The Spiral Road

By Alex Douglas

While sight-seeing in the ruins of an Anasazi village, Bernie, a lonely middle-aged accountant and frustrated artist discovers an object of great power that not only holds the potential for great abuse, but also explains the baffling disappearance of the Anaszi and other tribes of that era.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alex Douglas
• Release date: Jul 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533786609

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

1227 C.E.

Disappearing Man surveyed the young candidates sitting against the walls of the kiva.  The round room was softly lit by the orange glow of the central fire.  Near the firepit, his servant, Silent One, was dancing a repetitive pattern on the large footdrum.  Apart from that hypnotic beat, the room was still.

The walls themselves were painted with many sacred symbols:  Bird-headed man; small snake; giant snake; hand of the gods; hunchbacked flute player; the mysterious spiral-eye; and others.  These symbols were being copied by the students with charcoal onto tanned sheep-hide, which was stretched on a round wood frame, much like a drum.

Out of the nearly one hundred young men in the village, only twenty had shown any interest (or their parents had, for them) in becoming Disappearing Man's acolyte.  Apparently, most were somewhat afraid of the stern-visaged shaman, even though they all had reason to know of his kindly nature, having benefited from his care at one point or another.  It was just the nature of man, he knew.  Those who have access to great power will strike fear—and often envy—in the hearts of others.  It was a burden he had borne for many, many years.  But one he wouldn't be able to bear forever.

And so the reason for these candidates being here today.  They were taking a simple test.  Out of the twenty of them, he figured, the greater number would merely pass off the sacred symbols as simple representations of the characters and forces from the legends that had filled their childhoods.  They would be quickly weeded out.

Others, more correctly, would fear the symbols as objects of power in their own right, but they, too, would be of no use to the shaman.

But if all went well, maybe one—or possibly two, if he were very fortunate—would break through the perceptual barrier and grasp the true meaning of the symbols. 

And the one who was open-minded enough to grasp this hidden code would be the one most likely to be able to bear the burden of power without misusing it.

There was so much potential for misuse. 

He pulled himself out of his reverie, as he had been forced to do more and more often lately.  Age had a tendency to make one more introspective.  He looked again at the students sitting back against the walls of the round building.

They all had a slightly glazed look, due to the mild infusion of cactus-button tea he had prepared before this ceremony and given them to drink.

Most of the students were still busy carefully copying the symbols in the order they appeared on the walls.  A few had tried embellishing them, some connecting them with lines and designs.

But two of the group had traveled a different route.

Sly-Fox had ceased drawing and was sitting very still.  He was obviously troubled, but was striving not to show it.  He was not succeeding.

Talking-Crow had also stopped his scribbling, but his expression was completely different from that of Sly-Fox.  He was sitting rock-still, as if frozen.  Disappearing Man knew that if he were to walk over to where he could see Talking-Crow's eyes, they would be rapidly twitching, tracing, over and over again, the design that he had copied onto his hide tablet.

Disappearing Man made a gesture to his servant.  With two powerful stomping beats, Silent One dismounted from the foot-drums.

The old shaman walked over to Sly-Fox.  Give me your drawing.

Sly-Fox quivered, and handed the hide over to the shaman.

He looked at it, seeing the almost-complete pattern.  What is this? he asked.

I'm not sure, elder.  It's not finished, said Sly-Fox.

Why did you not finish it? asked the shaman.

I-I was afraid, admitted Sly-Fox.  The design made me feel strange.

Disappearing Man took the drawing and walked over to the fire pit.  He tossed the drawing into the fire, watching the flames curl up over and consume it.  The smell of the burnt hide filled the room.  After the hide had crumpled into ash, he turned and stepped back to where Talking-Crow was still frozen.

Talking-Crow, the shaman intoned, look at me.

Talking-Crow looked up from the skin, and immediately seemed to become aware of his surroundings.  Yes, elder, he responded.

Give me your drawing.

Talking-Crow complied.  The shaman looked at the drawing for a moment, brushed at a smudge of charcoal on the side, and then brought his gaze to bear on Talking-Crow.

