by Tom Pawlik
Jack shook his head. That was the million-dollar question. The mystery only seemed to deepen. He had spent the better part of the last twelve years looking for an answer to his father’s disappearance. The FBI had searched for months but found no trace of him. No clothing, no equipment, not even his rental car. Yet after all these years, these documents had to hold some significance. Some clue to what had happened.
Rudy continued, “Why would he hide these in here?”
“And who was he hiding them from?” Jack muttered, lost in thought. Then he perked up. “I need a map of Wyoming. I have to find this reservation from the article.”
They went to the kitchen, where Rudy had his laptop sitting on the table. He booted it up and typed Caieche and Wyoming into the Internet search engine.
“Not much here on the Caieche,” Rudy said. “But it mentions the small reservation in Wyoming. Eagle Creek.”
“That’s got to be where my dad went. I bet someone there talked to him. They might even remember him.”
“Jack, look—” Rudy held up his hands—“I don’t mean to rain on your parade, but that was twelve years ago. And you don’t even know if that’s where your dad actually went.”
“It’s got to be. The only clue the FBI had to where he went was his plane ticket to Salt Lake City. And this Eagle Creek reservation is only a few hours’ drive from there.”
Rudy snorted. “And a much longer drive from Illinois.”
“I know.” Jack grinned at him. “That’s why you’re coming with me.”
Rudy shook his head and laughed. “Uhh . . . no, I’m not. I’ve got a research internship lined up for the summer, remember?”
“C’mon, Rudy, all I need is a week,” Jack persisted. “Two, tops. We can take my dad’s old Winnebago and make a whole road trip out of it. It’ll be fun.”
“Dude . . .” Rudy rubbed his eyes. “I’m telling you, I am not going to Wyoming. Especially in that ratty old RV. Does that thing even run?”
“Of course it runs. It runs just fine.” Jack tried to sound confident, though he hadn’t had the vehicle running in over a year. “I’ve just . . . never actually taken it that far before.”
“Which is another reason why I’m not going with you.”
Jack grew serious. “Look, this is the first real clue to finding out what happened to my dad. Do you have any idea what that means to me?”
“That’s exactly my point. You’re not thinking straight. Your dad disappeared out there somewhere, and now you want to go after him? You don’t think that’s a little dumb? Not to mention dangerous?”
“That’s because he was alone. He didn’t have anyone to watch his back. I’m not going to make that same mistake.”
“No, you’re going to make a whole new one.”
“That’s why I need you,” Jack said. “I need your expertise.”
“Really? I have a molecular biology degree. How much good will that do you?”
“Come on. You’ve forgotten more about science than I’ll ever know. Plus, you’re the only person I really trust on this.” Jack sighed, and his voice softened. “I’m asking you . . . please. You’re my best friend. I need your help.”
Rudy stared at him for a moment. A long, painful moment. At length he rolled his eyes and took a breath. “Fine. Two weeks. Just don’t get all sappy on me.”
“Great.” Jack grinned and slapped Rudy’s shoulder. “I knew I could depend on you.”
Chapter 03
Eagle Creek Indian Reservation, Western Wyoming
Rain fell in raucous volleys, drumming down on the ramshackle 1978 Winnebago as it crept along a gravel road. Jack gripped the wheel with the resolve of a grizzled sea captain. A metaphor, he decided, that at present was not so far off the mark. Beside him, Rudy was slouched in the passenger seat, baseball cap pulled down over his eyes. Snoring.
Jack had begun planning for this expedition immediately after the estate sale two weeks earlier. He bought all the gear he thought he might need for the trip and packed up his father’s old RV. Then the two of them set out four days ago, making the road trip from Chicago to Wyoming. Rudy had come along as Jack’s science expert, to document the trip on video, and for general moral support.
They lurched through water-filled potholes in the road, some of which looked big enough to have their own lifeguards. The tattered wiper blades swish-swashed valiantly in a hopeless struggle against the barrage of raindrops pelting the windshield like an angry mob lobbing water balloons. Jack knew they could get mired in one of the massive puddles at any second, but he had to keep going. Sheer anticipation was driving him now.
