by William Gear
His stomach pitched suddenly, an eerie tingle running through his arms and legs, down into his hands and feet. His penis began to warm, as though immersed in hot water. The air rushing into his lungs with each breath seemed to vibrate. Around him the night turned liquid in his vision, as though he looked at it from underwater.
Here, a voice called, eerie and soft on the night.
Where?
This way.
He found a level spot, as though it had been dug out before a flat-sided boulder. The great stone was as tall as he. On this boulder-studded slope, one rock was as good as the next. This one felt curiously warm. He took a deep breath, wrapping the sheephide blanket around his shoulders. Cracked Bone Thrower had given it to him. Superbly tanned with the hair on, embroidered, and decorated with porcupine quills, it was remarkably warm.
Butler blinked. The sensation that rolled through him was as if the world were washing back and forth amid waves, surging, ebbing, and flowing.
Looking back toward camp, he could see a solitary figure who stood before the fire. He was glowing as if lit from within.
The puhagan. Watching. Yes, that’s who it is.
“I am supposed to sleep,” Butler whispered to himself, feeling odd prickles run through his muscles and bones. As if that was going to happen. He was being judged, after all. And if he failed, the puhagan would kill him.
Who could sleep feeling the way he did, all prickly and hot, knowing his life was forfeit if he failed the medicine man’s test?
“Does it even matter anymore?” Butler asked himself.
Power brought you here. It wants you to do this.
“To do what?”
Learn.
His eyes felt leaden. Tucking the blanket around his shoulders, he hunched forward and sat in the boulder’s lee. Whatever the toyatawura was, it had fogged his head, heightened his senses. His insides continued to prickle and tingle. Every sound came clearly to his ears. The very act of breathing preoccupied him with wonder; his heart—the pump of life—kept swelling and constricting within his chest.
Why had he never noticed what a miracle it was just to be alive?
Images came slowly at first, just hints, flickers of sights and sounds long gone. Then his memory opened like a rush; the visions spun through his head: scenes from his childhood on the farm. Paw at the supper table, leaned back, his big hands slapping his thighs as he told a tall story about the mountains. These mountains.
He stared into Tom Hindman’s preoccupied face that first day in the hotel lobby, the man clutching Butler’s letter of introduction in his hand.
Images shifted, and suddenly he was back at Shiloh, watching men shot apart and murdered by Federal fire. Death. So much death. In the blackness of a cold Arkansas night, he watched hogs eating partially cooked human bodies in the burned remains of haystacks.
Saw the men and boys shot down for being deserters.
And then, moment by moment, he relived Chickamauga … and terror, and fear, and guilt …
He threw his head back and screamed.
98
September 23, 1867
Butler remembered the coming of daylight, how it shot spectacular colors across the morning sky and set high, threadlike clouds afire with orange, gold, blazing yellow, and violet. The mountains around him emerged from the gloom and seemed to throb with color: purple, green, and gray running together and smearing like melted rainbows.
He was floating, his essence borne aloft by the spirit plant’s wings. His soul hovered in the air above his body. With each puff of breeze, he bobbed like a stem of grass, bending, rising, but unable to blow away.
Toyatawura. This was magic, powerful, ancient, and pure.
And then he began to dream …
* * *
Looking down, he could see his body where it crouched before the stony boulder’s face. When he truly looked at the rock, it was to find a small creature staring back at him from a carving in the stone—a being with a curiously inverted triangular face in an oblong and squat body. It wore a sort of wavering headdress. Pencil-thin arms emerged from the shoulders and bent, as if thrust up and out in surprise. The hands each sported three long flowing fingers. Sticklike legs curled down into long three-toed feet from which sinuous lines of magic flowed down into the ground.
“You called me last night.”
“You called me,” the being replied, its voice reedy inside Butler’s head. “You are lost and need a guide.”
Even as the little creature spoke, he turned, calling, “If you would find yourself, follow me.”
