The Devil Colony

JH

Kai closed the e-mail. Tears rose from deep inside. She pictured all of her friends, smiling, hugging her before she left for the mountains. She remembered lingering in the embrace of Chayton Shaw, one of the fiercest advocates in the youthful organization. Chay's name meant "falcon" in Sioux, a fitting name given his long black hair, loose to his shoulders, always seeming to lift with even the softest breeze. Two days ago-which seemed an eternity now-they had talked in the quiet of the night of becoming more than just friends.

She thought of him now, picturing him turning his back on her, shunning her. With a soft sob, she covered her face with her palms, hiding both her shame and her tears.

What am I going to do?

8:35 A.M.

Hank Kanosh sat at the table with his back to the hearth, appreciating the warmth of the last embers. Painter took a seat on the other side of the table. His large-boned partner snored softly from the couch.

From the circles under Painter's eyes, it looked like he could also use some sleep, but something was certainly troubling him. Hank suspected it didn't even relate to the matter at hand. The man was too slow to broach whatever subject he wanted to discuss, his manner distracted. Something else was going on. He'd been on the phone all morning. Maybe it had to do with the strange volcanic eruption, maybe another matter. All Hank knew: it had the man on edge.

Eventually Painter cleared his throat and folded his hands on the tabletop. "I'm going to be frank with you, and I hope you'll do the same. People have died, and more will, too, if we don't get a better understanding about what we're facing."

Hank bowed his head slightly. "Of course."

"I've spoken to our geologist, who's monitoring the volcanic activity at the blast site. We believe we have a rudimentary understanding of what was hidden in that cave. It involves the manipulation of matter at the nano-level. We also believe those ancient people created-whether deliberately or accidentally-an unstable compound, something active and explosive, that requires heat to keep it dormant. That's why it was hidden in a geothermal area, where it would be kept warm and safe for centuries."

A flare of guilt burned through Hank. "That is, until we removed it from that heat source."

"And it destabilized. In the wake of that explosion, it released what our geologist calls a nano-nest, a mass of nanobots, microscopic nanomachines that eat through matter, with the potential to spread outward indefinitely. But whether through luck or planning by these ancient people, the heat of the erupting volcano killed the nano-nest, stopping it."

Horrified, Hank closed his eyes for a moment. Maggie... what did we do? He spoke quietly. "That's why the old stories about the cave warned against trespassing there."

"And it may not be the only cave like that."

Hank opened his eyes and pinched his brows. "What are you talking about?"

"There may be another site in Iceland."

Iceland?

Painter went on to explain how neutrinos from the Utah blast may have lit the fuse on a potential second cache of this substance.

"The Iceland deposit is destabilizing as we speak," Painter finished. "We have other people in the field investigating it, but there's one key piece of this puzzle that we're missing."

Hank stared the man in the eye, waiting.

"We have some grasp as to what was hidden at these sites-but not who hid them. Who were these ancient people? Why did they appear Caucasian, yet wore Native American garb?"

Hank's mouth went dry. He had to break eye contact, staring down at his hands.

Painter pressed on: "You know something, Hank. I heard you arguing with Dr. Denton back at his lab. Such knowledge could be vital to fully understanding the danger we face."

Hank knew the man was right, but such answers trod a dangerous line between his blood heritage and his faith. He was reluctant to divulge what he suspected without further proof. Though maybe now he had that proof.

"It was just a theory," Hank said. "Matt may have been a physicist, but he was also a devout Mormon, like myself. Our discussion-Matt's conclusions-were fanciful, not worth mentioning at the time."

Painter cocked his head, fixing him with one eye. "But it is now."

"Your mention of Iceland does offer some support for Matt's theory."

"What theory?"

"To answer that, you have to understand a much-disputed section of the Book of Mormon. According to our scripture, Native Americans were said to be the descendants of a lost tribe of Israel, who came here after the fall of Jerusalem in roughly 600 BC."

"Hold on. Are you actually claiming Indians rose from a Jewish tribe who got exiled here?"

"According to a literal reading of the Book of Mormon, yes. Specifically they are the descendants of the Manasseh clan of Israelites."

"But that makes no sense. There's plenty of archaeological evidence that people were living in the Americas long before 600 BC."

"I am well aware of that. And while it seems contradictory, the Book of Mormon also does acknowledge those people, those early Native Americans. It even makes reference to people living here when that lost tribe of Israelites arrived out west." Hank held up a hand. "But let me continue and perhaps I can clear up that conflict through an interpretation of Mormon scripture that's less literal and more allegorical."

