But I wouldn’t allow it, and I somehow fought him off.
Bleeding and scratched, he eventually gave up, retreated a few paces, and sat back staring at me.
I sat up, facing him, and pulled my small knife out and held it between us.
He stared at me, shaking with adrenaline and lust, but he didn’t dare come closer.
Eventually, he cursed and left.
For the moment the dark tunnel still lay undiscovered.
I lay back, sobbing, and staring at the cave ceiling, not far above me. Eventually I wiped my bloody face.
Slowly my emotions hardened.
I looked at my hand and noticed it was smeared with blood. Looking up at the ceiling, I reached up and made a red handprint.
Then I placed the doll upright, where it had been.
The raven landed next to me.
I addressed it. “His days are numbered. He will be gone soon.”
The raven cocked its head; it didn’t seem to need to blink.
“He will bring it upon himself,” I added, “This is not a place for men.”
***
The next day I avoided the Spaniard as best I could in the small box canyon, and he ignored me as well. I tried for fish again, but the pool was empty, and the others I checked were all frozen solid.
When I returned, Cristóbal was pacing the box canyon with a wild, starved look in his eyes, but was not willing to leave—even to find food—because he now believed without a doubt that his treasure was close.
I wished again that I’d never brought him back to my canyon.
He took up the leather-bound book I’d brought back, and using a feather he found as a pen, began furiously scribbling notes in it.
He pricked his finger and used his blood as ink.
He made me nervous. His hunger was making him unpredictable.
When the full moon crept over the yellow sandstone walls that night, I knew what I had to do.
Silently, I went into the cave and grabbed the bear claw necklace. While Cristóbal was busy trying to flip a large, flat rock over in the back of the canyon, I slipped down the chute, and once clear, I put the necklace on.
* * *
Later that night, Alonso leaned back and crossed his arms behind his head. This was the first night of the full moon, and in the morning, he would check the confluence in Oak Creek Canyon, and hopefully connect with his brother and leave.
The moon was high overhead now, brightly lighting up the forest.
Suddenly a dark shadow hovered before him. He spun around to see the massive head of a silver grizzly as it sank its teeth into the elk carcass.
The bear stared at Alonso for at least five heartbeats, close enough to touch. Then the beast clenched the carcass in his teeth and disappeared with it into the pines.
Alonso realized he was shaking.
He cried softly, “Brother, where are you?”
* * *
Cristóbal lay there watching me hang strips of meat on a rack made of green willow branches. Underneath it, a low fire of mostly coals smoldered.
By the exit chute lay the hind half of an elk which I’d been butchering with a sharp shard of basalt.
Guilt hung off him like day-before smoke.
He limped to the carcass and scratched his head. It was more than twice my weight, and I could see him wondering how I’d managed to kill the elk, partition it, and drag this massive chunk back here.
“How did you…?” he began but faltered when I turned away, ignoring him, to collect a few sticks for the fire.
Let him wonder.
As confounded as he was, his hunger took over, and he shuffled to the drying rack to snatch a piece of the meat.
I watched him, pensively, as he gnawed on it.
Chapter Twenty-eight
I ignored the Spaniard as he slowly moved to the fire and squatted. The raven sat nearby; but unlike me, it watched his every move. Cristóbal gazed at me with the same eyes as when he’d first arrived, injured and scared, but now there was also desperation in his look.
But I no longer cared if he lived or died, and I didn’t return his gaze. I found it strange that he didn’t see my hatred when he looked at me, but he didn’t.
The scratches covering his face were a testament to what had happened—one that couldn’t be ignored. They stung, I bet. He gingerly touched them when he thought I wasn´t watching.
I hoped they would get infected.
I was weaving a basket from a pile of yucca leaves, beginning my preparations for the spring, when I would forage through the West Fork, collecting what I could. How I longed for the days when my basket would be filled with black walnuts, acorns, and acacia pods.
He looked up at the sky. Pure blue glowed above us, with not a cloud in sight. He said, “Finally a clear day. We should see the sun soon.”
I said nothing.
He held out his hands, palms up. “I’m sorry about what happened in the cave, I should not have taken liberties with you.”
I got up and filled a bowl with some elk stew. I handed it to him, and then strode away.
“I am of noble blood, pure Spanish,” said Cristóbal. “In Mexico City I am allowed such privileges—with any woman.”
I glared at him with barely concealed hatred. I could understand his attempts at my language well enough now, but even without words it was written clearly on his face: He was important, it was his right, I should be grateful.
But my heart held only one truth: He will regret what he did to me before our time together is done. In all my time in the hidden canyon, he was the only one I ever brought back. I could see now that had been a mistake, but I had been so lonely.
The raven hopped over and stood by me. Cristóbal was uncomfortable with the silence.
He asked, “How did you come to live here alone?”
I stared at the raven before replying.
“When I was young I was brought here for the Changing Woman ceremony,” I said. “I was blindfolded and fetched here in the presence five elderly women.”
