Glenn looked at the package in disgust. He ran to his truck, placed the Pedro inside, and locked the door. Empty-handed he started back toward the shaman. “The little people–”
“I am not ready,” Snow on the Mountains said, cutting him off, “to discuss the little people further.”
“I told you there's no time. We have to discuss it. You called them demon warriors. You didn't tell me the Indians went to war against them.”
“What else could conceivably earn them the title?”
“That's right. And it's clever, sir, but you're keeping things from me that I need to know.”
“It's not the white man's business.”
“Look at my truck, the blood on this uniform, and tell me it's not my business. I've heard another version of the legend. The Arapaho went to war with these things.”
“They did not go alone. The Shoshone were beside them. The Arapaho made a temporary peace with our people. The two tribes banded together.” He stared at Glenn's truck, stared through it really, at the thing he knew it contained. “They baited the little people into a canyon and, legend says, set the demon warriors on fire. They destroyed the Ninimbe.”
“They are not destroyed,” Glenn exclaimed. “They're running around Wyoming like ants. They're killing wildlife. They're killing residents and park visitors. They killed one of my best rangers. They nearly killed me. These Nimer… whatever, they're alive!”
The shaman nodded as if he'd come to a decision. “I have lived a long time, Chief Merrill. I have met and dealt with many white men. You are the only one I have thought about afterward. I have thought about you a lot, more than you know. You are the only white man I have ever prayed for.”
Snow on the Mountains hung his head. “If what you say is true. Then our people failed centuries ago. We grieved Mother Earth and the Ninimbe were created to punish us. We failed in our attempts to destroy them. Somehow we failed.” The old man took three massive breaths, holding each, as if the air itself were recharging him. When his head came up again, his eyes were wet with tears. “You are a man of truth. You have seen them, the Ninimbe. To deny them now would be its own form of insanity.”
“I don't deny them,” Glenn assured him. “Not now. But I don't know what to do about them… and I'm terrified.” He pointed at the damaged truck and, by proxy, at the box locked within containing the Pedro Mountain thing. “I think the creatures… After what happened to Franklin at the museum and, now to me, I'm sure of it. They want that box. They want that thing inside. What is it?”
“I do not know what it is and, in this, I speak the truth.”
“But you haven't looked at it.”
“And I will not. I will not set eyes upon it. Whatever it is, it has a dark spirit. There is no light in it, no good. Take it away, Chief Merrill. And, as soon are you are able, get away from it yourself.”
Snow on the Mountains took a step back as if to close the door.
“But you've got to help me! I'm telling you, they want that mummy, whatever it is. They killed a ranger and friend to get it. They killed a man tonight and tried to kill me. I've got a tiger by the tail and I need help. Snow on the Mountains, I can't wait three days. And you can't refuse. I need your help!”
“You need not wait,” the old Indian said. “I have given you my advice, get rid of that thing. I understand your concern, Chief Merrill, more than you do. I give you my answer now; I refuse you. I do refuse. I told you what you must do. Beyond this I cannot help you. You have your journey. I have mine.” He pointed at Glenn's truck. “Now take that thing away.”
Snow on the Mountains closed the door.
Chapter 29
He parked his rusted Skylark and stared through the spidered windshield at the thick wooden government sign, dark brown, black now in the darkness, with brightly painted yellow letters, it read: Legend Rock. Below that, State Historic Site. Below that, The Petroglyph Site Is Open To Supervised Tours Only. At the bottom, the sign offered the contact number of the Hot Springs State Park. Snow on the Mountains shook his head. It might as well read: Keep off, Indians, the land belongs to the people.
All he had to do to visit the sacred site of his ancestors was call an unknown government employee or sanctioned volunteer, probably interrupt a search for computer porn, and politely ask permission. And, allowing permission was granted, to have his activities supervised by a 'naturalist' (a veteran of a two-hour training class) spewing a memorized speech covering the history of the site since the arrival of the white men.
Snow on the Mountains didn't bother with the number. He had every belief his unauthorized wee hours visit to the ancient Indian holy place was already being supervised. Not by whites, who couldn't begin to understand his presence and would only see it as trespassing, but by a higher authority. His hope lay in the knowledge he was being watched by the Great Spirit. If not, the shaman feared, they were all in grave danger.
