by Siena West
It wasn’t possible to see what lay ahead. A sheer rock face they couldn’t scale without technical climbing equipment might block the way into the ruin. There would be no ladders; they would have decayed long ago. The security the cliff dwellers had sought might continue to protect their home hundreds of years after they had left it.
Halfway up, the slope grew even steeper. Cole took a misstep and slid down a good ten feet in a shower of loose stones that rained on his companions. But he pushed on and waited when the rest struggled the last few feet uphill. The hikers topped out on a flat ledge, panting and red-faced.
Jorgensen leaned against a boulder, trying to catch his breath.
“I sure hope this ruin is worth the climb,” he said, “because I think I’m going to die.”
Cole laughed. “We’re in luck. There’s an easy way in.” He pointed to a narrow cleft in the rock face that angled upward between two bulging outcrops. He swept off his cap in a theatrical gesture of invitation to Elena.
“After you, Ma’am.”
The rest followed Elena into the shadows.
* * *
“It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen,” Maggie whispered, her eyes soft with wonder.
“Worth getting shot at?” Cole asked.
“Yeah. That and more. I’d have endured almost anything to see this.”
Spectacular was the only word. The archaeologists strolled through the rooms in silence, cognizant that they might be the first people to set foot in the place since the inhabitants left it centuries ago. The preservation was impeccable. Intact, smoke-blackened roofs showed the layers of beams and planks stacked at right angles atop each other, the layers capped with reeds and mud. The walls, one to two stories high, had not crumbled, and plaster still covered the stacked stones. Best of all, no pot holes marked the rooms. Greenlaw and other pot raiders had never found the ruin.
Fine, silty dust that collected over the centuries covered the room floors. Grinding tools and storage pots still stood in some rooms. “I feel like Carter in King Tut’s tomb,” Elena said. “‘I see wonderful things,’ quote unquote.”
“It looks like the Indians just left,” Jorgensen said.
“Hey, look over here,” Cole called. His voice echoed, bouncing against the overhang’s walls and ceiling. He found a room painted with dazzling geometric designs in red, black, and white on the adobe-colored plaster. The painting looked fresh, as if the artist had completed it that day. The painter had inscribed jagged zigzags representing lightning and rectangular terraces symbolizing clouds. These symbols would call down the rain that gave life to the corn growing sweetly green in the fields. It was a ceremonial room, a kiva.
“We should call this ruin Lightning House,” Cole whispered.
Given what had happened to Greenlaw, the name was ironic.
They found a place to eat lunch in the shade. As they leaned against a rock face, they talked about the cliff ruin. After a while, Elena spoke to Cole. “It will take a long time to document the ruin. After that, there’ll be noninvasive data collection. Eventually, we’ll want to do test excavations. I suspect you’ll be here for quite a few summers.”
Cole looked at her, uncertain. “I’m confused. What do you mean?”
“Why, mi’jo—it’s clear that Lightning House will be your dissertation project, not the survey. We won’t be excavating that little ruin where Otis Greenlaw tried to kill me.” Elena smiled at Cole. “You’ll have to write the research design, so let’s take a lot of photos before we leave. You’ll be busy this fall, chico.”
Dumbstruck, Cole stammered an answer. The young man shook his head, trying to clear away the dizziness and understand what the director was saying.
“But we need to do something about getting into the ruin. That talus is a killer,” Elena said. “I see trail building in your future, Cole.”
“Really? You’ll let me work here?”
“Assuming Jason Whitney will allow us to, yes. I wouldn’t let anyone else touch this ruin.”
“I can hardly believe it. This is the project of a lifetime.” Then Cole grew somber. “I can’t help think about Greenlaw. Imagine what he would have found if he rode a little farther up the canyon.”
“Thank God he didn’t,” Jorgensen said. “Even a naïve FBI agent like me knows this ruin is a spectacular discovery.”
“I almost feel sorry for Greenlaw,” Elena said.
Maggie snorted. “Really, Tía. The asshole intended to kill you.”
“But he was broke and depressed. The rancher may have been mentally ill, and he was lonely.”
