Suddenly, he knew. The thing chasing him was making a game of the chase.
Holding his side tighter, ignoring the pain, Richard did something he hadn’t done in years: he ran. He ran with all his might until he reached the tiny clearing behind his mobile home. Then it hit him--the fiery pain of a bursting heart. Like a speeding meteor it exploded through his chest and down the veins in his arms and legs, ripping out capillaries and artery walls along the way.
The muscles in the left side of his face constricted, forcing the corner of his mouth to turn down in a sneer. Saliva drooled over his lower lip. His left arm and leg went numb. He fell forward, his face striking the hard stones of his driveway. He was only twenty feet from the back door, close enough to see through the kitchen window. He could see the Felix the Cat clock that hung on the wall, its eyes moving slowly back and forth. Tick tock, tick tock.
Richard started crawling, his right hand digging into the ground, pulling his failing body along. He had to bite his lower lip to keep from crying out, but he refused to give up.
The back porch drew steadily nearer. Another ten feet and he would reach it, another five after that to the door. He was going to make it!
From behind him came the rush of movement. Richard heard a low growl. Or was it a laugh? He didn’t have to look to know that he wasn’t going to make it to the back door. Ironically, his last thoughts weren’t of agony, suffering and death, but of the plate of scrambled eggs and taters growing cold on the kitchen table.
Chapter 6
Jay Little Hawk’s eyes were closed, his breathing shallow. Torrents of sweat streamed off his naked body. In his right hand he held an eagle feather; in his left he held his medicine pipe. A bucket of cold spring water sat by his side; next to it was a small wooden bowl containing the smoking mixture--kinnikinnick--he used in his pipe.
Ignoring the intense, almost stifling heat in the sweat lodge, he dipped the feather in the bucket and sprinkled water over the heated bricks before him. The bricks hissed and crackled as a billowing cloud of steam rose toward the curved ceiling.
No taller than a man’s chest, the sweat lodge was made of twenty-eight bent pine saplings covered with tightly stretched blankets of assorted colors. The floor of the sweat lodge was bare earth, covered with scrap pieces of old carpet. In the center of the lodge a circular pit was scooped out. In this pit were laid eight fireplace bricks. Hawk had heated the bricks to the point of exploding in a small fire just outside the lodge.
Taking a deep breath, Hawk began to recite a prayer taught to him by his grandfather. As he did he tossed a twisted braid of sweetgrass onto the steaming bricks. The sweetgrass was an offering to the spirit world, a gift to those he would ask for help.
Allowing time for the sweetgrass to smolder and burn, scenting the air with its haylike fragrance, he began to fill his pipe.
The clay bowl of Hawk’s pipe was about an inch in diameter and a little over two inches deep. The clay came from the hills of North Carolina, as did the wood used in making the twenty-inch stem. The rectangular stem was wrapped in buckskin and gray rabbit fur, with a golden eagle feather hanging beneath the point where it joined the bowl. At the base of the bowl four lines were drawn to represent the four different directions--the four winds.
Lighting his pipe, Little Hawk prayed.
It was almost dark when he emerged from the sweat lodge. Shivering slightly from the crisp air, he quickly dried himself with a towel and pulled on his jeans and shirt. He paused briefly while slipping on his socks and boots to watch the last sliver of sun sink behind the towering hills to the west. The hills, some of the tallest in Hobbs County, were separated from the one his modest two-bedroom cabin perched atop by a steep valley. In the middle of the valley flowed a stream whose waters were still pure enough to drink. From where he stood, he could just see the little stream, its surface glowing like molten lava with the reflection of the sunset.
Hawk’s greatest pleasure in life was to sit on his back porch, a fresh cup of coffee in hand, watching the day fade into twilight. Unfortunately, he found little pleasure in it this evening. His mind was still troubled over his experience at the Devil’s Boot. Never before had he felt such evil. A white man might have passed it off as a bad case of nerves, or an overworked imagination, but Hawk knew better. He’d been a shaman for too long, seen too many things, to go waving off what had touched him as a flight of fancy.
