Enheduanna grasped the manna-eyed one, clenched her gripping hand in the small of its back, then pushed backwards on its torso. It was amazingly flexible. She grasped its face, and moved it side-to-side. It was shocking how its head could swivel. It was no wonder it needed to drink already. Water dribbled from its eyes. She turned to the other. Unprompted, it leaned: backwards, then forwards, then swiveled at the hips (poorly), then at the neck (amazingly). Enheduanna reached over, and pinched its loose skin. It stayed motionless. Enheduanna pinched harder. Still nothing. Enheduanna reached to pinch with the gripping hand—and the creature blurted “Hold!”
Angered, Enheduanna stepped forward, but with one swift movement the creature raised its hands to its throat, twiddled with its fingers—and whipped the skin away, repeating “Hold!” Then, swiftly, before Enheduanna could react, the creature put one hand to its midline, and pulled. More of its skin peeled away, revealing—pink skin, the same color as its face and hands. Enheduanna reached and pinched that skin, and the creature flinched. The skin felt odd: smooth, dry, nearly hairless, warm.
Laurel was shivering. Asach at least had eaten and drunk on the march, but this was the first opportunity there’d been to share with Laurel the meager day’s-worth of rations that Asach had packed away three mornings ago. Those gone, there was nothing left to offer but some warmth. Asach didn’t dare part with the cloak. While the others stared, (presumably aghast, but how would you know?) Asach peeled out of vest and tunic, re-donned the vest and cloak, and walked to Laurel. A Warrior still held one arm in a death-grip. Asach turned to the white, and, enunciating very clearly, said, “Please ask it to let her go for a minute.”
The white did not respond. Asach pointed to the Warrior’s hand, then, grasping Laurel’s other arm, mimed, and said, “Let. Go.” It took three repetitions of this little acting out, but the white responded with a chickadee-trill—and the Warrior released its grip.
Gently, Asach said to Laureclass="underline" “You’re going into shock. Put this on. Tastes like crap, but I think that water will help in a little while.”
Laurel stood mute, still shaking. With infinite tenderness, Asach helped her into the tunic, took her by the hand, and whispered: “Laurel, I think it’s going to be really important that we show some backbone.”
At this, Laurel turned her head slowly, dumbly, away, releasing Asach’s hand.
“Laurel?”
Silence.
“Laurel?”
Laurel croaked, barely audibly: “He is not a Faceless God! May we turn our Gaze from those who refuse to See, praying fervently that they may not remain Blind.”
Asach sighed. Some were harder to fix than others. “OK, kiddo. Have it your way.” Asach would have given just about anything for a dose of Collie Orcutt right about then. “When we get back, you can tell it to your uncle.” He’d have been a lot more useful. “Come on, then.”
For all her shunning words, Laurel fell in step behind Asach. The Warriors looked to the white. Enheduanna barked. They fell into a cordon, fore, aft, and sides, but kept their hands to themselves.
Enheduanna remarked this: it was no longer clear, which was the owner; which was the cattle. Enheduanna also remarked: it knew one word, but when it made that word, it Spoke. Enheduanna remarked: Not imitated, Spoke. Nothing else would ever have stopped a Warrior.
As they neared, the city seemed to swell with light. Laurel actually flashed a look at Asach, spitting: “You see! The angels have borne us to their city of light!”
It was not walled, precisely, but as the scale became apparent, it was clear that no entrances penetrated the lowest few meters. Instead, the lower surface was a polished green, darkened nearly to black, slick as glass. There were indeed other paths, all spiraling in to intersect at the one major entrance that offered admittance to the mound. Flanking that were two largish cave-like openings, with rows of laterite benches in their forecourts, and white shapes flickering in the rooms within.
There was a fair amount of traffic now, of differing shapes and sizes. There were heavy Porters, carrying enormous baskets filled with dried reed-cakes. There were whispers of light that streaked past them chittering just on the edge of hearing. There were smaller, brown versions of the white who led them. And flanking the forecourts were ranks of Warriors. Laurel gasped as a new shape trundled toward them, dense and peering like an enormous mole.
“There!” she cried, pointing, “There! You see, there’s one! There’s a True Angel!”
“Please, explain. I don’t know what you mean.”
“And His angels will cover your wastes with manna, making green fields of desert and Heaven of barren worlds. We have been waiting, for so many years. We knew, that if we were faithful, and prayed, He’d send His angels to rescue our fields. And there’s one.”
Asach peered at this new variety of creature. “Your fields?” The marshland extended in all directions as far as the eye could see.
“Yes, our fields. We’re only five miles from Butterfield station.”
“But what do you mean? What fields? We’re in the middle of a river delta.”
Laurel was emphatic. “No. I know exactly where we are. We’re south of the seep at Ocotillo Wells. We’re east of Butterfield station. This was all desert last year.”
“Last year? Surely you mean last gathering.”
“No! Early last year! Well, OK, nearly two years ago, but still! Now do you believe?”
Asach thought: well, maybe some massive irrigation project could be done in a year, but… “But surely this was here.” Asach’s hands spread to take in the city. The extent of the glass-and-stone construction was massive, and deep. It looked accreted over centuries.
But Laurel was shaking her head. “No, no, no! I’m a Seer. It’s my job to know every route into and out of Swenson’s Mountain.” She stopped abruptly. Flushed. “I mean, His Eye. When the time approaches, I re-ride every route, checking whether His Eye awakes. Last month, I skirted past here, and saw an Angel, and saw that they had come.”
Asach groaned. “Just in time for the Revelation.”
“Yes!” nodded Laurel emphatically.”
Asach began another question, but Enheduanna shouted “Hold!” pulling them up so abruptly that the Warriors behind nearly ran them down. The hissing started again.
Asach shifted focus to the traffic at the tables. Every Porter stopped at one or another of them. Whites came out to inspect every load. Their fingers clacked; they removed part of each; they reached into buckets beside the tables, scooped a gob of something, smacked it onto the container, stamped the gob with a carved stone sigil, and conveyed the reserved goods inside. The operation was efficient. Laurel stared, openly. She’d grown up on New Utah. She’d been to Bonneville. She could count. Simultaneously, she and Asach blurted:
“It’s a tithe house!” “It’s a customs house!”
Then Enheduanna chirped, and Warriors closed in, and began pulling at their clothes. Laurel screamed. Asach shouted “Hold! Hold!” but this time there was no effect. In a moment of sheer stupidity, Asach physically shoved between Laurel and a Warrior, and furiously disrobed. Laurel gasped. Enheduanna barked. The Warriors backed off as Asach let the last article of clothing drop. Then, before the others could react, Asach snatched up the vest, shouting “One!” while holding up one finger, and laid it on the bench. Then the trousers, “Two!” and two fingers. Then the belt, the underwear, the socks, the boots. Finally the cloak. Holding it as a screen, Asach hissed to Laureclass="underline" “Strip!” She shook her head emphatically: no. Asach hissed again: “Do it! If you don’t, they’ll do it for you! I won’t look! I swear! I’ll hold up the cloak!” The Accountant examined the articles of clothing piled upon the table.