Crota

by Goingback, Owl

  The sheriff was dressed in a similar fashion, but instead of a bow and arrows he carried his revolver and a shotgun. Strong Eagle warned him that guns would be ineffective against the Crota, but Skip felt more secure bringing them along. They both carried powerful, lantern-type flashlights and canteens of water. Skip had also brought a flare gun and three flares.

  “Let’s go,” Hawk whispered. He slipped catlike down the steep path leading to the cave’s entrance. Skip followed close behind. They didn’t stop or turn their lights on until they were safely inside the cave.

  “Hold still,” Hawk said. Stepping closer, he placed a pinch of dried sage in Skip’s left ear.

  “What’s this for?” Skip asked.

  “It will help you to hear things you normally can’t,” Hawk said.

  Skip didn’t argue. He’d seen enough during the past twelve hours to convince him to believe in and follow the Indian’s advice.

  “Do you know which way to go?” Hawk asked.

  “I think so.”

  “Then you should take the lead.”

  “What if I get us lost?”

  “Don’t worry,” Hawk smiled. “I am sure the Crota will still find us.”

  Neither of them had any trouble climbing down the old wooden ladder to the lower level. Once down, Hawk took one of the arrows from the bundle and slipped it through his belt. Skip unslung his shotgun and slid a round into the chamber.

  They walked slowly as they crossed the second chamber, listening carefully to the sounds around them, alert to any possible danger. Skip climbed the pile of fallen stones and entered the tunnel, stopping short when he spotted the skeletons.

  “Looks like we found the place,” he said.

  Hawk stepped past him and looked around. “Do you feel it? Power lingers here.”

  Skip tried to feel what the shaman was talking about. “I don’t feel anything.”

  Hawk turned around and looked at him coldly. He made a clicking noise with his tongue. “That’s because you’re trying to feel it the way a white man feels things, with only his five senses. You must do as an Indian would do: you must look inward in order to see out.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “Shhh...be quiet.” He placed his fingertips on Skip’s lips. “Now, relax your mind. Slow your breathing. Think of nothing. Let your spirit become the calm of a lake’s surface, the mist of morning, the emptiness of space. Listen to what you hear through your left ear.”

  Skip closed his eyes and willed his muscles to relax. He forced his breathing to grow calm, slow. Pushing aside all thoughts, he finally managed to turn off the internal dialog of his mind. Only then did he reopen his eyes. The scene before him had changed.

  The skeletons still lay in their neat row along the wall, half buried in the accumulated dust of eons past. Only now he noticed a faint blue mist floating in and about them. The mist was like a thin layer of fog, bright blue in color.

  “Do you see it now?” Hawk whispered.

  “Yes,” Skip answered. “What is it?”

  “It is the lingering trace of the power that was once worked here. If you were really sensitive--psychic, as people call it nowadays--you might feel a slight chill when you passed through the tunnel.”

  “Can you always see such things?” Skip asked.

  “I can, because I’m a shaman,” Hawk replied. “I’ve been taught how to look at things differently from most men. Many times I’ve seen spirits when most doubt the existence of such things.”

  The sheriff looked around. “Do you see any spirits now?”

  “No. They might have been here once, trapped by the magic they wove, but they’re gone now. They fled when the wall crumbled. They did not want to be eaten by the Crota.”

  “Eaten?” A chill touched his spine. “How can the Crota eat spirits?”

  “There are many things a creature of darkness can do. The Crota would gladly catch and trap the spirits of those that tricked it before--trap them and keep them down in the darkness forever.”

  Skip was confused. “But if the spirits were trapped by their own magic, then they’ve already been down here for over a century.”

  Hawk nodded. “True, but a century is merely the blinking of an eye to a spirit. An eternity of darkness is another thing entirely.” He picked up a small stone lying at his feet and handed it to Skip. “Feel this.”

  “It feels cold.”

  He spoke three quick words in Cherokee. The stone Skip held grew warm, a glowing red letter suddenly appearing on the side of it.

