by Joseph Kanon
“You said it was remote,” Connolly said. “How much more of this?”
“Twenty miles or so.” She grinned. “It discourages the fainthearted.”
“God. Let’s not break down.”
“Think of the Anasazi. They walked.”
He looked out at the desert again, trying to imagine it filled with people. “Why here?”
“No one knows. Presumably it was wetter then, but not much. They’ve found logs that must have been carried over forty miles—so why not build where the trees were? But they didn’t. It’s one of the mysteries.”
“What are the others?”
“Mainly what happened to them. They disappeared about eight hundred years ago. Just like that. It all just stopped. There were settlements everywhere—there’s a big one near the Hill, in Frijoles Canyon—and then nothing.”
“They all died?”
“Well, the archaeological record did. Probably they became the Hopis. Pueblo architecture’s much the same—block dwelling, kivas, the lot. But no one really knows. It’s difficult without writing. Imagine the Egyptians without hieroglyphics.”
“Then how do we know their name?”
“We don’t know what they called themselves. Anasazi’s our name for them. Navajo. Park Service says it means ‘the ancient ones,’ but I read somewhere that it actually means ‘ancestors of my enemies.’ Quite a difference. Of course, that fits perfectly with the Hopi theory—they’re still fighting the Navajos. Here we are. Watch out for the park ranger. Nobody comes here anymore, since gas rationing, and he’ll talk your head off if you let him.”
They were entering a broad open canyon formed by a long mesa along the north and two smaller ones on the south that opened like gates to the desert beyond. Connolly could see clumps of stone ruins backed against the walls of the canyon, small villages placed up and down the valley. A dusty official pickup truck was parked next to the building at the southeast end of the canyon road. The park ranger, an incongruous uniform in the emptiness, stared casually at her legs as he warned them to take water on the trail. But Emma seemed not to notice his interest, as if she had left all that behind in the miles of desert that separated them from the world. In fifteen minutes they were back on their own, the ranger another shadow, as they ate sandwiches on the kiva wall of the Bonito ruin, their faces lifted to the sun. With his eyes closed, he could hear the faint movement of insects. When he opened them, the sound retreated back into the stillness of the canyon. He looked over at her, at the line of her raised throat running into the now blazing white of her blouse, and marveled at their being here, away from everything.
She guided him through the site, pointing out the masonry patterns, the low chamber entrances, the arrangement of the rooms, so that what had been an inexplicable maze of stones now became real, filled with imagined life. People had lived here, moving from ceremonial kiva to irrigated field to storage room. The valley floor had hummed with noise. As they walked from room to room, the place began to make sense, there was an order to things, and he wondered suddenly if years from now people would walk like this on the Hill, picking their way through its buildings and rituals and puzzles until they arranged themselves in the simple pattern of a town. Maybe it would keep its mysteries too, and maybe they would seem just as inconsequential.
“But why here?” he asked again. “It can’t have been easy to farm here.”
“No,” Emma said. “Frijoles makes sense—there’s a river there. And Mesa Verde—I haven’t been, but presumably it’s green. Of course, they liked difficult places, they were always building on cliff faces and overhangs. But I agree it’s a problem. The archaeologists think there were as many as five thousand people here at the peak, so it may have been an administrative center of some sort. Perhaps religious. I think it’s more likely it was geographic—you’ll see what I mean at the top. It’s pretty much in the middle of their territory, so they may have picked it for just that reason. You know, an artificial capital. Like Canberra or Ottawa.”
“Or Washington.”
“Or Washington. What are you looking at?”
He took her hand. “I’m just looking.”
She was flustered but pleased. “You haven’t listened to a thing I’ve said.”
“Yes I have. They built in the middle of nowhere because it was the middle. Keep the bureaucrats away from the fleshpots.”
He leaned over and kissed her, a soft, long kiss because now there was so much more time.
“That’s never a bad idea, is it?” she said, her face still close to his.
“I don’t know. Maybe they need it more than anybody.” He kissed her again, but then she drew away.
“He’ll see,” she said, nodding her head toward the park station.
Connolly laughed. “All this way and it’s still the neighbors. Is there anywhere we can go?” he asked playfully, taking in the vast stretch of land.
“Later,” she said, pushing him away. “Are you always so anxious?”
“No, I’m shy. I just hate to pass up an opportunity. We could always go behind that wall.”
“No we couldn’t. If you think I’m going to lie down on a kiva for you, you’re very much mistaken.” But she had come closer to him.
“Afraid of disturbing the spirits?”
“Maybe. Maybe I just don’t fancy a stone floor.”
“You can be on top.”
“Later,” she said again, laughing at him. “Come on. You could do with the exercise.”