Cristóbal moved closer. “Did they tell you of the treasure?” he asked.
“No,” I said gravely, “they told me of greater things.”
I leaned against the wall, feeling sickly. Cristóbal lay in the sun with his shirt off, on the other side of the fire, his body a mass of scars and bruises.
He tried to get me to relax—to forget—but I would not.
“Would you leave this canyon, Kamala?” asked Cristóbal. “Would you go away with me?”
I didn’t respond, only peered at him angrily. Did he really think I would soften to him now?
I could see his wounds were healing, but I no longer checked them. He watched me all the time, convinced I was hiding something.
“What did the elderly women tell you?” he asked. “Were they medicine people? Can your women hold that position?” he asked.
I threw a few sticks on the fire and looked into his eyes.
“They were wise—that’s all I know,” I said. “One knew herbs, one the body, one the blood, one the proper food to eat… and one the heart and soul.”
I added, “The one that taught matters of the heart said I would one day find love—do you love me Cristóbal?”
Cristóbal looked away and would not meet my eyes.
I continued, “When they had finished, another old woman appeared and told me the legend of White Painted Woman.”
“She spoke of what life would be like, how to cope with hardships and depression, how to be happy, and how and where to find guidance and protection.”
I refrained from telling him the stories she had shared about the forbidden cavern at the other end of the dark tunnel. That was the reason I didn’t dare bring Aditsan back here. I had never been into the tunnel, or the dark chamber beyond it, but the old stories had put a deep fear in me.
I should have kept the Spaniard away out of duty to these women.
I turned away to fetch something from my supplies
and from the corner of my eye saw Cristóbal reaching behind his back to grab the pistol and stick it inside his shirt.
I giggled. He really believed that the gun would help him here.
Cristóbal approached me while I was harvesting a few withered pods still clinging to a mesquite bush, on the far side of the box canyon. He was covered in mud, and grinning.
I stepped back in apprehension and dropped my basket. Quickly he knelt and started collecting the spilled contents.
When he had picked up all the pods, he said, “Kamala, come with me,” and took my hand and led me to the sheltered area.
I stepped behind him, reluctantly, and my eyes stayed on his hand like it was a limb that needed to be chopped off.
Cristóbal had been repairing the old Sinaguan ruin by the fire. Using water from a seep by the cave entrance, and dried mud that he had collected near the chute, he had made clay; and he’d used it as mortar to hold what stones he could collect in place.
He’d even constructed a new ceiling from branches and twigs.
It was only one room, with two walls closing off a corner in the canyon. Seeing as I avoided the cave, he seemed to hope that the new shelter would please me.
I stepped forward and Cristóbal proudly nodded and said, “I hope this makes you happy—I want you to be dry when it rains.”
I entered the structure alone.
Inside, I dug down in the soft earth of a back corner. Soon I lifted a sharp knife—an ancient obsidian blade.
As quick as a ferret I reburied it.
When I came out I awkwardly nodded a thank you.
Cristóbal put a withered red flower from last year in my hair.
I tried to step back, confused, when he hugged me.
I stood as still as a heron as he placed his arms around my waist, and then I stepped back and eyed him with mistrust.
The raven flew in and landed on my shoulder.
I emerged from the box canyon’s exit tunnel with a basket of sacred datura; the white blossoms looked alive they were so vibrant, but in fact they were from last season.
Cristóbal sat by the fire. He looked exhausted. I glanced around and saw he had destroyed most of my possessions in one of his fits.
He pleaded with me, “I’m sorry, Kamala. I can feel that I am near. It haunts me.”
I gave a weak smile and started processing the sacred datura. As I prepared the tea for Cristóbal, I recalled the warnings I had been given about the poisonous properties of the plant. I said, “I will make you a drink to relax.”
Before he could reply I turned, knelt, and got sick. He moved to help me.
I resisted him initially but gave in and allowed him to help me to the fire. The tea would have to wait.
I leaned against the wall, my eyes unfocused. I didn’t feel good, something was wrong. I was too weak to ignore him and allowed Cristóbal to make me a bowl of stew.
When he saw I was in a congenial mood he asked, “Can you tell me more about the women you met when you first came here?”
I shrugged, “When the women left, they said they would return in the morning, but they did not.”
Cristóbal sat down next to me, a puzzled expression on his face. “That was it? They left you here alone?”
I said, “A few times over the years I awoke to see one of them standing over me. They looked aged and defeated. In the morning they were always gone. Sometimes they left food.”
After some thought Cristóbal said, “Maybe something bad happened to your tribe.” He thought some more, then added, “It could have been disease, or they could have been attacked.”
I shrugged, “I don’t know. It was long ago that they visited last. The year must come and go—it is still like that.”
He asked, “So you have been alone here all this time?”
I smiled and said, “Not at all. Somebody watches me. Somebody hears me. I am not alone.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Cristóbal tended to me, worried now about my health. While I slept he brushed my hair out of my eyes, and he adjusted my clothing, so I would be more comfortable. And when I woke he offered water.
