Sacred Ground

CHAPTER 1

Erica gripped the steering wheel as the four-wheel-drive vehicle flew up the dirt road, caroming around boulders and slamming into potholes. Sitting next to her, white-faced and anxious, was her assistant Luke, a UCSB graduate student working on his doctoral dissertation. In his twenties, his long blond hair tied in a ponytail, Luke wore a T-shirt that said Archaeologists Dig Older Women.

I heard it’s a mess, Dr. Tyler, he said, as Erica steered the car up the winding fire road. "Apparently the swimming pool disappeared into the ground just like that." He snapped his fingers. "It said on the news that the sinkhole stretches the whole length of the mesa, and it’s underneath movie stars’ homes, and that rock singer who’s been in the news, and the baseball player who hit all those runs last year, and some famous plastic surgeon. Under their homes. So you know what that means."

Erica wasn’t sure what that meant. Her mind was focused on only one thing: the astonishing discovery that had been made.

At the time of the disaster she had been up north working on a project for the state. The earthquake, striking two days ago and measuring 7.4, had been felt as far north as San Luis Obispo, as far south as San Diego, and as far east as Phoenix, jolting Southern California’s millions of inhabitants awake. It was the biggest temblor in memory and was believed to have been what had triggered, a day later, the sudden and astonishing disappearance of a hundred-foot swimming pool, diving board, water slide and all.

A second astonishing event had followed almost immediately: when the pool sank, earth had avalanched into it, exposing human bones and the opening to a previously unknown cave.

This could be the find of the century! Luke declared, taking his eyes off the road for a moment to glance at his boss. It was still dark out and there were no lights along the mountain road, so Erica had turned on the vehicle’s interior light. It illuminated glossy chestnut hair brushing her shoulders with a hint of curl, and a tan complexion from years of toiling in the sun. Dr. Erica Tyler, whom Luke had worked with for the past six months, was in her thirties and, while he wouldn’t call her beautiful, Luke thought she was attractive in a way that registered in a man’s gut rather than in his eye. Quite a feather in some lucky archaeologist’s cap, he added.

She glanced at him. Why do you think we just broke every traffic law on the books getting here? she said with a smile, and then returned her attention to the road in time to avoid hitting a startled jackrabbit.

They reached the top of the mesa from where the lights of Malibu could be seen in the distance. The rest of the view—Los Angeles to the east and the Pacific Ocean to the south—was blocked by trees, higher peaks, and the mansions of millionaires. Erica maneuvered her car through the congestion of fire engines, police cars, county trucks, news vans, and the armada of automobiles parked along the yellow police tape cordoning off the site. Curiosity-seekers sat on hoods and car roofs to watch, drink beer, and ponder disasters and their meanings, or perhaps just to be entertained for a while, despite warnings shouted through bullhorns that this was a dangerous area.

I heard that this whole mesa used to be some sort of retreat run by a nutty spiritualist back in the twenties, Luke said as the car rolled to a halt. People came up here to talk to ghosts.

Erica recalled seeing silent newsreels of Sister Sarah, one of LA’s more colorful characters, who used to hold seances for Hollywood royalty such as Rudolph Valentino and Charlie Chaplin. Sarah had held mass seances in theaters and auditoriums, and when her followers numbered in the hundreds of thousands, she had come to these mountains and built a retreat called The Church of the Spirits.

Know what this place was originally called? Luke went on as they unbuckled their safety belts. "I mean before the spiritualist owned it? Back when," he said, the word ‘when’ conjuring up parchments with wax seals and men dueling at dawn. Canon de Fantasmas, he intoned, tasting the dusty words on his tongue. Haunted Canyon. Sounds spooky! He shuddered.

Erica laughed. Luke, if you want to be an archaeologist when you grow up, you’re just going to have to not let ghosts scare you. She herself lived daily with phantasms and ghosts, spirits and sprites. They peopled her dreams and her archaeological digs, and while ghosts might elude, confound, tease, and frustrate her, they had never frightened her.

As Erica got out of the car and felt the night wind on her face, she gazed spellbound at the horrific scene. She had already seen news photos and had heard eyewitness accounts of the event—how the earthquake had somehow destabilized the ground beneath the gated community of Emerald Hills Estates, an exclusive enclave in the Santa Monica Mountains, causing one swimming pool to suddenly sink into the ground and threatening the rest of the homes with the same. But nothing had prepared her for what her eyes now beheld.

