by J. M. LeDuc
Table of Contents
The Book of Spirits
Epilogue
Copyright
Quote
Awakening
Nightmare
Fear
Memories
Woods
Tihk & Tsomah
Campsite
White Eagle
Celebration & Surprises
White Eagle’s
Discovery
Evil
Demons
Translation
Dreams
Legends
Vanished
Lessons
The Woods
Dinner
Bent Tree
Misty Woods
Spirit Cave
Attack
Natural World
The Reservation
Raven
Transformation
Netherworld
Confusion
Kanontsistonties
Jailed
Plans
Forked Path
Tapestries
Kahkakow
Bobby
Anguish
Spirit World
Tihk
Everglades
At First Sight
A Deeper Understanding
History
Final Plans
Chestnuts
Demonic Hunger
Atahk
Evil Awakened
The Kiche Chronicles
J.M. LeDuc
Contents
Copyright
Quote
1. Awakening
2. Nightmare
3. Fear
4. Memories
5. Woods
6. Tihk & Tsomah
7. Campsite
8. White Eagle
9. Celebration & Surprises
10. White Eagle’s
11. Discovery
12. Evil
13. Demons
14. Translation
15. Dreams
16. Legends
17. Vanished
18. Lessons
19. The Woods
20. Dinner
21. Bent Tree
22. Misty Woods
23. Spirit Cave
24. Attack
25. Natural World
26. The Reservation
27. Raven
28. Transformation
29. Netherworld
30. Confusion
31. Kanontsistonties
32. Evil
33. Dreams
34. Jailed
35. Plans
36. Woods
37. Spirit Cave
38. Forked Path
39. Kanontsistonties
40. Tapestries
41. Kahkakow
42. Bobby
43. Anguish
44. Misty Woods
45. Spirit World
46. Tihk
47. The Book of Spirits
48. Fear
49. Kanontsistonties
50. Everglades
51. Attack
52. At First Sight
53. A Deeper Understanding
54. History
55. Woods
56. Final Plans
57. Chestnuts
58. Demonic Hunger
59. Atahk
60. Tapestries
61. Destiny
62. Aboveground
63. Netherworld
64. Spirit Mount
65. Homecoming
66. Ring
67. Campsite
68. Mist and Reason
69. Choices
Epilogue
Wolf Clan Song
I. Exclusive Excerpt
1. Calling
2. Rebirth
Translations
Acknowledgments
Also by the Author
About the Author
Copyright
Copyright © 2017 J.M. LeDuc
* * *
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical or ethnic events/traditions, locales, real people, living or dead, are used fictitiously and are a product of the author’s imagination.
* * *
No part of this publication may be reproduced or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without written permission of the publisher. Such inquiries may be sent at the publisher’s website.
* * *
Published by Magic Quill Press
www.magicquillpress.com
* * *
Cover Design: Alchemy Book Covers/Keri Knutson
To all Native Americans, your respect for everything and everyone drives me to be a better person.
* * *
To Sherri, your love is unwavering. You are my anchor. I love you.
“Native American isn’t blood. It is what is in the heart.
The love for the land, the respect for it, those who inhabit it,
and the respect and acknowledgement of the spirits and the elders.
That is what it is to be Indian.”
—Unknown
1
Awakening
The woods have always been sacred to Native Americans, but sacred doesn’t always equate with good. Like the sweet smell of Pine sap mixed with the pungent odor of decaying humus, spirits run the gamut of good and bad.
Spirits always hear the cries of those who call them; tonight . . . they’ll answer.
* * *
March 2, 12:10 a.m.
* * *
The smell of the Slash pines and Live oaks permeated the thick blanket of humidity. The temperature remained tolerable, but with air so thick, it was as if the clouds had descended from the sky and fallen upon the earth. The stillness of night and cover of foliage made the environment more oppressive. To a tourist or stranger, the weather might have seemed unbearable, but to those who grew up in and around the Florida Everglades, it was just another early spring evening.
Bobby and his friends huddled around a small, dimly lit fire nestled in the woods between the city limits of Swamp Ridge and the Indian reservation. Sweat poured from their skin, and alcohol swam through their bloodstream. Their teenage, liquor-infused imaginations burned hotter than the heat emanating from the glowing embers. Beer cans and an empty bottle of cheap gin littered the makeshift campground.
“I’m not sure about this,” Bobby, the most rational of the four, said. “You know what Powaw says about this stuff.”