But the moment had made the emptiness around them sensual. He was aware of her skin in front of him as they climbed up the mesa trail, her leg stretching to a rock footing, flexing as it pulled the rest of her upward. The heat was tangible now, his body suddenly damp with sweat, and the air was busy with the crunch of their boots on the rocks and the sound of breathing. They climbed through a chimney between tall boulders, the path cluttered with loose rocks and sand and the tough root of a broken bush. When they cleared the top, on a shelf of slickrock, he found himself slightly winded, his heart beating faster. Except for the hint of a little breeze, everything around them still lay inert, but the torpor of the valley heat was gone. He felt alive with movement, his leg muscles straining as they went up another steep stretch. She looked behind her and laughed, leaping goatlike to another rock, daring him to follow. The canteen tied to her belt slapped against her hip. A trickle of sweat ran into his eye. The trail switched back, following a series of cairns he imagined the ranger had made, then rose steadily on packed earth until the great ledges of slickrock began, like sidewalks running around the rim of the mesa.
She waited for him on top, her blouse sticking to her, shading her eyes with her hand as she looked south to the valley floor. From here the ruins below took on the cellular shapes of a blueprint, circles and squares spreading out flat with only their dimensions to suggest buildings. She handed him the canteen. In the landscape nothing moved but shimmering heatwaves rising lazily off the desert. They were the only things alive in the world.
They followed the slickrock around the edge, steps away from steep drops into canyons, but the path was level and broad and they could walk together, moving quickly from the view of one site to another. The strain had left his legs and he was unaware of his steps now, buoyant, sometimes not even sensing the cairn markers. When she stopped suddenly, sticking her hand out in front of him, he almost pitched forward, carried by the unconscious momentum. She stood motionless, not breathing, so that the quiet was its own alarm. He darted his eyes around, not seeing anything on the barren slickrock until she extended a finger, pointing silently toward the edge. Ahead of them, on a ledge a few steps below, he saw the gray gnarled twist of an old juniper branch, nothing more, and then his eyes focused and the branch, sharper now, took on markings of gray and brown in a thick unnatural coil. The rattlesnake stirred slightly, adjusting itself to catch the sun, then settled back on the rock. Connolly stood frozen, feeling his muscles twitch with fear. It was the surprise of i
t, the unexpected lurking while they paid no attention. He had a city boy’s terror of wildlife; it crept up on you, alert only to its own rules. Frantically he looked around the trail for a rock, even a stick, to defend himself. But the snake lay still, coiled motionless in the sun. Connolly felt the slightest sound would arouse it, but Emma was already drawing him away, stepping carefully from the edge. He almost jumped when he saw it move, a nearly imperceptible tremor along the markings as it began to uncoil. He watched, fascinated as prey, while it sluggishly stretched out its length and glided down off its ledge to a sunnier shelf below, unaware of anyone else in its garden. Emma continued quietly moving away and he followed her, his eyes still on the ledge, expecting the snake to spring back. He was embarrassed by his own fear, but his blood kept jumping.
“Shouldn’t we kill it?” he said when they were farther down the path.
“He won’t bother us now. He lives here, you know.”
“But they’re poisonous.”
She smiled, calming him. “I know. But they don’t come after you unless they’re provoked. The first time I heard a rattle, I nearly died, but he was just telling me to go away. At least they give you fair warning. Not everything does. What they don’t like is being surprised.”
“I guess I don’t either,” he said, catching his breath. “I’ve never seen one before.”
“Maybe you’ll never see another. I’ve only seen two. The horses spot them. But they’re here, you know, they come with the territory.” She put her hand on his arm. “Come on, we’ll go up to the Pueblo Alto. Just be careful where you walk. It’s probably like speeding tickets, you never get two at once.”
But the snake had unsettled him. The limitless space had been exhilarating and now made him feel exposed. What if it hadn’t gone away? He saw himself holding an ankle full of poison, miles from anywhere, any cry for help muted by the wind. He had thought they had got away, that all this bright, uncomplicated space was theirs, and now he saw that he had merely intruded in it, made unsafe by what he couldn’t see.
They cut across the land to the center of the mesa, where the high ruins were, on the roof of the Anasazi world. There was wind up here, constantly drying their skin and blowing their hair, and as he watched her striding ahead, the white sleeves of her blouse fluttered back like little banners. He wondered what had brought her here, coolly avoiding snakes and climbing over slickrock, so far from the rainy hedgerows of Hampshire. But it was hers now. He liked the way she delighted in the land, as if she had made it all up.
At the Pueblo Alto they could see miles in every direction, and she pointed out the faint traces of straight roads coming from the north, then going out the valley to the south.
“Of course, why they had roads is another mystery, since they didn’t have wheels. Not even pack animals, apparently.”
“You couldn’t walk for miles in that,” he said, pointing to the desert.
“But they did. Hundreds of miles. They’ve found macaw feathers that must have come from Mexico—you know, on the Gulf. And conch shells from lower California. Somebody must have brought them.”
They were sitting on the wall, smoking. Connolly felt the heat of sunburn on his face, but the clouds kept moving across the sun, throwing the mesa into cool late-afternoon shadow.
“Right up that road, too,” she said, pointing toward the straight track between South Mesa and West Mesa. “Can’t you imagine it, though? Feathers and beads and whatnot—a whole stream of people, all coming here.”
He smiled at her. “I don’t believe it. Maybe a handful staggering with thirst. It’s some place, though,” he said, looking around again.
“Yes, it makes it all worth it.”
“Makes what all worth it?”
“You know, the Hill. The life there.”
“Why don’t you leave?” he said quietly.
