Annie leaned over and studied it. “What is this, exactly? It’s not L-shaped.”
“Oh, sorry,” Spearling said, and he reached for something else. “Here we go. If the pipe is going to be smoked, the wooden stem is fixed into this hole here. See?” He inserted the hollow wooden shaft into the base of the catlinite pipe. Holding it up, he said, “This is L-shaped, after a fashion. What do you think?”
Standing back, Annie saw that, indeed, the pipe had a definite L shape. She exchanged a quick glance with Colby, who seemed mystified. “Why, yes. That probably is it. Do you have any other NativeAmerican antiques that would resemble an L?”
Spearling gently placed the red stone head back on the rubber mat, after disconnecting the stem. “No, nothing else comes to mind. What do you know about pipes?”
Annie was drawn to the pipe head. The curious object was circular and plain, not decorated in any way, yet excitement riffled through her. Something about the pipe made her want to hold it. “I know nothing, Mr. Spearling. What can you tell us?”
He smiled and mopped his brow with a linen handkerchief. “Not much. You know, Native Americans don’t talk about their ceremonial gear.” He touched the bowl. “This is made of pipestone, a soft red rock found in a quarry in Minnesota. All the nations go there to get blocks of it to carve their pipes from. This is a nice one. You can see there are yellow spots throughout the pipestone, which is also called catlinite.”
“I’ve heard of peace pipes,” Colby said. “You know, the ones in cowboy and Indian movies, where they pass this pipe around?”
“Yes, well, peace pipes certainly exist. Ones you saw in movies probably had a lot of beading, maybe some eagle feathers hanging from the stem, or they were wrapped in the fur of a wild animal. Symbolically, it all means something, but I don’t know what.”
“May I touch it?” Annie asked.
“Of course, but please hold it firmly with both hands. Pipestone is very brittle, and if you drop it, it may shatter or chip, for sure.” Spearling gingerly picked up the piece and handed it to Annie.
“I’ll be very careful,” she promised. The moment he placed the ancient pipestone into her palm, she felt prickles of energy leaping up her arm, followed by a palpable warmth in the center of her chest. Then came a euphoric, expansive sensation of joy and lightheartedness. Stunned, Annie stared down at the pipe. “Oh, gosh, did you feel that, too, Mr. Spearling?” She gazed at the elderly man, wide-eyed.
“I was wondering if you were going to pick up on that or not. You must be quite sensitive.”
“Call me Annie. This is David.”
“Most folks call me Joe. Nice to meet you folks.”
Colby leaned closer. “What did you feel?”
Annie explained it to him and saw the doubt on his face. “Joe? Is it okay if I let David hold the pipe?”
Chuckling, he said, “Sure, no problem.”
Annie saw Colby’s skeptical expression disappear about a minute after he’d grasped the pipe. He studied the piece, then gave her a confused look. “I don’t understand this. I feel warmth, too. A lot more than the temperature in here.”
Spearling chuckled. “That’s why Native Americans guard their pipes so closely. They’re alive, David.” His eyes twinkled. “Holding this one makes you feel good, doesn’t it?”
“It did me. Incredibly so,” Annie whispered, hand pressed to her heart. “I’m still feeling it now. That’s just amazing.”
“Most people would poke fun at me for saying these pipes are alive, but it’s true. They say each pipe has a spirit, as individual as you and me. No two are the same, apparently. Each is endowed with a unique personality, and talents or skills. And that’s why the medicine people of any nation are real careful in choosing who carries such a pipe.”
“What do you mean?” Colby asked, enjoying the soft, undulating lightness moving through him. He didn’t want to believe a piece of carved stone could cause this. And yet, he wasn’t just imagining this euphoric state. No way.
Spearling mopped his brow again, then walked back to the counter and turned on the air-conditioning. In moments, cool air began to circulate and chase out the desert heat. “Like I said, I don’t know a whole lot about pipes, and the people who make and carry them aren’t sharing, either,” he stated. “As I understand it, a person chosen to carry a pipe has to have the utmost integrity. They’re kind of like the Knights of the Round Table. They won’t lie, cheat or steal, and are considered role models for their village and their nation. They help the elderly, feed the poor and generally do good deeds for everyone.”