So he had come home and entered the sweat lodge to cleanse his spirit of the vileness that had touched it, and to prepare for the ordeal of a vision quest.
Hawk’s first vision quest came during his manhood rites, at the ripe old age of thirteen. After a ritual sweatbath his grandfather took him to a barren hillside on the southern tip of the reservation. For four days and nights he stayed in a deep pit--alone, scared, cold, without food and with little water. He lost weight and grew so weak that he was unable to walk. But the vision he sought eventually came. With it came a new understanding of the purpose of his life, as well as an insight to the path he would follow.
In twenty-five years he had gone on only five vision quests, each time seeking answers to difficult problems in his life. Hopefully the answers he sought this time would come to him as they had in the past. Maybe they would come tonight.
Wrapping his pipe in a soft piece of leather, Hawk threw his blanket over his shoulder--a gift from his grandfather, the same blanket he had worn on his first vision quest. In the center of the bright red blanket was sewn a yellow turtle. The blanket offered more than just warmth, it offered comfort and reassurance, for in just about every Indian tribe the turtle is a powerful spirit. Nobody messes with the turtle.
Hawk followed a narrow path to the opposite side of the valley. Reaching the top of a hill, he stared down into a dark hole measuring roughly six feet deep and four feet across--somewhat smaller than he usually dug them. The size didn’t matter, however; it’s what would happen once he entered the vision pit that was important.
Setting his blanket and pipe on the ground, Hawk lowered himself into the hole. Once in, he retrieved both items, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. With pipe in hand, he walked slowly around the pit in a clockwise direction. The walking had no religious significance; he was just making damn sure nothing had crawled in during his absence. Sitting on a rattlesnake or bobcat was an experience he could do without. Satisfied he was the sole occupant of the pit, Hawk sat down with his back against the dirt wall, facing south.
With his right hand he dug a small hole in the ground at his feet. In it he placed a pinch of kinnikinnick as a gift to Mother Earth. Next he filled the pipe, silently praying as he packed the tiny leaves into the bowl. He lit the mixture with a match, offering the pipe to the Great Spirit, Mother Earth and the four directions. Raising the pipe above his head, he prayed aloud. He said a prayer for all the living things on earth, for all things have spirits and these spirits can offer aid when asked in the proper manner. But aid is offered only to those worthy of receiving it. Hawk sincerely hoped he was worthy.
It was hard to say when the vision actually started, though it couldn’t have been more than a couple of hours after entering the pit. The first indication that something was happening was a gradual lightening of the area around him. While the area outside the pit remained unchanged, Hawk suddenly could see everything inside the pit, as if someone were holding a soft light over his shoulder. He could see the brown, skeletonlike fingers of a tree root protruding from the opposite wall, and the loose dirt that had fallen back in when he climbed into the pit. Even a shiny black beetle was clearly visible as it scampered up the wall of dirt and rock.
The unusual illumination was followed almost immediately by the soft, rustling sounds of something walking slowly toward the pit. At first Hawk mistook the sounds for the padded footfalls of some small woodland creature. As he listened, however, he became aware that they never seemed to get any closer, or any farther away. Nor did they falter or stop at any time as they moved in a clockw
ise direction around the pit.
The muffled footfalls continued for what seemed twenty minutes before gradually fading to silence. They were replaced by the sound of two wooden sticks being beaten together. A hollow sort of sound, it seemed to echo, or to be answered, from three different directions. No doubt these sounds signaled the arrival of the spirits.
Whispering a prayer of strength, Hawk refilled and lit his pipe. He’d just taken his second puff when he became aware that he was no longer alone. Though he couldn’t see anything, he could distinctly hear the labored breathing of someone, or something, directly across from him. He also detected a faint, musty odor. He sniffed. The smell was like freshly plowed fields after a summer rain, the aroma of rich bottom lands along the Missouri River, the deep black soil of Mother Earth.
