Primal Fear

by Boucher, Brad

  “I don’t understand,” Morris said.

  “I know. This is just—”

  “I’m sorry, John, but none of this makes very much sense to me.”

  “I’ll explain in a moment. Right now I need to see his possessions. Whatever he was carrying when you found him. I need to look through them.”

  “And then you’ll explain?”

  “I’ll try my best. But he’s very adamant. He says it’s very important for me to find his possessions.”

  “Is that all he said?”

  John paused, lowering his voice. “No. He told me my life depends on it.”

  Chapter One

  John carried the old man’s satchel into Morris’ office, laying it out carefully on the doctor’s desk. He hesitated at first, toying with the clasp, feeling oddly reluctant about peering into the case, into the shaman’s personal belongings. But the urge to know what lay inside was too powerful, and he soon relented to it. Besides, he’d given Mahuk his solemn oath that he would do as he’d been asked.

  “It will help you to believe,” the shaman had told him, and John couldn’t be sure if he truly wanted to. To believe or to disbelieve completely . . . each extreme bothered him for different reasons. To forever wonder, though—that was somehow the worst possibility of all. To hold the answers to so many questions in his hands and then simply turn away from them?

  No, such an act was simply not in his nature.

  Dr. Morris seemed to sense his discomfort, already moving towards the door. “I’ll let you take care of this, John. I’ve got a couple of patients I’d like to look in on.”

  John looked up, grateful for the gesture. “Thanks. I won’t be long.”

  “Take your time.” Morris left him to it, but another three minutes passed in silence before John finally gave in and opened the case.

  At first he only saw the usual possessions of any elderly man: a small collection of clothing, none of it fit for the kind of exposure to the bitter Canadian winter the shaman had endured; an extra pair of glasses, probably for reading; a wrinkled map, faded and out of date.

  He opened the map before going on, spreading it out in the middle of the desk. It was a map of the state of New Hampshire, tattered and frayed from many years of use. Beyond its age, he couldn’t make out anything unusual about it, and he turned his attention back to the satchel.

  And beneath the common items in Mahuk’s possession, lying securely in the bottom of the small case, he found the true tools of the shaman.

  He reached into the tangle of items arranged at the bottom of the suitcase and produced a short length of ivory, carved intricately along its inside edge with etchings of the sun and the moon and the signs of what the old man would undoubtedly think of as the Earth Mother. A number of feathers were attached to the shaft, arranged into a loose circle, a mingling of the animals of the air and of the sea, and John realized that this would have been the shaman’s key element of ritual, his means of summoning his tornaq—his spirit familiar—to guide him into the spirit world. Setting it aside, he reached back into the satchel and pulled out another of the items that lay within.

  It was another carving, this one of wood. It was the figure of a woman, her arms open, as if in some generous offering, her face delicately fashioned into an expression of sadness. John recognized the figure from his childhood studies: Mauna, the Earth-Maker. Her sadness stemmed from the destruction man had wrought upon her beloved earth; her generosity was the spirit of giving that would preserve the earth for those who continued to live as one with the land she had provided for them.

  He stared at the figurine, remembering the old stories. Mauna, the Earth-Maker and B’hun, the Sky-Maker, characters in the tales his grandfather had told him on the cold winter nights in his village. As a child he’d believed in them completely; what reason would he have had to doubt the words of his grandfather? But then, growing up . . .

  John sighed, a part of him longing for that naiveté, for the blind faith of youth. These days, to have doubted something for so many years, and then to meet someone still so enshrouded in the old beliefs . . . it felt like an act of betrayal to him. Betrayal to his people, to his ways. And to his father.

  He shook his head, avoiding that line of thought. There were enough problems, without resurrecting one that struck so close to home.

  He placed the Earth-Maker on the desk blotter and peered once more into the bag.

  The next item in the old man’s possession was a small parcel wrapped in a brittle swath of sealskin and tied with a short length of twine. John opened it carefully, trying not to damage the wrappings, folding them slowly back as the twine fell away.

  He recoiled at the sight of what lay in the center of the parcel, coming to his feet behind Morris’ desk.

  It was a twisted shard of bone, clearly not human, tipped with a talon as sharp as a razor’s edge. Protruding from the bone, at the point where the talon rose outward from the tip of this terrible finger, a smooth length of dark wood comprised the inner surface of the artifact.

  John stared at the relic, examining the area where the wood met the bone, looking for a flaw in its construction, even a hairline crack between the two materials. But there was nothing. The piece of bone had not been grafted to the wood. There were no fasteners, no signs of adhesive, no other indication that the artifact had ever been produced from two separate carved specimens. Each material appeared to have been a natural part of the finger’s composition.

  John leaned over the desk, peering closely at the strange fossil, still unwilling to reach out and pick it up. He still couldn’t see any sign that the combination of wood and bone had been artificially created, nor could he imagine any craftsman in the world with the skill to pull off such a perfect meld of materials. As much as he didn’t want to admit it to himself, John realized there was nothing else it could be but genuine.

  He spent another five minutes staring at it, a part of him wishing he’d never set eyes on it.

