Soul Catcher

by Bridger, Leigh

  “What are those feckers gaggling about?” Ian asked over the audio system in our helmets. His voice boomed in my ears. His big hands felt like warm clamps on my hips. His inner knees pressed against my outer thighs. He leaned when I leaned. He seemed comfortable riding on Dante’s big black touring cycle at high speeds on a mountain back road. We’d only had time for a quick lesson after I wheeled the bike out of Dante’s garage, near the club.

  “Men usually drive,” I told him. “Women usually ride on the backseat. It’s just stupid tradition. Don’t pay any attention to those macho assholes.”

  “So they think I’m not a full man?” He sounded amused. “Is there a name in this world for that?”

  “Among bikers? Back warmer is one of the politer ones.”

  “Back warmer.” His disembodied brogue made a deep hum in my head. His broad chest warmed my spine even through the quilted jacket he wore and the leather jacket I wore. His hands tightened, palms and fingers, holding my ass firmly between his spraddled legs. My body was in a permanent state of cringe. “I’ll tell you, Mary-Livia,” Ian went on, cluelessly happy, his voice echoing inside my skull, “I do no’ mind being your back warmer. Those front seat feckers don’t know what they’re missing.”

  *

  Yonah Creek Camp Ground. Yonah means bear in Cherokee. Native American place names crowd the maps in the Appalachian mountains of North Carolina. There are memories hidden in them, old markers of villages and hunting trails and spirit worlds.

  “You’re a quiet one,” Ian said as we sprang a tiny, two-person tent beside a rock-rimmed fire pit with a small cooking grill laid across it. Campsite number seven. Assigned to us by a sweet old couple who ran the place. Other old couples camped there, most in RV’s or pop-up camping trailers. They smiled at us and waved from their grills and lawn chairs. A small creek gurgled past us. Huge mountains rose above our heads. The spring air was ripe with angels and demons. A whole layer of beings operated invisibly alongside everything we saw, heard, touched and smelled.

  Or in my case, not so invisibly.

  “Just wondering where the local pog hangs out,” I grumbled. “And what the pog is.”

  Ian tossed a pair of insulated blankets in the tents. Talk about primitive. We didn’t even have sleeping bags. I frowned. I was not a camp-outdoors kind of woman. “The pog’ll visit in its own fair time, Mary-Livia. Pogs are temperamental beasties, but they have a soft spot for we humans. As long as we respect their places. Pogs are keen on their homes, you see. Be it a building, a bit of land, a grandmotherly old tree—tread kindly in a pog’s home, and he or she will welcome you.”

  “Whatever you say.” I squatted beside our small fire ring, prodding a pile of dried branches with a lit match. No luck. “That’s the last match,” I said dully.

  Ian knelt beside me, holding one of his axes. “Mary-Livia, do it like so.” He piled dried leaves and grass next to one of the fire-rim rocks, raised his ax with the head turned backward, and brought it down at an angle on the rock’s granite surface. Sparks flew. A small flame bloomed in the leaves and grass. He scooped them up then tucked them under the branches. The flame grew and spread. Ian blew gently on it. Soon we had a campfire.

  “Good work, Daniel Boone,” I said with testy thanks.

  Ian smiled. “Ol’ Daniel claimed he could make a fire just by whistling. I n’er quite believed him.”

  *

  Late night. How could I sleep? I hunkered by the slow-burning campfire, thinking about Pig Face, Detective Beaumont, Greg Lindholm, Ian, and our future or lack thereof. I kept staring into the shadows while Ian walked the campground’s perimeter. I worried about him. I kept one hand on the hilt of my knife.

  Hello, Yonah Creek campground pog, I kept saying in my mind. I like your campground. I respect it. I do. If you’re around, could you speak up? And don’t scare the shit out of me in the process, please.

  No answer.

  At the other campsites, the lingering glow of banked campfires made soft red mounds. The RV’s and trailers were dark. A security light cast a small circle near the creek. Frogs sang. Deer shuffled through the forest. I jumped at every sound.

  “Mary-Livia,” Ian said.

  I nearly fell off my laced-up-boot heels.

