PROLOGUE The dark figure of the magician waited. Above him the crescent moon and stars shone out of the stone sky. He turned to the raven perched on his shoulder. The time had come. Once more they would look upon the drawings in the pool. Perhaps for the last time. On the floor an enormous elliptical void, rimmed with glittering cobbles of fire, gaped into eternity. In the beginning the world lay in chaos, then Yehlh wrested light, water, and fire from the spirits. Above the three concentric rings of the earth, he looked to the sun, a spiral; and offered a burning stick to the men he ruled. Next were the images of Hoon, the North Wind; and Kun-nook, the guardian of fresh water. Yehlh had known joy when first he immortalized his life in stone – but now he saw only death. He placed the mask upon his face, and opened the Raven's beak to reveal the moon. He lifted the rattle and held it high, his robe outspread like wings. The Eagle would not have it – the man and the frog linked in power riding the back of the large black bird, and beneath it, the hooked face of the raptor. He moved toward the entrance. He crept through the tunnel and out to the other side behind the stone pillar. He listened. "You should not have betrayed me." The woman to whom the Eagle spoke did not answer. "I would have given all to you. But now I must take what I want. Where is your lover?" A sound came from the magician's right. He turned. Stars burst in his head and the rattle flew. His mask tore away and his wings became arms, his beak fumbling lips. He sprawled face down on the cold floor with a warrior holding a finely honed blade to his throat. The warrior bade him rise and he did, and nudged him toward the shadow dancing among the flickering stones of fire. He in the Eagle mask threw the warrior a length of cedar withe, and flaunted the capture of the old man's daughter. So this was how it was to be. Yehlh was stripped, felled to the ground, feet lashed, hands bound behind his back. Then the chief of the Eagles lifted his hands to the woman in a false pleading gesture. "Do as I say. For I do not wish to sever his throat before your eyes." The woman glanced down at the doeskin covering her, then desperately at the warrior. "Avert your sight," the chief commanded and the man obeyed. "And the magician," she whispered. "I beg of you, do not insist I bare myself to him." The chief raised the mask from his head, and now they could see his face. "So . . . It is true." A knife appeared in his hand. The warrior laughed, hurtled forward to block the woman from fleeing. The Eagle paced four feet on either side of the stone pillar. He marked two nodes with the tip of the blade. The three projections formed a triad of stone. He went to the woman, grasped her wrists and secured them over her head. He nodded to the warrior who slid down her body to her hips. There the warrior sat, reached out, and fingered the thong fastening the doeskin to her throat. She gasped, barely making a sound. The warrior heaved in a swift upward thrust, stripping the doeskin into the air. "Place her here," the young chief said. They subdued her until she knelt. Then they laced her wrists to the towering pillar. Each took a leg, forced them apart, and bound her ankles to the stones rising from the floor. The chief crouched by the woman's head and gazed into her forest eyes. "This was not as I intended." He placed a hand beneath her chin and kissed her on the lips. "How many times did he defile you?" The old man's daughter was naked, lashed to the stones. The chief motioned to the warrior to join him and both hunkered by her head. The chief's eyes narrowed and he lowered an unwelcome hand. "Again, my betrothed. How many times?" Revulsion was naked on her face. The chief of the Eagles rose. He raised the rattle and swung it down, clipping her in the jaw. "Whom will you have!" he raged. "The chief, the warrior, or the magician. Choose or I shall choose for you!" She wept. "Whom?" he shouted again. "I will not violate her." "Ah, but you will not be violating her, Magician. It is you she wants." Yehlh struggled with the ropes fettering him. The woman whimpered, quivered, and he hesitated. If he did not commit the act, then the chief would order the warrior to do so. The chief held the knife to her chin and his hand trembled. Fire leaped from the stone bowls. He drew the woman's hair away and revealed the paleness of her throat. "Nine moons Magician," he taunted. "Then we shall see which one of us has won."   