Pike squirmed. “How long were you standing there?” he said, referring to Steven’s court.
“Long enough. I bet you did the same thing in the clearing. After all, you were first on the scene. Did you kill Bernie, Bull, and the twins?”
“Sheriff, remember who you’re talking to,” Pike said more confidently.
“Answer my question—did you kill them?” Cullin blasted.
“No.”
“Then why were you in the clearing?”
“The gunshots woke me. Remember, I live closest to the rez. I went to investigate. All four were murdered before I arrived. I can assure you of that.”
Turning away, Cullin shook his head. “You contaminated the crime scene.”
Pike didn’t speak.
“Admit it, just like the Krebs Place, you planted false evidence.”
“You have to understand—”
“Yes or no?”
“Yes,” the mayor said hesitantly, getting up to his knees, wincing from the prickles. “I had Alfred and Paul steal hatchets, bows, and spears from Wasin. I just wanted to help your investigation reach its logical conclusion.” His words slowed. “Brewster, Decoreous killed our friends. I’m sure of it.”
“Where is Bernie’s handgun?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tell me!” the sheriff demanded, thrusting a fist near Pike’s face.
“I don’t know, I swear!” Pike insisted. “There was no handgun. Just Bull’s rifle . . . I don’t think the twins had time to respond.”
Cullin relaxed his hand, looked down, and sighed loudly.
“I didn’t kill those four,” Pike reiterated.
“All of your games,” Cullin said wearily, “right under my nose, and I didn’t see a one coming.” He paused. “Your air of authority on the morning we found the bodies, and yet you supported my role as sheriff. Agreed to keep the case in my jurisdiction. Even helped fight off mob rule. But it was all for show. You were actually working against me. You must’ve thought I was some kind of fool.”
He thought deeper. “You befriended the men in town. Helped them find day labor to ease the pain of leaving the valley, to get a fresh start somewhere new with fresh cash. But you and the others weren’t planning on leaving. You didn’t pack one bag or box. You even threw a farewell party for everyone else because you were such a ‘nice guy.’ All for show. All fake. Something else was going on behind the scenes.”
The mayor didn’t move. He watched and listened, though.
“My God,” Cullin added. “Your elaborate games cost a young child his life! And for what? A hatred of Indians? A way to get even?”
For a few moments, the sheriff became mentally lost. Then, out of the blue, he whispered something he’d heard earlier. “His greed, his greed,” he said. “For deeds, for deeds.”
“What?” Pike inquired, his face puzzled.
“You wanted the deeds to all our homes and properties. Before anyone left town. Remember? You were adamant about it. Said you’d give all the paperwork to the tribal elders. But they didn’t need paperwork. They have federal documents. The only reason someone would want signed deeds is if they, themselves . . . wanted ownership.”
Pike closed his eyes.
“The town was so naive,” Cullin said, laughing with discomfort. “I was so naive. If the fed intervened, delayed the Indian takeover, you and the boys were in a position to make a lot of money. You could reopen the mines, restart lumbering. Hell, in little time at all you could have had the sawmills working at full capacity. Business opportunities would abound.” He laughed again. “Your games could’ve made you and the boys rich.”
The sheriff grabbed Pike by the shoulders, forcing deep eye contact. “Tell me where I’m wrong.”
“You’re not,” Pike said plainly. “In terms of land in the valley and what I personally put into our town, I stood to lose the most. Remember what my father invested. What it cost him. So, yes, I took a gamble—a gamble any man could’ve taken. Shit, you, yourself were gonna leave in three days. Hand over the investigation to Cass County. I just had more staying power. Why shouldn’t I profit?”
He tilted his nose upward, sensing a hint of holier-than-though in the sheriff’s demeanor. “Get off your high horse,” he said. “You’re no saint.”
Using his sleeve, Cullin aggressively wiped sweat from his forehead. He suddenly felt self-conscious, a mishmash of thoughts jumping around his head: about unfinished paperwork in his office file cabinet; about Steven’s father pleading for forgiveness in the back of the General Store; about a black-and-white headstone in the church cemetery.
