The Summoning God: Book II of the Anasazi Mysteries (50 page)

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Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear,W. Michael Gear

BOOK: The Summoning God: Book II of the Anasazi Mysteries
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“I won’t take long,” Dusty promised and strode down toward the dust-covered blue Mercedes.
When they stood at the bottom of the rubble mound, out of earshot, Dusty said, “Forgive me, but I thought you told me that this pueblo was going to be the centerpiece for the subdivision, like a park.”
Wirth leaned against the blue hood and looked up at the sky. His reflective sunglasses were filled with clouds. “Can you pay me a half million dollars for the ten acres where the pueblo sits?”
Dusty felt a little faint. His fists knotted involuntarily. “That’s what he’s paying?”
“It is, and I’m lucky I could sell it at all after what you found here.”
Dusty kicked at a rock and watched it bounce down the hill. “That’s archaeology for you. We’re always digging up dirt about people’s past, and few appreciate it.”
Dale, Sylvia, and Steve had turned away to watch Alevy roam his brand-new archaeological site. He kept picking up artifacts, examining them, then almost tenderly placing them in the exact location where he’d found them.
Dusty said, “Is he an archaeologist?”
“No.”
“Hmm. He acts like one.” Dusty waited a moment, then said, “Okay, so. Let me get this straight. You’re going to sell priceless pieces of our American heritage to a foreigner?”
Wirth’s mouth curled into what approached a sneer. “They’re not
‘priceless,’ Stewart. Just very expensive. Besides, people have been doing it for centuries. Remember all of the Aztec golden idols the Spaniards plundered to take home to Europe?”
“As I understand it, that was to help fund the next glorious crusade against the infidels. You know, for God and country, not a new Porsche. Uh, excuse me, a Mercedes.”
Wirth straightened, and though Dusty couldn’t see the threat in the man’s eyes, he could feel it in the air. The hair on his arms stood on end.
“Now, you listen to me.” Wirth aimed a manicured finger at Dusty’s heart. “Mr. Alevy buys holocaust sites, and he takes special care of them. He protects them for future generations, do you understand?”
Dusty felt like he’d just been punched in the stomach. He stuttered, “No, I—I mean, that’s great. If true. Tell me how he protects them?”
“You need to ask him that. But, believe me, there is
no one
who will take better care of your precious archaeological site than Moshe Alevy.”
“That’s a little vague, Mr. Wirth. Does it mean he wants us to backfill it, to keep excavating, or what?”
Wirth smoothed his hands down his shiny silk sleeves and said, “I’m sure Mr. Alevy will be in contact regarding the details.”
Wirth strode vigorously up the hill, and Dusty chased after him, calling, “Wait a minute. Please? Let me talk to you. You told me I could have five minutes!”
 
TWENTY PACES AWAY, STEVE LEANED SIDEWAYS AND WHISPERED to Sylvia, “Dusty looks like he’s surrendering to the
Federales.
Why does he have his hands up like that?”
Sylvia studied Dusty for a moment, her mind working. “I suspect he thinks it’s a lot more dignified than pulling his pants down.”
Dale gave them both disgruntled looks and walked toward Alevy, calling out in a language Sylvia didn’t understand.
Alevy stopped and smiled.
“Now what’s Dale doing?” Steve said.
Sylvia brushed a lock of brown hair behind her ear. “Probably trying to figure out just how screwed we really are.”
As they walked away, talking, Dale’s face tightened.
Peter Wirth walked back for his Mercedes, and Dusty trudged up the hill toward where Dale and Moshe Alevy stood. Before he got there, Alevy shook hands with Dale and hurried down the hill to catch up with Wirth. Dusty and Alevy nodded politely to each other as they passed.
Dusty sighed. Talking with Wirth had been an irksome experience. The man offered no information and had little interest in the actual archaeology, other than the fat check it was going to bring him. Just the sort of thing he’d expected when they began this project.
