The Ghost Ships of Arizona

PROLOGUE

Mukat watched the strange procession uneasily, not entirely sure what he was seeing. The bizarre warlike men with their shiny helmets and jangling clothes had dispatched a small canoe from their outlandish wooden ship. Mukat had never seen a ship before, his tribe were isolated out here in the dunes, but he had heard stories from the elders who’d visited something they called missions before other tribes destroyed them. On first setting eyes upon this ship the Cahuilla elders had been reservedly pleased, but upon seeing vast arrays of guns and grim-faced soldiers, they had quickly changed their minds. Stories were told of the Spanish and what they had done to tribes when they first came to these lands — before attempting to establish their missions.

A decision was made.

Kill the invaders.

The ship itself, anchored in the bay, would provide a valuable cargo, they were sure. Mukat watched the scouting party rowing ashore and wondered why the invaders couldn’t see the Indian canoes arrayed in their hundreds among the shallows. Was it vanity? Inexperience with the area? Was it that the Cahuilla were so wonderfully skilled? The darkening skies certainly helped. The bustle aboard the ship of war was another, more telling factor — men rushing about their jobs. Mukat wondered why they would go to such lengths. His tribe had survived, lived, loved and died happily within a small area for many, many years. They had little contact with the outside world, and fought only to protect their meagre lands. And yet, sand-covered and sparse and valueless as they were, outsiders constantly sought to visit. What did they hope to find?

Mukat readied himself as the invaders landed. He was aboard a canoe, charged with attacking the large ship whilst a smaller contingent of his brothers dealt with the scouts. Once the fighting and the shouting started they would begin, but he was hoping for more cover, more darkness to fall.

The Indians waited until the last possible moment, allowing the scouting party to disembark, then haul up their canoes and make ready. Mukat now ordered his warriors to begin rowing. Hundreds of small vessels shot out of the shallows, cloaked by the plunging night. By the time the first cry rang out they were over halfway to their goal. By the time the men on the boat gathered and acknowledged the threat they were almost aboard.

Mukat and his warriors gripped their knives between their teeth, affixed their bows to their backs and climbed the long thick ropes toward the deck of the ship. Luckily, the sailors were careless and had flung out more fixing points than just the anchor — they were clearly intending to stay here for some time, a fact already ascertained by such a huge warship carefully navigated so close to the shallows.

Perhaps they were merely repairing a broken mast. Resting after a battle at sea. Exploring for their leader, sat at rest far away in his gloried halls. Perhaps they were only curious. It did not matter. They were a threat, and whatever their original intentions were, once they set eyes on new lands and new peoples they would become more than curious. Mukat had seen it happen before.

They would become greedy.

He reached the deck of the ship first, landing with callused bare feet atop the slick planking. In a moment he adjusted. The tribesmen were no strangers to water — though they generally lived inland, Lake Cahuilla was nearby, enormous and of frequent use. Mukat saw an armed soldier headed his way, the man waving an arquebus — a handheld gun — as if it were a flag.

Mukat used bow and arrow, firing a volley far faster than any of their enemies could comprehend. His closest warriors preferred different weapons, using lances and spears, war clubs and tomahawks. They fell among the invaders too, screaming their war cries, righteously fighting for their lands. A shot smashed into the deck beside Mukat’s foot, sending splinters into his flesh. He looked up, saw a sailor perched above and then climbed to his side, as agile as a squirrel. The man beat at him with the partly wooden weapon, face registering both shock and fear. Mukat withdrew a short knife and cleaved his enemy’s ribs, throwing him down amidst his brethren. Standing for a moment, he surveyed the tableau, measuring the flow of battle.

Warriors swarmed up from the bobbing canoes and onto the decks. Already the wood was greasy with blood, its shine dulled by the ever-darkening skies. His brethren had no armor, but ran hard at the sailors as they fired their weapons. Many survived, screaming, falling among the attackers. Some did not, falling and writhing as they died. A knot of battle formed along the deck. Hatchets rose and fell. Clubs swung hard. Guns fired their deadly cargo. Mukat again took up his bow and fired arrow after arrow into the enemy ranks until his quiver was depleted. Other braves joined him and did the same. Another phalanx of steel-helmeted men surged around the other side of the deck. Mukat and his bowmen jumped down onto them, using knives and short-spears. Men fell, rolling and slipping. Mukat grappled an invader, tore off his helmet, and buried his tomahawk deep into his skull. The man went instantly limp. Mukat wrenched the tomahawk free, still on his knees, and swiped at the thighs of another. When the man partly collapsed, Mukat severed his hamstrings and then part of his neck.

Another surge of soldiers sent men staggering by, their loud weapons sometimes falling nearby as they passed. Mukat ignored them, fearing what he did not know, shunning the guns. The bulk of his world consisted of worries over constant subsistence, sand storms, visions visited upon the medicine man, the appearance of strangers, legends of Coyote the Trickster God, Temayawet, ruler of the land of the dead, and the temptations of Menilly, the Goddess of the Moon. It did not cover weapons beyond those he could make himself.

