One of the younger warriors closed his eyes and began to sway to Kamala’s melody, then jerked himself conscious, afraid, as if he had just been bewitched.
Kuruk listened, and as the tune meandered, he grew sad. His wife had also known this melody.
* * *
A bit further away, Aditsan heard it as well and became desperate to know its source. He walked through the frozen canyon, and when he passed a long pool of ice he lowered his ear to listen.
What came to him was a clearer sound, but no direction.
Turning his head, he caught his reflection in the ice, and for the first time saw the eagle-down feather tied there.
* * *
I squatted next to the strange man to feed him fish stew from a small clay bowl.
As I leaned close, I said, “Fish.”
He repeated the word, “Fish.”
He knew my language, although we had to work at even the most basic of conversations. Still, it felt so good to have company; I yearned to talk with someone—anyone—like a thirsty man craves water. I gave him another mouthful and said, “It is worth leaving my canyon for fish—although usually there is no one out there. I was lucky to catch these before I found you, but I shouldn’t try again for a while.”
He gazed at me, understanding little of what I’d said.
He said, “Talk… slow… please.”
The raven landed between us and cried out loudly.
I brushed him away and said, “He is jealous. Before you came he was my only friend. “
I stirred the soup and offered him more.
“I have been alone,” I muttered.
The raven cawed as if insulted.
Cristóbal eyed him with distrust.
Then he tossed a small rock at the bird, making it hop out of the way with an “Awk!”
I said, “Earlier I thought you were a God. Now I don’t know.”
The raven cried out again.
“He doesn’t think you are,” I said. “We will see. If you’re only a man, then you’re in a bad place—at least for men.”
I had set the Spaniard up next to the old ruin, by the fire. Since we’d arrived—a few days ago now—he hadn’t moved more than a few short steps from the spot.
The morning was well on its way before the sun reached us there, but when it did, I sat near him, our backs against the canyon wall, and worked on some artwork.
On my knees I held a soft piece of leather, on which I was painting a circular design. In several bowls by my feet was powder that I mixed to make paint. I used a frayed yucca leaf for a brush.
I stabbed my finger with a thorn and added a drop of blood to the mix.
Cristóbal glanced over at the symbol, watching me curiously. The design was broken into two halves. On the left, a bear print with a bear claw necklace suspended above it, on the right, a woman crouched on a rock above running water.
I showed it to him and said, “I make this for you.”
He stood awkwardly and hobbled over to me.
“Is beautiful,” he said as his eyes swept over to the chute.
He had missed the exit chute at first because a stone wall hid it on three sides—most likely built to prevent debris from falling into it. But once he began moving around he was bound to see it.
And now he finally had.
Twice, when I thought he was sleeping, I slipped out, unobserved. The first time I returned to where I had found him. Someone had butchered his mule and collected the meat and hide, and the coyotes and wolves had finished the job.
I did find his helmet where I had set it down, and a leather-bound book by the few remaining bones of the mule.
I brought both items back to my canyon.
Aside from a few pieces of trout in a soup, I had no other food, and I’d hoped I would find something to eat.
But it was the middle of winter, and I returned empty-handed.
Cristóbal approached the chute and stared down into it. But he went no further.
One morning, he watched me place a clay container full of water on the glowing coals, and then check his bandages.
“Thank you, Kamala,” he said in his strange accent, “I don’t know how to show gratitude for saving me—for helping me escape.”
There was true affection in his eyes.
He pointed at his chest and said, “Cristóbal.”
I nodded slightly and said, “Cristóbal.”
He beamed confidently. “I am your friend—you can trust me.”
He tried again to see what was bundled over his wound, inside his shirt.
As I had done earlier, I pushed his hand away firmly.
“That medicine is the only reason you’re still alive!” I chastised, “But if you even look at it you will be doomed.”
Cristóbal leaned back. I figured he understood my warning, but when I turned to tend the fire he dug into the bandages again. I whacked him with a wooden cooking spoon and moved away, laughing.
Cristóbal chuckled as well, but I could tell he didn’t like being told what not to do. I thought of removing the special object by his wound, before he discovered what it was, but he still needed it badly.
Soundlessly, I made my way down Itzel canyon and onto the floor of the West Fork. A heavy chill lay over the land, and I would have preferred to wait for winter to soften its grip, but we were out of food, so I had to go.
I can go a long time without sustenance, but I know Cristóbal cannot; and if he grows hungry enough he will begin to search around.
More snow had fallen, and it lay thick on the branches of the trees and shrubs I crept under. I was grateful I’d lined my moccasins with rabbit fur. Normally I enjoyed how my toes gripped the ground through their soft soles—but not in this weather.
In the early-morning light I moved like a doe, stepping carefully, as I tried to leave as little evidence of my passing as possible.
At the confluence of Itzel Canyon and the West Fork I came to the ice-covered pool by the large, flat rock. This was where I had first seen the young man who smiled so much. I remember he watched the birds around him, and in my mind I called him the Listener. That day had been warm, and full of sunshine—so different from now, little over a month later.
