Crown of Serpents (32 page)

Luke Swetland’s silver broach.

Jake lifted the small jewel off the table. It looked identical to the one he remembered at the Cranberry Marsh site. “It all started because of this,” he remarked, holding the disc between his index finger and thumb. Joe looked up, his eyes fixed on the broach. Lizzie joined his gaze and for a long moment they just stared as Jake rolled the silver piece of jewelry between his fingers.

A reflection off the silver caused Lizzie to blink. She nodded her head as if deciding something. “Jake Tununda, you keep that broach. You are the worthy guardian now. Keep it on you at all times. It will protect you.”

Jake shot her a glance, held the seriousness in her old fragile eyes and replied, “I will Lizzie Spiritwalker. I will.”

“The crown has sought you out,” added Joe. “It wants you to protect it.”

Jake nodded. He was beginning to believe them. He placed the broach back on the table, photographed each side then dropped it in his shirt pocket and buttoned it up.

Next on tap was the cave map drawing. Jake gingerly popped off the top of a tubular hand-carved maple case and turned it upside down. Sliding into his hand was a small antique glass bottle of black ink along with a goose-quill scribing pen. He then extracted a rolled up, very fragile long piece of parchment paper. Unfurling it slowly, he laid the paper flat on the table and weighed each corner down with a stack of gold coins. Shaking his head with an accomplished grin, he photographed the simple line drawing with his camera.

Jake wasted no time in rolling the map back up and returning the items to their protective case. “Now, where’s that little note about the location of Sullivan’s sunken cannon?” he asked.

“Right here,” said Joe, handing him what looked like a page out of Boyd’s journal.

Jake recognized the handwriting as that of Boyd’s. He laid the page flat and took a picture of it. He then read the contents out loud. “September 2. Northeast of Catherine’s Town, site of Butler’s escape to lake below where we ambushed the old savage spy. By orders of Worshipful Master John Sullivan of Traveling Military Lodge No. 19, the Craft symbol was carved by Senior Deacon Lieutenant Bennett Smith on the cliff face directly above the sinking site of the Cannon of Fortune.”

Joe spoke up. “I’ll be damned. That’s gotta be the same location of the Painted Rocks — the same spot where the Seneca commemorated the fallen chief from that ambush.”

“And the Craft symbol is carved there too, apparently,” added Jake. “Right where that cannon of gold got loose and tumbled in the lake.”

“Most likely it would be the Mason’s square and compasses,” offered Lizzie. Her dog Choo-Choo perked up, sensing something outside.

Jake rubbed his chin. “An underwater adventure in the waiting. Wow, this keg just keeps on giving.”

“I can’t believe we pulled it off Jake,” congratulated his uncle. “We couldn’t have done this without you.”

“Indeed Jake, very nice work,” added Lizzie with a warm smile. “The White Deer Society thanks you very much for your help. We are forever grateful for what you’ve done.”

“Huh?” Jake replied. He looked at Lizzie then to Joe then back at Lizzie again. “I thought— Hey, wait, you guys are guardians of the White Deer Society?”

“We are,” confirmed Lizzie.

Jake looked at his uncle who nodded his agreement.

“I am a direct descendant of the same medicine woman who adopted Luke Swetland in Kendaia,” Lizzie explained, her voice cracking. “Her name was She Who Heals.”

“Oh, my God,” said Jake. “You two lied to me. You said the society was dead.”

“I said the society withered away,” retorted Lizzie. “I never ever claimed it was dead.”

“Neither did I Jake,” added Joe. “You just never came right out and asked if we were guardians until now. Plus we are sworn to never divulge that information until someone is deserving of the right. And now, you more than deserve this right.”

Joe went on. “She Who Heals was the last remaining clan mother of Kendaia. She watched the black smoke rise from a distance as Sullivan’s troops burned the village to the ground. She died of starvation that winter at Fort Niagara, but not before passing on the mantle of the guardianship to one of her daughters. The problem was the true location of the cave entrance also died with She Who Heals because her daughter was never able to go back and find it. And then white settlers took the land over.”

