Apparition Lake

by Daniel D. Lamoreux

  Here is the taker, Silverbear thought. Here is the white thief with no regard for the animals, the land, the native people or his own white law. The medicine man gripped the talisman staff tightly, lifting both arms skyward.

  The Great Spirit had told him that all things would happen in the earth's time. He said the thief would be stopped. Sensing his destiny, and despite his fear of the white thief, Silverbear stepped forward from the shadows of the pines.

  On his side of it, Jessie Aaron stood quickly. He was an old man with too big a gut pushed into his worn buckskins but he could still move when he had to. Years of taking game illegally had taught Jessie two things; first, let only your friends watch you work and, second, you have no friends.

  At the edge of the clearing he made out the shape that had caught his eye a second before. The falling sun threw shadows among the pines and whatever had come from the woods stood black and undefined. Still it was there. Jessie spit again and squinted into the gloom.

  Whatever it was stood upright like a man but without the shape of a man. The figure hesitated briefly just beyond the clearing. Then it rose up full on its haunches and seemed to lift its arms above its head. It started forward in the clearing and with each step gained form.

  It was a second grizzly!

  Jessie Aaron dropped the hand axe to the ground with a hollow thud. His eyes darted between the stalking bear, now fully in the clearing, and the carcass of the dead bear at his feet. He scanned the surrounding area, wondering where he'd laid his rifle, and was still searching for the weapon when the approaching animal let loose with a terrifying scream.

  For the first time that day Jessie Aaron felt the cold. It grabbed his spine, racing up to chill his shoulders and turn his skin to goose flesh. He'd never heard a bear make a sound like that before. It was not a growl or a roar but a high-pitched scream. And the animal was carrying a staff.

  Jessie Aaron could not remember ever having been afraid and he didn't recognize the emotion now. Still, his feet refused to move despite his earnest desire to run like the wind.

  The creature was still screaming and had closed the gap between itself and Aaron by three quarters. It had fully cleared the shadows and entered the red-orange dusk of the open field. Jessie Aaron finally distinguished what he was seeing. The creature was not a bear at all but a man dressed in the skin of a bear. Beads and feathers appeared and disappeared from beneath the fur costume with each step he took. It was an Indian, an old man at that, charging at him and yelling to bring down the mountains.

  Aaron dropped to a knee and grabbed the closest weapon, his hand axe. The Indian had closed to within twenty feet and was still hollering. Jessie Aaron stood, reared back, and gave a yell of his own as he let fly with the axe.

  Silverbear had only a second to see what was happening and halt his approach.

  Aaron's hand axe struck home with a dull thud, splitting the Indian's sternum and coming to rest buried deep in his chest. The tip of the axe's curved blade had lodged in the base of Silverbear's heart. The medicine man lost his grip on the sacred talisman staff and it dropped like a felled tree towards the ground. The ceramic jar shattered on impact and the blessed cornmeal and carved bear fetish were vomited unceremoniously onto the grass.

  Silverbear fell to his knees, his weathered copper face a mixture of sadness and pain. He pawed at the axe handle but did not have the strength to remove it. He lost his balance and teetered to his side on the ground. The holy man stretched out his hand, reaching for the stone fetish.

  Silverbear began to pray.

  Like the Spirit Bear itself, the talisman had living power. As the grizzly died in hibernation only to be reborn in spring so, too, the medicine man prayed that he be reborn to protect his people and the land. To reap the vengeance described by the Great Spirit's messenger.

  Jessie stepped forward and kicked the bear statue out of the Indian's grasp. He picked it up, examined the rude carving and deposited the object into his coat pocket.

  Gasping his last, Silverbear closed his eyes.