After all these years, he was finally on the cusp of finding some answers.
He could see the A-frame visitor center ahead through the rain and pulled into the small parking lot. The place was empty with the exception of the guy managing the gift shop. He was a burly, middle-aged Caieche with a name badge that read Ben Graywolf and a thick mane of gray-streaked hair pulled back in a braid.
Jack explained that he was an anthropologist curious about Native American myths and legends. “My father was doing research a while back on a lost civilization that he believed may have existed out here a long time ago. And he seemed to think the Caieche might have some stories about one.”
“Lost civilization?” Ben frowned. “You mean like the Shadow People?”
“Shadow People?” Rudy snorted. “Yeah, that sounds innocuous.”
But Jack ignored him. “What can you tell me about them?”
Ben shrugged. “Well, they’re just a bunch of old ghost stories, really. The N’watu, they’re called. The Shadow People. The legends say they lived inside caves somewhere in the mountains.”
“What mountains? Someplace nearby?”
“No one knows for sure,” Ben said. “Like I said, these were mostly stories we heard as children. But if you really want to know more, you should probably go talk to Running Bear.”
“Running Bear?” Jack said, looking around. “Great. How do I find him?”
“He’s the oldest man on the reservation.” Ben gestured out the window. “He lives in a little shack up in the hills. I close up in a half hour. I can take you past his place if you don’t mind waiting.”
/ // /
Forty-five minutes later, Jack and Rudy were following Ben’s battered white pickup along the gravel road deeper into the wilderness. They arrived at a dilapidated log cabin perched alone on the crest of a rocky knoll jutting out of the forest and sloshed through the mud onto the sagging front porch, where Ben knocked on the door.
“I can stick around if you want,” he said. “You’ll probably need me to translate anyway.”
“He doesn’t speak English?” Jack said.
Ben chuckled. “Oh, he speaks it okay. He just doesn’t always want to. He can be a bit stubborn that way.”
After several long moments the door finally opened, and Jack immediately understood why it had taken so long. Peeking out from inside was a shriveled old man. His face was gaunt and leathery and stippled by enormous moles and liver spots. Had Jack not witnessed him moving under his own power, he’d have sworn the little guy was just some mummified museum exhibit.
Ben gave the old man a greeting in the Caieche language and then introduced Jack and Rudy. Running Bear nodded brusquely with his pale eyes sparkling and waved them inside. The one-room hovel was quite warm and smoky with a fire crackling in a small stone fireplace. He motioned for them to sit down, and since there was only one chair in the place, they all took a seat on the dusty wooden floor near the fire.
The rain continued to drum softly on the roof in a mesmerizing rhythm as Ben asked Running Bear to give a brief history of the Shadow People legends.
The old man sucked in a raspy breath and spoke in the Caieche language with a voice that sounded like a box of rattlesnakes. Or at least what Jack imagined a box of rattlesnakes would sound like. It crackled and hissed, barely above a whisper and with little inflection, fadin
g beneath Ben’s stronger baritone interpretation:
“When the Caieche first arrived on this land, there was already a tribe dwelling in the mountains. No one knew how long they had been there. The Caieche called them . . .” He paused and cast a quizzical glance at the old man.
“N’watu keetok taw’hey,” Running Bear repeated.
Ben seemed to have difficulty translating the phrase. “The shadows . . . that . . . walk.”
Running Bear shook his head, his pale eyes flaring as he said again, “N’watu keetok taw’hey.”
“Sorry. They who walk in shadows.” Ben rolled his eyes and muttered, “He’s very picky about the language. We always just called them the Shadow People.”
Running Bear continued with his discourse and Ben hurried to catch up.
“Anyway, they used to say the N’watu worshiped the spirit of the mountain.”
“Spirit?” Jack said, taking notes in a journal. “What kind of spirit was it?”
Running Bear went on.
