by M J Preston
Then he began to pray.
“I believe in the Spirit Mother Earth. I believe in the guardians of both worlds. Oh, Spirit Mother Earth, protect me.”
He lay the contents of the medicine bag out and put some green branches atop the flames.
“I offer you the sweet tobacco of my ancestors,” he said, sprinkling the small amount of dried powder over the flames. As it smoldered he bathed his hands in it and filled his pipe with jimson weed and bearberry, then said, “I offer you sweet the bark of these spruce woods, Spirit Mother.” He puffed on the pipe, continued to smudge, and his words became a chant as the smoke swirled about and engulfed him. “Give me the strength to see that which should not be seen. Show me that which should not be shown as I pledge myself to right the wrong even if it means my life, oh Great Spirit Mother Earth.”
He removed the vial of blood from his pocket and set it beside the other items as he picked up his knife and waved it through the smoke, washing away its negative energy.
“You must purify the mark,” Toomey said.
Using the knife’s jagged tip, Blackbird pierced the top of the fifteen-year-old scar on his cheek, and from it, blood flowed. Dormant nerves within the scar tissue came back to life, sending sparks of fresh hot pain up into his eye and down his jawline.
He set the tip of his knife in the coals of the fire. Then, using the fingers on both hands, he pried open the wound and ignoring the pain thrust his head into the swirling smoke, letting it filter into the gash. Droplets of blood fell and sizzled on the heated rocks as he put his index and middle finger into the wound, then pulled them back.
Using his own blood, he set two marks on either cheek, and as he bathed himself in the smoke, he continued his chant. “I offer you the magic of Nekoneet, my grandfather, wise man and teacher who stood firm against the evil of the black orb’s abomination.”
He tossed the leather pouch and the remaining contents into the fire. The flames flared, and the pouch turned to ash in the inferno. He felt the Jimson Weed anesthetizing him and kept his face bathing in the smoke. With his left hand he reached down and took the blade from the fire, its tip glowing white hot – and as he squeezed the scar together, he brought the tip down upon it and cauterized the wound.
He let a shrill cry and fell sideways. Burning agony expanded upward into his right eye socket and down into his mouth. The bleeding stopped instantly, and darkness swallowed him whole.
6
“Tonight, you will spend time with your loved ones,” Old Jake said to them as they stood in the talking circle on the outcropping overlooking the ancient village. In his hand he held an eagle’s feather, giving him dominion over the group. Not one of them was allowed to talk while he held the feather. The response was limited only to murmurs or nods of acknowledgment.
Distracted, Proudfoot stood silently, looking over the grounds of his people as he listened to Old Jake give his oration. He wondered if he would ever see this place again.
The others were also silent: Fortier, Michano, and Monias, all men twice his age who spoke little except to address the Chocktee law. Many times, they gathered in the council hut: a stone building built before the white man set out on his first Great War of the last century. There they would talk in the ancient language – not the one he or Daniel had learned, but an older dialect that would die with them.
“The Brave Hunter Blackbird has descended upon a village where the spirit of Jackanoob holds still. A struggle is imminent, my brothers, and after many years of walking alone it is time for us to take flight and assist our brother.”
Toomey stood motionless as the others waited for him to continue. The Northern Wind blew his grey hair like spider webs about his weathered face. He stood statuesque, bringing his gaze upon each of them dramatically.
He continued, “Our people have lived out here for centuries. Their bloodline and fate were changed on the day Jackanoob bargained away our future. For over two hundred years we were guarded and kept this ritual secret, but that time has passed. What we do in the coming days will alter the future of our people. Some of you may ask: why are we concerned with one evil figure when the world is awash in the blood of immorality? It is a good question, but only one a fool would ask.”
He paused and smiled.
Proudfoot laughed, as did the others.
“Go now: make peyak with your families, but tomorrow we are nîyânan.”
Toomey stepped away from the talking circle and walked off down the path without another word, feather still poised in his grasp.
There was a confused silence as they watched him go. Rick Monias laughed first, then Fortier said, “Old Jake sure knows how to exit a talking circle.”
The others joined in with the laughter. Then, laughter expelled, they scattered – all except Proudfoot, who stood at the outcropping a moment longer. He so loved this place, the tradition, and his people. His missed his talks with Aunt Janice, the soothing words of Grandfather, and now he missed Daniel.
They were truly blood brothers, Daniel and he. The large knife he carried was an exact copy of the one Blackbird had used to cut open and close the wound on his face.
They had performed the ritual of becoming blood brothers one day in the late eighties, at the height of summer. Other boys watched in fascination as the two cut their hands, clasped and bound them with a piece of cloth. For two hours they sat there, and all he said when it was over was, “It is done.”
The rest of the world did not understand the significance of this place or that it was the last of its type. The Chocktee were not supposed to be here: they only existed because of the concordat that Jackanoob had made.
7
Blackbird opened his eyes and stood up, but his body was still, and it took him a second to realize he was no longer in it. For a moment he felt nauseous, but as he adapted he began to wonder, Is this astral travel, or lucid dreaming? Staring down upon himself he considered the possibility he might be dead, but then his body stirred as if to remind him not to abandon it.
