The Sirens of Oak Creek

by Robert Louis DeMayo

  Before him lay a pile of blue-tinted bones, chains and Aztec weapons, and interspersed were hundreds of gold coins. Small brown mushrooms had spread over everything.

  DeNiza lifted one of the coins and gazed at it reverently.

  But then a look of panic crept over his face when he felt the familiar warmth. He dropped the coin, and then quickly scrambled into his hazard suit again.

  He turned to call me closer, and actually looked pleased to see me nearby already.

  With the tip of one gloved finger, he nudged a mushroom cap and said, “These are Psilocybe Mexicana. The Aztec called them Teōnanācatl. The Spanish believed this mushroom allowed the Aztecs to communicate with devils.”

  DeNiza lifted an Aztec club, only slightly, to show me a few of the mushrooms clinging to it. The weapon was made of wood, about four feet long, flat like a cricket bat, and had edges that had been lined with sharp chips of obsidian.

  He noticed me observing the weapon and said, “It is called a macuahuitl. Only one example of this weapon survived the Spanish Conquest of Mexico, but sadly it was destroyed in a fire in 1884.”

  We both looked at the mound of bones and weapons and could make out at least a dozen more armaments.

  “What a collection this treasure will make,” he said.

  I glanced beyond the pile, and only now saw that there was a tunnel, not just a room. “And what about down there?” I asked.

  DeNiza looked away from the tunnel nervously. In fact, I noticed then that he would not even glance in that direction. I would have charged down it in a heartbeat—but I could see now that he was afraid to even enter it.

  “One step at a time,” he said. “We must document this before we move on.”

  Chapter Sixty-five

  The macuahuitl truly was a work of art. DeNiza separated it from the pile, reverently, and several gold coins spilled off. He ran a gloved hand over the obsidian flakes that were embedded in the side of the weapon.

  Under the hood, I could hear his muffled laughter.

  “Still so sharp,” he said.

  He tenderly carried the club over to the light to see it better. He was talking to himself, mumbling something about filling his own museum. I noticed artifacts in the cave glowed slightly, but under the harsh light of the spotlight they were covered with an orange powder.

  When he turned away, I grabbed several of the mushroom caps and quickly stuck them in my pocket.

  Since I’d set my eyes on them, my mind was racing.

  I remembered ingesting mushrooms at the Grateful Dead show. We ate them an hour before the show began, and on our way to the coliseum had stopped at a rest area by a lake.

  While my friends shuffled into the bathroom, I’d walked down to the water. And as the psilocybin was absorbed by my nervous system, my mind embraced the beautiful natural setting.

  Suddenly the lake and trees around me took on a pastel sheen, and the grass and trees swayed in unison. And when I examined the trees closer, I had the overwhelming sense that they were conscious. Each individual tree now seemed aware of me, and I felt blessed to be in their presence.

  Eventually my friends returned and dragged me off to the concert. And that was fun, too. Magical, even. But what stayed with me was the connected feeling that had possessed me by the lake.

  And when I heard my mother’s song two nights earlier, I’d been overcome with the same sensation. Connected. Alive.

  How a song could convey a feeling like that, I didn’t know. Couldn’t fathom, really. But my mushroom experience was my connection, and I had to explore that possibility.

  So, while DeNiza tinkered in the cave, I heated some water in a Sinaguan bowl I found by the firepit, and eventually dropped the mushroom caps into it. I let it steep for a few minutes, then drank the tea—eating the caps when the liquid was gone.

  I had picked a dramatic day for my experiment. Dark-bellied clouds raced overhead, and an erratic wind blew through our canyon. It dawned on me that we were within the harmonic convergence, and in my mind, I imagined the planets all lining up.

  The walls of the canyon reflected the sun with a shimmer, rippling golden waves, like they were a giant set of quaking lungs. And the sounds of birds and insects and creaking trees all merged into a chorus of conversations that I felt I understood. Dragonflies and butterflies spiraled past me, leaving contrails.