And it was sad. They learned that neither of Greenlaw’s children would attend the funeral. The vet confirmed that the rancher’s cattle died of blackleg. Norm told them that the bacteria causing blackleg could live in the dirt for years. It would be a long time before the land could be grazed. Because of that, the selling price of Greenlaw’s ranch would be low.
Jorgensen had told Elena about the desiccated Christmas tree in Greenlaw’s living room. She thought about it now, its dead limbs naked above a pile of brown needles. To her, it was a symbol of the man’s hopelessness.
“Well, I sure won’t miss the smelly old dude,” Maggie replied. “But I’d grown rather fond of that stupid, jug-headed animal that tossed me back in the canyon.” Cole howled with laughter, remembering the vivid and inventive curses she lobbed at the poor animal each time they rode.
Elena gazed happily at the walls rising around them, the dark eyes of the open doorways friendly and welcoming instead of ominous. Jorgensen found it incredible that after that horrifying day when Greenlaw died, she had recovered with no signs of lasting harm. It was that aura again. Curls of hair escaped her cap and smudges streaked her face, but she seemed to glow. Elena looked like a woman in love.
* * *
Elena found the pictograph. She was exploring the far eastern edge of the overhang, looking for water. Most cliff dwellers built their homes near springs or seeps, and she was certain that Lightning House must have had a water source nearby. Elena found it by following her nose—seeking the source of the sweet fragrance of water, fresh vegetation, and wet rock.
Water seeped from the living rock face and trickled to form a pool. Shaded by a cluster of young oaks and willows, moss covered the rock with emerald green, and wild cress and mint lined the pool. Like the spring and the pueblo walls, the people who lived here had endured, their descendants surviving to the modern day. The spring was a magical place, and Elena scarcely breathed, reluctant to disturb the spell. A narrow ledge ran high above the pool, and above the ledge a pictograph gleamed in white paint against the dark rock. It was a trio of zigzag lines, nested chevrons that symbolized fire from the sky. Seven centuries ago, the ancient ones also called their home Lightning House.
* * *
On the way home, they chatted about it all, tired but excited—the cliff ruin, the frightening events of the summer, Greenlaw, and the bone bed in the pasture. Maggie broke into the chatter.
“Cole, if you will spend the rest of your life working on Dr. Elena’s cliff ruin, we ought to get married on Norm’s ranch. My mother would have a cow, but a western wedding would be a hoot. A backdrop of cattle grazing in the pastures, bales of hay, big hats, and cowboy boots.” Maggie broke into peals of laughter. “Did I just say my mom would have a cow?”
Cole poked her, hard. “Maggie, what’s wrong with you? Did you sneak tequila in your water bottle?” Maggie was giddy with the joy of discovery, with being whole, young, and sound, remembering what might have happened if Greenlaw’s aim been better or their luck worse.
Maggie ignored him. “No wedding dress for me. I’ll wear white, though—a lacy white skirt, white boots, and a big white hat.
“Oh, shit. I forgot about Greenlaw’s stupid white hat.” Maggie grew quiet. And then, she spoke into the silence.
“I never believed in karma—I’m a no-nonsense girl. Ask Cole.”
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He rolled his eyes.
“But this thing with the lightning killing old Greenlaw—it’s like retribution for the evil stuff he did. Like the ancient ones reached out from their disturbed graves and zapped him. I bet the old Indian spirits witched Greenlaw’s cattle, too.”
Happy, Maggie sang a verse from a Talking Heads tune.
“Okay, I’ve got to ask,” Elena said. “You kids are too young to be singing Talking Heads and know the lyrics by heart. What’s the deal?”
“Best band in the world,” Cole said.
“Best songs in the world,” Maggie replied.
“We learned soon after we met that we shared a Talking Heads obsession. Guess it was one thing that brought us together. Don’t they always mention shared interests on the dating websites?” Cole said.
“You better not look at dating websites,” Maggie said. Cole punched her arm.
“Speaking of the ancient ones,” Cole said, “what the heck was the bone bed in the pasture? We never decided.”
