San Juan County Morgue, Forensic Anthropology Unit
The lab is cold, sterile, and heartless. Dr. Alona Murphy, forensic anthropologist in her forties, studies the mummies that Kate discovered in the underground cavern. She’s part Native American, part Irish – a woman trapped between two competing worlds with clear passage into neither.
Murphy had struggled many years to climb her way to the top of her field while retaining respect of the male elders in her community. As much as the elders disliked a female with such authority, they detested the white man more. Any historic biological discovery of a human carcass, no matter how old – ancient or modern – comes to her. Through years of hard work, Murph had risen to become the local expert in all things dead. And she ruled the San Juan County Morgue. Murphy’s opinions had even been sought by local ranchers and farmers to investigate diseased animals, poachers, and anything odd or strange that the outside world would criticize if asked. Most of all, Murphy understood that the aftermath of local traditions involving humans and animals almost always ended up in her lab. She was delicate, understanding, and fair.
When ranchers caught poachers on their land and needed forensic identification of stolen animals, they turned to Murphy. If people were branded, scarred, or punished for their deeds in the traditional way, Murphy was drawn into it as an expert. If disease afflicted the livestock population, it was Murphy’s word that was trusted to determine if the cause was punishment by the Great Spirit or simply rabies gone amok. She’d even autopsied lamas imported from Chile that had all become mysteriously sick and discovered their intestines were filled with smuggled cocaine. Now she was cutting up mummified natives for Kate Darby’s excavation.
Mummies in the desert were nothing new to Dr. Murphy. Mummification was part of her expertise. Not only was she a coroner, she also had a Master’s in Ancient Native American studies and had trained for a year in an exchange program at the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities. That had given her world-class experience examining, preserving, and identifying cultural markers with ancient, mummified bodies – a cornerstone of her purpose in returning to the San Juan County Shiprock.
The unique background had brought with it federal and state grants to fund her expensive lab. It also ensured that the Native American community had an expert member watching out for their best interests and who had valid expertise that qualified her to be part of any archeological research. In fact, it was a county code that Dr. Murphy must oversee as a tribal representative, any and all work involving ancient finds. Too bad, many on the tribal council thought, that Dr. Murphy was a woman trying to do a man’s job. Kate stands looking over Murphy’s shoulder. Dried wrinkled bodies fill the room. They lie across a dozen tables and on every countertop. Some of the bodies are whole. Others are in pieces.
“You uncovered something all right,” Murphy explains. “These bodies are recent, not ancient. Perhaps as young as a few decades.” She inspects them closer, uses a magnifying lamp, peels back clothing on one of the specimens to reveal a faded tattoo.
“How can that be?” Kate blurts out on the verge of frustration. All her hopes and dreams now wrapped up into what was fast becoming a nightmare that she couldn’t shake off. At every turn she faced loss, acrimony, and never-ending frustration. All she wanted to do was finish unearthing this ancient village and publish her papers. It all stung with every revelation. But what hurt most was the thought of disappointing Sabastian.
Sabastian had put his reputation on the line to cut through red tape for Kate to be here. Now he was stuck in the same cultural quicksand that threatened to shut everything down. But to Kate none of this was about only success. It also meant protecting her father’s legacy. If dad were alive, he’d be disappointed in her as well. That’s what hurt her the most. Now all her efforts might be lost.
“This here,” Murphy says, pointing to some markings on the upper torso. “These symbols are on every one of them.” Kate eyes the find through the lens of the doctor’s magnifying lamp. On the withered skin are various symbols, some familiar, some not.
“Tattoos, rank, status, achievement – all symbols marking rites of passage,” Kate ponders aloud. Murphy nods. She already knows. She’s a Ute.
But upon closer inspection Kate second guesses herself. “Can I touch this?” she asks about the body. “I need to see more of it.”
“Sure,” Murphy answers. She hands Kate a pair of little blue latex gloves. Kate puts them on and gently rolls the sun-dried arm over. It snaps off. Dust poofs into the air. Quick, Kate steps away, avoids breathing it in.
“Shit!” Kate blurts. But Murphy is unphased. Patiently, the coroner waits for Kate to compose herself. “Sorry,” Kate apologizes. Murphy shrugs.