Jake’s eyes lit up. “I see.”

“Luke Swetland, it turns out,” started Lizzie, “was a trusted guardian under She Who Heals. He came the closest to disclosing the location of the cave when he mentioned it years later in his memoirs. He wrote that he found a cave not too far from Kendaia where he took refuge for prayers.”

“But Boyd and McTavish,” added Jake, “knew the real location because Swetland showed them. They had the cave map and they took his guardian broach too. The one in my pocket.” He patted his shirt pocket.

Lizzie cleared her throat. “Fortunately for all, the secret location slumbered. Over the next two centuries guardians of our society returned to the area from time to time just to make sure nothing was out of the ordinary. They established good relationships with the local farmers in Kendaia and Romulus. They explained to them that any white deer that were spotted were sacred to the Seneca and Cayuga tribes and should be protected — that they should not be taken as trophies. The settlers allowed the guardians access to their property where they performed secret ceremonies to the white deer protectors. It was said that when the deer appeared they were letting us know that all was well.”

“Then in 1940,” said Joe. “The federal government enacted eminent domain and seized the land around Kendaia and started building the Army depot and naval base. Our sacred lands were off-limits completely within a matter of days. Everything was fenced-in.”

Lizzie bowed her head, long white hair falling over her face. “My own mother, who was head of the society at the time, was distraught,” she said. “The white deer disappeared. My mother died that same year. I then became the matriarchal head.”

Jake rose up off the couch and paced. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“It wasn’t until many years later that the Army announced that the white herd had actually re-emerged and had expanded because of their fenced-in isolation,” Lizzie continued. “And the Army then made a policy to protect them.”

“A bit ironic,” said Joe.

“To say the least,” followed Jake, his arms folded across his chest.

Lizzie coughed. “If the herd flourished then I knew that all was well — that the Army hadn’t found the cave, literally hidden underneath them. This remained the case for over fifty years. I became complacent thinking the secret was safe. I raised a family, outlived my husband, my daughter moved off the reservation and entered the white man’s world. She settled in Atlanta. We became estranged. I grew old. I was alone, the last remaining guardian and no daughter to hand the society to. I was miserable. I became a witch in people’s eyes.”

“Yeah, you certainly scared the crap out of me as a kid,” Jake said, straight-faced.

“But Alex Nero had been rising in power, his mother making claims of direct ancestral lineage to the great Atotarho,” explained Joe. “On top of that there was talk that the Depot would be closing.”

“Prophecies of an evil walking the surface were beginning to come true. And so I approached Big Bear for help,” said Lizzie, now petting her dog Choo-Choo as she looked at Joe. “He was the only one who really cared for me in the clan. The only one who showed me respect as an elder. When he took you in after your parents died, Jake, I knew he was a good man at heart. I explained the true oral history to him. I then asked him to be a guardian and he has served the society ever since.”

Jake shook his head. “This just boggles my mind.” He stopped pacing and plopped back down on the sofa and sighed heavily.

Lizzie said, “And I suppose we should talk about making you an official guardian of the White Deer Society too, Jake Tununda.”

“Whoa!” Jake blurted.

“But first I’m going to make some tea,” stated Lizzie, pushing her dog off her lap. Choo-Choo jumped down and made a movement toward the front door, its ears still straight up. Lizzie rose up off her rocking chair, leaving it to sway back and forth several more times. She sauntered into her kitchen and called her dog after her. Instead, the dog sat at the front door and cocked its head.

Jake caught the animal’s movement, but before he could register the warning, the front door crashed open and slammed against the wall. In charged Clown Face and his two thugs, weapons drawn. Choo-Choo yiped and ran behind the couch to hide.

Rousseau was on Jake in an instant, a Browning 9 mm pistol aimed at his head as he remained seated behind the coffee table. The other two men covered Joe. “Move one inch and you’re fucking dead,” barked Rousseau, his voice muffled due to the pummeling Jake had given him back at the keg site.

“No problem,” Jake said. He raised his hands in the air.