“Where would I go? I don’t mind, really, as long as I can get away like this. Besides, I’ve come this far. I wouldn’t go back now.”
“I didn’t mean that.”
“I know.” She crushed her cigarette, then stripped it, letting the bits of tobacco blow away. “But it’s true just the same. I like it here.”
“But it has to end sometime. The project’ll be finished.”
“And everyone go home? Do you think so? I don’t know. I used to think that—it was all so temporary in the beginning. But now I think it’ll just go on.”
“It has to end when the war ends. You know what they’re doing there?”
“Everybody knows. We just don’t like to talk about it. It’s nicer to think of it as pure science,” she said, an edge in her voice, “not blowing everything up. Anyway, they’ll want to make another. Something bigger, perhaps. We won’t be going anywhere. You can’t just build a whole city like that and walk away from it.”
“They did here.”
“Yes. But did they walk away?” She got up, tired of sitting, and paced idly, turning over a loose rock with her boot.
“Didn’t they?”
“You like a mystery. What do you think?”
A question in school. He looked out at the landscape and shrugged. “I think they ran out of water.”
“Hmm. That’s the obvious answer, isn’t it?”
“But you don’t think so?”
“They may have. Just moved on to greener pastures. Of course, anywhere would be, wouldn’t it? But then, why not pack up? They just left things, you see. Pots, farm tools. I mean, you’d take your tools. And valuables. Feathers, shells—the sort of thing you’d take with you if you were moving on. Like your good china. Turquoise beads.”
“Turquoise?” he said. “They left turquoise behind?”
“Yes,” she said, puzzled at his interest. “They had turquoise—it was their jewelry. Funny sort of refugees, leaving jewelry behind.”
“Maybe they thought they’d be coming back,” he said, his mind in Karl’s drawer now, wandering.
“But they didn’t.”
“Because they were killed.”
She looked at him. “What makes you say that? We don’t know that.”
“Nothing. I was thinking of something else.” He stood up. “Maybe they were too weak. Maybe there was too much to carry.”
“Jewelry?”
He smiled at her. “You’re reconstructing the crime.”
“They say that’s what archaeology is. Reconstructing the crime.”
“If there was one.”
“There usually is, one way or another.”
“So what do you think?”
She paused, looking out again across the mesa. “I think the Germans came.”
“The Germans?”
“Their Germans. I think they rounded them up and took them away.”
His mind, already distracted, now leaped to magazine photos, a man weeping at a cello.
“Why?”
“Well, there’s never an answer to that.” She shrugged, as if she could shed the thought with her skin. “This is a funny sort of conversation to be having.”
“Maybe they did it to themselves.”
“What? Had some Hitler who led them away?”
“Or just went mad. Blew themselves up.”
She looked at him again, then crossed her arms, holding herself. “Don’t let’s talk about it anymore. We’ll never know anyway.”
“But wouldn’t you like to know?”
“I suppose so. But what does it matter? Maybe it was drought—everyone thinks so. I rather like its being a mystery.”
“But if we knew—”
“Then this would only be a place, wouldn’t it?” She turned to go. “Come on. It’s getting late.”
The trail down was easier, but they stopped several times to take in the view. The white light of the day was gone, replaced by the late afternoon sun with a deep yellow fire that colored the rocks. Part of the valley was in shadow and the sandstone had lost its bright reflection; it was now just harder earth, dark as dried blood. By the tim
e they reached the bottom, even the sky had changed, its steady blue beginning to streak with color.
“My legs are going to feel this later,” he said, rubbing his calf.
“Tired?”
“Not too tired.”
She grinned. “That’s good. We’ve miles to go.”
“Where now?”
“We’ll drive north to Nageezi, then cut across on the road to Taos.”
“Can’t we stop at Nageezi?”
“That’s just for the maps. There isn’t anything there—it’s a trading post. Just a filling station. When it’s open.”
“Where, then?”
“Anxious? I thought we’d go to Hannah’s.”
“That’s hours from here.”
“Everything’s hours. We’d have it to ourselves.”
“We’ll be exhausted,” he said, taking her by the waist.
“You can sleep in. All day.”
He smiled. “Let’s go. What if we find something on the way?”
“It would be a mirage,” she said, getting in the car. “There isn’t anything. Don’t worry—I’m worth the wait.”
They said a courtesy goodbye to the ranger, then headed northwest out of the valley into the orange sky. This access road was rougher than the one to the south, and Connolly, driving now, cursed as the car bounced through deeper holes. Even on a straight stretch of dirt he was forced to slow down, dodging rocks. Emma put her head back against the seat, squinting dreamily into the light.
“Why did you ask about the turquoise?” she said, mildly curious.
“I was thinking about Karl.”
“Oh,” she said, opening her eyes. “Why him?”
“He left turquoise behind in his room. It just seemed an odd coincidence, hearing about it. Well, not really a coincidence. It just reminded me of it, that’s all.”
“What was he doing with turquoise?” she said, genuinely surprised.
“I don’t know.”
“Is that why he was robbed?”
“No. It was in his room.”
“Oh. So it’s a mystery.”
“For now it is.”
