Ghost Heart

by Weston Ochse

  “Do you see something there beneath the sign?”

  Jacket balanced the bike as he squinted, then he smiled. “Good catch, kid. Don’t know why I missed it.”

  Matt adjusted his sight until the figure of an impossibly tall Native American warrior came into view. Like Wild Bill Hickok and Calamity Jane, this, too, was a ghost. But it can’t be Crazy Horse, thought Matt. Calamity said he was at his own monument.

  Jacket carefully steered the bike closer, then shut off the engine and climbed down with Matt. As Matt approached, the sun was getting low in the sky and beginning to meet the crooked ridge on the other side of the Indian. Matt was forced to squint as he stared up at the handsome face.

  “Do you know Crazy Horse?” he asked.

  The Indian, who had been staring into the distance until now, turned his head and regarded Matt with a regal grace. He wore moccasins and pants made from hide. His bare chest revealed sculpted muscles and puckered scars. Long braids of black hair fell on either side of his tanned face.

  “Do you know Crazy Horse?” Matt repeated. “How about General Custer?”

  The Indian smiled slightly and decided to answer. “My cousin Crazy Horse is well known to me, as is White Hat. Why does a living white child care about such things long dead and forgotten?”

  “They’re not forgotten. We studied all about General Custer and how he got his butt kicked at the Little Bighorn in school. The Witch of Cleghorn Canyon taught me about Crazy Horse … I mean, your cousin.” Matt suddenly felt a little silly calling a man’s cousin crazy.

  “And as far as being, dead,” interjected Jacket, “the kid’s getting used to that.”

  The Indian’s smile faded and he stared hard at Jacket and Matt. Finally, he held up his hand. “My name is Touch-the-Clouds. I am cousin to Crazy Horse, warrior of the people, Guardian of the Paha Sapa, and chief of the Minneconjous.”

  Matt felt the importance of the moment. “Pleased to meet you, Touch-the-Clouds. My name is Matt Cady.” He paused, then figured out how to go on. “I am Neighbor to Reggie Running Dear, ward to spirit Jacket, friend to Buddha and Granny Annie, despiser of vampire kitties and searcher for courage.”

  Touch-the-Clouds, easily a full head and shoulders taller than Jacket, nodded his acceptance of the introduction, then waited for the biker’s response.

  Jacket cleared his throat, then raised his hand in greeting. “I’m Jack Rabbit Johnson. Guardian to Matt Cady, friend to Raising Cain Petrovsky, bane of Bovine Mack, and a Korean War veteran.” He nodded once then put his hand down. “Yep,” he said to himself. “That’s about right.”

  Apparently satisfied, Touch-the-Clouds looked again at Matt. “What is it you want, Matt Cady?”

  Matt swallowed. “I want courage.”

  “And why is courage so important to you? Many men who weren’t courageous have lived and died.”

  “My parents are divorcing,” Matt said, as if that explained everything.

  Touch-the-Clouds only stared at him. “The kid means that they’re splitting up,” Jacket offered. Touch-the-Clouds raised an eyebrow. Jacket tried again. “His mother and father have decided not to be husband and wife any longer.”

  “I understand now,” Touch-the-Clouds said solemnly. “And Matt Cady is afraid, yes?”

  Matt nodded. “Matt Cady is afraid, yes.”

  “It’s very frightening when changes occur in the tribe.”

  “The Witch of Cleghorn Canyon told me that I needed to discover the difference between courage and desperation. She told me I needed to understand the nature of faith in myself, and that if I got the War Shirt of Crazy Horse I would become courageous.”

  Touch-the-Clouds nodded and closed his eyes. “My cousin fought in many battles and was never harmed. He faced the soldiers of White Hat and survived. Not until the cowardice of Little Big Man was he even harmed, and in the harming, he died.”

  “Didn’t the shirt save him?”

  “He was no longer wearing the War Shirt when he was murdered.”

  “Oh,” Matt said. For a moment there he was discouraged. He had expected a shirt that would make him invulnerable to fear. If Crazy Horse had been killed while wearing it then it was as useless as a regular shirt.

  “Need to be hurrying along,” Jacket said abruptly, eyeing the sun that had already reached the crest of the ridge.

  “Right,” Matt said. “Mr. Touch-the-Clouds, I know this is an awful lot for me to ask, but could I have the War Shirt?” He stared imploringly into the Indian’s eyes. “Please?”