CHAPTER ONE Jake shivered, though he was not cold, and released the clutch on his Bronco. Angeline, his passenger, turned to the sunny, sea swept beaches of Cedar Island outside his window. What was the matter with him? It was only a nightmare. In the brilliant turquoise day, he could see that. But the design on her T-shirt was making the hairs lift along the backs of his arms. "Dreams don't tell us anything," she said, measuring her words carefully. "They are manifestations of our fears and anxieties. You're anticipating seeing the rattle; it's as simple as that." "Do you believe in inherited memories?" he asked her. Angeline smiled, her gold-green eyes tilting at the corners like a cat's. She was part Chinese and part White, and pretty as a peach. "I don't think so, Jake." Her black hair wrestled with the breeze from the open window. She was the kind of woman you couldn't help but stare at. She had the kind of looks that fascinated because they were so enigmatic. Her personality was a mystery, her face unreadable. They were not a couple. Jake was a professor and Angeline was a graduate student. She was from Toronto, now attending the University of Washington where he taught. She had joined his archaeology crew in the San Juan Islands for the summer. The crew had been working almost a month, not bothering the locals much. Then, late last week, Joe Redleaf had found a Raven rattle in Connie Amos's bog. The find had attracted the attention of Clifford Radisson, a New York developer, who wanted to turn the islands into a theme park. Jake did not want a theme park. A windstorm last night had scattered twigs and leaves all over the road, and as he drove over a branch, it snapped and shot out the side. He swerved along the shoreline and the asphalt cleared of debris. A gnarly arbutus with thinly peeling orange bark reminded him of onion skin. The arbutus tree zipped by and a grove of hemlock took its place. Left of him, a tongue of land jutted out. Above the tumble of sandstone, a lighthouse, red and white, chrome fixtures flashing in the sunlight, stood nestled in deep yellow grass. Jake glanced to his right, then back at the road. He slammed on the brakes. "Dumb mutt," he grumbled, just missing a dog galloping across his path. An orange pickup truck was parked on the shoulder, and he had almost plowed into it. He got out to see if he had done any damage to his truck. The bumper looked fine. The pickup didn't look touched either. There was no one inside it and on the driver's door an image of twin eagles fenced. Jake clenched his fists. He recognized the logo. Did Radisson have someone scouting around here? He braced his hand on the hood of his Bronco and squinted to the east. No one was around. A long ramp led from a twist in the road down to a wooden dock. Beneath it, ferns, salal, and tall grass dwindled to yellow rock. The tide was out and wet sandstone textured with seaweed glistened in the sun. Further out in the shallow bay, another ramp joined the dock to floating planks where colourful boats bobbed up and down. Beyond that, the craggy peak of Lookout Island loomed sharp and green. Angeline poked her head through the opened window. "Maybe we'd better go see if that dog is okay." Since Connie Amos wasn't expecting them for another half hour, Jake agreed. He got back in the truck, parked properly, and followed Angeline to the beach. Waves lapped the rocks, some birds squawked, and he could hear a helicopter somewhere. The dog, a brown beagle, was nosing a sandwich out from a paper bag wedged between some rocks. Two ravens appeared, and one of them slipped behind, tweaked the dog's tail, while the other snapped up the food that fell from its mouth. The dog scampered away. Jake chuckled. "The old mutt looks okay to me." Angeline laughed too, then gestured to one of the birds with a crooked wing. "Poor thing. What do you suppose happened? Can it fly like that, do you think?" Jake shrugged. He extended a hand and the raven hopped up and nudged his fingers with its bill. "Probably not." He darted a look to the road above the beach. The orange pickup truck was still there. "What's bugging you?" Angeline asked, then grinned. "You've been acting so skittish. Is the sky about to fall?" Jake slanted his chin upward. "Do you recognize that logo on the orange truck?" he asked. "That pickup belongs to corporate super magnate P. Clifford Radisson. He's turned more than one island paradise into a concrete haven for tourists. He's destroyed more forests and beachfronts than I have fingers or toes. The man has no regard for the natural world. I understand why he builds beach resorts and mega shopping malls, but does he have to turn my archaeology sites into a theme park?" Angeline nodded down the beach at a lanky figure with red hair and an equally fiery beard headed their way. "We have company." The red-haired man was dressed in jeans and a khaki vest with a surveyor's tape hanging from his hip. He glanced up as the helicopter broke through a small bank of cloud. He came closer, cracked a peanut with his teeth, and popped the contents of the shell into his mouth. The remainder of the nuts went into his pocket, and he flung the crumpled cellophane and empty shells to the ground. He lunged at the ravens and they squawked. When he saw Angeline, a leering grin spread over his face. "Is there something I can help you with?" Jake asked coldly as the man stopped in front of them. "Is this Otter Cove?" he asked. This dip of beach had no particular name and linked the lighthouse with the marina. "Otter Cove is up past the town, north of here," Jake said. He indicated with his head the orange pickup parked on the road. "Is that your truck?" A roar of propelling rotors descended just as the surveyor started to answer. A blast of wind slapped Jake's face. Water splashed, swirled and spun, soaking his shirt. Before he could get out of the way, another wave crested and spat in his eyes. "What the hell is that idiot doing?" he yelled. "Get out of the way!" the man hollered. "He's going to