The Night Visitor (42 page)

The curmudgeonly old man from Cornell found his voice. “If spring wasn't months away, I'd suspect you were pulling an April fool prank on us. Are you seriously proposing that this mammoth site has produced evidence of human remains in the Americas—firmly dated at thirty thousand years ago?”

“Thirty-one thousand,” York said with a wry smile. “Would you care to see photographs?”

They responded with nervous laughter. Would a starving man salivate at the offer of a sirloin steak?

With a carefully rehearsed casualness, York placed a transparency on the projector. A crisp black-and-white image filled the screen. The great slab of mammoth pelvis was a slightly tilted ceiling over a small, narrow vault. In the tomb was a partially excavated human skeleton. A yellowed skull lay on its side. The jawbone was disarticulated, so the face grinned mockingly at the gathering of scientists. A few other fossilized human bones were in evidence. A scattering of shattered ribs. A well-defined scapula. A long, slightly curved humerus was in two pieces, the lower segment projecting toward an elbow joint that was still unearthed.

“The skull indicates a male,” York said. “Young adult. Seventeen to twenty years old at time of death. Note that the upper arm and several of the ribs are fractured.”

They all spoke at once.

“This is amazing.”

“Simply astonishing.”

“Unbelievable.”

“There is more,” York murmured modestly. He placed another transparency on the projector.

And they saw that there was something more. Something quite wonderful.

“This was found within a meter of the human remains.”

The Cornell archaeologist got up from his seat. Ignoring all protocol, he brushed by York, and leaned to squint at the screen. “Good heavens,” he muttered.

York nodded. “Yes. It is quite a beautiful artifact. As you can see, it is manufactured from a white, glossy flint whose origins are not yet known to us. The implement is just over twenty-one centimeters long. Though it has a concave base, it is not fluted. Of course, at such a great age, one would not expect a correspondence to the much more recent Clovis culture.”

The archaeologist shook his head in awe at such a find.

“Considering its length and mass—and the very close proximity of the hunter to his prey—Delia Silver has concluded that this device was not used to tip a dart such as would have been launched with a throwing stick. Therefore, we conclude that our hunter was carrying a spear. Probably intending to drive it between the mammoth's ribs. Such a venture would have required that other members of his troop—who would have been placed on the east bank to block the mammoth's escape—were busy keeping the animal's attention away from the spear-carrier. He may have come either through the marshes to the south or north—or, more likely, he approached the animal from the base of the small bluff which is situated on the western boundary of the pond. In either case, he was playing a very dangerous game. And lost his life for it.”

A noted physical anthropologist—eager to have his say—found his voice. And made the expected observation. “From the condition of the human bones and their position immediately under the mammoth's pelvis, it appears that this unfortunate hunter met his death when the mammoth fell upon him.”

There were several nods of agreement around the table.

“It certainly appears that way,” York said slowly. “But the mammoth was not entirely responsible for this death.”

This anthropologist raised an eyebrow. “Indeed?”

The surgeon placed another transparency on the projector. The audience saw a close-up of the rear portion of the skull. There was a circular hole in the bone. “This is the wound that caused the death of our hunter,” York said.

“But,” the anthropologist countered, “could not such a wound have been caused by the mammoth's tusk?”

“It could have.” York pulled a pipe from his pocket. “But it was not. We have made casts of the tips of each tusk. They do not match the shape of the injury. But we have unearthed something that does.” The surgeon nodded at Delia Silver.

She laid a rather pretty object on the table. It was glistening white. And very hard.

“This object,” York said, “was found within six centimeters of the victim's skull. It fits perfectly into the circular wound.”

Those near their host's end of the table leaned forward to see; others stood up and craned their necks.

“What's this?” The anthropologist laughed. “Looks like a damned hen's egg.”

York struck a small match, and touched it to his pipe. “It is a quartz nodule.”

