Judgement

by Eric A. Shelman

  “Bullshit!” called the man.

  “Then why do they only desire your flesh when you are such a great distance away and he is right beside me?”

  “Get him back in the vehicle, Tommy!” shouted Magi.

  “My demise shall surrender my reign to young Magi Silver Bolt!” shouted Wattana, turning to face those in the vehicles behind him. “The new chief of the Henomawi Tribe!”

  “No, NO!” shouted Magi again.

  The guard laughed at the younger man’s frustration as the old man did not obey his command. “Here you go!” he called, then dropped his hand and nodded. The man with the hose grinned and turned the valve.

  He did not open it partially. Instead, he turned the valve’s handle 90-degrees, unleashing a furious torrent of brown water that stank of sulfur. A pump sounded in the distance as the jet of water crossed the span between the nozzle and Wattana in seconds. The initial stream missed both of them, but after correcting his aim by two feet, the stream blasted both Wattana and the skinwalker by his side.

  Both of them flew off their feet, landing on their backs and sliding in the muddy dirt a good eight feet from where they had stood.

  “Stop!” screamed Magi Silver Bolt, but it was too late. The jet of water had no trouble reaching Wattana and the skinwalker where they lay sprawled on their backs. As the man holding the hose directed the nozzle up and down, side to side, the skin paste rinsed away.

  The shirtless Wattana held up a hand, breathing hard. The man closed the valve as the old shaman struggled back to his feet.

  The skinwalker’s attention shifted to Wattana as it stood on spindly legs, the movement appearing strangely effortless. It stepped toward Wattana as the old man stretched both arms to the sky and began to chant.

  “Ayeeeee ohhhhh, naaaahhh, eeeooohhaaaahh … ”

  “No! Shoot it, shoot it! Now, hurry!” shouted Magi. Unfortunately, to keep from appearing aggressive to the Hintoka, Magi had insisted no guns be brought out of the vehicles. The guards had been instructed to lay down their weapons for the approach to the reservation.

  The screeching monster stretched open its jaws and tore into Wattana’s neck, yanking back violently, a jet of blood shooting six feet into the wet dirt around them.

  Wattana’s chant died into a gurgle as his legs weakened beneath him, and the skinwalker fell down upon him, biting his face, neck and chest, like a bloodthirsty predator that had not fed in ten lifetimes.

  Magi felt tears running down his face. His eyes lifted to the Hintoka standing on the tower, staring down with disbelief.

  Silver Bolt had an idea. He walked slowly, purposefully, toward where the creature feasted on Climbing Fox. When he reached them, he bent down and picked up the rope around the skinwalker’s neck.

  Standing again, he stepped back and pulled. The creature struggled but succumbed to Magi’s control. As he was pulled farther and farther away from the motionless body of Wattana, Magi stopped.

  “Now!” he called to the guards, who were all mesmerized watching the scene unfold. “You will see that our protection is real.”

  Silver Bolt turned the creature toward him, standing directly in front of the changed human. It stared through him, its mouth still masticating the remains of Climbing Fox Wattana. It made no move toward Magi.

  He led it back to the platform mounted to the rear of the bus. When he reached it, he bent down, wrapped his arms around the monster’s legs, and lifted the bone-thin body up onto the steel grating. He then walked to the side of the bus and slapped it. “Zip tie it again,” he ordered.

  “Yes, Chief Silver Bolt!” came the obedient reply.

  “How is this possible?” asked the closest guard on the tower.

  “We are coated in a paste that prevents them from seeing us. They do not know what we are, therefore, they do not attack. If you join us in defense of our people – and I mean all tribes and all the native peoples to this land – we will share this with you. It will allow us – and you – to hunt them down and rid the world of them.”

  “Where did you learn of this paste?” asked the guard.

  “From an ancient text. This will all become clear when we speak to your tribal elders. Now go tell them. We will be safe as we wait.”

