Bone Walker: Book III of the Anasazi Mysteries (9 page)

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Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear,W. Michael Gear

BOOK: Bone Walker: Book III of the Anasazi Mysteries
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“But Poor Singer brought more than the destruction of the First People. His birth also marked the beginning of a new cycle, that of the thlatsinas!” Gray Thunder’s face shone. “Whom your people call katsinas.”
Blue Corn made a disgusted sound.
Gray Thunder continued, “We have come to tell you of Poor Singer’s vision. Why it was true, and why the thlatsinas tie the Made People and my people, the Mogollon, together.”
“What?” Blue Corn’s expression went hard.
Catkin took a step forward, intrigued. Either Gray Thunder had been hit in the head too many times, or he was about to turn their world upside down.
“Go on, please, Gray Thunder,” Matron Cloudblower called out in a strong voice. She wore a beautiful white dress with red spirals. “You have traveled a great distance to find us. Share your words about the Blessed Poor Singer.”
Gray Thunder tilted his face back and, as if speaking to the darkened sky, said, “The thlatsinas were there when the Blessed Poor Singer was cut from his mother’s womb by the priest, Sternlight.”
Derisive mutters broke out among Blue Corn’s people. She raised a hand to quiet them. “What are you talking about?” she called. “I have never heard that story!”
“No, but it is true!” Gray Thunder cried. “Have the constant wars, and the droughts and illnesses, robbed
you of so much? Have you no stories of the Blessed Sternlight?”
“I remember,” Stone Ghost said in a voice almost too low to hear. The crowd turned to face him. “He was the Sunwatcher of Talon Town when Night Sun was the Matron of the First People. Sternlight was taken captive by Jay Bird, the great Mogollon War Chief. Jay Bird was the only man ever to sack Talon Town. Blessed Gods, Gray Thunder, what else do you know?” Stone Ghost stepped forward, his wispy white hair blowing in the breeze.
“I know a great deal, Elder. I know a story about him that was never told in the Straight Path Nation. Not to the First People, and not to the Made People. It was told in the village under the Gila Monster Cliffs. Of Crow Beard, and Sternlight, and Young Fawn, and the child she carried. It was told about how Crow Beard had ordered his child—conceived in the Mogollon slave girl’s womb—to be destroyed lest it be the fulfillment of prophecy.”
The old Mogollon slave smiled slightly, his eyes on Gray Thunder’s back.
The young Fire Dog continued: “It was told how Sternlight had managed to talk Crow Beard into sparing one: Young Fawn, or the child, but not both. It was on the morning when the Blessed Sternlight was ordered to kill the child that the thaltsinas first appeared to him. At that time, the Wolf Thlatsina walked side by side with the Blessed Sternlight and told him to kill Young Fawn. To cut the living child from her womb no matter what Chief Crow Beard had ordered. The Wolf Thlatsina told him that the child would mark the beginning of a new age.”
“And Sternlight did this?” Blue Corn asked, her eyes narrowing as she studied Gray Thunder.
“Yes. Sternlight saved, and then hid, the prophet Poor Singer. He paid for it with his life. Young Fawn, the Mogollon slave girl, was the great Jay Bird’s
daughter. When he found out who had killed her, he drove a stiletto through the Blessed Sternlight’s heart.”
Blue Corn shouted, “Just another in a long line of Fire Dog atrocities!”
“Oh, it was anything but that.” Gray Thunder appeared oblivious to the tone in Blue Corn’s voice. “It was the beginning, you see. When Jay Bird drove his stiletto through Sternlight’s heart, something happened to Poor Singer. He ran from Gila Monster Cliffs and fled high into the mountains. It was there that he talked to the thlatsinas for the first time. It is said that they changed him into a coyote, and that he ran northward across the sky. Far to the north, high in the mountains, he found a cave, its walls glittering with turquoise. He talked to the thlatsina who keeps the Tortoise Bundle, and she gave him a vision.”