“They called it Sh’ar Kouhm—the Soul Eater,” Ben said. “They believed there was a gateway to the underworld deep inside the caves. Sh’ar Kouhm was the queen of the underworld and would come up at every full moon to feed on a human soul . . . or . . .” He seemed to search for the right word. “On the emotions. Fear and anger. The strongest emotions of a person’s soul.”
“Soul Eater?” Jack frowned. “So what happened?”
“Apparently their elders made a bargain with Sh’ar Kouhm. If the N’watu could provide her with souls from other tribes, she would leave them in peace.”
Rudy raised an eyebrow. “Why didn’t they just move out of the caves altogether? Y’know, find somewhere else to live?”
Running Bear peered at him in the firelight for a moment. Then he spoke in soft, broken English. “Would you give up your home so easily?”
Rudy shrugged. “Well, I wouldn’t resort to human sacrifices just to hang on to it. That’s for sure.”
“Look,” Ben interjected, “this is all just a bunch of old stories. I mean, nobody actually believes this stuff anymore.”
Running Bear seemed to grow agitated and responded to Ben’s comment. Ben rolled his eyes again and replied in Caieche.
Jack interrupted their argument. “What’s he saying?”
Ben sighed. “He claims the N’watu took his great-grandmother when his granddad was just a kid. Apparently he saw them. They were like ghosts or something.”
“Wait a minute,” Jack said. “He says his great-grandmother was actually kidnapped by the N’watu?”
Ben shrugged. “Like I said, that’s what he says his grandfather used to tell him. But I think he may have been a little, y’know . . . few eggs short of a dozen or something. That’s what I’ve heard, anyway.”
“Were there any other witnesses? Did they try to go after her?”
“I think they just assumed she had run off with another man or gotten killed by a mountain lion or something,” Ben said. “Nobody ever talked about it much.”
“Still,” Jack said, “it’s a pretty compelling story. Does he know where the caves are?”
Running Bear spoke in a heated tone, and Ben appeared to be trying to calm him down.
“He says not to go off looking for the caves,” Ben explained. “He says there’s something evil in that place.”
“No doubt,” Rudy offered in agreement.
Jack reached into his pack and produced the papers from his father’s desk. “Look, my father disappeared somewhere out here twelve years ago, and I’m trying to find out what happened to him.” He pulled out the page with the image on it. “He had this drawing. I think it was some kind of artifact he was searching for. Does this look familiar at all?”
Running Bear’s eyes fixed on the drawing. He seemed intrigued and yet a little sad at the same time. He spoke slowly.
Ben translated. “He says he’s seen this before.”
“He has?” Jack leaned forward. “Where?”
The old man rose from his chair and shuffled over to a shelf on the other side of the room. He returned with a folded piece of cloth, carrying it gingerly in his arthritic fingers, and sat down again. Unfolding the cloth, he revealed a swatch of something that looked like animal hide. He held a narrow strip of soft leather up in the firelight, where Jack could see faded red markings. Several bands of lines connected in parallel and perpendicular designs across the length of the material.
The markings looked nearly identical to the ones in the artifact. As if they were characters from the same alphabet.
Running Bear nodded and spoke.
“He says it’s the language of the N’watu,” Ben said. “His grandfather wrote them down long ago. He claimed to have seen this writing inside the cave where his mother was taken, then wrote it down from memory.”
“His grandfather was inside the cave?” Jack said.
Running Bear’s soft voice replied, and Ben translated.
“His grandfather once told him the story about how he had been inside the cave when he tried to save his mother.”
“Did he tell him where the cave is? Does he know where to find it?”
Running Bear nodded and spoke as Ben translated. “Through the waters at the head of the Little White Eagle. In the cleft of the mountainside.” Ben leaned aside. “I’m pretty sure that’s White Eagle Creek. Just a couple miles north of here.”
Running Bear went on.
“He wants to know where your father saw this figure,” Ben said.
Jack shook his head. “I don’t know. I just found his papers a couple weeks ago. But this could prove his theories weren’t so crazy after all. If I can find this cave and get pictures of the writing inside it . . . that would be huge.”
