Spiritride

by Mark Shepherd

  It's not that cold. The sand is soft. I'll just sleep here, on the bloodstain. I'll sleep here all night . . . all night long. . . .

  * * *

  The sleep became a tunnel, pulling him from the now to the then. Shilombish Hoshontikatchi Yaakni, the Spirit Shadowland, the place you go when you die. Only the Medicine Men could go to this place without dying, and they often did so when they wanted to know something. Here, they spoke to the spirits. Fast Horse knew this, and now Wolf knew. But he wanted to know more, as it pertained to his now: What was the bad magic that killed his grandfather, and what was it planning to do next?

  The tunnel became a river, and Wolf saw a vast land, wild and natural. Entering from the sea the winged canoe sailed upstream, slowly, fighting the mighty current with the breath from the sky.

  Okoshi, the medicine man, followed the canoe with the rest of the tribe, and after the gods had argued and warred among themselves he came across the first, a chi-en and an evil one. Though the warriors were with him, Okoshi was afraid of this chi-en, who looked more godlike up close.

  You will let me pass you worthless human! the chi-en spat, using the wind to carry his venom. I am Nargach, prince of the Unsaylee, and you will get out of my way now! The warriors heard this as well, and raised their loaded bows; Okoshi raised his hand, stopping them.

  "I hattak taha ishtimanokfila. Apiilachi ilhokoffi." Okoshi said.

  (This one is too much to worry about. Let him go.)

  The warriors obeyed, but they kept their arrows trained on Nargach, who walked away laughing. The chi-en continued walking into the fire, and Okoshi knew the chi-en was no more. The ring of fire disappeared.

  Wolf woke with a start, not knowing where or who he was. Then he caught the unmistakable stench of burnt plastic and fiberglass, saw the smoldering coals of the trailer glowing dimly in the dark. A waning, near-full moon burning orange on the horizon had begun its ascent. Wolf had seen the moon rise and set on this barren landscape many times, made all the more brilliant by the Milky Way, a single, violent brushstroke of light across the clear sky. But this time things were different, the full moon spoke to him . . . or rather the goddess she represented beckoned him from the future, and the past, intersecting on the now.

  The moon is different tonight, Wolf thought as he lay back down, slowly, on the bloodied sand. I am different tonight.

  Fast Horse's spirit, still lurking in the darkness, whispered, There's more. Go back to the Land. Ask the Hoshontikatchi, the shadows themselves, what became of us, what became of the Yaakni Alackchi, the medicine men . . . and why we brought the chakka to us, made them what they are now.

  Wolf closed his eyes on the brilliant Milky Way, and did as he was told.

  A bear had probably killed the wolf; there was nothing else around that could have done so complete a job. Okoshi had no doubt that it was a bear, with its tracks left all over the place. But the wolf had put up a good fight, and even managed to draw blood; Okoshi knew the difference between wolf and bear blood, knew it by scent.

  Okoshi carried the wolf's carcass to the circle, where the white woman wanted to work her medicine, wikka. She had cast circle and consecrated the ground with her blade, and awaited Okoshi. The elders waited as well, along with the chi-en boy who had taken a wife already, who was now pregnant; the circle was to help her too, though Okoshi didn't know how. The woman, Margot Jameson, knew the medicine the woman would need to give birth to a healthy baby. It would be the first chi-en and human, though Akaniwa was what they all called themselves now. For a time the chi-en clung to the name of their former tribe, the Saylee, to which they had belonged before Nargach had conquered and enslaved them. But soon they realized they were not going back; their tribe was here, with the new Akaniwa. The tribe's power was in the five pointed Hand; it became their symbol, their doorway to Hoshontikatchi.

  It was a medicine working for two purposes, combined on the night of the full moon since both were essential to the well-being of the tribe.

  The wolf's body was slung over Okoshi's shoulders, but it was getting heavy. He wished he'd brought the young chi-en along, Alin, who had the strength of ten braves. Obviously, their child would be strong too; all the chi-en would add their strength to their blood. The Chaniwa would be a stronger people.