Blue Corn lifted one skeptical eyebrow. Her people seemed to be looking to her for some response. Matron Cloudblower wore an indulgent smile, her attention fixed on Gray Thunder. For her own part, Catkin didn’t know whether to believe this ludicrous story or if she were hearing the ramblings of a madman. She was surprised, however, at the shocked expression on Stone Ghost’s wrinkled face.
“Poor Singer’s Power,” Gray Thunder said, “was made manifest to all when he came down from the clouds with Cornsilk. Jay Bird was in the process of torturing the great War Chief, Ironwood, to death. When Jay Bird refused to stop, Poor Singer raised a hand and called the thlatsinas to him. At his bidding, they shook the earth, split a mountain apart, and hurled huge fiery rocks across the land. The quakes awakened the Rainbow Serpent. She crawled from the underworlds and snaked across the earth in a molten river. Everything in her path burned. Whole forests were gone in a blink. Ash fell from the skies for days, coating the entire world. Only when Straight Path Canyon
was abandoned did the rainbow serpent stop and slowly begin to cool, hardening into stone.”
The muscles in Blue Corn’s arms knotted, the angle of her jaw set, as if she were on the verge of anger, but Catkin would have sworn she saw fear in the depths of her eyes.
The Matron began to lift her hand, a breath filling her lungs to give an order, when Gray Thunder said, “The Blessed Poor Singer told Jay Bird: ‘You must have the heart of a cloud to walk upon the wind.’” His smile beamed out at his silent audience. “And so, I have come to ask you, do you have the heart of a cloud? Can you walk upon the wind? Poor Singer did. He offered his life to save that of his enemy.”
“What enemy?” Stone Ghost asked.
Blue Corn answered, “If Poor Singer was Young Fawn’s son, his enemy was Ironwood. The boy belonged to his mother’s clan.”
“It was Jay Bird and his Fire Dogs!” Matron White Smoke cried. “Poor Singer was raised in the Straight Path Nation. No matter what his real clan, he would have thought as we do!”
“No,” Stone Ghost said with a sad shake of his head. “You are both wrong.”
“Yes, they are.” Gray Thunder’s smile broadened. “Because that same enemy is here, today, walking among us.”
People shifted nervously as the first few flakes of snow began to tumble out of the gray sky. Catkin could see the agitation in Blue Corn’s face.
“I am here to end this constant warring! When you are ready, I will tell you about the enemy, and what you must do to have the heart of a cloud, so that we may all walk upon the wind.” Gray Thunder’s gaze seemed to focus for the first time, his attention hawk-like on Blue Corn. “Some here have placed their own needs above those of their people. The savage heart hears not the frightened cries of the infant. If you do
not hear me, there will be blood, and more blood, and our peoples will be as dust before the wind.” A great sadness began to well behind his pool-like eyes.
“I don’t like talk that scares people.” Blue Corn crossed her arms. “Things are bad enough.”
“Worse than you know, Matron,” Gray Thunder murmured. “It all stems from what happened to Poor Singer that day in Gila Monster Cliffs. Secrets were born. Secrets that must be brought into the open. I will tell them all … when the time is right.”
Catkin saw Blue Corn’s face suddenly go pale.
Does she know what secrets he means?
“I have heard enough!” Blue Corn turned on her heel and angrily stalked through the crowd.
People immediately began to argue and demand explanations. Catkin pushed forward, placing herself between her people and the Sunrise Town villagers. The Fire Dog warriors closed around Gray Thunder. Only the old Mogollon slave with the dirty white hair stood alone, his eyes on Blue Corn as she disappeared into the crowd.
Stone Ghost’s gaze fixed on that old man, as though he suddenly understood something no one else did. His attention did not waver as the Fire Dogs escorted Gray Thunder into one of the rooms that lined the southern edge of the town. Two warriors, a man and a woman, remained outside the door with war clubs in their hands.
Catkin turned to make sure her own people were safe, and noticed Blue Corn’s War Chief, Rain Crow, standing at the corner of the plaza. The old frog-faced man was gesturing with his withered arms, jabbing an emphatic finger into the palm of his hand. Rain Crow nodded, his hard gaze on the doorway guarded by the Fire Dogs.
