by Vella Munn
She wondered how he’d react if she told him that last night had been more revealing than anything anyone could ever imagine, so revealing in fact that she knew she would never get over it. Instead, she acknowledged Fenton, who now stood beside the middle-aged but athletic-looking director. Neither man glanced at the other, not that she blamed them. The air between them fairly dripped hostility; obviously each man wished the other would disappear, forever.
After a moment, Fenton reached in his front pocket for a handful of keys. “It’s going to happen,” he muttered to Robert. “I’ve already talked to my uncle, Senator Baldwin. He agrees that opening up Fern Cave is a step in the right direction, a necessary financial step. He wants a formal proposal of all my ideas just as soon as I can get them to him. He says that the timing for getting additional appropriations couldn’t be better, what with budget sessions going on, but we’ve got to make people aware of this place. That’s the problem—not enough legislators know it exists.”
“The lava beds are the responsibility of the National Park Service. There’s no way they’d allow that kind of exploitation. The destruction—”
“The National Park Service’s budget is set by Congress—a Congress that is feeling a severe financial crunch. Look, Robert, it’s a basic matter of the squeaky wheel getting greased.”
Guessing the two men had had this argument several times before, Tory waited to see who would come out with the upper hand. To her discomfort, the director had nothing to say in reply to Fenton’s sharp comment. After a moment, Fenton touched her elbow to indicate which direction he wanted her to go. She followed him, not sure she wanted to be anywhere near the ambitious, determined man.
The small, climate-controlled storehouse consisted of little more than a series of metal drawers in addition to several glass-enclosed shelves. From the way Fenton opened and closed drawers at random, she guessed he hadn’t spent enough time in here to be familiar with the contents. How dare he be so willing to jeopardize the lava bed’s future integrity without first learning all he could about its past!
Finally he opened a shelf filled with Indian baskets. He reached for one before she reminded him that the white gloves on the nearby table were to protect fragile objects from body oils. “It just seems like overkill,” he said as he pulled one on. “No one ever comes in here. It’s not like they’re going to get mauled. That’s another thing I’m working on. Trying to set up a hands-on exhibit so people can experience life as the Modocs did—at least as much as we know. You know, how they cooked their meals, what their bows and arrows and stuff were like. That’s bound to bring more people in than sticking things away in a back room.”
She conceded that it might. Although she wanted to be reassured that Fenton had no intention of letting people handle the genuine article, she couldn’t concentrate enough to ask the question. Taking over, she methodically studied each drawer and glass case, appalled to find only a few baskets, a limited arrowhead collection, some ragged clothing. Certainly more than that had been salvaged.
“That’s it?” she asked. “I can’t believe it—there’s almost nothing.”
“I guess there’s some stuff over at the county museum. I haven’t gone there so I can’t be sure. Look,” he indicated one of the glass shelves “—I’ve been told that some of these rusty old rifles still work, not that I’m going to take a chance on shooting myself. They weigh so damn much, I can understand why it was hard for the soldiers to make a decent advance on the stronghold.”
She didn’t care about the soldiers’ weapons, their uniforms, even their personal belongings. The army had been the invader, and yet there was much more of their possessions than what had been part of the Modocs for thousands of years. “What happened?”
“What do you mean, what happened?”
“The Modocs had an entire culture, an ancient and enduring way of life. There has to be more of its physical evidence still in existence.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. People were all over this place before it was made into a landmark, you know. A lot of it was probably carted away.”
He was right, of course. The same thing had happened over and over again at other Native American sites. But although she’d been upset over the destruction and vandalism, it had never before felt like a personal invasion. “They’d been partially assimilated before they went to war,” she muttered. “That means they’d forsaken many of their traditional materials, like baskets and—and obsidian knives—for what the settlers had. So much was already lost.” Although the room was windowless, she looked around for some ray of sunlight, anything to keep her from thinking they’d entered a pathetic repository of the dead.
“It happens. There’s nothing we can do about it.”
Something in Fenton’s tone caught her attention. Concentrating, she wondered if she really had sensed regret in him. Maybe he wasn’t as materialistic and insensitive as she’d thought. “No, I guess not.”
Although she already knew it was an exercise in futility, she made a systematic search of the room’s contents. She had to admit that what had been collected had been carefully preserved. The Modocs, for whatever reasons, hadn’t overly concerned themselves with art. She’d been to Petroglyph Point, a nearby high bluff filled with prehistoric carvings and drawings, and had tried to find meaning in the seemingly random symbols, but if they represented examples of the Modoc religion, the truth had been lost to history.
The climate here was such that the Modocs had spent most of their time as nomads who concentrated on food gathering and otherwise preparing for the long, harsh winters. True, they’d been so tuned into their surroundings and what nature provided that they’d been able to live comfortably, but there must not have been enough time left over for such creative endeavors as the totems found on the Pacific Northwest coast, elaborate blankets and jewelry like those the Navaho were known for. Even their language was gone—except for Loka.