“Follow you? Into the rock?”
“It is the way.”
“Who are you?”
“I am nynymbi. Come.” It gestured, and Butler followed, squeezing down through the crack in the rock, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
The way was narrow, dark, and gritty as Butler eased his way through the thin passage.
“Where are we going?”
“To find out how many souls you have.” Nynymbi stopped when the way opened into a small hollow. He reached his three-fingered hands into a pool of water close to Butler’s bare feet. When he withdrew them they were covered with slime.
The nynymbi said, “You will pass the rock ogre first. He has skin of stone and hands covered with sticky pitch. He will try and grab you. If he succeeds, he will carry you off and eat you. When we come to him, pull your hair forward over your face so that the rock ogre cannot see your eyes, nose, or mouth. That way he cannot recognize you as human. Meanwhile, I will smear trout slime on your skin, so that when he touches you, his fingers won’t stick. When he smells them, he will think you are a fish.”
Butler struggled not to make a face as the nynymbi slathered smelly fish slime on his skin. Then, according to instructions, he pulled his hair over his face as best he could.
And a good thing. They had no more than rounded a bend in the fissure, than what looked like three boulders piled atop each other rose on stony feet. Slender arms reached out with sticky-looking three-fingered hands. The ogre made a sound like stone grating on stone as its fingers traced over Butler’s skin. Then it smelled them, sighed, and settled back into what looked no more offensive than a pile of rocks.
The nynymbi slipped sideways down a small tunnel and stepped out on the shores of an underground lake.
Butler stared around, hearing the drip of water echoing in the underground cavern. The lake’s surface looked smooth, black, and heavy where it rimmed the stony shore.
The nynymbi stopped and looked up at Butler through hollow circles of eyes. “This is as far as I can take you.”
“Where do I go from here?”
“I will take you to her,” another voice told him from below.
Startled, Butler leaped away, realizing he’d almost stepped on a mossy-backed turtle that had looked like just another cobble on the stone-strewn shore.
“Who are you?” Butler asked warily.
“One of her servants. I can take you to her.” The turtle paused. “If you have the courage.”
Butler shot the nynymbi a worried glance, then reluctantly followed as the turtle clambered up and over the rocks, its shell scraping, claws scratching across the stone.
In the end, Butler couldn’t help himself. “Can you tell me where we’re going?”
“To find out about the dead clinging to your dream soul. That’s what you came here for, isn’t it? To determine why you cannot rid yourself of the dead?”
The turtle continued to scuttle awkwardly over the rocks, its shell knocking hollowly. The still black water lay unmoving to the right.
The lake ended where the cavern roof dropped down to a small grotto. The turtle scrambled its way into the mossy opening, beyond which lay a low chamber whose shape reminded Butler of a long bottle laid on its side.
She stood in water up to her waist; her large dark eyes fixed on his as he slowed and stared in disbelief. What looked like a huge wolf lay curled on the moss
to her left. The beast fixed its deadly yellow eyes on Butler, then yawned, rose, and strode past him and out of the chamber with languid strides.
The turtle slipped off the moss and vanished into the dark water, its passing not causing so much as a ripple.
Butler turned his attention back to the woman. His heart skipped at the sight of her. Had he ever seen such rich, thick black hair? It hung about her like a raven-dark mantle, gleaming in the darkness as though it were a robe. Her wondrous dark eyes were possessed of an inner light; the face in which they resided a perfect and exotic blend of high cheekbones, lush lips, and a straight and regal nose. With slender fingers she clutched a rattle in her right hand, a bow and arrows in her left.
As she stepped toward him the water didn’t so much as stir, as though she flowed magically forward. The seductive sway of her hips hearkened of unadulterated sexuality.
