Crown of Serpents

by Michael Karpovage

  Joe nodded. “This was a peaceful, spiritual nation — at one with earth — farmers, not warmongers. As visitors, Atotarho and his war party were invited into the city. But Atotarho saw this invitation as a stepping-stone to gain personal prominence. One day he observed the tribe’s eldest clan mother or queen in a secret dream ceremony. She wore a silver crown molded with snakes. This crown was all-powerful. It allowed her to maintain mental control over her people and to heal them with supernatural forces.”

  Lizzie cut in. “This crown was said to have originated from an even older civilization native to the American southwest, from what the Faithkeepers could determine from the story. The serpents were a universal symbol of wisdom and knowledge, not just of evil. They had dual meaning but it depended on the wearer’s intentions.”

  “Okay,” said Jake, in a tone marking that he still wasn’t convinced.

  “And Atotarho wanted it,” said Joe.

  Jake grunted. “Of course.”

  Joe ignored him. “He wanted to wield its power, to take it back home and conquer the blood-thirsty tribes threatening his Onondaga people. In a fit of greed he slit the great queen’s throat as she slept and stole the crown, then he and his war party slipped away.”

  “Not so courageous was he?” asked Lizzie, rubbing her pet dog behind its ears.

  Jake played along with their story. “No, sounds like a true coward. But then again it depends on who is writing history.” He didn’t dare look at Lizzie.

  Joe shifted in his seat. “The Mound Builders went into decline after the theft of their most sacred relic. By 1400 the civilization was gone. Their history was over.”

  Lizzie took over. “When Atotarho returned to Onondaga territory he brought with him a fearsome reputation. Of those in his war party who made it back, only his closest friends survived. The elder chiefs had mysteriously died along the journey home — at the hands of Atotarho it is said. Thereafter, he took immediate control of the tribe using the powers of the crown to perfection. He turned into an evil sorcerer, a wizard, because of the things he could do with the silver snakes on his head. All opposition to him in the Onondaga tribe withered away. He then set about to conquer the neighboring nations.”

  “How did this crown let him do it? How did it work?” asked Jake, a bit interested now.

  Joe was about to answer when Lizzie held up her hand to silence him. In a raspy voice, she explained. “It gave him the magical power to read your mind and interpret your dreams when you slept. First he would knock you unconscious with a powerful blast to your mind, then in your incoherent state he would pull the thoughts out of your head. This technique was used not only for the extraordinary medicinal and healing purposes —” She paused then coughed hoarsely before going on. “But also to enslave your living spirit to use as he saw fit. And then after you entered the world beyond the sunset — death — he could still conjure up your spirit when he wanted to.” Lizzie gurgled in her throat and could not speak any further.

  Jake seemed a bit confused at her explanation.

  Joe looked into Lizzie’s teacup to check on a refill then picked up where she had left off. “This mind mapping, I call it, only worked when the subject was in sleep paralysis. With the crown on, it was said that Atotarho would then press his hands upon your head and go into a deep clairvoyant state where he would pull out and interpret your exposed subconscious inner thoughts and dreams.”

  “Sort of like a medium,” offered Jake.

  Joe angled his head. “Sort of. These thoughts are the things that make up the core of a person, exposing the spirits that reside in your body and determining what those spirits want the most. By knowing your soul’s desire Atotarho had the power to fulfill or take away those desires. It acted as food for the mind. Once he tapped in, he could control your supply and demand.”

  Jake stared straight ahead, lost in a past action — Afghanistan. Some spirit definitely tapped into him when he did what he did.

  Joe lifted his big frame off the chair and scooped up Lizzie’s empty teacup. He started toward the kitchen but instead turned back to his nephew and lightly smacked him on the shoulder. Jake jumped.

  “Jake, it’s based on our traditionalist beliefs that all natural forces contain immortal spirits. It’s why we worship the sun, moon, stars, trees, animals, and fire. It’s why we believe in a life beyond the sunset. It’s classic orenda, a person’s unique aura or charisma about them. Possessing more orenda turns you into a great leader or warrior, versus otkon, the evil energy or bad thoughts. A normal human being always wants to find and keep orenda and expel otkon. Atotarho instead, reversed it. He tapped into the evil and used it for his own means. You get it?”

