The Guardian Hills Saga

by James Edwards

  Crack-Crack! Two lightning strikes, just to the west, closely rode each other.

  “You . . . better head for home, Dex,” Gloria said reluctantly, as if wanting to say something different. “There’s a bad storm coming.”

  “I think you’re right,” he said with melancholy, surveying the sky broadly from left to right.

  After a long quiet, Dex stood, slapping dirt and dust from his spine, legs, and backside and with time-consuming care. He spoke over his shoulder. “Goodbye, Gloria,” he said. “I wish you and Steven the best.”

  “Goodbye, Dex,” she answered with sweetness.

  And just as the lumberjack was about to take a step—as he was about to leave the front porch and walk down the broken stone path leading to Pleasant Drive, something unexpected happened. A light above the door and a smaller one on a pole at the end of the walkway suddenly shined. Dex grinned. Reflecting on his history with Gloria, he likened the courtesy to a goodbye kiss.

  He placed the dirty, trampled rose in front of the door and slowly strolled away, quietly crooning a lover’s song.

  /////

  Gloria took her time moving away from the door. Crossing her arms to warm a sudden chill, she meandered back to her bedroom, her steps light. Joyful memories of the picnic lingered. Underneath the trapdoor to the attic, though, her mood changed. Gloria felt anxious and scared. Staring up at the trapdoor’s dangling rope, she was hesitant to disturb her son, though she wanted to check on him and talk about plans for leaving Westcreek.

  Are you mad, Steven? she wondered. Are you angry about my late nights at the café? I’ve lost your father . . . am I losing you?

  The rope swung slowly in circles, as if a growing breeze outside had found its way in.

  Thinking deeply about her son, Gloria recalled some painful words spoken by Dex less than twenty-four hours earlier. When’s the last time you saw your son? Talked to him. Spent quality time together? And even more loudly, she heard: we can’t be together . . . until you stop being the town whore.

  Out to prove Dex wrong, she yanked on the rope and carefully unfolded the squeaky ladder, a bottom step eventually pressing against the floor. Soft light bled through the attic hole.

  “Steven?” she said timidly. “I’m coming up. We have to talk. I need your help packing.”

  As if scared she might break the ladder, Gloria climbed lightly, her head cautiously leading the way, her eyes big. “Steven?” she said.

  No answer—no sounds from above. The soft light now swung across the hole, like the wind had found the dangling light bulb in the attic and wanted to play.

  Halfway, Gloria stopped. Her hands tightly gripped one of the rungs. “Steven, please . . . ,” she whispered.

  With an ear-piercing POP! the light bulb exploded, casting darkness. This was followed by an evil growl and heavy stomping that shook the attic floor and ladder.

  The young mother shrieked, fell from the ladder, and crawled to a nearby wall. Physically pulling herself into a tight ball, she cried. “I’m sorry,” she kept saying submissively, “I’m sorry.” Then, “On your time . . . when you’re ready.”

  The harsh reaction from above was a catalyst to a terrible vision. Like an unwanted movie playing in front of her face, the young widow watched the last supper she shared with her husband. It had occurred at the same round table located just a few feet away. Making meatloaf for the first time, proud of the accomplishment, she saw herself cutting a small slab for Steven and his father, loading up their plates with mashed potatoes, beans, and a homemade roll. She presented the complete meal to both. Sitting, she enjoyed listening to Steven jabber on about a new magic trick he was perfecting involving an empty pop bottle that levitated off the palm of his hand. She enjoyed watching him devour the somewhat burnt meat.

  Most of all, she enjoyed the family time.

  But not everyone was happy that night.

  Her husband seemed miles away. Staring at nothing, he didn’t eat, converse, or share in Steven’s excitement. She realized he was hungover and couldn’t stop thinking about his perceived personal failures. He had felt that way a lot. It had been over a year since he had been gainfully employed, and either there weren’t any openings or locals refused to hire a Native. Money was running out, and having his wife take a job at a downtown greasy spoon to make ends meet stabbed at his dignity. His standing with the Leech Lake Tribe was also a worry. The elders couldn’t comprehend why he would marry a white woman—why he wanted to live in Westcreek and “rape” the land of wood and minerals. Many on the reservation felt Decoreous’s son was embarrassed of his heritage. But Gloria knew better. This wasn’t true. In her eyes, her husband was first and foremost a man who wanted to provide for his family. With sorrow, she remembered how he often talked about refusing to “waste away” on government-issued land. He wanted to be measured by his character and work ethic, not the color of his skin, and Gloria admired him greatly for this stance. Unfortunately, no one else in the valley thought the same.

