Death Chant

by Vella Munn

  “And,” Ned said, “those actions helped form the land where the Hoh have always lived.”

  Thankfully, Floyd didn’t say anything. No matter how many times Jay fought his uncle’s efforts to pull the past into the present, he never fully succeeded. Maybe today’s storm and the Thunderbird legend were simply coincidence, but what if there was something to it?

  His ancestors believed Thunderbird, or T’ist’ilal, was one of the creators. The Hoh had been charged with protecting the land. However, forces beyond their control had spelled the end to their ancient way of life. These days the Hoh clung to a few acres. Grandparents Cave meant a great deal not just to the Hoh but every Northwest tribe. No one would let Dr. Gilsdorf get close to it.

  Someone might resort to violence to keep that from happening.

  Jay looked around for something to take his mind off the possibility. Uncle Talio was staring at him.

  “Thunderbird does many things,” the man said. “Is many things. We can’t forget any of them.”

  Jay sucked in more wet air. “What can’t we forget?”

  “Thunderbird and Yakanon speak to each other of death,” Uncle Talio said. “Many times like when one of them sees something that has died”—he pointed at the fish carcass—“their conversation remains between them, but sometimes Yakanon hears news in the wind about the death of a soulless one. Because only Thunderbird comprehends Yakanon, Thunderbird agrees to pass on Yakanon’s message.”

  A few people were trying to protect themselves from the downpour, but most stared at Jay.

  Yakanon wasn’t real! The spirit or force or whatever the Old People chose to label it was a fairy tale. Part of his ancestors’ attempt to give order and reason to what they hadn’t understood.

  Ned laid his hand on Uncle Talio’s shoulder. “Is that what you’re hearing today?” Ned asked. “Yakanon, through Thunderbird, is warning of such a death?”

  Uncle Talio stepped toward Jay. “I hear thunder and stand in a storm. Those things remind me of what I learned from my elders, and I feel compelled to pass on that wisdom. Whether someone believes as I do or walks his own way is up to him.”

  He tilted his head back. Rain washed his face. “If you believe this is simply a storm, that’s your decision. But if you believe, as I do, that Yakanon is looking into the future, then you must ask yourself who doesn’t have a soul.”

  Chapter Two

  San Diego, California

  Three months later…

  Winter Barstow circled the UPS package on her coffee table.

  “What have you been up to, Doc?” she muttered. Not that her mentor could hear her. Doc was working on his grant in Olympic National Forest, hundreds of miles to the north. She placed a hand on the package. It had been on her front porch when she’d arrived, which made her conclude that Doc—Dr. Anthony Gilsdorf—didn’t place much value on its contents. But Doc wouldn’t have sent her a gift on a whim. Whatever this was, it had meaning for him, meaning he wanted to share with her.

  She went into the kitchen for a knife and then cut through the layers of tape. Inside the package sat a reinforced cardboard box. She untangled the flaps to reveal a small mountain of wadded newspaper.

  A crawling sensation stopped her from removing the newspaper. Suddenly, she wished she could walk out of the room. And yet, at the same time, anticipation made her pulse race. She pressed her hand against her chest then tossed the paper aside. Closed her eyes and reached in. She touched wood.

  Wood. Smooth, with intricately carved curves and angles. She opened her eyes, carefully freed the object from its cocoon, and lifted it with numb fingers. Her heart rate kicked up even more as she placed it on the table. Then she stepped back to study what her mentor, a man who’d given her life focus, had sent.

  A large, intricately decorated mask.

  Of a wolf.

  Painted red, black and white, and with pointed ears, abalone eyes, long snout and sharp teeth—teeth capable of tearing and killing.

  “How…” Childhood memories washed over her and her legs grew weak. Unlike the predator that had once been a vivid part of her dreams, the mask didn’t look alive. Yet it took her back to when her dream wolf had been the one good thing about her world.

