The Sirens of Oak Creek

by Robert Louis DeMayo

  I scribbled a few notes, but I now watched the professor more closely than the slides.

  He clicked the next slide in front of the projector: An image of a mound of Aztec gold, complete with gold masks, gold plates, and countless gold coins and chains.

  DeNiza made a dramatic gesture and said, “Many of them were looking for this: Montezuma’s gold.”

  A few in the crowd laughed.

  He rubbed the back of his neck.

  “You find this amusing?” He fidgeted nervously, then almost shouted, “It exists!”

  He stared at the crowd, looking for a challenger.

  He cleared his throat and continued, “You have my word. I believe...”

  I ducked under the table, reaching for my bag, and my chair screeched loudly. I felt the room go silent.

  I glanced up, knowing DeNiza was staring at me.

  DeNiza raised his eyebrows at me and said, “I hope I’m not keeping you from anything, Miss.”

  “No. Sorry. Did I interrupt you?” I asked, putting on my best smile. I can be quite charming when I have to be, but he wasn’t buying it.

  He scoffed. “My family has been waiting hundreds of years for this moment, and here I am about to finally locate this treasure. What will a few more minutes matter?”

  “I told you I was sorry,” I said again. “I was reaching for my camera. I write for the Red Rock News and wanted to take your picture. I just heard about your expedition.”

  I held up the camera like it was a press pass.

  DeNiza smiled broadly. Placated. “I see. You are here to document my announcement of an imminent discovery.”

  “Oh?” I said, unable to quell the note of cynicism in my voice.

  He gave me a hard stare. “Excuse me?”

  I knew I was about to get in trouble—and I’d eventually get all kinds of grief from Tim—but I couldn’t hold my tongue.

  I said, “You can announce an expedition beforehand—but it seems silly to announce the discovery of a treasure before you actually found it.”

  DeNiza glared at me, indignant.

  “I can,” he said sharply, “because I will find it.”

  He grabbed the desk firmly and hissed, “It is my destiny!”

  The crowd was quiet as they watched the show.

  “Okay. Again, I’m sorry,” I pleaded.

  He looked past me and addressed the room. “Not only will I make this great discovery, but I will tell you the exact date.”

  The crowd erupted into nervous laughter.

  I raised my camera and caught his eye. “So, what’s the date?”

  He inhaled and said, “August 16.”

  The crowd began to murmur skeptically.

  “Yes!” he shouted. “On the harmonic convergence! This is no coincidence.”

  He was supremely confident, and that drew me in. I had to find out how much more there was to the story. I took a picture of him while the crowd settled down, and then asked my next question.

  “How can you be so certain you will find this fabled treasure, and on this exact date?” I asked.

  DeNiza fingered the remote, and we were shown an image of a map. It was strange map, like a stick-figured centipede with a circular symbol on the top center.

  “Because I have a map,” said DeNiza. “And this map is one of a kind. It will tell me where the treasure is.”

  He flipped his gold coin in the air again.

  I found it strange that he was showing us his map, but then realized it was really just a bunch of thick black lines linked together—it could have been anywhere.

  And then my attention was riveted to the circular symbol on the top of the map.

  I remained seated, but I could feel all the color leave my face.

  I raised a slightly shaking hand.

  “What’s that symbol on the top?” I asked.

  The symbol was split into two images. The left side contained a bear paw print under a necklace, or possibly just a heavy line indicating a cave. On the right I recognized the symbol for a woman in childbirth, suspended over a rippled line of waves.

  DeNiza offered his explanation slowly. “This is a symbol my ancestor used to indicate the treasure´s location.”

  I stared at it for a minute before saying, “I’ve seen it before.”

  DeNiza was condescending in his reply. “I would find that highly unlikely.”

  * * *

  In a dim, distant recess of my mind, I remembered our last night in Rimrock, at Saan’s house along Wet Beaver Creek. I was ten. My parents were quarreling by the car—something they did all the time back then. My mother had married out of the tribe, a half-white Hopi named George Decker, so it was always “complicated” as she put it.

  His father had been a minister—trying to missionize the Hopis in the fifties. But it turns out the only success he had in saving souls was in procreating one, knocking up my grandmother. He did marry her—and remained married to her for thirty years—but George, the only son they conceived, grew up ostracized.

  At first, my mom was crazy in love with George, but things changed when he started drinking.

  The drinking got George and my mother tossed out of the Hopi lands, but it was religion that forced him to leave the Verde Valley. Most folks didn’t mind that he’d found the Christian God, but when he combined his preaching with alcohol it made him unbearable.

  I happily avoided their fighting on that night and sat near the fire, wrapped in a warm blanket.

  There were about twenty people at Saan’s that evening; everyone seemed to know each other—and me. This turned out to be the last time I remembered, as a child, feeling safe and surrounded by friends.

  When the sky darkened, someone threw several logs on the fire. Sparks danced all around. The heavens were full of stars.

  Saan stepped out of the shadows, now dressed in a decorated buckskin jacket. She was white-haired, sixty-five-years-old, and seemed unaware of the large raven perched on her shoulder.

