Soul Catcher

by Bridger, Leigh

  Impressive, aren’t they? Yonah replied.

  A face emerged from a boulder like clay being pushed from inside. Granite-silver eyes with heavy brows peered at us. Promontoria’s eyes might be rocky, but they were all-girl. She had thick, flirty, lichen-green lashes.

  She aimed those rocky eyes at Ian. Soul hunter. I see you as you are, not in that body you’re using. You remind me of Daniel Day Lewis. He stood right here when they filmed the movie, you know. Oh, I liked the look of him, I tell you.

  Okay, at least we were back in the land of normal Strange Shit.

  Ian and I staggered to our feet. Ian said gallantly, “’Tis a great honor you’re paying us, Promontoria.”

  Hmmm, a good, rock-hard man. My, My.

  A rock pog was getting her rocks off on Ian. I bit back a smile. An extraordinary man, a seducer of granite. I looked at him with a growing warmth.

  “Well, madam,” Ian said gallantly, “I’d be blushing if it weren’t all true. And from such a lovely lady.”

  Her lichen-lashes fluttered.

  Yonah cleared his throat. Dear girl, Livia and Ian are in a hurry and in a good deal of danger, as you’ve seen. They have a question for you.

  I know, I know, I heard it already. The gnarled gray eyes swiveled their lichen lashes at me. Soul catcher, do you realize that the source of your greatest strength comes from the source of your greatest pain?

  “Yes, I’m beginning to understand that.”

  Do you realize that the life memories you seek at the Talking Rock formed a crucible which nearly destroyed you and your very handsome soul hunter? That it changed your future forever?

  “I feel that possibility, yes.”

  Are you willing to risk despair to find out more?

  “We don’t have any other choices, Promontoria. If we don’t find out who we were, we’ll never know how to fight the pig-face demon.”

  So be it.

  If granite and bedrock can sigh, she did. Wonaneya, she intoned. She said the strange name again, her voice and face fading back into the rock. Look for Wonaneya in the ancient rock places you call the Smokies. Take care of your partner, soul catcher. He is so fine.

  And then she was gone.

  Ian and I traded a bewildered look then gazed up at Yonah. “Wonaneya?” I said.

  The great, ursine head drooped. I had no idea you were searching for that sad place. He turned and began to shuffle in his huge way back down the path to the campsite. I will give you directions, but then I’ll say no more about it. This is a matter for your souls to engage. Not for pogs to counsel.

  We hurried after him. “Can you at least be telling us what the name means in English?” Ian asked.

  Yonah stopped. He turned his majestic white head and looked back at us over one shoulder. His eyes were sad. Once upon a time in the old days, Wonaneya was a Cherokee peace town. A place of refuge. The word means Talking Rock, at least as modern people have written it from the old language. Wonaneya’s fate has been hidden by time and the lies of history. He looked at us sympathetically. The demon destroyed all who lived there.

  *

  Boom. The ground shivered with another round of thunder. A swirling, muddy creek gushed past our wet boots. We huddled, heads bent, our mood clubbed into dull silence. Yonah’s morbid hints about our history in the long-gone Cherokee town named Wonaneya weighed heavily on us both. Even Ian couldn’t manage any jaunty shrugs. Around us, the oldest mountains in the world drained their tears our way.

  Land of the blue smoke. That’s what the Cherokees called the Great Smokies that straddle North Carolina’s western border with Tennessee. Ancient mountains, cloaked in all-natural organic blue mist, some standing over a mile high. Climb to their craggy, bald-rock tops under a full moon and you can imagine all sorts of other worlds connected to the same sky.

  The Smokies are an even stranger blue stew of unexplainable boogie men than Asheville: vanished villages and towns, forgotten tribes, ghost choirs, odd lights, UFO’s, mysterious writings on trailside rocks, rumors of Atlantis and glimpses of beasts and beings that couldn’t possibly exist, right? Plus twenty-four active energy vortexes, according to the New Age swamis. A major power point on the power grid of the planet. Big-time mojo. Shit happens there.

  But for Ian and me, squatting under a narrow rock bridge on a lonely back road alongside the motorcycle, while rain sluiced down, lightning cracked our eardrums and thunder made earthquakes under our feet, the vast mountain range west of Asheville had taken on darker shadows than we’d ever expected.

