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

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BOOK: The Visitant: Book I of the Anasazi Mysteries
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“Is she alive?”
“I cannot say, Elder. Our Healer, Cloudblower, removed a circlet of skull from Hophorn’s head to release some of the evil Spirits feeding in her brain, but Hophorn had not yet awakened when I left.”
Stone Ghost lightly touched the firelit skull on the hide in front of him. “Risky, opening the skull.”
“Yes, but Cloudblower has done it several times, though in the past Hophorn has been there to help her. This time Cloudblower had to make do with a slave girl’s aid.”
“Cloudblower,” Stone Ghost said. The wrinkles in his face rearranged themselves into reverent lines. “I have heard of her. She is one of the
kokwimu
, is she not?”
“Yes, Elder. A very powerful one.”
He nodded and went silent.
When he said no more, she asked, “Elder, there is one other thing you must know.”
“Yes?”
“Browser’s wife? Her body disappeared.”
He sat up. “What do you mean? How?”
Catkin tied her club to her belt again. “No one knows. While Cloudblower opened Hophorn’s skull, the rest of the village went home to think and pray. Our Matron, Flame Carrier, decreed that the burial pit of Browser’s son had been defiled, and ordered me to dig a new one. I went out to do that, and found the body gone.”
“Tracks?”
“Elder, the sand was frozen. I could make out nothing unusual. There was a strange mark near the fire pit, where the sand had thawed. It might have been part of a footprint. I cannot say.”
He hesitated, and smoothed his hand over the skull. “How many people live in Hillside Village?”
“Fifty. Ten of those are slaves. Fifteen are children. We have only seven full-time warriors, Elder.”
Stone Ghost whispered, “Interesting.”
Catkin, watching his knotted fingers where they rested on the shining skull, saw them tremble, and she frowned.
She said, “Why do you think that’s interesting?”
“Well, you are a warrior, and a fine one, I imagine. You would have searched for anything out of the ordinary. The fact that you didn’t find it can mean only one thing.”
“Witchery?” she whispered, and her spine prickled. She kept her voice low. “That’s what we all feared. I found an owl feather in the grave.”
She turned to look over her shoulder through the doorway. Snow fell in huge white flakes, coating the ground, and adding to the mound inside the doorway. She had the haunting sensation
that someone stood just outside, listening. Witches had great Power. They could change themselves into animals by jumping through a hoop of twisted yucca fibers, and lope around in the darkness spying on people. They robbed graves to gather corpse flesh, which they dried, and ground into a fine shiny powder. When the breath-heart soul left the body, it took everything good with it. Only evil and depravity remained. Corpse powder concentrated that wickedness. If a witch sprinkled it on a path someone routinely walked, or mixed it with their food, the person could go mad, or even die.
“We are safe,” Stone Ghost assured her. “Go on. What were you about to say?”
“We all feared a witch had flown in, struck Hophorn, and stolen the body, but we found no real evidence. Just the stone over the head and the owl feather.”
Stone Ghost said, “The murderer may have left both of those, hoping you would be so frightened you would just cover the body up and leave.”
“Possibly,” she agreed. “But if a witch did not fly in, and we found nothing unusual around the site …” As the truth dawned, her jaw slackened.
The old man tilted his head. “It surprises me that you are surprised.”
“No. No, Elder!” She shook her head vehemently. “No one in Hillside Village could do the bizarre things I saw yesterday!”
Stone Ghost turned slightly, and his hooked nose shone orange. “What bizarre things?”
Catkin threw up her hands. “Crazy things. The acts of a madman! Or a witch. The murderer killed Browser’s wife, then stripped and dressed her in a man’s clothing. He smashed Hophorn’s skull, then he took the red cape Browser’s wife had been wearing and draped it around Hophorn’s shoulders.”
Catkin could see thoughts racing in the old man’s keen black eyes, and her own begin to dart about, eliminating the elderly, the small children, the sick, and those who had been gone.
“Elder,” she said. “We need your help. Will you help us?”
He hesitated. “Will you help me, Catkin?”
She hesitated, unnerved by the request. “What is it you need?”
“I will come to Hillside Village,” he said, and held up a hand to stop her from interrupting to thank him. “But I do not wish to go with you. I want you to run home alone. Tell your Matron that I will be along soon.”
Catkin nodded. “How soon, Elder?”
A gust of wind swirled through the house and lifted the white hair from Stone Ghost’s shoulders. The firelight glinted in the black depths of his eyes.
