Aztec Odyssey

by Jay C. LaBarge

  “So how did he find it in the first place?” Charlie asked. “I always remember it on his desk, but I don’t remember the story of where it came from.”

  “Neither did I, until I read it here. It says he bought it at Mackenna’s Trading Post, up near Shiprock. Said there was a newspaper article on the wall that he read, that made him interested in it. There was a photo of the article, but I don’t see it in here. How far to Shiprock?”

  “About an hour,” Charlie answered. “Remember seeing Shiprock for the first time with Dad? Wild looking rock formation, kinda looked like a butte.”

  “Actually the throat of a volcano, the softer rock around it had eroded away.”

  “Thanks Mr. Geology. Catch a few winks, you look like you could use them. I’ll wake you when we get there.”

  Nick was about to argue but saw the wisdom in it. He would need a clear head to work through things soon enough. After what seemed like five minutes, he awoke with a start, Nanook licking his ear through the window to the back of the pickup. “Good to see you up ol’ boy, how you feeling?”

  He went around to the back and let Nanook out, who seemed to be showing no ill effects from the tranquilizers, although he favored his ribs on one side. Maybe a couple were cracked from the kicking, but Nick marveled at the toughness of the creature. Good, he thought. I’m going to need you to help track Soba with me. Because if I can’t actually find the treasure, we’re going to have to fake it to get her back.

  He looked up at where they were parked, and saw it was at a dated sort of roadside general store, emporium and apothecary, the kind that would have been popular in the 1950s and ’60s. In those heady postwar years when interstates were being built across the country and veterans were buying cars, starting families, and taking them on road trips to places just like this. He glanced around and saw it hadn’t been updated in a long while, had fallen on hard times, the fast-paced modern world moving past it. Mackenna’s Trading Post.

  He walked in, the creaky screen door slamming several times behind him, and saw Charlie was the only customer, chatting amicably with the owner at the counter. He was a disheveled looking older man with wild hair pulled into a ponytail. Evidently a holdover from the hippie generation who apparently preferred alternate tobacco judging from the distinct odor of pot wafting in the air, and still believed in the righteousness of flower power, sticking it to the man, and dark conspiracy theories. Nick vaguely heard their conversation, but drifted back deep into the old shop, past the rows and shelves filled with outdated merchandise. It was dimly lit and musky, and sensed he had been here before a long time ago. As a child.

  Nick smiled and felt déjà vu when he recognized a trinket his dad had bought him, the exact same one, dusty on a shelf. He picked it up, blew it off and examined it, then wandered further toward the back. Past old faded movie posters on the walls, along with some yellowed newspaper articles, falling out of kilter in their frames, the deteriorated scotch tape relinquishing its grip many years ago. One article in particular grabbed his attention, and his pulse quickened as he read the headline:

  Native Remains, Spanish Artifacts Found in Ravine

  The article was dated November 24, 1960. It was from a small regional newspaper that had ceased to exist a long time ago. Nick read and reread it, fascinated. He was startled to feel a hand on him and turned to see Charlie silently reading over his shoulder.

  “They interviewed my Pappy for that,” the proprietor said, standing at the end of the aisle. “Long time ago, yep. He was a regular bone collector, that one was. Spent his time traipsing ‘bout these here parts, always sniffing for rumored treasure and artifacts. Found some too, and would sell ‘em right here, at the store. Those were good days.”

  “This is Don Mackenna,” Charlie said, introducing him. “His father owned this place, built it up, and passed it on to Don, back, when was that Don?”

  “Round bout ‘93. Yes siree, Pappy fancied himself an amateur archeologist, a regular rockhound he did. He got all swept up in a rumor of a gold canyon round these parts, it being called Adam’s Diggings. Many folks did back then, and more than a few died looking ‘bout these here parts for it. Daddy never did find it, but he found lots of other things, sure nuf. Adam’s Diggings, you can look it up.”

  As Don and Charlie walked to the front, Nick took a photo of the yellowed article and joined them at the counter. “So what kind of things did he find?” Nick asked.

