The Nightcrawler

by Mick Ridgewell

  Beth hated the Interstates. Nothing interesting ever happened on the Interstate, unless of course you consider fatal car accidents interesting. The country should be seen from the county roads and two-lane highways, the ones that pass through the small towns, not by them. It was with some regret when she took the ramp from Colorado Route 69 onto I-25 heading south to New Mexico. She didn’t like what was going on with Roger, she thought maybe the altitude might be messing him up, or even worse, maybe he was unstable and wasn’t taking his meds. Did he have meds? Had she seen any since they met? Her mind began to conjure one unlikely scenario after another. Things like an escaped mental patient, or maybe a cerebral episode that had deposited a cast of odd characters inside his head.

  Whatever the reason, she had hoped a change of scenery might be just the ticket. The Jeep labored up steep inclines, and then did rollercoaster type accelerations down equally steep declines. Beth stretched her luck speeding out of Colorado, and she didn’t slow down in New Mexico. The mountains were not nearly so majestic, but still breathtaking at times. The trees became smaller and fewer, almost sparse, as they neared Santa Fe. The landscape seemed to lose color with each passing mile. The sky however, was as blue as she could remember. The air was clean and the wind was whipping her hair around in torrents. If her concerns for Roger weren’t so all encompassing, she would be loving the freedom that was all around her. Beth studied the clouds passing the horizon. They danced across the blue backdrop moving along in an invisible jet-stream. It was almost like watching a time-lapse film.

  She stopped the Jeep only long enough for quick meals, to get gas, or use the restrooms. Roger had been quiet, but he hadn’t had any more hallucinations or visions or whatever he was having. She talked him into resting while she drove, but her real reason was to get as much mileage behind them as she could.

  They had passed Albuquerque in the early evening and by the time it got dark, they were pitching the tent at a campsite on the edge of the Cibola National Forest. Roger had regained some of his exuberance and tested Beth’s patience, commenting on her quiet demeanor during camp set up. She was exhausted, having done all the driving while at the same time dealing with the stress brought on by her imagination. Shortly after the tent was up, she crawled in and fell asleep before Roger had entered and taken off his shoes. He sat near the door and watched her sleep. Listened to her sleep was more like it. The moon was hiding somewhere behind the earth and the darkness inside the tent was almost absolute. Roger sat straining through the blackness trying to see the outline of her body rise and fall with each breath he heard. A chorus of chirping crickets filled the night with a haunting rhythm.

  With growing unease, he unzipped the tent and crawled out into the night. The zipper’s interruption of the silence stopped the cricket song almost as abruptly as turning off a radio. A howling in the distance, a dog, coyote, or maybe a wolf brought a sense of dread. Roger zipped the tent closed and stood surveying the night. The darkness was almost as oppressive outside as it was in the tent. He had the feeling of a shrinking room, the walls closing in from all sides and began to get angry with himself. There were no monsters, no boogey men. So what in the hell was wrong with him? Since when was he afraid of the dark?

  He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, let it out slowly and almost on cue, when his lungs were empty, the crickets resumed their chirping. A scent of smoldering wood wafted through on the crisp breeze. It was a nice smell, a calming aroma and Roger followed it, not really paying attention to where he was going. Not that it would have helped in this darkness. The smell of smoke grew stronger, almost overpowering as he walked. Then a second smell began to permeate his senses. It was meat, like the smell of burgers on a grill, but not really like that at all.

  Just past a stand of trees, Roger could see the faint glow of a campfire, about a hundred or so yards to his left. He stopped and stood, frozen as if his feet were set in cement. He wanted to approach the fire, to see who was cooking at this time of night, but something in his mind told him that might not be a safe thing to do. His curiosity got the better of his common sense and he crept toward the camp. He was trying to stay along the edge of the trees, which he hoped provided him some cover. The mild breeze at his tent had quickened to gusting winds, the trees swayed overhead. Whistling taunts floated down, then the wind would change direction, slow, or strengthen, causing the whistling to change to moaning.