A wall of thunderheads was pushing up from the south, eating the blue sky as it came. Beneath the largest clouds, translucent veils of rain waved like gray silk scarves. By dusk, they’d be hip-deep in mud again.
Sylvia and Steve gathered around Dale, asking him questions, and Dusty saw Maureen get out of the Bronco.
As Dusty joined the group, he heard Sylvia ask, “So, should we start packing, or wait for the pink slips?”
Dale shoved up his fedora and scratched the wiry gray hair over his right ear. “Keep digging. He’ll need as many artifacts as he can get for the museum he plans to build.”
At the same time, Steve and Sylvia shouted,
“What?”
Dusty peered at Dale over the rims of his sunglasses. “He’s building a museum?”
“A good one, William. Right here on site.” Dale wiped the sweat from his neck with his sleeve. “It’s an interesting story, actually, and with my poor Hebrew I’m sure I only caught half of it.”
Maureen joined them, carrying an ice-cold bottle of Snapple peach iced tea in her hand. As she unscrewed the top, she said, “What story?”
Dale tipped his head sideways. “Well, it begins almost seventy years ago. His grandparents were Polish Jews. They died in concentration camps, along with almost everyone else in his family—cousins, aunts, uncles. Moshe’s mother lived only because her father begged a Catholic family to take his daughter and raise her as their own.” Dale shook his head. “I think he’s visited every holocaust site in Europe, as well as several of the killing grounds in Asia, South America, and Africa. Moshe Alevy genuinely believes that ‘In remembrance lies redemption.’”
When Dusty could close his mouth, he said, “So. He really does want to protect this site? You believed him?”
“Very much. He told me that in every religious war, the enemy has three ways of accomplishing its goals: First, they try conversion. If that doesn’t work, they use expulsion as a means of getting rid—”
“—Like happened here in the Southwest?” Sylvia’s green eyes flared. “I mean, isn’t that another way of looking at the mass exodus of the Anasazi during the thirteenth century? The heretics were being forced out?”
Dale studied Sylvia. “Possibly.”
Dusty said, “What was Alevy’s third way?”
“Annihilation. If you can’t convert them, and you can’t make them leave, you have to kill them to cleanse the world.”
Maureen’s dark eyes looked out over Pueblo Animas, taking in the burned roof timbers, the charred walls, the mass grave. “I’d say this kiva, and many others in the region, fall into the last category.”
Steve sipped his Pepsi and said, “Good Lord, the things human beings do to each other.”
“That,” Dale said, and pointed a finger at Steve, “is precisely why Alevy buys and preserves holocaust sites. No matter their location, no matter the culture, race, or religious affiliation, he believes they must be preserved as constant reminders of what we, as human beings, are capable of.”
Dusty frowned out at the site. A pair of crows perched on the kiva wall, peering down at the bone bed with bright eyes. “Well, if that’s the case, I wish there were more like him. What does it mean for us?”
“For the time being, he wants you to keep digging, William.” Sylvia let out a triumphant whoop and said, “Great! Let’s go make dinner to celebrate, then tip a few until the stars come out.”
Maureen brushed her hands off on her jeans and a cloud of dust rose. Curls of damp black hair fringed her forehead. “Good idea. Then Dusty and I need to get some rest. We have an appointment at dawn.”
Dale smiled and heaved a sigh of what sounded like relief.
Dusty glanced at Dale, and gave Maureen a suspicious look. “What appointment?”
S
TRAIGHTHORN CONCENTRATED ON HIS FEET AS HE TROTTED across the brown sandy soil with brush whipping off his calves.
Something had died inside him. In its place, a murderous rage had been kindled. Like a beast, it lay there next to his heart, waiting for the moment it could be loosed in vengeance against those who had killed Redcrop.
He did not know this new man who lived in his hate-filled body. Thirty warriors, led by Catkin, trotted in front of him. Browser had barely made it back to Longtail village; the last half of the run he had been supported by Catkin and Straighthorn. When they stumbled into the village, Cloudblower had taken charge of the War Chief.
