“What!” muttered Joe, butt hanging out his mouth.
“That same symbol appeared in an American Revolutionary War officer’s journal up at Old Fort Niagara. They just discovered it after being buried in a box this whole time. This officer was in the same area near Seneca Lake when he found one of those same broaches, back in 1779, during the Sullivan campaign.”
Joe turned to his nephew and quickly inhaled the cigarette smoke. He spoke, letting the blue-gray smoke swirl out of his mouth and nostrils. “This cannot be happening. I cannot believe this is happening. Go on Jake. Tell me everything you know.”
For the next twenty minutes Jake told him of the Boyd Box discovery while Joe chain-smoked half the cigarette pack. But when he mentioned in the end that Alex Nero bought the box outright, Joe, who had just taken a sip of his drink, gasped and dropped the container on the tiled floor, shattering the glass.
Joe ignored the mess, stood up, grabbed a land line phone. He dialed. “It’s Joe. I’m coming over right now. My nephew Jake has a white deer story for you.” He paused then nodded “Yes, Robert Jake, the army officer.” He then hung up.
Jake was cleaning up his uncle’s mess and looked up. “What does Nero have to do with any of this? And who the heck did you just call?”
“Soon you’ll know everything. Come on. We’re going to Miss Lizzie Spiritwalker’s house. Remember her?”
“Oh, how could I forget her? She’s that batty old ball-buster that gave me so much shit twenty years ago when she found out I was joining the Army.” Jake stood up and threw away the glass shards. “I’m surprised she’s still alive.”
“Yep, and sharper than ever. She’s the eldest clan mother we have now, the nation answers to her as the matriarchal head. She’s also the best source of Iroquois history in our entire Confederacy — the most respected Faithkeeper there is. Just be patient with her and your puzzle pieces will fit together.”
Ten minutes later. Tonawanda Reservation.
Jake followed his uncle’s maroon Ford F-150 pick up truck up a little-used dirt road that led them to a remote section of Tonawanda Creek. The road was narrow and full of deep ruts making it hard to drive in the darkness. They finally emerged at a run-down old Victorian style house partially hidden in the woods. Jake parked, grabbed his laptop and a New York State topo map book. He jumped out but stopped and stared at the front porch.
Dim lighting filtered out from open windows, drapes fluttered in the cool night breeze. Several bamboo wind chimes knocked together in a rhythmic mellow tune while the trees rustled with a groan. Jake remembered this place giving him the creeps as a kid. Some things never change.
With a rap on the front door and an announcement, they entered to find Miss Elizabeth Spiritwalker Canohocton or Miss Lizzie as Joe called her, sitting in a rocking chair in the center of the living room. A heavy blanket was thrown across her lap. A pet Chihuahua was tucked inside, fast asleep.
Lizzie smiled a toothless, wrinkled grin at Joe, her light brown eyes gleaming in the warm light cast from a single table lamp. Long, straight white hair hung from her tiny head. Soft flute music and a steady drumming played from a portable CD tune box in a corner. Jake studied her. The term walking dead came to mind.
“Ah, young Robert Jake Tununda,” her high-pitched voice wheezed. “My what a handsome man you turned out to be. I’ve heard much on your exploits out there in the white man’s world. Come closer. Don’t be shy. I won’t cast any spells on you.” She extended her hand in greeting and coughed. “Not yet at least.”
Jake shook her skeletal-like hand. “Miss Lizzie, it’s a pleasure to see you again. It’s been a long time.”
“Turned one-oh-three last month. Still haven’t eaten my most favorite strawberries yet, as they say when you get closer to the sunset. Getting more and more visitors wondering what my secret is. Your father here, I mean your uncle, has kept a good watch over me.” She looked over to Joe. “I can’t thank Big Bear enough. Now sit down and tell me about this story you’re so upset about.”
“Lizzie, Jake has some pictures that go along with his story. He has here a laptop computer to show us and a map book. What happened is he found a silver and wampum broach this morning — two of them to be exact. He’ll explain. But you’ll recognize what’s on them right away. If all of this is true, I fear what will happen. Jake, please tell her everything and she’ll make sense of it all.”
