Obsidian Tears (Apparition Lake Book 2)

by Daniel D. Lamoreux

  He grabbed his walkie-talkie and whistled at Ten Trees. “We're making an unscheduled stop.”

  He heard griping in the background when Ten Trees keyed the mic to reply. Two Ravens didn't let it bother him and, he knew, it wouldn't bother the young camp cook. Ten Trees got a kick out of indignant white tourists. “Right,” was Ten Trees only response.

  Two Ravens pulled off and parked at the Obsidian Cliff kiosk. Built in 1931, and on the National Register since 1982, it was the first wayside exhibit in any US national park.

  “Why did we stop?” a client bellowed as he jumped from the van.

  As Two Ravens didn't know why, he offered his patented grim smile and said, “It's a lovely place.”

  “The whole park is lovely,” the client grumbled. “I'll give you that. But we've had enough of it and we're ready to be on our way.”

  “It'll have to wait for a few minutes. You will have to wait.”

  Two Ravens stared out at the famous cliff.

  Annoyed, but with a week of Two Ravens' temperament under his belt and aware he might as well be resigned, the client grudgingly acquiesced. “Okay,” he said, following the outfitter's gaze. “So? As long as we're here… What are we looking at?”

  Two Ravens turned a distracted eye in the client's direction. As much as he wanted to listen to the land, he recognized many people simply could not tolerate silence. The benefits of serenity needed to be learned. Those without understanding often found silence uncomfortable and blabbered to spare themselves the quiet. Two Ravens shrugged. Compelled, he wasn't leaving. And, as long as he was holding them all captive, he might as well continue as tour guide. Maybe, just maybe, they'd all learn something before the moment passed.

  “This is Obsidian Cliff,” the outfitter told them. “What you are seeing is unique. Obsidian can be found in volcanic areas where magma, if it's rich in silica, and if it cools without contact with moisture, hardens as black glass. Most places where lava vents to the surface, obviously, have moisture in one form or another. As a result most obsidian occurs as small jet black rocks scattered amid other rock formations.” Two Ravens pointed. “ Obsidian Cliff has an otherwise unheard of exposed vertical thickness of 98 feet.”

  “So what makes this place special,” the man asked as his companions joined them.

  “It is a place of learning for geologists and archeologists,” Two Ravens said. “The cliff can tell us much. Because obsidian can be honed to an exceptionally sharp thin edge, the cliff has been quarried by toolmakers for more than 11,000 years. It is the United States' most widely dispersed source of obsidian by hunter-gatherers. The Indian have traded Yellowstone obsidian from western Canada to eastern Ohio. It has even been found in the archeological digs of the ancient Seminole tribes of Florida. About 90% of the plateau burned in the fire of 1988. The flames did not affect the cliff face, but it cleared the surface and most of the lodgepole pine and offered an opportunity for the park's scientists to conduct in-depth archeological surveys. They were able to collect a lot of information about how and where obsidian was mined from the bedrock.”

  “How do you remember all that cr –” The client stopped himself and rewrote the finish. “All that stuff?”

  As always, Two Ravens remained unreadable. “The chief ranger and I speak on occasion.” There was no need for these tourists to know that the occasions when he and the chief ranger, Glenn Merrill, spoke were frequent and usually included copious amounts of whiskey. Instead Two Ravens told them, “All the boring facts about Obsidian Cliff were recently in the news. The site was designated a National Historic Landmark just three years ago.”

  “Three years? You must have a good memory.”

  “I never forget a thing,” Two Ravens warned him. “Besides my people have been on this land for centuries.”

  It was at that moment the rumbling started. The building behind them shook, a downspout toppled to the ground, windows rattled, one cracked, and the clients, Ten Trees, and even the always solid Two Ravens had difficulty staying on their feet. The thundering snap of timber and the fracturing of rock echoed through the valley as a portion of the cliff face cracked and broke. A slide of loosed obsidian bounced down the cliff and slammed into the ground below.