Above him, the sky was black and without light. Around the rock, too, was only blackness. As his spirit-self moved along the edge of the lighted circle, he could see something swimming inside the darkness. He did not know what it was, but he did know one thing – it terrified him.
Then a voice he loved and trusted spoke.
“I will watch over you, my child,” his mother promised.
He brought up his hand, waving it in front of the blackness, then dared to touch it with his fingertip. It rippled like liquid, and he asked, “How will I be able to breathe?”
“You were born in liquid, little one. Do not fear.”
He took one last look at himself there on the rock as the fire flickered before him – and then he stepped off the rocky island and into the black abyss, feeling its shroud pull him into the darkness. His stomach fluttered as he began to fall, his heart thumped in his ears, mixed with the echoes of a language he could not understand.
He did not need to breathe or see: he was blind and could not physically feel his body. He was in the state of mind one feels as they travel through the world of dreams: disconnected and without control.
His heartbeat thumped louder. He began to understand some of what was being said. At first, he thought he heard, “Soiled feet.” Then he felt its anger ripple through him as he fell ever deeper.
“Boompa Boompa Boompa,” the pulse exclaimed.
“Soiled Feet,” its distant voice said.
Is this a riddle? He couldn’t understand.
The voice was muffled as if it came from the other side of a wall, and the heartbeat thumping in his ears did not help even as it receded.
“Gungry,” it said – and suddenly he felt its madness as if it were his own. With madness came comprehension. Its ancient thoughts started to unravel, conjugate, and he began to understand.
“Hun
gry, so hungry.”
He was falling toward a filtered light now.
“Spoiled meat,” it lamented. “So hungry.”
A shriek filled his ears, almost driving him insane. It echoed on and on to the thumping tempo of its black heart. Now he felt the ache of its hunger.
“Spoiled meat.”
I’m inside its mind.
Then it said something he did understand.
“Unrelenting, never stop, must kill.”
The creature was talking about him. He felt its fear and understood he was the source of that fear, but it gave him little reassurance.
The sensation of falling ceased. Now Blackbird felt himself hovering just beyond the filtered light, listening to the madness of its shriek mingling with the agony of its hunger.
“Spoiled meat!”
It was having a tantrum.
Why am I here? he thought. What is it I am supposed to learn from this?
The light behind the shroud shifted, and he drew closer, trying to see. As he did, he began to understand he was behind its eyes, staring outward.
“So hungry! The pain, the pain! So hungry!”
At first, it was unclear what he (it) was looking at, although he guessed that the creature was not so much searching, just lost in thought. From behind its eyes, he could barely see a wall, and on the wall, there was a picture with something on it. It was not clear; the veil blurred it – though this was not a veil at all. Its eyes were out of focus as it concentrated on the pain of hunger.
Focus, he thought, trying to decipher what was written there.
(eed delv) was all he could make out.
Then came flashes from above and below him, blocking out the view. He began to hear the shrill cries of terror. The mental picture before him shifted then and he felt himself pulling back away as the thumping of the creature’s black heart grew louder.
“You must leave now,” a voice said. “It will hear your thoughts.”
He was falling again, back to the waking world while all around the synapses of the creature’s mind sparked and its many memories of murder and mayhem were played out before him. There was desperation, there were cries, begging for forgiveness and horrible bone-crunching sounds.
“You have seen what you need to see,” the voice said again, and Blackbird recognized it as the frail voice of the Elder Jackanoob.
But had he?
The last words echoed about him as he fell back to earth.
8
His eyes were sticky with sleep, and his head pounded as if from a hangover. He could smell the embers of the fire and feel the flash of pain from his cauterized wound.
eed delv, he thought. That is what I did this for? What is it?
The sun was still shining, and a mild breeze gently pushed his mother’s dream catcher this way and that. His right arm had fallen asleep, and his knee ached from the laying on top of something. All around him there was silence.
Blackbird lay still. His bones ached. It seemed like a lot of work for nothing, the clearing of the rock, the fire, the sacrifice of his grandfather’s offering. He could barely remember what he had seen and what he did remember were the creature’s chaotic thoughts. Those he wished he could forget.
He forced himself to stand and pack the belongings that remained. He had trouble keeping his balance at first but steadied himself using the tripod. As he did this, he took down the dream catcher. Then he removed the tattered feather from his braid and wrapped it, along with his other treasures, in the oiled cloth he used to keep his knife free of rust. Then he folded the poncho.
Daniel glanced back down at the vial of black blood. The temptation was still there: he was so tired, and the road had been so long.
Why not, he thought.
“Because it is not your way.” Grandfather echoed.
“I have lost my way,” he said hopelessly.
Grandfather fell silent.
Guiltily Blackbird placed the vial into his pocket after wrapping it in Kleenex. He could only wonder how he must look after cutting open his face and smearing blood on it.
