Then he turned away from the place where Roy Miller had died and began to circle the spot slowly. His feet moved in a rhythmic step, toe-heel, toe-heel, one-two, one-two. He stretched his arms upward, the feathers on his head keeping time with his movements, the sound of the soft rattle distinct in the stillness. In the flickering light, his sharp features and the white streak down his nose gave him the appearance of a bird, a hawk or a raven. Frank felt a momentary thrill at the transformation, from Eddie to Redhawk, con man to medicine man. Maybe they were the same.
There was only the crackle of the fire and the dry voice of the rattle. Eddie began a soft chant, his voice rising up in measured tones. Frank didn’t understand the words, but he knew they must be Shoshone. The soft guttural sounds flew into the night. And then he could understand the words, for Eddie had shifted seamlessly into English.
I call on my brother the coyote.
My brother coyote who sees in the night, come eat of this.
My mother is sick with this on her skin.
My brother must come.
Eddie reached down to the ground and flung handfuls of dirt into air. He leaped upward into the night, his figure casting moving shadows across the ground, the pace of his dancing matched in the flames of the fire. The rattle’s voice filled the night sky with its sandy sound, and Frank’s stomach knotted with dread. He knew that voice and it filled his ears. Eddie’s voice rang into the night.
Bring the black sky watchers.
They will eat of this flesh.
It will not harm them.
Eddie danced forward, his thin arms and body silhouetted against the fire. Frank watched as he approached. It was as if one of the dancing stick figures on the rocks had leaped into life and come for him.
“Come, my brother.” Eddie reached down and took Frank’s hands, pulling him to his feet. “We will finish driving away this bad thing.” Frank hobbled with Eddie into the firelight. Eddie raised his arms and face to the night sky and intoned,
Sky and earth last forever. Men must die. Hot winds bring evil. All things change and die.
Eddie grasped Frank’s hand. “Raise your hands,” he said, his voice barely audible. “Say these words with me.”
Eddie sang out.
My song reaches the sky,
Frank repeated, hearing the words issuing from his mouth.
My song reaches the sky,
Eddie’s voice lifted into the night.
I shall vanish and be no more.
The land over which I wander shall remain.
And change not.
Frank echoed.
And change not.
His voice seemed not to be his, and yet it was, strange and familiar to him as the desert itself, and he was standing there with this man, being and watching, a part of it all. They stood in the firelight, tiny sparks lifting into the night sky. Letting out a long breath, Eddie dropped his arms to his sides.
Frank leaned close to Eddie. “Are we finished?”
“Just one thing left.” He whispered in Frank’s ear, “Turn your back to them.”
“Why? What the hell are you doing?” Eddie was fumbling with his pants.
“We’re going to wash away this evil from your land.” Eddie was already urinating on the spot where Miller’s body had fallen.
“Jesus, Eddie, there are women here.”
“That’s why I told you to turn your back.”
“Let me help out.” Jimmy stood next to Eddie, his stream arcing into the night.
Dave Meecham came to stand next to Frank. “Always glad to lend a hand—so to speak.”
Frank was suddenly aware of the fullness of his bladder. He shook his head, looking down at the streams of urine making a muddy puddle in the place where Miller had lain, and made it a foursome. Little rivulets of urine trickled toward the fire, tendrils of steam rising into the night air. Eddie grinned and began kicking dirt over the growing pond.
Jan’s voice rose over the cluster of males. “Communal pissing seems to be a universal trait among the more unevolved male, Cervesacum northamericus. Never could understand it.” Jimmy started laughing, and the laughter ignited like dry grass in the wind. Frank had to hobble back to his chair to keep from falling. Their voices sounded like coyotes howling in the night.
That evening, Linda and Frank sat with the chairs pulled up near the last of the glowing coals, a soft red in the pool of darkness at their feet. The moon slipped behind the mountains, casting the jagged escarpment of the Sierras into sharp relief. The stars brightened in the dimming of the moon’s light. Linda’s hair played about her forehead in the gentle breeze, her skin ivory pale in the starlight.
“It was okay, wasn’t it?” She squeezed Frank’s arm.
“It was more than okay; it was good.”
“Well, see there. Eddie’s a healer.”
“My butt still aches.”
“Sure, but when you look at that place on the ground, what’re you going to think about?
Frank gave a low laugh. “Eddie says we should plant a fruit tree.” He turned to Linda. “Why not? But it’d have to be an apple tree. I want to try fresh apple pie in the Dutch oven.”