Although the eastern sky was starting to pale, night was still a dark, stubborn bowl over Los Angeles so that emergency lights had to be brought in, man-made suns placed at intervals around the perimeter of the site, illuminating one square block of a super-ritzy neighborhood where houses stood like marble temples in the milky moon. In the center of this surreal scene was a black crater—the devil’s mouth that had swallowed the swimming pool of movie producer Harmon Zimmerman. Helicopters buzzed overhead, sweeping blinding circles of light over surveyors setting up equipment, geologists moving in with drills and maps, men in hard hats warming their hands on cups of coffee as they waited for daybreak, and police trying to evacuate residents who were refusing to leave.

Flashing the ID that identified her as an anthropologist working for the State Archaeologist’s Office, Erica and her assistant were permitted to climb over the yellow police tape keeping the crowd out. They ran to the crater, where Los Angeles County firefighters were inspecting the rim of the cave-in. Erica quickly searched for the entrance to the cavern.

Is that it? Luke said, pointing with a lanky arm to the other side of the crater. Erica could just make out, about eighty feet below ground level, an opening in the side of the cliff. Looks dangerous, Dr. Tyler. You plan on going in?

I’ve been in caves before.

"What in blazes are you doing here!"

Erica spun around to see a large man with leonine gray hair come striding toward her, a scowl on his face. Sam Carter, senior state archaeologist from the California Office of Historical Preservation, a man who wore colorful suspenders and spoke in a stentorian voice. And who was clearly not happy to see her.

You know why I’m here, Sam, Erica said as she pushed her hair back from her face and looked around at the chaos. Residents of the threatened homes were arguing with the police and refusing to leave their property. Tell me about the cave. Have you been inside?

Sam noticed two things: that Erica’s eyes were bright with an inner fever, and that her sweater was buttoned wrong. Clearly she had dropped everything and driven down from Santa Barbara as if she were on fire. I haven’t been inside yet, he said. There’s a geologist and a couple of cavers exploring it right now for structural soundness. As soon as they give the go-ahead, I’m going to take a look. He rubbed his jaw. Getting rid of Erica, now that she was here, was not going to be easy. The woman stuck like glue once she put her mind to something. What about the Gaviota Project? I assume you left it in capable hands?

Erica didn’t hear him. She was watching the gaping hole in the hillside and thinking of heavy boots tramping over the cave’s delicate ecology. She prayed they hadn’t inadvertently destroyed precious historical evidence. The archaeology in these hills was paltry enough, despite the fact that people had lived here for ten thousand years. The few caves that had been found yielded very little because in the early part of the twentieth century bulldozers and dynamite had brutalized these wild mountains to make way for roads, bridges, and human progress. Burial sites had been plowed under, village mounds scraped away, all traces of previous human habitation obliterated.

Erica? Sam prompted.

I have to go in, she said.

He knew she meant the cave: Erica, you shouldn’t even be here.

Assign me to the job, Sam. You’re going to be excavating. And bones were found, it said on the news.

Erica—

Please.

In frustration, Sam turned on his heel and headed back through the Zimmermans’ trampled garden to an area at the end of the street where a makeshift command center had been created. People holding clipboards and talking on cell phones milled around folding metal tables and chairs, where two-way radios had been set up, surveillance monitors, a bulletin board for messages. A catering truck parked nearby was being patronized by people wearing various official uniforms and badges: Southern California Gas, Department of Water and Power, LAPD, County Office of Emergency Management. There was even someone from the Humane Society trying to round up loose animals from the evacuated area.

Erica caught up with her boss. So what happened, Sam? What caused a swimming pool to suddenly sink into the ground?

County engineers and state geologists have been working around the clock to determine the cause. Those boys over there—he pointed down the street, where men were setting up drilling equipment beneath bright spotlights—are going to run soils tests to find out exactly what this housing development is sitting on. Sam swept a beefy hand over the topographical maps and geological surveys spread out on the tables, their corners anchored by rocks. These were brought up from City Hall a few hours ago. This here is a geological survey from 1908. And here’s one from 1956, when this area was being proposed for a residential development that never got built.