The anthropologist allowed himself a mild smirk. “The fact that the stone fits the hole in the poor fellow's head doesn't necessarily mean it's the thing that made it. There are probably a hundred rocks laying about the site that are just as good a fit.”

The surgeon smiled indulgently. These old curmudgeons were so amusingly predictable. “There are, in fact, very few stones of any sort in the pond sediment. Several geologists have assured us that this particular stone did not find itself in the pond site by natural processes. It was probably removed from a riverbed. And it was certainly carried to the site where the mammoth hunter died.”

The anthropologist, outmaneuvered at every turn, snorted to indicate that he was reserving judgment.

York continued. “Note that the injury is in the upper posterior section of the skull. In the left parietal bone, to be more precise. Since the necessary velocity to penetrate the skull could not have been obtained in a parabolic arc, the missile must have been launched from well above the victim's position. The only location where the murderer could have stood is on a small bluff immediately above the site of the pond.”

The word brought a gasp from the staid audience. Several repeated his word.

“Murderer?”

But surely it could have been an accident.

The surgeon clamped his teeth on the pipe stem. “We take the position that the ice-age hunter was a deliberate target. After all, there would have been no good reason to strike the
mammoth
with a stone—it would have only served to alarm the animal. Hardly a prudent thing to do with your comrade so close to the beast. Unless, of course, you wanted to arouse the animal. Either way, it appears that the motive was the death of our young spear-carrier.”

An aged paleontologist picked up the white stone; he held it between thumb and forefinger and studied it thoughtfully. “Could one produce such severe damage to the human skull by merely throwing a stone?”

York nodded. “A very astute question. To penetrate the parietal bone to the extent observed in the victim, this quartz nodule must have been launched with a very considerable force. We believe it likely that some sort of sling was used. Unless,” he added with a sly wink, “the fellow who heaved the thing was… hmmm… a stone-age version of Satchel Paige.” York glanced at his expensive wristwatch. “I realize that many of you must be tired. Anxious to get back to your hotels. I don't want to bore you, but I have a stack of transparencies for those of you who have nothing better to do.”

There was nervous laughter at the joke. A strong man could not have dragged the frailest of their company from the room.

“Oh, very well then. Let me see if I have anything more you'd like to see.” York riffled through the stack, then placed a transparency on the projector. It was a composite, comprised of four black-and-white photographs. Three views of the skull. A close-up of the lower jawbone. The resolution of the photographs was stunning. The surgeon stood silent. Letting them take it in. He knew what would happen next… precisely who would respond.

Almost unnoticed by his peers, an elderly Princeton anthropologist got to his feet. This old fellow—a specialist in forensic science—was one of the world's foremost authorities on human skeletal characteristics. Over a long career, he had assisted the authorities in identifying dozens of skeletal remains.
At the peak of his morbid avocation, he had examined a San Francisco murder victim's bones. The unfortunate man, he informed the detectives, was a laborer who had carried heavy loads on his left shoulder. Unfortunate fellow had suffered from a number of debilitating ailments. Including arthritis in his knee joints. And syphilis.

The detectives were duly impressed. But could the professor offer any clues to the man's origins?

Well, he was most likely a tourist.

Could he make an educated guess as to where the traveler came from?

He could. The victim was definitely from the Western Highlands province of New Guinea. Almost certainly a member of the Tungei tribe, which had six original clans and one more recent addition (the
Menjpi).
The dead man was most likely of the
Kenjpi-emb
clan. Based upon his deductions, investigations were made further afield. The professor was proven correct on almost every count. The one exception: the Tungei tribesman belonged to the
Kupaka
clan. He'd shrugged it off. Nobody's perfect.

Now, leaning on a varnished maple cane, the forensic scientist limped his way toward the projector. And removed the transparency. There was an immediate outcry from several outraged colleagues. He did not notice, nor would he have cared. The old man held the transparency in the light from the projector. He turned the film this way and that… and stared without blinking. And muttered to himself. “Hmmm… young male… certainly no facial flatness… unremarkable cheekbones… relatively small teeth… aha—Carabelli's cusp… yes… Y-grooved lower second molar… lack of shoveled incisors… hmmm… no lingual cusps …”

Gradually, voices were hushed. The room grew quiet as the dark grave under the mammoth pelvis. The physical anthropologist squinted at the transparency. He nodded. “Yes. Quite remarkable.”

