Crown of Serpents (17 page)

Jake glanced at him. “Yeah, go figure. So, this Crown of Serpents is hidden underground somewhere in Seneca County, somewhere between Seneca and Cayuga Lakes?” He shifted in his seat. “And the broach I came across, err, I mean that was revealed to me early this morning, was of the White Deer Society’s mark?”

“Exactly,” said Lizzie. “There are many jewels out there. Lost. Thomas Boyd came across one and was deemed unfit to bear the burden. He met his cruel fate at the hands of our forefathers. And then today this hunter Blaylock came across one and he too was unworthy.”

Joe nodded. “And also met his fate.”

Jake glanced at Joe and Lizzie then cracked a nervous smile. “I held the broach. I touched it. Let’s hope I don’t meet the same fate too.”

“If your mind has pure intentions and filled with orenda then you are safe,” Lizzie answered. “Like Luke Swetland.”

Jake looked down at the floor in silence. After a sigh he asked. “So when Atotarho found out his crown was stolen, what happened next?”

“He lost his power. The three founders made him beg for mercy,” answered Joe. “They exorcized the demons from his mind. He fell apart. Broke down. Gave in. The Onondaga Nation finally joined the Haudenosaunee Confederacy or League of Five Nations, under Deganawida’s Great Law of Peace. This is why the three figures are held in such high honor as the founding figures of our confederacy. They stood up to the evil against all odds. During the exorcism it was said that Atotarho confronted the spirits of all his victims and he was a changed man. An army of lost souls descended upon him, and he had seen the light and orenda once again. He was made a figurehead of penitence, unity, and acceptance. That’s when the honorable attributes were placed on him, only
after
he lost his power and reformed.”

Lizzie chimed in. “In Deganawida’s address to the Five Nations, he said these exact words,
So now we have put this evil from the earth. Verily, we have cast it deep down into the earth
.” Her voice strengthened and became crisp. “
So, I Deganawida, and the Confederate lords now uproot the tallest pine tree and into the hole we cast all weapons of war.
You see, all the clues have been there, they always were. It’s just that history warped the story so that the mainstream would accept it. But we Faithkeepers know the real truth. We have kept it guarded for centuries. And now you know the truth.”

Jake exhaled loudly and blinked his eyes. Lizzie and Joe’s whole story closely paralleled the mythical creationist version but theirs was definitely more convincing, more true to human nature. He wasn’t sure what to think now. He stood up and started pacing, his hand on his chin in thought.

“Who runs the White Deer Society now? Are there present day guardians?”

Lizzie and Joe looked at each other. She sat back in her chair and in a quiet voice explained that the society withered away when the Americans came through in 1779 and destroyed all remnants of the guardians and the knowledge of the entrances to the cave network.

Jake could attest to that fact just by reading Boyd’s journal entries on how the Continental troops looted, burned, and desecrated villages and sacred grave sites, destroying with them any possible evidence of the White Deer Society. The winter of 1779 and the starvation and diseases that followed wiped out the rest, most likely including Swetland’s adopted grandmother who was probably a guardian. Jake’s pacing stopped.

He realized the gravesite and the fissure in the Cranberry Marsh had survived that destruction most likely due to its remote uninhabitable location in the middle of a swamp. It went unnoticed for over two-centuries. Just as Boyd’s journal had remained hidden. And now they have both been revealed and a connection made.

Was there a cave entrance at the bottom of Blaylock’s pit? And what of Boyd’s reference to Luke Swetland’s cave and the secret directions leading to it? Jake now realized why Lizzie and Joe were so upset that the cave system might be discovered. He was surprised to find himself getting all worked up too.

“Alright, tell me about Alex Nero,” said Jake. “Why does he want the Crown of Serpents?”

12

Same time. Cranberry Marsh.

A
FTER CAREFULLY PICKING his way through the dark marsh with nothing more to guide him than a mini-flashlight and a GPS receiver, the heavy-set man finally arrived at the dry island where the Indian grave was located.

Stepping up into weed-infested grass, his leather boot slipped on a root. He fell forward to his knees, dropping the metal gas can and small dead dog he had lugged in. Cursing, he picked himself back up and examined his hands. To his relief, the latex gloves he had on to protect against fingerprints had not been ripped.