Colby reluctantly handed the pipe back to Spearling. “So what does a pipe carrier get out of all of this except responsibility?”
The proprietor placed the pipe head back in the glass case and laid the stem beside it. “Well,” he grunted, leaning over and locking the cabinet door, “the community admires and respects a pipe carrier.”
“That’s all they get?” Annie said.
Straightening up, Spearling added, “When they smoke the pipe it is said to have magical powers.”
“Oh?” she asked in an interested tone. “What kind of magic?”
Grinning, Spearling said, “No one’s talking about that to me. But I’ve heard stories….”
“Tell us one,” Colby urged.
“A pipe can kill or heal, is what I’ve heard. In the hands of a good-hearted person, a pipe can miraculously cure someone with a disease. In the wrong hands, it can be like a loaded revolver or weapon. I overheard a couple of Indians in here one time whispering about one pipe carrier who was into revenge. He smoked the pipe to send energy to his enemies, giving them chronic diseases as payback.” Spearling’s brows rose. “Now, you must understand, most pipe carriers are good, honest folks, but sometimes a pipe gets into the hands of someone who should never carry it. Sometimes people are jealous of true pipe carriers and they will steal a pipe because of its power. And they do damage with it.”
Annie’s eyes widened. “Oh, dear. What happened?”
“One guy is dead, from what I understood. Died of a massive heart attack, just like that.” Spearling snapped his fingers. “Another has cancer and is dying more slowly.”
Colby snorted. “A pipe can kill a person? Create a heart attack in them? Come on.”
Annie bit her lip as she watched Spearling’s round, jovial face grow serious.
“Listen, David, I know this seems far-fetched to you. I’ve been in this business, dealing with Native Americans, all my life. More than a few things I’d list as pure magic. On a few occasions where a pipe was smoked, I’ve actually seen someone either fall seriously ill or suddenly die. A bad person with bad intent who carries a pipe can cause those kinds of problems. Of course, just the opposite happens when a good-hearted person does. They use the pipe to heal and help others.”
“Joe? May I beg a little more of your time?” Annie asked. “I know we’re probably keeping you from work, but I had a dream a couple of nights ago and I’d like to share it with you. Maybe you can help me.”
He glanced at his watch. “Sure. It’s a quiet day and not too many tourists seem to be comin’ our way. Tell me about your dream.”
Excitedly, Annie said, “I heard drumming. Deep, beautiful drums beating slowly. And I saw twelve Native American women in a circle out beneath some pine trees. They were sitting cross-legged, their knees touching, and they were holding hands. As I moved around the circle, I saw this older woman with long black-and-gray hair. She was at the head of the circle and holding what I now realize was a pipe, just like the one you just showed us. Only it was different.”
“No two pipes look the same. They can have the same shape sometimes, but if you look closely at the pipestone, you might see streaks of white, yellow coloration or other variations. And they’re shaped differently, too.”
“This pipe was red, just like the one you showed us, but much larger. The woman held the head of the pipe in her left palm and her arm was completely outst
retched. The wooden stem had black-and-yellow beading, and I saw a long, yellow lightning bolt.” Annie frowned and glanced at Joe. “Does that sound familiar?”
“Indeed it does. You said the woman’s arm was outstretched as she held it?”
“Yes, in my dream it seemed she was straining as she held it because the stem was so long.” Annie motioned to the glass cabinet. “This pipe stem was short in comparison to the one I saw in my dream.”
“It’s probably a ceremonial pipe you saw, then,” Spearling guessed.
“What’s that?” Colby asked.
“I understand there are two types of pipes carried by chosen Native Americans. One is a personal pipe, which usually has a shorter stem. The other is a ceremonial one, which has a very long stem. And if you’re short, as many women are, compared to men, then your arm may not be long enough to hold the pipe.”
“Yes!” Annie exclaimed. “The woman looked like she was really straining to hold it. The pipe head was in her left palm, and the long stem was the full length of her left arm.”
“Most likely ceremonial, then. Go on.”
