His terrible plight angered me, and I used that emotion to take the first step toward the dark chamber. I no longer needed the torch as the luminous powder now showed the way clearly.
It was then that the first trace of a shadowy force came over me.
I stopped and opened my ears.
I could hear no sound from the forbidden chamber ahead.
Somehow, I knew everyone there was dead.
But I had to make sure. I began to creep forward.
And it was then that my grandmother´s words returned to me. Words that had been passed down to her from her mother, and her mother´s mother, leading back to Cocheta, the Unknown.
“Don’t go into the dark chamber,” the mothers from my past chanted, and I stopped.
I closed my eyes, and whispered to myself, “I will not, and neither will anyone else. If that is your will, then I will enforce it.”
The first thing I did was reset the trap. If another made it this far, there would be a failsafe. Then I returned to the box canyon and one by one dragged the bodies of the soldiers into the tunnel where I stacked them just inside the entrance. I made sure to include their weapons and other belongings.
I also hauled the chains and steel tools into the tunnel.
The last thing I tossed in was Yaotl’s bowl of mushrooms.
I then collected stones and walled up the passageway. With dirt and water from the puddles, I made mortar to set the rocks. It was a poor job, but in the end the tunnel was sealed.
I left the box canyon. I stepped over blood-stained rocks, but otherwise the canyon and the cave where the water drips were devoid of evidence of the invaders.
The dead bear I left where it lay after silently saying goodbye.
I descended Itzel Canyon, walking quietly over the stone steps. Now that the herculean task of hiding the bodies and resealing the tunnel had been completed, I fell back into the dream state I’d awoken to. My mind wanted to shut down.
At the confluence of Itzel Canyon and the West Fork, I lay back on a flat rock by the small glittering pond.
I intended to rest for only a moment, but I fell into a deep sleep.
And in that sleep, I dreamt I was a silver bear, running through the forest under a glowing moon, free and unconcerned.
I opened my eyes to the golden light of late afternoon, thirsty and aware of my hunger. I continued my journey to the confluence of the West Fork and Oak Creek, and when I reached it, I turned north, upstream, rather than heading in the direction of my home.
I wasn’t ready to return there yet.
A short walk brought me to a quiet place where the water slowed as it flowed around a large flat rock whose surface was just above the water. Behind this stood a tall stone with a swirling design etched into the stone, and on both shores of this quiet lagoon small stacks of rocks had been built.
I sat on the flat rock and let the water swirl around my feet.
The events of the last few days raced through my mind like a biting wind.
My grandmother would tell me there was no use trying to run from my fears, so I faced them. I closed my eyes, letting the flowing water soothe my nerves, and began to relive the last few days from start to finish. I thought of the attack on our wickiup, and the long march here. I thought of the piles of burning bodies, and the crack of lashes.
And I thought of the silver bear, dragged all this way just to die an ignoble death in chains. I wept for the bear, and only stopped when I remembered my dream.
Finally, when all the horror and pain and sorrow had flowed out of me, my breathing slowed down. I felt the trees and high grass swaying around me, and I swayed in the breeze as well, and I smelled the rich earth, and sensed the living things that still lived in this beautiful forest.
I opened my eyes and took in my surroundings: I was in my mother’s place, the sacred place.
As much as the wickiup was my home, something told me this place was where I was from. I felt my former self return—and I began to sing.
The song came out timidly at first, but soon the forest around me responded, and embraced me, and my voice grew as it reverberated in the canyon.
I thought of my mother, and my grandmother, and although for days I’d convinced myself that they might be dead, I knew now—somehow—that they were both well.
In the morning I would begin the long walk back, but I would take my time. I would return casually, not like one who just survived an ordeal. The dark chamber must remain a secret.
I will tell my mother and grandmother the truth, but to everyone else I will simply say they continued north, and I escaped.
Because I did escape. Somehow. I lived. And I was determined now to have a good life, and to leave that dark place behind.
And while I sang, I thought of my husband-to-be, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity became excited about our matrimonial. My heart picked up pace as I thought of seeing him again.
I thought I would collect some firewood, or maybe find something edible, but as soon as I laid my head on the soft green moss covering that rock in the creek, I fell into another deep slumber that cradled me all the way to the birds announcing the next day’s sunrise.
BOOK TWO
THE SPANIARDS
Chapter Nineteen
Act I
1705
(January)
A white haze floated through the desert brush, banishing shadows, and hovering over the desiccated landscape. The sun was low in the southwest sky, radiating more light than heat, but that glare was penetrating, and the bleached limestone that capped the low mesas reflected it back to the sky-blue void with an equal intensity.
The mesquite and creosote bushes that dotted the land appeared immune to it, as did the prickly-pear and agave. Here at the southern fringe of the canyon country—the end of the known world to most people—the desert rambled on with no end.
Most of the critters were smart enough to lay low; the sky was free of birds, mule deer and coyotes lay secluded in the thickets, and even the lizards kept to the shadows.
In the distance glimmered the hope of coolness.