Running Bear spoke in a weary tone.
“He warns you not to go,” Ben said, almost apologetically.
But Jack was having none of it. He wasn’t going to stop for the sake of some old Indian ghost story.
“No way. I can’t quit now.” He turned to Rudy. “I have to find it.”
Rudy held up his hands. “You didn’t say anything about crawling around in caves. I’m claustrophobic.”
“C’mon, Rudy,” Jack said. “You know I can’t do this alone.”
Rudy grunted. “Dude, this trip just keeps getting better and better.”
“Well, I can show you where White Eagle Creek is,” Ben said. “I suppose you can try to follow it upstream and see where it leads. See if there really is a cave up there.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Jack said.
Then Ben went on with a grin. “Of course, you two look like a couple of city boys. Not sure it’s the safest thing for you to do. Not without a guide, anyway.”
“A guide, huh?” Jack raised an eyebrow. “And I suppose you have someone in mind?”
“I sure do.” Ben thumbed his chest. “US Army Rangers for ten years. I’ve lived in the area my whole life. Plus, I’ve even done a fair bit of caving in my day. If you need a guide, I’m your man. Provided the price is right.”
“Price . . .” Jack rubbed his jaw and peered at the Indian. It would definitely be helpful to have someone on his expedition who was familiar with the area. As long as it fit in his budget. “How much?”
They were beginning to haggle when Running Bear stood up and shook his head. His eyes flared in the firelight.
“If you go . . . death will find you there.”
Chapter 04
Jack and Rudy followed Ben Graywolf along the rocky bank of White Eagle Creek. The stream snaked a winding path down a rough, boulder-strewn slope through the woods. After the recent storms, water was rushing past them in a foamy torrent. The morning air was crisp, and patches of sunlight filtered down through the trees onto the forest floor of damp pine needles.
Through the branches ahead of them, Jack caught glimpses of the looming gray mountains against a magnificent blue sky. They’d gotten an early start, meeting Ben at eight o’clock at the spot
where the highway crossed the creek. There was an area off the road where they could park their vehicles and head up on foot, following the creek bed westward.
Jack had to stop several times so he and Rudy could catch their breath. They weren’t nearly as acclimated to the higher elevations as their older Caieche guide. For his part, Ben carried no map or compass, at least none that Jack could see, and appeared to have no pressing need to engage in conversation, either.
After another half hour of walking, Ben finally announced, “We should be getting close now. I can hear the falls.”
Jack, on the other hand, couldn’t hear anything over the stream and his own labored breathing.
Within ten more minutes, they emerged over a ridge onto a broad, wooded shelf at the base of a rocky cliff. A white spray of water poured out from a crevice about fifty feet up like a spigot on the side of a house. It sprayed into a large pool at the base of the cliff before flowing down the creek bed. To one side of the falls, the cliff face was sheer and smooth, but the other side was jagged and uneven, enough to afford a possible way up.
Rudy dug out his minicam to film the waterfall and surrounding area. He zoomed in on the crevice. “Don’t tell me that’s the cave.”
Ben studied the cliff, his eyes squinting against the bright sky. “That would be my guess. It almost looks big enough to squeeze inside.”
Jack drew up beside him. “Whattaya think?”
“Looks like there’s some kind of ledge up there,” Ben said. “But the trick will be getting to it.”
They proceeded to check their gear. Ben had brought plenty of rope and climbing hardware, while Jack had brought flashlights, a couple boxes of glowsticks, and a package of flares. Their food consisted mostly of beef jerky, nuts, protein bars, and plenty of water. In addition to the supplies, Ben had also brought along a large hunting knife in a leather sheath, strapped around his waist.
“You never know what you might run into,” he had said with a wink.
He took a moment to go over some safety instructions, warning Jack and Rudy of the dangers of unexplored cave systems. “Remember, when we get inside, the most important thing is to stick together. Don’t go wandering off alone,” he said as he adjusted his gear. “I’ll climb up first and let down a safety line.”