1-40, Westbound, Albuquerque, New Mexico
 
 
WHILE DUSTY SPED through the bright Albuquerque afternoon toward Dale’s house, he considered every person who might have traveled with Dale up to Chaco. In his preoccupation, he nearly rear-ended the battered yellow pickup with inoperative brake lights that slowed in front of him.
“Where’s a cop when you need him?” he growled. “If it was me, and my taillights were out, I’d have a ticket in five minutes.”
“I doubt it, Stewart. This vehicle is a rolling violation wherever it goes, and you haven’t gotten a single ticket since I’ve known you.”
Dusty waited for a gap in traffic, wheeled into the left lane, and gassed the Bronco around the yellow pickup. In deference to Maureen, and in an attempt to do the right thing for once, he avoided the inclination to flip the guy the bird.
“Easy,” Maureen warned when Dusty blasted around a lumbering semi on the Rio Grande bridge. Dusty cut right, too close to the truck’s bumper, took the northbound exit onto Coors and let the Bronco’s exhaust rumble as he decelerated down the ramp.
“He couldn’t have been meeting either Steve or Sylvia. So, maybe it was someone from the department? Maggie’s up at Chaco,” he said, more to himself than to Maureen, “but she called, so it wasn’t her. Maybe Rupert?”
“Who’s Rupert?”
“Rupert Brown Horse. He goes by Brown. He was made park superintendent up at Chaco just after we dug 10K3.” Dusty smiled. “He’s an old-timer. I’ve known Rupert since I was a kid. He used to hang around with Dale. Hell, he used to hang around with Dad. He goes back that far.”
“Let it go, Dusty. I’m sure there’s some simple explanation.”
Dusty checked traffic before merging onto Coors Boulevard. Off to the right, the Rio Grande floodplain looked cool, the last yellow leaves clinging to the winter-gray cottonwoods in the Bosque.
Dusty shook his head. “I was half expecting a note from Dale. At least a message on the answering machine. It must be pretty fascinating.”
“What?”
“Whatever dragged him up there in such a hurry he didn’t even remember to tell me he’d be out of town.”
“Just how often does he do this?”
“Once every six months or so. It always scares me half silly.” He paused, thoughtfully. “I suppose it’s because I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
“It’s not like you hadn’t been abandoned before,” she reminded. “That’s deep in your subconscious, Dusty. But you’re grown, and Dale, well, he’s Dale.”
Dusty turned left onto Montano Road, then followed it into the Taylor Ranch subdivision. He pulled into Dale’s driveway on Kachina Street and shut the truck off. For a moment he sat there, feeling uneasy as he stared at the little adobe house. It had fake vigas poking out of the roofline. The stucco was a buff color, almost an off pink that Dusty had hated from the moment he first saw it. Two big picture windows overlooked a yard filled with cactus and stone. A large chamisa bush grew under the bedroom window. The cement sidewalk still had that white glare that proclaimed it had just been poured.
“So this is Dale’s new house?” Maureen hesitated before she stepped up onto the porch. The place had a lonely look. While Dusty fished through his keys, she said, “Was there ever anyone special in Dale’s life? Why didn’t he ever marry?”
“For one thing, he’s had me around his neck for about thirty years. Most women don’t like ready-made families.” Dusty pulled open the storm door and unlocked the big oaken door. “Oh, he had female friends, but you know how that is. They’d come and go. Once in a great while, he’d disappear up to Taos for a weekend with someone, but his romances never lasted long.”
He shoved the door open and looked around. A big Spanish leather couch sat against the back wall. Beige carpet covered the floor. Two hand-carved
trasteros,
hutches, faced each other from opposite walls, their shelves filled with pottery, stone, and bone artifacts. The place smelled musty.
“Dale?” Dusty called. “Hello?”