Danger was the word. It was also the reason for his refusal to grant Chief Merrill's request for help. It wasn't that he would not help; help was the only purpose in his presence now. But, he feared, the Chief Ranger of Yellowstone Park could not be made to understand the nature of the evil facing them. A reasonable fear, in his mind, as demonstrated by the item Merrill was toting so carelessly around with him in his vehicle. The shaman feared, too, that Merrill would not be willing to step aside and leave the matter to the tribe. He knew the ranger couldn't understand the depth of the Indians' shame. This evil had sprung up among his people, among the peoples of the Great Basin, and belonged to the natives long before the whites came. This primeval force was an Indian malediction come to life and now threatening the modern world.
So it was that Snow on the Mountains, holy man to the Shoshone, with his drum, his medicine bag, and his medicine pipe, now stood alone on the road near that ancient holy place. The Great Spirit, Duma Appah, had brought him. Duma Appah would supervise as he cleansed and fixed a primordial Indian problem.
His journey would have to be on foot from there. Signs and gates could not keep the free-spirited inhabitants of that western frontier from traveling where they wished so, in its infinite wisdom, the governing agency had brought out expensive equipment to dig a tank trap into the roadbed and out through the barrow ditch far enough to physically prevent access to the site by vehicle. The deep and wide trench was all its name implied, even those who could afford a tank would have been prevented from maneuvering down the path.
Pounded into the road surface immediately in front of the trench was a metal signpost with a shiny new official notice: Tours Suspended Until Further Notice to Protect from Resource Damage. Squinting his old eyes to read it, Snow on the Mountains snorted his dissatisfaction. “They tear up the ground with their fancy machines,” he muttered. “To keep us from destroying the road. But they have no idea of the true value of this resource.”
A recent seismic upheaval had opened a hole in the earth and damaged the area. Now, until further notice, the site was closed to the people; an area where seismic upheaval was the white man's bread and butter. The irony was not lost on the shaman. The tourists would be kept out; the Indians as well by a new official banishment that might have been a final straw, a final government overreach in a long history of overreaches. But the shaman felt differently this night. Fearing what he feared, he was glad people were being kept away. For, though he was still over a mile from the site itself, the shaman could already feel the negative energy, the icy breath of evil.
He slipped his arm through the strap of his medicine bag, slung it over his head, and adjusted the satchel to hang at the small of his back out of the way. Tucking the drum under his arm, Snow on the Mountains stepped carefully over the edge of the trap. He slid to the bottom using a hand to brake his descent and for balance on the steep, man-made dirt slope. Safely at the bottom, he readjusted the bag at his back, took a deep breath, then another, and started up the opposite side of the trench. That was clumsy going. The old man had to work, digging his t
oes in (with an occasional knee) to ascend while the disturbed dirt fell away beneath his boots, struggling to keep upright and avoid falling on his face against the slope, while leaning forward not to fall back into the trench. He reached the top on the far side, lay the drum on the ground to free his hands, and clambered up out of the trench and onto the road on the opposite side of the divide. He hunched there, hands on his knees, gratified but winded. “I am paying for my gluttony with tobacco,” he confessed aloud. Then he gave a breathless laugh thinking how pleasing it would be to light a bowl at that moment.
But there was no time for self-indulgence. The old warrior lowered his chin and shook his head. This was that moment for which he had dedicated his entire life as a shaman. He collected his thoughts, while he collected his belongings, and started up the dirt road toward the sacred site.
The petroglyph site, of little significance except to those who studied such things or perhaps to the wayward traveler looking for a few moments distraction from boredom, lay ahead. Had he not been here before, Snow on the Mountains wouldn't have been able to find it in the dark. It was a simple rock outcrop in a landscape replete with similar formations. Even in daylight, the ancient carved symbols and pictures would be hard to distinguish without the wooden government signs highlighting their existence. Nonetheless this was far more than an Indian art gallery. Long before the whites had named it Legend Rock, for centuries before, it had been the home to native contemplation, communion, and religious ceremony. Here holy men from many Indian nations met to confer with their ancestors, communicate with their gods, and find understanding with Mother Earth. It was a place where Indian holy men, through pictures and writings in rock, passed on their history, their wisdom, and their warnings for those that would follow.
