He rubbed his neck. “But you’re not just hiking through, are you? You want to go where I’m going.”
I nodded reluctantly, afraid of the calculating look in his eyes.
He said, “If you come with me, you give up all rights to the treasure—even to be named in the discovery of it.”
I put on my most polite smile and said, “Fine.”
But he wasn´t through. “And you will assist me, both as a documentarian, and in setting up a camp—and most importantly right now, in carrying gear.”
I weighed my options and agreed, “Okay. Whatever. Let’s get moving.”
He smiled at me as he handed over one of the two duffle bags, and we continued up the trail together.
We put another mile behind us, and then DeNiza began to survey the canyon walls a bit more carefully.
As we passed a small wash on his right he pulled out his map. Taking a marker, he darkened the lowest right line on the map.
Again and again over the next hour he stopped at any dry wash we passed, found it on his map, and darkened the corresponding line with the marker.
A few times he took out the transparency and checked it against the map. I kept glancing at the symbol on the top.
He noticed and taunted me. “For someone who does not believe in my treasure,” said DeNiza, “you seem to have a great interest in my map.”
I laughed, “It’s not that I don’t believe in your treasure, I am just not interested in it.”
DeNiza shook his head, “You really think I’ll buy that?”
I tried to change the subject. “I just don’t understand what you’re doing!”
He impatiently stopped, pointed to one of the washes, and said, “This wash is dry, but when it rains it would be a small river.”
I looked at it. “Okay, so what?”
He held up his map and pointed. “When this map was made it was raining and all of these washes were flowing.”
He indicated the map. “See, they are all shown clearly.”
I looked around and said, “I don’t know if you’d want to be here then.”
I pointed at the map. “I’ve never seen a map like that. Where did you get it?”
DeNiza quickly rolled it up. “This is just a photocopy. The original is far too delicate to treat like this.”
I leaned forward. “Will you let me see it?”
DeNiza moved to reply, then decided not to and walked off without a word. He wore a grave look on his face.
I laughed and ran after him. “Come on, let me see it.”
He straightened his back and marched away.
“I do not think so.”
But I continued to tease him, “Why not? Please? It’s your map, isn’t it? Do you have to ask permission from someone?”
He looked shocked. “It is my map—I can do with it what I please.”
When the high walls cast us in shadow, DeNiza said it was time to set up camp. I could have kept going—even though my arms were tired from carrying his gear—but he was done.
I set my tent up on a high bench on the side of the canyon. Warning bells had gone off in my head when I first set out, because there was definitely a risk of a flash flood this time of year. I didn’t want to be caught unaware in my tent if a sudden storm did hit.
The bench sat about thirty feet above the canyon floor, and it didn’t surprise me when DeNiza followed suit.
I had my tent up in a few minutes, but it took him a half-hour to figure his out. I had the impression he didn’t camp much.
The forest was as dry as tinder, and I’d left my stove behind to rely on the trail mix and apples. But I did have a couple packets of dried soup in case the opportunity arose.
I’m sure DeNiza had a stove somewhere in his massive piles of supplies, but he seemed too tired to search it out. He stowed all of his belongings inside his tent after he had set it up, crawled inside and fell asleep, leaving the tent screen unzipped.
I enjoyed watching the late afternoon pass.
The heat had stifled all movement during the afternoon hours, but as the temperatures dropped the birds began to call out.
I listened to them, trying to make out what their sweet calls might be trying to convey to each other.
Just before darkness fully set in, I heard DeNiza rustle. He sat up.
He appeared confused and stared at his knees.
I whistled, and when he looked my way, I tossed him an apple.
It landed on his sleeping bag. He grabbed it, softened a little, and nodded a thank you.
Over the next hour he found a Coleman lantern and I listened to it roar while he pawed through his supplies.
Under the glowing flame I could see him examining his maps, and after he had caught me watching, twice, he called me over.
I brought another peace offering in the form of some trail mix, which he hungrily devoured.
I sat down in the entrance of his tent and he stared at me, hard, like he was still trying to decide if he could trust me.
Finally, he sighed, picked up a plastic cylinder, and took the end off to slide out a rolled-up bundle. He unwrapped it, and slowly revealed an aged piece of leather.
Drawn on it was the same tangle of lines I’d seen on the transparency, but they were dark red and cracked. I leaned forward, and as I looked closer, I realized with disgust what I was looking at.
I whispered, “These lines seem like they were drawn in...”
“...blood,” DeNiza finished my sentence.
“That’s right,” he said. “The symbol on the top was painted, but the lines contain the blood of my ancestors—a man named Cristóbal. It came from his wounds.”
I was confused and asked, wide-eyed. “What wounds?”
DeNiza began: “Cristóbal was running from something, of that I’m sure. But he was also leaving something. Something he planned to return for. It was a thing he could not live without. So, he needed a map to get back to the place he was escaping from.”
I paled a little. “And?” I asked softly.
“Well he didn’t have a pen, or a compass, so he used what he had on him—a knife.”
