by M J Preston
“You are one of those hunters, a broken down old man?” It grinned, more drool spilling from the corner of its mouth, but there was insecurity in its retort.
“Yes, I am but an old Chocktee Warrior – but the men who have been marked are young and strong. They will not relent. They will follow you day and night. You will have to feed on animal meat because wherever you go, they will be watching.”
“You’re lying,” it growled.
“I have already scattered them to the wind. You will not see them, but they will smell you; they already have the scent of your blood. The same pull that has drawn the hunter now leads the hearts of ten hunters.” Toomey could feel it trying to probe him, but he would not succumb to its pull. He was succeeding: he could feel its uncertainty.
“You are a long way from your people to be spinning such tales.”
“I don’t spin tales, Jackanoob. I am the eldest and wisest Chocktee of my nation, and just as you once were, I am bound by truth. You will go and meet the hunter on the sour ground, or we will let loose the hunters, and you will spend your days in this world feasting on raccoons and squirrels.” Toomey’s voice was high and confident.
“I don’t believe you,” it lied.
“Always hungry, never daring to eat anything bigger than a rodent. What a pitiful existence you will have.” He was pushing harder now, maybe a little too hard, but time was short.
The Walker shrieked and dug its lower claws into the roof of the police cruiser, driving great holes into the metal. It felt vulnerable, even afraid, but worse: it could feel the disease that plagued it. The agonizing emptiness of hunger was returning. “Don’t push me, Jake Toomey: I could open you in the heartbeat of a shrew.”
“You will meet the hunter on the sour ground,” Toomey snapped.
“What then?” it snapped right back.
“You will fight! His magic against yours.”
“What magic could that be?”
“The magic of Nekoneet, the Great Chocktee Elder you struck down.”
It cackled once more, a chalkboard echo of scrapings and feedback. “It will be a short event. What are the terms of this challenge?”
“If you win, the hunters will relent.”
“I will win.”
“Arrogance is a trait that is unbecoming, even for a beast such as you.”
The creature laughed. “You have a lot of nerve, Jake Toomey. Your grandfather Igasho would approve of the steel in your bones.”
It pounced from the car, pulling him in, their faces close enough to touch. Toomey could smell the stink of rot coming off it. He fought the urge to gag.
Look into my eyes.
It was trying to lull him but Jake would not be quieted. He instead focused on the papery skin that clung to the creature’s bones. “You really should wash, Jackanoob. You smell like a salmon five days after its final spawn.”
“What will be your prize should the hunter prevail?” its voice patronized.
“You return to Spirit Woods.”
It laughed aloud at the prospect.
“Laugh if you like, but that is the provisos.”
It released him. In a flash it was back on top of the car, towering above, sniffing the air for the scent of fear – but it detected none. “So I am supposed to let you go so that you can bring the message to the hunter of my coming?”
Jake Toomey grinned, readying himself as he undid the sheath which held his bone handled knife. “I would expect nothing of the sort.”
The Walker watched in amazement as the old man brought out a knife. The glint of steel hardened and pocked from years of use caught what little light remained in the darkening sky. It was awestruck at the steadiness in the old man.
The creature remembered something Igasho had said in its other life: “Now we pay for our sins.”
Igasho, the Chocktee Warrior, whose only wish was to be forever young and unrestrained by politics or time. Igasho’s blood ran deep through this brave old man’s veins, and it admired his courage, foolhardy or not.
“You are going to fight me, with that?”
“Let’s get busy, Jackanoob! I have business with my ancestors and friends.” Toomey flicked the knife threateningly through the air. “Maybe I will spare the hunter his challenge and send you back to the void myself.”
The Walker changed, fading into the dark man that solicited prostitutes from the streets of Chicago. “You have heart, old man. The warrior Igasho runs rampant even through your dried up bones, but I will not engage you in battle.”
Toomey was motionless, confused by the Walker’s reaction.
“You go back to the hunter and tell him I’m coming. The Guardians are likely following you every time you take a step, waiting for your heart to seize. Get out of my sight. You are not a warrior any longer: just a messenger.” It waved him off like a nuisance. “Tell him I’m coming.”
Toomey did not move. “Are you afraid of me, Jackanoob?”
“Afraid?” It snorted. “Have you looked into the gleam of the blade you would try and slay me with? No, of course not, so I will tell you what I see. I see spoiled meat. Death lurks so closely. You would not feed my hunger if you were the last man on earth. Your time is almost done, old man. I will not cheat you of what little you have left. Go now, or I will leave this place and leave you and your hunters to the chase.”
So Toomey turned and began to amble away, the knife at his side, thinking that it might jump him from behind – yet when he glanced back to see, it hadn’t moved.
Now what?
Walking down the hill, angry with the outcome, he tried to formulate a plan that included him. It would take too long to reach the sour ground.
Then from behind, he heard the flap of wings. A shadow passed over him, and Toomey’s hairs stood up on the back of his neck with the chill of death. Ten feet ahead it waited, half-man, half-creature, its long hair hung over its dark eyes as it unfurled its deadly talons, spreading its elongated arms.
