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

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BOOK: The Summoning God: Book II of the Anasazi Mysteries
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“Perhaps bodily needs?” Straighthorn gestured awkwardly.
“Probably.” Browser slipped his knife back into his leather belt sheath. “Let me help you lift the doe. We’ll carry her into the plaza, and then I’ll accompany Redcrop on her search.”
“Perhaps we should organize a search party?”
“If Redcrop and I do not find her in the next half a hand of time, that is exactly what I will do, but let’s not worry anyone else until that time comes.”
“Yes, War Chief.”
Browser knelt and picked the deer up by the two front legs. Straighthorn lifted her back legs. They carried the doe around the northeastern corner of the village onto the trail that led to the plaza.
Sunlight glittered through the yellow cottonwood leaves, scattering their path with wavering diamonds. Someone had started breakfast. Roasting corn cakes flavored with peppery beeweed scented the air.
Straighthorn said, “How was Aspen village? Since you are home, I assume it was just a scare.”
Browser answered, “Once I’ve spoken with the elders, I’ll ask that they call a village council meeting. That way everyone can hear at once.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Forgive me.”
Browser scanned the high points around the village, then traced the shadowed drainages that cut the tan-and-gray hillsides. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, but there could still be someone out there, watching them. The last attack, half a moon ago, had been swift and brutal. The warriors had come up the river drainage during the night. When they’d launched their attack just before dawn, there had been only a few people up to kill, four guards and three old
women. They’d hit the food storage rooms that lined the plaza, grabbed several baskets of corn, bags of dried beans, and rice grass seeds, then raced away before Browser, half-asleep, had even made it into the plaza. He’d mounted a war party and pursued the invaders, but lost them in the rocks a day’s walk to the south.
Eight people stood near the plaza fire, including three of the most respected village elders: the Longtail Clan Matron, Crossbill; Cloudblower, the sacred Man-Woman; and old Springbank. Springbank had seen sixty-five summers. He had a long, age-spotted nose and wrinkled lips that sunk in over his toothless gums. A few white hairs dotted his freckled scalp. Springbank smiled, elbowed the two young warriors standing next to him, Skink and Water Snake, and pointed to the deer. People turned to look.
Browser’s steps faltered when he noticed that Obsidian also stood in the crowd. Straighthorn gave Browser an uncomfortable glance, and Browser continued on.
A smile turned Obsidian’s lips when she saw him. He lowered his gaze and watched his feet. Something about her disturbed him. From the first instant he’d met her, he’d had a feeling that he’d known her long ago, but couldn’t place where or when.
They carried the deer to the edge of the fire and eased her to the ground. People encircled them, smiling, waiting for a thick slice of venison.
Browser said, “Do you need my help skinning her, Straighthorn?”
“No, War Chief, thank you.” He pulled a stone knife from his belt. “You have more important duties. Besides, I’m sure I can find all the help I need.”
“I will help you,” Springbank said, and hobbled forward with his toothless mouth open in a grin. “Perhaps you will grant me a piece of the tenderloin.”
“Gladly, Elder.” Straighthorn smiled.
Browser searched the gathering for Redcrop. She stood almost hidden behind Obsidian. He glimpsed her long tangled black hair hanging down her back and strode forward.
“War Chief?” Cloudblower excused herself from the discussion and caught up with Browser. “A moment?”
“Of course, Elder.”
“I just heard that Flame Carrier is missing.”
“As did I.”
Forty summers old, Cloudblower had long, gray-streaked black hair, graceful brows, and a sharply pointed nose. Though Cloudblower had a male body, she had female souls, and dressed as such. Long fringes dangled from the sleeves and hem of her finely tanned doehide dress. She had knotted a yellow-and-brown blanket around her shoulders.
Cloudblower whispered, “Do you fear something’s wrong?”
“No. For now I am just curious as to her whereabouts.”
Browser continued toward Redcrop with Cloudblower at his side.