land!" Jake shouted to Angeline to run as the huge shadow of the helicopter lunged. It veered, swayed, swung crazily, and came right back at him. If he didn't know better, he would swear the pilot had singled him out and was harrying him deliberately. Angeline bolted toward the marina. Jake flew at her heels. He glanced up and the helicopter flitted and flickered, blocking the sun. Rotors spiralled overhead. They both hunched, scooting between the pylons, and under the boards of the dock. The helicopter righted itself, hovered. It lowered, rotors whirling, slowly settling onto the ground. The surveyor waited, then went over to where the helicopter had landed and opened the cockpit door. A tall pale-haired man stepped out, and sauntered toward the marina, his expensive linen shirt fluttering in the breeze. "I'm terribly sorry. Did I frighten you?" he asked, peering under the dock. Jake's skin crawled. This guy was a jerk. He hunkered out from between the pylons, followed by Angeline. "I haven't flown this machine for a very long time, a bit out of practice I'm afraid. I am truly very sorry. No one was hurt, I hope? I was looking for a place called Otter Cove. Am I anywhere near it?" The man did a double-take and his manner suddenly changed. He extended an immaculately manicured hand. "What a marvellous coincidence, Dr. Lalonde. Just this morning I was telling Mr. Smythe here that I must try to meet you today." Jake stared. How did he know who he was? He ignored the outstretched hand. The muscles in the pilot's face twitched ever so faintly. "You missed Otter Cove by miles. What did you want to know for?" "It's renowned by the locals for its beauty. A wildlife preserve, isn't it? I wanted to see it for myself." The man's eyes were light, almost colourless. He had a slick veneer, heightened by the stylish garb, making Jake self-conscious of his own appearance. Jake's hair was hanging in wet tangled strings, and his shirt was damp from the chest down. He glowered. He turned to look for Angeline who was standing just to the side, slightly behind him. "I'm Angeline Lisbon," she said, offering her hand. He took it graciously. "Yes, I know. I believe you're an archaeologist too?" He looked at the surveyor who was teasing the injured raven with an empty peanut shell. "Mr. Sam Smythe, this is Ms. Angeline Lisbon and Dr. Jake Lalonde. And I am Clifford Radisson." Jake flinched. Angeline smiled as the developer turned her hand palm up and rubbed it with his thumb. "So nice to meet you at last Mr. Radisson," she stammered. "We've heard so much about your wonderful plans to boost tourism around here." Jake had no time for this. He gestured to Angeline to start up the beach. "We're late for an appointment." "I'm sorry Mr. Radisson," she said as Jake grabbed her arm. "We really do have an appointment. But do you know where our lab is? Please come and visit any time. I'd be pleased to give you a personal tour– " They started to leave and Radisson called out. "There's been talk in town about a Raven rattle, Dr. Lalonde. I understand it was found in a bog?" He came and stood directly in Jake's face. Jake glanced from him to Sam Smythe who was tossing peanut shells onto the beach, taunting the raven with the broken wing. "I collect Native art. I had the good fortune to purchase some very fine pieces from your museum. I think the rattle will make a lovely addition to my collection. Tell me, Dr. Lalonde, do you think Mrs. Amos will sell it?" Jake answered, sharply. "Just what is the Cedar Island Museum doing selling off their collections?" "Easy, Dr. Lalonde. I am just helping out. The museum is suffering from financial difficulties. Surely you don't begrudge my giving them a helping hand?" "Which pieces?" he demanded. "A chief's and a shaman's masks. Both Haida. One is an eagle, a lovely piece, perhaps you know it? And the other is the Raven." Radisson's eyes moved to Angeline. Toe to hooked toe, two solid black birds, one with a violent streak of turquoise across its belly, were gripped in a death struggle, wings arced against the red of her T-shirt. Beneath their claws, a solitary salmon, outlined in black, fought to get away. The birds were solid forms, but the fish was a hollow outline, empty on the inside. A breeze blew across Jake's neck, pricking his flesh. He was half-Haida. "We have to go," Jake said. He walked to the Bronco. Over the truck's hood he saw the two men talking near the helicopter. In his stiff white shirt, Radisson moved toward the ravens. He dropped to his knees, and extended his hand to the injured bird.  