  Two Ravens saw, not a rock slide, but a mirror of black glass shattering in front of him. He was strangely, deeply affected by the sight. And, as the echo subsided and the dust settled, he found himself unable to move. This, he knew, was what had drawn him there. But he did not understand why.

  Behind him, regaining their balance, his excited clients were amazed and reinvigorated. In unison they asked, then begged, then demanded to be allowed to race to the base of the cliff to see the damage up close – and maybe collect some souvenirs. Two Ravens made it plain collecting anything from Obsidian Cliff would be a violation of Federal Law and that they'd all wind up in prison. The men laughed and spouted off but Two Ravens no longer heard them or their gibberish. They had no idea what they had just witnessed. No idea in the world.

  Two Ravens was shaken to his core. He knew something horrendous was brewing and was deeply concerned. The edge of newly exposed obsidian gleamed in the Wyoming sun. Still the outfitter felt overwhelmed by darkness.

  Chapter 5

  Glenn pulled into the lot of the Museum of the National Park Ranger in northwestern Yellowstone and beside another Park Service vehicle. He'd been called there, but wasn't certain why.

  The museum wasn't a place where they usually had trouble. True, somebody had broken in not long after he'd taken over as chief ranger, more years past now than he cared to think about, and they'd stolen a handful of artifacts on display. He'd beefed up patrols of the building and grounds at that time. They'd broadened those extra patrols, three years ago, to include the nearby Norris Geyser Basin when one of their number, a ranger by the name of Bart Houser, had been killed there.

  Bart was a mixed up guy. He'd had his good points like most everybody but, at his core, he'd been a bad egg and he came to a bad end. A horrible end. Nobody deserved to die that way. Glenn shook his head at the chilling memory of the morning after, when he'd been called to the scene. Ranger Franklin, an exceedingly good egg, had found Bart torn to shreds and laying in Cistern Spring. Point was, outside of that unforgettable supernatural event, little in the way of crime occurred at the Museum of the National Park Ranger and Glenn was more than curious as to why he'd been summoned. Curious but far from bothered.

  Located on a scenic spot overlooking the Gibbon River, a setting that was likely even more scenic in 1908 when it was built, the six-room log cabin that comprised the museum was then the Norris Soldier Station for the U.S. Army units that patrolled Yellowstone from 1886 until the establishment of the Park Service in 1918. Yup. If you had to be called away from your work, the ranger museum was a great place to be called to.

  Glenn parked and started up the long steps to the entrance.

  Steve Pence, the ranger who discovered and handled the dead squatter was there, along with his newbie partner, Mark Maltby. Glenn was already aware of the body's discovery. Who he was or how he died was still a matter of conjecture; he was John Doe right now. They were waiting on reports from the medical examiner but there were no outright signs of foul play. All of which brought Glenn right back to the question of why he was there.

  “Steve, Mark,” Glenn said. “What's going on?”

  “It's about the old guy we found this morning,” Pence said. “We brought something we found here. We thought this needed your attention.”

  “You brought evidence here? Why? You know that violates policy on evidence collection and storage? This better be good?”

  “Truth is, Chief,” Pence said, suddenly nervous. “We weren't sure what to do.”

  Pence led Glenn inside. The rookie followed behind.

  The bedroll from the lean-to, what spare clothes there were, a coat, a hat, a pair of pants, two shirts, a mess kit, a small box of food stuffs, and other odds and ends had all been picked u
p by the forensic technicians and taken away with the body. The lot would be analyzed as evidence for clues as to who the man was and how he died.

  “But one item,” Pence explained, “was in a very strange place, Chief, hidden in a hole in the ground under the dead drifter. And it looked strangely out of place.” He pointed at a plastic evidence bag, containing the padlocked box they'd found, sitting alone on the floor. “Most of the effects were pretty obviously old junk. But this… We didn't know if it was junk or some kind of treasure.”

  Glenn lifted the bag and studied the box minutely.

  “In my opinion,” Pence said. “It was too well stored and treated with too much importance for where it was found.”

  “You mean buried? A box that small with a padlock that big?”