  After taking a small bite of mashed potatoes, Gloria recalled reaching cautiously for her husband’s hand. “Honey, please eat,” she said as tenderly as possible. “You need your strength. You’ve eaten so very little these past few days.” She ended by rubbing his forearm.

  Still not emotionally present, Steven’s father fumbled for a fork, cut a small piece of meatloaf, stabbed at the center, and then placed it in his mouth. Hot, the meat burned his tongue, causing him to jolt. Immediately he stood, gritted his teeth, and hurled the plate full of food against a far wall. Some anger was displaced, but still more called for the entire table to be overturned. Plates crashed, glasses shattered, and eating utensils bounced about the floor with high-pitched clattering. Gloria and Steven sat motionless. Surprised and ashamed by his own behavior, Steven’s father bolted to the front door and out into the night.

  Hours later, Gloria would be awoken by a series of door knocks. It was Sheriff Cullin. A terrible accident had occurred. Her husband had been shot. He was dead.

  Still curled in a tight ball, Steven’s mother wailed. Alone, as the storm outside continued to gather strength, she fell to the side and lay sideways against a baseboard heater, thinking more about father and son. She thought about their similarities. She thought about their love and kindness.

  She thought about their potential for rage.

  12. The Questioning of Decoreous Blackfoot

  July 20th, 1945, 8:45 p.m.

  Steven awoke. Coming out of a deep sleep in which he dreamt of flying on the back of an eagle over Westcreek, he found himself, once again, in his grandfather’s cabin atop the old brown couch and beneath a warm shawl. The dwelling was still. Eyes darting, he looked about. Relit candles flickered near the perimeter, and red-hot embers glowed in the fireplace. But his grandfather was nowhere to be found.

  Is he walking over the hills? Steven privately questioned, a gradual smile stretching across his face. Is he in the clearing? Is he playing with our ancestors?

  Rolling off the couch, the boy bounded out the front door, determined to find the man responsible for bringing magic back into his life.

  /////

  “Brewster? Dear me, dear me, after all these years. Imagine us meeting in a dark forest. And on such a stormy eve.”

  Halfway between downtown and the upper rim of the valley, Decoreous Blackfoot, staff in hand, smiled kindly upon Sheriff Cullin. The lawman’s features were illuminated by a hissing gas lantern in his outstretched arm. Though separated physically by only a few feet, interpersonally the two acted like they were miles apart, unsure of what to say or do.

  Cullin broke the silence, stumbling over his words. “I’m . . . sorry to disturb you. But . . . I have a matter to discuss.”

  “Oh?” Decoreous responded. “Sounds serious. I was just out gathering a few blueberries for tomorrow’s breakfast. As you know, late July’s the time when they’re most ripe.” He ended with a nervous chuckle.

  Again silence. Talking spiritually,
from Cullin to Decoreous was expressed a sense of misery and guilt; from Decoreous to Cullin, empathy and forgiveness.

  “What can I help you with, my son?” the tribal chief asked, his tone caring and tender.

  Cullin removed his hat in respect. “I need your permission to complete a murder investigation in Wasin.”

  “I am sadly aware of the tragedy you speak of that haunts our valley from two nights past. Four lives lost. A sincere pity. My thoughts are with their families.”

  The sheriff raised an eyebrow in curiosity.

  “How do I know?” Decoreous uttered, reading Cullin’s response. “I may be an outcast, but news travels fast through the trees. Much like gossip in a small town that branches outward.” He paused. “I also felt their passing . . . in my heart.” He ended with a painful-looking squint that travelled down his legs, necessitating greater reliance on the staff for support. “It felt terrifying.”

