Hector landed on a soft surface. Keech blinked, his senses befuddled, and realized the stallion had descended onto brown, wet sand. The salty wind that Keech had detected earlier was strong on his face. There was a swelling noise in the air, like the rise and fall of a ceaseless wind.
They stood on a slender golden beach beside a body of water that stretched as far as Keech could see. The dark purple luster of a long horizon extended before him. A gray sky loomed above the churning water, but here and there the light from the dawning sun poked through tiny breaks in the clouds, dappling the shiny sand with vibrant colors. White birds circled the expanse and dived to the water’s surface, rising again with fish in their beaks. All along the beach, tall knuckles of black rock poked up from the mud and foam.
“My God,” Keech muttered. “It’s an ocean.”
The water’s currents swelled in his ears—the steady push and pull of a heavy tide, a majestic sound he’d never heard before. Delicate white shells dotted the ground around Hector’s hooves. Keech remembered a picture hanging in Pa Abner’s study, the image of a seashell colored in whites and blues and browns, painted over the page of an old newspaper.
Keech’s eyes brimmed. “You stood here, didn’t you, Pa? You stood on this very sand with the other Enforcers.” He reckoned the picture of the seashell was the only ghost of Bonfire Crossing that had haunted Pa Abner after taking the Oath.
Duck’s voice jolted Keech from his stupor. “Look!” She pointed at the landscape behind them.
A bowl-shaped border of sharp cliffs menaced over the beach. They were nearly the size of mountains, molded by more of the black rock, and heavy ranks of evergreens stood at their peaks. Both beautiful and terrifying, the cliffs stood severely against the ocean, giving Keech the suffocating impression of gigantic shoulders pushing them off the narrow beach and toward the water.
A few feet from the cliff line stood a bent cedar tree with a crooked L shape. The dazzling curtain of light they had just stepped from hung between the two boughs. Their young chaperone swung her pony around to face it, then spoke the tree’s magical latchkey word: “Shohn-geh!”
The radiance engulfing the cedar’s limbs began to die. As the light shrank, Keech could make out a ribbon of snowy Kansas forest in the heart of the glow, as if he were peeking through a keyhole. He watched the glimmer diminish till it became nothing more than a pinpoint of illumination in the center of the boughs. The wolf had gone to sleep, he reckoned.
“Where in heck did that tree bring us?” Cutter asked the girl.
She pointed to the eastern horizon. “Look at the sun. Tell me what you see.”
Quinn said, “Day’s about to break, like we’re a couple hours earlier. Which means we’ve traveled west.”
Duck looked excitedly at Keech. “Just like your pa told us, go west!”
“No matter where the door moves back east, you always come to this place,” the girl explained. “My uncle calls it the Oregon Coast.”
Strahan’s riddle spoke again in Keech’s mind—the den of the moon stalker, the noontide cutoff—as well as Pa Abner’s final admonition that the Crossing moved. “Does the door disappear when the noon hour strikes?”
“Each day, the wolf runs to another tree,” the girl said.
“And the other shadows we saw? The ghost animals?”
“They lead the way to each day’s new wolf tree. Some travelers have seen the shadows move, but none have followed the path to find the wolf as you did.”
Keech’s head whirled at the idea. “Did the Osage create the door?”
“This place created the door.” She fluttered her hand and said, “Never mind the door. That’s what you’ve come to see.” She pointed down the long ribbon of sand.
A towering bonfire stood in the distance inside a C-shaped cove. The heavy tide of the ocean washed into the cove’s mouth, battering two upright masses of rock, but the foaming waves stopped short of the great blaze. Beyond the opposite edge of the cove, green headlands curled upward, forming treacherous foothills.
“Mercy!” Quinn muttered.
“What is this place?” Keech asked the girl.
“The elders will explain.”
The young riders followed her down the beach. Cinched atop Saint Peter, Doyle rode between Cutter and Quinn, the Ranger’s face a pale mask of sweat and purple veins. His mystical horse made no tracks in the dappled sand.
The group navigated a maze of black rocks. As they drew closer to the crescent cove, Keech pushed Hector to walk alongside their guide. “Your uncle calls you Meenah.”
