Crota

by Goingback, Owl

  Hawk must have read his mind. “If the heat gets too unbearable for you, we can open the flap and let some air in. But try to stand it as long as possible.”

  “I’m okay,” he lied.

  Hawk closed his eyes against the steam. Skip did likewise. Strong Eagle started in with an Indian prayer. Though Skip didn’t understand the words, they seemed to take on a life of their own as they flowed from the lips of the old man. The tempo picked up and the words vibrated with energy as they bounced off the walls and ceiling of the sweat lodge. The sheriff could almost feel the words penetrate his skin, carrying their strange vibrations deep inside his body. Eagle paused to slowly sprinkle water over the glowing bricks, creating a hissing cloud of steam.

  Hawk leaned closer and whispered in his ear, “Strong Eagle is reciting a very sacred prayer. He is asking the spirits for knowledge, strength and, most importantly, their help. Each of us will also have to ask the spirits for help.”

  “But I don’t know how,” he protested.

  “Shhh...you will know how to ask when the time comes. For now, close your eyes and let your spirit soar. The whole universe is inside this sweat lodge. We are part of that universe.”

  Skip closed his eyes and tried to relax. He wasn’t as nervous now. His breathing grew shallow and his heart rate slowed to a steady, relaxed beat. His eyes no longer burned from the steam, and he found the heat slightly more bearable. As he relaxed he felt the vibrations begin again. They seemed to start in his abdomen and spread in short pulses through his body. He concentrated on the vibrations and was startled to find his heart keeping beat with them.

  As he studied what was going on inside his body, Little Hawk started with a prayer of his own. The words were different from those of Eagle, because Hawk was praying in Cherokee. The two prayers created a strange stereo effect inside the lodge. It seemed to Skip that he was hearing the words of Eagle in his left ear and those of Little Hawk in his right. Both Indians had their prayers timed perfectly so neither spoke at the same time.

  When Skip tried to concentrate on the prayers he became dizzy, and it was only when he relaxed his mind that the words made any sense--which was odd, seeing how they weren’t being spoken in English. Rocking gently back and forth to the rhythm of the prayers, he discovered words to a prayer of his own forming in his head. How they got there he couldn’t imagine, for they were far too alien to be anything he might have thought up. He felt he should share his words with the others. Opening his mouth, his new prayer tumbled out.

  O Great Spirit hear my plea.

  O Great Spirit hear my plea.

  I come to you in a sacred manner.

  Long I have lived in a sacred manner.

  I come to you to ask for your help.

  Please Great Spirit grant me courage and strength.

  Grant me the courage to face my enemy and the strength

  to destroy him.

  Long I have lived in a sacred manner.

  The prayer surprised him, for as soon as Skip opened his mouth he realized he wasn’t speaking in English. This didn’t upset him. On the contrary, he liked his new prayer and enjoyed saying it. Each time he spoke his voice grew louder, his words blending with those of Strong Eagle and Little Hawk. The praying grew louder, faster, reaching a point where it was more vibration than sound--vibrations that made Skip’s body tingle, caused his head to feel funny, allowed him to see things....

  A vast plain of green stretched before him, fields of weeds and tall grasses, peppered with wild flowers of yellow and white. In the distance rose rugged mountains, deep purple against the light of a setting sun.

  Skip did not stand upon the plain but viewed it from a lofty vantage point, though he couldn’t tell what he stood upon, if anything at all. He felt like he was flying, soaring high above the earth, dancing among the clouds on feathery wings.

  Directly below him was a village of eleven brightly painted tepees. At one end of the village several men were engaged in the task of butchering a young deer, while others were hard at work making tools and weapons. Of the women to be seen, most were cooking, preparing the evening meal over small fires.

  Children laughed and frolicked through the village, some participating in games of strength and skill, and some just being kids. They all looked so tiny to Skip, like something from a fairy tale. He would have liked to watch the tiny people for a while, for they made him happy, but he felt himself being pulled by the wind.

  What do you see? a voice asked. Look and remember. What do you see?

