The Shaman's Secret (23 page)

“Kit …” His smile was gone. “If I'm to come back, things have to change.”

I found it impossible to speak.

“You must never, ever, treat me like that again.”

I was going to ask him what he meant. What was he thinking of, making demands of me in such a tone of voice? I'd made a mistake, but that didn't mean he could
lord it over me for evermore. But the normal Kit seemed to have deserted me. So I lowered my head and said:

“Yes.”

Once Waldo had rejoined us, we journeyed a further week till we came to the Grand Canyon, through wild landscapes populated only by Indians, or the occasional rancher or trading post. I will never forget my first sight of our destination. Boy had talked of the majesty of this place. She hadn't been able to do it justice. When we stood on the south rim of the Canyon de Chelly, I gasped in wonder. It was like staring down into the abyss. Massive pinnacles of pink rock rose up to meet us, like teeth guarding the jaws of the underworld. It was awe-inspiring to think that billions of years ago eruptions in the earth's crust had produced these giant ripples and folds.

I understood now why the Indians spoke of the “Earth Surface World.” Down there below was another world, mysterious, wreathed in smoke and flame. We only saw the top layer of what was real.

The Hopi Indians say that the Grand Canyon is where humans emerged into this, the Fourth World. They call it the
sipapu
, the womb of the world. Staring down into dizzying vortices of rock, I could see how this strange land had inspired them.

“It's like huge pieces of Red Leicester,” Aunt Hilda said, staring down into the canyon.

“You mean
the cheese
?” I asked.

“Crumbled bits of cheese,” Aunt Hilda said.

“I hate cheese.”

Waldo laughed. We had all been silent for a few moments. Stunned by the majesty of the canyon, humbled as we stood, mere ants, on its rim. But Aunt Hilda can puncture the most sacred feeling. She would stand at the gates of heaven and compare it to Blackpool.

The canyon dropped down, thousands of feet down, down, down to a glinting river. You could see flashes of greenery at the bottom. Boy had told me that the Indians had planted hundreds of peach trees, but the orchards had been destroyed by American soldiers.

If you lost your foothold on a loose stone, you would thud from boulder to boulder till your mangled body ended up in the Little Colorado River far down below.

“We must leave the horses here,” said Boy, with a worried look at the sky above. Storm clouds were massing, dark and thunderous. “They will find food. Usen willing, we will meet them when we return.”

If we return, I thought as we set our steeds free with a swift pat on their flanks. It was an especial wrench for me to see Carlito go. Whenever I looked at him, at his fine,
glossy black flanks and the scar where I had wounded him, I felt deeply ashamed.

“I'll go first,” Aunt Hilda said, looking down the gut-churning chasm. “Watch your step as you follow!”

“Please,” Boy said, nudging Aunt Hilda aside, “I must lead.”

“But I've climbed all over the world,” Aunt Hilda protested. “Blast it, I was a terror in the Himalayas.”

“This is a sacred trail,” Boy explained. “It is secret. I must ask the spirits for their permission as we go down.” She pointed to the little leather pouch she wore about her neck. I knew she carried sacred pollen, which she scattered at holy places. “I must seek their blessings.”

Aunt Hilda was about to argue, but a flash of Boy's dark eyes silenced her. The first section, plunging down from the trailhead, was a sheer wall of rock ending at a narrow ledge below. I would have thought it impassable, but Boy took it deftly, moving between tiny footholds in the surface. My heart beating with trepidation, I followed the blaze of her scarlet headband and glossy black hair. I couldn't help feeling scared, here, so close to our journey's end.

The presence of Cecil Baker hung over us. I sensed an attack in every hovering hawk, every scuttling lizard. The skinwalker was watching us. When would he make his move?

We all made it down to the ledge in one piece. My knees
and hands were scraped from contact with sharp rocks, my breath ragged. Sweat poured down my face. Even Aunt Hilda was a little less keen to lead after that ordeal, and we had only just begun our trek. It would be another seven or eight hours before we would reach the bottom of the canyon.