The girl simply nodded.
“But what should we call you?”
The rider glanced into the distance, her eyes softening as though they had just locked onto a beautiful recollection. “Where I come from, I’m known as ‘Strong Heart,’ a name my brother gave me years ago. This is what you may call me.”
“Strong Heart,” Keech repeated. He glanced around at the others, who were listening, then turned back to the girl. “And you’re a Protector, like the others?”
When Strong Heart turned a critical face toward him, Keech felt his cheeks flush. “I mean, the rest of the men are trained warriors,” he said.
A perceptive grin pressed at the girl’s lips. “Before my parents died, they told me about the Crossing and that a Protector carries a certain kind of character. ‘Be very proud,’ they said. ‘You are our Meenah, our First Daughter. You come from a strong line of Osage who hold these virtues.’ I was born with the traits of a Protector; it’s part of who I am. I hold much honor for it.”
“When did you start training?” Keech asked.
“I began when my uncle came to me, not long ago. He said, ‘You will fulfill an important role for your family, Meenah. You will take your brother’s place.’”
“Your brother was a Protector?”
“He had been training with my uncle, but he disappeared. And so I began.”
It occurred to Keech that he and Strong Heart were very much alike in some respects. They had found themselves learning things few other kids would even dream of. And the task had fallen to both of them to guard what they held dear. “You know, we saw you back in Kansas Territory, just south of the river,” he said. “Were you protecting the bending tree?”
“We were searching for my brother,” she replied.
“Where did he go?” Keech asked, but Strong Heart turned her face away. He waited for her response, but it never came. Clearly, the girl was finished with the conversation.
As the group neared the great bonfire, Keech felt waves of warmth caress his cheek. The inferno was the size of a house, and it crackled with such intensity that the air along the seaboard quivered from its heat. Orange and red embers exploded from the tips of the flames, fluttering up as high as the cliffs before winking out in the gray mist.
At the edge of the cove, the other six Protectors had gathered on horseback in a semicircle around the blaze. Bundles of weapons rested at the foot of the fire—a collection of long spears adorned with feathers, a couple of wooden slings with leather pouches. The backup defenses for the group, Keech reckoned.
Nearby, John Wesley sprawled inside the nets, groaning.
The Protectors watched in silence as the young riders entered the cove and approached the gigantic pyre. Strong Bones gestured for the young riders to dismount. They hopped down onto wet sand and gathered close to one another. After a brief silence, they introduced themselves to the troop, then waited for the Protectors to respond.
Over the pounding of the surf, Keech listened as the Osage horsemen spoke to one another in their language. He tried to assess their words, seize on anything familiar, but the concepts were too difficult to piece together. As he watched them, he couldn’t help feeling disconnected from his father’s life, and his hatred of the Reverend burned anew. Without Rose’s treachery, Keech would have known a very different existence.
The group finally returned its attention to the young riders and the men
spoke their names, for which Strong Heart supplied the translation. EEn Zhuh-tseh, or Red Stone, was a thin fellow wearing silver armbands. Mah-shohn Shkah, or Whipping Feather, wore the brown otter hat. Another man introduced himself as Leh-dahn Zee, meaning Yellow Hawk. Xake Shan, or Weeping Cloud, was a stocky horseman with a friendly grin. The final man, Mi Thonpa Tuh Kah, or Big Moon, spoke his name with a deep, serious voice.
“Thank you for letting us in.” Duck smiled at the company. “Like Keech said earlier, you’re our only hope.”
Still slumping on Saint Peter, Doyle moaned a single word: “Eliza.”
“Papa, I’m right here,” John Wesley murmured. He gnashed his fangs and glared at the Protectors with reddish-yellow eyes. “Turn me loose. I won’t hurt nobody. I just need to make sure he’s okay.”
No sooner did John finish muttering than a man and woman draped in long buffalo robes appeared from around the thundering bonfire, walking side by side. They looked very old, possibly older than Granny Nell. The man’s face carried heavy wrinkles and looked tired. A tall fan of eagle feathers protruded from behind his head, the same kind of headdress worn by Strong Bones. The woman’s features were kinder, and colorful bird feathers circled her ears and hung from her lobes.
