The Secret of the Serpent Mound
a novel by
A. M. Murray
Published by A.M. Murray at Smashwords.com
Copyright 2010 , A.M. Murray)
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with from Smashwords.com. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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1: The Curse
The past, present and future all exist at the same time at the same place, according to American Indian lore. So if you’re tuned into the forces of nature and the earth you can feel the aura of a special place even if you don’t know something special has happened there or even if it won’t happen for many years to come.
Maybe I was just out of tune but I have to confess I didn’t feel much when I first visited the mysterious Serpent Mound. I just thought it would be an interesting and unique story with good market potential.
I was right about that. I would have been right even if nobody got killed.
Was it the curse? Was it an accident? Was it murder? You be the judge. It started before I arrived on the scene but here’s how it went by all accounts -- allowing for a little literary license.
***
"A curse shall fall upon all who dare to violate this sacred site!” declared Kluthu, the self-styled Druidic leader of a couple dozen protestors who had gathered at The Serpent Mound to stop an archaeological excavation. He stood like Moses parting the Red Sea -- or at least like Charelton Heston playing Moses. He was fully bearded, with long brown hair, wearing a flowing robe, arms upraised, holding an ankh-tipped staff in one hand. “Just as the curse of King Tut’s Tomb brought misfortune, death and disaster to those who intruded upon that sacred site, so too shall the Curse of the Serpent befall those who dare to disturb the ancient spirits of this hallowed ground.”
The ground in question was a picturesque bluff overlooking the shallow Brush Creek. The Serpent Mound sits atop the bluff. It is a grass covered earthen berm, three to four feet high, twenty feet wide and a quarter mile long. At the northwest end, close to the edge of a steep slope and observation deck overlooking the creek, the earth is formed into what appears to be an egg being devoured by wide open snake’s jaws. The serpentine shape continues south from there, making seven sidewinder bends before it curls up with a coiled tail. It’s hard to get the gist of the formation from ground level but it’s quite clear when seen from above, like from the rickety thirty-foot high observation tower situated at the tail end. Since it takes an aerial view to get the overall snake effect and the tower was erected only in recent times, some people speculate that the Mound was built as a landing marker for ancient visitors from outer space.
Imagination and mystery have never been in short supply at The Mound but solid evidence has. Seeking such evidence, a mechanical monster rumbled threateningly toward The Mound on the day of Kluthu’s curse. It was a John Deere backhoe with a bulldozing blade on one end, a clawed bucket on a hinged arm on the other end. The machine was followed closely by a group of people -- professor James Carlson, the aged archaeologist from Ohio State University who was supervising this dig; Lisa Lyons, the comely doctoral student whose dissertation topic the dig was; six eager undergrad students with shovels and trowels and brushes who were going to assist the digging.
Jon Walker, the park ranger, stood in stoic observance with his Smokey Bear hat and stiff jaw, making sure the protesters stayed in the flagstone picnic area near The Mound, as they’d been told when given permission to demonstrate. So far so good. But he knew it wouldn’t last. The protesters were determined to stop the dig, the archaeologists were determined to excavate. Something had to give.
As the backhoe left the parking lot and approached the Mound, Kluthu and his followers left the picnic area and approached the backhoe. Kluthu reached into a small sack dangling from his waist and took out a handful of sanctified corn meal that he sprinkled in liberal amounts mumbling something unintelligible and Gaelic. The protestors chanted, “A curse upon violators, a curse upon violators,” and formed themselves into a solid line to block the approaching machine.
“Violate this!” called Jonesy the backhoe operator, a small man with a large ego who grabbed his crotch and then his backhoe controls as he revved his noisy engine and stutter-stepped his machine onward. But the line didn’t give. He veered to the right and they re-formed around him. He veered left. Same result. He stopped. If he wanted to proceed he’d have to run them over. He couldn’t do that, as much as he’d like to squash these hippies and pagans and devil worshippers or whatever the hell they were.
Most of the protesters were indeed professed pagans, witches, warlocks and Celtic types wearing homespun tunics and robes in the same mold as Kluthu. But there were also a few history buffs and ordinary concerned citizens, clad mostly in jeans, khakis and T-shirts. Amulets, pendants and talisman were worn in abundance by most. Most prominently a handful of American Indians in beads and buckskins chanted “Heya, heya, heya,” and provided a backbeat as they pounded on portable tom-toms.
The protesters had formed a tight circle around the backhoe and the diggers. They linked arms and refused to let anyone move, refused to abide by the rangers exhortations to break it up and get back on the paved path.
Jonesy left his engine idling, climbed out of his cab, stood on his bandy legs, pushed back his green John Deere cap and called down to professor Carlson, “They won’t let me move. What do I do now, doc?”
Professor Carlson lowered a cell phone from his ear. “Don’t do anything. I’ve called the sheriff. He’ll deal with this. We’ll wait for him.”
Jonesy shouted to the surrounding crowd, “Hear that? You ain’t gonna stop us. You want a curse? I’ll give you a curse.” He held up the middle finger of both his hands. “The curse of the Adams county jail be upon you all!”
The protesters let out a chorus of boos and then there was some jostling and elbowing between the digging crew and the protesting crowd, with the park ranger caught in between. Jonesy jumped down to join the fun.
It was all pushing and shoving but no blows had been struck yet when there was a clunk of gears, the engine of the backhoe growled and someone screamed “My foot!” as the machine lurched off, heading toward the ravine.
“Hey! Stop!” shouted Jonesy as he gave chase, limping. It was his foot that had been run over. “Stop!” he screamed to no one there, no one driving. He trailed the runaway machine and almost caught it just before it went over the edge. He came to a skidding halt and watched the big machine plunge down the steep wooded slope. It crashed and thrashed through trees and boulders, shale and sandstone and brush until it came to an abrupt halt, smashing head-on into a thick tree, shaking the earth from the force of the collision. With a belch of smelly smoke and a loud choking clack the machine stalled out.
