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

The Visitant: Book I of the Anasazi Mysteries (26 page)

BOOK: The Visitant: Book I of the Anasazi Mysteries
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Sylvia peered seriously at the skull. “Like butchering something?”
“Yes.”
“Or …” Dusty left the word hanging for effect. He consciously didn’t glance toward his truck, and
el basilisco.
“It could be witchcraft.”
Sylvia, mimicking his exact tone of voice, countered, “Or … it could be an upset daddy using stone cutlery to carve his point into mommy’s head.”
Maggie met Dusty’s gaze. She didn’t say anything for a few seconds, then began, “I remember a strange story I heard when I was little. Witches from Tesuque pueblo went to Nambe. They spent a few days there, making evil dolls that would cause people to cough. They stuffed chili seeds, dirt, and rags into the dolls and placed them around the village. Then they turned themselves into cats and dogs and escaped up the arroyo that runs through Nambe.”
“What happened to the witches?” Sylvia asked.
The lines around Maggie’s eyes tightened. “They were caught and tortured until they vowed they would stop their witchery, but I think they all died from the torture.”
Dusty nodded. “I remember that story. By 1910 the leaders of Nambe had executed so many witches the village population had dropped by half.”
“The way I heard it, it was a real reign of terror,” Maggie agreed.
Maureen turned the skull in her hands. “I don’t understand. Why would you think these long cuts might be witchcraft?”
Dusty leaned forward, his eyes on the skull. “Corpse powder.”
Sylvia suddenly whispered, “God! Of course!”
A look of revulsion tensed Maggie’s face. She pushed her chair away from the table.
“Corpse powder?” Maureen frowned. “What is that?”
Dusty took a long drink of root beer and wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve. “Don’t you read Tony Hillerman? You know, Jim Chee and Leaphorn?”
At Maureen’s blank look, Sylvia said, “Wow, the only anthropologist in the world who’s illiterate.”
“Right,” Maureen agreed dryly, “so, enlighten the benighted heathen from the north, okay?”
Dusty took a moment to bask in her scowl. “Some southwestern tribes believe that at death the good soul leaves for the afterlife, and all that is left in the body is evil. Witches harvest this evil by stealing corpses and reducing the flesh and bones to a fine powder, which they sprinkle on their enemies. Supposedly corpse powder can drive a person crazy or even kill him.”
Maureen’s hand crept up to clasp the silver crucifix at her throat. She casually rotated the clasp around to the back of her neck, as though the action had nothing to do with the discussion, but when she dropped her hand to the table again, she drummed her fingers uneasily.
Maggie stared at Maureen. “Maybe I should wake my aunt. She might be able to tell us more. She—”
“No,” Dusty said gently. “Let her sleep. I think this heat has been harder on her than anyone. We can ask her later tonight.”
Maggie nodded. “Yes, you’re right. She didn’t sleep well last night, either. She woke me in the middle of the night to ask me if I heard the ghosts walking around the tents.”
Dusty straightened when he saw Maureen’s face suddenly go pale.
“What?” Dusty asked.
Maureen looked up. “Hmm?”
“Don’t ‘hmm’ me. What’s wrong?”
A gust of wind shuddered the tents. Maureen turned away until it passed. When she turned back, her eyes had narrowed as if against some hidden strain. “Oh, nothing, really. It’s just that I had the strangest dream last night.”
“What dream?”
“Well, it—it was odd.” She put the skull down, and folded her arms tightly across her chest. “It began with the sound of a baby crying. Then frantic steps ran past my tent. Soft steps, like sandals in sand, and a man and woman shouted at each other. I couldn’t understand their language, but I knew they were upset and frightened. I thought it had to do with the child.” She looked at Maggie. “Isn’t that strange, that your Aunt would hear steps in the night and that I would dream …”
Maggie’s brown eyes fixed on Maureen. “Aunt Hail told me you were a Soul Flyer.”
“Me?”
Maureen smiled in genuine amusement, and pointed at herself. “Sorry, Maggie, this time you’ve got the wrong person.”
Maggie tilted her head as though debating whether or not to say something else. It piqued Dusty’s curiosity.
“Is that all your aunt said?” he asked.
Maggie ran her fingers around the base of the adolescent girl’s skull. She answered, “Yes,” but the way she said it meant “no.”
Dusty finished his root beer and placed the bottle in the trash box behind him. It clacked against a wealth of tin cans. He gave Maureen a suspicious glance.
She said, “I’m no Soul Flyer, Stewart.”
Dusty smiled. “Me thinks the good doctor protesteth too much.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Maggie touched Maureen’s hand lightly. The silence stretched between them before Maggie murmured, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. Especially not in front of others.”
“You’re not telling me you believe in ghosts?” Maureen accused her.
Maggie lifted a shoulder. “Sometimes, Doctor. Sometimes.”
