The Visitant: Book I of the Anasazi Mysteries (10 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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“No, the last blow killed them.”
“Well, right, but I mean before that.”
“Before that they had half their brains knocked out.”
The longer Maureen listened, the more powerfully her blood rushed. “You’re sure it’s not just some odd form of cranial deformation?”
“I know cranial deformation, Maureen. The Anasazi tied their children’s heads to cradle boards to flatten the skull. They didn’t abuse them. These women show dramatic abuse.”
She looked out the bay window at the
v
of geese flapping over the crystal blue lake. “So what are we talking about? Spousal abuse? Ritual warfare, where people hit each other in the head to demonstrate courage? Or maybe polygyny, where cowives beat each other?”
“If I knew the answer to that, do you think I’d be on the phone to you?”
Maureen paused, thinking. “Don’t I remember something about mass graves of women somewhere down there? It was a paper I heard at the American Association of Physical Anthropologists meetings a while back. Women sprawled in graves—”
“The La Plata Valley stuff: Yes.”
“Is that what you have there, Dale?” She could see the images in her mind: Skeletons of battered women thrown face-first into holes and covered with trash.
She could almost hear Dale smile.
“Come and see for yourself. There’s an ‘E’ ticket waiting for you at the United terminal in Toronto.”
“Dale, I have obligations here. Classes start—”
“I’ll let Dusty do the analysis, then. It’s high time he learned something about paleopathology.”
He hung up.
Maureen stared down at the receiver.
Outside, birds chirped, and a gust of wind tinkled the chimes on her porch.
She settled the receiver into the cradle and gritted her teeth.
“I’m not going to do this, Dale. I refuse to subject myself to Stewart.”
The last time, in New York, they’d spent the entire month at each other’s throats. Stewart knew nothing about science, and she couldn’t fathom his peculiar brand of cultural “hunches.” Stewart could look at a site, study the artifacts, and stratigraphy—the soil layers—and arrive at an immediate intuitive understanding of what had been going on a thousand years ago. Despite the fact that he was generally correct in his guesses, it smacked of the worst kind of pseudoscience to Maureen. In her opinion, either anthropology was a hard science, with experiments anyone could replicate, or it was irrelevant.
As she stared out the French window, she could see the grapevines draping her fence, the clusters of immature grapes green in the late summer light. The image faded to that of earth-yellowed bone, rounded skulls, and gaping orbits.
Women. Battered. Why so many? And what had that hesitation been in Dale’s voice?
She’d known him for a long time. Something about this site worried him. What?
Maureen drifted around the house like a dandelion seed on a current of air and somehow ended up in her bedroom.
“I’ll let Dusty do the analysis,” she mimicked Dale’s throaty voice, as she pulled her suitcase from the back of the closet, and tossed it on the bed. “You should have just put a gun to my head, Dale. The result would have been the same.”
B
ROWSER DRAPED HIS DOOR CURTAIN OVER ITS PEG. Cold wind blew into his chamber, rustling the dried sunflowers, corn, and beans that hung from the rafters.
He had buried his son less than half a hand of time ago. His wife had been murdered, her skull crushed and left to be discovered, then her body had been stolen.
This isn’t real. It can’t be real.
Browser touched his son’s cornhusk dolls, the tiny bow and quiver of arrows he’d made for the boy. When his gaze landed on the carved wooden dog that rested near the baskets, his eyes blurred. He walked over and picked up the toy.
“Oh, my son.”
According to tradition, for four days after the boy’s death, Browser should not dream of him or speak his son’s name aloud. Grass Moon was on his way to the Land of the Dead, and no one had the right to pull him back to this world of misery and pain. But Browser longed to say his son’s name, to hear it again.
He paced the three body lengths of the chamber, turned, and paced back. In the diffused light, the brightly painted faces of the katsinas looked dull. The Badger katsina stood straight ahead of him, on the west wall. The god wore a black mask with turquoise eye slits and an eagle feather headdress. Sharp teeth gleamed in his long muzzle. He carried a spear in one hand and a bow in the other. Was it imagination, or did the god seem to be watching Browser with mild curiosity?
“Hophorn prayed to you every night. She offered you cornmeal and rare shells. Where were you when she needed you? Could you do nothing to save her?”
Anger swelled his heart, and he swayed on his feet. He’d barely slept in two days.
Two days? Has it only been that long since my wife came to me in the plaza?
He clutched the toy, and his gaze drifted over the chamber.
How could everything look the same when his life had been destroyed? Different-sized baskets and a stack of pots sat in the far corner to his right. His weapons lay next to his rolled hides in the far corner to his left; beside them stood the big corrugated pot of shelled beans. But an empty spot marked the place where his son’s bedding had rested along the rear wall, and only a circular impression in the dirt reminded him of his wife’s black-and-white sewing pot.
