tried to detach herself from the situation, to rid herself of emotion. Everything, her whole life, depended on pulling this off.

Smithback looked at her. “Is this some kind of sick joke?”

“It’s no joke. I’m just going to wait here for her to return.” Sloane shook her head. “I’m truly sorry, Bill. But you’re the bait. She’d never leave the valley without you.”

Smithback made a mighty effort to rise, then collapsed again, grimacing. Sloane checked the cylinder, then closed the gun and snapped the cylinder lock back in place. The weapon had no safety, and she cocked the hammer as a precaution.

“Why?” Smithback asked.

“Incisive question there, Bill,” Sloane said sarcastically, anger returning despite her best efforts. “You must be a journalist.”

Smithback stared at her. “You’re not sane.”

“That kind of talk just makes what I have to do easier.”

The writer licked his lips. “Why?” he asked again.

Suddenly, Sloane rounded on him. “Why?” she asked, the anger rising. “Because of your precious Nora, that’s why. Nora, who every day reminds me more and more of my own, dearfather. Nora, who wants to control everything down to the last iota, and keep all the glory for herself. Nora, who wanted to just walk awayfrom the Sun Kiva. Which, by the way, contains an incredibly important find, a treasure that none of you had the faintest conception of.”

“So you did find gold,” Smithback murmured.

“Gold!” she snorted derisively. “I’m talking about pottery.”

“Pottery?”

“I see you’re no smarter than the rest,” she replied, picking up the disbelief in Smithback’s voice. “Listen. Fifteen years ago, the Metropolitan Museum paid a million dollars for the Euphronios Krater. That’s just one beat-up old Grecian wine jug. Last month, a little broken bowl from the Mimbres valley sold at Sotheby’s for almost a hundred grand. The pots in the Sun Kiva are not only infinitely more beautiful, they’re the only intact examples of their kind. But that doesn’t matter to Nora. She told me that, when we get back to civilization, she’s going to accuse me of murder, see that I’m ruined.”

She shook her head bitterly. “So tell me, Bill. You’re a shrewd judge of humanity. I have a choice to make now. I can return to Santa Fe as the discoverer of the greatest archaeological find of the century. Or I can return to face disgrace, and maybe even a lifetime behind bars. What am I supposed to do?”

Smithback remained silent.

“Exactly,” Sloane replied. “It’s not much of a choice, is it? When Nora returns for you, she’s dead.”

Smithback suddenly rose on one arm. “Nora!” he croaked, as loudly as he could. “Stay away! Sloane is waiting here for you with a—”

With a quick movement, Sloane whipped the gun across the side of his head. The writer flopped sideways, groaned, then lay still.

Sloane stared down at him for a moment. Then she glanced around the medical tent. Finding a small battery lamp among the equipment, she snapped it on and placed it in the far corner. Picking up her flashlight and switching it off, she quietly unzipped the tent and slipped outside into the dark.

The tent was pitched near a low, thick clump of chamisa. Slowly, quietly, Sloane crawled into the chamisa, then turned around and lay on her stomach, facing the tent. The lamp within it gave out a subdued glow, cozy and inviting. She was completely concealed within the dark vegetation, and yet she had an unobstructed view of the tent. Anyone approaching it would automatically be silhouetted by the dim light. When Nora returned for Smithback—as Sloane knew she would—her silhouette would make a perfect target.

Her thoughts drifted briefly to Black, sick and alone, waiting for her back at the kiva. She tried to ready herself for what was to come. Once this business was done, she could quickly drag Nora down to the river. In seconds, the current would sweep her into the narrow meat-grinder of a canyon at the far end of the valley. And when Nora’s body reached the Colorado River—eventually—there wouldn’t be enough left for a postmortem. It would be the same as if Nora had been washed out by the flash flood in the first place—as, by all rights, she should have been. No one would know. And then, of course, she’d have to do the same to Smithback. Sloane closed her eyes a moment, unwilling to think about that. But there was no longer any choice: she had to finish what the flood had failed to do.

Resting both elbows on the ground, Sloane eased the pistol forward, balancing it with both hands. Then she settled down to wait.

63

AARON BLACK LAY IN THE KIVA, CONFUSED and horribly frightened. The fitful glow of the dying lamp still faintly illuminated the close, dusty space. But Black’s eyes were shut fast against the darkness, against the overwhelming evidence of his failure. It seemed that hours had passed since Sloane had left, but perhaps it was only minutes: it was impossible for him to tell.

He forced his gluey eyes open. Something terrible was happening; perhaps it had been coming on for a while, and now that the fevered digging had given way to crushing disappointment, it was upon him at last. Perhaps the air was bad. He needed to get out, breathe some fresh air. He mustered the energy to rise, staggered, and with astonishment felt his legs buckle.

He fell back, arms flailing weakly. A pot rolled crazily around him and came to rest against his thigh, leaving a snake’s trail in the dusty floor. He must have tripped. He tried to rise and saw one leg jerk sideways in a spastic motion, muscles refusing to obey. The lantern, canted sideways, threw out a pale corona, suffused by dust.

From time to time, growing up, Black had been tortured by a recurring nightmare: he found himself paralyzed, unable to move. Now, he felt that he was living that nightmare. His limbs seemed to have grown frozen, unwilling or unable to respond to his commands.

“I can’t move!” he cried. And then, with a sudden terror, he realized he hadn’t been able to articulate the words. Air had come out of his mouth, yes—an ugly splutter, and he felt saliva dribbling down his chin—but no words came. He tried again and heard once more the ugly choking rush of air, felt the refusal of his tongue and lips to form words. The terror increased. In a spasm of panic, he struggled unsuccessfully to rise. Weird shapes and writhing figures began crowding the darkness beyond his eyes; he turned to look away, but his neck refused to move. Closing his eyes now only caused the shapes to spring to greater definition.