  I prodded a wilting map from a guidebook we’d bought at a convenience store. “This big green blob is the Great Smoky Mountains National Park,” I told Ian. “Over eight hundred square miles. Ninety five percent in wild forest, and a big chunk of that is old-growth. That means it’s never been cut for timber and it’s like taking a walk back in time. There are some old pioneer settlements like Cade’s Cove—no one lives in them, they’re just preserved as part of the National Forest—but nothing on this park map shows the name Wonaneya. I have no clue how we’re going to find the site of a Cherokee town that was . . . ” my voice trailed off. I didn’t want to finish that sentence. Destroyed by Pig Face more than two hundred years ago.

  Ian scrubbed a hand across his jaw. His beard was now a thick brown mat, not just stubble. “There was a trading post there too, you ken? Your father’s place. It was right beside your mam’s Cherokee town.”

  “Do you remember what my father’s last name was?”

  He shook his head wearily, then pounded a fist on one knee. “Why won’t these things come to me? Why would such memories go hiding from me? I know we don’t always remember the lives we’ve shared, but the happy parts of that life, with you, are clear as fresh water to me.”

  We traded an agonized look. “Only the happy parts,” I said hoarsely. “Maybe because the rest was too horrible.”

  “Oh, come on, you know better than that,” a trilling female voice said.

  We stared at the creek. A small, blue-green, woman-like creature stepped gracefully from the rain-swollen water. She was no more than a foot tall, hairless and chubby and naked. Raised patterns—swirls and stars—decorated her skin. She looked like a cross between a fertility totem and Mystique from the X-Men movies. She braced his legs apart defiantly and plopped her hands on her round hips.

  She sure wasn’t shy. The only part that wasn’t blue were her pink nipples and the bright pink crevice between her hairless blue thighs.

  Ian regarded her with amusement. “I do wish I could see you better, Miss Spirit.”

  “Oh, you sweet talker.” She gazed at me with firm blue eyes. “Hello, soul catcher. No need to fear me. I’m a boon.” She plopped down on the damp, grassy earth in front of us and curled her arms around one up-drawn knee. “My name’s Crescendo. Don’t ask why. It’s a family thing.”

  “Nice to meet you, Crescendo. I’m Livia and this is Ian . . . ”

  “Like I don’t know? Why, you two are big news. Fought off the winged lions in Asheville and banished a whole flock of banes just this morning. Everyone’s excited. We’ve been waiting a long time for you two to get your act back together. Two centuries.”

  Ian put a warning hand on my arm. “Boons don’t visit just to have a chat and a cup of tea, Mary-Livia. She’s got news to tell.”

  Crescendo smiled, nodded and got to her stubby blue feet. “I came here to tell you that if you want to find Wonaneya, go to the Cherokee reservation and ask for Crow Walker. Got that? Ask for Crow Walker on the Qualla Boundary reservation. At the casino.”

  At the casino?

  She glanced up the creek. Another clap of thunder rattled us. Rain gusted beneath the bridge. When her eyes settled back on us the whites had merged into the blue and she began to fade. “And I came here to tell you a head-high wall of floodwater is coming down this creek gully right now. The demon sent it.” She disappeared.

  Ian and I leapt up. He pushed the bike while I grabbed our bac
kpacks. We struggled up the steep bank in a downpour of cold spring rain. No more than five seconds after our feet touched the pavement of the narrow mountain road, a roar came from upstream. A boiling, muddy, limb-filled cascade filled the creek bed, cresting only a few inches from where we stood.

  As the mountain storm drenched us we watched Pig Face’s killer flood filter away. The rain eased to a trickle. The little creek returned to normal. Cold steam rose off the paved road.

  When we turned to mount the bike Ian looked at me with an arched brow. “That was a bit close for comfort.”

  “Ay,” I said.

  He laughed loudly as he threw one soggy, bluejeaned leg over the bike and settled contentedly onto the girly back seat.

  10

  The Cherokee Indians of North Carolina are stuck on a hundred square miles of isolated mountains and wild forest at the entrance of the national forest, whose unbroken arms close like a defensive hug around the tribe’s to-cringe-at tourist district full of cheap, insulting knickknack crap, low-rent diners and shabby motels.

