Pillars of the Moon
An American Archeological Adventure
B.J. French
Copyright © 2012 by B.J. French
Publish Green
212 3rd Ave North, Suite 290
Minneapolis, MN 55401
612.455.2293
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.
ISBN: 978-1-938564-81-9
Table of Contents
Cover Page
INTRO
PRECURSORS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
INTRO
Pillars of the Moon, is a delightful tale of North American Native intrigue. Set in recent times, this adventure spans the north western portion of modern day America, from British Columbia, the Olympic Peninsula and across to the dusty plains and mesa of the four corners area of Colorado and New Mexico.
The story begins with a hap-hazard photographer, named Brian Alexander, who inadvertently gets dragged into the cat and mouse game of hide and seek involving an ancient artifact of priceless value. Drawn into the search further by the relentless desire to be rid of head-aches and visions, a result of an accidental blow to the head, he is also intrigued by the mesmeric beauty and beguiling nature of a native woman central to his plight.
Watch for part 2 Belmopan
PRECURSORS
Cascade Locks, Oregon, 1936
At the far end of the restaurant bar, several suit-clad men kept making eyes at the teenage girls sitting at the table behind. The girls were vibrant but timorous as they sipped on their drinks through long straws while making account of the young men that passed outside the window of their sitting booth. Occasionally, the eldest and most mature would glance back to the men at the bar and give a blushed giggle. Several feet away, two young men, not far beyond their years, sat in the next booth, hurriedly eating burgers and fries as if pressed for time. A loud slurping noise emanated above the din of the cantina, as the one, a Native American, emptied his tall metal milkshake flask of the last remaining drop. The room went quiet as eyes turned to the young man, who gallantly carried on with a mouthful of fries, not noticing the oddity he had created by his presence in the restaurant. Young and in his twenties, he had not yet tempered from the bigotry and insults that surrounded him while out and about in the general public. His slightly older and equally unaffected companion was intent on finishing his lunch, but held guarded concern for the girls sitting behind and the seeming harmless advances of the men at the counter.
Driving the old car down from Vancouver the day previous, had been uneventful for the two young men, but a pleasant drive. It had been slow going through the port town of Seattle, and rather rough continuing on the hard packed dirt roads to Olympia, ultimately to find a room for the night. Overall, the trip had been satisfactory, but was eventually marred by the difficulties of finding accommodations with a native. The older companion, Portuguese by birth, had near perfect Queen’s English and the wit to compliment. The pair finally came to rest when papers from the budding Archeological Society of Vancouver, were produced and then permitted to stay in the rooms of an elderly spinster of Olympic notoriety.
With an early start to the next day’s travels, they pulled away from the Inn’s open gardens only to be followed, once again, by a car that had periodically been with them throughout the journey. The private cargo they had been retained to deliver was of a delicate nature and incognito. No one but a small group of academics knew of its nature and destination. For the moment at-hand, the coincidence of the familiar car would play the part and ignorance the game.
After finishing their meal and paying the bill at the register, Vincent could not help but feel the eyes that followed him and his assistant Daniel, out the door. This was more than a passing slight at his nationality and that of his companion; something signaled caution.
Pulling away from the parking lot, to Vincent’s relief, no one left the diner and it did not appear that they were being followed. After several moments and then hours of driving, the comfort and freedom of the drive came back.
Both had been intent on stopping and visiting an obscure archeological site at the Oregon, Idaho border on the Snake River. Excitement built as they pulled into a foliage-covered lane and parked their car. Pulling a small leather bag from under the front seat, Vincent handed the object to his companion and nodded for him to tuck it down his jacket for safekeeping. Together, they disappeared up a narrow, slick crevasse.
Quietly, without notice, a black Hudson slowly made its way up the lonely lane to rest beside the old Ford. Two suited men slid from the doors closest to the Ford; the driver slowly opened his and retreated to the rear of the car. Visually scouting the area, he opened the trunk to retrieve a metal bar and handed it to one of the men. Opening the door to the Ford, the other proceeded to rifle through the belongings in the leather suitcases in the rear seat. Finding nothing, they retreated to the trunk and pried its lid. Convinced that the prize was not to be found, the eldest and most elegant of the three waved for the others to continue up the crevasse to pursue the missing pair.
Somewhere near the middle of the trail leading back to the parking area, Vincent and Daniel met the two coming up the trail.
Recognizing them as the same as at the restaurant, Vincent whispered, “Whatever happens, you must get to Shiprock.”
With that, he shoved a small piece of paper along with some money into Daniel’s top pocket and gave an encouraging tap on his shoulder. Passing the two, all four had eye contact. Falling in-line behind Vincent, the enforcers followed close, there was no mistaking their intent, but what to do in these surroundings? Uneasy, the young native turned back to Vincent for encouragement and direction. There was none to give, so“Vincent continued expressionless behind his young friend, down the narrow crevasse toward the entranceway.
