Indy smiled and shrugged. "Well, that was quite a review. It was too bad the artist wasn't around to hear it. He, or she, died ten thousand, maybe twenty thousand years before Lemus set eyes on the work."
"Professor Jones?"
"Yes, Marcella?"
"As I understand it, there's no way to really calculate the age of cave paintings. So how can you be so certain of their antiquity?"
"Fair question. First of all, the number of caves with paintings that have been discovered virtually nullifies the question of fraud. I found one myself a few years ago near the village of Montignac. Second, while it is virtually impossible to date the paintings, they have been found in caves containing artifacts which are clearly related to Stone Age Man. Finally, some of the caves could be dated geologically since they were sealed at the time of their discovery."
Indy was warming to the subject. "One of the caves was found by a farmer in Tayac as he was digging a potato cellar. Not only was the entrance sealed by rocks, but a painting discovered inside the cave had been covered by the crust of a stalagmite. So finally, by the turn of the century, the tide had turned. Even the most outspoken skeptics had conceded that they'd been wrong. The cave paintings were clearly the work of artists from the Stone Age."
Another student, a bespectacled man with a crew cut, raised his hand. "Can you tell us more about the cave you discovered?"
"Of course. One of the more interesting aspects of the cave is that one wall features a number of abstract signs, which were similar to drawings found in other caves. What this means is that a rudimentary system of writing was developing in the Paleolithic art. As a matter of fact—"
"Professor Jones?" The same student was raising his hand.
"Yes, George?"
"How did you find the cave?"
"By swimming into an underground river that led to the caverns," he answered, annoyed by the interruption.
"That must have been dangerous," someone else said.
"It was the only way I knew to get inside. Now about the writing system," Indy continued. "The symbols—"
"I don't mean to contradict you, Professor Jones, but I read in a journal that the man who discovered that cave was killed in it."
"Well, George, that's a matter of interpretation. I told the man you're referring to about the cave after I found an underwater entrance. But he found the way into the main chambers through another entry point about an hour ahead of me."
"But you should get the credit if you found it first," another student said.
Indy shrugged. "Thank you, Maybelle. I guess it makes a more interesting story with the explorer dying in the cave he discovers. But if you think about it, it's obvious that someone else was there to record the discovery or we wouldn't know what happened to Walcott."
"What did happen to him?" George asked.
At the request of the Sorbonne's archaeology department, Indy had never spoken in public about the details, even after the university credited the missing lab instructor with the discovery. "Walcott fell into an underground river. His body was never found."
A blonde raised her hand.
"Laura?"
"Professor Jones, do you have any plans to go back to the caves? I'd love to see those bisons and all the other paintings myself."
A twittering erupted at the girl's brashness. "I don't have any plans to go back right now. But I recommend the trip if you're interested."
"She's not, if you're not going," another girl said, snickering from the back of the room, and the class broke into laughter.
"I didn't mean it that way," Laura protested, turning red.
Indy didn't pay any heed. He kept his distance from his students. He knew that if he made one wrong move, his jealous colleagues would pounce on him. "Okay, we're going to take a look at some slides now of reproductions of ancient Stone Age art."
He moved away from the podium and pulled down a screen. "Would someone get the shades, please?" He switched off the light and moved to the rear of the room. The first slide was a painting of a mastodon from a cave near Montespan in the foothills of the Pyrenees. Bisons, bears, rhinoceros, reindeer, and lions followed. Some looked angered, their hair standing out in bristles, as if they were under attack. One mastodon was giving birth. Life and death.
Then he showed a slide of an animal that was not so readily identifiable. "Can anyone tell me what we're looking at?"
"That's no animal I've ever seen," a voice from the darkened room said.
"Deer antlers, a wolf tail, and a humanlike face," Indy said.
"Maybe it's a werewolf with antlers," someone else suggested.
"It's most likely a shaman wearing an animal skin, a mask, antlers, and a wolf tail. The painting was found in a cave at Les Trois Freres. It was located in a room twelve feet above the floor of the cave at the end of a winding corridor. This room might have been a place where shamans entered into trance to contact the spirit world for help in curing the sick or controlling the animal world. The painting could be an artist's rendition of a shaman transformed into an animal."
"Could they actually do that?" Laura asked.
"They apparently thought so."
"But could they really?" George asked.
A beat passed. "As a scientist, I'd have to say no. It's never been proved."
Laura raised her hand again. "But maybe they could do things that we no longer believe are possible, just as we certainly can do things today that they would consider impossible."
"That's an interesting thought. But it would be impossible to prove."
Indy switched slides to one showing several markings on a wall. One looked like a barbed hook, another resembled a stringless bow, and a third looked like a window covered by a grid. "These are a few of the symbols I mentioned earlier. Any ideas on what they might mean?"
No one answered.
"Each one probably served a magical purpose. This is how written language began. Magical symbols representing the elements: air, fire, earth, water. Spirit, infinity, the eternal. The sun, the moon, the four winds. They all played important roles for the ancient magician or sorcerer or shaman, whose job it was to control the elements for the good of the community." Indy turned off the projectors and the lights came on as he walked to the front of the class. "Any questions before we move on?"