“It’s a mummy,” Murphy says. “It doesn’t bite.” Kate returns her attention to the strange markings on the brittle flesh. Some of the inkwork she recognizes as pervasive throughout the local culture and traditions. But some of the hieroglyphs don’t fit.
“I recognize some of these symbols, but not others. I don’t know what these symbols mean,” Kate says.
“Really?” Murphy replies. “I thought you knew everything about my people.” Kate ignores the jab. But it cuts deep. Murphy sees it and decides to lighten her tone and switches gears, figuring that perhaps she shouldn’t push it. This girl may have connections Murphy can use.
Kate holds up the silver trinkets from the excavation, lays them on the table next to the tattooed mummy arm. The emblems are the same.
“These were unearthed within the last week. And this one,” she digs into her pocket and pulls out the bracelet that she found on the child’s bony arm in the subterranean cavern. Murphy swings her magnifying lamp from the body to the jewelry.
“Well, they do match,” the coroner agrees.
“Here, see on this one.” Kate flips over the child’s bracelet medallion, revealing etching on the back side. It’s an image of a colonial warship. It says New Orleans 1812, Gen. Andrew Jackson.
“Where’d you get that bracelet?” Murphy asks.
“They were adorned with this,” Kate continues. “The bodies, I mean. I had this charm dated. This bracelet is an original, not a replica,” Kate continues, searching Murphy’s eyes for some, any recognition of this strange and seemingly incoherent set of clues. But Murphy only shrugs and remains aloof. Clearly, she knows more than she is letting on.
“Family heirlooms. Who knows?” Murphy responds. “That’s nothing I’ve seen around here. Looks European.” Kate searches Murphy’s face for any hint of agreement or understanding. But the coroner gives nothing away. Kate’s confused and disappointed at the doctor’s lack of vigor for the unexplained situation.
“None of this makes sense,” Kate argues. By now Murphy is losing patience, fighting hard to maintain sympathy for the overzealous college student too big for her britches. She knows the girl is a year into the expensive research and now faces losing it all. But there’s nothing Murphy will do to help out Kate. In fact, the coroner is going out of her way to avoid becoming involved.
Kate and her expedition had already offended the community; had gotten them all riled up. Now those angry citizens were protesting outside Murphy’s morgue as well. She just didn’t want it following her home. Soon the media would be all over it – making a bigger problem for Murphy than the ruckus that Kate Darby had already caused. She’d ignited a tinder box of fury and entitlement. The Native American community would not let it go unaddressed. Their anger over Darby’s implications about the past threatened to taint the entire community. They would not have it.
But there was more on the line for Murphy. Her boss was facing re-election. Appeasing voters was more important than some buried atrocity of the past that had yet to be proven. Murphy wanted to keep her job. And she didn’t want the controversy tagging along. She wanted calm, stability, comfort. She’d fought too long and hard to get to her station only to have some twenty-five-year-old fuck it all up. Being Native American was a heavy enough burden out in the real world. But being female within that community was especially difficult. It had taken two decades for Murphy to finally gain the standing, trust – and most of all – respect as a medical authority that she deserved. If her boss weren’t re-elected, Murphy would be on shaky ground. She couldn’t afford to lose that standing for some white-bread spoiled college brat.
But try as she might to discourage Kate Darby, nothing seemed destined to get rid of her. Murphy had been taking mental notes, searching for something to peddle as acceptable for Kate to walk away and refocus her efforts on some other reservation.
“Sorry, kiddo. This just isn’t a priority on my plate right now. I’ve got three court cases, one murder investigation, six DUI accidents and one suicide to contend with. They all need my attention right now. I’ve got reports to write, bodies to autopsy. These guys,” she motions to the mummies, “can wait.” Kate doesn’t like Murphy’s response.
“You can’t be serious,” Kate blurts out, frustration welling up. “You’re acting like this is no big deal.”
“It is business as usual,” Murphy shoots back. “People dig up things out here all the time and make a big deal of it, taking advantage of this region’s history so they can publish papers, write books, teach at expensive universities. All the while giving the locals nothing from it. Apparently, we’re just a vehicle for someone else’s success.” Kate shakes her head, steps closer, looks deep into Murphy’s eyes.
“That’s bullshit, and you know it.” Kate tells her, unwavering.