An uneasy silence hung between the two.
Then Cullin pulled Pike to a full stand. “Get your ass up. It’s time the whole world knows about our sins.”
16. Reflections of War
July 21st, 1945, 3:42 a.m.
Steven fought his way through the forest. Dragging his staff, encumbered by the thin robe, clutching his heart, he felt a deep need to be home in the attic rummaging through the contents of the leather chest. Heading south, he bounced harshly off of trees that were once welcoming, stumbled into and out of deep holes that once seemed like mere dimples, and choked on air that once fueled his rage. At the edge of a small pond he collapsed onto a patch of grassy muck, one of his hands splashing into the water. His muscles trembled. His eyes were heavy. And his bones ached.
Above, the clouds parted and northern lights formed. Long, ever-changing swaths of light blue and green painted the sky, brightening the area. The young guardian felt parched, so he brought his fingers to his lips multiple times. The cool moisture felt good, momentarily soothing his pain. He used more water to clean blood from his forehead and chest, but the stains remained; they couldn’t be removed.
“I have been forgotten,” he said to no one. “The spirits have left me. The creatures and animals of the forest have run off. I can barely see the web.”
Suddenly, across the pond, he heard a rustling that sounded like little footsteps on leaves, and eventually a small white deer nuzzled its way through tall weeds. The deer, too, drank from the pond. Staring at Steven, it twitched its black nose, wiggled its ears, and playfully jerked its white tail.
Awestruck, Steven didn’t move.
The deer took tentative steps into the pond. Wanting to get closer to Steven but seemingly scared of drop-offs or soft mud, it moved with caution, reaching forward with one hoof at a time, reversing course as needed. Convinced through stutter steps that the bottom was safe, it then waded up to its neck and began swimming. A small, gentle wake followed. Halfway across, the deer took a deep breath and purposively slipped below the water’s surface, a thick swarm of bubbles taking its place.
“Wait,” Steven said, stretching out an open hand. “Please don’t leave.”
The bubbles moved forward, and three feet from shore they all popped. Taking their place, rising to eyeball Steven’s face, was an almost glass skull. The skull bobbed up and down like a bobber pulled by a lackadaisical crappie on a fishing line, and some of the features of the skull appeared familiar to Steven: a strong jawbone, deep-set eyes, a high hairline, and high cheekbones. The young guardian was sure of the identity.
“Father,” he said. “It’s you . . .”
“My son, you have not been forgotten,” the skull said. “Never you, your heart, or your spirit. Only your actions.”
Steven pulled closer to the pond. “But I fight for you, our people, the way things used to be. Why am I not celebrated?”
“You speak to me with dirty hands yet seek purity. You’ve brought death and destruction yet yearn for immortality. You warm yourself with thoughts of age-old glory yet hold tightly to cold memories. None of that matters. Only what lives today.”
Steven bowed his head.
“The war you fight,” the skull continued, “is from within. Over what has been lost. What has been taken from you. Or what never existed at all.”
“No!” Steven passionately o
bjected. “I fight for us all!”
“At what cost? A trampled earth? A scorched valley? Disturbed hills where warriors have rested for hundreds of years?” The skull exhaled a heavy mist into the air. “Where does it end, my son? And within whose borders and under whose eyes?”
Steven fought back tears.
“No, my son, there are no celebrations waiting. Our village will not tell stories of your bravery. Most of us are forever sullen or spiritually hurting.”
“I am sorry . . . for what I’ve done.”
“Seek out peace. As guardian of the hills, you must go to the clearing and ascend the Great Rock. Dance one last dance and bring the spirits to rest. Give your magic to the forest. Do so in honor of your father and grandfather.”
The skull bobbed up and down more vigorously, eventually sinking to the bottom of the pond. “Go now,” it said before leaving, bits of water spurting from its mouth. “Go now and I will wait for you.”
The young guardian was alone again. As the northern lights grew brighter, he saw his image reflected on the water: a strong jawbone, deep-set eyes, high hairline, and pronounced cheekbones. With his pointer finger, he touched each.