“Nôtinew!”
Toomey froze, recognizing the ancient language and the word which meant battle. Fire flared in his heart, and his warrior blood again boiled with anticipation. His eyes darkened, steeling himself for one last battle. Bringing the old knife up, a vicious scowl fell from his eyes across the weathered landscape of his face. “Nôtinew!”
Then Toomey ran headlong to his destiny.
To the creature’s surprise, the old man was grinning ear to ear.
6
Logan pulled his car in next to the others around the same time that Toomey locked into his skirmish with Jackanoob. They had parked all the vehicles closer to Donald Wakeman’s place. He noted that Mick had seen to camouflaging them before they walked the last 400 yards to the Hopper farm. He grabbed the satchel and the pipes, placing the one Toomey had asked him to pass to Blackbird in his breast pocket and snapping the button closed over it to keep it from falling out. After getting out of the car, he grabbed some brush and threw it onto the police cruiser. There might have been a moment of insecurity, a second to rethink how insane the world had become, but he was well beyond that now.
I wonder if this is how a madman feels before he goes on a shooting spree?
The comparison was ludicrous. The world might have changed, but Logan was no less sane than he had been yesterday. His actions were for the good of his people. Of this, he was absolute, and though the world had suddenly become a mad place with monsters and spirits, David Logan steeled himself to see it through. Reaching down, he checked his weapon, chambering a round, but did not set the safety before holstering it. Placing the satchel on his neck, he began walking. Droplets of rain began to fall around him as he went.
Maybe Toomey will not be able to convince the shape-changer to come. Perhaps it would kill him and flee. One could selfishly hope, but knowing what he knew now gave him pause to consider th
at the death and destruction would only compound if it did escape. He felt guilty for thinking such thoughts, mainly because he knew that Toomey was looking death in the face. If he wasn’t already dead.
What balls the old guy had. He didn’t even bat an eye when he got out of the car; just raised his hand without a word. Logan squeezed the satchel feeling the contents inside, a silent acknowledgment.
He would have liked to know him better. He looked forward to meeting him again and was now sure he would. He’d seen so much during their meditation of blood and smoke. And not just of the creature, either. Now he understood that this indeed was not the end.
The rain pattered on him a little harder. There was no sun: the swollen clouds saw to that, blotting it out. The vortex above, now almost black, swirled violently as flashes of amber and blue clashed silently within, while the inverted funnel sucked all sanity from the world. He kept his eyes fixed upon the ground, knowing it would lull him and steal his thoughts.
The walls are thinning.
He crossed the field behind the Wakeman place at a faster pace now. Overhead, the sky cast an all-encompassing shadow as though there was an eclipse underway. Silhouettes crossed the prairie landscape, turning the afternoon charcoal grey and stealing the light as they went. The air was ripe with electricity, reminding Logan of the smell the toy train transformer he had bought his son Howard over a decade ago.
He was not aware that he was taking almost the exact path that Derek Wakeman had on that fateful day before everything went wrong. Before that day there had been no bodies, no Hopper, no skinwalker, and no cancer.
Let this be happening in Thomasville only.
He was worried about his kids and Denise. He prayed that they were going about their afternoons oblivious to what was happening in the skies and here on earth.
Up ahead, Logan saw the trees that separated the two properties. He had to give the pipe to Blackbird: that was Toomey’s last wish, and he intended on doing just that. Whether Blackbird or any of them would live beyond today was another matter altogether, yet agonizing over it was pointless.
The woods were only twenty feet away. There was no movement in them.
“God help us,” he murmured, and that’s when he heard Westy.
“Chief,” West whispered.
“Jim? That you?” Logan called back. Happy to hear a familiar voice, his spirits lifted, bringing a grin to his face. Scanning the woods, he saw Westy’s silhouette waving his arm. Looking over his shoulder, he half-expected something to run him down the same way it had Pete Kennedy – but nothing was there. So he bolted into the trees, forgetting for a moment why they were all there.
“Chief, it’s sure good to see you.” West grinned.
“I’m happy to see you too, Jim.” Logan pumped his hand as if they hadn’t seen each other in weeks. “Where’s Mick?”
West pointed to the front end loader. “He’s over there, Chief.”
“Where’s Old Jake?”
Logan gazed over at Westy and frowned. No words were necessary. West didn’t ask about the old guy again; he guessed Logan would let him know if he felt it was appropriate.
Logan saw Blackbird standing alone in the field and then scanned the area for his officers. He picked up Hardy right away and thought he saw Nero and Findlay, but Mick and Oddball were out of sight. “Okay, Jim; you grab Mick for me. I gotta talk to Blackbird. We are on limited time here, so make it snappy.”
“We can’t break the circle, Chief. We are in it for the long haul now,” West said. “You’re going to have to stay here and wait with us until we see this through.”
Logan looked about, scolding himself for pulling over to smoke the herbs Toomey had given him. It was out of his control: he little more than a spectator now, and it appeared that Blackbird was the ringmaster. “What do I do, Jim? How can I help?”
“We wait, Chief. We wait for it to come,” West replied.