Cordell York leaned close to him. And gave him a rhetorical nudge. “What, precisely, do you find remarkable, Professor Weiss?” Like a competent trial lawyer, the surgeon knew
the answer before he posed the question. As did Robert Newton. And the Silvers.

The elderly man—who had almost forgotten where he was—turned to stare uncertainly at the gathering of scientists. “Why, this fellow under the mammoth. There is absolutely no question about it.”

“About what?”

“Why, he is… was… quite definitely a
Caucasian.”

The Cornell archaeologist was immediately on his feet. “Let's not make any hasty judgments. It's well known that such features pop up in Native American populations from time to time. For example, one only has to recall that Kennewick Man has Caucasian
features …”

The expert looked down his nose at this simpleton. “You are correct in pointing out that the so-called Kennewick Man has Caucasian features. But such features do not
pop up
like dandelions following a rain. They occur,” he added with cutting sarcasm, “in those of Caucasian heritage. Kennewick Man was a Caucasian.” He tapped his finger on the transparency. “This is the skull of a Caucasian. Do I make myself clear?”

The archaeologist started to reply, then thought better of it. He sat down.

The forensic scientist—who had already forgotten this unworthy foe—was muttering to himself. “I'd need to make a careful examination of the fossil materials, but you can bank on it—this skull is indistinguishable from early European stock. There is not the least trace of Mongoloid features.”

The academics were absolutely stunned.

The journalists were enthralled.

A prominent paleontologist from Berkeley—one of the few who had remained silent—stood up. “Well, that about puts the icing on the cake.” She smiled at the Silvers. “Moses—though I am not entirely pleased to say so—you and your charming daughter have turned our world on its head. I'm sure I speak for all of my colleagues when I thank Cordell for inviting us.” She glared pointedly at the grumpy archaeologist from Cornell. “It has been a most singular honor to have been present.”

There were murmurs of assent from the distinguished gathering.

The Cornell archaeologist—who could feel which way the wind was blowing—decided to lean just a bit. He smiled beatifically upon Moses and Delia Silver. And shook their hands.

The distinguished journalists from
Nature
and
Science
were writing furiously.

Far to the west—a dreamtime away from the bustling city where the scholars are gathered—is an eternally quiet country. In this timeless place, brooding, broad-shouldered mountains are draped with fresh white shawls… chill night winds flow like black rivers through deep sandstone cervasses.

Near the mouth of one such canyon is the Ute shaman's trailer-home. Inside this warm sanctuary, a child prepares for bed. First, the innocent says her nightly prayer. Now
I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake …

When her brief petition is completed, Sarah Frank takes a final look out the window. And sees an almost full moon… A thin slice has been severed from the shining disk. The moon is wounded… and seems to drip with blood.

So this will be the night. She feels the cold presence of fear.

If I should die before I wake… I pray the Lord my soul to take …

Daisy Perika—had she known of Sarah's vision—could have told the girl this: the
pitukupf
—like many of his ilk—has an obscure manner of speaking that leans toward the poetic. The Ute shaman would have laughed at the notion that the moon could bleed. This is how the illusion came to be:

When the moon rose over the San Juans, it had the dull metallic glow of an old silver dollar. It would have remained this way until the first glimmering of dawn except for a low-pressure system moving out of Four Corners country. Bone-dry desert winds were spawned at the edge of the storm. They waltzed gaily across the desert and kicked up their heels at solemn Navajo wallflowers who dwelt in Beklabito and Redrock and Greasewood Springs. As the dust particles rose miles high, they absorbed or reflected the shorter
wavelengths of light. The residue that filtered through was of reddish hue.