The Sirens of Oak Creek

by Robert Louis DeMayo

  He stopped and hollered, “Hola?” but all that came back was his own weak echo, which seemed to fight for existence.

  This seemed to be a big place, but it was difficult to tell. The ceiling high above him seemed to expand and contract.

  The whispering grew louder, and he held up the torch and shouted, “Show yourself!”

  To his left a large metal bowl reflected the flames. It sat on the edge of what looked like a pond. He peered inside it, and saw a murky liquid filling the bowl.

  It smelled like blood.

  He quickly stepped away.

  But then curiosity overcame him. He returned, touched his torch to the bowl and the liquid ignited: A burst of flame fire-balled up into the air with a deafening boom.

  He staggered backwards and covered his ears in pain; there was a dribble of blood coming out of one.

  To his horror, flames were shooting out of the bowl and racing along a track into the darkness. An instant later, more fireballs burst into the air as the flames reached other metal bowls hidden in the gloom.

  The detonations were overwhelming in the chamber, and it shook him to the core. Cristóbal cowered behind the large metal bowl until the last explosion had faded.

  Then all was silent, while the smoke cleared, except for Cristóbal’s moans of pain.

  As the smoke dissipated, the light from the flaming bowls and the glow coming off the lichen on the ceiling combined and flooded the entire cavern with light.

  The first thing visible in this new light was the flaming metal bowl next to him: It was made of solid gold.

  Then he saw an island in the middle of a dark and shimmering pond. Other flaming bowls outlined its perimeter—and there was a stone causeway leading across the water to it.

  The walkway was wide enough for two men, and it sat just above the water. It seemed like the builders had used the quarried rock from the tunnel to make it.

  And then, on the island, a huge object slowly emerged from the rising smoke. He could make out a pyramid: Aztec in design, stepped, and what appeared to be a temple sitting on the flat area at the top.

  Cristóbal fought through the haze that the pain had enveloped him in and stood.

  Everything was muted.

  He yelled again, “Hola!” but could not hear it; his voice had been silenced.

  He limped forward, across the causeway to the pyramid, where a main staircase lead to the top. The entire structure had been carved out of the hard basalt that also formed the floor and ceiling.

  And there it was before him. The uppermost steps were covered with gold that had spilled over—lots of gold. There were masks, chains, coins, bars: all made of the precious yellow metal. There seemed to be no end to the treasures!

  Suddenly, Cristóbal shrugged off his pain. His injuries were nothing compared to this treasure, he told himself. He took a first painful step toward the treasures and chuckled at his wounded thigh.

  I will hire a thousand nurses when the time is right, he thought.

  On his ascent to the top of the structure, Cristóbal stopped to pick up a gold coin and was surprised to find it warm to the touch.

  He whispered, “It is mine!”

  Below, the golden bowls glowed with a sinister light, their reflection skimming off the dark water. Cristóbal’s pupils were dilated and glossy, and in this moment his eyes were equally dark and shimmering.

  He slowly climbed the staircase until he reached the golden treasure that was spilling off the platform on top; it was piled so thickly that the uppermost steps were not visible. Several wooden crates had burst over the years, causing the mess.

  He eased himself onto his knees in the gold and ran his hands through it; his eyes wild with excitement.

  Near the base of the pyramid, I caught my first glimpse of him at the top, almost swaying with glee. He was giddy in his triumph and didn’t seem dangerous at the moment.

  But I knew better than to be careless here.

  I’d taken the precautions the old women had suggested, pausing just long enough in the cave where the water dripped to get prepared. I had covered my naked body with grey paint and had added black spots and spirals.

  I had also filled my ears with wax, as I had been told.

  But it had all done little to prepare me for the assault on my senses that hit me after I’d passed through the tunnel. Even with my ears plugged I could hear whispers and chanting, and I saw movement in the shadows around us.