“And he used his chest as a canvas?” I asked, shocked.
DeNiza nodded somberly.
The map was creeping me out, and I was happy to return to my own tent when DeNiza rolled it up and put it back in the cylinder. But when I tried to sleep, the image of its creation kept me awake.
In the middle of the night, DeNiza started screaming. His eyes were still wide when I stood outside his tent and tried to calm him. He finally relaxed a bit, sat up and unzipped his tent, and tried to compose himself.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I have always been troubled by nightmares. They will not let me be.”
I looked at him squarely. “Is it always the same dream?”
He nodded. “In my dream I am running,” he began. “And I am terrified as I stumble, exhausted. I am bleeding from numerous cuts, and there is a nasty gouge above one of my eyes.”
His gaze was filled with fear.
I handed him some water. “It sounds like something that happened to your ancestor—you said his name was Cristóbal?”
DeNiza nodded. “But that is not the worst part. In the dream I look behind me and see a wall of water emerge, rising up as the canyon narrows, as if to grab me.”
He stared at me. “As it crashes I wake up.”
He had put away the map, but the transparency was still out. I picked it up and stared at all the lines traced on it. Then I shook my head. “It’s no wonder you have nightmares with a map made from your ancestor´s blood. Look at all these lines! It must have nearly killed him!”
DeNiza agreed. “Well, it almost did.”
I set the map down and looked at DeNiza. “What could be worth doing that to your body?”
DeNiza suddenly looked more surprised than scared.
“My treasure. Are you blind? That’s why he gave his brother, Alonso, the map. And before he passed he whispe
red the secret to him.”
“Come on, Carlos, do you think he did that all for some gold?” I asked. “What would drive a man to that extreme.”
DeNiza laughed. “Are you insinuating that there could be something of more value than gold?” He arched his eyebrows.
I didn’t reply, but I thought, “We’ll see.”
Chapter Fifty-nine
I woke the next morning to a sublime sunrise over light-capped spires. From the dark crevice where I’d slept, I had to peer way up to the rim of the escarpment, where the first rays of pristine light glinted off the white Toroweap sandstone.
Gradually the sunlight slid over the terra-cotta rocks, until it hit the pink and vermillion layers, and then it burst forth in a profusion of color.
I smiled and said, “Good morning.”
DeNiza eventually snorted himself awake.
I broke camp and ate an apple by the water while I waited about an hour for him to get his stuff together.
DeNiza did not mind the casual pace he had set that morning, until we rounded a bend beyond where the high walls merged into each other, blocking our way.
A dark hole at the cliff base turned out to be a long, low tunnel that allowed access to the next section.
The passageway was filled with dark, motionless water. About fifty feet beyond the entrance a tiny bright light marked the exit on the other side.
DeNiza unbuttoned his shirt. “We will have to wade through. Carry the gear over your head.”
I pulled off my t-shirt—I had on a bathing suit top underneath. My shorts would dry, especially in this heat. I did take off my boots and grabbed my Tevas from my pack. The tough sandals could handle getting wet.
I stepped into the cold water, trying my best to hold my pack and the professor’s duffle bag above my head.
The cold water in the tunnel quickly got waist deep, and it didn’t take me long to realize I should have taken two trips.
DeNiza entered the water. He was gasping as he trudged behind me.
Soon the light faded, and it was comforting when DeNiza turned on a flashlight. But he had a hard time pointing it while he carried his pack and a duffle bag over his head. He finally clutched the light between his teeth.
We passed a small recess in the ceiling of the passageway, and DeNiza pointed the beam up into it. The ceiling was covered with bats. There were also symbols scratched into the wall and he moved to get a closer look.
Amazed, he took the flashlight from his mouth and said, “Well, look at this...”
I was left in the dark, and I called for him to shine me some light. Feeling unduly distracted from his discovery, DeNiza shouted, “SILENCE!”
Suddenly the entire cave was filled with motion. Bats flew everywhere.
Instinctively, we shielded our faces, and several splashes marked our belongings dropping into the water.
We frantically gathered them up and waded toward the light of the exit.
The professor’s day went downhill after that. He hauled his gear on the shore and began unpacking it all. Over the next few hours he laid everything out to dry, and then slowly repacked it.
He was in a foul mood. He grumbled and complained about the delay all of this was causing.
I lay against a flat rock and waited.
My gear—including my sleeping bag—was all stowed in plastic bags. Only my pack was wet.
The sun was high overhead when we set out again.
But within a mile DeNiza stopped once more.
I figured he’d developed a blister, or his shoulders were aching, but he actually wanted to consult his map.
He smiled as he held up the transparency.
“We’ve done well!” he said emphatically. “But we should stop and make camp.”
We were deep in the West Fork, at a confluence where a steeper canyon joined from the left. The water had pooled in a glittering pond, and a flat rock along its bank seemed to beckon me over.
I lay down on my back on the flat rock and said, “I can stay here as long as you want.”
DeNiza chuckled and nodded at the steep canyon. “Don’t get too comfortable—in the morning, we’re going up there.”
