Bolt

by Siena West

  When the fires had burned down to coals, the War Chief commanded the warriors to kindle a new fire. Then he took up a stout wooden club and beat the soles of the witches’ feet. Black, swollen skin burst with audible pops, and blood and clear fluid trickled down to sizzle in the hot embers.

  Black Wolf drew himself to his full height in front of Night Badger, staring into the hanging man’s face. His anger was palpable.

  “Do you confess your crimes in front of the people, Night Badger?”

  The witch did not answer. His lips twisted as the cruel, cold smile played over them, but no words formed. Thunder grumbled now; the storm was moving closer.

  The War Chief’s anger grew. “You will crawl to the Underworld, Night Badger, not walk. Lower the sorcerers!” he commanded. The assistants loosened the ropes, and the witches dropped closer to the ground. The chief smashed his club into Night Badger’s knees, first the left, then the right. Then, he walked down the line of the accused witches, breaking the knees of each. The sound of breaking bones and popping ligaments seemed loud in the intervals of quiet between growls of thunder. Even then, the hanging sorcerers remained silent. It was as if they did not feel the pain.

  Black Wolf stopped before Maize Sprouts, one of two women hanging from the trees. She was Gray Dawn’s aunt. It was said she had killed many children to prolong her own life. Each girl gave her four more years, each boy two. Some say it was she who took Yellow Bird’s twins from their blankets to provide the gruesome feast at the witches’ kiva. The woman had cared for Gray Dawn since he was a baby, named him for her clan, loved and supported him all his life. Or so he had thought. He turned his eyes away as the War Chief addressed her.

  “Do you confess your crimes to the people?” Black Wolf asked. Again, there was utter silence, broken only by the rumble of thunder. Tears trickled down the broken woman’s cheeks, but she did not speak.

  “If no one will confess, use the knives,” the War Chief commanded. The warrior priests took up hafted knives, each a long, leaf-shaped blade flaked from dark gray stone. They slashed the arms and legs of the hanging sorcerers, the blood running down to fall on the embers. The wind rose as the warriors finished, breathing coolness into the night. Thunder grew louder; the storm would soon be on them.

  Black Wolf drew his own knife and went to each of the hanging sorcerers. He pointed the blade tip toward each throat and demanding a confession for the last time. Not one of the witches answered. They twisted in the rising wind, the blood on their arms and legs clotted and shining darkly when the lightning flashed. Their heads lolled forward on their chests, and their limbs hung at unnatural angles. Although their suffering was clear to the watching people, not one watcher felt sorrow at their plight.

  At last, Night Badger raised his head. “You think you can kill me, old man,” he snarled. “You cannot. My spirit will haunt your steps forever. You hear a noise in the dark of night, turn around—it will be me. If something terrible happens, be sure I caused it.” His mad laughter howled into the wind.

  “You will die, Night Badger,” Black Wolf said. “I will see to it.” His voice rose as he cursed the sorcerer. “Your spirit will fly to Tupqölu when you die. There you will remain forever, suffering for your crimes, until the Seven Worlds are completed, and the Creator has claimed all life from every corner of the universe. You are dead, you are lost forever. Your spirit will never return as a cloud to bring rain to the fields and nourishment to the children. We spit on your corpse, we move our bowels on your body.

  “Loose him further,” Black Wolf commanded. Night Badger’s feet nearly touched the ground. With astonishing speed, the War Chief slit the man’s chest from throat to navel, the knife glittering in the stormy light. At that moment, a tremendous lightning strike split the sky, and thunder rolled like the drums in the dance hall of the dead. A great cry rose from the villagers. Mothers pulled their little ones close to their skirts, shielding their eyes from the carnage.

  The watchers gasped as Black Wolf reached in and wrenched not one, but two still-beating hearts from the gaping cavity in Night Badger’s body. One was animal, one was human. Turning in the flashing light, the corpse shifted before their eyes, changing into the body of a bighorn sheep. The human skin rolled away, falling to the ground in great transparent ropes like the discarded skin of a snake or the intestines of a slaughtered deer. Hide grew in its place. Split hooves replaced the charred feet; horn buds began to push through the skull.