  Ian sat down beside me. “’Tis a pleasant bit of forest and creek about us. I don’t have your ken for seeing the spirits, but I have a nose for sniffing out their trouble. I neither felt nor smelled any sign of a bane or a demon. They’ll not toy much with a powerful pog. I think we’re safe enough for the night.”

  “I hope you’re right. So far, the pog is ignoring us.” I poked the last hotdog on our low-rent grill. “Still hungry? Nothing like a charred weenie for dessert.”

  He filched the blackened frank with quick fingers, blew on it, then held it out. It pointed at me like a little grilled dick. “You barely ate. Let’s go halves.”

  A shrewd once-over convinced me his phallic symbolism was innocent. My stomach, however, made a closed fist. I shook my head. He downed the hotdog in two quick bites.

  I frowned at him. “How can you eat like that? We have no clue what to do next. The police are looking for us and Pig Face is probably lurking around the next corner. Aren’t you worried?”

  He frowned back at me. “If I thought we didn’t stand a chance I’d be pissing my britches. But I try not to think about all the worry at once.” He looked up at the sky, his face pensive. “’Tis a beautiful, starry spring night. The earth is turning green for a new year. The farmers are planting their crops and the animals are making their babies.” He lowered his gaze to me. “And I’m sittin’ here with you, wonders of wonders. We’re not done for, Mary-Livia. We’ve come back to life again and again. We’ll beat the pig-faced bastard yet.”

  “And if we don’t?”

  His eyes went dark. “Then I’ll find you in the next life, and the one after that, and all the lives forever.”

  Goosebumps rose on my arms. I scooted a little farther from him and hugged my knees to my chest. To me, everything in life was about self-defense, putting a physical and emotional wall between me and everyone else. Even now. “I’ve hidden for your sake, not mine.”

  “Ah, now, I do like that you’re so worried about my flesh and hide.” He spread his arms to the night, a broad gesture that encompassed me too, if I’d let him. “But no matter what happens, I’m the happiest man who ever lived or ever will live.”

  “Why?”

  He curled his arms to his knees and studied me as if I were dense. “Because I finally found my soul mate again.”

  He dug tears out of me that wouldn’t have fallen for anyone else. I didn’t squint, grimace, sob, no. I just sat there with hot streams spreading down my disciplined face. When he reached out to wipe my cheeks with the back of one finger I flinched but let him.

  He could tell this intimacy was about to go a bridge too far. “Get some sleep, Mary-Livia,” he said gently. “Roll up in a blanket inside the tent. I’ll sit out here and guard the night for us.”

  I retreated to the tiny tent behind us, where I wrapped myself like a human burrito and lay facing the open door flap, so I could watch him watch the fire.

  Guarding the night. For us.

  I slept. Amazing.

  *

  No wonder I dreamed of mushroom soup. Another blast of hot air gushed into my nose with a musky scent like smoked shitakes. I opened my eyes. I stared up in the dim gray light just before dawn, nose to snout, into the black eyes of an enormous white bear.

  “I think we’ve got the pog here,” Ian said in a low voice. “I sense him more than see him. He’s just a big shadow to me.” Ian paused. “A very, very big shadow.”

  The other breaking news was that Ian lay beside me in the tent, though wrapped chastely in his own blanket, and on a side note, I’d been sleeping contentedly with my head on his shoulder.

  “I guess this is why the campground’s named after a bear,” I finally said. My voice shook. “Hello, Yonah.
”

  Yonah touched his cool, mushroomy snout to my forehead, sniffing me. Then he placidly sniffed Ian’s face, blowing softly on him. Finally he looked at me again. Hello, soul catcher. I hear that you and this soul hunter banished the pair of winged lions who terrorize Asheville. Nasty banes, those two. Though I have nothing against winged cats in general. There are some about who are quite trustworthy.

  None of that was said with anthropomorphic lips moving on an ursine face. Instead, he thought the words at me.

  “Can you hear what he’s saying, too?” I asked Ian.

  “Ay. It’s a whisper, but I can make it out.”

  Ian and I sat up slowly. Yonah’s huge head, which he’d poked through the tent’s open flap, crowded the space. I lifted a hand. “Would it be okay if I touched your fur?”

  Of course. It would be an honor, soul catcher.

  I put one hand on his forehead. The fur was pure white and as soft as feathers. I drew my fingers through it. “You’re beautiful.”