“Look, my kids go to school with the people working on your dig.” Now Murphy gets closer, stepping into Kate’s personal space. “And with the people you’re pissing off. You don’t live here. I do. My kids do.” Murphy wants to say more but stops herself. A tiny part of her enjoys the air of being smarter, seeing things this college girl doesn’t. But she knows she can push it too far. Darby has federal money, and the power to sway people to fund expensive digs. Murphy quietly reins herself in.
“Fine. Want something unique?” Murphy offers. She directs Kate’s attention back to the child mummy. “These people were hacked to death. Dismembered.” The doctor holds up two pieces of bony leg that’s covered with dried brown leathery flesh. The ends are cut clean. They fit together like puzzle pieces. Now Kate perks up. A glimmer returns to her eyes.
“Well, that fits exactly into my theory,” Kate replies as she takes the leg from Murphy’s hand.
“Save your cannibal tale for the people you need to impress,” the coroner scoffs. She starts to say more but is interrupted by a loud bang across the room. Detective Brannah crashes through the double steel doors, catches sight of Kate right away, looks her up and down, taking in her soft white skin, long dark hair, round full breasts, and speckled Irish skin. He instantly dismisses her as an assistant and sets his attention on Murphy not bothering to give Kate the time of day.
The blonde cop looks to be in his 40s. A spare tire starting up at his waist, cowboy hat and jeans. His badge doubles as a bolo. It slides down the little braided leather straps as he strides across the room toward them clomping in his heavy shit-kickers. He pushes his bolo-badge back up to his shirt collar as he reaches the slab. He’s a walking regurgitation of the 70s TV cop show McCleod. But his thick yellow-white mustache and tiny chin goatee ruin the façade.
“What do we got, Murph?” Brannah asks, Texas drawl. Murphy greets him with a smile. Kate can’t tell if the coroner’s reaction to him is legitimate or sarcastic. She wonders how they can be old friends with the way Murphy reacts to white outsiders. Suddenly, they seem not to notice Kate.
“Hey, Steve. Body’s over here.” Brannah grimaces.
“Ouch,” he quips as he takes in what’s displayed. “Somebody was in a bad mood.”
“Excuse me,” Kate butts in. They eyeball her, irritated that the college student with an attitude is still here. Murphy takes the reigns.
“Kate, this is a professional friend of mine,” Murphy lies. Brannah is neither professional nor a friend. But she’s obligated to pretend. There’s something odd between them. An uncomfortable tension that hangs in the air. Brannah takes the hint, offers his hand out to Kate. It’s then that Kate notices the white Stetson cowboy hat bares the symbol of a Texas Ranger just above the brim. But it doesn’t match his bolo-badge.
“I’m Detective Brannah,” he says, straightening his posture. “I’ll take it from here, honey. Thanks for helpin’ out.” But Kate only scoffs. Murphy moves on, eager to get into business rather than a brawl.
“What ever happened here,” Murphy explains, “It’s for you now. This was a mass murder, not some Navajo graveyard or a college class. It was violent, and it was brutal. Whoever did this, took time to be thorough.” Brannah ponders Kate, taking in her dissatisfied expression as they listen to the coroner’s news. “Ms. Darby, I’ve turned this discovery over to Officer Brannah as of this morning. Sorry hon, it’s not the thesis you wanted to hang your hat on.”
Kate leaves in a huff. Brannah watches her stomp down the hall, taking in her round firm butt muscles as they flex with each frustrated footstep. Brannah reaches into his pocket, pulls out Skull tobacco dip. He opens the container, pinches some off and shoves it into his mouth beneath his dusty white mustache that’s stained at the edges the color of brown chew. Some of the chew gets into his facial hair.
Out in the hallway Kate is surprised to find Carlton waiting at the other end of the corridor. He leans against the wall in the empty hallway. He sees her coming, stands up straight. Kate suddenly becomes aware that she’s covered with mummy dust. She can taste it as it lingers in the air. The scent of dank cavern full of death. She hadn’t even changed clothes. She’d come straight here after being released from the city ER.
“Find out anything?” he asks.
“Yeah, my master’s thesis is now a crime site.” She looks around. “What are you doing here? Where’s Sabastian?” Carlton only shrugs. He seems uptight and nervous. He leans over, cranes his neck, and strains to see through the glass windows in the doors to the morgue, but he avoids leaning too far out for anyone in the lab to see him.