“My rig, they wrecked my damn rig,” Jonesy shouted as he stood at the edge of the ravine. He came limping back, jabbed a finger into Kluthu’s chest, right above the big pentagon amulet dangling on a thick chain around his neck. “You’re not gonna get away with this! You’re gonna pay, buddy boy. I know you did it; you put that thing into gear. Or you told one of your toadies to do it.”
Kluthu took the jabs without flinching. He looked down at the little man, at where “Jonesy” was embroidered on his shirt. He calmly said, “It was the curse, Mr. Jones. I warned you. Misfortune will befall all who violate this site.” He looked over at the professor and his crew, pointed down the road and announced, “Begone from this place and do not intrude upon it again or disaster shall befall upon you all.”
“I’ll give you disaster you big jerk,” Jonesy shouted as he lunged at Kluthu, trying to choke him. But the height difference made it difficult and he settled for grabbing the thick homespun fabric of Kluthu’s robe and yanking on it as he shouted, “You big jerk, you wrecked my rig you big jerk!”.
One of the protestors was inspired thereby to grab at the shovel of one of the grad students and try to pull it from him, saying, “Begone from this site.”
“You begone,” the student replied, pulling his shovel back.
The begones and the curses and name calling and wrestling spread to everyone else and a clumsy melee ensued between the two camps. The American Indians remained on the sidelines, drumming and chanting with perhaps a little more vigor than before.
This was the scene that greeted Charlie Kearns, the lean and white-haired Adams county sheriff as he pulled into the parking lot. He shook his head. It reminded him of the sixties. An era best forgotten. But he hadn’t forgotten the lessons learned. He was prepared.
The sheriff flipped on his flashing lights and his whoop-whoop siren and got out of the car. His big beefy deputy got out of the other side, hoisting a shotgun on his ample hip. Two unmarked SUVs and a large white van arrived and a half dozen part-time deputies formed a line and slowly advanced nightsticks at the ready. Intimidation is nine tenths of the law and the scuffling immediately subsided.
The sheriff got on the bullhorn. “Okay, break it up, the party’s over. I want the protestors on the left; the excavators on the right and everybody sit down and be still. Got that? Any one gives us a hard time from either side, they’re going to jail for obstruction. Break it up, everybody!”
Slowly, they all complied. Order was being restored. Now came the hard part. Getting the facts, filling out the paperwork and deciding who to charge with what. The only one charged, as it turned out, was Kluthu, for inciting to riot. The sheriff doubted the charge would stick, but he had to at least go through the motions.
Kluthu was out on bond that night and he and his cohorts were back the next day. The judge had issued an order restricting them to the parking lot this time however. The fat deputy and a skinny, tall sidekick were on hand to make sure they did as they were told.
Ranger Jon Walker was up at The Mound, along with Jonesy, the professor and Lisa. They watched as a huge oversized tow truck, often used to service the big eighteen wheelers that plied the interstate, pulled up to the edge of the ravine. Big Al’s Truck & Auto it said on the side doors and the driver lived up to his name. He was a human bear, even bigger than the fat deputy but bearded with a French braid hanging out at the back of his bandana-covered head. The bandana was polka dotted with small skull and crossbones symbols. He wore a leather vest over jeans overalls, “Pagans Motorcycle Club” embroidered on the back of the vest. Also depicted was a red devil baring fangs, the number 13 below.
But in contrast to that devilish image, big Al gave off an air of friendly cheerfulness. He chuckled as he studied the backhoe sitting halfway down the slope, rocks and earth and brush churned up all around. He said, “Hey Jonesy, you missed your turn. Or you tryin’ to dig a new road down this ravine here? Didn’t nobody tell ya ‘bout the laws of gravity, ha-ha”
“Ha-ha” replied Jonesy, saying the words and not laughing. “So how we gonna do this? Guess we gotta get your hook down there and hook onto somethin’.”
“Yup,” said Big Al.
Jonesy waited and Big Al didn’t move, except to spit a squirt of chewing tobacco at a grasshopper sitting in the sun. He missed but he was close enough to make the insect spring off. He wiped tobacco dribble from his hairy chin.
“So, you gonna do that then?” asked Jonesy.
“Do what?”
“Go down there and hook onto my backhoe so you can pull it up.”
“I’ll pull ‘er up all right. That’s my job. But climbin’ down that ravine, that ain’t my job.”
“Well how can you pull it up unless somebody goes down there to hook it up? You don’t expect me to do it do you?” Big Al spit once again, aiming at nothing this time. Jonesy continued, “Hey, gimme a break here. I got a bad foot. It hurts!” He limped around a few steps and winced to demonstrate.
Big Al said, “You know the old joke? Doctor, doctor, it hurts when I do this. Doctor says, ‘so don’t do that.’ Ha-ha-ha. Sorry about that dude, but like I tell the ladies, I ain’t built for speed, I’m built for comfort. Ha-ha. I ain’t built for slopes neither. Better you than me. Once you get down there, make sure you hook ‘er down low, underneath the blade there would be good. Then after you get ‘er hooked up be sure you put ‘er in neutral so’s I don’t have to drag against your gears all locked up or whatever, know what I mean?”
Jonesy sighed. He looked over at the professor and Lisa. They were into their own thing, holding out a big sheet of paper like a blueprint, planning out where they would dig.once digging resumed No help there. To hell with them all. Jonesy grabbed the tow truck’s dangling hook on a chain, said, “I guess if you want somethin’ done right you gotta do it yourself. Reel me down, easy.”
