The Visitant: Book I of the Anasazi Mysteries (46 page)

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

BOOK: The Visitant: Book I of the Anasazi Mysteries
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Stone Ghost spread his arms. “Not in the way we usually think of witchcraft, Nephew. I don’t think monster souls come about from curses, or Power amulets, not even wicked potions, but I have often wondered if monster souls are not lost ghosts.”
Browser’s spine tingled. “You mean the forsaken ghosts that roam the earth?”
“Yes. They are desperate souls. I imagine they would take any chance to live in a body again, to speak with people, to feel the warmth of blood surging through their veins. Most healthy people are strong enough to keep them out. But wounded children?” He shook his head wearily. “They are defenseless.”
Browser clenched his hands into hard fists. “Uncle, the woman that my son loved could not possibly have known about the malevolent boy inside her. She would have killed it if she had known, even if she’d had to rip out her own heart to do it.”
Stone Ghost said, “She knew, Nephew.”
Browser searched his face. “How can you say—”
“From the things Catkin told me. Ash Girl begged her father to kill the voices inside her. She heard them. Probably often.”
Browser shifted to brace his hand on the stone slab again. “I think, maybe, I heard him, too, Uncle.”
Stone Ghost peered up at him. “The boy talked when Ash Girl was asleep, didn’t he?”
Browser kicked a small stone that lay at the base of the slab. “Yes. I just thought it was … strange. I didn’t understand—”
“I knew she had heard the boy at least once while she slept. She heard his voice, awoke lying beside you, and assumed it was you talking in your sleep. She ran to Cloudblower in terror. But it wasn’t you, Browser. I’m fairly certain it was Yellow Dove she heard.”
Browser’s hand slowly fell to his side. “
Fairly
certain?”
“What I meant is that some people have more than one monster soul inside them. She may have heard Yellow Dove. But it might have been another soul that we know nothing about.”
Browser mouthed the words,
another soul,
and closed his eyes, blocking out the world until he could get hold of his raging emotions. He longed to scream and slam his fists into something.
He breathed, “At least it’s over. Thank the gods, it’s over.”
Stone Ghost didn’t respond, and Browser opened his eyes to stare down into his uncle’s serious face.
Stone Ghost paused for a long while, before saying, “I fear that none of the Katsinas’ People understand what has happened. The tunnel to the underworlds of the human soul did open. It opened last night. It’s been yawning black and bottomless before us all day.”
Browser swallowed hard. “You mean … it isn’t over?”
Stone Ghost held Browser’s gaze.
“You still have his Turquoise Wolf, Nephew. He’ll be back for it.
I promise you.
”
 
