The Sirens of Oak Creek

by Robert Louis DeMayo

  The floor of the canyon lay in shadows, dark and cold, and Cristóbal hid under a low, overhanging rock.

  On the high trail, up over the West Fork, several braves watched, looking for signs of the Spaniard.

  He observed them pass, shivering, and lost consciousness.

  * * *

  At the cave on Oak Creek, Kuruk sat by a fire, warming himself, chanting softly as he tended to a chunk of meat roasting over the coals.

  Bidzill had returned and informed him of the death of Tarak, and that the Spaniard had for now escaped. He had kept to himself the fact that Nitis had been knocked out; he took this as an insult.

  He then stormed off, intent on revenge.

  Kuruk had sent men to butcher the mule carcass and they’d returned with a few of the Spaniard’s possession. The old man now sat with Cristóbal´s breast plate by his side, which he’d been working with his knife, trying to take it apart. Aditsan arrived and seated himself while Kuruk tinkered with it some more.

  Eventually, he looked up at his grandson and noticed a welt over one eye. “Did the Spaniard do that?”

  Aditsan looked away. “No, this was a punishment.”

  Kuruk nodded, but he didn’t look pleased.

  He looked over his grandson, who always seemed to live in a different place—one without greed or envy. When he was with the boy, he felt the world was a better place.

  “So,” said Kuruk, “you met a girl.”

  Aditsan beamed. “I did.”

  Kuruk pried a panel on the breastplate loose, and peaked under it, as he asked. “Who are her parents?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Aditsan. “I only saw her once, the other day, in the West Fork.”

  Kuruk’s eyes became serious upon hearing these words, but he acted relaxed. He poked at the roasting meat and tossed a few small sticks on the fire. “You know you were near the witch’s canyon,” he said casually.

  Aditsan grinned. This was an old argument between them. “No one knows where this witch lives, so how can I fear her? Or her secret canyon?”

  The old man looked up, very seriously. “It is not a place for men. Stay away from there.”

  He cut a piece off the cooking mule meat and handed it to Aditsan. “Eat some meat. If the Spaniard does leave the canyon, he will have to walk.”

  Bidzill walked up, hearing Kuruk’s words, and stated, “He will not leave—and I will not eat again until he is dead.”

  “You should not make vows where the witch can hear you,” Kuruk replied, but once the words were out he wished he´d held his tongue.

  “I’m not afraid of your witch,” said Bidzill. “I have said I will kill her as well.”

  Kuruk turned away. “You should have heeded my warning.”

  Bidzill was offended. “How can we let the Spaniard dishonor us? He has killed three of our people. For this he must die.”

  “You should have waited for him to return to Oak Creek. From the beginning I advised you to stay away from the witch´s canyon,” stated Kuruk.

  Bidzill said, “He killed my niece,” and then looked away.

  Kuruk reached forward and gently grabbed Bidzill’s wrist. “I see you are ruled by anger now,” he said, “but there will come a time when that ends.” Bidzill seemed to listen for once.

  “The witch has not harmed you,” continued Kuruk. “Forget the witch. Go for the Spaniard, for he has proven to be an enemy. Leave the witch alone.”

  Confused emotions clouded Bidzill’s face. He´d heard Kuruk´s warnings about this witch many times, yet he knew no one who had seen her. Then why was the old man so obsessed with her, he asked himself. What was he hiding?

  He grabbed his bow. “I will return for the Spaniard.” Before he stormed off he glared at Aditsan. “And you will come with me.”

  Kuruk felt a great weight descend on him. He didn’t want any of his people venturing further into the West Fork, but to allow the Spaniard to do so was just as bad.

  He tried to shake off the ill feelings, knowing he would ponder it all later in the quiet of night.

  He turned back to Aditsan, and with a slight glimmer in his eye, said, “So you want to impress this girl you met?”

  Aditsan nodded shyly. Kuruk grew solemn. “You must leave an offering. There is no other way.”

  The old Apache then leaned over the Spaniard’s breast plate. On it was a pile of tiny wires that he had extracted from the plate and bent into hooks. He poured them into a soft leather pouch.

  “Leave this bag where the girl will find it,” said Kuruk and handed the pouch to Aditsan.

  Aditsan took the pouch and tied it to his waist. Then the old chief added, “And you must be near water if you hope not to fall under her spell.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Hidden in a dark recess at the base of a cliff, Cristóbal watched Bidzill passing on the high trail. He figured they were staying high until they could corner him and attack from multiple sides.

  The arrow was still lodged in his shoulder, but he had broken off most of the protruding shaft. His calf injury had not been serious. The arrow had just grazed the muscle, and he’d tied the wound off with cloth he’d ripped from his shirt.

  But Cristóbal was shivering, and he was pale. His guns were laid out beside him. He had dried the pistol, and now both weapons were loaded.

  From his hiding spot he could see a bend in the canyon, cluttered by a pileup of large dead logs, no more than twenty paces away.

  Nothing moved.

  He felt nauseous; pain and fatigue overwhelmed him.

  He woke from the swish of a large raven´s wings cutting through the air as it landed on one of the logs on the pileup.

