Primal Fear

by Boucher, Brad

  He rose to his feet, turning towards the approaching demon with fire in his veins, light within his heart. And for the first time, he faced Wyh-heah Qui Waq without an ounce of fear.

  * * * * *

  John watched Harry turn away with a sigh of exhaustion. He’d given up everything he had left to give, every vestige of strength left in his body and his soul. But he’d succeeded. That was all that mattered.

  The power of Atae had responded to his call, filled him for one brief moment with a wonderful sense of warmth, with an invincible strength he’d almost been unwilling to give up. But the urgency of the situation had conquered his own feelings of self-preservation and he’d relented, letting Atae pass through him, guiding it into Harry’s body as carefully and as quickly as he could.

  He could feel the coldness returning to his body, the gnawing pain of his injuries rising once again to torment him.

  And he felt himself slipping away, darkness creeping in at the edges of his vision. He peered up once more and saw that Harry’s right eye had gone completely white.

  He closed his eyes and let the darkness engulf him.

  Just beneath the surface of his own thoughts, Harry could feel yet another presence, one that ignited a curious sense of familiarity. He struggled to identify the recognition, but then realized that it wasn’t his at all.

  It was the other spirit, the one called Atae, the one John had invoked and passed into him. It was Atae who recognized this second being. But how? And what other soul had infiltrated his thoughts so quickly, so easily?

  And then he knew.

  Mahuk.

  The answer came without hesitation as some furtive contact was made between the three of them. The old shaman Mahuk, dead now but not beyond the reach of the spirits. Atae had somehow called up the old man’s soul, pulled it into Harry’s body, drawing the shaman’s knowledge and power into their single unified form.

  John hadn’t just called upon the strength of the spirits. He’d called up the strength of his heritage, of his lineage.

  Harry stared up at the beast and felt his arms rising at his sides. He didn’t challenge the motion, understanding its necessity, accepting his role in the ceremony.

  He was more than just a simple puppet, more than just a solid form to be moved at the will of the spirits. He was a conduit for their power, a component as vital to the rite as the ancient liturgies behind it. Without him, without his surrender, the ritual could not be performed, the demon could not be turned away.

  The words came next, spilling from his mouth as if he’d learned them by rote. His tongue formed them with the ease of familiarity, his voice strong and brimming with confidence.

  He welcomed the strange phrases, and this time understanding came with them. Through some unknown side effect of his link with Mahuk and Atae, his spirit guide, the meaning of the archaic words was now entirely clear to him.

  Words of exorcism and expulsion, of fire and steel; words of exile and repulsion, patterned ages ago to fight an evil as ancient as nature itself. He set them loose against the demon, screaming them into the rising wind as loudly as he could, letting the rhythm of the ceremony guide his voice.

  The beast reared up before him, its huge mouth opening to reveal row upon row of twisted fangs. Originally carved from wood, they now had changed to bone, just as its face was changing, just as its body had already begun to refashion itself into this ravenous, unstoppable creature. It glared back at Harry through eyes as black as pitch, eyes that seemed immune to the laws of light and darkness, sunken so deeply into their sockets it was almost impossible to tell they were there at all. A pair of twisted horns protruded from either side of its head, turned downward and then back toward its skull, their spiny points jutting out over the back of the tupilaq’s shoulders.

  Harry sucked in a deep breath, delivering the words that still came to him without effort. He felt the first whisper of fear beneath his thoughts, a fear that was swept aside just as quickly as it had appeared. It was driven away by the power that coursed through his body and seethed behind his flesh, a power he could feel steadily growing.

  And yet the demon still moved toward him, driven by instinct, by the pure, primal hunger to destroy. It crashed through the snow, limbs of bone and wood engulfed in flames. The fire was taking its toll on the tupilaq’s form, doing more damage than Harry had thought possible at first. Still, he took little comfort in the fact that the explosives—to some degree, at least—had served their purpose. They’d been meant to destroy the demon’s new physical form. But now, only twenty feet away from him, it seemed as though nothing would stop it.

  Harry fought to dampen his own thoughts, to push his doubt aside completely, unwilling to do anything that might weaken the magic pouring through him. He didn’t want to take the risk of interrupting the ritual, didn’t want to damage the hold of the spirits over his body. But if Mahuk’s magic didn’t turn the tides soon, then all the power in the world wouldn’t be able to help him. The demon would be upon him; the ritual would be brought to a swift and bloody end.

  The act of concentration seemed to make a difference. In seconds the feelings of doubt seemed alien to him as Mahuk’s will swiftly overtook his own once more. A moment later and it was over, his thoughts buried beneath the onslaught of Mahuk’s power. He gave in to it, too weak to mount a second challenge even if he’d wanted to.

  The ritual began again, this time more stridently, the muscles in his arms and shoulders burning as the unfamiliar motions continued at a feverish pitch. The words came faster, riding on a voice that was quickly growing too hoarse to support them.

  The beast closed in.

  Mahuk’s power surged inside of him, centering itself on the flames, on the burning creature within them. Harry could feel the sudden release of power as a physical sensation, a passage of incredible strength from the shell of his body to the immense form of the advancing demon. He fell to his knees, his own strength pouring out of him in a flood of carefully directed energy.