Cloudblower looked at him with worried brown eyes. She said, “How is Aspen village?”
“I haven’t reported to the Matron yet, Elder. After I have spoken with her, I will be glad to answer all of your questions.”
Cloudblower must have heard something in his voice. She gripped Browser’s shoulder and panic lit her eyes. “Is Eagle Hunter alive?”
Browser hesitated. He saw Obsidian watching him and made a point of scanning the faces of the people around her. “I vow that I will speak with you about this
later
, Elder.”
Cloudblower held his gaze for a time, obviously longing to ask more, but said, “I will be waiting for you after you have informed the Matron.”
“I will come directly to you.”
Redcrop stepped away from Obsidian and called, “Are you ready, War Chief?”
Browser nodded. “Yes. I thought we would search down by the—”
“I’m going with you,” Cloudblower said, and began tying the laces on the front of her cape.
“Please remain here, Cloudblower. I do not wish to alarm people. If we both rush off, it might cause speculation. Redcrop and I will search. If we do not find her, we will return and seek the help of others. It would help if you would search the village while Redcrop and I search the sacred places, the hilltops, and shrines.”
Cloudblower shook her head as though it pained her, but she said, “I will, of course, work where you need me.”
“I’m grateful, Elder.”
Cloudblower bowed to him and hurried for the ladder that led up to the second story near the tower kiva.
Redcrop tugged at Browser’s sleeve. “War Chief? Please, I—”
Obsidian stepped toward them, filling the space Cloudblower had left open, and Browser stiffened.
To say that her enormous eyes were brown would have been like describing the inside of a seashell as white. In the gleaming rays of dawn, her eyes shone with a pearlescent golden fire. She had a slender, shapely nose, a pointed chin, and lips that seemed to beckon.
“Did you wish to speak with me, Obsidian?”
She pulled her dark blue hood back, and a thick wealth of black hair tumbled out. Long loops of jet beads flashed from her ears. Browser’s gaze instinctively dropped to the sun-bronzed tops of her breasts and the large turquoise bird pendant that rested there. He had to force his gaze back to her eyes, but he did not know which threatened him more.
“I saw the Matron last night,” Obsidian whispered.
Redcrop’s mouth gaped. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier when I first asked?”
Obsidian didn’t even look at the slave girl. Her eyes remained locked with Browser’s.
He said, “At what time?”
“About midnight. She left her chamber and walked straight down to the river.” Wind fluttered hair around her face, tangling it with her eyelashes. She brushed it away with a bejeweled brown hand.
“Did you speak with her?”
“No. I was standing high up on the tower kiva. I just saw her leave.”
Browser cocked his head. “What were you doing up at midnight, Obsidian?”
“Water Snake was standing guard. He valued my company.”
The way she said “company” told Browser more than he wished to know. Redcrop ducked her head as if embarrassed.
Browser said, “If you saw our Matron go to the river, did you see her return?”
“No, but I was only out for a hand of time. I left when Hummingbird came to relieve Water Snake. Perhaps you should ask him—”
“I asked already,” Redcrop broke in, “when I first got up. Hummingbird told me he had not seen the Matron.”
The soft warmth in Obsidian’s eyes struck Browser like a physical blow. He folded his arms over his heart to protect himself. Nine moons ago, he’d lost everyone and everything he loved—his son, his wife, his beautiful Hophorn. Loneliness stalked him like a lion. It made it more difficult that Obsidian seemed to know and used it against him.
In a soft, intimate voice, Obsidian said, “I hope you find the Matron soon, War Chief.”
“We will, Obsidian.”
Browser turned to Redcrop. “Perhaps we should search the river, Redcrop. That’s where the Matron was last seen heading.”
“Yes, please, let’s hurry.”
She marched forward very quickly, and Browser had to trot to catch up.
