The Devil Colony (26 page)

Hank felt a flash of irritation. “You asked for my help. Do you still want it?”

Painter held up a palm. “I’m sorry. Go on. But I think I know where this is headed. You believe the mummified bodies in the cave were members of that lost Jewish tribe.”

“Yes. In fact, I believe they were the scripture’s Nephites, who were described in the Book of Mormon as being white-skinned, blessed by God, and gifted with special abilities. Does that not sound like those poor souls we found?”

“And what about those murderous Lamanites who wiped them out?”

“Perhaps they were Indians who converted or made some truce with the newcomers. But eventually something changed over the passing centuries. Something frightened the Indian tribes and drove them to wipe out the Nephites.”

“So you’re saying the history described in the Book of Mormon is a mix of legend and actual events. That the lost tribe of Israelites—the Nephites—came to America and joined the Native American tribes. Then centuries later, something scared a group of those Indians—the Lamanites—and they wiped out that lost tribe.”

Hank nodded. “I know how that sounds, but there’s additional support, if you’ll hear me out.”

Painter waved for him to continue, but he still looked unconvinced.

“Take, for example, the amount of Hebrew sprinkled among the languages of Native American tribes. Research has shown there to be more similarities between the two languages than can be attributed to mere chance. For example, the Semitic Hebrew word for ‘lightning’ is
baraq
. In Uto-Aztecan, a Native American language group, the word is
berok
.” He touched his shoulder. “This is
shekem
in Hebrew,
sikum
in UA.” He ran a hand down the bare skin of his arm. “Hebrew
geled
. UA
eled
. The list goes on and on, well beyond coincidence.”

“Well and good, but how does this directly relate to the mummified remains in the cave?”

“Let me show you.” Hank stood and crossed to his backpack. He opened it, retrieved what he wanted, and returned to his seat. He placed the two gold tablets on the tabletop. “The Book of Mormon was written by Joseph Smith. It came from a series of golden plates gifted to him by the angel Moroni. It was said that the plates were written in a strange language—some say hieroglyphics, others that it was an ancient variant of Hebrew. Joseph Smith was given the ability to translate the plates and that translation became the Book of Mormon
.
”

Painter pulled one of the plates closer. “And the writing on this plate?”

“Before you arrived at the university last night, I had copied a few lines and forwarded them to a colleague of mine—an expert in ancient languages from the Middle East. I just heard back from him this morning. It intrigued him. He was able to recognize the script. It
is
a form of proto-Hebrew.”

Painter shifted forward in his seat, perhaps growing more intrigued himself.

“A scholar, Paracelsus, from the sixteenth century was the first to name this proto-Semitic script. He called it the
Alphabet of the Magi.
He claimed to have learned it from an angel, said it was the source of special abilities and magic. All of which makes me wonder if Joseph Smith hadn’t come upon a similar cache of such plates and translated them, learning the history of these ancient people—this lost tribe of Israelites—and recorded their story.”

Painter leaned back. Hank could see that doubt still remained in his eyes, but it was less scoffing and more thoughtful.

“Then there’s Iceland,” Hank said.

Painter nodded, already putting that piece of the puzzle into place. “If these ancient practitioners of nanotechnology—scholars, magi, whatever—were indeed from a lost tribe of Israelites, if they were fleeing across the Atlantic with something they wanted to preserve but were unsure if they’d make the journey—”

Hank finished the thought. “Once they hit Iceland, a land of fire in an icy sea, they would have found the perfect warm place to secure at least a portion of their volatile treasure before moving on to America.”

“Hank, I think you may—”

The crunch of tires on loose rock cut him off, sounding distant, yet coming fast. Painter swung around, a pistol appearing in his hand seemingly out of nowhere. He hurried to the door.

Kowalski sat up, belched, and looked around blearily. “What? . . . What did I miss?”

Painter checked the window, stared for a full minute as the road noise grew steadily louder—then visibly relaxed. “It’s your friends Alvin and Iris. Looks like they found our last guest.”

8:44
A.M.

The old dented Toyota SUV kicked up a swirl of sand and dust as it came to stop in the center of the stone cabins. Painter stepped out of the shade of the porch and into the blaze of the sun. Though it was barely morning, the light hammered the surrounding badlands into shades of crimson and gold. Squinting against the glare, he crossed to help Iris out of the driver’s seat. Alvin hopped out on the other side.

The elderly pair, wizened by the sun and well into their seventies, looked like old hippies with tie-dyed shirts and faded jeans fraying at the hems. But their clothing was accented with traditional Hopi elements. Iris had her long gray hair done in a Hopi-style braid, decorated with feathers and bits of turquoise. Alvin kept his long snow-white hair loose, his bare arms fitted with thick wristbands of beaten silver holding shells and chunks of turquoise. Both had embroidered belts of typical Hopi design, but rather than ox-hide or buckskin moccasins, they wore hiking boots straight out of some urban outfitter’s catalog.

“So at least you haven’t burned the place down,” Iris said, her hands on her hips, inspecting the homestead.

“Only the coffee,” Painter said with a wink.

He stepped past her to the rear door of the SUV to help the final member of the party. Last night, Painter had sent word that he wanted to speak to one of the Ute elders, someone from the same tribe as the grandfather who had murdered his own grandson to keep the cavern secret. Clearly that old man had known something. Maybe other elders of his tribe did, too. He needed someone who could shed some light on the meaning of the cave, on its history. Alvin and Iris had fetched the old man from the bus station so that Painter and the others could keep their exposure to a minimum.

Painter reached for the door handle, ready to assist the elder—only to have it open in front of him. A young man barely in his twenties climbed out. Painter searched the backseat, but no one else was there.

