Night Mayer: Legend of the Skinwalker

by Paul W Papa

  Mayer nodded.

  He took the book in his hands, turned it over, and examined the cover. “Is this your mother’s diary?” he asked.

  Mayer nodded again. He’d spoken of the diary many times, but had never before shown it to the man who, like Theodosia, he’d come to see as a spiritual advisor. The two had become friends on accident, though Monsignor Devlin didn’t see it that way, and perhaps he was right. Mayer had found the church after a particularly difficult night. Not that he was Catholic, he just needed a sanctuary, a place where he could escape the world, if only for a few moments. He’d sat in the pew for more than an hour when the monsignor came and sat with him.

  Maybe it was the giant cross, the rows of lit candles, or the stained glass that got to him, or maybe it was the fact that priests, like lawyers, were sworn to secrecy, but Mayer began to confess to the priest. Not in the traditional Catholic way, but in a way that, nonetheless, unburdened his soul. To his credit, the monsignor didn’t run away screaming or call the men with the white coats to come and fetch him. Instead he listened, quietly. He listened and nodded and the two men spoke of things seen and unseen in the world, as well as the seemingly eternal battle of good and evil. Mayer had come back many times since.

  The priest turned the book back over and studied the page. “The names of the seven archangels are written in the circle surrounding the star,” he began. “The smaller circle inside the star contains the seven luminaries—Sun, Moon, Mars, Mercury, Jupiter, Venus, and Saturn.” He pointed to a set of symbols Mayer didn’t recognize. “These symbols are the ten sefirot of the Kabbal. The ten creative forces that God uses to intervene between the infinite and the known world.” Then he named them off, one by one: “keter elyon, ḥalhma, bina, ḥesed, gevura, tif eret, netzah, hod, yesod, and malkhut.”

  He looked up at Mayer. “What is it that you need to know?”

  “What those mean for one.”

  The monsignor chuckled. “They are the supreme crown, wisdom, intelligence, love, might, beauty, eternity, majesty, foundation, and kingship. Does that help?”

  “Greatly,” Mayer admitted.

  “Anything else?”

  “I was told today that my parents were searching for an amulet with this on it when they disappeared. Why would they be searching for this? What power does it contain?”

  “I have heard of an amulet with this sigil on it,” the monsignor said. “Supposedly forged in the fires of Hades. The official stance of the church is simple: it is nonsense.”

  “Catholics don’t believe in talismans?” Mayer asked. “Is that why I see so many St. Christopher medals in automobiles these days?”

  The monsignor laid the diary down on the table. “Ah yes,” he said. “The patron saint of travel and transportation. Do you know how he attained that position?”

  “Something about carrying a child over a river.”

  “Something like that. One day a small boy approached Christopher as he was standing by a river and asked if he would carry him across. Christopher, being a very large man, saw no problem with the request and quickly honored it. Only, as Christopher progressed, the boy grew heavier and heavier, until the future saint could barely make it across. Once he made it to the other side, Christopher put the boy down on the bank and commented on how heavy the boy had become. The boy revealed that he was Jesus, and that he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Then the boy vanished.”

  The monsignor refilled their glasses. “Did you know that Christopher literally means ‘Christ carrier? We do not worship saints, Mayer. We keep representations of them to remind us to ask them to intercede on our behalf before God.”

  “Talismans.”

  “These symbols are not talismans. They are not magic, nor do they provide good luck to the bearer, as does a rabbit’s foot or four-leaf clover.”

  “I’m not sure the bird in his car sees them as any different.”

  “Perhaps not, but the belief behind them is vastly different.”

  “And what of this amulet then?”

  The monsignor returned his attention to the diary. “Seven angels were created to be the watchers of men. Michael, Gabriel, and five others whose names are not as well known because they were removed from the canonical Bible at the Council of Rome in the fourth century.”

  “And these angels had special powers?”