  “Come with me,” said the Indian.

  Touch-the-Clouds turned and left his spot beneath the billboard. Matt followed with Jacket pushing the Ninja close behind. They took a dirt path down into a small box canyon. On either side of them, stone and earth formed castle-like walls. Spires, minarets and turrets rose optimistically to the heavens. In the middle of the small box canyon was a pile of rose quartz and mica.

  “Is it here? Is it beneath this?” Matt asked excitedly. Touch-the-Clouds nodded. Matt scrambled over to the rocks and began heaving them aside. After about a dozen, he called to Jacket. “Give me a hand.” Jacket flipped down the kickstand on the bike and began lifting rocks and placing them on the ground. After about five minutes, both Matt and Jacket sagged to the ground, sweaty and breathing heavily.

  “How far down is it?” Matt asked.

  “Has to be near. Any farther down and this would be a grave.”

  Matt’s head jerked up sharply. He stared wide-eyed at Touch-the-Clouds. “Hey, this isn’t a grave … is it?”

  Touch-the-Clouds merely stared back at him, remaining stonily silent.

  Giving up on a possible answer, Matt and Jacket bent back to their task, but no sooner had they begun moving rocks aside again than Matt cried out. “Here it is! I found it!”

  He flung aside the last few rocks to where he could see a patch of leather beneath a thin layer of dirt. More carefully, Matt brushed the grit aside until a leather bag was revealed. He grasped it gently and lifted it from the hole. “It feels really light.”

  “How heavy does a War Shirt need to be?” Jacket leaned against the bike.

  But Matt had to frown when he noticed there was a zipper on the bag. He placed the bag on the ground and opened it slowly. Reaching in, he pulled out a folded white cloth, then carefully spread open the material so he could examine the contents.

  “What does it look like?” Jacket asked, trying to see over Matt’s shoulder.

  Matt snorted, then lifted the shirt so Jacket could see it. What had once been a white T-shirt showed the wear and tear of much use. On the front was a picture of a red, white and blue man with long hair holding a guitar. Above this were the word Voodoo Child, and below that The Jimi Hendrix Experience—1968.

  “What is this, a joke?” demanded Jacket. “If it is, it sure ain’t funny. What’s the meaning of this?” Jacket stalked over to Touch-the-Clouds. “This kid’s traveled a long way to get Crazy Horse’s War Shirt. I don’t know who this star-spangled Jimi Hendrix character is, but the date reads 1968, and I think Crazy Horse was a tad dead by then.”

  Touch-the-Clouds regarded him sadly but stayed stubbornly silent.

  “Yeah,” Matt put in. “I’ve been through too much for it to end like this. I mean, I’ve met a troll and a fortuneteller. I’ve braved vampire kitties, blowflies and the Witch of Cleghorn Canyon. I’ve dealt with Ali Baba and his Forty Thieves, a pack of biker bandits, and a deputy sheriff who wanted to arrest me. I’ve met the ghosts of Calamity Jane, Wild Bill Hickok and a poor dead hitchhiker. I even helped to defeat the phantom they called Black Jack McCall.” He looked at the Indian in disbelief. “All that, I do all of that and this is what I get?”

  “By your tale,” Touch-the-Clouds said, “it sounds like you’ve earned the War Shirt.”

  “Then where is it?” Matt asked.

  His face was emotionless. “You say that this Witch of yours wanted you to learn the nature of faith yourself, yes?�
�

  “Yeah … so?” Matt couldn’t conceal the rising disappointment.

  A faint smile lifted one side of the Indian’s mouth. “The War Shirt has never been a physical thing. It is a spiritual thing, a representation of the bravery my cousin wore with honor. The War Shirt was created by experience, woven by the strings of confidence formed with each and every success.”

  “But …” Matt struggled to understand. “Then what’s this thing? Whose shirt is this?”

  “A passing warrior who asked me to keep it for him,” Touch-the-Clouds said implacably.

  “Wait a minute,” Matt said. He eyed the Indian suspiciously. “Wait just a minute. Didn’t you say that when Crazy Horse died, he wasn’t wearing his War Shirt? If he wasn’t wearing it, then he had to take it off, right?”

  “He wasn’t wearing it because he trusted those around him. He didn’t know that Little Big Man would be so treacherous. He wasn’t prepared.”