  The camp was set at the edge of the tree line. Roger cautiously drew even with the small tent; the flames from the fire easily illuminated the scene. Plumes of white smoke swirled through the top of the trees and quickly blew away into the night. He glanced around the area intently looking for the inhabitant but saw nobody around. A skinned animal, probably a rabbit he thought, hung on a makeshift spit over the fire. What little fat the scrawny critter had, dripped steadily fueling the dying flames. With each drip, the light grew brighter, the flames licking the searing carcass. The sizzling juices sent an inviting aroma through the night air.

  The scent, although distracting, didn’t ease Roger’s apprehension. He turned to retreat to his own camp but tripped and fell over something in his path.

  Roger’s face was inches from the pointed toe of an old boot. He looked up from the boot to the face of a tall man. His back was to the glow of the flames, his eerie silhouette filling Roger’s view.

  The man stood motionless for a moment then said, “You should be more careful. Sneaking around a man’s camp in the dark of night can be a dangerous thing.” His voice was soft and had an accent that Roger didn’t recognize. His words were crisp, his enunciation perfect. To Roger it didn’t sound real.

  The man offered Roger a hand and when he took it, the man hauled him to his feet with a swift heave that caught Roger by surprise. The man’s grip on Roger’s hand was vise-like and didn’t release when the two stood face to face.

  The stranger’s dinner stopped dripping, the flames faded to a flicker. The dark folded over the two men. Still gripping Roger’s now aching hand, the stranger said, “You have a heavy spirit, for such a young man.” Then he released the younger man’s hand and glided to the edge of the campfire.

  Roger marveled at the large man’s smooth gait. He appeared to be walking on air as barely a sound came from a single footfall as he treaded over the ground. When he got to the fire, he tossed a few bits of kindling into the embers, sending a dancing swirl of red sparks, spiraling up until the glow disappeared in the cool air.

  With new fuel to feed the flames, the camp took on a glow that shimmered back to life illuminating their faces. For the first time Roger got a good look at the man. He was much older than Roger had first thought. His hair was long and almost white. He wore it pulled back and tied at the base of his neck where it hung down the center of his back ending between his shoulder blades. His skin was dark, slightly lined but otherwise youthful. His cheekbones set high, helped to frame dark eyes that gleamed with peaceful contentment. His clothes were tattered, but he wore them well, a red plaid shirt and blue jeans, frayed in the knees and seat. He was a tall man with striking posture and poise.

  Roger stood motionless, not saying a word. He didn’t know what to do or what to say. More than anything he wanted to retreat to his tent and to Beth. Beth he thought, this was right up her alley. She thrived on meeting new and strange people. As much as he wanted to bolt, Roger didn’t retreat. He stood there unable to take his eyes off the old man, now sitting crosslegged at the fire.

  Out of the silence, the melodic sound of the old man’s voice put Roger back on the firm ground of reality. “Would the young man with the heavy spirit please a lonely old man with his company?”

  Roger’s heart sank deep into his abdomen. He did want to join the guy, but he wished Beth were here to take the lead. She was better at these encounters. It was her thing, well one of her things. He was not sure why he was apprehensive, he had accepted rides across the country without hesitation. There was the fellow in the old Buick with the weird hai
r and the multitude of piercings in his face. Then the fat lady with the tattoo of a skull and cross bones on her neck driving a pickup with a cap on the back. She smoked big stogies and had a raspy voice that got worse every time she went into one of her coughing fits. He freely accepted a ride from a perv who began to masturbate while he was driving. Roger had threatened to punch his lights out if he didn’t stop the car. Surely, this soft spoken old man was safer company than any of those.

  The old man lifted the animal from the fire. While holding the makeshift spit in one hand, he wrenched one of its limbs off with the other and held it up in Roger’s direction. It should have burned his hand but his grip didn’t falter.

  “My name is Storm Cloud, but you can call me Ike,” he said with a grin. “Now come, sit by the fire and eat. She would want you to eat. You are going to need your strength to finish the journey you are on.”

  Roger wondered how he knew about Beth. Did he see them arrive at the camp? Maybe he was passing by when they put up the tent. That didn’t make any sense; it was too dark to recognize anybody.