“Am I getting paid for the time I put in?” Carlton asks.
“What?”
“The cave. I helped get you out when everyone else left you behind.” His comment stings. It makes Kate feel even more of an unwanted outcast than all the drama she’d fought to get here.
“Of course,” she answers, hoping to stay on the worker’s good side. She needed a friend from the local community. She ponders a moment, then realizes that he might be privy to the local gossip. “What did the police say?” she asks. Carlton looks confused. “You know, about the cave? The bodies?” But he doesn’t have an answer. Kate sweeps away her disappointment as another idea hits her. “Want to earn extra?”
“Sure,” Carlton obliges, all too happy to get out of there.
Twenty Minutes Later
Carlton’s red beater pick-up pulls up to a droopy barbed wire fence at the edge of a run-down Navajo reservation steeped in poverty. It looks like a third world country. Kate sits in silence as she takes in what she sees, stunned at its dilapidated state.
“Jesus, I thought reservations weren’t like this anymore.” Kate says.
“They’re not,” Carlton answers. Then he ads “These people aren’t like other Navajo.” She waits for more. But Carlton offers nothing else. He stays behind the wheel as Kate gets out of the truck. She waits for him to join her. But he doesn’t.
“Sorry,” Carlton says. “They’re too creepy for me.” Kate waits a little longer. But he won’t budge. Finally, she gets it, closes the door, leans in through the window.
“Thanks for the ride,” she tells him. Carlton nods.
“If you get into trouble, you have my cell.” Carlton hesitates, then adds, “Be careful of Brannah. Don’t let him get you alone.”
He drives off, leaving her second-guessing what she’s about to do. Be careful of Brannah? Don’t let him get you alone? What could that mean? And why was Carlton so afraid of the detective? Kate pushes the questions to the back of her mind, intending to pursue them another day. She can’t let them cloud her judgment for now. She watches Carlton’s red truck disappear into a cloud of dust as it heads down the dirt road away from her and the people he seemed to fear.
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Trepidatiously, she walks through the dusty villa of run-down trailers and moldy water holes. It’s not at all like other modern reservations. Boney dogs run loose. Rusty cars litter the grounds. People stare, look her up and down. They’re all old men, the ones she saw at her dig site chanting and drawing strange hieroglyphs in the sand only a few days ago. A boy approaches her. He looks to be about ten years old. Kate shows him a photo of the Shaman at her dig site.
“Hi there. Can you help me find this man?” The boy runs away.
“Anasazi! Anasazi!” he yells as he disappears around a shanty house that’s little more than a lean-to. It’s then that Kate realizes there aren’t any other children around. The place is eerily quiet. No animals. No voices of people chattering. Not even the wind blows here. Creepy.
Despite her misgivings, Kate presses on, heading deeper into the grounds following the direction where the boy ran. As she walks through the reservation Carlton’s words hang over her. These people aren’t like other Navajo. As she ponders it, foreboding seeps into her bones. Maybe this is a bad idea. She should have waited for Sabastian. But the professor was nowhere to be found and Kate had felt a sense of urgency to push ahead despite having no clear path before her. Now she feels stupid.
Eventually she comes across the elderly Navajo shaman who led the others in the mystic ceremony outside her excavation. He stands at the opened front door of a sagging trailer house, leaning on a well-used cane.
“You’re late,” he says, his voice softly stressed with age. “I expected you earlier.” Shock and confusion wash over Kate. How did he know she was coming? He goes inside. She follows him. Everywhere she sees old photos, relics, and cheap tourist crap from Stuckey’s. It’s a like a creepy time-capsule from the 70s. The shaman leads her to the kitchen, sits himself at a flimsy card table.
“I’ve been waiting for you. Sit, please.“ It’s an effort for him to speak.
“Why were you at my dig?” Kate asks. The shaman responds.
“It is sour ground that spawns evil. The spirits have been there four hundred and ninety-two years. You’ve let them out.” Kate shakes her head. She refuses to be taken in. It’s all too convenient.
“The lab results said -”
“And yet you’re here,” he cuts in. She shuts up, thinks a moment, then decides to go through the motions. From her pocket she fishes out the silver Celtic cross, shoves it in his face, points out Navajo markings in the circle at its crux.