Swallowing, Annie continued, “I saw a man standing behind this woman. He had his hands resting on her shoulders. They were singing a song, in some language unfamiliar to me. I saw smoke, white and thick, as the woman smoked the pipe. But the smoke poured out and began to form a huge, dark, roiling cloud above them. Lightning flashed, and the rumbling thunder was so loud it seemed to go through me, as if we were having an earthquake.”
Annie opened her hands. “And then things got crazy in my dream. The drums started beating harder and louder and faster. The storm clouds enveloped all of them. I was standing in this swirling mass of lightning and thunder, with winds screaming around me. In the distance I could hear the women’s voices, rising and falling in a very impassioned chant. I heard the drums, too, but the power that I felt…! It was amazing. Then I saw this face.” Annie quickly opened her purse and put the sketch on top of the glass case. It was the same sketch she’d showed Colby at his office in D.C. earlier. “This man’s face. His image kept appearing and disappearing in the clouds and storm. And I saw the woman who was holding the pipe, too. She would glare at me and then disappear. And then this man’s face would rush at me, trying to scare me away. I was seeing something he didn’t want me to see. I felt like he wanted to murder me.” Annie managed a short laugh. “I jerked awake at that point.”
“Hmm,” Joe said, studying the sketch of the man’s face, “this gent looks familiar.” He tapped his fingers on the case, deep in thought.
Colby watched the antique owner intently. “He does?”
Scratching his balding head, Joe said, “Yes, vaguely. Give me a moment and maybe it will come to me.” He looked over at Annie. “That was quite a dream you had. Do you know this guy?” He pointed down at the sketch.
“No. I don’t know any of them. I didn’t even know that I was looking at a Native American pipe until you showed us that one.” She pointed to the glass case.
“Interesting. Ah, wait! I remember who this might be!”
“Who?” Annie asked anxiously.
“Rogan Fast Horse. I’m not sure, but it could be him.”
“Who is he?” Colby demanded.
“A Cherokee métis medicine man. He lives up in the Sierras just above Carson City. I’ve seen him down here in the city from time to time.”
“A medicine man. Wow.” Annie shook her head. “And to think it was just a dream.”
Colby nodded. He scooped up the drawing and handed it back to Annie. “Mr. Spearling, do you know where this guy lives? An address perhaps?”
“I can give you directions. He’d be an excellent contact if you’re interested in pipes. And who knows? Annie, if you share your dream with him, he might even be able to give you an interpretation of it. After all, he is a medicine man.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
WHAT THE HELL WAS WRONG with that bitch, Blue Wolf? Rogan paced along the stockade around the Eagle’s Nest compound. It was a name he’d come up with many years ago. Rogan had for a long time dreamed of having a place high in the Sierras, in the arms of the mountain spirits, where he was safe and no one, white men especially, could find him.
The damp morning air was filled with the calming scent of pines, which grew on the craggy basalt clifftops. Dawn had just arrived, tinting the sky a pale peach color. Two women guards carrying M-16 rifles slowly walked the quarter-mile perimeter of the compound. They were young and tough, and they respectfully acknowledged Rogan as he strided on by them, hands behind his back. Security was always on his mind. He trusted no one. Not even Blue Wolf now.
Chewing on his lower lip, Rogan watched the sky turn from peach to a pale-blue as the sun inched above the horizon. The morning was cool without being cold. Absorbing the pine fragrance, the healing stillness and quiet, he found his thoughts returning to Blue Wolf. She’d been his partner for quite some time. Once, they had been inseparable, obsessive lovers, but over time, sexual encounters became less frequent. But they shared something else, Rogan knew. Something that kept them together. Blue Wolf wanted power. Absolute power. So did he. It was always a battle between them.
And Blue Wolf knew she had real power now that the Storm Pipe had bonded with her. Damn that twist of luck! Rogan thrust out his chin and glared up at the cloudless sky. A cardinal flew overhead, toward a tall pine growing just outside the compound on the cliff edge. Blue Wolf had power now and she was wresting more from him. She’d just confronted him boldly, insisting the pipe wouldn’t be ready until Saturday. The bitch was the one in charge—not him.
