Alexandra (Alex) McKelvey is a convert to the LDS Church. She is enrolled at BYU, studying English. But she finds herself on an archaeological dig in the Utah desert, accompanied by archaeology students from BYU. She feels a strong connection with the earth, with the myths and legends of the Native Americans who populated, and continue to populate, these stark, desert lands. She is accompanied by her nearly prescient Siberian husky named Kit.

As the dig progresses, new members of the crew arrive. They are a mixed bunch -- archaeology students from BYU along with other non-affiliated adventurers. Some don't fully understand the challenges ahead -- the crude living conditions, the bitterly-hot desert, and really hard work ahead.

The arrival of Tony Balbo, a Native American not assigned to the site, causes conflict and concern among some of the diggers. Tony's philosophy is wrapped in the stuff of ego and contempt, the necessity for manipulation and deceit. Alex has determined to live by the moral standards of her adopted church. But there is a deeper antipathy at work here, one that Alex does not completely understand. As a moth to the flame, she is drawn into Tony's circle of control, intent on breaking free but feeling a need to, in her words, "call him out."

Alex is the central character in this story. She brings to the dig two unique aspects: her status as a relatively new convert to the Church, and her fascination with, and connection to, the earth legends. This is not the first time she's been drawn into the desert to admire the pictographs. In them she seems to find some peace, some connection with a higher reality.

But interwoven with Alex's story is an ongoing narrative wrapped around the myths themselves -- a veritable parade of legends and interactions in the world of the spirits, seen through the interpretive eye of Coyote, also known as First Angry. Coyote sees himself as the personification of all that is clever, all this is superior to the animals around him.

Coyote's sometimes disjointed but often magical cogitations circle in the air around this book much as a kaleidoscope sends images flying neatly before the human eye. As I read, I was equally fascinated by the grime and the smell of an archaeological dig as I was by the lofty, ethereal meanderings of Coyote. And as the humans at the dig interact in ways both accepting and suspicious, even so does the mythic populace of Coyote's dreamworld, a cornucopia of animals and reptiles forever in conflict.

I debated as to how to describe how the storylines come together. I realized I couldn't do it without giving away much of the plot, and I'm unwilling to do that.

But It is in the merging of storylines that the real meaning behind this book arises. To call the story "spooky" is not enough. There is another-worldliness about it that kept me riveted. Long after I should have been abed, I was plowing through the pages, wanting desperately to come to some point where I could say, "Now I understand; now I see what the author is trying to say." Instead, the reader waits until the last few pages to truly bring the underlying message to fruition.

"The Pictograph Murders" is more than just a murder mystery. In fact, the murder itself is in many ways secondary to the story. Karamesines is doing more than laying out a desert puzzler. The field of play is more than the desert -- it is the totality of the human experience as reflected in the sometimes uncomfortable coexistence of history/science and myth.

The primary digging is not done in the sand, but rather in the levels of consciousness that drive and inform us. At issue here is not the collection of shards and pots, but the clarification of the place of truth in both the scientific and religious endeavors. Readers will be captivated as Alex and Tony spar over the meaning of truth, the place of myth, and whether history can even be written unaffected by the undercurrents of culture and bias. Chapter 30 is a rich mine of philosophical debate, a virtual war between two people from different backgrounds and with different agendas.

And as the story progresses, the reader becomes aware of a larger battle going on -- one that challenges an idea that is so Mormon, so religious. If a person fully buys into a mythical self-understanding, can that understanding lead the person to do remarkable things? With the ongoing debate over the historicity of the Book of Mormon, one must wonder whether historicity ought to be an issue at all. Is myth a sufficient motivation to bring out the best, and the worst, in people?

In the end, "The Pictograph Murders" challenges the reader to see past the physical into the realm of the mythic, perhaps the realm of the possible. The digging in the earth is nothing as compared to the digging into the psyche. Much of this book disturbed me in a very profound way. I found myself rethinking my own views of religion and the power of legend.

Some years ago I read Margaret Young's "Salvador" for the first time. It made me reconsider my views of Mormonism and my own sense of the sacred. Now I find myself in a state of introspection once again, a feeling that I need to attain some sense of balance between the real, whatever that is, and the mythic. But having read "The Pictograph Murders," I am aware that such explorations can lead alternately to enlightenment and to madness. And, in the end, the real challenge is in determining which is which. I'm not so sure I know any more.

This is a remarkable book, and merits wide readership.