Death Canyon

by David Riley Bertsch

  When he spoke, his voice was quiet, consistent, and calm—but with a sharp edge that belied the fire within him: “Good morning.” Some in the crowd replied with their own muttered “good morning,” and there were a few nods and claps, but most stayed silent, too focused on listening to formulate a response.

  Sam had counted more than fifty votaries. They conformed to the Shaman’s every whim.

  “How many of you joined me because you were tired of useless protests?” Everyone in the cabin raised his or her hand, including the Shaman, who nodded as he did so. A few cheered or whistled.

  He was playing to the crowd. Sam hadn’t expected such a pep-talk tone to the meeting.

  “How many of you get really pissed off when you think of our elected officials discarding the letters you have sent them about the fate of our irreplaceable environment?” Now more people cheered. The Shaman’s voice grew louder.

  “Today,” he continued, directing those standing to take their seats again by slowly lowering both of his hands, “you all have an opportunity to take action in the truest sense of the word. To our south, near the mighty Snake River, Parrana wishes to turn preserved land into a condominium development.” Nods of affirmation. The Shaman held out his palm, extending his skinny fingers as if motioning for someone to stop. His voice got quiet. An airy whisper. “Before I continue, if you wish to protest gutlessly in the town square again as some of you did last night, I request you to leave this lodge now.” No one moved toward the exit, although some shifted around uncomfortably in their seats to try to identify those who had apparently disappointed their leader.

  “Good. I’m impressed with your courage. As some of you may know, the town of Jackson—that spineless political amoeba with jurisdiction over this proposed development—voted last night to allow the developer to continue unimpeded toward its goal of destroying our wilderness.

  “The time for argument and negotiation has now passed. I have one task for all of you: I want you to do what it takes to prevent this gluttonous developer from working on, or even setting foot on, this land. There is no time to coordinate lockouts or to search out and disable their equipment. No, instead, I want you to make every contractor or construction, no, destruction worker think twice before he sets foot on that land. Use our supplies”—he motioned toward the razor wire—“use whatever you can find here. And if you need funds for this mission, please see Ryder after we adjourn. There is no spending limit for this task.” The Shaman pointed to a man in the cabin’s corner who held a backpack.

  “I don’t expect a coordinated sabotage—I expect you to go out tonight and take care of this. I leave it up to your imagination as to what types of deterrents you will use—but the message must be clear: Mother Nature will not be raped for profit. When she cannot defend herself, we are her defenders!” The crowd cheered. The Shaman stepped out of the center of the room and walked toward the banker, Ryder.

  Sam watched and listened.

  “Well done, Shaman,” Ryder said, setting the backpack down on the cabin’s floor and unzipping it. A line of votaries had queued up.

  “I trust that our new recruits have been screened for loyalty before sending them out on such an important mission?” the Shaman said quietly to Ryder.

  He nodded. “Of course, sir.”

  The Shaman stood by while Ryder distributed the money in the backpack and the crowd started to filter out. Some of the votaries made eye contact or nodded to him, hoping to impress him, form a personal bond. Very few actually spoke to their leader. They were afraid.

  As Sam passed, the Shaman smiled. Sam smiled back and nodded, too, noticing that he was the only one who had been lucky enough to elicit a friendly response. And he was just a proselyte—the only one invited to the meeting.

  As Ryder handed over Sam’s spending money, he spoke to Sam: “Please wait here for just a few moments. The Shaman would like to speak with you.” As he moved toward the door, Sam looked over his shoulder toward his leader to see that the man was watching him.

  Two others, one male and one female, remained in the cabin with Ryder and the Shaman. Sam knew them to be the high votaries—the Shaman’s closest advisers. The woman quickly went to the wooden door, shut it, and locked it. Then the high votaries, the Shaman, and Ryder formed a small circle in the center of the room, the Shaman pulling over an old bar stool for the woman. She sat next to him.

