by Carrie Jones
I sit down beside her and sip from my glass of water. She actually bites into the orange pieces and sucks the juice out, like a vampire, before eating the pulp. It makes me smile, and that makes her self-conscious, but she doesn’t stop.
“What do we have to do?” she asks.
“Sweat lodge. You’ll have to stay here with Courtney, so I’ll build it myself.”
“In the woods? By yourself ?” Her face crinkles up with concern.
“Yeah. I’ll be okay.”
“That’s what I thought yesterday, too,” she says.
She has a point. I stand up and go to the kitchen window and look out over the backyard to the woods beyond. On the other side of that slope is the river. “I could go back there, just over the hill. Build it there.”
“Can’t you do it in the backyard? We have the privacy fence,” she argues. “I don’t want you to go into the woods.”
“I’d still have to go into the woods to cut some branches to use as the frame for the lodge,” I explain. “Unless you have an answer for that, too.”
“I guess not.”
“All right. That’s what we’ll do. I bought a saw. I’ll cut some saplings and bring them back to the yard.”
She comes to stand behind me, putting her arms around my waist. “You’ll be safe?” she asks. “Should I come with you?”
“I’ll be okay,” I tell her. “I promise. One of us needs to be in the house to listen for Courtney coming home. If Mom and Aunt Lisa can’t find us in the house, they’ll see what we’re doing in the backyard, and then they’ll never leave us to finish it. Holler at me as soon as you see them. Okay?”
“Holler?” she teases, grinning at me. Then she mocks my drawl, saying, “You ain’t in Oklahoma no more.”
I have to admit that I’m surprised cutting the saplings goes without incident. Why? Is he gathering his strength? Does the River Man know we’re about to fight? Does he know Courtney is on her way home? I think about all these things as I cut down about a dozen small, flexible trees and haul them to our back fence, where I heave them into the yard.
I’m in the backyard stripping limbs off the saplings when I hear Aunt Lisa’s SUV roll in. I run inside to join Aimee as we welcome Courtney home. Aunt Lisa turns her over to us, hugging her repeatedly, then hugging us and hugging Court again before she leaves for work.
“You would not believe the tempers flaring at the mill,” she says through the window before she backs out. “Fights galore. I don’t even want to go back there.”
But she does. As soon as she leaves, Aimee and I quickly tell Courtney the plan. “Now that your mom’s gone for the day, I’m going to use some of your firewood to start a small fire in the backyard so I can heat the stones,” I say.
Aimee nods, all business.
“We need to move everything out of Court’s room. Everything but the bed.”
“Why?” Courtney looks skeptical.
“This thing has attacked us with windstorms twice. It’s the debris that hurts. He threw the sage across the room last night, a picture frame before—I don’t want there to be anything he can throw.”
Aimee stands on tiptoes and kisses me quickly, then takes Courtney by the hand. “Let’s go,” she says, and pulls her toward the stairs.
I’m really nervous about the fire. I dig a shallow pit in Aunt Lisa’s backyard behind the shed, bank the dirt up around the pit, then dump a load of firewood on top of some old newspaper I balled up for kindling. The fire starts easily enough, and feels good in the cold morning air. There isn’t much smoke, and the sudden bursts of breeze pretty well break it up before it can look too bad to the neighbors.
I dig another pit about four feet from the fire, bank it with the loose dirt, then sharpen ends of saplings and stab them into the ground in a circle around the new pit. I bend them over, lash them together with the twine I got from Craft Barn, wipe the sweat off my face, then use a short-handled shovel to arrange my granite stones in the embers of the fire pit. I add some more wood to keep the fire going, then return to my developing frame, planting, bending, lashing.
With the dome finally in place, I check my fire again, add some wood, then ask the girls to come help me put the tarp over the frame. It takes some stretching here and some folding there, plus adding a few new holes for twine so we can tie it to the frame, but after about twenty minutes we get the thing covered with the heavy canvas.
“How do you get in it?” Courtney asks.
