I passed through the smoke and took in the night as well. The nearly-full moon was trying to slide out from behind the inky clouds, and in its vague light water cascaded down all around us. Down the middle of the box canyon it formed a small stream that spilled into the exit chute.
I slowly glided around the Spaniard, until I stood by the entrance to the chute. The rain rolled off my face like murky tears as it washed away the paint.
He hefted the tunic again and dragged it along the canyon floor while the thunder boomed around us.
Ten feet from me, he let go, seeing the exit at hand. He raised the pistol and said, “I am sorry it has to end this way.”
A flash of resignation crossed my heart. “I can see you are haunted by this place.”
Cristóbal pointed the gun at my heart and said, “I am.”
I smiled at him.
He screamed, “Damn you!” and was on the verge of pulling the trigger when a bolt of lightning hit the gun and sent it flying. The bullet ricocheted off a far wall in the canyon.
Cristóbal’s hand was red and blistered.
One of the smoldering trees collapsed on itself, engulfing the gun that had landed by its base. A shower of sparks rose high into the air.
Cristóbal was scared now. He gaped at his scorched hand in disbelief, then stared at me. “Witch,” he whispered.
With shaky hands he began to gather up the cloak again.
I said, “At first, I brought you here so you wouldn’t kill Aditsan. I like the Listener. He did not deserve to die that day.”
He kept his eyes away from me.
“But I always felt you might die here,” I added. “It is what happens to men who enter the dark cavern—they lose themselves. But I thought I could keep it from you.”
My heart was full of pain and sadness. Was I supposed to somehow kill him now? I didn’t want to kill anyone.
“Cristóbal, please,” I pleaded.
He took a step into the exit chute, which was running swiftly with rushing water, dragging his bundle with him while the water flowed over his feet.
Suddenly it was up to his shins, pushing him forward.
He grabbed a cask of gold dust from within the tarp and hefted it up onto his shoulder. He looked at me and said, “I am sorry.”
The rain became torrential. A rapid stream now gushed through my canyon into the exit leading to Itzel Canyon, trying to sneak in from the three sides that were protected by stone walls.
* * *
In Itzel canyon, Aditsan crouched by the exit to the chute that led to the box canyon. Water rushed down through the entrance to the box canyon, but above that gurgle he could hear the young woman.
The desperation in her voice filled him with panic.
But what enraged him were the shouts and curses coming from the Spaniard.
Kuruk had warned him that even a breath of air in the box canyon would spell his doom, but he couldn’t stand by while the girl was in danger.
He filled his lungs with air and began climbing up the flooding chute.
* * *
I stood by the chute, shaking with emotion. I felt the powder at work, and the wind and rain embraced me. I was not alone.
I stared at Cristóbal, knee-deep in the water now as he attempted to lift the second wooden cask of gold dust while balancing the first on his shoulder.
There is still a way, I thought. It doesn’t have to end like this.
I filled my lungs with the wet night air, and then through the tumult of the rain and wind, I began to sing.
And even over the din of the storm, it stopped the Spaniard instantly. Cristóbal stared at me wide-eyed. The clouds parted, the rains eased up, and the bright moon shone forth, and the soaked sandstone walls around us reflected the hoary light.
Silvery raindrops glittered mysteriously all around us.
And I could see in his eyes that time had altered. The moment I’d begun singing, it had slowed. The rain cascading around us now appeared suspended, and the moonlight reflected in each raindrop like a million stars.
I watched him take it all in, as did I. He smelled the blossoms of the cliffrose, and the soaked snakeweed, and the creeping, earthy smell of the rain.
And the wind sweeping down from the heights caressed his face and I could see a softness coming over him, an awakening.
He smiled as he looked around.
He gave me a piercing look, like he was seeing me for the first time. I saw regret flash in his eyes.
Cristóbal hesitated. He tried to move toward me again; his expression changed, as if he grasped that he was leaving something that he may never attain again. Something sacred.
He stared at me like I was an angel, gaping open-mouthed.
I peered through the rain at him. “Stay.”
He faltered and moved to set down the cask that he had shouldered, but the treasure-filled cloth was pushed forward by the current and shoved Cristóbal downstream. He stemmed himself against the tide but couldn’t hold it for long.
He reached out his hand to me.
I smiled, and choked down a sob, when suddenly the raven landed on my shoulder. It stared at Cristóbal and cawed.
Then Aditsan emerged from the other side of the exit tunnel and seized Cristóbal by the shoulders. Cristóbal stared at him in disbelief.
He dropped the cask, and it exploded into a cloud of golden dust when it hit the sandstone under the rushing water, before being sucked away.
Cristóbal screamed as he lost his footing and was flushed through the chute by the mounting flood, together with his treasure.
Aditsan was taken with him.
I stood there frozen, and then my anger overtook me. I screamed out of rage and frustration and moved to the stone wall that surrounded three sides of the chute. I began pushing it all into the water—I wanted neither of them to enter the canyon again.