  The raven landed next to me. Light reflected halo-like off its dark feathers. It stared at me, knowingly.

  “Hello, Auntie…” I said. My voice sounded like it came from another body.

  I let my eyes drift over the Sinaguan pictographs that lined the walls. An image of a bear paw, and then one of a woman in childbirth, leapt out at me. Even after I closed my eyes, those images still ran before me.

  I lay back and tried to control my breathing.

  Keeping my eyes shut did make things easier.

  While the gentle sounds of the canyon washed over me, I emptied my mind and waited to see what would fill the void.

  Soon I saw the entrance to the cave. But it was different than now.

  In my vision, there were several large alligator-bark junipers flanking the ingress, and clinging to one of them, a young girl of around ten stole glances into the cave.

  She appeared terrified, more so as time went by, until soon she began to nervously sing. It was my mother’s song, and I swayed with it as I watched.

  And then from within the cave, from the shadows near the back, I could see two women crawling from a tunnel. When they reached the open air the three embraced and cried.

  With their tears, I cried my own. Not knowing why, or who they were.

  Before I could ponder this scene, I was swept away by the sun arching over me. I kept my eyes closed, but still, I watched it pass by—day after day—in a dizzying blur.

  When the blinking light stopped, I was once again watching a young woman, maybe sixteen, and I observed her slowly wall up the tunnel.

  It was tedious work, and by the time she was done she sat in the dark, surrounded by several basalt rocks that had earlier been inside the tunnel. In the murky gloom they glowed.

  Time stretched then, and the woman drifted in and out of the cave, until one day she returned and sat next to a metate. She placed a few dried ears of corn on the flat stone, grabbed one of the basalt stones, and using it as a mano, began to grind the corn.

  In the process, the lichen clinging to the rock was ground free and mixed with the milled corn.

  The next morning, the woman ate a meal and waited for the sun. Over the next few minutes she began to look around strangely, and not long after she began to sing.

  And the song stayed with me while the sun spun overhead once more.

  Visions danced before my eyes, some not making sense at all.

  I noticed some of the women ground the lichen-covered mano into the metate to collect the orange powder, and after stored it in one of the bowls.

  Time continued to spin and morph. I saw a young woman being marched in front of a ruthless Aztec lord—a man with filed teeth. Then I watched her in the cave as she put on a bear claw necklace and suddenly transformed into a bear.

  And then another young woman screamed at a Spaniard who stared at her in confused adoration. He also appeared to stare at the trees and shrubs as if they were something sacred.

  It seemed these women were all within me. Spinning and twirling through the years. I could hear their voices, and even though they spoke in different languages, their message was clear: Do not go into the dark chamber. Do not go into the dark chamber.

  And the visions were always accompanied by the song, which sometimes held a magical power and at other times was just a song.

  Over time the women changed, until several appeared who were white. Strangely, they also knew the song.

  And the melody swept me along. Timelessly. Until eventually I realized I’d been laying by the firepit, awake, for quite some time.

  The sun had lowered itself over the fa
r wall of the canyon, and I was in shadow.

  I sat up and brushed myself off.

  I was still a bit wobbly when I finally stood up.

  DeNiza hadn’t left the cave, it seemed. I could see his floodlight pooling by the entrance.

  I walked to him.

  Chapter Sixty-six

  I paused in the entrance to the cave and observed the professor. He was still hunched in the corner, bent over the pile. Behind him, a tarp was layed out with an assortment of weapons and bones that he’d separated from the heap.

  By his side, a plastic tray was filled with gold coins.

  He kept digging into the pile, every now and then turning to scribble down a line in his notebook.

  As I approached him, I noticed a small tear in the back of his hazmat suit.

  When he turned around, I was surprised to see him grinning euphorically, humming a tune. He smiled broadly and affably exclaimed, “Look who has returned!”

  He had the hazmat suit hood pulled over his head, and his excited breath kept fogging the faceplate.