  One of the guards nodded to another; likely a runner. Magi Silver Bolt walked over to where Wattana lay; his neck had been easily torn open by the skinwalker. Nothing could have been done to save him.

  As he stared down, Wattana’s hand twitched.

  His jaw opened, then snapped shut.

  The eyes fluttered.

  Magi knelt beside him as the new monster’s eyes opened, opaque clouds covering the once sharp and clear pupils. “Welcome back, Climbing Fox,” he breathed.

  Behind him, Magi could feel the disgust at what had become of their former chief. When he turned, it was confirmed. Chiseled on their faces and etched in their expressions was a sort of horror even worse than a world full of skinwalkers.

  It was triggered by this skinwalker in particular.

  “We will keep him,” said Magi. “Tommy, secure him on the rear rack.”

  “But Chief Silver Bolt –”

  “Do not argue with me, Tommy,” he said, his voice calm. “Please.”

  Tommy stopped speaking and nodded. He looked up at the others in the bus and waved a hand. Two men got out and hurried to where Magi and Wattana stood. Magi stepped away as they led the old man’s new visage to the bus.

  Ω

  CHAPTER NINE

  From Lebanon To California

  We got to ride just four in our car. Turns out there were 49 of us on this mission, and I was hoping it would be enough. We were heavily armed, and I think better prepared than the average Joe or Josephine walking around in America right about then.

  That four was me, Georgie, Danny and Lilly. If that fact doesn’t surprise you, the fact that it doesn’t does not surprise me.

  We passed out radios with instructions. We’d change channels on the hour, never sequential, and while the next channel we settled on might seem random, it wasn’t by far. The list was prepared well in advance, and we never repeated the pattern.

  The drive from Lebanon, Kansas to the Henomawi Indian Reservation in Alturas, California was roughly 1450 miles away, and only 22 hours without pee breaks. If we were all a bunch of zombies, that might make sense, but I figured we’d stop several times. We’d also need fuel, because the fuel containers we decided to haul with us would only be good for about a single fill-up each.

  Of course we had to head north to start out, which meant Danny’d have to relive his crash on the way back from Red Cloud once again. I figured I’d accuse him of staring at my dick right about the time we passed the crash site.

  I remember when we were kids – and well beyond that, actually – when I’d be in a room of people and Danny’d look at me. I’d put my open hand over my crotch and say, “Hey, quit starin’ at my dick, man!” Naturally, he’d blush as pink as coral and say, “I’m not starin’ at your damned dick, man!”

  Of course every time he’d look at me to protest my accusation, I’d turn my body away and yell, “Dude! That’s not cool! Don’t stare at my dick!”

  Problem was he was in the back seat, and he couldn’t stare at my dick even if he wanted to – which he never actually did, I swear.

  Hell, it was a good story anyway. Maybe I’ll pull that on him somewhere down the line when he gets stressed out.

  Turns out we drove right by the spot while Danny was bending down digging through his bag for a bottle of water. I love it when I make big contingency plans I don’t need.

  Georgie said, “How’d we make it, Cole?”

  I looked at her. “I know how I did. What I don’t know is how you did. I wouldn’t take a milky white girl like you for an Indian. Or with that blonde hair.” I glanced over my shoulder and saw Lilly’s head tilted against Danny’s, both of them conked out. I lowered my voice anyway. “Carpet matches the curtains, so I know that’s
not from a bottle.”

  “Maybe I’m just thorough,” she said with a wink.

  “I hear that stuff can burn, so I’ll call your bluff on that one.”

  She smiled and nodded. “I’ve lain awake a lot of nights since we learned about the Native American connection. Most of those hours were spent thinking about my childhood. I didn’t realize how much I’d suppressed. Could be the situation, I suppose, but I’m dredging up a lot of things I haven’t thought about in years.”

  “You okay?” I asked.

  Georgina Lake nodded. “Really good actually. Questions that won’t ever be answered still linger. I’m glad for it all, mostly. Sad about some things.”