Stand and remain where you are.

Talking-Crow stood, his back to the kiva wall.  To Disappearing-Man, he seemed somewhat apprehensive.  The old shaman remembered the fear he had felt when he was a young acolyte.  He smiled reassuringly.

You have done well.  You found the hidden way.  Now see its power.

He turned and called to the rest of the young men in the kiva.  Attend, all of you.  Come here before me.

Almost as one, they set their frames down, and hurried to stand before the old shaman.

Once they were arranged before him, he raised Talking-Crow's drawing in front of his chest, in plain view of all the students. They promptly froze, their eyes scanning the design he held, tracing the lines over and over again.

Listen to me, the shaman intoned.  You will all forget everything we spoke of here.  You will forget all that you have learned here.  You will return to your families and no longer wish to be my acolytes.  You will be content in your lives as members of our tribe, and will happily work for the betterment of your tribe, your family, and yourself.

He turned to Talking-Crow, who still stood behind him, unmoving.  Talking-Crow looked a bit confused, and more than a little frightened, but was obediently waiting.

The shaman smiled at him again, then turned back to the others who were still staring intently at the design that he held before him.

Talking-Crow has been chosen.  He will be shaman when I go to join the fathers.  You may now leave.

The students obediently turned to depart.  As their eyes broke contact with the drawing, they seemed to come to their senses; they quickly gathered up the few personal items they had brought with them, and filed quietly to the ladder that led up and out of the kiva.  Outside, they could be heard breaking into quiet but happy conversations, as they made their way down the short path that led to the village proper.

Disappearing Man again turned to Talking-Crow.  You did well, son, in finding the pattern.  It is a device of the gods.  This particular design is one by which men can be made to do anything necessary.  Even much which would seem impossible.

Disappearing Man paused reflectively, absentmindedly adjusting the medicine bag hanging from a thong around his neck.  The pattern is the basis for much that I will teach you, and the beginning of many such patterns.  But there are other things you must learn first.  With power comes responsibility.  The power is that of life and death.  The responsibility laid upon you is no less weighty.  The old man paused, and looked at the young man in front of him.  If you feel you can carry this burden, and are willing to do so, we will begin your training.

Talking-Crow, overwhelmed, could only nod his assent.

The shaman reached over to the wall, laying his hand lightly on a drawing of the hunchbacked flute-player.  He lovingly brushed the surface of the drawing with his fingertips.  This is where we will begin.

CHAPTER TWO

Present Day

Bernie's fingers gently traced the design.  He knew he wasn't supposed to touch anything.  The drawings in the restored kiva were ancient and delicate.  He felt guilty for having done it, but the pull had been unbearably strong.  He felt drawn to the person who had painted this strange little bent-over man, obviously blowing some sort of pipe or horn.  He reached down and took the ever-present sketchpad out of his knapsack, and with rapid strokes began sketching the design.  After a moment he once again leaned over the rope barrier, his hand reaching again to touch the drawing...

Ahem... sounded behind him.

He turned and saw a park ranger.  The man was tall and stately, obviously of Native American origin, his long, graying hair in a braid, Navajo style.  Although his face was stern, his eyes held a mischievous twinkle.

Sir, I'm going to have to ask you not to touch the Kiva walls, he said in a deep, serious voice.

I'm sorry, Bernie stammered guiltily.  I don't know what I was thinking.  I won't do it again.

The Ranger let the smile in his eyes travel downward to his lips.  He grinned broadly, but spoke softly.  I understand, he said in a near-whisper.  I've been known to break that rule now and again myself.  But it's best if we don't break it often.  These walls won't take too much abuse, and others don't treat them so respectfully.

Bernie stood there embarrassed beyond words.  He couldn't even stammer a reply.

The ranger looked at Bernie for a long moment.  He saw a chubby, fair-complected balding man of average height, probably in his mid-forties, dressed in a pith helmet, short-sleeved shirt, Bermuda shorts, dark socks and wingtip shoes.  Resting incongruously on the ground next to those juggernauts of footwear was an obviously brand-new, trendy sky-blue backpack.  Not the best attire for wandering around the Anasazi ruins, but great for comic relief.  The ranger held back a smile.  "Most biligana just look at the paintings and dismiss them as 'primitive' art.  Some are impressed by the age, of course, but that's about it.  They don't feel much beyond that.  What do you feel, when you see them?"