Big Al played out the chain line as Jonesy gingerly descended, trying to stay off his bad foot as much as possible. “Okay, hold it right there,” he called when he’d gone far enough. He hobbled about, slipping and sliding on the loose soil and shale. He propped himself against the steel base of the backhoe, knelt down and began to push the hook and chain underneath the wide metal blade, feeling for where it connected to the undercarriage of the rig.
He was reaching in up to his shoulder when he heard a rattle, then felt a flash of pain. “Ghaa!” he exclaimed as he pulled his arm out. There was a three-foot long rattlesnake dangling from his wrist. “I been bit!” he shouted as he shook his arm and the snake fell to the ground and slithered back underneath the earthmover.
Jonesy fell on his butt and would have slid down the ravine except he managed to grab onto the hook and chain that lay on the ground. “Pull me up, pull me up quick!” he screamed. He got a good look at his wrist. There was a dual puncture there and a little blood and it hurt like hell and…did he hear more rattling under the backhoe? “I been snake bit, pull me up fast!” he desperately cried. “I think there’s more of ‘em. Pull me up! Pull me up!”
It only took a few minutes for Big Al to reel Jonesy in like landing a fish. He pulled him over the lip of the ridge all dirty and writhing on the ground. Jonesy held his wrist, cried, "I been snake bit! Call nine-one-one, oh my God, get me to a hospital. Call nine-one-one!”
Big Al had a cell phone of course and he made the call as the professor and Lisa and others gathered around. Down in the parking lot the demonstrators were figuring out what had happened and whispering, “It’s the curse, it’s the curse,” not sure if they should be pleased or not. Not sure if they believed it or not. “I warned them,” Kluthu said.
The professor crouched down to put a hand on Jonesy’s shoulder and gently pressed him down to the ground. “Just remain calm,” he said. “Did you see what kind of snake it was?” Lisa knelt down next to Jonesy and wrapped a hanky tight around the bleeding bite wound.
Jonesy moaned, “It was a rattler, I seen it. I even heard it before it bit me. I think I heard more of ‘em too. Under the backhoe.”
The professor pondered that. “Hmm. Yes, well in that case it was probably a timber rattlesnake, not uncommon to this region. Perhaps the backhoe disturbed a nest of them. They are often found nesting at this time of year.” He looked closely at Jonesy’s wrist. “Hmm. I do see some swelling here which may or may not indicate a possible toxic reaction but…”
Jonesy pleaded, “You gotta get that poison outta me before its too late doc. Who knows when the medics will get here? You’re a doctor, put on a tourniquet, get a knife and cut the bite, suck out the poison. Suck it out before it’s too late!”
“I got a knife,” volunteered Big Al, producing a black-handled folded Buck knife, using a dexterous thumb move to flip out a wicked looking skinning blade with a sharp cutting edge and a serrated spine. He bent down and began to take the bandage off Jonesy’s wrist.
The professor stopped him, saying, “No, no cutting, that’s not necessary, contrary to popular myth. It only aggravates the trauma. Nor is a tourniquet advisable. I’m not a medical doctor but I am conversant with snake bite procedure.” He cleared his throat and assumed the knowledgeable air of a classroom lecturer. “Miss Lyons, if you’ll re-tie that hanky just above the wound, tight but not so tight as to cut off the blood flow. I’ll do the same below the wound.” He untied the red bandana from around his neck and wrapped it below Jonesy’s wrist. “Now, suction to remove the toxins is called for, either orally or with a mechanical device, which we don’t have at the moment so, Miss Lyons, would you care to do the honors?”
She hesitated, with a look that said why me.
“Suck it, suck it,” said Jonesy, holding up his wrist.
“Yeah, suck it good honey,” said Big Al, smirking.
The professor, not getting the double entendre, said, “I can assure you that it’s perfectly safe, you can’t be poisoned by swallowing the toxin, if there is a toxin at all. Studies have shown that sixty percent of the time a snake does not even inject its venom when biting. There has been only one fatality due to a venomous snake bite in Ohio in the last ten years and so the odds of it being life threatening are small.
“I don’t care what the odds are,” cried Jonesy. “I just know it hurts and it’s swelling up and somebody’s gotta suck out that poison. If you won’t do it, I’ll do it myself.” He made an effort to rise up to a sitting position but became woozy and fell back with an “Oh, geez.”
“Just relax, I’ll do it,” said Lisa. She applied her mouth to the puncture wound and began to suck and spit.
The paramedics arrived in short order and Jonesy was whisked to the emergency ward of the nearest Hospital, in Hillsboro. He was given anti-venin, his wound was thoroughly cleaned, he was X-rayed and inspected, put on a monitor and given the best tests and treatment that money could buy, or at least that his insurance would cover. After a few hours with no complications, he was released to go home.
In the meantime park ranger Jon Walker faced a dilemma. He knew he couldn’t leave those snakes down there. They posed a hazard and it was his job to keep this place safe and secure. He’d have to go and gather them up. There was a snare pole back in the park offices that he’d used often enough on stray dogs, troublesome raccoons and such. It should work on snakes too. He went to fetch it. And several burlap bags too.
He came back and looked down at the backhoe and said, “I guess we still got to pull that thing back up the hill, huh?”
“I’ll reel ‘er in, all you got to do is hook ‘er up,” said Big Al.
Ranger Jon looked at the fat and skinny deputies who had come up from the parking lot to see what was happening. “It’s your territory,” said fat one. The skinny one nodded. “But we’re behind ya all the way,” said fatty, unbuttoning his gun holster. Skinny unbuttoned his too.
The ranger, with his snare and his bags, slowly and carefully descended the slope. The deputies followed, one either side of the tow chain and hook which reeled them down, like going down a ski slope.