  “As you all know, destiny has led me down a new path,” the Shaman said. Sam looked around to see the others nod. He was clueless. “I have always looked to Nature with a humble and subservient eye. I can imagine no greater purpose for any one of the earth’s creatures than protecting her. When I was much younger, I formed our sister organization, EcoAmicae, to lobby government officials, to convince corporate leaders and the public to treat our earth with the respect that she deserves. These methods were effective and our voice was heard around the world. Eventually, though, I realized there was no getting through to some people, to some organizations, with dialogue and rhetoric. Big business was raping the earth and feeling no remorse. Moreover, we could make them feel no remorse.”

  The Shaman’s face turned graver, his voice quieter. “At that point, I had a decision to make—either abandon the cause, something I believed in, or change the tactics of the organization to deal with those that carelessly destroyed the world. As a somewhat intelligent man”—the Shaman smiled at the group, rolling his eyes, a rare glimpse of spare warmth within him—“I knew that to conduct the type of missions I had in mind would erode the credibility of EcoAmicae—the credibility I had worked so hard to attain within the scientific and political communities. If EcoAmicae were perceived as an extremist rebellion, it would lose its effectiveness. You all know what happened, of course: I formed the nameless organization under which we meet today.”

  The four remaining members nodded knowingly, urging the Shaman to continue.

  Where is this going? Sam thought.

  “Now, although I am incredibly impressed with our little militia, I find that another change is necessary. As leaders, we know that we have limitations to what we can accomplish. This development, for example—we may stop it, but we cannot stop the idea of it by simply booby-trapping one site. No, we need to engender a realization in the public that Nature is not something we take from or use, but rather, she is a goddess to whom we should dedicate our lives to praise and protect. We need to remind the citizens of this earth that if they trespass on sacred ground—that is, if they use the earth rather than worship her, they will be punished by her.”

  The Shaman stood up from his seat and rubbed his smooth face anxiously with his hand. Sam sensed that the group, besides Ryder, didn’t grasp the importance of what he was telling them. The Shaman spoke again.

  “Are any of you familiar with the study of eschatology?

  “Christians, for example, believe that the world will end in a Judgment Day,” the Shaman continued. “They believe that at some point in time, God will descend on the earth to choose which humans have led a devout life and which humans have not, and thus will be sentenced to eternal damnation. This could be described as the Christian eschatology. Eschatology is the study of the end. That is, the study of what certain groups believe will be the end of the world.

  “I am sure you are not surprised to hear, though, that modern religion—in fact, all religions since the pagans—has overcomplicated the issue. The world itself, you see, cannot end. She is eternal. The question becomes then, how are the righteous rewarded and the vile punished? The answer is easy: it happens every single day. The event—or, more accurately, a series of millions of events—occurs every time a boat is overturned in a squall or a town is destroyed by an earthquake.

  “ ‘Survival of the fittest’ is often cited as a simple model for our reality. This idiom is close to getting it right—it would be on point if it were changed to ‘survival of the most devout.’ You see, Nature is a killer, but she kills only when she has been wronged. Those that
challenge Nature and doubt her omnipotence are crushed by her. Culling events take place every day and this is our eschatology.

  “Our most holy mission, then, is to remind the world that despite advances in industry and science—even in survival techniques and equipment—they must respect Nature. In this way alone, the groundwork will be laid for true cooperation with Nature. Human ingenuity has allowed us to trespass against Nature—a man who is snakebit can now simply be given an antivenin. This, however, is the ultimate sin. We are reversing the will of the being that created us.”

  The Shaman now paused for a moment. “Our job, as protectors of this earth and humble servants of Nature, is to facilitate her will. For this reason, I am hereby creating a new division of our family of soldiers.” Sam had never heard the man use the word soldier—a word that held such solemn connotations. “I invite you, as competent and honest followers, to join the Revelators.”