Some of Cristóbal’s gold coins were still visible, as was much of the gold dust, but when the rocks began tumbling in it was all buried. Soon the boulders restricted the flow enough that ash, leaves, and burnt branches completed the job of damming the chute.
In the blink of an eye a small pond had formed where the chute ended, and water no longer escaped, except in a slow trickle.
Chapter Thirty-four
Ten paces from the exit of the chute, Cristóbal lay on the ground choking and coughing. He looked around uneasily for the indio but saw no signs of him. He was sitting in a puddle. When he glanced up the chute he was surprised to see it was now sealed with rocks and sticks and mud.
“No!” he screamed as he pawed at the wall of rock.
He wanted to undo the plug, but the sky overhead was forbidding, and great bolts of lightning flashed from all directions. The canyon he was now in—the one Kamala called Itzel Canyon—was quickly becoming a river.
He stumbled down it, dropping and sliding along the way, assisted by an ever-heavier flow of water. From the cliffs all around gushing streams plunged down into the narrow canyon. The rain came down with an icy fury, dragging clumps of slush and snow with it.
At the bottom of Itzel Canyon, Cristóbal hoped to find reprieve. He didn’t know where he was but could see clearly that he would drown if he didn’t keep moving.
He had to make a quick getaway, downstream. Scared for his life now, he started to run. But then he stopped and glanced back where he’d come from, up Itzel Canyon. Back toward her.
His eyes were wild with panic, but his mind raced with one thought—how do I get back here? How do I mark this place?
He took out his large knife and unbuttoned his shirt.
Teeth clenched, he touched the knife to his chest and drew it down; his scream was lost in the building wind.
A short way down the canyon he passed another tributary to his side and carved another gash into his chest.
Lightning struck a tree near him and he hurried to the next turn in the canyon and made his mark again.
Over and over, he cut into his flesh, m
aking a map on his chest.
He continued in agony, the blood from his wound mixing with rainwater, coloring it red.
* * *
Alonso appeared on a bend of Oak Creek, riding his mule and leading the burros. In the night he’d heard a gunshot, and he was nervous.
A sudden storm had passed in the hours before sunrise, and now the sun was out and the forest steamed majestically.
He reached the fork where he had separated from his brother, and gasped as he saw Cristóbal sprawled on the ground, pale and bloodied and battered.
Alonso slid off his mule and ran to him.
“Brother, what has become of you?” he demanded.
Cristóbal was weak, but conscious.
He replied, “There is no time, open my shirt.”
Alonso did and was horrified at what he saw.
He asked, “Cristóbal, who did this?”
Cristóbal almost smiled at the question, and then wincingly pulled a piece of soft leather from his belt. It was the one Kamala had painted a symbol on. When he opened it with shaking fingers a gold coin fell to the ground.
Cristóbal looked at the symbol on the top of the piece of leather, and then placed the leather over his chest and padded it down, moaning, his breathing heavy with pain.
He grabbed Alonso’s shirt, panting, and pleaded, “You must go back for me Alonso. I was a fool. Use the map.”
Alonso was breathless, “What map? Tell me what you found!”
Before he could reply the canyon filled with the faint sound of singing. They both froze. A gust of wind blew through, and then the singing was gone.
Alonso shook himself. “What is this witchcraft?”
Cristóbal moaned loudly and pulled his brother to him.
In a single, slow heartbeat, Cristóbal relived the moments he had shared in the canyon with Kamala.
While Alonso anxiously sat by his side, Cristóbal remembered her first appearance coming out of the log while he was hiding; her smiling with a flower in her hair. He recalled her joy about the adobe hut he had built up; saw her preparing him a bowl of soup while he was injured, and holding up a string of trout. And then, a pregnant Kamala appeared before his mind´s eye. She was crying.
The memories became overwhelming as he heard Kamala’s timid question, “Do you love me?”
He screamed. And then with wild eyes he whispered frantically about angels, and heaven, until suddenly he grabbed Alonso and shouted, “Kamala!” and then slumped back. Whether he had just lost consciousness or was dead, Alonso was not sure.
He leaned closer, trembling, and finally exhaled when he determined that Cristóbal was still breathing.
Alonso looked down at the gold coin. He picked it up, and looked at his brother, unsure of what to do.
He then stared at the leather stuck to Cristóbal’s chest.
Squeamishly, he lifted it, and examined it. Nervously, he rubbed the back of his neck.
This was all a bit much for him. He rolled up the leather parchment and stuck it in his shirt.
Chapter Thirty-five
Alonso cradled his brother’s head while looking around fearfully. He pleaded, “Wake up, hermano, I don’t like it here.”
Cristóbal stirred and opened his eyes.
“I was a fool,” he said weakly.
He looked beyond Alonso, to the top of the sandstone ridge, and his eyes widened.
Suddenly an arrow came whizzing down from above and sank into Cristóbal’s chest.
Alonso jumped backwards, dropping the coin.
He screamed, “No!”
Another volley of arrows struck the animals. First the burros sank to the ground, then the mule, that was bucking off, collapsed with a howl.
In horror, Alonso realized that Cristóbal was dead. He looked up at the top of the cliff and saw an indio standing there watching, a bow in his hand.
