by Jeff Altabef
Copyright
www.EvolvedPub.com
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Wind Catcher
(A Chosen Novel – Book 1)
Copyright © 2015 Jeff Altabef and Erynn Altabef
Cover Art Copyright © 2015 Mallory Rock
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ISBN (EPUB Version): 1622533135
ISBN-13 (EPUB Version): 978-1-62253-313-8
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Edited by Megan Harris
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eBook License Notes:
You may not use, reproduce or transmit in any manner, any part of this book without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles and reviews, or in accordance with federal Fair Use laws. All rights are reserved.
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only; it may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to your eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or the author has used them fictitiously.
Other Books by Jeff Altabef
Shatter Point
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www.JeffAltabef.com
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What Others Are Saying about Shatter Point:
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WINNER: Pinnacle Book Achievement Award, Fall 2014 – Best Book in the Category of THRILLER
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“An original gripping, saga. From genetic manipulation and twists of fate to cold-blooded murder, scenarios change with a snap but succeed in bringing readers along for what evolves into a wild ride of not just murder and mayhem, but social inspection.” Donovan, eBook Reviewer, Midwest Book Review
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“The book combines my favorite aspects of my favorite authors into one. James Patterson – the master of the psycho killer who kidnaps girls, Patricia Cornwell – scientific thriller, and Dean Koontz – really spooky plots.” – Kat Biggie, No Holding Back
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“Shatter Point is an exciting novel of suspense, action, drama and even a little bit of horror…. It’s definitely one of the best novels out there right now.” Next Page Reviews
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“When I reached the last 100 pages no one was going to be able to stop me reading until I knew the ending!” Olivia’s Catastrophe
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“An amazing read.... This is one of those books that no reader will be able to part with until they reach the end, I guarantee it.” 5 Stars Reynolds Readers’ Favorite
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“If you enjoy a great suspense novel, I would HIGHLY recommend this book. It will get your heart pumping and have you hoping the craziness will turn out for the good of everyone involved. You won’t want to put this story down till the very end.” Bass Giraffe
Dedication:
For my wife Karen, both my daughters, and for my mom who, through her love and talent as a storyteller, has sparked that passion in me. — JA
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For my wonderful family who has inspired me throughout the process of writing, and for my best friend Mary, who reminds me that anything is possible with a little faith. — EA
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Other Books by Jeff Altabef
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Acknowledgements
About the Authors
What’s Next from Jeff Altabef and Erynn Altabef?
More from Jeff Altabef
More from Evolved Publishing
Sicheii told me this story only once, which was odd because he always repeated his stories a half dozen times. Every time he told a story it changed—often in subtle ways. Other times, he switched around important events or characters. When young, I pointed out the inconsistencies as if he’d been caught cheating at cards, which he also did quite often. My grandfather never flustered. He patiently explained that his stories were living stories. That’s what he called them—living stories. As such, they changed on their own from time to time. He never explained what he meant. Now I know.
Three years ago....
Sicheii opened my bedroom door and waved me inside. The taste of chocolate birthday cake swam in the back of my mouth and happily back flipped over my tongue where it swirled among my teeth. Mom stopped me after eating two pieces, but the rest of the cake was safely tucked into the freezer—a spoonful away.
Only the three of us celebrated my thirteenth birthday: Sicheii, Mom, and me. Other kids had big birthday parties, but for me, it was only ever us three. As usual, Mom was talking to her boss downstairs in her office so Sicheii and I were left alone.
He pulled me into my room, closed the door, and sat me on the bed. He rolled my desk chair over and bore his penetrating gray eyes into mine. That expression could mean only one thing. He liked to tell me stories when Mom wasn’t listening. I know he told her the same ones when she was young, but this way, his stories were like secrets we shared together. Besides, Mom wasn’t a fan of his tales. They weren’t modern enough for her.
“Are you going to tell me another story?” I asked him.
He smiled and nodded. The lines of his deeply tanned face turned upward and his white hair shifted against his broad shoulders. “Yes, Juliet, but this is not just any story. This is the story of your birth.”
“Mom’s already told me all about how my life began.”
He frowned. “This story is about your birth, not your beginning. The beginning of your story starts when the First World was new, as it does for all of our people.”
“Troy says the same thing.”
“He’s right. Your friend enjoys a strong connection to the spirit world.” Sicheii inched the chair closer to the bed, his eyes intense and his voice stoic. His mood had turned dark as suddenly as an unexpected storm.