Erica’s eyes went back and forth over the two maps. They aren’t the same.

Apparently the current builder didn’t run soils tests on every building pad—which he wasn’t required to do. The tests he did run showed stable ground and bedrock. But that’s at the north and south boundaries of the mesa, which it turns out are the two ridges embracing the canyon. Remember Sister Sarah back in the twenties? This was her religious retreat or something and it seems she had the canyon filled in and never got permission or informed City Hall. The work was apparently done without standard compaction procedures and a lot of the fill was organic—wood, vegetation, garbage—that eventually rotted away. Sam’s sleep-deprived eyes scanned the street, where fountains and imported trees graced expensively tended lawns. These folks have been sitting on a time bomb. I wouldn’t be surprised if this whole area was on the verge of collapsing.

While Sam spoke, he watched Erica as she stood with her hands on her hips, shifting from foot to foot like a runner eager for the race to begin. He had seen her like this before, when she was onto something. Erica Tyler was one of the most passionate scientists he had ever met, but sometimes her enthusiasm could be her undoing. I know why you’re here, Erica, he said wearily, and I can’t give you the job.

She whirled on him, her cheeks two spots of red. Sam, you’ve got me counting abalone shells, for God’s sake!

He was the first to admit that putting Erica in charge of a mollusk midden was a waste of her brains and talent. But after the shipwreck debacle last year, he thought it best that she cool her heels in a low-profile job for a while. So she had spent the past six months excavating a newly discovered mound that turned out to be the refuse heap of Indians that had lived north of Santa Barbara four thousand years ago. Erica’s job was to sort, classify, and carbon-date the thousands of abalone shells found there.

Sam, she said, putting her hand on his arm, urgency in her voice. I need this. I have to salvage my career. I need to make people forget Chadwick—

"Erica, the Chadwick incident is precisely the reason why I can’t put you on this job. You’re just not disciplined. You’re impulsive, and you don’t possess the necessary scientific detachment and objectivity."

I’ve learned my lesson, Sam, she said. She felt like screaming. The Wreck of the Erica Tyler, people in inner circles had called the Chadwick fiasco. Was she going to be made to pay for it the rest of her life? I’ll be extra careful.

He scowled. Erica, you made my office a laughingstock.

"And I’ve apologized a thousand times! Sam, be logical about this. You know that I’ve studied every example of rock art this side of the Rio Grande. There is no one better qualified. When I saw that cave painting on the news I knew this job was for me."

Sam drove his thick fingers through his mane of hair. It was so like Erica to just drop everything. Had she even bothered to turn the Gaviota Project over to someone else?

Come on, Sam. Put me to work doing what I was born to do.

He looked into her amber eyes and saw the desperation there. He didn’t know what it was like to be discredited in one’s own profession, to be laughed at by colleagues. He could only guess what these past twelve months had been like for Erica. I tell you what, he said. A member of the Search and Rescue team volunteered to go back in and take pictures. We should have them any minute. You can have a look at them, see what you make of the pictographs.

Search and Rescue?

After the pool sank, it was learned that Zimmerman’s daughter was missing. So the County Sheriff launched a search for her in all that mess. That was how the cave painting was discovered.

And the girl?

She turned up later. Seems she was in Vegas with her boyfriend at the time of the earthquake. Listen, Erica, there’s no point in you hanging around here. I’m not putting you on the case. Go back to Gaviota. Even as he said it, Sam knew she wouldn’t obey orders. Once Erica Tyler got something in her head, it was impossible to shake it loose. That was what had happened last year, when Irving Chadwick discovered the underwater shipwreck of what he claimed was an ancient Chinese boat on the California coast, proving his theory that people from Asia didn’t just come across the Bering Strait, but had arrived in ships as well. Erica had already been enamored of Chadwick’s hypothesis so that when he invited her to authenticate pottery found in the shipwreck, she had already made up her mind that this was indeed proof.

Sam had tried even then to dissuade her from jumping to conclusions, to convince her to move slowly and cautiously. But Erica’s middle name was exuberance. She had gone ahead with her public announcement that the pottery was genuine and for a while she and Irving Chadwick basked in the spotlight. When the shipwreck was later proven to be a hoax, and Chadwick confessed to having engineered it, it was too late for Erica Tyler. Her reputation was in ruins.