  With a roar, the War Chief threw the hearts on the newly kindled fire. They hissed like snakes as they caught fire and shriveled. Lightning split the sky again, and a dark mist seemed to rise from the body of Night Badger. Then the sheep’s flesh shriveled, and when the hearts were charred to ash, only bones were left.

  The remaining witches danced a mindless jig, howling and screaming like animals. Rain began to fall.

  * * *

  The people worked together long into the rainy night. The prescribed punishment dictated what they must do. The War Chief’s assistants had killed the remaining sorcerers dispassionately, cutting their throats. Then they cut out the witches’ twin hearts and the horrible eyes that could see in the dark, burning them in the fire.

  The women butchered the corpses as they would deer, severing skulls, limbs, feet, and hands. Then they crushed the body parts. The men used clubs, and the women ground the flesh between grinding stones. They cut apart the pieces of the torso, separating the spinal column, shoulders, ribs, and pelves. They pounded the eyeless skulls until they heard the bones crack. When they had finished, the arms, legs, and torso pieces were bloody and flattened, the bones within splintered and crushed. The hands and feet were so beaten, they scarcely looked human.

  When it was over at last, the people drooped with exhaustion, their bodies aching and their minds filled with images of the violence and death they had experienced. The rain had washed away most of the blood, but the pile of dismembered bodies and the lingering stench of burned flesh remained. The Village Chief, called Sun Rising, and the Crier Chief conferred with Black Wolf.

  “I think we failed in killing all the Two Hearts,” Black Wolf said, shivering in his wet garments. “You saw Night Badger’s spirit leave his body in the form of black mist. His power is great, and I fear he will return to do evil in the village again.”

  “I do not think so,” Sun Rising responded. “His hearts are now ashes. He and his wretched companions are in Tupqölu, dancing in the searing flames of hell. But to make it certain, we will bury the Two Hearts in such a manner that their spirits can never rise again.”

  Sun Rising spoke to the other leaders and the captains. “Burn them. Then dig a large pit, bury the bodies, and pile on stones, as much as you can carry. Last, build a great fire on top of everything. The popqwat will never claw their way up to our world again.”

  And as he spoke, so it was.

  Chapter 39

  The Ruin in the Canyon

  The last day of the field school dawned on a brilliant, sunny morning. Boxes and crates bursting with notebooks, forms, artifacts, and samples jam packed the trucks returning to Tucson. The students packed their work boots and trowels for the last time and loaded their bags into the designated trucks. The staff would drop those who were flying home or taking the bus at the airport or bus station. Students who had driven to the field school were free to leave as soon as they packed and turned in their field notes and projects. Some planned to tour the Southwest before heading home, extending their summer adventure.

  Soon, students and staff would say goodbye to new friends, lovers, and the mountain country where they had lived and worked and which some had grown to love. It was a sad time for many. But this morning, they had one last chance to savor their experience in Arizona.

  Mel planned to leave that morning, driving back to her university for early classes. She, Cole, and Maggie had scrupulously avoided one another since the fight. But softhearted Maggie, lost in the glow of love, c
ould not bear to see Mel leave with the situation between them unsettled. When she heard Mel was leaving, Maggie ran to the parking lot to find Mel climbing into her pickup. The crew chief had packed her vehicle to the hilt. The tires flattened under the weight, and it was anyone’s guess if she would make it back home.

  “Mel, wait up,” Maggie said. The women stood beside the pickup, feeling awkward and uncomfortable. Then Mel broke the silence, eyes on the ground to avoid meeting Maggie’s.

  “I should apologize for my behavior,” she said, scuffing the dirt with a boot-clad toe. “I had no right to impose myself on you, and I shouldn’t have hit Cole.”

  Maggie willed Mel to look up at her. “Cole told me after the fight it took every ounce of will power he had to keep from hitting you back.”

  Mel shook her head, eyes still on her scuffed boots. “I never act like that—it must be the altitude or something.” She looked up at last “Can you forgive me?”

