Revenge of the Manitou tm-2

by Graham Masterton

  “I guess this is almost our last chance,” said Singing Rock. “Misquamacus is really preoccupied now. It’s going to take all of his strength to raise up Ka-tua-la-hu without the help of Ossadagowah, and all the strength of his friends as well. I’m going out there again.”

  He opened up his case and took out two war axes, each one decorated with scalps and feathers. Then he gave Harry one last look, and made his way back through the barricades toward the bridge.

  Harry called: “Take care, will you?” But he wasn’t sure if Singing Rock had heard him.

  Now, hundreds of feet above the churning surface of Lake Berryessa, the grayish fog rose in the dim and terrifying shape of the elder god. It was so dark that Ka-tua-la-hu’s writhing form was scarcely visible, but as he strained his eyes, Harry could see something that looked like a nest of wriggling, repulsive serpents; something that disturbingly reminded him of every nightmare he’d ever had. It was the raw essence of fear and repulsion; the loathsome horror that crawled on the fringes of the night. It was the ancient lingering memory that still makes men afraid of things that creep and things that slide, even though they have consciously forgotten why. It was Ka-tua-la-hu, the spawn of the Great Old One, the most hideous god of madness and fear.

  All twenty-one medicine men on the bridge had now raised their arms in obeisance to the elder god, and were singing a low, warbling incantation. They stood in their oweaoo, their circle, and they drew the overwhelming fog cloud nearer.

  Singing Rock reached the end of the bridge and stood there alone for a moment, swinging a war ax in each hand. Then he whooped out a long challenging call, a mocking call that ridiculed Misquamacus and every other medicine man, a call that any Indian with any pride could not ignore.

  Harry could see Misquamacus waver with indecision. But then the wonder-worker turned and left the other twenty medicine men to continue their call to Ka-tua-la-hu, who now loomed over them all in an immense boiling bank of evil clouds, and he faced Singing Rock with an expression of burned-out patience and deep revenge.

  Singing Rock took two or three steps forward, and then he began to whirl one of the axes around and around until it was a blur. Misquamacus crouched down slightly in anticipation, but his eyes never left Singing Rock’s face, and he looked confident and contemptuous. Harry, over by the fence, found that he was digging his fingernails into the palm of his hand.

  The magical ax flashed from Singing Rock’s hand and flew toward Misquamacus, turning end over end. But even before it was halfway there, Misquamacus gave a quick sweep of his arm, and the ax seemed to burst and turn into a black owl, which screeched once and then flapped away on the wind.

  Singing Rock swung the second ax, faster and faster, and he threw it at Misquamacus with a hoarse cry of warlike vengeance. But Misquamacus was quicker, and stronger. His arm swept across his chest again, and the ax turned in midair and flew back toward Singing Rock. Harry watched in horror as Singing Rock tried to dodge it, but the speed and power of Misquamacus’ magic made it unstoppable and unavoidable. With a sharp chopping sound that Harry could hear from seventy feet away, Singing Rock’s head was knocked from his shoulders.

  For an agonizing second, Singing Rock’s decapitated body stood alone on the bridge, with a fountain of blood spraying from his severed neck. But then he twisted and collapsed beside his own head and lay still.

  Harry turned away, his stomach heaving. He felt totally stunned, totally shattered.

  Without realizing it, he dropped to his knees, and stayed there while Misquamacus stalked back triumphant to his circle of medicine men, and joined his strength once more to the summoning of Ka-tua-la-hu.

  Neil said, “Harry-what the hell can we do now? Harry!”

  Harry looked up. His eyes were watering from retching. He said, “I’m damned if I know. Singing Rock was the expert.”

  “Harry-we’ve got to do something! Look!” Behind him, the writhing cloud of Ka-tua-la-hu was almost at the bridge itself, and its pale slimy tentacles were lashing out at the foam-wracked shores of the lake. The whole grotesque god was trumpeting now, trumpeting in evil and hungry delight, with a noise that sounded like dozens of tortured whales. Across on the other side of the bridge, Harry saw three National Guardsmen running as a tentacle lashed toward them. It caught them all, and dragged them shrieking into the boiling lake.