Scott laughed at Bobby’s apprehension. “Don’t be such an âpakosîs,” he slurred. “We’re just screwing around. Besides, Powaw’s nuts. All the elders are crazy.”
Glassy-eyed, Bobby glared at his friend and pointed a stick in his direction. “Don’t call me a mouse. It just doesn’t feel right messing with this kind of thing.”
Mike, the alpha of the group, took his last swig of beer and crushed the can, belching at the same time. “You two losers are always arguing. Let’s do this.” Bobby watched him look over at Ralph, lying on the ground, passed out with pine needles stuck to his face. “Wake up the lightweight,” Mike said. “He has the spell.”
“They’re not spells,” Bobby mumbled under his breath. “We’re not witches.”
“Witches are girls, warlocks are guys,” Scott corrected.
Grunting, Bobby threw his hands up. “Witches, warlocks, it doesn’t matter.”
Mike took a step toward Bobby, his hands balled into fists. “What’d you say?”
“Relax, Mikey,” Scott said, stepping between them. “Every time you get drunk, you want to pick a fight with one of us.”
&nb
sp; “I’m not drunk. I just don’t like when Einstein over here says shit under his breath.”
Bobby eyeballed his friend, squinting, trying to erase the double vision. “I said we’re not warlocks, we’re Cree braves. We don’t cast spells; we conduct ceremonies to awaken spirits.”
Scott shoved him, jokingly. “You’ve been spending way too much time with the elders. We’re just out here screwing around. You know as well as I do, this stuff is just legend. These things don’t actually work.”
“Then why bother? Let’s just clean up and go home.”
Mike brushed the dirt off his jeans, tied his long, black hair back in a knot on top of his head, and smirked. “We do it because it’s cool. There is nothing for us to do back on the reservation; at least this gives us a reason to come out here and drink. If you’re scared, little âpakosîs, then go home.”
Tossing the stick into the fire, Bobby’s face crimsoned. “I’m here, aren’t I,” he said. Balancing himself precariously, he shoved Ralph with the toe of his boot. “Wake up.”
Mike splashed beer on his friend’s face to speed up the process.
Drunkenly, Ralph slapped at the alcohol, smudging the dirt on his face, then stumbled to his feet.
After giving Ralph a few minutes to focus his thoughts, Bobby and the others formed a circle around the fire. Taking in the view, he thought of how all his friends looked different, yet they were, at their very core, the same. He was the smallest of the four, but the smartest. Ralph was the quiet one, yet he could be dared into trying anything. Scott was the biggest, the group’s protector. He’d stand up to anyone who dared insult his friends. And then there was Mike. Mike was the athlete, the one who seemed to go through puberty when he was ten, and always acted as if he had too much testosterone rushing through his veins.
All different, yet the same. They all had an olive skin tone with a complexion most girls would kill for. They all had straight, silky, black hair which they wore long and straight. And they were all proud of their Native American heritage.
All different, yet the same.
Bobby’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Ralph clearing his throat. Turning his attention to his friend, he watched Ralph pull the ritual he had torn out of his grandfather’s old book from his pocket, unfold the paper, and start reading.
“Kihci Macimanito, Pimihawin Mistikwan, koskonowewin. Tatawaw ota. Kîyânaw natohtamawin kiya ôma wîcihiwewin. Kiya katikaweyin peyakotipiyimisiwin ohtâyihk ana asahpicekewin kiya.”
The trio repeated the Cree words none of them understood and could barely pronounce.
Bobby eyed Ralph, who had stopped reading and gruffed his frustration. “If you want the spirits to hear us, we need to say this like we mean it.”
The four exchanged glances; Ralph nodded and started reading from the beginning. This time, the others repeated the words as if they believed whatever it was they were saying.
The still, stale air was broken by a breeze that whistled through the woods causing the rustling of leaves and branches, creating the sound of shaking maracas. The sudden change in the environment seemed to energize Ralph, who began to recite the words with increased attitude and volume. The others followed suit, and with every word emoted, the winds surged and swirled.
The gusts swept the dirt, pine needles, and dying embers into the night, making them feel like bee stings striking Bobby’s face. An unexplained fear began to bubble inside him as he slapped the dirt from his eyes. Trembling, he tore the paper from Ralph’s hand to stop him from repeating the ritual. Crumpling it in his fist, he threw the paper towards the fire. An acrid blast of wind blew it away from the flames and swept it toward the trees.