  Ike was poking the fire with a stick, and couldn’t have known the astonished look on Roger’s face. “The raven is a very good spirit,” Ike said, still looking into the glowing embers of the campfire. “If you heed her warnings you will be saved from harm.”

  Roger was completely confused now. He’s talking about Beth, then he’s talking about birds, then Beth. “I’m sorry, Ike, but I don’t have any idea what you’re telling me.”

  “Young people have a hard time listening to what is obvious to the elders.” Ike finally looked up from the fire, his expression still soft, like a loving grandfather. “My people do not believe that we die. Our bodies pass, they dry up and blow away with the wind, but the spirit soars on for always.”

  Ike paused, his eyes dark but warm, studying Roger. He looked for a hint of comprehension. He glared as though his stare could reach deep into Roger’s soul, to the heart of his spirit. “When our spirit leaves our body, it joins with an animal, watching over the ones left behind.”

  Ike held out the meat again and Roger took it, “Yeow, doesn’t that burn your hand?” Ike didn’t answer; he returned his attention to the crackling coals, watching the smoke swirl up and dissipate into the breeze.

  “How do you know about Beth?”

  “I do not know the one you call Beth.” He looked up and again their eyes met.

  An uncomfortable silence followed this admission. Roger was anxious about the whole discussion, and Ike felt his unease. The silence suddenly broke by a fluttering sound from the treetops. They both looked up, Roger squinting to see something in the blackness. “She is here,” Ike, said pointing over Roger’s left shoulder.

  “Beth?” Roger called out.

  Ike dropped a few more twigs onto the dying embers. They ignited immediately, flooding the camp with a pale, orange radiance. Perched high in a tree Roger saw a bird, possibly a raven or a crow he thought. Its eyes glowed red in the firelight.

  “She has been watching over you your whole journey.” Ike peeled a hunk of flesh from the carcass in his hand and tossed it to the ground, near the edge of the tree line. The bird swooped down and devoured the morsel as though it hadn’t eaten for days. “She has also been watching the other one.”

  “The other one?” Roger asked, his voice cracking just a bit. “Beth? Is Beth the other one?” Suddenly a chuckle escaped his lips. “Beth put you up to this didn’t she?” Roger spun around, “Beth, real funny, you can come out now.”

  Ike paid little attention to Roger, who was circling the camp sure he would find Beth hiding in the trees. Beth would be jumping out any second laughing her ass off.

  Ike poked the fire some more and continued, “She has also been following the dog whose eyes glow red like fire.” Roger turned back to Ike who continued poking the ashes, sending more embers and smoke billowing upwards. Ike studied the expressionless face of the young man opposite him. Gently, as if not sure Roger was ready for this conversation, Ike continued, “You are familiar with the dog I speak of?”

  “I, I had a dream.”

  “You had a dream of a dog with red eyes?”

  “Twice, actually.” He looked to Ike who was no longer looking into the fire. He was looking at Roger. “Well, the second time wasn’t really a dream.” Roger walked slowly, warily toward the fire. His legs felt weak, and his head felt foggy. He was moving like a man decades older.

  “You had a vision,” Ike said. He made it sound like a question, but really it was a statement.

  Roger squatted across from him, and unconsciously picked up a twig, with which he poked at the embers. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “When a man sees what isn’t there, he is either dreaming, hallucinating, or he is having a vision.” Ike sat across from Roger, “Watch the smoke rise from the coals,” he said, motioning his right hand toward the sky. “My people used to send messages from across the plain to the people of the mountains using the smoke.”

  Roger craned his neck toward the sky trying to see a message in the swirling mass. “Just looks like smoke to me, Ike.”

  “Sometime smoke is just smoke. It is only when the spirits shape the smoke into a message that it means any more than a sign of fire.” Ike produced a pipe and a small pouch from the breast pocket of his old shirt. “Sometimes the smoke needs a little help,” he said with a slight grin. He reached into the pouch and pulled out a pinch of tobacco, at least Roger believed it to be tobacco until the old man lit it. The smell was pungent and sweet at the same time. First Roger thought it was the odor of pot, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t pot and it wasn’t tobacco. Ike took two deep pulls; both times he exhaled directly into the base of the fire. The embers glowed red the first time then popped and sparked the second.