  The tupilaq slowed in mid-step, its body completely engulfed in flames now. It took another lumbering step toward him, but toppled onto its knees, the physical properties of its form outweighing the demon’s hold over them. The damage to the tupilaq itself was too severe, and the demon couldn’t maintain its strength under the onslaught of Mahuk’s magic.

  It would try to flee now, Harry knew, its solid form destroyed for the second time today. It would abandon the burning flesh, escape into the wind in which it had been born.

  Mahuk took up the call, reining in his powers to perform the final stage of the ritual, the one that would push Wyh-heah Qui Waq back into the spirit world forever. He called upon the souls of his ancestors, upon the spirits of the dead and the dying, upon the very forces of nature itself. The Sky-Maker, the Earth-Maker, the first great spirits that had created the demon of the wind and its brethren so long ago.

  The spirits responded, their powers joining the din, a cacophony of strength within the vessel of Harry’s thoughts.

  “K’lun kha-jetea!” he screamed, Mahuk’s litanies still streaming from his hoarse throat. “B’hun, kha-jetea itini B’hun!”

  In the rising flames, the tupilaq collapsed completely, its huge limbs twitching violently. It clawed at the snow, pushing up drifts in every direction, as if it hoped to return to the earth, to the icy grave it had occupied for over two hundred years. One of its arms broke free, the flames burning straight through it at the shoulder, and the tupilaq’s movements began to grow slower.

  It was dying, finally coming to rest in perfect stillness while the fire still burned away what was left of its flesh.

  But that was only its shell, Harry knew. That was only the body of the tupilaq in which the demon had been interred. Deep inside, beyond the burning natural elements, Wyh-heah Qui Waq still lived. And the demon was already making its escape.

  Harry could see it writhing above the flames now, snatching up the falling snow and the burning embers into the whirli
ng prison of its shape. It spun wildly against the night, the last of its essence slipping free from the tupilaq.

  In another moment it would be gone, beyond the reach of man or magic.

  Harry’s arms raised themselves, his fingers splayed, hands held palm out towards the demon. Mahuk’s powers coursed through him, released in a second flow of energy that seemed to ignite the very air around him as he released it into the night.

  He watched in awe as the wind picked up, conjured by the spirits to repel one of their own.

  Wyh-heah Qui Waq thrashed in the sudden gust, struggling to break away. But the powers of its brethren held the demon in check, surrounding it in a furious wind that dwarfed its own. The wind swirled around it, a monstrous funnel forming over the burning house and sweeping both flames and wreckage into its maw. The demon was caught within its grasp, its shape becoming less apparent with every passing second, the living winds tearing it to shreds.

  “K’lun kha-jetea! B’hun, kha-jetea itini B’hun!”

  The sky split open above the funnel, setting loose a blinding shaft of light, one that shone from beyond the fabric of the storm-filled night. It shivered in the sky, fighting the conflicting forces of nature, a portal torn wide open at the crossroads of two separate realities.

  Beads of light spun away from the central shaft, merging with the swirling form of the demon, dancing among the elements of its temporary form. The light seemed to possess a life of its own, moving to its own will, or perhaps to the will of the spirits that had released it. Each glittering spark followed an individual course, a prescribed route of attack that supported a single overall goal. And within minutes, it had surrounded the demon completely, infiltrating its thrashing form, spinning within its shape to tear it apart from the inside out.

  A deafening howl rose into the night, a sound like hell itself opening wide to swallow the earth, the sound of a suffering so intense that Harry feared it would drive him mad if it went on much longer.

  The funnel picked up speed, drawing in upon itself while he watched. In seconds it had shrunk to a third of its width, closing rapidly now as the breach between worlds was forced closed. Only the barest glimpse of the demon could be spotted within its spiraling eye, and a moment later, even that was gone.

  The funnel died away just as quickly, breaking up in the storm like a shadow in the light of dawn. The hole in the sky vanished with an audible clap of thunder, a concussion so powerful Harry could feel the ground tremble in response to its echo.

  And a moment later, the snow fell in sudden silence, only the crackling of flames from the house disturbing the tranquility of the night.

  Harry felt the power seeping out of his body, Mahuk and Atae slowly departing, the spirits they’d conjured leaving him forever. In minutes, it was only his own thoughts that walked the corridors of his mind.

  His knees buckled beneath him, the weight of his exhaustion finally taking its toll. He let it have its way with him, collapsing into the snow with the first signs of a smile already spreading across his face.

  He was dimly aware of Laurie making her way towards him, calling out his name as she waded through the snow. The realization of her safety brought a wave of blessed relief, driving away the only vestige of fear that was still gnawing at him.

  The last flickers of confusion drifted away as well, his thoughts finally reaching a level of understanding he could deal with effectively. Each piece of the puzzle had fallen into place at last, each unanswered question addressed and dismissed in his mind.

  It hadn’t been his actions that had saved them. Nor had it been John’s, or even Mahuk’s. But the combined strength of all of them, the incredible flow of power that John had conjured up through Atae, those were the things that had made the difference. The unflinching belief of John’s ancestors, the blind, unquestioning faith of his people, of his father . . .