  Moved by the Shaman’s words, Sam felt anxious to fulfill his will. Still, he had questions regarding the formation of this new and seemingly violent team.

  What exactly is he asking of us? How are four people supposed to change common thought about the world?

  The Shaman walked toward the door, sensing their apprehension. “You don’t have to decide at this moment,” he said, “and there is no formal invocation. If you are interested in helping us change the world, we will proudly include you in one of our missions. Think on it.”

  “Thank you, Shaman,” Sam said with a slight grin pulling at his lips. The opportunity to work closely with the Shaman stirred excitement within him.

  The door was now open and the man and woman quickly understood that they were to leave. When Sam moved for the door, the Shaman shook his head, asking him to stay behind.

  “Have a seat.”

  Sam did as the Shaman asked and sat down with the two men in the center of the cabin. A short time of silence prompted him to make eye contact with them, but they were looking at each other silently. Finally, the Shaman spoke.

  “I’ve heard that you joined us from quite a ways off, Sam,” he started informally. Sam nodded. “We’re happy to have you and impressed with your dedication. Crossing an ocean to aid us in our mission is admirable, and I think such an act . . .” He paused for a short moment, thinking of what to say next. “It reenforces the gravity and urgency of the situation facing us. Is it true that you are living under an assumed identity here in the States?”

  Sam nodded. He had arranged for it through a contact before he left London.

  “Given your incredible motivation to help us—to help the whole world—I have decided to invite you to participate in an operation of great importance. This task does not require much of you. In fact, it is a simple task, but the importance of your success is incredibly high. If you accept my request, you will undertake to act as one of the key cogs of the most significant mission this organization, or any other organization that calls itself a friend of the earth, has ever accomplished.

  “Your assignment involves the fundamental purpose of our new branch. Your job will be to help us inform the world that their abuse of Mother Nature will no longer be tolerated, that they are not and have never been the sole inhabitants of this world, and if they continue to take advantage of the being that provides for them without showing due respect, they will suffer.”

  When he finished this statement, the Shaman looked angry, and shades of violence showed on his face. Another moment of silence nearly prompted Sam to ask for more specifics—for some real idea of what was actually being asked of him. To ask, though, would have been considered disrespectful, so Sam was relieved when the Shaman spoke.

  “What I ask that you do, Sam, is simply to observe a person. The mission, in a sense, is a reconnaissance mission. Your one and only duty will be to observe, noting all of your observations in a notebook, so that you don’t forget any details. The details are very important. Every day, you will provide us with a phone report of your observations.”

  The Shaman paused for a second, then said: “That’s it—you will not be asked or required to do any more. You will not be informed of the relevance of your task unless you wish to be so informed. You will only be provided with information equivalent to the amount of trust that we place in you. Our level of trust, of course, will be dictated by your own devotion to the cause. In the glove box of your vehicle you’ll find a notebook with a few addresses. These locations are the places you must watch. Start tomorrow. For tonight, help sabotage the site if you’d like.”

  Sam smiled, but finally, the longer, unmistakable silence came that meant Sam was supposed to respond. He cleared his throat nervously and spoke briefly, agreeing to do as the Shaman asked. He was still not clear on the details, but Sam expected those would come soon enough. The proposition still made him uncomfortable—the Shaman’s words were serious; he spoke of suffering explicitly, and even worse, he conveyed implicitly to Sam that he intended to punish those with whom he disagreed. It seemed that the Shaman was not eager to share the details of the plan with Sam, and even if he was to offer up such information, Sam wondered whether he wanted to know. He left the cabin, however, without voicing these concerns to either the Shaman or the banker. He did not want his loyalty doubted.

  * * *

  Shortly after Sam left, the banker was dismissed from the room. He walked out into the ramshackle camp, a spiral-shaped village of old tents and lean-tos with well-worn pathways connecting them. The cabin where the meeting was held was the largest structure, situated in the center of the spiral. Outside their homes, the team members were busy preparing to honor their leader’s request, which made Ryder feel proud of himself and of the organization—they were finally becoming a real army, no longer asking for change but now compelling it.