Moments later he detected another presence in the pit with him. Hawk could actually feel someone sitting to his left, his body touching his. No sooner had this unseen something been felt than it was joined by yet another visitor to Hawk’s right. The three different presences formed an invisible wall around him, leaving only his back--which was pressed firmly against the dirt wall--unguarded.
Breathlessly he waited. He knew the spirits were likely to do one of three things before offering to help him in his vision quest: they would either surround him with a warm feeling of happiness and love, as they had done on his first vision quest, or they would mischievously play with him, or they would test him to see if he was worthy of their consideration. They chose to test him.
All at once, a pair of disembodied eyes appeared in the darkness before Little Hawk. Just eyes. No face. No body. Nothing else. Floating about three feet above the ground, they blinked, danced and rolled in invisible sockets.
The eyes came closer, stopping a few inches away from his face. Hawk didn’t move. To show fear at such a time would mean to fail, to be considered unworthy of any assistance from the spirit world. Worse yet, it would mean he wasn’t fit to be a shaman.
An invisible hand grabbed his right thigh. Through his jeans he could feel the touch of bony fingers and sharp nails. Another spectral hand mockingly caressed the left side of his face. The stench of foul breath engulfed him, the smell of the grave seemed to rise from the black earth, sending his mind reeling with nausea. From somewhere beyond the pit a piercing scream shattered the night. The scream was followed by a laugh so hideous it made his arms and legs break out in quivering gooseflesh.
The sound of sticks being beaten together returned, this time louder, faster. Not far from the pit an unseen animal--if it truly was an animal--snarled and hissed.
The eyes in front of him faded and disappeared. The hand gripping his thigh released its hold. From beyond the pit came a howl. With breathless anticipation, Hawk waited to see what would happen next.
A shapeless patch of translucent white vapor suddenly swooped into the pit, disappearing into the ground at his feet. Hawk sat very still. Seconds later, the vapor reappeared from the ground.
Like steam from an overheated radiator, the vapor spewed forth. It boiled, rolled, condensed and took on shape. As he watched, the vapor transformed into the spirit of an Indian warrior.
The spirit warrior was about Hawk’s height, maybe a little taller, his rugged beauty marred only by a sadness in his eyes. He wore his hair parted down the middle, his two long braids wrapped in leather and fur. Shell earrings adorned his ears, a string of bear claws hung around his neck. A breastplate of bone was worn over a beaded shirt of tanned buckskin. His leggings and breechcloth were also beaded, his moccasins were not.
Though Hawk could see the warrior clearly, he could also see through him. The spirit looked down upon him for a moment or two, then slowly raised his right hand in a sign of greeting. Hawk returned the greeting. The spirit smiled, nodded, changed back into mist and soared upward into the night sky.
No sooner had the first spirit left than a second warrior appeared. Like the first, he too extended the sign of greeting before sailing up into the sky. A third soon followed...and a fourth.
One after another they came, an endless parade of spirits flying upward to touch the stars and heavens above. All told, over thirty warriors appeared before Hawk, each greeting him before vanishing into the darkness.
Never had he been so honored. In fact, as far as Hawk knew, few Indians had ever experienced such a wonderful sight. Though Hawk’s heart was happy, his mind was troubled. To have so many spirits show up at a vision quest was highly unusual. It could only mean that something of great importance was to be learned tonight, something which could have a direct effect not only on him but on all his people.
Twenty minutes had passed since the last spirit appeared. With the passing of the warriors, the presences in the pit--as well as the sounds beyond--faded away. All was silent. Hawk was beginning to wonder if the vision was over when a white moth fluttered into the pit. Knowing it was too cold a night for moths, he immediately recognized the tiny insect for what it truly was: a messenger.
Circling the pit, the moth alighted upon Hawk’s left shoulder. No sooner had the moth landed than a voice began to whisper in his ear. The voice was familiar; he knew it well. It was the soft, gentle voice of his grandfather.
The voice of Hawk’s grandfather, coming from the mouth of the moth, began to tell an incredible story, a legend involving a famous Indian warrior, his brother--a prophet--and a creature from the dawn of time.
