The Sirens of Oak Creek

by Robert Louis DeMayo

  The Sirens of Oak Creek

  by

  Robert Louis DeMayo

  Copyright © 2019 - Wayward Publishing.

  Robert Louis DeMayo. All rights reserved.

  ISBN 978-0998439136

  This book can be ordered on: Amazon, Ingram,

  B&N Press, Kindle and other retailers.

  Available in print and as an eBook.

  Edited by: Nina Rehfeld

  Nina@txture.com

  Cover Design: Andrew Holman

  www.andrewholman.com

  Interior Maps: Tom Fish

  tfishart@yahoo.com

  Interior Illustrations: Jan Marc Quisumbing

  holla@the janimal.com

  Drawing of woman: Sharolyn Maleport

  Interior Photos: Robert Louis DeMayo

  This is a work of fiction.

  This book is filled with historic facts and many accurate geographic details, but they are interwoven with local myths and legends. The story is my own creation, and in writing it, I had my own agenda. It is a not a proper history. If you would like to learn more about Oak Creek Canyon and the Verde Valley, and the people who populated it over the years, I have some suggestions:

  The Verde Valley has very well-preserved ruins, including the Honanki and Palatki ruins, Tuzigoot and Montezuma Castle national monuments, and the largest petroglyph site in the area, the V-Bar-V Heritage Site. To understand the early cultures better, visit the Verde Valley Archaeological Center, located in Camp Verde. Its curator, Kenneth Zoll, has published two books on the rock art of V-Bar-V and the Verde Valley, and some of the astrological calculations made there by the ancients.

  The pioneers in my story are all based on real people, but I’ll let you decide where the facts end, and the story begins. At the end of the book is a Pioneer Lineage page to help reduce confusion. Even better, the Sedona Heritage Museum offers great exhibits on what used to be a pioneer homestead and lets the visitor glimpse into the lives of Sedona´s pioneers and the town’s early days.

  In Flagstaff, the Museum of Northern Arizona has an impressive collection of Native American artifacts and natural history specimens collected on the Colorado Plateau. A notable ruin that is well worth a visit is Walnut Canyon. Located ten miles east of Flagstaff, off I-40, the Sinaguans lived here in 25 cliff dwellings from 1100-1250 CE.

  for

  Diana Lee DeMayo

  “When I walk beside her, I am the better man.”

  (Eddie Vedder – Hard Sun)

  Writing this book required feet on the ground, and I’m indebted to my hiking friends who helped me reach the far corners of Oak Creek Canyon, the plateau above it, and the West Fork: Steve Donovan, Lincoln Fiske, Raef Lillesve, Mark Patton and Saydrin DeMayo. Jason Wesley took it a step further exploring the plateau in his Polaris Razon, and then flying over it all in a small Piper Archer. Brian Rosenberg gave me an unforgettable flight in a helicopter, up Oak Creek Canyon and then down the length of the West Fork, all the way to Sycamore Canyon.

  My editor, Nina Rehfeld, returned for this novel, and I feel it is better having survived her talented eye. Drew Holman created the cover using one of his own images. The illustrations were drawn by Jan Marc Quisumbing and Sharolyn Maleport, and the maps and the box canyon sketch by Tom Fish.

  For this novel I was also proud to have my family close to me. My intern—and daughter—Tavish Lee DeMayo, was a great help with production, and created the eBook. Pat DeMayo still has an eagle eye for proofreading. And Ronald DeMayo assisted in straightening out the firearms used in the story.

  Delving into the past was another challenge and my Sedona friends helped with their recollections, including: Tracey Dunbar & Chris Lockett, John Bradshaw, Bob Brill, Eric Henkel and David Cushman Holton III. Chris Hilt from the Junipine Inn, and Daniel & Monica Garland (Indian Gardens), helped paint a picture of their locations in 1987, as did Eric & Gayle Glomski from Page Springs (Winery). Jeff Goebel educated me on mining in this area, and Mike and Sherri O’Neil helped me make sense of the land up on the plateau and a few forest service policies. Thank you Sensei Rick Koehler of the Sedona Karate Academy for a few defensive insights, and Betty Ruiz for telling me of the Legend of La Llorona.

  Special thanks to Jut Wynne and Kenneth Dall for schooling me on certain aspects of the area’s natural history and early tribal history. And Martin Gray for allowing me to use some of his material from a lecture he gave at the Flicker Shack in 1987.

  Being an introvert, it took a few musician friends to help me appreciate how music and song has always moved us—humanity—toward something higher. Thank you: P.K. Gregory, Eric Kerns and Chris Fitzpatrick.

  A writer has a tough battle ahead if he doesn’t have a good support, and my wife, Diana, and three daughters: Tavish, Saydrin and Martika, have always encouraged me, and helped me keep the act of storytelling fun.

  I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I did writing it.

  P.S. I’ve tried my best to clean up any small errors or typos, but if you find one, please email me: rdemayo07@aol.com.