“This has meaning to you? What’s behind it?” she says, going along for the ride. He takes the cross, runs his fingers over the symbols written in the circle, ponders the trinket and all that it implies. Finally, he speaks.
“You don’t know what you’ve done.”
“These markings. You copied them in the sand at my dig site. They resemble Navajo markings and artwork, but they’re not. They mean something to you. What do they mean?”
“They’re Anasazi,” he answers. “It’s a warning.” He studies the piece, feels the carving and silver some more, decides what he should reveal. Kate pressures him.
“Translate it, please,” she begs, burning with curiosity.
“Anasazi is the Navajo word for enemy. Anything Anasazi speaks of danger.”
“They were a whole culture that preceded yours,” Kate cuts in, her desperation showing. “An entire world unto themselves. Please. I need to know what you know.”
“You need know nothing,” he fires back in an oddly calm and soft feather-like voice. “These are Anasazi letters, but not Anasazi words.” He lets his mind wander a moment, then finally mutters "Loup-Garou". Kate’s eyes light up.
“Loup-Garou. What does it mean?” The shaman glares at her, this time his eyes are forbidding, dark, stern. The gentle man she entered the room with no longer is present.
“A curse.” He heads across the room, stirs a little stick in a glass box of white sand, tracing a symbol into it. He keeps his back to her, doesn’t want to see her face. “Only an experienced seer can identify the Anasazi. You have heard the tale of the horseman’s wife?” Kate shakes her head
“No”, she answers. He returns to her, takes her hand, and leads her to a set of soft chairs in the living room. He invites her to sit, then sits himself on the old rickety couch with thread-bare fabric covered in little cotton pills. Kate settles in and gives him her unwavering attention.
“You have much to learn,” he begins. “This story is about a fool whose ambition blinds him and leads him to demise. Imagine. . .”
As he speaks, Kate’s imagination takes over as she listens to the Shaman’s voice.
New Mexico Desert, Night
“Long ago when the earth was colder, an old rancher lived lonely in the desert.” He describes a mud hut alone on the desert plains. A man in his 20s stops at the door and knocks. An old man answers. His skin, pitted and scarred, wraps around craggy cheekbones like taffy on a mill. The lines of age on his face are so deep that his eyes look like sparkly pinpoints of light peeking through slits of skin.
The traveler by contrast is young, slim, muscular. Black stubble on his chin and dust on his face reveal the hardship of his travels. He’s tired, hungry, and worst of all he’s lost.
“Sir, can I pay for a meal and a good night’s sleep?” The weary traveler asks. He has a few pesos. To the old man behind the door, this visitor seems little more than a large child. But he smiles, nods, lets the lad inside.
“Come,” the old man says, offering what little comforts he has. The traveler enters. The old man beckons his guest across the room to a warped wood table in a fire-lit room. At the fireplace, bubbling stew simmers in a black iron caldron hanging by a chain over flames. The stew’s aroma is enticing. The young man’s stomach growls. His mouth waters. He’s barely eaten for days.
The old rancher ladles soup into wooden bowls, gives one to his guest, then pours moonshine for both of them, excited to entertain this stranger.
“I don’t get many visitors ‘round here. My pleasure for you to share dinner with me,” he explains happily. The visitor looks around, sees only a bed in the corner covered with a fur blanket.
“How long have you lived here?” the traveler asks.
“Too many years to remember.” He thinks a moment, then decides to entertain this young man with a magical yarn. “I have a story for you,” the old man offers eagerly. The hungry traveler nods and listens as he scoops the delicious dinner into his mouth, welcoming a break from the monotony of his journey.
“In the year of our Lord, 7940,” he begins, his voice straining with age. As he describes the tale, the traveler’s mind imagines it.
“There once was a horseman's wife who lived rich in a poor villa.” As he speaks, the traveler imagines the past. Alone on the horizon sits a small ranch house that’s little better than a mud hut. It’s the same sandy desert plains, the small ranch house just like the old pauper's as the story drones on.
“The daughter of a wealthy land-owner, she was wooed by a handsome worker with dreams, to the discontent of her parents.” In his imagination, the traveler sees a viral handsome man much like himself, hard muscles, olive skin, green eyes, works at the stables. A lovely girl with equally alluring bright blue eyes that stand out against her pale skin untouched by the sun, peeks out at the stable worker from a second-floor window. He steals a glance at her. She hides behind the curtains, smiles.
