Wind Catche

by Jeff Altabef

  My head whirls unsteadily, and Sicheii’s face changes into that of Doctor Dan. “Turn your attention to the sounds. Embrace them, Juliet. Feel them intensify, shape them.”

  Is this reality or another dream?

  “What do I do?” My voice sounds weak and pathetic, and I despise it. My right heel stings, and I remember the story Sicheii told me of my birth. I feel the connection between that story and the voices as if tied together by a silk cord.

  “You don’t have much time left,” Doctor Dan says. “Concentrate on the voices, embrace them, fine tune them with your mind like you did the other night. It’s the only way.”

  I close my eyes and my body wobbles. I reach into my mind for the voices. Determination replaces my fear. I will not die here. I focus on the loudest voice. It sounds like a radio station that isn’t quite tuned in, full of static and gibberish.

  My skin burns. I refuse to open my eyes for fear I might see flames engulfing my body. My attention focuses on the sounds. They grow steadily louder but no more comprehensible. My body rocks. I almost topple over and have to put my hands down on the mattress to steady myself. If I fall, I will never rise again, but I will not fall. My eyes stay clenched shut.

  I play with the noises and mold them, twist them. They start to come into focus. The unintelligible words begin to sound like Sicheii’s voice. My lungs are on fire. I gasp for breath.

  I open my eyes. Sicheii’s face is close to mine. He takes shallow desperate breaths. “Déélgai,” I say. “Déélgai, you crazy old man.”

  He bends backward at the waist and lets out a full-bodied “WHOOP.” A smile beams brightly across his face. “What does déélgai mean, Little Bird?”

  Déélgai is an ancient word, but I understand its meaning. I not only hear the word but see the image from his mind. “Swan... Sicheii. It means swan.”

  “Yes it does,” he says. He lifts the back of his hand to my head. “The fever has broken. You’ve passed your first test.” He feathers his fingertips against my cheek lovingly.

  “Great, now get me out of here.” Other words and images flash in my head. They are Sicheii’s. His relief and love wrap tightly around my body like a wool blanket. I so want to be angry with him, but how can I?

  He cuts the ropes from my wrists. I try to stand, but my legs are too weak, so he lifts me. “How long have I been here?”

  “Almost three days.” He carries me through the sweat lodge and into the cool night air.

  A shadow hovers close to the campfire—the fire-keeper in the distance. I don’t need to see him to know who he is.

  Sicheii carries me to a rusted 1970s RV. He kicks open the screen door and gently places me on a plastic kitchen chair. The camper smells old and musty and acrid as if the vehicle is displeased we are using it and hopes to drive us away with its foul stench. The Formica kitchen tabletop peels in long, curved strips. Age yellows the once white kitchen cabinets, which hang crookedly on rusted hinges. Thankfully, the light is dim.

  “Let me find you something cool to drink. You need to hydrate.” Sicheii swings open the door to the mini-fridge, pours two glasses of iced tea, places one in front of me and downs the other in three noisy gulps.

  I stare at the condensation that clings to the outside of the glass. My throat is scorching dry and the tea’s amber color inviting. My fingers wrap around the glass and I peer inside. What else is in the iced tea? Another drug or test, maybe? A fire burns through me, so I toss the cold liquid in his face.

  He smiles in return. “The anger is never far from the surface with you, is it?” His long, white hair and bushy eyebrows resemble a wet mop as iced tea drips from his face in little streams.

  “What have you done to me? I could have died!”

  Sicheii sighs. “I’ve let you fulfill your destiny.” He takes the empty glass from my hand. “If I refill this glass, will you drink the tea?” He stares at me, eyes boring into mine, making no effort to dry his face. One drop of tea clings to his eyebrow until it gives up and falls to the kitchen table below.

  Despite my anger, I fight hard not to grin. “Yes, Sicheii, I’ll drink the tea.”

  He moves slowly, shoulders slumped, and dries his face on an old green towel. I wonder if he has spent the entire three days in the sweat lodge with me, worrying and praying to the Great Wind Spirit. He looks much older than he did a few days ago.