The evening was cold and silent. He collected wood and stoked the fire when it burned low. A bright three-quarter moon lingered behind dark clouds, casting a silver silhouette over them.
Caring for me temporarily took his mind off the treasure. He seemed at peace, for the moment, although he still scribbled in his journal.
He said, “I will never forget that you saved me—and I will take care of you now.”
I opened my eyes weakly and said, “You will forget me when you are tempted.”
He smiled affectionately and said, “No, I am a man of honor.”
Then he took his knife, pricked his thumb, and said, “I make a vow to stay by your side.”
Ever since he had first discovered the white stone under his bandages, Cristóbal had kept it by his side. He went to move it aside now and when he touched it with the finger he had just pricked, the white stone began to glow in a magical, otherworldly light.
His eyes opened wide as he stared at it.
The sky overhead clouded up and darkened.
I cried out, “What are you doing?”
I sat up and reached for the stone.
He pushed me away and I fell. At that instant, a bolt of lightning hit one of the trees at the back of the canyon.
He stood over me and shouted, “I will be denied no longer—where is my treasure?”
Cristóbal held the stone over his head. It pulsed with light. The wind blew in furious gusts. I screamed, “No!”
Cristóbal stepped closer to me and shouted. “I will smash it if you don’t tell me!”
I stood up on wobbly feet and reached for it, but he held it higher. “I will break it,” he warned.
Panic pulsed through my veins, but then a change came over me. I relaxed.
I looked in the direction of the cave and said, “What you seek is in the cave.”
Cristóbal stared at me in disbelief. Then he set the white stone on the ground and moved toward the back of the canyon.
As much as I hated him now, I dreaded what he might become if he entered the cave. I had been warned.
One last time I called to him. “Cristóbal.”
He turned.
I said, “The old women told me that men who enter the cave do not return the same.”
He nodded. “I am not afraid.”
I said, “You saved me once, so I will warn you. It is protected.”
He laughed. “I will kill anyone in my way.”
I let my gaze fall to the ground, then slowly raised it and met his eyes.
He turned and marched to the back of the box canyon.
Chapter Thirty
At the cave´s entrance, the lightning had set the ancient junipers on fire. The heavy rain barely did anything to dampen the flames because they were sheltered by the overhanging rock. Through the thick smoke the interior of the cave was barely visible.
Cristóbal grabbed a burning branch and ran through a corridor of fire and into the cave. I followed, several paces behind. The dancing flames were reflecting in the puddles, and made it seem like the cave itself was on fire.
Holding the torch in front of him, he walked the chamber´s perimeter. He leaned forward under the low ceiling.
“I pray you are not lying to me, Kamala,” he hissed as he splashed through the puddles.
The smoke was slowly filling the cave. Cristóbal took out his pistol and checked it.
“You indios may fear witches,” he said. “But you will soon learn to fear lead.”
As he passed a dark recess, where the top of an adobe wall had crumbled away, the flame from his torch got sucked away with a howl.
“There!” he shouted.
He kicked at the wall, and it fell away before him, revealing a low tunnel lined with blue-tinted bones and rusty chains.
He stepped into it, bending slightly, and kicked a gaping sku
ll out of his way. There were skeletons everywhere, all covered with little brown mushrooms.
As he proceeded, bones below his feet gave way with a sickening crunch. The walls held a luminous green glow.
He took several strides forward, and as his torchlight began to fade from sight, there was a whipping sound, and then a thud.
Cristóbal screamed.
After a long silence his weak voice whispered from the tunnel, “Blood of Christ.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Act III
1705
(March)
The Spaniard dropped and knelt, a log pinned against him, a stake piercing his thigh. He’d walked into a trap. Through the dim light he could see that he’d stepped on a stone trigger that somehow set off the ancient device.
He grinned in spite of the pain and cursed, “Puta!” A trickle of blood flowed down his leg and onto the cold stone floor.
His torch sputtered on the ground where he had dropped it.
He wrenched the stake out of his thigh, howling in pain.
The darkness swallowed his cries, muffled them, as if the walls of the tunnel were a giant throat
He grabbed the torch and held it over a cut hole in the floor with a shaking hand: In the dark cavity lay a pile of scattered bones, and a horrid stench emanated from it. He swallowed dryly and looked away.
He painfully got up and limped down the tunnel, leaving a trail of blood. The walls were of black volcanic rock and were sharp-edged. It looked like they had been cut and hammered to make the tunnel. He noticed a sprawling lichen growing in the cracks that glowed softly.
Soon he emerged into a large cavern. The walls and ceiling were also covered with the lichen, but the lighting was barely enough to see by. He took a few tentative steps and soon found himself standing in cold water.
He heard whispering in the shadows, and thought he’d caught sight of a flicker of movement by the cavern wall. He no longer felt like he was alone.
The Sirens of Oak Creek Page 14