The old man’s voice continues. “Eventually she married the young man who had won her heart and he became a rancher.” The two lovers dance in the candlelight, silhouettes in the dark within each other’s arms.
“Then one day,” the old man continues, “the woman fell ill. Her lover brought his beloved to the church and summoned the priest, hoping for favor from God. For he had been devout and believed God would surely spare her. Distraught, he carries her, limp in his arms, down a dirt road to a church in the distance for she was too sick to ride.” It's little more than a shack. Its steeple is dark against the sinking sun. Its windows glow with candlelight. Inside the church a priest takes the sick woman to a room, blesses her and prays.
“While the priest blessed his wife, the horseman burned candles and made offerings with gold.” He puts a small leather bag of coins on the alter. “For days, the young man knelt before the alter, looking up at the cross hanging above, his hands locked together in prayer. Surely, he and the priest would be heard. But his beloved died. He became angry and cursed God. From that moment on, the skies turned angry, the clouds churning with wrath.”
Outside the little chapel, clouds tumble in the sky. As they speed past, day turns into night. In the dirt, the horseman crouches on his knees crying at his wife’s freshly covered grave. He shakes his fists at the heavens. Red clouds swirl around a glowing moon. They boil like acid. “Overtaken with rage, he vowed vengeance against God. His anger so strong, evil seeped into his soul and turned the skies into wrath.”
The next day, outside the little white chapel the priest works among a group of nuns and children. He looks up and sees the stormy clouds closing fast. A storm is coming. But it’s like nothing he’s seen before. The clouds are red and ominous. The wind picks up and howls. “The priest felt the air become rancid; the wind turned sour. He sent the children inside.”
On the horizon, a dust funnel appears, moving fast like a red tornado. Down the road, the horseman rides toward the church. His black cape waives in the wind. As he nears, the priest looks up and sees a skeleton face covered in withered leathery skin. Evil red eyes glow from little black sockets. The horseman is no longer human. He has become a demon. The evil creature slings a large wooden cross at the priest as he speeds by. Blood sprays the white church walls as the evil rider passes.
“He came at the priest, cut off his head all the while cursing God. The demon stole the silver cross rosary from the padre’s neck and took back the gold he’d paid the church that he believed God had unjustly taken. He buried it with her body in a grave on sour ground marked with a warning to never disturb what lies beneath. It is said that the horseman roams the desert in dry storms that twist along the sand spun by the power of his wrath. And, that if one listens carefully, he can hear the horseman’s tortured sole groaning in the wind.”
In a freshly dug grave lies the horseman’s wife, her skin gaunt where once her beauty radiated. Now she sleeps forever in a red velvet dress. Sunken eyes and hollow cheeks tell of her sickly demise. Her bony hands are folded across her chest. A small bag of gold drops on top of her. A few coins spill out. Dirt piles spills over her. From above, the heavens look down upon him as the horseman buries his wife. Her grave lies at the center of a pentagram drawn around it. The horseman plants the wooden, cross still caked with the priest’s blood, to mark the site. He spits on it. All around him, the sky churns with rage. A dry storm blowing across the empty desert.
Back to the Rancher and the Traveler
The traveler listens, hungry for more. The old rancher continues.
“For his wickedness, the horseman was damned to walk the earth in limbo, forbidden from uniting with his beloved in Heaven. Listen carefully. His cries are carried within the wind – a warning to us all.” The rancher chuckles. A wide toothless grin sweeps across his face. Wrinkles bulge. In his eyes flash a sudden glint of evil. Then it’s gone. “Did you like my story?” he asks. The traveler doesn’t know what to think but he nods anyway, thankful for the old man’s hospitality.
“What happened to him?” the traveler asks. The old man shrugs his shoulders.
“Nobody knows,” he answers, keeping the truth to himself. “It’s said that he melted down the gold coins and dipped the preacher’s silver cross into it, set a curse upon it, then locked the cross of gold within another layer of sterling silver to keep the horseman’s evil spirit sequestered within. It burns the hands of those who harbor evil; and brings this demon’s wrath upon anyone who dares possess it. A cross of gold within a gilded cage of silver that burns flesh and carries a curse of eternal damnation.”