  The village passed below him as he soared toward the distant mountains. He sailed over a twisting river, its glassy surface reflecting the colors of the sky and clouds. The river looked peaceful, but something about it filled him with dread. Some unknown danger lurked deep within the flowing waters, waiting, watching.

  Beware the river.

  The level plain gave way to rolling hills and forests of evergreen trees. The trees reached out to him, waved silent greetings to his passing, their branches alive with a multitude of songbirds. Carried upon the wind, the songs reached his ears, filling his heart with happiness. He too was a bird, flying, soaring, sailing, viewing the earth as he never dreamed possible. He also wanted to sing, to offer thanks for the beauty he beheld, but when he opened his mouth he found he could not speak.

  Beneath him a narrow valley ran through the middle of the hills. Skip spotted a small herd of buffalo grazing in the valley. His flight halted directly above the herd.

  Look. See. Remember. It is all important.

  As Skip floated there, gazing down upon the herd, the sun slipped behind the mountain range. As it did a brilliant ray of sunlight shot from between two peaks. Racing across the sky, the ray hit Skip straight in the eyes. At the exact moment the light struck him, an enormous bull buffalo below raised his head and sounded a lonesome bellow.

  A feeling of intense fear suddenly gripped Skip. Without knowing why, he looked to the west. He waited with breathless anticipation, for he knew something was about to happen.

  A dark spot appeared on the western horizon, a tiny black dot that streaked through the crimson sunset, dragging the night behind it. The object came closer, grew larger, took on shape. It was a bird, a gigantic black bird, easily measuring sixty feet from wingtip to wingtip. With a voice that was thunder, and eyes that flashed lightning, the bird swooped over the countryside. Mountains trembled at its passing and entire forests were laid low.

  The bird’s feathers were as black as moonless night, glistening with a bluish sheen, but its claws and beak were as red as the fresh-drawn blood of a slaughtered lamb. As it drew nearer, he could see that the bird had four eyes, two rows of two, one row on top of the other. Those eyes never blinked, not once, as the bird raced toward him, legs outstretched, talons poised to rip him to shreds. Skip tried to scream but couldn’t. He could only watch as death rushed toward him on silent wings.

  The bird was only thirty feet away when it was attacked from above and below. Four eagles came at the giant black bird from four different directions. With piercing cries of anger, they attacked like dive-bombers going after a battleship. Two of the eagles grabbed the giant bird’s wings, one on each wing, while the other two grabbed its legs. The black bird struggled to free itself, but the eagles fought back, pulling the bird in opposite directions, ripping it apart.

  There was a brilliant flash of light as the black bird was torn apart, brighter than the blast of an atomic bomb. Within the midst of this ball of light a face appeared. It was the face of evil, of death and destruction--the face of the Crota.

  Skip’s eyes snapped open. Gone was the giant black bird. Gone too were the four eagles. He no longer floated above the earth. Instead, he found himself back inside the tiny sweat lodge. The flap had been raised, allowing a cool wind to enter the lodge. He was grateful for the breeze, and took deep breaths to slow his racing heart.

  Little Hawk and Strong Eagle silently watched him. Both men exchanged knowing glances. They seemed
to be waiting for him to say something. He felt a momentary sense of panic as he tried to figure out what he was supposed to say. Little Hawk offered a reassuring smile. The smile turned into a frown, however, when a minute passed and he still hadn’t said anything.

  “What?” Skip said defensively, knowing he had somehow disappointed the other.

  Hawk shook his head. “We were hoping you could tell us. You have obviously had a very powerful vision, for you have been away from your body for almost thirty minutes. What have you seen?”

  Strong Eagle spoke and then laid a twisted braid of sweetgrass on the pile of burning coals.

  Hawk smiled. “Eagle said maybe you were sleeping.”

  Skip felt his face flush with anger. “I wasn’t asleep.”

  “Oh?” Hawk said, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Then tell us about your vision. It is important that you remember every detail, no matter how small.”