  “Of course,” Maggie said. The redhead reached out to the other woman, and they hugged. “But if you’re here next summer and put the moves on me again—I’ll be the one punching you out.”

  “Deal. Tell Cole I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t have the guts to face him.”

  Maggie nodded. “I will.” Mel piled into the truck and with a wave, she was gone.

  * * *

  Norm made a cold lunch with sandwiches, salads, and fruit so the troops could be on their way. Elena and Jorgensen ate with the students, enjoying their last lunch with them, when Cole and Maggie approached. “We have news and a proposition for you,” Cole said.

  “I’m not sure I like the sound of that, because I’ve learned what Maggie’s propositions mean—trouble. And tell me—is it good news or bad news?” Elena grinned at them. “If it’s bad news, please go away. I’ve had enough this summer.”

  Cole grinned and took Maggie’s hand. “It’s fantastic news. I’ve asked Maggie to marry me, and she said yes.” Maggie seemed to sparkle, as if she’d been dipped in glitter, her freckled cheeks flushed and shining.

  Jorgensen clapped, and everyone else within hearing clapped, whistled, or hooted. “That’s wonderful!” Elena said. She hugged Cole and kissed Maggie.

  “When did this happen? You didn’t say a thing.”

  Cole sobered. “I asked her right after Greenlaw died.”

  Maggie encircled Cole’s waist with a possessive arm. “Guess he decided life was too short, et cetera,” she said.

  “Smart, Cole,” Jorgensen said. “I learned about carpe diem myself this summer.” He smiled at Elena, and their glances connected.

  “We’ve heard the news,” Elena said. “So what’s the proposition?”

  “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the canyon where Greenlaw shot at us,” Cole said. “I’m sure there’s a cliff ruin upstream beyond the place where he holed up. We’d like to stay an extra day and see if I’m right.”

  “You were supposed to drive a truck back to Tucson,” Elena reminded him.

  “Still can. The one I’m driving only has lab stuff in it. Sue’s got all the student gear. I persuaded Matt to drive my car to Tucson.”

  “There won’t be anybody to help you unload when you get there.”

  “I’ll get my buddies to help. Maggie can, too.”

  “Don’t forget we have grades to finish before everybody takes off.”

  “I haven’t. It’s only one day, Tía.”

  “Okay, you’ve convinced me. But—I intend to break up the engagement party. I’m coming with you.”

  “Me, too,” Jorgensen said. “You’re visiting the scene of the crime. No way are you leaving me out.”

  Cole grinned with delight. “I hoped you’d say so.”

  Not long after, Sue and Tim drove away from camp in a halo of red dust. Tim had also persuaded a student to drive his vehicle. He and Matt joined the parade. Those left behind waved at the little caravan until it disappeared. Elena was crying a little; the end of the field school always made her misty.

  * * *

  It was one of those summer days with a sky so blue it hurt to gaze at it. Elena parked at the canyon mouth.

  “I’m still wondering why we didn’t see Greenlaw’s truck and trailer that day,” Maggie said as they assembled their gear. “Our truck’s obvious here.”

  “You weren’t trying to hide it, and he was. The road continues past the canyon mouth toward Pine Creek,” Elena said. “Greenlaw probably left his rig ahead of you, on the opposite site of the road. No doubt he put it in the willows and brush. Because there’s not much traffic, no one would notice it.”

  The rains had swept the canyon floor as clean as a beach and left pools among the boulders. Dragonflies hovered over the water, their wings flashing iridescent green, orange, and purple. Canyon swifts darted and swooped like butterflies in the morning light. They talked as they started up the canyon.

  “After we saw the pot holes at Cholla House and Greenlaw’s rig at Canyon Day,” Elena said, “we suspected the vandal was riding a horse to the ruins. We didn’t know then it was Greenlaw for sure, although I was suspicious. I believe Greenlaw was riding into the canyons, looking for ruins, for a long time.”

  “How did he carry his dig gear on horseback?” Maggie wondered.

  “A collapsible shovel, what they call an entrenching tool,” Cole said. “And a pick-mattock would fit into a saddlebag. Or he could tie the tools behind the saddle.”