  “Start at the beginnin’, girl,” I said. “We got a long drive ahead.”

  Georgie, the beauty I now thought of as my girlfriend, took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “Until I was about five or six years old, I had a baby sister.”

  “Yeah?”

  She nodded. “Her name was Grace. Mama and daddy called her Gracie. I remember I loved that little girl. To me, she was a living doll, though my mother wouldn’t let me hold her by myself. Only when she was a foot away or so.”

  “You ever drop your dolls?”

  Georgie laughed. “I carried them around by their hair.”

  “Your mom was a wise woman.”

  The smile remained. “She was,” she said.

  Then the smile faded. It evaporated from her face like it never existed, and the mouth that was left behind looked like it had never known the joy of upward turns at the edges.

  I shifted in my seat and let off the accelerator a bit.

  “My grandfather on my mama’s side passed away when I was three. He is one of my earliest memories. I remember his skin, dark and ruddy, and he would sit by my little bed, just a night light on, and he would sing these songs to me that somehow, I never forgot. His hair was long and black with gray streaks, and he’d let me try to braid it sometimes.

  “Anyway, the songs he would sing … the words didn’t seem to matter, and all I really remember were these chants that rose and fell and always helped me to sleep.”

  “He died when you were three? How do you remember him at all?” I asked.

  “Indelible memories of him, I suppose,” she answered, and she began to hum.

  I stayed quiet while she hummed the notes with passion and emotion, and yeah, I had to agree with her; the tune she shared with me felt as natural as the ground or the sky. It had a feel to it you might associate with a weathered old Indian who still recalls the days of open prairies and fires burning inside enormous teepees made of animal hides.

  For some reason I felt guilty; like I didn’t deserve to hear something so beautiful and from so deep inside her heart. I also got the feeling she was using that song to stall, avoiding finishing the story I’m pretty sure she’d begun telling.

  I watched her wipe a tear away when she let the hum fade from her lips, like the smile that had died there earlier. She continued:

  “As I said, he was my mama’s father, and he was the last of our grandparents. But after he died, my daddy wasn’t the same. He seemed worried all the time, and it spread to my mother.”

  I shook my head. “You were three or four by now?”

  “I just turned four. I remember because I wanted this dolly that I just couldn’t stop talking about, and instead of buying it for me, when I opened my birthday present that year, there was this red-headed doll made out of a patchwork of material. I knew my mama made it for me, but I hated it.”

  “Ingrate.”

  “Completely. Selfish little kid, like most are. I still remember throwing it in a fit of anger and I ran out of the room when I saw it landed in the fireplace. I didn’t mean that. It was an accident, but I got such a spanking. When the spanking was done, my mama came into my room and dropped that dolly onto my bed. I still smell burned cloth when I think of it. It’s an olfactory response.”

  “You’re such a goddamned doctor with your big words.”

  “I am,” she said.

  “Get back to the story,” said Lilly from behind us.

  “Yeah,” said Danny. “It’s sad, but I’m gettin’ to know you better.”

  Georgie turned. “Hey, guys. Have a good nap?”

  “Oh, it ain’t over,” said Danny. “I’ll get back to it. Go on.”

  Georgie sighed again. “I was six years old when it happened. Leading up to that, things really seemed to change. My daddy and my mama would argue, and I distinctly recall him saying things about the res and a deal with the chief. I remember asking him if he meant a police chief, but he would just ignore me.

  “Mama was worried. I could tell, because she paid less and less attention to me. Daddy would yell that it was tribe business. I distinctly recall that. Anyway, Gracie was almost two years old, and I was old enough that mama would let me take care of her when I got home from school. I must’ve been in first grade.”

  “So the way you described your mother’s father, it sounded like he was the Indian,” said Lilly.

  “How long you been awake, anyway?” I asked, turning to look at her sideways.

  “Long enough. Is that true? Is he the reason you’re still alive?”