  I smiled sheepishly, still partially under the subtle influence of the mushrooms. “Couldn’t stay away,” I said and sat down on the low mound by the bowls of powder and the metate.

  And I couldn’t stay away. The visions I’d just had made me want to explore the cave myself and see what truths might be concealed there—and maybe finally unravel the mystery of my mother’s song.

  The faces from my vision stayed with me—noetically—as did some of their actions. My eyes drifted to the metate and mano. I picked up the yellow drinking tube, examined it, then stuck the end in the bowl containing the orange powder, stirring it.

  I was thinking of old Saan and my mother and wondered about their connection to the box canyon.

  They had felt close to me when I was in the cave, and I wanted to embrace that feeling. It warmed me. DeNiza watched my every move—still smiling.

  I said, “My Auntie used to talk about a place like this.”

  DeNiza sat back and pulled off the hazmat hood. He arched his neck and rubbed it vigorously with his gloved left hand. He inhaled some dust and sneezed.

  He didn’t move for almost a full minute while he stared at his gloved hands and during this time his mood slowly darkened. He pretended to acknowledge my words, almost as an afterthought, as he painfully stood as much as the low chamber would allow.

  “Really?” he asked. “What did she say about it?”

  I lowered my gaze. “She said it was a place where men weren’t allowed.”

  The professor jerked and banged his head on the low ceiling. He staggered backwards, and his jolly mood had now transformed to irritation. “Are you telling me you think I have no right to be here?” he snapped.

  He lifted one of the Aztec weapons—a shorter, bone-handled club—and asked, “You think maybe I should step outside?”

  He tested the weight of the club by thumping his other gloved hand with it. His face had turned a dark red.

  His voice rose. “That maybe this place is sacred to someone whom I might offend?”

  I realized I should have kept quiet. “I didn’t say any of that.”

  He seemed disoriented, “Bueno, because it is pretty damn sacred to me.”

  He stopped suddenly and stared directly at me.

  Slowly he smiled. “Now I see your plan—your little game,” said DeNiza. “You think if you can link this to your people, that they can claim this as their treasure?”

  I shook my head. “I told you, I’m not in this for the treasure.”

  DeNiza grabbed me roughly. “Then tell me what you are really looking for, Amber?”

  “I want the truth!” I screamed as he squeezed my arms.

  He had caught me off guard, my mind still fuzzy from the mushrooms. Before I could react, he pushed me down, and when I moved to stand again, he backhanded me with force.

  A drop of blood flew off my lip and landed in the sand, and suddenly the sky outside the entrance flickered with lightning.

  The pain brought me around, but as I crept into a defensive stance with my feet planted, DeNiza pulled out his pistol and pointed it at me.

  He loomed over me, menacing, daring me to advance, until I stepped back submissively. There was a crazed look in his eyes that made me fear him for the first time. I raised my hands defensively and said, “My father always said that this cave never existed, that it was just a story.”

  I looked around and sighed, “He was wrong.”

  DeNiza laughed, “I see no connection between this cave and your people. Do you think this is the only cave in Arizona with water dripping in it?”

  “But it’s clear Indians lived here,” I said. “Look at the pictographs and pottery. And what about that symbol on your map?”

  He gave me a pathetic look. “Yes, I will concede that Native Americans used the box canyon, and maybe even this cave—but there is no connection between them and the hoard in the tunnel. And the symbols you refer to on my map are Sinaguan, not Apache. They predate the arrival of your people in this valley.”

  I paused and then said, “My mother claimed that she found this cave years ago.” My reply seemed to baffle DeNiza, and then he shouted, “No! Enough!”

  He stood before me, belligerent. His hands were shaking as he raised the gun. Suddenly I had no doubt what his truculent behavior would lead to.

  He was shouting now. “Do you really think your mother’s people would have left this tunnel unexplored? That they would not have burned with curiosity about what lies beyond?”

