I throw a spade and shovel in the back of my pickup, and head to the Sierra’s out of Stockton, California. It’s early August 2022.
I recently read this article about an East Bay Utility worker who’d discovered a prehistoric find in the Mokelumne River Water Shed. The exact location had been omitted for good reason.
I promised myself not to keep any of the artifacts if I got lucky. But like most promises of late, this one has little chance of surviving.
I arrive at a small market in the foothills. I mean to purchase some bottled water.
As I jog up the noisy steps, I hear someone chuckle on the deck to my right. Based on the app’s dynamic music I can tell he is playing the game Whack-a-mole on his Smartphone.
He looks like a character actor I can’t name. I wasn’t sure if he could act, but I was almost certain of it.
He’s sitting peacefully, minding his business.
He appears older. I assume he’s Native American. Though he is seated, I can tell he is a tall drink of water. His shoulders are square. The man sports high cheekbones and a falcon-like nose. He looks intelligent.
“Hi there,” I say.
The man nods his head at me.
He’s more than comfortable in his paint chipped Adirondack chair.
The Whoopsie Daisy Market has a small table that separates two chairs. The space is just to the left of the entrance of the Whoopsie Daisy Market. The market is located in the City of Calaveras. Calaveras is famous for its annual frog jumping contest.
The man is dressed in black leathers, including a tasseled leather jacket, biker chaps, and harness boots that match.
“I’m Jessup Jenkins,” I blurt out, feeling more stalker than friendly.
The man introduces himself as–Hamatsa.
“I’m a holy man,” he says.
He explains that his name is Miwok. He continues his game.
“Mind if I sit in the empty chair, Hamatsa?”
It doesn’t take long for him to ask me to call him Hama.
Hama exits his game and places his Smartphone in his jeans pocket. He stares straight ahead, cinching his fingers together over his lap.
“Sit son. I’m more medicine man than Shaman, Jessup.” He says. “Shamans see things. Medicine men and women change and cure things.”
“Is that your bad ass Harley Davidson over there, Hama?” I point.
His name flows like mercury off the tip of my tongue.
“Yes, she’s vintage, 50’s, if I’m guessing right,” he says.
“That’s some cool shit, Hama.”
Hama stares off into the distance. I look out there too, straight ahead. But, I can’t see a damned thing other than never ending trees off the graveled road. Am I missing something? Based on what I know now, I’m sure he was looking back to 1967.
He begins his story.
***
“Nimbus and Toria were lovers,” he says.
He tells me how the friends of Nimbus Adams called him Nim. The love of his life was Toria Collins.
Both were 18, going on 25, intelligent, and mature. They’d aced their S.A.T.’s in high school. Several universities wanted them.
Bad weather wasn’t expected in the Sierra’s that early July1967. But in fact, a storm had been prescribed.
The two hiked deep into the Mokelumne River Water Shed. They’d stay for 3-5 days depending upon what they discovered. The year before, the two stumbled upon a prehistoric animal find. It was located near an ancient Miwok burial ground. Since then, they’d pilfered both.
At first, they stole and sold Miwok jewelry and trinkets.
“Aren’t you afraid, Nim? Some of the older folks in town say the area is haunted.”
“You know better than that, Toria. I fear nothing.”
Nim thought Toria was cute in grade school, but she’d turned drop-dead gorgeous by the time she’d graduated from Calaveras high school. Nim would never admit it, but Toria was much smarter than anyone he knew.
“Well, I have to be honest, Nim, every time we hike up here, I get a little nervous. I’m sure we’ve violated every native decree involving the dead. Plus, what we’re doing is illegal.
“Toria, don’t confuse money with morality. Think about how much we’ve made from the discovered, jewelry, gold, and the fossils? It’s close to $6000. We can use the money for college.”
They’d ravished the prehistoric animal dig and Miwok burial site, left the land pocked. But only history would show how the vast majority of artifacts lay undiscovered.
Nim’s uncle, Zack, who the couple referred to affectionately as Zack Collins the con-man acted as their mule. He charged the couple a stiff commission for turning their discoveries into profit down south. He’d sold most of the valuable treasures in the Los Angeles basin and Arizona.