  Jake tipped his head. Joe turned and walked in the kitchen for the tea refill. There was silence among the three. When he returned, he sat down on the couch next to his nephew and continued with the story. Lizzie gulped her fresh tea, seemingly relieved.

  “Atotarho always wore the crown,” explained Joe. “It became his identity. The crown was said to have had hideous twisted snakes made of pure silver and painted to look real. He let his hair intertwine with the snakes for added effect and even added buck’s antlers and eagle feathers to pronounce his monarchy.”

  Lizzie grunted in a hoarse voice. “It was a silver crown of power, once used for healing and wisdom, but turned into an evil vessel of hatred and deceit.”

  “And as his power grew, his spirit became embedded in the crown. The crown then transformed his body as a result,” added Joe. “His own hair turned silver and seemed to literally mesh with the snakes. He became grotesque looking, misshapen, his face disfigured. Now can you see how otkon took hold of him, how the myth and the truth merged as legend?”

  Jake was sufficiently mesmerized. “Okay, you’ve captured my attention. There’s a lot to digest here, but how does this crown fit in with the White Deer Society and the symbols on the broach that I found today.”

  Lizzie arched an eyebrow. “Remember this Jake, you did not find the broach. It was never lost. It was simply revealed to you at the right time.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Good,” replied a satisfied Lizzie. “The White Deer Society formed in the time when the three great founders of the Iroquois Confederacy emerged — Deganawida, Hiawatha and Jecumseh. It starts when Atotarho murdered the family of Seneca chief Hiawatha — his wife and seven daughters — over a hunting ground dispute. Afterward, Hiawatha went into depression and lived a hermit’s life in the forest.”

  “Some say he lived near the present day Irondequoit Bay up near Rochester,” stated Joe.

  Jake agreed, familiar with the creation story of the Confederacy. But as Lizzie started up again he checked his watch then cut her off to save time. “And a Huron named Deganawida crossed Lake Ontario in a white stone canoe, met Hiawatha and pulled him out of depression. They came up with the concept of a unified democratic confederacy of peace to stop the cycle of violence. They were joined by Seneca Clan Mother Jecumseh, and the three of them traveled to the other tribes to convince them to band together.”

  “Well, it all worked out great,” picked up Joe. “They had the approval of the four nations under Atotarho’s rule. They needed one more to form the confederacy, his — the Onondaga. When they approached Atotarho and his nation with the idea, he wouldn’t have any of it.”

  “Of course,” said Jake.

  Joe agreed. “But Atotarho was facing a coalition who now surrounded him and the pressure to join was intense.”

  Jake knew the tale. “And this is when Hiawatha persuaded Atotarho to join him — by singing a calming song and acting like a psychiatrist to comb out the evil serpent thoughts from his hair. I’ve always been amazed he could forgive the murderer of his entire family to join his cause.”

  “Wrong!” spouted Lizzie. Her pet dog twitched. “He never forgave him! The truth is they hatched a plot to steal his crown to make him capitulate power — to force his nation to join. And they did it! They d
rugged Atotarho and stole the crown when he slept. Ironic, isn’t it?” Lizzie gave a disturbed cackle.

  “That’s when the White Deer Society was formed,” prompted Joe. “The three founders escaped back to Seneca territory in the area where the sacred white deer lived. They secretly hid the crown deep underground in a cave network that follows a subterranean river. Our ancestors knew every inch of the aboriginal territory and knew of every entrance to this underworld. They knew where to hide the relic and once it was concealed the society was formed to guard against a resurgence of Atotarho’s otkon power so it never returned to the surface again. They extracted silver from the crown and created a series of jewels or broaches with the guardian’s mark. Thus, the symbol of the white buck — the good — eating the snake — the evil, was born. Conversely, it could also be a symbol for the purity of the white buck encasing wisdom — thus a vessel of the good or orenda.”