“Your arrival into this world was... difficult. Your mother had been admitted into the hospital the prior afternoon. She had already endured eighteen hours of labor when we all clustered about her bed. Sweat and strain clouded her face. My eyes never strayed far from the heart monitor, which measured both of your heartbeats. It was three twelve in the morning.”
“Were you angry that Mom wanted to go to the hospital?” A small smile snuck across my face
. I’ve always wanted to ask him about that. As the Tribe’s medicine man, he helped dozens of other women deliver babies, so I imagined he was probably sore that Mom wanted to deliver in a hospital instead of under his care.
“Your mom is headstrong. She puts too much faith in white medicine. It’s better to look deeper into the state of someone’s spirit than treat symptoms, but that’s not the intent of this story.”
I pushed one of my pillows against my headboard and tried to get comfortable for the rest of the story. When I punched the pillow a few times to get the shape just right, he shot me a sharp look.
Once I was done fidgeting, he continued. “Tension filled the small room. At first, there were only four of us—your mom, the doctor, one nurse, and me. But more people started to squeeze into the small room and the activity buzzed like a beehive. Your mom pushed when the doctor told her to. Her entire body strained with effort. She screamed in pain. She had refused any painkillers. The intervals between your heartbeats lengthened. First, ten seconds, then fourteen, then twenty. I grabbed the arm of the nurse standing next to me.
“‘There’s something wrong. Something from inside,’ I told him.
“He frowned. ‘Everything’s fine. She’s just in active labor,’” Sicheii smirked. “The arrogant man thought he knew more about childbirth than me. My fingers dug into his thin arm, past muscle and tendon, until my nails pressed against bone. He had to pry them loose with considerable effort.”
Sicheii’s eyes burned white hot. Often, he used funny voices to enliven his stories, but his tone was flat, as if he wanted to tell these events exactly as they happened instead of how he wished they had.
My pulse quickened and butterflies swirled around the ice cream in my stomach.
“My eyes narrowed when your heartbeats stretched to thirty seconds. I locked eyes with the doctor. She was a friend of mine.
“She stared back at me, and at that moment, she suspected something was wrong also. Everyone looked at us.
“‘Prepare the OR,’ she ordered. ‘We’re doing a cesarean.’ One nurse ran from the room. The nurse who had doubted me started to protest when a scream escaped your mom’s lips. It sounded like a hawk’s hunting call, loud and shrill. A chill raced up my spine.
His voice quickened. “Blood appeared where it should never have been. Doctors and nurses whirled around the room. IVs were injected into your mom’s arm. The heart monitors were disconnected. New worried looking doctors appeared wearing operating gowns. An orderly wheeled your mom into the operating room. Stark white light burned my eyes, and I was left on the outside to pray.” He took a deep breath.
“How come you didn’t go inside?”
“That operating room was no place for me. What good could come of my presence? Praying was better. You know there are many spirits to call upon.”
I nodded. Sometimes he made me recite all the spirits and what type of guidance I should seek from them.
“I called upon all of them, but focused on my favorite two—your grandmother and great grandfather. Time slowed as if the world spun more slowly than it had ever done before. I drifted between worlds and spent time in the shadow lands with my wife and grandfather. They told me much about you. They said you would be okay and sent me back. When my eyes opened, your mom’s obstetrician stood before me, her face grim. Spider webs crept from her eyes and canyons burrowed into her forehead.
“She told me that you and your mother were out of danger. I waited for the bad news written in her sad eyes and downturned lips.
‘‘‘But?’ I prodded her.
“She sighed. ‘But your daughter’s uterus ruptured. The damage was extensive. We’ve repaired the organ, but she won’t be able to have any other children.’ She leaned against a chair, exhausted from the delivery and operation.
“I nodded, and she retreated from the room.”
I expected the story to end. Mom had told me most of this before, but Sicheii leaned closer to me. Only a few inches separated us. He smelled of incense—amber and cinnamon. His eyes were wide and sweat dotted his brow. My hands turned clammy. I’d never seen him worried before.
“After the doctor left, I thanked the spirits and slipped from the room. The nursery was on the same floor as the birthing room, but that wasn’t my first stop.
“The time was early and the floor deserted. Unseen, I glided through the staircase door and found a plain tan backpack waiting for me with a blue hospital gown and an identification card hidden inside. One of my friends had left it for me.”
“Who?”
Sicheii shook his head. To say he had many friends was the same as describing cotton candy as sweet. One of his friends always seemed nearby.
“Disguised as a nurse, I strolled to the nursery and avoided the gaze of the few sleepy doctors and nurses who lingered on the floor. One nurse was on duty—another friend. We shared a look, and she left. Three newly born babies slept in bassinets. All three were quiet. You were easy to spot. Even then you looked like your mother. I lifted you in my arms, kissed you on top of your newly born squished head, and unwrapped the white cotton blanket that bound you.”