  “Yes, it is,” said Georgie. “But I guess my father was working with the chief on something at the reservation. They called it the res. I don’t know what, but I don’t think it was legal. When I think back, I never heard what my daddy did for a living. They never talked about it, so I assume my mama knew about whatever he was involved in.”

  “Maybe that’s why they argued about it,” said Danny.

  “Before I turned seven, and before Gracie turned three, they found my daddy dead behind a bar on the reservation. I remember the men who came to tell my mama about it. Both of them looked like my grandfather. Same dark skin, dark eyes and hair. I think mama cried for days. I just held Gracie when I could, and fed her. I think she’s why I almost became a pediatrician.”

  “Where does she live?” I asked.

  Georgie didn’t answer. She just shook her head. I’d fucked up, and I knew it immediately. I shut my mouth and waited for her to ready herself.

  “Mama didn’t work. She struggled. My daddy had brothers and sisters, but once he died, it was like mama was a burden to them, I suppose. They never took her calls, and she even wrote them letters, asking for any help they could give. There was no insurance policy. I remember opening my lunch bag at school and finding baggies with cereal. One day I came home, and she was gone.”

  “Your mother?”

  Georgie shook her head. “No.”

  Her eyes welled up, and I saw the muscles around her mouth contracting. The coup de grâce was the tear that ran down her cheek.

  She said softly, almost a whisper, “Gracie.”

  The inside of the car was silent, save for the droning of the motor and the sound of the tires on the pavement.

  Georgie collected herself and continued. “I remember running around the house, looking for her. Mama just let me do it. I was asking her where Gracie was, and she would just shake her head. I wasn’t taking her silence for an answer, so she grabbed me, threw me over her lap and spanked me harder than I ever remembered before or after.”

  “Was it out of guilt or sadness?” asked Lilly.

  Georgina wiped away a tear and smiled a sad smile. “You’re perceptive, Lilly. Mama gave her up. She let a family from the reservation adopt her. I didn’t know about it until I was leaving for college. From age six until then, I thought about her every day.”

  I let the question roll around my noggin for a while, not wanting to ask it, and hoping either Danny or Lilly would. Neither let me off the hook. I said, “Georgie? You ever find her? Your little sister?”

  She shook her head. “I was so angry when mama finally told me. I was leaving for college, as I said, and I pushed my family away from me, both close and distant. I wasn’t the nicest person to be around for quite some tim
e.”

  “You?” I asked. “Bullshit.”

  “You’re lucky you didn’t know me then. Eventually med school and being an intern and all that came after just occupied my mind. I never tried to find Gracie.”

  She’d used the name her parents had used for her little sis. I said, “That’s on our list. After we find Wattana and figure this thing out one way or another.”

  She said nothing, but she didn’t argue with me.

  Danny’s snores came from behind us. When I turned around, Lilly’s head was on her shoulder.

  Story time was over.

  For now.

  Ω

  The man was older than time itself; nobody knew exactly how many years he had walked the earth.

  The skin over his eyes had drooped, leaving them slits. Still, he could see an eagle flying miles in the distance.

  The hair grew thick from his ears, yet he could hear that eagle’s cry as it disappeared over the horizon, silhouetted against the setting sun.

  The hair that had once been dark remained on his head, but now it was gray and coarse, fraying at the ends.

  Even Qaletaqa, (pronounced Kal’ee-Ta’ka) knew he should have died untold years ago. Yet here he was, still able to walk, hear and see.

  He did not recall when his people began calling him by the name Qaletaqa. It meant guardian of the people, but he felt he was more of a mascot to the tribe now.

  When he had been a boy, when the world had seemed so full of possibilities, he was known as Honiahaka. It translated to Little Wolf in the English language.

  He remembered many things from over his many years and had forgotten little. When he was called Little Wolf, running like the wind among the rocks and trees, spearing fish in the many streams and hunting squirrels with his bow, he recalled hearing the name of a man people called the US President. His name had been Millard Fillmore, and Qaletaqa remembered it because it had sounded like music to his ears, like a language all its own.