The sun was hot and I was thirsty, my stomach begged for food. So much had happened, yet we were so far from finishing what we’d started. The thought was nearly too much to bear. What other misfortunes awaited me? I was beginning to want my stink back and to be left out of this. To be honest, even with their combined powers, I doubted the old men were any match for what lurked behind the door of the Soliah Home.
“What do you know about that place?” asked Odd Whitefeather, perspiration running down his forehead. “We need to know.”
What did I know? Too much and not enough, I thought. The old house had been standing there for longer than anyone could remember. I told them that and they replied that neither had ever visited the area, so it was possible that it had been there for centuries, if not longer. I then explained how I’d been contracted to demolish the old place, and about what happened to my crew. The entire lot of them had been swallowed whole by the house, never to be seen again. Both men agreed that this was powerful magic. They continued to look from me, back to the house, with a newfound glint of respect in their stoic expressions.
I then expressed my deep-seated concerns about the evil demon that lived inside the house. I told the men that it was likely that we’d all fall victim to the Soliah Home, and spend eternity together down in the filthy basement. I had to be honest, even if I wanted to lie, I couldn’t. This had suddenly become very serious. I didn’t want any more blood on my hands.
“Wait here,” said Odd Whitefeather. “We will be back for you after we talk about this. When I get back we will have some lunch. I know you are hungry.”
I nodded; the mere mention of food was enough to send my stomach growling. I sat down and crossed my bare feet, waiting as the two men began to argue. I sat there and watched them for a while. A sandhill crane stood not five feet from them at the water’s edge. That was very strange to see and I watched them for some time before turning my attention to the old Victorian home that loomed above me. I hoped that the men would settle this soon, because I knew we were still in great jeopardy. A shadow passed in front of a shaded window in one of the two turrets, and I felt a tingle of fear at the back of my neck.
And when I looked back at the old men there were three of them.
They turned and headed in my direction. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The newcomer was dressed in moccasins and a breech cloth. His face was painted with intricate designs and he looked to be twice as old as time. I had seen his face in the clouds and the sight of it made my mind numb. This was a cold, hard face that looked incapable of anything but a scowl. He looked at me with obvious contempt which bordered on outright hatred.
“This is my grandfather, Dog Breath” said Crooked Walker. “He will help us.”
The man named Dog Breath was standing over me, as if he were curious about my species. His skin was a deep red and he was thin and muscular for a man of his obvious age; and what that age would be, I could only guess. He said something in their tongue and the other men laughed.
“He says that he has fifty wives and that he wants to cook you over a fire and eat you,” Odd Whitefeather said, looking barely able to contain himself.
“Hurry up and tell him that I’m not on the menu.”
“A pity,” said the eldest of the clan. “I’ll bet you taste just like black bear.” His voice was dry and his breath reeked of skunk and rotting teeth. I noticed that his lips didn’t match the words that I heard. I suddenly realized that I was only hearing what he wanted me to hear.
Despite his age, Dog Breath was the fiercest looking of the three. He continued to stand before me, his dark brown eyes boring into my own. The old man didn’t move for nearly a minute and his gaze slowly brightened into a smile. My mouth dried up and I swallowed nothing. That smile looked as out of place as teeth on a chicken. He finally drifted off to join the others and I felt relieved that he had done so. I walked away from the others as they began another heated conversation. I walked down to the lake and sat down on an old wooden bench that sagged under my weight. The bench was just as I had remembered it and it made me think of things that I had done my best to forget.
The waters of Spirit Lake were calm and clear, and the reflecting rays of bright sunshine made it hard to look at for very long. I remembered being here. This was where it had all began. The day had been much like today, warm and still. There were six of us. My pickup had been parked on the lawn and we stood next to it as we drew straws. The moment had arrived.
My team had been hired to demolish the Soliah Home and to cart away the rubble. There is one unbreakable rule when it comes to safety at a job-site. The building is without fail, searched from top to bottom for any sign of life. None of us wanted to go inside the dreaded place, who could blame us? The house on Spirit Lake was alive, even though no one lived within five miles of it. As far as anyone knew, the house had also been vacant for generations. Yet, there it was in all of its whitewashed glory. The stately Victorian stood flanked by two rows of mature pine trees. Twin turrets graced the upper corners of the massive, three story home. Tall dormers protected paned windows, and not a one of them was broken. Six tall pillars stood like sentries at the front of the house. The front porch stretched the length of the house and looked to have been built only the day before. This simply couldn’t be, but I knew that somehow it was. I know that after a long period of time that an empty house goes bad, it turns mushy like a rotten apple and it needs to be removed before someone stumbles into it and gets hurt, or worse.
I should have known better to bid on the job. The People from the state wanted the land and I had seen the Notice for demolition bids in the local paper. I was no stranger to this place and I knew something of its infamous history. How many kids had drowned in that lake? How many had simply disappeared after entering the house on a dare? There were many stories and they went way back. I wish I had never seen that Notice. We stood there and stared at the place for a long time.