  Either Sitka spruce or western hemlock had been used to form the base shape. Dried but intact hide stretched over the bridge of the nose, and tufts of brittle hair formed a dark halo. The teeth were bone fragments that had been glued or drilled into the jaws.

  “Wolf symbolism,” she managed, her hand now at her throat. Native American ceremonial. Surely stolen. “My God, Doc, what have you done?”

  Doc was a university anthropology professor, currently on a grant-supported field project. A professional like him didn’t remove artifacts from national parks. He didn’t break the law.

  And yet he had.

  She pulled her gaze away from the mask and stared at the road beyond her living room window, as if to assure herself that no one could see what she’d just unveiled. Fortunately, living in a small rental in the desert east of San Diego gave her elbow room and relatively few neighbors.

  The mask was real. But why would Doc violate the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act getting it to her? The mask wasn’t worth a one hundred thousand dollar fine and a year in prison.

  She circled the table, studying the mask from all angles. There was something compelling about the cold, lifeless eyes, as well as the challenge shown in the flared nostrils and fierce open mouth. A master carver had created it, as evidenced by the lack of tool marks. Her educated guess was that it had come from either the Makah or Quileute tribes living along the Washington coast. Then she noted the black accenting the eyes. No. This was more likely Hoh.

  Turning from the mask, she dug through the wrapping for a note, but she found nothing. Suddenly weary, she pulled her cell phone out of the backpack that served as her purse and sank into her recliner. She had a message.

  It had better be from the man who’d given her equal parts encouragement and lectures about doing something with her life. According to the automated voice, he’d called this morning.

  “Where are you?” Doc started. “Winter, this has to be between the two of us. You’re the only one I can trust.”

  Trust? What was this about? She shivered.

  “I need you up here as soon as possible. There’s—I can barely bring myself to speak the words. I’m on to something beyond incredible. Something I believe is worth the risk I took. The danger.”

  “What are you saying?” she muttered.

  “It’ll change our lives. Place our stamp on everything anthropology stands for. Make Wilheim doubly sorry I got the grant instead of him. Call me. But first take a good long look at it. The mask dates back to early fur trading days.”

  She gasped. No, it couldn’t. The elements would have destroyed it.

  “Wilheim’s going to give you hell when you tell him you’re bailing on him, but I can’t do this alone. I shouldn’t say you owe me but, if that’s what it takes, I’ll play the card.”

  Praying he’d continue, she strained to listen, but all she heard was dead air. Feeling cold, she sat straighter and replayed the message. This time, she concentrated more on his emotion and less on the words. Fought to ignore the electrical charge racing through her. In the nearly ten years he’d been part of her life, he’d never sounded anywhere near this agitated. Doc was a tenured university professor, not some kid opening Christmas presents.

  No, he wasn’t Christmas morning excited. More like overwhelmed. Scared. Out of his element.

  Scared? Damn it, she didn’t want that for him.

  Doc was right. She owed him a great deal. Alone in the world, yearning to belong, she’d snuck into his lecture hall. Instead of kicking her out, he’d seen through her emotional shields to the hungry-for-knowledge teen she’d been. Once he’d won her trust—no easy task—he’d helped her get several scholarships, a part-time job on campus, a roof over her head. A reas
on for existing.

  She called him, but the phone went right to voicemail. Swayed by his cautions, she didn’t leave a message.

  When Doc had been preparing to leave, he’d made sure she had several ways of getting in touch with him, including the number for Potlatch, the employee-only park camp where he had his field office. She punched in the Potlatch number. As she waited for someone to answer, she debated how to best frame her reason for calling. Doc and she worked for the same California university system, albeit far from the same place in the pecking order. She could—

  “Potlatch. Ranger Jay Raven speaking.”

  She couldn’t remember Doc mentioning anyone named Raven. “I’m trying to reach Dr. Anthony Gilsdorf.”