  So are you, soul catcher. What can Yonah do for you today?

  “We don’t know which way to turn next. We’re looking for a place called Talking Rock. Have you heard of it?”

  Hmmm. There are several such place names in the mountains here and yon, but you’re looking for a certain special one, I take it?

  “Yes.”

  Come with me. I’ll introduce you to a pog who lives nearby. As I always say, if you want to know about a rock, ask a rock pog. He withdrew his head majestically. Ian and I clambered out of our blankets. Ian reached for the backpack he’d tucked nearby. As he hooked the strap over one big shoulder the ax handles clicked with soft wooden sounds, deceptively harmless.

  “I hope we won’t need those,” I said, while making sure my knife was strapped to my right hip.

  “Ay.” He ducked out of the tent then stood and stretched. I scrambled out on all fours and took his hand-up without hesitation. That small concession brought a light to his face. “Did you sleep well, Mary-Livia?” His lilt turned my name up at the end and gave the question just a hint of spice. “Not crowded or anything?”

  I grunted. “My pillow had beard stubble and smelled like burned hotdogs.”

  He grinned as we hurried after a spirit bear the size of an elephant.

  *

  I was having a Last of the Mohicans moment—that terrifying scene at the end of the movie, with all the fighting and the throat-slashing atop rocky ledges overlooking a panorama of green mountains. It was filmed in North Carolina for a reason.

  Cliffs. High-ass, shit-yourself-and-don’t-look-down cliffs.

  “This rock pog must not be afraid of heights,” I muttered as a gust of wind made me sway.

  She calls herself Promontoria, Yonah said.

  Ian studied the jumbles of lichen-flecked boulders and plunging escarpments around us. “And what would that name be meaning?”

  “Big-ass cliff,” I explained dryly.

  Yonah nodded. He blew softly on the rocky ground. Dear Promontoria, are you listening? Come out and speak with us, if you please.

  Nothing. A chilly wind swooshed through the silence. More than a dozen turkey buzzards wheeled in the pink dawn sky high above us, their wings making shadows.

  Suddenly Nahjee whispered to me. I don’t like the spirit of those birds.

  Indeed, Tabby whispered. They are not of this world.

  Not what I needed to hear while we were perched on a cliff face like a target. I looked at Ian. “Nahjee and Tabby say the buzzards may be banes.”

  He stiffened as he looked up at the circling birds. “Ay, it’s not right for turkey buzzards to be hunting this early in the morn. But then again, it’s not impossible.”

  Yonah spoke quietly. I’m afraid your dear little boons are correct. Those birds are in service to a demon. They are banes.

  I took two trembling steps backward and my shoulders hit the cliff face. “Last soul catcher down’s a rotten egg,” I said. “I’ll lead the way.”

  Yonah blocked me. Now, now. They’re surely not eager to tangle with me. Only a very powerful demon would challenge a pog as old as I.

  Ian said quietly, “No offense, Master Yonah, but I fear this demon is able and willing.”

  Yonah studied me with his head tilted. His great, dark eyes seemed puzzled. You’re afraid of these banes?

  I gave a jerky nod. “ Shouldn’t I be?”

  No. A soul catcher powerful enough to banish the griffins of Asheville can surely banish mere banes with a flick of her hand.

  “That’s good to know, but I haven’t tested that theory yet. I’m still a rookie.”

  Yonah frowned. Oh, dear.

  Ian slowly pulled an ax from his backpack. “Just in case you need some time to practice your banishin’ skills, Mary-Livia, I’ll get ready to chop these flying feckers. See if you can rouse madam rock pog. We came here for help. Let’s not run from a fight.”

  Ah, Yonah said, arched a white brow at him. He truly is a soul hunter. In love with the challenges of battle.

  I stared at the rocky surface around my feet. My mouth was so dry my tongue stuck to my teeth. “Hello, Promontoria. we need your help to locate a large rock that has special meaning to us. I’ve seen it in my dreams. The Talking Rock. It’s not on any maps of these particular mountains or mentioned in any histories around here. Can you help us find it?” Before we’re pecked to death by giant buzzard banes, I added to myself.

  The wind whistled. The banes spiraled in a sudden descent.

  Yonah stepped in front of us. Guard your soul catcher, he said to Ian. he said. I’ll take care of these fellows. He rose on his tremendous hind legs.

