Crota

by Goingback, Owl

  “I found it along the banks of Lost Creek when I was a kid. My grandmother said it would bring me luck. I guess it did.”

  Hawk nodded. “Perhaps it was made by the same people who sealed the Crota underground.” Hawk was thinking it might even have been dropped by one of the Creek warriors who had led the Crota to the cave.

  Skip retied the shell disk around his neck. “So...what do we do now?”

  Little Hawk laid his hands flat on his lap. “That all depends on how much you’re willing to believe.”

  “What do you mean, believe? I believe there’s a monster, because I’ve seen it. Whether or not it’s the same monster from your legend, I don’t know. I do know, however, that it’s got to be stopped before it kills someone else. Maybe we could dynamite the entrance to the cave and seal it up again.”

  Hawk shook his head. “You could seal it up, but for how long? Another earthquake might set it free again. No, sealing it up again would be a waste of time. We’ve got to kill it.”

  “How?” Skip asked.

  Hawk turned to Eagle and exchanged a few words in Indian, then turned back to Skip. “Sheriff, at first we had no intention of including you in our plans--too many have died already. But Strong Eagle feels your defeating the Crota may be a sign--”

  “I didn’t defeat it!” Skip exclaimed.

  “The fact that you are still alive is in some way a small victory, is it not? By already beating it once, you may have shaken its confidence a little. I hope so; we’re going to need any advantage we can get. Like I said, I didn’t want to involve you, but it seems you are already involved. Kill it? Yes, we may have a way to kill it.”

  Skip glanced at Strong Eagle. The old man was staring at him, his eyes hard and cold amidst a sea of wrinkled flesh. There was something about his penetrating gaze that made Skip feel giddy when he maintained eye contact for very long.

  Hawk leaned forward in his chair, his face only inches away. “Sheriff, the Crota cannot be killed with modern weapons. It is a creature of power, so it can be killed only by an equal or stronger power. Only if we walk the right path can we hope to defeat it.”

  “The right path?” Jesus, what sort of mumbo jumbo is this? Skip wiped a hand across his forehead. He was starting to sweat. Why? It wasn’t hot. Must be the coffee.

  Hawk continued, “The right path is a way of doing things--a spiritual way--that leads to a higher plane than the one we are on now.”

  Skip wiped his forehead again. He was feeling a little nauseous. Maybe he was coming down with something--the flu, perhaps. It could be stress. He glanced toward Strong Eagle. The old man was still staring at him, his eyes wide. Skip didn’t like being stared at; it bothered him. He turned away, but could still feel the eyes of the old man burning into the side of his head. He tried to straighten up in his chair, but couldn’t. He had never felt so weak before.

  “Are you talking about magic?” Skip croaked. His lips felt heavy, his face rubbery.

  “If you’d like to call it that, then that’s okay,” Hawk replied with a wry smile.

  Skip was beginning to panic. Something was wrong. He felt weak, dizzy. He tried to stand up but couldn’t. His vision blurred. What was wrong with him?

  The coffee! That’s it. They’ve drugged the coffee. My God, they’re trying to kill me. But why? I have to get away.

  A voice seemed to come from somewhere behind him. He couldn’t understand what was said, nor could he turn his head to see who spoke.

  Hawk’s face drew closer. His eyes looked like twin moons of shimmering light. “Eagle says not to worry. We have not drugged your coffee.”

  Why did I come? What are they doing to me? They’re going to kill me. I don’t want to die. I have a son who needs me...

  No, that’s not it. They’re not trying to kill me; they’re trying to show me something.

  What?

  They’re giving me an example....An example of what?

  Power! They’re giving me an example of power to show me forces beyond my comprehension.

  The thought came to him with crystal clarity. Somehow, the old Indian was holding him captive with an unknown power. He was doing so to prove a point--to demonstrate the forces at work in the universe--as well as to make Skip realize what he was up against when facing the Crota.