“Easy enough.” I twirl the knife over my fingers, winking at Aimee while I do it, then cut a slit in the tarp facing the fire, where I left enough space in the frame that I can crawl through it. At the bottom of the slit I cut to each side so the flaps will stay open while I bring in the hot rocks.
“Is this it?” Aimee asks. “It’s ready?”
“It’s ready.”
“Mom’s going to freak when she sees what you’ve done back here,” Court says.
“Probably. But I’ll fix it. Let’s go inside for a minute.” I lead them into the house. They’ve moved Courtney’s furniture into the upstairs hallway and stripped her walls of posters. “We need to take the light fixture off the ceiling, too,” I say. “Court, will you take care of that? Aimee, I need your help in my room.”
In my bedroom I toss the sage and sweetgrass bundles onto the bed, then take Aimee by the hands and look into her earnest green eyes. “I don’t know what’s going to happen today,” I tell her.
“You think he’s getting ready, don’t you?” she asks.
Nodding, I tell her, “Yeah. I think we’ll win, but … I don’t know. I don’t know what it might mean if we lose.”
“I know.” She says it, but she has no voice, and I know she’s seeing Chris Paquette with his gashed wrist, missing arm and leg, and bloated face. Still, I think she’s only thinking of the bodily harm, the end of life. Could there be worse? I don’t know, so I decide not to say anything.
“I’ll be in the sweat lodge for two or three hours.”
“Should we do anything else?”
“Keep her calm. I don’t know if … if we should tie her to the bed.”
Her face shows her shock. “Do you think we need to? It seems so wrong—like, I don’t know … like it’s violating her or something.”
“I don’t know, Aim. I’ve never done this before. I’m just thinking of what happened before, at school.”
“Okay. Yeah, I understand. I’ll do it. I don’t think she’ll like it.”
“No, she won’t. Be gentle. Put some padding on her wrists and ankles, but tie her tight over those. There’s rope in the shed. Come on and I’ll get it for you.” I pick up my sweetgrass and sage and lead her out of my room.
Stupidly, we go downstairs and outside without checking on Courtney. I find the white cotton rope and cut off four three-foot pieces for Aimee. We kiss again and she starts to leave, but I grab at her hand and pull her back.
“Remember, Red, I love you,” I tell her.
“And I love you.”
There’s no kiss this time. We just look into each other’s eyes and mean what we say. Then she goes into the house.
I fold back the flaps of my sweat lodge and, using the short-handled shovel, lift the rocks out of the fire, carry them through the opening in the lodge, and drop them into the new pit. When all the rocks are inside, I put out the fire with dirt from around the pit, filling in the hole as much as I can in a short time, then I look around to make sure no one is watching.
There doesn’t seem to be any neighbor peeking through knotholes in the fence, so I strip off my Anthrax T-shirt, boots, socks, and jeans. One more look, then I add my underwear to the pile and quickly crawl through the hole in my lodge. It’s already hot. I grab my sweetgrass and sage, then pull the flaps closed.
Sitting cross-legged between the closed door and the hot stones, I close my eyes and whisper, “Great Spirit, I put myself in your hands. Onawa, guide me to know what I need to do. Great Spirit, help us all.”
I thr
ow a bundle of sweetgrass onto the stones, where the dried leaves begin to blacken and curl while giving off thin tendrils of sweet smoke.
I’m sweating. I don’t feel hungry anymore.
I close my eyes and focus on my breathing, looking for my spirit guide, searching the darkness within me.
• 23 •
AIMEE
The house is cold when I go back inside. It’s probably as different from the sweat lodge heat as I can imagine. Alan is going to be naked in there. I will not imagine that. Nope. No. Not imagining. I turn up the thermostat that’s on the wall by the couch. The furnace kicks in. That’s when I realize it: the house is supernaturally cold.
For a second I think about going back outside and getting Alan, but he has to do the ceremony. That means I have to deal with the house, with Courtney. Hopefully, there is nothing to deal with.
“Aimee.”