Jake sat down on the couch beside Lizzie and flipped open his laptop. As it booted up he looked around her living room. It was a treasure trove of old Seneca Indian artifacts. On the wall hung several carved wood and cornhusk false-face masks with their twisted noses and demonic faces. Off in a corner was a genuine water drum and on a table were smoking pipes, beads, jewels, and various sundry items from years past. Joe cleared his throat.
Jake blinked and nodded then began retelling the story of the morning event at the marsh. He opened the topographical map atlas of New York State, turning to the page showing Seneca and Cayuga Lakes, and pointed to the location of Cranberry Marsh — just northeast of the old Seneca Army Depot.
As he spoke of the Indian grave and the victim he had found in the bottom of the hole, on the computer screen he pulled up the silver broach image the investigator had let him take. Lizzie’s eyes widened. Her lips pressed together and she flinched. Her Chihuahua opened its large eyes in a panic and scampered off her lap.
“Choo-Choo, come back little girl,” Joe urged as the dog shuffled off into the kitchen.
“Jake, was there anything at the bottom of this hole?” Lizzie asked.
“Not much, just a pile of rocks near the wall. A few inches of water.”
“Water?” questioned Joe, a bit excited. “Was it flowing water? Like a stream?”
Jake laughed. “No. No. There was no underground river there. I remember that story you told me as a kid. But you know what was kind of odd was when I climbed out of the well it seemed as though there were little footholds carved out of the stone, almost like steps.”
“Wait, go back. There was a pile of rocks you said?” asked Joe.
Jake shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah.”
“But you didn’t see any type of tunnel or an opening down there where the cave went on further?” asked Lizzie.
“No. It was just an open pit at the bottom of a limestone shaft. I’m thinking maybe it was an old salt mine. Salt was usually gathered by the Indians around marshes.”
“Very interesting indeed,” said his uncle. “Now tell Lizzie about what you found at Fort Niagara.”
Jake rehashed the story of the Boyd Box discovery. He showed Lizzie and Joe all of the photos he took, explaining in minute detail the items and their historical significance. He caught himself lecturing the two before getting back to the core of his story, of when Lieutenant Thomas Boyd entered Kendaia. In the topo book, he showed them the location of Kendaia along Route 96A paralleling Seneca Lake’s eastern shore — on the opposite side of the Depot. He then pulled the laptop in front of him and started reading out loud the journal excerpt from September 5th, how Boyd and McTavish entered the village first and found the captive Luke Swetland, how Swetland took them to a sacred Indian location and a cave and how they spotted a white deer and that McTavish shot at it.
“Now listen to this part,” said Jake, reading very slowly. “Kendaia plunder illustrated below, along with directions to Swetland’s Indian cave, so we may re-visit and further examine one day in hopes of finding more fortune.” He displayed on screen the indecipherable lettering ripped in half at the corner. They studied the monitor closely. Joe asked Lizzie if she had ever seen lettering like this before.
“I think I have. Not sure where.” She shook her head. “This is supposed to be directions to this so-called witch’s cave?”
“Yes, and he hid the other half of this cave location in a buried keg of loot,” explained Jake. “Check this out. This here is the other cipher that refers to where the keg is located and what it contains.” He pu
lled up Boyd’s very last entry from September 12th, showed them the second cipher of lettering on that ripped page and then read the caption accompanying it.
“Craft cipher indicates directions to the buried keg. For purposes of secrecy the other half of cipher is deposited in my most trusted craft brother’s most trusted trade tool. So, the second half of this message he deliberately hid in his friend’s trusted tool, whatever that is.”
Lizzie cleared her throat. “Craft cipher? Craft brother? I know that lettering now. It’s from the Freemasons. They also call themselves members of the Craft. It’s the Freemason’s Cipher. I’m sure of it.”
Joe leaned back. “Freemason’s Cipher?”
Jake too was perplexed and embarrassed. “Dammit, I should have known that. Craft. Cipher. The answer was right there in front of me! Makes sense now. Boyd was a member of the Freemasons. So were the British Colonel John Butler and the Mohawk Joseph Brant. Most men in those days were. So it does fit.”
“Brant was the very first Native American to become a Freemason,” added Lizzie.
