Into the Dark of the Day (Action of Purpose, 2)

by Stu Jones

  “Carry my weapons and satchel for me?” He said, tying the items onto the beast like a packhorse. “I will send for you once I’ve made contact and all is well. Don’t worry. They will know me by my grandfather’s belt.” Tynuk smiled at his companion. “See you soon, my friend.”

  He pulled the beautiful, braided beaded belt from his satchel and folded it over his palm. He hiked down the hill and made his way toward the camp. Taking slow steps, he held his palms open toward the sky with Grandfather Nuk’Chala’s belt draped over his palm. This was the customary greeting of his grandfather’s people.

  It took a moment for Tynuk to be noticed. A few yelps rose into the air, people gathered at the edge of their tents, looking to see what was happening. One young man, a fellow warrior, strode between the onlookers and headed straight for the boy. Tynuk smiled and extended his hands farther in anticipation of the stern warrior’s approach. The young man couldn’t have been older than seventeen or eighteen. Tynuk quickly offered a greeting in Comanche.

  “Marúawe! Nu nahnia tsa Tynuk.”

  Tynuk flinched as a punch connected with his side of his jaw. The force sent Tynuk reeling as the decorative belt flew through the air, landing in the dust next to him as he crashed to the ground. He had been so focused on the young warrior in front of him that he hadn’t seen the assault coming from the left. The last thing that Tynuk suspected was an ambush.

  “Mui tekwaru Comanche, hakai!”

  “Wait,” Tynuk managed as he tried to raise himself, his world still spinning. The second punch struck him in the same spot as the first and felt three times as hard. A wave of nausea coursed over Tynuk. “Wait—haamee,” he managed, as a third blow landed hard on his jaw. Everything seemed to fade for a moment before his senses returned, riding a flaming tongue of pain that lashed across his skull.

  “Do not speak our language,” the man above him yelled. “You are not fit to be our dog, outsider!”

  Tynuk rolled on his side and tried to cover himself as a group of warriors, spitting and cursing, struck him with sticks. Through the dust and pain, he opened his eyes for a moment to see the silent form of his friend poised to strike, like a shadow of death against the hillside behind them. Tynuk knew that with a wave of his hand, Az would descend upon the strangers and tear them to pieces. He also knew it couldn’t happen this way. This was his journey, and these were his people. He would not have them killed over a misunderstanding.

  In an almost unseen gesture, the boy opened his hand with his palm down and pumped it. In response, the creature bowed his head and slunk back out of sight. The group continued to curse and strike the boy against the ground, while others looked on in silence, glued to the spectacle before them.

  “Tohpuaru!” came a simple, firm command from behind the men. The violence stopped.

  Tynuk remained in a fetal position in anticipation of another round of punishment. As the dust began to clear, he looked up at the group of fearsome warriors that surrounded him. Some looked more like boys, while others appeared older and more weathered. Common among them was the single article of clothing they wore, a breechclout wrapped tight around their waists and groin. Many also wore their long, dark hair drawn back to reveal the taut muscles of their short frames. Their sleek forms, poised like racehorses in the early-morning light.

  Tynuk rubbed his eyes then watched as another muscular figure appeared from behind the others and stooped to retrieve Grandfather Nuk’Chala’s belt. The colored beads were now tarnished with a solid layer of dust. Tynuk watched as the man gently dusted off the belt by slapping it against his palm. The warrior looked the token over as Tynuk held his breath. The boy knew now to remain silent. Any unsolicited outburst on his part would bring more beatings.

  The man was short—as they all were—not taller than five foot five, with a lithe, muscular frame that revealed a natural physical ability. His face, worn by the wind and weather, showed creases along the brow and at the corners of his eyes, but he was far from old by any standard. After what seemed like forever, the man stepped forward and spoke in English.

  “I will give you a chance to speak, but first you will hear me speak. I am Queenashano, War Eagle. I am the war clan leader of the New Comanche Nation, descended from the great ancients who once made their homes in the plateaus of the Caprock Escarpment. After the fall of all things modern, we make our home there once again. We are Comanche—survivors of the end days, and we are one with this land, the land of our ancestors.”