"Okay. Go on."

"According to a direct interpretation of the Book of Mormon, the band of Israelites who came to America consisted of two families led by a common father, Lehi. The two branches were the Nephites and Lamanites. I'll skip over the more complicated details, but in the end, around a thousand years later, the Lamanites slaughtered the Nephites and became the Native American tribes of today."

Painter looked unconvinced. "The story sounds more racist than historical. And I know there's certainly no DNA support for a genetic lineage of Native Americans back to European or Middle Eastern origin."

"I agree. Genetic studies have resoundingly shown Native Americans to be of Asiatic origin, likely crossing the Bering Strait and descending into the continent. Believe me, over the years, Mormon scientists and historians have bent over backward trying to link Native Americans to a Jewish heritage and only succeeded in embarrassing themselves."

"Then I don't understand where this is going."

"Today, most Mormons believe a more allegorical version of that part of our scripture. That a lost tribe of Israelites did come to America, that they encountered the indigenous clans-the Native American people." Hank motioned to both himself and Painter. "The Israelites settled among our tribes, perhaps tried to convert them, to bring them under the Abrahamic covenant. But the Israelites kept mostly to their own clan, becoming just another tribe among the many Indian nations. That's why there's no lasting genetic trace."

"Such an explanation sounds more forced than convincing."

Hank felt a flash of irritation. "You asked for my help. Do you still want it?"

Painter held up a palm. "I'm sorry. Go on. But I think I know where this is headed. You believe the mummified bodies in the cave were members of that lost Jewish tribe."

"Yes. In fact, I believe they were the scripture's Nephites, who were described in the Book of Mormon as being white-skinned, blessed by God, and gifted with special abilities. Does that not sound like those poor souls we found?"

"And what about those murderous Lamanites who wiped them out?"

"Perhaps they were Indians who converted or made some truce with the newcomers. But eventually something changed over the passing centuries. Something frightened the Indian tribes and drove them to wipe out the Nephites."

"So you're saying the history described in the Book of Mormon is a mix of legend and actual events. That the lost tribe of Israelites-the Nephites-came to America and joined the Native American tribes. Then centuries later, something scared a group of those Indians-the Lamanites-and they wiped out that lost tribe."

Hank nodded. "I know how that sounds, but there's additional support, if you'll hear me out."

Painter waved for him to continue, but he still looked unconvinced.

"Take, for example, the amount of Hebrew sprinkled among the languages of Native American tribes. Research has shown there to be more similarities between the two languages than can be attributed to mere chance. For example, the Semitic Hebrew word for 'lightning' is baraq . In Uto-Aztecan, a Native American language group, the word is berok ." He touched his shoulder. "This is shekem in Hebrew, sikum in UA." He ran a hand down the bare skin of his arm. "Hebrew geled . UA eled . The list goes on and on, well beyond coincidence."

"Well and good, but how does this directly relate to the mummified remains in the cave?"

"Let me show you." Hank stood and crossed to his backpack. He opened it, retrieved what he wanted, and returned to his seat. He placed the two gold tablets on the tabletop. "The Book of Mormon was written by Joseph Smith. It came from a series of golden plates gifted to him by the angel Moroni. It was said that the plates were written in a strange language-some say hieroglyphics, others that it was an ancient variant of Hebrew. Joseph Smith was given the ability to translate the plates and that translation became the Book of Mormon . "

Painter pulled one of the plates closer. "And the writing on this plate?"

"Before you arrived at the university last night, I had copied a few lines and forwarded them to a colleague of mine-an expert in ancient languages from the Middle East. I just heard back from him this morning. It intrigued him. He was able to recognize the script. It is a form of proto-Hebrew."

Painter shifted forward in his seat, perhaps growing more intrigued himself.

"A scholar, Paracelsus, from the sixteenth century was the first to name this proto-Semitic script. He called it the Alphabet of the Magi. He claimed to have learned it from an angel, said it was the source of special abilities and magic. All of which makes me wonder if Joseph Smith hadn't come upon a similar cache of such plates and translated them, learning the history of these ancient people-this lost tribe of Israelites-and recorded their story."

Painter leaned back. Hank could see that doubt still remained in his eyes, but it was less scoffing and more thoughtful.