As he and Daniel broke into the clearing from to the narrow passage, Vincent could see the other of the trio leaning against the Hudson and the condition of his own car, “Run!”
Daniel bolted up the bank to the side of the clearing and out of sight. Vincent turned and forced himself against the two behind him. Being pushed aside and flattened to the ground, he was punched and held down tight in the slippery mud. The other assailant jumped wildly into the bush in the same direction as the young native, disappearing into the denseness. Dragging Vincent to his feet, the soiled aggressor pushed him toward the elder. With the occasional nudge, Vincent staggered toward the man now standing upright before the rear of the car. Vincent did not recognize him and did nothing to encourage conversation.
“Where is it?” the man demanded.
“I’m not sure what you are talking about.”
The man struck out at Vincent with the iron rod, striking him in the temple. Vincent crumpled to the ground unconscious.
Half a mile away, the young man bolted through the brush like a young stag, his pursuer falling behind with every slippery step through the forest. Gunshots echoed through the resounding countryside as a last attempt to catch his fleeing prey failed. After an hour of fruitless pursuit, the follower retreated to the parking lot and the others who now sat in their car. Vincent still lay on the ground, motionless.
“Did you get it?"
“No,” came the reply of his subordinate in a thick European accent. He bent
and rolled Vincent over, exposing his pale face and a trickle of blood from the gash in his temple. Reaching for his neck, he pried to find a pulse, “I think he’s dead.”
“Are you sure?”
Pushing the body aside, he gave a slow nod.
The elder slapped the side of the car and demanded, “Get in.”
Several miles away, a flatbed truck pulled to the side of the road. A shocked and exhausted young man, dressed in denim, climbed in the front seat.
“Where to?” the driver inquired.
“Shiprock,” he sheepishly replied.
“You’ve got a long way to go,” he returned pulling out onto the road again.
Within moments, the driver glanced in the rearview mirror just in time to catch the black Hudson pulling out to overtake his truck just entering a curve in the road.
“What in the hell is this guy trying to do?” the driver spat, veering to the right to make room on the narrow shoulder of the road.
The Hudson sped by barely able to negotiate the oncoming curve. Daniel slid down in his seat as his heart sank in his chest. The sedan slowly disappeared out of sight around the curb. He breathed a sigh of relief.
1936 -Snake River Archeological Site, Oregon and Idaho border
The young couple hand-in-hand walked up the worn tracks left by the vehicles that frequented the site. The tall grass brushed against her legs as they straddled the worn path. Unaware of the previous day’s events, they entered the parking lot in jocularity, only to be sobered by the sight of Vincent’s prone body. Lying by the black Ford, doors still wide open, he was pale and cold to the touch, but there was a pulse. Within several hours, State police were at the scene, an army medic from Hood River worked feverishly to revive and warm the hyper-thermic Vincent. Six hours later, he was at a hospital in Portland where a message was sent on a relatively new invention called the telephone, to Vancouver, Canada.
Vincent daLima was always in awe when in the presence of Herman Neustadt, but today, recovering in the hospital, it was an overwhelmingly mood of gratitude. Being on the payroll of the fledgling archeological department at the University of British Columbia was not that rewarding, but at a moment like this, the placement was somewhat worth its while.
Herman Neustadt had recently come west to avoid the seeming indifference to the Third Reich’s interference with artifacts being imported from various art houses and museums throughout Western Europe. Meeting with an old friend and compatriot Max, from neighboring Austria, they had chosen to archive most of their collections temporarily until the political climate became more favorable. Neustadt had chosen to repatriate some to their former homes or places of discovery, Pillars of the Moon was one such piece.
There were those who knew of the little jade bowl’s story and its origins in Central America, near the archeological site of Lamanai, in northern Belize, and wanted to possess it. The tale of a jilted Mayan prince’s gift to his betrothed bride had kept interest in this seeming trivial gift, until the tribe of the bride to be was massacred in retribution. The infamy of this insignificant jade bowl spread.
The family of Neustadt had been sympathetic to the plight of the loggers of Mahogany and the chicle harvesters of Guatemala in the mid 1800’s, and were rewarded for their secretive endeavors of aid to these exploited individuals. Little gifts and appreciations began to flow from the bowels of the thick jungles in the area, and before too long, a sizable collection of trinkets and collectibles amassed. Trips to and fro from Europe had endowed the Neustadt family with much wealth and respect. Not wishing to be involved directly with the insurrection or governance of the birthing British Honduras, they chose to keep a low profile and aid in the stabilization of trade and commerce throughout the uncertain times.
As Vincent recovered in the hospital, Herman, in appreciation, had offered Vincent a place with his small team of archeologists. Daniel, Vincent’s understudy, had disappeared in attempts to get the small artifact to Shiprock, New Mexico, and a trusted courier who would in turn take the bowl the last leg of the journey to British Honduras. All were waiting patiently for the young Daniel who had yet to be heard from.
New York City, two weeks later.
