Obsidian Tears (Apparition Lake Book 2)

by Daniel D. Lamoreux

  The outside world knew this place as Cave Rock but to the native inhabitants it was more than a tourist stop. Four hundred generations of the Washoe Nation had made this area home and on this night they returned to this sacred place to seek guidance and protection as they prepared for their journey to the north.

  They were not alone. Their unprecedented ceremony, for an unheard of journey, was joined by holy men and braves from the Western and Eastern Mono tribes from California, the Northern Paiute, and the Owens Valley Paiute.

  In the Mojave Desert, nearly 500 miles to the east, the setting sun had allowed the ground to cool and life began to show in earnest. Amid the cottonwood, arrowweed, cattails and rushes, all alive and thriving owing to the natural spring in Grapevine Canyon, the jackrabbit and desert cottontail began their evening feeding and watering rituals, watchful for the hungry coyote, bobcat and mountain lion ever on the prowl. Desert bighorn sheep moved to their beds and owls sat quietly in ambush to watch and wait for active mice, pocket gophers, and reptiles.

  The mouth of the canyon was the doorway to Spirit Mountain, Wikame or Avikwame to the native peoples, the spiritual birthplace of the tribes. The petroglyphs found at that entryway marked more than 800 years of spiritual meetings, quests, journeys, and communications. A gathering, like the one that moment at Cave Rock, took place here, too. Across the seemingly barren and desolate landscape, Fred Livingston of the Nuwa and smiling Monty Clark of the Kawaiisu (the same tribe with differing sentiments) and their chosen braves had come, to assemble in the old way, to discuss an ancient problem, to pray for a safe trip, and to ask for safety in battle.

  They too were joined, in what was an historic ceremony, by members of the Chemehuevi and Panamint Shoshone from California, the Moapa and Southern Paiute from Nevada, and the Uinkarets, Kaibab, and Shivwits tribes from Arizona.

  Broad sagebrush plains surrounded the magnificent V that was the Parowan Gap, a quiet and lonely place in a vast landscape of canyons, cliffs, and forest in southwest Utah. The Gap was a passageway through the Red Hills connecting the Parowan and Cedar Valleys. The travel corridor had been used over the centuries by native Indian tribes, Spanish explorers, and early western pioneers. The Ute leader, Chief Wakara, called it “God's Own House.” It was only natural that on this night the Parowan Gap be used again for 'passage', that holy men, chiefs, and braves of the Gosiute, Pahvant, the Fish Lake, and the Red Lake tribes come together, that they be joined by the Western Shoshone from Nevada, that their talk would turn to ancient times, ancient enemies, and to the necessity for a new war for ancient reasons. That a joint ceremony be conducted for a wondrous and terrifying new journey.

  High above, a golden eagle made its final flight of the day. Inside the Gap, all watched as Tovoots (the overseer), a rock outcrop in the shape of a human profile, swallowed the setting sun. This ages old 'sign', which could only be seen two days in November, told those gathered that the summer sun had gone to its winter home; a harsh winter was fast approaching. The natives in attendance knew they, too, were about to enter a 'season' harsh beyond comparison.

  Again and again that night, at Native American holy places throughout the Great Basin, Indians sneaked onto off-limit government 'Public Lands', ancient Indian places of worship all, to conduct the rites that would bless them and take them safely to Wyoming and then to Legend Rock to meet the Indian evil.

  The Western Numic tribe crossed over from Oregon, to meet the Central Numic from Nevada and Utah, and join up with the Northern Shoshone, Lemhi Shoshone, the Shoshone-Bannock, and the Sheep Eater Shoshone at Big Springs in the Big Lost River Range of Idaho. Many miles and many tribes with one purpose.

  The Southern Numic and Southern Ute tribes prayed and prepared together, at Pagosa Hot Springs in Colorado, after rectifying what was surprisingly the only difficulty experienced by any of the thirty-one tribes that night. Several braves from both bands, who shall remain nameless, were forced to gently subdue a bothersome Colorado State Trooper and, even more gently, lay him prone on the backseat floor of his cruiser until after their ceremony; an amusing moment showing the irony of their situation and heightening the seriousness of their gathering.