From the ledge we found a narrow trail. Boy blessed the beginning of it with pollen and we scrambled after her. The rock was not just pink; it was streaked with all sorts of colors from white to the red of iron ore. Ruins dotted the cliffs, the caved-in rock dwellings of humans who had lived here more than two thousand years ago. Their strange hieroglyphs could be seen etched on the walls, especially the hunchbacked flute player they called Kokopelli.

The presence of these ancient ghosts wrought feverish images in my mind. I could feel that we were nearing the end of our quest, but still had only vague ideas of what it was that we sought. An ancient Anasazi tablet, was all that I knew. One that had mystical powers—and that had been revered for centuries. One that the Hopi Indians believed had been given to them by their gods. But this was the nineteenth century. How could an ancient slab of stone help me?

“Boy,” I asked when we stopped for a sip of water after hiking for at least three hours, “where are we going?”

“We go down,” she said, pointing to the shining river below.

“That much is obvious—then what?”

“There is a path. We must take it.”

“But, look, I'm confused. How do you know where?” I glanced around me. On every side there were canyons, gleaming cliffs of salmon-colored rock. The roaring of the river, magnified by the echo chamber of cliffs, was pounding in my brain. “I mean it's all just rock, rock, rock.”

“Not to me. Many of these places are sacred.”

I could have screamed in frustration. Where, exactly, were we going? What would we find there? She wouldn't tell me. It seemed as if she was being purposefully vague.

“But how do you know where to go?”

“Far-Seeing Man is guiding me.”

“Where? He isn't here. You have no map.”

“In my head. He guides me from the inside.”

With that I had to be content. It was another few hours before the vegetation thickened as we reached the bottom of the canyon. There were clumps of pinyon pines and juniper, feathery tamarisk trees, thorny bushes of prickly pear, snakeweed and sumac. The heat was increasing as we journeyed down. The air had that quality of stifling stillness which you experience before a storm. The sky was black and louring, thunderheads massing over the mesa far above.

“It looks like rain,” said Aunt Hilda.

“Yes,” said Boy.

“I suppose we can shelter in a cave.”

“It's dangerous. Waters come fast down the canyon.”

We had emerged from the trail by rapids that saw water tumbling and bouncing over boulders. The roar of water was bewildering, as were the croaking of frogs and the clouds of midges that hovered over our hands and faces. Skimming birds darted in and out of the mesquite and tamarisk. It was green, lush and hot, far hotter than the canyon's rim. I felt closer to the earth than ever before.

The river thrashed in both directions. I could see many turnings off from the path into smaller canyons and caves, the changing play of shadow and light, dark patches where centuries of water had worn into the cliffs. The sun was falling in the sky. Soon darkness would descend and we would be trapped here with the prowling canyon creatures—lynx, coyote and bear.

“Anyone want some beef jerky?” Waldo asked, after we had moistened our lips with water from our canteens. “I still have a few strips—”

“Shush!” Boy cut him off, pointing to a large sandstone boulder.

From behind this rock, a snake slid into view. It was marked with brown circles on white and had a bulbous head and glaring eyes. My own snake brand, which had
crawled up my arm to my throat gave me a twinge. As soon as it saw us, the snake made a loud rattling noise with its tail.

“A Mojave rattlesnake,” Isaac said, holding out his arms to shield Rachel.

“Stand aside,” Waldo said. He advanced toward the snake, a stout stick in his hand. “I'm going to toss it into the river.”

“Wait!” hissed Boy. “Stop.”

The snake had paused on the path and turned its head to look at Boy, almost with inquiry. Then with great speed it slithered off round the bend.

Boy looked at us for a moment, then disappeared after the snake.

I followed, running after her, my friends charging behind.

“Come back,” I hissed.

