Then there were the dreams. Sayau became a manang because of vivid dreams he had as a young boy that his grandfather deciphered for him. His grandfather would tell him: “A man becomes a manang in obedience to commands spoken in his dreams by the spirits. To neglect these commands brings punishment by death or madness inflicted by the enraged specters.”
Sayau couldn’t ignore the nightly revelations, but he wanted to shake the images that he was now having—dark, chaotic and dreadful. If only Grandfather were here to help me interpret them. In the dreams, the only consistency was the heightened state of danger and the running. He was always running, always being chased.
There was also the smell. It was a combination of the rotten garbage and sewage from the dirty side of the longhouse, combined with the decaying corpse of an animal from the jungle. He’d practiced daily pirings, offerings of food and drink, to the gods. He’d even performed genselan twice since the illness had descended onto his community—slaughtering a pig and sprinkling the blood on the doorposts of their homes. But the stink and the dreams remained. Ignoring them was not an option and would only bring more haunting of the spirits.
Sayau sniffed the air and thought that even now he could smell the bitter stench. My imagination is playing tricks on me. The evil spirits could do that, coming in and out of the physical world at will. He squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them wide, trying to absorb every fraction of light. He should be to the big bend in the river shortly, then the warm fires of the longhouse and glow from kerosene lamps would welcome him home.
He wished his grandfather would be there to meet him—to put his arm around him and comfort him, to reassure him that someday he, too, would achieve the level of manang bali.
The ceremony to become a manang bali was the one ritual Grandfather refused to talk about. Sayau was twelve when his grandfather went through the bali, the change, but he remembered clearly the other manangs that came to officiate the ceremony. With their ornate headdresses of rooster and pheasant feathers and their torsos adorned with mystical tattoos, they’d strutted in like the champion fighting cocks that Sayau loved to watch battle in the gaming rings.
This highest level was only obtained when a man changed his sex. No one except the witch doctors witnessed this rite, and it was rumored they made offerings of pigs, chickens, eggs, and tuak, the local rice brew, to the gods. At the end of the mysterious ritual, the chief’s wife had vested Sayau’s grandfather in a female garment. Then the witch doctors had introduced him to the assembly with a new name. Even to the Iban, the process was so unnatural it could only be obtained by supernatural means.
Sayau’s boat bumped a floating log he hadn’t seen in the black of night. He reached back, killed the small outboard motor and tilted the propeller out of the water. He was close enough to drift home.
He sat on the boat’s wooden seat and leaned against the motor for warmth. The cooling engine clicked and hummed, then quieted. He tightened the burlap around his shoulders and looked to the sky, but clouds shrouded the stars, and all that he could see were varying shades of black. Grandfather, are you here?
For a moment, Sayau thought his grandfather was speaking in his heart, but the sound he perceived was only a low rumble from the jungle. No, it was a growl. Or was it a hiss? It was a noise he had never heard before. Was it a leopard or the Iban’s great ape, the orangutan? Sayau straightened, dropped the burlap from his shoulders and grabbed for the machete at his feet.
He opened his mouth, sucking in small sips of air, and his heart pounded in his head. He saw only darkness, but his ears were on high alert.
Something was out there, and he was floating past it. He held the steel machete in front of his body to shield himself from an attack. It never came, but his memory ignited with stories his grandfather had told of the pasun, lizard, the demon-hunting dog of the underworld. His grandfather would try to imitate the pasun’s snarl but would get frustrated and say, “You’ll recognize it when you hear it.”
That must be it. The demon dog of the antu gerasi, the Iban devil that hunts the souls of those who disobey the warnings revealed to them in dreams and omens. His grandfather had warned him: “Sayau, if you hear the pasun, the evil Huntsman is not far away, and you should quickly abandon your work and return home to burn the lukai tree bark.”
Sayau twisted from side to side, flashing the blade through the air. The demon Huntsman was the most feared of all the spirits, said to be covered in coarse hair and possessing the strength of ten men. Even the sharp machete would be useless against him.
