A moment later, I nearly jumped out of my skin when DeNiza was suddenly beside me.
“What are you really searching for, Amber?” he asked from just a few feet away.
His eyes swept the box canyon, then returned to the cave, about thirty feet behind us. “You think you can learn the secret of this place?”
I couldn’t form words, and just stared at him blankly.
I noticed he was wearing a heavy backpack and held his pistol in his right hand.
I was beginning to come around. Slowly, I remembered the orange powder, and the fact that we were both most likely under its influence.
“You’ve been drugged,” I managed to mumble.
DeNiza faced me, water dripping off him. “You think this is all a hallucination? That I’m imagining it all?”
He laughed shrilly and turned to stare at the cave. “What I faced in that cave was no illusion—it was real.”
“No,” I said, “Psychedelic drugs can cause visions like that. They seem real.”
He shook his head slowly, and in a tight voice said, “Let’s just get this over with.”
He raised his gun and pointed it at me.
Lighting crashed into the far wall of the box canyon. The rain was coming down so hard I could barely see him. DeNiza looked at the exit chute out of the box canyon, which was now half-filled with whirling water.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “But I can’t leave you here to steal the treasure.” He grabbed the pistol with both hands.
Another bolt of lightning shook the inky sky overhead, and he flinched. His eyes narrowed. “You think this was a place of safety? You think someone had a nice happy home here?”
I circled him slowly, so that the exit chute was behind him.
He continued, “This place is a deathtrap—look around.”
I did and saw that from all around the rain funneled down into the drain. “If there’s death here, it’s because of you,” I said. “What I sought was creation…, or love…, or life—something that would make it all make sense.”
DeNiza tightened his grip on the pistol. “If you were not so obsessed with these fairy tales you may have been part of my discovery.”
I reminded him flatly, “I never cared about it.”
He stared at me and said, “You’re just a scared little girl.”
I stood tall and steeled my nerves, preparing.
I said calmly, “I may have been once...”
As he returned his focus on the gun, I jumped in the air and kicked him squarely in the chest.
“Not anymore,” I added as I swiftly set the foot back on the ground and steadied myself.
The power of the kick, combined with the weight of his pack, sent him backwards, into the water-filled chute, where he cannon-balled upon impact.
For a moment he was visible, his body and the backpack blocking the flow of water. Then its force took hold of the whole bundle and flushed DeNiza and his pack through the chute.
I was left standing in the box canyon alone, looking at the chute, the water flowing into it, almost a river now.
* * *
DeNiza had been flung down the talus slope. His backpack was torn wide open, the gold items scattered in the raging waters all around him.
He clawed at the precious items washing away and howled, “No! My treasure!”
He had rolled out of the stream and managed to pick up a few odd pieces. He stuck them in his shirt but cried out in frustration as he watched the rest disappear. “I must have proof!”
Downward he stumbled, chasing goblets and plates of gold as they were washed to the bottom of Itzel Canyon.
At the confluence with the West Fork, he stood and tried to regain his composure. He controlled his breathing and assessed his situation.
Then a sound behind him made him look around.
From the dark sky above, a raven suddenly appeared flying directly at him. It hit him in the forehead with its claws extended, leaving a bloody gouge above his eyes.
DeNiza stood there, stunned, trying to see through the blood that was washing into his vision.
He became suddenly aware that water was filling the narrow canyon. He realized if he didn’t get out of there he would drown.
A look of panic crossed his face.
In the back of his head he heard old Saan´s voice warning, “Do something wrong and the rains come.”
DeNiza turned and started to run down the canyon.
Chapter Seventy-one
I awoke the next morning with yellow sunshine bathing me, letting me know the rain had stopped. I was curled up next to the old adobe ruin, near the fire pit, tight against the wall where the rain hadn’t reached.
I moved unhurriedly as I sat up, as in a dream, not quite awake until a large raven landed by my head and cawed.
I stared at the bird. I still felt drugged.
Ten feet away, DeNiza’s tent lay half-collapsed from the rain. My tent had fared better. I guessed I’d fallen asleep before I could crawl into it.
I spent a half hour taking down my tent and packing my things in my small backpack. While I let the outer fly dry in the sun, I looked over DeNiza’s gear.
I’m still not sure why, but I grabbed it all and stowed it in the small recess just inside the cave. For a long moment I stared at the weapons and gold coins layed out on the tarp, but in the end, I determined that I would have no part of the evil treasure.
I didn’t really like going inside the cave, and after two trips determined not to do so again. I stood by the egress and said a silent goodbye. I knew more time in the box canyon wouldn’t bring me any answers.
When I exited the slippery chute leading from the box canyon, I stepped straight into a glittering world of sunshine and sparkling raindrops. They clung to the leaves and branches, and flashed golden off the wet sheets of sandstone.
The strong scent of petrichor hung over the steep trail as I descended Itzel Canyon. I saw several gold coins on my way, lingering in the bottom of clear puddles.
I picked one up, and then dropped it quickly when I felt the tingling warmth. I redoubled my effort not to take anything, convinced no good would come from that treasure.