  On the other hand, the boons and angels have never deserted the tribe. There’s also a high-tech museum, a cultural center, and other proud and authentic testaments to the tribe. Plus a good hospital, social programs, and schools. Every summer, at an outdoor amphitheater, the tribe stages an epic, fuck-the-white-man historical play that guilty white people pay to watch.

  Still, it’s a weird world. Picture upwards of ten thousand Cherokees tucked away on narrow back roads and ridges and deep hollows, living in everything from house trailers to suburban ranches, spending their tribal annuity checks and suiting up every day to work for the area’s two biggest employers: the tribal government or the tribe’s small casino.

  Welcome to the Native American reality, where you’re probably either a civil servant or a blackjack dealer. I had no clue where to look for this Crow Walker, unless he played the slots. I had no access to Google, a cell phone, or any other way to look him up.

  I gazed at the casino’s entrance morosely. My rain-soaked clothes had dried stiff and coarse. Fear crawled through me like a trickle of acid.

  Ian stood peacefully beside me, looking up at the casino with his mouth open. “What the feck kind of place is this?” he asked. “I’ve never seen so many old folks heading in the same direction.”

  I chuckled hoarsely. The casino front bore lots of rustic stonework, faux native atmosphere, bright lights even in daylight, and yellow pansies in the landscaping. “It’s the tribe’s gaming hall,” I explained. People come from all over this part of the country to gamble here.”

  Ian shook his head. “I’ve n’er said anything against cards and dice, nor on betting on a fight or a race, but this is . . . God’s balls, look there, Mary-Livia. Another pack of sweet old granmam’s walkin’ into a gambling hall, proud as you please.”

  “They travel in herds.” I pointed as a big bus rumbled past us.

  He sighed. “Is this a good thing or a bad thing?”

  “Both. It’s making a fortune for the tribe. They put it to good use. They can earn a living they couldn’t earn before.”

  “Even in our time, Mary-Livia, you told me you could hear the banshee singing for your mam’s people.”

  “Oh, did she?” a Santa Claus-sized voice boomed. “Did you hear me coming, soul catcher?”

  We jumped.

  The question was followed by a hearty laugh. Ian pushed me behind him as a massive shape began to gather in front of the casino’s main doors. The creature lumbered toward us. The ground shook with each of his steps. I heard a loud jingling sound, like thousands of coins shimmying. The viscous shape was several stories tall.

  “I can see naught but a lot of twinkles,” Ian warned. He reached for one of the axes in his backpack.

  I grabbed his arm. “Wait. He’s grinning. I think he’s the casino pog.”

  “Why, soul catcher, you’re a sweet, smart girl,” the thing boomed. “Yes, I’m a pog. I’m the big-ace pog of this casino! And I’ve heard plenty about you, soul catcher! And your soul hunter too! Come, let me give you a hug!”

  I could now see the pog clearly, though I had to tilt my head back to look up at him. He was cheerfully obese, and his green head was bald except for a tall, money-green mohawk. His features were somewhat Cherokee but generic enough to include any race. His face and head were entirely tattooed—the only way to describe the effect—with symbols from a dollar bill.

  George Washington’s face covered the right side of his skull and the Great Seal covered the left side. On his left cheek was the dollar’s pyramid. I could clearly see the Latin inscriptions. They seemed almost luminous. Annuit Coeptis. God has favored our undertaking. And Novus ordo seclorum. A new order for the ages.

  The rest of his corpulent, jingling body was layered with silver and gold coins, like scales on a fish. He tinkled like a thousand wind chimes. He gleamed in the sunshine. He shoved Ian aside with his car-sized foot, reached down, grabbed me in a gentle hug, and lifted me off my feet. I dangled high in the air, nervous.

  What passersby saw, I don’t know. Probably just Ian and me standing, dumbstruck, in front of the casino. But what I saw was the up-close pearly whites of a jolly, overfed, casino pog. His fleshy curves enveloped me. He smelled like money—that crisp, earth-green ink scent that fresh bills give off.