  He returns, and this time, he brings the pitcher with him. He hands me another glass of iced tea and places the half-full pitcher on the cracked kitchen table. I can’t recall ever being so thirsty before, so I eagerly take the glass and chug. The cold liquid flows down my parched throat, refreshing and reviving me. I don’t even mind the little splash that sloshes down the side of my face.

  I refill the glass. “Everything started the day I was born, right? You did something weird to me in the hospital. These voices are connected with that story you told me on my thirteenth birthday.”

  He shakes his head. “That is only the middle of your story. Your destiny goes back over 200 years. The Wind Spirit spoke to our ancestors and described what had to be done. They recorded the encounter in the Book of Knowledge. Only a few of us were allowed to be secret keepers. Only a few knew and understood what was required. Only those who could be trusted.”

  “Only those with the twisted arrows tattoos,” I say, interrupting him, and the light in his eyes burns brighter. “Yes, I know all about the tattoos and your little club.”

  “The Order of the Twisted Arrows is no little club, Juliet. We are sworn to carry out the Wind Spirit’s wishes.” He pours himself another glass from the pitcher.

  “So I’m the secret you’ve been trying to keep.” I hunch back in my chair. “The entire mystery this whole time is about me. All these people, sworn to keep me a secret.”

  “The Order goes back over two hundred years, Juliet. This secret has been carefully guarded and only entrusted to a few select individuals. But yes, it all culminates in you. This is the only way our people can survive.”

  “What does any of this have to do with the survival of our people?”

  “The Wind Spirit demanded that we inject her essence into the Chosen to let the spirit bind with the Chosen’s spirit. This way, the two spirits can twist together and the Wind Spirit can empower the Chosen with gifts you will need to save our people from death.”

  “So that needle you stuck me with was filled with the Wind Spirit’s essence?” I shake my head. “You injected something weird into my blood.”

  “Yes, but it was not some drug. It came from the Wind Spirit and was handed down to us over two centuries.”

  I drink the second glass of tea. This time, I take my time. I need a little space to wrap my mind around what he is telling me. “Why did you choose me? Someone else must have been more worthy. I’m not special.”

  “I didn’t choose you. If there were any other way, I would have found someone else. I know this is a big responsibility, but the Wind Spirit was specific. She told us the exact star configuration when the Chosen would be born and instructed us that the Chosen had to be one of our descendants.” He shrugs. “You were born at exactly the right time and were the only eligible candidate.”

  He opens his hands on the table palm out. “You see, the Wind Spirit chose you over two hundred years ago. There was nothing I could do but accept your destiny.”

  I groan. “You could have told me. You didn’t need to lie to me my whole life. First Mom, and now you. Why is everyone lying to me!”

  “It’s not my place to question the Wind Spirit, Juliet. We are bound to keep your role secret until you face your first challenge. There was no other way.” He clenches his right hand into a fist and taps the table. “Besides, secrecy is critical. Others seek to destroy you. They will kill you if they have the opportunity.”

  “Great. The story only gets better. Does Mom know about this?”

  “No. She would never have understood.”

  “You said reading thoughts was only o
ne of my gifts.” I push my glass to one side. Intrigued, I wonder if there is some benefit for being the Chosen whatever. “What other gifts are you talking about? Anything useful?”

  He frowns. It is a full-face frown; the many lines in his face turn downward together. “I don’t know. Roundtree had the Book of Gifts. I tried to persuade him to give it to me, but he said he had hidden it in a safe place.” His hands smooth back his hair. “I warned him, but he would not yield or relinquish the book to me.”

  “What does it say? You must have read it.”

  He shakes his head. “It is not for any of us to read. The Book of Gifts can only be read by the Chosen.”

  “Did you kill Roundtree?”

  Sicheii’s face turns red. “Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to!”

  He rarely gets angry, so the outburst surprises me and the force of his words makes me lean back in the chair. I stare hard at him and try to fine-tune my brain like a receiver to read his thoughts. Words and images come, but they come so quickly they jumble together. I sense sadness and guilt, but I can’t tell what it all means. A flame behind his eyes scares me, and for the first time, I really wonder whether he was involved in the murders.