  Suddenly, like someone flicking off a light switch, it was gone. The invisible bond holding Skip disappeared so quickly he almost pitched forward on his face. He would have gone for his pistol, but knew his arm would refuse to obey. Hawk poured him another cup of coffee.

  “Please forgive us for our little demonstration,” Hawk said, handing Skip the filled cup. “We could think of no other way to convince you that the Crota is to be fought our way or no way at all.”

  Skip’s hands shook as he took a sip of coffee. “I would have believed you.”

  Hawk smiled. “You say that, but your subconscious would have resisted. It is only to be expected. You are a white man.”

  “But my grandmother was Indian. Full-blooded,” Skip said.

  Hawk’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Oh? That would make you one quarter. What tribe?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not sure. Cheyenne, I think. I didn’t know her very well; she died when I was young. I remember she used to spend a lot of time in her garden, growing herbs and things like that. She’s the one who said my necklace was good luck.”

  Hawk exchanged a few words with Eagle, then turned back to Skip. “Eagle thinks that maybe your grandmother was a medicine woman.”

  Skip considered it. “Maybe. Mom and Dad used to say that Grandma had a cure for just about everything.”

  “It’s interesting that your grandmother would be a medicine woman.”

  “Yeah,” Skip nodded. “Maybe that’s why I’ve been having so many dreams lately.”

  “Dreams?”

  “Real strange ones. I’m wandering through the woods at night, totally lost. I see a light up ahead and start walking toward it. Turns out to be a lantern held by my grandmother. She leads me back to her house and into the attic where she shows me this big wooden chest. She takes something out of the chest. I don’t know what it is because it’s wrapped in fur. She tries to hand it to me, but when I reach for the bundle it disappears.”

  Hawk scratched his chin. “It sounds like your grandmother is trying very hard to give you something, or to tell you something. Have you thought about trying to locate the chest?”

  “I wouldn’t know where to begin,” he said.

  “What about your grandmother’s house?”

  “No good. The house I live in now used to be hers. It was left to my parents and they left it to me. I’ve been in the attic hundreds of times. There’s no such chest.”

  “Pity,” Hawk said, shaking his head. “The chest may have contained something important.”

  Eagle spoke briefly. Hawk listened and nodded.

  “By the way, Strong Eagle says you’ll find that our demonstration has been somewhat beneficial.” He ran his index finger down the left side of his head. “A warrior cannot afford to be weak or injured when facing his greatest challenge.”

  Skip failed to grasp what Hawk meant, so the Indian repeated the gesture by touching his finger lightly against the sheriff’s left temple. Skip gasped.

  It was gone! The throbbing pain that had been with him for the past few days was gone. Startled, he gingerly touched his forehead. There was no pain, not even any discomfort. Skip turned and looked at Strong Eagle. The old man was smiling.

  “There are many things the white man does not know or understand,” Hawk said. “Like myself, Strong Eagle is a medicine man--perhaps one of the most powerful to ever live. It is a great honor that he’s here with us today; he’s never even been off the reservation before. This should be an occasion for a celebration, but there’s no time for that now. Perhaps we can celebrate later, if any of us are still alive.”

  At that, Skip turned to face Hawk.

  “Sheriff, we’re going t
o need your total cooperation to defeat the Crota. Can we count on your help?”

  Skip nodded slowly as though in a daze.

  “Thank you.” Hawk smiled. “Now go home and see your wife. Tell her you will be away for a day or two, nothing more. Do not tell her, or anyone else, where you are going. Be back here no later than two hours from now. We have much work to do and very little time.”

  He leaned forward and grabbed Skip by the arm. “The Crota has been cautious so far. It has stayed away from populated areas, attacking only in the rural countryside. But it defeated your men, and knows now that large numbers of people pose no threat to it. The next time the Crota leaves the cave it may decide to travel even farther. Maybe it will head toward Logan.”

  The thought of the monster reaching town scared the hell out of Skip. Visions of Katie and Billy lying dead on a slab at the morgue flashed through his mind. He started to say something, but Little Hawk held up his hand for silence.

