There was the unpleasant fear in the back of his mind that Cole’s disappearance was not the simple case of a child wandering off and getting lost. Having grown up in the Smoky Mountains, he was well aware of the dangers these woods posed. But at the same time, he was also aware of the stories that haunted the area. Stories of children being led astray by an evil leader that ruled the Land of the Dead. Stories of a medicine man’s family being ripped apart by white settlers. Stories of vengeance, blood, and hate.
David held onto the stories for some time. It was hard for him to admit, but there was a part of his childhood self that had never given up beliefs in ancient ways, perhaps because as a kid his grandpa had introduced him to Smoke Speaker’s own grandfather, then a respected community legend. The old man, Wind Talker, had told him of the creatures that haunted the forests, beasts that once roamed the earth and were banished to other worlds by ancient shamans.
“Stories are what take care of us,” Wind Talker had said to a small group of children at a secluded powwow. David and his grandfather had been the only white guests there. “Stories are what protect our souls from harm. If a story comes to you, you must cherish it, believe in it, live it. Without stories, our lives have no direction and no meaning. Our friend Uguna, Badger, the Keeper of Stories, has taught us that. Badger shows us how to fight with a warrior’s bravery, and so with that courage we may have the strength to fight for the tales that make up our lives.”
To come across such stories, to face the legendary creates of history, was something David had nightmares about during his childhood years. He’d all but convinced himself during college to put such foolish notions away, but now, being back in the Smoky Mountains, searching for his lost grandson, such thoughts couldn’t be ignored.
Tucked away in his sanctuary at Howling Vines, Elder Smoke Speaker cupped his hands over a growing fire and sighed heavily. He was tired, worried, and depressed. Keeping up the shield of fog and rain took quite a toll on his old, creaking bones, and every second he fretted over Whisper’s safety. He had woken from his dream just before seeing Whisper into her passage beyond the Western Sun, and he was yet to hear word from his scouts as to her arrival into the Land of the Dead. His dreams hadn’t taken him that far, and she should have been there by now.
He needed her to be there.
When the smoke began to thicken, the Elder uttered a low chant, closing his eyes and reaching out to the spirit of a woman who owed him a favor, a woman he cared deeply for, one who had been a pleasant addition into his life. When he felt her presence, and she acknowledged his own, he spoke quickly and clearly.
His message was urgent.
Chapter 14
As though being blessed by the gods, the pain in his eyes began to fade and Ian was finally able to pull his hands away from his sunburned face. He felt rather than saw Whisper standing next to him, and by the change in her breathing from labored to relaxed he knew that she too was grateful they had just made it past the scalding fire that liquefied retinas.
“Our eyes will adjust,” she told him, releasing the tight grip she had on his arm and taking a step forward. She waited impatiently, eager to see, eager to take in the true magnificence of the Western Sun.
The sudden sensation that spread across his eyes was both soothing and irritating. A relief from the burning, melting corneas that had dripped down his cheeks, a cool, watery film coated his eyes just as a tingling began to prickle at the corners. To Ian it felt like his retinas were being rebuilt with a hundred tiny chisels, a feeling similar to his foot falling asleep and slowly waking up again, but these little hammers didn’t hurt. Instead, he just wanted to blink repeatedly in hopes to speeding up the process.
And Whisper was right. As soon as they stepped through the portal behind the Western Sun, the darkness that cloaked the Land of the Dead reached out with gentle fingers and healed the charred irises, the seared sight. Their blindness was temporary, but their vision had to be restored by the powers of the dead. Sight was not the same for the dead as it was for the living.
When the prickling sensation faded and the first rays of light passed through reconstructed eyes, a rare smile spread across Whisper’s bronzed and peeling face. Oblivious to Ian’s questioning expression, she turned to the sight formerly at her back and stood in wonder.
The Western Sun, once so harsh and uninviting, twisted and twirled in a wondrous mix of swirling red and purple hues, the colors dark and soft and offering a comforting warmth to the weary travelers. The roar that dominated the harsh side of the towering star had faded into a quiet murmur that mimicked the sound of babbling creeks. Thin shafts of crimson light arced out from the sun, spreading across the sky in a web of protection, while lavender tints lit the way throughout a no longer barren landscape.