This was finally too much. He started ripping off his breastplate and armor. He flung his helmet to the ground.
Tearing open his shirt, he shouted at the cliff tops.
Over and over he yelled, “Shoot me! Shoot me!”
High above Kuruk watched Alonso. He shook his head and backed away, moving to his small fire where he set down his bow and sat.
Across from him sat Aditsan who was thoroughly drenched.
Kuruk said, “I would have let you kill him.”
Aditsan was deep in thought and seemed unconcerned.
Finally, Aditsan said, “I never cared what would happen to either of them.”
Alonso’s screams could still be heard echoing up from below.
Kuruk said with a sigh, “Take the other before he drives us crazy.”
Aditsan shook his head again.
Kuruk lifted his pipe. He took a long drag, slowly exhaled, and after setting down his pipe he began to chant.
Below, Alonso stumbled down Oak Creek, empty-handed. He was still hysterical, and they could hear his screams echoing off the walls for some time.
He would never make it out of this horrid land. How could he hope to retrace their long journey back to the port of Guaymas? It would be better to just die now.
He pleaded with the hills on either side of Oak Creek Canyon as he stumbled downstream, begging someone to kill him.
But the decision had been made. They were no longer concerned with him.
And then, finally, he was gone, too.
Chapter Thirty-six
Fall, the canyon was aflame in color. I munched on one trout after another, gorging with relish. I was now very pregnant and could no longer treat hunger casually.
The raven landed next to me.
I said, “I had to leave. It’s worth leaving for fish.”
It cawed loudly, objecting.
“I told you I wouldn’t be long,” I said.
I tossed a piece of fish to the raven and it hopped forward to retrieve it.
Then I held up a leather bag with a red-tailed hawk feather dangling from the thong that tied it.
I said excitedly, “And, I have a new gift from Aditsan.”
The raven hopped over to inspect it.
By my side was the Spanish helmet. It was set on a rock, as if attending the meal. “He liked fish,” I said, “you remember?”
The raven flew over to the helmet, hopped on top, and defecated, and then cried out. “Awk!”
I laughed and began to sing.
* * *
Not far away Kuruk sat by his fire. Aditsan approached and handed him a fur. A sharp wind was descending from the cliff tops and he gratefully wrapped himself.
Once comfortable, he set out to light his pipe.
From a distance he heard a woman singing, and he paused. The melody echoed throughout the canyon.
Kuruk sat up and listened. The singing went on, coming and going like the wind, enchanting him, making him yearn for his youth, and his long-dead wife, and then it stopped.
Aditsan looked in the direction of the singing and smiled.
Kuruk was glad for the boy. And he was happy for the girl as well.
BOOK THREE
THE PIONEERS
Chapter Thirty-seven
Act I
1876
(April)
Jesse Jefferson Howard woke up choking, struggling against a dream in which he was drowning, flailing helplessly in dark water.
He lay on a thin blanket, in the shade of a gnarled old tree.
He sat up, trying to control his breathing.
Looking down at his white knuckles, he saw he was clutching his gun: a worn Henry repeating rifle.
Fanned out before him were a dozen of his horses. They watched him curiously, startled by his sudden cries.
He wiped his mouth and leaned his gun against the tree.
A bouquet of colors painted the grass around him. Wildflowers, as far as the eye could see: a carpet of yellow layed down by the goldfields, the patches of deep orange of the golden poppies, and the purple stalks of the field lupines.
&nb
sp; When his eyes swept over them, they teared up.
From the moment he first heard the rumor of the future reservoir he’d been filled with unease. His ranch lay in a geographic depression near Ventura, California, which was booming and needed a dependable water source.
For many of his fifty-nine years, he’d been tormented by nightmares, the images from his past mixing like the worthless rubble on the bottom of a gold pan. A lost love. Men dying in the mud. Others trying to kill him. Useless, bottomless holes in the ground. They all combined into one long tale of sorrow.
And then nightmares of drowning had followed.
His ranch would most likely be gone soon. After twenty years of hard work.
He wondered what he would do next. He could still outwork men half his age, but without his wife it all seemed pointless.
And if the water didn’t come, it wouldn’t matter.
He looked at the horses. Beautiful animals, every last one of them. He had delivered each with his own hands.
He spat on the ground.
“Good riddance,” he cursed.
He thought of the hope and promise from the early days of the ranch and pulled out a pocket watch. Flipping it open revealed a faded photo of a young woman—Nancy.
She was eighteen then, he thought. Two years after they’d been married. Straight, soft blond hair, trimmed at the shoulders. Her eyes blue—in certain light green—and penetrating. She may have been small, but her heart contained an ocean of kindness.
He looked at the old photo again. She was trying to suppress a smile because he’d told her photographs were a serious business and she should appear stern.
He sighed. What he would give to hear that laugh again.
When they had first settled at the ranch, and Nancy became pregnant, he had dreamt of building a porch where he could sit on a rocker and watch the kids grow.
The Sirens of Oak Creek Page 16