“Soon enough, Catkin. After people know I am coming, I wish you to watch what they do. That is all. Watch carefully
and remember.
When I arrive, I will want you to tell me in great detail.”
“Very well, Elder. Is there anything else?”
Stone Ghost shook his head. “No, Catkin. That will be enough.”
“Thank you, Elder. I will post a guard to watch the roads and try to meet you before you enter the village.” She started to turn away.
“I don’t think he’ll let you,”
the old man said in a voice so low that Catkin, startled, couldn’t be sure she’d heard it.
She looked back, and found Stone Ghost whispering into the ear of the skull, his lips twitching like a wolf’s when it bares its teeth. She asked, “Did you say something to me, Elder?”
Stone Ghost’s eyes reflected the flickering firelight. “The murderer is a man of great patience, Catkin. He watches and listens before he moves. By now, he knows where you went. He knows the trails you will be running. He probably knows you are tired and not thinking well. Go with
great
care.”
It had not occurred to her that the murderer might have followed her here. That he might be waiting for her along the trail.
Stalking her.
Catkin reached for her bow and quiver and backed toward the door. As she stepped over the mound of snow, she said, “I will, Elder. You, also,” and she ducked out into the storm.
Low clouds tumbled over each other as they scudded northward.
She felt for the thong around her neck and pulled out the malachite pendant Wind Born had carved for her. It shone a deep
dark green. Exhaustion trembled her limbs. By noon she would have to sleep.
As she forced her legs into a weary trot, she clutched the pendant, and scrutinized every place a killer might hide.
“
I
DON’T SEE ANYONE, AUNT HAIL.”
Maggie Walking Hawk Taylor guided her great-aunt away from her old black Dodge pickup and into the archaeological field camp. To her left, five canvas tents stood in a circle around a fire pit. Tools, ice chests, and lanterns scattered the area in front of the tent flaps. Over at the site she could see conical piles of back dirt from the excavation.
“Where do you think they went?” Hail Walking Hawk asked in a frail voice. Her blue dress shone in the late afternoon sunlight.
“They have four day breaks, but they’re supposed to be back today. I told them we were coming. Maybe something delayed them.”
Maggie scanned the excavation units directly in front of her. Screens, for sifting the dirt, lay beside three of the rectangular holes. The other holes had been covered with black plastic. Rocks, shovels, and picks weighted down the edges of the plastic.
Maggie wiped damp strands of short black hair from her forehead and sighed. Ordinarily she’d be here dressed in her green ranger’s uniform, driving a National Park Service truck, but she’d taken a few days off work to pick up her Aunt, and drive her out here. She felt oddly out of place in her white T-shirt, tan shorts, and black tennis shoes.
She looked around. “Well, there’s a stack of folded lawn chairs over there beside the fire pit. Let’s go sit down.”
As they started walking, Hail held tight to Maggie’s arm, breathing hard. Soft pained sounds escaped her lips.
Maggie frowned. Her great-aunt claimed to be in excellent health, but she bit her lip as she shuffled along, her eyes squinted, as though against pain.
At the age of eighty, her aunt had a face like a James Bama
painting, rusty and wrinkled, wise in a way beyond the comprehension of most whites. Age-spotted skin hung off her arms and throat. Arthritis had crippled her hands, leaving them clawlike, but she still worked around the pueblo, cooking bread and fashioning cornhusk dolls for the children.
“Just a little farther, Aunt Hail,” Maggie said, “then you can rest.”
“I’m all right, girl.” Hail smiled and affectionately squeezed Maggie’s arm.
They walked into the shade of the tents, and the temperature dropped ten degrees.
“Hey now, that’s better,” Maggie said. “Why don’t you wait here, Aunt Hail? I’ll unfold chairs for us.”
“Sure, I’ll listen to the quiet.”
Maggie walked away. As she set the chairs up, she maintained her vigil on her aunt.
Maybe bringing her out here wasn’t such a good idea.
When her aunt first heard the details of the site, she had insisted, demanded, in fact, that she be the one to monitor the archaeologists. She had waved off protests of conflict of interest, the factional politics in the pueblo, and every other objection.
Hail looked around through white-filmed eyes. Maggie had explained to her once that doctors these days could remove cataracts quickly and painlessly, but Hail had chuckled.
“I see better with them,”
she’d replied, and Maggie had dropped the subject. The Walking Hawk sisters had a variety of names. Her grandmother had been called, She Who Haunts the Dead. Aunt Hail was known as Ghost Talker, and Great-Aunt Sage was Empty Eyes, for the way she looked when she was seeing into other worlds. What her aunts thought important to see were often things that Maggie, and most people, didn’t even know existed.