“Hah-weh,” the woman said.
The elder had not addressed the entire gang; she had spoken directly to Keech. He tried to stand a little taller. “Hah-weh.”
“She is Tseh Meen, or in your language, Buffalo Woman,” Strong Heart said to the young riders.
Raising a rumpled hand, the elder man spoke his own greeting in Osage.
Strong Heart said, “He is Lohn Nohn-peh Zhee, or Doesn’t Fear Thunder.”
“Hah-weh,” the young riders replied in unison. These were the folks who had assisted Pa Abner with the Floodwood protection, who had given the Enforcers their Oath of Memory.
Strong Bones pointed at John Wesley and Doyle, speaking to the elders with an urgent voice.
After the man fell silent, the elders regarded the grumbling John Wesley, then shifted their attention to Doyle. They talked to each other in muted tones till the elder man, Doesn’t Fear Thunder, turned his gaze on Keech and smiled, his toothless mouth wide with mirth. He began to speak again in Osage.
Strong Heart translated. “He says you’re the lost son of Zhan Sah-peh. He says they see Zhan Sah-peh’s eyes on your face, eyes they haven’t seen in many years.”
Keech felt both exhilarated and nervous to be standing in front of individuals who had known and helped his father. He asked Strong Heart, “Can they tell me about him?”
The girl relayed the question. The old man was silent for a spell, then he shook his head and answered back to her.
“He says Black Wood’s story is a sad one, because he never returned to his people. Better you turn your eyes to the path ahead.”
Keech flinched at the gentle rebuke but said nothing.
Buffalo Woman called out something in Osage to the Protectors. Weeping Cloud and Yellow Hawk moved to unfasten Doyle’s bindings and lift him off Saint Peter. Doyle groaned through clenched teeth as they stretched him out on the sand. Buffalo Woman shuffled over and ripped the deerskin cloth away from the ragged wound. She regarded the pressed yarrow flowers on the gash and smiled.
While she inspected the injury, Doesn’t Fear Thunder turned his attention back to John Wesley. The old man stooped and examined John through the nets, his weatherworn buffalo pelt dragging in the moist earth. He murmured Osage words to himself. John Wesley growled again, the bonfire’s chaotic light throwing jack-o’-lantern shadows across his face. The old man neither flinched nor showed fear.
Quinn leaned toward Strong Heart. “What are they doing?”
“Shh,” the girl scolded. “They’re considering ways to help them.”
The old man suddenly straightened and brushed grit off his hands. He waited for Buffalo Woman to return to his side, then he addressed the young riders in Osage. Again, Strong Heart translated. “Before we speak of your friends, you must first tell us why you’ve come.”
Cutter glanced at Keech. “Go ahead, Lost Cause.”
But before Keech could speak, Duck tore off her hat and stepped closer to the elders. “Our fathers were Enforcers,” she began, gesturing first to herself, then to Keech. “The Enforcers came to you ten years ago and asked you to help them. And you did.” She paused, as though thinking carefully about her next words. “Our fathers have sent us back here to finish what they couldn’t. They gave us clues to fetch the Char Stone from Bone Ridge and to find Bonfire Crossing, but along the way the Char Stone got stolen.”
Buffalo Woman shook her head with concern, and then she surprised Keech by speaking English. “The one called Rose is to blame. He is the Scorpion. A taker of relics and lands, a murderer of innocents.”
The elder’s word for the Reverend—Scorpion—reminded Keech of what Pa Abner had told Bad Whiskey after the one-eyed fiend had found the Home. You’re under the control of a scorpion, Bad Whiskey. One day soon you’re bound to get the stinger.
“Tseh Meen, what will happen when Rose’s men give him the Char Stone?” Keech asked, though he feared the response.
Buffalo Woman contemplated the question. When she appeared to struggle with the answer, she spoke it in Osage. The kids looked to Strong Heart.
“She says once the man called Rose reunites the artifacts, a terrible ceremony will begin once more in a place some call the Scorpion’s Nest.”