Rousseau’s eyes darted over to the rocking chair, still slowly swinging. “Who was in that chair? Where’s the old bitch?”

“She’s dead,” answered Joe. “The dog was sitting in the chair.”

Rousseau turned and glared at the older Indian.

“She passed away a few days ago,” Joe lamented. “She was something like 105 or 106 anyway. I’m the caretaker of her home.”

Rousseau glanced down to the table, quickly scanning for weapons. Noticing Ray Kantiio’s silenced pistol and his own brass knuckles, he snatched the items up and dropped them in his inner coat pocket.

“Where’s your guns?”

“Out in the pickup truck,” answered Joe.

“Yo Clown Face,” goaded Jake, drawing the attention back to him. “Your face tattoos really look awful with all that swelling. And man, my hand really hurts too.” He opened and closed his fist for added effect.

The veins in Rousseau’s neck almost burst. “Why you ballsy little punk—” He moved around the table, grabbed Jake by the crown of his hair, snapped his head back, and positioned the barrel of his pistol right between Jake’s eyes. Rousseau’s mouth then widened into a sinister, distorted grin. “My name is Kenny Rousseau. Remember it because tonight I’m sending you to hell.”

It worked. Jake gulped, worked too well. He wanted Rousseau to get as close to him as possible. It would be his only chance at survival. He knew from close-quarters combat that if a gun or knife was already in play, the weapon must be the focus of the attack, not the individual. Now that the weapon was on him all he needed was a distraction to take action. And a bit of luck.

“Before I have my fun with you, my employer requires three items that came out of this keg.” Rousseau let go of Jake’s hair, but kept the gun next to his head. “Give ‘em to me right now and I’ll make your deaths quick with a bullet to the brain. If you don’t cooperate I’ll have grandpa over here scalped in front of you — while he’s still alive. And that’s just for starters. Nero gave me some good tips of what happened to Thomas Boyd and I have no problem repeating history on another U.S. Army soldier.”

Jake closed his eyes. “Point made Rousseau. What do you want?”

“A silver broach, a ripped piece a paper with a code, and a cave map.”

Jake turned his eyes downward. “I’ve got everything. The broach is in my shirt pocket. I’m going to reach for it. Slowly, okay?”

“Slowly,” instructed Rousseau.

Jake fumbled with the button and fished out the broach. He dropped it in Rousseau’s outstretched hand. The head thug pocketed the item in his coat. He kept his stare steady on Jake.

“Don’t do it Jake!” yelled Joe. “Don’t give him any more—”

Whack!

Joe was struck hard in the forehead with the butt of Mr. Kay’s pistol. A gash opened above his brow. A thin stream of blood trailed down.

Jake raged inside. He couldn’t watch his uncle be beaten in front of him. Rousseau could sense Jake’s fury and pressed his Browning tight against Jake’s temple.

“Go ahead. Make your move. I’ll splatter your brains.”

Jake sat still, turning red, jaw muscles throbbing. Rousseau ordered him to give up the next item. He also ordered his minion, Mr. Jasper, to go outside and fetch the gas can. Jake watched the man walk out the front door. He stole a glance at his uncle who was stemming the flow of blood in the palms of his hands. Joe caught his glance.

“The paper. Now!” shouted Rousseau.

Jake moved slowly, trying to buy time — thinking of how best to turn the table on his enemy. He needed that distraction. Where’s Lizzie? “Why is your boy getting a gas can?” asked Jake.

“I ask the questions!” barked Rousseau, taking a line from Nero’s playbook. “Because when we’re done with you we’re gonna burn your asses to a crisp! Now give me the paper with the code on it.”

“Was it you that pulled the arson at Cranberry Marsh?” asked Jake as he handed Rousseau the paper fragment containing the Kendaia cave directions. Rousseau briefly shifted his eyes to the paper to check it out. Jake almost jumped into action but stalled. Rousseau pocketed the fragment.

“What arson? Quit talking and give me the map,” ordered Rousseau. He moved the pistol away from Jake’s temple but still kept it trained on his head.