  “Well, he found himself dinosaur bones, old burial grounds, abandoned mines, Injun relics, even stuff the Spanish left behind from their exploring. And their dying, seems they did a lot of that. Course he found some gold and silver too. Never enough to get rich, but he made himself a living, kept a roof over our heads and kept us all fed.”

  “What about from that article in back?” Charlie interjected, trying to keep him on track. “What did he find related to that?”

  “Oh that, a bunch of bones and some metal fixin’s and gear in an old stream bed wash, just like that article said. He thought the parts were Spanish, ‘cause they included some sword handles, bits of helmets and such. And a fellar from some university come and look at it all, and said the bones were natives since he’d seen same ones elsewhere, but no exact way to tell how old. That professor took the bones with him, but my Pappy went back out and found more scattered further downstream, brought ‘em back and sold ‘em here in the store. Made good money too, for way back then.”

  “Wow, no kidding. Our dad bought a part here too, probably from the same cache. You don’t know where he found them, where that creek bed wash was per chance, do you?” Nick felt compelled to ask, not really expecting an answer.

  “Nope, way too long-ago sonny. Pappy used to take me out with him all the time to look for stuff, and he took me back to that gulch once or twice too. But this old noggin couldn’t find it if you dropped me off there,” Don laughed. “But come to think of it, he didn’t sell everything. The old man would never throw anything out, always thought he might get some coin for it someday. I wonder if? What the heck, follow me.”

  Don led them to the very back of the shop, past the restroom with a steadily dripping toilet tank, past stained curtained windows with marijuana plants reaching for sunlight. He leaned heavily into an old door with squeaky hinges that protested his intrusion before finally yielding. Stepping into the dark he reached blindly for a string, found it and yanked downward. A single bulb illuminated old metal shelves with boxes of every shape and size. He grabbed a flashlight off the floor and beamed it into the recesses of the racks, looking for something in particular. He rummaged around, bumping the racks and swearing gently, until he found what he as after.

  “Aha, there she is,” he said in triumph. He squeezed between the rows, and came out with a deteriorating banker’s box, proudly holding it out to them. “Hundred bucks for the lot of it, boys, if’n you please.”

  Nick put the box down on his tailgate, finally with enough light to evaluate what they had purchased, somewhat sight unseen. Nanook sniffed the box, sneezed, then put his head in and proudly came out with a femur bone in his jaws. “Whoa boy,” Nick said as he pried it away from him. “No eating dead people, these will need a proper burial.”

  Charlie dug underneath as Nick lifted out the bones on top, and found a small cross, spurs, a helmet crest, a horseshoe and hand hammered nails. And a fire tarnished bracket exactly like Albert used as a paperweight. Nick examined each and raised an eyebrow to Charlie.

  “OK, continuing conjecture of a possible scenario. Our one true journey expedition starts off in Tenochtitlán, wanders up to Gila, goes through Zuni, and finally to here. Latest evidence pointing to this, human bones and Spanish wagon parts and artifacts. I can’t prove the bones are Aztec, and I can’t date the artifacts, we simply don’t have the time. To my trained eye, I find them pretty compelling. But I need something more concrete to get us to the end game, or Soba is dead.” Nick paused, composing himself.

  “I’m not going to cha
se my tail here around Shiprock Charlie, we have no hard location data to dig into. Don couldn’t find his ass with a map and a flashlight, much less lead us back to that creek bed. But everything in this box suggests our caravan went through somewhere near here, and maybe lost a wagon or two. Who knows, perhaps a fight with the native tribes in the area. But Dad knew something was just beyond here, in Mesa Verde, his journal is leading us there, and the circumstantial evidence is building too. I’ve got some deciphering to do, you drive.”

  Charlie jumped in the driver’s seat again and drove past the imposing Shiprock rock formation just off to the west, through the Ute Mountain Reservation, and toward the town of Cortez, on the edge of Mesa Verde National Park. Nick sat unspeaking, lost in the journal of riddles, codes, whispers and half spoken dreams for over a half hour. Charlie finally broke the silence.