The slim figure stuck out his hand. He was dressed in a navy suit, carrying his jacket and a loose tie over one arm. His white shirt was open at the collar. “I’m Jordan Appawora, elder of the Northern Ute tribe.”

The absurdity of that statement did not escape the youth, who offered a shy, embarrassed grin. Painter suspected that shyness was not a habitual trait in the kid. His handshake was hard and firm. There was some muscle hidden under that suit. When he withdrew his hand, he swept his lanky black hair out of his eyes and looked around at the circle of pueblos.

“Perhaps I should clarify,” the young man said. “I’m a de facto member of the council of elders. I represent my grandfather, who is blind, mostly deaf, but remains sharp as an ax. I warm his seat at council meetings, take notes, discuss matters with him, and cast his vote.”

Painter sighed. That was all well and good, but this young Ute was not the elder that he’d been hoping to question, someone steeped in ancient stories and lost tribal knowledge.

“From your expression,” Jordan said, his grin growing wider and warmer, “I can tell you’re disappointed, but there was no way my grandfather could make this long trip.” He rubbed the seat of his pants with one hand. “As rough as those roads were, he’d be heading to his next hip replacement by now. And considering that last mile, I might need my first.”

“Then let’s stretch our legs,” Alvin said, proving the wisdom of his own years. He waved them toward the pueblo’s porch, but he hooked an arm around his wife and nodded to a neighboring cabin. “Iris and I’ll see about rustling up a real breakfast at our place while you settle matters.”

Painter recognized that the two were making themselves scarce so that his group could talk in private, but considering how matters had changed, this wasn’t necessary; still, he wouldn’t turn down breakfast. He led Jordan up to the shaded porch. Kowalski was already there, kicked back on a chair, boots up on the rail. He rolled his eyes at Painter, plainly as unimpressed with the so-called elder as Painter was.

Kanosh joined them on the porch with Kai. His stocky cattle dog came, too, sniffing at the newcomer’s pant leg.

Jordan made his introductions again—though a bit of that shyness returned as he shook Kai’s hand. She also stammered, her voice going soft, and retreated to the opposite side of the porch, feigning a lack of interest, but the corner of her eye often found Jordan through a fall of her hair.

Painter cleared his throat and leaned back on the rail, facing the others. “I assume you know why I asked you to come all the way out here,” he said to Jordan.

“I do. My grandfather was good friends with Jimmy Reed. What occurred—the shooting at the cavern—was a tragedy. I knew his grandson, Charlie, very well. I was sent to offer whatever help I can in this matter and to answer any questions.”

It was a politician’s answer. From the kid’s clipped and restrained response, Painter suspected Jordan had spent at least a year in some law school. The young Ute was here to help, but he wasn’t going to open his tribe to any further involvement, potentially damaging involvement, in the tragic events that had occurred in the mountains.

Painter nodded. “I appreciate you coming, but what we truly needed was someone—like Jimmy Reed—who adhered to the old ways, who had intimate and detailed knowledge of the cave’s history.”

Jordan looked unperturbed. “That was clear. Word reached my grandfather, who pulled me aside privately and sent me here without anyone else knowing. As far as the Ute tribe is aware, we refused your request.”

Painter shifted, fixing the youth with a sharper gaze.
Maybe this wasn’t such a waste after all.

Jordan didn’t shrink from Painter’s attention. “Only two elders even knew that cave existed—preserved on a scrap of tribal map that marked the cave’s location on Ute lands. It was my grandfather who told Jimmy Reed about the cave. And last night, my grandfather told
me
.”

A flicker of fear showed in the young man’s eyes. He glanced away to the sunbaked cliffs, as if trying to shake it off. “Crazy stories . . .” he mumbled.

“About the mummified bodies,” Painter coaxed, “about what was hidden there?”

A slow nod. “According to my grandfather, the bodies preserved in that cave were a clan of great shamans, a mysterious race of pale-skinned people who came to this land, bearing great gifts and powers. They were called the people of the
Tawtsee’untsaw Pootseev
.”

Kanosh translated. “People of the Morning Star.” He turned to Painter. “Which rises each morning in the
east
.”

Jordan nodded. “Those old stories say the strangers did come from east of the Rockies.”

Painter shared a look with Kanosh. The professor was clearly thinking these people came from much farther east than this.

His lost tribe of Israelites . . . the Mormon’s Nephites
.

“Once settled in these territories,” Jordan continued, “the
Tawtsee’untsaw Pootseev
taught our people much, gathering shamans from tribes throughout the West. Word of their teachings spread far and wide, drawing more and more people to them, becoming one great clan themselves.”

The Lamanites,
Painter thought.

“The
Tawtsee’untsaw Pootseev
were greatly revered, but also feared for the power they possessed. As centuries passed, they kept mostly to themselves. Our own shamans began to fight with each other, seeking more knowledge, beginning to defy the warnings spoken by the strangers. Until one day, a Pueblo tribe to the south stole a powerful treasure from the
Tawtsee’untsaw Pootseev
. But the thieves did not know the power of what they had stolen and brought great doom upon themselves, destroying most of their own clan. In anger, the other tribes set upon the surviving members of the Pueblo clan and slaughtered every man, woman, and child, until they were no more.”

“Genocide,” Kanosh whispered.

Jordan bowed his head in acknowledgment. “This horrified the
Tawtsee’untsaw Pootseev
. They knew their body of knowledge was too powerful, too tempting to the tribes who were still warring. So they gathered their members throughout the West, hid their treasures in sacred places. Many were murdered as they sought to flee, leaving other clusters of survivors with little choice but to take their own lives to preserve their secrets.”

Painter studied Kanosh out of the corner of his eyes. Was this the war described in the Book of Mormon between the Nephites and Lamanites?