Casa Rinconada Parking Lot, Chaco Canyon
MAGPIE WATCHED AS the park law enforcement people climbed through the sagebrush to the mound of stone visible on the ridgetop. The afternoon sun had drained the color from the buff canyon walls and bleached the aqua tones of the brush to a sickly green. A hollow had grown in Maggie’s stomach.
Beside her, Rupert Brown bowed his head and took a deep breath. “The FBI’s on the way.”
Maggie glanced at him. “I’m sorry, Rupert. You knew him a lot longer than I did.”
“Forty-three years,” Rupert said sadly.
They’d celebrated Rupert’s sixty-third birthday last month at the Visitors Center, but few people would guess his age. Except for his steely gray hair, he might have been in his late forties. He had a lean smooth face, with a long nose and sharp cheekbones. His intense brown eyes reminded Maggie of an eagle’s, probing and memorable. At six feet six, Rupert Brown cut an imposing figure. His green Park Service uniform, like always, was impeccably clean and pressed.
“Dale got me into archaeology,” he said. “He gave me a chance and then kept me on track. He helped me get into the university. He was the chairman of my thesis committee. Back in the late sixties, he arranged a job for me with the government. Dale went to bat for me, said that it was about time that an Indian archaeologist was put in charge of Chaco Canyon. But more than that, without Dale, I doubt I’d be alive today.” He smiled wearily. “Every time I fell, he was always there to pick me up and kick me in the butt to get me going again.”
Maggie’s heart ached. Dale had helped so many people. “He was proud of you, Rupert. You’ve done a good job. The staff likes you.”
Voices sounded from the ridge to Maggie’s right where the law enforcement officers climbed over the site.
“Rupert, I want to see Dale.”
Rupert turned concerned eyes on her. “Magpie, trust me on this, all right? You don’t want to. I wish I hadn’t. It’s going to affect my sleep for a long time. It wasn’t pretty … what they did to him.”
Maggie fought the sudden urge to cry. “Why? Who would do anything terrible to Dale? Who’d rob him? What would they take? He didn’t have anything!” She clenched her fists.
Rupert’s expression pained at the tears welling in her eyes. “All right, if you really need to see him. Go. You’re going to find out eventually, but I want you to prepare yourself. It looks like Dale met a witch out here.” He paused. “Do you understand?”
Maggie blinked her eyes clear. “You—you mean an ‘Indian’ witch? You can’t be serious.”
He nodded. “This isn’t an Anglo crime, which means this is going to be a real circus for us. The press, the publicity. Not only do we have to bury an old friend, but the investigation is going to turn this park upside down. We’re in for an unholy mess once word gets out.” He squinted. “Thank God we’re past the tourist season. By tonight, when people start to hear, this place is going to be empty.” He rubbed his jaw. “Or full, who knows?”
“I can’t believe it. What kind of witch? What tribe?”
“I’m not sure. It’s complicated, Magpie. He’s buried upside down in the dirt. You saw how his feet were sticking up. They were bloody because the soles of his feet had been skinned off.”
Maggie’s knees went weak. Rupert reached out and grabbed her arm to steady her. “Who would do that? Who would want to make sure he could not walk to the Land of the Dead?”
“All I can think of is that somewhere in his long and colorful life, our old friend got crosswise with a witch. But, why bring him here? Why on my watch?” Rupert seemed to be speaking to the wind. “Is this a message for me? Something I’m supposed to understand?”
“The only thing I understand,” Magpie said, “is that I just lost an old friend. It’s as if I can hear Dale calling to me, telling me to watch out.”
She looked up at him, and Rupert said, “I want you to take the day off. Maybe the week. I don’t care. Go home, Magpie. Grieve. I’ll call you and let you know when the funeral is. I just … well, go home. Get out of here.”
She nodded as tears blurred her eyes. “All right, but I have to see him first, to say good-bye. If I don’t, it will never be right between us.”
