The Scales

by Paul Sating

  “They,” she stuttered, “they killed him?”

  A darkness passed over George’s face and when he spoke, a chill cascaded through the room. “The Tri-Counties would have been better served if they had.” He turned to Nebi, and asked for a refill of his tea, fanning himself with a flat hand. “This heat. I don’t deal with it like I used to.” Nebi broke up the block of ice in the bucket that had melted into one skull-sized formation. George waited for the young man to finish before he spoke. “Would you like more?”

  “I’m fine,” Serenity said, not giving a damn about tea, iced or not.

  George sipped, shaking his head as he set the glass down. “No. We were a small tribe then, a devastated tribe, but they still had the sense to not provoke us. They knew that if they killed him, there would be a bloodbath. Our people wouldn’t have won, but there would have been a high price to pay for the white man. The Tri-Counties was a violent place, a lot of fighting over resources and land, everyone staking claims in something. Poor, desperate men, all trying to find elusive wealth the Counties promised and never delivered. The last thing they wanted was another enemy at their doors, another headache with weapons, willing to die for their cause. People were tired of struggling. Either way, they didn’t kill him; they arrested him and worked with the tribe about what to do next.

  “Thing was, the answer wasn’t as simple as they’d hoped,” George continued. “Who knows what any of them really wanted, but our stories tell us they wanted a lot. See?” George turned the page to a full-page note, scribbled in tiny, thin lines. Little space was between any of the margins and the text.

  “I can’t read it,” she admitted.

  “Here.” George held up a finger and slowly flipped to the next page. A hand-drawn map showed a rough sketch of land and a town, labeled “Rotisserie.” The encompassed area stretched to Sunrise Peaks. Off to one corner, far beyond the actual town and the surrounding border of the maps edged by mountains, was a small circle encasing a few squares meant to represent houses. It was labeled “injuns.”

  “What’s that?” Serenity tapped the circled area.

  “It’s the white man’s reminder that they didn’t think much of us.” George laughed. “A derogatory word they used for my people. Label people who aren’t like you, convince others that’s the unspoken-but-official way to refer to someone, do it for a long time and with enough people. Before you know it, everyone is convinced those who are different are actually less than human. Language is a powerful tool when you think about it. A civilization can be destroyed without lifting a bow, gun, or starting up a tank.”

  “Disgusting,” Serenity spat.

  “It is,” he agreed, “but it’s also very, very effective.”

  She analyzed the labeled area, bothered how cruel people could be to others simply because they looked different. California would be so different, based on what she read about it when Pepperdine was a realistic dream. Seeing this, it appeared the ugliness of the Tri-Counties went back further than its name.

  Serenity noticed it wasn’t a single circle, but two, that enclosed the reservation on the map. The outer one was a thin, dotted line that extended from the reservation toward a corner of Sunrise Peaks. “What’s that?” she asked.

  “That?” George barked, the darkness lifting from his face. “See that word right there? ‘Home.’ They were going to relocate the tribe.”

  “Into the mountains?” The words tasted wrong even coming out of her mouth.

  George didn’t answer beyond a small nod.

  Gauging by this rudimentary drawing, the tribe would have been moved twenty miles from their current location. The designated area was in the foothills on the southeastern corner of the mountains where they started running almost due west.

  “How did they expect to relocate an entire village of people?” Her fingers trembled with adrenaline-fueled rage.

  “Not their problem, dear,” George said, his tone calm, with no hint of bitterness. Serenity wasn’t sure how he didn’t feel even a twinge. “We were nothing but injuns to them.” He sighed, turning to the next page.

  Serenity stared at a WANTED poster with a hand-drawn image of a young Native American man with long, black hair centered underneath the title Reward $100. “Is this Atsidi?”

  George nodded.

  “But I thought they arrested him?”

  “They did,” George said, a sadness flavoring his words. “But he escaped a few weeks into his imprisonment. The people of Rotisserie were still trying to work out the details of what they were going to do with him. They hadn’t come to an agreement with our tribe, so they were at a standoff, neither side willing to accommodate the other. That’s what happens when people don’t trust each other. Anyway, one night while he was served dinner, he attacked the sheriff. Bashed his head against the cell bars, over and over. Killed the man. Got the keys and fled into the night.”

  “Oh,” Serenity said. “I guess that didn’t end well for the tribe. Him, coming back here? The town? Did they attack your people?”

  For the first time during this entire conversation George’s eyes twitched. “No, he didn’t come back. Not really.”

  Either he did, or he didn’t. In between was a place and time where she was running out of patience. Atsidi's story was fascinating and crucial to what she needed to know, but the tug of needing to act was approaching undeniable.

  George slowly turned to the last page in the book. Serenity instinctively pulled back.

  A charcoal drawing of an incredible beast, a monster of nightmares, of her nightmares, jumped off the paper. She was looking at the Screecher.