  But not with the Ha-Sowa ready to attack, Okoshi thought, remembering the vision of the demon the evil chi-en had left behind. Margot had agreed with him, the Ha-Sowa was a threat, and was real, even if they didn't know when the demon might strike. It may wait a generation, it may wait two. It may strike tomorrow. . . .

  So together, Wikka and the Yaakni Alackchi, they would protect the tribe by protecting the child.

  Okoshi arrived with the wolf. Margot instructed him to put some of its blood on a staff she had prepared for the ritual, and then put the wolf's body in the fire. Earlier Margot had jumped over it, to the amusement of the tribe, who joined her in jumping over the fire. It was a cleansing, she had said, and the tribe felt its power. The Chaniwa would also pay respect to the wolf, not only for what it had been in its previous life, but for what it would become. They would ask its spirit to protect them.

  The chi-en knew of a way to incorporate the spirit of animals, the stronger the better, into their own; they knew already the child would be male, so they needed a male wolf. Margot had sensed the wolf's death earlier that day, and declared tonight the night to make this happen. The moon was full, they had harvested abundant food, and they were in celebration. Now all they needed was protection from Ha-Sowa, and their future as a people would be secure.

  They began the dance, and Margot used the power they had raised to talk to the spirits, and the goddess of the moon. The pregnant wife had become tired, and she lay on a deerskin within the circle, and everyone danced around her and the fire.

  Okoshi entered trance with Margot, and together they sensed another wolf, a living wolf, outside the circle. It was a she-wolf, and it was mate of the wolf the bear had slain! She had followed its scent, and she was watching the circle from afar.

  This was all meant to be, Margot had said to Okoshi, and the medicine man agreed. Together they molded the magic raised in the circle, and with the chi-en they cast the spell.

  The newborn would be a new Chaniwa, neither human nor chi-en, and he would pass his power on to future generations. With the wolf's spirit a part of his own, he would shapeshift. He would be the first chakka.

  As the flames died down, the wife lay peacefully asleep. The tribe sat, savoring the power of the circle, talking about their two different kinds of medicine, and it was all one medicine now.

  Margot heard the she-wolf, beckoned her to come.

  "Animals can cross the circle," she had said. "People cannot. She won't harm us."

  Even the elders didn't become alarmed when the she-wolf came into the circle cautiously. She walked to Alin, then to his wife. She licked her swollen womb; Okoshi heard her say goodbye to her mate. The she-wolf turned, and walked slowly away, back into the forest.

  The Chaniwa were crying at the sight, touched by the feelings of the she-wolf, but it was a rejoicing as well. It was a new beginning for them all, the elders, the young couple, Margot and Okoshi. And for the chakka. They slept around the fire that night, around the coals that warmed them all the way till dawn.

  They woke to the sunlight of a new day.

  This morning in the desert fall arrived early; Wolf opened his eyes, finding himself laying stomach down on cold ground beside the remains of the trailer.

  Bit by bit the images of his dreaming came back. Instead of fading away, like they usually did, they became stronger, permanently affixing themselves to his memory. It was some of the most vivid dreaming he'd ever experienced, and a part of him knew it was more than a dream . . . it was a vision. He had relived the beginnings of the Chaniwa.

  Enough thinking. Now for action. Wolf gathered loose boards, a couple of cinder blocks, and made an altar against the side of the shack. I must turn to the Ch
aniwa ways, he thought. Grandfather said that's the only way I will survive.

  The dream catcher Hand of the Chaniwa went on the altar, along with a few chunks of quartz crystal in matrix, rough jasper, the old rattle. For a terrified instant he'd thought the pinyon carving of Ha-Sowa had gone up in flames, but he had saved it with everything else that was important. It went on the altar too; on top of the Hand. Next to the carving went grandfather's knife, which was also a medicine man's ritual tool called the atami. A half carton of Marlboros had been another find in the trailer, and he put a fresh pack on the altar, with a pack of matches. Wolf had heard once that the Chaniwa was the only tribe to use an altar; furniture of this type was a white man's creation. Margot's magic must have impressed them for the tribe to embrace her tools so totally.