Rupert stared at her, as if seeing into her soul. “Go on. But I warned you.”
She started forward, and stopped, looking back, seeing his stricken face. “Will you be all right?”
He gave her a wounded smile. “I’m the park superintendent. I have to be. It says so in the job description, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not going to sneak away and spend some time alone with memories of Dale.”
“You’re a good man, Rupert.”
He looked suddenly lost and alone.
Magpie left him standing there, a desolate look in his eyes as she followed the trail left by the law enforcement personnel. She’d look, see what they’d done, and say good-bye.
Then, dear God, someone had to call Dusty.
A LARGE FIRE blazed near the sheltering west wall of Sunrise House, but it did little to thwart the cold. Catkin pulled her gray blanket more tightly about her shoulders and studied the faces of the people who had gathered below. In the flickering firelight, they resembled statues carved from a fine pale wood. Sunrise House was the perfect place to hold this assembly. The plaza was bounded by a two-story room block on the west and north, while a wing of single-story rooms enclosed the south up to the curving wall of the kiva. Set back on the north was yet a third story of rooms that used the roofs of those below for balcony space. That area was now crowded with observers who had come in from Dusk House, North House, and the surrounding great houses where news of the historic visit
had been carried. Even the roof of the kiva was crowded with people.
The mere sight of that many on a kiva roof gave Catkin a chill. But a half moon ago, she had seen almost forty children incinerated on the roof of the tower kiva at Longtail village. Pray to the gods that no skulking warriors lurked in the dusk to ply their havoc here.
She glanced at Browser, standing to the right of Stone Ghost. His eyes seemed fixed on some distant point, as if he were staring at something in the sky just beyond the looming bulk of the great kiva’s crowded roof.
He seemed preoccupied these days. First it had been the deaths of his wife, his son, and his lover, Hophorn. Then had come the long journey from Straight Path Canyon north to Longtail village. After that, the stories of warfare came filtering to them, borne on the flood of refugees leaving the Green Mesa villages. They told of whole villages wiped out by warriors loyal to the Flute Player and the old gods. Then Browser and Catkin had responded to a call from Aspen village—and seen the horror with their own eyes. A heartbeat after that their Matron, Flame Carrier, had been murdered, and within days Two Hearts had set the fire that killed over half of their children and destroyed Longtail village. Browser had come within a whisper of being killed in the subsequent fighting with the White Moccasins, and heard the truth of his ancestry. No wonder he was reeling. It would have been more a miracle if he’d still been the clearheaded War Chief she had first known when she came to the Katsinas’ People over two sun cycles ago.
Well, if Browser could not concentrate on his duty, she would. She considered the village layout. Matron Cloudblower stood just ahead of Browser and Stone Ghost. Old Wading Bird was to Cloudblower’s right. Matron Crossbill and several of her surviving elders, many with bandaged burns, clustered to Cloudblower’s
left. The remaining Katsinas’ People pressed in behind her, their backs to the western room block.
Matron Blue Corn stood on the north side of the fire with a beautiful red parrot-feather cloak spread about her shoulders. She had pinned her hair up with turkey-bone pins that gleamed with inlaid turquoise, jet, and coral. Her flat angular face remained emotionless, but her crossed arms and stern posture reflected disapproval. An old man, a frog-faced elder, stood just behind her. From time to time, he would whisper into Blue Corn’s ear. Who was he? Catkin didn’t remember him from her previous visits here, but with the comings and goings of refugees, she couldn’t know everyone.
The Matron’s large dark eyes scanned the crowd, studying the faces one by one. When she met Catkin’s hard stare, she stopped, as if measuring. It was Blue Corn who severed the connection when she turned to whisper to Rain Crow, her War Chief. He was a blocky man with broad shoulders. Sometime in the past, his face had stopped a war club. That collision had left a flattened nose, heavily scarred upper lip, and misaligned cheekbones. The fellow wore his long black hair pulled into a bun on the left side of his head. He listened to Matron Blue Corn, glanced briefly at Catkin, and said something to the frog-faced elder before turning and ducking into the crowd of villagers that thronged the space behind Blue Corn.
