Apparition Lake

by Daniel D. Lamoreux

  The grizzly bear circled the fire, reared up, and roared to the full moon. The unearthly mist from the surface of Apparition Lake enveloped him and the monster disappeared.

  Forty yards distant, and thirty feet above the ground, trembling like a newly hatched baby bird, William Jones sat perched on the sagging limb of an old pine tree. The screams, the shouting, the earth-moving roars from below had all faded into silence. The only sounds about the ghostly lake bank were his own as he softly but uncontrollably cried. What seemed like a very long time, but might not have been at all, passed and Jones unclosed his eyes, dreading to look below but knowing he must.

  What he saw beneath the tree in a wide circle about their campfire defied description; all of his friends lifeless in a tableau of horror. What he saw floating past his hiding place was just as strange in its out-of-place beauty; a feather. It shone gold, streaked with white, as it drifted on the breeze. It vanished in a cloud of fog that was lifting away as quickly as it had come, reappeared beneath, and dropped gently down to land in silence near the campfire on the blood-soaked ground.

  Chapter 19

  The Tribal council was in an uproar. Nearly 150 years had passed since the last Indian massacre. To many of the distraught men in the room that is exactly what had happened near Apparition Lake; a massacre. These men felt the same people were responsible, the white man. The tomahawks, spears, and other decorative accouterments around the room had taken on a whole new symbolism. They seemed to speak less about what had been and more about what was to come. War drums beat in the chests of every man present, red man's thunder amid a white man's storm.

  William Shakespeare banged his gavel trying to bring the room to order but order was out of the question. Battle lines were quickly being drawn and Indians were on all sides of those lines. Behind Shakespeare stood a nervous stranger whose navy blue suit screamed “government man.” He was dark skinned and had jet-black hair, but was not an Indian. The fellow said nothing and was apparently content to stand quietly watching from behind the table and the council chairmen.

  Two Fists stood lecturing wildly to a handful of Arapaho business owners. Time and again, he drove one fist into the other to emphasize a point. Across the room, Sam Coyote suffered a similar outburst from one of his Fort Washakie neighbors. Sam looked pained and seemed to be bracing himself for a physical assault as the angry man shouted on. Joe White sat defeated, his head depending from his rounded shoulders. Gone was the handshaking, smiling businessman. The ghost sitting in his place, the father of the slain son, had nothing to say and no one to say it to.

  Shakespeare struck the table again demanding silence. The gavel's head flew off, bounced twice across the council table, and skittered to a stop near the entryway across the room. There followed shuffling, then quiet, as the Indians took their seats.

  “I know you're upset,” Shakespeare said. “We're all upset about what's happened. That's why we've called this meeting.” The room stared back at him. “For those of you that don't know him, this is Manolo Pena, our Agency Supervisor.” He indicated the government man and drew a low grumble from the crowd.

  “What is the government going to do about this mess?” Two Fists demanded.

  The supervisor cracked his knuckles; an unfortunate choice for a nervous gesture. He may as well have drawn a gun for the stares he received. Tucking his hands behind his back, he cleared his throat. “We understand your concern,” he said his voice cracking. “We know this is a bad situation and we know how you feel.”

  “You know how I feel?”

  The question had come from Joe White in an unusually frail voice. The filling station owner looked up through red, swollen eyes and slowly rose to his feet. “My son, his girlfriend, and four of their friends are all dead. Their bodies were broken, torn to pieces, and left in the woods like the garbage of some thoughtless white camper.”

  “Joe, we…”

  “No, William Shakespeare, I will speak now,” Joe said. “These were not the first. Before my son and his friends, four other people died in the same way.” He shook a finger at the government man. “You don't know me. You don't know how I feel. My son caused trouble for everyone, and many are probably glad he is gone, but he was my son. He was all I had of his mother and now he is gone and I am alone. You don't know how I feel.”

  The government man looked at the floor.

