Double Eagle Double Cross, page 24
“Tlowa’sk?” Mac gasped. “That’s the word that’s on the side of Aleshanee’s pouch! I totally missed that when I glanced over the poem.”
Bill nodded. “I thought you probably had. It doesn’t actually say Tlowa’sk.” He placed his finger on the paper. “It says ‘to ask.’ The keepers of to ask. That doesn’t make any sense, but if the writer heard it wrong, Tlowa’sk might make some sense. I may be wrong, but that suggests one more possible connection between Aleshanee and whatever Charley’s got himself into.”
Bill took a bite of his food, another drink, then continued his report. “Near the end of the poem, the subjects seem to change. Early on it’s talking about bears and lions and eagles and such.”
“Oh my!” Jasmine sang, then in response to the confused looks she received, she shrugged. “Wizard of Oz. Lions and tigers and bears. Oh my!”
The ensuing silence was enough admonishment, and she sheepishly grinned and shrugged again as Bill turned away and continued.
“Near the end the poem talks about bricks and pulling them out and down the flue.” Bill swung his head around to gaze forlornly at Jasmine.
“What?”
“I’m waiting for some reference to the three little pigs,” he muttered.
Jasmine grinned innocently. “I would never do such a thing.”
Bill turned his head back toward the others, but Mac could hear Jasmine humming under her breath the familiar tune, “Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf?”
Bill continued, ignoring the private poke in the ribs from his wife. “Whether that’s talking about tearing up a chimney and throwing the bricks down the fireplace or what, I don’t know, but I suspect that it refers to something significant.”
“How about the numbers?” Obie asked. “Any thoughts on that?”
“What do you mean?” Peter asked, a fork full of food poised halfway to his mouth.
“Well, each line is separated by numbers. The poem would still rhyme without them, yet they are inserted there.”
“And not just numbers,” Jasmine commented, serious this time.
“What do you mean?”
“It says one and two and three, four, five. It maintains the rhythm, the meter, of the rest of the poem, and it’s the same in both the poem and the note.”
“You could jump rope to it,” Edie commented, then her eyes widened. She seemed surprised at her own epiphany.
“That would make it easy to remember,” Obie noted.
Bill gazed thoughtfully around the table. “Keep that in mind, all of you. Something will turn up. There’s a meaning here, or Charley wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of leaving that key or this note in the checkbook that pointed the way to the key.”
Mac tapped her fork on the empty plate as she gazed out the window at the bridge in the distance. “I wish he would have just left a clearly signed note that said something like, ‘Here’s where I am. Come pick me up.’”
“I hope he’s not thinking that same thing right now,” Bill answered.
“Well, boys and girls,” Obie exclaimed, breaking the mood as he pushed back from the table. “We’ve got an appointment to keep. Let’s saddle up.”
***
He grasped Mac by the hand, yet he could feel her slipping away. Their hands were so cold, their fingers wet. He clung with all his might, but his shoulder ached. Then he realized that it was Mac who was secured to the rope, the harness holding her tightly, suspended from the cliff above. Her eyes burned into him with a strange intensity, willing him to hang on, but it was laughter, Roxy’s devil-may-care laughter, that he heard. Suddenly it was he who was dangling in the air, his feet flailing free, his shoulder aching, burning, his fingers cold and wet, and now he was falling. Mac receded, growing smaller as he fell, and he knew he was going to plunge into the cold waters of the chasm.
He jerked awake. He knew immediately that it had been a dream, but he was still cold, his fingers and toes were numb, and his shoulder ached. He forced his eyes open, but all was blackness, and he wondered for a moment if he was still dreaming. He was disoriented and couldn’t remember where he was. He felt hard, cold rock against his back and beneath his body. He shifted his weight to relieve the ache in his shoulder and kicked something with his foot. It clanked and rolled away with a thin, metallic rattle. Now he remembered.