Mukat rose once more, his feet painful and seeping blood. Many of his brothers were injured, all of whom he recognized with fondness. A knot of fighting moved to his right, the sailors now using deadly looking blades too. Wrestlers fell overboard to continue their struggle in the waters below. Mukat visited his tomahawk and knife upon a ragged rank of the enemy, flashing the blades across stomachs and throats and faces until they were overcome.

The sailors fought hard against the aggressors, their actions and features attesting that they too were hardened men who had seen battle before. The Cahuilla were more suited to hand-to-hand combat aboard the deck, however, and they soon began to gain the upper hand. The sailors fell and some even tried to surrender, but the Cahuilla would leave none alive.

A captain then appeared above decks, shouting and gesturing and parading in some ridiculous finery until a brave stopped his unintelligible words with a well-placed arrow to the throat. The man’s body collapsed over the upper deck and fell among his battling men, sending them sprawling. The Cahuilla fell upon the injured, sensing victory and reward. The ship would be theirs.

Mukat parried a sword strike, then took a hard blow to the face. His opponent was a weathered individual, dirty of face and with clumped hair, a food-heavy beard weighing down the bottom part of his head. An oddly shaped nose and caved-in cheekbone verified this man was a fighter. Mukat needed to end it quickly. It wouldn’t do to win through such a hard battle and then die at the end.

A fist smashed down onto his shoulder, staggering him and making him lose his grip on the tomahawk. The ragged sword raised, lit only by the ship’s lanterns. Mukat scrambled underneath the swing of the weapon and then rose up, spear in hand, thrusting its point through the man’s underbelly as far as it would go. With a shudder the figure fell.

Mukat crawled through the folding legs and out the other side, to be faced with yet another foe. Weary, he raised a hand, grabbed a wrist and flung the attacker to the side. His half-naked body was cut and bruised and bloody, but he was a warrior and would never surrender so long as breath occupied his body. A sailor fell at his side, reached out for his neck and tried to throttle him. Mukat broke the wrist and jumped up. To his left and right men surged in tiny clusters, grappling, stabbing and bludgeoning. The ship rocked slightly in the small swell. On the beach the victors stood watching, their hatchets and war clubs held high. Scalps were being waved. More canoes were being readied.

Mukat ran from enemy to enemy, stabbing and breaking bones, helping his warriors where he could. The sailors backed away, suddenly rallied by one noisy individual and forming lines, one behind the other. What they had left of their guns were raised and aimed. Someone shouted and the first rank opened fire. Balls of shot screamed out of muzzles. One of the weapons exploded, killing its owner and the man at his side. Warriors fell, some dead and some wounded, their blood painting the deck.

Mukat leapt for the newly opened gap, squirreling his way among the ranks, slashing and hacking. The second rank opened fire, killing more of his brethren, but now they were all charging and closing the gap at a rapid rate. Fearless they came, even as the third rank opened fire before falling to pieces under the Cahuilla onslaught. Enraged, the warriors hacked until they were spent, the carnage around them the proof of their bravery, their manhood and their victory.

Mukat stood upright in the aftermath, basking in triumph and listening to the groans of the wounded that — on one side at least — would soon be silenced, enjoying the stiff breeze from across the sea that cooled his fiery skin. Their homelands were safe, their families and treasures secure from one more pillager. Time now to relax and reap the rewards of their sacrifices.

Mukat made a sound that called the braves together. He directed groups to the top of the ship and others inside, reminding them that lone stragglers may still remain, especially where the valuables were being stored. As he spoke the wind whipped up again and storm clouds scudded across the dark skies, torn by an approaching storm. The Cahuilla were used to predicting bad weather and Mukat suddenly knew there was something coming that not even his warriors could obstruct.

“A storm approaches,” he said aloud, eyeing the swell of the sea and the rock of the boat. By the moment the wind began to whip up. “We will make this quick.”

What the Cahuilla might term a valuable might be far removed from what others called the same. Mukat knew this. Clothes and material, certain foods, weapons, other raw items — these were all precious treasure to them. Gold coins and baubles not so much, although they too might have their place if the missions ever sprung back up.

His men swarmed the ship, looting what they could and dragging many items up to the deck. Some were discarded. More canoes came alongside, preparing to carry the plunder. Even now the swells were tricky in the shallows and the errant gusts of wind were beyond dangerous. More than one canoe capsized, though the Cahuilla were all strong swimmers and swam ashore. Mukat eyed the approaching storm with fear. Had they angered the gods in some way? The demons, perhaps? Or the Trickster himself? Surely defending their lands was no reason to punish them. But then demons were fickle things.

Mukat helped drag several items to the edge of the ship where braves were ready to lower them into the waiting canoes. Still more men came running up from the depths of the vessel, gesturing wildly.

You have to see this, he understood.

He cursed the gods. The Cahuilla had taken a great victory here today, defeating soldiers who meant them harm even if they didn’t initially know it. After a hard-won victory came the chance to gather the spoils of war; they could use these goods to improve their lifestyles. Now, the great approaching storm was threatening to take all that away.

Mukat cursed into the coming gales. The deeper darkness of rain clouds swarmed towards him like a fast-moving sand blizzard, seemingly reaching out with inky black fingers. Water spat at his face. The waves churned. The gods, it seemed, were indeed angry.

