Heart of the Storm

by Lindsay McKenna

“You said you knew everything about pipes,” Rogan reminded her.

  “This one’s different! I can feel your impatience, but you’re not going to push me or it to work prematurely. If we do that, we could harm the pipe forever. Is that what you want?”

  “Of course not.” He glanced around the dimly lit room, built of cedar as the rest of the lodge. Rogan liked its simple, clean design. The single-story building, a series of rooms each about twelve feet wide, reminded him of a caterpillar with segments. As a Native American connected deeply with Mother Earth, he realized the design reflected nature at its finest.

  Rogan felt a glow of pride in the cedar shake roof and the vertical panels of the lodge, which he had designed himself many years ago. Each room had been thoughtfully laid out before he’d constructed it. The altar room, where the Storm Pipe was kept, was behind the meditation and prayer room, where Blue Wolf sat. There was a foyer in front, where cedar doors were carved with depictions of the rising sun and the full moon. Rogan’s office was located here, along with a general meeting room. Yes, everything he’d done in the last seven years had been leading up to this moment.

  Savoring the fact that he’d managed to steal the Storm Pipe, with Blue Wolf’s help, Rogan smiled to himself. Things were progressing well. Still, he was jumpy and tense. He knew the government would be trying to find out who and what had killed the vice president. Rogan was counting on the fact that the stupid white men on Capitol Hill would never think of a pipe having such power, and would overlook that possibility. Linear thinking would keep him and his band of women safe from scrutiny.

  Rogan grinned at Blue Wolf. “Yes, I am impatient. But with good reason. I want to see the white men suffer. They killed six million of us, on purpose. It’s payback time.”

  Blue Wolf nodded. Rogan had to be spiraling into one of his tirades, so she slipped the head of the Storm Pipe back into its pouch. “Genocide, pure and simple,” she agreed. “The army deliberately handed our people smallpox-infested blankets, knowing that would wipe out an entire village. There should be revenge. Six million of us were murdered by them, by the white eyes.”

  In Rogan’s mind, Blue Wolf looked like a mother holding a beloved child. The pipe was cradled in the crook of her left arm, her right hand resting gently overtop the two-foot-long bag.

  “Well,” he said, pleasure vibrating in his tone, “it has begun. Every one of us wants to see this retribution. So what if various chiefs of our nations have reviled me for my plan? Twelve women are with me. Twelve of the most powerful women from twelve different nations. I think we are being guided by the Great Spirit to balance the scales of karmic justice, so to speak. I’m glad to be a part of this.”

  Nodding again, Blue Wolf said, “Every one of us supports you in your vision, Rogan. Each of the women you have chosen is either a medicine woman or in training to be one, powerful in her own unique way. And we have seen what the white man has done to our people. Being forced to eke out an impoverished existence on a reservation is not right. Even now, in the twenty-first century, the white man’s government dismisses us and our concerns. They don’t care if our children starve, or we lack proper health facilities. Or education. No, they’re very happy to see us continue to quietly suffer, as we’ve done since they forced us onto reservations over a hundred years ago.”

  “Well, that is about to change,” Rogan reminded her, an edge to his modulated tone. He splayed his hand on the handsome handwoven rug they sat on. The wool was prickly and felt good to him. The rug had been designed and made by a Navajo woman who’d spent hundreds of hours on her labor of love. Only another Native American could truly understand what the weaver had gone through, could appreciate the untold hours she’d spent sitting before her loom. White men usually overlooked the weaver’s laborious efforts and would try to get a rug for as few dollars as they could, once more stealing from Native Americans. Nothing had changed as far as Rogan was concerned. Well, it was going to now. Once and for all.

  “You need to be patient, Rogan,” Blue Wolf chided. “I am still learning about this pipe, its personality, its abilities, and how long it takes to recover after doing such powerful work. We have time. Let’s not rush things.”

  Rogan rested his hand on his knee. “I feel things are unsettled, Blue Wolf. Don’t you?”

  “Why, of course they are! The federal government is in turmoil. They can’t figure out who did this to the vice president. They’re scared. They have no culprit. Of course things are in chaos, and as medicine people, we are very aware of that energy flux and flow.”