  “We’ve just got to get out of here!” shouted Harry. “That thing’s going to kill us all!”

  “But we can’t!” Neil insisted. “What about the children? What about all the people who are going to die?”

  “I’m not a goddamned martyr!” Harry yelled back. “I’m a goddamned mystic!”

  Already, policemen and soldiers were running past them and scrambling up the loose dirt and rocks of the hillside. A cold, foul wind was blowing-a wind that stank of silvery fish skins and fetid flesh. Out of the mass of serpents, another tentacle flailed toward the shore, and a policeman was crushed and pulled into the water.

  There was a high-pitched screaming sound, and suddenly five Air Force jets, all flying in tight formation, came streaking northward along the length of the lake. They passed the cloudy bulk of Ka-tua-la-hu, and Harry saw the hot scarlet-blue flames from their tail pipes as they used reheat to climb and bank and circle away.

  Ka-tua-la-hu screeched and groaned, and another roiling mass of tentacles appeared from the upper clouds.

  Harry and Neil could hear what was happening over the abandoned transmitter. The National Guard had pulled back a half-mile, and their colonel was trying to direct the air strike from Dyer Creek.

  “Air strike to ground. What do you want us to sap”?”

  “The bridge there. The Pope Creek bridge. You see where that land of gray fog stuff is?”

  “We’re coming back for another run there. We don’t see the bridge too clearly.”

  “Where that gray fog stuff is. That stuff with all the tentacles like a damned octopus.”

  “An octopus? What is this? We don’t see any octopus.”

  Harry and Neil could hear the jets rumbling behind the hills. Then they flashed into sight again, still flying tightly together, and made a curving pass over the bridge and off into the clouds to the south. They were followed by a sharp sonic bang.

  “We see the bridge and the cloud mass. You want the bridge knocked out!”

  “That’s right. Knock out the bridge, and see what you get when you fire a few rockets into that fog.”

  “Okay, ground. We’re coming in for a trial run, then we’ll get at it.”

  Again, the whistle of the jets came nearer. But as they appeared over the hills, there was an abrupt garbling of sound over the transmitter, and a chilling, screaming noise.

  “What’s happened? I can’t seel I can’t see any-thingl”

  “Oh, Christ, my eyes are gone! My eyes]”

  The five jets thundered overhead, but this time they were wildly out of formation. Two of them collided almost over the creek side where Harry and Neil were crouched, and there was a monstrous explosion and a rolling ball of fire that spun across the valley and crashed onto the hillside opposite. The other three tumbled out of sight, but Harry and Neil heard three dull thumps in the distance and saw the flash of igniting fuel.

  Harry wiped sweat from his face and looked up at the towering bulk of Ka-tua-la-hu, white and heaving and infinitely evil, a mass of wriggling tentacles and cloudy horror.

  “Well, Neil, I guess we’re on our own.”

  Neil slowly shook his head. “We’re not on our own. We never have been. These Indians have called up all their old spirits and demons and ghosts to help them, why the hell don’t we call up oursT’

  “What are you talking about?” said Harry. “Are you crazy?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m not. I’ve been stupid, that’s all. Dunbar helped me once and he’ll do it again. That’s what he was trying to tell me. The Indians may have massacred those white settlers up here at Conn Creek, but they made a mistake w
hen they chose to use that massacre as a focusing point for all this. They disturbed the spirits of the settlers, right? They disturbed Dun-bar’s ghost. And what I said about the white men licking the Red Indians is true. They licked them because they were stronger, and better armed, and better organized, and in the end they were more determined.”

  “Greedier, too,” said Harry.

  “Sure they were greedy. But their greed was what made their determination even stronger. And they’re not only determined, they’re here. They must be. They’re just waiting for us to call them, like that monster was waiting for the Indians to call him.”

  “You’re going to call them?” said Harry. “Now I know you’re out of your mind.”

  Neil stood up. “You bet I’m going to call them. We’re going to win this tune, Harry.

  We won in the old days and we’re going to win again. My ancestor started all this, and it’s up to me to set it right.”