  Wiping the sweat from his eyes, Skip described what he’d seen. He took his time, making sure nothing was left out. When he finished, Hawk translated the story for Eagle. Strong Eagle listened, then interpreted the vision. Hawk translated:

  “He said your vision is truly a good sign, if a confusing one. The circle of tepees means we can only accomplish our goals through traditional methods. You see, a circle is a shape occurring naturally in nature. A rock is round, so is the trunk of a tree, the stem of a plant, the earth, the moon and the sun. The Indian respects the circle, acknowledges its power. Its shape is the shape of the sacred hoop. That is why tepees were always set in a circle, why our dance arenas are always round.”

  “What about the river?” Skip asked.

  Hawk shrugged. “Eagle’s not sure about that part of your vision. The Crota does not live in water, so maybe it has some other meaning. He will have to pray about it.”

  Strong Eagle spoke. Hawk listened and then translated:

  “The most important part of your vision is seeing the giant bird. Being black, it stands for something evil, something of darkness. In this case I’m sure that it represents the Crota. You even said that you saw the face of the Crota when the bird was destroyed.”

  Skip nodded.

  “You also said you saw four eagles attack the black bird. This is good, because four is a sacred number, standing for the four directions from which the wind blows: north, south, east and west. Four is also the number of the four races of man: white, red, black and yellow. The eagles coming to your rescue could also mean that the spirits are willing to help us.

  “Strong Eagle also feels, however, that the vision is trying to tell us something--that in order to destroy the Crota there must be four of us to complete our circle.”

  “Four?” Skip said.

  Hawk nodded. “Who this fourth person is I have no idea. I think Strong Eagle already knows who it is, but he won’t tell me. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  Chapter 28

  A storm was brewing. The weather service wasn’t calling for rain, but the eastern horizon rolled with thick, ugly thunderheads. Black tentacles stretched across the sky to do battle with the orange and purple of the setting sun. In a sense, the weather forecasters weren’t wrong. It was no natural storm that approached. Little Hawk could sense the power of the storm the same way he could sense the fear in the forest creatures around him.

  That the storm came from the east could be taken as a good sign. If it approached from any other direction, it would be a bearer of evil and their mission was sure to fail. Still, he wondered about the storm. Could it be a sign that the spirits were coming to help, or were they just coming to watch what was about to happen? He glanced to his left. Skip sat cross-legged on the ground, a fox-skin bundle resting on his lap.

  At first, Hawk had had his doubts about Sheriff Harding accompanying him into the tunnels. Serious doubts. After hearing the sheriff’s visions those doubts had disappeared. The three men’s paths were now one and the same. But where did that path lead, and would any of them reach the end?

  Clearing his throat to get their attention, Strong Eagle began to speak in a soft whisper. Little Hawk translated for Skip:

  “The hour has come. Before the sun sets you must begin your journey. I will go with you, but only in spirit, for I am too old and brittle to make such a trip.” He opened the buckskin medicine bundle lying at his feet, removing a tiny leather pouch attached to a length of cord. “Since you do not have one of your own, I have prepared a medicine pouch for you to wear. It will help keep you safe.”

  He handed the pouch to Skip, motioning for him to slip it over his head. Once in place, the medicine pouch hung in the center of his chest. Skip thanked Eagle for the gift, though he felt a little uncomfortable wearing it. The pouch had a funny odor to it, like a cross between witch hazel and muskrat.

  “Sheriff, I feel you have something you wish to ask about, but are hesitant to do so. Why? There is no such thing as a dumb question, only an unanswered one.”

  Skip cleared his throat. “Remember the dreams I’ve been having, the ones I told you about?”

  Hawk nodded.

  “Well, when I went home I decided to have another look around the attic, just in case there was more to it than a mere flight of fancy. Turns out I found the chest in my dreams.”

  Hawk’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

  “Yeah, it was hidden behind a false wall. Wasn’t much in it--not anything that could be useful--a few old garments, a pair of leggings and moccasins. But I found this hidden beneath a false bottom. Thought it might be important.”

  “What is it?” Hawk asked.