  I snap from my trance, tired and weary. The effort to manipulate his thoughts and images sap the rest of my waning strength. I feel as if I’m made of stone and lean on the table with my head hung low. “What do we do next?”

  He smiles, and his face returns to his old self, confident, happy. “We eat. I’m starving.” He looks through the RV’s rusted window. “The fire should be perfect for a barbecue.”

  Alone, I close my eyes. I’m not sure how much time passes, but it seems to cease. Weariness has seeped into my body beyond flesh and blood and bone and into my soul like a slow trickle of water has seeped into a sponge until it can’t absorb another drop. I would be content to sit in the plastic chair with my head resting awkwardly on the peeled table for the rest of my days.

  But the smell from the barbecue triggers an animal survival instinct. Steak sizzles against stone slabs and my stomach jumps. It’s the only part of me with any life. If my stomach wasn’t tethered to my stone-like body and had free will to act on its own, it would do cartwheels at the thought of eating freshly grilled steak.

  I lift my head and find a shadow figure by the door—the vague form of the fire-keeper, nervous, anxious. He knocks softly.

  I narrow my eyes. Blood rushes through my veins again. “Come in, traitor!”

  The door opens, and Troy skulks into the RV, his shoulders stooped with his eyes focused on his feet.

  “You knew about this madness and you didn’t tell me? How could you?” My mouth hangs open. I have a hard time believing Troy is complicit in Sicheii’s schemes, yet he stands before me as his fire-keeper.

  Troy raises his eyes, eyes I have stared into so many times before. Always, I believed in a best friend and imagined a future. Now I see a liar.

  “Jake explained things to me six months ago. They needed new blood for the Order and wanted me to look after you... protect you.”

  “You’ve been lying to me for six months!” I shake my head and rub my hands through my hair. “I can live with my mom and even Sicheii, but not you.” A hole opens in my heart. A sharp pain stabs through me that almost doubles me over with cramps, but I grip the table hard and stay upright. Bits of Formica from the table snap in my hands.

  “Once I knew the truth, I was bound to stay silent, Jules.” He steps toward me and rests both his hands on the edge of a kitchen chair on the opposite side of the table. “If I had told you, you would be in danger.”

  “You let me think I was going crazy to protect me? Lift up your shirt.” I know what I’ll find on his chest, but I want him to lift his shirt anyway.

  He hesitates. “There’s no need to do that, Jules. I’ve always been on your side.” Guilt weighs down his voice, making it slow and lumbering like a buffalo.

  I glare at him. “Lift up your shirt.”

  Troy frowns and lifts his t-shirt. A twisted arrows tattoo blazes on the smooth brown skin on his chest.

  “No wonder you were reluctant to help me this whole time. You knew what the ink meant. You realized what was happening. Did you kill Roundtree? Maybe help my grandfather as he tortured him?”

  “No, Juliet. I had nothing to do with Roundtree’s death and neither did Jake. The Seeker’s people tortured Roundtree. They were looking for you.” Troy waves his hands. “He knows about you now and won’t stop until he gets you.”

  “You are a liar! Why should I believe anything you say?”

  “I’m your best friend, Jules.” Troy tries to smile, but his mouth won’t budge beyond a thin grim line. “You have to trust me.”

  I shake my head and turn away from him. I can’t look at him. “I don’t know what you are, but you’re not my friend. Friends don’t lie to each other, not about something like this. Get out. I never want to see you again. Go be with Candy. I’m sure she misses you!”

  I stare at the grimy window until I hear the screen door swing open and close a few moments later. The weariness returns, and I bang my head against the table.

  Clunk.

  I don’t know what to think.

  Clunk.

  Everything is mixed up and everyone has been lying to me.

  Clunk.

  I feel alone. Troy anchored me, his friendship has been the rock I’ve built my life around. I’m not sure what happens next and that scares me. I never thought I’d have to think about life without him.

  Sicheii calls from outside that the food is ready. I debate whether I should get up or stay and melt into the smelly, broken kitchen table forever. My belly grumbles and makes the decision for me.