  Lizzie grunted then quietly spoke. “The White Deer guardians were the most ancient and secretive of all the false-face societies. And true to the maternal tradition of our people, Jecumseh was appointed leader of the guardians. Clan mothers chose those who got in just as they elected who would be chief of their nations.” Her voice started giving out. She looked exhausted.

  “It’s even more ironic if you ask me, that the most ancient of fraternities, the Freemasons, have unwittingly kept this secret hidden for the most ancient of Iroquois societies,” said Joe.

  Jake glanced at him. “Yeah, go figure. So, this Crown of Serpents is hidden underground somewhere in Seneca County, somewhere between Seneca and Cayuga Lakes?” He shifted in his seat. “And the broach I came across, err, I mean that was revealed to me early this morning, was of the White Deer Society’s mark?”

  “Exactly,” said Lizzie. “There are many jewels out there. Lost. Thomas Boyd came across one and was deemed unfit to bear the burden. He met his cruel fate at the hands of our forefathers. And then today this hunter Blaylock came across one and he too was unworthy.”

  Joe nodded. “And also met his fate.”

  Jake glanced at Joe and Lizzie then cracked a nervous smile. “I held the broach. I touched it. Let’s hope I don’t meet the same fate too.”

  “If your mind has pure intentions and filled with orenda then you are safe,” Lizzie answered. “Like Luke Swetland.”

  Jake looked down at the floor in silence. After a sigh he asked. “So when Atotarho found out his crown was stolen, what happened next?”

  “He lost his power. The three founders made him beg for mercy,” answered Joe. “They exorcized the demons from his mind. He fell apart. Broke down. Gave in. The Onondaga Nation finally joined the Haudenosaunee Confederacy or League of Five Nations, under Deganawida’s Great Law of Peace. This is why the three figures are held in such high honor as the founding figures of our confederacy. They stood up to the evil against all odds. During the exorcism it was said that Atotarho confronted the spirits of all his victims and he was a changed man. An army of lost souls descended upon him, and he had seen the light and orenda once again. He was made a figurehead of penitence, unity, and acceptance. That’s when the honorable attributes were placed on him, only after he lost his power and reformed.”

  Lizzie chimed in. “In Deganawida’s address to the Five Nations, he said these exact words, So now we have put this evil from the earth. Verily, we have cast it deep down into the earth.” Her voice strengthened and became crisp. “So, I Deganawida, and the Confederate lords now uproot the tallest pine tree and into the hole we cast all weapons of war. You see, all the clues have been there, they always were. It’s just that history warped the story so that the mainstream would accept it. But we Faithkeepers know the real truth. We have kept it guarded for centuries. And now you know the truth.”

  Jake exhaled loudly and blinked his eyes. Lizzie and Joe’s whole story closely paralleled the mythical creationist version but theirs was definitely more convincing, more true to human nature. He wasn’t sure what to think now. He stood up and started pacing, his hand on his chin in thought.

  “Who runs the White Deer Society now? Are there present day guardians?”

  Lizzie and Joe looked at each other. She sat back in her chair and in a quiet voice explained that the society withered away when the Americans came through in 1779 and destroyed all remnants of the guardians and the knowledge of the entrances to the cave network.

  Jake could attest to that fact just by reading Boyd’s journal entries on how the Continental troops looted, burned, and desecrated villages and sacred grave sites, destroying with them any possible evidence of the White Deer Society. The winter of 1779 and the starvation and diseases that followed wiped out the rest, most likely including Swetland’s adopted grandmother who was probably a guardian. Jake’s pacing stopped.

  He realized the gravesite and the fissure in the Cranberry Marsh had survived that destruction most likely due to its remote uninhabitable location in the middle of a swamp. It went unnoticed for over two-centuries. Just as Boyd’s journal had remained hidden. And now they have both been revealed and a connection made.

  Was there a cave entrance at the bottom of Blaylock’s pit? And what of Boyd’s reference to Luke Swetland’s cave and the secret directions leading to it? Jake now realized why Lizzie and Joe were so upset that the cave system might be discovered. He was surprised to find himself getting all worked up too.