She paid no attention, following the snake, which was gliding, a flash of white and brown, down the track by the swollen, roaring river. I followed her as she followed the snake, alarm growing in my heart.

The snake slid off the path into a fissure of rock. Crouching down, Boy sped in its wake. I went after her, crawling through a tunnel. When I stood up, we were in a cave with weak shafts of light dotting the earthen floor. I could smell burning, and smoke wafted toward me.

The snake had disappeared. In its place stood a ferocious creature with a bloody mouth and eyes ringed with blue. A monster. It had transformed into a monster. Isaac screamed and Waldo, bellowing, raised his stick. Then I saw it was not a monster; it was a man wearing a wooden mask.

“Kit Salter,” a deep voice growled. Then one by one he called each of our party by name.

“Where is Far-Seeing Man?” Boy asked.

“He waits within. Follow me. I have something to show you.”

We followed the masked figure into the cave. My heart clenched inside my chest. Cold sweat stood out on my forehead. I felt my snake brand
move
. I could feel it gliding down, a slithery feeling like a wet finger traveling over my skin.

“Who are you?” Boy asked the figure.

“I am a Hopi shaman, a friend of Far-Seeing Man,” he replied.

We were in the cave now and could see the fire clearly. It was made of pinyon pine and brushwood, but there was something there that stank. A meaty smell that, as we came closer, made me want to gag. It was suffocating in the closeness of the cave.

“What is that?” Waldo gasped.

“A body,” Isaac said, his face white. “Burning flesh.”

Something animal was in the fire, tatters of cream clothing shriveling in the ashes. The gleam of white bones against the red of fire and coal.

I swayed a little and would have fallen, except Boy
caught me. Waldo let out an exclamation of shock as the Hopi shaman bent down and picked something up from the floor.

A small pink thing, with a gleam of gold about it.

He handed it to me and I backed away in horror, stumbling into Boy.

It was a human finger. Cut off just below the second joint. I could see the clean, polished nail, the trimmed cuticle and the heavy pillbox ring that circled the horrible thing.

It was a beautiful ring: 22-carat gold, with a white gold inlay of a snake circling a tiny box. The lid could be opened and used to store a lethal cyanide pill. It was ornate, yet discreet enough to pass unnoticed on the wearer's finger.

I had seen the twin of this ring before. Heard the cry of agony as it had been ripped from the owner's fingers.

“That's Cyril's ring,” Aunt Hilda cried out. “Cyril Baker's.”

“No, Aunt Hilda,” I said. “It's Cecil's.”

“But I saw Bandit Bart steal it from Cyril when we were held up.”

“He told me about it. They had identical rings made, with pillboxes in them. Each ring had a poison pill in it.”

Aunt Hilda stared at the burning corpse. “So that must be—”

“Yes, Cecil's body.”

Isaac made an awful groaning sound and fled from
beside me. He stumbled to the side of the cave where he retched, while Rachel hastened to his side. I was aware of the silence hanging heavy as we watched our enemy's body sizzle with a terrible rancid crackling.

I would not have wished such a fate on anybody. Even a man with no heart.

“How did it happen?” I asked the Hopi shaman. “Did you kill him?”

“No,” he replied. “He was not clean. He was full of evil. He tried to go to the cavern of the ancestors and take the tablet. This tablet was given to us by our gods—so he was struck down.”

We stared at the flaming bundle, appalled. We should have rejoiced. In life Cecil was a cruel man. We had been terrified he would get here before us and use the tablet for awful ends. But death is a great leveler. It is the end of sin. It makes compassion, even for great wickedness, bloom in your heart. Here especially, where the Indians believe the skin between the worlds is thin as tissue. Where sorcery glows strong. Our enemy was dead; we were free of the evil that hung, like a hurricane cloud, over our heads. Free of the skinwalker who had tried so often to invade my mind, who had made me commit the worst crime of my life when I'd cut my innocent, perfect horse, Carlito.