Jake nodded. “At least I knew that! So, we know then this Freemason code leads to Boyd’s buried loot. He even listed the inventory to contain, among other things, the payroll gold taken from Butler, the second half of the cave directions, a map, and the silver broach given to him by the captive Swetland. And here is a drawing of that broach.”
“That broach was stolen from Swetland. Not given,” said Lizzie. “I’ve read Swetland’s memoirs after his repatriation and —”
Jake sat up straight. “God, now that you mention it, I remember reading that too when I was researching Sullivan’s campaign a couple of years ago. Swetland’s memoirs were published by an Edward Merrifield I believe.”
“You are correct!” exclaimed Lizzie. “And you know,” she continued, “Swetland specifically mentioned in his narrative that the two American scouts stripped him naked and beat him thinking him an Indian spy. They were going to kill him.”
“Turns out we now know it was Boyd and McTavish who were those scouts,” offered Jake, caressing his chin, staring ahead.
“But they somehow extracted the location of the cave from Swetland too,” said Joe. “Even claiming he gave them the broach.”
Lizzie interrupted. “Swetland was in fear for his life he said in his memoirs. Those scouts thought he was preparing an ambush on them. So maybe he gave up the cave location to prove he wasn’t a spy but rather truly an American who had been kidnapped and needed rescuing.”
Jake showed them the ink drawing in Boyd’s journal, zooming in on the deer and snake symbol. He also placed the photo of the broach Blaylock found side by side with Boyd’s drawing.
Lizzie and Joe leaned forward and compared the two images. Their mouths hung open. Lizzie pulled back, bent her head down, and placed a hand over her eyes, rubbing the bridge of her nose.
Joe read the caption below the drawing. “Silver and wampum neck clasp given to us from Swetland. He found it in cave. The old squaw made him wear it to protect the cave.”
Barely audible, Lizzie whispered, “The last of the guardians. She cursed this Swetland for finding one of the legendary cave entrances. She forced him wear the broach to protect its location.”
Jake slowly turned toward her. “What? Come again? Last of the guardians of what?”
Lizzie met his gaze. Her eyes glimmered. “Today the spirits have spoken to you Robert Jake Tununda, so I have no qualms about revealing the name as I know you will perform well. The guardians I speak of were from a highly secret cult within the government of the Confederacy. They are called the White Deer Society.”
“Huh? White Deer Society? Who?” Jake shook his head. “And no spirits have spoken to me today. Finding these two broaches is all just a strange coincidence.”
Lizzie cackled. “Oh, you are so out of touch with your faith young man. Don’t you know that coincidence does not exist? We meet people and are placed in situations for reasons, for meaning, for opportunities that only you must decide to act upon.”
Joe nodded his head in agreement.
Jake eyed them both. The flute music and slow drum beats caused him to reflect on how different his beliefs were as opposed to their mystical traditionalist religion. His was based on the hard core reality he studied in military history — of death, destruction, power, and politics.
“What’s this other drawing of?” asked Lizzie, looking at the illustration next to the broach drawing. “I can’t read the caption.”
Jake pointed. “That’s the map case.”
“Map of what?” she asked.
Jake read the caption for them. “Hickory map case, ancient map of Swetland’s witch cave passages, quill, and ink inside.”
Lizzie gasped. “The map exists! Oh Great Spirit! It cannot be. The White Deer Society has guarded this for centuries.”
Jake blinked in frustration. “Would someone please tell me what the hell this White Deer Society is?”
The two elders looked at each other. Joe nodded then turned to Jake. “Before we do, please tell Lizzie who now owns the Boyd Box.”
“Some billionaire Indian named Alex Nero,” said Jake.
Lizzie covered her forehead with her hand. She looked up and closed her eyes, then whispered, “It is true then. The evil is revealing itself. It wants to walk the surface again.”
“Listen, what’s going on here? Nero and I had a run in this afternoon over that box.”
“You spoke with him? Why didn’t you tell me that before? What did he say?” asked Joe.
“Well, the pistol aimed at my chest did all the talking. He made me turn over my digital camera then erased all of my photos. I had taken all the pictures of the journal with it. I had no choice. He didn’t want any duplicate records out there. Said the journal contents were under his copyright. But what he didn’t know is that I had already made copies on my laptop from the camera before he erased them.”