  “Hey Rain Man, come up with anything yet?”

  “It’s interesting, Dad kept these journals chronologically, one for every year he took trips out west. This one is from the last time he took us all to Mesa Verde, but there are more recent notes in the back of it, like he was planning to get back there,” Nick replied. “He kept adding notes to this, he was working it out. Most of these make sense, I can understand his thinking, he was slowly triangulating in on something, or someplace, within Mesa Verde itself. And then the whole back of the journal is just gibberish, it must be some kind of code.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Charlie reflected. “Why code notes to himself? Notes in a journal buried in a steamer chest that no one knew about. Unless he was already suspecting bad things.”

  Nick looked at him, distraught, trying to keep it together. “Yeah, someone knew about it. Dad was probing, reaching out to resources across the country and in Mexico, asking questions to fill in the blanks, to put him on the right trail. And that bastard head of the cartel, what the hell was his name? Eztli? He must have somehow gotten wind of it. And here we fricking are.”

  “Hang in there, bro, we’re both frazzled, let’s find a hotel to crash and get our heads on straight. Things will be clearer in the morning.”

  Charlie heard something vaguely in the background, paper rustling, a pen scratching, Nanook pacing, then finally huffing in his ear. He opened his eyes and glanced at his watch. It was just after 4 a.m., and Nick was at a rickety table. He was using his laptop computer for light, alternating between reading the journal and writing on a cheap pad of hotel stationary. Nick saw him and nodded.

  “Couldn’t sleep anymore, but I got to thinking about the gibberish in the back of the journal. I realized there was a two-word title above the body of text. It was so obvious, I should have known. The title was in a simple substitution code, the first one Dad ever taught us when we were kids. Cryptology 101. He knew we would figure that one out, but all the rest is in a much deeper code. Something meant for our eyes only.”

  “So what does it say Sherlock?” Charlie drowsily asked, starting to wake up.

  “Sullivan Ballou.”

  “Sullivan Ballou? That Civil War letter he copied and gave to Mom? The one she framed and kept on her bed stand? What the hell does that possibly have to do with anything?”

  “The code to the gibberish in the journal is in that letter,” Nick replied, like it was obvious.

  “Well, that’s great, except the letter is back home in Michigan.”

  “No, in fact it’s not. When Dad died, I needed to keep a part of him with me. I took that letter out of the frame and have kept it in my wallet ever since.” With that Nick passed him the well creased and dog-eared letter. “Look at the back of it, I never paid it any notice.”

  Charlie took the letter, carefully turning it over to look at the back. “Wow, that’s definitely Dad’s handwriting, but why in pencil? Looks like he kept changing parts, erasing things. Reminds me of a word search, just a page full of random letters.”

  “And because they are random it is virtually unbreakable. It’s called a onetime pad, basically a handmade encryption key just like the CIA and KGB used, Cold War level stuff. No one can read the coded message, unless they have the one sheet in existence that can decipher it. You’re holding it.”

  Charlie shook his head in amazement. “Seriously? Dad sure went to a lot of trouble to keep information away from someone.”

  “Yeah, and he went to just as much trouble to make sure we were the only ones to find and understand it. He wrote it in pencil because he was working the code out to get it perfect. It took me over an hour to get this, check it out,” Nick said, as he handed him the just deciphered note on hotel stationary.

  Boys if you are reading this I met my end. Don’t mourn long, I am with your Mother now by the grace of God. Get busy and finish the quest, that will be my salvation, your legacy, and our joint contribution to humanity.

  I was recently approached by a phone call to help solve the mystery of Cibola and was threatened. I refused, these are not honorable people, and I fear their intentions. I write this to you just in case they find me or force my hand.

  My Mother had a rare moment of lucidity just a few weeks ago, revealing a critical new clue. She passed along an oral history supplementing Alexandre’s letter home. There was second letter from him before he was killed, but it was lost to time. She said in it he was told there was a key to the mystery, at the biggest palace hidden under the table. Behind a wall where there is food forever. The key will show you where. Then she faded, you know how it goes.

