The Equinox

by M J Preston

  The Master grinned.

  “Kihci-manitow.”

  It cackled then, hoarse and baritone, then withdrew to the waiting orb as they looked on in terror. Once inside, the hum intensified, the skin began to crawl back over the orb. Inside, the agonizing shriek of Jackanoob echoed on and on.

  They could hear the drums of Chocktee, which had never stopped, begin to rise in domination of the darkness. The dense blue fog which had brought forth the black orb now enveloped it, and it started to melt away like liquid. Above, the clouds rolled backward, revealing a jet black night sky. To the north, south and west beams of green shot up like searchlights from the remaining three drummers.

  Then they saw them.

  From the heavens the Guardians descended, humming as they did.

  “Do you see them?” Mick called.

  “Yes,” West called back. “They’re beautiful; like angels.”

  “Spirit God,” Oddball marveled.

  Blackbird saw the single green orb floating in the woods. He saw it open, saw the ghosts watching and waiting to welcome the fallen. He did not see Logan meet Toomey in the passage, nor did he hear them calling to him.

  He began to lose consciousness, feeling hands upon him and something cold and hard being placed into his hand.

  It was over.

  ***

  Epilogue - The Spirit Walk

  1

  Four months after the Fall Equinox

  They were in the Spirit Woods, just the four of them. A fire crackled as the boys looked on in wonderment, having taken palaver with their Father and the Chief Elder Blackbird. He had healed from his wounds after three months in the Thomasville Hospital, and his brothers and sisters both from the Chocktee of Spirit Woods and Thomasville stood vigil as the doctors put him back together. But though his wounds were healed, the aging had not reversed. His hair now hung loosely like cobwebs about the deeply etched lines in his face.

  He had not been awake when they placed the body of David Logan or the others who had been massacred on that day, into the ground. He slipped in and out of consciousness, wandering the corridors of his mind as he underwent numerous operations. They fused and pinned his broken bones, stitched his foot and shoulder. For all their trying, they had not been able to correct his blind eye. He had trouble with this as his depth perception was gone, but he found the strength to carry on and adjust.

  Once, when he awoke, he saw the woman sitting there staring at him intently. She was pregnant. Her belly had swelled, along with her bosom. She looked beautiful, but the worry on her face wore lines into the corners of her eyes. He did not say anything to her, feeling the dull throb of pain, trying to adjust as his good eye overcompensated and became sore. He was about to slip away into the corridors again when she spoke up.

  “Your mother is very beautiful,” she said and wiped a tear from her right eye using the sleeve of her shirt. “I’m sorry, it’s the baby. My emotions sometimes overtake me.”

  “Where did you…” he started and almost choked: his throat was dry. He motioned to her for the water jug sitting on the nightstand. She poured him a Dixie cup of water. It was near lukewarm, but the moisture lubricated the back of his throat. He began again: “My mother, where did you see my mother?”

  “In the passage.”

  “You were in the passage?”

  “Yes, for a short while. She made me go back. I wanted to stay, but she said I could not. She gave me a message for you.” Tears streamed down her face.

  Blackbird sat up, the pins in his broken bones grating against the healing tissue between his ribs. Yet he welcomed the pain: it served as a reminder that he was alive and not floating in some purgatory between this world and the next.

  “What did she tell you?”

  “She said: ‘Tell him I love him. Tell him that he will be able to go home now. Tell him I will be waiting in the Peace Garden with Da.’” Her voice cracked. “She is so beautiful.”

  Blackbird did not speak then. He just gaped at her with his one good eye and began to cry. No words would come to explain the myriad of emotions that ran through him: the bottled up anger, guilt, and anguish he had carried all these years, becoming heavier with each step. That was why he wanted to die, to be done with this.

  Hardy got up from the chair awkwardly balancing her belly, as pregnant women often do when they rise. She placed a hand in his. It was warm and comforting. She gently touched his head. “Dan, please tell me my baby will be okay.”