Con-man Collins was a graduate of Folsom State Prison going on five years. Not having a solid skill set other than making license plates, he was happy to push their stash.
To date, they’d sold the ribs of a Dire Wolf, and what they’d learned was a rhino’s hock. Mastodon teeth attracted good money too. Rich folks in Beverly Hills used them as paperweights and door stops after they’d been sealed in resin.
The two lovers had taken their time removing their first Mastodon tusk. It was in mint condition. They needed the best offer. Uncle Con-man assured them it would fetch nearly $2,000. He’d already locked in a buyer, a retired movie producer who lived in the San Fernando Valley. Brad Clark had been obsessed with prehistoric artifacts.
“Ok, let’s stop here. We’re in about six miles now, Nim. Let’s set up camp over there, by the river.”
At the time, the river was a wet whisper, its sound mostly relaxing.
Nim agreed and they got busy.
Toria loved everything about Nim. The way he spoke to her softly, even when angry about something. Don’t get me wrong, he wasn’t a push over. He’d been the star wide receiver on the high school football team. He’d broken lots of school records.
Toria softly tells Nim, “If you break my heart, I’ll die inside.”
“Toria, knock that shit off. The only thing that could take me away from you is Viet Nam.”
Vietnam was a touchy subject back then.
“Nim, a lot of those guys never return.”
“I know” says Nim, “In the end, most of us never return.”
He changed the subject, “Let’s unpack and set up the tent?”
Connecting the 1-inch diameter poles felt like a game of pickup sticks. The tents frame included 2 foot aluminum straws.
After they’d set up camp and before they began digging, the two briefly hugged and kissed. It was only a peck, but it meant so much. The sky parted and then began to darken. Unfortunately, bad medicine was on its way. And there was no way of downgrading it to a squall.
***
While seated on the deck at the Whoopsie Market, I ask Hama more questions.
“What’s with the crazed woman at the Highway 26 turnoff, Hama, the one holding the strange sign that says, ‘Bad Medicine.’”
“Does the old woman have long gray hair?” Hama asks.
“Yes!” I say, “Witchy long hair.”
“Well, it appears that she’s out of order. This Witko (crazy man) George Armstrong was supposed to greet you.” Hama smiled a most peculiar smile.
“Greet me?” I ask.
“Yes, well, not just you, Jessup, everyone that pulls up here intent on taking something.”
Hama is giving me a bad case of the curiosities.
The woman I saw had a campsite. She has a small tent this side of the highway. The path from the tent to the campfire is worn thin. The camp fire itself is surrounded by a circle of black rocks. As I recall, the charcoal was red hot and smoking. A black pot of warm coffee or tea appeared to hang over this wrought iron metal arch.
I watch with interest as Hama removes his leather newsboy cap. He retrieves a red handkerchief from the back pocket of his Levi’s. The hanky has native symbols and totems sewn into it. He uses it to wipe his furrowed brow. I swear the hanky has blood on it.
After, Hama stashes the handkerchief away and carefully places his black cap back on his head.
I can’t help but notice how his hair is raven black with a long ponytail. A red cloth band loops his left upper arm. It has songbird feathers woven into it. The color is blood red.
Hama appears more ancient than worn out, it’s hard to explain?
He’s intelligent and wise. His eyes are turquoise in color, and deep, deep with mystery.
I quickly learn how he thrives on cognitive dissonance.
I’ll be honest. What I see is frightening, yet calming.
“It’s hot today. I’m guessing 95 degrees in the shade,” I say.
“It’s 96 degrees, quite hot for August.” He corrects me. “But, it’s going to rain, hard, Jessup” he says.
“Rain, you’ve got to be kidding me sir?” I say surprised.
Hama’s Harley Davidson had been well maintained. It was trimmed with black leather saddle bags. He’d decorated the bags with beads and more feathers: eagle, hawk, and crow. Instead of saddlebag locks, he kept the flaps shut using complicated knots of leather lashing. He’d raised the handlebars like the Hell’s Angels.
“Jessup, our vision quest is at the heart of everything living and dead. It allows us, medicine men and women, to make sense of all the chaos in the universe. It gives us supernatural powers too.”
“That must be one hell of a burden to carry, Hama?” I say.
“Not really. My calling is mostly to heal. How can healing be a burden, son?”