DUSTY WAS THINKING ABOUT HIS FATHER WHEN HE HEARD the Bronco return. Over the years, he had come to know each sputter and metallic clink the Ford made.
He sighed and stretched out on the large sandstone slab that canted at an angle north of the site. It would hold five people stretched out side-by-side. He watched the last remnants of sunset burn across the sky. The cliff over his head glittered with a cinnamon hue. To his right, a spiral petroglyph etched the stone,
along with two square-bodied kachina-like figures, and a zigzagging line.
Cool night air swirled around him, the desert coming alive after the long hot day. Field mice scampered through the dry grass around the boulder.
As nutty as your father …
The words were like stilettos in his heart.
In the beginning, it had been Dale who kept the lid on the nasty secret. Word was that Samuel had suffered a sudden “accident.” Then, as the years passed, people simply assumed he’d died of a heart attack, or cirrhosis of the liver, or any of the other insidious things archaeologists fell prey to because of their rather peculiar lifestyles.
Finally, as in all things, Samuel Stewart simply faded away. Unlike a Lister, a Kidder, or a Fewkes, Samuel Stewart hadn’t lived long enough to amass a large body of published works. His name still appeared in bibliographies of various theses and dissertations, and occasionally in an archaeological field report, but for the most part, he was forgotten.
Sometimes at the Pecos conference, or the Society for American Archaeology meetings, one of the old-timers would mention his father in a passing reference, but that was the extent of it.
He stared up at the sky. As the last light faded from the western horizon, an infinity of tiny lights frosted the heavens.
An owl hooted on the rim high above him, and the muted chirrings of the insects filled the greasewood. The day’s heat still radiated from the rock, warming his tired muscles.
Though they’d covered her back up, the sightless eyes of the last skeleton stared at him, bridging the gulf of time, whispering to him. Mrs. Walking Hawk had Sung over each of the burials, and sprinkled them with cornmeal, but Dusty wondered: Had their souls been freed? Had they found their way to the trail of the dead, and that terrible fork where, according to some myths, they would be judged? Which way had each gone? To her long-lost family and friends? Or down that other torturous route where the evil were forced to atone for their deeds?
“May the kachinas guide you,” he said into the night, hoping that their journeys, no matter what they deserved, might be easier.
He heard the soft sound of boots in sand, but stared up at the Big Dipper; it had just sparkled to life on a blanket of slate blue.
“Am I disturbing you?” she called.
“Yes.”
She threaded her way through the greasewood, a darker blot in a landscape of shadowed rocks and brush. A plastic grocery sack hung from her left elbow. She wore a clean pale blue T-shirt, but dust coated her jeans and hiking boots.
“Sylvia said she thought you were over here.”
“Did she? I’m going to make her catalog potsherds for the rest of her life.”
Maureen stopped at the base of the boulder and looked up at him. He lay near the top, ten feet away. A frown lined her tanned forehead. He heard her exhale, then she said, “Mind if I come up?”
“Yes, but you’ll come up anyway.” Dusty leaned forward, braced his left arm on the rock, and extended his right. “So, here. Take my hand. There’s a ledge at about your waist.”
Her fingers were warm in his, her grip strong. Heaving, he pulled her up, and she climbed over the edge onto the flat stone.
“Welcome to my palace.” He stretched out again, his hands behind his head.
Her Levi’s scraped the rough stone as she sat down and drew the sack into her lap.
“I brought you a peace offering.” She pulled a bottle of Guinness from the sack, along with an opener, flipped the cap off, and handed it to him.
He took it. “Thanks. Your offering is accepted with pleasure and appreciation.”
“It was a real test of will.”
“How so?”
“I was feeling miserable. About what I said to you. I always crave a drink when I’m unhappy.”
“Being around a bunch of archaeologists with their lubricated elbows must be difficult.”
“A battle every day. Some, like today, are worse. But I’m tough. I can stand it.”
The glass clinked on the stone, as he set the bottle to one side and shifted to look at her. “You okay?”
Maureen reached into the plastic sack again and pulled out a bottle of sparkling water. She unscrewed the cap and took a long drink before answering, “I’m really sorry for the things I said. I still don’t understand how religious fundamentalism can be allowed to stifle scientific inquiry, but I wish I’d expressed my views to you in private.” She let out a breath, as if bolstering her courage. “I especially want to apologize for what I said about you and your father,
I—”
“Apology accepted.” He ran his fingers down the warm sides of the Guinness bottle. “I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”
“Okay.”
The silence stretched.
“This is a funny job, Maureen. I spend my time trying to serve three different masters with three mutually exclusive agendas. Archaeology demands science. The native peoples want to take care of their ancestors. The client, NOAA in this case, wants their project permitted as quickly and cheaply as possible.”
She drew one knee up, and propped her bottle on it. “How do you keep them all happy?”
“I don’t. I do the best I can for all three, but inevitably one or two of them will accuse me of favoritism, or shoddy work, or anything else to let me know they’re displeased with the decisions I made.” He lifted the Guinness and took a long drink of the rich dark beer. “The only thing I want you to know is that I
always
take care of the archaeology.”
She nodded. “I believe that.”
Dusty studied the elegant curve of her jaw, and the delicate lines around her mouth. “Incidentally, while you were away, Maggie decided to deny the NOAA permit. We can all pack up and go home tomorrow. We’ve already back-filled every excavation unit—”
“My God, what about the skulls! The bones!” she shouted, and started to rise.
Dusty grabbed her arm, and gently tugged until she sat back down. “They’re still in your tent. Mrs. Walking Hawk said she wanted you to study them, and when you’re finished, she wants
them ceremonially reburied to make sure the souls are able to go to the Land of the Dead.”
Maureen grabbed a handful of the blue shirt over her heart. “Thank God for small miracles.”
“It
is
a miracle,” Dusty said. “I want you to appreciate it. She didn’t have to allow any further study.”
Her dark eyes glimmered. “Dusty tell me something? Can a Christian fundamentalist, a deep believer in Creationism, come out here and shut down an excavation because you’re uncovering ten-thousand-year-old burials? They believe the world is only six thousand years old. Your scientific discovery would be an affront to their religion, wouldn’t it? Couldn’t they shut down your excavation, just as Indian beliefs did today?”
He frowned at his bottle. “If we treated all religious beliefs equally, I guess so. Thank God we haven’t had to face that one, yet.”
“But you will someday. Don’t you see that? If you give free reign to one variety of religious fundamentalism, albeit native fundamentalism—”
Dusty held up a hand. “Let it go, Doctor. Please? It’s over. The decision’s been made.” His hand dropped to the rock. “And there’s something else I want to talk to you about.”
She sat for several seconds with her mouth open, as if wanting to press the issue, then finally sighed. “What is it?”
He toyed with his bottle. “I want you to know how much I’ve appreciated having you on site. You taught me things no one ever has. This burial site would still be a mystery if you hadn’t come to New Mexico.” He glanced up. “I guess what I really want to say is, thanks.”
Maureen seemed taken aback. She pulled her gaze from his and squinted into the darkness. The shining path of the Milky Way splashed the sky, and bats flitted around the cliff face, diving and squeaking to each other.
“You taught me a lot, too, Dusty,” Maureen said. “Thanks for taking the time.”
He lifted a shoulder. “Digging is my life. I enjoyed showing you some of it. Dale says I’m driven to be perfect in the field because I’m a failure as a normal human being. A social misfit.”
“Well,” she said with a tilt of her head. “Physical anthropology is my life. When I’m not working, I’m home alone. In the summer, I sit on the porch and watch the lake. In the winter, I sit at the window and watch the lake.”
He craned his neck to look at her. “What? No string of men knocking on your door? You’re an intelligent, attractive woman. I thought men would be falling all over themselves to take you out to Tim Horton’s.”
She laughed, the sound musical. “Sorry, I have to buy my own each morning before I dodge the potholes in the QEW.”
“QEW?”
“The highway that takes me to Hamilton. That’s where my university is.”
Soft strains of conversation rose from the camp. Sylvia had just kindled the nightly fire. A wavering orange gleam sheathed the tents. Sylvia crouched in front of Hail’s and Maggie’s chairs, apparently blowing on the fire. Clouds of sparks periodically flooded into the night sky.
Dusty rubbed his fingers over the gritty surface of the rock. “Do you still miss him?”
“Who?”
“John.”
As if he’d opened some private door, her voice turned guarded. “Why would you ask me that?”
“Isn’t that why you stare out the window at the lake? You’re living with John in your head? With what was. What might have been.” He paused. “I used to do that after my father died. Except I was staring out at the desert.”
She took another drink of sparkling water and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “For a while, I hated him for leaving me alone. As if by dying he’d betrayed me.”

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