Magus

by R H Frye

  "Then why can't people still do those things, Grandfather?"

  "Because the men that knew those secrets all died in the battle you saw. The man that was badly burned at the end of the battle was the only survivor. His students were all killed during the war. After the battle he lived long enough to pass on only the simplest of his skills before he died from the burns."

  "What was the bad man's name, Grandfather?"

  "No one remembers his name now, Johnny. I only know the old word for what he was."

  "What was he then? What is the word?"

  "Magus."

  "What a bunch of bullshit," John mumbled as he rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. Thinking of that conversation, and many others like it, always put him in a foul mood. It was one thing to tell stories like that to a little boy. As a child, you are supposed to believe in magic. But it was different when the crazy old bastard had kept trying to convince him after his father died. There certainly had not been any magic to make a drunken father sober up and crawl out of the bottle, and if the spirits could not cure a man of his dependence on a different kind of spirit, what good were they?

  John finally managed to drift off to sleep again. Unfortunately, his dreaming was not over for the night.

  John was walking through the forest beside his grandfather. Together, they crossed a stream and started up a hill. As they neared the top of the ridge, his grandfather stopped to sit on a large rock that was curiously flat. The rock was wide enough to seat several men comfortably, and John had the impression that most of the rock was buried in the hillside. His grandfather motioned for him to take a seat.

  "We need to talk, John, and I don't have much time."

  John had some ideas about where this conversation was headed, so not trusting his tongue to be civil, he only nodded.

  "Do you recognize this ridge?" his grandfather asked.

  "It's the one you've claimed to be guarding all these years, right? You brought me here before my dad died."

  The old man nodded. "Tomorrow morning, you'll get some news. After you hear that news, will you do this old man one last favor?"

  "What favor? And what kind of news? What's going on here, old man?"

  "You'll get the news soon enough. Tell me this. Do you still remember how to get here?"

  John nodded.

  "Good. After you deal with the news you get, will you go to the top of this hill and see what's there? It's important, John, or I wouldn't ask."

  "Does this have something to do with the crap you've been trying to make me believe my whole life?"

  "If everything I've told you is crap, how is it we're talking in a dream?"

  "Well how do I know we really are?" John hotly returned.

  The old man looked at him for a long time. He seemed to be trying to make a decision. At last he said, "Just promise me you'll come if I can convince you this is more than a dream."

  John considered the proposition for a moment. What harm could it do? He did not believe in that medicine man nonsense anyway. And why should he feel obligated to keep a promise that was made in a dream?

  "Okay, old man, I promise. Now convince me."

  His grandfather smiled. "Good. You'll know this is more than just a dream when they call you in the morning to tell you I'm dead."

  John awakened to the ringing of the telephone. He fumbled the receiver from its cradle and slowly brought the phone to his ear. He swallowed once to wet a throat that had suddenly gone dry. Finally, he managed to ask, "Hello?"

  "Is this John Raintree?" The voice on the other end of the connection was male, crisp, and professional.

  "Yes, who is this?"

  "Mr. Raintree, my name is Matthew Running Deer. I'm with the Cherokee Tribal Council. I'm afraid I have some bad news for you, sir." The voice on the other end paused for a moment, before continuing in a subdued and soothing fashion. "Mr. Raintree, I'm afraid your grandfather, a Mr. Charles Raintree, has passed away."

  John heard the voice continue speaking as the phone slipped from a hand that was suddenly numb.

  Chapter 2

  As John retrieved the phone, the voice on the other end was still chattering away. “How did he die?” John rudely interrupted.

  “Well, as I was saying, he seems to have passed away painlessly in his sleep. The reservation’s medical examiner is certain that his heart just gave out. As I’m sure you know Charlie was not a young man.”

  “You don’t have any reason to think it was anything else?”

  “No. I mean, who would want to kill Old Charlie? Your grandfather may have been a little…well, odd, but he was also very well liked. As far as I know, he never said a harsh word to anyone. Plus, there was nothing about his body or his home that gave us any reason to think foul play was involved. Why do you ask?”

  “Never mind. I just had a weird dream last night. I guess it’s got me a little distracted.” John had no intention of telling a perfect stranger about the unusual events of the previous night.

  “Hmm, okay. Anyway, do you think you could come to Cherokee to make the arrangements for your grandfather? I understand you two may not have been very close, but…”

  “Sure,” John responded. “Let me get up and get a shower, and I’ll be on the road before lunch. I’ll have to call a couple of my foremen to take care of things today, but that won’t take long. I should be there sometime this afternoon.”

  “Good. Just call my cell phone when you get close and I’ll tell you where to meet me. I’ll give you the number.”

  John took the number, thanked the man, and disconnected. Then he made a quick call to his foremen to let them know he would be gone for a few days. Since it was Saturday morning, he figured the guys could probably cover through Monday. His crews never worked Sundays anyway, and his foremen had his cell phone in case of something urgent.