“Allow me to lead the way,” he said, and smiled as he walked out in front of her. “I think my eyes may be a little sharper than yours when it comes to spotting enemy warriors hidden in the brush.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She fell in line behind him. “I did not think of that.”
He looked back at her. Redcrop walked with her head down and her fists knotted. “And stay close to me.”
“Yes. I—I will, War Chief.”
D
R. MAUREEN COLE SAT ON THE EDGE OF THE TABLE BESIDE the lectern and straightened her tan wool sweater over her crisp brown slacks. She’d clipped her long black hair up in back. As she pressed the button that projected a PowerPoint slide onto the screen, she peered out at the bright eyes of the students in her Introductory Physical Anthropology class. Well, mostly bright eyes. On her far left, Stephen Willson slumped in his chair, sound asleep. He’d been snoring off and on for the past forty-five minutes.
Maureen picked up her laser pointer and shone the red dot on the slide of the bones. “What you see here is an adult female, age twenty-two. She was recovered in an excavation in New Mexico last year. Her bones tell us a very interesting story. The scarring on her pubis indicates that she had at least one child. She stood one meter forty-eight. She broke her right wrist when she was a child. I can tell you for a fact that her diet consisted almost entirely of corn. She was anemic when she died, suffering from extrapulmonary tuberculosis, and, even more interesting, she was murdered.”
Even Willson woke up at that. He stared wide-eyed at the skull. Maureen moved her pointer to the dent on the side of the woman’s skull. “That is the blow that killed her. Probably delivered by a right-handed individual with a stone-headed war club. So, you see, just a cursory inspection of the woman’s skeleton tells us a great deal about her, even though she lived almost eight hundred years ago.”
“But …” Karen Jones sat up in her chair and brushed blond hair behind her ear. She wore a black turtleneck sweater. “There are a number of other dents in her head, Dr. Cole. What does that mean?”
Maureen looked up at the cranial depression fractures that covered the woman’s skull. “What do you think it means, Karen?”
Karen tilted her head thoughtfully. “If you ask me, it looks like she was a battered woman.”
Maureen smiled. “Very good.”
Her students shifted when the door at the rear of the room opened, and the department secretary, Nora Lander, walked in and checked the clock on the back wall. The students checked it, too. Three minutes left.
Maureen said, “Okay. On the final exam, I will expect you to speculate about why this woman was murdered. Who hit her? What was her probable station in life? Why did they strike her? I’ll also expect you to describe in detail the test I ran that allowed me to prove her diet consisted almost entirely of corn. Any questions?”
Somebody called, “Her diet was corn because she didn’t have a Tim Horton’s close!”
Notebooks closed in a flurry of pages. Students stood up and gathered their coats, backpacks, purses, and other belongings. As they shuffled toward the door, conversations broke out.
Maureen walked around behind the table for her buffalo-hide purse and black down coat.
Through the narrow aluminum-framed windows to her right, she could see snow falling over the McMaster campus. Steam curled from the silver vents on the building rooftops. When she’d arrived at the university this morning, the temperature had been four degrees below zero Centigrade. It was supposed to hit ten below by the time she left the physical anthropology lab tonight.
Nora waited until the flood of students passed, then came forward with a letter in her hand. An attractive woman in her mid-twenties, she had short brown hair and a pointed nose.
“How is everything going, Nora?” Maureen asked as she hitched her purse onto her shoulder.
“Oh, I’m fine. My biggest worry is getting my ex to pay half the cost of fixing the furnace. Yours, it would seem, is getting packed. The dean’s approved your leave and this came in on the fax.” She handed a letter to Maureen. “I have to admit, when Dale Emerson Robertson makes a request, things happen.”
Maureen took the letter.
“Thanks, Nora.”
“Great! Have a nice trip, Dr. Cole.”
Maureen nodded and watched Nora walk toward the exit.