They said on the news that bones have been found, she said now. What have you found out so far about them?

Sam picked up a clipboard, knowing she was stalling for time. All we have are small fragments but they were found with arrowheads, which was enough reason to call my office. Here’s the Coroner’s report.

While Erica scanned the findings, Sam said, As you can see, according to the Kjeldahl test, the quantity of nitrogenous components in the bone is less than four grams. And the benzidine-acetic test shows no evidence of albuminous material.

Which means the bones are older than a hundred years. Was the Coroner able to determine how much older?

Unfortunately, no. And we can’t do it through soil analysis since we have no way of determining exactly which soil the bones had been resting in. This canyon was filled in seventy years ago, and then last year the soil was disturbed during trenching for the swimming pool. When the earth beneath liquefied and gave way because of the earthquake, causing the pool to sink, the earth on the sides spilled in. It’s all mixed up, Erica. We did find the arrowheads, though, and crude flint tools.

Which point to an Indian burial ground. She handed him the clipboard. I take it NAHC has been notified? she asked, looking around for someone who looked like they might be from the State of California Native American Heritage Commission.

They’ve been notified all right, Sam said in a wry tone. "In fact they’re already here. Rather, he’s here."

She read Sam’s look. Jared Black?

Your old adversary.

Erica and Black had tangled on Native American legal issues before, and the outcome had been decidedly unpleasant.

A young man came running up then, his face smudged with dirt, caver’s helmet askew on his head. He held out the Polaroid snapshots he had taken inside the cave and apologized for their amateur quality. Thanking the young man, Sam divided up the pictures, handing half to Erica.

My God, Erica whispered as she stared at them one by one. "These are . . . beautiful. And these symbols—" Her voice caught.

So what do you think? Sam muttered as he squinted at the pictures. Can you identify the tribe?

When she didn’t respond, he looked at her. Erica was staring at the pictures in her hands, her lips slightly parted. For a minute Sam thought she had gone shockingly pale, but then he realized it must be due to the fluorescent lighting hastily strung around the disaster site. Erica?

She blinked like someone brought out of a trance. When she looked at him, Sam had the odd notion that, for just an instant, she didn’t know who he was. Then, with color returning to her face, she said, We have the find of the century in our hands, Sam. This painting is vast, and I’ve never seen such an excellent state of preservation. Think of the native history we could fill in once these pictographs have been deciphered. Sam, don’t send me back to those abalone shells.

He released a sigh. All right, you can hang around for a day or two and give us a preliminary analysis, but—he held up his hand—you are to go back to Gaviota after that. I can’t put you on this project, Erica. I’m sorry. It’s interdepartmental politics.

But you’re the boss— She suddenly stopped and stared.

He followed her line of vision and saw what had caught her attention. In this chilly hour just before dawn, with everyone unshaven, bleary-eyed, craving coffee and sleep and a fresh change of clothes, Commissioner Jared Black, with not a hair out of place, wore a tailored three-piece suit with French cuffs, silk tie, and polished loafers as if he had just stepped out of a courtroom. As he approached, dark irises glittered beneath frowning brows.

Dr. Tyler. Dr. Carter.

Commissioner.

Although an outspoken advocate on Indian issues, Jared Black was himself pure Anglo, having once claimed that it was his Irish heritage that made him empathetic to the plight of oppressed peoples. He addressed Sam Carter. When do you expect to make a tribal identification of the cave painting? His tone implied that he wanted an answer soon.

That will be up to the people I assign to the job.

Jared didn’t look at Erica. I will be bringing in my own experts, of course.

"After we have conducted our preliminary analysis, Carter said. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that that is standard protocol."

Jared Black’s eyes flickered. There was no love lost between him and the senior state archaeologist. Carter had vocally opposed Black’s appointment to the Commission, citing Jared’s extreme prejudice against the academic and scientific communities.