Maggie unfolded the last chair, walked back, and took her great aunt’s arm. “It’s three steps to the chair, Aunt Hail.”
Hail smiled, and counted aloud, “One. Two. Three. Am I there?”
“Yes. Hold on.” Maggie pulled the chair around behind her, and said, “All right. You can sit now.”
Hail lowered a skeletal hand to the chair arm, gripped it, and
grunted as she eased onto the woven seat. “I’m down,” she informed, and pointed to the other chair. “Your turn.”
As Maggie dragged the chair closer, she said, “I wish you wouldn’t do this, Aunt Hail. Working as a monitor is hard enough, but sleeping on site will be even worse.”
Monitoring the excavation of a burial site required not just physical strength, but at this time of year it meant coping with extreme temperatures and unpredictable weather. A thunderstorm could roll in and turn the road into an impassable river. If her grandmother suffered a medical emergency during one of those storms, they’d have to airlift her out and pray they could reach Gallup in time.
And then the repercussions would land on Maggie like the proverbial ton of bricks. As the “Authorized Officer,” the federal government’s representative, she could get into a great deal of trouble for appointing her aunt to this position.
Hail chuckled and her head tottered on the slender stem of her neck. “You just don’t want to set up my tent.”
“You know that’s not true. I don’t mind setting up your tent. I’d just feel better if you let me come get you every night. I’ll bring you back in the morning.”
“I need to be here,” she said. “The ghosts have been calling me.”
Maggie reached over and brushed away the lock of gray hair that had tangled with Hail’s stubby eyelashes. Her aunt had been hungry most of her life, including these days. Though Maggie made sure she had plenty of food, Aunt Hail gave away almost everything she had:
“Hunger is like a worm; it crawls into the bones, sleeps there until you feel safe, then wakes up and starts gnawing just to remind you. A child shouldn’t have to feel that way.”
Maggie patted Aunt Hail’s hand. “Grandma told me once that most ghosts couldn’t talk to her. She said that she didn’t understand their language, and the ghosts didn’t understand hers.”
Maggie’s grandmother, Slumber Walking Hawk, had been one of the greatest Seers in the history of their people. She’d died in this canyon three years ago. Every time Maggie walked into one of the magnificent Anasazi ruins, she thought of Grandmother Slumber lying dead with that ancient turquoise knife clutched in her hand.
Hail affectionately clasped Maggie’s hand. “Do you miss her?”
“Oh, yes. I think about her every day.”
Hail’s bushy gray brows drew together. “Me, too. She haunted the dead much better than me, Magpie. There were things I wanted to learn from her, and I never had the chance.”
“What things, Aunt Hail?”
Hail stared southward, across the canyon. Heat blurred the tan cliff, turning it into an ethereal shimmering wall. “Your grandmother could walk in ghost worlds. I always wanted to know how she did that.”
Maggie slipped an arm around her aunt’s shoulders, and hugged her. “Did you ask her? I’m sure she would have told you.”
“I asked.”
“What did she say?”
“Oh, Slumber said she saw a kind of fuzzy picture frame around the ghosts, and that if she lifted her foot over the bottom of the frame, she could step into the picture.”
“You don’t see the frame?”
Hail’s head wobbled. “Wouldn’t matter. Every time I see a ghost, my toes dig right into the ground and plant themselves.” She smiled. “I couldn’t take a step if I wanted to.”
“Maybe you should stop trying. Going into ghost worlds sounds dangerous to me. What if you couldn’t get back?”
“I’d just make new friends.”
Maggie laughed. “You’ve always been better at that than me.”
After a short pause, Hail asked, “Don’t you like these White Eye diggers?”
“One of them, the lady arriving today, is Indian, Aunt. Her name is Dr. Maureen Cole.”
“I know.” Hail’s white-filmed eyes turned in Maggie’s direction, but she gestured to the excavation units in front of them. “She’s been coming out here. Every night.”
Maggie considered that. Maureen Cole had never been to New Mexico, and her aunt had never been to this site, but none of that mattered. This was one of those instances when her Western skepticism gave way to traditional truth. Souls wandered, especially at night when a person slept. As a girl, Maggie, and the other children,
had hunted for soul tracks in the sand around the pueblo. She’d never found any, but she still believed.
“What is Dr. Cole looking for out here, Aunt?”
Hail waved a transparent old hand. “A young woman. I don’t know who she is.”