  Chuckling darkly, Rogan said, “A disturbance in the Force, to borrow from Star Wars. Now, there is a movie that deals with what we’ve always known about. Only we call it the Great Spirit, and we’ve been taught how to recognize it, tap into it and utilize it.”

  Blue Wolf allowed a faint smile to touch her weathered face. “Little did Luke Skywalker and all the rest know what he was portraying…. But we know, and that’s enough. The white man’s government doesn’t understand our connection with all the invisible energies. Yes, you’re right, Rogan, the Force has bit Washington, D.C., in the ass. Serves them right. It’s been too long in coming.”

  Rogan had a narrow face with close-set, dark-blue eyes that reminded her of a weasel’s. But then, she told herself, it would take someone of consummate cleverness to bring this particular plan to fruition. Just like the weasel, Rogan was rarely seen in public. Oh, medicine people from all nations knew him, but on the inner circle. No one had ever heard his name outside of the res. And that was one of many things he’d counted on as he brought his team of women together to forge his vision.

  Unwinding from his position, Rogan stood and gave Blue Wolf a pleased look. “I’ll be back later this afternoon. I’ve got the grocery list from Wanda Running Deer. Anything special you need from Carson City?”

  “Thank you for asking, but no.” Patting the pipe bag gently, Blue Wolf murmured, “I’ve got everything I’ll ever need right here in my arms.”

  “Well, keep working with the pipe. I feel like we’re being stalked, and I don’t know by who yet. It’s bothering me.”

  “Stop worrying. It’s only your nerves, Rogan. There’s no way the government is onto us.” Blue Wolf snorted. “They don’t want to know that we even exist, so why would we ever be seen as the threat?” Waving her hand, her voice wry, Blue Wolf added, “No one else is psychically picking up anything. We all feel safe here.”

  Shaking his head, Rogan turned on his heel. “I don’t know, Blue Wolf. I feel like we’re being tracked by someone who wants that pipe back.”

  “The Blue Heron Society?” She spat, and laughed with derision. “They are nothing but a bunch of elderly, arrogant old women from different nations. The youngest is in her sixties, the oldest midnineties. How much of a threat do they pose?” Gesturing around the lodge, Blue Wolf cackled. “And tell me, Rogan, which one of them is going to climb a three-thousand-foot cliff to reach our compound? We have twenty-four-hour-a-day sentries on the only road into the area. And don’t you think that, because we’re all psychic, one of us would pick up on any attempt to steal this pipe back, even if someone did try? Do me a favor, Rogan? Go into Carson City and get our supplies for the next month. Stop worrying.”

  “You’re right,” he grumbled, turning away and heading toward the front door. “I’ll see you later.”

  Still, as he stepped out into the pine-scented air, Rogan couldn’t shake his uneasy feeling. The sky a light-blue, and robins were singing, yet someone was stalking them. But who? There was no question he could sense and feel it.

  As he walked down the gravel path, he saw a few of the women hanging out laundered clothes on a cotton line near the kitchen. The compound was comprised of five buildings all enclosed within the ten-foot-high stockade, and the kitchen and dining facilities were in one. He headed toward the dirt parking lot, where his dark-blue Chevy pickup truck sat. There were five other vehicles there, all belonging to women who lived here
with him. A couple of them spotted him as they hung up clothes, and lifted their hands in greeting. He gave a friendly wave in return.

  Pulling out his keys, Rogan moved down the path to the parking lot, right inside the big double gates to the fort. Rogan made sure there was at least one guard on duty there twenty-four hours a day. He trusted no one. After waving to the woman, Ruby Tall Tree, who was opening up for him, he unlocked the pickup and got in.

  Rogan drove out of the compound, carefully scanning the land around him. The road quickly dropped in elevation, until silvery sagebrush and a few straggly pines were dotting the barren landscape. For all intents and purposes, Nevada was desert. Only in the mighty Sierras, above seven thousand feet, where his compound stood, did tall, stately pines begin to flourish like a green army.

  From the bumpy dirt access road, Rogan could see the main highway three thousand feet below. Land of gambling, he thought as he drove. Gambling, indeed. He was taking the biggest gamble of his life.