When they got to the backhoe the ranger put down his hear, took the hook from the deputies who then perched on the slope with one leg high, one leg low, their hands on their gun butts.
The ranger carefully played out the chain and hooked around the bulldozing blade well above ground. He kept a wary eye out for snakes. Didn’t see any, didn’t hear any rattling. Slowly, carefully, Big Al reeled in his chain and the backhoe inched back up the slope. “Piece o’ cake,” he said when it was done.
“Easy for you to say,” mumbled the sweaty ranger as he stood back and eyed the area where the backhoe had been. There was a pit in the ground, a nest of leaves and twigs and bark and several snakes intertwined there in a loose jumble. A couple of them raised their heads in curiosity, flicking their tongues. They began to rattle. It sounded like frying grease, popping and crackling. Ranger Jon Walker backed away, picked up his snare pole and a burlap sack.
“Move as slowly and quietly as you can,” called down Professor Carlson. “Snakes only get aggressive around sudden movement or noise.”
The ranger wished he wouldn’t yell. The deputies pulled their guns out, aimed at the pit vipers. “Take it easy boys,” said Ranger Jon. “Rattlesnakes are a protected species in Ohio. You can get yourselves into big trouble killing ‘em for no good reason.”
“Them trying to bite us is a good reason,” said the fat deputy.
“They don’t want to bite anybody. Do you boys?” he addressed the snakes, not the deputies. “Take it easy guys, no one wants to hurt you. Nice and easy,” He slowly reached out his pole, slipped the noose end over one snake’s head, pulled gently on the rope at his end and tightened the snare. “Nice and easy,” he said as he lifted the writhing, rattling snake out and away from its bedmates. He carefully slipped it into the burlap sack, released his snare, pulled the sack’s tie string shut. “Okay, that’s one,” he said. He straightened up, sucked in a breath, realized he’d been holding it for a long time.
The other snakes gathered into a tighter not, rattled more than ever but didn’t try to get away, tried to burrow further into the leaves in fact.
“Whey, smell that?” said the skinny deputy, wrinkling his nose. “Like somebody peed here or somethin’.”
“You pee your pants?” said fatso.
“No. Did you?” replied skinny. “You’re sure sweatin’ enough.”
They were all sweating actually, on this lovely day that had suddenly gotten very warm indeed. The capture of the four remaining snakes proceeded, each snake placed into a separate sack. “Good job,” said the fat deputy when it was all done, wiping his face with a handkerchief. “You’re a regular snake wrangler.”
“Yeah, you the man,” added skinny.
The ranger held up the bags to show the onlookers at the top of the ravine. “Got ‘em’” he called out. He was greeted with light applause. Now what was he going to do with the snakes? He hadn’t thought too much about that.
2: Snake No Good
I was warned not to go to the Serpent Mound by a wizened old crone. But did I take heed? Of course not, I was an intrepid professional journalist. The story looked like money in the bank and as we all know from the best examples of the most accomplished professionals, the true measure of a pro is not how smart or skilled you are but how much money you make. As much as I loved seeing my name in a byline I loved seeing it on a check even more.
Jake Casper, that’s my byline and the name to put on the payee line of any checks. Which hopefully would soon be done by the InfoMedia news agency. They had given me a glimmer of hope they’d buy my story and that was all I needed to get going. But all that glimmers is not gold, they say. And gold does not always glimmer, I would discover.
But I’m getting ahead of myself with that one. What can I say, I’m a dreamer and I dreamed of making it big time as freelancer. Being free was important to me ever since the Army and a stint in the first Iraq war. Call it post traumatic attitude syndrome.
I may have been getting a little old for the “freebird” lifestyle but I was holding off the ravages of age pretty well. Just past forty, I could pass for early thirties if you didn’t look too close. I had a full head of moppy brown hair, devilish mustache and goatee which kept me looking hip and with it. Or so I imagined. I was still in decent shape with fairly regular workouts, walks in the park, tennis and volleyball. Nothing too strenuous though. Not motivated enough to put in all the work it takes to harden the soft belly on my six foot, one hundred seventy-five pound frame. I did watch what I ate, though, with a high cholesterol condition to remind me I was no spring chicken.
The one consolation of age is a degree of wisdom they say. But like I said, I didn’t heed it when the old woman warned me: “Snake no good. Vhy you vant go see snake? Is nothing but trouble.”
Double, double, toil and trouble I almost expected her to say, since at that moment she reminded me of the witches in Macbeth, stirring a steaming cauldron. But she was actually my dear grandmother and the caldron contained no eye of newt or wool of bat but rather potato of Idaho and sausage of Hungary, not to mention paprika, garlic and onions. It was making my mouth water and I would have dished up a bowl full right then except I was distracted with how decrepit granny looked standing over the pot in her threadbare bathrobe. I knew she wore a full set of uppers but had never seen her without her false teeth before. Her caved-in mouth made her face look all withered and hollow and hag-like. It struck me suddenly how really old she was getting to be.
Dear old Nudge. That was what our family called her, shortened English for the Hungarian “nagymama,” which literally translates as “big mother,” meaning grandmother. She and grandpa Tibor changed their names from Czaparos to Casper when they came to this country over fifty years ago. To make it more pronounceable I’m told, though I think there may have been more to it than that. Anyway, Grandpa was long gone and Nudge still spoke like a new immigrant with choppy accented English that dropped most pronouns and often pronounced W’s as V’s and vice versa. It made her a little hard to understand at times. Even harder when you added a toothless sibilance.
