excavated? If so, why? And who?
That mesa where Erik had chosen to build was remote, and in a rarely visited area.
Mike walked to the window and stared out at the snow. The footprints were there, a sharp reminder that he dealt with reality.
Where was Erik? Why had he not kept their appointment? Why had Erik chosen such a remote place? Had he been kept from that appointment? Was he dead? Injured? A prisoner?
That was preposterous. Yet, was it? After all, a man had forced entry into his condo to steal this very book, and might well try it again when he realized, as by now he must, that he had been tricked.
Irritated and worried, Mike Raglan took up the book once more.
If their intent was to preserve that piece of the ruin intact they had succeeded. The question is, if all other ruins were abandoned to time and the elements, why preserve this one? Was it a shrine? Something so special it must be preserved at all costs?
Not only are the walls intact but the plaster as well, and the plaster is covered with symbols. The plaster is intact except at one point where there is evidence of water-staining.
Thursday. A restless, uneasy night! Chief apparently awake all night, growling during most of it although he would not leave my side. Several times I believed I heard stirrings outside and once I was almost sure that somebody peered in at me.
I awoke with a headache and a bad taste in my mouth. Starting a small fire in my stove I made coffee, then walked outside. Like a fool I forgot to look for tracks until both the dog and I had moved about enough to destroy any that might have been left. Looking at the kiva again I realized this one had no sipapu.
The sipapu, as I understand it, is a hole in the floor of the kiva symbolizing that opening through which the Anasazi emerged into this world. The sipapus I have seen range from the size of a teacup to twice that.
On the contrary, there is in this kiva, which must represent a cultural aberration, a blank window or niche in the wall similar to the mihrab in a mosque. In uncovering this niche the earth before it had fallen away and the concave wall of the niche seemed composed of some soft-looking gray substance which I felt a curious reluctance to touch, so did not.
Returning from my hurried look at the kiva, I noticed something I had overlooked. My drafting pencil was gone, but in its place was an exquisite little jar, not over three inches tall!
Putting down the daybook, Mike finished his coffee. He had better get back out there and find Erik. Even as the thought came, his instinct told him to leave it alone. It was Erikâs problem, not his. Erik was the one who had chosen to move into the area and build a home there, though Mike had advised against it.
âMy conscience is clear,â he said aloud.
Even as he spoke the words he recognized their untruth. Erik had called for help, had called out to him, and Erik was not inclined to ask anyone for anything. If Mike did not help, who else was there? And who even knew Erik Hokart needed help? How many even knew he was out there?
After all, was Mike Raglan not the man who delved into magic and the supernatural? Was he not the skeptic? The man who took nothing for granted?
As for being a skeptic, he was so only up to a point. A half-dozen times he had touched upon something from which he shied away. The truth was, he liked his world and had no desire to venture into any other. Yet there could be a logical explanation for what was happening out there, even for those strange flares from atop the mesa.
And those creatures he had glimpsed in the night? What were they? Perhaps some naked Indians. Perhaps he had stumbled upon some Penitentes. He knew the name but little more about them except that they observed some mysterious rites of their own.
Those flares now? Were the creatures responding to them? Had they been some sort of signal?
Uneasily, he began getting his gear together. A small survival kit which he always
That mesa where Erik had chosen to build was remote, and in a rarely visited area.
Mike walked to the window and stared out at the snow. The footprints were there, a sharp reminder that he dealt with reality.
Where was Erik? Why had he not kept their appointment? Why had Erik chosen such a remote place? Had he been kept from that appointment? Was he dead? Injured? A prisoner?
That was preposterous. Yet, was it? After all, a man had forced entry into his condo to steal this very book, and might well try it again when he realized, as by now he must, that he had been tricked.
Irritated and worried, Mike Raglan took up the book once more.
If their intent was to preserve that piece of the ruin intact they had succeeded. The question is, if all other ruins were abandoned to time and the elements, why preserve this one? Was it a shrine? Something so special it must be preserved at all costs?
Not only are the walls intact but the plaster as well, and the plaster is covered with symbols. The plaster is intact except at one point where there is evidence of water-staining.
Thursday. A restless, uneasy night! Chief apparently awake all night, growling during most of it although he would not leave my side. Several times I believed I heard stirrings outside and once I was almost sure that somebody peered in at me.
I awoke with a headache and a bad taste in my mouth. Starting a small fire in my stove I made coffee, then walked outside. Like a fool I forgot to look for tracks until both the dog and I had moved about enough to destroy any that might have been left. Looking at the kiva again I realized this one had no sipapu.
The sipapu, as I understand it, is a hole in the floor of the kiva symbolizing that opening through which the Anasazi emerged into this world. The sipapus I have seen range from the size of a teacup to twice that.
On the contrary, there is in this kiva, which must represent a cultural aberration, a blank window or niche in the wall similar to the mihrab in a mosque. In uncovering this niche the earth before it had fallen away and the concave wall of the niche seemed composed of some soft-looking gray substance which I felt a curious reluctance to touch, so did not.
Returning from my hurried look at the kiva, I noticed something I had overlooked. My drafting pencil was gone, but in its place was an exquisite little jar, not over three inches tall!
Putting down the daybook, Mike finished his coffee. He had better get back out there and find Erik. Even as the thought came, his instinct told him to leave it alone. It was Erikâs problem, not his. Erik was the one who had chosen to move into the area and build a home there, though Mike had advised against it.
âMy conscience is clear,â he said aloud.
Even as he spoke the words he recognized their untruth. Erik had called for help, had called out to him, and Erik was not inclined to ask anyone for anything. If Mike did not help, who else was there? And who even knew Erik Hokart needed help? How many even knew he was out there?
After all, was Mike Raglan not the man who delved into magic and the supernatural? Was he not the skeptic? The man who took nothing for granted?
As for being a skeptic, he was so only up to a point. A half-dozen times he had touched upon something from which he shied away. The truth was, he liked his world and had no desire to venture into any other. Yet there could be a logical explanation for what was happening out there, even for those strange flares from atop the mesa.
And those creatures he had glimpsed in the night? What were they? Perhaps some naked Indians. Perhaps he had stumbled upon some Penitentes. He knew the name but little more about them except that they observed some mysterious rites of their own.
Those flares now? Were the creatures responding to them? Had they been some sort of signal?
Uneasily, he began getting his gear together. A small survival kit which he always
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