She opened the envelope and pulled out the fax. Quick and to the
point, it explained that her flights had been booked, and all she needed to do was pick up an E ticket at the United counter in Toronto. An additional note had been scrawled across the bottom of the page. She had to tip it sideways to read it:
“I’ll meet you at the Doubletree Hotel bar at 9:00 P.M. on the 20th. Bring your own tent.”
For Stewart, that was an epic. She refolded the letter and started for the door. Her brown boots clacked hollowly on the floor.
“I don’t know about this, Stewart,” she whispered to herself. “I hope we don’t kill each other.”
Maureen walked out of the room and strode down the long white corridor that led to the P.A. laboratory. Students rushed past, moving from one class to another.
At the last site she’d worked on in New Mexico, she and Stewart had almost come to blows over a mass grave of women and children. The victims had been clubbed in the head repeatedly, but all of the cranial depression fractures had healed, barring the last one, which had killed them. After extensive excavation and analysis, she’d discovered a pattern to the burials. It wasn’t an ordinary mass grave where the women and children had been struck in the heads haphazardly, as slaves, or other second-class citizens would have been. No, this was something far more sinister—the work of an ancient serial murderer, a madman who had used a club to systematically test brain function. They’d excavated eleven women and children, but she’d felt almost certain there had been more bodies buried in that mass grave. They’d barely scratched the surface of the site when Indian religious fundamentalism had shut down their work. The American government had actually passed a law saying it was sacrilegious to do scientific work when any person of Indian descent considered it against his or her religious beliefs—something the U.S. government would never do for a Christian or Muslim fundamentalist. It was a federally approved form of cultural genocide. If scientists couldn’t determine who and what the ancient peoples had been, that legacy would be lost forever. Apparently, that was what the U.S. government wanted. It was just another way of killing Indian culture by taking away their ability to know their own past. It made it very difficult for a physical anthropologist from anywhere else in the world to want to work in America. Especially a Seneca physical anthropologist.
Though Maureen’s father had been White, her mother had been a full-blooded Seneca. She’d raised Maureen as a devout Catholic, but insisted she learn about her own Iroquois heritage as well. By the time Maureen was thirteen, she was skilled at pottery making, porcupine quillwork, beadwork, basketry, even bow hunting, skinning and tanning the hides she harvested. She’d gone off into the forest alone for days at a time to listen to the animals, to study their habits. That curiosity and independence had served her well when she’d entered college at McGill University in Montreal. She’d excelled in the sciences of physiology, chemistry, and anatomy. She’d also been a radical student, a hothead who had worked hard to get the government to establish an aboriginal people’s homeland in Canada. If Quebec deserved a separate identity because they had a unique culture, didn’t the Native peoples?
“Good morning, Maureen.”
She looked up into the eyes of Dr. Philip Morgan. “Hello, Phil. How are you?”
“Smashing, thank you.” Six feet three inches tall, with dark brown hair and an olive complexion, he looked Italian, though he’d been born in England. In an insecure gesture, he loosened the black tie at the throat of his gray shirt, and smiled—the smile of a rich fop, a man untroubled by anything except his hairdresser’s latest recommendations on style. What else could you expect from an archaeologist who specialized in statistical seriation, whatever that meant.
“I just heard you’re leaving town, heading off to the Wild West.”
“News travels fast. I just heard myself.” Since her husband’s death four years ago, Phil had driven her crazy, practically begging her for a date. She added, “I don’t expect to be back from New Mexico until next term.”
“New Mexico. Really? Those people use AK-47s for home defense, you know?”
She started down the hall again. “Don’t worry. I plan on buying my own just to even the odds.”
It surprised both of them that she’d said that, especially since she considered weapons to be the spawn of Satan.
“Uh. Right.” Phil forced a laugh. “I heard that Dr. Robertson pulled some strings. You’re not planning on working with that Stewart fellow again, are you? The Madman of New Mexico? From what I’ve
heard, he’s a womanizer, a thug, a thief, and may not even be a member of the human species. More like a gorilla with a trowel.”
