Author: J. Armstrong, Word Count: 666
Featured in The Spooky Archaeological Tales: Live Stream – Halloween 2021
It was the end of the monsoon season in southern Arizona. I had just lit a small
mesquite fire in the fireplace as darkness was falling. Lightning still flashed silhouetting
the spiny branches of the ocotillo and the small hulking menace of the catclaw. The
aroma of ozone and mesquite smoke mingled in the air. There was a gentle rustle of
chile ristras against the adobe bricks of my home. Just as I settled down with a pipe of
shag tobacco and an ancient tome, I heard a rapping at the paneled glass of my back
door.
I hesitated as the fireplace cast leaping shadows across the dancing kachinas
lined up on a shelf near the old smoke stained ceiling. Then I heard it again – a light but
persistent rapping upon the glass. Only a wandering porcupine ever trespassed on the
back patio. I slowly pulled myself from my chair, crossed the room, and peered through
the curtains.
At first I saw nothing. In a flash of lightning, I was startled to see a glowing eye
staring from a skull like face wrapped in an old slouch hat and a faded worn serape. My
hand jerked and the curtain dropped back into place. I quickly drew it back once more
and opened the groaning, rusty latch.
“My God,” I croaked, “is that you Jeremiah?” For indeed it looked like an older,
more wizened version of my old classmate, Jeremiah Specter. He quickly stepped into
the glowing halo of my small fire, swept off his hat, and threw the serape aside. I closed
the door against the night.
Indeed it appeared to be Jeremiah. I had not laid eyes on him for a good fifty
years since we had graduated from college. We had maintained contact through
reviews of papers and various archaeological publications over the years.
“What does one have to do to be offered something to warm one’s bones around
here?” he roared. Remembering my manners, I went to the kitchen to gather up a bottle
of mezcal, limes, and a shaker of salt. Placing these on a rusty Corona cerveza tray, I
returned to the room as Jeremiah was removing his muddy boots and drawing up a
rickety chair before the fire.
We each took a shot and after contemplating him for a few minutes I asked,
“What the hell are you doing here?” He told me of his travels. He had been following
the legend of the feathered serpent and it’s mythology from the Ancestral Pueblo, Sin
Agua, and Hohokam cultures down through the Chihuahuan and Sonoran deserts to the
Sierra Madre mountains. He wrapped his tales of the feathered serpent with his digs
exploring the changing architecture of kivas and ballcourts. As he brought me up to
date, we warmed ourselves with several more shots of mezcal.
“On my wanderings in the desert, I found an undiscovered ruin that contained
both a ball court and several underground kivas with references to the feathered
serpent. I bought supplies and traveled at night to elude followers. After several
solitary months, I found in the corner of a ballcourt a very large pot that was sealed in a
very peculiar way. I carefully studied the pot and decided to open it. Upon removing
the stopper a vile stench permeated the air along with a veritable dust devil of dust and
spores. I drew back but quickly turned to satisfy my curiosity about what the pot
contained.”
“From the corner of my eye I spied a menacing, towering shadow of feathers, a
long serpentine body, and dripping fangs. Before I could move, it struck”
“Whoa!” I whispered in awe. “What was it? How did you get away?”
Jeremiah smiled at me. “It was the legendary feathered serpent…and I didn’t,”
he replied as he, his hat, serape, and muddy boots turned into a wisp of smoke that
rose up the chimney. The empty mezcal bottle rolled across the floor tumbling the
pickled worm end on end.
Leave a Reply