  *

  His responses became more guarded upon this subject and, feeling that I might be upon something significant, I lit upon him with ferocity to elicit another confession. That confession did finally come forth. “I was minding my own business,” said he. “And this Injun come out of the trees hollering `til hell won't have it. Well, a white man's got a right to defend his self from them red buggers, don't he?” I was astounded at his lack of compassion or regret. The man went so far as to ask for leniency in his punishment for other crimes claiming that he did us “a favor” in eliminating the Indian. At this point, I questioned Aaron's truthfulness, for it seemed he was but attempting to reduce his sentence by admitting to a crime that he sees as no crime at all.

  *

  It was a chore toting the old man's body from the clearing. Aaron would have left him where he dropped but knew the danger in doing so. The Union soldiers had been hot after him as it was. No, Jessie thought, I have to get rid of the body.

  Then he remembered the phantom lake nearby; a lake that came and went with the season. Whether or not it would be there next year didn't matter. It was there now and would hide the Indian's body until late summer. By then ol' Jessie would be enjoying himself immensely and the ravens could have whatever the lake revealed of the old man's remains.

  Jessie Aaron reached the lake shore and, huffing like a steam engine, dropped the dead Indian with a muffled thump and the jingle of beads to the rocky ground. Jessie caught his breath.

  A blood red reflection on a ribbon of cloud was all that remained of the sun. The pines were no longer trees but grotesque, thin fingers reaching skyward in a vain attempt to escape the ever-increasing gloom. Scattered boulders along the shoreline became disembodied heads peering at Aaron from a swirling gray mist hanging over the water.

  For the second time that day, Aaron felt a shiver climb his back. Hurrying, though he didn't know why, the poacher found a heavy rock lying in the brush. It would make a perfect anchor. He made short work of securing the weight to the old man's back. Dragging the body to the edge of the water, Aaron gave it a shove and watched with a wicked smile as the corpse floated slowly into the closing mist.

  It had been a great day, Jessie Aaron thought. One good griz pelt and one dead Injun, what more could a fella ask out of a day's work?

  As the medicine man drifted further from the shore, the rock shifted and the weight turned him on his side. The rock slid into the water, up-righted Silverbear's body, and started to drag it down. As the water consumed him, the holy man's arms were buoyed up. He looked as he did when he stepped into the clearing, arms reaching for the sky.

  He remained in that position for a moment, too long for Jessie Aaron's taste, then sank slowly into the depths. Not a ripple followed the Indian's immersion.

  Jessie reached into his pockets hoping to cut the chill of the night air and found the small bear statue dropped by the Indian. He pulled it out and examined it again. Not worth a thing, Jessie thought, and probably more trouble than I need. He tossed the statue into the lake in the exact place where the Indian had disappeared.

  From somewhere deep within the black shroud of enveloping pines, the ferocious roar of a grizzly erupted and reverberated across the misty, open water.

  *

  Nonetheless, it is my responsibility to dispatch a patrol to investigate his claim of having deposited the body of the unfortunate medicine man in a lake in the Yellowstone country. That has been done and I but await their return and report.

  Glenn turned the pages, searching the journal. He found another entry and began to read.

  12 August 1879. The patrol into the northern section of Yellowstone has returned. The Sergeant has reported that the lake described by the despicable Jessie Aaron, in which he reportedly discarded the remains of the Shoshone named Silverbear, is not a lake at all but merely a marshy depression in the ground. The Sergeant further reports that his unit rode the length and brea
dth of this depression, their horses slogging down in spots, in a sincere effort at locating the Indian's skeleton. None was found. It can only be my assumption that this dark character is but as well a liar as he is a scofflaw.

  “No, no, Lieutenant,” Glenn said whispering to the pages of the journal. “You were a very intelligent man but you made one mistake. Jessie Aaron wasn't lying.”

  The chief ranger closed the book with finality and turned to J.D. “Apparition Lake,” he said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because it fits. Silverbear. Silverbear is the name Johnny used.” Glenn was staring into the distance. “Silverbear is the medicine man turned spirit animal.”

  Chapter 22

  Glenn would have rather stuck his head in a lion's mouth than walk into Stanton's office and say what he knew had to be said. He and Mike had been friends for a long time; they'd seen a lot together. But the park superintendent was absolutely going to explode when he was told what would have to be done to stop the killings.