At the other end of the valley—to the north—the Colorado Plateau rose up into the clouds in a brilliant ribbon of colored sandstone, and there, winter had an icy grip on the land. Beyond the edge of the plateau there extended several snow-capped peaks.
Two Spaniards cut through the desolate landscape, riding mules single file, moving toward the peaks. They were Cristóbal de Niza, a tall, bearded man in his late twenties, and his younger brother, Alonso. Their outfits resembled a cross between those of a conquistador and a prospector.
They both wore helmets and breast plates and were armed with black powder rifles and pistols. They also carried small miner’s picks and head lamps. Tethered to the second rider were a pair of stout Sonoran burros, which were loaded with shovels, coils of rope, gold pans and other mining gear, and cooking supplies.
Cristóbal rode lead with a determined stare. He was letting his mind drift over the last few months of travel, of the endless ravines and plains and waterless mountains, and the twisting, lifeless canyons, always bordered by distant faded mountains that never grew closer.
Part of him still felt he was traveling though that desolate land of stony, barren hills, and endless slopes of cholla cactus. This desert in winter was void of color, and so monotonous were the faded olive shrubbery and worn auburn cliffs that he believed his party contained some of the only living people in the land.
To make matters worse, he felt like he was chasing ghosts.
It had been one hundred and eighty-four years since Cortez had attacked Tenochtitlán, and aside from that treasure, and the gold Pizarro took from the Incas, what else had been found?
Nothing. Copper rattles. Trinkets in comparison.
Then Cabeza de Vaca had stumbled out of the Americas, half-mad with stories of Cibola and the Seven Cities of Gold, and everyone thought it was the beginning of another era of enormous riches
.
My ancestor tried his hand at finding that treasure, thought Cristóbal. In 1536, Marcos de Niza attempted to locate those fabled cities with Esteban—a black slave who’d accompanied Cabeza de Vaca. De Niza should have found it; he’d been with Pizarro fighting the Inca, and by all accounts he was a competent man. But he came home empty-handed, leaving Esteban for dead on the open plain.
And even the last of the great expeditions came up empty. In 1541, Don Francisco Vasquez de Coronado led a small army into the north: two hundred armored knights, seventy crossbowmen, eight hundred Indios, and a long pack train of mules loaded with baggage and supplies.
And in the end, they too limped home unrewarded.
But Cristóbal could not let it go. The more he heard of the rumors and legends of these undiscovered riches, the more he believed there was vast treasure yet to be found. And the magnificent riches of the Mayans and Incas were fabulous precedents. Noblemen and peasants alike were aroused by tales of Quivira, and Cibola, and other such places yet to be discovered, and they believed a new Mexico could be won through military conquest and exploration.
If he closed his eyes, he could see it: Cities with streets paved with gold, turquoise-studded walls, treasure piled before him—unimaginable wealth.
And then two days ago, when they’d entered this valley, he had stumbled into the old woman, and what she had told him had confirmed his wildest suspicions.
Now it is all within my grasp, he thought.
He lingered there, content that with this new information he might finally locate his prize, but then the murmur of running water pulled him away.
Solitude invites daydreaming, he warned himself. And daydreamers lose their focus and die.
When the creek came into view he hopped off his mule, walked to one of the burros to retrieve a Mexican cask, and brought it to the water to fill it.
The little stream gurgled through a grove of towering cottonwoods, tumbling over the exposed roots along the bank. The trees formed a canopy overhead, casting the Spaniards in lucent green shadows. In the coolness, two canyon wrens chased a screeching jay until it finally flew off.
Alonso pulled his mule to a stop, smiled as he took off his helmet, and looked around. His face was youthful and untried as he sat there listening to the birds and the gentle, clear water gurgling over the pebbles.
Cristóbal gave him a menacing glare from where he knelt by the water and ordered, “Keep it on, little brother—there are things worse than a sore head.”
Alonso pleaded with him. “Come on, Cristóbal! We’ve been riding since the port of Guaymas—I feel like I’ve spent a year underneath this helmet.”
“It has barely been two months. We have traveled far, because what we search for is great. It is hidden in one of these canyons, so keep your eyes open,” warned Cristóbal.
Alonso laughed while putting his helmet on again.
“You are too serious, hermano—you should relax.”
“I will not!” spat Cristóbal. “And you should not either. Your casual attitude will someday cost you your life.”
Then he scoffed and added, “With my luck it will cost my life as well.”
Cristóbal walked to his mule and took a leather-bound journal out of his saddlebag. Using a quill he kept in the book, he scribbled a few notes before putting it back.
Then he took out his pistol and checked it, while Alonso let his eyes sweep over the horizon. They were much closer to the glowing cliffs and buttes now, and in the afternoon sun the rocks lit up in vibrant reds and yellows; in the soft light they seemed close enough to touch.
Behind them, on their left, the sun glared from the horizon, casting their shadows far ahead, to the northeast.
Alonso wondered how they would get around these cliffs, as there seemed no way to penetrate their secret depths.
Cristóbal said, “What we search for is well protected, of that I have been warned.”