Butler might have been frozen, his heart hammering, as she gave a graceful flip of her head, and the glossy wave of her hair curled back behind her. Her naked body seemed to pulse with each beat of Butler’s heart. He couldn’t help but stare at her full breasts topped by hard brown nipples, at her narrow waist, and the dark shadow of her navel. Between her muscular thighs, her midnight pubic hair beckoned, looking thick, warm, and soft.
He tried not to stare. Knew it was rude. He just couldn’t help it. Nor did she appear the least alarmed by his gaze, but seemed to undulate toward him in a most sensuous manner. Her smile widened, the endless depth in her eyes welcoming, warming.
She stopped before him, eyes locked on his, lips parted. The odor of mint perfumed her breath.
Senses swimming, Butler squirmed from the ache in his hardened penis and the tension in his testicles. His breath came in short gasps, his skin electric, heart hammering. Every nerve in his body seemed to be singing. To gaze into her wide eyes was to fall into their bottomless depths.
She melted against him, arms wrapping around his back. Ecstasy shimmered through every inch of him that touched her. Which was nothing compared to the liquid thrill that ran into his pelvis and up his spine as she slid onto his throbbing erection.
She pulled him down onto the moss, her hips rocking in time to his deep strokes. Excitement mirrored delight as her eyes flashed and her mouth opened. Her arms tightened, pressing him against the cushion of her breasts. Like a vise her legs had locked around his hips and thighs.
Butler gasped as the tingle built in his loins.
The very instant he filled his lungs to cry out, she rolled him into the water.
Butler inhaled, sucking liquid. His body remained locked with hers, paralyzed by the sensation as his genitals throbbed and tingled. His sudden terror did nothing to stop the waves of pulsing delight bursting through his body.
Butler thrashed, trying to break free. Her arms were like iron bands. Even as he fought, they tightened and forced air out of his starving lungs.
He coughed, half crazy at the water in his nose and mouth. Wild with panic, he sucked it into his lungs. He jerked, struck, and bucked against the woman’s unforgiving restraint. His penis continued to spasm inside her, as if she were draining him.
The frantic panic of suffocation crested. Subsided. His vision drowned in blackness. Faded. He could no longer feel the water in his nose, throat, and lungs. The pounding of his heart slowed. Even the honeyed sensations of ejaculation faded into the distance.
His last memories were of stygian eternity. Weightless. The woman’s body locked around his. The feeling of her long hair drifting against and tickling his skin.
Sinking faded into nothing …
* * *
Awareness came slowly. Naked, he sat on a rock. He might have been sitting there for a long time. Perhaps even forever.
At his feet, still water met the rocky shore, dark, black, and eternal.
He was in a cavern. Somewhere deep underground.
“Are you back?”
He turned at the voice. The woman sat beside him. Her luxurious black hair draped around and conformed to her remarkable body. Through gaps he could see the pale swell of her breasts, caught a glimpse of her thick pubic hair. Her luminous dark eyes were fixed on the water before them.
“Back?” he wondered.
“From death.” Her dark eyes seemed to enlarge in her face. “A man and a woman can make the most exhilarating things happen when they are locked together. It was a surprise to discover you’d never been with a woman before.”
“You drowned me.”
“I had to kill you to separate you from your souls.”
“Who are you?”
She turned those large midnight eyes on his. “The Newe call me Water Ghost Woman. Pa’waip in their tongue.” She gestured toward the cavern roof. “They are calling for you up there.”
“Who?”
“The parts of yourself that you left behind. They know that you are dead and are frightened. They fear what you might discover about yourself.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t. That’s why you came here. To find yourself.”
“Puhagan brought me here.”
“He, too, knows that you are dead. He wonders, Did one of the monsters, perhaps the rock ogre, kill you? Did a Water Ghost drag your dream soul into the darkness and devour it?”
“But I’m alive.”
“Are you?” She laughed, flashing strong white teeth. “Why did you flee to this place? Travel all this way just to let me kill you?”
“Paw always talked about the mountains.”