  “See. There--” Hawk pointed. “Something was once written there with the blood of a medicine man. He must have been very powerful for the magic to stay around this long.”

  “I thought Indians didn’t have a written language back then,” Skip said.

  Hawk looked at him funny. “Who said that?”

  “It’s in the history books.”

  Jay Little Hawk smiled, as if speaking to a child who didn’t know any better. “Oh, I see. And doesn’t it also say in the history books that America, a land already inhabited for thousands of years, was discovered by Christopher Columbus, a man so totally lost that he thought he had landed in India so he called the natives Indians?”

  “Yeah, well--”

  “So, tell me, who wrote those history books?”

  “I don’t know,” Skip shrugged.

  “Well, I do. Your history books were written by white men. Can you imagine a white man writing about the history of Indians? Pretty funny, huh? Someone who probably never even saw an Indian, let alone sat down and talked with one, writing all about them. The same ones who wrote the history books were the ones who called the Indians savages.”

  Little Hawk’s face grew hard. Skip took a step backward as Hawk continued.

  “Savages! Let me tell you something, friend. Long before the white man came to this country with his whiskey and his greed, we had our own form of government. The Cherokees were farmers. We respected the land, taking only what we needed from it. There were no jails because we didn’t need them. An Indian would never steal from another. If he needed something, then others would give it to him. But now we can pay taxes, get drunk and go to jail, just like the white people. Pretty civilized, huh?”

  Skip held up his hands in a sign of surrender. “Remind me to keep my mouth shut unless I know what I’m talking about.”

  Hawk’s features softened. He slapped Skip on the shoulder and laughed. “You’re learning.”

  Before continuing, Hawk said a short prayer for the spirits of the Indians who had died in the cave. He wished them eternal rest and happiness, and thanked them for the noble sacrifice they had made. As the shaman spoke, Skip noticed the bluish mist grow faint and finally fade out completely. The magic of those before was gone.

  It wasn’t difficult to figure out which passageway to follow. Lloyd and the others had left a trail even a Cub Scout could follow. In addition to the thin cable wire that had connected the base station to the mobile phone, the tunnel was littered with candy wrappers and discarded wads of gum.

  Onward they marched, the tunnel sloping gradually downward. How deep they would eventually go they could only guess, but they were both willing to follow it to the center of the earth, if need be. One way or another, they were going to find the Crota. One way or another, they were determined to destroy it, or die trying.

  Chapter 30

  Little Hawk held his hand for silence. A wasted motion. Skip opened his mouth, but no words came out. He could barely breathe.

  The city was old, so very old. Never in his life had Skip seen anything so shrouded in antiquity, so wrapped in the very mystery of time itself. And somewhere amongst the twisting alleys and buildings of crumbling stone and adobe mud stalked the thing they had come to destroy. Deep within the very midst of that long-forgotten metropolis walked the Crota.

  Hawk stood still and straight, his eyes closed. If Skip didn’t know better, he would have thought the Indian was asleep on hi
s feet. A full minute passed before the shaman finally stirred.

  “What we seek is close,” he said, opening his eyes.

  Skip glanced around him. “How can you be sure?”

  Hawk smiled.

  “Never mind...how close is close?”

  Little Hawk pointed at the city spreading before them.

  “I was afraid of that,” Skip said. “That thing could be anywhere. No way you could narrow down its location a little, is there? I don’t like walking into a trap.”

  “You will not be going blind. Remember, the spirits are with you, for now you walk the path of your ancestors--”

  “Please, spare me the philosophy,” Skip interrupted.

  Hawk looked annoyed. “We have all the advantages available to us. Anything else will be just good fortune and dumb luck. We must hurry; we are expected.”

  Skip wondered what he meant by expected. Before he could ask, Hawk turned and started walking away. Not wanting to be separated, helpful spirits or not, Skip hurried to catch up.

  Hawk paused momentarily to study the pictographs on the arch guarding the entrance to the city.

  “Indians?” Skip asked, joining him.