“What about the powers of destruction?” I ask, “Are those real?”
Hama explains how he’s mostly been asked to pray for good weather over the years. Or rain for crops. He admits that his weather had been destructive when he first used his powers.
“There certainly was a learning curve, Jessup,” he says.
“I bet,” I say. He can sense that I am skeptical as hell.
Hama bored, changes the subject.
“So what did you learn from the crazed one down at the highway 26 stop sign, Jessup?”
“Not a damned thing!” I say. “Just that she looks sad as hell and confused.”
“I know a lot, Jessup, more than you think. Do you think you invented the older woman, Jessup?”
I pause and think hard.
Hama continues his story about Nim and Toria
***
After they set up camp, the young lovers begin to dig near the river’s edge. Nim feels them first, the heavy raindrops. They turn heavier and heavier.
A few weeks earlier, the young couple had discovered what looked like a Dire Wolf’s spinal column near the river’s edge. Maybe they’d get lucky again. Just one vertebra would fetch nearly 500 dollars in L.A.
They notice how the temperature is tanking. Soon the wind will reach gale force, but greed makes them oblivious.
Rain begins to pour from the cracks of the basement of heaven, at first, heavy, and then in buckets. Torrents are patient.
“Look!” Nim pointed at the buried animal diaphragm. It’s mixed in with sand and dirt. “I see ribs, Toria.”
To the east, the Mokelumne River is bum rushing its banks. A flash flood is headed their way.
They hear the sound at the same time, the whip crack.
They both look up. Before they can react, most of the upper half of a Ponderosa Pine pins Nim flat on his back in the shallow water. Luckily, he can still breathe by holding his head up. But he can barely move his limbs.
Toria is lucky, only a few of the smaller limbs and pine needles brush up against her.
Now next to Nim in the icy water, Toria is relieved to see that he can move his arms and wiggled his toes.
“You’re in one piece, thank God,” she says.
“I’m stuck, though. Help me get out, please!”
She’s never heard him sound so pathetic and desperate. Death can do that to you.
The upper half of the fallen pine has landed on a prominent sandbar in the river, so little weight is pressing down on Nim. He is mostly stuck in the mud and gravel.
Unfortunately, the tree isn’t going anywhere soon. And so, Toria and Nim begin to dig frantically around his midsection.
He remains pinned. His breathing has quickened. Toria can see how his heart is beating wildly in his throat.
The troubled couple reassures each other they’ll get him free.
And yet, there is this roaring sound upstream.
The Mokelumne River is rising, slowly at first.
Toria brakes off branches to lighten the load, not knowing what else to do. She maintains her warrior face. Her grit and determination will get them through, they are certain. The last thing on her mind is to watch her true love drown. And yet snapped branches are not pry bars.
As Nim remains stuck, the river rises It’s now up to his shoulders and above his ankles. His teeth chatter uncontrollably. His neck feels weak.
Nim panics.
He thrashes at the rising water with his arms, cutting and bruising his skin against the sharp spikes of broken branches.
***
“Spirits have a way of catching up with us, Jessup.”
“Excuse me, Hama, what did you say?”
The Medicine man continues to stare into the tree line and up the windy graveled path that fades into the forest toward the river and spirits.
Hama explains how shamans and medicine men and women exist as stewards of the universe. How he and his ancestors have been responsible for everything that has come before them, including what existed in prehistory.
“Hama, what did you mean when you said that our spirits catch up with us?”
“Son, some things in life are meant to be left alone. If anyone disrupts the fragile balance of nature, then anything can happen.”
“Like what?” I ask.
Hama, the medicine man, turns to face me again, slowly. It feels like he’s looking straight through me.
***
That day in the mountains, the river continued to rise.
In another few minutes, it had risen maybe 4-5 inches.
Rushing water laps over the top of Nim’s arms and legs. Numb, his limbs seemed to float in the rising current. He pretends to walk. He pretends to swim. Somehow his magical thinking will get him out of his predicament. He’ll fly away into the sky.
Toria races back from the tent site.
She’s carrying a small saw, useless, and two hollow aluminum tent poles.
Before Nim’s face goes under, she provides Nim with instructions, how to use the 2-foot aluminum tubing like a long straw to breathe under water. She explains how the tent poles will supply him with oxygen while she trek’s out for help.