  The man paused to survey the boy who returned a fearless gaze. Tynuk, unsure of the appropriate response, gave a slight nod. The man continued, “I don’t know who you are or why you have come here, speaking our language, attempting to imitate our customs. You are not one of us. Your skin is like ours, but you are not true blood, and you make our language filthy with your dog-like pronunciation. Had you come without this,” he said, motioning to the belt, “I would have told these men to mix your brains with the dirt.”

  Tynuk did not move. Perhaps a measure of boyhood naïveté had propelled him heedlessly into such a dangerous encounter with unknown men. Perhaps he’d been blinded by the possibilities rather than the realities of the situation. Whatever the case, this was a far cry from how he had envisioned the encounter. He nodded again. Queenashano turned, considering both the boy and the belt.

  “I now give you the chance to speak, to identify yourself, and to explain how you came upon this belt. Be cautious as to what you say and how you say it. Nothing is guaranteed for you.”

  Tynuk took a moment to compose his thoughts and raised himself up to a kneeling position, his head bent low. “Great Queenashano, I thank you for the opportunity to speak. I mean no disrespect by coming here. My given name is Reno Yackeschi, son of Noconah Yackeschi, a full-blood Comanche, and his wife, a Cherokee woman.”

  Tynuk thought he saw a flash of recognition in Queenashano’s eyes, but as fast as it appeared, it was gone, fading back into the emotionless gaze before him. The boy continued to speak, choosing each word carefully.

  “You are correct, in saying that I am not true-blood Comanche. However, I was trained in the old ways by an old man I call Grandfather Nuk’Chala. He was my father’s uncle, and he instructed me in the ways of your people.”

  A hushed murmur cascaded through the crowd. Tynuk tried not to seem pleased that his grandfather’s name received recognition. The warriors peered with wide eyes at their leader. Queenashano did not acknowledge that the name clearly meant something to his people.

  “And the belt? Where did you get it?”

  “Grandfather Nuk’Chala gave it—”

  A sharp glance from the clan leader brought about another surprise punch to the rear part of Tynuk’s jaw, just below his ear. The strike was followed by a pressing kick that pushed the boy facedown in the dust. Tynuk coughed a few times, the woozy feeling returning as he struggled to return to a kneeling position.

  “You are lying,” came the emotionless voice of the clan leader. “This is a war belt. It is earned with blood, sweat, and a hardened resolve, qualities a boy like you will never know.”

  “I swear,” Tynuk blurted out before being dealt another vicious blow. He fell back to the earth in a swarm of dust.

  “You will not swear upon this place. Further disgrace will mean your death. You have come here and tainted my people with your lies and deceit.”

  Tynuk was growing weary of this game. He righted himself once again and spat in the dirt, the blood from a gash above his right eye dripping steadily to the ground beneath him.

  “I knew a Nuk’Chala once,” Queenashano spoke. “From boyhood to manhood, I knew him well. A wizened, noble spirit and a fearsome warrior, he was the best of us—until that day when he chose to abandon his name and his people. He walked away from us and from his promises. He disappeared into the eastern horizon and was never seen again.”

  Tynuk wiped the blood that ran down his face and glanced at the crimson smear across his palm. The clan leader bega
n to pace as he spoke.

  “Regardless of Nuk’Chala’s personal shortcomings, he was true blood. A true blood would never give an item of this kind away. Never. And he would not have taught anyone—much less a frail, bastard child like you—our dying ways, which he guarded fiercely.”

  Queenashano stopped pacing and faced the boy. He knelt, lowering his eyes to the boy’s round face.

  “Which brings us back to you. Nuk’Chala has likely been dead a long time, but if by some chance he survived for a time, I am most confident that he did not teach you anything, which makes you a liar. And as I said, he would never have given you such a valuable item, which makes you a thief.”

  Tynuk squirmed at the accusations and furrowed his brow.

  “There is no place here for liars or thieves, so…we will kill you. You may be run through the gut and left here to die, or you may receive hot coals on the belly. Neither will grant you a swift or honorable death. I will let you choose.”

  Tynuk betrayed no emotion as he wiped at his face and stood to his full height, which was still considerably less than the men who surrounded him. He locked eyes with each warrior, including Queenashano.

