Sacred Ground

by Barbara Wood

  “My cronies! What are you talking about? The meeting wasn’t a secret.”

  “Then why wasn’t I told about it?”

  He gave her a blank look. “I thought you had been. Sam said he informed you of the meeting but that you couldn’t make it.”

  The elevator doors opened and Sam Carter, in the company of Zimmerman and Dimarco, stepped out. Erica blocked his path. “What’s going on, Sam? What was that all about?”

  He gestured to his companions to go on ahead. “I called the meeting in the interests of the other parties, not that I have to explain myself to you.”

  “Damn it, Sam, that was no first reading. You were going to vote today, weren’t you? You violated the standards of the Little Hoover Commission. You met behind closed doors to vote on a decision that is going to affect the public and yet the public was not informed.”

  He started to push past her but she stood her ground. “It’s the Dimarcos, isn’t it? What did they promise you? Curatorship of their museum?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “What are you implying?”

  “When I saw you with the Dimarcos I thought something was up. But you know, I might have let it go if I hadn’t gone into your tent one morning looking for you just as a fax was coming through on your machine. I’m not a snoop, but when I saw that the letter bore the official seal of California, I knew it wasn’t personal and so I felt within my rights to read it. But you know, Sam? The memo was puzzling. It was signed by the Secretary for Resources and it was essentially a letter of permission for you ‘to move on your proposed action.’ Naturally I wondered what action. Wasn’t what we were already doing— excavating out the cave— our official action? What more would you be wanting to do?

  “That was when I remembered you once telling me that you would like to retire from fieldwork and find a nice office or museum job somewhere. What a coincidence that the Dimarcos should happen to want a museum with their name on it.”

  “So you went to the City Morgue and got a picture that was sure to shock.”

  “Can you tell me any other way I can fight all of you? We’re going to run the column, Sam. And I’m betting I get public support on my side.”

  “Why does it mean so much to you, to the point of risking your job, your career?”

  “Because once, years ago, I was as vulnerable as the Emerald Hills Woman is. I was going to be steamrollered over just as she is. I was a case number, Sam; they didn’t even refer to me by my name. I was about to be dropped through the cracks of a heartless and soulless child welfare system when a stranger stepped in and stood up for my rights. I vowed that someday I would repay the favor by doing the same for someone else. Sam, one way or another I am going to do this. If I have to go to Washington and lobby the United States Congress, I am going to succeed.”

  * * *

  “Despite the objections of local Indian tribes,” came the newscaster’s voice over the car radio, “the federal government said yesterday that DNA testing of the Emerald Hills skeleton will go forward. The decision follows days of discussions involving representatives from Southern California tribes and officials from the Department of the Interior, and the Department of Justice, as well as the California State Native American Heritage Commission. Experts on ancient DNA analysis have pointed out that the procedures will be complex and time-consuming and may not provide conclusive data for determining the skeleton’s tribal identity. The Confederated Tribes of Southern California have criticized the decision and continue to demand that the bones be reburied.”

  Jared clicked the car radio into silence. He was just getting back to Topanga after five days in Sacramento, where he had attended an emergency session of the Native American Heritage Commission. The session had been called because Coyote and his Red Panthers, protesting the continued excavation of the cave, had staged a “human landslide” on the Pacific Coast Highway, backing traffic up for miles. They swore to escalate their fight until the cave of their ancestor was sealed. Sam Carter had also been at the emergency meeting— Sam had changed his tack, as had the Dimarcos, calling for the archaeologists to be allowed to continue working in the cave until the most likely descendant could be found. The Dimarcos claimed their change of heart had nothing to do with the negative press and pressure from feminist groups that had resulted from Erica’s crusade to keep the project going. The morgue photo, printed in the Los Angeles Times alongside a photo of the Emerald Hills skeleton, had made its intended point.

  As Jared got out of his car something caught his eye— a flash of crimson and yellow through the trees. An Asian tiger embroidered on a jacket.