Erica’s own clash with Jared Black happened four years ago, when a wealthy recluse named Reddman had died and left an astonishing collection of Indian artifacts to be housed in his mansion, which was to be turned into a public museum named for himself. Erica had been brought in to identify and catalogue the priceless collection, and when she traced them to a small, local tribe, the tribe hired attorney Jared Black, who specialized in land rights and property law, to sue for possession of the objects. Erica asked the state to challenge the suit on the grounds that the tribe planned to rebury the objects without prior historical analysis. The heritage in these bones and artifacts, she had argued, belongs not just to the Indians but to all Americans. It had been a passionate issue, with crowds picketing in front of the courthouse—Native Americans demanding the return of all their lands and cultural objects; teachers, historians, and archaeologists insisting upon the creation of the Reddman Museum. Jared Black’s wife, a member of the Maidu tribe and a passionate Indian rights activist—a woman who had once thrown herself in front of bulldozers to stop a new freeway from being pushed through Indian land—had been among the most vocal in favor of keeping the collection out of white man’s hands.

The case dragged on for months until Jared finally uncovered a fact that had not been previously known: that unbeknownst to state and local authorities, Reddman had dug up the objects from his own property, an estate covering five hundred acres, and had kept them without permission. Arguing that because the objects indicated a living mound—and Erica, although working for the other side, was forced to admit that the estate had most likely been built on the site of an ancient village—Jared Black declared that the property had not therefore legally belonged to Mr. Reddman but to the descendents of those who had lived in the village. The five hundred acres, as well as over a thousand Indian relics—including rare pottery, basketry, bows, and arrows—were handed over to the tribe, which consisted of exactly sixteen members. Reddman’s museum was never built, the artifacts never seen again.

Erica recalled now how the media had played up her and Jared’s battle in and out of court. One now-famous photograph of the two arguing, snapped on the courthouse steps, had been sold to the tabloids and run under the headline Secret Lovers? because a trick of the lighting and the unlucky timing of the cameraman’s shutter had captured Erica and Jared in one of those quirky, split-second freeze frames that give the very opposite impression of what is really happening: Erica’s eyes wide as she looks up at him, her tongue touching her lips, her body inclined in a suggestive way, with Black, towering over her on the upper step, arms outstretched as if about to sweep her into a torrid embrace. Both had been outraged by the photograph and its false message, but both had decided to let the matter drop and not add grist to the gossip mill.

"And I’m sure I don’t need to remind you, Dr. Carter, he said to Sam, that I’m here to see you keep your desecration to a minimum, and that the instant the MLD is found I am going to personally and with great satisfaction escort you and your fellow grave robbers off this site."

As they watched him go, Sam thrust his hands into his pockets and muttered, I definitely do not like that man.

Well then, Erica said. I guess it’s a good thing you aren’t assigning me to this case, because that would really annoy Jared Black.

Sam looked at her and caught the hint of a smile. You really want this job, don’t you?

Have I been too subtle?

All right, he said at last, rubbing the back of his neck. It goes against my better judgment, but I suppose I can send someone else to Gaviota.

Sam! She impulsively threw her arms around his neck. You won’t regret this, I promise! Luke, she said, grabbing her assistant’s arm, causing a half-eaten bear claw to fly out of his hand. Let’s gear up!

I’m surprised Sam Carter assigned you to this project, Dr. Tyler, Jared Black said coolly as they gathered at the top of the cliff.

I know a few things about rock art.

As I recall you also know a few things about Chinese shipwrecks.

Before Erica could respond, he continued, "I trust you have familiarized yourself with the latest update of the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act, which states that whereas the scientific removal and analysis of historical artifacts might be recommended, said analysis is to be nondestructive and—"

She pointedly ignored him, recognizing the challenge in his tone, knowing he was trying to goad her into an argument. She resented his implication. Jared Black knew very well that Erica had a reputation for being one of the most cautious anthropologists when it came to the handling of artifacts and that all of her tests were nondestructive.

Erica kept her irritation in check. She had no choice but to allow Jared Black to oversee every step of her operation. While Erica’s job was to determine which tribe the bones and the cave painting belonged to, it was Jared’s to locate the MLD—most likely descendent—and turn whatever Erica found over to them.