The sun was warm and you could feel the tension. Business had been slow and this job was the best paying contract we’d seen in years. Three days and we were all going to head home with a year’s salary. That was the deal; at least it was part of it. The second part was that I made it clear to all of the men that like any other building, like it or not, this one would be searched. I wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life in prison because some kids got locked in one of the closets. I let them decide if we’d send one man inside, or if we’d go in together. They chose to draw straws, which was what I thought they’d do.
Wally Swengard was the first to draw. Swengard was a large, simple man, who drove one of the dump-trucks and lived in town with his mother. I watched him as he ran his pudgy fingers across the six white straws, before choosing one with a quick pull. Wally held one end of the short straw and his expression was priceless. I could see it in his eyes. He looked like a cornered rabbit. I felt bad for my friend, but like the others, he had voted to decide it this way. Reluctantly, Wally pulled on his suspenders and looked up at the house. He grabbed one of the walkie-talkies from the hood of my truck, tested it and walked away. Nobody said a word.
And we watched Wally, dressed in his flannel shirt and oversized suspenders; walk up and into the Soliah Home, never to be seen again.
“What do you see, Wally?” I asked, holding the transmit button of my walkie-talkie.
For a moment there was something that sounded like Wally’s voice, but it was gone before we could make out what it was. Again and again, I tried calling to him over the radio. I could hear panic in my voice.
John Nitti, who was the toughest man on the crew, dropped his sights on the house and he followed Wally’s footsteps, right into the house. He disappeared and suddenly the front door slammed shut and we heard the terrible sound of Nitti’s screams.
“Huck, we’ve got to get in there!” Mike Mathews shouted at me. “We’ve got to help those guys!”
That was when the four of us were freed from our paralysis; we foolishly armed ourselves with wrenches and hamme
rs and sprinted for the door. The Tatum twins were first to reach the door and they entered it together. Mike was close behind. I followed him by no fewer than five steps, but after Mike disappeared inside, the heavy door slammed shut in my face.
I have never heard men scream like babies in a crib, but that was what they sounded like. I tried the handle of the door but it was locked. I put my back into it, trying to rip the door free of its hinges. I had never felt so helpless and I thought this had to be a bad dream, and that I would wake in my own bed at any second. I pounded on the door with the pipe-wrench, watching as it bounced back without even making a mark on the heavy oak door. I moved to the front window, stood back, wound up and flung the pipe-wrench at one of the large windows. The tool bounced off the glass like a tennis ball. The screaming grew in intensity before it suddenly stopped, as if someone had just flipped a switch. The door slowly opened, the creaking hinges digging hooks into my ears. I will never forget that sound. I walked back and retrieved my weapon, useless as it was, it was better than nothing.
I took a deep breath, held my pipe-wrench high in the air and walked inside. There was no sound except for my boots on the hardwood floor. I was going to die, I was certain of it. I turned in circles as I walked and probably looked like a ballerina in slow-motion. Dark oak shelves lined the walls, still decorated with antiques. They looked fresh-from-the-box. Besides that, I saw nothing that looked out of place and no sign of my men. “Wally?” I called. “Mike?”
The foyer opened into a large dining room with an oak floor that looked freshly waxed. Heavy drapes hung over the windows and the room was nearly dark. The air smelled fresh and I could even catch the scent of lemons. I stood there for a moment as my eyes adjusted to the light and I waited to be attacked by the boogie-man. I slowly walked further inside.
The floor creaked beneath my feet and that’s when they started screaming again. I could hear Wally, followed by John Nitti, desperately pleading for me to come downstairs and rescue them. Mike and the Tatum’s quickly joined in and the sound began to hurt my ears. It sounded as if I was standing right on top of them, and maybe I was. I had to find the door that led to the basement, but I had never been in a house like this one. Where would the stairs be? I frantically began to run around and open as many doors as I could find. Most led into rooms and closets and one even led to stairs, but that staircase only went up. I was breathing hard and tears were now falling down my cheeks. The screaming sounded as if they had been locked inside a room with hungry lions.
This moment would change my world, forever. He waited for me in a room off the foyer where double doors led into a study. He was a tall, elegant man with pale white skin and piercing green eyes. His head was covered in a golden mane of hair, parted in the middle that fell to his shoulders. He wore a navy blue military uniform, vintage, by the looks of it and there were medals on his chest and bars on his shoulders. He was an officer, or apparently wanted me to think he was. I felt as if I was somehow standing outside of myself, and staring into the past.
He smiled, revealing a set of ivory teeth. “Huckleberry Brindle,” he said. “How very pleased I am to finally get to meet you.” The southern voice sounded well-schooled and cultured. The hair stood up on the back of my neck when I saw that he stood on a pair of cloven hoofs. “Let me introduce myself, my dear boy, I am Major Barnabus C. Soliah.” He then did something strange, he followed my gaze to the floor and then scurried behind a stout oak desk; the sound of those hoofs tapping on the wood floor was unnerving.
I was scared to death and wondered why this man cared enough about me to introduce himself. “What have you done with my crew?” I asked him, continuing my way into the room. The window looked out over the great backyard; where nothing looked as it did a moment before.