"Then there's Iceland," Hank said.

Painter nodded, already putting that piece of the puzzle into place. "If these ancient practitioners of nanotechnology-scholars, magi, whatever-were indeed from a lost tribe of Israelites, if they were fleeing across the Atlantic with something they wanted to preserve but were unsure if they'd make the journey-"

Hank finished the thought. "Once they hit Iceland, a land of fire in an icy sea, they would have found the perfect warm place to secure at least a portion of their volatile treasure before moving on to America."

"Hank, I think you may-"

The crunch of tires on loose rock cut him off, sounding distant, yet coming fast. Painter swung around, a pistol appearing in his hand seemingly out of nowhere. He hurried to the door.

Kowalski sat up, belched, and looked around blearily. "What?... What did I miss?"

Painter checked the window, stared for a full minute as the road noise grew steadily louder-then visibly relaxed. "It's your friends Alvin and Iris. Looks like they found our last guest."

8:44 A.M.

The old dented Toyota SUV kicked up a swirl of sand and dust as it came to stop in the center of the stone cabins. Painter stepped out of the shade of the porch and into the blaze of the sun. Though it was barely morning, the light hammered the surrounding badlands into shades of crimson and gold. Squinting against the glare, he crossed to help Iris out of the driver's seat. Alvin hopped out on the other side.

The elderly pair, wizened by the sun and well into their seventies, looked like old hippies with tie-dyed shirts and faded jeans fraying at the hems. But their clothing was accented with traditional Hopi elements. Iris had her long gray hair done in a Hopi-style braid, decorated with feathers and bits of turquoise. Alvin kept his long snow-white hair loose, his bare arms fitted with thick wristbands of beaten silver holding shells and chunks of turquoise. Both had embroidered belts of typical Hopi design, but rather than ox-hide or buckskin moccasins, they wore hiking boots straight out of some urban outfitter's catalog.

"So at least you haven't burned the place down," Iris said, her hands on her hips, inspecting the homestead.

"Only the coffee," Painter said with a wink.

He stepped past her to the rear door of the SUV to help the final member of the party. Last night, Painter had sent word that he wanted to speak to one of the Ute elders, someone from the same tribe as the grandfather who had murdered his own grandson to keep the cavern secret. Clearly that old man had known something. Maybe other elders of his tribe did, too. He needed someone who could shed some light on the meaning of the cave, on its history. Alvin and Iris had fetched the old man from the bus station so that Painter and the others could keep their exposure to a minimum.

Painter reached for the door handle, ready to assist the elder-only to have it open in front of him. A young man barely in his twenties climbed out. Painter searched the backseat, but no one else was there.

The slim figure stuck out his hand. He was dressed in a navy suit, carrying his jacket and a loose tie over one arm. His white shirt was open at the collar. "I'm Jordan Appawora, elder of the Northern Ute tribe."

The absurdity of that statement did not escape the youth, who offered a shy, embarrassed grin. Painter suspected that shyness was not a habitual trait in the kid. His handshake was hard and firm. There was some muscle hidden under that suit. When he withdrew his hand, he swept his lanky black hair out of his eyes and looked around at the circle of pueblos.

"Perhaps I should clarify," the young man said. "I'm a de facto member of the council of elders. I represent my grandfather, who is blind, mostly deaf, but remains sharp as an ax. I warm his seat at council meetings, take notes, discuss matters with him, and cast his vote."

Painter sighed. That was all well and good, but this young Ute was not the elder that he'd been hoping to question, someone steeped in ancient stories and lost tribal knowledge.

"From your expression," Jordan said, his grin growing wider and warmer, "I can tell you're disappointed, but there was no way my grandfather could make this long trip." He rubbed the seat of his pants with one hand. "As rough as those roads were, he'd be heading to his next hip replacement by now. And considering that last mile, I might need my first."

"Then let's stretch our legs," Alvin said, proving the wisdom of his own years. He waved them toward the pueblo's porch, but he hooked an arm around his wife and nodded to a neighboring cabin. "Iris and I'll see about rustling up a real breakfast at our place while you settle matters."

Painter recognized that the two were making themselves scarce so that his group could talk in private, but considering how matters had changed, this wasn't necessary; still, he wouldn't turn down breakfast. He led Jordan up to the shaded porch. Kowalski was already there, kicked back on a chair, boots up on the rail. He rolled his eyes at Painter, plainly as unimpressed with the so-called elder as Painter was.