  “The flames need your help, young man of heavy spirit.”

  “You can just call me Roger and I don’t smoke.”

  “This is the only way to find out what the other one wants of you,” Ike said extending his arm over the fire offering the pipe to Roger. “She might also give you guidance. She likes the girl that you travel with. She thinks this woman will do anything to keep you safe.”

  “Who the hell is she?”

  “Draw from the pipe and the answers may come”

  Roger swept his hand to Ike’s and took the pipe. The pipe was hot and burned the palm of his hand but he didn’t flinch. He just gripped it tighter and followed Ike’s lead. Twice he drew the smoke from the pipe into his lungs, and then struggled unsuccessfully against the urge to cough. The smoke burned his throat, his chest wretched in protest. A tear ran down his cheek, yet he continued. Twice he coughed the smoke into the glowing embers. A swirl of red sparks spiraled up from the ashes almost before he finished. His lungs were on fire, he wanted to cough again, but he wouldn’t let himself. The aroma of the pipe seemed more pervasive and less sweet as tears continued to well up in his eyes, blurring his vision. His throat felt like he had swallowed a mouthful of the sparks that danced over the fire. It was queer, the way they hovered before his eyes.

  Roger’s head began to spin; he wondered where his common sense had gone. A man he just met, a man he didn’t know at all, offers him a pipe, and he smokes it. Who knows what was in that thing? “What was that shit?” He was looking at his hands. They were shaking. Not just a shiver, they were violently shaking. He tried to stand but his legs would not lift his weight.

  When he looked back to Ike, Ike was no longer sitting across from him. Roger was alone, except for the raven. The bird looked up at Roger from the spot where Ike stood moments before.

  “Hey, old man, where the hell are you?”

  Roger was near panic as he called out into the darkness. The bird squawked. The noise was deafening in the utter silence. The wind howled through the treetops sounding like an animal in the throes of death. Roger gazed to the source of the sound and saw the branches sway in a motion that appeared to give them a collective life. At that moment he coul
d almost believe in monsters.

  The raven again let out an ear splitting caw and the sound appeared to linger unnaturally in the exhaust from the campfire. The smell of the pipe permeated the whole of the campsite, Roger’s eyes burned. Tears streamed down his cheeks. His face glistened, and he felt his chest strain to inhale as though a huge weight were crushing his ribs. His legs felt paralyzed, his arms like lead. He cried out for Ike, but the only answer came from the bird. Sparks and smoke continued to thicken as the bird spread its shiny black wings. As the great wings began to flap the turbulence brought crackles as the oxygen starved embers glowed bright red breathing in the fresh air. The raven rose into the air above the flames and was consumed in a blinding flash, and what was left behind was Lisa. She was grown up, but there was no doubt that it was Lisa. Roger instantly relaxed, just like he had a hundred times as a boy. Beth was right; Lisa was still his guardian angel. He melted in her gaze. It was like looking into his mother’s eyes.

  Lisa smiled down at him and all his anxiety faded. He felt safe and relaxed. Lisa had always had that effect on him. Nothing bad ever happened to him when she was near. The apparition above the flames held out a hand but Roger’s arms were too heavy to reach out to her. Lisa’s lips appeared to move, but the only sound came from the swirling wind sweeping the uppermost tips of the towering trees. On the ground, the air was still.

  “Lisa, I can’t hear you, say it again.”

  Her lips moved again, and Roger heard the words, but the sound came from above the trees. It was like sitting in a movie theatre with a bad sound system. What he heard scared him, the voice came in a whisper, “Stay close to Beth, she is your guardian angel now.”

  Roger squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath then slowly opened them. Lisa was still there, but she was eleven again. She was wearing a coat, hat and scarf that appeared to blow in the wind, but it was a wind that had no effect on the flames, or the smoke.

  Lisa had white skates on her feet, which dangled just above the fire. Her eyes were sad. They were the eyes of someone saying goodbye. With all his might, Roger leapt to his feet calling out her name.