A bitter taste coated the inside of Rogan’s mouth as he considered the vile, undeniable truth of it all. Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he stared up at the impenetrable, ten-foot-high wall of redwood, pine and Douglas fir. The different hues of the timbers, from deep red, to white, to corn yellow, served to remind him of the ongoing fight between red men and white.
What to do? How to get the power back from Blue Wolf? Rogan folded his arms across his chest and stared down at the powdery umber dust beneath his booted feet as he felt his way through this unplanned predicament. The Storm Pipe could not just be arbitrarily handed to another, more acquiescent of his students. When a pipe like this one formed a bond, it was for life…until the woman died. Whoever took the pipe next became the owner.
Maybe, just maybe, Rogan thought, running his index finger across his bearded chin, Blue Wolf needed to die. Then the Storm Pipe would be free to bond with the next woman. Someone more malleable, someone he could control. Lifting his head, Rogan heard sounds of stirring. There were two dormitory-style buildings that housed the women. Rogan inhaled the delicious smell of coffee being perked in the kitchen. Whoever had cooking duty today must be starting breakfast. The fragrant scent of bacon frying soon followed.
Rogan sighed. He’d planned for so long, for years, for this place to become a reality. To have a ceremonial pipe that would give him the power to change the lives of all his people. Now, his vision was in jeopardy because Blue Wolf was taking his power away from him. If she got pissed off, she’d disappear with the pipe and he’d have nothing.
Rogan knew he’d have to be subtle, cloak his real feelings, and play the game with Blue Wolf until the time was right.
Looking toward the gates, he saw one of the women on guard duty testing the wooden bar across them. They were locked tight. No one could get in without him knowing about it. A wonderful sense of security blanketed Rogan, and for a moment, he truly felt safe here. This compound was impregnable. He’d purposely built it on this huge basalt outcropping, a cliff that dropped three thousand feet into a rocky canyon. The only way in and out of Eagle’s Nest was an old dirt road, and his women controlled access 24-7.
Feeling safe was important to Rogan. He all too poignantly recalled growing up in a household with a father who had fetal alcohol syndrome. Don Fast Horse was a mean drunk with a low I.Q. Red-nosed and ornery, he would seek
his kids out and beat the hell out of them with an old leather strap. Rogan still bore scars where the thin leather had bitten into his tender young flesh. Whip marks still crisscrossed his back, and every time Rogan tugged on a pair of socks, he could feel the ridge of scars on his ankles and calves, a constant reminder that power had been wrested from him as a child.
Don Fast Horse had been an artist of sorts. When his creative efforts with leather went well, he was a nice man, and happy. But when his pieces didn’t sell and money was tight, he’d start drinking. It was at those times that Rogan had become a shadow, hiding from all that focused rage.
Sighing, Rogan unfolded his arms and continued to walk, more slowly now as those unbidden images from his childhood welled up within him. Oh, Great Spirit, how he wished he could get rid of those memories! Just forget about them! But how could he? At age sixteen, after being beaten with that strap, Rogan had stood up and fought back. He’d taken his father’s whiskey bottle and struck his out-of-control parent in the head with it. Don Fast Horse had died instantly; a large wedge of glass had penetrated his skull and lodged deeply into his alcohol-saturated brain, or what was left of it.
Smiling slightly, Rogan watched the women begin heading to the cookhouse for breakfast. Some were yawning. Others were brushing their long, black hair or braiding it as they walked. One thing they all had in common was abusive backgrounds. These women had come from alcoholic or fetal alcohol families just as he had. And they’d suffered more or less the same as he.
Except none had gone into juvey hall for killing their father, as Rogan had. Only, as a teen, he couldn’t be placed in prison, so the judge had made him stay in there for two years. That was fine with Rogan; it was a helluva lot safer than being at home, and he’d taken advantage of the white man’s education available while he’d been incarcerated.
His mother, a meth addict, came to visit him once or twice, early on. Her face scarred from meth use, she was little more than a bumbling idiot, as far as Rogan was concerned. On the res, no one had intervened on behalf of himself or his younger brother and sister, both of whom had run away. Out of some stupid idea of protecting his mother, he’d been the only one to stay at home. What a fool he’d been!
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