“The Western Sun offers beauty, as well as pain,” Whisper spoke quietly, sparing a second’s glance at Ian when he too stood captivated. “It is rare to find sources of both comfort and chaos. This is the only beauty that the Land of the Dead will offer us in our journey.”
Before Ian could reply, Whisper turned on her heel and walked away from the sun. As she strode forward, her movements smooth and confident and irresistibly sexy, she pulled her hair over her shoulder and began to undo the tight braid. When she did, Ian realized that the round, intricate tattoo spread across the center of her shoulders was an exact replica of the Western Sun. The lines that spun out from the red and black ink mirrored the grand display of magic and marvel before them.
Like some kind of portrait, he thought, following close enough to observe what could be seen around the edges of her shirt. If he was reading it right, then they were taking a short path, symbolized by a series of dotted lines, from the Western Sun to another wavy symbol that he guessed was a body of water.
“Whisper,” he started, desperately wanting to know why the Land of the Dead was tattooed on her body, “What—”
“We shall cross there,” Whisper interrupted, pointing, “and enter into the Land of the Dead.”
Ian followed her finger. In the distance, some ten or fifteen miles away down a slight decline on the other side of a wood patch, was a river, a vague impression of the very same water that took his son’s life. But here, the trees were darker, more depressing, leaves frayed but strong, trunks thick and firm and yet to be stripped of bark. The ground was covered with dirt, small patches of wilted grass popping up here and there where the underbrush had been pushed back by thousands of passing feet. There was color behind the Western Sun, but it was faded. In fact, everything, every hue, every plant, even the sky, was washed out, as though being viewed through a screen. Ian supposed that was because he hadn’t yet adjusted to his new eyes.
They walked the long barren path flanked on either side by decaying trees in silence, each reflecting over the journey thus far, the trials and tribulations they had faced. Ian tried not to think about the pink flesh torn open across his back that rubbed itself even rawer against his shirt, or the skin peeling on his face. Instead, he focused on gathering his wits and wondered how in the hell he had let himself get talked into this foolish fantasy. At his side, Whisper was contemplating the next obstacle in their path. She would have to be careful here, for the river held secrets she was not yet willing to reveal.
Not a single lost soul crossed their path as they hurried along, but Whisper wasn’t bothered by the fact. Many got lost in the woods that bordered the river, and because the place to cross often changed, there was no one right spot to begin the journey. But she knew where to go. She always knew exactly where to place her feet.
When they finally approached the river after a long walk burdened by their exhausted bones, the water was calm, a ways down from the rapids that slowly churned over black rocks. Gray waves gently lapped over one another, and unlike the river in the living world, this one was vast and wide, stretching for miles beneath a red-lit sky. The darkness of the world and the fog that floated across the water hid the horizon across the way.
> “How…how do we get across?” He was desperately hoping she wouldn’t utter the word “swim.”
Whisper pointed again. “The RiverKeeper.”
Somehow, in his observation of his surroundings Ian had missed the figure standing not fifty feet away. An old man forever cursed with arthritic bones, filthy clothes, and work without rest was waiting on the shore, shin-deep in the cold water. His back was bowed, long and scraggly gray hair hanging in his face with frayed and frizzy ends dipping into the surface of the river. Tattered and rotting cloth hung from his bony frame. One hand tipped with splintered yellow fingernails was gripping a worn rope, the end of which was tied to a wooden boat floating an arm’s length away. The boat was strangely crafted, approximately four feet long and five feet wide with a narrow railing, two benches on either side, and a post at the back that held two oars.
When Whisper and Ian came near, the RiverKeeper raised his head to reveal a long, bulky nose, thin lips that hid two rows of black, cracked teeth, and sunken cheeks further darkened by watery gray eyes. “You seek passage to the Land of the Dead,” he rasped, his voice rough and tired. “Only two may cross.”
Whisper glanced over her shoulder, slightly taken aback to see a third figure standing behind them. She was rarely caught off-guard and normally sensed people’s presences, and attributed the mistake to fatigue.