Straighthorn trotted up the ridge, lungs working as his legs pumped and dust puffed from under his yucca sandals. Half wore the yellow color of Dry Creek villagers, the others, the warriors of the Katsinas’ People, wore red war shirts.
Straighthorn lagged a few paces behind the last man.
The trail back to the secret cave led over rolling hills and around pine-covered rock outcrops. Afternoon sunlight glittered from the fallen cones and needles that littered the way. He didn’t wish to speak, or look at anyone. The sympathy in their eyes affected him like a knife in his belly.
When they crested the hill overlooking the cave opening, Catkin held up her hand and the war party halted and unslung their bows. Whispers passed through the group as they nocked arrows. Catkin had cut her hair in mourning for Redcrop. Jagged locks blew about her beautiful face, but a terrible darkness lay behind that angry gaze.
She pointed with a straight arm. “Those boulders at the foot of the hill mark the opening to the cave. This morning, there were five warriors there. By now, there may be a hundred. If we are attacked and outnumbered, I want you to fall into a defensive formation, and we’ll
fight our way out. These warriors are tested and tough. Do not let your attention waver even for an instant!”
Mutters of assent went through the ranks. Straighthorn numbly pulled an arrow from his quiver and slid it into place in his bow. As they started the run down the hill, his heart thudded against his ribs.
Could he stand it? Seeing her face again?
“It isn’t going to end here,” he whispered, and his throat constricted.
He would be up all night helping Cloudblower prepare Redcrop’s body, washing her, dressing her, combing out her hair. She had no family—but him.
The dirt trail, barely four hands wide, curved around a clump of junipers, then dipped, and as they rose up the other side, Catkin called, “I want guards on those four high points. The rest of you spread out! Search the area along the rim and in those trees to the east, then come together at the cave entrance!”
Straighthorn followed ten other Katsinas’ warriors as they fanned to the right and sneaked along the canyon rim. Scrubby pines clung to the edge. Far below, he could see his own tracks in the damp sand, and the winding trails cut by other feet. From the looks of it, at least thirty people had crossed that patch of ground.
As the trail veered away from the rim and dipped into a thicket of head-high greasewood, Hummingbird, in the lead, called, “Let’s split up and go around it! Jackrabbit? Take Straighthorn and Little Firekeeper and go to the east.”
“Yes, Hummingbird!”
Jackrabbit waved to them, and Straighthorn and Little Firekeeper, a youth of fourteen summers, followed him. Jackrabbit slowed to walk at Straighthorn’s side. Voles scampered through the brush as they passed, and birds took wing, swooping up into the sky like many-colored arrows.
Jackrabbit said, “I know you and Catkin are supposed to carry the burial ladder back to the village, but I thought that perhaps you might wish me to carry it for you.”
Straighthorn bowed his head and stared at the sand. In the past nine moons, they had become good friends. Jackrabbit was trying to spare Straighthorn the pain of staring into her wide dead eyes all the way back. “Thank you for offering, Jackrabbit, but it is something I must do.”
Jackrabbit’s brow wrinkled. “I heard Catkin say that after we finish
here, she is going to send a small detachment to the rock shelter to find the Matron’s skull and retrieve our former friends’ bodies. Are you certain you wouldn’t rather go with that party?”
Straighthorn looked up and met Jackrabbit’s concerned eyes. Dust coated Jackrabbit’s pug nose and filled in the lines around his wide mouth. “I don’t know why Crossbill ordered them brought home. I think we should leave our former friends there to rot. They’ll be of more use in the bellies of coyotes and crows.”
Jackrabbit nodded. “My heart votes with yours. I still can’t believe that they—”
The anger surged, tickled to life. “Believe it! Skink attacked me when I tried to rescue Red … my girl. He told me he was going to kill me.” They skirted a gnarled lump of tree roots. “Springbank is the one who shocked me.”