Bernie didn't quite know how to reply.  Biligana? he asked, although he had a pretty good idea of what the answer would be.

The ranger's smile blossomed.  White people, he translated.  What do you feel when you see the drawings? he repeated.

I don't really know, Bernie confessed.  I don't get the feeling that they're really primitive.  I mean, some, like that spiral design, or the outline of the hand there, they're not really complicated, and I guess you might pass them off as primitive.

He paused, looking at the drawing on the kiva wall.  His hand started to reach up towards it again, but he caught himself, blushing deeply at his faux-pas.  He continued his thought.  But then you see something like this caricature of a little man playing a horn of some sort—

Kokopele, the hunchbacked flute-player, his inquisitor provided.

Oh.  Bernie absorbed that information for a moment, then continued.  Well, he's not primitive at all, really.  There's so much feeling in this drawing that it's obviously the work of quite an artistic person.

So you think it's just good art?

Bernie pondered how to answer.  No, not really.  I mean, I do think it's good art, but it's more than that.  It's as if there's something more here.  Some kind of message or emotion that the artist was trying to convey.  I don't get it, but I do think it's there.  He realized how pretentious that sounded, and blushed again.

But the ranger seemed satisfied, somehow.  He, too, looked at the drawings for another moment, nodded at Bernie, and without another word turned and left.

Bernie took a moment to regain his composure, but soon the siren call of the designs recaptured him, and he went back to sketching.

His strokes were quick and sure, and the design appeared on the paper in front of him, joining the other drawings of what apparently had been sacred symbols to the Anasazi.  He smiled happily.  It looked pretty good.  Simple line drawings were about the only thing he could actually copy and have them come out looking like the original.

Bernie loved to draw.  He felt that he saw things in a unique and interesting way, and, like the great masters before him, had a driving desire to express and share his perspective in some medium.

However, unlike the great masters, he had no artistic ability whatsoever.

He had attended art classes filled with delusional weirdos and megalomaniac instructors.  He had sent away for correspondence courses and aptitude tests.  He had bought libraries full of books and spent tons of money on every drawing/drafting gadget or piece of software available.

All for naught.  He couldn't unlock the pictures in his mind, and his efforts were invariably worthless trash.

But be that as it may, his hands couldn't be stilled.  So he doodled.  It was a poor substitute, but it was all he could do.  And very nearly, all that he did.

During his school years he had doodled incessantly, to the great annoyance of his teachers.  While out on his ever-decreasing number of dates, he doodled.  While talking on the phone, he doodled.  During business meetings with clients or his fellow accountants, he doodled.  He kept a sketch pad in his coat pocket, and one on his nightstand.  There was even one in his bathroom.

Strangely enough, although his heart yearned for artistic expression, his brain was very good with numbers.  But unlike the average person with a bent for math, he didn't enjoy numbers at all.  He merely was good with them.

His scores on aptitude tests had shown this numeric facility early in his life; his teachers and counselors had been quick to grab on to it.  So before he knew it, he was attending class after class in math, algebra, geometry, and calculus.  Then his parents' practical streak aimed him like a reluctant arrow at bookkeeping and accounting, statistical analysis and the like.

His abilities in these areas brought him no joy.  His deficiencies in artistic expression brought him much pain.  But, as had been pointed out to him time and time again by his parents, counselors, and a plethora of teachers, one has to eat.

And so he had ended up a certified public accountant.

By his fortieth birthday, Bernie had become a quiet, drab and lonely man, working as a tax accountant in a good-sized law firm, his artistic drive not quite totally suppressed, but mostly sublimated into his penchant for constant doodling.

That and his yearly vacations.  He lived for his vacations.

The vacations gave him time to admire the works of famous artists in galleries all over the country, and even a couple of times in Europe.  He had many places yet to visit, much to look forward to.  It was his secret life.