When the stranger moved to take one of their places, Whisper grabbed Ian by the shirt-collar and all but shoved him onto the boat, which rocked dangerously as the RiverKeeper knocked the third figure away from the wooden raft with an oar. The dead soul cried out in pain and fell to its knees, feebly reaching for the boat as it drifted away.
“Only two?” Ian asked as the RiverKeeper took his position at the back of the craft and began the long row across the water. “What about when we need to get back, and Cole is with us? What do we do with three of us?”
Lifting an indifferent shoulder, Whisper settled onto one of the benches and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees and gingerly touching her flaking face. “Bribery is a lucrative trade in the Land of the Dead,” she answered, rubbing her eyes tiredly.
“What do you have to trade?”
“…..Sanctuary,” was her lone reply. Subconsciously, she touched the strange pouch tied to her belt, but Ian didn’t push the matter. He knew she was worn down, part of which was his own fault, and she needed the time to relax.
“The Land of the Dead was not always a place of eternal darkness,” Whisper said then, staring down at the fractured wood of the boat. “Our legends say that it was once a place of peace, a safe haven away from the restless wanderers yet to find their way to the Western Sun.”
Taking a seat across from Whisper on the uncomfortable wood, Ian set down his pack and looked around, unable to imagine a world of peace and safety. This Land of the Dead promised curses and destruction around every corner, every tree, with each step further into the dark. As the ferry across the river was likely to be lengthy, he was eager to hear the story, pass the time.
“So…what happened?”
Whisper thought about all the Elder’s lessons. Some stories she’d heard from him, others from old medicine men and keepers of legends at powwows. They varied from people to people, but tended to hold the same message.
Untying the rope that connected the two, the young woman considered the best way to proceed. It was a story that had to be told, but must be told carefully. One wrong word could mean the end to their journey, and to their lives.
“Our people lived peacefully for hundreds of years,” she began, her Cherokee-accented voice reminding Ian of a spiritual pillar of infinite wisdom. “Then the white man came over with hate in his heart and greed in his soul, and massacred those who treasured the land. Murder, disease, religion, you too have heard the many ways they sought to destroy our culture.” Ian nodded, remembering his history classes growing up. Blankets infected with smallpox, massacres at Wounded Knee, the injustices were infinite.
“There was a family who lived in the mountains,” Whisper continued softly, her eyes glazed over as if she once knew those of whom she spoke. “The man was a powerful shaman. People went to him for medicine, for spiritual purposes, for a better crop season. His wife was known as a quiet beauty, one who rarely spoke but was kind and gentle and loved the Earth. They had a son, who was being trained in his father’s craft. The family was secluded and valued their privacy, and when the white man came and demanded they leave, they fought back.” So many fought back, she thought bitterly as the RiverKeeper listened intently, rowing hard with a heavy heart, and so many died.
“The woman, Gentle Heart, and child, Fighting Fox, were murdered while they slept. The man, whose name is said to have been Sun Eagle, survived the attack, but the damage to his heart and mind was too great. Sun Eagle buried his family, set fire to his home and woods, then ambushed a village in the dead of night. He slit the throats of sixty-seven sleeping men, women, and children and burned the village down before taking refuge in the mountains.” There was no sympathy in her voice for the murdered villagers, and Ian felt a chill go down his back by the tone of her voice.
“Some say Sun Eagle’s souls loosened from his body, others claim he simply swore revenge on the people who killed his family. Either way, he was a powerful medicine man, and he discovered a way to follow the settlers he murdered into the Land of the Dead, and to be waiting for them when they arrived.”
She paused, and Ian frowned, trying to wrap his mind around what she said. “What do you mean, he was already there? We both had to go through absolute hell to get here. So how could he—”
“Sun Eagle had a gift,” Whisper interrupted, glancing at the RiverKeeper when he scoffed, but kept on rowing. “He had ways with medicine and herbs, and with spiritual matters. Perhaps he prayed to the Great Spirit, or found another way into the Western Sun. Such a story has never been told, and only he can tell it. But he found a way to the Land of the Dead. Sun Eagle sacrificed his life to fire, burned his body on a ceremonial pyre. And he took control of the Land of the Dead.”