I jump about twenty feet into the air. It’s just Courtney, though. She’s at the top of the stairs, waiting.
“Hey.” I wave at her. “You scared me.”
“Are you coming upstairs?” she asks.
“Yeah. Sorry. I was turning the heat up, and—”
“Come on,” she interrupts. She steps down the hall, out of sight.
My flesh gets all goose bumpy. I rub my arms and head up the stairs after her. My gut tells me things are not good. Things are all wrong, in fact. I take the steps two at a time. Court’s standing at the end of the hallway. It smells up here.
My gut told me right.
It’s that same horrible rotting smell. I cover my mouth and nose with my hand, but it’s not enough. I gag.
“Aimee …” Her voice is both a whimper and whisper. A plea. Everything in my body shakes when I see her. She’s trembling. She looks terribly small and so easy to break.
“Courtney? Honey?”
“Aimee … he’s … he’s here.” She shivers.
I rush down the hall. “I know. I know. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”
My words are hopeless promises out in the middle of the hall. They drift there for a moment, then flit away to nothing.
I grab her by the arms. Her sores are coming back.
“Is my face …?” she asks.
I put my hand against her cheek. “I’ll heal you in a sec, okay?”
“Okay.” She is almost floppy, like a stuffed animal standing there. There’s no fight in her. She’s already given in.
“Court, honey, you need to fight him. I don’t know how. I don’t know what it’s like, the stuff going on inside you right now, but you have to fight him.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know, sweetie. I know.” I hope Alan’s ceremony is going well, and I hope it’s going quickly. I remember what it was like in school when Court threw Alan across the cafeteria. “I’m going to tie you up. Just in case.”
That gets her attention. Her head snaps up straight and she stares at me, totally confused. “You’re going to what?”
“Tie you up. Okay?” I show her the rope. “I have to. In case he—”
“In case he takes me over?” she interrupts. Her face pales. It makes the sores stand out even more.
The smell increases.
Something in my skin prickles.
He’s here. I can feel him.
The evil of him permeates everything. It’s a shadow behind me, filling the air. It’s not just a smell; it’s a presence, a weight against my soul.
I don’t know what to use for padding, but I have to do something so the rope doesn’t chafe Court’s skin too badly. I rip off my shoes and drop them on the floor. Then I go for my socks. “I’m sorry if they smell.”
She half chokes, half laughs. “It’s not as bad as him. But you could just wait until we get in my bedroom and get some of my clean socks out of the closet.”
“True.” I wrap the socks around Court’s wrists. “But I’m afraid to wait.”
“You’re shaking,” she says.
“So are you.”
Her voice is suddenly strong, but it’s still her voice. “Tie me tight, Aimee. I don’t want to hurt you.”
Our eyes meet for a second. “I don’t want to hurt you, either,” I say.
The house shudders. Court’s body jerks. I wrap the rope around her wrists and secure them together with a square knot. Her body jerks again and I catch her as she falls. I was going to tie her to the bed, but I don’t think there’s time.
“He’s close,” she whispers. Her eyes fill with fear. “He’s—”
Something smacks me in the back. Pain ripples through me. I shove Court down the hallway wall. “Into your room. Quick.”
We run across the wood floor, slipping on the rug, trying to get away. Pictures are flying off the wall. Glass shatters. A picture frame jabs Court in the face. She is screaming. I’m grabbing her around the waist and pulling her into the room. Another picture hits me in the shoulder.
I slam the door. It shudders and groans. I throw myself against it.
“Aimee!” Courtney hunkers in the corner. Her hands are tied in front of her. Her eyes frantically search for something. “I don’t want him! I don’t want him, Aimee!”
“Fight him.”
“I can’t!”
“Fight him!” I order.
The door wobbles more behind me. I brace myself, trying to keep it shut. The wood splinters a little. Pieces of it pierce my skin. I groan. It’s such a losing fight.
“Aimee!” Court curls up in a ball. Her hands scratch at her face.