  After hanging up from his last call, John sat and thought for a moment. What the hell is going on here? I go to bed with a fairly normal life and wake up to this? And what do I make of that dream last night? Was that coincidence or what? He briefly considered ignoring the promise he had made to find the place in the dream, but he knew that was really not an option. He was a man of his word, and he knew he owed his grandfather at least that much, especially after ignoring the old guy for so long. He also knew that the questions he had would not just go away. And really, what harm could it do? He would see his grandfather decently buried, take a quick hike in the mountains, satisfy himself that the dreams were just dreams and nothing more, and be back to work on Tuesday.

  Feeling much better since his decision was made, John showered, dressed, and threw some clothes in a gym bag. He grabbed the only suit he owned, a charcoal gray that he had only worn a few times when meeting wealthy clients. After some consideration, he added his hunting knife and his pistol (a Desert Eagle .45 that he had owned for years) to the gym bag, although he could not really justify either choice.

  John owned the pistol because construction workers could sometimes be a rough crowd to employ. For the most part, the people he hired were good hardworking people, but he was only human, and occasionally a nut case or a troublemaker slipped by him. After one of the crazies threatened to cut his throat in his sleep after being fired, John had decided that a little “home protection” might be appropriate.

  After a quick look around the house (and the discovery of his forgotten shaving kit), John gathered his gym bag and suit and stepped out the side door of his garage. He tossed his bag in the passenger seat of his Dodge Ram pickup and draped his suit across the back of the seat. After checking that he had locked the side door of his house, he opened the garage door and backed his truck out into the driveway. Before pulling onto the road, he keyed the garage door remote and verified that the door closed as he left.

  He stopped at the local Exxon for fuel and supplies for the long trip ahead. He was annoyed to see that gasoline prices were still rising and grumbled about it a bit as he went inside.

  In the
store, John bought a Sun Drop and a bag of Hank’s Beef Jerky. He deliberated briefly with himself before asking the clerk for a pack of cigarettes and a pouch of chewing tobacco. He never used any tobacco products, but vaguely recalled that his grandfather used some in his “medicine” ceremonies. If asked, he could not have given a reason for exactly why he bought the tobacco. It was an impulse, much like bringing along his knife and pistol.

  With his supplies in hand and his wallet considerably lighter after filling up the big Ram, he walked back to his truck and started the long trip to Cherokee.

  As he settled in for the long drive, John’s thoughts naturally turned to memories of his grandfather from before and after his father died. He could remember many times that he had spent with his grandfather as a young boy. His father had spent most of his free time drinking in front of the TV, so his grandfather had often stopped in to take John hunting, hiking, and camping. Remembering these trips, John realized that his grandfather always seemed to find game to hunt, although he never really seemed to put much effort into the search. It was almost like the animals came to his grandfather instead of the other way around. John also remembered how odd it had seemed that his grandfather would kneel beside his kill, stroke the animal like a beloved pet, and murmur, “Thank you.”

  On the camping and hiking expeditions, John recalled spending countless hours following his grandfather through the forest. The old man had taught him so much. Under his grandfather’s loving instruction, he had learned to recognize the tracks of many animals and the uses of various plants. He learned to find his way through the forest by the sun and the stars. He learned much that he could no longer clearly remember about the properties of various stones. He had even begun to learn about a much larger world that could not be seen with the eyes alone. That barely glimpsed and deliberately forgotten world was a place of spirit, energy, and magic.

  When his father died, John had turned his back on that world. Now he was reluctantly forced to admit that he had blamed his grandfather for being unable to magically save his father. John’s face flushed with shame as he realized how unfairly he had treated the old man, and suddenly, without warning, tears fell from eyes that had not cried since his father’s funeral. He barely managed to turn on the hazard lights and brake to an unsteady stop in the emergency lane before his body was wracked with sobs of grief and loss.

  John sat weeping on the side of the road for quite a while. Now, when it was too late, he realized that his grandfather had always been more of a father than his own father. He wept from his recognition of the foolishness of his actions. He wept for the depth of his loss and the realization that he was now truly alone. He wept for the time he had wasted being angry with his grandfather. He wept for his stubborn pride that had driven them apart and kept them apart.

  Finally, the flood of tears began to abate. John wiped his eyes and took a few deep, calming breaths. After he felt a bit more in control, he whispered, “I’m sorry Grandfather. I love you.” He sighed, put the truck in gear, checked his mirrors, and continued his journey to Cherokee.

  When John was within a few miles of Cherokee, he called Matthew Running Deer on his cell phone.

  “Hello?” the voice from his earlier conversation queried.

  “Yes, Mr. Running Deer, this is John Raintree.”

  “Please call me Matt. Mr. Running Deer always makes me look around for my father.”

  “Okay, Matt it is, but you have to call me John.”

  “It’s a deal. From your call, can I assume that you’re in town, John?”

  “Nearly. I’ll be there in about 15 minutes. Where did you want to meet?”

  “Why don’t we meet at Harrah’s? They’ve got a pretty good restaurant there. We can grab a bite and talk over the arrangements.”

