Page 4 of Red Hawk's Woman

“That be a bold statement you make. And I am not sure I agree⁠—”

“You must realize,” interrupted Owens, “that as archaeologists, we are interested only in facts, and the Indians embrace all sorts of bizarre ideas, all of them attributable to a supernatural consciousness. Yet what proof do we have that such notions exist?”

Rutledge sighed. “And what proof have we that they do not?”

Owens paused. “Touché,” he offered up at last, but there was a smile in his voice.

After a time, Rutledge must have come to terms with whatever notions Owens was trying to impart, for Effie’s father laughed, then said, “I would ask that you pay me little mind. Perhaps there is a bit of witchcraft in the air this night, and it is this that makes me speak so. For in truth, your arguments against such a thing are sound. Scientifically sound. And yet I cannot help but notice that, though you caution me, you are here with me now.”

Owens hesitated. “Yes, that I am. But after all, I cannot be letting you have this dig all to yourself, now can I?” Once more, there was amusement in Owens’s tone. “I may not believe the legend, but I’d like to, and if there’s any adventure to be had in a dig, you know I will be there with you.” Owens paused a beat. “Do you have the piece with you?”

“No,” said Rutledge. “I have placed it in a sealed box, safely stored away, for it is made not only of quartz, but of solid gold. To be sure, there may be other natural elements occurring in the piece, but if there are, they are not to be seen by the naked eye, and are certainly not in the majority.”

“Who do you suppose made the thing? The Indians?”

“Perhaps. But in my experience, the Plains Indians do not value gold like those people who are to be found way to the south of us, in Mexico.”

“Hmm… Strange.”

“Aye, that it is. I do have a theory, however. Consider this,” said Rutledge. “If the myth is to be believed, then according to legend, it was the Creator who made the images.”

“The Creator? More legend?” Owens let out his breath, as though in disbelief. “My friend⁠—”

“More legend to be sure,” Rutledge continued. “For the Thunderer had four children who were killed. Now, Clark told me on his deathbed that he believed the Creator would not let the children die, but rather placed the spirit of each child into the gold of these rocks, there to await a time when a hero would come forth to gather them up and to place them all together again. There were four in all, and it is said that when the four have come together as a set and when they are given back to the Clan, the Clan will be freed.”

Owens hissed, the sound reminding Effie of a snake. Who was he, thought Effie, to be so rude?

“It’s not really so odd,” continued Rutledge. “The images, after all, look as though they could be the Thunderer’s children. Half bird, half human. And they are intricately made.”

A lengthy silence ensued. After a time, Owens asked, “I think I would like to hear the legend once more, if you would humor me.”

At those words, Effie grinned. This was what she had been waiting to hear. This was why she was still awake, even when her friend was not.

Not daring to move lest she be discovered, Effie settled in to listen. At last she was rewarded, for her father began, “In a time so long ago it has been forgotten, a clan killed the children of the Thunder god. It is said that this act was done because of the Clan’s greed for more food and more power than it would need to simply survive.

“Now, the Thunderer in Native American mythology, you must remember, is an angry god. He is a god of revenge, of sudden death, of lightning and thunder. But he is also a god of bodily lust. And so in retaliation for the Clan’s deed, the Thunderer stole some women from the people, three or four, then began to wage war on the entire tribe. He might have killed all within the Clan too, but for the Creator, who intervened on the people’s behalf.

“‘Nay, they shall not die,’ the Creator had said.” Walter Rutledge’s voice was dramatic and lent the story a believable air. “But though the Creator spared their lives, the Clan was to pay for their murderous crime. And pay they did, with their very existence…their eternity. Thus began the tribe’s plight, for the Creator banished the people to live in a mist, or a very heavy fog. It was an unearthly world, not real or substantial, and the Clan was trapped there, may still be trapped there, neither dead nor alive. But the Creator is nothing if not a god of justice, and he bestowed upon the people a chance to end the curse.”

“Oh? And what is that chance?” asked Owens skeptically.

“It is said that within each generation—about once every twenty-five years or so—the tribe emerges from the mist that binds them, but only for a single day. However, on that day, a boy is chosen from each band in the tribe. This boy is charged with the duty to go out into the world, to grow up within another tribe so he might learn of the world that is now in existence, so he might have his chance to try to undo the curse.”

“And you believe this? That the Creator,” Owens jeered, “would be putting such a responsibility onto a young lad? It would be quite an undertaking for a youngster, no doubt.”

“Indeed,” said Rutledge, “you are right, especially since the only clue given to each of the boys is that he must show kindness to an enemy, offer help to a foe. Now, many have tried to undo the curse…” Rutledge lowered his voice dramatically, “…but according to the legend, most have died in obscurity, shamed at their defeat.”

Silence ensued after this statement, broken only by the fire’s crackle and sputter. It was some time before Owens spoke up. “How is it so that these few have died in shame?”

“Apparently the chosen boy has only until his thirtieth birthday to reverse the curse. If he has failed in his quest by then, he will live out his life, still flesh and blood, but he will forever carry the knowledge that he failed his people. Most of those chosen—so goes the story—have died trying.”

Utter quiet followed in the wake of this explanation, and then Owens asked, “Is it so hard to show an enemy mercy?”

“It does seem incredible, does it not? I can only suppose there must be more to the undoing of the curse than simply this, for of course it would appear to be such an easy thing to do. But there is more.”

“More?”

“Aye,” said Rutledge. “I have said nothing about this last, not even to my dear Alice, for I fear that I find it too incredible to be believed.”