I searched for a rock, and after listening for any signs of human presence, I broke the ice.
I sat on the flat rock by the water’s edge, very quietly, listening again—just to be safe—and then retrieved a small leather pouch tied to my side. I opened it to reveal two small ears of corn, no longer than my fingers.
I broke off the tip of one of the dried ears and crumbled the corn over the water. Then I waited.
Soon the water stirred, and a trout rose slowly to eat the corn.
Slowly, I placed my hand, and then forearm, in the water.
My hand went numb, but I still held it motionless, and only after an eternity did I slide it under the fish and begin tickling its belly.
When my hand was finally, completely, under the fish, I flicked it forward and launched the fish out of the water, onto the shore.
I retrieved it, and then caught one more fish in the same manner. I dropped them into a leather bag, took one quick look around, and departed.
Twenty paces away Aditsan stood; he’d been lying flat behind a boulder. He moved to where she had sat and examined the spot. The flat rock where she lay still held some of her warmth.
He took the small bundle Kuruk had given him and opened it to reveal the fish hooks made from the Spanish wire.
With reverence he placed the package in the open, on the rock by the water’s edge, and walked off in the direction she took—searching the ground for tracks as he went.
* * *
Cristóbal was sleeping, Kamala was nowhere in sight. The raven hopped over to him until it was very close to his face.
It put its beak forward, all but touching his eye, and glared at him, clacking angrily, seemingly daring the Spaniard to wake up.
* * *
One wee
k later, I was back at the frozen pool of water. The Spaniard had grown restless with his hunger, and watched my every move, but seemed hesitant to leave my box canyon.
So on my excursions to find food I relaxed, glad to be away from him. I found a rock and smashed a hole in the ice, but this time, rather than sticking my hand in the water, I opened a leather pouch and took out a length of string made from yucca fiber. Attached to its end was a hook made by Kuruk from the Spanish wire.
I felt pleased as I put a small piece of corn on the hook and dropped it in the water—no more freezing hands for me.
I waited patiently, enjoying the morning, sure I was alone—until suddenly the Listener gently grabbed my wrist from the other side of the flat rock, where he’d been concealed since sunrise, as if he were waiting to capture an eagle.
I shrieked, but he had already dipped his hand in the hole in the ice and flicked some water in my face.
Surprised, I found myself lost in his eyes, my vision blurred—just as his had been the day I’d found him unconscious. He had a soft sunburned smell of sage smoke and woodfires.
“I won’t harm you,” he said with a smile. “I am Aditsan.”
I moved closer and gently touched his forehead where the faintest signs of his injury remained. He smelled my hair when I came near. He said, “I saw you before, by the creek...”
I nodded and put my fingers over his lips to silence him.
Slowly he crawled up to me on the flat rock where the sun had burned away the ice and snow. We lay back on the warm rocks and embraced, and I felt like I was in a dream.
* * *
I hustled up Itzel Canyon, about an hour before sunset. A storm was moving in, and I didn’t want to get caught in the open.
I emerged up out the chute, a string of trout in my hand.
Cristóbal was upright with his bandages loosely strung around him. In his hands he held the object that I had packed against his wound.
I glared at him, “I guess it was to be expected.”
Cristóbal didn’t hear me. His eyes were riveted to the heavy stone that he had just pulled from his bandages.
The stone was the shape of a flattened ball. It was pure white, with a band of gold inlaid. Hammered into the gold were Mayan glyphs and symbols.
Cristóbal was shaking and breathing heavily, as he coarsely demanded, “Where did you get this?”
He stood, menacing and red-faced.
“It comes from a place that will bring you no good,” I warned.
He reached for his gun and belted out, “Bring me there!”
I tried to calm him, but he backhanded me.
Almost immediately there was a flash of lightning and the crash of thunder. It echoed over and over throughout the surrounding canyons. Cristóbal stepped back in fear and looked around.
The raven landed next to me and watched him, and then started to caw loudly and repeatedly. The echoes of the raven´s call mixed strangely with the thunder.
The sky had darkened, and rain-laden clouds were now circling above us.
I said, “Do something wrong, and the rains come.”
Cristóbal whispered, “Great mother of God.”
Chapter Twenty-six
At first, Cristóbal searched every corner of the box canyon, running excitedly from point to point, almost hysterical in the hope that his treasure—his tesoro—would just be piled up somewhere.
He seemed to find it ironic that he had been brought to the very canyon where his treasure lay. But after several long moments of unsuccessful searching, he slowly realized that it must still be hidden.
I watched as he flipped a few large stones and crept into several dark cracks in the wall. But he was running out of places and was growing irritated.
He came to the sealed doorway of the granary. Here, the ancients had taken advantage of a gap in the cliff wall and created a small room to store their corn.
He grabbed a rock and began smashing his way into it. The old plaster crumbled before him, and a blast of decrepit air floated out.