He rolled to his knees, felt the rock face at his side, and pushed his hand forward until he felt the all-too-familiar rusty iron bars of the gate. He patted the floor with his hand and soon found the stone where he expected it to be, the one he had used to try to smash the lock on the gate. He shivered, recognizing the danger of hypothermia. He didn’t dare allow himself to go to sleep again. He grasped the bars of the gate and pulled himself upright. The kerosene of the second lantern had burnt out long ago, but he had continued to pound the metal of the gate in the darkness, simply by feel, until his shoulder and hands had cramped and become too sore. Sometime after that he must have fallen asleep.
He had no idea how long he had slept, and because of the cold and damp and hardness of the rock, he felt little rested. He had only one chance at survival, and that chance was defined by a simple contest between which could outlast the other: his body’s ability to attack the metal gate or the gate’s ability to withstand his onslaught. Well, he would see. He grasped the rock with his right hand, felt in the darkness with his left hand until he found the hasp on which he had been pounding, and swung the rock in the darkness.
Chapter 34
A cold sea breeze blew across the parking lot of the Three Rivers Casino, carrying sand and salt air and whipping their hair into their faces. The coarse grass on the nearby sand dunes leaned in the same direction, and Mac noticed some of the sand had crept down onto the pavement, attempting to reclaim the land like snow drifts in a winter storm. The blue sky had a wild, wet beauty that Mac found so different from the dry desert to which she was accustomed yet somehow, in its wildness and refusal to be tamed, similar. Turning toward the casino, Mac thought it an odd place to meet someone who was supposedly an expert on the ancient ways of the Siuslaw.
They pushed through the airlock formed by the double sets of large glass doors, and suddenly they were in a different world, a world that would have felt amazingly familiar to any patron of Las Vegas or Reno. Islands of slot machines rattled and dinged and flashed in the dim confines of the large chamber. Paths of patterned carpet wound their way among the forest of flashing machines, never going in any one direction for very long. No windows to the outside world were evident. There were no clocks on the walls. Time here did not exist.
Beyond the machines, the back of the large room contained three well-lit windows that looked like oversized teller’s cages. Bill led the way toward what was obviously the place where patrons could exchange money for chips. When they arrived, Obie stepped up to the counter and asked the young man there for directions. He pointed to his left, and they trooped in that direction like ducks crossing the street.
They passed the opening to a buffet before eventually stepping through two sliding glass doors that led, surprisingly enough, into a no-smoking section of the casino. Here there were slot machines but fewer than in the other part of the casino. Beyond the machines, the entourage was confronted with the welcome desk of the attached hotel and conference center. Again Obie stepped forward and made his request.
The young woman motioned to a small waiting area, suggesting they relax there while she checked on their appointment.
They were surprised to find the walls of the waiting area adorned with glass cases displaying the history of the Confederate Tribes of the Coos, Umpqua, and Siuslaw. The archeologist in Obie was especially interested in the contents of two of the cases that contained such artifacts as spears, gaffs, and harpoons used for fishing. On the other hand, Mac’s anthropologist background was drawn to an 1890 picture of Chief Doloose Jackson, and she wondered if he was an ancestor of the Sam Jackson they had met in Coos Bay.
Soon the young woman from the desk returned and asked them to follow her. They were led back past the desk, around the corner into a short hallway, and then ushered into a small office. A plaque next to the door said, Walter Peterson, Manager.
An elderly man, obviously of Native American lineage, rose from behind a battered wooden desk. “Dr. Begay?”
Obie was momentarily surprised at the appellation, having not used his title when arranging the appointment, and uncharacteristically, his eyes showed his surprise.
The fellow recognized Begay’s hesitation and explained, “After you called to set up an appointment, I did a little homework. Welcome.”
“Mr. Peterson?” Obie stepped forward and grasped the hand that was extended across the desk.