  “Each time somebody died in Yellowstone,” Joe said gathering steam. “You told the public how rare it was. You gave them statistics on bear attacks to back up your claim that it almost never happened. You told everyone to hang their food high up in trees when camping, to play dead when charged, and to have a nice day. But you did nothing.” Joe took a step forward. “Tell me, Mr. White, Government Man. Are you here today to tell us how rare it is for a bear to kill six people at once?”

  Tears streamed down Joe's cheeks, brine wetting the corners of his mouth. “There is nothing you can do for us, mister. We are Indians. We do not believe your statistics, we have no food to hang in a tree, and we're already dead. You don't know how we feel. So you have a nice day.”

  Joe collapsed back into his chair his shoulders shaking as he cried. Several shouts of agreement rang out and the room again was abuzz with a hundred voices at once. Shakespeare had no gavel to bang. He simply looked from the angry crowd to the Agency Supervisor and back again.

  The door to the community room came open and Two Ravens stepped in. He showed no reaction to the tumult but stepped to the side holding the door open. Behind him and entering at a snail's pace was Snow on the Mountains. The room grew quiet. It took several minutes for the shaman to cross the length of the room. Not a word was spoken as he did.

  Snow on the Mountains reached the side of the Council chairman's table. Ignoring the government man entirely, the holy man nodded to William Shakespeare. The chairman returned the nod and then waved silently to the gathered Indians giving him the floor. Snow on the Mountains turned to those in attendance. “There has been much injustice in the land,” he said. “By white men and by our own kind. The Earth has open wounds that must be healed.” His tone darkened. “It is time. Go back and warn your people; it is time.”

  “What is that supposed to mean, Bill?” William Shakespeare asked.

  Snow on the Mountains stared in the direction of the chairman's table. Saddened by the lack of respect he'd witnessed in Council, the shaman no longer saw the chairman sitting there – merely his Yankee's ball cap. He turned to the room, speaking in the ancient Shoshone tongue. “That is all I have to say about that.”

  With that, he had finished. It had taken the shaman longer to get to the front of the room than it had to speak. At the same pace, he walked out.

  “What the…” Two Fists said, standing with his hands on his hips. The cantankerous trout farmer shook his head. “Two Ravens,” he said. “You're one of the few around here who understands that crazy old coot. What was that supposed to mean?”

  Johnny Two Ravens turned and busted Two Fists in the nose. The trout farmer took several folding chairs with him as he fell crashing to the floor. Others jumped up as gasps raced around the room. Staring through saucer-like eyes, the Agency Supervisor turned white.

  “He means,” Two Ravens told the room. “The Spirit Bear has had enough.”

  *

  From their place in Glenn's Suburban, J.D. and the chief ranger watched the Fort Washakie Community House. Glenn had spent a great deal of time apologizing in order to get her to accompany him. His ace in the hole had been the reminder that it was her case, too, and she needed to be there to see it through. She agreed, of course, and they put their personal issues aside. Now, as they waited, Glenn divided the time evenly between listening to Hank Williams, Sr. on the radio and fighting to keep the biologist from changing the channel.

  To his everlasting delight, the battle ended when Snow on the Mountains stepped from the building. Johnny Two Ravens followed closely behind the shaman. Glenn and J.D. climbed from the vehicle
and crossed the street to meet them. Two Ravens was grave, but the shaman smiled pleasantly.

  “Chief Merrill,” Snow on the Mountains said. “How are you?”

  “I'm fine,” Glenn said. He nervously produced a new packet of tobacco; a special mixture the Indians called `kinnikkinnik,' and handed it to the shaman. “I want to apologize for offering you money,” he said. “And I'm sorry for misunderstanding the first gift of tobacco that I gave you. There is much I need to learn about the Earth and the Indian.”

  “There is much you can never know,” Snow on the Mountains said. It was not a judgment, simply a fact. “But it is good that you want to try.”

  “Please accept this new gift. I am grateful to you… and to the tobacco.” Smiling, Snow on the Mountains immediately drew out his pipe. “Please,” Glenn said, “discard the other.”