  Yes, Harry had felt that connection as well, a linking through his body between John and his own past, between the young man’s modern determination and his father’s unwavering belief in the old ways. It had been vital to the success of John’s last attempt at banishing the demon.

  And it had worked.

  It had been enough to defeat Wyh-heah Qui Waq, to force it back to its prison beyond the sky, to close the portal behind it and—

  Harry’s brow furrowed as he realized something was wrong. He pursued the thought through his tired mind, a long slow breath escaping his body as he finally understood what he’d been missing.

  The portal had opened. B’hun the Sky-Maker had responded to their call and created the rift to its world beyond the sky. But whose soul had been given up as a catalyst for the act? Who had given their life to achieve what could not have been done otherwise?

  “Oh, Christ,” he whispered. “No . . .”

  He turned his head, staring back at the body lying nearby in the drifting snow, perfectly still.

  Laurie leaned over him. “Harry, what’s wrong? What is it?”

  “John,” he said, but he wasn’t sure she’d heard him.

  All the strength had left his voice.

  Epilogue

  It was the sensation of warmth that finally brought Harry around. Warmth and an overwhelming sense of security, one that forced him to open his eyes. The familiar sights of Slater’s kitchen were there to greet him, swimming slowly into focus as his vision brightened.

  He could vaguely recall Laurie rousing him just after he’d fainted, the memory little more than a flicker of consciousness among repeated lapses into darkness. Other flashes came back as well now, some of them more distinct, but all cloaked in a haze of fatigue that left everything feeling as though he’d only glimpsed it in a dream.

  . . . rising unsteadily to his feet in the driving wind . . .

  . . . desperately searching the darkness for some sign that the demon was indeed gone for good . . .

  . . . finding the strength to haul John back to the relative safety of Slater’s house . . .

  . . . Laurie putting in a frantic call for help, the phone lines mercifully still intact . . .

  The memories lay in tatters among his thoughts, disconnected images from a fugue of activity that would never be completely clear to him.

  He turned his head, peering toward John. The young man was breathing heavily in the corner, propped against the wall with a pillow behind his head. How Harry had found the strength to drag him all this way, he’d never know, but he could plainly remember his own sense of relief when he’d first seen that John was still alive.

  He’d been sure that John was dead. Out there in the snow, as his own consciousness had slipped away, Harry couldn’t imagine any other possibility. Someone’s soul had been lost, he’d reasoned. Someone had given up their soul to create the breach in the sky.

  But who?

  Charlie’s face rose in his thoughts then, and Harry felt a profound sense of sadness settle over him. Charlie. Of course. It must have been his soul that had passed between worlds, and that had been instrumental in their success.

  Tears filled Harry’s eyes, his breath catching in his throat as he tried to fight them off.

  “Charlie,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. Oh God . . .”

  “Shhhhh . . .”

  He felt a hand close around his and looked up tiredly. It was Laurie, crossing the room like a silent breeze to stand beside him, to lend him strength.

  “You couldn’t know,” she told him, her eyes filled with understanding. “None of us could have known what was going to happen.”

  “I know,” Harry said quietly. “But it’s still my fault. I led him into this. I brought him down there, into the tunnels—”

  “Charlie would have followed you anywhere, Harry, you know that.” Laurie squatted down in front of him, looked him straight in the eye. “You didn’t force him to do anything he wouldn’t have volunteered for without a second’s hesitation. You know what he was like, how much he looked up to you. He would have done anything for you.”


  Harry nodded, the tears subsiding. They would come eventually, he knew. One way or another, they would come. But Laurie was right. Charlie should be remembered for his sense of duty, not for the senselessness of his death.

  “It was him,” Harry told her, rubbing his stinging eyes. “It was his soul that opened the sky.”

  “No.”

  The voice was weak, barely a whisper, coming from the corner of the kitchen.

  “John?”

  The young man opened his eyes, raising his head painfully in Harry’s direction. “Charlie’s soul didn’t pass beyond. I’m sorry, Harry, but I don’t want to lie to you. You need to know the truth. His soul died with him, in the tunnels. When the Jhe-rhatta took his body, his soul was taken as well.”

  “Then who—”

  Harry stopped himself, staring back at John as gooseflesh broke out across his body. He could feel his jaw dropping, his eyes growing wider despite his efforts to control his emotions.

  “John,” he whispered. “Your . . . oh, my God, your eye. It’s—”

  “I know.” John nodded slowly, weakly. “I know.”

  His right eye was white, encased in cataracts so thick he couldn’t possibly have seen through them. “It’s Mahuk,” he said quietly. “He’s inside me again. For good this time, I think. I can hear his thoughts, feel his power. Everything he knew, everything he was . . .”

  John reached up, tapped his head. “It’s all in here now. With me.”

  “I don’t understand. He was dead. He died even before we got back to the house.”

  “It’s his soul. When I summoned Atae, Mahuk’s soul came back to me, passed on into you.”

  “I remember. I felt him, too.”