Snatching the gas can, he inadvertently sloshed some of the liquid onto his dark coat causing him to issue another expletive. He then grabbed the white-furred, West Highland terrier by the nape of its strangled neck and flung it over his shoulder. Stepping up onto the island, he scanned with his flashlight until he found the grave mound.

Clenching the flashlight between his teeth, the man unzipped a side pocket of his coat and took out a short length of rope. After checking the wind direction, he searched for a suitable tree limb and found an old oak at the island’s edge. Letting the dog drop on the ground, he flipped the standing end of the rope over the branch. He then tied an overhand knot around the dog’s hind legs, pulled tight, and raised the dead animal up about five feet off the ground. He knotted the running end of the rope around the trunk to secure the dog in position. Placing the flashlight upright in the weeds for illumination, he reached into another pocket and pulled out a red-capped spray paint can. Popping the top off and flinging it in the grass, he gave the can a couple of shakes and proceeded to spray paint the dog’s shiny white fur with red spots.

Admiring his clever handiwork the big man grinned, revealing yellow, smoke-stained teeth. To include the dog would send the right message to keep the authorities off his tail. He threw the expended spray can off into the swamp when he was done. Glancing back at the dog’s face — its clouded eyes bulging out of their sockets, its faded pink tongue hanging out of its snout — he was reminded of how quickly he had dispatched the animal, how easy it was to squeeze its poor little neck and watch the color fade from its eyes.

He had always found that moment, when life froze at the point of no return, rather exhilarating. Especially in his line of work. But in a rare show of sympathy, the man wondered how the dog breeder, from whose run he snatched the animal, would react to the sight of his cute little pet now. It was collateral he coldly concluded — a sacrifice that had to be made now that the Indian grave was discovered. It had to be done to send the right message that his people would fight back.

Walking over to the Indian grave, he positioned his flashlight in the crook of a nearby sapling so the beam struck the mound opening just enough for him to conduct his final business. The man hefted the gas can and poured most of the contents over the skeletal remains inside. He scattered more fuel on top of the mound, saving just enough to leave a trail back to the edge of the island.

Grabbing his flashlight, he backpedaled and poured out the rest of the gas before tossing the container off into the marsh. He peeled off his latex gloves, dropped them onto the gas trail, and lit the gas with a cheap convenience store lighter. At the first flicker of ignition he turned and entered the swamp at a hurried pace, tossing the lighter in the water.

Five seconds later a loud whoosh ripped through the air.

The concussion knocked him forward into a tree, slamming his elbow and ripping off a small piece of his gas-stained jacket. A bright glow lit up the woods. He never felt the pain in his elbow, never noticed the rip in his coat, and never turned back. In a few minutes he reached Marsh Road.

The exhausted man gave a glance around for any movement or approaching vehicles. He walked to his truck, concealed in the brush, jumped in, and started it. As he inched out onto the dirt road — headlights off — he finally looked over to the barely visible light filtering between the marsh trees. He smiled, reached for a cigarette, punched his headlights on, and pressed the accelerator.

13

Same time. Tonawanda Reservation.

L
IZZIE JUMPED AT the chance to speak of Nero. “Alex Nero has been a man possessed with an insatiable appetite for all things illicit — smuggling, bribery, extortion, theft — and because of this he naturally found his voice in the business of gambling. The wealth he has generated has given him the power to turn his very sadistic cravings into reality and he will stop at nothing to keep his needs alive.”

“Wow, that’s one hell of an endorsement,” said Jake with a sly grin.

Joe cleared his throat. “He has so perverted the Haudenosaunee with his casino in the Catskills that a cultural civil war has resulted and traditionalists, like our Tonawanda Band, are stuck on the losing end.”

“High Point, right?” asked Jake.

“Correct,” answered Joe. “Sits on top of a mountain. It’s his personal fortress and playground. His thugs run the place. He rules like a dictator, according to our inside people who are employed there. He is a racist manipulator who loves gambling and stealing people’s hard-earned money. When he was Chief of the Onondaga and was persuading the tribe to turn their government into his company-run conglomerate, he promised to give back to those members who were less fortunate, but he merely gives out crumbs. Just drive through the Onondaga Nation today south of Syracuse and you’ll see what I mean.”