  Hawk shrugged. “Maybe. I’m not sure. If it is, it’s older than anything I’ve ever seen.”

  “Mound Builders?”

  “Older than that. The people who built this city might have been related to the Aztec, or Mayan. It’s often wondered what happened to the people who built the great cities of the jungle. Then again, there are legends, ancient ones, that tell of races of men long lost to time.”

  “Oh?” Skip said, curious.

  Hawk turned and cocked an eyebrow. “Surely you’ve heard of the lost city of Atlantis.”

  “Everyone has.”

  “Well, the Indians too have their stories of an island nation that was destroyed centuries ago. But that is just one story; there are many others. Several legends of the Cherokee, in fact, tell that the first people came from the star system known as the Pleiades--”

  Skip held up his hand. “You’re starting to sound like Erich von Daniken.”

  “Who?”

  “The guy who wrote Chariots of the Gods. You know, ancient astronauts, that sort of thing.”

  “Maybe Mr. Daniken is a clever man,” Hawk said.

  “Maybe he’s a nutcase.”

  “Maybe,” the Indian nodded. “But it never hurts to keep an open mind. Man doesn’t know all the answers; he only thinks he does.” He moved his arm in a sweeping gesture. “This in itself is proof that we have a lot to learn.”

  They walked beneath the stone arch, stepping through a portal into another time. Tiny windowless houses watched their passing with mute fascination. Courtyards that had served as arenas for social gatherings now lay sleeping under layers of dust and shadows. Murals, once bright and colorful, were nothing more than faded patterns of chipping pastels. Covering it all was a feeling of sadness and loss so great it almost brought tears to their eyes. Here a great city once thrived, a city left abandoned and unloved by the harsh mistress of time.

  Skip looked down. The ground was littered with potsherds, stone chips, flint slivers, shells and bone fragments, the refuse of those who had lived in the underground city.

  “Looks like a primitive fallout shelter,” he said.

  Hawk turned and looked at one of the buildings. “They--”

  His sudden pause got the sheriff’s full attention. “What’s the matter?”

  “We’re being watched,” he said calmly.

  Skip clicked off the safety of his shotgun. Looking around, he tried to peer deeper into the shadows surrounding them. If they were being watched, it could be from a dozen different directions, in a hundred different hiding places.

  “Are you sure?” he asked. He didn’t doubt Hawk, he just felt the sudden need to talk, to say something to help disperse the fear building inside of him.

  “Yes. Don’t you feel it?”

  “No,” Skip replied.

  “Then you are not looking inward,” Hawk whispered. “Look inward, not outward. Relax. Let the spirits guide you.”

  Skip began taking deep breaths, willing his mind and body to relax. It wasn’t easy, especially in the present situation. Slowly, however, he felt himself grow calm, becoming more aware of his surroundings, more in tune with the things around him. As his mind reached a state of heightened awareness, he too felt the sensation of being watched.

  “I feel it,” he said. “But I can’t tell which direction it’s coming from.”

  “It comes from behind us. Whatever it is, it’s following us.”

  “Is it the Crota?”

  “Perhaps. I’m not sure,” Hawk shrugged. “It’s hard to tell. I almost get the feeling there are two of them.”

  “Two?” Skip was alarmed.

  “Yes. If it is the Crota, then it’s being very cautious...trying to disguise its energy. Perhaps it senses we are somehow different, so it is puzzled, maybe even a little frightened.”

  “It...frightened of us?” Skip laughed.

  “Maybe a little,” Hawk said. “Remember, the Crota was tricked before. I imagine a century of imprisonment has made it leery. Another thing: you’ve already beaten it once. Maybe it remembers you, knows who you are.”

  The feeling of being watched increased. Skip wiped his hand across his forehead. He was sweating profusely. He always sweated when he was scared, and he’d never been so scared in his life as he was at this moment. He tried deep breathing, trying to focus his attention inward as Little Hawk had told him. It didn’t work. He still had the feeling of being watched, but his inner calm was way out of order.