“I have brought shame,” he said to no one. “To Indians, whites, myself. If I had just one last magic trick, I’d take it all back.”
Above, small birds circled. They flew in slow, figure-eight patterns. Mirrored in the water, Steven poked at their images.
“I wonder what mother will think,” he said. “It feels like many days since we’ve talked.”
The birds drew closer. Totaling nine, they rode the now much lighter winds downward.
“‘Sleep, my baby,’” she used to tell me, “‘sleep through the night. All will be well, all will be right.’ I wonder if she’ll wake me from this nightmare?”
The birds flew closer to Steven. Then they stretched out their feathers, flapped wildly, and hovered in place.
“Forgive me, Mother.”
Unexpectedly the birds attacked. Blackbirds, robins, and sparrows dive-bombed Steven’s head. Sharp beaks penetrated his scalp, and little feet pulled at his long black hair, dislodging the once tightly-woven eagle feathers.
“Awas!” he yelled in the Ojibwa tongue, meaning “go away!” “Awas! Awas!”
Pecking as if seed might be just below his skin, the little beings pursued relentlessly. Blood droplets formed on his head. His hair was plucked out into the air. And his ears hurt from the constant chirping.
The young guardian tried to fight back. Standing, he smacked at the birds and hobbled in circles, trying to shake each loose, one leg slightly lifted while the other remained planted. Over and over he did this, alternating between legs, one lifted and the other planted. The overall effort greatly pained his right side. When he moved to the north, the birds attacked even more; when he moved to the south or east, they got in his face, causing little feathers to stick to his lips or temporarily block his air passage. Going west provided “better” treatment, so he followed the path of least resistance.
Unaware, Steven was being ushered to a final magic show.
17. The Final Magic Show
July 21st, 1945, 4:11 a.m.
An audience assembled.
Under clear skies, groups of people came together in a forest clearing but for different reasons. Some, like the Cass County Sheriff’s Department, answered a distress call from Sheriff Cullin, who asked for evacuation assistance, emergency care for injured citizens, and help in capturing a dangerous fugitive. Others, mostly women from Wasin, came because the winds told them that dead Indians had been unearthed and needed reburial. And the remaining few, five lumberjacks from Westcreek, searched for seven white men who had gone missing during the fires.
Sheriff Cullin and Mayor Pike added to the mix. Bumbling in from the east and resembling children in a sloppy three-legged race, the pair headed for Aaron, the muscular Cass County deputy with thinning hair.
Pike bitterly complained. “I can’t go on,” he said, rubbing his beet-red neck. “My legs are tired. Please, let’s stop for a moment.”
“We’ll stop when I say so,” Cullin snapped, lugging him forward. “C’mon, get moving.”
Above, a single beam of moonlight shined upon the tip of the Great Rock below the dark mine, and orbs of fireflies drifted in from the outskirts of the clearing to offer a soft glow, as if an outdoor theatre readied for an important performance. Only a star was needed.
Then came Steven.
The young guardian continued to have a hard time shaking off the birds. The aerial demons were so focused on their mugging that they even pecked at each other, one sparrow succumbing to a broken neck and spinning lifelessly to the ground.
“Awas!” Steven said again in desperation but with much less vigor.
The birds pushed and pulled him closer to the Great Rock, and at about ten feet away, he became aware of the other people present. Between softly falling feathers, he could see Cullin and Pike talking to the deputy; during quiet spells when bird chirping ceased, he could hear the police officers fiddling with their guns; and when the stench of fowl feces no longer plugged his nostrils, he could smell the sage cologne worn by the women.
Head now in a tizzy, Steven struggled to remember the words of his father—what to do next. Dance one last dance and bring our people to rest, finally came to him.
At the base of the Great Rock, he climbed recklessly, and at that moment the birds flew off in different directions.
The crowd reacted to Steven’s presence. Screaming, the women of Wasin cowered. Saying things like, “That’s him!” and “Watch out!” the deputies knelt on the rocky ground and took aim. And the lumberjacks, without weapons, gasped and retreated a step. Only Cullin felt a surge of confidence.