  Silence. That was odd. Had they been disconnected? “Can you hear me?” she asked. “I’m trying—”

  “I heard you.”

  Thrown off balance by the man’s hostility, she struggled to concentrate. Jay Raven hadn’t said whether he was acquainted with Doc, but what if he was and the relationship wasn’t friendly? Doc had been disappointed by the local Native Americans’ refusal to help him. Much as she wanted to tell the man everything Doc had done for her, now wasn’t the time. It never would be.

  “Is he there? I tried his cell phone but—”

  “I haven’t seen him for several days, maybe a week. Why don’t you try later?”

  “Wait,” she blurted. “Don’t hang up. When you saw him, where was it?”

  The man hesitated, as if finally hearing the desperation in her tone. “Here. It might have been when he was talking to our budget officer, Michael Simpson.”

  “How do I get in touch with Mr. Simpson?”

  “Who are you?”

  Doc might not have told anyone there about their close relationship. Jay Raven would have no way of connecting her to the wolf mask—if he even was aware that it was missing. He couldn’t track her.

  Track her? Where had that thought come from? Damn it, she needed to get a handle on herself. Between the compelling artifact commanding her attention and her concern for Doc, she wasn’t at her best.

  “We’re worried about him. He was supposed to check in this afternoon,” she lied.

  “Was he? Look, I don’t have any more contact with him than necessary.”

  “Why not?”

  “Maybe you aren’t aware of this, but Dr. Gilsdorf’s relationship with my people is somewhat strained.”

  “Your people?”

  “The Hoh. We leave him pretty much alone. If he’s gone missing—”

  “He has gone missing.” So she’d been right about the ranger’s heritage.

  “I’m afraid he has.” His voice softened. “Dr. Gilsdorf had several meetings with the budget officer and park historian. They might be able to help.”

  “I’d appreciate the suggestion. Doc is staying at Potlatch, isn’t he?”

  “When he isn’t camping in the forest.”

  Which was a lot of the time. “Would you mind leaving a note at his place for him to call me?”

  “No, that’s okay. Who should I tell him this is?”

  “I’m Winter. Winter Barstow.”

  He paused. “Interesting name. I imagine you’ve been told that before.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “My compliments to your parents.”

  Unfortunately, my parents had nothing to do with it. “I could say the same about yours. It’s unique.”

  He chuckled. “Not many people are named after two different birds.”

  Listening to him, she realized she’d actually relaxed. Although she was still looking at the mask, it no longer dominated her thoughts. “You will tell him I called, won’t you?”

  “Of course.” After giving her the numbers for the budget officer and historian, he hung up. Losing the connection left her feeling cut off from not just Doc, but so much of what mattered to him.

  Jay Raven was Native American. That meant they had everything and yet nothing in common.

  After hanging up, she noted that the sun was now below the horizon. The mask was being cloaked in shadows, prompting her to look away. She wished she knew what Jay Raven did. Undoubtedly he was charged with safeguarding the forest, but how did he and his coworkers go about it? Why had he chosen that career?

  After yet another unsuccessful attempt to call or text Doc, she again acknowledged the mask’s presence.

  Silver eyes stared at her. The slightly open mouth could either represent a grin or a snarl. If it was as old as Doc had said it was, the mask had been created as part of ancient Native ceremonies.

  Going by what she’d learned about the Northwestern tribes, someone, probably a proven hunter, had placed it over his head and mimicked a wolf’s movements. Little children might have cowered before the fierce figure, but hopefully their parents would have assured them that the wolf dancer represented courage and survival. The hunter would stalk, threaten and mock attack.

  How did wolves factor into Hoh spiritual beliefs? The tribe was small and had a lot in common with other tribes in the area. She wasn’t aware of any study done on the subtle differences, if there were any. More to the point, the Hoh might not be willing to share their beliefs.