“Guilty. Please come in.” Then to the rest of them, “I apologize. I don’t have more chairs. I don’t usually have many visitors here.” His arm swept across the room inviting them to find any space they could. Jasmine and Edie sat in the only two chairs in the office—sturdy wooden ones with thin padding, both facing the desk. The purposeful antiquity of the office was in stark contrast to the garish extravagance of the casino. Obie stood near the left wall with Peter, their backs to a large bulletin board covered with notices, brochures, personal notes, and a large calendar with a picture of a lighthouse. Jack and Bill leaned against a large map of the central Oregon coast that hung on the right wall. Mac shut the door then leaned back against it, hoping nobody else wanted to come in. The raucous sounds of the casino faded into the background, offering blessed relief.
“What can I help you folks with?” Mr. Peterson asked as he settled back in his chair so he could comfortably see everyone who had invaded his office.
Obie began with introductions, pointing out each person in the room. “My name is O’Reilly Begay, Dr. Begay, as you already know, but most people call me Obie. This is Peter Hatch; Edie LaCosta and her husband, Jack, over there; Jasmine and Bill Washington; and my granddaughter, Mac Bowman.”
“Mac?”
“Makanaakua,” Obie clarified. “Polynesian. Most people find it easier to call her Mac.”
“Hmm,” Walter mused. “I can understand that.” He swung his attention to Mac. “My name is Walter. A lot of people find it easier to call me a lot of things, but I prefer Walt.”
Mac nodded in acknowledgement.
Obie continued, “As I told you on the phone, Mac here works for Southern Utah University as an anthropologist. They recently had a local citizen donate a Native American artifact that we believe comes from this area. Mac is trying to trace the provenance, and, well, the rest of us are along for the ride. We stopped at the tribal headquarters in Coos Bay, and they sent us to you.”
“May I see this artifact?” Walter extended his hand toward Obie, but everyone else in the room turned to look at Mac.
Mac held the pouch in her hand but hesitated, studying Walt intently. “Not to be rude, Mr. Peterson, uh, Walt.”
Walt nodded, the ghost of a wry smile crossing his craggy face. “But why are you consulting with some guy in a casino?”
Mac shrugged, a little embarrassed, but the anthropologist in her needed an answer.
Walt gestured with an open palm, obviously indicating the casino outside the doors. “The casino belongs to the Confederate Tribes. It’s the source of much of their income and provides funding for tribal restoration and research. Watching over that enterprise is the primary source of most of my income, although my wife claims it’s really just my hobby. Actually my hobby and passion, which my wife claims is my real job, is as a historian for the Confederate Tribes, especially for the Siuslaw, which, as I believe you are aware, are officially extinct. You see, Ms. Bowman, I believe that the Siuslaw will continue to exist only to the extent that my work as a historian is able to keep them alive.”
“Well said,” Peter mumbled.
Mac studied the man for a moment. She could see sincerity in his eyes—and something else? A deep sadness for his lost people perhaps? She stepped forward and placed the pouch in his hand. The momentary tension in the room was gone, although it had been replaced by a sense of solemnity and perhaps a new appreciation for the importance of one small artifact.
Peterson turned the bag over, examining it from all sides. Finally, he pulled open the drawstring and dumped the contents on to his desk. Like everyone else had been, he was surprised when the coin clattered out. He nodded his head slowly. “Yes, I believe it probably does come from this area.”
Mac wasn’t sure if he was referring to the bag or to the coin, but before she could formulate a question, he continued.
“Tell me a little bit more about how this came to be down in Utah. Was the donor originally from here?”
Mac shook her head. “No. She and her family are from the Southwest. Her great aunt Alice, maybe a couple of greats and actually named Aleshanee, married a Navajo named Billy Nez and moved down there back in the 1920s.”
“How did that happen?”
Peter picked up the story. “We don’t know. That’s one of the things we were hoping you could help us find out.” Peter told Walt what they knew of Billy Nez and how he had served in the Pine Squadron in Waldport. “So we think Billy must have traveled down to Coos Bay and met Aleshanee there, or if she was from somewhere around here, maybe they met here.”
Walt skewed his mouth to the side as he digested what he had been told. “Let’s start with the bag and maybe work from there. This writing on the side says Tlowa’sk. That’s the name of a couple of beaches up the coast here past Five Bears.”
“Five Bears?”
