by C. M. Palov
It’d been hot as hell that July morning in ’03 when he pulled into the Charlestown smoke shop to buy a pack of Marlboros. He’d spent the previous night in the county lockup on a drunk and disorderly charge stemming from a verbal altercation that he’d had with a redneck who made the mistake of calling him a drunken, shiftless injun. The drunken part he owned up to; he had downed a twelve-pack of PBR. But shiftless, he wasn’t, having clocked fifty hours that week at the sawmill. His fuse short, he sought redress with the classic one-two sucker punch—jab-straight, then right-to-the-body.
The fuse wasn’t any longer the next morning when he staggered into the reservation smoke shop, foul mood courtesy of a thin, lumpy mattress, a bad hangover, and a flatulent cellmate. He’d just handed a fiver to the gal behind the counter when a trio of Rhode Island state troopers suddenly stormed through the shop door. Two of the uniformed bastards had their weapons drawn. The third had a snarling German shepherd on a lead. Lips curved in a malicious grin, the head trooper yelled, “Everybody! Hands where we can see them!”
Endowed with an innate distrust of authority figures, Tonto made damned sure that the trooper who tried to arrest him—for buying a fucking pack of smokes!—got a good look at both his hands. Right before he balled them into fists and let the bastard have it with a hard right hook. Like it was the punch heard around the world, all hell broke loose inside the smoke shop.
In the end, everyone got hauled away in cuffs. Including a fifteen-year-old stock boy.
Although Tonto knew why he’d been arrested—aggravated assault against a state trooper—he had no friggin’ idea why the troopers led an armed raid against the reservation smoke shop. It wasn’t until his arraignment hearing that the public defender informed him that the state of Rhode Island did not take kindly to reservation Indians selling tax-free cigarettes, thereby screwing the state of Rhode Island out of one hundred million dollars in yearly tax revenue.
Jesusfuckingeronimo! He got sentenced to two years at the John J. Moran corrections facility because of an unpaid tax bill! Like his life wasn’t shit already, no sooner did the judge bang the gavel than his old lady up and left him for a trucker she met at a travel plaza on I-95.
Real quick, Tonto found out that prison does one of two things to a man: Either he becomes a better criminal or he becomes a better man. In his case, he became a better Narragansett. And wouldn’t you know, the road to redemption started with a pack of smokes.
He’d been at Moran about three weeks when a tree trunk of a Native named Annawon Tucker hit him up for a cigarette. Down to a half pack, he grudgingly obliged the request.
“Ever think about getting a new name?” the impertinent bastard asked.
Stuck with the moniker since he was kid, Tonto shrugged. “Beats the hell out of Felix.” A name he’d always despised, Tonto the lesser of the two evils. And what was he supposed to call himself, Running Turtle? Or some other dumb-ass Indian name?
“When you’re ready to man up and hit the Red Road, you let me know.” With that cryptic remark, Annawon took his leave.
The Red Road.
A lot like the Yellow Brick Road except this one led to a traditional peespunk. A sweat lodge where men went to cleanse their spirits and purge their bodies. And didn’t that scare the shit out of him? Although he lived on the rez, Tonto had never been a road warrior. Never been interested in tribal history or learning the traditional ways. What was the point? The white man had long ago decided that the Native peoples were a minority not a nation. Wearing a wampum necklace wasn’t going to change that.
But for some reason, Tonto couldn’t get the “invite” out of his head.
Maybe it was the thinly disguised insult about manning up. Maybe it was the boredom of being in prison. Whatever the reason, for the first time in his life, he was suddenly curious.
It started out simple enough, Annawon regaling him with tribal history while they shared a few smokes. Those first lessons were all about the glory days, the Narragansett once a powerful tribe, ruled by “kings” who collected tribute from the lesser bands like the Wampanoag and the Niantics.
But all of that changed in the seventeenth century when the first white colonists arrived. From then on out, nothing went right for the Narragansett people.