There was a small river, no mere creek, flowing down the West Fork now, and I had to stay on the bank for much of the way. A few times I waded waist deep in the stream when the walls closed in and left no other option.
The drainages that I passed were all still running with rainwater, but the flow seemed to be slowing down. The trickling water was filled with soap suds from running over the roots of yucca plants.
I suddenly spotted the professor’s destroyed backpack and called out, “Carlos!” hoping he was far away.
As I approached a turn in the canyon, I saw a large pile of logs and branches. Near the bottom a flash of color caught my attention.
I hurried to the log pile and found DeNiza pinned under the debris.
It was a miracle that he was still alive, even if just barely. His head was just above the water that had piled up the logs and was still rushing under it.
He tried to smile and painfully asked, “This is how you imagined I would end up, isn’t it?”
I denied it. “It isn’t at all. I never wanted anything bad to happen to you.”
He moaned and said in a strained voice, “No, I suppose you are telling the truth.”
I tried to move a few logs, but DeNiza howled in pain.
“Stop!” he screamed in agony. It was hopeless.
A roaring sound upstream got our attention. Another rainstorm further up the creek had caused a surge of water; it was now coming crashing down the canyon.
It hit the bend and all but covered DeNiza.
I frantically tried to lift him out. He shrieked and coughed through the water. “It’s no good. I’m dead anyway…”
“I cannot let it end like this,” I said.
“Leave,” said DeNiza. “Save yourself.”
He stared at me for a moment and then said, “I
have this coming to me.”
I stood my ground. The water was rising. I asked, “Tell me what Cristóbal told Alonso right before he died.”
DeNiza hesitated, and then said, “It was nothing, really. He said only one word, and then some gibberish.”
I pleaded, “Tell me!”
Even now DeNiza paused. He was having trouble breathing and struggled to raise his head a bit higher.
I held my breath in anticipation.
“He said: Kamala.”
I remembered old Saan leaning forward and whispering the same name into my ear. I was awestruck.
“He made the map to get back to her!” I exclaimed, overwhelmed by the rush of conviction that swept through me.
Another surge of water headed toward DeNiza.
He blurted out, “Please, spare me your tales of unrequited love—this supposed madness of the heart. You think a woman was more important to him than that treasure?”
I replied, “He said ‘Kamala’—and that’s a woman’s name.”
DeNiza nodded weakly.
“And what was the gibberish?” I asked.
He gave a weak smile. “Cristóbal said that when she sang, he thought she was an angel.”
I fell silent.
He finally asked, “You will still tell the world of my discovery?”
I shook my head. “Nobody’s ever going to know, Carlos. It was never meant to be found.”
Eyes filled with disbelief, DeNiza frantically tried to free himself. “What are you saying?” he asked, panting heavily.
I stepped back.
I said, “When I was young I heard about the cave and the hidden canyon and was told they never existed.”
DeNiza struggled to breathe.
I continued, “I don’t care about the treasure. I never did. I just had to see for myself if the cave was real.”
He was now exhausted from his efforts to keep his head above the rising water.
He coarsely asked, “Will you stop with these fantasies? The world must know of my discovery.”
I shook my head again. “It’s over, Carlos. I hope it stays hidden for a thousand years.”
He howled and tried to wrench free, but it was no good.
Another surge of water came through and forced him to squeeze his eyes shut and hold his breath.
One last time he lifted his head out of the flood and looked at me. He said quickly, “I was a fool.”
Then the water engulfed him, and he was gone.
I climbed a steep scree and scrambled to safety.
Chapter Seventy-two
Today is the fall equinox, when day and night mirror each other. From here on out, the nights will grow longer, and the days shorter. After this day, life will begin to recede, and the vegetation in the canyon will start to die.
Yet today, there is no sign of decay as I wind my way up Oak Creek Canyon. The rains have passed, and almost all the vegetation holds some shade of green. Only the fruits of the prickly pear break away from the dominant hue; they’ve swollen and gone purple.
I believe Martin Gray would have told me that during these celestial events—equinoxes and solstices—energies or spirits are more present. Or at least, that’s what the countless myths speak of.
And DeNiza might have bragged of the Mayans and Aztecs, and how very well they were aware of those dates.
But I shut him out.
I don’t glance at the West Fork trailhead as I pass it.
For me that is the past. I watched the headlines, waiting to see what might surface. I assumed somebody found DeNiza´s rental jeep at the West Fork trailhead, and the Junipine Inn probably wondered what to do with his luggage, but nobody started a fuss.
I called Tim at the Red Rock News, and casually inquired about any missing hikers. Nothing.
At least in Sedona, he wasn’t missed.
So, I moved on. I put Aunt Saan’s place up for rent and began searching Flagstaff for a place to live.
I’m on my way now to look at a rental.
Me and Heyduke, on the road again. I think I mentioned how much I love my truck. I know if the rental doesn’t work out, he’ll still have me. I’ve got a new futon in the back and I’m not afraid to use it.
I approach the switchbacks and see the first few trees with yellow leaves. None have dropped yet, and the forest seems particularly tidy without their clutter.