  Cullin bowed his head. “May we have your permission, sir? To interview those in the community—”

  “And search for a mother-of-pearl handgun?” Decoreous interrupted, with almost pride in knowledge. “The answer is yes. Yes, my son. I, as well as my tribe, will do whatever we can to help resolve this matter.”

  A commotion interrupted their conversation. Decoreous and the sheriff looked to the south where they heard the crunch of footsteps over dead leaves, tree limbs parting and swinging back into place, and huffing.

  “Does that include a search of your home, old friend?” a sarcastic voice interjected.

  Mayor Pike stepped carefully over a small, nearby hill, halting when he was shoulder to shoulder with Cullin. Struggling for oxygen, he spoke, pulling a small, embroidered hanky with the image of a white deer on the front from a vest pocket, sponging areas of his forehead. “Could we start there and move west?”

  Cullin flinched, surprised by the mayor’s presence. “Rolly—what the hell are you doing here? I told you I would handle this!”

  “As of late, I’ve been concerned about your hesitance in doing police work, Brewster,” Pike said sternly. “I thought it important that another body be present during your meeting.” After wiping away perspiration, he carefully folded the hanky, placing it back into his pocket. “Like I said earlier today, as a community we have to be on edge. I’m here to ensure that things go smoothly.”

  “Hello, Rolly, my ‘old friend,’” Decoreous sneered.

  Pike lifted his chin to the sky. “So, chief, can we search your cabin for a missing murder weapon?”

  “Most assuredly.”

  “Your cooperation is appreciated. As long as you’re so agreeable, do you mind telling us where you were at about one a.m. on the night of the murders?”

  Cullin stuck his arm out in front of the mayor, as if preempting any move forward—physically or verbally. “Decoreous, you don’t have to answer that,” he said crossly. “You are not on trial here.”

  “No trial, just questions,” Pike clarified, fighting the hold. “Let the man answer, Sheriff, I’m sure he has a lot to say.”

  Decoreous spoke slowly. “It’s okay, Brewster. The mayor . . . may not possess tact, but I’m sure, like you, he wants answers.” Briefly raising his staff, he rested it softly back down atop the earth, twisting the bottom from side to side. “One a.m., you ask. A storm raged across the area, much like tonight promises. A few hours before, I remember foraging for mushrooms in a small cave farther up the valley. But at the first sign of lightning, I headed back home and went to bed. It must have been around ten p.m.”

  “I wish I could help you further, Mayor,” he went on to say, shaking his head in disappointment. “But I’m sorry. That’s all I remember until waking the next day at sunrise. The storm passed, but I stayed indoors, weaving a small blanket for an expectant mother in Wasin. I’m still working on it; it’s her first child, you see.”

  Decoreous twisted the end of his staff into the ground more firmly.

  “Let me get this straight,” Pike quipped, struggling against Cullin’s arm, wanting to get closer. “That’s it? You just slept through four people being murdered? An incident, occurring a short distance from your home, and you didn’t hear a gunshot or scream? You didn’t see lanterns, flashlights in the dark, or muzzle flash?”

  The sky fussed, jiggling the earth.

  Gazing almost through Pike, the Indian chief spoke carefully. “As I told you . . . two nights ago the weather was treacherous. Loud thunder, strong winds, and blinding lightning. Anyone would’ve been hard pressed to remember anything. Then imagine the senses of an old man.”

  “Goddamn it, Rolly!” Cullin yelled, moving in front of the mayor and speaking face-to-face. “Stop this! Stand down! You’re out of line!”

  “If it’s out of line to question a man who had sufficient motive to kill four whites,” Pike countered, “then guilty as charged.”

  “Motive?” Decoreous inquired. “What motive do you speak of?” He twisted the staff more aggressively.

  “Many years ago, after your grandson’s birthday party, it was Bernie and Bull that chased you out of town. Afraid for the children of Westcreek.”

  “As I recall, led by you.”

  “As mayor, yes, I had concerns for the welfare of my citizens. Black magic is a terrible thing.”