Other tourists had arrived in the kiva, so he stepped back a bit to allow them to look at the area he'd been studying.  They crowded into the vacated space.  It was a family of four: a tall skinny husband, short plump wife, a young whining boy of about nine or ten, and a baby girl—probably about two or so, Bernie guessed, although he was no expert in children's ages—who was cradled in her daddy's arms.

The poor kid looked unwell.  Mucus was running freely from her nose, coating her upper lip.  Her little face was flushed, and she kept rubbing her eyes with the back of her wrists.  She obviously wanted to sleep, but it wasn't likely she'd be able to while her family traipsed through the display at Mesa Verde.

You some kinda archeologist? the man asked Bernie with a slight southern drawl.

Oh, no, not at all.  I'm just a tourist, Bernie confessed.

Really?  I just noticed you copyin' all those symbols down there, all in order and such.  It looked like you were doin' some kinda research.

Oh, this? Bernie said, raising his tablet in front of him.

The child took the opportunity to reach out and grab it from Bernie.  Mine, she screeched in the sociopathic, totally unselfconscious manner of two-year-olds and other criminals.

Bernie was at a loss.  He felt bad for the little girl; she was obviously very sick and in great discomfort.  But he wanted his pad back undamaged.  This was his record of his current vacation, and he planned on many happy hours perusing its pages.  He didn't know what he could do to get it back gracefully and without upsetting the child or her parents.

The father smiled.  Now, now, Carla, you can't have the nice man's book.  Give it back to him.  Be a good girl.

Carla frowned at her dad, Bernie, and the world in general.  She stuck the corner of the pad in her mouth, coating it with saliva and mucus.  Miiimmme, she mumbled around the tablet.

Now Carla! her father said sternly.  He snatched the pad out of his offspring's mouth.  He wiped the slobbered area on his daughter's overalls, and offered it back to Bernie, who smiled, and gingerly took it by one of the other corners.

Sorry 'bout that, sir, the man said, as Carla burst into tears, wailing loudly.  She's a bit under the weather, for one thing, and she's in the midst of the 'terrible twos' if you know what I mean.  Hope she didn't hurt your book there none.

Bernie stuffed the pad into an empty compartment in his knapsack, and turned to reassure the father.  Oh, no, no problem at all.  I'm just sorry she's not feeling well.

Carla quit wailing, subsiding into sobs and sniffles.

The father smiled.  Well, that's mighty kind of you, he said.  I figure she's got a flu, or something.  We'll be taking her to the doctor later.  Got an appointment in an hour or so.

Bernie felt instantly better about the folks.  He'd been thinking they were bustling about with an obviously sick kid, not caring at all.  He berated himself for prejudging the family.  He looked at Carla, who was now almost quiet again.  Obviously she was a nice little girl, who just didn't feel well.  He awkwardly tried to pat the little girl's arm.  I hope you get better real quick, Car-

CHOO-! Carla sneezed explosively into Bernie's face, showering him with virus-laden micro-droplets of saliva.  He stepped back, and grabbed for a packet of tissues that he had in his back pocket.  He removed a couple and wiped his face, then looked over at the father who seemed mortified.

Oh man, I am so sorry, sir, I hope you're—

Not to worry, Bernie said, holding his hand and tissue in the air placatingly.  It's not a big deal.  These things happen.

He offered the tissues to the father, who gratefully accepted a couple and started to clean off his child.  Thank you, sir.  That's mighty kind of you.  You have kids of your own?

No, Bernie confessed.  I—ah—haven't gotten around to that yet, I'm afraid.

Well, you ought to, the man said.  You've got a real nice way with them. I think you'd make a fine daddy.

Bernie cringed inwardly at the thought, but thanked the man, said goodbye, and cut short his visit to the restored kiva.  He'd come back later and check out anything he might have missed.

He had a lot more drawing to do when the tourist trade thinned a bit.

As he followed the path back from the kiva, he was deep in his own thoughts; he never noticed the tall ranger watching him as he left, with the ghost of a smile on his face.