“It has started.” Lizzie bent her head down, her white hair tumbling in front of her face. “The revelation has started.”
“I ought a give that little excuse of a man a piece of my fist for pulling that gun on you.”
“Calm down Big Bear, I think the gold is all that fellow is really after,” explained Jake. “It’s pretty obvious.”
“No Jake,” Lizzie hissed. “Nero is not after gold. He already has enough riches. He’s after something much more valuable. Something the White Deer Society has kept hidden, kept secret for centuries. Something that dates way back before the birth of the Haudenosaunee Confederacy.”
“Well, what is it?” asked Jake, drumming his fingers.
“He wants what is called the Crown of Serpents,” Lizzie cut in. “The actual crown that the evil wizard Atotarho wore. It is hidden underground somewhere between the big lakes of Seneca and Cayuga.”
“Wait. Wait. Hold on,” Jake stifled a laugh. “What? The ancient evil medicine man Atotarho, with hair made of serpents? With all due respect, Atotarho’s serpents were just an analogy,” he continued. “We all know it was a reference to his evil thoughts. A so-called crown of evil thoughts. Not a real crown of snakes.”
Joe shot him a hard glance. “That’s the story we tell the children to teach them moral lessons of right and wrong, but there’s another version you’ve never heard before.”
“Right,” quipped Lizzie. “It is one of the most frightening stories of our people’s oppression and rebirth. And now, since the ancient signs are revealing themselves and Alex Nero is involved it takes on new meaning.”
Jake leaned back on the couch thinking Uncle Joe and the old medicine woman seemed to be laying it on a bit thick — a real serpent’s crown hidden in a secret cave system under Seneca County? This day was getting weirder by the minute. He looked down at his watch wondering if he really wanted to hear anymore. He had to be in Rochester, a half hour back east, to check into his hotel. Dr. Ashland had rescheduled his meeting with the 98th for the morning and he wanted to be fre
sh for his speaking engagement.
“Jake! This is serious business. Listen to us,” demanded Joe.
“Sorry. I’m here. I’m listening,” Jake responded out of respect. He figured he still had time for their story. Heck, another Indian legend always made for entertaining listening anyway. He would soon find out this story was nothing to be laughing at.
10
Same time. High Point Casino. Haudenosaunee Collection Room.
THE SNAP OF FINGERS reverberated from the open entrance door to the Haudenosaunee Collection room. Anne Stanton lifted her head from her late night work. She glanced over at the arrogant head of security, a suited Indian with face tattoos, leaning against the main doorway. He thumbed her to hurry up. Their boss was ready to see her.
Moving a strand of her blonde hair out of her eye’s way she looked back down at her work. She had been performing routine cleaning on a rare 15th century Mohawk ceremonial turtle rattle. Giving the tiny mummified mud turtle a shake with its wood handle, two cherry pits rattled inside. The old artifact still worked well she thought with a satisfying smile, then placed it back in its glass display next to several others. Sliding the case’s panel door shut she locked it then picked up her notepad and made her way toward the exit. She passed a multitude of displays of other priceless Iroquois items, ranging from wampum belts to weapons of war to a bark canoe. There was even a full-sized replica of a traditional longhouse entrance, which she now passed under to make her way out of the room.
In the hallway Stanton turned and locked the collection room door behind her. She then walked by two full-sized bronze Indian sculptures of warriors. They served as flanking welcoming sentinels to those fortunate enough to visit Nero’s below ground private collection.
“Move it woman. He hasn’t got all day,” snarled the bodyguard, his arms folded across a wide chest.
Stanton shook her head. “A please would be nice, Mr. Rousseau.”
Kenny Rousseau rolled his eyes. A half-Mohawk, half-French Canadian, he was the epitome of a bull headed thug, but one of Nero’s closest confidants too. Dressed in an expensive dark blue suit with a High Point Mountain Casino and Resort logo embroidered on his breast pocket, the head man led her to Nero’s office just down the hall on the left. He wore his black hair in a long braided ponytail and she could tell by the bulge in his coat he carried some type of weapon. They all did here.
Crown of Serpents Page 10