  “Atsidi only came back to the reservation briefly.” George interrupted her thoughts. But now, he sounded detached. “Our tribe’s story is the Screecher’s story, you see? Atsidi came home that night to make amends with his mother. He realized he couldn’t stay. If he remained on the reservation, the white man would come, and they’d bring men and guns. A lot of them. He didn’t want the tribe to pay such a heavy price for his mistakes. He knew these people who were now his enemies. Knew their ambitions and hatred for our kind. If he stayed, we would never find peace. Men from town would take him back. Resisting would put the tribe in an awkward spot, forcing them to decide between turning over one of their own to the people who’d imprisoned them on the reservation, or…”

  “They could fight,” Serenity concluded.

  “Exactly,” George said. “And Atsidi knew, even for all the heartaches he caused his family and the tribe, he wouldn't be betrayed. So, it was up to him to change fortunes. And that’s exactly what he did. Said his goodbyes to his mother, a few friends, and the tribal elders, and then he rode into the desert. No one ever saw him again…not really.”

  George closed the book.

  She blinked at the sudden conclusion of Atsidi’s story. Things weren’t tied together yet. George must have read the confusion on her face.

  “Search parties were sent out after the white man was convinced Atsidi was gone for good, and there could be peace between our people,” he said. “Weeks had passed by then and it was a hard decision for the tribe. They tried to find him, but it’s a big desert and, even for hardened people, straying too far into it is risky. The entire village searched, even his mother. Day after day, never finding a clue to his whereabouts. Like he disappeared.”

  “It probably didn’t help that Atsidi had caused so many problems before all this.” She risked an interruption.

  George smirked and shook his head. “It didn’t, that's for sure. Atsidi was a troubled young man, and even small communities like ours can only give so much to people like that. They searched for weeks until, one day, they found the remains of his horse. It’d been dead for weeks, but it emboldened them. They believed he would be close.” George fell silent for a moment, tapping the top of his cane and staring off.

  Before Serenity could entertain thoughts of how the Screecher might have crossed Atsidi’s path, George started again. “They found
his gear and clothes that same day. I’m not sure when they documented everything, but it was important enough to record. And that is something our people didn’t necessarily do then. Shows how strange and critical they felt it was. Those records say his items were a half mile from the horse. But still, they didn’t find Atsidi. The group was divided; some demanded they head home. They were tired and stressed. But some, including his mother, insisted on staying. They were close to finding him, they believed. Without a consensus, those who wanted to return did so, and those who wanted to keep looking for Atsidi also followed their path. No one can be sure but one day, when they pressed deeper into the desert, Atsidi’s mother collapsed. Heat stroke.”

  “Oh no,” Serenity whispered. Thoughts of her own mother flooded her mind.

  “As far into the desert as they were, there was nothing they could do for her,” George said. “Giving her water would take it away from those who needed it and were capable of getting back. The group was days away from any reliable water source. They tried, though, trust me. But Atsidi’s mother refused. She would not let them waste their water on her. She told them she was dying; that she was ready to see the ancestors and her son. That shocked the group. But none judged her. She was a mother in pain, exhausted, mentally and physically. The group stayed and tried to comfort her through the blackouts, vomiting, and shivers. Before she died, she screamed Atsidi’s name. She wailed, her voice reaching the heights of the heavens and the depths of the world of souls.”

  Fire burned in George’s eyes, removing decades of struggle and pain. They were the eyes of a younger man, robust. “And that’s when he came.”

  Serenity sat up, her skin tingling. “Atsidi?”

  George nodded. “Only that he was no longer the young man who’d left the village all those weeks ago. He had become.”

  “The Screecher?” She knew the answer before asking the question.

  “Yes,” George said. “He came in the form of the water spirit. Out of the ground. No rage, no violence. The sand bulged to incredible heights and then fell away in a cone-shaped pile, out of which the water spirit rose into the sky. It slithered toward the group, all of whom retreated in fear. Except for his mother. She was unconscious. The water spirit, Atsidi, crawled to her and, it began humming. They couldn’t describe it then, because they didn’t have the point of reference like we do, but it sounds like the water spirit was trying to talk to his mother through electrical means…like static. They called it the ripping of the sky that accompanies thunderbolts. The water spirit was talking to his mother.”

  “How?” Serenity risked a question, fascinated by a story involving the Screecher that didn’t include it slaughtering people. “How could they be sure it was Atsidi?”

  “His mother woke and smiled,” George answered. “She touched her son and cried in joy; the stories say. We’re told she called him by his name before kissing her fingers and placing her hand against the head of the spirit. As soon as she did, her hand fell to the earth, limp, and she joined her ancestors. One witness, Nosh, approached carefully. The water spirit rose up, protectively, but Nosh offered the blanket he carried to honor Atsidi’s mother. He laid it across her, covering her body and face. The water spirit didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. Once she was covered, the spirit spoke to Nosh. The other members of the search party later told the elders they heard the same sound it made with Atsidi’s mother. They didn't understand. But Nosh did. It spoke in our tongue, he said. The water spirit named itself, both in its reborn name, the water spirit, and as Atsidi. The spirit told Nosh it would allow them to go in peace, and that he was sorry for all he’d done. He thanked Nosh for honoring his mother’s wishes and her memory, and he swore he would never harm the people of the tribe, ever. No matter how much he hungered, he would not hunt us. He promised to protect the tribe from the white man until his rebirth.” George wrapped his bony hands around the book and handed it back to Nebi.