“Ah yes. The father. The man behind it all. The reason you clung to the dead … why you won’t let them go. Your greatest fear has always been that you might not live up to his expectations.”
She reached out, running long sensuous fingers along his shoulder and arm. Her slightest touch stoked that sexual tingle in his loins. “Your soul wasn’t made for war and horror. You knew that, didn’t you? But once you’d been thrown into the battle, you tortured yourself to become someone you could not be. And when you failed, it was easier to exploit the dead than to live within the shadow of a father’s disappointment.”
“How do you know all this?”
“You ate toyatawura. You shot your souls into me with each hot jet of semen. You are mine, wounded man.”
“What will you do with me?”
She studied him, her infinite gaze picking out each of his souls, warming it before she went to the next. Her hair swayed with each movement of her head. “You interest me. It was your choice to live with the dead. You called them, bound them into your service.”
“They need me to take them home!”
“No man is as blind as when he turns his eyes upon himself. Why do you lie to yourself?”
“I … I…” To admit anything else would be too painful.
She spoke the words he could not: “They take care of you. Shield you from the world. Keep the pain at bay.”
Butler gasped, tucking his arms around his stomach and blinking back tears. The essence inside him twisted, spun, as if to fly away. He felt sick.
“If you were a vain man”—her voice softened—“or arrogant, I would devour you. But you came here as a supplicant, showing both courage and humility. Instead of death”—her smile was chilling and cold—“I give you what you seek.”
“What I seek?”
“A chance to escape the contradiction that consumes you. To understand the root of your fear, and face the truth. Only then will you find illumination and happiness.”
“You don’t make sense. Understand what?”
“Your confusion.” She paused, head back to expose her slim throat. “That the living are dead, and dead are living. The knowledge may destroy you. Come spring, I will give you the Silver Eagle. By saving the Silver Eagle, you condemn him. But understanding never comes without a price. Life, hope, love, and salvation all hang in the balance.”
At that, she reached out and touched her fingertips to his forehead. A sense of p
eace washed through him.
Then a black haze drifted softly down around his body …
* * *
Butler blinked, shivered, and tried to swallow. His mouth was filled with a bitter taste. His head ached as if his skull were split. He lay on his side in dusty dirt, a soft sheephide blanket over his shoulders.
Groaning, he sat up and realized that his head was covered, a sort of blindfold over his eyes, a binding across his mouth.
Frantically, he clawed the coverings of cloth from his head, sucking in deep breaths. He blinked to clear his hazy vision and discovered he wasn’t wearing so much as a stitch. Worse, some red paint had been smeared in patterns over his chest and stomach. Lines of blue clay ran down his thighs. What looked like a coating of white clay was flaking off his penis.
The sound of voices came to him. Men singing in Dukurika Shoshoni. Two of them. He shifted, made himself sit up. Mountains rose around him, a crystalline blue lake just down from where he lay. Overhead the sky was light blue, sunlight just cresting a ridge. The smell of sagebrush, juniper, and water rode down from above on the chilly breeze.
He was sitting before a big gray boulder, and as he started to stand, he froze. There—engraved on the rock—was the nynymbi. The short and squat figure seemed to stare out at him from the depths of the stone.
“Holy jumping Jesus,” Butler whispered.
Images came rolling up from his memory. It had to have been a dream—and a fevered one at that. Or it had been a version of madness that would have even horrified Philip.
He sucked in gulps of cold air, his body shivering. Nynymbi, rock ogres, Water Ghost Woman, these were stories. Stories he’d heard from Cracked Bone Thrower. But why would he have fixed upon them and dreamed so fervently…?
The spirit plant. What was it called? Toyatawura.
He’d heard of the phantasms conjured in opium dens. It had to be similar, a drug-induced haze of imagination.
He stood, bracing himself on the rock and avoiding the nynymbi’s gaze. Looking down the slope he could see the two men. Recognized the rounded shape of the sweat lodge.