Dr. Thomas’s lecture had supported Elena’s ideas about the human remains. Now, she shared them.
“Think about what we found: broken, splintered, cut-apart, and burned bones, like in Dr. Thomas’s lecture about witches. He told us that executioners dismembered witches and burned them to prove they were dead and weren’t able to harm. I’m convinced those poor slaughtered people in the pasture were witches, not cannibals—although cannibalism might have been part of their witchcraft rituals. The Indians executed them for their transgressions, pure and simple.
“When the Indians had dismembered the witches, someone burned the bodies, dug a big pit, and dumped the remains in it. I bet it was the people who lived in the pueblo on the ranch. Then they piled stones on top, like they were weighting down the malignant spirits of the dead witches. Last, they set the whole thing on fire.”
“Wow,” Cole and Maggie said at the same time.
“It must have taken days to do that. The spaceship was big,” Cole said. Elena groaned.
“We’ll find out for sure when Kathi Thomas does the analysis,” she said. Dr. Thomas’s bioarchaeologist daughter had phoned and said she would do the analysis of the bones gratis, if she could write a scientific article about the results. Elena had agreed. She didn’t think Kathi would have cannibalism to write about, but one never knew.
“And maybe I’m just a superstitious Catholic girl, but I can’t help but wonder if the spirits of those executed witches still hung around here. If they did their best to make life unpleasant for us.”
“The wildfire?” Maggie asked.
“That, and a lot of other things—Linda breaking her leg, lightning striking the water tower, those awful creatures in the pasture. Maybe even the pot hunting and Caleb’s actions in stealing the human remains and setting the fire. Greenlaw shooting Cole.”
“Busy witches,” Cole said. Then—“I hope you won’t think I’m rude, Tía,” said, “but I’ve been wondering about something for a while. Why wouldn’t you go into the excavation units in the pasture?”
So the kids noticed. I thought I’d kept it hidden.
“It gave me a bad feeling to be close to the bones,” she said, unruffled. “I don’t know why—I can’t explain it rationally. It was just easier to stay away.”
The day’s excitement was too much for Maggie. “You are a witch! I knew it!” She shrieked with laughter. Elena frowned. Caleb and Greenlaw called me a witch, too. Thank God these people don’t know about the banishing spell for Cimelli’s sorcery bundle.
“You better be careful, Agent Jorgensen,” Maggie said. “I wouldn’t hang around with her if I were you. Might be dangerous.”
The agent smiled and took Elena’s hand. “I wouldn’t even care if she witches me with black magic. I’m completely under her spell.”
“It turned out to be a good summer, despite everything that happened,” Elena said when the chortling and shrieking had died. “Tucson will seem tame without the excitement.”
“Frankly, I could do without some of that excitement,” Cole confessed. “Especially the shooting part.”
“Knowing Elena as I’ve come to know her this summer,” Jorgensen said, “I doubt there will be a scarcity of excitement in Tucson this fall. And I plan to be around to enjoy it.”
An Excerpt from Siena West’s Forthcoming Novel,
Death Kiss
Note: This is an uncorrected excerpt and may not represent the final book.
Flash Flood
The field-school director woke before dawn. Elena lay in her sleeping bag, feeling out of sorts for no obvious reason. Crickets were making little symphonies in the weeds, but the birds had not yet awakened. She unwound herself from the bag and stepped into her boots, first checking for unwanted critters. She pulled on a sweatshirt; it was cool, almost cold, outside her tent. The damp of morning dew pulled fresh scents from the brush and trees. There was enough pearly light to show the way to the latrine. The morning star hung like a Christmas ornament in the pellucid sky. On the way back, she smelled piñon smoke and knew Joe or Ricki had lit the fire. Hoping for coffee, she dressed and headed for the cook tent.
“Good morning,” she called as she stepped to the fire circle.
“You’re up early, Dr. Vargas. Coffee?” Joe asked. He was the camp manager—a huge mountain of a man of Basque descent.