  “You do have much to learn,” Snow on the Mountains said, packing his pipe. “Because you wasted the tobacco, why should I?”

  Two Ravens found his smile again. That it was at his expense was not wasted on Glenn.

  “I have considered your request,” the shaman said. “And I will help you.”

  “I'm very grateful,” Glenn said. “How do we begin?”

  Chapter 20

  “Get down,” Snow on the Mountains called out.

  As a group, they dropped into the overgrowth at the edge of the road. J.D. landed in a hidden depression in the ditch and let out a squeal. Glenn avoided the hole but misjudged the distance in the dark. His chin thudded on the soft earth. It rattled his teeth and he wound up with a mouthful of dew-covered weeds. Momentarily stunned, he shook the feeling away and gave J.D. a hand up out of the hole to lay beside him in the deep grass.

  In the moonlight, the chief ranger saw both Two Ravens and Snow on the Mountains watching their antics with some amusement. The outfitter had a finger to his lips signaling for them to be quiet. An arc of amber light split the darkness and grew in intensity as a vehicle on the road approached. Its engine growled as it passed, and Glenn could just see the top of a motor home. The vehicle vanished as quickly as it had appeared taking its light with it and leaving the foursome to their darkness.

  “Now you know what it's like to be an Indian,” Snow on the Mountains said.

  Glenn balanced on his elbow and eyed the two to his right. “What do you mean?”

  “For uncounted years we've been chased and hunted, kicked out. Always running, hiding, having to sneak around.”

  Glenn could see what the old man meant but he'd rather have been debating it in a cozy den with a fire burning in the hearth. The ground was cold and wet. Then again, maybe the cold and wet was part of the reason he understood.

  “I think it's alright now,” Snow on the Mountains said, pushing his old feathered cowboy hat securely onto his head. He stood, with a hand from Two Ravens, and led the way up the depression and onto the road. They walked the remaining quarter mile, left the roadway, and headed down the bank to the edge of Apparition Lake.

  The sight shocked them all. The poor grassy excuse for a pond, thick with colored mud and bursting with marsh overgrowth, was gone. The ghostly temporal Apparition Lake was truly a lake stretching for acres to the south and disappearing into the dark. Still the remained something unreal about it. The unearthly fog Glenn had so recently become personally acquainted with swirled eerily atop the water despite the absence of any noticeable breeze. The gray blanket broke and lifted in spots allowing the glassy surface beneath to catch the moonlight and wink a sparkling acknowledgment of their presence.

  “Incredible,” J.D. whispered. “It's so… changed. I can't even find the words.”

  Glenn nodded. “I've never seen anything like this.”

  Despite his own amazement, Two Ravens, the self-appointed noise police, shushed them both with a finger again held to his lips. Glenn glared at J.D., repeated the motion with his finger, and mouthed the words, “Pay attention.” He cocked his head at the outfitter, smiled, and winked at the biologist.

  Snow on the Mountains, unphased by the lake, or by the antics of the park employees, had stepped to the edge of the water. He extended his arms, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes. He stood unmoving for several long minutes. Then he began to loudly sniff the air.

  Glenn crossed his arms, rolled his eyes at J.D., and shook his head. The chief ranger was beginning to feel more than a little foolish.

  Finally the old man dropped his arms, turned back to them, and said simply, “Not here.”

  “What?” Glenn asked.

  “Not here,” Snow on the Mountains repeated. “We've got to go further down the bank.” The old man pointed into the darkness and started walking. Two Ravens followed.

  “Wait a minute,” Glenn called out. “What are you talking about?”

  Without stopping the Indian called back, “You must trust the land, Ranger Merrill.”

  Glenn had never seen the old guy move that quickly. They covered a hundred yards before the ranger and biologist caught up with their Native American coconspirators. When he and J.D. got there, Two Ravens was standing quietly in the shadows and Snow on the Mountains was again near the lake sniffing the air like a dog. This time the shaman quickly found what he was looking for and turned to the group with a determined look. “This is it.” This is what, Glenn wondered, but said nothing.