  He frowned. What was Coyote doing back here? A court order had been issued keeping him and his group away. As Jared watched him, he realized Charlie’s actions were furtive, sneaky. The giant kept looking over his shoulder in the direction of the cave. Then Jared saw him toss something into the back of a pickup truck.

  “Hey—” Jared began.

  But Charlie was behind the wheel and speeding out of the parking lot in a shower of dirt and dust.

  Jared started off toward the cave, his steps going faster until suddenly he was running. Every instinct told him Charlie had been up to no good and that whoever was in the cave was in danger.

  * * *

  “It resembles sacred fetishes carried by medicine men and women. A very powerful object,” Erica explained to Luke as they knelt at the excavation pit, examining the small black stone they had found tucked inside a leather pouch.

  “It looks very old,” Luke said. “Two, maybe three hundred years.”

  “Yes, but strangely we found it on the same level as the American one-cent coin, which means this spirit-stone can only have been left here in or after 1814. Which is to say” —she lifted her eyes to meet Luke’s— “after the founding of Los Angeles, an indication that this tribe was still practicing its rituals in the first part of the nineteenth century.”

  “Erica? Erica!”

  She turned toward the cave entrance. “Was that Jared?”

  “Sounded like him. Frantic, too.”

  Erica shot to her feet and dashed the dirt off her jeans. Jared was back from Sacramento! Once he had convinced her that he hadn’t been in on any secret plot with Sam and that he had honestly thought she knew about the meeting in Century City, Erica was back on her emotional roller coaster. As she followed Luke toward the entrance to the cave, eager to hear Jared’s news, to see his smile, to share space with him, to relish the secret thrill his nearness sparked, the air rocked with a sudden, deafening bang. A shock wave slammed into Erica, knocking her off her feet. Then came a tremendous roar and the cave shook and trembled as dirt and rocks came crashing down.

  “Luke!” she screamed.

  The electricity went out, plunging the cave into unearthly darkness. The air suddenly filled with dust. On her hands and knees, Erica crawled blindly in the dark. “Luke?” she said, coughing.

  She stretched her eyes wide, but there was not even a pinpoint of light. She had never known such utter blackness. She crept cautiously forward, one hand out, groping at air. Finally, she met a rock wall where there shouldn’t be one. She listened. Dust continued to sift down from the ceiling. She blindly explored the blockage. More rocks came tumbling down.

  “Luke?” she said. “Luke!”

  But all she heard was her own raspy breathing in a sudden stillness that made her think of a tomb.

  Chapter Twelve

  Marina

  1830 C.E.

  Please God, Angela Navarro silently prayed. Let everything go smoothly tomorrow. Let the wedding take place without incident.

  Her favorite daughter was marrying for love, a phenomenon nothing short of miraculous. But Navarro could spoil it. Even at this late date, he could still ruin everything.

  Angela was forever vigilant— it was how she and her children had survived, by her cunning and by never once letting down her guard. She would read her husband’s moods, watch the signs, and then act accordingly. Navarr
o tasting his soup, his eyebrow arching, Angela quickly calling for the serving girl to take this horrible soup away— even though Angela herself had secretly thought it delicious. Or mud tracked onto the polished tile floors by one of her young sons, and Navarro scowling down at the dirt, Angela declaring how careless of her to not have wiped her feet, and the back of Navarro’s hand landing on her cheek instead of on the boy’s. Luckily, most of the time Navarro didn’t know he was being manipulated. But it required Angela to be constantly on her toes. The few mistakes she had made had cost her, and the children, greatly. A misplaced word, a look he didn’t like, and he would reach for his strap, raining blows on wife, children, servants alike.