"Professor Jones, I've read about these shamans in ancient cultures all over the world from Siberia to Japan to South America. What's the connection? Why did they all do the same thing?"
Indy thought a moment. "Well, Christine, I guess it's the nature of being human to reach out to the unknown or at least to assign someone to do it for you, someone who could take control. The shamans made contact with the spirit world in order to cure the sick, improve the odds of the hunt, make rain, and even make sure the sun came up every day. They eventually became the priests and the astrologers. They tracked the stars and planets, the sun and the moon. They created calendars and wrestled with the problem of the relationship of the cosmos and man."
The bell rang. "Now there's magic for you. I just started talking and the hour is over."
As the students filed out of the class, Indy opened his telegram.
"I enjoyed your lecture, Professor Jones," Laura said. "I wish all of my classes were this interesting."
"She means all of her professors," another student said.
"Stop it," Laura said and hurried away.
Indy shook his head, but his smile faded as he read the telegram: INDY—SOMETHING'S COME UP. I CAN'T MEET YOU IN BLUFF. SORRY. MARA.
Indy crumpled it. "Thanks a lot, sweetheart. Guess we're going to miss the solstice together."
4
Cliff Dwellings
Four Corners—A Month Later
The fall morning was brisk, sparkling clear, the sort of day that Mara loved to spend hiking through woods and valleys, along lake shores and mountain trails. Today, she would descend into one of the most remarkable canyons of the American Southwest, or of anywhere for that
matter. It was a place with an ancient history of human occupation, a place with a startling, dramatic architecture that had immortalized its mysterious inhabitants.
She had an excellent view from her position on the mesa top. The canyon was perhaps a half a mile across as the crow flies, and she could see a couple of miles up and down the valley, which was a forest of junipers, Douglas firs, ponderosas, and pinons. It was the far wall of the canyon, though, which interested her. Ancient dwellings grew out of the cliffs like stalactites in a cave. At first, she had difficulty spotting even one of them. Then her gaze settled on what looked like a group of buildings hanging in midair.
Mara reached into her pack and pulled out a telescope. She extended the tube to its full length and peered through it at one of the ruins. The stone buildings seemed to grow from the cliff wall. They rose two and three stories high and their rectangular windows looked out into the verdant valley. They were grouped tightly together under an overhang, a gaping mouth that seemed about to swallow the silent village. Even through the telescope, the place looked distant, eerie, frozen in time. And empty. The inhabitants had vanished centuries earlier, gone long before the arrival of Spanish explorers. But the Spanish hadn't found Mesa Verde. If they had, they'd left no record of it.
Mara's father was a young man in 1887 when two ranchers sighted the cliff houses while looking for stray cattle. Later, her father helped one of the brothers explore the ruins in Mesa Verde and other canyons. But she didn't want to think about her father. She hated the fact that she still depended on him financially, especially since he was no longer wealthy. It was the only way he'd ever helped her, and he never let her forget it. In every other way, he'd let her down. As if to remind her of his failings as a father, he'd refused to accompany her here, saying he didn't want anything to do with Mesa Verde anymore.
Mara lowered her telescope, then focused it on another of the cliff dwellings. Again no sign of life. She sighted a third in the scope, and carefully moved across the dwellings looking for some indication of a camp. She didn't know why Indy had left Bluff without her, but she was anxious to find him. She'd been looking forward to seeing him for a long time, and it seemed hard to believe that he was actually here.
She looked further down the canyon. It had to be one of these pueblos. "Sam, I don't see anyone out there." She turned to the Ute Indian, who'd guided her from Cortez. He patted one of the horses, set the feed down, and moved to the edge of the canyon. Sam, whose skin was a rich, burnished brown, was barrel-chested and slender-hipped with a slightly protruding belly. His black hair was streaked with gray, which was as much a result of the time he'd spent in the sun, she thought, as it was his fifty years. He quickly scanned the far cliff without the aid of the telescope, then pointed.
She followed his finger. "I don't see anything." She squinted, then raised the telescope. Barely visible in the shadow of an overhang far down the canyon was another site she hadn't seen. It looked as empty as the others. But then she glimpsed a wispy curl of smoke rising from one of the buildings. She lowered the telescope. "You've got darn good eyes, Sam. That's all I can say."
"It's Spruce Tree House. It's a big pueblo."
"How long will it take us to get down there?"
"We will be there by midday."
That was fine with Mara. The quicker the better. She'd felt edgy since yesterday afternoon when they'd reached the canyon region. It was almost as if she'd sensed someone following them. Then, last night at the camp, she'd noticed the way Sam had looked around and how he'd kept his rifle with him. She'd asked if something was wrong, but he'd just shaken his head and said that it was probably coyote. There were lots of coyotes in these mountains, he'd added, as if to convince himself as well as her.
As a child, during her first trip here with her father, she'd been surprised that the area was so wooded and green. Much of the Four Corners region was dry, desolate land like the Valley of the Gods or Monument Valley. While the cliff dwellings themselves were barren and rocky, above and below was a green, wooded land.