First there was the smallpox epidemic of 1633. In 1643, the Narragansett invaded the Mohegan’s turf and got their asses kicked. Then, in 1676, they suffered monumental losses when they went to war against the English motherfuckers. To punish the Naragansetts’ defiance, the motherfuckers rounded ’em up in droves and shipped ’em off to sugar plantations in the Caribbean. By the time the nineteenth century rolled around, the few remaining Narragansett in Rhode Island became unwitting victims of the government’s “detribalization” policy, the reservation sold right out from under them. In 1978, after years of legal wrangling with the federal and state governments, the Narragansett were awarded eighteen hundred acres. Small recompense given the centuries of broken treaties and empty promises.
After one of these depressing history lessons, Tonto conversationally remarked to Annawon, “It’s like we’re a cursed people.”
“More truth in that than you realize. The day the white man stole Yawgoog’s Stone, that was the day the Light left the Narragansett people. We’ve been wandering around in the darkness ever since.”
“Who the fuck is Yawgoog?”
It was a few moments before Annawon replied.
“Yawgoog was a white man like no other. For generations, he and his extended family lived in a village in the middle of the Narragansett territory. And then Verrazano and his knights showed up and slaughtered everyone in the village. Except for Yawgoog’s son. The Narragansett gave refuge to the boy who, like the eldest son in each generation, took the name of the father, Yawgoog. The Narragansett shared the ceremonial pipe with Yawgoog. And in return, he shared with us the secret of the sacred stone. When he died, Yawgoog entrusted the stone to the Narragansett. Not long thereafter, the English stole Yawgoog’s Stone. And that’s the real reason why our People were nearly decimated into oblivion. We broke our sacred trust with Yawgoog. We can’t reclaim what’s rightfully ours until we reclaim Yawgoog’s Stone.”
Tonto didn’t know it at the time, but his irreverent question, and Annawon’s surprising answer, would change the course of his life. Because it occurred to him, and Annawon was in complete agreement, that if Yawgoog’s Stone could be found, the curse that had been hanging over the Narragansett for the last four hundred years would be lifted.
But, like most things in life, there was a catch. The infamous catch-22. He needed the white man’s expertise to find the damned stone. He wasn’t an archaeologist. Or a historian. But, thanks to Annawon, he knew his tribal lore and the Yawgoog tales inside and out.
Sadly, Annawon no longer walked the earth, having succumbed to lung cancer in ’08. Which made Tonto even more determined to find Yawgoog’s Stone.
Flicking his cigarette butt out the pickup window, he shifted on the bench seat, adjusting the bolt-action Winchester that rested on top of his thighs.
When cruising the Red Road, a warrior best have his tomahawk at the ready.
CHAPTER 26
“Like every other room in the house, Lovett’s office looks like a cyclone hit,” Edie commented. Stepping across the threshold, she turned full circle as she assessed the damage. The tools of the dead archaeologist’s trade—spades, brushes, trowels, and a large mesh sifter—were haphazardly scattered about the room. In a surreal nod, the fax machine, computer monitor, and photocopier survived the tirade unscathed. “Okay, so now what?”
“Now we open Pandora’s box.” Caedmon placed the exhumed metal container on top of a scarred table. Thrilled by the discovery, he hoped its contents would put them one step closer to the elusive Templar treasure. He gallantly swept his arm in Edie’s direction. “Since you so cleverly solved the mystery, I think you should do the honors.”
“Wish me . . . What is that?” she scr
eeched the moment the metal box was opened. She pointed an accusing finger at a skeletal hand nesting in a bed of packing materials.
“A casualty of war, I daresay, the skeletal appendage severed at the wrist.” And a clean cut, at that, indicating a very sharp blade had been used. He assumed that the rest of the skeleton was in the mass grave that Lovett had uncovered.
He carefully removed the tray from the box and placed it on the table. Beneath it was a neatly packed assortment of resealable plastic bags. He removed a large see-through bag and held it aloft. “Good God! Unless I’m mistaken, this hilt came from a sixteenth-century hand-and-a-half wheel pommel sword.”