  Jorgensen ignored Cole and glowered at Elena. “That time at Canyon Day—I’ve meant to ask you about that. Why didn’t you tell me what you saw?”

  Elena shrugged. “It didn’t seem important. But I was suspicious, especially because mud was on his rig. I would have talked to you when I had more information.”

  “What you mean is, you’re a stubborn, hard-headed woman.”

  Elena sniffed. “Well, isn’t that a good thing? Una cosa buena?”

  Cole and Maggie exploded with laughter. “Try working for her.” Cole snorted.

  Despite the lingering memory of gunfire and blood, Cole and Maggie were relaxed and happy. They chattered and pointed out where they caught Cole’s horse and the place where the rattlesnake spooked Maggie’s horse, and the animal threw her.

  But Elena was intent on considering Greenlaw’s crimes. What else did he plan to do before the blue-white strike of death burned down from the sky?

  The hikers reached the canyon junction where Greenlaw had peppered Cole and Maggie with bullets. Cole pointed out the sherds and other archaeological debris on the canyon floor and the line of greenery in the cliff face where there might be a rock shelter. “That’s the place we suppose Greenlaw was hiding,” he said.

  A short but steep hike brought them into the overhang. Only three little rooms huddled together, and one had started to erode over the edge. “These aren’t habitation rooms,” Elena said. “Bet this little place was a granary for storing food.”

  “More evidence that there’s a bigger ruin up ahead,” Cole said. The ancient inhabitants of the canyon country often built such granaries away from their homes to protect their stored food from enemy raiders.

  Greenlaw had dug holes in the room floors, probing for artifacts. The old man had kicked apart the packrat nests accumulated in the corners, and the treasures the rats collected—little bleached bones, cactus buds, and sticks—littered the floors. The rooms also held a scatter of dried corn cobs.

  “Are these real?” Jorgensen asked as he picked up one.

  “Sí. And they’re about 700 years old,” Elena answered. Jorgensen whistled.

  “Guess Greenlaw found nothing here worth his time,” Cole said.

  Elena’s face darkened and her smile faded. “No, I’m sure he didn’t. The old man would have confessed it on the bluff.” He had spilled everything else in the cold, pouring rain.

  “He was bragging to you. How he pulled a fast one on the stupid archaeologists,” Cole said.

 
They also found indisputable evidence that Greenlaw used the place as a shooting blind. Dozens of shell casings littered the ground, and the packrats had carried away some for their refurbished nests. “Too late for the prosecution,” Jorgensen said, “but let’s collect a few, anyway.” He scooped up a handful and pocketed them.

  The hikers slithered back down the rocky slope. “We’ve got to go farther,” Cole insisted. He led the party up the canyon beyond the little ruin, examining the south cliff face. Perhaps a quarter mile past the granary, he halted.

  Cole had been holding his breath, almost sick with anxiety. Would they find the canyon barren, its rocky overhangs empty, despite his conviction—and his assurances to Elena—that the canyon sheltered a ruin?

  “I knew it!” he exhaled a heart-deep sigh. “Look—you can just see the overhang,” Cole said.

  The canyon walls angled sharply, forming a perfect southern exposure and creating a blind corner that camouflaged the overhang.

  “I don’t see anything,” Maggie said.

  “If you look closely, you can see the blackened ceiling of the alcove.” Smoke from ancient fires had darkened it with soot. Even when they rounded the corner, the cliff dwelling was invisible from the canyon floor. A tangled thicket of brush and young trees blocked it from sight. It had been the perfect building spot long ago, and now it was a perfect place to conceal an ancient settlement.

  A talus slope spread below the overhang. “Come on, let’s go.” Cole said, almost dancing with anticipation. They threaded their way upslope in Cole’s wake, skidding and losing ground often. The steep slope was treacherous, with cobbles that shifted underfoot. Only scattered vegetation grew. Because there was precious little purchase, the hikers grabbed at bushes and exposed roots to keep their balance. One false move, and the boulders and scree would tumble downhill, carrying them with it.