Maggie turned when she heard the sound of a truck coming up the dirt road. Two dust plumes billowed into the sky.
Maggie got to her feet. “Somebody’s coming.”
“Hmm?” Hail said, and turned. “Did you hear something?”
“Yes, a truck. It’s probably Dusty Stewart and Dr. Cole. Dusty said they’d be in around five. He’s late. It’s almost seven o’clock.” Maggie peered between two of the tents, and saw the blue Bronco bouncing up the rutted road. “I’ll go—”
“Bring back some of those cold drinks when you come.” Hail said.
“I will, Aunt.” Maggie bent to kiss Hail on the cheek. “I won’t be long.”
 
HAIL WAITED UNTIL MAGGIE WAS GONE, THEN BENT FORWARD, and gasped air into her lungs. The pain deep within her left breast had grown fiery.
It took several breaths before it eased enough for her to sink back in her chair.
A month ago she’d talked one of the reservation social workers, Carolyn, into taking her to a doctor in Albuquerque, fearing it might be her heart. The doctor had run a bunch of tests, told her she had a strong heart for a woman her age, then he’d run more tests. A week later, he’d called the social worker.
Hail sighed. Her sister had died from the same thing, and before that, her mother. The doctor said sometimes cancers ran in families. Hail hadn’t told Magpie yet. Her great-niece would insist that Hail return to town with her, and she didn’t want to do that. Being out in the desert soothed her. But it wasn’t just that, she needed to be away for a while to think about things.
The doctor hadn’t come right out and said that he thought treatment was a waste of time, but Carolyn’s voice had made it sound that way:
“He says the cancer is pretty far along, and he wants to run more tests before he recommends radiation or chemotherapy.”
Hail gazed down at the fire pit. The shadows of the tents stretched across camp like long dark fingers, and the tangy scent of old campfires filled the air. She could make out the roughly circular shape of the pit. What looked like coals lay at the bottom. They might be rocks, though. She didn’t see nearly as well up close. A pile of sticks rested a few paces away. They were clearer. These diggers must be smart. Out here you didn’t put your wood pile close to your fire, or the whole desert could end up in flames.
“Hello, Dusty,” Maggie said.
Hail swiveled around in her chair to look at the blond man who stepped out of the truck.
“Hi, Maggie,” he called. “I’m sorry we’re late. Dr. Cole had to stop in Crownpoint to pick up some food.”
“No problem,” Magpie said and smiled at the tall Indian woman who stepped out of the passenger side. “We’ve only been here for fifteen minutes.”
“Yes,” Dr. Cole said. “We stopped at a
lavish
little convenience store. I ate the shrink wrap with the sandwich and didn’t notice any difference.”
The woman walked forward and extended her hand to Magpie, saying, “I’m Maureen Cole. What is your name?” She had deep black hair, and wore blue jeans and a white shirt. More than that, Hail couldn’t tell.
“Maggie Walking Hawk Taylor, Dr. Cole. How was your trip?”
“The flight was fine. The rest was … interesting. Please, my friends call me Maureen.”
“I was just going to grab some cold drinks out of my ice chest, Maureen. Can I get you something?”
“If you have an unsweetened iced tea in there, I’ll throw myself at your feet. I couldn’t find any in Crownpoint.”
“I do. How about for you, Dusty?”
He brushed dirt from his pants. “Nothing, Maggie. I filled up both of my ice chests in town.”
Hail smoothed the wrinkles in her blue dress, and tucked a wayward lock of gray behind her ear.
Magpie called, “Aunt Hail, do you want a Coke or an iced tea?”
“Iced tea,” she answered. “That ginseng stuff in the pretty bottle. I think it’s made down in Arizona somewhere.”
“Canada, actually,” Maureen replied. “I like it, too.”
Hail smiled. She could hear Magpie rustling around in the back of her truck. Bottles clinked against ice cubes. Those coolers were really something. She could only wish that they’d had such good ones when she was younger. Back then, the only cool drink came from a “desert bag,” one of the canvas kind that evaporated to cool itself.
Memories of family, friends, and long-past times drifted through her mind. Almost all of those people were dead now. As she would soon be.
Hail folded her hands in her lap. The thought of dying didn’t bother her much unless she was outside in the sunshine and around her family. She’d lived a good long life, fifty-five years of it with a man who’d shared her souls. She’d loved five children, twelve grandchildren, and six great-grandchildren, as well as an assortment of nieces and nephews. There wasn’t much more to life that she could see.
BOOK: The Visitant: Book I of the Anasazi Mysteries
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