Kanosh joined them on the porch with Kai. His stocky cattle dog came, too, sniffing at the newcomer's pant leg.

Jordan made his introductions again-though a bit of that shyness returned as he shook Kai's hand. She also stammered, her voice going soft, and retreated to the opposite side of the porch, feigning a lack of interest, but the corner of her eye often found Jordan through a fall of her hair.

Painter cleared his throat and leaned back on the rail, facing the others. "I assume you know why I asked you to come all the way out here," he said to Jordan.

"I do. My grandfather was good friends with Jimmy Reed. What occurred-the shooting at the cavern-was a tragedy. I knew his grandson, Charlie, very well. I was sent to offer whatever help I can in this matter and to answer any questions."

It was a politician's answer. From the kid's clipped and restrained response, Painter suspected Jordan had spent at least a year in some law school. The young Ute was here to help, but he wasn't going to open his tribe to any further involvement, potentially damaging involvement, in the tragic events that had occurred in the mountains.

Painter nodded. "I appreciate you coming, but what we truly needed was someone-like Jimmy Reed-who adhered to the old ways, who had intimate and detailed knowledge of the cave's history."

Jordan looked unperturbed. "That was clear. Word reached my grandfather, who pulled me aside privately and sent me here without anyone else knowing. As far as the Ute tribe is aware, we refused your request."

Painter shifted, fixing the youth with a sharper gaze. Maybe this wasn't such a waste after all.

Jordan didn't shrink from Painter's attention. "Only two elders even knew that cave existed-preserved on a scrap of tribal map that marked the cave's location on Ute lands. It was my grandfather who told Jimmy Reed about the cave. And last night, my grandfather told me ."

A flicker of fear showed in the young man's eyes. He glanced away to the sunbaked cliffs, as if trying to shake it off. "Crazy stories..." he mumbled.

"About the mummified bodies," Painter coaxed, "about what was hidden there?"

A slow nod. "According to my grandfather, the bodies preserved in that cave were a clan of great shamans, a mysterious race of pale-skinned people who came to this land, bearing great gifts and powers. They were called the people of the Tawtsee'untsaw Pootseev ."

Kanosh translated. "People of the Morning Star." He turned to Painter. "Which rises each morning in the east ."

Jordan nodded. "Those old stories say the strangers did come from east of the Rockies."

Painter shared a look with Kanosh. The professor was clearly thinking these people came from much farther east than this.

His lost tribe of Israelites... the Mormon's Nephites .

"Once settled in these territories," Jordan continued, "the Tawtsee'untsaw Pootseev taught our people much, gathering shamans from tribes throughout the West. Word of their teachings spread far and wide, drawing more and more people to them, becoming one great clan themselves."

The Lamanites, Painter thought.

"The Tawtsee'untsaw Pootseev were greatly revered, but also feared for the power they possessed. As centuries passed, they kept mostly to themselves. Our own shamans began to fight with each other, seeking more knowledge, beginning to defy the warnings spoken by the strangers. Until one day, a Pueblo tribe to the south stole a powerful treasure from the Tawtsee'untsaw Pootseev . But the thieves did not know the power of what they had stolen and brought great doom upon themselves, destroying most of their own clan. In anger, the other tribes set upon the surviving members of the Pueblo clan and slaughtered every man, woman, and child, until they were no more."

"Genocide," Kanosh whispered.

Jordan bowed his head in acknowledgment. "This horrified the Tawtsee'untsaw Pootseev . They knew their body of knowledge was too powerful, too tempting to the tribes who were still warring. So they gathered their members throughout the West, hid their treasures in sacred places. Many were murdered as they sought to flee, leaving other clusters of survivors with little choice but to take their own lives to preserve their secrets."

Painter studied Kanosh out of the corner of his eyes. Was this the war described in the Book of Mormon between the Nephites and Lamanites?

"Only a handful of our more trusted elders were given knowledge of these burial caches, where it was said a great accounting of the Tawtsee'untsaw Pootseev was written in gold."

Kanosh took a deep breath, turning away, his eyes glassy, maybe from tears. Here was further confirmation of all he believed, about his people, about their place in history and in God's plan.

Still, Painter-long estranged from his own heritage-remained a skeptic. "Is there any proof of this story?"

Jordan took a moment to respond, studying his toes before looking up. "I don't know, but my grandfather says that if you want to know more about the Tawtsee'untsaw Pootseev, you should go to the place where their end began."