  “The Screecher is human?” Serenity’s mind swirled with a spate of possibilities and meaning. “And that’s why you don’t fear it like we do.”

  “Exactly,” George said.

  She was fascinated but still confused. “But…why help me? Why help the people of Rotisserie if that’s the case? If it, he, is one of you?”

  “Because.” George’s voice was strong, determined. “It is time. We are not our ancestors. The people of Rotisserie are not the people who imprisoned them.”

  “Doesn't getting involved break the promise?”

  “We’re not going to fight the water spirit.” George’s voice turned to a growl. “We’re going to help you kill every last one of those Black Suits, so they can’t come back to the Tri-Counties.” His eyes bore into her. “And then you’re going to help us put Atsidi to rest.”

  29

  Serenity bit her lip. “You will help us?” Tears of relief formed in her eyes. She wiped them away with the back of her hand. “Thank you. Thank all of your people so, so much!”

  The corners of George’s eyes turned down as he frowned. “Don’t thank us yet,” he said. “There is a lot of work to do, requiring sacrifices of everyone, including your own people, before this is finished.”

  “What do you mean?”

  George fingered the drops of condensation on his glass. “Serenity, it’s time for the water spirit to find peace. Atsidi has served his penance. All things must rest, even the heavens. Atsidi must rejoin our ancestors. We’ll help you, regardless of your answer, but it’s time.”

  “Of course.” She could barely contain her excitement, even in the seriousness of everything spinning around her. There was hope. She didn’t expect this when coming to demand George do something. Help, yes. But as her mind flashed back to the community building stocked with armor and weapons, she never thought they'd have an army to call on. They could beat the Black Suits, meaning she might be able to save her family. The urge to bolt from the table and begin the rescue surged through her. “We’ll do it. But how? How do we help Atsidi rest?”

  And then George told her.

  ***

  She needed to become the Screecher.

  30

  “Harvest.” The word came through the patrol car radio. “Serenity? Patch?” Deputy Rodgers was asking, “Did you get that?”

  Serenity had heard, but she was lost, her brain barely registering the deputy’s message because all resources were being expended on what George had told her. She opened her mouth, her dry lips peeling apart like a plastic wrapper being pulled off sticky candy. “Yes,” she finally answered.

  “Okay.” The squawk crackled through the radio. “Then we’ll meet at the rendezvous point.”

  “Okay.”

  Dead radio silence followed and then Rodgers was back, this time with the air of official business removed from his tone. “Are you okay? We’ve got this, Serenity.”

  “I’m fine,” Serenity answered flatly. “We’ll see you there.” She set the mic back in its clip, turning to buckle her seatbelt. “You ready?”

  “I am,” Patch said from the passenger seat. Serenity felt the light sensation of his eyes on her, like the times Troy used to lightly touch the top of her hand when they were a new couple and he was too scared to find confidence. Patch’s sweaty odor filled the patrol car. “You don’t be needing to worry about me. You’ve got enough on your young mind.” Patch paused. “The weight of the world.”

  “Yeah, I know,” she answered, her fingers choked the steering wheel.

  “No one would ask you to go through this if this wasn’t the only way. I’ve known it from the beginning, and I wanted to tell you, Serenity, I did. But you needed to understand the truth before I could be telling you what had to be done.”

  She didn’t answer. Not right away. She couldn’t. Not after what Patch and George had just dumped in her lap. Patch was lucky she had the mental fortitude to drive after what they shared, or she would have lost it, right there at their feet. The world around her was still moving, going about its routine
, she was sure of that. But none of it registered, dipping in and out of her fog. Their solution was the stuff of fantasy, with no place in the real world.

  But it still made sense. Everything linked by the time they finished explaining the situation. My predicament. All her questions about the Screecher, why it did what it did, why it seemed to appear wherever she was. Even the physical symptoms. They knew about the nausea! And now she understood why she felt it, how the Screecher projected such power when it was near that it brought on physical ailments. At least for her, since Jerrod never complained about it. And now she knew why, understood why she was different.

  Reflections of the conversation, the admission, filled her head as they made their way off the reservation, careful to avoid the handful of children brave enough to play in the intense heat. Proceeding carefully. Down this path. Navigating through the challenge ahead. Hadn’t that been what she was doing all along? Out into the open desert, her mind remained clouded.

  Every occurrence over the past two weeks boiled down to desires. The Black Suits were as determined to weaponize the Screecher today as they had been for decades. The reasons for the tribe’s apathy were now clear. Her mother’s protectiveness driven by her need to control some aspect of her world. Even the Screecher was no longer a complete mystery. After everything she’d seen it do, all the mysterious-yet-awesome power it displayed, it was still a person bent on revenge more than a hundred years after it left that form.

  She shook her head.

  Everyone had cause for revenge. Even she had cause if she thought long and hard enough about who had wronged her, who had taken advantage of her inability to stand up for herself. Motivation to get revenge was simple.

  And Pepperdine is just a dream.