  A smile cut across his face as he kept the truck in low gear during the steep descent. Like a thick smoke screen, billowing clouds of dust rose up behind him. A jackrabbit darted out in front, and he narrowly missed it. Rogan’s reflexes were still sharp. Though forty-five, he had never felt more powerful or more happy. Hands wrapped firmly around the wheel, he kept his focus on driving. This was not a road that forgave someone who came down it too fast.

  As he pulled onto the busy asphalt highway, Rogan still felt a niggling sense of foreboding. He wished to hell he knew what he was picking up on. And who. After the nations spurned his plan to get even with the U.S. government, Rogan had told no one of his intentions. Back then, none of the chiefs or head medicine men would go along with his vision of revenge. They were peaceful and wanted only to live in harmony with Mother Earth, they’d told him. After being rebuffed and humiliated at too many council meetings, Rogan had devised a much different plan over time.

  In the modern world, Native American women were no longer considered equal partners, as they had before the whites set foot on Turtle Island. Women were now treated like second-class citizens. In many of the nations, it had been fairly easy for Rogan to find disgruntled medicine women who wanted to reclaim their power and rightful place in the hierarchy. Rogan had mesmerized them with his sorcery and cajoled them to come work with him. He’d promised to give them back their power, as well as the respect they deserved. And they had agreed to help bring his vision to fruition.

  Chuckling indulgently, Rogan opened a bottle of water and drank. All the while, he kept his eyes on the road. In the distance, he could see Carson City rising up out of the flat desert, all steel, glass and concrete. The white man’s world was like an infection on the skin of Mother Earth. In his opinion, genetically speaking, most humans were little more than virus DNA. They were a virus, a blight on Mother Earth, Rogan believed, not the Native Americans. His mind flitted back to the members of his team. Hadn’t Jesus Christ had twelve apostles? Look at what he’d accomplished. He saw himself in the latter role. His women were his disciples, and he was the powerful visionary with the talent to bend them to his will. He got intense enjoyment from being the only one who did understand it. That was enough for him.

  The sun shone brightly into the cab and he switched on the air-conditioning. The traffic was getting thicker as Carson City came closer. The endless carpet of yellow desert dotted with sage was broken up by green pastures with Herefords grazing in them, or fields of wheat and corn. The flat land was a colorful patchwork quilt, Rogan decided. His spirits lifted, and he realized he actually felt happy. It was a foreign emotion to him, but he absorbed the light, airy feeling with gratitude. Yes, life was good. Very good. He was fulfilling his vision, and in another three weeks, the Russian ambassador to the U.S. would be the next target of the Storm Pipe.

  Rogan smiled. That would completely unnerve the U.S. government. Rogan knew that top officials thought Russians had killed the vice president with laser equipment. Now, targeting the ambassador was going to stir up a hornets’ nest in Russia. It would put the two superpowers into a deadly confrontational dance. Yes, life was good, and Rogan was happy. Happier than he’d ever been. No one could stop him, much less find out what he was doing. Being invisible had decided advantages.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A RAVEN CAWED NOISILY, dragging Dana out of a deep, badly needed sleep. The delicious scent of coffee teased her nostrils, pulling her awake. And then she felt strong fingers molding and massaging the aching muscles in her shoulders. A small moan of pleasure escaped her parted lips. Dana realized she was lying on her belly, face pressed against the scratchy wool of the Navajo rug she slept upon.

  Caught between the arms of sleep and the gentle, delicious pressure of the strong fingers working on her shoulders, Dana absorbed the welcoming warmth and nurturing. She was so sore and tired…!

  The harsh, loud croak of the raven brought her back to the here and now. She realized with a start that the only person who could be doing this was Chase Iron Hand. The fact galvanized Dana into action.

  Pulling away from his wonderful, healing touch, she scrambled into a sitting position. Her hair, long and straight, fell across her face, and she pushed it back. The last thing Dana had expected was to be touched like that by Chase. He was such a hard, brutal drill instructor, straight out of the Marine Corps tradition.