Browser stared at it.
After they’d discovered his wife’s body missing, the entire village had combed the canyon, searching for tracks, drag marks, bits of clothing, or hair. They’d found nothing.
Out of respect, he had buried his wife’s sewing pot, sending it to the Land of the Dead for her. Then he’d burned her clothing to kill any evil Spirits that might have nested in them.
Browser turned the toy in his hands, over and over, studying the angles of the running legs, the tilt of the dog’s muzzle.
An eerie feeling of wrongness tormented him. It went deeper than the loss of his family. He felt as though a hideous monster stood right before his eyes, and he could not see it.
He had never before experienced this kind of fear. It had no object, nothing he could lash out at, or fight. The terror just squirmed in his belly, as though growing, readying itself to spring to life.
Browser knelt and touched a finger to the impressions left by the burial ladder.
“Where are you now, my son?”
Once a soul passed the traps, monsters, and snares set on the road to the underworld, it saw two trails: one leading to the left, and one to the right. The Sun Trail on the left was broad and sprinkled with corn pollen. Good people took that trail to the Land of the Dead.
People who had caused great pain and grief in their lives, however, saw smoke rising down the right trail, the Trail of Sorrows,
and were drawn to it. Along the way, some turned into dung beetles. The worst people had to walk the trail carrying a heavy basket of grinding stones on their back. They could only take one step a sun cycle.
At the end of the Trail of Sorrows, Spider Woman waited with her sacred pinyon pine fire blazing. Some souls were purged in the smoke and allowed to return and take the Sun Trail. Others were cast into her fire and burned to ashes. The gods trod upon those ashes forever.
Browser knew which trail his son would take, but he couldn’t say about his wife.
He used a finger to trace the outline of the burial ladder. The dirt felt cool and gritty.
When anger with the gods did not consume him, anger with his wife did.
She’d run away when her son had needed her most. If she’d been home, where she belonged, she would be alive today.
He squeezed his eyes closed.
With the guilt, came the shaking.
He tucked the toy into his shirt pocket and glanced at the doorway, praying no one would see.
A war chief who showed weakness, weakened everyone around him.
He needed to talk with someone, to pour out his fears and culpability, but Hophorn was incapable of speaking with anyone, and Catkin would not return for at least another day. The storm might delay her for two or even three …
Steps crunched the snow.
Browser clenched his fists. When the trembling came upon him like this, he couldn’t stop it. “I am here,” he called. “Come.”
The young slave girl, Redcrop, leaned into his doorway. Snow coated her long hair, and frosted the shoulders of her elkhide cape.
“Forgive me, War Chief,” she said. “Matron Flame Carrier sent me to fetch you. She wishes to speak with you.”
Browser took a deep breath and said, “Thank you,” as he ducked through the doorway.
Redcrop ran in the direction of Flame Carrier’s chamber, and Browser followed.
Four ladders stood against the long south-facing wall of Hillside Village. Out of necessity his chamber had a doorway on the ground floor, but the seventy-two other chambers were more secure, reachable only by ladder. Smoke curled from the roof entries, and coiled up the cliff face into the snowy heavens.
Redcrop took the second ladder. Browser climbed up behind her.
Redcrop knelt over the roof entry and announced, “Matron, I have brought the War Chief.”
“Fine, girl,” a scratchy old voice answered. “You may go to Cloudblower now. Find out how the Sunwatcher is.”
“Yes, Matron.”
Redcrop rose, bowed hastily to Browser, and trotted for the ladder again.
Browser knelt over the circular entry and called, “May I come, Matron?”
“Yes, War Chief.”
Browser descended. Flame Carrier stood below him, leaning on her walking stick in front of the warming bowl. She’d coiled her gray hair into a bun and wore a tan blanket over her hunched shoulders. Her large chamber stretched three-by-four body lengths across. The Sun katsina stood tall on the white wall behind Flame Carrier, his red-and-yellow mask covered with glistening stars, his eagle headdress painted in such extraordinary detail that the feathers looked real. Pots and baskets lined every wall, and two piles of bedding hides lay rolled to Browser’s left.
A pile of sticks lay to the left of the warming bowl, and a teapot hung on a tripod to the right.
Flame Carrier did not look at Browser as he stepped to the floor, but said, “Sit, War Chief,” and gestured to the mat on the opposite side of the warming bowl.
Browser knelt. “What did you wish to see me about, Matron?”
Flame Carrier prodded the wood pile with her walking stick, and the kinky hairs that made up her eyebrows knitted. She heaved a breath, and said, “Did you do this thing?”