  She shook a rattle as she walked and a few of her friends chuckled. This wasn’t a tribal ceremony, just old Saan telling a story.

  But everyone there that night lived a stone’s throw from the old sinkhole, and they all knew the creation myth that originated there.

  “Before First Woman was born our ancestors came up from the underworld. They lived in the bottom of the well, because there was no water there then,” said Saan.

  My father returned from the car, red-faced, and Saan smiled at him as she walked around the fire. She seemed youthful as she chanted. Her step was light.

  The fire roared to life.

  My mother, too, had joined us by the fire and snuggled up next to me.

  Saan continued, “They came up and they lived in the sun. They were happy, they were.”

  Again, she circled the fire, but when she reappeared from behind the flames the smile had left her face. She had mysteriously aged and now seemed angry.

  “Then, there was a big flood,” said Saan, “and many died. Many. Many.”

  She stared at everyone with a somber expression. “Do something wrong and the rains come.”

  My father looked away nervously as Saan stared at him for a silent moment. Then she continued, but now her tone was light again, as if there was hope.

  “But First Woman lived, she did,” continued Saan. “She was the only one that lived ‘cause she floated up in a hollow log.”

  She stopped and looked at me. “They sealed her up in it, they did.”

  I fidgeted under her stare.

  “Don’t worry, she wasn’t alone,” said Saan. “No. A bird helped her. And she also had with her a precious White Stone.”

  Saan looked around again, seriously. “Got that stone from the underground world, she did.”

  My father got up and walked away. He stepped quickly, but her words chased him.

  “And she had a good hidin’ spot,” said Saan. “Now that’s something everyone needs—a place where you can rest.”

&n
bsp; Saan smiled and circled the fire again, chanting as she went, a large, circular design on the back of her dress lit up by the flames.

  The same symbol the professor was now pointing at.

  A bear paw, and a woman in childbirth.

  What was the story behind that? I wondered.

  I would never find out from my mother. We moved the next day to go live back east, where George had relatives. For a while things were alright. I attended school and mom found work waitressing.

  I think my mother would have eventually brought me back to the Verde Valley, but she got sick. Cancer. And within a few months she was gone.

  * * *

  These memories had drained me of energy, and I sat quietly through the next few minutes while DeNiza rambled on. But his cocky comments and haughty attitude just rubbed me the wrong way.

  I thought of my sensei in karate telling me to avoid the offensive whenever I could.

  But then I couldn’t resist.

  DeNiza touched the symbol on the projection with his pointer and said, “This is where I will find my treasure—in this cave.”

  I hesitated for a second then blurted out, “Why do you call it your treasure?”

  DeNiza looked around the room.

  “It belongs to my family. We have known of it for over three hundred years.”

  But I wasn’t satisfied. “What about the symbol? It doesn’t look Spanish to me.”

  DeNiza fought for self-control, and then spoke in a voice heavy with mock patience, “Oh, are we back to that again?”

  I stared at the floor and quietly replied, “It just seems odd.”

  He held up the gold coin again “This is not just a piece of gold. This is an Aztec coin. It was found nearby, not in Mexico.”

  He stared at me, and then everyone else.

  Then he added defiantly, “I found it!”

  I was angry that he had shrugged off my question about the symbol but flashed him a disarming smile.

  I said, “Forgive me. I’m just trying to get everything straight for my article.”

  He nodded, straightened his shirt, and stood tall.

  “I am an established professor of archaeology, specializing in Mesoamerican studies, not some amateur treasure hunter,” said DeNiza, sweeping his eyes over the audience defiantly.

  I thought: Obviously, a professional treasure hunter wouldn’t give away so many details.

  He stared at me, “And I think my years of research would surely trump your whimsical attachment to that symbol, wouldn’t you? Miss…?”

  The professor looked at me with raised eyebrows until I replied with my last name.

  “Decker.”

  He took in my appearance, paused, and said, “Interesting. But Ms. Decker, we’ve wasted enough time with this chit chat.”

  DeNiza pressed the control and returned to the slide of the two conquistadors. I noticed one had a string of scalps dangling from his saddle.

  “I have dedicated my life to finding this treasure,” he said. “Only a recent discovery made this possible.”

  All became silent as he held up the gold coin again.

  He started to speak reverently, “Three hundred years ago, two of my ancestors searched for this treasure. They found something, but it cost one of them their lives, and the other told tales so outlandish that nobody believed him.”

  DeNiza stared at the gold coin, and continued, almost to himself. “For generations, we have been ridiculed.”

  He set the gold coin down on the podium. Then he walked to the wall and flipped on the lights.

  “I will restore my family’s honor by rediscovering the treasure—you will see.”

  He stepped back to applause, his crazy confidence winning over a few in the crowd.

  The two conquistadors continued to stare from the screen.

  People were leaving the lecture hall. I lingered, under the pretense of taking a few more images and checking the spelling of his official title.

  “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot back there,” I said, apologetically.

  He began to scoff at me but faltered when I smiled at him and fixed my hair. Men are so simple sometimes.

  “I must have been mistaken about the symbol,” I said. “You certainly seem to know what you’re doing.”