What had all that been about?
Catkin took a half step back, gestured with her hand, and caught Jackrabbit’s attention. When the young warrior sidled close, she said, “I want you to choose a handful of warriors, tell them to spread out, keep an eye on things. Quietly.”
His jaw muscles knotted as he looked past her at Browser. “I’m glad someone besides me is a little worried about this.”
“The order came straight from the War Chief,” Catkin lied. “He’s doing his best not to show his distrust
of either the Fire Dogs or Matron Blue Corn.”
“I am glad to hear that,” Jackrabbit told her, clapping a reassuring hand to her shoulder. “Consider your spies to be out.”
“Move carefully, Jackrabbit, quietly,” she reminded. “We want to be wary, not provocative.”
He nodded and slipped away, stopping to whisper into Straighthorn’s ear before moving on to Wrapped Hand, Straw Shield, and Two Cones. One by one the youths eased into the crowd.
Catkin returned her attention to the empty space south of the crackling fire. The door curtain facing the beaten clay plaza stirred, and an athletic young man ducked out, followed by nine warriors who spread out to either side before advancing in a solid rank toward the fire.
They wore fine blue cotton shirts that Catkin could see under their split-turkey-feather blankets. Each of the warriors carried a small willow basket made from yellow stays woven with black to create zigzag patterns. Buffalo-leather leggings rose above their thick yucca trail sandals, and each had a bright red sash about his waist.
An old man emerged last and took a position to the rear. He lowered his eyes, as if in deep thought. Catkin examined his tattered gray tunic. He must be a slave. Dirty wisps of white hair had escaped the bun at the back of his head and fallen over his wrinkled face.
The young Fire Dog stepped forward and smiled. He was a handsome man; no, more, a beautiful man. The planes of his face were perfect. His nose, cheeks, the firm chin and strong mouth, they might have sprung from a god rather than a human mother. Even the sparkle in his large brown eyes had an appealing otherworldliness. He stopped several steps from the fire, lifted his hands, and began to sing. The rich tenor of his voice carried out over the suddenly silent crowd, rising to echo from the plastered walls.
Catkin felt her soul lift, and in spite of her suspicions, she smiled. Though he sang in the language of the Fire Dogs, she knew most of the words. She had learned the language from the slaves her people kept.
“I rise from fire.
Hear me, wind and sky.
Hear my song and Bless me.
I rise from fire.
I rise from water.
I rise from earth.
When I live, you live within me.
When I die, I will rise and become
one with the clouds, my ancestors.
I rise.
I rise to be with you.”
When the last strains faded, only Wind Baby’s whimpering among the roof poles could be heard.
After a few instants of silence, people began to shuffle, and the young man raised his hands higher. “I am Gray Thunder, of the Rattlesnake Clan! You call my people Fire Dogs because of the way we came to this earth. Since the beginning of time, we have either traded or fought with each other. Sometimes we have even lived in villages in the same valley, shared the water, wood, plants, and animals. We have a history, your people and mine. Perhaps we have much more.”
“What would that be?” the frog-faced elder asked derisively from behind Blue Corn’s shoulder.
Gray Thunder lowered his hands, and the gleam in his eyes intensified. “For many generations, my people believed that one day a child would be born who would bring about the end of the Straight Path Nation.”
Whispers greeted his statement.
“It happened, as our prophets said it would! The great Poor Singer, son of Young Fawn and Chief Crow Beard, marked the end of the First People’s reign.
Within a sun cycle of Poor Singer’s capture, the First People had left Straight Path Canyon and come here. It was here, in Flowing Waters Town, that the Made People declared war on the First People, and drove them from this place.”
“Perhaps he should tell us something we don’t already know,” Blue Corn said just loudly enough that most of the front ranks could hear. People laughed and Frog Face nodded.