CHAPTER THREE

Bernie was sick.  He stared at the thermometer.  A 100-degree temperature.  Bloody wonderful, he thought.  Just back from his vacation, and the little girl had managed to give him the flu.

But this was the beginning of the worst part of the tax season, and Bernie couldn't be spared from the office.  He'd timed his vacation so that he could get a little R&R before this whole shebang started.  He hadn't counted on getting sick.  He dosed himself with over-the-counter medications, dressed himself in one of his bland gray flannel suits, and headed on in to work.

He mumbled greetings to the various secretaries, paralegals, gofers and partners who passed him on his way to his office, pausing only at the intersection of his corridor and the main hall.

This was his other weakness.  He propped up his briefcase on a convenient file cabinet, opened it, and pretended to search through his scheduler notebook.  He bent his head over the book and, looking over the tops of his reading glasses, paid homage to the girl of his dreams.  His secretary, Francesca.

She was lovely.  Tall and slender with alluring curves, she had long, flowing auburn hair accented with sun-lightened streaks of fiery red-gold.  Often it cascaded freely down her back.  Today, she had it bound in a loose French braid which showed off her high cheekbones and wide-set almond eyes.  A high, intelligent brow was accented by a small widow's peak and delicate eyebrows.  Just looking at her made him forget to breathe.  She had a generous mouth and brilliantly white teeth which contrasted nicely with her olive skin, giving her a smile that could just about stop Bernie's heart.

However, it was seldom directed at him.

Her relationship with him was purely business—business that was, however, handled in an extremely competent fashion.  She was without a doubt one of the best secretaries in the firm, and it had been Bernie's good fortune to have her assigned to him from the secretarial pool, although he often counted it a mixed blessing.  The pain of unrequited love was just a bit much to bear graciously.

But even so, he still stopped here—at this same file cabinet—nearly every morning, so he could briefly admire her from a distance.  Working in a law office did have the side-effect of making one aware of the many anti-stalking and sexual harassment laws; plus, Bernie was not the sort who would ever force his attentions on someone, or risk embarrassing either Francesca or himself.  He kept his infatuation under iron control.

Francesca stood and walked to the front of her desk.  She was wearing a sleeveless white sheath of a dress that flowed over her slender curves like fresh snow over a gently rolling landscape.  The dress ended just above her knees, exposing her perfect tan calves.  He followed the curves of her long legs down to her white, thin-strapped high heels—

He was struck from behind by something fast-moving and massive enough to send him stumbling into the aisle.  All heads in the area looked up as Bernie catapulted forward, took about three clomping, stumbling steps, and came to rest up against the desk of one of the many office paralegals. 

He regained his balance, if not his dignity.  Amused chuckles softly swept through the cubicles and work areas near him.

Oh, Mr. Schuman, Joey the mail boy said, his normally smiling face frowning with worry.  I'm so sorry!  Are you okay?  I didn't expect you to be there around the corner.  Totally my fault.

No problem, Joey, said Bernie, wincing at the sharp pain in his left buttock.  I'm fine, just fine.

Joey smiled in apology and sped past as Bernie—face flushed with embarrassment and trying to ignore the snickers that followed in his wake—walked over to his office.

Good Morning, Francesca, he said, as he passed her desk. 

Mr. Schuman, she replied, with a businesslike smile that exposed no teeth and just barely touched her eyes.  Bernie felt her demeanor an obvious rebuff to any more intimate communication.

Sick, tired, infatuated, embarrassed and disillusioned, he stepped into his office and began preparing for what he expected would be a stressful day.

His expectations were right on the money.

The combination of tax-fearing clients and last-minute deadlines had sucked the life-force out of Bernie by mid-morning.  Strong black coffee and bitter aspirin were poor helpers.  His head ached and his stomach roiled.  Yet the morning ground on.  And on.

Shortly before lunch, he received a small reprieve.  His last client had recently started using a computer to keep his tax records.  This year, for the first time, the client's information was ready for Bernie, all neatly itemized and broken down, unlike the horrendous mess Bernie had been expecting.  The appointment progressed very rapidly, and the happy client was able to depart early, giving Bernie some extra time to add to his lunch break.