The hair on the back of Bobby’s neck tingled. “I don’t like the way this feels,” he whispered, dread dripping from his words. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
The others must have felt the same way, for they hastily grabbed their packs and started running.
As Bobby raced through the low-branched pines, he thought he heard Mike. The squeal was so short-lived, he couldn’t be sure; his fear forced him to run faster. With each burst of wind, he heard another one of his friends cry out. The combination of running, alcohol, and adrenaline made him want to throw up; he choked it down and kept moving. Turning back toward the noise, Bobby saw nothing through the curtain of night. The air, thicker and heavier than before, forced him to breathe through his mouth. Turning forward, he glimpsed a low hanging branch in his peripheral vision—too little, too late. The bow smacked his forehead, knocking him to the dirt. Instinctively, his hand went to his cheek; he felt the sharp sting of the gash and the wet warmth of fresh blood. His feet scrambling, his hands clawing, it took all his resolve to put one foot in front of the other. His legs finding a rhythm, he sprinted onward.
Seeing the lights of the reservation through the thickness of leaves, Bobby emitted a short sigh of relief before one last gust of wind struck his face. His eyes screamed in horror and his vocal cords danced in pain, but sound never moved past his lips.
2
Nightmare
March 2, 2:00 a.m.
* * *
Even before her eyes snapped open, Pamoon grabbed her left hand, jabbing her right thumbnail into her open palm. For the fourth time in the past week, nightmares and searing pain woke her up from a sound sleep. The stabbing torment in her palm and the frightening image in her mind stirred together like sand and seawater at ebb-tide. Her nightmares, visions she wanted to wash away, remained vivid and present. The physical and emotional pain, inseparable.
She winced and gritted her teeth, increasing the pressure of her thumb until one pain outweighed the other. From experience, she knew the knife-like stabbing would be short lived—she just had to outlast it. Closing her eyes, she relaxed her jaw and breathed deep. The discomfort subsided, allowing Pamoon the chance to relax her thumb. She used the opportunity to grab her phone from the bedside table. With a quick swipe of the screen, she turned on the flashlight and studied her wounded skin.
Except for the mark left by her thumbnail, she saw nothing. But she knew better.
The first time it happened was a few weeks ago; she’d screamed so loud, her nine-month-old Grey Wolf cub, Scout, nipped at her and scampered under the bed. It had taken the promise of treats and multiple attempts at apologizing to lure him back out. By the time Pamoon had looked back at her hand, the mark was gone.
It didn’t matter that the mark had faded, she had seen it and recognized ‘it,’ immediately. How could she not? She had the same one on the side of her neck, a birthmark in the shape of flames that appeared to climb the side of her flesh and flick at her hairline. The mark had faded as she got older, but it had always made her feel conspicuous. It was bad enough being white in an American Indian world, but the birthmark made her a target for jokes and bullying. If it wasn’t for Bobby’s friendship, she probably would have run away—for good.
Recently, the mark had begun to change. For the past few months, every time Pamoon looked in the mirror, the flames seemed to be staring back at her. Some days the mark felt angry and hot, as if the tongues of fire were real, but by the time she managed to look in a mirror, it would once again appear benign.
The entire time Pamoon was jamming her thumbnail into her hand and inspecting the mark, Scout didn’t budge. He just lay on the bed, curled up by her side, his head resting on her thigh, his eyes following her every move.
“I thought you were supposed to be a great protector,” Pamoon breathed, scratching him behind the ears. “Maybe you’re more kitten than cub.”
Scout licked her hand in response. His actions reminded her of when she found him. She had been on her morning run through the woods when she heard a whimper. It was loud enough for her to stop and follow the sound. At the base of a large pine tree, she spotted something moving under a pile of fallen needles. Bending down, she wiped away some of the debris and saw the face of a tiny pup. Gingerly, Pamoon picked it up, thinking it was a German
Shepherd and was greeted with a lick. She carried it back to the reservation, and only then did she find out it was a wolf. Everyone agreed that it was odd it find an abandoned wolf cub in this area of Florida. The population being so small. No one had spotted a wolf around the reservation in generations. The elders took it as a sign; a sign of what they didn't know, but wolves were always seen as good signs. Although it was tiny and sickly, Pamoon was diligent and nursed it back to health. From that first encounter, she and Scout were inseparable.
Pamoon plopped her head back down on the pillow, glancing at the time. “It’s only two in the morning,” she groaned. Pamoon flipped on her side and wrapped her arms around her best friend, hoping to fall back to sleep.
