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He wandered about the ruins； putting off the cold and the pain of his wounds for as long as possible。 It was going to be a long； brutal night。 He had no blanket and no way to make fire。 There were no branches to cover himself。 Once he lay down； his lacerations and the frozen earth would wrack him。 His limbs would stiffen。 For all he knew； strange animals might rise up in the darkness。 By dawn； his captors might have found him。 No； while there was still light； he forced himself to stay on his feet。
In that way； he came upon the petroglyphs。
The wind and vandals had abraded them from exposed places； and snow had covered others。 But at the rear of the caves； in more hidden spaces； cut into the walls and boulders or scratched into black soot smoked onto the stone； primitive hands had drawn animals and geometric shapes and stick figures。 In them； the village came to life。
Many of the particulars were strange to him； the horned beasts that were neither sheep nor goats； the crops that were not wheat； the lions that were not quite lions。 Yet the drawings spoke to him directly。 In the snakes and birds； he saw their reverence for the earth and sky。 The spirals led inward to the center。。。not outward to anarchy。 Here was lightning； and that was the alphabet of God。
He had seen glyphs like these in the caves of his own land。 Sticklike figures of men danced and hunted。 Mystical symbols sprang out at him。 He recognized an insect…like character with an enormous jutting phallus and a flute。 That was the peddler； the wanderer； the seducer。。。the fertile heart。 For the unwary； he was the one who could be the devil。 But in the proper circumstances； if you were fortunate； his could be the prophet's song； the very essence of inspiration。
At last the pain and exhaustion were too much。 The fugitive staggered in place。 The snow around his feet turned red。 Daylight was failing。 He chose the remains of a house built inside a cave； and crawled into its deepest recess。 There was no snow in here。 With the last of his strength； he stacked rocks in the doorway and lay down with his back against the wall。
The wind sang through the cracks。 There was no food。 He had no idea which way lay east。 Yet he felt the torment in his soul。。。lift。
The ruins provided more than just a shelter。 For the first time since being born into this bleak underworld； he felt a sense of place and time。
He dreamed of his mother and father； except they were not dreams because his sleep was not sleep。 Bleeding out； sapped by the cold； he slowly floated into delirium。 It was as if he were freezing into stone。
IN THE MORNING； their soldiers found him。 He heard their voices。 Daylight pierced the cracks in the wall。 Unable to move； he could only watch as they clawed the rocks from his doorway； and they were like animals ing into his tomb。
12
The Orphan
LOSALAMOS
MARCH
Miranda watched the orphan from the dimmed observation booth。 The girl sat facing the opposite wall； legs folded。Crisscross； apple…sauce。 She was very still this morning。 They had dressed her…forcibly…in pink Oshkosh b'Gosh overalls。 Broken toys surrounded her。 A sippy cup with orange juice sat by one knee。
Ever since Elise's death； Miranda had made herself an unseen presence in the little girl's world。 Twice a day； every day； no matter how heavy her lab schedule； she had e to watch the four…year…old。 It gave her fort。 It reminded her of things。 Elise had hovered over her in just such a way after Miranda's mother died； getting as close as she dared。 In a sense； Miranda felt she was returning the favor。 She wondered if she had been as mysterious to Elise as this nameless child was to her。
Miranda never went into the room itself。 For one thing； the child had bee too dangerous to herself and to others。 For another； Miranda didn't want to spoil her fantasy of a special connection with the orphan。
It was a cheery room； still bright with several gallons of Martha Stewart paints confiscated by the National Guard after the Albuquerque riots back in October。 Volunteers had painted happy yellow sunflowers on the sky blue wall。 A big rainbow arched over the steel doorway。 Much of the paint had faded from the water hose and disinfectants。 But you still got the idea： a little girl's sanctuary。
Her window…bulletproof so that she could not break it…looked east upon the snowy Jemez Mountains。 She had a red and blue plastic bed with a treasured Pooh blankie。 In the corner sat her potty。 A mobile made of pink scallop shells hung from the ceiling。 Scientists and soldiers with families had donated toys。 There was no denying that people had tried to love the unlovable child。