  And, near the final destination of the gathering bands, the last light of alpenglow kissed the high peaks of the Gros Ventre Mountains, casting surreal reflections off the surface of Jenny Lake, broken intermittently by splashes and the dimpled outwardly moving halos of water where trout fed on floating insects. The Northern Ute from Colorado, the Tumpanogots and Weber Ute from Utah, Abeque and her handpicked Arapaho, and Two Ravens and those he'd selected from among the Eastern Shoshone, had come to that spot in Grand Teton National Park in groups of two and four throughout the day so as not to attract attention. The government had already denied Two Ravens' tribe a 'permit' to perform the Sun Dance on that sacred ground. There was no way they'd have okayed that night's ritual. So, as with all the Great Basin tribes, they had to risk imprisonment or risk their souls. Now, making final preparations in the deep shadows of the Tetons, they were thankful the tourists had retired, that the rangers had diverted their patrols, thanks to a quiet request from Yellowstone's Chief Ranger, and that peace reigned.

  The soft whistling and mewing of a herd of elk could be heard from the slopes above, interrupted at intervals by the bugling challenge of their patriarch bull. While Two Ravens knew Mother Earth was at risk and in pain, he found it comforting that the life cycles continued. That, and so much more, was why they were there. Violence was not the way of the Great Spirit, he knew. But there was a time for all things. Only those close to the question could understand; in the natural order of things death was necessary to preserve life.

  As their drums began to beat, Two Ravens recalled having once told Glenn that the Pow Wow sometimes still was a sacred tribal gathering. He looked out now over his gathered Indian brothers, some former enemies, and realized this was even more. This was a life-altering gathering. It had to be or they were all lost.

  Chapter 42

  Beams of harsh artificial white light pierced the black of night. Though the moon was slowly rising, its ascendance was hidden by a thick layer of clouds enhancing the darkness that had overtaken the landscape and the hearts and souls of each man in the small party.

  Glenn and two of his rangers, the battle-tested Pence and the newbie Maltby, both of whom had earned their spot and been willing to fill it, picked their way down the unpaved road toward Legend Rock. Each wore a tactical vest and carried the armaments and accessories of modern close-quarters combat. Immediately behind came Johnny Two Ravens and two handpicked warriors of separate tribes, an Arapaho called Ethete, who had no intention of letting a Shoshone fight his battle for him, and Smiling Monty, the Kawaiisu, who agreed to go with a simple, “Why not?” Each carried an identical small box. Two were new, quickly cobbled together to resemble the third, and held a two-pound rock each. The third contained the Pedro Mountain mummy.

  Flanking these bearers were a dozen braves and holy men, wearing ceremonial and battle clothing, representatives from the far corners of the vast Great Basin region from which they'd been summoned. Their dress and weapons vastly differed, one from another, but their purpose and the expressions each wore on their hardened faces were identical. These men, who'd met mere days earlier, were united in mind and spirit, a single force of warriors in the army of mankind.

  Nothing was said; no words were necessary. Each had prepared privately for this moment. Prayers had been said, Death Songs had been sung, reconciliations had been made with the Great Spirit of their individual beliefs. The time had come to do what was right and necessary.

  From out on the rolling hills and small valleys of the expanse of sagebrush, grass, and rock that surrounded them, other small parties also moved toward that central point where destiny and duty had fixed their meeting. Only the sound of running water from Cottonwood Creek mixed with the echoes emanating from distant ridges; those barely perceptible footfalls of small bands of Indian soldiers,
the squeak of saddle leather, the occasional whiny or snort of horses, and the methodical clink and clatter of ancient weapons unsheathed and renewed for the clash to come.

  The previous evening, Glenn had gotten quite an education wandering among the braves, checking their progress, as each prepared for battle. One particularly entertaining group had been discussing the poisons their ancestors concocted to use on their enemies. The Tolowa, he learned, smeared Poison Oak on their arrow tips. The Karok dipped their arrows in rattlesnake brains. The Maidu borrowed from columns A and B by embedding their arrow points in wet Oak Moss Lichen, for up to a year, then added rattlesnake venom. The village chiefs of the Southern Maidu would tease a rattlesnake with a live rabbit until the snake struck. Once the rabbit died its liver was mashed and left to decompose. The resulting poison was painted on arrow points, fore shafts, and spears immediately before battle. Many tribes combined their poisons with magic. To the blood of four rattlesnakes, the Pomo Indians added pulped spiders, bees, ants, and scorpions. They coated their arrows with the mixture and poured the remaining liquid over an image of the enemy carved in rock or drawn in the dirt.

