Praise for The Height of Secrecy
“Loved it! A mystery with strength and realism. Mitchell’s background leads to a blended masterpiece of plot, setting and characters complete with insider authenticity. He’s got a good series going.”
—Betty Palmer, Events Coordinator, Moby Dickens
Bookshop, Taos, New Mexico
“What Grisham does for law and the courtroom drama, Mitchell does for national parks and the politics of land and preservation. His behind-the-scenes knowledge of the sub-culture creates a believable setting that blends seamlessly with the story.”
—Isaac Mayo, Developmental Editor
Praise for Public Trust
“In Public Trust, J. M. Mitchell brings a richness to the wilderness mystery that’s not to be missed. Fire starts the novel and it burns fast and furious, but pales to the political firestorm that becomes a battle for nature herself.”
—Nevada Barr, New York Times best-selling author
“. . . so real you think you’re reading nonfiction. . . . This is a good read.”
—Ranger Magazine
Also by J.M. Mitchell
Public Trust
the
height of
secrecy
—
J. M. Mitchell
PRAIRIE PLUM PRESS
Denver
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 J.M. Mitchell
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the publisher at the address below.
Prairie Plum Press
P.O. Box 271585
Littleton, CO 80127
www.prairieplumpress.com
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2014
ISBN 978-0-9852272-6-5
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014901107
Readings and author events scheduled through:
Mary Bisbee-Beek, Publicist
2417 SE 32nd Ave
Portland, OR 97214
(734) 945-7656
Topographic map produced by and courtesy of U.S. Geological Survey.
Book design by K. M. Weber, www.ilibribookdesign.com
For Cassy,
for your insight and support
Prologue
Four hundred years ago . . .
It could have been a game trail. The young girl knew otherwise. This is where her clan mother had said she would find it. Warily, she scrambled through brush, past an outcropping of sandstone. She kept behind cover, cautious, checking repeatedly, making sure no one was following.
It seemed she was alone, but she could not be too careful. A Spanish soldier, maybe a suspicious priest, someone from another pueblo or tribe, even someone from another clan—it did not matter. None of them were to know. None were to be allowed to follow. Especially the Spanish—because of their intolerance of traditions—but it was little different for the others. If they knew, there could be consequences. They could inflict such damage. The reason she was here, the lessons she would learn, the blessings with which she would return, they were not to know.
She crept higher, toward a break in the canyon wall. Needing to catch her breath, she stopped in the shadow of a pine, dropped her parcel and sat. She watched for movement. She saw none, yet she continued to watch. Her heart began to slow and her breathing quieted, letting the songs of the wind fill her ears. Whispers, from Mother Earth. She looked around. The rock and ground, the pines, the jays, the seed-laden grasses—the Creator living in all of them.
She nodded.
She knew not what she would find on this journey and yet she did. Her clan mother’s clues were unfolding with answers. And insight. Into responsibility. Into role.
What she would find and gather would become offerings for herself and her clan. Those offerings and prayers would help bring rain and harvest, health and wellbeing, not just to her and her clan but to the pueblo. Would she remember the stories? Would they come to life? Enough to bring insight to do what she needed to do?
She had her prayer sticks. Would she know where to place them?
What of the collections needed by the medicine society? Would she know where to find them?
And the collections of pigment for sacred paint? The pigment she would grind, that priests would offer to others and back to her, to paint faces, hands and feet for ceremony. If she could not find it, what would happen? To the traditional dance? To rain and harvest?
And most important—the mystical flowers only a few were blessed to find. Would she remember the stories? Had she understood them well enough to return with the most sacred of blessings? Pollen—to bring the butterfly to the garden and carry prayers to the Creator.
She turned her mind from worry. She imagined her mother, standing before her, holding a small ceremonial pot, watching proudly as she prepared for ceremony, then painting dark streaks across both her cheeks. She was at that place in her learning, and, yes, her mother—her teacher and protector until now—would be there, proudly bringing her to this point in her life.
The girl picked up her parcel and stood. She followed the trail to a dry creek bed, then down, to the beginnings of a ledge. She stepped onto it, then followed it beyond a bend in the rock. She stopped, overlooking the canyon. Her eyes grew wide.
It’s real, not just a story!
She followed the ledge forward, knowing now where her journey would take her.
—·—
Present day . . .
Early evening moonlight bled into the room and onto the floor where elders, both men and women, sat around the glowing coals of a fire, discussing the welfare of their people. One space sat empty. It represented a clan that tradition said would provide a leader, one who had much to do with religious practice.
“We’ve known this day would come,” a white-haired man said.
“Yes,” another answered. “But Anna was certain another would follow her. Her death is unexpected.”
“But it is something we should have expected. If her clan is now extinct, we are left with a hole in our society . . . in our social fabric. Do we know why she thought another would come? Are we sure there is no one?”
A gray-haired woman sitting to the east nodded to herself, then spoke. “There are no men. None initiated into religious societies, none with teachings or authority. It is possible there is no one surviving who knows the traditions