  He squeezed her hand tightly but could not find the reassuring words she desperately wanted. He did not think that the skinwalker could have inhabited her child, but he really did not know.

  2

  “Dan,” Proudfoot said from across the fire. “It’s time to get the boys to ground.”

  “No, Papa, we aren’t tired. Uncle, tell us another story,” Young Daniel Proudfoot asked.

  “Please, one more story,” his brother Johnny begged.

  “I am out of stories, but if you listen to your father, I will give both of you something.” Blackbird looked to his cousin and nodded. Proudfoot smiled and went to the pack he had brought on the spirit walk. He reached into it and pulled out leather roll that held the objects. He and Blackbird had placed this there earlier for this moment.

  “Johnny, Daniel, stand before the Chief Elder and prepare to receive counsel,” the father ordered with love and admiration in his voice. He was so proud of them and so happy that he was able to bring Dan home to Spirit Woods.

  He stood beside his cousin, and his two children lined up in front of them. The difference in appearance between him and Blackbird was so drastic that they could have passed for father and son.

  “Thank you, cousin,” Blackbird said taking the leather roll.

  Proudfoot could hear a hint of Grandfather in the pleasantry. He scanned the campsite to see if the old man had joined them, but found nothing. It was all Daniel. They had been out here for three days and three nights, and not far off was the burial ground known as the Peace Garden.

  “This was given to us, when we were just boys, by the bravest man both your father and I have ever known. He was a descendant of a great Warrior Chief named Igasho. His name was Jake Toomey, and he is the bravest, fiercest warrior the Chocktee people have ever known.” Blackbird spread the roll, revealing the two bone handled knives Toomey had crafted for them in their adolescence.

  The boys gasped in awe as Blackbird held a knife in each weathered hand. Upon each of the polished and oiled blades, the flames of the fire flickered. Blackbird held the first knife up to his young cousin Johnny.

  “This is your father’s knife. He has carried it with him his whole life, and I pass it to you with his permission as you are moving toward becoming a man. Use this knife to hunt and aid you in your travels, but never use it in anger. Can you do this, Little John?”

  Little John nodded his eyes wide with excitement and pride. “Yes, Uncle.”

  “Then it is yours to carry,” he said and handed the knife across.

  John took it, his eyes filled with awe.

  “This is my knife,” Blackbird said. “I carried it in my travels, and it is the bond that holds me to this place and your father. I give this knife to you to carry as you walk toward manhood. Never use this knife in anger. Can you do this as well, Young Daniel?”

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  Blackbird handed the knife to his young cousin. “It is yours to carry.”

  They kneeled there, wide-eyed, the crackling fire shining upon their silken black hair, holding the presents with what little amount of discipline young boys can muster when excited and want steal away to enjoy their treasure.

  “Kihci-manitow,” Blackbird said. They responded in turn.

  “Hold on,” Proudfoot laughed at the excitement of his sons. “I have something for you as well.” They looked to one another ev
en more excitedly. He stepped forward, and in his hand, he held two medicine bags. “These were made and blessed by the wisest elder of our people. His name was Nekoneet, but no one except his mother called him that. He, too, was one of the bravest men we knew and loved, and I give you the last two satchels he made on the day he went to the passage.”

  First Little John stepped forward and then Daniel as their father placed the medicine bag around their necks. “This will protect you in your travels. It is powerful because it was made with love and magic.”

  Young Daniel gasped. He clutched the medicine bag tightly.

  “What kind of magic?” Little John asked.

  “Grandfather’s Magic.”

  Blackbird grinned at the boys, and in this light, he looked like the old man more than ever.

  “Grandfather’s Magic,” Proudfoot said and wiped a tear from his eye.

  3

  The boys were fast asleep, nestled into the hooch. Blackbird sat quietly across from his cousin, watching the embers in the fire crackle and pop. The last flames licked the charred pieces of wood, their fuel almost expended. The forest smelled of cedar and the snow blanketing the ground cast light up onto their faces. He removed the pipe that West had tucked into his hand and filled the bowl with herbs and bearberry. Above the trees, aurora borealis ran like watercolor paint across an infinite canvas.