  “The Hupa,” one old Indian said, “only fought with old arrow heads. The aged flints broke up in the enemy's wound and caused a bad infection.” That got a laugh from some of the younger braves.

  “That's nothing,” Fred growled. “The Nuwa treated their arrows with a weed called muguruva.”

  “Did it kill their enemies?” the old man asked.

  “No,” Monty put in with a grin. “But it made their noses bleed.”

  A laugh, Glenn remembered, compliments of Smiling Monty, to help them all prepare for the unfunny times ahead. The memory vanished. The time was upon them.

  Some distance from the Legend Rock petroglyph site, the chief ranger's party left the roadway and scaled the slope to the ridge line upon which the petroglyphs were engraved. Following along that ridge, they proceeded to a spot just above the site and fanned out into a circle inside of which the three boxes were set at twenty-five yard intervals from one another and on the three points of an imaginary triangle. Only the chief ranger and the outfitter knew which box contained the mummy; the other two were merely decoys. If the Nimerigar breached their defensive lines, it was Glenn's and Two Ravens' hope that, while reinforcements arrived, they'd have their little hands full trying to find and retrieve their long-dead shaman.

  Among the party were several archers to keep the demons at bay. The others carried war clubs, hatchets, knives, and other up-close-and-personal weapons with which to defend the bait should it be necessary. All went to their predetermined positions to watch and wait.

  As the other bands of warriors came into proximity of the site, each took up their strategic positions, some at the base of the escarpment, some along the raging creek, others scattered in a wide perimeter around Legend Rock. Horsemen equipped with spears, shields, bows, and long war clubs patrolled the dark perimeter and moved in and out of the intended battlefield on watch for any approach of their sworn enemies.

  As if the placement of the tiny corpse had started the universe moving, the clouds parted revealing a brilliantly full moon encircled by an eerily iridescent ring, a halo of brilliant rainbow qualities. Several braves saw it at once and a collective gasp went up. A ringed moon, among many of the nations, was an intimation of doom. Fred, in a group at the base of the escarpment, confessed as much to his group by pointing at the sky and crying out, “Tuuwaruugidi.”

  Doom. But, many of the Indians wondered, for whom?

  On the same distant hilltop from which Glenn, as a sniper, had protected her at the end of her vision quest, Abeque now stood and prayed over the army of Indian Nations below. She hadn't lit a smudge bowl as, just then, she didn't want to drive away evil spirits. But she'd climbed high to ensure her pleas were heard above the sounds of battle should it come. Abeque asked for courage, strength, resilience and intervention by the Great Spirit that the children of the coyote, mankind, might be victorious.

  The field of engagement around Legend Rock was silent save for periodic shuffling as the anxious warriors checked and rechecked their weapons and signaled to one another as they watched shadows on the rugged living terrain shift beneath the moonlight. The night dragged on. For hours the braves, holy men, and rangers listened intently, dissecting the sounds of the high prairie night. With each breath of wind or rustle of grass their emotions rose and fell and their heart beats and respiration rates did the same. They waited.

  Standing guard over his box, Monty heard a branch of sagebrush snap. Another branch of sagebrush, this one somewhere to his rear. He turned, as he'd turned a dozen times already, battle axe raised in anticipation of an assault, but expecting nothing. That's what he saw, nothing.

  Then movement… on the dark ground before him.

  A lone Nimerigar, with a spear clutched to its chest, emerged from the shadows running at him. In an instant the demon leapt into the air, howled, and pushed the spear forward. Monty had no time to react as the creature drove the spearhead deep into his heart. Monty toppled onto his back. The demon rode him down and stood atop the Kawaiisu with his feet planted firmly on his ribs. It withdrew the spear and raised it high in the air over its head to deliver a second blow.