  Live a long and fulfilling life boys. Make your mark, make us proud. Mom and I will see you when you are done.

  Love, Dad

  It took Charlie a few minutes to get his head around it, to digest everything he had just learned. He was still shaking off the cobwebs, whereas Nick had already been up doing research, deciphering the letter, and was sharp and ready to go. Nick gave Charlie a few minutes to gather himself, made some brew in the hotel room’s cheap coffee maker, and handed him a cup.

  “The biggest palace hidden under the table. That’s an easy one.” Nick observed. “Mesa Verde is Spanish for green table. The biggest pueblo anywhere around here is called Cliff Palace, right under the lip of the mesa. I was there not too long ago. But behind a wall with food forever. That’s going to be a tougher nut to crack.”

  “Food forever, yeah, you got me on that one,” Charlie replied. “Hey, the sun will be up soon, we can’t just go digging around with Park Rangers and tourists everywhere. Peak season, a bad place for tomb raiders. They let you camp out here a while back, didn’t they?”

  “Yeah, and I’m sure they will let us again, professional courtesy and all. Let’s see if we can narrow our search and pick up the right gear to do some midnight prospecting. And I’ve gotta make a call later to Soba’s brother, not looking forward to that one.”

  Nick went online with his laptop and a frustratingly slow internet connection, to private access university and research web sites, pulling up various diagrams of the layout of the Cliff Palace, its orientation to the sun at different times of year, the sizes of the rooms, excavation results, photos from various angles, etc. It was taking far too long, so he turned on his smart phone. There was no sense in not using it anymore, the bad guys already knew where they were. But the signal was weak, he needed to get to a different location. Having access to the online documentation was crucial.

  They checked out of the hotel, drove around until he got a solid signal, and pulled into a nondescript diner in the center of Cortez. Grabbing a booth in the corner, he watched a black Escalade drive by, slow down, and then drive around the block and park down a side street, facing them. The windows were so heavily tinted he could barely see into it, but Nick thought he saw two people in the front seats. That meant there was at least one other vehicle lying low somewhere with the other three men and Soba. Unless she had been taken back to Mexico. The very thought of it made his heart sink and his stomach nauseous.

  “Eyes on us,” Nick nodded to Charlie, looking out at the Escalade. “W
e need to show them only what we want them to see. Bear in mind if we find any kind of treasure, that is our only leverage. And if we don’t, we’ll have to fake it, and I don’t think they will be easy to deceive. We need to get a step ahead of them.”

  Charlie ordered lunch as Nick did a deep dive on his cell phone, downloading photos, topo maps and detailed diagrams of the floor plan of the Cliff Palace. He also grabbed satellite photos which showed current and ancient trails, all the access points in and out. Quizzing Charlie, he made an inventory of what they had and what they would need, things to help with the search and to better the odds stacked so heavily against them.

  “It has over 150 rooms, and we’re looking for something behind a wall with food forever. Gotta narrow it down. Food forever,” Nick said out loud to himself.

  Charlie looked up from his plate, raising an eyebrow. “That would be a lot of food. So where would they store it? What kind of food did they even eat?”

  “Beans, squash, pumpkins, amaranth, wild plants, small game, they even raised dogs and turkeys. When the season was right they could eat the pads of prickly pear cactus. But corn was their money crop, their world revolved around it, and they could store it for winters and lean times. There was a famous find near here in a cave, an elaborate ceremonial jar full of corn, over 800 years old. It had an upside-down bowl over the top to keep mice and insects out, perfectly preserved. A little time capsule of their most valuable commodity, that which gave them life. An offering to the gods.”

  Nick turned back to a detailed diagram of the Cliff Palace, reviewing it in minute detail. “It had to be a granary, that is the only thing that makes sense. They had granaries interspersed throughout the whole complex, so losing any one or two wouldn’t be fatal. We have to find the single, right one. But I don’t see any that stand out as being overly large. This is going to be challenging.”