A glacial shiver ran down Keech’s body. “That’s the Palace of the Thunders, isn’t it? That’s where Rose is. The real Rose.” He tried to block out the horrible memory, but he could still hear the Reverend screaming through Bad Whiskey’s mouth in Bone Ridge: One day, Blackwood, we’ll meet, and then you’ll know true fear.
Buffalo Woman spoke in Osage again, and Strong Heart translated. “She says it’s more important than ever to guard the Fang, so that it never falls into the Scorpion’s hands. He needs the Fang for his ceremony with the Stone.”
Keech gazed over the reaches of the western ocean, which sparkled with morning light. He glanced back at the elders. “Is that why you hid the Fang out here, to keep it away from Rose’s men back east?”
This time, Strong Heart didn’t wait for one of them to answer. “They shelter the Fang at Bonfire Crossing because this shore is one of the few places of ancient power.”
“‘One of the few places,’” Duck repeated. “There are more beaches like this?”
“Not like this,” Strong Heart said. “There’s another place deep in the mountains of the West, and yet another to the north, the one you call the Palace.”
“Three sites of power,” Keech mused. “Bonfire Crossing, a place in the Western mountains, and the Palace of the Thunders.”
Strong Heart sighed. “You must realize, these places existed long before any of our families. We don’t want this place, and we don’t want the Fang. Sometimes people must live with dangerous things they never asked for.”
“The Fang doesn’t belong to the Osage?” asked Cutter.
Strong Heart tossed back her head, as though frustrated. “The Osage understand the powers these objects hold, but the Enforcers’ relics are not ours.” She frowned at Keech and Duck when she said this. Keech found himself glancing down, ashamed but not fully grasping why. It wasn’t his and Duck’s fault that the Osage were protecting the Fang, but then again, Keech felt everything was his fault. Both of his fathers had been involved, and now he was carrying the torch.
Buffalo Woman raised a finger and spoke again, prompting Strong Heart to continue interpreting.
“She says to understand this place, you must understand its first dwellers. They came to this coast long ago, searching for a new home. They discovered that this ground possessed great virtues, from which they could draw protections.”
Hearing that word, protections, Keech recalled the endless loops of Floodwood, what Pa Abner had called a precaution.
“The first dw
ellers discovered ways to hide their homes from danger and build pathways to other places for hunting. This place”—she swept her hand around the cove—“became a sacred ground, where the first dwellers learned many secrets.”
“This beach opened up the pathway to Kansas,” Duck said, her tone full of fascination. “That’s what you meant earlier when you said it created the door.”
“And no one can enter except by way of the moon stalker,” Quinn added.
Strong Heart smiled at both of them. “Not by sea, not by the cliffs. There’s concealment all around. The Protectors guard the door to ensure no one comes, and the elders live alone in their lodges beyond the fire. They watch the Fang and pray to Wah-kahn-dah that one day they can return to their families.” She regarded the old pair with veneration.
Writhing on the sand, Doyle lifted his head, his eyes teeming with the darkness of death. He grabbed at the wound on his leg. His flesh had turned a deeper, more unsettling purple.
Beneath the nets, John Wesley cried out, “Papa!”
Keech turned to the elders. “Can you help them?”
When Buffalo Woman spoke again, Strong Heart translated with a forlorn face. “She says the Enforcer can be healed, but nothing can be done for the boy John. Your friend has become a new form. There is no remedy, only acceptance. But the Enforcer’s wound came from a dark power, so it can be cured with light.”
“You can’t do anything to help John?” Cutter said. “You have to!”
Buffalo Woman lifted a hand to cut him off. When she spoke again, her tone was darker, more urgent.
“She says there’s no more time for discussion,” Strong Heart said. “If you want to heal the Enforcer, you must retrieve the Fang. Only the light can heal the dark inside the wound.”
“Are you saying the Fang has healing powers?” Keech asked, bewildered.
Strong Heart turned to her uncle in surprise. “They didn’t know,” she said.
Duck pointed to the Ranger’s knapsack. “That would explain why Doyle’s been so driven to get hold of it. He thinks the Fang will bring Eliza’s body back to normal.”
The Fang of Bonfire Crossing Page 24