“Please, have a seat. Everything will be explained to you in good time, my dear boy.”
Across from the desk were a pair of cane-backed chairs, I took one and sat down, continuing to stare out the window where fifty or more, pale white tents billowed in the afternoon breeze. Between the tents milled more military men, perhaps as many as one hundred. They wore soldier’s uniforms, but they looked to date back to the Civil War era and many carried what I recognized to be Winchester rifles. The men also shared Soliah’s paper-colored skin. They looked like they’d been dipped in cream and their expressions were deadly serious.
“Those are my men of the Third Infantry,” said Soliah, swiveling in his chair. “They are an exceptional group of men, aren’t they? Quite exceptional.”
“When did they get here?”
“Long before you,” Soliah said, with just a touch of authority. “We’ve been waiting for you, Huckleberry. Oh yes we have, indeed, indeed. You’ve been away and I should string you up by your neck. Desertion is a serious crime and it will not be tolerated.”
I returned my attention to him. “You’ve got the wrong guy. I just want to get my men and get off the property. I wash my hands of this.”
“My dear boy, I’m afraid that’s impossible. You’re into it up to your neck, we all are,” he said, holding his arms up to frame the window. “We’ve got a mission to complete and you signed on with your blood. We’re going to eliminate every red man in the territory, just as we should have a long time ago. You’re part of that mission, soldier!”
“I sure as hell am not!”
“Don’t you take that tone with me, you little puss-bellied spittoon. How dare you speak to your dear old grand-pappy like that?”
Somehow, I got to my feet and stood behind my chair, holding it for support. “My name is Brindle, not Soliah.”
“What’s in a name?” Soliah said with a chortle. “Your blood comes from your mother’s side of the family. I know lad, Brindle isn’t Soliah, but it’s still a fine name. You are still bound to avenge the death of your little aunt and uncle. What could be more important than that? You will make a great name for yourself. I can guarantee that. I can also guarantee that when this is over you’ll be a very wealthy man. This will all be yours. Hundreds of square miles of Indian reservation; a casino, bait shops, hot dog stands. My dear boy, you’ll be the wealthiest man in the territory.”
If he thought that he could buy my loyalty, he was sadly mistaken. There was no way I was going on the last westward march of the Indian Killers. I didn’t care if they were ghosts; I didn’t care if they locked me in the basement, and to be frank, I didn’t care if they hanged me. “No way, I’ll never do it.” I said.
“Your friends will die in the bowels of this home. Have you ever watched grown men skinned alive? I can be sure that you do. I don’t need them, I need you. What do you say, lad? Let me make a man out of you.”
I began to run and Soliah shouted at me with fury in his voice. “Get back here, you pile of horse-shit! You stink of fear, do you hear me? Stink of it! Come back and see me when you get tired of it!” He then began an uproarious fit of laughter that echoed throughout the house. I reached the front door and pulled hard on the handle, where, much to my surprise, it opened freely and I dashed out into the sunlight.
The tents were gone and my idle machines sat without their operators. That was all I could process before I was overwhelmed by the horrifyingly pungent odor, which I would carry until the day I met Odd Whitefeather. I continued to run, hoping to outrun the terrible stench. I ran into the bushes and vomited for the first time, but certainly not the last. I have never returned and suffered the knowledge that I’d sacrificed my friends’ lives for the lives of others. I had thought about little else since it all happened. Now, I was back.
I had to tell Soliah that his dear friend was responsible, but I knew that he would never believe such a story. I would need proof before I sprung it on him. Something Soliah had said was gnawing at my brain, something that had bothered me for a long time. He had promised me the entire reservation, including the casino. White men didn’t have Native American Gaming rights, not in Minnesota.
I rubbed my face and stared out into the wa
ter with my elbows resting on my knees. I didn’t know what to believe and I wanted a drink worse than I’ve ever wanted one. Everything seemed to be getting away from me, and I thought that there was no way I could gather it all in before it suddenly swept me away. I was in a quandary, torn between telling Odd Whitefeather the rest of the story and staying mute, hoping that somehow we’d get out of this alive. I turned my head and found myself staring into his weathered face. I turned my head and looked for Crooked Walker and Dog Breath, but they were gone.
“You and I need to have a talk.” Odd Whitefeather said, putting his arm across the back of the bench. “There is something you need to know.”
“I need to tell you something, too.”
“I shall go first, I am your elder. As a matter of fact, young Huckleberry, you are my grandson. I have been searching for a way to tell you, but first, you needed to pass the three great tests.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I asked, a numb sense of shock washing over me like a rogue wave.
“It’s a long story and we don’t have much time. It will take me many years to tell it. Always remember that my blood runs through your veins. You’re not like other men and it’s about time you understood that. You are next in line, do you understand me?”
“No, no, no… I am not your grandson, my last name is… Brindle...” I said this as my stomach fell to the bottom of my bare feet. I had just put it all together and it roared inside my head like a D-9 Cat. I put my head in my hands and moaned.
Chapter Six
Brindle's Odyssey Page 9