  “When do you leave?” Blackbird asked.

  “The end of the week,” Proudfoot replied.

  “They are awakening?”

  “Yes, the amnesia seems to be wearing off. Mick said the townspeople are starting to become aware. There have been dreams, waking visions. First the relatives of the hunters, then the others. Mick said that his wife knows everything, and she has accepted it.”

  “You will need to prepare them.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “You will be the Chief Elder.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Your boys will learn many things, Johnny. Things they would have never learned here.” Blackbird lit the pipe, passed it across to his cousin, and then exhaled.

  “What will become of our people?”

  “They will move with the time. Grandfather and Toomey knew this day was coming.”

  “I will miss this place very much.” Proudfoot drew and passed the pipe back.

  Blackbird felt drowsy. He considered the hooch they had set up where the boys were now nestled in their sleeping bags. He wanted to go up there and sleep a while: but there was business still at hand. The air was cold tonight, barely repelled by the massive fire they had started to keep warm.

  “What did Mick say about the family that lived on the other side of Hopper’s farm?”

  “He said the town has purchased the land and the family has moved out. Mick had to twist a few arms to get that done, but as more of them start to awaken the easier it has become.”

  Proudfoot also looked tired.

  “This year only the hunters will take up the ritual, but with time as the people come to terms with the responsibility, there must be teachers and counsel. Machino and Monias can see to that.” He had taken on this new authority a lot easier than he thought. “The woman, Sandra, and her husband Don must not partake until her child is born. They may pose a threat.”

  “Yes, I was going to suggest that.” Proudfoot suppressed a yawn.

  “You know what to do, Johnny. Get some sleep, and I will be up shortly.”

  Blackbird looked very much like Grandfather, old and weathered, but serene and thoughtful. He looked to be almost seventy now; it was difficult for him to walk and the scars, though healed, still ached.

  Proudfoot stood up. “Are you okay, Dan?”

  Blackbird was tapping the contents from the pipe. “My bones are aching, but in my head, I am a happy man. I just need a bit of time to collect my thoughts. Can you take this for me?”

  Proudfoot took the pipe from his cousin and yawned again. Overhead the northern lights danced green and yellow. A knot in the fire popped; an owl screeched. “I can stay with you.”

  “No, you go to ground. The pipe is yours now, Johnny. Use it in palaver as you teach the people of the town our ways.” In his foggy eye, the reflected lights of the Spirit Woods danced. “I will be up shortly.”

  “Goodnight, Dan.” Proudfoot did not argue. To do so would be disrespectful of Chocktee tradition.

  As he wandered up the path leading to the hooch, he felt another pang of guilt, but could not undo what had been done. Just beyond the hooch was the cliff and rock outcropping on which Grandfather had spent so many nights with them.

  4

  The light glowed dimly, and that was what caught his good eye as he passed the pipe to his cousin. He waited until he could hear Johnny snoring. Then he stood and began to walk through the snow. Blackbird felt better. The ache in his bones was subsiding with every step he took. The snow was soft beneath his feet, the trees welcoming, the sky lighting the way. The light moved between the trunks, watching him, calling to him. The cold relented, his vision cleared, and the weight fell from his shoulders.

  A silhouette appeared beside a tree in the darkness just outside the warmth of green light. Just beyond loomed other figures that stood in wait.

  The old man stepped from the shadows and into the green light.

  “Hello, Young Daniel.”

  Heart racing, he reached out his hand.

  “Come, let us palaver.”

  The Beginning

  ᒫᒋᐸᔨᐃᐧᐣ

  ACKNOWLEDGMENT

  Writing a novel is a massive undertaking, and while it is the author’s name on the cover, there are scores of people responsible for the finished product. From beta readers to research consultants, I would like to thank the following people who volunteered to help me with this project:

  Author R James (Jim) Steel: Without the numerous readings and following suggestions by my dear friend Jim, I don’t know how I would have gotten this book written. Jim accepted and reviewed draft after draft without complaint. That is until I told him I was done, in which he hinted that if I sent him another draft he would likely be getting a restraining order.