  “Exactly. Under his bedroll, under him, with the rest of his worldly possessions laying out in front of God and everybody in a cobbled lean-to. It didn't ring square with me. Obviously, the guy was hiding it. I thought you might want to get a look before it was pawed over. And I didn't want to be responsible for an item that might be worth something. So I brought it to the museum for security and to let you make the call on where it goes from here.”

  Glenn nodded and studied the box again, this time with special attention on the padlock. “You didn't happen to find the key?”

  Like doing a magic trick, Pence raised his hand and dangled a dirty string; a padlock key swayed at its end. “It was in his left boot.”

  “I applaud your initiative, Ranger Pence,” Glenn said. “And caution you, particularly in front of rookie rangers, to use it sparingly and with much aforethought.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Glenn looked the little museum lobby over and made a command decision. “I think we'll adjourn to the curator's office.” The new curator, her name escaped Glenn at that moment, would have gone home hours before. But surely she wouldn't object to the use of her work space for so delicate an operation as sneaking a peek. Glenn led his junior rangers into the tiny office, closed the door behind them and, without another word between them, opened the evidence bag and removed the box. He unlocked the padlock and lifted the lid. Inside, he found… a doll.

  At least it looked like a doll. One of the ugliest dolls, Glenn thought, it had ever been his misfortune to see. It lay supine in the box, posed in a sitting position, straight-backed and cross-legged with its arms crossed in front. As kids, he and his siblings had always called this “sitting Indian style.”

  Glenn gently turned the box to get an upright look at the figure. Pence and Maltby moved to his sides for a better look themselves. In the box, in that position, the figure was roughly eight inches tall. On its feet, Glenn imagined, it would probably have been about a foot in height. Its head was slightly larger than a golf ball but, for its size, had very large eyes hidden behind closed eyelids. Odd, Glenn thought, for a doll to have closed eyes.

  It had a broad flat nose and a wide mouth with tightly pinched lips. Glenn couldn't rule out the psychological effect of its posture but, to the chief ranger, its features looked Native American. The doll was a little Indian. Strangest of all, the figure's head was misshapen on top. The word that popped into Glenn's mind was damaged. The doll was carved to look as if it had a crushed skull.

  “What is it?” Pence asked.

  Glenn stared at the figure. “It's unique.”

  “But I still don't have my answer,” Pence said, complaining. “Is it junk or some kind of treasure?”

  “I don't know if it's either.” Glenn closed the box, slipped the padlock back in place, and locked it again. “I don't know what it is.” Glenn shook off the – for want of a better word – “spell” the doll had cast over him. He pointed at the box. “This was it? This was all you found?”

  “Other than the few personal items and the bedroll he was laying on. No identification in or on any of it. Nothing of any apparent significance.” He waved at the box. “We… uh, secured this without the technicians' help.”

  Glenn nodded. “But what is this? Perhaps the answer lies in discovering the identity of its owner and why he died.”

  “The old man?” Maltby asked.

  “If he was the owner,” Pence added.

  “I take back my earlier indignation,” the chief ranger told them. “Without answers, I think you were right in bringing it here. I think we'll just leave it here, for the sake of security, for the time being. At least until we have a few more answers.”

  The pair nodded their agreement.

  “In the meantime, thank you for using your heads. I'll lock this here in the curator's office with a note.” Glenn slipped the box back into the evidence bag, sealed it with tape, and applied his signature over the new seal. Then he turned back to the pair with a warning. “Don't talk about this. To anyone.”

  Chapter 6

  Revenge for a perceived wrong can come in many forms, from whispers in the ear of a mutual friend to full-scale global warfare. The recipient may never know when the bomb will drop, immediately, at an unknown future date, or never. Or, if and when the fallout comes, how it will manifest itself. Aftershocks from an earthquake are much like that. Often times they were nothing more than a slight shaking, a settling as the ground reestablished stability. Sometimes they give you a thrill. And once in a while they are worse than the original quake. Such was the case at Legend Rock.