“He shocked all of us, my friend. When I first came to the Katsinas’ People, our Matron told me that he was their most faithful member. She said he had joined the quest only a few moons after she revealed Spider Silk’s vision. We all thought he was a deeply holy man. When he left for days at a time to pray, no one thought much about it. Holy people need the company of Spirits more than ordinary people do.”
As they came around the brush, Straighthorn saw Catkin gently place Redcrop’s body on the burial ladder, and his steps faltered.
Jackrabbit said nothing; he just stopped beside Straighthorn. When Little Firekeeper walked up, Jackrabbit said, “Go on ahead, Firekeeper. We’ll be there soon.”
Firekeeper glanced at Straighthorn and nodded. “Yes, Jackrabbit.” Dust puffed beneath his feet as he trotted away. Twenty warriors gathered around Catkin and the burial ladder. They warily split their attention between her body and the surrounding countryside, anxious lest there be an ambush.
Straighthorn watched several men break from the group and duck into the cave. He frowned. Catkin would have checked the cave first and turned to Redcrop only after she’d found it empty.
Jackrabbit said, “I hope they leave some for the rest of us.”
“What?”
“The wealth!” Jackrabbit replied with a barely masked excitement.
“Matron Crossbill told Catkin to clean out everything and bring it all back to Longtail village. Do you know how much food and clothing we—”
“I didn’t hear Crossbill say that.”
“I think, my friend, that you had other things on your mind. You were helping Elder Cloudblower with the War Chief when this was being discussed. Crossbill is right. After all the murders committed by the White Moccasins, why shouldn’t the Katsinas’ People benefit from their treasure? The White Moccasins plundered the ruins of the First People to get it. The Katsinas’ People need it. It seems just to me.”
Straighthorn narrowed his eyes, jaw tightening.
“You think they are tainted with witchcraft?” Jackrabbit asked. “I heard the War Chief whisper that to Cloudblower.”
“I think it comes to us on a river of polluted blood. We are going to live to regret this day. Mark my words, Jackrabbit. We will, and so will the White Moccasins.” Eddies of rage trembled his souls.
Hummingbird whooped as he ducked out of the cave carrying an enormous basket of turquoise and jet fetishes, coral beads, and shell bracelets. He held up a copper bell and shook it. As the delicate music rose, warriors crowded around him to look, and a low roar of conversation built. More warriors appeared with baskets and began dancing around as if they’d drunk too much fermented juniper berry drink. Yells and shouts of glee rose.
Straighthorn slung his bow and slipped his arrow back into its quiver. “Come, my friend. I have more important things to worry about.” He took a deep breath to fortify himself and strode for Redcrop’s burial ladder.
And the end of a dream.
Catkin stood when she saw him coming.
Straighthorn pushed through the jostling warriors, looked at Redcrop, then his gaze darted and he spun around, crying, “Where is the witch’s body?”
Catkin stepped up to him. She stood tall, her eyes shining in the afternoon gleam. Ugly bruises splotched her face and arms, and one of her eyes had almost swollen shut, but she wore the injuries with a warrior’s pride. “Gone. The White Moccasins carried Two Hearts away along with the other dead. Ten Hawks, the rest, all gone. Only their blood is left.”
A breathless sensation swept through Straighthorn. “But he
was
dead, wasn’t he? You didn’t find his tracks, did you?”
Catkin said, “No. But they would have carried him. Dead, or alive. He was their leader.”
“He must be dead.” Straighthorn said, and his ears filled with a loud hum, like a gale rushing through a pine forest. “He was coughing up blood! I—I saw him!”
Catkin put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed until he looked up into her eyes. “I do not see how he could be alive, Straighthorn. I’m
sure
he’s dead.”
Straighthorn gazed into her confident eyes for a time and felt better. He shoved the fear away and crouched at Redcrop’s side. As he took her cold hand in his, the beast inside him cried out. He barely heard the whoops and laughter that surrounded him.

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