  “I am not your dog,” the boy spoke with a steely resolve, “and you will have to slay me on my feet.”

  Tynuk thought he saw the clan leader smile as his warriors howled, closing fast. He was ready. While Queenashano had gone about his oratory exposition, Tynuk had analyzed each man standing around him. He knew that the one to his left, the one who had struck him on the jaw, had a strong right and a weak left, just by the way the man held his arms up. Tynuk also knew that the man rushing in from behind favored his left leg, likely due to an injury to his right knee. The angry-looking young fellow, the man Tynuk had first encountered, was overconfident and therefore susceptible to a groin kick. The one crouched low would likely try to tackle him to the ground. Most important, Tynuk knew this wasn’t intended to be a fair fight. As soon as the men realized he was highly trained, they would bring their weapons against him.

  As expected, the man on Tynuk’s left lunged in with a right cross, leaving his left side vulnerable. The boy deflected the punch and stepped up the man’s thigh, punching him hard with a downward strike to the rear of the jaw. Tynuk felt the joint unhinge under the force of the blow. The man’s knees wobbled; then he dropped, both hands flying to his face as he screamed out in pain.

  As the man behind rushed in, Tynuk pivoted and stomped through the attacker’s weakened right knee, the sound like a bundle of dry twigs snapping. Tynuk felt the man’s knee tear apart under the force of his foot as his leg folded inward.

  He turned to see the angry one screaming as he rushed in carrying a short spear. Tynuk sidestepped the thrust, parrying the shaft of the weapon away with a swift movement. With a skip, he kicked as hard as he could upward into the man’s groin. The man’s eyes flashed wide with pain just as Tynuk slammed into him with a barrage of punches that laid the man’s nose flat with an explosion of blood.

  Tynuk redirected his focus as the man with the ponytail shot in on him, attempting to tackle him low. Dropping his weight and widening his base, Tynuk dropped the heel of his fist in a hammer-fist blow to the base of the ponytail’s skull. Doing so impaired the man’s balance and vision. Tynuk then struck the man’s floating ribs on both sides and finally his kidneys along the back. The man moaned and went limp, falling to the earth where he stayed motionless.

  Before Tynuk could adjust, he was sacked from behind and knocked into and over the man he’d just dropped, slamming face-first in the dirt. Dust flew into his eyes and nose as he was pinned in place by the weight of many furious foes. Tynuk had become trapped under the pile of bodies.

  With a violent jerking motion, a fist seized hold of his hair and yanked his head back. Tynuk bared his teeth and groaned as he felt the cold steel of a blade slip below his neck, tracing a line across the soft flesh.

  “Neraquassi! Tohpuaru!”

  The angry man over Tynuk froze, the blood still seeping from his ruined nose. He held the knife against the boy’s neck as a small dribble of blood began to drip from where the steel already had begun to split the skin.

  “Do it,” Tynuk spat. “You don’t have it in you.”

  The angry man swore and tensed his grip around the handle of the knife.

  “Yellow Horse! Move that blade again, and I’ll have you castrated and your better parts left on the sand of this canyon!”

  The young warrior with the knife froze once more.

  “I knew you couldn’t do it,” Tynuk spoke with a smirk. “We should change your name to Ugly Nose Can’t Fight.”

  With a grunt the man smacked Tynuk’s forehead against the dirt and released his hold on the boy’s hair. The aggressor stood and sheathed his knife. Those who were able jumped on the boy and held him down. A few of the others were dragging away the injured.

  “Interesting,” the clan leader mused. “Well, someone has taught you something. The question is who? Your style is familiar. Maybe you aren’t a liar. Maybe you did know Nuk’Chala, but I need more proof than this.” Queenashano paused, thinking.

  “I’m done trying to prove anything to you. I’ll save my effort for someone worthy of it,” Tynuk spoke, then blew an exasperated puff of air to clear his face.

  The clan leader smiled and turned to Neraquassi, who was scowling and trying to stop the blood gushing from his shattered nose. “I like this boy. He is quite spirited, don’t you think?”

  Neraquassi spat a stream of blood from his mouth across the boy’s back.

  “The thing is,” Queenashano continued, “you came to us, boy, and you did so with a sacred Comanche item in your possession. You have much to explain and much to prove. In time you will have the opportunity.