For a time； the orphan had bee something of a celebrity； a distraction from the plague。 Like Miranda； strangers would swing by during their lunch hour to sit in the booth and eat their sandwiches while she played； blissfully unaware of her spectators。 This past Christmas； second graders had gathered outside her window to sing carols。 The kids had held a name contest； and hundreds of suggestions poured in； from Britney and Madonna to Ice。 Nothing quite fit。Sin Nombre； they ended up calling her。No Name。
She was quirky； but ungodly gifted for a four…year…old。 They marveled at her right…brain prowess。 At an age when children were barely imitating lines； she was drawing the aspen tree outside her window with ten different colored crayons。 It was the same tree each day； but always different。 She changed her palette； her theme； the size of the tree； the emotions。 Some pictures had leaves； some bare branches。 Some used tiny suns or tongues of flame or birds for leaves。 No one knew where she had seen fire。 Then they remembered the candle flames of second…grade carolers。
Lately a figure had crept into her drawings； usually seated under the tree。 It was a stick figure to begin with； remarkable in itself for her age。 With astonishing speed； a matter of a week or so； the figure had acquired fingers and a face with disproportionate details。 It was Miranda who finally figured out the distortions。 Lacking a mirror； the girl had felt her own face and transferred them to the paper。 The child was drawing self…portraits。 Her self…awareness staggered them。 They pared her to Picasso。 Lately that had changed。
A month ago； the breakdown had begun。 The child tore her clothing to shreds。 They found her walls plastered with her own feces and urine。 From this side of the glass； barricaded from the stench； it was possible for Miranda to see the beauty and mystery contained in that mess of handprints and chocolate scrawls。 Other people only saw neurotic behavior； or possibly something worse。
Popular opinion shifted。 The child； it seemed； was a freak after all。 Over the next few weeks； there were other disgusting incidents。 The child clawed her face and limbs bloody before they could subdue her and cut her already short nails。 She ate her crayons。 She attacked a male nurse。 Their little Picasso had tripped into rage。 The lunch crowd proved to be fickle； or at least weak of stomach。 Her descent into madness…if that's what this was…had no entertainment value。 Soon the girl's audience dwindled to one。
Miranda liked it better this way。 She could sit alone and think her thoughts and draw her own conclusions。 The girl's decline made no sense to her。 Why had she gone downhill so suddenly？ Had she seen something disturbing through her window？ Had one of the nurses been rough with her？ All the while； Miranda hunted for hints of vestigial memory； anything to connect the foundling to her Neandertal past。 Maybe the child had begun to remember things from 30；000 years ago。 And yet that defied Miranda's theory on memory。 The girl had been born as an infant； not in adult form like the other clones。 As her speech pathways developed； past memories should have been overridden or crowded out。 According to her theory； the girl was atabula rasa； or nearly one； with modern memories written over ancient ones。
Miranda remained faithful。 She saw herself in the girl's solitude。 There was no cadging of toys the way you might see among siblings。 This was an only child。 Though her playfulness had withered； a month ago she had been arranging her toys in straight lines and playing elaborate games with them。 Her Barbies were kind to one another； always speaking in a gentle whisper。 In English。
Linguists had claimed the child could never produce human speech。 Based on their examination of old Neandertal hyoid and jaw bones； they predicted she would lack the vocal architecture to pronounce vowels likea； i； andu； or hard consonants likek andg。 But littleSin Nombre sailed past their pronouncements。 She chanted her ABC's with gusto。
Everything had been going so well。 And then； abruptly； this other； demonized phase。 The toys dismembered。 The silence and retreat。
As the first clone to be born； the child was considered an index case。 Her descent was a topic of debate。 Perhaps clones simply came unraveled with time。 The recent escape of that Year Zero clone only confirmed the impression。 It was relieving for many people who were conducting research on other clones。 It meant that for all their similarities to human beings； the clones were different； like machines wi