  Matt let the hand holding the Hendrix shirt drop to his side. “So there is no War Shirt.”

  “But there is,” Touch-the-Clouds insisted.

  Matt could only stare at him. “Where?”

  “Look at yourself. I do not know how you were before these adventures, Matt Cady, but I imagine it wasn’t as you are now. I know of no other human child who would walk up to a spirit such as myself. I know of no other ghost that would brave the ravages of a phantom. I’ve seen them on battlefields and know of their evil.”

  “He’s right, you know,” Jacket said mildly. When Matt only glared at him, Jacket continued. “Although you took that first step with your friend Reggie, you were a scared little puppy at first.”

  Matt pulled his gaze away and looked at his feet. “I have changed a little,” he finally muttered.

  Jacket regarded him. “Is having your parents apart as horrible as it was?”

  “Yes, it’s just as horrible,” Matt answered. “But … I think I can live with it.”

  “In our tribes, not always do the man and woman get along. Sometimes they find others with whom to spend their days, but their relationship with the child never changes. Regardless of who they are with, one is always a father and one is always a mother.”

  “Yeah,” Matt said. “I was hoping that would be the case.”

  “Of course it is, Matt.”

  “Just to be sure,” Matt said slowly. “There is no real War Shirt, right? I mean, the only War Shirt is what I wear because of my own courage. Right?”

  Touch-the-Clouds nodded.

  “And this? Where’d this come from?” Matt held up the Jimi Hendrix shirt.

  Before the Indian could answer, the thrum of a motorcycle engine interrupted them. “Long time no see, Cloud Man!” Raisin yelled happily. “I see you kept my shirt all these years.” Raisin cut the engine to the Honda and grinned at the three of them. His Afro was the same color as the sunset.

  “Raisin, what are you doing here?” Jacket had to grin back at his friend. “And what do you mean, your shirt?”

  “As I told you, there would be one who would need it,” Touch-the-Clouds said to Raisin.

  Raisin smiled. “I can’t imagine anyone else who deserves it more.”

  “Are you here with Reggie?” Matt asked.

  “Right behind me, kid. And Ali Baba is about as mad as they come.” His smile darkened. “Wants his drugs back.”

  Abruptly the still air of the canyon was filled with a furious man-made thunder. Their gazes cut to the horseshoe-shaped ridge as forty motorcycles pulled up to the crest, parking side-by-side like the Indians from old westerns Matt had seen on television. The bikes revved several times, then went silent. After the roar of their engines, the quiet was almost eerie.

  Ali Baba’s RV eased onto the dirt road that descended into the canyon, then squatted there like a great, painted panther. Finally the vehicle began to creep down the slope.

  Matt swallowed as he suddenly realized how outnumbered he and Jacket were. This must have been how General Custer had felt—other than Touch-the-Clouds and Raisin, he and Jacket were alone. All at once Matt’s once-great plan seemed pathetic. Ali Baby was a criminal, a real one. How had Matt ever thought he could outsmart someone like that?

  He turned to Jacket. “What are we going to do?”

  Jacket folded his arms across his chest. “Put on the shirt, Matt.”

  “But the shirt is only—”

  Jacket held up a hand. “Don’t argue with me. Put it on.”

  Matt squeezed his eyes shut against tears, then pulled it over his head and let it fall around him. It was much larger than any shirt he’d ever worn, more like a gown that came to just below his knees. “I feel stupid wearing this,” he complained.

  “It will help you survive. Trust me.” Jacket pulled the bag of drugs from where he’d stashed it, then tossed it in the bag that had held the war shirt. “Give me a hand,” he said as he dropped the bag into the hole and started pushing rocks on top of it.

  Matt obeyed and he and Jacket made quick progress, desperation giving them speed. They’d just finished when they heard the crunch of gravel behind them.

  When they turned, the RV with the painted face of Ali Baba along its side idled before them. Touch-the-Clouds was gone, as was Raisin—the red-haired biker was most likely trying to take care of his own ward. Matt and Jacket were alone to face Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.

  “The sun is almost gone,” Jacket whispered. “I could go at any time.”

  Fear zinged along Matt’s nerves. “Don’t leave me here alone! You can’t leave me here alone with them!”

  “I’ll stay till the end, kid. You can count on it.”