She felt Jared’s eyes on her, and she wondered if, like her, he was remembering the time they first met. It was in the County Court building and Erica was there for the first deposition hearing in the Reddman case. She and Black hadn’t known each other then, they were simply two strangers sharing an elevator. At the first stop, the doors opened and a woman in maternity clothes stepped in. At the next stop, a woman with a boy of about five got on and as the elevator began to rise, the little boy stared wide-eyed at the pregnant woman. Seeing his curiosity, she said in a tolerant tone: I’m expecting a baby. I’m going to have a little girl or a little boy just like you. The boy frowned as he pondered this, then he said, Will they let you exchange it for a donkey? The woman smiled patiently while the boy’s mother reddened. At the next stop all three got off, the doors closing shut. Erica and the stranger were silent for a moment, then they both started to laugh. Erica remembered noticing his deep dimples and how attractive he was. He in turn had given her an appraising look that said he liked what he saw. Then the doors had opened and people were there to meet them. Erica had stood stock-still when she heard him addressed as Mr. Black. And when the attorney for the Reddman estate called her Erica, Jared also came to an abrupt halt. They had looked at each other, both realizing in the same instant their horrible gaffe. They were enemies, generals in opposing war camps. Yet they had unwittingly shared a private joke, had laughed together, and had even flirted a little.

It appalled and embarrassed Erica to think that, even though it was only for three minutes, she had been attracted to this man.

The cave opening was eighty feet below the ridge behind the Zimmerman property, and as dawn broke over the eastern mountains, bathing the Los Angeles basin in fresh, smogless light, Erica adjusted the chin strap of her helmet. Beside her, also gearing up, was Luke, looking excited and wild-eyed. This was going to be his first experience with a new dig and he adjusted his caver’s sling and locking carabiner with the vigor of an ancient warrior girding his loins for battle.

Jared Black was also strapping himself into a harness, and Erica noticed that he had changed into more rugged attire—a borrowed set of coveralls that said Southern California Edison on the back. But there was no excitement showing on his face. Instead he presented a grim expression, causing her to think: He’s angry. Why? Didn’t he want this assignment? Had he been forced to take it? Erica would have thought Jared Black would welcome such a choice opportunity to spotlight the work of the NAHC and his own personal crusade for Native American rights.

Or was his anger personal? Had he still not forgiven her for what she had said the day she and her group had lost the Reddman case: Mr. Black’s words smack of hypocrisy when he claims on the one hand to be a proponent of safeguarding historical culture while at the same time consigning historical material evidence to the ground and therefore to oblivion.

Are you ready, Dr. Tyler? the climber asked as he made sure Erica was clipped into the rope, double-checking her harness and all attachment points.

As ready as I’ll ever be, she said with a nervous laugh. Erica had never rappelled down a cliff before.

Okay, just follow my lead and you’ll be fine.

Standing at the edge of the cliff, the climber turned and faced away from the edge, showing the others how to lean back and then start a controlled descent, demonstrating how to allow rope to feed through the figure eight by releasing pressure on the strands running through the right hand, his other arm held outstretched behind him as he dropped slowly and cautiously. When they reached the lip of the cave, the climber helped Erica inside, then assisted Luke and Jared, who followed.

The four released their ropes and faced the dark, cavernous interior. The cave might have been small but the darkness looked huge. The only relief in the intimidating blackness were the frail spots of light from their helmet lamps. When they shuffled their feet, the noise echoed thinly off sandstone walls and died away in the lightless distance.

Despite her impulse to rush inside and see the painting, Erica remained at the entrance and methodically swept her flashlight over the floor, walls, ceiling. When she had satisfied herself that there was no surface archaeological material, nothing they might inadvertently destroy, she said, All right, gentlemen, we can go in. Be careful where you walk. Her flashlight beam swept up the stone walls and across the vaulted ceiling. As we proceed, what we must do is send ourselves back in time and try to imagine the things that people are likely to have done here and the traces that these activities might have left behind.

They moved slowly forward, booted feet careful of where they trod while eight circles of light danced like white moths over sandstone formations. Erica observed quietly: We’re lucky this cave is in the north slope of the mountains, which is drier than the south slope, which gets the brunt of Pacific storms. Shelter from the rain is what helped to preserve the painting. And possibly other artifacts.

They explored in silence, beams slithering over the smooth contours of rock, illuminating blackened surfaces and patches of lichen, all four intruders alert, senses sharpened, watchful, until finally they arrived at the far end.

There, said the climber, meaning the painting.

Erica approached with apprehension, one foot placed meticulously in front of the other. When the carbide lamp on her helmet shone on the pictographs, her breath caught. The vibrant colors of the circles, the reds and yellows, like blazing sunsets! They were beautiful, fantastic, lifelike. They were also—

Do you know what these symbols mean, Dr. Tyler? the climber asked, tilting his head this way and that as he tried to make sense of what appeared to be a nonsensical collage of lines, circles, shapes, and colors.