  Harry tried to grab his arm, but Neil ran off through the lines of deserted police cars, ducking and weaving. The ravenous cloud of Ka-tua-la-hu was almost over them now, its tentacles blindly searching for human flesh. Harry saw one white serpent slither across the ground and catch an unsuspecting jackrabbit, instantly tearing it into a bloody rag with a crushed skull and bulging eyes.

  Neil made it to the bridge. The twenty-one Indians were still standing there in their magic circle, using all their powers now to bring Ka-tua-la-hu out of the lake and across the countryside, to devour and ravage and take revenge on the white man.

  Misquamacus was standing in the center of the circle, his head back and his eyes closed, his fists pressed against his chest. Out of his mouth came an endless howling ululation, a sound as ancient and timeless as the first man who ever called on the elder gods to wreak death on his enemies.

  Neil, alone, shouted: “Dunbar! Dunbar! I need you!”

  His voice sounded pitifully small amid the screeching of the Indian medicine men and the astral moaning of Ka-tua-la-hu. But he called again and again: “Dunbar! Dunbar!

  Dunbar!”

  Harry yelled: “Neil! It’s no damned good! Get out of there!”

  “Dunbar!” howled Neil. “Dunbar, for God’s sake, help me”

  Harry rubbed dust from his eyes. He wasn’t sure whether he was imagining things or not, but there seemed to be more people on the bridge. Their figures were faint at first, almost invisible, but as Neil shouted “Dunbar!” over and over again, their shades seem to gather substance and shape.

  They didn’t take on complete solidity. Harry could still see the shadowy railing of the bridge through their bodies. But they were solid enough to recognize. Twenty lean, rangy men in mackinaws and buckskin shirts and long dusters, with beaten-up hats and drooping mustaches. Twenty hard-bitten old-time settlers, with rifles and guns.

  And a little way behind them, on the hillside, stood twenty women in bonnets and capes, and a group of silent, unmoving children.

  They were the ghosts of the Wappo massacre at Las Posadas, the spirits of 1830

  returned. The people whom Bloody Fenner had led to their deaths, and whom his descendant was now calling to take their revenge, the white man’s revenge on the Indians.

  The medicine men lowered their arms, and stood facing the ghostly white settlers in cautious bewilderment. But the settlers didn’t step forward. They simply raised their rifles, took ami at the medicine men, and fired. There was a flat, unreal report, and smoke appeared to drift away on the wind. The medicine men collapsed to the road.

  At the same time, as the incantations of the medicine men ceased, a deep, groaning sound emerged from the shape of Ka-tua-la-hu. The ground shook again, like a huge earthquake, and the night sky was ripped with lightning and peal after peal of shattering thunder.

  In a final devastating burst of noise, the elder god rolled back into the lashing waters of Lake Berryessa, and sank in a turmoil of foam beneath its surface. It left behind that cold stench of the deep and dark waters that lapped and splashed and lapped again, but the god was gone.

  Harry ran up to the bridge. Neil was still standing there, exhausted and alone. The bodies of the medicine men were strewn everywhere, their painted faces against the asphalt, their costumes bloodied and torn. Harry circled around them gingerly, looking for Misquamacus. Neil followed close behind.

  Then Harry heard a voice. He looked up through the drifting powder smoke, and there at the end of the bridge stood Misquamacus, with Broken Fire, the Paiute medicine man, beside him. Both of the wonderworkers had been wounded by the ghostly bullets of Dunbar’s settlers. Misquamacus’ right arm hung beside him, dripping with blood, and there was a dark stain on Broken Fire’s breeches. But Misquamacus’ face was still deeply marked with anger and revenge, and he fixed Harry with eyes that glittered and burned.

  “You think you have defeated me, white man, but I shall destroy you, too, just as I destroyed your traitorous friend. First, though, Broken Fire will burn the man Fenner, so that you may see what I have in store for you.”

  Broken Fire raised his hand, just as Andy Beaver had done, and pointed it toward Neil. Harry tried to take a step forward, but Misquamacus made a sweep of his left arm, and Harry felt as if he was paralyzed, unable to move another step. Broken Fire chanted the ritual words to create fire, and gave a low, penetrating cry.