“Are you done?”
Pulled out of her musing by Fenton’s question, she nodded and left the room so he could lock the door behind them. “It seems so tragic,” she couldn’t help saying, “to think that a whole way of life has been lost. I…”
“There’s the library. One of the books was written by Winema’s son—you probably know that. I haven’t looked at it but I’d think it would be pretty accurate.”
She knew about that text, had read it in fact. Winema, the Modoc woman married to a white man during the Modoc Wars, had played a pivotal role in bringing the war to an end, but her son had been only a child then, and many of his recollections had been disputed. Still, she wandered into the library with Fenton and thumbed through books for several minutes.
To her disappointment but not surprise, everything in the small but complete collection had been written from an outside perspective. She found the personal diaries by soldiers fascinating and wished she had more time to pore over newspaper accounts of the war. Still, there wasn’t a single word describing what that time of upheaval and change had been like for the Modocs themselves.
“They’re in here,” she said at last. “But they’ve been filtered, disturbed, and too much has been lost.”
“Like I said, we can’t do anything about that,” Fenton said, obviously anxious to leave. “If we could recapture that time, well, that would be incredible. Absolutely incredible. Think of the hoards of people who’d flock here then. It boggles my mind just thinking about it. Well, at least the land is the same, and the more people we can get here to see it, the more who will think the way you do.”
Maybe, she thought, but lacked the energy to contemplate that, or the energy to fathom how Loka would be exploited if his existence became known. Now that she’d been up and moving for several hours, she had to admit that last night had been anything but restful. But did she expect it to be any different? After all, she’d spent it with the final living link to the culture she’d been searching for this morning.
But he’d been more than that. Loka was a man, young
and healthy, sensual and sexual in a way that defied description.
When she stepped outside, the sun was waiting for her. It lay heavy on her shoulders, heated her hair. She walked over to a stone wall and looked out at miles and miles of beautifully barren land. She sensed Fenton’s presence behind her, but couldn’t concentrate on him. This was Loka’s world, damn it! His and his people’s! Only, they no longer existed.
Except for him, it had all been lost.
You have a responsibility, Loka. You can’t keep an entire culture trapped within you! You know that. Damn it, I know you do. That’s why you reached out to me—why you keep seeking… What?
A way of life can’t die with you. It can’t.
Die?
Despite the wind swirling around him, the mother lake remained calm. For a long time, Loka simply stared at its peaceful surface, remembering how as a child he’d gone fishing with his father and uncles. The men had been intent on spearing as many fish as they could, but he and the other children had found it impossible to remain motionless for what seemed forever, not when tiny fish ventured close to nibble at their toes.
Closing his eyes, he heard again his son’s excited giggles the first time a fish did that to him. At least, he reminded himself, he would always have that memory.
Memories. There were so many of them, gnawing at him with hungry fingers. He surged to his feet, belatedly remembering to look around to assure himself that he hadn’t been spotted. Realizing he’d let something come between him and the need for caution, the instinct for survival made his temples pound. Still, no matter how hard he tried to remain rooted in the past, thoughts of General Canby’s great-great-granddaughter continued to haunt him.
He’d told her he would seek out Bear and take Bear’s wisdom as his own, but there’d been an even more compelling reason for him to go in search of the wise one. While they were together, Tory’s presence had blinded him to the truth in the messages from Coyote and Owl, but she was gone now, and he could no longer ignore certain things. Coyote’s howl had lasted for days while the Maklaks attempted to flee the white men. Now Coyote was back, his haunting cry so close that Loka knew his life was in danger.
And the only thing that had changed about his life was that Tory had entered it.
“Blaiwas. Return to me. Hear the questions in my heart. Give me the answer I seek.”
He had to repeat his prayer twice but finally the familiar dark dot made its appearance. Freed from the distraction of Tory’s presence, he concentrated on the great bird. If the enemy was about, they would see an eagle and think it had come to the lake in search of something to eat. Only he knew the truth—he and Tory Kent.
“Blaiwas. I am yours, as you are mine. I would lay down my life to protect you. Surely you know that. I seek only your wisdom. I walk a dangerous path. I fear nothing, but a warrior who wishes to live another day must understand his enemy. Is it her? Is this the message from Coyote—have I angered Kumookumts by taking her to the sacred mountain? By trying to understand her world? By wanting to take her to my bed? If I expend myself inside her, will she keep my strength?”
As the questions he’d been most reluctant to ask swirled above him, he studied Eagle’s awesome wingspan. Eagle’s strength had become his during those long-ago days of fighting and trying to stay alive and vowing to do the same for the other Maklaks. If it hadn’t been for his son, he would have willingly died a warrior’s death. But he hadn’t, and because he hadn’t, he now found himself alone in a world not of his making, torn between loyalty to the past and a woman from the new world.