Erica didn’t respond. She stood transfixed before the painting, eyes unblinking, as if the luminous suns and moons on the wall had hypnotized her.

Dr. Tyler? he repeated. Jared and Luke exchanged a glance. Dr. Tyler, Luke said, are you okay? He tapped her on the shoulder and she jumped.

What? she gave him a perplexed look. Then, recovering, said, I was just . . . I hadn’t expected to find such an intact painting. No graffiti . . . She was a little breathless. To answer your question about these symbols, her voice a little stronger, a little forced, as if she had to remind herself where she was, the heart of religious belief in this area was shamanism, a form of worship based on personal interaction between a shaman and the supernatural. The shaman would eat jimsonweed, or in other ways enter a trance, and walk in the spirit world. This was called a vision quest. And when he came out of the trance he would record his visions on rocks. This is called trance-derived art. At least that is one of the theories explaining Southwest rock art.

The climber leaned close. How do you figure this is the work of a shaman? he asked. I mean, couldn’t it just be graffiti and not really mean anything at all?

Erica stared at the largest circle, which was blood-red with curious points emanating from it. This means something all right. There have been laboratory studies of this phenomenon, it’s called the neuropsychology of altered states. And what the studies have discovered is that there are universal images described by people in different cultures, whether they be Native Americans, Australian Aborigines, or natives of African cultures. They are believed to be luminous geometric forms somehow spontaneously generated in the optical system. You can try it yourself. Stare briefly at a bright light and then quickly close your eyes. You will generate these same patterns—dots, parallel lines, zigzags, and spirals. What we call metaphors of trance.

He frowned. "But they don’t look like anything."

They’re not supposed to. These symbols are images of a feeling or of a spiritual plane, something that in reality has no corporeal structure and therefore no image. However . . . She frowned when her flashlight illuminated an unidentifiable figure, elongated with what appeared to be arms or antlers stretching out. There are other elements that are puzzling.

Luke turned to her, momentarily blinding her with his helmet lamp. Puzzling? Like what?

Notice that some of these features don’t conform to the known record of trance imagery. This symbol here. I’ve never seen it before, not in all the rock art I’ve studied. Most of these symbols you will find in other pictographs and petroglyphs scattered around the Southwest. These handprints, for example. In fact, the handprint in rock art is universal and found all over the world. It reflects the belief that the rock face was a permeable boundary between the natural and the supernatural worlds. It’s the door through which the shaman entered to visit the spirits. But these other symbols—she pointed, being careful not to touch the surface—are completely new to me. She paused, her soft respirations sounding in the cave like a breeze. There is something else puzzling about this painting.

Her companions waited.

While it contains pictographs that are characteristic of the ethnographic cultures of this area, this mural also contains motifs that are typical of Puebloan rock art. In fact, this art reflects a mix of cultures. Southern Paiute, Shoshonean. Somewhere in southern Nevada.

Can you date the painting, Dr. Tyler? asked Luke in an awed tone.

We can place an immediate date of before 500 C.E. because of the atlatls depicted—these objects here, spear throwers—instead of bows and arrows, which came into use in the New World around the year five hundred. For more definitive dating, we would need to use electron microprobe analysis and radiocarbon dating. But for now I would say this painting is around two thousand years old.

Jared Black spoke for the first time. If the artist came from southern Nevada, that’s quite a trek, considering he would have had to walk across Death Valley.

"The bigger question is why did he do it? The Shoshone and Paiute never ventured beyond their tribal lands. Although they moved around according to food availability, they were very territorial and stayed within the limits of their ancestral grounds. What was it that made this person break away from the clan and come all this way, making what can only have been a very treacherous journey?"

Jared’s eyes were shadowed beneath his helmet, but Erica sensed his piercing gaze. So this is possibly Shoshone? he said.

It’s only a guess. According to studies of drought cycles, about fifteen hundred years ago environmental changes in the eastern California deserts brought the ancestors of the Gabrielino Indians to Los Angles, a Shoshonean-speaking language group. However, if these people had a tribal name for themselves, it has been lost over time.

Jared pressed: "But this was done by one of those