Dusty said, “Well, she may not, but I do.”
“
You
, I would expect it of,” Maureen replied. “You’re full of nonsense, but Maggie has a scientific mind.”
“
If
I’m full of ‘nonsense,’” Dusty replied, “it’s because I’ve seen
a lot of strange things out here, Doctor. I don’t discount any explanation. Unlike you, I don’t think science answers all questions.”
Maureen picked up the woman’s battered skull again and turned it slowly in her hands. The gaping hole, where the sandstone slab had crushed the back, caught the light. “Maybe not, Stewart, but it’s still the best way of ‘knowing’ that we have.”
Dusty laced his fingers in his lap. His gaze drifted from Sylvia’s wide green eyes to Maureen’s stoic authoritative expression and finally landed on Maggie’s politely bowed head.
“It’s one way of knowing, Doctor. It is not the only way.”
Maureen bent forward, as though truly interested in what he’d said. “My goodness, we have a philosopher in camp. I didn’t realize you were skilled in epistemology, Stewart.”
“He’s not a philosopher,” Maggie started to defend him, “he’s just sensitive to other cultural—”
“I am so a philosopher,” Dusty cried indignantly. “I can instantly tell the difference between the teachings of Jean-Paul Sartre and Yoda.”
Sylvia’s brows lifted in admiration. “Wow. I’m pretty good with Batman and Spock, but Yoda is way beyond me.”
Another gust of roasting wind battered the camp, rattling the ramadas, and sending Sylvia’s empty Coke can tumbling for the hinterlands. She leaped up and ran through the greasewood after it.
When she returned she dropped the can into the trash box behind Dusty’s chair and trudged for the ice chest with the beer. As she dug around through the meltwater, she said, “It’s definitely time for Coors. Anybody else want one?”
A
SCREAM SPLIT THE DARKNESS, ECHOED FROM THE canyon wall, and dwindled into choking sobs.
Browser looked up at the thousands of Evening People glittering across the night sky. A pale blue glow haloed the eastern horizon. Off and on throughout the night Silk Moth had shrieked her husband’s name. Peavine, and several other women in the village, had been taking turns, sitting with Silk Moth, trying to comfort her, but it had done little good.
Browser gazed down at his meal. He crouched on the roof of Talon Town eating corncakes and a hot bowl of soup that Redcrop had made for him. The soup, a mixture of squash, roasted pumpkin seeds, and dried yucca petals tasted sweet and flowery. He dipped his corncake into the steaming bowl, scooped up a large chunk of squash, and ate it while his gaze drifted.
He’d posted five guards on Talon Town, including himself. To his left, in the plaza below him, Jackrabbit and He-Who-Flies whispered outside of Cloudblower’s chamber. On the toppled fifth story, near the cliff behind Browser, Skink and Water Snake stood, silently surveying the distant canyon.
Browser took a bite of his corncake and chewed slowly. The cold night air carried smells of cedar smoke, damp earth, and the lingering taint of blood and torn intestines.
After the villagers had returned to their chambers, Browser and Catkin had carried Whiproot’s body into the newly restored kiva and placed it on one of the long foot-drums. They’d stood in silence, neither saying a word, but both thinking the same thought: Whiproot should have died in battle fighting his enemies, not taken by surprise at home. How could it have happened?
Many things made no sense. At first, Browser had assumed the
murderer had attacked Jackrabbit and run to draw everyone away from Hophorn’s chamber so that he could kill her—but he was no longer certain of that. The murderer must have seen Browser and Whiproot standing together on the roof before he attacked Jackrabbit. Why had he chosen that moment? If he had waited another finger of time, Browser would have been gone, leaving only two foes to battle.
Browser dipped his corncake again. As he chewed, he frowned out at the dark canyon. It was almost as if the murderer had waited for Browser’s arrival. Had
known
Browser would come, and wished him to be there when he murdered Whiproot.
Browser’s belly knotted. He stared down at his soup. Earlier in the evening, an unthinkable possibility had flashed across his souls. For just an instant, he had feared that the murderer might be using Hophorn against him—dangling her safety in front of his nose like a piece of meat before a starving coyote, luring Browser in, then murdering people while he stood helplessly by.
Browser picked up his horn spoon and stirred his soup. The pumpkin seeds swirled around the yucca petals.
He looked out at the dark zigzagging slash of Straight Path Wash, wondering if the murderer used it to approach the town? Or to escape when he had finished his foul deeds? At first light, he would search for tracks in the frost. If he found none, he would crawl through Talon Town on his hands and knees by himself.
Browser swiveled around and studied the giant half-moon-shaped structure. He saw Skink and Water Snake standing tall, silhouetted against the canyon wall. The roof of each crumbling, stepped-back story, glittered. Collapsed timbers thrust up through the fallen stones like huge spears aimed at the sky gods. Predawn light streamed through gaping holes in the walls.