In Flagstaff I stop at Sprouts to get some food. No matter where I end up, I’m gonna need to eat. The San Francisco Peaks stand proudly above the town, and I contemplate a hike before the snow sets in.
I grab a cart and begin loading it. I’ve been famished lately and can’t seem to eat enough. Even now, as I shop, my stomach growls incessantly.
I step forward and reach for a loaf of bread on a top shelf, and bump right into a long-haired, bearded young guy with the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen on a man.
I drop my loaf of bread, and before I can move, he stoops and picks it up.
And we just stare at each other.
I’m speechless, and it appears he is too. But the silence that follows is comfortable, and soon we both chuckle.
“Hi,” he says, extending his hand with my bread in it. “I’m sorry—but I’m starving and just want to get out of here and make a sandwich.”
I accept the loaf, laughing. “Me too!”
I look into his eyes and suddenly every other care I have melts away. I blurt out, “Would you care to go on a picnic?”
He smiles, and his eyes light up. “There’s nothing I would rather do more. Let’s get out of here.”
Epilogue
2019
(October)
In the dream, a white-haired Mayan woman sits on a flat rock in a peaceful lagoon. She dangles her feet in the water, slides over the edge of the rock, and drops in.
Downward she plunges. And even though the size of the pond suggests the water can’t be that deep, she is soon out of sight, obscured by the murky depths.
In a meadow not far away, a few does watch, wide-eyed. A light breeze blows through, shivering the leaves on the cottonwoods and sycamores. A racoon skitters by on the far shore.
And then the woman resurfaces.
In her hand, she holds a round white stone with a gold band.
She hoists herself back onto the rock, and smiles, her face flush from the exertion.
“We must remember to return it,” she says.
I woke with a jolt, startling my sleeping husband. He grunted and rolled over, and I lay there quietly, trying in vain to return to sleep and back to the dream. Out the window, the horizon was tinged with gray and soft pink and after a while I decided to get up.
While making a coffee, I pondered the dream.
I recognized the white stone, even though it had been well over thirty years since I’d glimpsed it in the cave with DeNiza.
And I recognized the peaceful lagoon, too.
I hadn’t been to Oak Creek in decades. Not that I was trying to avoid it, I just got swept up in life.
A few weeks after my incident in the box canyon, I literally bumped into a young man at a grocery store in Flagstaff. I’m not gonna tell you anything about him, other than that he’s the love of my life, and I eventually followed him to New Mexico.
We had two children, a boy and a girl. They’re grown now, and not connected to this story in any way, so I won’t tell you their names either. It’s enough to say we’re a good family, full of love and laughter—and grandbabies in the near future.
For thirty years it’s been enough, but now, all I can think about is that white stone. Prior to this dream, nothing seemed to be missing from my life. I was happy. I had a family. I believed I was content.
Now I knew there was a task yet unfinished.
I sipped my coffee and remembered my past, and before the sun had fully risen, I was loading my car. Sadly, my pickup, Heyduke, had been retired, but the Elantra was only a year old and would complete the drive easily.
My husban
d gave me a strange look when I told him I had to go to Flagstaff to visit an old college friend. He was a bit nervous about me making the six-hour drive, but I assured him I’d be fine, and be back the next evening.
In the driveway, he wished me a good journey and kissed me goodbye.
By mid-afternoon I was approaching Flagstaff. A detour forced me to use I-17 south to route 179, and I came into Sedona from the west through the Village of Oak Creek, passing Bell Rock and then heading up Oak Creek Canyon.
The town had twice as many residents since I’d lived there in the eighties and seemed to be booming. A banner advertised the Illuminate Film Festival, and another, P.K. Gregory at the Page Springs Winery’s Fall Harvest. There were touring jeeps everywhere, a fair amount of traffic, and a whole lot of round-abouts that nobody seemed to know how to use.
Uptown appeared to have gone through several enhancements, with streetlights and new sidewalks.
I headed up the canyons and soon passed over Midgley Bridge, which spanned Wilson Canyon—named after an Arkansas bear hunter who got killed there by a grizzly in 1885.
Continuing north, I skirted the Rainbow Trout Farm on the right, and then pulled in to Garlands on the left. I ordered lunch, impressed by their new gourmet menu. I ordered the “Bear Howard” sandwich—roast beef and gouda—and stuffed it in my daypack.
Memories flowed over me as I drove north. I was surprised to see the Dairy Queen was still there, the parking lot filled with Navajo women selling jewelry. And Slide Rock State Park appeared just as crowded as ever.
When I glanced at the Junipine Inn, I suddenly heard DeNiza, in the back of my mind, bragging about the delicious breakfast he had in the garden back in eighty-seven. It was the first time I’d thought about him in years.
Don Hoel’s cabins were now the Butterfly Garden Inn, but otherwise appeared unchanged. I wondered if I would need a room for the night. I hadn’t entirely planned things out—or maybe I just hadn’t admitted to myself what I was gonna do.
But I parked at the West Fork trailhead, shouldered my small pack, and started walking. Fall was upon the canyon, and the oaks and cottonwoods flashed yellow in the sun.
The Sirens of Oak Creek Page 37
