The Sirens of Oak Creek

by Robert Louis DeMayo

  In the cave we crouched on the mound in the middle of the chamber where the water dripped. The only sound was our breathing, and the occasional drop hitting a puddle.

  Both Ts’aak and Kayah could not take their eyes off the tunnel.

  I hadn’t heard the full tale of what they’d encountered, but one look at their faces when they’d escaped, and I knew it had been terrible.

  “We have to seal it,” said Ts’aak.

  The three of us sat silently, breathing in the damp air, listening to the water drop. It was a peaceful place, except for the tunnel.

  Ts’aak spoke. “This needs to be guarded from the greed of men. It has to be a place for women only.”

  Kayah nodded. Ts´aak sat up a little straighter and said, “You will make the box canyon a place for women only and use it rarely. Keep the men away. We will seal the tunnel, and only allow those you choose to enter the cave where the water drips.”

  Over the next few hours they meticulously blocked the tunnel, while I waited in the dark chamber near the bear skeleton, watching.

  First, they collected rocks and built a wall.

  By the cave entrance there was a seep, and a small pool where the fresh water collected, and they mixed water with the clayish soil to place a layer of mud over the rock wall.

  I collected the bear’s claws and began boring holes into them for a necklace. Anything to keep me from thinking about the dark tunnel.

  Before they left the cavern, Ts’aak handed over the white stone. It was wrapped in the cloth again, and my mother hefted its weight, but didn’t unwrap it.

  “Bury it in the sand of the mound, between the puddles—that way when you return it will be here to aid you.”

  Before we left the cave, I took my precious doll, Ila, and set her on the mound above the white stone. Something inside me had changed on this journey, and I no longer felt like a child.

  When we left, both women lingered by the cave entrance. Kayah’s mind raced with thoughts of how to keep an eye on the box canyon, while also trying to keep it a secret.

  Ts’aak wondered again just what she had found in the cave. Was it a place that amplified certain emotions? Or was it a portal like her father had suggested? And how had she seen her father in the cave?

  She could never tell another Mayan about this. If the wrong person found that evil place, disaster would surely ensue. It could bring about the end of the Sinagua in this area—and the consequences could be even greater.

  With a chill, she realized she would have to destroy the Codex her father had made. It could lead others to the cave. It saddened her, as the book represented her father’s life’s work—she hoped she could do it.

  She still needed the Codex for the return journey, but before she reached Tikal she would burn it.

  There were so many questions, and she planned to talk to Kayah at length before returning home.

  Bat awaited us when we left the box canyon. The weather had turned, and a cold, cutting wind blew through Itzel’s canyon. In the box canyon we’d been sheltered from the wind, but now it assaulted us.

  Ts’aak glanced at the grey sky, not at all accustomed to the weather. Her home was in the tropics, and this was the furthest north she’d ever been.

  I could tell from her expression that she feared it was connected to the cave, as if the dark weather was an extension of it, but I knew it was just winter. We were not far below the rim of the plateau, and up there winter was setting in.

  Bat had a little difficulty on the descent because Ts’aak didn’t want to leave any ropes in place, so after we’d descended, he had to untie the rope and scramble down on his own. Other than that, we were down in no time.

  The other guard had observed our descent and had prepared a light meal for us.

  We ate while we walked through the West Fork, and eventually joined the others who were waiting at the confluence of Oak Creek.

  By early afternoon we were back at my mother’s place in Oak Creek, sitting on the flat rock in the river, with our feet dangling in the water.

  My mother and I sat side by side, and for once we didn’t sing our song.

  But it’d been a long day, and it didn’t feel right.

  Ts’aak joined us, but before she’d even sat down we saw a man trotting up the trail along the creek, heading our way.

  He was Mayan and looked exhausted.

  He relaxed slightly when he saw Ts’aak and knelt on the shore until she stone-stepped to him. Then he whispered into her ear and her eyes shot open.

  She quickly returned to our side and said to my mother, “I’m sorry, but I have to leave now. Right now.”

  My mother nodded silently; she had hoped they would have more time to talk about the tunnel and the dark cavern.

  Ts’aak stared into her eyes and said, “I’m sorry,” then turned and hurried down the trail. Quickly, they fell into the same formation: one guard up front, one behind, Bat by Ts’aak’s side, and the porters and retainers surrounding her.

  Within a minute they were out of sight and I never saw them again. I never found out what urgent event pulled them away so quickly.

  All I knew was there was now a secret place, and my young brain knew even back then that I couldn’t tell my friends about it.

  On that day I was forced to become an adult. Or at least to bear an adult burden. But I followed my mother’s lead and we never let a single man into that canyon.

  Chapter Seven

  Act II

  1395

  (November)

  The sun rising over the dark line of the horizon, radiating forth, and then warming tired old bones, is something you live for as you get older. In November, the month of the beaver moon, the first frost sets in, and after that the rocks are too cold to lean against; and my feeble fire is too small.

  So, I must wait for the sun to warm me.

  But I am used to waiting. There are no sons or daughters here to fetch me water, or start a fire, or even mend my worn blanket. There are no young braves to kill a beast and bring me back a fur.