Dread clung to Dusty’s soul as he walked back through the arched opening. On the breakfast bar that separated the dining room from the kitchen, a half-eaten TV dinner sat. The enchiladas had dried and curled. A fork sat in the triangular pocket of desiccated
refritos
. The Spanish rice looked untouched. Dusty peered into Dale’s old UNM coffee cup; a ring had formed where a couple of millimeters of cold coffee had evaporated.
Maureen inspected the TV dinner. “Dale eats this stuff?”
“When he doesn’t get takeout,” he replied. “Dale’s a great believer in corn, beans, and squash, with lots of chilis. He thinks if he eats Mex for the rest of his life, he’ll live to be one hundred.”
Maureen’s skeptical eyebrow arched.
“It looks like Dale rushed off in the middle of dinner.” Dusty shook his head. “Something really had him excited.”
“The phone?” she asked, pointing a slim finger at the combination telephone and answering machine.
“Maybe.” Dusty reached over and pushed the button below the blinking red light. The display told him that six messages were waiting.
The machine clicked and whirred, and then a woman’s voice said,
“I’m not kidding. Stop it, Dale! If it’s not you, who is it?”
Dusty met Maureen’s inquiring stare and shrugged, but something about that voice chilled him, deep down, as though …
The second message began:
“Dale, if it’s not you, and I’m no longer sure it is … then who?”
A pause.
“It’s after midnight here. I don’t care what time it is. Call me.”
After the machine clicked to indicate another call, a voice said,
“Hey, Dale. It’s Sylvia.”
A long pause.
“You there? Pick up, O high and mighty chief and leader.”
Another, longer pause.
“Okay, I’ll get in touch with you later about this pipeline thing. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll call Dusty for directions. It’s on your head, then, ’cause you never know what Dusty will let me get away with.”
Dusty smiled as the machine clicked and played the first of Maggie’s messages, followed by a second, and finally Dusty’s morning message.
Maureen leaned against the wall. “The first woman sounded really angry. Did you recognize her voice?”
“No. But she was calling from a different time zone, and had an East Coast accent.”
Dusty pushed the replay button and listened to the woman’s voice again. Wasn’t that a nasal New England accent? “If I’ve ever heard that voice, I don’t remember it.”
But there was something …
His stomach muscles clenched as though his belly knew something his brain refused to believe.
“Do you have any idea the number of people from
different time zones who might call Dale? He’s worked around the globe. Maybe she’s another person who didn’t like his last article in
American Antiquity.”
“Maybe, but she sounded mad on the first message, and frightened on the second.”
Dusty made an airy gesture with his hand. “So? Since when are archaeologists stable personalities?”
Maureen fastened her black eyes on his, a faint smile on her full lips. “That’s one argument you win hands down. Archaeologists only seem to be happy when they’re indignant.”
He pushed the repeat button to listen to the messages yet again. First the Englishman on the office phone, and now this woman. Both angry. Did it mean anything?
Maureen took a turn about the kitchen, opening the refrigerator, checking the sink, and looking out into the backyard with its little cement patio surrounded by squares of red rock. Two small piñon pines grew at either end of the yard, Dale’s fervent hope being that they’d grow large enough in the Albuquerque heat to bear nut crops. Dale had always loved fresh piñones.
Dusty crossed the dining room to the hallway that led into the back. He glanced around Dale’s study. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases covered every inch of available wall space. The shelves literally groaned under the weight of packed volumes. A wooden desk was piled with books, journals, and papers. The gristmill for Dale’s latest article, no doubt. Dusty looked down at the material, and was surprised to see a journal opened to an article by Scott Ferris on Neanderthal genetics. Something about breaking their DNA code. Dusty thoughtfully smoothed his beard. Ferris. The name was familiar. Wasn’t he up at Colorado State University?
Two Anasazi skulls sat on a shelf to the right of Dale’s desk: a male and a female. The male, a fellow with heavy brow ridges and a wide frontal bone was positioned to stare thoughtfully toward Dale’s chair.
The female rested to the right, her empty orbits gazing at the male’s profile. She had delicate features. She must have been a beautiful girl when she was alive.