  As he did so, however, there was a curious vibration in the air between him and Neil.

  For a brief moment, Harry was sure that he could see the outline of a young man, with one hand raised, protecting Neil from the magic that projected from Broken Fire’s outstretched finger.

  There was a roaring gout of flame from Broken Fire’s hand, but it flared up against the ghostly outline of the young man, and enveloped Broken Fire instead. The medicine man screamed in agony as the fire seared his face and his bare chest, and he dropped to the road in a struggling, twisting mass of flames. After a while, he lay still.

  Misquamacus turned to Harry.

  “Your legacy has always been one of death and destruction, white man. You have slain my people and raped my women and destroyed my prairies and forests. Now you have dismissed even my greatest gods. I sought revenge on you and the one called Singing Rock, and on all white men and their running dogs, but revenge has sought me instead. This is my last life on this earth and I must now go to the great outside unfulfilled.

  “I could kill you now, but I shall not. I want you to remember me instead for the rest of your moons, that you knew and fought against Misquamacus, the greatest of the wonder-workers of ancient times. I want you to know, too, that even on the great outside I shall seek a way to revenge myself for what you have done, and that you will never be safe from my anger.”

  The medicine man raised his hand in the Indian sign which means “so be it,” and then turned away. All Harry and Neil could do was watch him disappear into the smoke and the darkness.

  But even as they stood there, they heard voices behind them. Small, young hesitant voices. They turned, and there on. the bridge where the bodies of the medicine men had been lying were the children of Bodega school. Linus Hapland, with his scruffy, red hair, Petra Delsada, Ben Nichelini. Debhie Spurr, and Daniel Soscol. Even old Doughty was there. They turned again, and where the burning body of Broken Fire had been stood Andy Beaver, dazed but alive. And out of the smoke into which Misquamacus had walked, shyly at first, but then with a rush, came Toby.

  Neil knelt down and flung his arms around Toby and cried openly. Harry watched him for a while, and then went to the parapet of the bridge, took out a cigarette, and lit it. He didn’t want to go look at the body of Singing Rock. He wanted to remember his Indian friend the way he always had been before-dignified, wise, tolerant, and humorous. What lay on the bridge were only mortal remains, after all. Singing Rock’s real self, his manitou, was now on the great outside, in the magical hunting grounds where the wonder-workers prepared themselves for each fresh incarnation.

  He took a Iqng drag at his cigaret
te and then brushed tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. He thought he must be getting old. The wind always seemed to make him weep.

  They sat in the kitchen at Neil’s house, polishing off the remains of one of Susan’s cheese-and-bacon pies, with fresh broccoli and red potatoes. Then Neil brought some more beer out of the fridge, and they drank a quiet toast to survival, and maybe to Dunbar, too.

  Harry said, “It was too near this time. I don’t ever want to meet that goddamned Misquamacus again as long as I live.”

  Susan gave him a gentle smile. “The best thing you can do now is forget it. It won’t happen again, will it? Not like this.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Harry. Then he added, “No, it won’t.”

  Neil drank beer and said nothing. Toby, at the other end of the table, was playing lumberjacks with the stalks of his broccoli, cutting them up and floating them downriver on the cheese sauce.

  Harry said, “I still don’t know what happened with Broken Fire. I thought he was going to burn you up like a cheap hamburger out there on the bridge.”

  Neil lowered his eyes. “I don’t know, either. But I’ve got a kind of hunch. I don’t know whether you saw anything in the air between me and that medicine man, but I could swear I glimpsed my dead brother Jimmy for a moment. It was as if he was acting as a shield between me and that fire.”

  Neil set down his glass. “You remember what Singing Rock said about Broken Fire?

  His magic didn’t work too well against the spirits of people who had been killed by white man’s technology. Well, that was how Jimmy was killed. We were out working on our car, him and me, and I accidentally let the jack slip and he was crushed.”

  There was a pause. Susan and Toby and Harry all looked at him in silence, and let him come to terms by himself with what had happened.