  “Well, actually, I’d rather not. I’m not really hungry. If you have the keys, maybe you could just meet me at my grandfather’s place. I was kind of considering staying there while I’m in town.”

  “Sure, okay. I guess I was just trying to separate you from a little of your cash. I did a little checking up on you. Sounds like you’ve got a pretty successful business down in Charlotte.”

  “Well, I get by okay I guess.” Sometimes John was a little embarrassed by his financial success. He did not live like a rich man. He had a comfortable house, and naturally he had plenty of quality tools, but considering his net worth, he lived a pretty simple life.

  “Anyway, I’m sorry for trying to sucker you into the casino. It’s a habit. Harrah’s has been good for our economy.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I understand.”

  “Good. So, I’ll see you at Charlie’s place in, what, say half an hour?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Alright, I’ll see you then.”

  John disconnected, grinning and shaking his head. Running Deer seemed to have a little of the politician in him, but at least he was honest about it. John looked forward to matching a face to the voice that had flipped his life upside down with one phone call.

  As John pulled up to his grandfather’s little house and parked behind a midnight blue Chevrolet Suburban parked in the driveway, he saw that, as usual when first meeting someone that you only knew from the telephone, his mental image of Matthew Running Deer did not match the man in person. John had imagined a short, chubby, bureaucratic little man. Instead, Matt appeared to be roughly 6 feet tall, athletic, with an open, honest face and a friendly smile. John estimated Matt’s age to be in the late thirties, and Matt was dressed in a manner that John approved of since it closely matched his own. Matt was wearing jeans and a t-shirt with a button-up denim work shirt, with the sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up a couple of turns. He had on comfortable hiking boots, and his long black hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Except for the hair and John’s steel-toed, much-abused work boots, their clothes only differed in color and size. John adjusted his assessment of the man as he stepped around the truck to meet him.

  “You must be John Raintree,” Matt observed as he extended a hand to John.

  "You got it. I guess that would make you Matthew Running Deer," John replied as he firmly shook the offered hand. "Thanks for meeting me out here. Harrah's just really isn't my scene."

  "You've been there?"

  "No, but I'm a fairly simple man. Crowds and chaos don't really interest me, and I'm sure that place has got plenty of both on a Saturday afternoon."

  "It's probably not quite as bad as you may think, but don't worry about it. I was probably out of line to suggest it, considering why you're here."

  "Nah, it's okay. I hadn't seen my grandfather in a long time. Of course, I wish I could change that now."

  "I understand that. I'm sorry about your grandfather. I didn't know him that well, but he seemed like a damn good guy."

  "Yeah," John answered, unable to say much more. His grief was too new and too close, and he had no desire to break down in front of this man.

  Matt gave him an understanding look. "Well, here's the key to the house. And this is a list of numbers you may need while you're here. I'll give you some privacy. You've got my cell number, so if you need something, just give me a call."

  "Okay. Thanks a lot." John took the keys and the list. The men shook hands again, and then Matt climbed in his Suburban, turned the vehicle around and waved on his way out. John returned the wave, and then turned to consider the house.

  The old place was almost exactly as he remembered it. The aged logs of the cabin walls looked a little more weathered, and the steps leading to the front porch looked like they had been replaced with new lumber in the past year or so, but otherwise everything looked the same. The brown shingles on the roof still looked mostly sound in spite of their obvious age. The heavy oak front door was in need of wood stain but appeared solid and sturdy. The small windows to either side of the front door were closed, with rough cedar shutters latched open beside them. The lock on the front door was the simple kind that indicated either a lack of valuable
s inside or complete trust of the neighbors.

  John examined the keys in his hand before selecting the obvious choice, a key that had been used for so many years that all the exposed surfaces had been worn smooth with repeated use. The key turned easily in the lock, so he turned the doorknob and stepped inside.

  As John crossed the threshold, the afternoon heat of the closed house nearly took his breath away. Leaving the door standing open behind him, he was on his way to open all the windows when he noticed an old air conditioning unit in the only window on the back wall of the one-room cabin. With more than a little doubt, he crossed to the aged air conditioner and turned it on to High Cool. The cold air that almost immediately began to flow was a welcome surprise, and John stood in front of the window unit for a moment to let the cool air dry the light sheen of perspiration that had appeared in response to the oppressive heat of the cabin.

  As he stood enjoying the cool air, movement in the trees behind the house caught his eye through the window above the air conditioner. He had the briefest impression of a gray, furred form peering at him from ground-level before it shifted out of sight into the deeper shadows farther back in the forest. Was that a wolf? John wondered. He doubted whether any still lived in these mountains and certainly did not expect to see any so close to a human dwelling, especially in the bright light of an early summer afternoon. More likely it was just a stray dog, he decided.

  He shook his head and was about to turn away from the window when a crow flapped lazily to a limb of the oak tree where he had first spotted the gray form in the woods. There was nothing unusual about seeing a crow in this area. In fact, crows were generally regarded as a huge nuisance in practically every rural community that John had ever visited, mostly because of their raucous cries and their annoying habit of stealing freshly planted seeds from the gardens of hard-working farmers.