  The shaman removed his hat and laid it on the soft ground at the lake's edge. Then, he began to unbutton his shirt. Two Ravens followed suit, starting to undress.

  “Whoa,” Glenn said, hands up as if to stop traffic. “What are you doing?”

  “This is the beginning of the purification,” Snow on the Mountains said, removing his shirt. “The first step.”

  “This is National Park land,” Glenn said. “You can't skinny dip here.”

  “Keep off Indian,” Snow on the Mountains said. “This land belongs to the public.”

  “That's not what I meant.”

  “You've come this far, Ranger Merrill,” the shaman said. “Do not let your fears stop you now.”

  Again with my fears, Glenn thought. He looked at J.D. for help.

  “You've risked a lot, Glenn,” Two Ravens said. “You've come this far.”

  “I still don't understand why we're here.”

  “We are here, Ranger Merrill,” the shaman said, “because the land is crying out to us. All that you have experienced here in the ancient Stinking Country is happening for some reason.”

  “So how is getting naked and jumping into a dirty pond of ice water going to help us?”

  “You were wrong,” Snow on the Mountains told Two Ravens. “His mind is not open.”

  “I want it to be,” Glenn insisted. “I want all of this to stop. I just don't understand how bathing naked in Yellowstone…”

  “This is not a bath, Ranger Merrill. This is a serious matter,” Snow on the Mountains said. “White men bathe, but do not concern themselves with washing what is inside. Purification means cleansing the body and the mind; reclaiming control over our actions and thoughts.”

  “You claim that you love this land, this Yellowstone that you guard over,” the shaman said. “And I believe that you do. But even though you love it, you cannot hear the spirits of the land crying out. Your mind is full of other things; duties, laws, baseball scores, fears and insecurities. You must purify your body and cleanse your mind, Ranger Merrill, that's the way it is done.”

  The old Indian pulled his shirt the rest of the way off, folded it neatly, and laid it on the bank. He unbuckled the worn leather belt on his trousers. “You must leave behind your fears, your opinions, and your clothes. The clothes will be here when you get back.” Two Ravens followed the shaman's lead, disrobing by the side of the misty lake.

  Glenn shook his head and turned back to J.D. The biologist already had her pants off. Glenn stepped to her and whispered, “Do you really think this is such a good idea?”

  “I haven't a clue,” J.D. whispered back, unbuttoning her jean shi
rt. “But it's your fault I'm out here getting naked with three men. So why don't you take your clothes off and make me feel the slightest bit more comfortable and stop peeing on the parade.”

  *

  Glenn finished folding his clothes. As he set his hat neatly atop the pile, the sound of rippling water reached him. Snow on the Mountains and Two Ravens, both naked as the moment they were born, were ankle-deep in Apparition Lake and walking slowly away from the bank.

  That, Glenn thought, has got to be freezing!

  Though the air was still, the chief was already cold. He shivered from bare shoulders to bare feet. Frowning, he turned to J.D. The young biologist too was naked with her arms crossed over her chest. They shared a curious look and turned to the Indians in the lake.

  Eight feet out from the bank, the shaman and the outfitter stopped and sat down in water reaching nearly to their shoulders. Two Ravens' back was to the couple but Glenn could just make out Snow on the Mountains features in the moonlight. His eyes were closed and he wore a serene half-smile. The shaman opened his eyes and waved. “Join us.”

  J.D. took Glenn's hand and stepped to the edge of the bank. Both took a breath and then stepped into the lake. “Oh, my God,” Glenn shouted. He was right; the water was freezing.

  J.D. released Glenn's hand and ventured farther out. The chief ranger, fighting his flight instincts, ignored the stinging cold and followed after her. They reached the Indians and sat down.

  Despite the intense cold, the marshy lake bottom accepted Glenn's hind end like an old familiar chair. His arms lifted of their own accord buoyed up by the water. He forced them down to his sides.