Jake was getting fidgety. “Alright, listen I know you two don’t like Nero or his business of gambling. I just want to know why he really wants this crown?” he asked, trying to get them back on track. “Is he after it just to add to his collection?”

Shifting in her chair, Lizzie spoke up. “He is a direct bloodline descendant of the Onondaga wizard Atotarho. He claims to be the rightful owner of the crown. He’s been searching for it for years, as did his late mother, and generations of their Turtle Clan before that.”

“How do you guys know all this?”

Joe frowned. “We’ve been watching him and following him during his rise to power. When he was born his mother announced that he was the direct male descendant of Atotarho. At that time our clan elders took notice of him as a precautionary measure.”

“Listen, maybe his mother made the whole Atotarho bloodline thing up as a political ploy,” suggested Jake.

Lizzie answered, her voice wavering. “We thought so too but his mother offered clear evidence of direct matrilineal descent that was backed by the other nations. It was undisputed. She and I were once very close and she revealed to me her intentions of finding the crown, but we had a falling out because I predicted her young son would only use the crown to harm people not help them. My predictions came true. Nero is for real. This is why he is such a threat if he gets a hold of it.”

“Come on you two,” chastised Jake. “Anyone can claim descent. Unless you had a clear DNA match then you have no real evidence.”

“Not in the Confederacy!” Lizzie growled, clearly fed up with Jake’s attitude. The little dog jumped off her lap and scampered off into the kitchen. “We hold matrilineal evidence to an even higher standard. Family trees recorded over the ages act as our DNA. We saw the Onondaga evidence with our own eyes, so did other nations. Nero is the one.”

Jake pursed his lips.

“His evil path started early on,” Lizzie continued. “As a young man he led the Onondaga Warrior Society. They smuggled cigarettes, drugs, all kinds of weapons, and even illegal immigrants in from Canada. They worked with the Mohawk Warrior Society in the St. Lawrence River region. The state police finally broke up the gangs and he served many years in prison.”

Jake was unimpressed. “I remember all the crap going on in the 80s and 90s between the nations and the state, but I never heard of Nero.”

“Well, his real clan name is Alex Tortoaha,” instructed Joe. “But in prison his power grew and he started a ruthless Neo-Iroquois gang who beat, stabbed, and raped many other prisoners. It was also rumored that he even ordered the death of a State Trooper although no one could prove it. That’s when he took on the name of Nero. He adopted it from the greatest warrior of the Onondaga Nation, a war-captain during the 1600’s named Aharihon who was called Nero by his French enemies because of his cruelty in comparison to the brutal Roman emperor Nero.”

Jake blurted out. “This bonehead thinks a lot of himself to adopt a name like that.”

“He also landed a freakin’ business degree behind bars too!” said Joe, disgust marking his face. “A Yale bachelor’s degree online. Hah! The American correctional system, it never ceases to amaze me how good the criminals have it.”

Lizzie told more. “When he got out he used his mother’s influence, appeared to reform himself, and set out to become chief, all the while keeping his thugs ready to use as he saw fit.”

“The Onondaga clan mothers then elected him chief,” mentioned Joe. “It’s an automatic seat on the Grand Council. That’s when we really started getting nervous. We knew his mother convinced him to seek the crown but some of the things he spoke about made us look harder at him. He wanted to declare war on New York State. He was a real rogue. He introduced gambling into the Onondaga tribe against their wishes. He set about suppressing the traditionalists within his own nation, and then consolidated his forces through bribes, evictions, character assassination, and violence. Anyone who disagreed with him or the notion of gambling was punished one way or another.”

Lizzie cut in. “His pro-casino forces then voted in a new Onondaga Provisional Council and changed their form of government. The U.S. Bureau of Indian Affairs approved the government change and the mothers turned him into a corporate CEO. That allowed him to pursue the casino deal. At the time, there was a previous lawsuit against the state covering 4,000 acres of ancestral Onondaga lands. It did not claim the lands back but instead wanted the state to clean up major pollutants throughout the area — like the third worst polluted lake in the U.S. — Onondaga Lake near Syracuse.”