  The raven did a strange dance and cried out. “Awk! Awk!”

  The sound echoed absurdly in the silence.

  Then he heard something moving out there.

  He sat up as much as the small space would allow, swallowing his pain silently.

  Suddenly, a large piece of bark slid off the top of one of the logs, and a woman wearing ragged buckskins appeared from within. She looked about twenty and moved with caution. There was something oddly childlike about her.

  Tied to a strand of the young woman’s hair, suspended on her forehead, was a small, circular abalone shell, the concave side facing out.

  She smiled as she looked directly at Cristóbal. Then she motioned for him to remain hidden while she looked around suspiciously.

  Cristóbal noticed that she carried a cord with two trout dangling from it. Quietly, like a cat, she stepped forward, when a whistle pierced the silence.

  Suddenly, the canyon filled with the broken clatter of rocks tumbling off the cliff and crashing down into the shadows.

  She quickly withdrew into the log again and covered the opening with the bark.

  The Spaniard pressed himself deeper into the shadows.

  Bidzill descended to the canyon floor, Aditsan twenty paces behind him. He walked straight toward the log and pulled out an arrow.

  He flipped a piece of bark away, exposing the young woman.

  But he had not yet tightened the bowstring when a raven dove from the sky and attacked him.

  It swooped repeatedly, claws extended. Bidzill fought it off, trying to smack it with his bow, gasping in surprise at the bird’s persistence, and finally watched it fly away.

  Then he turned once more to face the woman who observed him without fear. Her beauty bewitched him and for one long, confused moment he stood frozen.

  The raven returned and landed on her shoulder where it watched him. He stared in disbelief.

  “Witch!” he finally hissed.

  Aditsan finally caught up with him, and when he saw the young woman his eyes widened, too.

  “No!” he shrieked when he saw Bidzill about to kill her.

  Aditsan grabbed Bidzill’s arm to stop him raising his bow. Bidzill spun with a vicious punch that knocked Aditsan out. Turning to the woman again, he notched his arrow.

  Suddenl
y, the thunderous “bam!” of a muzzle loader echoed through the canyon. Bidzill’s expression dropped, and he fell forward.

  In the ice-covered world, the repercussion felt otherworldly.

  From where Bidzill had dropped like a wet sack, a line of smoke led to Cristóbal, who stood a short distance away, the sun reflecting off his helmet.

  He appeared feverish and swayed unsteadily.

  He fumbled with his pistol and pulled his knife out, then lunged forward toward the unconscious Aditsan, ready for the kill.

  But in a heartbeat, the buckskin-clad young woman was standing between them.

  He squinted at her, confused, and then collapsed at her feet.

  From the high trail, shouting resounded in the canyon.

  She knelt, lay Cristóbal´s arm around her neck to take up his weight, and dragged him to the shadows.

  His rifle was left behind.

  Out of sight, under a high wall of the narrow canyon, the woman observed the unconscious Spaniard. His shoulder was swollen, and his skin was burning hot.

  “I could not let you kill him,” she said. It seemed that she was used to talking to herself.

  She removed his helmet, and examined it, amazed by the way it reflected light.

  Laughing quietly, she touched his face and said, “He will be your undoing. You don’t belong here.”

  She heard something, scanned the crags overhead, and then held her breath.

  A moment later, a man appeared running along a trail on the edge of the canyon rim. The morning sun highlighted his hurry, and she could clearly see him watching the canyon floor.

  As quick as a mule deer, he was gone.

  The woman continued to drag Cristóbal further up the canyon, always staying close to the wall, or under the cover of the low shrubs and trees that filled the canyon floor.

  But their progress was slow.

  “They will not find us where we go,” she said. “But you must help us get there.”

  Finally, Cristóbal came around.

  He couldn’t understand many of her words, but it was clear she couldn’t carry him. He struggled to his feet and staggered along with her help, his focus coming and going.

  After what seemed an eternity, they turned into a steep canyon. Here the brush was thick, and they had to maneuver through it. She darted ahead, knowing each turn like a fox knows its run.

  Cristóbal struggled behind her up the canyon. The way was steep, but at one point it almost looked like steps had been carved into the soft sandstone.

  They made it to the top of the canyon and then the woman led him to a tunnel, under a large rock. They ascended.

  She returned not long after to cover up their trail, and then disappeared into the tunnel again.

  The raven was also there. He sat perched on the rock for a moment, like a sentinel, and then vanished as well.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  When I had the stranger in my hidden canyon, sleeping by a low fire, I found my thoughts returning to the two bodies I’d left motionless in the canyon below.

  I wondered which one was sleeping, and which one dead.

  The thunderous roar that caused the angry one to drop was a mystery to me, but it seemed the other man—the one that smiled—should still be alive. He was the one I saw the other day, sleeping on the flat rock, and my heart warmed.

  So, I left the stranger in my box canyon, and did the foolish thing and returned.

  They both may be dead. Or maybe he lives. Maybe. I will see.

  On the way back it began to snow, which was good because it covered my tracks. The canyon was silent as I moved along in a world that had turned ghostly white.