  There is only the sun. And he is a fickle partner.

  The days are shorter, too, and the distant sun seems to arc quickly overhead, never pausing in its quest to slumber again.

  Some days I do nothing but lay on my side and watch the sun.

  The rim of the plateau is not far above me, and I can see the mighty ponderosas there, bathed in gold as they sway in the wind.

  It looks warmer up there, although I know it’s not.

  Maybe I’m yearning for the sun’s forgotten summer heat, wishing it could singe my skin and make me feel alive again.

  It’s been many years since I felt alive. Too many.

  In my home, deep in a hidden canyon, I only get a few hours of direct sunlight. The high walls block out the world.

  The lower walls are painted and etched with many stories, all created by the ancient ones. I know a few of the symbols, but even after all these years alone here most remain a mystery.

  The old ones—you know them as Sinaguans—built a dwelling in a corner of the lower end of my canyon. It’s right next to a narrow chute I use to leave when hunger drives me. Over the years I’ve tried to maintain the roof, but when it rains hard I still get wet.

  There is a cave in the back of the canyon, and even though it would be drier and warmer there, I stay in the crumbling dwelling.

  In all my time here, I never slept in the cave.

  And why would I, after she told me what it hid.

  Maybe if I’d listened things would have turned out differently. Maybe if we hadn’t stumbled upon Itzel canyon, and then smelled smoke, we wouldn’t have explored further.

  Who can say. The old woman believed our fate was set the moment we ascended the chute. All I know is that before that horrible day was done, my life had changed forever.

  And before the next sunrise no one had to warn me about that cave—never again.

  But on that day, when we first came across Itzel canyon
so many years ago, all seemed so innocent. I remember basking in the glow of the sun. It was this time of the year, but it seemed to have been warmer.

  Chapter Eight

  Three figures slowly made their way up the West Fork, moving like shadows: Two were men, up front, scouting for game, the third was a woman who checked the deep pools for trout.

  They had been following Oak Creek, heading downstream after scrambling down from the plateau, when one of them had spotted bear tracks.

  The tracks had led into the West Fork, but then disappeared.

  The deep canyon proved to be a refuge from the wind that had been battering them, and they decided to push on.

  From the moment they left the confluence, the canyon had changed. Oak Creek was shaded by cottonwoods and sycamores that grew along the waterway, but now they were surrounded by a canopy of towering pines, and the tall, green-leafed trees had disappeared.

  It was quiet. All morning they’d only heard the occasional bird and the crunch of leaves underfoot. The man in the lead stepped on a stick, and the crack echoed off the encroaching walls, and underlined a feeling that they didn’t belong here.

  Soon, the cliff walls were only twenty paces apart, and then ten. Above, the sun reflected off the cliffs, illuminating their crimson crests, and beyond that, fading in the distance, the rim of the plateau extended higher still.

  They had to wade through thigh-deep water, and later, traverse a long, flooded tunnel. Eventually the creek retreated into still pools of water, no longer flowing, with gaps of worn sandstone between them.

  The walls seemed to fall away then, and they grasped they were deep in the heart of the West Fork.

  Around mid-day, the woman lay down to rest on a flat rock near a glittering pond where the water reflected the sunshine hypnotically.

  I remember that morning like it was yesterday, and I would give anything to go back and tell that woman not to fall asleep, not to drift off in the sun’s warm embrace.

  But we cannot change our past, so I’m forced to remember laying there, sleeping in the sunshine, until one of the men returned and found me in slumber.

  “Hey,” he said, as he gently woke me.

  I opened my eyes to see his face, smiling at me.

  And I can still see him in my mind. Beautiful. Young. Strong. I won’t tell you his name, only that he was my husband. He had seen eighteen summers, and me, two short of that.

  I giggled. “It was so warm and peaceful that I must have drifted off.”

  He lightly patted my stomach where a small rise indicated our unborn child, which I hoped to greet in the spring.

  He lay next to me, on his back, with our shoulders touching.

  We watched several red-tailed hawks spiral along the surrounding canyons, seemingly flying right up the walls to where the canyon greeted the sky. Wispy white clouds stretched across its perfect egg-shell blue, and a gentle breeze floated over us on the floor of the canyon.

  Far above us I could faintly hear the wind howling, and this made the warmth and sunshine all the sweeter.

  And even on that day I wanted time to stand still.

  We were young, and in love, and we both enjoyed these explorations into some of the more remote parts of the land. We were Indeh, or as you might know us, Apache, and although we didn’t settle in permanent homes like the Sinaguans, we loved the sacred earth. I welcomed any chance to explore it.

  “Where is Bodaway?” I asked. He was my husband’s best friend, and our traveling companion. He had no living relatives then, so nobody living now knows his name and I can tell it.

  He nodded. “He’s not far behind.”

  Then he laughed and added, “He really didn’t want to give up on that bear.”

  I sat up, reluctantly, and my husband tickled the small of my back. We were a half day’s walk into the West Fork, and on our left a steep canyon had just opened. It was sheer in places, cluttered with fallen logs and brush, and held little appeal.