  “More than the typical angel, but not as much as people tend to think. There are nine types of angels, or as the church puts it, levels of hierarchy of the heavenly hosts: angels, archangels, principalities, powers, virtues, dominions, thrones, cherubim, and seraphim. Archangels are just slightly above angels. The legend behind the seven archangels is known as the “Myth of the Fallen Angels.”

  “Fallen angels?” Mayer asked. “I thought Lucifer was the only fallen angel.”

  “Lucifer is certainly one of the fallen angels, but there are many others who followed him. These other fallen angels came to earth and are responsible for the evil that is here to this very day—much of which you are personally familiar. Angels such as Semihazah and Asael came to earth, took human wives, and birthed violent giants who sowed chaos and destruction. Worst of all, they taught the children of men many of heaven’s secrets. It became so dire that Enoch rose to heaven in a flaming chariot to try and get Heavenly Father to intercede. This is how the seven came to be.”

  “To stop the giants?”

  The monsignor nodded. “And the fallen,” he said. “In the time of Noah, the seven archangels imprisoned the guilty angels and destroyed their offspring, after which the earth had to be cleansed.”

  “The flood,” Mayer said.

  “The flood,” the monsignor repeated.

  “So why would my parents be searching for this amulet if it truly holds no power, and why would my mother write what she did at the bottom of the thing?” Mayer pointed to the symbol on the page, at the bottom of which were written the words: Hitler believes he can control the destroying angel with The Seal of the Seven Archangels.

  “That is because the amulet is believed to hold the power of the seven archangels—a power which can be used for both good and evil. Not officially, of course.”

  “Angels do evil?”

  “Not evil, per se, but one of the seven is the Angel of Death mentioned in Exodus 12:23. ‘For the Lord will pass through to smite the Egyptians; and when he seeth the blood upon the lintel, and on the two side posts, the Lord will pass over the door, and will not suffer the destroyer to come in unto your houses to smite you.’”

  “Sounds ominous,” Mayer said and took another snort. “So does this amulet have magic properties?”

  “You know how I feel about magic.”

  “I know,” Mayer said, then continued in his best imitation of the monsignor. “Magic is an attempt to make reality bend to the will of the user.”

  “People attempt to use such things as signs, sigils, and amulets to summon, influence, and control divine beings—including God,” said the monsignor. “It is blasphemy. Delusional, heretical pride.”

  “So there’s nothing to this amulet?”

  “You know better than that, Prometheus. Hitler must have placed a great deal of importance on this amulet to have searched for it. Your parents must have done so as well or they would not have gone hunting for it either. The amulet creates a type of doorway between this world and the spirit world. It can be used to establish a communication link between the holder and the seven archangels. More specifically, the seal can be used to communicate with one archangel in particular.”

  “The Angel of Death.”

  “Exactly.”

  Mayer rubbed his whiskered chin and stared at the table.

  “What is it, my son?”

  “Virginia has been holding back information from me about my parents.”

  “I see.”

  “I knew they were working for the government and that they were focused on Hitler’s obsession with the occult. I knew they disappeared in the line
of duty, but until today, I didn’t know why. I also did not know that my mother corresponded with Virginia, through letters, while she was in Germany.”

  “Virginia told you?”

  Mayer nodded.

  “But not before today?”

  “Not even a whiff.”

  “Perhaps she was trying to protect you.”

  Mayer was indignant. “Protect me? By not showing me letters she had from my own mother?”

  The monsignor’s voice softened. “Letters are private things, Prometheus. She was under no obligation to show them to you.”

  “And what am I supposed to do now?”

  “Where are these letters?”

  “She gave them to me. I have them in my car.”

  “Then it seems to me, the answer is in your own hands.”

  Mayer didn’t want to hear it. “The amulet represents angels,” he said, changing the subject. “How could a man like Hitler ever control angels?”

  “If the amulet does possess the power it is said to, whoever holds the amulet wields that power.”

  “Dandy,” Mayer said.

  “Why do you think Virginia revealed this to you now, Prometheus?”

  Mayer stood, picked up the diary and slid it back into his pocket, then put his lid in place atop his head. “Vera Krupp,” he said. He downed the last of the whiskey, thanked the monsignor, and left.

