Kevin Tinto
ICE
“A moment is a concentrated eternity.”
“The test of an adventure is that when you’re in the middle of it, you say to yourself, ‘Oh now I’ve got myself into an awful mess; I wish I were sitting quietly at home.’ And the sign that something’s wrong with you is when you sit quietly at home wishing you were out having lots of adventure.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The extraordinary disappearance of the Anasazi/Mongollon cliff dwellers from the American southwest has been well documented but never solved. Why Native Americans who lived and prospered peacefully on the mesa tops for thousands of years suddenly abandoned these villages for precarious cities lodged in the cliffs around the year 1200 — and for only a period of some two hundred years, before disappearing — remained a mystery, until now.
PROLOGUE
K ’’aalógii held her mother’s hand as they wound their way through the darkened passageway leading out of the remote mountain stronghold. She climbed the hand-carved steps that rose to the forest floor with her head held high, knowing — and accepting — that it would be her last time.
Her name, which meant butterfly, had been a gift from her father. He had always said that when she was born he’d felt such joy that he could have stepped into air from the cliff-dwelling and flown like a butterfly. The happiest day of his life, he had told her many times.
K’aalógii felt proud that she’d brought her father joy. Her people had experienced little joy during her lifetime. Now that her father was gone, she had dedicated herself to living by his warrior code, acting with honor and bravery, even during these times of terror.
K’aalógii wondered whether her father might be watching her from the ancestral lands, the Navajo place of origin to which all dead returned. If so, she knew he’d be both proud of and terrified for his daughter, for she had chosen to face “them” with a courageous heart and sharp spear.
Some said they were demons with long fangs and glowing red eyes, wings like an eagle but skin like a bat. Some said they were the holy people, or ancient, forgotten deities, bent on retribution for the tribe’s mistreatment of the land. Others considered them the spirits of their enemies, forbidden from their ancestral lands because of the evil in their souls, wishing only destruction and death.
There had been a time when the cliff dwellings had provided safety from their reach. But safety meant little if the remaining tribes starved to death. Those that had tried to hunt for food or till their crops by the river had simply disappeared.
K’aalógii had even resorted to eating the deerskin tunic that her mother and father had made for her, boiling it with some leaves and shoots gathered near the secret entrance to the mountain stronghold.
Starvation alone hadn’t extinguished all hope.
Some taken by the others had returned. They brought with them stones her mother had said were evil and would bring them death and destruction. The returned had carried a message:
Surrender yourselves, or face the wrath of the others.
The cliffs would no longer afford protection, they warned.
The survivors had reacted violently to the message. They had killed the returned, then gathered in a council and decided to fight.
Now, climbing toward the surface of the plateau, K’aalógii grasped her mother’s hand more tightly as they reached the outside. She had no need of reassurance, but she knew her mother was frightened.
Her mother stopped and knelt, pushing K’aalógii's hair away from her face.
“Now we will wait on the mesa.”
K’aalógii nodded and squeezed her mother’s hand again. “We will see Father again,” she said softly. She watched her mother wipe away a tear, then straighten and hand K’aalógii the spear.
It had been the ceremonial spear of her family for many generations. Her father had been given it by his own grandfather. The handle was wrapped in well-worn rawhide and decorated with beads and feathers. The obsidian tip had been masterfully worked to razor sharpness and soundly fastened to the notched shaft with dried sinew.
K’aalógii had always thought of the spear as heavy and unwieldy. Now she hardly felt the weight in her hand.
When she stepped onto the mesa top, the hunger that had haunted her simply disappeared. She felt exhilaration at the sight of the stars and the fresh smell of the forest.
Her mother and she joined the others making their way toward the open mesa; all had armed themselves with whatever weapons remained in the cliff city.
K’aalógii listened while the others whispered or sobbed softly. She understood much of what was said, even the words not spoken in her Navajo language. Many clans had joined together in fear, remnants of once-great tribes that had lived on the mesa tops for countless generations.
Tonight the survivors had resolved to leave the stronghold, put aside their fear, and fight these holy people, or demons, or gods, rather than starve to death, waiting to be taken like mice by a hawk.
The people gathered in a circle, where two women knelt and chipped sparks into dried grass until a wisp of smoke and flame signaled the beginnings of a fire. As the fire grew, children brought dead wood from the nearby forest. A large fire would draw the others, K’aalógii knew.
An old man dressed in feathers and paint walked into the center of the circle. Wielding a spear more formidable than K’aalógii's, he thrust the weapon skyward in defiance. He then began to dance and chant, a warrior’s dance passed down for generations in his tribe, K’aalógii guessed.
As the old man danced and the fire grew, K’aalógii felt her heart and spirit soar. For one last time they had become brave warriors again, joined in a defensive circle around the comforting heat of the flames.
When the old man raised his spear again, K’aalógii chanted along with him.
It didn’t take long for the others to make their presence known. The plateau suddenly smelled of thunder and lightning, the very air sizzling around her.
K’aalógii stood tall, spear thrust high, her other hand held tightly by her mother, who raised her own makeshift weapon. Somehow she stood her ground, even as the people around her dropped their weapons in terror and began running for the thin cover of trees.
Now only K’aalógii and her mother stood in the clearing, side by side, spears extended before them.
The roar grew deafening and an unnatural heat burned her skin, forcing K’aalógii to her knees. She drew upon the strength of her father, imagining him standing tall upon the mountain… his scent, his bulk, his eyes, his very presence bringing forth the power of her ancestors.
K’aalógii shouted as a warrior would do, her eyes opened wider, her skin burning as the holy people devoured her.
CHAPTER 1
“Just one more step and you’re gonna get a real good look at the bottom of the canyon,” Garrett Moon said in his laid-back, southwestern drawl.