  I shook my head. “Maybe they didn’t know about the tunnel, at least not in modern times,” I said.

  He disagreed, “That is not realistic. Not if they were living here. Someone would know.”

  I suggested, “Maybe the women knew, but they kept it a secret to protect the men.”

  At this he started to laugh. “So that is why your mother never told anyone about it, right? And now you are carrying on the tradition. Bastante!”

  He became serious again. “I am tired of your pathetic stories.”

  He was a stranger to firearms, and when he turned his gaze to the pistol to cock it, I reached behind me and grabbed the yellow drinking tube. He turned back to me, and I was ready.

  I had raised the yellow straw to point at his eyes, and quickly blew through it. A cloud of orange powder hit him in the face, momentarily blinding him.

  He screamed, and I fled the cave, remaining outside in the shadows by the entrance. In the last moments of light, the dark monsoonal clouds shone orange and red overhead.

  DeNiza grabbed a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his face. “How amusing,” he said. “You best stay outside, if you follow me, I will kill you.”

  He entered the tunnel, stepping over the remaining bones and weapons. In a few strides he was out of sight. I listened to his steps fade, and then I heard a whipping sound, followed by a thud.

  DeNiza emitted a piercing scream. Then, all was silent.

  I stood as still as an egret, holding my breath, and listening with my whole body. The silence that greeted me was formidable and hung in the air like a mist.

  After a few long moments I began to relax. I re-entered the cave and sat down heavily on the dry mound.

  I had a bloody nose, and a fat lip. As I wiped the gore off my face I looked up and saw a bloody handprint on the ceiling. I gazed at my red hand. Then I lay back and stared at the ceiling.

  After a moment, a drop of water let loose and hit me on the forehead.

  Chapter Sixty-seven

  Act III

  1987

  (September)

  I tried to control my breathing, but my mind was racing, and the cave spun around me. The muffled smell of death skulked in the still air and seemed to move toward me despite there being no trace of a breeze.

  From within the tunnel I could hear a rasping ethereal whisper, and beyond that a low hum.

  I glanced through the cave entrance at the now dark re
d-black sky outside.

  It saddened me that my quest to find my mother’s place—an obsession that at one time had shone like a clear flame lighting the way—had led me to such a seemingly-evil place.

  The box canyon outside, the cliffs, the gentle pines—even the blood-colored sky above—had once been part of what I called home.

  But not anymore. Now this wilderness felt pitiless—as if it had turned against me—and my quest, pointless. All I had ever truly yearned for was a connection with my mother. And still I didn’t know if this was even the place she had talked about visiting all those years ago.

  I wiped my brow, and noticed my hand was covered with orange powder.

  I gave it the smallest of tastes, trying to unravel its mystery. In my vision, I’d seen the women harvesting the powder for a mysterious use.

  A red-tailed hawk screeched outside. The shrill cry pierced the still air of the canyon, found me sitting in the cave, and like a sharp arrow, seemed to fly straight into me.

  I felt bewitched. The pictographs lining the walls appeared to be moving, as did the ceiling above them. And anywhere my eyes swept, they seemed to trail my vision.

  Suddenly it dawned on me: The powder was a psychedelic. An intolerable weight pressed on my chest and I could barely breathe. I must have ingested some when I blew it in DeNiza’s face.

  My gaze dropped low until it focused on the mound.

  I heard the whispering stronger now.

  The Apache say that the land stalks them; and I truly felt pursued. But they also believe the land forces them to live right, and I wondered how that could be. Were these whispers warning me away or leading me on? I didn’t know.

  I sighed, feeling lost.

  I picked up the corncob doll. DeNiza had handled it roughly, and I straightened the leather covering before leaning it against the wall, behind the metate, in a place of honor.

  “That’s better,” I said.

  I reached into my pocket and took out the photograph of my mother and Saan. I decided that if my mother had found the box canyon and this cave, she had never ventured down the dark tunnel.