“Do this …” The question struck Browser like a blunt beam in the stomach. He stared wide-eyed at her. “Matron.
No!
”
Flame Carrier slowly turned to face him. Her rich brown eyes shone. “I waited to call for you because I wished to speak with
others first.” She pointed at him with her stick. “Do you know how many of our people believe you killed your wife?”
Browser sank to the floor. “No.”
“
Too
many. Thundercloud’s chamber is next to yours. He says he has often heard you screaming at your wife, threatening her. Wading Bird reminded me that only last moon your wife went for days refusing to speak to anyone, and her left eye was black. Did you strike her?”
Browser felt as though his heart were melting and flowing down his back bone. “No.”
Flame Carrier’s wrinkled lips tightened. “Peavine told me—”
“Peavine?” he said in a strained voice. “She hated my wife. She hates me.”
“That may be, War Chief, but she came here this afternoon to tell me the number of times you have visited Catkin’s chamber in the middle of the night. Peavine says she did not blame you because she believes your wife was a witch, and Peavine assumed you did not wish to be a part of the hideous ceremonials she performed in your chamber.”
“In our chamber?” He shook his head vehemently. “I know nothing of these things, Matron. No. No, I do not believe
any
of this!”
“Do you deny going to Catkin—”
“We are not lovers, Matron! Catkin is my deputy. We often have things to discuss, war plans to lay, plots to sift out. And …” He opened his hands. “And, more than that, she is my friend. Have you never had a man who was simply your friend, Matron?”
Flame Carrier’s stern expression softened. “What do you say to Wading Bird’s suggestion that you beat your wife, blacked her eye?”
“She would not speak with me either during that time! I asked her over and over what had happened. On the fifth day, she finally answered. But she said only that her Spirit Helper was healing her.”
“Healing what?”
He spread his arms. “I do not know.”
Flame Carrier lowered her voice, and whispered,
“Witchcraft?”
“Matron, I have never seen any evidence that my wife was a witch. I will admit that my duties often take me away from home, but I think I would know if my wife were involved in such wickedness.”
Flame Carrier’s small eyes narrowed. “For the moment, let us assume that you did not kill your wife. Who did?”
Browser tucked his hands beneath his armpits to hide their trembling. “I do not know, Matron.”
“You must have some suspicion.”
He shook his head. “No. None. It could be anyone.”
Flame Carrier adjusted the tan blanket over her shoulders. “Who hated your wife?”
“Peavine. More than that, I cannot say.”
But in the deepest corners of his souls, oddly different voices hissed:
Peavine, Whiproot, Catkin.
Browser glared at the glowing coals. Catkin had never spoken a word against his wife. Why would his souls name her? As snow filtered down through the roof entry, the coals spat and steamed. He suddenly found it hard to breathe.
Flame Carrier’s wrinkled face fell into contemplative lines. “You are lying to me, War Chief. Why? Do you have something to hide?”
“No, Matron,” he quickly defended. “It is just that if I speak poorly of people in my own village, it might appear that I am accusing them. I do not believe someone here did this terrible thing. The murderer must have been an outsider.”
Flame Carrier grunted, “Indeed? You just said it could have been anyone.”
She used her walking stick to brace herself while she eased down to the deerhide opposite Browser, and tucked her blanket around her feet. The warming bowl nestled between them, the coals glowing redly.
“What about Catkin?” Flame Carrier said in a calm voice.
“Matron? What do you mean?”
Flame Carrier tossed another stick into the warming bowl, and sat quietly, watching the flames lick around the wood.
Finally, she asked, “Where is Catkin?”
Browser’s stomach muscles clenched. He’d been dreading this. He leaned forward and peered directly into Flame Carrier’s narrow eyes. “I sent her to the south, Matron. To Smoking Mirror Butte.”
“Without my approval?”
A swallow went down Browser’s throat. “Matron, I have heard you speak of Stone Ghost before and your words were never kind.”
“Of course not. He’s an old fool. His souls flit around like bats.”
Browser opened his hands in a pleading gesture. “But he has discovered the truth of many crimes, Matron. Do you recall the terrible murders at Faithful Hawk Village twenty summers ago?”
Flame Carrier’s brows lowered, but she might as well have lifted a bow and aimed it at Browser. His mouth went dry.
“I do recall,” she said. “But you would have seen barely eight summers. How do you know of it?”
Browser laced his hands in his lap. “My grandmother was one of those killed. I was there the day our warriors hauled her mutilated body into the plaza.”
The scent of wet pine needles filled him, and he could feel the rain on his face and hear the thunder rumbling in the distance. The warriors had been splotched with her blood, their faces sprinkled with raindrops. The cries of Browser’s mother rang in his ears.

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