  The familiar sounds of the hospital rose around him but he barely heard them. The frequent announcements over the intercom and the occasional bustle of activity in the hall outside the office still reached him on some inner level, but they didn’t register. Staring at the relic was like staring back into the past, into the history of his people.

  And wasn’t that what he’d wanted all along? A tangible glimpse into the old legends? A concrete link to his own heritage?

  He shook his head, completely unaware that he’d moved at all. The old artifacts had always fascinated him, had always been his favorite part of his studies. But this . . . this was more than he’d thought possible.

  Finally, both repulsed and excited, but unable to look upon the deformed finger for another second, he slowly returned it to its wrappings, pleased to have it out of his sight.

  But even through the sealskin, he felt an odd vibration of energy. It sent shivers through his entire body, like a low-voltage charge, powerful enough to register on his nerve endings, but too weak to do any damage. He tried to put the artifact down, but some inner voice prevented him from performing even that simple act. And in that short interval, while his hand was poised over the old man’s bag, the wrapped shard of bone gripped slackly between numb fingers, a single image flickered dimly in his mind’s eye.

  It came swiftly, buried among his thoughts. A hint of emotion accompanied the vision, feelings of fear and dread, feelings beyond expression, as if to name them would mean suffering in their influence forever.

  And the image came again.

  For just an instant, it was as sharp and clear as his own perception of reality. But when he tried to identify it, it lost focus, leaving him with nothing to grasp. He only knew that the sight of it was vital, important to him in some way he couldn’t understand.

  He forced himself to close his eyes, wishing to either see the vision more clearly, or to push it away completely.

  And then he saw it one last time, a looming shadow, huge and menacing, a shap
e that was neither well-defined nor clearly identifiable. Yet this time the feelings that arose within him were more powerful than he could tolerate, feelings dredged up from the coldest reaches of his soul, summoned—or so it seemed—by the sight of this towering shadow.

  A moment later the artifact fell from his fingertips, breaking whatever power it had held over him. A sudden dampness on his upper lip made him reach up in confusion, his fingers coming away wet with a tiny trickle of blood from his nose. Peering downward, he saw that only a single drop had fallen onto the desk top. It had fallen on Mahuk’s map, still spread open on the blotter where he’d studied it only moments before.

  He bent over it, studying the terrain where the blood had fallen.

  It had come to rest in the northern half of the state of New Hampshire, partially obscuring a blue smudge marked Cooris Pond. Just beside the pond, in tiny black letters, he could make out the name of a town.

  Glen Forest.

  And barely an eighth of an inch from those letters, there was a small circle scrawled in faded ink, one that he hadn’t spotted when he’d first examined the map. It appeared to be the only such marking on the entire document. Could that have been Mahuk’s destination?

  “John? You okay?”

  He looked up and saw Dr. Morris coming into the office, a copy of Mahuk’s file in his hand.

  John dropped into a chair, his equilibrium thrown off by what he’d seen, what he’d felt. He wondered briefly how he could possibly describe those feelings to Dr. Morris, whether he could ever put them into words that would do them justice.

  “I’m okay,” he said at last. “Just a nosebleed. I’ll be fine.”

  Morris stepped toward him. “Here. Let me take a look at it.”

  “No, no. I’m fine. I just need to sit down for a minute or two.”

  He looked across the desk at the artifact, perfectly harmless in its faded wrappings, just an old relic of his people. At least that’s what he’d thought a moment before, when he’d first pulled it from Mahuk’s bag.

  Now, sitting across from Dr. Morris in the dimly lit office, he let the minutes slip past without notice, trying desperately to understand what he’d seen.

  Only one thing seemed certain: the shard of bone possessed a power that was both very strong and very unnatural. Its influence over his thoughts had been beyond his resistance, beyond his estimation.

  Beyond his sense of possibility.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Morris was still watching him closely. He managed a thin smile. “You’re in a hospital, John. If something’s not right . . .”

  John shook his head, rising to his feet. “I’m just a little confused, that’s all. When you asked me down here, I never expected to run into a full-blooded tribal shaman. It’s just . . . I’m a little overwhelmed.”

  “I can understand that. But still, if there’s anything you need, let me know.”

  John thought about that for a moment. “What I need,” he said, “is a chance to sit down and think this through. And maybe a good stiff drink.”

  Dr. Morris consulted his watch. “Well, tell you what. I’ll be off duty in another half hour or so. I can meet you at Lawton’s, if you’d like. It’s not the fanciest place in the world, but it’s pretty quiet this time of night. You can fill me in on all this over a cold beer. I’ll buy. Two blocks . . .” He paused, closing his eyes to get his bearings and then pointing to the right. “. . . that way. Corner of West Street and . . . what is it? Alton? Acton Street?”

  John nodded. “Alden Street. I know the place. That sounds good. That’ll give me time to look into a few things first. Meet you there in about an hour.”

  They left the office together, John still holding the old man’s bag in his right hand. “I’m going to lock this up, if you don’t mind. What I’d really like to do is go through it again in the morning, take a closer look at what he’s got in there.”

  “We don’t usually hand over someone’s personal belongings, but if you think it might help us get through to him, then I’m good with it.”