  Aftershock pressures from below forced the shallower layer of rock to take the high road and created an uplift near the creek. The added weight pushed heavily on the layer that had slipped below. The whole had yet to settle and, when it did, the movement was pronounced. Like a tree limb breaking under a heavy snow, the lower plate gave way with a snap, dove deeper into the earth at a sharp angle, and forced the top layer even higher.

  On the surface, the ancient faces carved into the petroglyphs witnessed the ground push another twenty feet skyward in a violent upheaval. In less than fifteen seconds, as the forces worked in opposite directions, the miniature canyon created only days before tripled in width. The depth of the abyss was suddenly anybody's guess. In twenty seconds the echo of the earth's roar had died away. The uplift now put the creek on an angle, shoved its course closer to the base of Legend Rock, and quickened its once meandering pace to a steep race to lower ground. Where once stood a peaceful riparian area now lay a dynamic watercourse with dozens of miniature waterfalls and the splashing sound of finger cymbals in a distant but constant concerto.

  The landscape around Legend Rock was suddenly rugged and harsh. And no one saw.

  At Kepler Cascades, there was no uplift but the process of settling was taking place all the same. The unusual glare that had caught Glenn Merrill's attention now, suddenly, disappeared as the river bottom fell into a sinkhole twenty feet deep. The river water plummeted into the new pit and, for several minutes, left the river bed downstream all but dry. Then, as quickly as it had been created, the pit filled with foaming churning water that rose and finally spilled over the lip of the newly formed bowl and continued its rush to far removed destinations.

  What had once been a strange glare on the surface of the cascades had now become an underwater pool. The surface calmed and flattened out. Those tourists yet to visit would never know it hadn't always been this way and, in another two years, it would become a popular fishing hole.

  As always, tourists flocked around Old Faithful taking photos of the grazing bison and small bands of elk that called the area home. The gawkers and gazers traipsed across the boardwalk from the visitor center and gift shop toward Old Faithful Lodge to eat in the restaurant and marvel at the grand old structure's interior architecture. Many checked their watches, wanting to make certain they were back on the circular walkway around that famous geyser in time to witness its eruption.

  Slate Sanders, Rebecca Huff, and a handful of their friends were among this eclectic band of visitors. They weren't tourists really. They had official business, in the morning, at Mammoth Hot Springs, but that was tomorrow. Business or
not, no one passed by on the road around Old Faithful without making time to stop and witness the thermal show. A light snack had been enjoyed by all but nearly twenty minutes remained before the time the next predicted eruption would take place.

  The group had climbed two stories on the stairway inside the lodge to marvel at the dynamic and incredible craftsmanship of the woodwork and admire the massive stone fireplace that stood as a centerpiece greeting visitors within the great room. Then, without warning, the place began to shudder. The lights blinked once, pamphlets fell to the floor from a display rack near the main doors, and a child in a baby stroller on the main floor began to cry. That was all. Nothing else was visibly disturbed save the dust on beams and walkways above that fell in a soft, silent rain onto the distressed tourists below. It took a moment for most to realize what had happened, that there had been a quake of any kind and, by then, the earth had ceased to move.

  Ceased to move above ground that is. Deep underground, the park's thermal plumbing had been disrupted. Old Faithful blew her top a full twelve minutes early.

  There was no sputtering and splashing to warn of the coming eruption, as was her routine. Instead, the world-famous clockwork geyser shot a plume of water 225 feet into the air with only a few hearty souls anywhere near her boardwalk to witness the display. The hundreds of others there for the show were otherwise engaged buying souvenirs, eating snacks, or taking photos elsewhere. They would be angry and indignant when they learned that Ma Nature had the audacity to ignore the time schedule they'd counted on. How dare she!

  The situation worsened forty-five minutes later when the famed geyser's next eruption was nothing but a sputter and splash that arrived twenty minutes early. A wealthy elderly couple from New York practically knocked Slate and Rebecca down brushing past en route to verbally assault a ranger. Mr. and Mrs. Moneybags demanded to know why the park had changed the show without telling people. The altered eruption time had ruined their vacation and somebody, everybody, was going to lose their jobs over it!