“Please, yes. I couldn’t sleep. I don’t know why, it’s such a perfect morning.” Joe poured filled a mug from the steaming coffee pot on the coals. Ricki, the camp cook, was busy with breakfast. Elena sat at the fire circle, warming her hands on the mug, as the rest of the camp awakened, the birds began to sing, and the light strengthened. The camp was in shadow because the rising sun was behind the cliff. It would be an hour or so before sunlight peeped into the canyon bottom.
It seemed like an ordinary morning. The crew appeared one by one, yawning and disheveled, and helped themselves to potatoes, scrambled eggs, and oatmeal. Cole, the assistant director, sat down beside Elena with his plate.
“Not eating?” he asked, dousing his food with liberal quantities of hot sauce. It made the freeze-dried powdered eggs more palatable.
“Not hungry. I’m off my feed this morning. Have we decided who’s staying in camp this weekend?” she asked.
“That, my dear Tía, would be me.” The crew spent four days off at the Taylor Ranch after ten days in the field. With recent threats of pot hunting and Mexican cartels, at least one staff member stayed in camp to protect it and the ruin from vandals.
These homey exchanges did little to make Elena feel better. As she brushed her teeth, pulled her hair back into a ponytail, and grabbed her field equipment, Elena realized she was having one of her premonitions. Something was wrong in their little universe.
* * *
After breakfast, the archaeologists trudged to the cliff ruin where they were recording rooms. The sight was amazing—the red and tan cliff face, streaked black with manganese and iron, sheltered an immaculately preserved cliff dwelling caught in a pool of deep purple shade. The rock shelter faced to the south. Now, in late spring, the rooms were shaded, but in the winter, the sun would pour in to warm the dwelling.
Cole’s crew was working in Room 1, the westernmost in the front bank of pueblo rooms. He had assigned a student, Emily, and one of the crew chiefs, Ava, to recording. Two other students, Fuzz and Kristoph, pulled the 25-meter measuring tapes. Only the back wall of Room 1 was complete. The other three walls had toppled to various heights, and the front wall was missing because part of it was outside the alcove overhang.
“How can we document something that isn’t there?” golden-haired Emily asked, a plaintive note in her voice.
“We don’t,” Cole answered. “Instead, we document what remains and extrapolate.” He was beginning to wonder if Emily’s waterfall of golden hair hid a serious mental disability. “We’ll record the fallen walls, measure the height of the standing ones, and
extrapolate the length and height of missing walls from the ones that are standing.”
It was clear from the laughter and chatter that crews in the other rooms were having way more fun than Cole’s crew. The voices echoed hollowly in the cave, bouncing from ceiling to walls and floor. At one point, Fuzz stuck his do-ragged head over the wall between Rooms 1 and 2, where Jesse’s crew was working. Jesse was the second crew chief.
“Whassup?” he asked. “You guys smokin’ weed over there?”
Jesse laughed. “I wish. I’ve been trying to teach Jackson here how to tell directions. Seems he’s challenged in that way.”
Jackson screwed up his face. “I can’t help it. I was never good with math.”
“Jackson,” Jesse said with utter patience, “this isn’t math. This is north, south, east, and west. Let’s go over it again.”
“Oh geez,” Fuzz said, drawing his head back in the room. “Those dudes make you guys seem like geniuses,” he remarked to his fellow crew members.
Around lunchtime, they began to hear growls of distant thunder. The canyon walls behind and across from the alcove sheltering the cliff ruin were too high to see clouds building up or the lightning producing the thunder. It was clear, however, a storm was brewing somewhere nearby, and if it was upstream from the canyon, they could be in trouble.
The crew broke for lunch. As they ate, thunder reverberated in the canyon walls. “Sonofabitch,” Cole said, perplexed. “It’s the first week of June. There shouldn’t be any monsoons yet.”
“What’s a monsoon?” Emily asked. “We aren’t in India.”
“Summer storms. They’re called monsoons because there’s a flow of moist air up from the Gulf of Mexico, like the Indian monsoons. The weather folks used to start the monsoon when the humidity reached a certain point, but they changed it. Now it’s just the calendar—the monsoon starts on June 15. We should have at least two weeks of dry weather.”