I followed his glance, and for the first time since I’d started this journey, a feeling of foreboding crept over me. Up until this point, I was only searching for a lost canyon that my mother had talked about.
But when I stared at that canyon, something about it scared me.
That night DeNiza lit a fire and sat close to it. I tried to discourage him, knowing we could burn down the whole canyon if he wasn’t careful, but he was determined to dry his damp clothes.
I sat across from him, watching every spark with trepidation—even chased down a few that drifted away. After a while we had a low-banked flame contained by a ring of stones, and I relaxed.
DeNiza was shivering, despite almost leaning into the flame. It was July, but after the sun set it got cool—not really cold, but his wet clothes were chilling him to the bone. The soaking seemed to have humbled him.
I couldn’t resist throwing a barb at him. “So, Carlos,” I asked, “is this how you envisioned your great discovery?”
He laughed. “Not exactly, but I do have a contingency plan.”
He pulled a bottle of brandy from his backpack and took a swig. He gestured to me. “Quieres? It will warm you up.”
A vision of George hefting a bottle floated before me, and I declined.
He shrugged. “You seem pretty comfortable here,” he said. “Has your family been in Arizona long?”
I smiled at the question. “My mom was a local,” I said. “She was Apache—her people claim to have been created here.”
“How risible. I’m sorry to disappoint you,” said DeNiza. “But your ancestors came from Asia, and before that Mesopotamia. They were not created here, regardless of what apocryphal stories they tell.”
I stared at the fire for a minute before replying.
“Well even if they weren’t created here, they took their identity from this place.”
DeNiza gave me a disdainful sigh.
“Those are two very different things,” he said.
He laughed and added, “Well, it’s good to know I’ve got an Indian guide. A pathfinder! Even if she does believe in fairy tales.”
As he lifted the bottle to his lips again, I asked, “So how is it that you have this map, but don’t know where the treasure actually is?”
He choked and struggled to quench a cough.
Chapter Sixty
We explored the steep canyon the next morning with a clear, bright sun shining directly on it. It looked less intimidating in the daylight; although it was clear to me from the start that we would never summit the plateau this way.
I expected us to have to scramble a lot, and to get bluffed early, but the way was surprisingly open. Over the years logs had fallen off the rim and dropped into the canyon, and other rocks had dislodged and tumbled down, but regardless, we had no difficulties.
About a third of the way in, DeNiza stopped and examined the sandstone we were climbing over. “Look at this!” he exclaimed excitedly. “These steps were carved.”
I glanced over at the rock, which was directly in our path and seemed to have broken off at a ninety-degree angle, but I hardly thought it had been carved.
“Wishful thinking,” I said and received a sour stare.
But then, ten minutes later, we came across a section that had been sheltered by a fallen tree, and on it were five seemingly- carved steps.
I stared at them, speechless.
DeNiza scoffed at me. “Not full of sarcasm now, are you?”
We continued to the top of the gorge but found no way to continue. DeNiza unpacked his maps and a compass and spent the next two hours poring over it all. By the time he looked up from his task, the shadows were lengthening.
“We won’t find anything now,” he said, “but there’s still enough light to move camp.”
I sighed. The h
ike up here had been fairly easy, after all, but I wasn’t looking forward to descending and then climbing back up with my stuff—and his.
I followed the professor down the canyon, heading back to our camp by the small pond. On the way, I stepped close behind him and asked, “So, you don’t know what he found?”
DeNiza flashed me a mouth full of perfect teeth and asked, “Cristóbal? Is it not obvious?”
I didn’t reply.
“He had an Aztec coin on him,” said DeNiza, laconically. “Possibly the very coin I found three hundred years later.”
He shook his head in disbelief.
I was still skeptical. “Possibly” I repeated. “What did he actually say?”
“What did who say?” asked DeNiza.
“What did Cristóbal say to his brother right before he passed out?” I asked. “You said he whispered something.”
DeNiza missed a step and almost fell.
“I didn’t say he whispered anything,” he mumbled defensively. “His brother told him to go back for the treasure.”
I glared at him, “You’re lying.”
He puffed up. “You have no right to any information leading to my treasure.”
“You’re an idiot,” I said. “And you know where you can stick your treasure.”
I stepped swiftly past him and took the lead which seemed to annoy DeNiza, judging by his exhalation. But when we got back to our camp, I stuck to his plan and broke down my tent.
An hour later I was at the highest accessible point in the steep canyon, and I set up my tent on a limestone shelf.
It took DeNiza another hour to do the same, and he did so lethargically, and in silence.
Before it was fully dark he was in his tent, sleeping, with the screen unzipped. I could hear him twitching and thrashing around, reliving his nightmare once again.
I shouted over, “Hey, Professor! Zip up the tent.”
He didn’t move. I got up, walked over and bent to zip it up. On the top of his open backpack, I could see an automatic pistol.
I let him be—he could deal with the mosquito bites in the morning.
The Sirens of Oak Creek Page 32