  “I don’t know,” Skip replied. “I haven’t opened it. I thought I’d leave that to you.” He handed the bundle over to Hawk.

  “Why didn’t you mention this earlier?”

  Skip shrugged. “I wasn’t sure if it was important or not. And I guess I felt that the time wasn’t right.”

  “And do you feel that the time is right now?” Hawk asked sarcastically.

  “I wouldn’t have given it to you if I didn’t.”

  Little Hawk handed the bundle to Strong Eagle. A look of surprise came over the old medicine man as he carefully untied the leather cords. Inside the bundle were three arrows, their wooden shafts black with age, the sinew cords holding the flint points and feather flights nearly frayed. Strong Eagle noticed Hawk's puzzlement. He grinned.

  “I did not think you would recognize them. Few would.”

  Lighting a sprig of sage, he picked up the arrows and passed them through the smoke. He handed one to Hawk, another to Skip.

  Skip gasped. The arrow felt cold to the touch--icy cold. It was a cold that burned, like touching frozen metal. The arrow obviously contained some kind of magical power.

  Eagle continued: “Judging by the marking on the shafts, plus what you have told me about your grandmother, I would say that these arrows are Cheyenne. Perhaps they are three of the four medicine arrows brought down from the mountains by Motzeyouf, the Arrow Boy, though I have heard that those arrows are cared for by the Arrow Keeper of the Southern Cheyenne in Oklahoma. Either way, your being led to these means that the spirits aren’t just watching anymore. They’re helping.”

  The old medicine man allowed Hawk time to translate before continuing.

  “I have told you before: the Crota is very powerful, but it is not invincible. While it cannot be killed with white man’s weapons, it can be destroyed with these. Take these arrows. Let your heart be strong and your aim true.”

  He wrapped the arrows back up and handed them to Hawk, which was a good thing because Skip was a lousy shot with a bow. The sheriff noticed that Little Hawk’s hands shook when he took the bundle.

  Strong Eagle picked up his pipe. “Now we smoke once more before you leave. Perhaps we smoke together for the last time.”

  Eagle slowly filled the pipestone bowl as he had several times before. Nobody said anything, but Skip sensed a strong feeling of sadness between the two Indians. Maybe Strong Eagle’s wo
rds rang truer than he let on; maybe this was the last time the three of them would smoke the pipe together. In the distance, a whippoorwill cried out; he could have sworn it called his name.

  Chapter 29

  There wasn’t a moon, and the sky was covered with fat, foreboding storm clouds. The wind howled like a wounded animal as it rattled the branches of the trees, gathering leaves and tiny twigs in its grasp. Thunder rumbled and lightning reached skeleton fingers across the sky. The only thing missing was the rain. A storm so powerful should have been drenching them to the bone, but not a drop fell from the swollen clouds. Perhaps what Little Hawk said was true--perhaps it was no ordinary storm that roared overhead. Maybe the spirits had come to watch the show.

  They took the back way to the Devil’s Boot, leaving the truck parked in a turnaround just off Cemetery Road. Neither of them wanted to run into anybody else and have to explain what they were up to. By hiking in, they avoided the roadblocks.

  Skip was amazed at Hawk’s ability to move through the woods. The same vines and branches that tugged at his clothes and raked his skin seemed to magically step aside to let the shaman pass, quickly snapping back in place behind him. When they finally reached the ledge above the mouth of the cave, Skip was fatigued, his hands and face stinging from dozens of tiny scratches. Little Hawk, on the other hand, didn’t have a scratch on him. Nor was he even breathing hard.

  Squatting in the darkness, they waited to see if their approach had been seen. About a hundred yards from the cave’s entrance sat a city police car and a fire engine. Since it was pitch-black outside, and the clothes they wore were dark, Skip doubted if they would be spotted before making it inside.

  He glanced at Hawk. The Indian was wearing his traditional blue jeans, cowboy boots and a work shirt. A length of rope was coiled around his left shoulder, an elmwood bow slung across his back. In his left hand he carried the fox-skin bundle containing the three arrows.