And so they did.
7
It came like rolling thunder, blasting through the woods uncaring of who or what got in its way. It did not see the danger nor did it really care. In its claws, it carried a trophy for the hunter, something to show it had no fear of him or the new band of men. It had already reduced their numbers by one, and very soon it would be more. It had only one thing on its mind.
Kill the hunter and be done with this stale place.
It scrambled on all fours like a cougar, ready to pounce and kill whatever got in its way. Ahead it could see something flicker, and it moved in for the strike.
Fortier readied his drum. Proudfoot dropped him at the crossroad to the south of the killing ground. He was in his late fifties, and next to Toomey the oldest on the council. Monias and Machino came after him, and they were only years apart. They were the last living members of the council.
Each council Elder had picked a successor if they were to die or be killed. On the day they set out for Thomasville a new council was put in place. Now five new men oversaw the good of the Chocktee people.
He tightened the lashes on the big drum, tapping it and testing the sound. He did not see the Walker coming from behind, nor did he hear it, but in the last moment of his life he could smell it and reached for his knife.
But it was too late.
8
“Westy, hit the deck!” Logan screamed.
He hit the dirt without even looking – and luckily so. The thing, a mere blur, blew over him, generating an explosion of branches that rained down. If he had been standing it would have mowed him down or worse, cut him in half. West hadn’t even turned over when he heard its horrible shriek, and all he could think was, There’s no stopping this now.
It didn’t see or care about the man it had almost killed: it only saw the Hunter and felt the feverish hunger. It smashed through the trees and stopped directly in front of the unflinching Blackbird. Then it shrieked, and the blast of air was strong enough to blow the hair away from his face. Towering above him, almost seven and a half feet, long arms dangling at its sides, it sniffed the air and looked about.
Then it spoke.
“For you,” it said, dropping the gift at his feet.
What it had been holding were the heads of Toomey and Fortier, but even more horrific that it had used their spinal cords as a lanyard to carry them. The two heads thumped to the ground, mad renditions of a prisoner’s ball and chain.
Hardy covered her mouth to avoid crying out; the others watched and waited.
Blackbird stared up at the creature, his heart once filled with hate now hastened to empathy. He had never been this close, not seen the starvation or the confusion brought on by hunger.
“Well, I have come at your request. Where is this magic you are supposed to carry with you?” it hissed. In one swift movement, it snatched the diamond willow stick from Blackbird’s hand and examined it. “Is this the source of your magic?”
West was turning over now, watching Blackbird, waiting for the signal.
The creature stepped down on Blackbird’s foot and pierced it with its incisor toe. Agony pulsed through him as tendons and bone crunched and snapped. Blackbird balled up his fists, clenched his jaw, holding on. The others began to show themselves. Yet the creature was unaware, and it throttled him with its right claw and hooked his shoulder just below the collarbone.
Blackbird moaned but still said nothing.
“Have you lost the ability to speak?” it asked, clubbing him with the stick. If he had not staked to the ground by its claws, he would fallen. Fresh blood spilled from a gash on the side of his head “Where is your magic, hunter?”
Why the hell doesn’t he do something? Logan thought.
And then Daniel Blackbird did do something.
Through the pain, he managed a smirk and said, “It’s all around you.”
“What?” It did not understand.
“Kihci-manitow!” Blackbird called.
From behind it, West raised the radio and repeated. “Kihci-manitow!”
A voice on the radio responded: “Kihci-manitow!”
Then in the distance, the drums of Chocktee began.
Thump! Thump! Pause – crash!
Around them, the new hunters began their chant clumsily one after another: “Kihci-manitow! Kihci-manitow! Kihci-manitow! Kihci-manitow! Kihci-manitow! Kihci-manitow! Kihci-manitow!”
The creature shrieked and dropped Blackbird, panic running through it.
Trapped! No… trapped! The old man lied!
The members of the ritual circle stepped forward as the drums of Chocktee called to the Guardians – with the absence of Fortier. Monias, Machino, and Proudfoot all understood after that first pause that Fortier was no longer at his post and closed the cadence. They knew the answer to the silent drum.
Thump!
“Kihci-manitow!”
Thump!
“Kihci-manitow!”
Crash!
“Kihci-manitow!”
Forgotten, Blackbird lay bleeding on the ground. The creature paced back and forth, staring at each of them, sizing each up as it frantically looked for an exit.
“Let me out,” It growled.
“Kihci-manitow!”
Thump!
It screeched at Blackbird: “Tell them to release me!”
“Kihci-manitow!” He smiled. “You’re finished!”
It shrieked again and then traced its claw in the lower part of his belly. Daniel looked beyond the creature. Drifting down from the sky in all directions fell raindrops of glowing color. They spattered onto the earth, where they turned to mist, spreading all around them. “The Guardians are coming.”
“No!” it shrieked.
It drew Blackbird up and threw him across the ritual circle, where he hit the dirt – hard. It began to dart around madly and ran at West, screeching, demanding its release. But they were protected by an invisible barrier. No matter its angst or strength it could not break the circle.