  A faint scent of gunpowder still hung in the air, mixing with the smell of the pines, when I arrived back at the hollow log. There were no new tracks in the snow, but I still moved with stealth, and kept to the shadows.

  On the ground I spotted my two trout, picked up the cord, and tied them to my belt.

  The snow covering the angry one was soaked with blood, and I knew he was dead. Where his anger—or fear—came from, I didn’t know.

  I paused next by the one who had smiled at me, and when I saw he was alive my heart filled with joy. Kneeling by him, I melted some snow in my mouth, and then dribbled it into his.

  He spat it up and began to stir.

  I raised his head and softly brushed some snow off his face.

  His forehead was swollen where he’d been punched.

  He groaned in pain.

  He seemed so beautiful with the snow on his eyelashes. But there were others, even if I didn’t see them. It wasn’t safe.

  I took a single eagle down-feather from the back of my hair and tied it to a strand of his, soothing him.

  He was barely aware, and then he tried to open his eyes, blinking confusedly.

  I smiled at him and said, “I remember you.”

  He gazed at me, struggling to fully come to.

  I said, “I knew I would see you again.”

  A clump of snow fell from his hair, into his eyes, and again he blinked and swept his gaze around us, trying to figure what was real.

  “By the creek, in the morning light,” I said softly, “you seemed so beautiful that it frightened me, and I ran away. I have been alone too long.”

  Then I kissed him, long, until I sensed he was truly awakening; as his eyes started moving I jumped up, giggling.

  “And I will not forget that you tried to save me,” I said with a departing smile.

  Aditsan lifted himself on his elbows and stared after me, shaken. I walked toward the wall of the canyon and disappeared into a grove of junipers. I was glad it was snowing; within no time, it would cover my tracks and I would be safe.

  Not even an Apache would be able to follow me. Oh, how I yearn for him to join me, but my canyon is no place for him—or any man for that matter.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Act II

  1705

  (February)

  In the cold predawn Cristóbal awoke in a small, steep-walled canyon, with no apparent exit. He was shivering uncontrollably. He sat up, painfully, wincing from a piercing pain in his shoulder.

  The ashy remnants of a fire smoldered before him.

  He looked around in the gloom and estimated the canyon to be about thirty paces wide and at least twice that long, rising and narrowing near the back wall where a grove of old junipers buffered the cliff.

  The young woman who had rescued him stood further back in the canyon, looking east to greet the sun.

  She now wore a spectacularly fringed buckskin dress, very different from the dirty, worn outfit he’d first seen her in. This new one was decorated with bells and beads, all set in beautiful designs.

  Her appearance confused him. She was younger than him. But there was also something ancient about her.

  He observed her standing there, motionless; her eyes closed until a shaft of light plunged over the canyon rim and struck the abalone shell on her forehead.

  Then she began to softly dance in place, occasionally jumping as if to see the sun better. The small bells on her dress tinkled.

  She started to chant.

  He could not follow her words, but saw her point to herself and repeat something over and over as she chanted,

  “Kamalapukwia… Kamalapukwia… Kamalapukwia...”

  He called out to her then, believing the strange word to be her name, “Kamala, por favor.”

  She stopped and smirked at this and walked to him.

  Kneeling and standing three times, she sprinkled pollen on his head.

  He was still feverish, and now began to fade.

  She produced a straight yellow drinking tube and sucked up some liquid from an old Sinaguan bowl.

  She then leaned forward, opened his mouth, and spat the liquid into it.

  He passed out.

  A day later, the Spaniard came to again. He tried to sit up, panicked at a sudden sharp pain in his shoulder, and started clawing at some ba
ndages there.

  I rushed to his side and eased him back.

  He looked at me and slowly recognition flowed over him like a gentle rain.

  I had on my old worn buckskins again, and I could see he remembered them. I let him swim in the memory of how we met while I added some small twigs to the fire and set a bowl on it to heat water.

  “Kamala?” he finally asked.

  I smiled at that.

  “You are safe here. They will not find us,” I said, but he didn’t understand my words.

  He touched the cloth bandages that covered his shoulder, curiously. His probing fingers told him there was something heavy inside, but he couldn’t get to it.

  I knew from experience that it created a buzzing—a warm glow which was hard to ignore—and it would heal him.

  He tried to sit up again and winced.

  I laughed, and my childish giggle echoed off the surrounding walls.

  The Spaniard spun his head around, afraid the Apaches would hear me. He tried to hush me with an indio word for “quiet” but his accent was strange, and I only stared at him, uncomprehending.

  I chuckled lightly once more, and then began to sing.

  It was a wordless melody which rose up through the surrounding canyons, echoing. The Spaniard seemed torn between peace and panic: I could see he was moved by my song—but he was convinced it would lead to our discovery.

  He tried to stop me again, “Do dah Ha’do’aal,” he whispered urgently. “Don´t sing!”

  It did stop me. I gazed at him, started to laugh, and then repeated his words, “Do dah Ha’do’aal?”

  He nodded.

  I giggled and started singing again—this time louder.

  * * *

  Far up on the canyon rim, Kuruk lifted his head to a song he thought he heard. It was impossible to tell where it originated, the melody coming and going with the wind.