He staggered backward, choking, but only paused a moment before he was poking his head inside the granary, looking around.
The space inside was filled with small cobs of red and yellow maize, all desiccated and no longer edible. The location was not a good one for a granary, because water had seeped in from the back and most of the cobs on the top were covered with mold.
Next, he dug through the sheltered area near a fire pit, tossing old digging sticks and wooden bowls out of his way. Some of the discarded items were things I had collected, like feathers, sinew and shafts for arrows, and others I had put a lot of work into—like a yucca cordage net.
He treated it all like it was worthless.
Inside the crumbling ruin he found only a basket with material for creating snares.
I waited silently, the raven on my shoulder.
Slowly he accepted the fact that the treasure was not here.
He shot an angry glare at me, and I smiled back, but I was fed up with my guest. I now wished I had never brought him here.
Cristóbal pulled out his pistol and walked up to me. He pointed it at my face and screamed, “Where is it?”
I touched the gun barrel, curiously, and asked, “Will you make the thunder now?”
He shouted, “Will you not be serious?”
My laughter, even just a giggle, seemed to drive him insane.
I caught his eye and warned him. “Your gun won’t save you.”
His gaze slid past me and fixed on the grove of trees at the far end of the canyon. He ran that way, limping slightly still where the arrow had notched his calf.
I followed, a few paces behind.
Between two large trunks of ancient alligator juniper was the entrance to a cave. The trees grew so close to the wall that their roots were framing the entrance.
Beyond, there was just enough daylight to show a dim chamber.
I wiggled past Cristóbal, and stood in the cave entrance, blocking his way. “This cave is not for men—only women go here.”
He pushed me out of the way.
I warned him again. “People who go beyond these trees must have a pure heart—not everyone can enter.”
He just laughed.
“Do not go inside, Cristóbal.” I pleaded, but I knew it was futile.
* * *
On the Colorado Plateau above the canyons, a crackling fire burned in a ponderosa pine forest. Several feet of snow blanketed the land, but under the cover of the trees it was sparse, and here Alonso had made camp.
The haunch of an elk sizzled on a spit over the fire; behind Alonso on the ground lay the rest of the animal´s carcass.
Alonso grinned as he cut off a chunk of meat.
“Cristóbal,” he said, “if you could see how well I live now.”
He chewed with relish until a sharp snap of a branch startled him. He thought he saw movement in the shadows and grabbed his rifle with shaking hands.
A cold breeze came through the camp.
He waited. Heart pounding. Not breathing. Only listening.
A lone coyote came into view. It was limping.
Alonso puffed out his breath and relaxed.
“You won’t make it long with that leg,” he said to the coyote and tossed him a piece of meat.
It sniffed the meat, hesitating only briefly, before snatching it up and quickly disappearing.
* * *
Kuruk watched the scene from the darkness. He observed Alonso feeding the coyote with amusement, but when he saw the elk carcass on the ground behind him he shook his head.
He backed away and said to a brave who accompanied him, “This one will be lucky to survive at all. We will leave him.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
The cave was low, damp, and full of shadows. Cristóbal, being a large man, had to crouch and shuffle forward as he moved further in. I stood by the entrance watching him.
The walls had been plastered, then painted over with sy
mbols, by the ancient ones. Some may have been curses, or protective spells, but they did nothing to stop him.
On the immediate left, he explored a smaller chamber, but seemed uninterested when all it revealed was three old bear skulls and a necklace made from bear claws.
He moved back to the main part of the cave.
In the center of the cave was a small, sandy rise covered with a pile of offerings and several bowls with cornmeal and pollen, and one with brown seeds. An old metate lay against the cave wall, its flat surface covered with an orange powder.
The water did not drip here, and it was dry.
Cristóbal started pawing through the pile. I grabbed him from behind to stop him.
“Those things are to be respected,” I said.
His eyes were all over the cave as he dug into the sand mound. “I know the treasure is near!”
He held up a doll made from a corn cob and a piece of soft leather in disbelief, “What is this rubbish?” The doll was ancient, and some of it crumbled away in his hand.
I grabbed it from him and tried to steer him away.
He turned and smacked me.
A drop of blood flew from my face onto the sand.
I dropped the doll.
He peered deeper into the cave, not seeing anywhere else to go.
But still he headed to the low, far corner, toward the sealed entrance to the tunnel.
I couldn’t let him go there, and I gripped his leg, desperately.
We wrestled, and he rolled on top of me, trying to pin me.
And then I sensed his anger turning to lust, and he began tearing at my buckskins, trying to remove them.
It started to pour outside.
I screamed, but the sound of my voice was lost in the booming of thunder. “Is this what I saved you for?” I asked between clenched teeth.
The lightning beyond the cave entrance was blinding.
I fought him with all my strength, biting and punching at every opportunity. I had a small knife at my waist, but he held one wrist and I couldn’t get to it. He was determined to have me.
The Sirens of Oak Creek Page 13