  In the center of the altar went the most sacred thing of all: The Mr. Wake the Hell Up took its rightful position as the centerpiece. He filled it with water from the trough, and coffee from his recently found stash, and after plugging it into the meter, turned it on.

  Damn, it's cold. He went into the shed and found one of Grandfather's konsaintas, the one made of deerskin, and put it on. From the pile of dishes he'd salvaged he pulled out his coffee cup, went back out to the altar, lit a cigarette, and sat.

  "I miss him already," he said to the horizon, letting the ache in his throat rise up and become a full sob. As he sat there, he realized, with a horrible sickening clarity, his true position in the universe.

  I'm the only one left.

  He thought he had known what loneliness was, but sitting there, waiting for his coffee to finish brewing, contemplating his shack, the pile of pathetic possessions, and the scrub land around him, he discovered a level of loneliness he hadn't thought was possible.

  Wolf knew sadness, and he knew pain, and he also knew the conditions didn't last. He tried to meditate on the gift Grandfather had left him, an instant awareness of a fully trained Chaniwa medicine man . . . or perhaps a partially trained one . . . and tried also not to fill his morning with hatred for the ones who had killed Grampa. Hate was not a feeling he liked, and he decided then that he wouldn't nurse it into being every time he thought about Grampa.

  Grampa . . . Fast Horse . . . Okoshi . . . he thought, remembering something from the dream, something he had missed while experiencing it. The medicine man who encountered the chi-en, the one who led the tribe to the children of the gods. He acted just like Grampa, he thought. It was as if he was Grampa. It was a strong belief that medicine men were reincarnated as future medicine men throughout the history of the tribe.

  Then it hit him. Okoshi means fast running horse.

  With that comprehension the desert, and the entire universe, got just a little bit smaller.

  The coffee maker's loud blurt disrupted his thoughts, shaking him from the half trance he'd fallen into; he reached for the coffee cup, an automatic morning reaction, as involuntary as breathing. The carving of Ha-Sowa stood on the altar, imprisoned by the Hand. It looked like an animated cat, something that might have come out of a Warner Brothers cartoon. Nargach, Nargat, whatever his name was. It's the same one, the same chi-en in the vision. He made Ha-Sowa. When he thought the demon's name, he made certain to be looking in the Hand.

  I believe everything else, now, he thought. Now that I've had the Vision. Perhaps shapeshifting is meant symbolically, that the chakka had the strength and ferocity of a wolf? No, the legends were specific.

  Wolf-man, man-wolf.

  A warm breeze drifted through, announcing the arrival of mid-morning. The konsainta felt good against his skin, soaking up the sun's warmth. Barefoot, Wolf gathered up the coffee pot, his cup, cigarettes and lighter, and walked a fair distance into the property. At the north end of the property was a range of juniper-spotted hills. After he'd walked a distance he stopped, and sat down cross-legged, his knees sticking out of the open slits of the konsainta.

  At the edge of his vision, he caught movement. He looked up to see a distant motorcycle and rider poised at the top of the hill. Three more cycles appeared beside him, and they stood regarding Wolf for several moments.

  Strange, thought Wolf. I didn't hear anything.

  Apparently uncertain of their welcome, the riders picked their way through the rocks coming down. Only when they had come a certain distance did Wolf see this was Thorn with his old Harley, with three other motorcyclists he didn't recognize. Wolf surmised the Rider Guardian was just being polite as he descended the somewhat steep hillside in a leisurely manner, hovering about a foot above the ground. The other two did not appear to be spirit at all, but negotiated the rocks with skill, as if the motorcycles, the makes of which he didn't recognize, had minds of their own. They wore modern motorcycle garb, nice full visored Bieffe helmets. Wolf's curiosity was definitely aroused.