  Two Ravens, fifteen yards distant, turned at the shout. He saw at a glance he was too late to save Monty but knew in that same instant he was just in time to join the war. He fired his bow. The arrow flew true. It caught the howling Nimerigar in the side. The blow sent the creature airborne and turned its howl to an ungodly shriek. Then, defying reality, the cartwheeling demon burst into flames.

  Two Ravens pushed his black hat back on his head, a gesture that, for him, was tantamount to screaming. “Did you see that?”

  “I saw it,” Glenn replied. The small fire died down. The Nimerigar's body was gone. “But I don't believe it.”

  Chapter 43

  Spread out across the elevated field of the escarpment the braves were at their posts at the ready but, in that instant, all eyes were trained on the empty spot where the Nimerigar had vanished shrieking in flames.

  “Abeque was right,” Glenn whispered. If he'd had any thoughts the Arapaho healer had misled them, if for even a moment he'd disbelieved her claims to have had a vision and to have spoken with the spirits, he knew better now.

  “She was,” Two Ravens added. Then smiling, with an inexplicable sudden pride, he repeated, “She was right.”

  Abeque had seen it, as Nakos had 250 years before, as Snow on the Mountains had again recently, the secret – a gift from the Indian spirits – to the destruction of the Nimerigar. She'd seen it again after the vision. She'd climbed the rocks to the pictograph chiseled by Nakos, uncovered by Snow on the Mountains, the rude drawing of four Indian spirits, the wolf, the fox, the bobcat, and the cougar riding the air above three stick Indian braves. In their hands, a single long bow nocked with an arrow tipped with an outlandishly large and threatening arrowhead; the rock beneath the arrowhead stained such a deep jet black the weather of two and a half centuries had not dulled the color.

  The message, the secret Abeque brought back from her vision quest, had been there all along. Many Indians working as one, fighting the Nimerigar with piercing weapons carved from the only substance on Earth that could send the evil demons back to their fiery underworld and wash the land clean again, Indian tears, the black glass of obsidian rock.

  Glenn had seen it himself, in the museum the morning Franklin's body was discovered, and never recognized it. Amid the destruction there were rocks lying all over the floor, iron ore, limestone, shale. But the weapon that had driven off the Nimerigar and allowed the dying ranger to protect the Pedro, the rock in Frankie's hand, was a chunk of obsidian.

  It had been the final straw for Stanton. When Glenn told the park superintendent of the message Two Ravens and Abeque had brought, that they not only needed to assemble an army of the Great Basin Indian nations, but that the chosen Native Americans
be allowed to converge, worship, and prepare for battle at their holy places of old, all now on so-called 'Public land', and that they then be allowed to come to Wyoming to pick a bloody fight with an ancient enemy, Stanton was driven to the precipice. But when they told him this army would have to illegally mine the Obsidian Cliff for the rock necessary to make the arrow heads, axe heads, spear heads, and knife blades to be used in the war, that, against Federal Law, they would carry the contraband obsidian away, shape it for battle, sharpen it to a keen killing edge, and use it to destroy the Nimerigar… Stanton went over the edge.

  “It's the only way!” Abeque, Glenn, and Two Ravens had each insisted in their turn. Obsidian was black as the Devil's heart but, under light, glinted white with the purity of the Great Spirit and, when chipped into shape, had an edge sharper than a razor. Obsidian represented suffering. It held special powers. “This is the reason the cliff was put there in the first place,” Abeque said. “For the day the American Indian needed to save the country.”

  Stanton washed his hands of it. He washed his hands of them. He ordered them out of his office and might well have had them all arrested on some sort of conspiracy charge had Betty Chmielewski not been there. It wasn't a pretty moment when Lew spoke up. Glenn would never have described her voice as musical, and he had no clue whether or not she had the charms necessary to soothe a savage breast, but he could not deny she'd done the trick. When Lew barked “Michael!” he'd stopped his ranting. When she told him she was on the side of the angels, meaning she believed Abeque, Two Ravens, and Glenn and was in their camp, he ran out of words altogether. And when she quietly told him she had every intention of assisting them in their craziness and that he'd need to have her arrested as well, he was finished.