Dropping Pike like a heavy sack of wheat, he stood tall and barked out orders. “Those from the county,” he said, using his hands expressively, “stay in position and wait for my word. You woodsmen—move to the ladies. Keep ‘em safe.”
The most serious words were directed at Steven. Drawing his pistol, pointing with precision and steadiness, he spoke slowly. “Surrender! I won’t tell you again!”
Steven paid no attention. On the arm of the Great Rock, having reached the tip, the half-Indian boy—almost a man—readied a dance. But before he would sing a private song and twirl, he got a better view of those below and paused.
His dying heart warmed. He noticed the many faces. Thanks to the moonlight and fireflies, he could see different shapes, different skin tones. He could see color variations in each set of eyes, things he never thought much about before. The faces were oblong, pear-shaped, or round. Skin tones ranged from creamy white to tan to deep brown. And eyes were hazel, blue, brown, or light brown. Steven was struck by the humanness of their features.
Emotions collided. Deep within his stomach, surprise struck leftover rage, which struck sorrow and regret.
Suddenly, Pike lunged for Cullin’s gun. “Kill him!”
The sheriff pulled his weapon away and then kicked the mayor back to the ground. Saying nothing, his focus back on Steven, he cocked the gun’s hammer and took even better aim.
Spirits entered the clearing. In a clockwise rotation, beginning in the north, their features stressed, they brought cooler temperatures and increasing winds. The crowd took the changes as a sign to hunker down closer to the earth; Steven took it as a sign to dance.
Planting his staff firmly on the rock, he reached for the web. Many of the strands were missing or seemed weak. He plucked two that felt strong.
One . . . two, three, he danced. One . . . two, three.
Instead of slowing, the ancient souls sped up, tightened around Steven, and opened their mouths wide.
The young guardian danced even harder, almost falling. The response was still contrary.
Then a familiar voice called out, “Steven! Steven, I’m here!”
Gloria tripped into the clearing toward the Great Rock, pursued closely by Dex. But before s
he could get too close, Dex gently tackled and covered her, sensing the standoff between her son and the law could turn violent.
“Mother?” Steven said, having difficulty seeing through the flurry of spirits.
“Yes!” she answered, fighting Dex’s hold, wanting to get up. “I’m here. We need to leave. All of us. Together.”
Meanwhile, Cullin, noticing restless behaviors among the deputies, reasserted his leadership. “Hold your weapons steady! Don’t shoot unless I give the order!”
The young guardian pushed aside the sheriff’s words. “Something always between us,” he said to his mother. “The loss of father, the floor of an attic, a rock up high.”
He spoke with difficulty. “Magic . . . it’s all I ever wanted. All I ever dreamed of. But now that magic destroys me. It’s like the souls hate me and answer to someone else.”
“Come down,” Gloria begged. “Please. We’ll protect you.”
Steven looked submissively to the souls: where once they smiled upon him, now they gnarled their faces and shouted in silence; where once they played with his hair and tickled his skin, now they punched at his face and spat ice; and where once they listened to his troubles, now they covered their ears.
The web faded.
At the same time, the atmosphere intensified. Adding to the swirling spirits, drumbeats from everywhere vibrated the earth, and heat lightning pulsated on the horizon.
ONE, TWO, THREE, sound and light tangoed, as if taking over the young guardian’s duties. ONE, TWO, THREE.
Inside the cyclone of the dead, Steven noticed photograph-like pictures, video images, and sounds of the distant past seared into the spinning. He saw wigwam villages near small streams and rivers. He heard babbling waters. He saw women in dark deer hide dresses and beads, many with children in arm, carrying baskets of corn from small, nearby fields. He witnessed and heard elders telling stories to groups of seated, attentive children, many of the stories detailing great hunts or battles with neighboring tribes. He saw young men sharpening spears and knives or processing deer and bear meat. And he beheld shared meals around pulsating fires, village members greeting each other, talking, and laughing. Steven smiled with melancholy.
The Guardian Hills Saga Page 21