The door is still. He’s here. I scurry toward her and try to pull her hands away from her cheeks. Deep gashes mar her skin. Blood drips. She resists me, pulling. No, that’s wrong. He resists.
“Hello, crazy whore … Just like your mother,” she says. It’s not her voice. It’s his voice: low and evil.
Anger swells up in me. Not fear, anger. “Let her go.”
Her eyes narrow. She laughs.
I’m yanking at Court’s hands, trying to pull them away. Court kicks out. Her feet make contact with my hip and my stomach. It’s powerful. I stagger back and hit the wall. All the wind rushes out of me.
She smiles and stands up. “You can’t fight me.” She pulls at her wrists, increasing the tension on the rope. “Even with this on, I can kill you.”
I swallow hard, staggering up. I imagine white light. I imagine how much I love Alan, how much I love Courtney, how much I loved my mom. This—this is what killed my mom. Anger fills me. Anger at the pain and the loss.
He makes Court laugh. He makes Court smile and take a step toward me. “You could have saved him, you know? The one I took.”
“Chris Paquette,” I whisper.
“You could have saved him if you went in the water, but you didn’t. You were too afraid.” Another step closer.
I pull myself up, pressing my back into the door for support and balance. I point at him. “Shut up.”
Another step closer.
Another smile.
I don’t move. “No.”
Despair shimmies through my blood. That’s what he wants: despair. I won’t give it to him. Instead I look for light—the white light. My hands. My power. I helped Court before. I can do it again. I lift my palms, pointing them toward her. I focus. White light. Healing. Love. My voice is more powerful than I expect. “Get out of my friend.”
He says nothing.
“I can make it hard for you. I can fight you, make you weak.” I focus all my thoughts on healing, on surrounding Courtney with the white light. My body shakes from the strain. I know I can’t last long, but I know I have to. It’ll help Alan. It’ll help Courtney. It has to. But it costs. Magic? Power? It doesn’t come cheap.
Court’s body jumps back a little. “Stop it!”
I don’t say anything. Focus. I just focus.
“I said, STOP IT!” she orders.
The door behind me is breaking apart. A piece of it flings into me. The wood stakes itself into my arm. The pain is int
ense. Still, I don’t even rip it out. I keep my hands outstretched.
“DO NOT PROVOKE ME!” Courtney/the River Man screams.
My hands shake from the force, from the power. My heart rate is up to five hundred beats a minute or something. I can feel the power welling inside me, focusing, but at the same time it drains me.
It’s worth it. It’s worth it to save Court.
“Courtney! Fight him!”
He makes her laugh.
“I love you, Courtney!” I scream. She looks up at me, and for a second it’s her eyes I see again. “I love you!” I scream. “Help me! Mom! Help me!”
I don’t know why I yell for her, for my mother, but I do. And then it’s like hands are on my shoulders. The smell of vanilla is in the room with us.
“Fight him!” I insist. “Help me fight him.”
Wood and plaster squeals. Court shudders, collapses on the floor next to her fluffy blue rug, then gasps. The house shakes. I am falling down, too, dead tired. The smell of vanilla is growing fainter.
“Mom,” I whisper. “Mom …”
But nobody answers.
• 24 •
ALAN
I am not in my body. I am not in the sweat lodge. I am not in the physical world.
It’s a strange feeling to be outside your body, but there I am, standing in a dark space that seems to be filled with movement I can’t see. It’s like being blind and standing in the middle of a busy interstate with more highways running above and below me.
There is little I can do to prepare you.
I spin around, and there is Onawa. At first, just her green eyes show, but then her tawny, sleek body materializes in the darkness. She is huge, much larger than the cougars in the zoo back in OKC. Her head is level with my chest. Is she actually speaking to me?
It is not for you to decide your cousin’s fate.
Her mouth doesn’t move. It’s more like her words are put directly into my head, but there’s no doubt the words are coming from her.
“Is it up to her?” I ask.
It is up to the one who made you, who made her, who made everything that is.
“How …”
You simply ask, Spirit Warrior.
