Page 7 of Dead Mountain

“Yes,” she agreed, “but I think it’s our call to make. When jurisdictional issues are unclear, we’re in charge.”

At this, Sharp’s sleepy face broke into a smile. “Carry on.”

4

WHAT SHOULD I do with these?” Bob Rotherhithe asked, pointing to the two framed Salvador Dalí reproductions that, until five minutes ago, had graced the wall of Nora Kelly’s new office. While Nora had no objection to Dalí, she wondered why Connor Digby had felt pictures of melting clocks would be appropriate for the office of a curator of Southwestern archaeology—especially when there were so many more appropriate decorations close at hand.

“Ask Connor if he wants them,” she said. “If not, donate them to Goodwill.”

“Yes, Dr. Kelly.”

She had tried many times to get Rotherhithe to call her Nora, but he politely refused. So, given her strong streak of egalitarianism, that meant her calling him Mr. Rotherhithe instead of Bob, like everyone else did.

Her new office was modestly sized, but utterly charming: hand-plastered adobe walls, a kiva fireplace, hand-adzed lintels, and a ceiling of vigas and latillas. Dr. Marcelle Weingrau, the president of the Institute, had offered her a much bigger office in the front of the main campus building. It was impressive, with a wall of windows looking out over a courtyard with a rose garden and fountain. But Nora had opted for something smaller, quieter, and harder to find.

As part of the Institute’s open collections policy—items were arranged in storage to be seen by visitors, rather than tucked away in darkness—curators were encouraged to display items in their offices for public viewing. Nora had taken advantage of this philosophy by selecting a beautiful Acoma olla, a painted water jug dating back to the 1910s, for placement in a niche near the fireplace, beside a Navajo eye-dazzler rug. For the opposite wall, she had selected two 1930s paintings by the Taos artist Albert Looking Elk. They would replace the two Dalís. Otherwise, the office would be spare and minimalist: Nora did not like clutter.

Rotherhithe began hanging the two Looking Elk paintings, while Nora advised him on placement.

Next came the rug. This was more involved. She watched as Rotherhithe measured out the wall, made marks, drilled two holes, and affixed a hanging bar, which slipped through a sleeve in the rug.

“Will that be all, Dr. Kelly?” he asked when he’d finished.

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Rotherhithe.”

He left and she settled back in the old, creaky leather chair, took a deep breath, and enjoyed the moment of peace and quiet. She thought how grateful she was to be working at the Institute, in such a beautifully appointed space. The eye-dazzler rug was spectacular, and she knew she’d never tire of looking at it. It was November and the field season was over, but she’d already started formulating plans for next year. Big plans, financed by the new field school endowment set up by Lucas Tappan. Next season’s expedition would involve one of the most enigmatic locations in the Southwest. North of Abiquiu, in the Jemez Mountains, lay a spectacular Ancestral Pueblo ruin called Tsi-p’in-owinge, dating back to the 1300s. She had first hiked to Tsi-p’in as a child, when her father had taken her and Skip to see it. He had loved taking his two children around to remote ruins in New Mexico, far off the tourist trail. Tsi-p’in was one of the most impressive. It was built on a high mesa, surrounded by cliffs, with only a single point of access. Constructed of carved stone blocks, it had once risen four stories and contained at least two thousand rooms, with additional scores of cave dwellings hollowed into the cliffs below. There were thirteen kivas, in addition to one great kiva, carved into the stone bedrock of the mesa. The ruin had never been excavated, and only one survey had been done—and that one was inadequate, poorly conducted, and half a century old. Because it was so remote and inaccessible except by a difficult switchback trail on a steep mountain face, Tsi-p’in had been largely ignored by archaeologists.

The lone path to the citadel lay along a narrow ridge, across which the inhabitants had built no less than three massive stone walls with arrow ports, creating a maze-like pathway that invaders would have to thread even before reaching the massive outer walls of the city. In its day, Tsi-p’in was a most powerful and populous fortress. But there were many unsolved questions about it. First, why was the city built like a stronghold when there was no record of violence or warfare during the 1300s? What were they so afraid of that they built their city far, far above their irrigated fields, requiring difficult daily climbs to access? Were they under threat—or were they themselves the threat to everyone else in the region? Adding to the mystery, the city had been abruptly abandoned around 1475. It seemed all the citizens had just walked away, leaving everything behind. No lasting theory for this had ever been put forward.

Tsi-p’in-owinge was a place of many mysteries, Nora thought, and a meticulous, well-financed survey of the ruin—done without excavating or disturbing the site—would shed a great deal of light. The survey she’d proposed had already been permitted and provisionally staffed, and it would begin in late May, as soon as the mountains cleared of snow. Such expeditions were what she loved most about archaeology—getting out into the wild, away from cell phones and the internet, living in a tent and spending each day uncovering more of the past in all its complexity and fascination.

“Knock-knock?”

Nora’s reverie was interrupted by a head poking around the door, covered by a mop of hair and a cowlick. “Hey, Sis.”

It was her brother, Skip. He had recently taken a position at the Institute as a collections manager. Or rather, retaken the position, after a stint working for Tappan on a special project.

“Come to see my new office?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He eased in. “Cute. Cozy.” Without asking, he took a seat in the chair opposite her desk, leaned back, and put his feet up. “I could get used to this.”

“Off, Brother.”

He dropped his feet. “Has Lucas seen it yet?”

“No. He’s in Massachusetts, dealing with the Marblehead kelp-huggers.”

“Kelp-huggers?”

“You know, the environmentalists who want to break our addiction to fossil fuels—”

“What’s wrong with that?” Skip interrupted.

“Nothing’s wrong with that. Just the opposite. Except now that clean energy is being proposed offshore, where they’ll see it, they’re going all NIMBY.” Tappan was trying to build a windfarm in the Atlantic, fifteen miles from Marblehead and its million-dollar seaside homes, and it was not getting off to a good start.

Skip laughed. “Kelp-huggers. That’s a good one. When’s he coming back?”

“A couple of weeks, I hope. But you never know—he’s got one hearing after another, and those people can talk.”

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