  Timeline

  Prologue – Before

  2,000 B.C. – September

  Book One – The Ancients

  Act I – 800 A.D. – October

  Act II – 1395 – November

  Act III – 1521 – December

  Book Two – The Spaniards

  Act I – 1705 – January

  Act II – 1705 – February

  Act III – 1705 – March

  ­Book Three – The Pioneers

  Act I – 1876 – April

  Act II – 1880 – May

  Act III – 1885 – June

  Book Four – The New Agers

  Act I – 1987 – July

  Act II – 1987 – August

  Act III – 1987 – September

  Epilogue – Modern Sedona

  Epilogue – 2019 – October

  ­

  Drawing by Sharolyn Maleport.

  Prologue

  2,000 B.C.

  (September)

  Water trickling. A murmuring brook. Ancient pale-barked trees. Moss and rock. The rich scent of earth. Lingering wisps of morning mist. Shade and glinting sunlight. Endless cobalt sky.

  The canyon in the fall is marvelous. Mellifluous.

  The first frost has come and gone, leaving brown wilted ferns in its wake. Fiery red maples blend with the crimson sandstone. Yellow cottonwood leaves shiver in the breeze, not quite ready to drop.

  By a quiet dell, the creek widens to form a small lagoon. Several mule deer—all does—graze alongside, in the emerald grass. Their flanks wet from dew. Their large, innocent eyes occasionally drifting to the lagoon.

  By the edge of the water, a buckskin-clad man paces nervously.

  He stops and rests his hand on a tall flat rock. The face of the sandstone pillar is covered with a dark red patina, and someone has begun to etch a spiral into its center. Spinning from a mid-point, a few dozen dots have been pecked into the rock.

  The man glances at the water, where a woman—his wife—lies on a flat rock in the middle of the lagoon. The rock is moss-covered, and dry, and can be accessed only by hopping from stone to stone.

  The woman is half-covered with a soft deer hide.

  A large raven perches on a nearby rock, watching closely.

  The woman looks over at the man and smiles.

  And then another contraction seizes her, and she winces.

  The man begins to pace again.

  He attempts to calm his nerves by building several piles of stones.

  Across the creek, nestled amongst a dense patch of sugar sumac, a large bear also watches.

  He’s really more interested in the re
d sumac berries, but as the afternoon wanes he drops his head and stares at the woman on the rock.

  She cries out again.

  Suddenly the wind ceases. The trees no longer sway. The vegetation seems ready to wilt. And the browning leaves look prepared to finally succumb to the pressures of fall and drop.

  All is pending.

  It feels like time has stopped…

  Until another cry burst through the canyon, echoing off the high walls.

  But it’s not the woman—this time it’s her child. Loud and vibrant.

  The man is the first to sigh with relief. And then the winds picks up and a warm breeze blows through the lagoon, skimming over the water.

  The child wails again. And this beautiful sound makes the mother smile.

  The bear drops his head and rubs a paw over his ear. After another moment he ambles downstream, heading for his den.

  The woman sits up. She wraps the child in the doe skin and holds her close to her bosom.

  She nods to her husband that it is all okay. No complications.

  He smiles as he watches them. Happy. Overjoyed.

  Using a pointed piece of basalt, and a round rock as a hammer, he etches another dot into the spiral.

  The woman sighs as well, now that it is over. There is still a lot that must be done, but for a little while she will rest—and let the child rest.

  She will listen to the birds, and the insects.

  She slides to the edge of the rock, wincing slightly, until she can drop one of her feet into the water.

  And then, the other.

  It looks impossibly deep below her, and the mystery of this special place—and the cool water flowing around her bare feet—fills her with life.

  She lifts her head slightly and begins to sing.

  And the forest sways around her, flowing with the wind—and maybe her cadence.

  And the man sways as well, staring at the trees, as if he sees the world anew.

  And further down the creek, the bear pauses and listens, too.

  And the water continues to trickle by…

  BOOK ONE

  THE ANCIENT ONES

  Chapter One

  Act I

  800 A.D.

  (October)

  A Hohokam runner came through with news of the visitors two days before the small procession arrived. He had talked briefly to Tokori, the headman of our Sinaguan pueblo, and soon, rumors of strangers from the south spread, possibly bearing gifts.

  At once everyone was tidying up their dwellings: sweeping floors, watering plants, putting away food bowls, and dusting off fabrics and pelts.

  We lived on the edge of a sinkhole; a dark and mysterious place—but also one with permanent water. Behind our pueblo ran a creek that flowed to other settlements, further downstream. From our elevated perch on the rim of the sinkhole, we could look down at our fields, and hear the gurgling water just beyond them.

  My mother, Kayah, walked over to Itzel, an ancient parrot who was missing most of his feathers, and did her best to clean his cage and perch.

  He squawked, outraged, and then shouted his one word, “Itzel!”

  “Settle,” said Kayah soothingly.

  I watched all the commotion from the shadows, trying to stay out of the way, and hoping I wouldn’t be assigned many chores. Young girls in our pueblo aren’t often allowed to remain idle.