  "Po-kwa-te, Thorn," Wolf said amiably, getting to his feet, with some effort; he wasn't entirely used to wearing a konsainta. "It's good to see you under better circumstances."

  The other three bikes pulled in around him, and stopped. They were old beemers, each apparently the same make and year. The bikes looked old; sixties, early seventies maybe. Thorn was, as always, slightly transparent, betraying his ghostly identity. But he was still the shy country boy he remembered, the aspect of personality they both shared.

  "Hi, Wolf," Thorn said, after pulling off the ever-present leather helmet. "I, uh, took the liberty of inviting some friends along. I hope you don't mind."

  The other three had dismounted, and had begun taking off their helmets. One was taller, and darker of skin than the other two, who were, well, goodlooking young kids, apparently out for a ride in the hills on machines far from suitable for the purpose.

  The girl especially . . . their eyes locked, and in that moment he remembered the dreams of her, the ones he'd wakened to nearly every morning since his return. But something was missing, the identification was incomplete.

  The boy stepped forward, looking normal in just about every way, but something was shouting at Wolf that they were anything but normal. Their eyes seemed peculiar, a brilliant green, with oddly shaped pupils.

  "Wolf, I'm Petrus," the boy said, but his smile seemed forced, and his eyes were darting possessively back and forth between Wolf and the girl. "This is Wenlann and this, over here, is Odras. We are . . . Well, Thorn, should we tell him?"

  "Oh, go ahead and show him. I don't think it will surprise him too much. Well," Thorn corrected, looking slightly chagrined. "Maybe a little."

  "What are you talking about?" Wolf asked, not at all alarmed. "What am I missing here?"

  Around the head and face of all three of the newcomers a brief cloud of distortion formed, then vanished.

  Wolf rubbed his eyes, saw three chi-en in motorcycle garb standing beside beemers. The girl, Wenlann, smiled at him, and his heart missed a beat. Now, with the missing element of the pointed ears present, identification was complete—this was the girl he'd been dreaming of, and now she was standing before him, smiling seductively.

  "Okaayopi chi-en," Wolf muttered, dropping his cigarette.

  "Hmmm?" Thorn asked. "Sorry. I don't speak Chaniwa, and I'm afraid our guests don't either."

  "You're elves," Wolf translated, vaguely aware of the lit cigarette smoldering on top of his right foot.

  Chapter Twelve

  "You know," Wenlann said, after a moment of awkward silence. "I think he's taking it pretty well. I mean, didn't the King like pass out or something when Marbann delivered the same news to him?"

  Petrus regarded Wolf with distaste, and tried not to let it show. He sure is looking over Wenlann, he thought, holding back his anger, and the sharp tongue that usually came with it.

  Wolf realized the cigarette was burning on his right foot, and shook it off.

  "Why don't you come over to my home? That shack, just over there," Wolf said, picking up his coffee pot and cup. "Please excuse the mess, but I just did some rearranging."

  Out of politeness they walked their motor
cycles over to the homestead, the elvensteeds more or less navigating themselves. Wolf didn't seem to take notice. As much as Petrus tried to deny it, Wolf had an aura different from what he was accustomed to seeing in humans. It was as if Wolf were part elf, the way the edges of the field shone, leaving no doubt in Petrus' mind that Wolf was at least a mage. Wolf looked somewhat effeminate in the animal skin robe he had on, and Petrus wondered what Wenlann could possibly see in him. Yet she was gawking, in undisguised pleasure, at this human whom the Unseleighe wanted.

  Well, the Unseleighe can have him! he thought in a moment of ill-feeling . . . which promptly turned to guilt. Wolf didn't murder my family, the Unseleighe did. And if the Unseleighe are his enemy, then Wolf is our friend.

  "This is not exactly a social call," Thorn said once they had arrived at the shed. Petrus glanced over the burned remains of a trailer—and in that second, realized he had been here before.