  He set me down carefully. Ian quickly re-stationed himself by my side, scowling. His hand flexed on the handle of an ax. “Do not be hoisting her again, if you please.”

  The pog grinned down at him. “A trusty soul hunter! Always on guard! Good boy!” The pog squatted in front of us with the huge grace of an elephant perching on a stool.

  He propped his gold and silver arms on his spraddled knees. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a soul catcher,” he said. “I was afraid this part of the world might have to do without a good soul catcher for a while yet. But here you are! With an ornery, ax-wielding soul hunter as a partner. I’m so pleased. Do you plan to start rounding up demons and banes right away?”

  I couldn’t decide how to answer that, so Ian took up the slack. “We’re on a bit of a personal hunt first, but we’ll get to the soul-catching business anon. You have our word.”

  “Very good! It’s high time for you two to clean up this neck of the woods. This neighborhood is going to Hell. Pun intended.” He guffawed. “But seriously. The demons around here have gotten awfully powerful over the years. And the bolder they get, the more banes they recruit. And then they start turf wars with each other. It’s all we pogs and boons can do to keep them from hurting more souls than they do.”

  Recruiting? Starting turf wars? I pictured demons in skewed baseball caps and baggy lowriders, spray-painting dumpsters. Worse, I imagined Pig Face as the godfather of an entire mafia family of demons and banes, all of them determined to make sure Ian and I ended up sleeping with the fishes.

  “Have you ever seen a pig-faced demon?” I asked.

  “Well, now, soul catcher, that’s a strange question. What a demon looks like is all in how you look at it. What a demon looks like to me isn’t necessarily what a demon looks like to you. Demons are tricky that way. Which is why it’s important that you soul catchers have a special talent for seeing straight to the . . . well, straight to the demon’s soul.”

  “So you haven’t met a pig-faced demon, but that doesn’t mean he’s not around here. You just wouldn’t recognize him as pig-faced.”

  “Correct. And if he’s taken over a human body it’s nearly impossible to recognize him at all. That’s when demons are the most dangerous. In disguise. That’s why the world could use more soul catchers.”

  “How many soul catchers are there?”

  He flopped his hands. “I have no idea. My expertise is just money. Happy money. The joy of owning money. You know, they call it filthy lucre, but as the Bible says, it’s greed that’s bad, not money itself. Of course, people’s greed is what lures the demons and banes.” He sighed. “I’m here to protec
t people from the influences of their darker nature.” He pointed a gleaming finger at us. “Good fighting evil. The old eternal battle for souls. Just another days’ work for we soul warriors, right?”

  I looked up at him defiantly. ”If you’re on the job, why do you need me?”

  The money pog slapped his coined hands on his knees. “You think you ought take no responsibility for the fate of your fellow living flesh? That’s what you’re saying? Why, who better to fight for the survival of the human spirit than living mortal humans? Souls are not static, Miss Soul Catcher! They are enhanced or weakened by each life they live. Someone of their own kind has to fight for them. It’s a representative government, you see! And it’s not just the human world at stake.”

  He leaned forward squinting at me, making George Washington hunch an eyebrow. “Soul catcher, you do understand that people aren’t the only ones with souls? That souls take up residence wherever they please. A demon, a bane, a cat, a dog, a being as small as a spider or less, a house, a tree, a mountain, a casino? When you defend one good spirit, you defend them all!”

  Ian angled in front of me. “You’ll not be talking down to her. She’s proved herself worthy of better than such. We’re seeking answers to a few questions, that’s all.”

  “Crow Walker,” I said. “We have to find him.”

  “And what do you promise me in return, Soul Catcher?”

  Since this pog liked drama, I put a hand over my heart. The fast pulse under my palm said I believed in the lecture he’d given us.

  “The demon I seek has killed or threatened my family more than once. My family includes souls of many kinds. I pledge my mission to all the souls who depend on me for help in this and other worlds.”

  He applauded. “Well done, Soul Catcher.”

  Ian nudged me. “I’m proud of you.”

  “Go a few miles up one road, Soul Catcher, then down another then up one, then down. Only an hour or two on your bike.”

  Ian frowned. “Does this certainty of yours mean Crow Walker has word we’re coming to visit and will signal us?”