“Gorillas are highly intelligent, Phil. You might try reading Schaller, Fossey, or some of Penny Patterson’s work before you—”
“Before I insult them by comparing them to Stewart?”
She threw him a disgusted look. “He really dislikes being called the Madman of New Mexico, Phil.”
“I’ve heard that he earned that nickname the hard way. By deserving it.”
Maureen checked her watch. “I have to go, Phil. Sorry. I’ve got a graduate seminar scheduled in the lab. It starts in one minute.” She broke into a brisk walk.
“Maureen, are you sure about this project?” he asked, matching her stride again.
“Why do you care, Phil?”
“Well, I’ve heard some things. About Stewart’s mother, Ruth Ann Sullivan—you know, the cultural anthropologist from Harvard. Did you know she abandoned the family when Dusty was six years old. Apparently, he wasn’t even normal as a child.”
“Are you trying to make a point, Phil? That was over thirty years ago.”
“Yes, but that’s just the beginning of the story. Did you know that after Robertson committed Sam Stewart to a mental institution, he went through all the family he could find, but no one wanted the kid? That should tell you something. No wonder he can’t carry on a decent conversation—”
“That’s not true, Phil. I’ve heard Stewart carry on fascinating conversations about archaeology.”
His mouth twisted with contempt. “Be serious. The guy’s an American
field
archaeologist. If you can name every beer in the world, they’ll sacrifice a human child in your honor. Stewart—”
Maureen stopped dead in her tracks and turned to face Phil. “Have you been researching Dusty Stewart, Phil?”
He tried to make light of it. “Given your interest in the Southwest, I thought it prudent to find out more about this madman—”
“For your information, Dusty’s nickname is based on his unorthodox field methods, not his father’s illness.”
She headed for her classroom again, remembering the time she
had made the mistake of telling Dusty he was as nutty as his father. The mixture of hurt and fury on Dusty’s face had made her want to slither back into the hole she’d crawled out of.
Phil caught up with Maureen. “Aren’t you having lunch? I was hoping—”
“Do all archaeologists suffer from attention deficit disorder, Phil? I have a seminar.”
He spread his hands in a pleading gesture. “Listen, Maureen, all of this work in the States is interesting, of course, but wouldn’t you rather try an exotic location with more complex physical specimens? I know the director of The National Museums of Kenya. He’s been begging me to come for years. I’m sure I can arrange for us to spend—”
“Thank you, no.”
“But—”
“Phil, give it a break!”
Maureen opened the door to the P.A. lab and ducked inside. Her five graduate students, three women and two men, looked up with quizzical expressions. On the tables in front of them a variety of skulls and bones lay in neat rows.
“Sorry I’m late,” Maureen said, as she tossed her coat and purse on the desk by the door and headed for the examination tables. “I was ambushed by a micro-brained protosimian.”
She’d just placed Phil on the evolutionary ladder at about fifteen million years ago—long before anything remotely human.
They laughed.
“Okay. Let’s get started. Max, you’ve been studying Laetoli. Three point seven million years ago three hominids, your distant relatives, walked through a layer of fresh volcanic ash, and they were walking upright, side by side. What was happening almost four million years ago that caused your human ancestors to start walking upright?”
Maxwell Conners, a short young man with wide blue eyes and sandy hair, sat up straighter. “Well, first of all, natural selection doesn’t create new traits. It works with genes we already have inside us, which means that sometimes it isn’t successful. If the environment changes too fast, or the change is too severe, a species may not be able to adapt quickly enough to survive, à la
T. rex
.”
“Right. Go on.”
The sudden scent of the desert filled Maureen’s nostrils, and her
mind filled with images of spectacular wind-carved buttes and lofty blue mountains. She felt happy, light-headed. She could hear Maxwell’s voice coming from somewhere far away … but her soul had already flown to the rugged deserts of New Mexico.
BOOK: The Summoning God: Book II of the Anasazi Mysteries
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