  “Relax, your family is safe. We feel the Crota is resting now, but not for long. When you come back you will begin your training. When you come back, we will show you how to walk the right path. Go now.”

  Chapter 26

  Skip arrived back at his house at a quarter to eleven. Nobody was home. Billy was still in school and Katie was working. He was glad. He didn’t want to tell her that he might be gone for a couple of days without offering an explanation. Sure, he could make up some excuse, but Katie could usually tell when he was lying to her. He thought about calling her at the office, but he wasn’t much better at lying over the phone. Instead, he left a note on the kitchen table saying he had to go out of town on official business and didn’t know when he would be back.

  Finished with the note, he entered Billy’s room and laid a new pitcher’s mitt, purchased on the way home, at the foot of the child’s bed. God willing, he would be back to help his son break in the glove properly.

  Crossing the living room on his way out, Skip’s attention was drawn to the framed black-and-white photo of his grandmother, on the mantel above the fireplace. The picture, taken sometime in the late 1800s, showed a young woman with long black hair, wearing a weathered buckskin dress, beaded leggings and moccasins. She looked nothing at all like the wrinkled, gray-haired lady he knew from childhood. Only her eyes were the same. Even in youth they looked old and wise, appearing to gaze through him. Questioning. Demanding.

  “Dammit, Grandma, what is it? What are you trying to tell me? Why am I having dreams about you now, after all these years?”

  He glanced at his watch. Little Hawk and Strong Eagle expected him back soon, but they would just have to wait. There was something he had to do first. Turning away from the mantel, he crossed the room and headed down the hall. At the end of the hall Skip pulled down the folding ladder that led up into the attic. Flipping on the light, he started up the steps.

  The attic was dry and dusty, smelling faintly of mothballs and roach spray. Sheets of plywood covered the floor, so Skip could move about freely without falling through. But there was no point in walking around because he could see everything there was to see. Except for a few boxes of books and broken toys, the attic stood empty.

  “Okay, Grandma. You’ve gotten me up here, now show me what you want me to see.”

  He stood still and waited, almost expecting to receive some miraculous message from the spirit world--the visit of a ghostly apparition, a disembodied voice or a little spectral knocking. He was disappointed when several minutes elapsed and nothing happened.

  “I’m wasting my time here.”

  He turned to leave when the single lightbulb lighting the attic flickered and went out.

  “Great, now I’ll probably break my neck in the dark.”

  But it wasn’t completely dark. On the far wall a faint patch of light shimmered.

  Must be sunlight coming through a crack.

  What crack? Skip turned his head, seeking the source of the glow, but found no crack or hole that sunlight could have been shining through. Looking back across the room, he was startled to see the light dance along the wall and then return to its original spot.

  She carried a light in the dream.

  Chills raced down his arms. Marking the spot on the wall to memory, he crossed the room and climbed down the ladder. He returned a few minutes later with a flashlight and crowbar.

  The flashlight wasn’t necessary, however, for when he returned the attic light was back on. Reaching the spot where he had seen the mysterious glow, he wedged the crowbar between two boards in the wall and pried, ripping the nails loose from the studs.

  As the boards came loose, it became apparent that what he had thought to be the outer wall of his house was in reality a false wall. Behind it were an additional seven feet of attic space. Two boards later he found what he was looking for.

  The wooden chest scraped loudly against the floor as he dragged it into the light. It was the cedar chest of his dreams, three feet long two feet wide and a little over two feet deep. His hands trembled with excitement as he slowly raised the lid.

  The smell of dust, mildew, spices and dried flowers rose up to greet him as he lifted the lid. He covered his nose to keep from sneezing. Inside the chest were things that had once belonged to his grandmother: a dress made of leather, stiff and brittle with age; a second dress of faded cotton. The beaded leggings and moccasins worn in the picture were also in the chest, though the leather was quite brittle and many of the beads had fallen off. Beneath the leggings, he found two butcher knives and a shawl.