Sayau was glad he would be home soon to burn the lukai bark to protect his people. The longboat bumped along the edge of the right bank.
Yes, he was at the large bend before the longhouse. He blindly felt for the paddle at the bottom of the boat, and holding both the oar and the knife in his hands he pulled the paddle through the water and into the main current of the river. As he had done thousands of times, he would steer the bow across the water and to the bank below the village.
But as he rounded the bend and the wooden longhouse came into view, a sense of dread filled his mind. It was evening, and the vibrant community should have been alive with activity—parents corralling their children to bed and the elders sitting on the porch smoking and sipping tuak. Something was wrong.
Sayau let the tip of the boat slide onto the muddy bank, and he searched his home with his eyes and ears. Smoke from the cooking fires filled his nostrils, and two kerosene lanterns glowed from each end of the structure, but there was no sound and no movement.
With the stealth and agility of a cat, he climbed the length of the boat and jumped onto the shore, placing the paddle on the ground and tightening his grip on the machete. He glanced over each shoulder and then stepped toward the dirt path to the longhouse, his bare feet not making a sound. He recited the protection incantation under his breath as he crept forward.
He took two steps at a time, stopping halfway up to search his surroundings, then made his way to the top of the stairs.
At the patio, he stopped when a bamboo slat creaked under his weight, and he waited and listened. Nothing. Where were his people? They would not abandon their shelter unless they were attacked. Grandfather had told stories of tribal wars and headhunting, but that was ancient history. The Iban had lived in relative peace for a hundred years. The taste of fear coated the back of his throat.
He took three more quick steps across the patio and thought he saw movement but decided it was the flicker of the lamps. The main door to the longhouse was open, and he took small steps toward it. The final bamboo slats squeaked against their lashings.
Sweat dripped from his brow, and he reached for the wooden door. The interior of the longhouse was dark, and he stood at the threshold trying to see inside.
He may have smelled it before seeing it—the musky odor of a wild animal—but the creature hit him square in the chest. Covered in dirt and thick hair, it drove him back and farther back. Its massive shoulders lifted Sayau off the ground. Its eyes flashed with red-hot rage.
He was helpless against the Huntsman’s power.
The creature drove him across the patio to the dirty side of the longhouse. Would the monster stop before propelling him into the garbage and sewage below?
The demon slowed its push, and Sayau realized that it had skewered him on a spear through his abdomen. He didn’t understand why he wasn’t in more pain. The monster pushed farther and farther back until his back smashed through the railing and he fell into the debris with the creature breathing its wretched breath in his face.
That smell. That awful smell. It was all Sayau was aware of.
The Huntsman roared and yanked the spear from Sayau’s belly. The demon laughed and with eyes ablaze in madness, he plunged the spear into Sayau’s chest.
Sayau could do nothing as the Huntsman lifted its hairy arms and roared again—nothing except surrender unto death.
CHAPTER 1
BLINDED
; JANUARY
“What do you see, Mr. Hart?”
What a stupid question to ask a blind man. Nick was not going to answer it. With his ears submerged in water, he pretended not to hear. He didn’t want to be here; it was a waste of time. The warm water he floated in only intensified the heat rising in his soul and the darkness into which his world had descended.
After departing Turkey, he’d spent two weeks in London undergoing surgeries on both eyes. He’d been under the watchful care of one of the world’s leading eye surgeons. The surgeon and his team had been hopeful when he started to see shadows until scarring covered his corneas, and the shadows disappeared. At first, Nick had faithfully followed instructions, inserting eye drops multiple times a day, but when he saw no changes or improvements, he became less compliant. He hung his hopes on his surgeon’s words: “Sometimes these things reverse themselves.”
After a second and third opinion back in the States, he’d learned that a corneal transplant might be an option in a few months, but “there is no guarantee.” He realized with irony that it was the same caveat he had given to many of his own patients with difficult bone deformities.