  I pointed at the pyramid and shouted, “Does the treasure still haunt you, Cristóbal? Now that you’ve found it, will you let it go?”

  Cristóbal looked around.

  He saw me but seemed to be unable to make out my words.

  I mouthed the words, “This is a bad place.”

  Cristóbal waved his hand in the air and shouted, “This treasure no longer concerns you!”

  I stood where I was and watched him. Even though I’d been abandoned by the women who first brought me to the box canyon, I still feared their warnings. They believed that the evil that lived in the dark chamber could spread, and it was their duty to prevent that. And mine.

  I wondered how I could stop the Spaniard. He glared at me, but my new appearance seemed to unnerve him.

  “Stay there!” he ordered, not able to shake my stare.

  Then he turned and dug his boots into the gold like he was climbing through ice, to get to the pyramid´s top.

  He giggled when some loose coins caused him to slip.

  “Too much wealth to climb!” he shrieked.

  The level area on the top was occupied by a square temple with framed doorways on three sides. Its walls were adorned with scenes of human sacrifice.

  He stumbled through the piles of gold and approached the temple reverently. I started to follow.

  A golden throne marked the place of honor, facing the main staircase, but what lay sprawled before it was a scene of horror.

  A desiccated corpse lay clinging to one leg of the throne. The skeleton was covered with chains of gold and precious stones, but the skull was frozen in a horrible grimace of filed, pointed teeth.

  Cristóbal walked towards the skeleton and said, “You’re not Montezuma—I heard what happened to him.”

  But he had stumbled upon Yaotl, who’s body had lain undisturbed for almost two hundred years.

  He fingered the tattered tunic which the dead man was wearing. He inspected a piece of jewelry and slipped it in his pocket. “You had good taste,” I heard him say as I approached, “I’ll give you that much.”

  I took the last stair and slowly advanced. Cristóbal was oblivious to me.

  He said to the skeleton, “You must be someone Montezuma trusted. He didn’t want many people to know about this.”

  He broke off a fingerbone to extract a ring and the whole hand crumbled under his touch. He glanced over the vast pile of riches and asked, “Why would he send such a treasure to this remote place?”

  A few steps away was a pile of rags, bones and chains.

  Cristóbal cautiously moved closer, momentarily distracted. Over his shoulder I saw that it was a mound of chained bodies. The remains of fifteen men—Yaotl’s soldiers and the last of his blue men—formed a heap of bones, metal collars, and leathery skin, all seemingly pointed at Yaotl laying before the throne.

  Cristóbal said, “Those must be your helpers.”

  I walked up behind him and said, “You will end as they did.”

  Cristóbal turned in surprise; his hearing was returning.

  He said, “This man deserves the treasure no more than you or I. And he’s certainly not guarding it now.”

  He turned back to the skeleton and shouted, “I am no more afraid of this man’s evil magic than I am of the indio witch they warned me of!”

  He grabbed Yaotl´s skeleton by the ribcage and tore off his tunic, then stepped back, surprised and said, “Well, look at that.”

  Under the tunic, a dozen sharp shards of basalt lay imbedded in the mummified flesh s
till clinging to the Aztec’s bones.

  When he beheld the pile of bodies again, Cristóbal could now see that the chained and dying men had been crawling after Yaotl, eventually pulling close enough to bury their weapons in him before they died.

  With the last of his lifeforce, he had crawled to the throne.

  I glanced at the bodies, unmoved.

  I said, “Leave this place, Cristóbal.”

  “Kamala, we could share this,” he said.

  I insisted, “This is a bad place.”

  And then he began to hear the whispers again, and something changed in his eyes. I knew then that I could never allow him to leave the box canyon.

  He smiled, disarmingly, and said, “We could live like royalty, you and I,” but he didn’t fool me, and I was prepared when he lunged for me. I screamed and met his attack head on, with a ferociousness that came from I knew not where. Suddenly I was full of rage, my only desire to stop him from ever leaving the cave.