  Now, as we rested on the rock we looked up at it.

  My husband sat up suddenly. “I smell smoke.”

  I glanced around, perplexed. None of our people were in the West Fork, or by Oak Creek. And Bodaway had no reason to kindle a fire.

  I sniffed the air and could faintly pick out the scent.

  “I smell it, too—who could it be?”

  It had been more than ten summers since my people had attacked the Sinaguan dwelling by the sinkhole, and another cliff dwelling downstream from it.

  Some of them had remained in other settlements in the valley, but many had left and travelled north and east, and the rest would follow in the coming years. All that remained were their empty homes along the cliffs.

  At a few locations we grew corn and squash in their abandoned gardens, but otherwise we just let nature reclaim the land.

  “I don’t know,” he said, “there’s been no lightning, so someone must have ignited a fire.”

  He pondered for a moment. “Maybe one of the ancients never left.”

  That moment Bodaway appeared, and grinned when he saw us sitting in the sun. Strapped to his back was a large elk antler.

  He said, “I hunt the bear while you two loaf.” He set down the antler and added, “Those were big tracks.”

  “You only want a bear because you think its pelt will impress the women,” teased my husband.

  “And what woman wouldn’t want a warm fur for the winter?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

  My husband put on a stern expression. “Well, there’s only one woman here, and she’s taken,” he said and laughed.

  Bodaway looked around seriously. “I smell smoke.”

  “Yes,” said my husband and twitched his lips in the direction of the steep canyon before us.

  “Let´s go” said Bodaway after a moment.

  Before I could stand and brush myself off, they were off.

  The men were only a short way into the steep canyon when I caught up with them. They were scanning the bush.

  “We found the bear’s tracks again,” said Bodaway.

  I glanced at the steep rock walls before us. It didn’t seem like we would be able to ascend this canyon to the plateau.

  “Not much up there to hide in,” said my husband. “You might have a pelt soon.”

  We reached a rocky step, as high as four men. Bodaway scampered up it easily.

  He waited as my husband helped me up, and we continued up a game trail to soon come across another track.

  A few minutes later we came to a second step, and beyond, more bear tracks.

  Bodaway began to glance over his shoulder from time to time.

  Then we found ourselves staring up a long, slanted slab of weatherworn sandstone.

  Bodaway grinned at us, and then stared up the slope. I knew him well enough to know this was false bravado, and he was troubled.

  We looked around and there was simply nowhere else to go. The rock around us was no longer vermillion up here, but instead the soft yellow of a cougar’s pelt.

  “I think your bear has disappeared,” I said.

  Bodaway frowned and slowly scanned the steep ravine.

  “The bear may have, but the smoke has not.”

  Stealthily, the men took out their bows, notched arrows, and crept along the right wall of the canyon. Then, Bodaway spied a chute leading up into blue sky.

  “Here,” he whispered.

  He crept forward, my husband a step behind.

  Chapter Nine

  We emerged into a box canyon with high sandstone walls. The land slanted up into it towards a row of old junipers that leaned against the far wall.

  On our left was a dwelling: A decrepit, two-walled ruin that was tucked into the corner of the canyon, and next to it an old woman slept by a low, barely-smoldering fire. Her clothes were in tatters, and her hands and feet were filthy.

  My husband laughed and pointed at her. “Here’s your bear.”

  Bodaway didn’t think this was funny. “I know a bear trac
k.”

  He stepped beside her to examine a necklace of bear claws she wore and wrinkled his nose at the strong stench of leather and old furs that hovered around her.

  The woman woke. Startled, she screamed and scrambled to her feet and pushed herself back against the wall, as if it would give and let her get away.

  She was feeble, her teeth worn down to brown stubs, and her eyes were red-rimmed with brown veins in the whites.

  Her angry cries were interrupted by hacks and coughs.

  I had the gift of tongues, and often helped my husband negotiate trade when we came upon other tribes. I recognized a few of her words and said, “calm” in her language.

  She glanced at me, wild-eyed, and then her gaze darted to the men with distrust.

  “This place is only for women,” she screeched, “men are not allowed.”

  “She is one of the old people,” I said to my husband.

  He shrugged and looked away. “She should have left with her kinsmen—this is our land now.”

  I moved closer and the old woman glanced at my stomach and said, “You are with child.”

  I nodded and that seemed to bring her around, a little. Slowly, she slid into a seated position, and after a few moments motioned for me to sit next to her.

  “This place has seen a few births,” she said with a gesture that encompassed the box canyon. I looked around and made out fertility symbols among the various pictographs covering the walls.

  “So, you are not alone here?” I asked.

  She chuckled. “No, I am not alone. Someone is with me. Someone watches over me.”

  I pointed to our supplies, and I asked if she was hungry.

  Again, she chuckled dryly, a mischievous glint now in her eyes.

  “I barely eat—maybe once a month,” she said.

  She coughed again and nodded at some herbs that were hanging from a peg on the outside wall of the shelter. I saw the purple leaves of yerba santa.

  “Tea,” she croaked and cleared her throat, “…helps me breathe.”