Many of the holes could not be seen from his current position. The largest, most dangerous openings, gashed the towering rear wall of the town, near the cliff face. A man with a hook tied to the end of a rope might be able to climb in and out of those holes at will, especially given the fallen rocks and deteriorated plaster piled at the bottom.
Browser tipped his soup bowl up and swallowed the last of the sweet broth. As he set it down, he noticed Redcrop trotting up the
road to his left. Her long hair fluttered with her stride. She had been up most of the night cleaning, cooking, and running errands for Flame Carrier. The poor girl must be as exhausted as Browser.
She stopped beneath him, and called, “War Chief? The Matron wishes you to come to the Hillside plaza.”
“Tell her I’m coming.”
“Yes, War Chief.” The girl sprinted back toward the village.
Browser slung his bow and quiver over his shoulder and walked along the roof until he stood over Cloudblower’s chamber. At the edge of the roof, he called, “He-Who-Flies?”
The muscular warrior stepped out of the shadows and looked up. He stood twelve hands tall, and had a chest like a grizzly bear. His round flat face gleamed in the predawn glow. “Yes, War Chief?”
Jackrabbit leaned against the wall outside of Cloudblower’s chamber. His eyes glinted in the starlight.
Browser said, “The Matron has summoned me. I wish you to take my guard position. I will try to return soon.”
“Very well, War Chief.” He-Who-Flies reached for the ladder that lay on the ground near Jackrabbit, propped it against the south wall, and started to climb up.
Browser walked to the ladder he’d stowed at his guard position and lowered it over the side to the road below. By the time he set foot on the frozen ground, He-Who-Flies stood tall and straight above him, his bow and quiver over his right shoulder.
Browser removed his war club from his belt and clutched it in his right hand as he headed for Hillside Village.
As he rounded the southeastern corner of Talon Town, he saw two people standing before the small blaze in the fire pit, both small and hunched, wearing long capes. One of them leaned on a walking stick. At the edge of the orange gleam, four guards stood.
Ten paces from the fire, a little old man turned suddenly and called, “My dear grand-nephew!” and hobbled toward Browser in a swirl of feathered cape. He had wispy white hair, a hooked nose, and thick gray brows.
“Uncle Stone Ghost?”
The old man passed between the guards as if they didn’t exist and gripped Browser’s free hand. He held it to his heart and smiled. “You cannot imagine how happy it made me to know that
you had moved here, barely a day’s run from my house. Remind me. Which nephew are you?”
“I am not surprised you don’t recall. The last time I saw you, I had barely seen eight summers. You came to Faithful Hawk Village after Grandmother Painted Turtle was murdered.”
“Painted Turtle! Of course. She was always my favorite sister.” A look of old grief touched his expression. In a softer voice he said, “Then you must be Prairie Flower’s son.”
“Yes, Uncle.”
Stone Ghost started to return to the fire, stopped, and gazed back at Browser with kind brown eyes. He gripped Browser’s hand tightly. “I was sorry to hear about your wife and son. Are you well, my nephew?”
“Well enough, Uncle.” Browser gestured to the fire. “The Matron is waiting. I think we should—”
“Perhaps later we can speak of this together. I would like to know more about your wife.”
Browser nodded. “Of course.” He took a breath, and steeled himself. How strange that in the midst of his pain and guilt, a flame of anger still burned. She was dead. Why couldn’t he let it go?
Stone Ghost affectionately clutched Browser’s hand as they walked to the fire. In the wavering gleam, the old man’s wrinkles looked like rain-carved crevices. Several strands of tawdry pottery-disk necklaces glinted around his throat. Among the poorer villages a dropped pot became jewelry. They smoothed the pot fragments into round disks, strung them, and wore them. Was his uncle this destitute? From the corner of his eye, Browser scrutinized Stone Ghost’s clothing. Patches of feathers were missing from his cape, and his moccasins had holes in the toes.
Browser slipped his war club through his belt and put his hand over the old man’s. Before Stone Ghost left, Browser would make certain he had a warm cape, moccasins, and whatever else he needed.
Flame Carrier tapped her walking stick. “Come. Let us get started.”
Her gray hair and bulbous nose shone amber as she lowered herself to one of the rocks that encircled the fire.
Browser guided Stone Ghost to the rock beside Flame Carrier
and helped him to sit down. Browser took the rock beside his uncle. A teapot hung on a tripod at the edge of the fire. Cups nested beneath it.
Flame Carrier said, “Stone Ghost arrived last night during the insanity. He could hear the commotion from the road and decided to go to my chamber to wait for me.” She scowled at Stone Ghost. “After I shoved my liver back down my throat, we spent most of the night talking. I have told him everything I know about the murders. He wishes to question you now, before dawn brings dozens of onlookers.”