  Fifteen

  MAYER WAS AT Atomic Liquors bright and early the next morning, a pit planted firmly in his gut. When he got there, Cassi was ready and waiting. He’d spent the better part of the night preparing for the expedition, burning poplar to create white ash, then dipping each of his silver bullets into it, before loading the Colt Python he’d recently purchased. He’d also taken the precaution of loading the snub-nosed Chief’s Special he kept strapped to his ankle—just in case. It was a habit he’d picked up from Detective Fry.

  He’d spend the rest of the evening reviewing what the shaman had told him. When his thoughts weren’t centered on the skinwalker, they were on the sigil in his mother’s diary, wondering if the amulet really did exist and if there truly was a connection to Vera Krupp. He’d looked at the bundle of letters many times, even held it in his hands, but couldn’t quite bring himself to open them—he wasn’t ready to hear his mother’s voice, even in letters.

  Mayer’s night had been late and his sleep restless. Not that he should have expected anything else. He did, after all, spend the night in a chair instead of his bed and hadn’t even bothered to undress. He rented a small place just to the rear of Atomic Liquors. Virginia had offered it to him some time ago and often allowed him to work off the rent at the bar. It seemed a convenient exchange—that was, until now.

  Normally Mayer would have snuck into Joe and Stella’s place using the key they had entrusted to him and made himself a cup of Joe to rouse his tired eyes. But the encounter with Virginia was still too fresh, so he’d have to make do without the bean juice. Of course he could’ve made it in his own apartment, but somehow it just didn’t taste the same.

  Mayer’s plans for the day called for a hike into the escarpment—if the elders permitted—and the clothes he had on from the previous night wouldn’t make the grade, so he stripped down and headed for the shower. When he finished, he stepped into a pair of Filson canvas hunting pants and tucked the ends into the horsehide boots he used for hiking. Then he pulled on a long-sleeve, button-up shirt, but decided to forgo the tie. When he was ready to face the world, Mayer donned his lid, picked up the Colt, and stepped outside into the morning darkness, the sun having not yet risen.

  Two vehicles were in the parking lot: Mayer’s Hornet and Cassi’s Fairlane. He got into the Hornet, placed the Colt on the seat next to him, and started the car. Cassi exited her car and walked over to Mayer’s. She had on a pair of camel-colored slacks, the bottoms tucked into a pair of lace-up boots that stopped only inches away from her knees, and a white sweater that hugged her body in all the places a sweater should. A brown belt, more decorative than anything, wrapped around her middle, coming to a smart bow in the front. Her cheaters sat atop a multicolored head scarf she had wrapped around her head. A canteen covered in canvas was draped over her shoulder, and her red lips held tight to a Marlboro. She took a last puff, dropped the thing, then ground it out with the toe of her boot, before opening the door and climbing in the front seat.

  “Dressed for the part, I see,” said Mayer.

  “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” Cassi asked, taking stock of her outfit.

  “Nothing, if you’re trying for the cover of Cosmo.”

  “Aw, what do you know?” Cassi said. It was then she noticed the Colt. “Does that have to be here?”

  “Afraid of a little iron, Reyes?” Mayer asked.

  “No, just the men who wield it,” Cassi countered.

  Mayer removed his lid and laid it on top of the Colt. “Better?”

  “Much,” Cassi said sarcastically, then added, “You’re in some mood.”

  “Haven’t had my coffee yet.”

  “Why don’t you go inside and get some?”

  “No soap,” Mayer said and threw the boiler into gear. He headed west to Fifth Street, turned left, took a right onto Charleston, then followed it all the way out to the escarpment. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon when Mayer pulled onto the dirt road that led to the trailer. He kept one hand on the steering wheel and placed the other over his hat. Cassi held on to her head scarf. They had bounced about halfway down the road, when they found the group of elders waiting for them.

  “I thought I was an early riser,” Cassi said.