  Soon, these team members, proselytes and votaries alike, would make it impossible for the plot of land in Jackson Hole to be developed, and over time, the Revelators would coerce all developers, all those who abused the earth . . . all people, to pursue a more righteous path in the name of Mother Nature.

  * * *

  The Shaman, alone now, was suddenly struck by an ugly mood. He clenched his teeth, wiggling his upper and lower jaws firmly against each other so he could feel them move slightly at their roots from the force. The Revelators were meant to bolster his power over his contingent, but he got the feeling it left them somewhat confused.

  The boy, Sam, had annoyed him, internally debating whether he should heed his new leader’s requests, but too insecure to question him. This anxiety and weakness reminded the Shaman of the way he imagined others saw him as a child—bitter and full of criticism. But meek. Passive-aggressive.

  The speech, the camp, and even the clothes he wore, it was all a ruse, but his followers and his power over them were real. He, their Shaman, could command them to do anything, and they would listen. The feeling was intoxicating.

  The original Shaman, of course, was dead. The new Shaman had arranged a meeting with him in private and crudely slit his throat with an old box cutter.

  It hadn’t been easy, either; the real Shaman had put up quite a fight. As he lay there bleeding out with his assailant leaning over him, he still fought. All the killer felt at first was a pinch, like a bee sting. He looked down to see the dead man holding a leather pouch in his left hand and a bamboo skewer in his right.

  The effects kicked in quickly and the newly crowned Shaman stumbled to his car. He wiped the blood from himself and went to the emergency room as fast as he could, but by the time he got to the reception desk he could barely stand up.

  For three days he slept in the hospital, suffering hideous night terrors. When he was conscious, the doctor came in firing questions.

  “Have you been in Central or South America recently? Africa? How were you poisoned?”

  He fell back into unconsciousness before he could answer. When he awoke again, the doctor was still there, standing over his bed with a group of nurses wearing face masks. The bright lig
hts burned his eyes.

  “You’re lucky to be alive, you know. We need to know how and where you came into contact with whatever caused this. It’s extremely important.”

  The doctor was suspicious, and the patient, despite the lingering fog of the poison, could tell.

  “Answer me!” the doctor shouted.

  The new Shaman sat up in the bed. “I need a shower,” he said. “Then we’ll talk.”

  He refused assistance, assuring the group he could shower on his own. When the doctor left, he slipped out through a back stairwell. He was free.

  The new Shaman returned to the crime scene and burned the body in an incinerator some two thousand miles from Jackson Hole. He slowly grew healthy, but he was sure he could still feel the effects of the poison within him. It put him on edge, made him tense and angry. Angrier than usual.

  What the hell was in that dart?! Some voodoo bullshit! He fucking cursed me! Stupid hippie!

  He had killed quite a few men in his life, but the effects of killing the Shaman had stuck with him like no other. After that day, everything in his life was darker. Whether it was the poison or a curse or something else, he couldn’t be sure. All he knew was that while he was never a saint by any stretch of the mark, he now felt even more like a devil.

  None of his followers knew anything about the murder. Not even those who had met the real Shaman before his untimely death. For a while, the real Shaman was traveling. Then he was imprisoned in France for five years. Those who knew the real Shaman best barely knew him at all and so this new leader easily took his identity. He had cut his hair and lost some weight, but this was their Shaman. They had no doubt.

  11

  ST. JOHN’S MEDICAL CENTER, JACKSON. THE SAME MORNING.

  The wait for visitation hours seemed like an eternity. Noelle had left her cabin with plenty of time to get to the facility by 9 a.m. She sped and arrived ten minutes early. Working for the government had its perks, not the least of which was near total immunity to traffic citations. Her excitement had apparently manifested itself visibly when she got to the hospital’s reception area.