“My days of snaring squaws have passed, Grandfather,” he laughed aloud.
After ensuring the fire was out, he set back down toward the town. Along the way, he stopped at a small stream and splashed cold water on his face and cleaned up. That helped, but still, he ached terribly and not just in his face. His whole body felt banged up and abused.
He had purchased a Pay-As-You-Go cell phone at the local convenience and pulled out the business card the cab driver had given him. He was still too deep in the woods to get a signal on the phone but knew a mile out there had been three bars. When he was closer, he would give the cab driver a call.
He tried to keep what he saw fresh in his mind so that when the others arrived, he would be able to consult them. Maybe they could make sense of it. As far as he was concerned, he was not sure he had done anything except poison himself with the creature’s psychosis. He did not know if he could do that again without going stark raving mad. Unfortunately, Blackbird thought that this was just a test run of this new ability.
This afternoon he would call Chief Logan to arrange a meeting and somehow try to convince him of the danger that was coming.
“How the fuck am I going to do that, Toomey?” he said aloud and laughed. “Well you see, Chief, there’s this monster I’ve been tracking and, well…” He broke up into giddy laughter, then, unknowingly, echoed Hopper: “I am so fucked.”
The cell phone beeped: it had made communication with a tower.
He pulled out the card and punched the buttons.
“Morneau Taxi,” the voice on the other end of the static answered.
“Hi Bobby, it’s Dan. I’m finished my hike. Can you meet me at the same place you dropped me off?”
“Sure, Dan. How did it go and what time?”
“Forty minutes. I’ll explain my hike when you pick me up,” he said, already formulating a back-story to explain the fresh white burn mark on his cheek.
“Sounds good, Dan. I’ll be there with bells.”
9
“Geez, you sure you don’t want me to take you over to Emergency?” Morneau’s eyes widened. He looked confused, even a bit alarmed, but beyond the scar, Blackbird had no idea why. He added quickly, “You’re lucky you didn’t bleed to death out there.”
“No, I’m fine. I hear you about lucky and the odds of ripping open an old scar. My past is coming back to haunt me.” He tried to sound humble and embarrassed. Looking at the rearview mirror and into the cabby’s eyes, he attempted to gauge whether or not he was buying the story. Not that it would matter, soon enough.
Morneau was putting the car into gear. “It’s been a crazy day, Dan.”
“Really? How so,” Blackbird asked.
“Well, Scott Masterson was found dead on a bridge over the Red River, and they say it was some kind of freak accident.” Morneau stepped on the gas a bit. “Old man Masterson got the word and dropped like a stone from a heart attack an hour after the cops visited him.”
“What kind of freak accident?”
“Poor guy smacked his melon on a guardrail,” Morneau said. “My sister is a dispatcher for the fire department – she heard them talking about it. Poor kid! Wasn’t that bright, but he was okay. You know?”
“Yeah, he seemed like a nice guy.” Blackbird leaned back in his seat, wondering if Skin had a hand in this. It could have been an accident, but he doubted it. “Do you think I’ll have to vacate my room when I get back?”
“No; for now, Dennis is going to run the place until some of Masterson’s family can come in from out of town – but when that happens I think it’ll be the end of Thomasville’s first motel.”
Morneau fell silent then, and Blackbird was thankful. They were thirty minutes from the motel, and he needed to close hi
s eyes.
***
Chapter 14 - Exit Strategies and Confessions
1
September 22, 2009
“Sign right here and here,” Logan said as Pearson autographed the paperwork that had been drawn up for prisoner transfer. He moved that sheet, set it aside. “And here.”
“Great being in the computer age, isn’t it?” Pearson remarked autographing another page. “Remember when they said it was going to be a paperless world?”
They were in Logan’s office finishing the formalities that would release Hopper from the custody of the Thomasville Police Department and make him the ward of Artisan Institute under the secure supervision of Pearson and Cooper.
“Reporters are already tearing down,” Cooper remarked.
Mick chimed, “Good riddance.”
“Okay, Ron, last one.” Logan handed two pages across the desk. Pearson signed them and then Logan placed each page in its respective stack. One was for Thomasville’s files, and the other was accompany Pearson and Cooper. He sealed the paperwork in a manila envelope and handed it over to Pearson, who took it and placed it in his briefcase.
“Thanks, Dave.” Pearson snapped the briefcase closed.
Logan said, “Mick, can you close the door and the blinds?”
Mick stepped inside and closed the door behind him, followed by the blind to the single window. Logan reached down and opened his bottom desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of Crown Royal and the four paper cups he had taken from the lunch room.
“I know this is kind of cliché, but I wanted to tell that this has been the worst detail I have ever had the displeasure of serving on,” he said as he poured two fingers of whiskey in each cup and handed them to each officer. “I would also like to say that I hope I never deal with something like this again in my lifetime – but if I ever do, I can’t think of three more professional men to work with. Ron, Coop, Mick, you have made this detail one that was bearable. I salute you. If I take anything away from this, it is the knowledge that I have been in the company of some of the country’s most outstanding police officers.”