The Devil Colony(86)
“Let’s get some rules straight at the outset,” Nancy said, and held up a finger. “First rule. LNT. Leave no trace. That means what you carry in you carry out. I’ve arranged for backpacks and water. It’s all inventoried and will be checked when we return. Is that understood?”
They nodded. Kowalski leaned toward Painter and whispered. “She’s even hotter when she’s mad.”
Luckily, Nancy didn’t hear this—or at least she pretended not to. “Second, we tread carefully. That means no hiking poles. They’ve been proven to be too destructive to the fragile desert ecosystem. And last, no GPS units. The park service doesn’t want the exact locations of the unmarked ruins mapped electronically. Are we clear?”
They all nodded. Kowalski only grinned.
“Then let’s get moving.”
“Where are we going?” Painter asked.
“To a remote pueblo ruin called Crack-in-the-Rock.”
“Why’s it called that?” Kowalski asked.
“You’ll see.”
She led them to the spot where their gear was stacked. Hank pulled on a backpack. It came equipped with a CamelBak water pouch and a supply of PowerBars and bananas.
Once everyone was ready, Nancy set off into the desert, moving at a hard pace, apparently determined to shave some minutes off her two-hour estimate. It certainly was no sightseeing trip. The group marched in a row, following behind her, passing through fields of sagebrush, Mormon tea, saltbush, and princess plume. Lizards skittered out of their way. Hares leaped in great bounds. At one point, Hank heard the coarse rattling complaint of a hidden diamondback and pulled Kawtch closer. His dog knew snakes, but Hank wasn’t taking any chances.
They also passed some of the park’s other monuments: tumbled piles of sandstone marking a small pueblo, a ring of stones from a prehistoric pit house, even the occasional Navajo hogan or sweathouse. But their destination—one of the towering mesas—lay much farther out, a hazy blip on the horizon.
To help with the passage of time and to distract himself from the burn of the sun, Hank walked beside Painter. “The moon and the star,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about that symbol and the name for the tribe. Tawtsee’untsaw Pootseev.”
“The People of the Morning Star.”
Hank nodded. “The morning star that shines so brightly in the eastern skies at dawn is really the planet Venus. But Venus is also called the evening star because it shines brilliantly at sunset in the west. Many ancient astrologers figured this connection out. That’s why the crescent moon is often associated with the morning star.” He swung his arm in a low arc from east to west. “The two horns of the moon represent the star’s rise in both the east and the west, connecting them together.”
“Okay, but what are you getting at?”
“This particular pairing of moon and star is an ancient symbol, one of the oldest in the world. It speaks to man’s knowledge of his place in the universe. Some religious historians believe the Star of Bethlehem was in fact the morning star.”
Painter shrugged. “The symbol’s also found on the flags of most Islamic countries.”
“True, but even Muslim scholars will tell you that the symbol has nothing to do with their faith. It was in fact co-opted from the Turks.” Hank waved this all away. “But the symbol’s reach goes much further back. One of the earliest attestations of this paired symbol goes back to the lands of ancient Israel. From the Moabites, who were relatives of the Israelites according to the Book of Genesis—but who also had ties to the Egyptians.”
Painter held up a hand, stopping him from elaborating in more depth. “I get it. The symbol may further support your conjecture that these ancient people came from Israel.”
“Well, yes, but—”
Painter pointed toward the horizon, toward the distant mesa. “If there are any answers, hopefully we’ll find them out there.”
12:46 P.M.
San Rafael Swell
What have I done?
Kai stood still, dull with shock, in the middle of the Humetewas’ main room. Iris sat in a chair by the hearth, her tears bright in the firelight, but the old woman kept her face hard. Her fingers clenched the arms of her chair as she looked at her husband. Alvin was lying on his back across the pine table, stripped to his boxers. His thin chest rose up and down, much too rapidly. Blistered red welts marked his ribs. The reek of burned flesh filled the room.
A large-boned black woman stoked the fire. A second iron poker rested in the flames. Its tip was of the same shape as Alvin’s blisters. The shadowy woman didn’t even look up as Kai was dragged into the room.