  It takes considerable effort to leave my chair, but I can’t stay in the dirty kitchen forever. I push on the table with my hands, find my feet, and trudge outside. The night sky is clear and the campfire flames are low and dance a slow waltz. Sicheii has changed into a blue linen shirt and his favorite straw wide-brimmed hat. He laid out a red woolen blanket a few feet away from the fire where he’s placed two large, sizzling steaks on a white ceramic serving platter.

  I trudge toward the blanket, dragging my feet across the ground. Dirt drifts in the still air behind me. Sicheii smiles when I sit cross-legged next to him.

  Troy hasn’t left. He sits near the fire watching and sulking in the darkness. I want to ask him to leave, but I don’t have the energy, and part of me wants him to stay.

  Sicheii prays to the Great Wind Spirit for delivering me out of the darkness. I tune him out. I should wait for him to finish, but I don’t care about hurting his feelings at the moment, or the Great Wind Spirit, or any of this mess, so I grab the plate, a fork and knife, and dive in.

  My grandfather has many shortcomings, but he’s a magician around a fire-pit. The meat bursts with flavor. It’s been a lifetime since I last ate. A little energy returns to my body, and I sit up straighter and glare at him. “So who decided to kill John Dent? Was it Roundtree? Did you need to kill him to keep your secrets?”

  He chuckles and wipes grease from his mouth with a white cotton towel. “You are so quick to believe the worst in me that you refuse to see the obvious in front of you.”

  “What does that mean?” I am tired of his riddles. “Just tell me the truth this time.”

  “We didn’t kill John Dent.” He smiles. “When he broke his story about the Order, we took him in and told him the truth. He was in danger and saw the grievous error he had made and decided it was best to disappear.”

  “Sure... I saw his grave.”

  “He’s not dead. He changed his name and went back to school. You met him as Doctor Dan Epstein.”

  I slice off another piece of steak and slip it into my mouth. So that’s why Doctor Dan looked so familiar. He was the grown up person from the picture on his mother’s mantel. I add him to the long list of people who seem to have no problem lying to me.

  “Wh
at about Ayden? You knew he killed that man in self-defense. You could have prevented him from going to jail.”

  Sicheii places his fork on the serving dish. He hesitates for a couple of seconds as he thinks about what to tell me.

  “I’ll know if you’re being honest. I’m the Chosen, remember?” I have no idea if I can tell whether he speaks the truth through my gift, but a good threat works even if it only has the illusion of being carried out.

  “Yes, you are,” Sicheii replies. “Ayden was a dangerous drug dealer. He was no good for you and Summer. You could never be safe around him, and we needed to keep you safe.”

  “So you let him go to jail?” I clench my hands closed.

  “It’s not as simple as that. The Seeker was on to us. He had sent three men to investigate our town. They made a connection between the Order and Roundtree. The only way we could cover up the situation was to have those deaths appear like a drug deal gone bad. We planted enough evidence and covered our tracks well enough that we fooled him, at least temporarily. Your father had to pay that price to keep you safe.”

  “But he was innocent.” I toss my fork onto the plate with a loud clang. “He spent fifteen years in jail. I could have grown up with a father!”

  Sicheii touches my leg. His eyes convey real sorrow. “I’m sorry you didn’t have a father growing up, Juliet. I did my best to fill the void, but Ayden was not an innocent man. He had committed many crimes for which he had not been punished. Life has a way of catching up to you, and this time, it caught up with him.”

  I swipe Sicheii’s hand from my knee and eat in silence. Frogs call out in the distance. An owl hoots and ruffles the leaves in a nearby tree.

  Troy shivers when he hears the owl. He believes that owls warn us about upcoming death. His eyes scan the nearby trees as he looks for the bird.

  “We need to make plans, Juliet,” Sicheii says. “I don’t know what your teacher told the Seeker, but we have to assume he knows you are here or will figure out how important you are soon. He won’t stop until he captures you. Besides, the rest of your gifts will come quickly, and I don’t know what they are or how to help.”