  Decoreous turned away, his jawline tight. “When I lived in Westcreek, I never hid my feelings for those two. Bernie Cooper and Bull Erickson. There were far, far better men I liked and felt comfortable with. But to accuse me of murder—”

  “You act as if they hurt your feelings,” Pike mocked. “Damn it, those two and five others broke into your home, dragged you out of bed, and forced you into the night, ordering you never to come back! Bull himself hit you with a tire iron across the head! I never ordered violence. I couldn’t stop them. You were bloody, for God’s sake, made to leave with only the clothes on your back! Lord knows you’d have motive, even after all this time! The twins . . . they were just at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Don’t do this!” Cullin screamed directly at Pike. “You’re out of control!” He then spoke over his shoulder. “Decoreous, you’re not obligated to say another word.”

  “It’s quite all right,” Decoreous said tensely. Then he took a step forward, focusing more deeply on Pike. “I may’ve had the motive, but not the rage—the rage in my heart to kill.”

  The air felt suddenly constricting. Sustained lightning shone above the three, as if a searchlight. Hesitant thunder followed but loud enough to alarm both the sheriff and mayor.

  The mayor continued his verbal rampage. “How about revenge? Is there room for revenge in your heart, Indian?”

  “No!” Decoreous bellowed, driving his staff into the dirt even more harshly. “I have been, and always will be, a man of peace. To all. Hunt for your suspect elsewhere, Roland Pike.”

  Pike jutted his face forward, up over Cullin’s shoulder, and in an aggressive motion. “Then take me to your cabin!” he blasted. “Show me you don’t have a .38 caliber weapon hidden away someplace. Show me you truly are a man of peace!”

  The sheriff fell to one knee, slipping on a soft spot of soil, unable to contain Pike’s force. And though Cullin was still able to push back, trying to maintain a barrier, Pike and Decoreous were now just inches away from each other.

  “Damn it, Indian, show me that gun!” the mayor ordered.

  “That will be quite enough!” Decoreous howled, raising his wooden staff up high and slamming it hard into the ground.

  Unexpected events followed. Several strands of whip-like electricity fractured the sky, temporarily blinding Pike and Cullin; thunder pounded the ground more solidly, causing all three to flail—to teeter, totter, and grab for nearby tree trunks for support; and nearby thickets and high pine limbs bounced with agitation, as if a small band of giant lemurs took exception to the chief’s treatment.

  “We cry, we cry,” came faint voices in the distance. “You die, you die.”

  Panicked�
��with one swipe of his arm—Pike brushed an already unbalanced Cullin to the ground in other-defense, the lantern crashing and bursting into flames. The fire briefly resembled an enraged skeleton.

  “Watch out!” Pike screamed. “It’s his creatures! They’re all around us! The fables are true, Brewster.” The mayor took a meager step back, his eyes scrutinizing the area.

  “The forest . . . ,” Decoreous explained, “she seems to have grown tired of your presence. I suggest you both leave. Now.”

  The mayor frantically reached into his vest pocket and pulled out his long-barreled gun. He waved it about, trying to follow the sporadic movements occurring above and around the three. “What is this, old man? More of your black magic? Your tricks?”

  “They’re simply creatures concerned about your lack of respect,” Decoreous answered more calmly. “I suggest you honor their needs and go back to Westcreek. In peace.”

  Pike flung his gun harshly to the left—then to the right, trying to track the eerie commotion in the trees and brush. “Call them off!” he demanded. “Call them off before I start shooting!”

  The Indian chief’s demeanor suddenly changed. In visible shock, his skin turning lighter, he tried to catch his breath, as if having spied a previously unseen specter. Looking through—not at—the forest, Decoreous’s brows furrowed with worry. “Put the gun down, Rolly,” he said with palpable fear, smelling something wasn’t right. “Maybe we can get back to a more pleasant conversation. Please . . . I beg of you.”

  Unable to get up, Cullin seemed to agree, slapping unsuccessfully at the mayor’s outstretched hand in an effort to disarm him. “Do it, Rolly! For God’s sake, put your weapon down!” The sheriff acted like the scene was familiar.

  Pike wasn’t listening, though, pivoting his feet, attempting to assess the best direction to start firing. “Are these wild dogs you’ve trained, old man? Huh? To attack whites?” After weaving the gun to the left again, then to the right, he pointed the weapon directly forward and cocked the hammer. “Call them off—now!”