  The side door of the RV opened. The stairs unfolded and Ali Baba descended. In his right hand he held a pistol that looked long and deadly. His left was buried in Reggie’s long dark hair. He jerked her along as he moved toward Matt and Jacket, and she twisted in his grip. “Stop it, Phillip!”

  Raisin materialized from nowhere, throwing frantic punches at Ali Baba’s head. But they never landed—his fist snapped through the air and did nothing, and each failed attempt only enraged Raisin more as he tried desperately to protect Reggie.

  Ali Baba stalked toward Matt and Jacket, ignoring Reggie’s cries of pain. He’d darkened his eyes with make-up until they looked like twin black holes. His mouth was turned up in a sneer. “You shouldn’t have messed with me, kid.”

  “Stay away from him,” Jacket snarled.

  His dark gaze rested briefly on Jacket. “You’re on my list too, Gramps.”

  “Let the girl go,” Jacket said. “She didn’t hurt anyone.”

  “She hurt me,” Ali Baba snapped. “She’s supposed to be loyal to her family.”

  “Loyal to dope dealers? I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ali Baba gave a nasty laugh. “I’m not selling the drugs to the white man to make money. I’m selling them to get even.”

  Jacket stared at him. “What?”

  Ali Baba shoved Reggie hard enough to make her stumble in front of him. She sat down hard, facing Matt. Raisin’s spirit squatted protectively next to her. Ali Baba’s mouth twisted. “Just as the white man brought us down by their lies and deceit, I will bring them down using their own greed and gluttony.”

  Jacket glowered at him. “Not all white men are alike.”

  Ali Baba snorted. “I don’t have the time to sort them out. Anyway, it was the white man who invented wholesale slaughter. Where are the buffalo?”

  Jacket waved his hand dismissively. “You can’t blame us for that. We—“

  “Enough,” Ali Baba interrupted. “Your note said to meet you here. I’m here. Where are the drugs?”

  “I’m not saying.”

  “Jacket, be careful of this man,” Raisin warned. “He’s downright evil.”

  “You will say,” Ali Baba said flatly, “Or me and that kid are gonna have a conversation.”

  “You wouldn’t dare harm this ch
ild,” Jacket said. He stepped in front of Matt. His voice was imperious, like Matt would imagine a knight’s from the Court of King Arthur. “This child is under my protection. If you want to get to him, you must go through me.”

  Matt couldn’t help being proud of his guardian. Jacket sounded impressive, larger-than-life.

  Ali Baba looked at him, his face emotionless. “Fine,” he said simply. He raised the pistol to shoulder level and pulled the trigger.

  The sound of the shot seemed to stop time. Horror wiped out all thought as Matt saw Jacket turn toward him and try to smile. But the attempt was lost in shock and pain. He sank to his knees as blood spread across his chest. Smoke curled from the barrel of the pistol. Jacket winced, then the pupils of his eyes contracted and he fell sideways. A whoosh of breath pushed out of his lungs, then he wheezed. “It hurts.”

  Raisin leapt to his friend’s side. “Jacket! Come on, breathe, pal. Breathe!”

  Matt cried out and scrambled over to Jacket, pushing his hands against the spreading stain of blood. Could he get it to stop? His dusty hands looked small and light-colored against the crimson blood pulsing from the wound.

  “Jacket, you can’t die,” he sobbed. “I need you! I need you!”

  The old guardian struggled for enough air to reply. “Whatever happens, remember where you’ve been,” he managed. His fingers grasped at Matt’s war shirt. “And what you’ve done.”

  “How touching,” Ali Baba said sarcastically.

  Matt glanced fearfully behind him. “I’ll remember, Jacket, I promise. Just don’t die!” When Jacket’s eyes fluttered and started to close, Matt gave him a little shake. “I’m scared,” he whimpered. “Jacket, you can’t leave me.”

  “You can’t be scared.” Jacket’s chest rattled as he fought for another breath. “You have the War Shirt.”

  “Voodoo Child,” Raisin said urgently. He reached across Jacket and pointed to the words on the shirt. “Voodoo means magic, Matt. Like the Witch of Cleghorn Canyon, you are a child of magic.”

  Jacket coughed. “It means you can’ t be scared. If you remember, you can’t be—” His words sputtered as blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth.

  “I’ll never forget you, Jacket.” Tears spilled down Matt’s cheeks. “Even when I grow up, I’ll never forget you.”