  He allowed Little Hawk to take the lead as they wove their way through the twisting, narrow alleyways. Although he didn’t ask, Skip suspected Hawk knew exactly where he was going. Either way, he was perfectly content to follow. Looking behind him as he walked, he didn’t notice the shaman stop suddenly, and he accidentally bumped into him.

  “You have all the grace of an old woman!” Hawk snapped.

  “Yeah, well I think you ought to have your brake lights fixed. Why are we stopping?”

  “Why not?”

  “What do you mean, why not?”

  “I think this is as good a place as any.”

  “For what?” inquired Skip.

  “Why, to face our destiny, of course.”

  Skip hated it when Hawk talked around a subject. Still, he had a pretty good idea what the Indian meant. They had stopped in the center of a large courtyard, by far the largest they had yet seen, measuring about forty feet by sixty feet. The courtyard was open only on one side, the other three sides closed in by the windowless walls of single-story buildings. Only one way in, only one way out. The perfect spot for a showdown.

  “So what do we do now?” Skip asked.

  Hawk pointed at the closest wall. “You sit here. I will sit over there.” He indicated a point about twenty feet to the left of where Skip would be sitting. “We will turn off our lights and wait. The Crota will come.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  He smiled and touched the gorget Skip wore around his neck. “I forgot to tell you. Because of your necklace, the Crota probably thinks you are one of those who stole its freedom. The creature will not rest until it finds you. It will come.”

  “The Crota thinks I’m a Creek Indian?”

  Hawk nodded.

  “How could you forget to tell me that?” Skip started to get angry, then realized what was going on. “Wait a minute. You son of a bitch, you didn’t forget. You’ve been using me as bait. Haven’t you?”

  “Something like that,” Hawk grinned.

  The sheriff let out a sigh. “Good thing I’ve got a friend. Any last-minute words of advice?”

  “Don’t fall asleep.”

  Hawk stepped closer and stuck out his hand. Skip, thinking he wanted to shake hands, stuck his out too. Before he could react, the sharp blade of a knife nicked the palm of his right ha
nd.

  “Ow! What the hell are you doing?” Skip looked in shock at the bright red trickle flowing down his fingers.

  “If I am to die with a man, then he should be my brother--even if he is already my friend.” Little Hawk sliced his own palm, then offered his hand again. Skip didn’t hesitate to take it. Their blood mingled--blood of a red man, blood of a white man--and joined together, became one. Brothers. The way it should be. The way it should always have been.

  Chapter 31

  Curious eyes of timid forest creatures watched the still form of George Strong Eagle. Before him the fire laughed and danced as it consumed crackling logs of cedar and pine. The darkness around the old Indian seemed to close in, held at bay only by the flames. His lips barely moved as he voiced silent prayers to unseen spirits. His eyes were closed, yet he saw.

  It wasn’t the orange of the flames he saw, nor the twisting black clouds above. Though Strong Eagle’s physical body sat in the tiny clearing, his spirit was many miles away, deep within the bowels of the earth. And what he saw, the visiting spirits also saw. Spirits don’t usually take an active interest in the affairs of men, but tonight was different. Tonight the spirits shrieked and howled, causing creatures of fur and feather to cower together in fear. Thunder rumbled and roared as lightning split the sky. There was going to be a battle, a veritable war between the forces of light and dark, between good and evil. The spirits had come for the show. They weren’t to be disappointed.

  Billy Harding lay awake in his bed, looking out the window, watching the limbs of the oak tree next to the house swing and sway. Though he couldn’t hear the wind, he could feel the house shake from the force of the storm. With each flash of lightning, shadows formed on his bedroom ceiling. Long, dark shadows stretched across the room like the arms of a giant scarecrow, snatching at him with hooked fingers.

  Pulling his covers up around his chin, he wished that his father was home. He wouldn’t be afraid then. His dad was the sheriff; he’d protect him from anything that walked or slithered in the darkness of the night.

  Another flash of lightning caused Billy to close his eyes tightly for a second. When he opened them again, he found that he was no longer alone.