“Do you think we can get anything for it on eBay? Just kidding,” she added when he cast a chastising glance in her direction. Edie lifted a smaller plastic bag from the metal box, dangling it in front of his face. “This silver ring looks pretty old. What do you want to bet it goes with the severed hand?”
Caedmon did a double take. Stunned, he snatched hold of Edie’s wrist, stilling the plastic bag’s back-and-forth motion.
Can it really be?
“May I?” When she nodded, he took custody of the polyethylene bag.
Taking a deep, stabilizing breath, he unzipped the bag and, with reverential care, removed the tarnished silver ring. Utterly bowled over, he stared at the pair of armed and helmeted knights engraved on a circular disk.
Un-bloody-believable.
Weak in the knees, he walked over to the one chair in the room that hadn’t been knocked asunder. Holding the chair back with his free hand, he eased himself onto the wooden seat.
Edie approached, clearly bemused by his reaction. “Given your dumbstruck state, I have deduced that that is not your garden-variety cocktail ring. Pretty valuable, huh?”
“It’s a signet ring. When pressed into molten wax, it created a seal,” he informed her, finally regaining his senses. “And, yes, I suspect it would fetch a pretty penny. Although its historic value is immeasurable.” And the reason for his “dumbstruck state.” “Each grand master had his own unique signet ring with which he stamped letters and documents, enabling him to validate—”
“Back up!” Edie interjected. “Are you saying that’s a Templar signet ring that belonged to a Knights Templar grand master?”
He gazed at the ring still cradled in his palm. “Yes, that’s precisely what I’m saying. Proof positive that the Knights Templar landed on these shores and established a secret colony at Arcadia. The smoking gun as it were.”
“Well, this I’ve got to see.”
Pronouncement made, Edie strode over to the far side of the room. Yanking open the middle drawer on Lovett’s desk, she rummaged through its contents. When she didn’t find what she was looking for, she opened another drawer.
“ ’Bout time,” she muttered, removing a magnifying glass. “Can’t imagine an archaeologist without one of these at the ready. Now let me have a look at that ring.” She pinched the ring between her thumb and index finger, examining it under the magnifying lens. “Hey, I recognize these guys. This is the famous image of two Templar knights riding one horse.”
“Symbolic of the Templars’ vow of poverty.”
“Well, let’s hope they didn’t take the vow too seriously because I will be highly disappointed if we don’t find a chest full of gold florins.” Brown eyes mischievously twinkling, she resumed her examination. “There’s a bunch of Latin inscribed on the outer rim of the ring . . . testis sum agnitio.”
“Agni,” he corrected. “Typically seen on Templar seals, the phrase means ‘I am a witness to the lamb.’ As in the Lamb of God.”
“That’s well and good, but this inscription reads ‘testis sum agnitio.’ ”
His jaw slackened. “My God . . . are you certain?”
“Here. See for yourself.” She handed him both the seal and the magnifying glass. “Significant or just a medieval typo?”
Confirming that the inscription did, in fact, read agnitio, he slumped against the wooden chair. “A most dangerous play on words,” he murmured. “It means ‘I am a witness to knowledge.’ Knowledge, or gnosis in the Greek, refers to a transcendental understanding of creation. Mystics describe it as a momentary flash of insight. A glimpse into the mind of God. Testis sum agnitio—the heretic’s creed.”
“Because the little people were supposed to kneel and genuflect and not ask any questions, right?”
He nodded. “The medieval church took great pains to ensure it was the sole proprietor of knowledge and was quick to condemn anyone who laid claim to spiritual knowledge that differed from their carefully crafted orthodoxy. All of which begs the question, what knowledge did the Templars possess?”
“Whatever it was, it brought the wrath of the Inquisition down upon them. And that, in turn, spelled the Templars’ doom. Which is why they ‘loaded up the truck and they moved to Beverly.’ ” The last part of her remark was sung rather than spoken. Giggling, Edie apologized. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist. And from your blank expression, I have ascertained that you’ve never watched a single episode of The Beverly Hillbillies.”
“To get back on point, it’s clear from both the Newport Tower and this signet ring that the Knights Templar did have a doomsday plan that involved the New World.” They would have been fools not to have a contingency plan, their enemies not only numerous but virulent. “I need to see what else is in that blasted metal box.”