“They should be on pads,” Maureen said, stopping behind Dusty.
“I grew up with them.” Dusty said. “Dale found them in the trash years ago. There was no provenience, so someone in the department was going to throw them away. Can you imagine? They were special to him, though I’ve never really known why. I don’t think he’s ever written an article without them at hand. When no one’s around, he talks to them.”
Maureen gave the skulls a warm appraisal. “I think I understand that better than anyone. Hello,” she told the skulls. “I’m Maureen. A friend of Dale’s.”
Dusty figured it wasn’t his place to interrupt conversations with dead people, so he turned away, searching for some clue as to why Dale would have left dinner to drive hell-bent for Chaco Canyon. His gaze played over the four tall file cabinets that contained all of Dale’s notes: a lifetime of research. Each of the files held a separate paper or monograph authored or coauthored by Dale Emerson Robertson.
On impulse Dusty pulled open the top drawer and glanced at the folders labeled in Dale’s neatly lettered script. He pulled out the first. “An Analysis of George Pepper and Excavations at Pueblo Bonito.” A paper written for Neil Judd in 1940. Dusty smiled, tapping the folder against his palm. They were all there, every one in chronological order. Why had he never looked at these before?
The doorbell startled both of them. Dusty replaced the folder and headed back down the hallway, Maureen on his heels. He rounded the corner, passed through the arch and into the living room. To his surprise, a uniformed police officer was standing at the front door. Dusty gave Maureen a sidelong glance and opened the door, saying, “Can I help you?”
The cop stared at him. “Is this the residence of Dale Emerson Robertson?”
“Yes.” Dusty’s throat tightened. “What’s this about?”
“Are you William Samuel Stewart? The owner of the vehicle parked in the driveway?”
“Yes,” he answered again. His heart had started to pound. “Dale’s in trouble, isn’t he?”
The cop turned his attention to Maureen, asking, “Who are you?”
“Dr. Maureen Cole.” The professional tone in Maureen’s voice chilled Dusty’s blood. She hesitated a moment, then said, “Officer, if you’re here, Dale is either injured or dead. Which is it?”
The cop hesitated only a moment, before replying, “He’s dead, ma’am.”
Dusty sagged against the doorjamb.
From a long way away, he heard Maureen say, “Oh, my God. How did it happen?”
 
 
MAGPIE SIGNALED AND took Exit 79 off of 1-40 East. She followed the familiar blacktop through Milan, and then through Grants, passed the gas station, and took New Mexico 547 north as it wound its way through Grants Canyon. At the entrance to her aunt’s drive she took a right, rattling across the rusty cattle guard and down the rutted two-track road.
Sage Walking Hawk lived in an alcove in the side of the canyon. Four rusty car bodies sat on blocks, their wheels and engines long gone. A pathetic-looking Ford tractor, the old kind with faded gray paint, hunched beside a sagging toolshed. The carcasses of old washing machines and a defunct kitchen stove rested to one side of the flat, surrounded by a sea of brown weeds.
Magpie pulled up in front of Sage’s trailer and turned off the engine. Her dust-streaked blue Ford 150 made clinking noises as it cooled. For the moment, Magpie leaned her head forward onto the steering wheel, feeling as if her body had been emptied out like water poured from a boot.
When she looked up, Aunt Sage was standing in the doorway of the old mobile home, her gray head cocked. She wore a faded blue print dress, fuzzy slippers, and a smudged apron. Her ancient face, wrinkled and timeworn, looked puzzled. With a stick-thin arm, she braced herself on the trailer door, a tiny hunchbacked skeleton of a woman who blinked at the world with cataract-filmed eyes.
Magpie opened her door and stepped out. “Hello, Aunt.”
“Magpie? Is that you? I can’t see so well anymore. I thought that looked like your truck. At least, the color’s right.”
“It’s me.”
Sage Walking Hawk nodded soberly. “You don’t sound too good.”
“I’m not, Aunt. Something has happened. Up at the park. I need to talk to you.”

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