  Ohgwá:ih Steele & Elizabeth Niish Wawashkeshshi: Schooled me on the fascinating lore surrounding North America’s aboriginal peoples. So as not to offend or bastardize the religion or tradition of real native people, I opted to create the fictional Nation of Chocktee. Variations or error regarding existing lore or legend rests solely with the author.

  Kelly Allen Bouchard MS, BBA: It was her expertise in psychology, behavioral sciences and review that helped mold my character traits and interaction. I am indebted to her for volunteering her time and appreciate the insight she contributed.

  Keith Parker and Paul Rutledge: Both these men acted as beta readers and offered feedback that was instrumental in getting the book finished and ready for publication.

  Marc A Roy: My friend and webmaster, the architect who developed my website and breathed life into what I envisioned as a hub to promote Equinox, not only as a book but through the medium of Art and Video.

  Tony Preston and Michael Hillaby: For the expertise, they offered in aircraft structural capabilities and limitations.

  For More News About M.J. Preston, Signup For Our Newsletter:

  http://wbp.bz/newsletter

  Word-of-mouth is critical to an author’s long-term success. If you appreciated this book please leave a review on the Amazon sales page:

  http://wbp.bz/equinoxa

  AVAILABLE FROM MJ PRESTON AND WILDBLUE PRESS!

  HIGHWAYMAN by MJ PRESTON

  http://wbp.bz/highwaymana

  Read A Sample Next

  Chapter 1 - Infamous

  1

  7 May 2000

  Syracuse, NY

  The time was 1:00 a.m., Wednesday night, and the bar was dead. Wendy Birrell had been tending
bar at Murphy’s for three years. Her wage was eight bucks an hour, plus tips. That was on weekends; on weeknights, the place was a tomb except for the odd barfly, so tips were scarce. Tonight, like most, she wore tight, low rider jeans that hugged her slim figure, and a plaid button-down shirt that draped neatly across her ample breasts. Her hair flowed in straight, dirty blonde cascades over her shoulders and onto the swell of her breasts. This was done purposely to arouse the male patrons. Aside from her figure, it was Wendy’s eyes that turned a man’s head. They were deep glacial blue, a color found in arctic waters lapping against icebergs.

  Wendy Birrell was twenty-eight, she had a high school education and only one motivation in life. His name was Patrick. He was four, had his mother’s eyes, and curly, corn silk hair. Patrick’s father, also blond, had been a marine. Had, because he’d been killed in Iraq when Patrick was only four months old. He and Wendy were never a couple. He had been a fling, nothing more, but had he lived, she would have included him in her son’s life; had he known. He hadn’t and Wendy didn’t have a lot of options, so she tended bar, lived paycheck to paycheck and, for now, that was enough.

  Most of the regulars were gone at this hour. Shuffling out after a few too many, slurring their words as they put on a coat or slung a purse like awkward preschoolers dressing to go outside and play. All gone. Except for one young man sitting at the corner of the bar sipping a Rolling Rock and stealing glances at her. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-one. He’d been in a couple of times this week, sitting unremarkably on the corner stool. She would have carded him, but then that would have chewed up any chance at a tip, and he’d left her a ten spot every time he was in. No one at Murphy’s left a ten spot. She figured him for a college kid, or maybe he’d been working at one of the vineyards during the spring plant. Tonight, just like every night he’d been in, he sat alone, glancing her way and checking her out. When she looked over, he would avert his contemplation to the beer bottle he held. No doubt perusing the alcohol content or maybe the origin of the brewery. Men were such predictable animals. She was checking him out as well, but it wasn’t as obvious. Eventually, she worked her way to that corner of the bar, and he began to chat her up.