Nim lowers his head under the water. He makes funny faces up at Toria to make her smile. He loves gallows humor. But he begins to choke and cough. Toria wishes she could slap him.
“Damn you, Nim, asshole, don’t scare me like that. There’s no time for humor.”
Nim strains to keep his mouth and nose above the rising current.
Toria bends over him, calmly inserting the life saving metal straw into Nim’s mouth. She’s careful not to cut his lips.
Through the top end of the straw, Toria shouts how much she loves her man. She attempts to calm him by holding his hands.
“Breathe deep and slow, Nim. Stay brave. I’m going for help.” She softly touches Nim’s icy cheek before getting heading off.
Now at the top of the hill, before Nim drops out of site, Toria looks down at Nim, maybe 200 feet in distance. The metal tent poll is sticking out of the water. She smiles.
And then, she watches in horror as Nim gives up hope. He lets go of his makeshift breathing tube. Toria watches as the current takes it to the bottom so the river can do the rest. The pole tumbles and tumbles over river rocks downstream.
She realizes her Nimbus is gone forever.
Toria screams into the palms of her hands. She drops to the ground. She lays there paralyzed in the falling rain for the longest time. Deep down she knows she was never going to get back in time. She’d tricked herself about getting help.
In a few minutes, she turns dazed and confused. The storm is calming. The worst is over.
Toria forces herself upright. After, she slowly walks back down the other side of the mountain toward Red Corral Road and Highway 26 at Tiger Creek.
It’s there she piles into Nim’s pickup. He’d placed the keys under the floor mat.
Somehow she will manage to patch things together going forward. Yet, the eyes in the mirror tell her otherwise. Toria will never be the same.
***
Hama breaks his concentration and lowers his eyes. Somehow, I know he’s not going to finish the entire story about Nim and Toria.
“Please excuse me, Jessup? I have to take a leak.”
Hama stands. He slowly walks in the direction of the men’s room out back.
“I’ll wrap things up when I return,” He promises. “I know a lot about promises, Jessup.”
“Ok,” I say, not fully grasping what he means?
I wait. I decide to enter the market. I purchase us a few bottles of cold spring water.
Shortly after, I head back outside. I push open the squeaky screen door. I notice that Hamatsa has disappeared, along with his silent Harley. It’s as if the building wind has carried away his spirit.
Not knowing what to think or do, I return to my pickup and head down the long gravel road to Highway 26. I decide to go home.
When I get near the stop sign, I can see the older woman still standing there. She approaches me this time. She is alone. She continues to carry the homemade sign, ‘Bad Medicine.’ She remains intent on warning everyone about something.
I slowly stop and roll the window down.
“I have an extra bottle of fresh water if you’d like one?” Not knowing what else to say. Before I can tell her that I’d just purchased it at the market, she’s next to the open window.
She politely declines the water.
“We got plenty of that–water,” she says.
“Victoria, sorry, I was just being kind.”
“Victoria?” The woman looks horrified. “I’m Toria, friend, not Victoria.”
“I’m sorry. Hama calls you that. I should go,” I say.
Toria responds, “Hama, who’s that? It’s been a pleasure, Jessup. By the way, this handsome young man standing next to me is my man, Nimbus Adams. Nimbus and I go way back.”
My anxiety peaks as Viki looks into the eyes of nothing.
That’s when I peel out as fast as I can. My tires squeal while rounding off the corner onto highway 26 to speed home. A single laughing figure appears in the rearview for a split second.
As I race down into the San Joaquin Valley, dark clouds gather over us like some kind of failing twentieth century Iron Bridge about to fail.
Dan’s crime and horror bio: BlazeVOX, Black Petals, Blood Moon Rising, Bull, Chilling Tales for Dark Nights Podcast (ongoing), Dark City Crime and Mystery, Dream Noir, Cleaver Magazine, Close to the Bone, Coffin Bell, Dissections, Door is A Jar, The Horror Zine, Liquid Imagination, Murderous Ink Press, U.K., Mystery Tribune, Scare You to Sleep Podcast, Schlock Magazine, U.K. Suspense Magazine, The Yard Crime Blog and Variant Magazine.