He needed it.

He sat at his desk for a moment, doodling on a legal pad, trying to relax.  As the random shapes and geometric figures flowed onto the paper, he started to unwind a bit.

He figured he'd splurge today and have lunch delivered in—he felt too lousy to actually go anywhere to eat.  The thought of a hot pastrami sandwich from the little deli down the street began to cheer him up a bit.

A doodle of a Kaiser roll piled high with pastrami appeared under his pen.  Next to that, a cup with steam rising out of it.  Oh yes.  Some hot tea with lemon; just the thing for his scratchy throat.  And one of those giant, crisp Kosher dill pickles, made right there at the deli.  This last drawing joined the others.  Not your basic food groups; this was comfort food.  He could use some comfort.

And to top it off, he had his drawings of the Anasazi ruins.  He looked forward to looking through them while enjoying his lunch.  He'd cleaned the notebook off as well as he could, and sprayed it with Lysol in an attempt to de-germ it a bit.  Now, he could spend a few moments in this hectic day reliving his vacation.

Bernie smiled his first smile of the day.

It was a short-lived smile.

The intercom beeped.  Francesca's voice came out of the small speaker.  Mr. Schuman, Mr. Jacoby is on line one.  Bernie quickly reached for the phone.  Martin Jacoby, the senior partner, wouldn't tolerate having to wait.

Bernie, his boss began, I need you to do a favor for me.

Sure, Mr. Jaco—, Bernie turned his head, simultaneously grabbing a tissue, and sneezed mightily.  Getting himself back under control, he placed the phone back to his ear and apologized.

You sound a bit under the weather, Jacoby bellowed.  You catch that flu?

I guess so, sir, Bernie said.  I think it happened while I was on vaca—

Yeah, lotta that going around, Jacoby interjected disinterestedly.  Never sick myself, you know.  I'm always here, rain or shine.  I don't allow myself the luxury of sickness, Bernie.  It's all a matter of mental control.  You gotta take charge of your life, determine that you're not gonna be sick.  It's all in your head, you know.

Yeah, right, Bernie thought.  A doodle of a man—one who looked surprisingly like Jacoby—appeared on his notepad.  There was a marked difference though: the caricature had a hinge on his right temple, allowing the top of his head to be opened up, revealing brains that seemed to consist of dog droppings.

Anyway, enough of that, Jacoby continued.  I called you because I have something that needs the attention of a good accountant, and you're one of our best.

Well, thank you, sir, Bernie said, genuinely moved, and feeling just a little ashamed of his recent doodle.

Yeah, yeah.  Well, anyway, it seems my nephew, Howard, has gotten a little over his head with his new business, and he needs some help straightening things out.  You're just the man for the job.

Bernie groaned internally.  Jacoby's nephew, Howard Jacoby, was a fairly well-known fixture around the firm.  Martin, who had never had any children of his own, doted on him and pulled many strings to help finance and smooth the way for Howard's various fiscal misadventures.

And Howard needed all the help he could get.  Howard was about as good an entrepreneur as Bernie was an artist.  And almost as prolific.

A second caricature began to appear on the tablet.

Howard was a short, fat, loutish, bossy young man, the fully-grown version of the oversized fat kid who tortured smaller boys in elementary school.  This type almost always went into a brief hibernation during later school years, only to re-emerge as a tormenting supervisor, or perhaps a Kalishnikov-wielding psycho postal employee.  Bernie was familiar with both the type and the specific specimen.

Bernie tried to inject some enthusiasm into his voice.  Thanks, Mr. Jacoby.  I appreciate your confidence.  He looked down at his appointment calendar, searching for his next opening.  I had a client cancel a 4:00 o'clock on Monday.  I'd be happy to see him then.

Heh, heh, heh, chortled the boss.  Right, Bern.  My nephew is here right now, and I just checked with your secretary.  You're free till 1:00.  Why don't I just send him down.

It wasn't a question.

Bernie was a realist.  He recognized the need to accumulate suck-points as much as the next man, and knew which side of his bagel the butter and cream cheese were on.  If