  Cristóbal fought me off, surprised, with fear in his eyes.

  With difficulty, he finally shoved me to the ground. As I attempted to stand he threatened me with his pistol.

  He shouted, “Obey me.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Alonso sat on a ridge of blue-black rock, watching the sun set far off to the west. He was on the edge of the plateau, and the soft, distant mountains were bluish with haze. The cliffs below him were slowly fading into mist and shadows.

  Behind him, his mule and the two burros tore at some grass that had been revealed by a patch of melted snow. The weather had turned warmer, but he still looked forward to getting back to the desert where there would be no snow at all.

  When the sun disappeared, and darkness claimed the land, he lit a fire. He would descend into Oak Creek Canyon in the morning, and with luck, find his brother, but he wouldn´t relish the journey.

  He had returned once, for the last full moon, and waited by the confluence for four days. But Cristóbal had remained absent, and the canyon filled Alonso with dread. So, he’d returned to the colder weather of the plateau to wait.

  In the oncoming gloom, the outcrops and boulders of basalt no longer looked like rocks, but more like demons or gargoyles that were watching him, waiting to bear witness to his cowardly actions.

  Suddenly the night air reverberated with the wild whoop of a pack of coyotes. They sounded very close. He searched the pine forest around him with wide eyes while they yipped and barked and howled.

  He stepped over to his animals to make sure they were hobbled, then crouched by his fire. The yipping stopped. This early in the spring, there were no insects—especially up on the plateau. And aside from an occasional crack from the fire, he heard no sounds at all.

  He walked back to the ridge again and listened, now hoping to hear a little more of them crying down the sun, but they were gone.

  In their place was a stillness which felt unnatural—contrived.

  It was a silence so complete that any sounds he made were instantly absorbed into it.

  The temperatures had plummeted with the coming darkness, and he shivered as he stared into the dimness below him.

  He thought, “Dios, how I hate the north.”

  * * *

  Cristóbal sat on the throne, rubbing its golden armrest. His eyes darted around, occasionally focusing on imaginary people as he rambled out loud about his plans. The fuel in the flaming gold bowls was running low, and now he sat bathed in the eerie emerald glow cast by the lichen.

  I knelt by his feet, my eyes fixed on the ground submissively.

  “With this wealth I will start an empire,” declared Cristóbal.

  He began collecting items and piling them on the tunic.

  He admired the workmanship on a golden goblet as he paused in his work. He breathed on it and rubbed it to a shine.

  “I will have power,” he said to his reflection in the gold, “and my name will echo through history.”

  Off to the side was Yaotl’s skeleton and Cristóbal beheld it, frowning disdainfully. He got up and kicked the skull with his heavy boot, laughing as it rolled away.

  “Your time here is over,” he said, “It is now mine.”

  He lifted what was left of the skeleton and tossed it on top of the pile of bones. He was light-headed.

  “Out with the old!” he exclaimed. “Go visit your amigos.”

  Then, for a long time, he stared at the pile of human remains, peering at Yaotl’s headless body as if it might somehow offer advice.

  He finally said, “You were a smart one. If one of these men had escaped, this treasure would be gone now. There’d be nothing left but an ugly black pyramid.”

  He glanced down at me. I didn’t want to enrage him and remained passive. I had well caught the madness in his eyes, and now I had to bide my time.

  Cristóbal mumbled, “It really would be stupid for me to not follow your example.”

  The look that came into his eyes then was enough, and I stood and stepped backward. I unconsciously placed a hand over my belly as I moved.

  Cristóbal took a step toward me and extended an arm, as if to embrace me.

  He smiled and acted calm—like I wouldn’t remember the last similar attack—but he wasn’t fooling me, not for an instant. I had already seen the club-like gold object he held in the other hand behind his back.

  I stated coldly, “This treasure has poisoned your spirit.”

  Cristóbal smiled, “Come with me, we will...”