“I lost myself in her eyes,” he told the circling bird. “My flesh was weak—I took her to sacred ground because I wanted her to see the power of Kumookumts. Because I wanted to see understanding and belief in her eyes. Maybe I was unwise.” His fingers clenched. “Maybe I have become a man who has forgotten that he is foremost a warrior. She wants me to reveal everything to her people, to those she calls Modocs but are not. I ask of you, should I listen to her or turn from her? Is there wisdom in her voice? Or treachery?”
Eagle floated lower, a wing dipping so close to the lake’s surface that it cast a vivid shadow. Loka felt himself being embraced by the bird. Like a warm blanket, a wing touched first one shoulder and then another.
Eagle’s message was clear.
Danger lurked. Eagle wanted to protect him from that danger.
Chapter 12
Tory waited while Fenton unlocked the metal grate over the entrance to Fern Cave. Taking the lantern he’d brought along, he stepped onto the narrow ladder and made his cautious way past the vibrant ferns reaching for what little sunlight made its way into the cave. She followed him, careful not to brush so much as a single frond. Once on the ground, she walked around the large green mound until the narrow path widened enough for her and Fenton to stand side by side.
“Pretty impressive, isn’t it?”
Although Fenton was referring to the ferns, which had been growing for thousands of years in this uniquely protected environment where shade and constant moisture made it possible for water-loving plants to grow, her attention was immediately drawn to the drawings on the rock walls ringing the small opening. The markings at Petroglyph Point had been behind cyclone fencing, too far away to touch and high overhead; thus, it had been impossible for her to get close enough to see much in the way of detail. Here, however, was an anthropologist’s delight.
Yes, a botanist could and probably had devoted months to studying this anomaly, but although she wanted to know more than she did about soil and water and air conditions underground, this wasn’t the time.
When she realized Fenton was watching her, she went through the motions of taking pictures, but although she’d told him she needed to record the drawings to incorporate these with what hopefully would be done on the coast, the truth was much more personal.
Maybe Loka had been responsible for one of these symbols. A number had been placed here using some kind of dye. Other marks had been carved into the rock itself. Although she’d seen markings similar to these ever since she began taking anthropology courses, she knew that interpretations as to their meaning was nothing more than educated guesswork, something she wasn’t going to indulge in.
“I don’t know,” Fenton said. He’d been kneeling near the ferns, studying them intently.
“You don’t know what?”
“How much people are going to be interested in this. Sure, botanists, biologists, people into plants get off on this kind of thing, but I’ve got to look at the larger numbers. If I propose a publicity blitz and we get only a few hundred more people a year coming here because of the ferns, it’s not going to be worth the effort. And Robert’s right. It won’t be long before the ferns are trampled, and then we’ll be back where we were, scrambling for dollars.”
It was cool down here, not cold enough that she felt the need for a jacket, but after the heat of the lava beds, she knew she couldn’t stand still for long. The cave’s opening was highest here near the opening. It sloped away behind them until the roof and a massive jumble of boulders in the distance seemed to meet. Between the muted sunlight and Fenton’s flashlight, she had no trouble seeing back here, but she could make out little more than shadows at the cave’s far reaches. They called to her, encouraged her to step back in time.
Had this been a sacred place? She didn’t see how it could have been otherwise.
“What do you think?” Fenton inquired. “Would you pay good money to be brought here?”
She was hardly the one to ask. After what had happened to her life and heart and emotions since coming to the lava beds, no price was too great. “I think you’re going to get a lot of opposition, and not just from the park director and board members.”
“I’ve been thinking about that.” Fenton walked around to the right of the ferns as far as he could go, then, arms folded, surveyed them again. “There’s so little room down here. No way could we get more than a dozen, maybe twenty people ja
mmed in here at one time.”
She tried to hold on to what he was saying, tried to convince herself that if she came up with a compelling enough argument, she might be able to stop his potentially destructive plans before they went any further. But something was calling to her, taking her away from today’s world just as spending the night on top of Spirit Mountain had. The walls felt alive with history. More than that, they gave out a timeless message of heritage and belief, thousands of years of Modoc tradition just beyond her fingertips.
One of the hard realities of her career was that much of her work was speculative in nature. She could look at what remained of a shaman’s belongings and basically guess how he’d used a mix of herbs and other materials plus the power of belief to heal his patients. What she hadn’t known—what her generation would never know—was whether a warrior truly believed in and trusted his guardian spirit, and whether that belief gave him courage far beyond what today’s so-called sophisticated men could possibly understand.
Loka held that key—Loka whose essence haunted her every thought.
Did she dare tell Dr. Grossnickle about him, she asked herself for what seemed like the thousandth time. She went back to studying the seemingly random wall markings. Dr. Grossnickle was one of, if not the foremost anthropologist in the world, and although he was sometimes criticized by the academic community for the way he used the media, he was brilliant. And just as frustrated as she.
Together they could—with Loka they could…
Could what?
If she insisted on being in charge of working with Loka, she could guarantee he would remain protected from the media. Dr. Grossnickle would know how to handle that.
Wouldn’t he?