She was glad that Sam was willing to accompany her across the canyon. She knew that his family was preparing for a trip to their home pueblo for a celebration and he wanted to get back as soon as possible. But she wasn't sure of the best route to the ruins, and there was that nagging suspicion that they were being followed.
They rode another mile or so along the mesa top before Sam raised a hand. "We can walk from here. I'll lead your horse. Mine will wait here for me."
"Once we get close, you can head back if you like," she told him.
As they descended along the trail, Mara's excitement about seeing Indy again grew sharper, clearer. When he'd written that he was coming to the Southwest this summer, she knew she had to see him. She wanted to help him with his work and she hoped he would help her with hers as well. The solstice was approaching and, if all went well, everything would come together on that day. At least, that's what she'd been told.
A branch cracked somewhere behind her and she turned, scanning the forest. "What was that?"
"I didn't hear anything."
They moved on. Maybe it was just a deer or some other harmless animal. Maybe it was a bear. The skin on the back of her neck prickled at the thought. Did bears follow you? She heard a swishing sound, maybe a branch snapping back into place. "Sam, I'm sure you heard that." He didn't answer. What was wrong with him? Indians were supposed to be aware of everything around them.
Then she recalled something her father had told her long ago. Indians were like everybody else. Some were skilled trackers and hunters; others were no better than average. Maybe Sam had great vision, but poor hearing.
"You wait here," Sam said. "I'll take a look."
She patted the horse on its side as Sam disappeared down the trail. Now everything was quiet. No sound of birds, no wind whispering through the branches, no chirring of insects. Perfectly quiet. Her uneasiness grew by the moment.
A sharp cry from just beyond the curtain of green broke the silence. "Sam?" Her voice sounded hollow, weak. Something was wrong, horribly wrong.
Noises. Crackling branches. A snorting sound.
She backed away and was on the verge of fleeing when she saw it. The palomino. Sam's horse. She felt relieved, but only for a moment. How'd it get there, and where was... "Sam, is that you?"
She saw a figure staggering near the horse. "Sam, what's wrong?" Then she saw the bib of blood covering his chest. He motioned her with his hand not to come to his aid, but to flee. She took a couple steps toward him. He shook his head. "Go, go," he gasped.
She leaped onto the back of her own horse, urging it down the path. She hugged its neck, prodded its sides. Hurry. Move. Fast.
Now the forest was the ally of her invisible enemy. Trees crowded her, branches whipped her, and the trail was a hellish, green gauntlet. Her arms and hands and cheeks and forehead were scratched and bloody as they rushed on. She had no idea whether or not she was being chased, whether she'd lost the attackers or they were right behind her. She just clung to the horse with all her strength and kneed its sides, urging it on.
Finally, the terrible green assault ended. The trail rose, narrowed. There were fewer trees, but the path was so narrow, the horse's hoofs pounded just inches from the edge. She wanted to get off and walk, but there was no time. She continued climbing toward the ridge and the sheltered cavern, Indy, and safety.
One of the horse's front legs suddenly buckled as its hoof slid over the edge. It whinnied, rose up on its hind legs, and tossed Mara through the air. She was certain she was going to tumble down the cliff. She landed hard on her back and rolled over onto her stomach. Her legs dangled over the lip of the cliff, her heart pounding, perspiration beading on her forehead. She dragged herself forward inch by inch away until one knee touched ground, then the other.
Close. Too close. She pulled her legs under her, stood, and winced as she felt the sharp pain of a bruised rib. She told herself to keep going. She had to get to the pue
blo.
Voices. She must be near. She craned her head, squinting. Three men rushed toward her from the ruins. They stopped several feet away and stared. "Where's Indy?" she asked.
None of them said a word. Something was wrong. They looked like toughened ranch hands, not assistants to an archaeologist. Then they stepped aside as another man moved forward.
"Hello, Mara. Welcome to Mesa Verde."
"Who are you?"
His wide-brimmed hat made it difficult to make out his features. He was a portly man whose khaki clothing was clean. He had a neatly trimmed goatee and a blue kerchief around his neck. She knew right away from the way he stood and carried himself that he was in charge.
"Don't you recognize me? Has it been that long?"
He spoke with an English accent, and there was something vaguely familiar about him. Then she knew, but she didn't know. It was as if the man were out of focus. Something wasn't right. He shouldn't be here. "I don't know who you are. Where's Indy?"
"You picked up some bad information, Mara. Jones isn't here."
"What do you want with me?"
"What do you think, Mara?"
"I don't know."
He laughed. "Okay, I'll spell it out. I want the ivory staff. Where is it?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Of course you do. Don't you remember we talked about it back when we first met? The quicker you tell me where it is, the sooner you'll be on your way back home."
"Roland Walcott?" She could hardly believe it. "What are you doing here? You're dead."
"Do I look dead, Mara, dear?" He laughed. "Take me to the staff, and I'll tell you all about what happened to me."
"I don't know where it is."
"I don't believe that. You've hidden it out here somewhere, haven't you?"
Indiana Jones and the Unicorn's Legacy Page 4