“What happened to your teeth?” I asked her. She let out an injured moan and put her hand over her mouth like she hadn’t realized. She scurried over to the side counter and pulled some teeth out of a tumbler of water and popped them in. Her mouth filled out and once again she looked like my dear sweet grandma. What a difference a small change can make.
She said, “Can’t find old teeth, has crack in, but I like better than new teeth. New teeth hurt mouth. You help me find old teeth Jacob? I look everywhere, upstair, downstair, inside, outside, even garbage. Can find nowhere. Don’t know vhat could happen. Vhere could be Jacob?”
“I don’t know Nudge. They have to be somewhere.”
I’m a mystery fan and a pretty good problem solver and I thought I could quickly solve this little conundrum. “Where were they the last time you remember seeing them?”
“In glass by stove, last night, before go up to bed. Vant to soak, take out, chocolate stick to teeth, good Swiss chocolate, I give you some. But look in glass, teeth gone. Teeth disappear!”
“When did you look in the glass, when did you notice they were gone?”
“In morning. Come down for breakfast. Have tea, vant to eat cracker so vant teeth, but teeth gone. Vhere could go?”
I had no answer. But good detecting usually means a lot of leg work so I looked high and low in all the likely places for Nudge’s missing teeth. In and around the sink, all around the stove, amid the disorganized spice jars, on the window ledges, among the dishes, all over the floor and under the toe kick of the cabinets. No sign of anything but dust and food particles, a corroded penny and a sticky rubber band.
I even used a slotted spoon to search the soup she was cooking. Almost expected to find them there, absentmindedly tossed in with the water when she made it. I remembered back to the salad she’d once served me on pins and needles. Literally. She’d been keeping some pins and needles in an old salad plate on the bureau and one day, in a hurry, she forgot and just grabbed the plate and put a salad in it for me. Imagine my surprise when I’d eaten the lettuce down to the bottom and spotted a half dozen straight pins and a couple of sewing needles. I was glad I was a slow and careful eater.
“I don’t really have time to look any more for the teeth right now,” I finally said after I’d exhausted my search. “I gotta go. Wanna get down to the Serpent Mound today, before five when it closes up. Think about it while I'm gone and we’ll search every inch of this place when I get back, okay?”
Nudge looked pained. “Okay,” she sighed. “Oh, Jacob, don’t know vhy you vant go away so bad, go see snake.”
“It’s not the snakes I want to see. They just make the story better because they were at the Serpent Mound. It’s famous, like…like the pyramids or something, except not quite that grand. It’s earthen, made out of the ground, shaped like a big snake. Some archaeologists are digging things up there and one guy got bit by a snake after some protesters cast this curse and…”
“Curse!” she cried. “You mean like gypsy curse? Gypsy no good. Curse no good. You stay away from!” She was really worried now. She had told me a few Hungarian “old country” stories where gypsies were sneaky underhanded thieves and scoundrels not to be trusted. If they shake your hand you should count your fingers to make sure they’re all still there.
“There’s no gypsies, Nudge. Just some Indians and some protesters, like Celtics or Druids or whatever, but no gypsies. And the curse is a bunch of bull, and I’ll bet the snakes are just a plant.”
She wrinkled her brow in confusion. “Snake is not plant, snake is animal.”
“No, no, I mean they were probably planted, like somebody put them there just to scare everyone and make them think it was maybe a curse. But either way it makes for a good story. And don’t worry I’ll be careful. I’ll be home before you know it. A day or two should do it.”
I didn’t want to be away from her for too long. She’ been widowed and living on her own for many years in a big old house that had been my home for most of my childhood. She’d practically raised me after my dad, Jan, got divorced and dumped me on her while he travelled around the world working some Navy-related electronics job. He made good money but spent most of it on himself and gave little or nothing to Nudge.
Nudge also had two more sons. Pete and Dan. Pete lived three thousand miles away in Oregon and had his own life out there. But Uncle Dan was like a dad to me and a good and dutiful son to his mother. He had dinner with Nudge every Thursday and I did Tuesdays and we both showed up every Sunday. Between the two of us we maintained her old house, did a lot of little chores and errands, whatever was needed. She paid us back with lots of delicious meals and lots of love. And bits of wisdom, even if we didn’t always recognize it all the time.
“Vatch out for snake,” Nudge warned again as I was leaving. “Vatch out for curse. I don’t care if is gypsy or Indian or what is. People think bad thing, they make bad thing happen.”
“Okay,” I said, not making much of it at that time. I didn’t want to depart on a down note though so I brightened my voice, joked, “Hey, maybe I’ll bring a snake back for you. They eat mice you know.”
“Maybe they eat you,” Nudge snapped back, always the feisty one. I chuckled and then she did too because we both knew the story.
Some dirty little rodent had been nibbling at her favorite Lindt chocolates stored in her pantry and it was driving her crazy. The springy traps she’d set out had been stripped of their cheese without going off. Smart mouse. Maybe it was a gypsy mouse. We would have to find a way to deal with it when I got home. And find those elusive teeth too. It was always something.
We said our good-byes. Nudge gave me a big Mason jar full of her soup. I gave her a big hug and a kiss on the forehead and headed home to pack. I put the soup in my refrigerator, I’d eat it when I got back. But I’d scrape off most of the fat that would come to the top of the cooled concoction first. Nudge used lots of butter, bacon and fat in everything she made. It was the Hungarian way. When I was a kid we used to buy Italian bread, toast it and scrape garlic cloves over the crispy surface and then spread on plenty of lard to melt in. Man, it was good but I’d hate to think what it did to the arteries. Grandpa had died at age sixty-six from a heart attack before anyone was hip to the dangers of cholesterol.