Shifting so that she could lean back and watch the red rays of light arch across the sky, Whisper idly scratched at the skin on her arms where the heat of the Western Sun had caused it to crack and peel. Ian couldn’t take his eyes off his own storyteller, fascinated by a tale he still wasn’t sure he believed.
“How could he take over?”
Whisper nearly rolled her eyes at his question. Apparently, he hadn’t been listening very closely. “Sun Eagle was powerful beyond knowledge, Mr. Daivya. Not even Elder Smoke Speaker can fathom his abilities. But…while we cannot understand his power, we do know his actions, and they have had a terrible effect on the Land of the Dead.”
“Sun Eagle had abandoned his souls but still longed to be with his family again. But his wife and child had received a proper burial and were in the Spirit World, and because he killed himself in order to follow the dead settlers, Sun Eagle was trapped forever in the Land of the Dead. Hate and evil overcame him, and he vowed to punish all dead souls so they too could join him in his misery. Some say that he consumed the moon, so that darkness was cast upon the earth, and that he swallowed the ravens, so that the dead would be left to find their own way to the Western Sun.”
At Ian’s confused frown, she clarified her story. “Raven, Golanv, was once the guide to the dead. He met the dead soul at his place of death, and brought him to the Western Sun so he would never have to wander restlessly. When Sun Eagle destroyed Raven, the dead had no one but themselves.”
Whisper stopped and took a few deep breaths before continuing. “Sun Eagle became known as the Raven-Eater…In his madness, he began searching for a wife. One day, many, many moons ago, a woman was out gathering firewood for her family’s dinner, and he stole her from the earth.”
“He killed her so that he could have a wife.”
“No.” Whisper shook her head and shared a sad look with Ian. “He stole her, and locked her away
. He took her from her world and brought her to the Land of the Dead, a living person in a sea of dead. Many say she is still alive, fed a special diet, because the living cannot survive on the food of the dead, and is forbidden from ever seeing her loved ones.”
“And did he steal a child?” Ian asked. He waited, but she didn’t answer. Instead, she slowly lifted her eyes to meet his, and her stare was knowing, reluctant, patient. There was an awkward silence, both Whisper and the RiverKeeper waiting for the realization to sink in.
“What?” Ian continued, looking from face to face and wondering why the hunchbacked old man knew the story behind Whisper’s silence and he didn’t. “I don’t understand. Why won’t you tell me if he stole a—”
And then it hit him. Ian jumped to his feet, causing the boat to lurch sideways and nearly knock him off balance. Whisper merely set her feet firmly on the floor and prepared for his fury.
“You…you’re saying that this raven-eating psycho has my son?” Ian shouted, pointing into the distance. Whisper sat forward and let Ian fume. “My son is dead because some other kid was murdered more than two hundred years ago? You have got to be kidding me!”
Ian paced the narrow length of the boat, avoiding the RiverKeeper’s gaze. Nausea was creeping up his throat, his stomach was in knots, and his heart had all but stopped. If his guide was right, and her stories were accurate, then Cole was in the company of a vengeful spirit that demanded death.
“But wait.” Ian spun around and pointed at Whisper, who recoiled slightly and waited for him to put the rest of the pieces together. “You knew he wanted a child. You knew all along. You knew the reason why Cole was missing.but you said he was dead.” Whisper’s brow furrowed at the statement. “What if this Sun Eagle took Cole alive, like he did his wife? Then we don’t have to worry about finding him before his body is found. Right?”
“No, Mr. Daivya…no. Cole is dead,” Whisper affirmed. “Yes, the Raven-Eater did take him. Yes, I knew. I have known for many years of his plan. He has tried to take children from the mountains for many moons. The mountains were his home, and so that is where he searches. For the winters before I came to him, Smoke Speaker took on the burden of rescuing the children the Raven-Eater attempted to trick into death, and then he trained me. Raven-Eater is a trickster, luring children into the woods to meet their end. He will not take them alive, as he did the woman, because he desires an heir. The heir to the Land of the Dead cannot be of the living. He craved a living wife, however, for the feel of a warm body, the touch of a pulse, some semblance of the one he lost.”
Beyond the Western Sun Page 11