Chapter 7
In the dense shadows of a forest, at the edge of a vast field, a nightmare crouched...and waited. It was only thirty minutes since the Crota had last killed, but it seemed like a lifetime to the monster. The bloodlust still coursed through the creature’s veins.
The cows huddled at the far corner of the field, their bodies pressed tightly against a barbed-wire fence. They bellowed in fear and cast worried glances at the darkness around them. But the Crota wasn’t interested in the females--not yet, anyway. There would be plenty of time later for the easy slaughter, for the feast. For the present, he was only interested in the thrill of a challenge.
With a savage snarl, the creature moved into the open. The air about him crackled and popped with vibrant energy--his energy.
Muscles tensed and rippled under a faint sheen of sweat as the Hereford bull ripped open the ground in great furrows. The earth shook beneath the thunderous challenge of the animal. Eyes blazing, back arching, the bull blew streamers of snot from flared nostrils. Around the pasture the night grew deathly still. The whippoorwill hushed its song, and the cicadas were mute. Everything waited; everything watched. Overhead, the moon hid its face in fear behind a passing cloud.
Tapping the ashes into an old coffee can, Roy Owens slipped his pipe into the breast pocket of his overalls and stood up. Anna would be setting supper on the table any minute and he still needed to wash up. There were only two things his wife ever fussed at him about: smoking his pipe in the house, and being late getting to the supper table.
As he opened the door separating the screened back porch from the rest of the house, his attention was distracted by the bawling of the cows. He usually couldn’t hear them when they were out in the back pasture, but the wind happened to be blowing from that direction. As he listened, the cries of the cows grew louder. Something was upsetting the herd. Maybe they had caught wind of a bobcat. He’d better go check on them.
Anna was wiping her hands on a flowered dish towel when he stepped into the kitchen. Hearing the clomp of his work boots on the tiled floor, she turned from the stove.
“Roy, you about ready? Supper’s almost on the table.”
He didn’t answer. Crossing the room, he opened the door of the hallway closet, taking out a red flannel shirt and his favorite cap (bright green with a John Deere emblem on the front). He never went anywhere without his cap.
“Now where are you off to?” Anna inquired. A frown tugged at the corners of her mouth. She was probably worried about the meat loaf getting cold. It took all afternoon to fix it the way he li
ked it.
“Something’s got the cows spooked,” he answered. “Probably that bobcat again. I’d better go check.”
He slipped a flashlight into his back pocket. Fumbling past the jackets and other clothing in the closet, he pulled out his old single-shot twelve gauge. A half-full box of number-eight shells went into the leg pocket of his bib overalls.
“Well, you hurry back,” Anna fussed. “The meat loaf won’t be worth a flip if it gets cold.”
“Hot or cold, it’s still the best meat loaf in the state,” he said. “Who knows, maybe I’ll bring you back a new fur coat.”
Anna laughed. “Out of one bobcat? It’d have to be an awfully small coat.”
The bellowing was even louder when he stepped back outside. Even Old Bubba had gotten into the act. The deep bass voice of the big bull was easily identifiable from the rest of the herd. From the way it sounded he was mad as hell about something. Had to be that damn bobcat again.
“This ought to take care of the varmint,” Roy said, patting the side of the shotgun. “Here, kitty, kitty.”
The Crota crouched no more than twenty feet from Bubba, the muscles in his hind legs twitching with excitement. He inhaled deeply, taking in all of the night scents, savoring the sweet smells of sweat and fear. Bubba blew a final warning, then charged.
With head low to angle his deadly horns straight ahead, Bubba raced toward the Crota like a locomotive. The distant trees echoed his thunderous charge.
With a roar, the Crota lunged to meet the bull. They collided in the middle of the field.
Crash!
Bubba tried to run down his opponent, trample him beneath his hooves, but the Crota stopped his charge with ease. Finding that he could not overpower the monster, the bull turned and ducked, his left horn piercing the Crota’s upper thigh. Blood flowed.
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