The Secret of the Stones (27 page)

“Done
already?” he inquired cheerfully.

“Actually,
no.
 
We had a question about
something in here.
 
Would you
mind?”
 
Tommy made a motion with
his hand for the man to come over.

The
ranger looked around.
 
For whom,
Tommy had no idea.
 
Then he said,
“Sure.
 
What would you like to
know?”
 
He walked over to the doors
and pulled them open to find the three men standing around the corner
exhibit.
 

It
seemed that the sight of the huddled group startled the ranger for a moment,
but he recovered and continued into the museum.
 
“So, how can I help you?”

The
three captors remained silent.
 
Again, it seemed Tommy would do all the talking.
 
“We were wondering about this piece
right here.”
 
He gestured to the
vase.
 
“How come there isn’t any
information about it?
 
We thought
that was strange.
 
Sure is a
spectacular piece, though.”

An
odd look crossed onto the Indian’s face.
 
“What is it exactly, that you want to know?’

The
tone of the man’s voice had changed from helpful to almost sinister.
 
Maybe it was just Tommy’s imagination,
but the smile that had accompanied his jovial attitude had disappeared as well.

Stumbling
through his words, Tommy said, “Well…where did it come from?
 
How old is it?
 
Who made it?
 
You know, stuff like that?”

The
smile returned to the weathered face, but there was something different about
it.
   
He eyed the other
three men with a look that seemed like disdain.
 
When his gaze returned to Tommy, it held a look of warning
though his voice had become pleasant again.
 
“It is a ceremonial jar that was kept here in the Cherokee
capital for a very long time.
 
As
to who made it, no one really knows.
 
But it is an excellent example of early 19th century Native artwork.”

Tommy
looked skeptical; something didn’t seem right.
 
“I’m sorry,” he paused slightly.
 
“Did you say that it was early 19th century?”

“Yes.
 
That is correct.
 
The Cherokee were a very artistic
people.
 
There was an entire caste
of artisans, sculptors, painters.
 
Creativity was encouraged by the Cherokee culture.”

Tommy
interrupted him, “Yeah, but I don’t think that this is actually 19th
century.
 
That can’t be right.”

An
annoyed look passed across the man’s face.
 
“I assure you, we have had the best experts in the region
examine this, and they have all agreed to the same timeframe.”

“Well,
I don’t know who these experts are, but I can tell you one thing:
 
that vase predates the 19th century by
at least, oh I’d say, a thousand years.”

For
a moment, the ranger’s eyes squinted.
 
Tommy’s comments seemed insulting rather than inquisitive.
 
“Really?
 
And what makes you think such a thing, if I may ask,” he
responded, crossing thick, tanned arms.

“Well,
first of all, as I was explaining to these gentlemen, this is an example of
Weeden Island pottery.
 
It’s from the
early Mississippian Age, at the youngest.
 
But from the expression of the lines and the type of clay that appears
to have been used, I’d say this thing is way older.
 
In fact, it resembles some items that I have seen at a dig
site in Lebanon.
 
Phoenicians made
some containers that look very similar to this one.
 
And those were about 3,000 years old.”
 
He tried not to appear too much like he
was correcting the man but this was an area in which Tommy considered himself
to be a foremost expert.

Again,
the look on the Indian’s face changed.
 
This time, though, it was an acknowledgement.
 
“Impressive, sir.”
 

Tommy
was not sure how to react.
 
Before
he could, the ranger continued.

“It
is indeed much older than 19th century.
 
Although, exactly how old, I do not know.
 
Since you seem to know much more about our history than the
average person, surely you know this vase has a twin.”
 

The
last comment urged an answer.
 
Nodding, Tommy replied, “Vessel Number One.
 
Yes, I’ve seen it.”

Apparently
pleased, the man continued while the two flat tops and the blonde looked at
each other, bemused.
 
“This
particular piece of work has an interesting history.
 
Originally, it was brought here by the oldest of the
Cherokee.
 
It was said that they
kept the bones of a great tribal leader within it.
 
As the legend goes, this man was more a king than a
chief.
 
He ruled vast lands and was
a great warrior.
 
When he died,
those who took over for him believed that if they kept his remains, the kingdom
would be blessed for all eternity and that he would watch over it from his
place in the afterlife.”
 

The
ranger stopped talking for a moment and looked at the unassuming display, lost
in thoughts that drifted through time.
 
“This land we stand upon was considered holy by the Cherokee for thousands
of years.
 
Then, in 1838, the
American Government took it all away.
 
Their lust for Native treasures and land pushed the tribe west to
Oklahoma.”

“But
the vase remained here?”
 
Tommy
slipped the question in during a moment of reflection.

“No,”
the reply was vacant. “It was taken to a safe place near here.”

“A
safe place?”

“Yes.
 
The Nation’s leader, John Ross,” he
said, motioning at the wooden representation of the old tribal chief.
 
“Ross knew that the people had been
betrayed by some of their own and that soon, the United States government would
force them to leave their land.
 