Dare he defy them further?

Mukat lowered his head and ran to his men. Even now, they held items of plunder in their hands, some weighed down so heavily they could barely stand. Someone told him about the great chests in the lower hold, once heavily guarded but now defenseless, and the enormous locks and straps that held them closed.

Clearly they posed the source of the ship’s greatest riches. And just as clearly the Cahuilla could not open them. Not in so short a time frame.

Mukat rushed by them, dragging one man with him to lead the way. The huge ship began to rock as the storm enveloped it. Mukat knew his men would be escaping even now — they would not wait for him and rightly so. He ran past open and closed doors, bright lanterns and burning bodies. He ran past a table bigger than his entire tepee, lavishly set with goblets and golden plates and heaps of food. He ran past a groaning man who reached out two hands, beseeching him for help. This ship was such an odd place to be — even paintings hung on the walls. Sometime later he reached the hold, stopping as flickering lanterns picked out the source of all his men’s interest. Seven chests sat in a row, very large, each so big they would take many men to lift and have to be removed one at a time. The obvious answer was to empty them, but Mukat now saw the cause of his men’s torment.

Locks larger than any he had ever seen were attached to the sides. Mere spears and even rocks would not quickly dent them, let alone open them. In addition, two broad, solid metal straps wrapped around the circumference of each chest, imposing loops interrupted only by the addition of yet more locks.

Mukat blinked rapidly. Yes, the chests presented a great deal of trouble but it was that simple fact that told him they were worth the effort.

As the ship rolled under the onslaught of the storm he knew the answer was but a simple one.

“We leave,” he said. “And later, we come back.”

“Why don’t we stay?” his companion asked.

Mukat eyed the dark hulk all around him. “Devil’s home,” he said. “Not ours.” He would never be able to relax inside this unfamiliar, imposing, ghost-ridden place.

The two men turned and ran hard. Even down here they could hear the storm’s fury. Mukat again considered the depth of that anger. Had the gods sent these men to save the Cahuilla? Possibly from an upcoming event?

Mukat pondered as he ran, at last emerging from the nightmarish below-deck environment and into his real home — the great outdoors. The scene that greeted his eyes, however, was not at all inviting. Torrents of water lashed sideways through the air, peppering his face with little painful darts. As the ship listed toward the seaward side, great rolling waves greeted his vision, bigger than any he had ever seen. A forlorn canoe bobbed around out there, smashed from wave to wave, empty. The hellish skies pressed down as if trying to smother all life from the earth. Lightning danced from cloud to cloud, demons and devils skipping and cavorting at the top of the world.

Mukat fought his way to the ship’s rail, holding onto his companion as best he could. Together they gripped the solid wood and looked toward the shore. People were gathered up the beach, beyond the reach of the foaming waters, people drenched and miserable and frightened but still determined to wait for their leader. Mukat would not disappoint them. Grabbing his companion, he stared into the man’s eyes and nodded.

“We swim,” he said. “We live.”

Together, they climbed over the rail and fell to the raging waters below. Mukat hit first, the sudden quiet below the surface a sharp contrast to the world above. Kicking strongly, he propelled himself unerringly toward the shore. Many tribes he knew could not swim, but the Cahuilla had always been fortunate to live close to the inland sea. That was why, occasionally, they enjoyed venturing down the wide tributary that led to the great, endless sea, the place where huge ships sailed.

Today had been a mix of victories and defeat, good signs and dark omens. Today had been unpredictable in the extreme. But tomorrow would bring great fortune.

Mukat swam hard until he saw the sea bottom beginning to rise. His breath gave out just as he broke surface, into a debilitating sensory assault of stunning visions and terrible noise. Waves battered him, taking control of even his powerful body. Thunder roared down at him as if from a vast, many-toothed mouth. Lightning pierced the skies, forking down and splashing against the seas. A jagged point hit close to him, blinding his vision. Mukat threw himself toward the shore, fighting as if with a black bear or vicious coyote. The cruel creature wrapped him in liquid arms, dragging him down and then out to darker depths, but Mukat fought with all his heart and soul, still able to see the shore and safety. Tooth and nail he struggled, gradually losing his fight with the formidable beast. His strength was waning, the trial too much. He would now pay the price for leading his people into folly. Knowing that he had lost he began to relax his limbs, already accepting.

Hands and fingers gripped his arms, his clothing, even his hair. They pulled. He went with them, sucked from the very maw of the beast. His people had waded in to save him, beset by the waves and the winds but still eager to help. The Cahuilla were a family and they would prevail. Right then, he knew his people would never die, their names never be forgotten.

Mukat lay panting on the beach, men sat at his side, drenched and spent, his companion from the ship similarly worn out. The storm raged at them and did not relent that night, a spectacle to behold, a fury that would live in their minds forever. Before first light painted the horizon the mighty ship began to list, to heave and swell, and then broke from its moorings, drifting off into the eye of the storm. Mukat did not see where it went and had long since lost all desire to. The gods had spoken.

Leave it be.

Mukat would never again dare defy the gods as long as he lived.