  And having seen only ten summers, I didn’t understand the fuss: I thought they should have been happy and excited, not nervous cleaners; and I was surprised that of all the things my mother could do to ready for the visitors, she would waste time on the ancient, molty bird.

  But then again, I didn’t always understand my mother. Her name meant Elder Sister, and she was that to all the females in our community. There were always a lot of women in our dwelling, and often late at night I would hear my mother whispering consolation to some distraught woman in the process of baring her soul.

  She was the female counterpart to Tokori, and was consulted for important events, like plantings, births, or matrimonial ceremonies.

  Yet she was very different from Tokori, whose name meant Screeching Owl. I’m sure he would like to think his name might inspire fear, but when the women were alone, they referred to him by his nickname: “Gossiping Chicken”.

  I was up before dawn the morning the strangers arrived—everyone was up! These would be the first visitors from the southern people we’d had in many years.

  My mother was very busy, and I quickly scurried out of her way. She barely acknowledged my departure, because she knew I’d be with everyone else, crowded along the creek where the southern trail passed, hoping to get a glimpse of the visitors when they arrived. They called themselves the People of the Corn, although in later days they were known as the Mayans.

  On my way through our courtyard, where some of our best fabrics were now on display, I overheard some gossip about problems the last time the People of the Corn had visited. None of it interested me, until I heard them mention a bear attack and my blood froze.

  I was terrified of bears.

  I rushed along, checking every dark shadow on the descent down to the creek. In the verdant coolness along the water’s edge I finally shook off the image.

  Long before most of the villagers arrived, I climbed an old sycamore whose thick pale limbs stretched over the path along the creek.

  And then I waited with the birds.

  Above me a black and white flicker pecked his way into a dead branch, looking for insects. And below, a quail called out mournfully, alarmed when other spectators arrived, settling too close to its nest.

  As the first golden rays of the sun crested the rim of our valley the strangers appeared in the distance along the riverbank. They came from the west with the rising sun lighting their faces.

  I counted eight in the group: five men who seemed to act as guards and porters, two female retainers, and a high-ranking woman. Two of the men led the way. They wore mantles decorated with bones and exotic feathers. They hefted the shields that they carried high, but smiled as they marched, making it known that they came as friends.

  The men were covered with tattoos, and piercings, and their dress was so outlandish—so otherworldly—that for a few brief moments all I could do was peer through the green foliage and gawk.

  Behind the two in the front walked a mountain of a man. Bulging muscles, a stout spear, and a serious, untrusting stare. He wore a spotted pelt over his shoulders, and later the men—having never seen a jaguar—argued about what kind of animal it came from.

  Even the porters, who wore only loincloths, had strange piercings and wore ornaments made from jade or obsidian.

  When they passed underneath me, I saw the important, white-haired woman whose stately gait and regal expression seemed to underscore her importance.

  Vibrant quetzal feathers bounced in tight circles, seemingly floating above her. Beautiful blue flowers decorated her dress. Her entire appearance took my breath away.

  I was always around the women, and in our tribe, they took great pride in the fashioning of textiles. They made beautiful cloth, and our designs were sought after; but the craftsmanship and colors of her clothing were so exotic, so brilliant, they seemed to be plucked from a dream.

  There flashed at me reds and blues and greens that were so vivid I had never seen them captured in cloth or on pottery before. It was like a cardinal had given up its secret and handed over its red color, or maybe it was the blue from the belly of an insect, or all the colors of the sunset. They were all there, and in the quick glimpse I got from the tree, I felt all the colors I’d known up to that point slowly fading.

  They dulled even the reds in Itzel’s feathers—back when he had feathers.

  The woman seemed to have to balance her head ornaments carefully, but still managed somehow to glimpse me above her.

  Ever-so-slightly, she tilted her head up and winked at me.

  I almost fell out of the tree, and she seemed to suppress a
smile.

  Tokori greeted them with my mother at his side and led the visitors to the rim of the sinkhole where they were seated and given refreshments. I climbed down from my perch and followed silently, all ears and eyes.

  The white-haired woman took small sips of water while she shook off her journey. Her eyes kept straying to the sinkhole and the dark water that filled it, about a hundred feet below. The other members of her party all looked tired, and I guessed they’d come a long way.

  My mother asked her if she wanted to rest, and she nodded.

  Her name was Ts’aak, and surprisingly she spoke our language, although haltingly. She seemed determined to become fluent again, and steadily engaged in conversation with my mother.

  After a few brief formalities with Tokori, Kayah led her and her companions to the courtyard in front of our dwelling.

  They talked of trivial things, but there seemed to be some urgency to her visit, some unknown motive, and it appeared she would not tackle it before she could communicate clearly.

  The others in her group only occasionally whispered to each other, all their attention focused on Ts’aak and her needs. None appeared to know any of our language.

  “What you name?” asked Ts’aak.

  I replied, “Totsi” and she laughed.

  “This mean moccasin? Yes?”

  I nodded. “When I was a baby I was so small that my father could set me inside his moccasin.”

  She chuckled, and I spent the rest of the afternoon helping her learn the names of people, some plants, and household items.