CHAPTER TWO It was him. Jake Lalonde was only a child when Connie Amos had seen him last. But some things never change. The eyes. The grey eyes and dark complexion. She greeted the two archaeologists, but there was no recognition. Jake's look showed only curiosity, anticipation, and Connie could see herself reflected in his gaze. Connie Amos was Native, slim, of medium height and build. She was sixty-five. Her face was smooth except for a papery quality about the light brown skin, drawn tightly over her cheek bones. Tiny lines creased the corners of her eyes and mouth. She raised a hand to the hair plaited down her back, and tucked in a silvery wisp that had loosened at the front. She was dressed in yellow. A white and canary yellow flower printed dress she had found in Wal-Mart last week. She led them into her sunroom and asked them to wait, then brought in the rattle and placed it on the table. It was unbroken, shaped like a bird, and had a black oblong head and a straight and powerful beak. Carved in sharp relief on its back the naked figure of a man reclined head to head with the bird's. On the man's stomach a green frog sprawled. The man and the frog were linked at their mouths by a red tongue. "A bit obscene, isn't it?" Angeline said. Connie smiled. On one level the figures did have something to do with sex, on another they had to do with the shaman's acquisition of power. Sunlight dimmed as a cloud passed outside the window, then leaped like gunshot, landing with brilliant impact on the rattle. "Careful!" Connie said uneasily, as Jake turned the artifact over. The colours were faded. The principal figure depicted was a raven. Underneath, carved onto its belly, was the face of an eagle. The archaeologist traced the avian design intently. Most of the black paint once embellishing it was gone. The almond coloured wood had darkened from natural pigments in the earth. "I didn't know what to do since everyone wants this rattle," Connie said. "The cultural centre in Port Angeles, the museum here on Cedar Island, and Shaman Moon on Gooseberry Island thinks it should go to him." Connie paused. And then, there was Clifford Radisson. She dipped over Jake and lifted the rattle out of his hands. She turned the artifact over, studying first the carving of the one side, then the other. "Connie," Jake said. "Yes? Oh, I'm sorry Jake. Did you want to examine this further?" She offered him the rattle and did not flinch when he took it. "Are you planning to sell your property to Radisson Enterprises?" Connie stopped in the act of pouring tea from a Corning Ware teapot. It had sounded like an accusation, like Jake was asking her if she was going to sell her home simply because Clifford Radisson was willing to pay her a fortune for it. Jake waited, and when she didn't answer, he asked, "Do you have any idea how big the site might be?" She replaced the teapot on the trivet, and shook her head. "There's a property survey, but that probably won't mention anything about an archaeological site. No one knew it was there until now. Joe Redleaf should be here any minute. He'll show you where he dug up the things, and then you can judge for yourselves." She lifted the rattle and moved her fingers with light, delicate strokes enveloping the artifact in a swatch of beige flannel. "I'll just put this away for now. I have a few other things to show you. Some basketry. I won't be a minute." She pushed back the white wooden chair and left the table. In her kitchen, Connie placed the rattle in the glass cabinet beneath the window and removed a small bundle rolled in an old embroidered pillow case. She stood in the doorway just out of sight of the two archaeologists and watched them. There was something else she wanted to show Jake, but it was not in this room. The day was waning, the sun westering across the beach when Joe Redleaf, the son of the Samish chief, finally arrived. They walked to the bog. Connie breathed heavily. An odour, damp and earthy, suffused the air. The sparsely vegetated field lay blanketed in mud. She seldom came out here now. Nothing of worth would grow on this land. A squarish pit opened out to the sky and Jake approached it. "What made you dig here? This spot in particular?" he asked Joe. "That basketry Connie showed you, some of it was exposed after a storm. Flooding washed a lot of the mud away. It was just lying there so I picked it up, then realized there were other things down there." "The rattle was lying on top? On the mud?" "No. Not the rattle. I had to dig for that. It was about halfway down I found it. Then the pit filled up with water. I guess I must have hit the water table." "Amazing how well it preserved," Connie said. "Isn't it?" Angeline replied. "Wood survives in waterlogged sites because its pores are saturated with water and don't permit oxygen to enter. The condition is called anaerobic and reduces the deterioration process, allowing organic materials to survive in a state of equilibrium for thousands of years." Jake smiled. "In other words, bogs keep things from rotting." He squinted into the sun. Connie could tell he wanted to ask something more. Maybe about herself. She was having financial problems, but that was none of his concern. She would never sell her property to Radisson Enterprises no matter how poor she got. She glanced up at the sky, then across the field and over to her house which was banked on all four sides by a wooden veranda. The steps were rickety, painted white and peeling, and the wood siding matched neat pairs of shutters flanking windows on either side of the door. Colour undulated in the flower boxes she had placed there. Paul had built that house for her. When he died, she had given up their only son for adoption. She was too poor and sick to take care of him by herself; and though that meant very little now, she couldn't consider moving. "I didn't know the Samish made Raven rattles," Angeline said. A strange look came over Jake's face. Now what could that mean?