Footsteps echoed through a narrow alley between the two dock-houses. A single shot rang out simultaneously as steel pipes dropped from the rear of a work truck shadowing the distinctive sound. One man crumpled to the ground around the corner as another glanced to see several workers scurry to pick up the scattered pipes. A dark-clothed, masked man crept quietly along an exposed area of the main building and slid into a small service doorway leading to the large storage area within. A middle-aged man dressed in a black wool overcoat, fedora perched low on his brow, stepped over a stray pipe and approached the guard at the front of the warehouse. He offered the guard a cigarette from his silver cache and struck a match to signify the occupation. The flare of the coal at the end of his cigarette highlighted in his dark eyes the contempt he held for this soldier- the glowing embers, the hate for the Third Reich.
A mass of large, wooden crates stacked high lay within. Each had its own serial number; all were bound for Rotterdam, a short distance from their true destination, further up the Rheine. A small group of German Museum Directors and art dealers, had the onerous responsibility of implementing the task of cataloguing notable works-of-art throughout greater prewar Europe, and elsewhere. Most were in close association with collectors of all nationalities, who held the bulk of the works. Some of the operatives held regard for the purpose of the exercise, while others coolly did not. One such man, stood fixed in front with the guard to the entrance of the storage building, stoically watching, from the corner of his eye; his accomplice flitting from crate to crate in the darkness, trying to match the serial numbers that lay stenciled on the side of each crate. Within moments, the task was done, made easy with German-bound crates exposed with a small swastika burned deep into the wood planks encasing the contents. With a sly grin on his face, the gentlemen took a deep drag on his cigarette while fidgeting with the knife-blade he held in reserve deep within his pocket.
“Let’s go for a short walk,” he suggested, in his thick German accent knowing full well he would have to kill this young guard if he did not agree.
Looking from side to side along the face of the building, the young man stomped on the remains of his cigarette and ushered, “Sure.”
ONE
Now, Vancouver, BC
The Neustadt Exhibit at the Museum of Anthropology, on the University Campus, was offering an interesting evening. I had been waiting for months for its arrival since the announcement first hit the Alumni mailing list. The jade bowl artifact, strangely named, ‘The Pillars of the Moon”, was one of those obscure pieces of physical history that seemed to miss the notoriety of the more gregarious Haida Totems of the area, and yet held an irrepressible obsession for collectors in acquiring its possession, the few who knew of it. Intrigue, mystery and even death surrounded this little jade object, almost too small and innocuous for its reputation.
Heading down the upper reaches of 16th Ave., ominous gray and black clouds hung amid the bellies of the resolute mountains guarding the inlet which is English Bay; strands of their white mist reached down like fingers, writhing and dissipating as if in despair, grasping at the high-rise buildings of the North Shore. Encumbered pedestrians, beneath their multi-colored umbrellas, dodged and darted beneath the tears that rained down from above making the trip even lengthier for an impatient and already anxious driver. Ghost-like ships, anchored in the bay, behemoths waiting to be unloaded, rested from the abysmal assaults of the winter’s inclement weather and battle-bound seas.
Upon entering the museum parking lot, the skies began to clear, relieving the area of the day’s persistent drizzle and a chance glimpse at the sun. The oddity of several security guards that had stationed themselves at either end of the lot, gave the event an heir of uncertainty. Black limousines and a variety of up-scale late-model vehicles lined either side o
f the lot closest to the stairway of the museum. Further toward the gallery, Tsimshiam wall-to-ceiling carvings at the entranceway to the museum’s foyer were now bordered with gray suit-clad security guards. They glanced from time to time at the repose patrons puffing lightly on their cigarettes, just outside the full-length glass doors. The paradox of the scene did not impede the true nature and design of the museum’s unique architecture, which was a marvel in itself, nestled among a line of cedar trees atop the cliffs overlooking the Spanish Shores area of the bay.
Approaching the glassed foyer, umbrella in hand, I pondered at the proceedings indoors. Elegant benefactors paraded and chatted along the central corridor among the Haida totem overseers towering high in their quiet dismay; the preliminaries had not started yet. Taking a slow breath, I turned and headed out from under the protection of the entrance portico. A bank of mist dampened my face as I proceeded along the flagstone walkway to the rear of the building. The distant North Shore was barely visible above the low fog that had drifted in off the strait. The occasional boat-with-sail drifted in and out of the fog as they scurried back to the safety of moorings in False Creek.
My cell phone chimed in my jacket pocket just as I was assaulted with a, “Whomp!”
A massive weight came crashing into me. At half stride with unsure, wet footing, I was off balance, cell phone in midair and onto the ground. Shocked and on my back facing up in the mud, I lay motionless, half on the path, half in the wet grass. Unsure of what had happened, I lay still while my head, resting on a flagstone slowly cleared. Looking up, in a dreamlike state, I watched, as raindrops danced and floating in midair as they fell cool on my face. The silhouette of a man’s head came to block the rain, then, darkened my view.
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