I had learned that food was important but so was good health and nutrition. So I packed good food but not fat food for my trip. It was important that I stock up because food on the road can get expensive. And money was tight. I was hoping that this story would alleviate that latter situation. I was on the verge of giving up the whole freelance thing and looking for a regular nine to five job. Dread the thought.
In my younger days a six pack of beer would have been first on my list of supplies. Now, a six pack of bottled water and eight boxes of Juicy Juice were more my speed. A sign of maturity or awareness of tougher DUI laws? Both I guess. For munchies I packed a bag of baby carrots, a box of granola bars, a can of smoked almonds, a bag of miniature Snickers because you gotta have chocolate. My main course was two turkey baloney sandwiches on vagoc bread (pronounced “vahgush,” Hungarian for needing cutting). I cut off the heel and ate it plain and it was crunchy on the outside, soft inside and delicious. As I chewed that down I cut thick slices and spread them with lite mayo, added the meat with yellow mustard, topped it with fresh lettuce and tomato slices from Nudge’s garden, wrapped the sandwiches in cellophane. Also into the cooler went two apples, four bananas, a pack of Archway date-filled oatmeal cookies. That should hold me for the four and a half-hour drive.
My radio was tuned to classic rock stations that would accompany me until I ran out of broadcast range and then I had CD’s by Miles Davis, The Beatles, Mozart, Beethoven, Duke Ellington. An eclectic mix with nothing too modern, but that’s the way I like it, I’m an old fashioned kind of guy. I packed my laptop computer too, so I could write my copy and upload my photos in timely fashion to InfoMedia, a news and features syndicate. I may be old fashioned but I don’t mind getting modern when it helps rather than hinders.
I hopped into my blue Dodge Caravan, with the back seats removed for camping room. Its gas mileage is only mediocre for these days of outrageous fuel prices but better than anything else with similar cargo space and I used it like a mini RV. Sleeping in the back of my van is a lot cheaper than renting a motel room. And if you need a hot shower there are so-called campsites which are really parking spaces in the woods with utility hook ups and other amenities where you can stay for five bucks a day compared to forty for the motel. I didn’t mind roughing it as long as the weather was warm, and it wasn’t that rough.
I left my humble abode in the scenic Portage Lakes region of northeastern Ohio -- a mobile home worth maybe twenty grand. But it was comfy and all paid for. It sat way at the back of the Sandy Beach trailer park and had hedges and a car port to shield me from the rest of the herd. And it was in a good neighborhood, on South Main, across the street from half million dollar condos, which were so valuable because they were on Turkeyfoot Lake, the largest of a three-lake chain just south of Akron. But the condos were crowded together to take advantage of lake frontage. Tall, with trendy stone facades they reminded me of fake castle turrets more than anything else and were not much more attractive than the mobile homes as far as I was concerned. So I was virtually hundreds of thousands of dollars ahead of the game. Virtually, as in not really. Oh well.
The sun was sparkling off the green waters as I drove over the bridge across the lake. Crystal Gale was singing an oldie, a soulful “Blue Bayou” on the radio. It was warm and beautiful in late September with everything green and ripe like summer but the cool nights we’d been having were a harbinger of winter. You learn to appreciate these precious days while they last and I was tempted to put off the trip and go get my inflatable kayak and fishing pole and paddle around the lakes all day.
But I had a job to do, money to make, snakes to see.
My travel itinerary was taken from the Google web site: I 76 to I 71 South to Columbus, a short loop on I 70 around the city and back to I 71 until US 62 which would lead to Rte 73, Peebles Ohio and the Serpent Mound. It was all four-lane highway except route 73 and should have gone without a hitch. But the best laid plans of maps and men tend to go awry and Google’s directions are written by people who’ve never been where they’re telling you to go. When I got to Columbus I took the leg for I 70 but it somehow exited into the city where I encountered lots of road construction and confusing signs. So I had to wander around backtracking, sidestepping dead ends and detours and half finished roads and ended up stressed and exasperated enough to take a break at the Short Stop Café.
My sense of direction has never been that great I confess, but I think the cities try to confuse you on purpose. They want you to have to stop and ask for help and maybe buy something before you find your way again – gas, food, lodging, whatever. In typical male fashion I don’t like to stop or ask because I want to be self-reliant and I know the next turn will get me back on track, or maybe the next one. Or the one after that. Sooner or later it does. This time it didn’t.
I got coffee and directions at the café, hit the road again, found the Interstate and pushed the speed limit a bit, trying to make up for lost time. Would have made it to The Mound before it closed except that Route 62 had lots of construction delays and it was getting dark even before I made it to the 73 exit. So I pulled over at a truck stop for the night, parked in the overnight area with the big rigs, off in a corner by myself. I used the bathroom in the restaurant, went back to my van and ate. The turkey sandwiches were as good as expected and tasted more like baloney than turkey, which is what I wanted. I brushed my teeth before turning in, spitting out my side window. Unfolded my camping pad and sleeping bag, went to sleep. Or tried to. It was in fits and spurts with plenty of truck rumblings to disturb the peace.
I got up around dawn, the light of day and the chirping of the birds making it hard to sleep in even if I had wanted to. It was cool and foggy out and my windows were opaque and wet with dew. I rubbed out a clear circle to view the otherworldly atmosphere, everything cloaked in mist. I got out, made a shivery trip to the truck stop bathroom and relieved myself. Took a French Whore Shower in the sink. That consists of wetting the hand and rubbing the face and armpits followed by liberal amounts of perfume on the body and especially in the crotch. In my case it was deodorant and baby powder. I bought a cup of coffee to go, got gas and was on my way.