  The shawl was the last item in the chest. Skip sat back in disappointment. He expected to find much more, at least something of importance, something worth dreaming about. He started to replace the items when he noticed that the interior of the chest was only about half as deep as its actual size. Reaching in and giving the wood a rap with his knuckles confirmed his sudden suspicion.

  I’ll be damned. A false bottom.

  A hole at each end of the panel allowed him to slip a finger in and lift out the false bottom. Inside he found an object wrapped in fox skin, tied closed with lengths of rawhide cord. It was the same bundle offered in his dream.

  His heart pounding with excitement, he carefully lifted the bundle from the chest. He thought about opening it but decided against it. Mysterious forces beyond his understanding had led him to discover the chest and its contents. If his grandmother was a medicine woman, then she might have had powers equal to those of Strong Eagle or Little Hawk. Skip was no fool; he knew better than to play around with things he didn’t understand. He would leave the bundle opening to the experts.

  The sheriff stood up and crossed the room. Reaching the ladder, he stopped and turned back around. Nothing had changed; the attic was as empty as ever. Still, he could almost feel his grandmother’s presence watching him, a smile upon her face. She had somehow crossed back across the great void called death to enter his dreams, guiding him to a chest she had hidden long ago. He didn’t know what was in the bundle, but he knew it was important, something she wanted him to have.

  “Thank you, Grandma,” he said, acknowledging the gift and the woman who had given it to him. Turning, he started down the ladder.

  Chapter 27

  Deciding to wait for an opportune time to bring the subject up, Skip slipped his grandmother’s bundle behind the seat of his truck and turned off the engine. Hawk greeted him as he climbed out of the pickup.

  “Eagle had doubts you would return,” he said, a faint smile touching the corners of his mouth.

  “His little performance more than convinced me.” Skip looked around. “Where is he, anyway?”

  “He’s waiting for us in the sweat lodge.”

  The sheriff was not impressed with the squat, dome-shaped sweat lodge, which resembled something a transient might live in. He was even less impressed by what Hawk said next.

  “Take off your clothes.”

  Skip was taken back. “Everything?”

  Hawk laughed. “W
e’re not savages.” He pointed at a pair of red swim trunks lying next to the sweat lodge. “Those should fit you. Don’t worry, there are no women around, or any reporters lurking inside.”

  “Is this really necessary?”

  “Do you want to destroy the Crota?”

  “Yes, but--”

  “Then it is necessary. Now hurry, there isn’t much time. We still have a lot to do today. We must finish before night, because when darkness returns the Crota may leave the cave.”

  Laying his pistol and gunbelt carefully on the ground, Skip started removing his clothes. Hawk did likewise but with less hesitation, so he was completely stripped and already into his own pair of shorts before Skip was even half undressed. Skip’s slowness made Hawk laugh.

  “Embarrassment over nudity is something only whites suffer from. Most Indians find nothing shameful or dirty about the human body. If the body were something to be ashamed of, we would have been born with clothes.”

  Put on the defensive, Skip quickly removed his clothes and slipped on the trunks.

  Hawk grinned. “You’re learning.”

  George Strong Eagle sat just inside the doorway of the sweat lodge. He wore only a pair of baggy yellow gym shorts. Skip couldn’t help noticing that, for a man of his age, the old Indian was in pretty good shape. Despite the wrinkled face, Eagle’s muscles were still taut and firm.

  Little Hawk entered the lodge first, sitting down directly opposite Strong Eagle. He motioned for Skip to sit to his immediate left. There wasn’t much room inside the tiny sweat lodge, so when Skip sat down cross-legged his right thigh touched Hawk’s left leg, while his left leg was no more than eight inches from Eagle’s.

  Besides being cramped, the sweat lodge was hot--damn hot. He had been in steamrooms before, but they were never like this. As soon as he sat down sweat started rolling off his body. He had to make his breathing slow and shallow, for too deep a breath burned his lungs. He would be lucky if he didn’t singe his nasal hairs.