“Five Bears is the promontory up past Heceta Beach, just this side of Heceta Head, where the Sea Lion Caves attraction is now. It’s part of the ‘origin story’ of the Siuslaws. According to legend, there were five grizzly bear brothers living there. Whenever they saw anyone pass by, they killed them right away. One of the chiefs devised a way to trick them by playing a game. A stone wall was put up in the ocean. The game involved climbing over the wall with the help of a rope. When each of the bears allowed a rope to be put over their heads to help them climb over the wall, they were killed by the Siuslaw.”
“A wall?”
“The wall was considered to be the high rock cliffs at Sea Lion Caves. Anyway, the two beaches between there and Heceta Head, where the lighthouse is, is Tlowa’sk and was always considered sacred.
“Now this,” he held the bag in his hand. “Traditionally, when a young Siuslaw woman reached her first menses, she would go through a series of initiation rites which included various forms of cleansing and isolation rituals. As an anthropologist I am sure you are aware,” he nodded toward Mac, “that such rites of passage were in fact common among many civilizations.”
Mac nodded. “Sam and the lady that was there in Coos Bay said they thought it had to do with something like that.”
“Unique to the Siuslaw,” Walt continued, “was that when the young woman had completed her ritualistic cleansing, she was required to spend a night on the beach with a female friend, usually one who was also experiencing the same ritual. During that experience, she was expected to gather tokens or emblems that would remind her throughout her life of that experience.” Walt held up the bag so that everyone in the room could see the familiar writing. “Those items would go in a bag or satchel such as this. Considering the word written on the side of this bag, I would guess that Aleshanee probably chose Tlowa’sk to be the beach on which she spent the night.”
“But what about the coin?” Mac asked.
Walt shrugged. “If it was in the bag, that implies that it was important to that experience. Maybe somebody gave it to her, or, fitting with the other contents, I suppose she may have found it on or near the beach.”
Begay slowly shook his head. “Doesn’t seem like something someone would give her to commemorate something like this. I doubt those Siuslaw would have had this kind of money.” Walt nodded in agreement, and Begay continued, “And even if they did, if they were anything like other tribes I’m familiar with, it just doesn’t seem like something they would use for such a purpose. Maybe a totem of some sort unique to the tribal history but not a freshly minted twenty-dollar gold piece.”
Here Walt shook his head, but it was obvious he was agreeing with Begay. “I’ve never heard of any practice of giving the initiate gifts. The contents of the bag have always been items the girl has gathered herself.”
Mac frowned and chewed her lower lip. “Then why would a newly minted twenty-dollar gold piece be on the beach? Surely some tourist would have noticed if they had dropped it.”
“Newly minted?” Walt asked. “When did you say this Aleshanee went through this ritual?”
Peter answered, “We don’t know for sure, but considering Aleshanee’s birthday in 1890, we are assuming it was probably within a year or two after that coin was minted.”
Walt puffed his cheeks as he studied the coin. “It wouldn’t have been left by a tourist. There weren’t any tourists around here in those days.”
“I suspect that back in the 1920s tourists were pretty rare around here,” Peter offered.
“No,” Walt replied. “I don’t mean very many. I mean none. Nadda. Zip. Zero. The only contact with the lighthouse in those days was along a foot trail on which it took all day to get to Florence. All contact with any other towns was either by boat up the river, by ship out in the ocean, or stagecoach along the beach at low tide. Even the materials for the lighthouse and other structures were brought by ship then floated in through the surf at great peril to both the material and the workers.”
“Stagecoach on the beach at low tide? Really?” Mac asked incredulously. She didn’t doubt Walt’s information but was imagining what kind of task that might be.
Walt nodded. “Yep. In some places they would have to race around small headlands or outcroppings of rocks. In other places, like Heceta Head or Cape Perpetua, they would simply have to leave the coach and hike a narrow trail overland, hoping to find another coach waiting on the other side. If you were going to Coos Bay from here, that would have meant three rivers to cross, each on a ferry, and that didn’t change until 1936.”