Driving the highway was like driving through a cloud, with visibility of only a couple dozen feet ahead. Traffic went slow. Then slower. Then it came to a stop. After an hour of crawling along I approached and passed a multi-car fender bender with a Highway Patrolman waving people by. The delay was frustrating but I had time to spare at least, it was just after eight and the park didn’t open until nine AM. And anyway, I wasn’t on a schedule, didn’t have to clock in or get to work on time. That’s the beauty of freelancing, nobody telling you what to do. Nobody giving you a steady paycheck either, unfortunately.
The fog had lifted a bit and I was going full speed when the exit to route 73 came up suddenly and I had to jam on my brakes and make a hard turn. Route 73 is called a scenic road, which means that if you try to take in the scenery while driving you’ll probably run off the road. Especially in this case because it was narrow and woodsy with blind turns and ups and downs like a roller coaster. The road had straightened out though by the time I spotted the brown sign announcing The Serpent Mound Memorial State Park. Finally.
There was a stone pillar and an open yellow pole gate in front of the paved drive leading off into the woods. I went through and a few minutes later came upon the blacktopped parking lot. It was already almost full just before nine AM, with lots of cars, vans and pickup trucks and a couple of buses. I drove all the way up to the front, looking for the closest spot possible, like a typical lazy motorist. There were no spaces except for a narrow opening next to a muddy yellow Humvee. I tried but couldn’t squeeze into it, the Hummer was taking up too much room. Jerk. It wasn’t bad enough he had to be a gas hog, he also had to be a space hog.
As I drove by I got a good look at the Serpent Mound off to my right. From ground level it is quite unimpressive -- just a grass-covered embankment, not much more than a long picnic site on a hillock really. Although you couldn’t walk on it, according to several signs that said to keep off the grass. A surrounding walkway was provided. Another sign said to pay the park fee at the museum, which I assumed was the large rustic brown building up over the rise to the right of The Mound. I hadn’t counted on a fee. Bummer.
There was a certain feeling about the place though, timelessness I’d call it. Rather calming and soothing to my sensibilities. Or was it just my imagination and the warming day? It was getting balmy and the sun was making streaks in the rising mist, creating a movie effect with smoky bright rays coming through the woods, like a miracle was about to happen. But there was only a sweet smell of wet grass and moist earth, the rustling of leaves in the trees, the sound of cawing crows, cicadas buzzing. It was fresh yet ancient. Ordinary yet exceptional.
I found a space at the far end of the lot, got out of my van, breathed it all in deeply and stretched. Walked toward the protesters. They were relatively quiet, confined to a corner of the parking lot with two uniformed deputies standing guard over them -- one big and fat, the other tall and skinny. Looked like everyone was just getting set up this morning. Some of the protesters milled about listlessly, others sat on the ground. Four Indians with long hair and buckskin and beads were gathered around two tom-toms, which they seemed to be adjusting, tapping out a few beats now and then. Sound check?
A lot of fire must have gone out of their protest since it appeared the dig was proceeding despite them. On the rising slope between the protestors and the walkway a backhoe was parked amid churned up earth and big tire tracks. Not far from it a mountainous pile of dirt loomed over one side of the rim of a wide hole in the ground. A red mesh construction fence surrounded the whole thing. The Mound itself was further upslope, a good twenty feet beyond.
The place was still open for visitors, however, and quite a few of them milled about on the paved path surrounding the Serpent Mound, waiting for something.
That something turned out to be ranger Jon Walker. He cleared his throat and announced, “Okay, may I have your attention please, folks. Looks like everybody’s here for the tour, so let’s get started.”
I quickly got out my digital Canon camera and looped its cord around my neck. Did the same with my credentials, a plastic card with the word “PRESS” in big bold letters across the top, my photo and name and InfoMedia below that. It looked pretty official, even if it was homemade. InfoMedia didn’t issue credentials, at least not to me since everything I had ever sent them was on speculation and they hadn’t bought anything from me yet. But this could be the one. I hoped.
I took some quick shots of the protesters and used my 10x zoom to get some reasonably close shots of the Indians, the Celtics types, some witchy looking women, one stocky little Goth girl dressed in black with dark, purple tipped rooster hair. I’d get more later. But the ranger was starting his spiel and I wanted to catch that. I quick-walked up the rise toward him.
"Welcome to the mysterious Serpent Mound," the ranger said to the crowd. "I'd like to assure anyone who is concerned about the recent so-called curse that the excavation you see going on below us here is not violating any sacred grounds. The Serpent Mound is very unique and special but it is not a burial site.” He paused, eyed me suspiciously as I took his picture. “The Woodland period Indians did build many burial mounds in the Ohio and Mississippi valleys between 1,000 BC and 1,000 AD and there are two small burial mounds in the park here built by the Adena Indians which you may want to visit. But the Serpent Mound seems to have been built at a different time and for different purposes. It contains no bones or human remains. The best theory is that it commemorates fertility and the renewal of life since in primitive cultures snakes are often symbolic of such things due to the way they shed their skins and renew themselves."
He paused, waved, called out to a woman jogging a short distance behind us. She was trotting carefully, carrying a cardboard tray with two coffees and a bag of goodies. "Hey Lisa. I gotta see you later. Nobody told us you were going to dig the pit last night. You’ve got to make sure you guys get some retaining walls, that’s OSHA rules. We gotta talk about it as soon as I’m done here.”
Lisa raised an arm, flashed a peremptory wave, kept running without slowing down. I watched her fine haunches. Nothing like tight denim to enhance a lovely rounded female rear end. Especially the low slung hip huggers, which seem to wave those hips in your face. The rest of her looked good too, at least what I could see from moderate distance. She had an ample but not ponderous chest pushing out her red Ohio State sweatshirt, a pleasant girl-next-door face, a brownish pony tail bobbing as she ran. A nice looking filly. I would definitely have to interview her.