  Dana brushed at her hair again and sleepily looked up. Chase was squatting a few feet from her, hands resting between his opened legs. A thoughtful expression came over his normally unreadable features.

  “Time to get up.”

  Dana never woke up quickly in the morning. Ever. Right now, her shoulders were tingling pleasantly from his massage. Dana yearned for more contact like that with Chase, she realized, as she scrubbed her eyes, trying to force the grogginess away. His voice, always low, and reminding her of thunder in the distance, enveloped Dana like a warm blanket. After four weeks of nearly unendurable training, Chase seemed, well, nicer this morning.

  Stunned by the change in his demeanor and touch, Dana hurriedly got to her feet. The hogan was pleasantly toasty. Outside the window she saw a gray hint of dawn. It was time to get going. Still, the thought wouldn’t go away. Why had Chase touched her like that?

  No time to think too much about it. Gathering her bathrobe from a nail on the wall, Dana wrapped herself in it. Even though she wore a long blue cotton shift, she still didn’t like being the object of Chase’s inspection. Hurrying outdoors, she headed to the privy. Over the last month, she’d toughened up her feet by walking barefoot except when jogging or climbing. Chase had demanded that her daily ten-mile run be done a week after she’d started that grueling routine.

  The scent of fragrant sage covered in dew filled her senses. The raven sitting in a nearby piñon tree croaked and flapped its wings as Dana hurried by. A chipmunk scurried to the large pile of wood that she chopped daily to increase her shoulder and arm strength. The canyon was alive with creatures awakening, Dana realized.

  Another day of brutal work lay ahead. Still, she was proud of herself. So far, she’d been able to do everything Chase had demanded of her.

  As she stepped inside the old pine outhouse, which was weathered and gray, Dana thought of her grandmother. Agnes, too, was pleased with her progress. Dana had seen the hope burning in her watery eyes the last time she’d visited. Hope that Dana might really bring the Storm Pipe back to its rightful place within their sacred society.

  After washing up at the well, Dana jogged back to the hogan and opened the door. Chase was at the potbellied stove cooking up a large skillet of scrambled eggs mixed with shredded venison. The smells made her stomach growl with anticipation.

  There was little privacy here, but Dana had insisted upon some. Chase had built a paneled screen that she could slip behind to change clothes. Sitting down on the three-legged oak stool, she quickly put on a pair of socks to warm her feet.

  “What’s up for today?” she asked Chase from behind th
e screen.

  “You’re doing your ten miles this morning, an hour after breakfast. Between now and then, we’re going to continue work to psychically strengthen your skills.”

  Dana always looked forward to their psychic training sessions. Quickly shedding her robe and nightgown, she slipped into a dark-red spandex T-shirt and a pair of comfortable gray sweatpants. The food smelled wonderful. Dana couldn’t ever recall being as famished as she had been this last month. She hadn’t wanted to eat much since the death of her mother and husband, and she’d lost thirty pounds. Now, her weight was returning to normal, despite the brutal physical training, which lasted twelve hours a day.

  The coffee was perking away on the edge of the stove. As she often did, Dana stole a quick look in Chase’s direction. He had a pot holder around the skillet handle, his concentration fixed on stirring the eggs, venison and onions. A month had worn down her objections to him. He was a firm teacher, Dana had come to realize. Not cruel or brutal as she’d first thought. And he remained very detached toward her as a woman. Most of the time, unless she hurt herself with more than a minor scrape or bruise, he never touched her. But when he did, Dana’s heart opened up like a blossom to the warming rays of the sun.

  Taking a deep breath, she hurried to the old dresser at the other end of the hogan. Its mirror was tipped back against the mud-caulked wooden wall. The glass had a lot of dark spots where the mirror backing had disintegrated over time. But she could see to brush her hair and twine the strands into braids.

  From that vantage point, Dana could secretly absorb the intensity of Chase’s features. He was handsome in a raw, uncut way. No pretty boy, that was for sure. With deep crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes, and slashes down either side of his sensual mouth, his face had been branded by harsh living conditions. When she asked Chase about his time in the army, he usually grunted a single-word answer. Something had happened to him, and it showed on his features.