  “What are you saying?” asked Tynuk hesitantly.

  “I’m saying we won’t kill you—for now. Instead you will have to enter the trials of the ancients to prove to us your earnestness, your worthiness, and your skill.”

  Tynuk had heard of the trials of the ancients through his grandfather. An ordeal long forgotten, the trials were intended to separate the pure of heart from the rest. According to his mentor, few ever survived.

  Queenashano saw the boy’s expression and answered the question he assumed would come next. “No, you do not have a choice. There is no other way. And yes, you will try. But like the many who have come before you, you will not be found worthy.”

  Tynuk exhaled and closed his eyes, whispering words of protection as Neraquassi stooped low with a hateful grin and struck the boy across the back of his head with the shaft of a spear. With a flash of pain, he suddenly felt a very real fear, as visions of the trials he would have to endure poured over him. They clawed at his spirit, dragging him down, into the embrace of the pale sister of night.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The truck rolled to a stop just out of sight of the gypsy camp. Kane took a hesitant breath as he stepped from the vehicle and grabbed an M4 rifle. He pulled his light pack from the front seat and nodded to Arrice, who exited the driver’s seat to switch places with Jacob in the truck bed.

  Kane shot a wink at the teen. “Stay cool, buddy. I’ll see you there.”

  “You just get your family back,” Jacob said with a stern look, the concern obvious on his face. “We’ll take care of the rest.”

  “All right. Be careful,” Kane said, slamming the door and taking off in a trot toward the camp.

  The throaty growl of the old eight-cylinder engine rumbled off as Jacob and the others continued down the dusty road toward the camp’s entrance. Kane watched out of the corner of his eye as he brought his speed up to a jog, lengthening his stride. He had about a mile of uneven ground to cover, and he had to do it fast. He knew the truck would beat him there as planned, but he also didn’t want to be too far behind the curve. The diversion would only last so long.

  Jacob rehearsed the plan as he cruised down the dirt road, listening to the gravel ping and ding off
the truck’s undercarriage. After a few long minutes, he saw the campfires. Approximately one hundred yards out, he slowed the vehicle to a stop and sat still in the semidarkness. Jacob exhaled as he watched a group of people exit the camp and fan out, crossing the exposed area between the camp and the truck. He estimated about fifteen total, some carrying firearms, all of them carrying weapons.

  “All right,” Jacob whispered, mustering his courage. “Let’s do this.” He opened the door of the truck and stepped out with his hands up.

  “You’re clear. I’ve got no movement. Go now,” Dagen’s voice crackled through Courtland’s earpiece. Courtland looked down and slipped two sausage-like fingers into the breast pocket of his shirt to remove a photograph of a teenage girl. He looked at the tattered picture for a long while before kissing it and putting it back.

  “Courtland,” Kris spoke over the giant’s shoulder, “I just want to say, you know, I’m not really a religious guy, but I believe in what we’re doing here. We’ve talked a few times, and I always thought you and your faith were a bit much. Big black preacher gonna get everyone saved.” He chuckled nervously.

  Courtland gave a gentle smile.

  “Now, with everything that’s happened, I think I’m starting to understand why sometimes people need faith in something bigger than themselves. Regardless of all that, I want you to know that I’m behind you one hundred percent until this is finished,” Kris said, sweeping his hand over the other men. “We all are.”

  Courtland smiled and touched a hand to Kris’s shoulder. “I’m proud to stand with each of you in this moment. I hope you all know in your hearts why we serve the light and why we must not allow that light to be stamped out by this evil. This is our purpose.” Courtland surveyed the terrified faces behind him. “I know what you’ve chosen to do is horrifying. I won’t diminish that. But we have to remember what’s at stake here. If we don’t do this now, we may not get another chance. Everyone at the station will die painful deaths, including every last one of those children hiding in the cellar. We’ll do this for them. It won’t be glamorous, and there isn’t a man alive who would want to stand in your shoes, but listen to me when I say this. Take heart, you men of honor, and find your courage, for though it seems bleak, and we don’t know what lies ahead, God has gone before us. He’s already there, and he’s assured us the victory. They can take these mortal shells, but they’ll never claim our souls.”