  Ian stepped in front of me, facing the banes, his ax raised. “Stay behind me, Mary-Livia. And don’t stab me accidental-like with that toothpick of yours.” I raised my knife and balanced on the balls of my feet. The average real turkey buzzard is big and ugly, but no threat to anyone or anything that’s still breathing. They eat carrion. They don’t sing or squawk; they only grunt and hiss. Their heads are naked and purplish red. Their beaks are white and hooked. That’s what the real ones are like.

  I squinted at the banes, trying to see them through a mist that clouded each one. Yonah roared. The demon’s trying to hide them from you, soul catcher! Concentrate!

  “You can do it, Mary-Livia!” Ian yelled.

  “No! Too fast! Too many!”

  They dive-bombed us.

  Yonah took out three banes with one swipe of a huge white paw and two more with the other. How dare you invade my territory, he roared. When he hit them they exploded in streamers of dark light, like inverse fireworks. But the streamers reversed themselves, and I watched in shock as the banes re-formed.

  Yonah rumbled loudly, Only you can banish them forever, soul catcher.

  A group swarmed him, dodging his claws and teeth, distracting him so others could swoop past, headed for Ian and me.

  Ian took out one with a swing of his ax and fended off more with wide arcs of the deadly blade. Dark sparkles lit the air then sucked back together like a film in reverse. I swung my knife into the heart of one reconstituted bane as it swooped past Ian. Its shimmering fog parted long enough for me to stare up at glowing red eyes and a head like a cobra’s, only bearing a forked beak long enough to pierce a human from chest to spine.

  “Shit! Beat it,” I gasped.

  The bane vaporized.

  That one did not re-form.

  “Good on you, Mary-Livia,” Ian yelled, bashing another to temporary bits with his ax.

  I gaped at the empty air. I really can do it! Just like the griffins!

  A bane lunged past Ian. He slashed it in half with his ax. A wing of its inky energy slammed into me as it re-formed. I staggered.

  And stepped off the edge of the world.

  Ian leapt after me, catching me by one arm. We slammed against craggy rocks, him spread-eagled on the ground above me and me grasping for a hold on the face. My fingers curled over a small hummock o
f stone; I dug the toes of my hiking boots into crevices.

  The banes closed in on him, shrieking, their forked beaks open, their long talons arched to rip into him.

  I shouted to the ether. I want to see them.

  My vision cleared. The mist was gone. Their wingspan was vast. They were covered in scales, not feathers. Their puke-yellow feet had claws that curved like scimitars.

  And they knew I saw them. Their huge wings tilted vertically, like the flaps on a jet, trying to slow their approach. Their shrieks changed from fierce to frightened. I flung out one hand at them.

  “Paint them! Trap them! Burn them!”

  And they did burn. Oh, how they burned.

  The air shattered with their flames. It sounded like a sonic boom. The morning light gleamed with black diamonds. And then they were gone. Incinerated.

  Pink-blue sky replaced them. Peace and quiet returned.

  Ian, dusty and gasping for air, looked down at me with awe. “You banished the bastards, Mary-Livia. All of them at once!”

  He lost his grip and began to slide. I yelled. The rocky surface lurched and flexed as if powered by underlying muscles. Suddenly, gnarled arms—I counted five of them, each with a gray, nubbled, mitten-shaped paw—enfolded him. I yelled again as sets of the same rock-gray arms lifted me too.

  The many-armed Promontoria hoisted us to the ledge and shoved us safely against the cliff wall. Yonah blew out a long breath of relief. Well done, Promontoria. Well done, Ian and Livia. Yonah bowed his head to me. Miss Soul Catcher, you are too modest. Clearly, you are no rookie.

  Ian and I dragged fresh air into our lungs. He looked at his ax. The blade had been ripped up its center. The encryptions glittered like broken mirrors.

  Then the steel healed itself.

  The encryptions joined, settled, glowed. He laid the ax aside, and patted it. “Many thanks, friend.”

  My, my, a deep female voice said. Promontoria had the husky rasp of an old cheerleader who’s smoked one too many cigarettes. What have we here? A handsome soul hunter and an intrepid soul catcher. My, my. I wasn’t sure they were worthy. But now . . . oh, my.