The next morning the traveler leaves. For a few hours he walks alone in the desert until he tires. He heads up a hilltop, stops to eat. As he chews the dried beef jerky, he takes in the scenery, and looks back from where he had come.
Below in the shadow of the hillside, he spots an odd configuration on the ground. It’s a grave in the center of a large pentagram with Indian markings on the rim carved into the dirt, just like in the old man’s story! Quickly, he scrapes and skids down the dusty hillside, reaches the site, digs with his bare hands. Soon, he finds red fabric. He runs his hands over the sand unearthing a skeleton in a red dress, skin still upon the bones dried like leather. It’s the mummy of a woman. Her boney hands clutch something silver. The traveler pulls it free. It’s the priest’s cross – A Celtic Irish cross with odd symbols around the circle of its crux. It resembles the one Kate found at her dig site. He pockets it, shuffles around some more, finds a leather bag. He pulls it free, opens it. GOLD! He pockets it, digs a little more and sure enough finds a few loose coins. Once satisfied he’s got all there is, he refills the grave kicking dirt and rocks into the hole, then heads down the path.
Later, the weary traveler rests beneath the hot sun, wipes his brow, drinks from his canteen. He lies down, looks at the sky. Above him the sky turns red. Massive angry clouds churn, tumbling like red milk in water. They’re coming toward him, picking up speed as they near. He sits bolt upright, looks around. In the distance a shadow on the planes kicks up dust, fast approaching like a tornado. It closes in. The traveler runs. But the shadow gains fast. He looks back, runs harder as he sees a man on horseback in a leather duster. It flaps in the air like a cape. The rider’s face is hidden by a sombrero.
Now, the rider is on his heels. He looks up - a skull face, thin leathery skin, smiles an evil smile. The traveler reaches the burnt ruins of a church. The horseman stops outside it, stalks around the outer walls, won’t go in. From inside the ruins, the traveler watches the horseman pace like a caged tiger. Finally, the creature leaves. The traveler doesn’t move. For hours he stays put hiding from the evil that followed him here. Finally, he heads out. Later that night he returns to the old rancher’s house, pounds the door. The old Rancher answers. He finds the traveler desperate and dirty. His eyes wild with terror.
“You found the grave!” the old man exclaimed. “Fool! The curse is now yours!” He slams the door. The traveler stomps down, wedges it open with his foot, sticks his face in the crack.
“No! Help me, please!” The traveler pounds on the door. Desperate, he tries to force his way inside. But the old rancher is stronger than expected.
“I can’t change anything. It’s done!” They struggle. “The curse is taken. You must pass the legacy to someone else now. It’s the only way to be rid of it.”
“You bastard! You did this to me!” the traveler yells back.
“You did it to yourself!”
“Legacy? What legacy? How can I be rid of it?!”
“You must pass the curse to another - to a greedy fool like you! The prize can’t be given. Your quarry must take it of his own desire. It must be his choice and his alone!” The rancher slams the door shut as the traveler loses his strength. Defeated, the angry traveler tries to break it down again, but can’t. His legs buckle. He slides down the door onto the ground. From inside, the old man cackles, and yells back. “I’m free! Be gone! The curse is yours!” Enraged, the traveler musters his strength and gets back on his feet. He stumbles around the rancher’s cabin looking for another way inside. But it’s locked up tight.
“I’ll get you! You won’t get away with this! I’m your curse now!” He comes across a barrel, leans close, sniffs it. Kerosene! He uses his bowie knife to split the top seal, tips the barrel on its side and rolls it around the house as kerosene spills out from the opened plug. He strikes flint rock until he gets a spark. The fuel ignites. A ring of fire surrounds the house. The flames quickly engulf it, flowing up to the roof setting it ablaze. The old man inside is trapped as the fire outside rages, its fury matched only by the ire of the traveler who watches from a safe distance. He slips into the nearby barn and steals a horse, then rides off leaving behind the blaze on the night horizon.
Back to the Present
“His desires uncovered the trappings of evil,” the shaman continues. Kate sits before him, her eyes rageful.
“That’s it?” she exclaims. Fuming, she paces around him. “Please! Why were you at my dig? I need more than folklore.” Frustrated, she goes to the wall, eyes the old photos of the reservation. The dated cars, buildings and clothing give away the era. “Look past the superstition. Every legend has basis in truth.” She turns to him, puts her hand on his. “Help me find the truth, please.”