"What does that mean?" Kowalski asked sourly.

Jordan turned to him. "My grandfather knows where the thieves who stole the treasure met their doom. He also knows their name." He faced the others. "They were the Anasazi."

Painter could not help but let the shock show in his face. The Anasazi were a clan of the ancient pueblo people who lived mostly in the Four Corners area of the United States, known as much for their extensive cliff-dwelling homes as they were for their mysterious and sudden disappearance.

Kanosh stared significantly at Painter. "In the Navajo language, the name Anasazi means 'ancient enemy.' " Kanosh filled in more details. "The Anasazi vanished some time between 1000 and 1100 AD. But it's been hotly debated what triggered their disappearance. Various theories have been expounded: a great drought, bloody battles among tribes. But one of the newest theories from archaeologists at the University of Colorado has the tribe embroiled in a religious war, as violent as any battle between Christians and Muslims. It was said that some new religion drew them en masse to the south. Then shortly after that, the entire clan died out."

That theory certainly meshed with the ancient story told by Jordan's grandfather. Painter turned to the young man. "You said your grandfather knew where these Anasazi thieves met their doom. Where was it?"

"If you have a map of the Southwest, specifically Arizona, I can show you."

As a group, they all moved indoors. The inside of the pueblo was as dark as a cave after the morning's brightness. Kai moved around and flicked on several lamps. Painter drew out a map of the Four Corners region and spread it on the tabletop.

"Show me," Painter said.

Jordan studied the chart for a breath, cocking his head to the side. "It's about three hundred miles south of us," he said, and leaned closer. "Just outside Flagstaff. Ah, here it is."

He poked the map.

Painter read the name at his fingertip. "Sunset Crater National Park."

Well, that certainly makes sense...

Kowalski groused under his breath. "Looks like we're going from one volcano to another."

Painter began making arrangements in his head.

"I'm going with you," Kanosh said.

Painter prepared to argue. He wanted to leave the professor here with Kai, to keep them out of harm's way.

"My friends gave their blood, their lives," Kanosh pressed. "I'm going to see this through. And who knows what you'll find in Arizona? You may need my expertise."

Painter frowned, but he had no good cause to dismiss such help.

Kowalski came to the same conclusion. "Sounds good to me."

Kai stepped forward, ready to speak. Painter knew what she was going to say and held up his hand. "You'll stay with Iris and Alvin." He pointed to Jordan. "You, too."

They'd both be safer here, and he didn't want word to get out about where they were headed. Kai looked ready to fight about it, but a glance toward Jordan made her reconsider. Instead, she simply crossed her arms.

Painter thought the matter was settled, but Jordan stepped up. He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. He looked ready to pass it on, but held it half crumpled between his fingers.

"Before you go, my grandfather wanted me to give you this. But first, I must share one last thing. This is from me, not my grandfather."

"What's that?"

"The legends I just told you were sacred stories, going back centuries, passed from one elder to another. My grandfather only told me because he truly believes it's already too late."

Kowalski stirred. "What do you mean too late ?"

"My grandfather believes that the spirit set free from that cave in the mountains will never be stopped-it will destroy the world."

Painter remembered Chin's description of the boil growing outward from the blast site, what he called a nano-nest , picturing microscopic nanomachines disassembling all matter it touched. The potential of it spreading indefinitely was terrifying.

"But it was stopped," Painter finally said. "The volcanic eruption bottled that genie back up."

Jordan stared him in the eye. "That was only the beginning. My grandfather says the spirit will sweep around the world from here, setting off more destruction until the world is a sandy ruin."

Painter went cold. The description was frighteningly similar to the physicists' theory that the neutrino blast in Utah had shot through the globe and lit the fuse on another cache of nano-material. He recalled Kat's warning about the impending explosion in Iceland.

Jordan stretched out his hand with the folded slip of paper. "My grandfather holds out little hope, but he wanted to share this. It is the mark of the Tawtsee'untsaw Pootseev . He says to let it guide you to where you need to go."

Painter took the piece of paper and opened it. What was written there made no sense, but it still caused him to go weak in his knees. He shook his head in disbelief. He recognized the pair of symbols smudged in charcoal on the paper, the sign of the Tawtsee'untsaw Pootseev.

A crescent moon and a small star.

The same symbols were found at the center of the Guild's mark.

How could that be?