  Two Ravens, of course, accompanied the chief ranger. He'd led the way to Glenn's understanding of the situation, as little as he'd understood it himself, and had taken him to see the shaman, Snow on the Mountains. It made sense that he would join Glenn now, officially, to try to convince Stanton. They picked J.D. up on the way. She'd been on this ride from the beginning. It was only right she be there for the fireworks that hopefully would bring it all to an end. Besides there was supposedly strength in numbers. How many people could Stanton throw out of his office at one time?

  Numbers, it turned out, were not a problem. The small parking lot in front of the administration offices was full to bursting; cars, trucks, mini-vans, all placarded with official logos from every state and federal agency known to man. At least a half-dozen vehicles bore the markings of local and national television stations; their towering blue and yellow transmitters pointed skyward like science-nasty ray guns from the old Buck Rogers serials. Glenn was forced to park a quarter-mile from the building on the side of the road; an act for which he routinely chewed out tourists under normal circumstances. He turned to his companions with a heavy sigh. “Maybe we should just go home.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Two Ravens said.

  “Me too.” J.D. chimed in.

  “You two are a lot of help.”

  “It's your park.” The last was spoken by Two Ravens and J.D., at the same time and couldn't have been better orchestrated had they practiced. Glenn rolled his eyes, shut off the engine, and climbed out of the Suburban.

  By the time they reached the lot there was a bank of reporters and news people clustered and waiting for them like a pack of hungry wolves closing in on crippled rabbits. Of course, Howard Lark was in the lead. With the three of them such a photogenic lot, a park ranger and a Fish & Wildlife biologist, both in uniform, with a full-blooded Shoshone outfitter in his worn cowboy hat, the wolves could not have asked for more. Before the trio made it past the first row of cars, the flashes were going off and three microphones were mercilessly stabbed into their faces.

  Glenn and J.D. knew the drill. They'd been trained regarding the media and it was part of their job. There was more to it than that for Two Ravens. Appearing on every television set on the reservation, walking hand-in-hand with white government officials and ignoring reporters' questions was not his idea of a great way to start the day. He did not need the pressure of looking like a federal bootlick to the BIAs back home, or the disappointment that would no doubt be felt by his traditional blood brothers. Yet now seemed hardly the time to stop and give a rendition of the plight of the Indian as told by one of the oppressed. The memory of the young people who died at Apparition Lake was of more value than that. He wouldn't use them for a cause. The best answer, it seemed to Two Ravens, was to act invisible. Meanwhile, the ranger and biologist walked before him, smiling, acknowledging the reporters' presence but rebuffing their questions all the way to the front steps.

  Then Lark stepped in front of them blocking the door. “Chief Merrill…”

  Glenn, reaching past him for the door, was delighted he could finally say it, “No comment.”

  Lark sidestepped blocking him again. “I haven't asked my question yet.”

  “The superintendent will speak to the press at the appropriate time. Until then we're not taking any questions. I'm trying to save you time.”

  “That's awfully sporting of you,” Lark said with a sneer. “But how can you not comment about what, for all intents and purposes, was a re-enactment of Wounded Knee at Apparition Lake? How can you not comment about your failure to stop the park's elk poachers? They are taking antlers like they're dime candies. Do you have a clue where they're going to strike next?”

  “Are you hard of hearing, Lark?” Glenn asked. “I said, no comment.”

  “I hear fine,” Lark said flashing a smile to replace the one that had vanished from the chief ranger's face. “Fact is, I hear your job is on the line.”

  “The only thing on the line,” Glenn said, “is your health if you don't get out of our way.”

  Lark raised his hands in surrender and retreated a step. Glenn pulled the door open. J.D. and Two Ravens entered with neither a word nor a glance up. Glenn followed. Lark caught the door before it closed, and led the reporters in after them, shouting, “Hey, chief. Can we quote you?”