  They arrived at the elevator and Dr. Morris hesitated. “I want to talk to the ICU nurse once more before I leave, too. If I hurry I can catch her before her consultations meeting.” He nodded at John. “See you in an hour.”

  John stared at the elevator door for a moment, feeling slightly foolish. When he looked to the side and saw that Dr. Morris had already vanished around the corner, he carried the satchel further down the hall until he found the door that led to the hospital’s stairway.

  Dr. Morris was already at Lawton’s when John arrived. He was seated at the far end of the room, nursing a beer, a local newspaper spread open on the bar.

  “Sorry I’m late.” John straddled the stool beside him, signaling the bartender for a beer. “How’s Mahuk? Any changes?”

  “Nothing significant. Still not communicating, no response when we try to talk to him. He seems like he’ll only talk to you.”

  John said nothing, accepting his beer from the bartender and staring into it silently. A minute passed this way before Dr. Morris spoke up again.

  “You don’t like the things Mahuk has to say to you, am I right?”

  John blinked, finally looking up. Before he could say anything in his own defense, Dr. Morris pressed on.

  “I sensed it earlier, while you were talking to him. You know how you hear people say they looked like they’ve seen a ghost?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, that’s how you looked to me. And then the more I thought about it . . . well, let me put it this way: you had the same look on your face that a patient has when I have to tell them they have a terminal illness. They hear the truth, but a part of them simply can’t accept it. It’s not a reaction you can control, it’s more reflexive than you’d think.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. And that’s what I saw when I looked at you. It’s not denial, not exactly, but it’s something pretty damn close.”

  John held his tongue for a moment, still on the verge of protest, but already seeing the futility of it. “I think you’re right,” he finally admitted. “In a way, I think I still feel that way.”

  “Why is that? I’m not sure I understand.”

  John shrugged, feeling cornered. He knew Dr. Morris fairly well, that was true, but this seemed a bit too personal to him. He knew on some level the doctor would hear him out, listen to everything he had to say. More than that, he would probably even offer some kind of advice, sharing the benefit of his experience with a friend in need.

  But where should he begin? How should he go about telling him the real roots of the problem? That was the hardest part. In the end, while John wrestled the issue in silence, Dr. Morris cleared his throat and suddenly made the decision very easy for both of them.

  “If we step back for a minute,” he said, “if we take a good look at the real question here, it all becomes pretty clear. The real question is what’s best for Mahuk. If what you have to say will help explain what an old man like him was doing out on the streets in the dead of winter, then please tell me. Because the bottom line is, if I can’t understand him, I’m worried that I can’t help him.”

  John considered that, admiring the doctor’s professionalism. Not once had he raised his voice, and despite the weight of his words, not once had his tone become threatening.

  “You’re right,” John said. He took a deep breath, followed it with a long pull from his beer, and started to explain. “You already know where I grew up, from my talks at the university . . .”

  “That’s right. The fishing village.”

  “Yes. An Aleut fishing village. Northern Canada. I was taught how to fish, how to trap, how to skin, you name it. If it was important to the village and to our family, then I could do it. I learned how to live off the land, how to work with my hands . . . it was all just second-nature to me by the time I was ten years old.

  “What I don’t touch on in my talks is the fact that I also had a spiritual upbrin
ging. My mother passed away when I was very young, so I learned the ropes from the tribal elders, from the tribal shaman, and from my father. He was completely in tune with the beliefs of our people. Completely devoted to them. To my father, the stories of Mauna the Earth-Maker weren’t just legends. To him they were facts. The spirits of the sky were real, nothing to question, not even for an instant.

  “And I believed them, too. Every word they told me about the old stories . . . I took as the gospel truth. Ten years old and I could recite the stories as well as my father. I never questioned them, never felt the need to. But then when I was fourteen years old, a businessman came to visit our village. An American. Clean-shaven, no dirt under his fingernails, suit and tie, the whole nine yards. He spent a lot of time talking to the village elders, and then with the heads of every family. He had supper at our house one night, to talk to my father about his fishing business, and how he wanted to expand his resources.”

  “Into your territory.”

  “Exactly. He wanted to make a deal with all the local fishermen, a percentage of their catch for a portion of his export cut . . . something along those lines, anyway, I don’t know. Like I said, I was only a kid, completely uneducated as far as business and finance were concerned. But I listened to the whole conversation, blown away by the way this guy talked, by the way he presented himself. He was a very educated man, knew exactly what to say and how to make his pitch.”

  “What was your father’s reaction?”

  “My father? Man, he hated everything about him. He was a city-man, and that was the end of it.” John paused, taking a moment to drain the rest of his beer. “But I guess I kind of respected the guy. For the first time in my life, it was like my attention was turned to something outside of our village, something that represented a whole new way of life. It opened my eyes to other possibilities.

  “It was like . . . overnight, all of a sudden I wanted to learn everything I could about the world, and I started to read anything I could get my hands on. And then it wasn’t long before I started to want a different life for myself. I wanted to, you know, break away from the village mentality and see the world. So, when I was eighteen, I left.”