“I understand,” Browser said and turned to Stone Ghost. “What is it you wish to know about the murderer, Uncle?”
Firelight flashed in Stone Ghost’s eyes when he jerked. His bushy brows drew down over his hooked nose. “Do you know something about the murderer, my Nephew?”
“Well. Yes. I mean, I saw him last night.”
Stone Ghost leaned closer, and his white hair caught the firelight. “What did you see?”
Browser shifted. “A tall man, slender. Though it was hard to tell. He wore—”
“How tall?
Browser shrugged. “Eleven hands, perhaps twelve. I only saw him for a moment, when he was struggling with Jackrabbit, but Jackrabbit is about eleven hands. The murderer seemed taller to me.”
Stone Ghost turned to the teapot and said, “May I, Matron?”
Flame Carrier nodded. “That is why I had Redcrop make it.”
“I’m grateful.” Stone Ghost picked up a cup, dipped it full, and handed it to Browser. Then he filled one for himself. The fragrance of sunflower petals rose.
Browser added, “But the man was wearing a large mask, Uncle. It would have made him at least two or three hands taller.”
As Stone Ghost sipped, a veil of steam wavered around his wrinkled face. “What else?”
Browser rested his cup on his knee. “The killer struck Jackrabbit with a war club and fled through a gap in the wall near Hophorn’s chamber. Whiproot and I immediately climbed down and ran to Jackrabbit. I ordered Whiproot to guard the Sunwatcher’s chamber
and told him that if Jackrabbit recovered, he should send him for help.”
“Then you followed the killer, yes?”
“I tried to, Uncle. I didn’t make it very far.”
Flame Carrier watched them through keen old eyes, her elderly face stern.
Wind fluttered the wisps of white hair clinging to Stone Ghost’s spotted scalp. His eyes narrowed. “Inside the town, what did you see?”
“Very little.” Browser frowned down at his tea. The firelight dyed the rising steam the deep gold of squash blossoms. “I entered the gap in the wall and proceeded cautiously, listening every step of the way. I heard laughter ahead of me, then I thought I heard something just before Jackrabbit came up behind me, but it might have been a rodent. The crumbling town is filled with them.”
“How much time passed between the moment you entered the gap and Jackrabbit appeared?”
“Oh,” Browser said through a long exhalation, “four hundred heartbeats, at most five.”
Stone Ghost frowned and shifted to peer at Flame Carrier. Firelight flowed across her still face. They appeared to be exchanging thoughts. Flame Carrier tilted her head, and her kinky gray brows twitched.
Stone Ghost turned back Browser. “In those five hundred heartbeats,” he said, “did you hear anything from outside?”
Browser’s hand arrested in midmotion lifting his tea cup. His gaze darted over the clay-washed face of Hillside Village, noted the coils of smoke rising through the rooftop entries and the way the firelight played on the cliff. “I do not recall hearing anything, Uncle.”
“Did you not think that strange? Jackrabbit had just been attacked. Surely he would have been questioning Whiproot, or Whiproot questioning him.”
A hollow sensation expanded Browser’s chest. He watched the light of the flames sheath his uncle’s ancient face and twinkle in his curiously gentle eyes. “What are you saying?”
Stone Ghost smiled. “Tell me, do you think the walls of the town are so thick they eliminate sound?”
“No, because later Jackrabbit and I both heard a voice screaming. It called—”
“It? You did not recognize the voice?”
“No, Uncle, but that is of little import. I have been in battles where my own best friend cried my name and I did not recognize his voice. Panic twists the souls, makes voices come out in ways they never have before.”
“True,” Stone Ghost said. He smoothed his thumb down the side of his cup. “When you first entered the Sunwatcher’s chamber, what did you see?”
The images flashed across Browser’s souls, and he closed his eyes a long moment. “Whiproot lay on his back. His mouth was covered with blood, and his war shirt was pulled up. His belly had been sliced open. Blood streaked the walls and ceiling and pooled on the floor. Hophorn was huddling in the corner, trembling. Blood and stuff from the intestines speckled her face and the blanket around her. Clearly two men had fought. Their sandal prints had tracked through the blood. The way the tracks circled each other, it appeared that Whiproot was trying to protect Hophorn, to keep the murderer from reaching her.” Browser shook his head. “As best we could determine, the murderer leaped on Whiproot from the roof and struck him in the head. The blow dazed Whiproot enough that his attacker could stab him. From the cuts, Whiproot tried to defend himself. Then the murderer forced Whiproot to back into Hophorn’s chamber and kneel down. But Whiproot must have seen his chance and leaped for the man, knocking him backward. They had overturned the pots on the north wall and stumbled through the warming bowl. Coals and broken potsherds scattered the floor. Instants later, I ran from the passageway where I had chased the katsina and out into the plaza.”
BOOK: The Visitant: Book I of the Anasazi Mysteries
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