He stared at several scalps dangling on the side of his saddle. When they had first entered the valley, they had come across several indios and Cristóbal had shot them from a distance.
When he got closer he saw that one was a young girl.
He took her scalp anyway, knowing he could still get a few pesos for it.
And then they had come across a small band of indios living near an old sinkhole. Cristóbal had bound and tortured an elderly female to get the information he had been searching for.
He was unafraid of reprisal, because the large pueblos they’d passed along the way were all empty and looked to have been abandoned a long time ago. But Alonso had been sickened by watching his brother torture and maim, and he’d vomited at the first sign of blood.
Now Alonso felt another sick pang in his stomach. “What do you mean, protected?”
Cristóbal cupped his hands in the water and drank deeply, and then once more as his brother anxiously awaited his reply.
Eventually, he said, “They say a witch guards the treasure—una bruja!”
Alonso hastily crossed himself and muttered, “Sangre de Cristo, what next?”
Cristóbal laughed as he climbed back on his mule.
He said, “We are modern men, and we do not fear witches.”
His brother gawked at him.
Cristóbal continued, “It might work in our favor. The witch lives by the treasure, and the local indios consider the place to be taboo.”
“How is that good for us?” asked Alonso.
“Maybe their primitive superstition will keep them away. The witch’s canyon could be our sanctuary.”
Alonso rubbed the back of his neck and said, “Could’ve mentioned all that earlier.”
Cristóbal stared him down, “If you had learned some indio like I told you, you would have heard.”
Alonso shivered. His brother had already spent years in the new world and had a working knowledge of several dialects.
“Do you think knowing indio will make me safer?” he asked hesitantly.
Cristóbal snickered and glanced at the scalps. “It didn’t help them.”
He scanned the high cliffs before him, and then nudged his mule along the creek, following the flow upstream. His shadow wobbled ahead of him, ten times as long as he was.
“Just keep your helmet on,” he shouted over his shoulder.
Alonso scurried to untangle the burros’ lead and catch up with his brother.
At the far end of the valley the rocks enclosed them on three sides. In the late afternoon sun, the cliffs above glowed majestically in radiant shades of crimson and tangerine, and Alonso momentarily forgot his trepidation.
Enormous crags around them appeared to soar upward, layers upon layers of sandstone and limestone, all of it capped with basalt. The lofty pines on the ridges seemed like blades of grass.
But then, the first shadows overtook them, and Alonso let his gaze sink down.
Directly in front of them, one dark canyon penetrated the cliffs, skirting to the right. The creek they were following seemed to have its origin up in that ravine. The walls here were a deep red, like dried blood, and in the shadows the water rippled darkly.
Alonso sucked in his breath, as if he might hold it until they emerged out of the canyon, and up onto the plateau.
Cristóbal didn’t say a word. He nudged his burro forward, into the dark canyon. A chilling wind now buffeted Alonso’s face, and he leaned into it and forced his mule forward as he began to pray.
* * *
One week later, a white-haired Apache sat in a cave about two-thirds of the way up Oak Creek Canyon. He was called Kuruk, and though he was old, his eyes were still sharp as he surveyed the canyon below.
The cave lay tucked in the cliffs, high above the river´s west bank. It had been a difficult scramble, and the man thought how easily he would have climbed up here when he was younger.
He had a low fire burning and was watching the two Spaniards below, who were also sitting by a fire.
He barely moved, although he doubt
ed they would notice him even if he did. These strangers seemed unaware of their surroundings as they stumbled aimlessly up and down the canyon. Any one of his people would have detected his fire long ago.
Kuruk sighed. He knew he should have them killed and be done with it, but still he hesitated. Too many men die young these days, he thought. He wished his wife was still alive. The years since her passing had been dark, and he missed both her friendship and her council.
Soon he was joined by his grandson, Aditsan, who was in his twenties but looked younger. The young man shuffled to the fire, moving with a dreamy air, totally unconcerned about whether the Spaniards might see him or not.
Kuruk motioned for him to sit down, out of sight.
Aditsan glanced around to make sure there was nobody nearby that could hear him, and then leaned over and said, “I saw a girl today.”
The old Apache’s eyes twinkled. “Tell me about her.”
Aditsan had come to a confluence earlier, where the canyon walls melted away, giving the distant sun an unobstructed view. There he had found a clearing with tufts of grass and a partially thawed pool of water.
It felt like spring, and he’d napped luxuriantly on a large flat rock by the edge of the water, the light reflecting off its ripples hypnotically.
Eventually, he had sat up, stretched, and then leaned over the creek to get a drink.
When he lifted his head, he saw her for the first time.
She had stayed in the shadows, perfectly still, like a nervous doe. They held each other’s gaze for what seemed a long time.
And when her face moved through a shaft of sunlight, he saw she was beautiful. She was disheveled and in need of a wash, but her smile took his breath away.
In fact, he forgot to breathe, and she gave him an awkward expression when he gasped.
Her clothes were made of buckskin, but the craftsmanship was average, and they needed repair. And the embellishments that he could see didn’t resemble those of any local bands.
The Sirens of Oak Creek Page 10