EPILOGUE
Telescope Peak was still capped in gleaming white and there were springs running almost to the valley floor. The little meadow in Surprise Canyon flourished. Near the small stream that fed the meadow, the grass was still green, and flowers thrust up hopeful blossoms late into the summer.
“Good for the sheep. They’ll be fat for the winter.” Frank surveyed the slopes for any sign, but he and Linda were alone. Tiny blue butterflies were fluttering above the grasses that stretched away from the rivulet of clear water that brought life to the meadow. The hike up the canyon had been tough. He was out of shape, but not as much as he had anticipated. And his leg had held up—no weakness, no shooting pain. Of course, there hadn’t been any leaping across the table rocks or scrambling about on the talus slopes. He and Linda had taken the longer, less strenuous trail that skirted the tumble of boulders guarding the canyon mouth. Nevertheless, he felt almost a hundred percent recovered, except that now and then, if he sat wrong, a sharp pain knifed through his buttock like an electric shock. The walking part was actually easier than sitting on hard surfaces.
“Let’s see if we can watch by the waterfall.” Linda pulled on his arm.
He didn’t want to return to the rock blind just yet, not for a while. “We’ll have to sit still. No wiggling around. That’s tough for women.”
She punched his arm. “Sure, sure, Mr. Macho. I don’t think I’d go there if I were you. You’re going to have to spend less time around cops and more time around reporters if you want to learn something about being patient.”
“I like spending time around reporters.” He cupped her face in his hands. “I like it very much.”
“Come on.” She headed across the canyon, away from the spring, the swish of her feet in the dry grass sending locusts buzzing into the air and launching clouds of tiny gnats. “Let’s get there before the sheep.”
Frank followed, the smell of the dry grass sharp in his nostrils. Linda’s T-shirt clung to her back and against her spine, her soft hair damp against her neck.
“If we sit back here against the rock, the fall should give us cover.” Frank knelt and explored the smooth sand for hidden rocks. If he was going to sit there practically motionless, he didn’t want to be in pain.
After a few minutes, they felt almost cold despite waves of heat shimmering off the meadow. The damp from the sand and the clouds of spray that blew in their direction from time to time made them shiver. Occasional rainbows appeared as the mist lifted into the sunlight and scattered in the wind. They waited, watching puffy white clouds trail across the sky. Frank found himself dozing, his head slipping forward in easy drowsiness.
“It’s been more than an hour. I’m getting hungry. Want a sandwich?” Linda nudged him with her elbow.
Frank frowned. “Have patience, Lois Lane
, or you’ll miss the story.”
“Well, I’m hungry anyhow.” She rummaged carefully in her pack and produced a chicken sandwich, layered with Swab’s High Sierra Chileno Indian-style peppers and fresh tomatoes from the vegetable garden they had planted in Frank’s yard. Now he had a yard, with a fence around just the garden part. He wasn’t so sure about that, but he liked the fresh tomatoes and zucchini and melons.
“Shussh!” Frank put his finger to his lips and pointed with the other hand.
An old ewe made her way down the talus slope, leading a group of four in single file behind her. Rocks came spilling ahead of them, tumbling down the steep canyon walls, starting small avalanches of rocky debris. The new lambs raced across the face of the slope, dislodging rocks at each bound.
Linda gripped his arm. “It’s a wonder they don’t fall.”
“Sometimes they do.”
The lambs seemed to be suspended in air, bounding with effortless joy as the earth slipped from under their feet.
And on this day, none of them fell.
SHADOW of the RAVEN
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I spoke with many men and women who work for the Bureau of Land Management. Three things struck me. The rangers work without backup, where cell phones don’t reach and rules don’t apply. Dangerous stuff. All the people who work for the BLM are caught in the middle of powerful social and political forces that tug them this way and that. They are often the subject of blame, but rarely the subject of praise. Yet despite frequently being targeted for public bashing, these people love their work and the lands they protect. We owe them a debt of thanks.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
SHADOW OF THE RAVEN. Copyright © 2007 by David Sundstrand. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.minotaurbooks.com
Book design by Jonathan Bennett
eISBN 9781429935586
First eBook Edition : May 2011
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Sundstrand, David.
Shadow of the raven / David Sundstrand.
p.cm.
ISBN-13: 978-0-312-36135-8
ISBN-10: 0-312-36135-1
1. Mojave Desert (Calif.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3619.U563 S53 2007
813’.6—dc22
2006050916
First Edition: February 2007
Shadow of the Raven Page 33