He touched my knee, and I held my breath. “I took a leather pouch from my pocket, removed an ancient needle blessed by the Great Wind Spirit, and found the sole of your right foot. I asked the Wind Spirit for strength before blessing your foot with the needle. You screeched, but your scream quickly died away when you stopped breathing. Your face turned blue and my heart raced, worry bubbling up inside of me. Time ticked past. I counted fifty seconds before I breathed life back into you.
“You began to breathe and cry again. Relief washed over me like a river over smooth stones. I wrapped you back in the blanket, returned you to the small basinet, turned, and left.” Sicheii squeezed my knee and lifted his hand back. “We are the only ones who know this story. You need to remember it.” Watery tears filled his eyes.
“Why would you do something like that? Were you crazy? Who does that?”
He stood without looking at me. The chair rolled away from the bed and bumped into the desk. He spun and strolled from the room, leaving me alone without answering any of my questions. I followed him downstairs, still peppering him with questions. What was in the needle? Where did you get it? He acted as if he didn’t hear me and walked out the front door without saying goodbye to Mom.
When he left, I raced to the kitchen and asked Mom about his story. She bristled. Their relationship was best described as a seesaw, one end frosty and bitter, the other warm and loving. They argued often then, the seesaw tilting firmly in the frosty direction. She told me he had made up the story and for me not to worry about it. I wasn’t sure what to believe.
That night, I took a flashlight and stared down at my right sole. I brushed fuzz from my sock away and found a small star-shaped scar.
Everything about me is a lie.
My entire life is a leaning tower of lies that threatens to collapse at any moment and bury me so deep I may never climb out from under the rubble.
I slam the bathroom door and my hand trembles as the old-fashioned steel bolt slides into place.
Click.
The locked door offers no real safety. Locked doors can be broken, but it does give me a moment of privacy and a chance to breathe. So much has happened over the past few days. It’s like I’ve become a totally different person, someone unrecognizable.
The adrenaline that had been pumping through my veins has completely melted away now as I lean against the wooden door. My breath comes fast and ragged. My body feels heavy and weary and my legs weaken. Gravity pulls me down. Too tired to resist, I slide down the length of the door until the white marble floor rushes up to meet me.
I work hard to steady my breath and focus on taking in fresh air, expelling the old. It’s a simple process, yet it takes all of my concentration. When air starts to flow, my eyes close. Time slows and drifts by erratically.
Images flash through my mind—an eclectic group of memories: c
hildhood birthdays, second place in a spelling bee, hanging out with Troy, rock climbing with Sicheii. Most are happy, but they’re all tainted now. The lies spoil them. They were never true. They were just part of a story, one that’s changed forever.
My weary mind reaches for sleep, but I resist. Too much time would be wasted. There’s too much for me to do. Too many loose ends need to be tied, so I open moist eyes and wipe away tears I don’t recall crying.
When my vision clears, crimson-streaked fingers flutter near my face as if directed by someone else. I thought blood looked like ketchup, but it’s darker and thicker than you would think. My hands spin in tight circles. Each finger is stained with thick, mud-colored smears.
Whose blood is on them?
A cold sweat coats my back and my chest tightens. This blood must be scrubbed away immediately. It starts to burn as if it’s alive, as if possessed by dark spirits, spirits that want to harm me. It freaks me out. I have got to wash them clean now, this second, immediately, before....
I turn the faucet and hot water tumbles over my skin. I frantically rub my fingers together and hope friction and water alone will make the blood disappear. The water in the sink turns red and then pink, but traces of blood stubbornly stay behind. A bar of soap rests on the edge of the porcelain sink. Lather squishes between my fingers—twisting and turning, scrubbing and rinsing. My skin turns raw from the rubbing, and when the water has lost all its warmth, I turn the faucet off.
Hard to find specks of blood cling to my flesh, but I still see them and feel them.
Will they ever wipe clean? I don’t think so.
A silent scream builds deep within me, which so desperately wants to be released it practically hurts, but no sound slips past my lips. I’m too tired to scream.
A square mirror hangs over the sink, but it’s an enemy. I don’t want to see who I’ve become, so my gaze stays fixed down toward the sink. Unfortunately, the blood-smeared faucet is shiny, stainless, and reflects back an image of myself anyway. I glare deep into my eyes, leaning close to the faucet to study them. They look familiar, but as I pierce them more deeply, a hollowness appears that has never been there before. It scares me.