  It shouldn’t be here. If university staff learned what Doc had done, he’d be fired—unless someone like Dr. Wilheim decided the rare treasure would bring enough attention to the university to warrant defending a colleague under the cloak of research and discovery.

  Dr. Wilheim defend Doc to the point of challenging the law? Wasn’t going to happen.

  She came closer then picked up the mask. Although heavy for its size, the incredibly well-preserved artifact seemed to have been designed to fit over her head. Holding the mask at arms’ length, she walked into the bathroom, put it on the counter and stood in front of the mirror. Large black eyes, a somewhat broad nose, high cheekbones and thick, shoulder-length midnight hair reflected back at her. She’d studied herself countless times over the years, but the feeling that she was looking at a stranger remained.

  Who was she?

  Determined to shake off the unanswerable question, she started to reach for the mask but wound up unbuttoning the top two buttons on her blouse and pulling it away from her chest. Still staring at her reflection, she lightly stroked the small tattoo over her heart. It wasn’t particularly remarkable—just the outline of a wolf’s head with red eyes. It represented her reverence for a childhood obsession.

  “Coincidence,” she muttered. “Don’t put anything into it.”

  Hesitant, she picked up the mask, lifted it over her head and settled it into place. Immediately she plunged into a world of weight and darkness and wood scent.

  Claustrophobia washed through her, causing her heart to slam against her chest, but she fought her way past the fear. All these years on her own had taught her to face life squarely. No way would she let a little darkness get the better of her. If some superstitious Hoh could wear it for hours, she could put up with a few minutes. Then when she got a hold of Doc she could tell him—tell him what?

  The question faded along with her awareness of where she was. She was no longer hot and thirsty. Instead, she swore she was breathing cool, damp air that smelled of vegetation both growing and decaying.

  Two holes had been drilled into the base of the muzzle, allowing her to catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She saw nothing of Winter Barstow. That woman had been replaced by fierce ancient symbolism.

  A howl echoed throughout the small room.

  Chapter Three

  Relatively speaking, summer was the dry season in the Northwest. Still, it was cloudy and the air coming in through Winter’s open car window felt cool, reminding her of the eerie sensation that had overtaken her when she’d put on the wolf mask two days earlier. After hearing the howl—or suspecting she’d heard the howl—she’d packed up the mask, unwilling to put it on again. Once had been enough. Until and unless she got her emotions under control, she’d chalk the experience up to a
touch of exhaustion, coupled with worry for Doc.

  That, and memories of childhood dreams of walking alongside a powerful but gentle wolf.

  A blanket of green existed as far as she could see. There were dark tree trunks, interlacing root systems of a lighter hue, fog sliding through everything, and gray overhead. Lush, rain-fed life dominated. Despite her interest in Northwest Native Americans, she’d never been to the state of Washington. Now, driving down a winding road, the environment seemed both alien and familiar.

  No, not familiar. Darn it, was she ever going to stop looking for her roots and accept that she’d never be able to put the pieces of her past together?

  Rounding a bend in the road, she noticed a collection of buildings and a US Forestry sign identifying Potlatch. She’d arrived. She parked in front of a small, weathered building marked Office. Delaying the move that would force her into that deep and inescapable world that existed, fog-shrouded, outside her car windows, she leaned forward and worked the kinks out of her neck and shoulders.

  Although she’d left several email and text messages, Doc hadn’t responded. When she’d called his son, he’d said he hadn’t heard from him in the past few days, either, but hadn’t expected to. She’d reached the budget manager, but he hadn’t been able to shed any light on Doc’s whereabouts. Finally, consumed with fear and worry despite her rationalization that cell phone reception was unreliable, particularly in the remote parts of the park, she realized she had to come to where he was. Something wasn’t right—she could feel it in her bones. Maybe he’d gotten hurt or lost, but maybe someone had discovered what he’d done and decided to make him pay for it.

  She’d driven nearly nonstop from San Diego. She had to find Doc. Nothing else, not even remaining employed, mattered.