  And so she had learned over the years to detect just the right moment to remove the children from his presence, when to scold just before Navarro did, when to head off an angry outburst, when to criticize herself before Navarro could, how to take the blame for everything so that servants and children were spared his wrath. She knew when submission on her part calmed him, or when it angered him, and how to quickly adjust to his mood. It was as if they played an elaborate game, except that Navarro didn’t know it. But it had been wearisome over the years, to shield her children constantly from his violence, to head off disasters, to never be herself but only a reaction to Navarro’s whims. But now, once Marina was gone, Angela could finally relax. Although what she was going to do with her time with no more children to rear, she did not know. She had long since set aside her old dream of growing citrus and cultivating grapes on the rancho. Her children and their survival, as well as her own, had always come first.

  As she anxiously oversaw the chaos in the kitchen which, being much larger than the modest kitchen of Doña Luisa’s day, was hot and smoky from meat being barbecued on great open grills and bread and stews baking in massive beehive ovens, she took a moment to look out the window. With so much yet to do for the wedding tomorrow, Angela had barely had time to finish her morning chocolate, and so she paused now to sip it slowly, savoring the richness of the thick drink made of cocoa, sugar, milk, cornstarch, eggs, and vanilla, to calm herself and to tell herself that everything was going to be all right.

  Gazing out the window, she let her spirit fly across the pastures and fields, as she had done many times over the years, to relish memories of the days she had ridden Sirocco in freedom and joy. There had been fewer trees on the landscape then, fewer cowboys and people. El Camino Viejo was busier now, with wagons and horses and mules. She recalled the Indians’ curious annual migration westward along the Old Road as they had headed for the autumn acorn harvest in the mountains, thousands of natives carrying their worldly goods, tramping to the sea as though responding to an ancient call. It had been a long time since Angela had seen any Indians heading west in the fall. She wondered if they went in search of acorns anymore.

  When her gaze fell upon the vast cattle herds as far as the eye could see, the clouds of dust raised by their hooves, Angela’s peaceful thoughts became troubled.

  Navarro was overgrazing. He wasn’t allowing the land to rest and rejuvenate itself. He seemed to forget that cattle, having been brought from across the sea, were not natural to this place and that therefore special care must be taken to keep the balance of nature. But Angela had not dared suggest he cut back on the herds and leave some acres untouched, for her words would only earn her a quick, sharp slap.

  Reminding herself that this was supposed to be a joyful day, she forced her worries aside once more and turned to find Marina still holding vigil at the window in the southeast wall of the kitchen.

  Eighteen years old and deliriously in love, Marina was intently watching El Camino Viejo where wagons and horses came and went in their treks from the village of Los Angeles to the coves of Santa Monica, stopping at the tar pits along the way. Angela knew her youngest daughter was watching for her fiancé Pablo Quiñones, a skilled silversmith born in California to Mexican parents.

  Angela had never seen a girl so in love! Marina yearned toward the open window like a flower to the sun, her slender body nearly trembling with anticipation. And her face! Eyes wide and staring, lips parted breathlessly, watching for the moment her beloved Pablo appeared on the road. How many times had Marina come running into the house blushing and starry-eyed after sitting in the shade of the pepper tree with Pablo! They would spend hours together there, under the watchful eye of an elderly chaperone, chatting away, laughing, animated with youthful life. So unlike Angela’s own brief courtship with Navarro, when they had sat in silence. And Marina would say, “Oh Mamá, Pablo has been to so many places. He has been to San Diego! Imagine that.”

  But Angela could not imagine it. A town two hundred miles away might as well be two thousand miles away. What allure could it possibly have for a girl of eighteen when her home and all that was familiar were right here?

  Of course, Angela didn’t know what it was like to be in love. There might have been a time, once, when she could have fallen in love with Navarro, but that was long ago, when she had been another Angela.

  She was startled by the sound of the children suddenly screaming. Going to the window that opened onto corrals, sheep pens and stables, she saw her grandsons and granddaughters climbing a fence in order to watch men on horseback bring a wild grizzly bear into the corral.

  The vaqueros had captured the beast in the Santa Monica Mountains and had dragged it, alive, to Rancho Paloma where, tomorrow night, it was going to be pitted against a bull as part of the wedding festivities. The grizzly was putting up a ferocious battle, baring its fangs and claws and roaring with fury while the riders held on to their ropes, horses rearing and whinnying and kicking up clouds of dust, and the children clapped their hands and squealed with delight.