The last thing he remembered seeing was the red laser dot on the terrorist’s forehead—a point in time five months ago when his life exploded. Memories of the White Snake’s cold-blue eyes and steely smirk triggered his adrenals to pump adrenaline through his veins. Nick panicked, gasping for breath. He flailed his arms and kicked his feet.
“Stop, Mr. Hart,” the man’s voice said. “Relax. I’ve got you.”
Large hands gripped his shoulders. Nick tried to surrender and go limp. He lolled against his supports, and his ears gurgled with water.
“Can you let go, Mr. Hart?”
“I don’t think I can do this,” Nick murmured. He willed against his fight-or-flight reflex. He was no longer in the cold operating room at the hands of his torturers, so he tried focusing on where he was—in a therapy pool straining to gain new perspective on his life with sightless eyes. Now that he was helpless at the mercy of this man, there was nothing to do but submit and hope it would be over soon.
“Relax, Mr. Hart,” the man said. “Breathe.”
Nick inhaled through his nose for a count of five, then exhaled for a count of ten. Why had he let his dad talk him into this ridiculous therapy? Yes, it was good to be back in Montana, but even that didn’t completely relax him. Instead, it filled him with more sadness than his heart could bear, because he could no longer see the beloved mountains that surrounded his hometown of Whitefish, and he’d never behold the glorious peaks of nearby Glacier Park. He’d never be able to hike the trails meandering through high meadows of wildflowers and towering alps in the summer. He’d never be able to ski the fresh powder of Big Mountain in the winter.
“Mr. Hart, you’re okay.”
His world had shrunk to this—pool therapy.
Nick’s father had started this. “People fly in from around the world to see the man,” he’d told Nick. “The least you can do is give it a try while you’re home.”
Nick tried to divert his mind by wondering how big this pool was and what the surroundings were like. He wished he’d asked those questions before allowing himself to be led down four steps into the water and to a stranger—a man he was trusting to keep him alive in water of unknown depth.
What is his name? Wong? Chong?—something like that—Chinese I guess. Not North Korean, I hope. Nick shivered at the memory.
He was wary of the therapy, especially the loss of control, even though foam noodles were supporting his back and legs and a small raft was under his head to keep his face out of the water. But with his ears submerged, the sound was eerie. He guessed the humming was the pool pumps and the splashing, a waterfall cascading into the pool.
Worst of all, this guy called him Mr. Hart. Whatever happened to Dr. Hart? Oh yeah, he’s dead. He was no longer Dr. Nicklaus Hart—no longer the talented trauma surgeon or the confident defender of the broken. He was no longer the sought-after nurses’ catch or the proud pilot of the aqua-blue Porsche Carrera. He still owned the car, but it sat idle, gathering dust in the garage—a reflection of his own life.
“I’ve got you, Mr. Hart.”
So here he was, Mr. Hart—poor Nick—I’m praying for you, Nick—I can’t stand to see you this way, Nick. He was ultimately blind Nick.
Depression and loneliness churned the water and filled his ears. He punched the liquid, struggling for breath and light. But it was no use. His spirit was broken. When the flash grenade took his sight, it took everything. In the past, he hadn’t known the real impact of a grenade when he used the word as a metaphor. Back in his practicing days, he had said a divorce was like a grenade tossed in the middle of a household, dividing a once vibrant family.
Now a grenade had exploded his life, and nothing was left. He could no longer command the head position at the operating table. His income was zero, and his savings were bleeding out. Perky nurses that had cornered him with smiles and bottles of booze no longer darkened his door. He didn’t blame them. Who would want to date him in this condition?
“Breathe.”
Nick sighed. He had nothing to offer the world. Hell, he couldn’t even get himself to the store. He had gone from being fully alive to becoming a screeching disability—even a burden. Of course his friends and family never, ever complained, but they had their own lives to live. And then there was Maggie. The darkness erased so many of his hopes. Heaviness filled Nick’s chest, and his shoulders quaked as he began to weep. He could not hold back his grief.