As he lurched to his feet, Caedmon handed Edie the ring and magnifying glass. She, in turn, pointedly glanced at her wristwatch.
“Only fifteen minutes have lapsed since we entered the cottage. We have time,” he assured her, unwilling to wait until they’d checked into their hotel to examine the contents of the gray metal box. Having spent years studying the Knights Templar, Caedmon knew that trying to understand the elusive order of warrior monks was akin to finding a wisp of smoke in a thick fog. But the mist had just cleared, however briefly, thanks to Jason Lovett having unknowingly bequeathed to him an extraordinary artifact.
Testis sum agnitio.
His belly tight with anticipation, he lifted another bag out of the box. “We next enter into evidence, several black rosary beads along with a very tarnished Sacred Heart of Jesus medallion. Inscribed with the year 1523, it is convincing evidence that the Jesuits were directly involved in the Templar massacre at Arcadia. An unpleasant smell, the stench of orthodoxy.”
“Being awfully melodramatic, aren’t you?”
“Tell that to the poor souls who met their death at the end of a Maltese sword. Since the good Jesuits were forbidden to draw blood, the Knights of Malta were often used as their armed proxies.” He placed the plastic packet on the table next to the tray. “Ah! This should pique your interest.” He removed a bag containing six gold coins.
Broadly smiling, Edie snatched it from him. “According to Lovett, these were minted prior to 1307. Several thousand more of these babies and I’ll be set for life.”
“Given the mass grave that Dr. Lovett uncovered, it would seem that Chiron has been paid in full.”
Edie, her smile drooping at the corners, glanced at the skeletal hand. “He charges a mean penny.”
“Indeed.” Having reached the bottom of the metal box, he removed a small field notebook. Inside the front cover was a folded map of the Arcadia Wilderness Area. He wasted no time unfolding the map. “I give you Yawgoog’s domain. Marks to Lovett for thinking outside the academic box.”
“He’s indicated four separate areas on the map: Yawgoog’s settlement, the mass grave, Yawgoog’s bridge, and the Templar stone.” Edie tapped each of the landmarks with her index finger. “Where do we start?”
Staring at the map, Caedmon gave the question due consideration, trying to determine the best course of action. “It doesn’t make strategic sense for the Templars to have hidden their most valuable assets within the settlement compound. Moreover, Lovett already scanned the settlement area and didn’t find anything of note other than the mass grave.”
“Leaving us with the stone and the bridge.”
“Which, according to the map, are within close proximity to each other.” Caedmon held up a handheld GPS device that he’d found in the bottom of the box. “This should make our scavenger hunt that much easier.” Decision made, he folded the map. “We’ll begin our hunt at the Templar stone first thing tomorrow morning. To that end, we should gather any of Lovett’s archaeology supplies that we might need.”
“I saw an empty knapsack in the living room. We can use it for the small stuff, trowels, magnifying glass, bull-whips. You know, the Indiana Jones grab bag.”
Caedmon chuckled. Edie’s quirky personality was one of the things that attracted him to his American lover. That and her indomitable spirit.
As Edie trotted off in search of a rucksack, he gathered the larger items that they might need. Bending to retrieve a pickax from the floor, he noticed several sheets of paper protruding from the fax machine. Curious, he reached for the paper instead of the pickax.
Edie reentered the office. “What did you find?”
“Mmmm . . . I’m not altogether certain.” Puzzled, he showed her the two sheets of paper.
Holding one sheet in each hand, she examined them in turn. “Well, this one is easy”—she gently shook the piece of paper in her left hand—“it’s a fax cover sheet to a Dr. Lyon at Catholic University. This other one is just plain weird. It looks like a carved message written in a mystery alphabet. Mystery because I’ve never seen letters that even remotely resemble these.”
“Lovett did mention finding a primitive script carved on an excavated foundation stone. It’s possible that he faxed the script to this Dr. Lyon in the hopes that the other man might decipher its meaning.”