So, he took their most sacred relic to the only place he thought it
would be safe…a church.”

Tommy’s
eyebrows furrowed at the revelation.
 
“A church?
 
I don’t
understand.
 
Why didn’t they just
take it to Oklahoma?”

The
dark-skinned man chuckled under his breath.
 
To him, the answer was obvious.
 
“This vase is as much a part of this land as the trees and
the dirt beneath them.
 
It was
brought here by a great tribal leader and here it must stay for all
eternity.
 
Even though many
traditions were lost through the years and several Euro-American ones were
adopted, there are still others that remain and will remain until the end of
time.”

“But
if the white settlers could not be trusted with this, how did Ross know that he
could trust a church full of white people?”
 
It was a good question, assuming it was a church full of
white people.

“There
were many people in the United States government as well as average, every day
citizens, who wanted the relocation to happen.
 
No doubt, those people were in the majority.
 
However, there were some who believed
it to be a great evil and fought the forced removal with every resource they
had.
 
Davy Crockett was one of the
most famous to fight against the government removal.
 
It ended up costing him his political career.
 
“But there were also local people who
rallied for the Cherokee cause.
 
One of those was the pastor of a nearby church.
 
That place of worship still exists
today.
 
It’s called The Beacon
Tabernacle.
 
Ross developed a
friendship with this preacher over time and grew to trust the man as if they
were brothers.
 
In fact, there was
a rumor that the reverend had even gone through the blood ceremony to become
forever united with his new friend.”
 
The Indian stopped again and looked out through the double doors to make
sure no one was waiting at the desk, a move that startled the two Russians
momentarily.

Ignoring
their jumpiness, he began again while Tommy listened eagerly.
 
“A few days before the federal troops
moved in, Ross went to the church.
 
He walked in during a service and presented the jar to his friend.
 
There it was kept for over a century until
this park was established.
 
Knowledge of this vase’s importance to the Cherokee was passed down from
pastor to pastor.
 
When it was
announced that Red Clay would become a protected state park, the then leader of
the church graciously returned the vessel to where he believed to be its proper
resting place.”

“So,
what happened to the bones of this ruler?”
 

“The
great king’s remains were rumored to have been buried somewhere safe, but the
location remains a mystery much like story itself.”

As
fascinating as the whole tale had been, none of it really helped them with the
bigger picture of finding the chambers.
 
Tommy couldn’t help but feel like this simple park ranger knew more than
he was letting on.
 
But how to get
it out of him?
 

The
Indian disrupted his thoughts with a whisper, just loud enough for Tommy’s ear
alone to hear, “You shall not find what it is you seek.
 
Though you have come further than any
before, the chamber will remain a secret.”

“What?
 
Why?”
 
He was confused by the sudden confirmation and denial all in
one breath.
 

Ulrich
leaned in to hear the exchange between the two men.

The
ranger stepped back, resolution in his face.
 
“You are not the one the prophecy foretold would lead us
home.”
 
His finger extended toward
the now angry looking blonde man.
 
“You will not find the chamber.
 
Only death awaits you and your allies.”

Pulling
his gun from his jacket, Ulrich stood in front of the man and pressed the Glock
to his forehead.
 
He’d heard
enough.
 
“Tell me where the chamber
is, fool, and perhaps I will spare your life.”

A
sick grin came upon the reddish-brown face.
 
It was followed by a deep, slow laugh, becoming faster and
louder until the entire hall was filled with the eerie sound.
 
“Death is no threat to me.
 
The location of the chamber will only
be revealed to the pure of heart.
 
Your heart is black as the night.
 
I can see it in your eyes.
 
It cannot be yours.”

Tommy
tried to intervene and stepped toward Ulrich.
 
“Jens, don’t do this!
 
He’s the only one that can help us.
 
If you kill him, then we will never find the chamber.
 
We need him.”

The
blonde cocked his head slightly.
 
“Hmm.
 
Really?”
 
Then, with a matter of fact look, he
turned his attention back to the park ranger, “Well, if dying doesn’t change
your mind, perhaps pain will.”
 
A
split second later, he had lowered the weapon to the ranger’s leg.
 
The loud recoil rang throughout the
museum walls.
 

What
had been a look of resolve on the man’s face instantly contorted to agony and
shock as he collapsed to the floor.

Ulrich’s
voice became louder, more commanding.
 
“Tell me where the chamber is and I will end your misery!”

The
man said nothing, he just grasped his leg trying to slow the bleeding from the
bullet wound.

“Say
it!”
 
Ulrich yelled again.
 
He aimed the weapon at the other knee
and pulled the trigger again.
 

The
kneecap erupted in a splash of blood and bone. Still, the man did not cry out,
though his face betrayed a new surge of pain as he clenched his jaw
tighter.
 

A
small pool of red liquid was forming around where he was propped on the floor.

All
Tommy could do was watch in horror, helpless to do anything, wrapped in the
arms of the two guards.
 
“Are you
crazy?
 
Stop it!
 
We need him!” he screamed.