“You already know,” he answers. Kate runs her fingers through her hair, seething.
“How do I find this traveler?”
“The traveler cannot be found, Kate. Keep digging and the traveler will find you.” Kate rolls her eyes. Pissed, tosses him a five. His eyes widen at the site of cash. He continues. “My name is Frank.”
“Oughtta be shameless bastard!” Kate replies. Frank pockets the cash.
“Want to know more?” Frank asks.
“No!” Kate stomps out.
Later
Kate walks through the reservation alone, heading out the way she came. She dials Carlton’s number on her cell.
“Come on, Carlton.” But she hears only Carlton’s voice message.
“Not here. You know the drill. Leave it. Beep.” Kate slaps the phone shut. “Shit!” She struggles to regain control, stares at the foreboding desert beyond and the long walk ahead. Emptiness stretches as far as she can see to the base of a mountain ridge poking up through the endless sea of sand. Kate follows the dirt road, her head hung low. Eventually, she looks up and sees a house in the shadow of red canyon walls. “Thank God.”
After many sweaty hours she finally reaches the dwelling. But no one’s home. It’s abandoned. Dirty windows, a dusty porch and floorboards on the front porch warped and rippled. For a moment, she considers breaking out a window with a rock, but for some reason she doesn’t. The tale of the shaman remains fresh on her mind. All she sees are parallels to the yarn that Shaman Frank had spun. The shack looks just like the one he described in the story. In fact, Kate reasons, it probably actually is. The old man had simply used it to make his tale realistic. Kate cups her hands on the glass and peers inside.
It’s indeed a tiny one-room shack. No one’s been in it recently. The floor is covered with heavy dust from sand that had creeped in through the loose windows and pock marked walls. Her eyes search for a phone. But all she can make out is old dusty furniture. In the middle of the empty room is a lonely table with a plate and a cup. No chair. Across the room is an old iron stove pipe streaked red and black with rust. Beside it stands an empty set of shelves that lean to one side. The crooked floorboards beneath it are covered with cobwebs. There is a hole in the middle of the floor large enough for a small adult to crawl through. But no phone.
“Lovely,” she mutters. Feeling defeated, Kate turns to leave. Her eyes fill with terror. On the horizon she sees a dust trail blazing toward her – just like the one in Shaman Frank’s tale. She squeezes the cross around her neck.
“Oh God.” She dials Carlton again. Still no answer. The dust trail closes in. Motorcycle engines blare. A leather-clad gang heads across the desert in her direction. Kate runs back to the house, slips around back and kicks out a window. She crawls inside, slips through the hole in the floor and crouches in the dusty web-covered space beneath. Outside the engines get louder, grow closer. Voices yell.
“In there!” The cyclists circle the old building, their tires kicking up dust. From underneath the house, Kate looks past the pier and beam supports watching, wondering who these men are. The wheels roll, then stop and roll again as the bikers look around. Kate listens. They seem to be searching for her. She peeks out hoping to get a better look at the bikers. Flies start buzzing around Kate. The swarm grows, gets louder. She sniffs the air and grimaces at the foul odor. Something stinks like a dead body! She fights the urge to vomit.
From below the floorboards she gets a clear view of one of the cyclists. He’s bald, clad in leather with a shot gun quiver on his back. He’s covered with stitched wounds and blue corpse-like skin. Flies buzz around him. The other riders gather around him. They crisscross each other on their bikes as they encircle where Kate hides. Finally, they come to a stand-still, gather around their leader. Outside the house, the riders avoid going beyond the walls or into the house. Finally, they leave. Kate watches, waits until they’re out of site and their engines can no longer be heard.
She slips back into the little house and heads to the broken window. As she slips one leg outside, she notices her footprints in the dust on the floor. They are too obvious not to be noticed. Briefly, she wonders if the strange and stinky men bothered to look inside. If they had, then they know someone was there. But they never came into the house to check. Odd. So perhaps they didn’t spot the prints in the sand – or maybe they just didn’t care. Kate decides to head home, not wanting to wait around for the bikers to return. The sun sets fast on the horizon. Out on the road Kate picks up her pace, knowing she must make it home before nightfall to avoid danger.