Coyote Rising by Allen Steele Page A

there were surprised as well, and a couple of them tried to get me to tell them where I was headed, but I kept my mouth shut; I didn’t want anyone else horning in on the act. Jaime tried to follow me, but I sidetracked him by cutting through Trappers Guild turf. By the time he finished apologizing to them, I was on the dirt road leading to the edge of town.
    The Universalists weren’t shocked when I reappeared; in fact, they were expecting me. Renaldo and Ernst took one look at the ragged tent I tried to pitch near their own and pronounced it to be uninhabitable; for then, I’d share quarters with them. Clarice wrinkled her nose when she saw my clothes; burn them, she said, they had plenty to spare. They didn’t have an extra sleeping bag, unfortunately, but Arthur relieved me of mine and took it away to be washed. And then everyone agreed that I smelled nearly as bad as the stuff I’d brought with me; before I had a chance to object, water had been boiled, tarps had been erected arounda collapsible washtub, and I was being treated to my first hot bath in so long that I’d forgotten what it was like. Nor did I have to do it alone; while Angela washed my feet, Doria rinsed my hair, and neither of them took offense at the embarrassing development that soon occurred between my legs.
    I emerged from my bath feeling as clean as the day I was born, wearing clothes so fresh that they crinkled as I walked. And the treatment wasn’t over yet; while I was washing up, Greer made breakfast for me. It was light fare—a bowl of hot oatmeal, a couple of slices of fresh-baked bread, a cup of vegetable juice—but it was much better than what I had been eating for the last year. I ate sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of the fire pit; Greer sat at my side, silently watching as I wolfed everything down. I had to restrain myself from licking the bowl, and when I was done, I turned to her.
    “That was the best”—I covered my mouth to stifle a belch—“breakfast I’ve had in years. Thanks.”
    “You’re welcome. And thank you for coming back. We’re glad to have you with us.” She paused, and added, “And so is Zoltan. He asked me to tell you that.”
    “Uh-huh.” Although church members were hard at work all around us, continuing to put the camp together, Zoltan was nowhere to be seen. “Where is he, anyway?”
    “In communion with Byron.” Greer nodded toward his tent, a couple of dozen feet away. It occupied the center of the campsite; I noticed that its door flap was closed. “He spends time alone with one of us each day, in meditation. We try to respect their privacy.”
    I remembered how he had made himself absent the day before, while everyone else was working. “And who decides who gets to, um, meditate with him?”
    “He does, of course. He picks someone with whom to share communion, takes him or her into his tent.” She pointed to her left forearm. “You know who it is because they’ll wear a black sash around their arm. That means they’re excused from their chores for the rest of the day, so that they may contemplate the lesson Zoltan has given them.” She gave me a sly wink. “So of course we’re very happy about it when Zoltan summonsone of us,” she quietly added, as if letting me in on a secret. “It means we get a day off.”
    Communion, my ass. I knew a freeloader when I saw one. I had to admit, though, that extending the same privilege each day to one of his followers was a smart move; it kept the troops in line. But I kept my opinion to myself. “I’m sure he’s busy. I’ll just have to catch up with him some other time.”
    “Umm . . .” She hesitated. “One thing you should know is that you don’t approach him first. When he’s ready to speak to you, he will . . . but you’ll have to wait for that moment. Then you can talk to him.”
    I nodded, trying to keep a poker face. “Still, there’s a lot I’d like to ask him. After all, he left me hanging last