  “Alright, tell me about Alex Nero,” said Jake. “Why does he want the Crown of Serpents?”

  12

  Same time. Cranberry Marsh.

  AFTER CAREFULLY PICKING his way through the dark marsh with nothing more to guide him than a mini-flashlight and a GPS receiver, the heavy-set man finally arrived at the dry island where the Indian grave was located.

  Stepping up into weed-infested grass, his leather boot slipped on a root. He fell forward to his knees, dropping the metal gas can and small dead dog he had lugged in. Cursing, he picked himself back up and examined his hands. To his relief, the latex gloves he had on to protect against fingerprints had not been ripped.

  Snatching the gas can, he inadvertently sloshed some of the liquid onto his dark coat causing him to issue another expletive. He then grabbed the white-furred, West Highland terrier by the nape of its strangled neck and flung it over his shoulder. Stepping up onto the island, he scanned with his flashlight until he found the grave mound.

  Clenching the flashlight between his teeth, the man unzipped a side pocket of his coat and took out a short length of rope. After checking the wind direction, he searched for a suitable tree limb and found an old oak at the island’s edge. Letting the dog drop on the ground, he flipped the standing end of the rope over the branch. He then tied an overhand knot around the dog’s hind legs, pulled tight, and raised the dead animal up about five feet off the ground. He knotted the running end of the rope around the trunk to secure the dog in position. Placing the flashlight upright in the weeds for illumination, he reached into another pocket and pulled out a red-capped spray paint can. Popping the top off and flinging it in the grass, he gave the can a couple of shakes and proceeded to spray paint the dog’s shiny white fur with red spots.

  Admiring his clever handiwork the big man grinned, revealing yellow, smoke-stained teeth. To include the dog would send the right message to keep the authorities off his tail. He threw the expended spray can off into the swamp when he was done. Glancing back at the dog’s face — its clouded eyes bulging out of their sockets, its faded pink tongue hanging out of its snout — he was reminded of how quickly he had dispatched the animal, how easy it was to squeeze its poor little neck and watch the color fade from its eyes.

  He had always found that moment, when life froze at the point of no return, rather exhilarating. Especially in his line of work. But in a rare show of sympathy, the man wondered how the dog breeder, from whose run he snatched the animal, would react to the sight of his cute little pet now. It was collateral he coldly concluded — a sacrifice that had to be made now that t
he Indian grave was discovered. It had to be done to send the right message that his people would fight back.

  Walking over to the Indian grave, he positioned his flashlight in the crook of a nearby sapling so the beam struck the mound opening just enough for him to conduct his final business. The man hefted the gas can and poured most of the contents over the skeletal remains inside. He scattered more fuel on top of the mound, saving just enough to leave a trail back to the edge of the island.

  Grabbing his flashlight, he backpedaled and poured out the rest of the gas before tossing the container off into the marsh. He peeled off his latex gloves, dropped them onto the gas trail, and lit the gas with a cheap convenience store lighter. At the first flicker of ignition he turned and entered the swamp at a hurried pace, tossing the lighter in the water.

  Five seconds later a loud whoosh ripped through the air.

  The concussion knocked him forward into a tree, slamming his elbow and ripping off a small piece of his gas-stained jacket. A bright glow lit up the woods. He never felt the pain in his elbow, never noticed the rip in his coat, and never turned back. In a few minutes he reached Marsh Road.

  The exhausted man gave a glance around for any movement or approaching vehicles. He walked to his truck, concealed in the brush, jumped in, and started it. As he inched out onto the dirt road — headlights off — he finally looked over to the barely visible light filtering between the marsh trees. He smiled, reached for a cigarette, punched his headlights on, and pressed the accelerator.

  13

  Same time. Tonawanda Reservation.

  LIZZIE JUMPED AT the chance to speak of Nero. “Alex Nero has been a man possessed with an insatiable appetite for all things illicit — smuggling, bribery, extortion, theft — and because of this he naturally found his voice in the business of gambling. The wealth he has generated has given him the power to turn his very sadistic cravings into reality and he will stop at nothing to keep his needs alive.”