The ranger cleared his throat, said, “Uh, that was Lisa Lyons. She and Professor James Carlson are the archeologists in charge of the dig. They are planning to drill a narrow hole at an angle into an area below the mound, not into it. Taking core samples. The pit you see gets them down well below the man-made Mound construction itself to make sure they don’t disturb it. That was a requirement when the permit was granted, to satisfy the many objections. It is important that they not disturb the structure. But the protesters say the entire area is sacred, not just the Mound. I’m afraid we can’t close down the dig for them but they are certainly entitled to express their opinion. As they say, this is America and I may not agree with what you have to say but I’ll defend to the death your right to say it."
A noble sentiment, one I’d heard before in journalism school with an equally insincere air. But an ironic comment considering what happened next.
“Help!” we heard, a loud scream from the pit. “Help me, he’s dead. Oh my God, he's dead!"
3:An Accident in the Making?
The ranger ran toward the excavation. I followed, close on his heels. Curious others straggled along behind. There was an opening in the construction fence and we went through, up to an extension ladder peeking out of the excavation pit. A yellow Yamaha generator sat a few feet from the ladder, puttering away.
We looked down into the pit and there was Lisa, kneeling next to an old man in khaki’s lying next to a smashed glass case. There was blood on his forehead and on the case. His neck was blue and swollen.
Lisa looked up at us, eyes wide and horrified. "They bit him to death” she gasped. "The snakes!"
"It's the curse," whispered a young woman. A murmur went through the crowd.
"You're sure he's dead?" called down the ranger.
"He's not breathing, he has no pulse, his body’s as cold as ice.”
I zoomed in on the professor and took photos of the fang marks on his neck, three of them. Looked like snake bites to me. I also got close ups of the gash on his forehead, glass shards on his shirt. There was blood on the metal frame of the glass case too.
The ranger scratched the side of his head, squatted down to shut off the throbbing generator, said to Lisa, "What the hell’s the terrarium doing down there? We had it set up in the museum yesterday.”
“We moved it last night,” said Lisa. “Right after we dug out the pit. Put it out up there so everyone could see it. The professor was going to give a little lecture on snakes to the tours. Wanted to show everyone there was no reason to be afraid of snakes or a curse or whatever.”
“Really? So, uh, where's the snakes?"
"I don't know. I don’t see any. I didn’t think…” But then she began thinking and cast a wary eye on the equipment around her. Gingerly she made her way to the ladder and climbed out of the hole. When she got up to us she breathlessly said, "They could be hiding under stuff down there I suppose. Or maybe they slithered up the ladder somehow." Everyone began to study the ground, shuffling suddenly sensitive feet.
The ranger said, "Okay, okay, everyone keep an eye out but if the snakes were up here they wouldn’t hang around out in the open, they’d go off into the woods. So stay in the open, stay together. Don’t anybody go anywhere, don't anybody touch anything. I'll be right back." He ran towards the two deputies guarding the protesters down in the parking lot.
There was a silent moment, then murmurs about curses, snakes and what a shame and what to do. I took more photos, a few in the crowd did too, one guy with a cell phone. The others were shy about it but I went full bore, getting shots of the professor, the hole, the area, the crowd -- of lovely Lisa who was staring down into the hole, biting her lower lip. I got a really nice shot of her upper body in bosomy profile, the professor lying in the pit below, the smashed case. It had everything -- sex, death, emotion.
Too bad it didn’t have snakes. But the written story sure would. “Serpent’s Revenge,” I thought of as a headline, or “Curse Comes True.” Something like that. Editors generally think up their own anyway so I didn’t really care. I cared more about the photos because a picture is worth a thousand words, quite literally, because they pay about the same when they’re published. If a small portion of the several hundred publications that were InfoMedia customers used even one of my photos, it could mean big bucks.
I pitied the deceased professor and was sorry for the loss of life but I didn’t know him and journalists have to be insensitive sometimes – okay, most of the time. The news business is a tough business, which is why I prefer features.
I continued with my photographer's dance -- bending and stretching, jitterbugging about for the right angle, composition, and background. Documented the scene, above, around, below. Especially the pit. Two electrical output lines ran from the Yamaha generator down into the pit. One had several loops and coils lying haphazardly on the ground before it went over and the other had very cord showing, had been pulled down.into the excavation.
The pit itself was about fifteen feet deep and ten feet in diameter at the bottom, the steep sides sloping down to a flat base. The electrical cord with shorter play above had a loop wound around one of the legs of the terrarium before it went to a small motor on a shaft sticking up out of the ground at a slight angle. The other electrical cord went to a pair of unlit lights on a tripod. There were lengths of pipe stacked in a lean-to on one side of the ladder and on the other side were a couple of shovels and buckets with hand tools inside.
I filled one digital media card with photos, popped the wafer of plastic out of the camera and inserted another and took a few more mostly redundant shots.
Lisa approached me, a warning in her eyes. Going to tell me to stop? She came close, touched my camera hand with trembling fingers, said, "I know you. Can you help me? I...I can't trust anyone local, they’re all against me. You've got to help me or I could be next."
“Next for what?” I said, though I knew the answer. I wondered how she knew me when I didn’t know her and she wasn’t the kind of woman I’d forget.
Up close she was still pretty, even without makeup. But not breathtakingly beautiful. Good. Too beautiful is too intimidating. She had pale blue eyes, pert nose, plump lips. Her skin was tanned and smooth and unblemished but she had tiny wrinkles in the corners of her eyes, which was also good. It meant she wasn’t too young for me. Everyone thinks older men yearn for young girls but I’d had a couple of too young girlfriends in the past and had learned they’re too much trouble. I don’t like trouble. Unfortunately, Lisa was setting me up for a whole bunch of it.