  He was smitten and nodded graciously. “All my ancestors knew was the treasure was in the Arizona Territory. They had a map of a canyon, but there are many canyons here.”

  I looked at the gold coin sitting on the podium.

  “And when you found that coin,” I said. “You knew where to use the map.”

  DeNiza smiled broadly. “Precisely.”

  He picked up the coin and pocketed it. I caught a quick glance at the palm of his hand, which was strangely red.

  For a moment he stared at me, hesitating, and finally pulled out a transparent sheet with the lines from the map drawn out.

  He then laid out an unmarked copy of a topographical map and pointed to a canyon.

  “This is where I found the coin,” said DeNiza.

  He took the transparent sheet and laid it over the topographical map. “You see how it lines up?” asked DeNiza.

  I couldn’t believe it. What had before looked like a crazy collection of lines suddenly matched perfectly with a modern map.

  I also could not believe he was showing me exactly where he intended to search for his treasure.

  I asked, “Who made this map?”

  DeNiza stopped. He had a far-away look on his pale face, then he suddenly shuddered.

  I grew impatient. “Professor, did the maker of this map find something?”

  DeNiza stared at his map, and then without meeting my eyes, he looked at his shoes, and said, “Yes, he most definitely did.”

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Professor DeNiza drove a rented Jeep up State Route 89a north of Sedona, the top down, marveling at Oak Creek Canyon. The sky overhead was as blue as a Mexican tile as it peeked through the canopy of trees lining the creek. In little less than ten miles the road would top out on the plateau, and he knew he should slow and enjoy the ride, but destiny was calling.

  He had four days left until the convergence.

  It had been well over a week since his lecture, and during that time he had secured all of his provisions. They were stuffed into two large canvas duffle bags in the back of his jeep: several coils of rope, flashlights and spare batteries, maps, a tent, a sleeping bag and food for a week. He also brought along a sterilized hazmat suit, chemical testing kits, and several reference books. He was ready.

  He wasn’t quite sure how he was going to carry it all, but he was ready. His stay at the Junipine Inn had been restful, and he’d departed after a leisurely breakfast in the garden.

  Now, as he cruised along, he admired the beautiful forest that lined the creek. Sycamore leaves were quivering in the breeze, and the cottonwoods were shedding their fluffy seeds, which floated through the canyon like snowfall.

  The summer heat had been oppressive, but as he went deeper into the canyon it got cooler. He relished the patches of calm shadows that interspersed the sunlight.

  Through the tops of the ponderosa pines on the slopes above he saw colored limestone cliffs, yellowing as they rose, and dotted with junipers.

  Tourists were parked along the road taking photos, and inevitably causing traffic chaos.

  DeNiza cursed them as he had to sharply slow down again and again.

  He turned on the radio:

  “...who knows when the drought will break, but we could sure use those monsoon rains. With only scattered showers...”

  Once deep into the canyon, he pulled over to the left and parked near a sign that read: West Fork Trailhead.

  DeNiza reached into the back seat and dragged out a cumbersome backpack. He shouldered it awkwardly and started to drag out the duffle bags.

  A few yards away, I lay sunk down low in my driver’s seat. I was bored out of my mind, having waited here the previous day as w
ell. When the professor finally pulled up, I really couldn’t believe it, and stopped chewing an apple in mid-chomp.

  I knew he would come, of course. Any local could have picked out the West Fork when he showed me the map.

  I spied on him through my window, which was open only a crack. He parked his car, awkwardly wiggled into a backpack, and then attempted to clamp a duffle bag under each arm. When that turned out to be too cumbersome, he endeavored to heft one of the bags up onto his shoulder. I watched, amazed.

  He eventually settled on balancing one duffle bag on top of his backpack, behind his head, and carrying the other in front of him, clinging to it with one arm.

  Just before departing for the canyon, Carlos looked at his jeep, which still had the top down. He glanced at the sky, started to lower the duffle bags, then decided otherwise and turned to go. It was only a rental after all.

  We both noticed some boys tossing rocks at an old raven sitting on a low rail fence. The raven seemed ancient, but he easily dodged the rocks.

  When I looked back around, DeNiza had started down the trail.

  Just as DeNiza was about to enter a narrow canyon, a ranger approached him. The professor was so lost in thought that he simply wanted to walk around him, but the man addressed him.

  “I hope you’re not planning on hiking in too far,” said the ranger. A patch sewn onto his jacket identified him by name: O’Neil.

  DeNiza was baffled. “What could you possibly mean?”

  Ranger O’Neil rubbed his chin. “Well, this time of year any rain might bring on a flash flood. Then that canyon can quickly become a death trap.”

  DeNiza set down the duffle bags. “I hadn’t realized.”

  Ranger O’Neil glanced at the sky. “And we’re due for rain.”

  DeNiza scanned the blue void overhead. “But it doesn’t look like we’ll be getting any today—I’ll keep my eyes open for dark clouds. Anything else?”

  The ranger shook his head. “You don’t understand the weather here. It can be deadly.”

  DeNiza rubbed the back of his neck. “It´ll take more than a little weather to stop me.”