  As Angela watched her grandchildren scale the fence like puppies to watch the spectacle— a healthy little mob ranging in age from sixteen to toddler years— her thoughts returned to Marina and she felt a mixture of sadness and joy grip her soul. Sadness because her youngest daughter was to be married tomorrow and leave home, but joy because the house she was moving to was not far away.

  It was to be the last wedding in this house, her own having been the first, thirty-eight years ago, when she had been forced into union with a man of cold mind and colder heart. Nearly four decades had passed since Angela had hacked off her braid in the cave in the mountains and yet she could still feel the bruises from the beating she had received the next morning, when Navarro had wakened to find she had cut off her hair. The punishment had not ended there. Navarro had kept it up, devising different ways to remind Angela again and again who was her master. He would make her take off her clothes and then he would tie her to a chair and leave her there all night. He would force her to perform lewd and debasing acts, all of which she suffered silently because it happened only at night and when they were alone. When the sun rose in the morning Angela could almost think Navarro’s acts of cruelty had been but bad dreams. He took care that marks of his brutality never showed so that not even Angela’s lady’s maid, who helped her to dress in the morning, knew. And when there were times when Angela thought she could take his torments no longer, she would remember her children, how well Navarro provided for them, and this beautiful home he had built.

  Angela did not hate Navarro. She pitied him, for there was no love in him and therefore no joy, and no one loved him in return, not even his children. And in a way Angela could not explain, she was also grateful to him— for the children he had given her, for having kept his promise to allow her parents to live in this house until they died, and for making her precious rancho the most beautiful and prosperous in Alta California. In return she had fulfilled her end of the bargain: at fifty-four, Angela still had her beauty.

  The noise and chaos in the huge kitchen brought her out of her thoughts. All these women busily grinding flour, making tortillas, preparing vegetables, kneading dough, chattering and laughing, and there was still much to do! The hacienda had been making preparations for weeks. F
irst there would be the grand wedding procession on horseback with the bride and groom, dressed in their finest, leading the pageant through the village of Los Angeles and back, Marina in a broad-rimmed plumed hat and bright velvet skirts, Pablo in his embroidered jacket and pants, his horse laden with silver. And then the wedding feast, to be held among the imported jacaranda, bottlebrush, and pepper trees, complete with mariachi band, dancers, and fireworks.

  The entire Navarro family was gathered for the occasion, Marina’s brothers and sisters, all older than she and married, and all having arrived with their spouses and children. Even Marina’s sister Carlotta, older by eighteen years, had made the long journey from Mexico City with her second husband, the Count D’Arcy, and their six-year-old daughter, Angelique.

  Angela paused to inspect the cook’s red chili sauce in a large skillet, the onion, garlic, chili pulp, oregano, and flour sizzling in fat. She tasted it and frowned. Selecting a small fresh tomato, she rapidly chopped it up and scooped the pieces into the skillet. Now the sauce would be perfect. As she turned away from the stove, Angela saw through the window a tall, fiercely visaged man stride over to the corral and pluck one of the little girls from the railing. He was Jacques D’Arcy, Carlotta’s second husband and doting father of Angelique, sweeping her away from the cruel spectacle of the bear and taking her into the shade of a rose arbor, where he sat her on his knee and plucked a blossom for her hair.

  Angela’s thoughts grew troubled again. Navarro detested Carlotta’s second husband. When her first husband, a Californio selected by Navarro, died in Mexico City, Navarro had expected his eldest daughter to return to Alta California and marry a local ranchero. Instead she had met and fallen in love with a man whose family had fled the revolution in France and found haven in Mexico City. Navarro hated the French and refused to speak to Jacques D’Arcy, and D’Arcy, affronted, had declared that he was willing to stay only for Carlotta’s sake.