“Yes, there it is,” the man said. “What do you see?”
Grief turned to panic when the support under the small of his back disappeared, setting Nick adrift like an untethered boat in an ocean. Storms raged in his heart and mind and fear gripped his soul. He tasted the fear on the back of his tongue and heard ringing in his ears. He was sure his chest would explode.
He splashed frantically, trying to gauge the man’s location by the sound of his voice, causing the noodle supporting his shoulders to slip away and plunging his face under water. The more he flailed, the worse it got. Without the slightest indication of where the side of the pool was or which way was up, Nick was trapped in a riptide of panic. He fought for breath, gulped a mouthful of chlorinated water and sank to the depths. The terror of drowning gripped his mind until hands clutched his waist and lifted him up so his head came out of the water.
“Stand up. Stand up, Mr. Hart.”
Nick coughed and gagged. His feet touched the bottom of the pool, and his torso felt air, turning his panic to anger.
“You could have told me I was in four feet of water, you asshole!” Nick yelled. “And, by the way, it’s Dr. Hart.” He coughed again and pushed himself free of the man’s grip. “I’m done here,” he yelled and moved to where he imagined the side of the pool was.
Nick had taken three steps to his right when the bottom dropped out from under him. He staggered and slipped underwater, gulping another mouthful. Anger tumbled to terror, and his mind thrashed for purchase as fast as his arms and feet. He screamed but the bubbles swallowed his words.
Then an arm encircled his waist and clung tightly, dragging him out of the deep water. Nick gulped for air and shook his wet head. Still holding him, the man encouraged him to stand. Nick gingerly got to his feet until his upper body lifted out of the water.
“Nicklaus, it is okay. I have you, my friend.”
Terror subsided to relief as the man guided him to the steps and placed his hands on the railing leading out of the pool.
“Can we be done? I think I’m done,” Nick said pulling himself up the steps and groping for the granite pool deck.
“Yes, yes, of course. If that serves you.”
Nick defiantly stood, took two steps onto the granite, and drove his shin into the side of something hard and immoveable. He fell against the object and landed hard on the deck. All his emotions—fear, grief, anger, terror—boil
ed to the surface. He rolled to a sitting position, rubbed his shin and cursed everything, especially his own sorry life. His eyes filled with tears.
Then he felt a warm towel wrap around his shoulders. “That was an excellent start,” the man said.
Nick’s tears dissolved into a chuckle and then a laugh. “That’s what you call a good start, huh?”
Nick felt the man’s warm breath on his face and realized they were sitting beside each other. The man smelled of incense. It was a comforting aroma, and Nick started to relax.
The man took his arm and laughed with him. It was a deep and reassuring laugh, like a Santa Claus. “Yes, a very good start, indeed.”
Nick used the corner of the towel to wipe his face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get so angry at you and call you that name.”
“I’ve been called much worse,” the man said and chuckled. “Here is some water.” He guided a cup to Nick’s hand.
Nick took a drink. It held a hint of strawberries and cleared the chlorine from his throat. “Thank you.”
“Can you tell me what you saw?” the man asked.
Nick laughed. “Why do you keep asking me that? You do know I’m blind, right?”
The man replied by squeezing Nick’s arm.
Nick puffed air out between his lips. He’s not going to let this go. “I haven’t thought about this for a long time, but I saw an image of a friend who drowned when I was young. I had joined the swim team here in Whitefish. It was only my third day of practice and a friend, Brian, had a seizure in the water and drowned. It was the image of the EMTs giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. We all sat by stunned.”
“How old were you?”
“Hmmm, I guess about nine or ten. They did chest compressions that seemed to go on forever. I remember watching Brian throw up as they did mouth-to-mouth. The EMT spit it out and continued.” Nick’s chest began to quake uncontrollably.
The Rusted Scalpel Page 2