  Mayer parked just off the road and got out. He took his lid with him, but left the Colt. Cassi followed as he made his way over to Shaman Mahkah and the other elders of the tribe who were all adorned in ceremonial garb.

  “I guess they agreed,” Mayer said.

  “They did,” the shaman confirmed. “With a little persuading. If there truly is a skinwalker up there, the elders of the tribe want to know.”

  The shaman took Mayer and Cassi to a man with a flowing headdress of feathers, intricate beadwork, and animal fur. He wore a bright red shirt with a beaded breastplate and a neckpiece made of the same beads. Turquoise-encrusted gauntlets protected each wrist. He carried a portion of the wing of an eagle in one hand and a long, beaded pipe in the other.

  “This is Chief Gray Eagle,” the shaman said. “He will be pronouncing the blessing.”

  Mayer and Cassi stood as the chief spoke in the language of his ancestors while he waved the wing portion over their heads and around their bodies. The rest of the elders formed a circle around the group. Mayer wasn’t sure what the chief said, and the shaman showed no inclination to translate, but he could feel the spirit of the blessing and the protection it offered and he welcomed it.

  In truth, Mayer wasn’t exactly sure what to expect—possibly rhythmic drumming, perhaps native dances; however, the ceremony seemed to be over before it even started. Words were spoken and blessing pronounced and when it was all over, Mayer thanked the chief and the rest of the elders. “Pesa Mu,” he said, knowing that he likely mangled the pronunciation. They didn’t seem to mind. Mayer turned to Cassi who was standing next to the shaman. “Shall we go?” he said, and headed back to his Hornet.

  Once they all got into the car, Mayer pointed it toward the escarpment and headed down the down the dirt road. When they arrived at the trailer, he got out, leaving his lid to cover the Colt, and went to the trunk. The caution tape still covered the stairs leading to the door of the trailer. Mayer took out two pairs of gloves, a flashlight, a shoulder holster, a knife, and a canteen which he had filled the night before. He knew better than to traipse up into the hills outside of Las Vegas without water.

  He tossed a pair of gloves to Cassi, then strapped on the holster, slipped the knife into a sheath on the other side of it, and shut the trunk. He returned to the front seat, took the Colt from under his hat, and slid i
t into place. Then he shut the driver’s door, locked the car, pulled the canteen over his shoulder, and put on his cheaters.

  “Everyone ready?” he asked.

  Like Mayer, the shaman had dressed the part and had brought his own canteen. “Ready,” he said.

  The two men gave Cassi the once over. “Oh, get over yourselves,” she said.

  Mayer shook his head, turned, and headed into the hills. The bright blue of a new day was chasing away the last bits of night sky as the sun peeked over the horizon. His thoughts turned to his mother. Sunrises were her favorite. She would wake him at times and the two would sit together and watch mother nature’s show. They didn’t talk. She would just wrap her arms around him, sometimes in a blanket, and they would watch the sky turn from black to topaz blue, then to orange or pink, before returning again to its natural hue.

  The trio headed high up into the escarpment, at first following the trails forged by burros, then climbing over rocks and boulders when there was no trail to follow. At one point they passed a large rock wall replete with petroglyphs carved into the stone by the Paleo-Indians in centuries past. Representations of big horn sheep and other animals native to the area, covered the faces of the rocks, along with signs, symbols, and stick-figure people.

  Cassi, despite her choice of clothing and footwear, stayed with the men step for step. They had wandered about an hour, sweat forming on each hiker’s brow, when the shaman spotted a cave high above a cliff to their right. “Let’s try there,” he said.

  Mayer agreed and led the way. Had he looked up at this point, he would have noticed an unusually large predatory bird circling overhead.

  Sixteen

  GETTING TO THE cave wasn’t as easy as it looked, and it didn’t look easy. At one point, when reaching for a better grip, Mayer slipped and fell down a series of unforgiving rocks. He tore his shirt and scraped his side. After Cassi and the shaman helped him back to where he had been, the shaman assessed the damage. He pulled leaves from a nearby bush, wet them with his canteen, and laid them on the wound.