  Like invading troops around a medieval castle, Althea's office was soon under siege. The business suits and dark glasses, badges and ranger hats already gathered, were suddenly inundated by note pads, cameras, and microphones, all moving about the cramped space like ants around a stepped upon hill. The din of questions, followed by carefully worded non-answers, echoed off the walls like bad rock music. Glenn found himself immediately grateful for the feds. Their mere presence captured the reporters' attentions and the chief, thankfully, became just another olive-drab hat in the tumult.

  Althea, unperturbed as always, rifled files at her desk. Had she been aboard the Titanic, Glenn knew, she'd have rescued as many as she could from the water then cheerily swam laps until help arrived the next morning. She recognized the chief as Glenn's group entered, cast her million-dollar smile his direction, and waved them over. “The super has been looking for you something fierce,” she said. “I'll let him know you're here.”

  Within seconds the office door came open. Stanton stood in the frame looking as if he'd been yanked through the knothole of a wooden fence. Yellowstone's famed “Boy Superintendent” had aged noticeably in the days since Glenn had last seen him. His red eyes hung heavy with baggage. With the plastic smile of a pimply-faced teen working the drive-thru window of a fast food restaurant, Stanton ushered Nelson Princep, a Game and Fish rep, and a lucky AP pool reporter out as if he were shoving bad tuna off the deck of his ship. He waved Glenn over. The Indian and the biologist followed.

  Those nearest the pool reporter surrounded her. Those farther away barked like pound puppies at sight of the chuck wagon. They turned their questions and their irritations on Stanton who, despite being ragged and weary, remained ever the politician. “Folks, please.” Stanton stepped out, allowing Glenn and his companions passage in then, without missing a beat, returned to the crowd. “As I said earlier, I am meeting with all agencies, department heads, and concerned individuals involved in this situation. Your pool reporter has been given an up-date and I will have another statement for you the minute we have anything to add.” He handed the reporters off to the federal talking heads still in the outer office and closed the door on the lot of them.

  Stanton dropped into his chair and swept his hand to those opposite, wordlessly inviting Glenn and company to do the same. He gulped from a cup of cold coffee, winced at its chilled bitterness, and then gulped again. He wiped his hands over his eyes, dragging for sand, and then slumped back heavily. He sighed. “What in the hell are we going to do?” He looked past Glenn to J.D., felt a tinge of guilt for the language but didn't have the strength to apologize. “What are we going to do?”
>
  “What is the official story right now?” Glenn asked.

  “Official story?” Stanton pursed his lips, blowing a raspberry. “You know it by heart. We've got ten bodies; a park ranger, a local rancher, two tourists, and six reservation Indians. All appear to have been killed by a rogue bear or bears. The Firehole Lake death and that bloody massacre at Apparition Lake were both witnessed. The witnesses described what seems to be the same bear, a huge, silver-tipped grizzly. The same bear you claim to have seen.”

  “Claim?”

  “You asked, Glenn.”

  Considering Stanton's frustrations, which could not have been more obvious, the chief ranger nodded. He'd shut up and eat a bit of it for friendship's sake.

  “Despite the witness reports,” Stanton said, continuing on, “and other than the bodies themselves, there is no evidence of a bear at any of the scenes. No bear fitting that description, or unnumbered bears at all for that matter, have been observed in or around the park other than during the attacks.”

  He paused for a drink but found the cup empty. It was just as well; cold coffee tasted like bad garbage. “In other words,” Stanton said, “nobody has a clue what's going on here and the official story is an episode of The Twilight Zone. Three rangers called in this morning with green flu, the Secretary of the Interior wants my head in his briefcase, the media is describing Yellowstone as if it were Iraq, and the entire reservation is on the war path!”

  For the first time Stanton actually took notice of Two Ravens. “I apologize,” he said, clearing his throat. “I did not mean that the way it sounded.”

  “Mike, this is Johnny Two Ravens,” Glenn said, butting in. “Johnny, Michael Stanton.”