  He swung, and just before he struck I shot my arm forward and plunged a dark obsidian blade into his left shoulder—the injured one.

  His thrust collapsed, and he howled in pain as I disappeared down the stairs and into the shadows.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Cristóbal exited the tunnel into the cave where the water dripped, dragging Yaotl’s plunder-laden tunic behind him. His hoard contained not only golden masks, gems and coins, but was topped by two wooden casks filled with gold dust. Together the gold and jewels weighed more than he did, but it represented a fortune.

  There was enough wealth here for generations, he thought, so he put his back into it and slowly dragged the heavy load across the cave floor.

  It was slow going. His leg injury from the tunnel trap still throbbed, and he relied mainly on the other leg; my attack on his already wounded shoulder made his left arm almost entirely useless. I watched him try to pull the tarp with his right arm only, and he couldn’t.

  He cursed me and grabbed the tarp with both hands, groaning.

  When he neared the end of the tunnel, he could see that night had fallen outside, and the rain clouds now completely obscured the moon. The blackened stumps of the junipers in the entryway smoldered in the rain, and several were still burning strongly.

  In the cave where the water dripped he saw me, saturnine and defeated, sitting on the sand mound by the puddles. The rage that had gripped me in the dark chamber had departed and I no longer felt compelled to stop him. He was just too strong. He wouldn’t quit.

  I sat there with my hands folded on my lap, waiting to see what he would do. The old metate next to me glowed softly.

  He paused and for a moment his face softened. Despite the gray paint on my face, I could tell by his expression when he met my eyes that he was thinking of the young woman who saved him and sheltered him all those days.

  But it was too late. I had no kindness left in me. If I could kill him, I would. Anything to prevent him from leaving.

  And I had another reason to live—one that screamed caution. My abdomen showed the beginning stages of pregnancy, and I could not remove my hand from it. Cristóbal stared at it, and then gawked as the realization washed over him. He wondered if this was why I had been sick—and how it could be.

  I said, “You remember what happened here? What you did?”

  He was preparing to leave, but this question stopped Cristóbal in his tracks.

  He answered, “Si. I remember.”

  I r
ubbed my tummy again, and Cristóbal stared at it.

  “You are with child?” he asked, dumbfounded.

  I indicated my abdomen and stated, “This is not your treasure.”

  He asked, “How?”

  I said flatly, “Not your child.”

  Cristóbal flew into a rage. He shouted, “Then whose?”

  I smiled as I remembered my embrace with Aditsan on the flat rock by the small pond. He had flicked water in my face and I had forgotten where I was. In my daydream, I could see his eyes clearly.

  I said to Cristóbal, “You leave a treasure far greater than the one you steal.”

  He shrieked, “Do not mock me!”

  I pointed to the tunnel and said, “I did not tell you about the other cave because I knew it would be the end of you.”

  “You kept it from me!” he shouted angrily.

  Cristóbal took out his pistol and checked it over.

  He said, “You wanted it for yourself!”

  I shook my head. “I have no use for it. It destroys men. I only brought you here because I have been so lonely. I should have known that you would not give up until you found it.”

  The rain continued to pour down, and the trees sheltered from it in the cave entrance billowed smoke into the evening. Above, lightning flashed in chained sheets across the sky.

  Cristóbal turned away from me and walked into the box canyon.

  I stared at the old metate, taking in its soft hypnotic glow. I listened to the water dripping as it mixed with the frantic rainfall outside. I smelled the faint scent of decay that always lived in the cave.

  I closed my eyes… and then I saw my path.

  I felt steady, and relieved to suddenly know what I had to do.

  I wet my finger and touched the orange powder that filled one of the bowls, and then stuck it in my mouth.

  I stood up and followed him.

  The Spaniard limped forward, out of the cave, dragging the tunic. Once he had cleared the smoldering trees, he let go of his bundle, and painfully straightened up. He surveyed the dark sky above with trepidation.