As the moon had yet to rise, the old man's eyes were of little use. Still Snow on the Mountains could see with his other senses. Things had changed there since his last visit, of that there was no question. The sound of the creek had a new and invigorated intensity, as did the wind. Both spoke with an urgency of motion making it seem that, rather than passing through the little valley, they were trying to escape. The air smelled of crushed rock and shredded sagebrush; gritty, bitter, and pungent. A taste of staleness lay on his tongue, dry and old, as if his face had been thrust into an ancient but newly opened catacomb.
He listened, ears straining, hoping for the familiar; the flush of birds, the patter of skittering lizards, rodents darting about his feet, even the buzz of a prairie rattlesnake's tail would have been comforting. But none of this came to his ears, not a living sound. Life, as he knew it on the high plains, had left that place. Save for the oddly moving water and wind, it was deathly quiet.
Regardless of what the seismic event had done to the surrounding area, the Legend Rocks had not changed. They stood as they had for centuries. He set down his bag, staring up at them, and centered himself in relation to the dark outline of the ridge against the sky. The shaman found relief in knowing the faces carved thereon were watching over him. Something familiar did still exist.
But the stick-figure Indians were not the only watchers. Snow on the Mountains could feel them, the dark forces at work around him. And he recognized he was not yet ready to deal with them. He would need to prepare first, to purify his own soul and drive away his negative energy. So he went to work.
From his bag, Snow on the Mountains withdrew a clay bowl. He filled it with dried sagebrush and sweet grass, struck a wooden match and set them alight. He let them burn, for a moment only, then gently blew out the flame. The smoldering bowl released a twisting rope of smoke into the chill night air. The shaman grabbed a handful of the smoke and held it over his heart, chanting quietly, to release his fear and call for courage. He took another and held it above his eyes, chanting, asking the gods for vision. He clutched a third and passed it over his head, praying for the gift of wisdom. Then he passed his hand outwardly over the bowl sending smoke into the valley, the sage to chase away negative energy and the sweet grass to attract the positive.
With the smudge bowl working its magic, the shaman took up his drum adding more medicine to expel the negative. Dancing, he knew, was a game for the young, and his chant was no longer powered by a full breath, but Snow on the Mountains could move and make a noise and he did so now, beating a solid rhythm as he stepped first to the right, then to the left, and back again, crying out to the night. Something, he didn't know what for certain, had profaned this place. He had to make it clean for the spirits to feel at home again.
With the herbs working their magic, the shaman sat down upon the ground, loaded his pipe, and began to smoke. As he smoked, he watched as nighttime clouds rolled in, four great clouds from four directions, and he began to chant, calling upon the ancient gods. The clouds came on, descending as they drew near, taking on an unreal quality. Snow on the Mountains was hallucinating.
Chapter 30
In his delirium, Snow on the Mountains' chanting rose in volume and strength. He had a sudden feeling of weightlessness and opened his eyes to see he was rising into the air. The sky darkened as the clouds swirled, defining themselves. Lightning exploded all around as the clouds transformed into animals. A disembodied voice thundered in the shaman's head, announcing the ancient Shoshone names of the creatures each was becoming.
The first cloud rolled into the likeness of the bia'isa. (pee-ah e-sah) The second became a waahni'. (wah-knee) The third cloud took the shape of the tukkupittseh. (too-coop-peet-sah) The fourth became a doyadukubichi'. (toy-a-do-coo-bee-chee) In an instant they were more than likeness, more than shape, the creatures of the clouds came alive and, as one, from their four spaces in the sky, between the flashes of lightning, stalked toward him. The animal spirits spoke to him and told him many things.
As their meeting in the sky drew to a close, but before the shaman could thank the spirits, they were interrupted. Out of nowhere, in its own brilliant flash, with the flapping of great wings and a shriek of horror, a fifth shape was suddenly in their midst. The terrified Snow on the Mountains saw it for what it was, the mumbichi, (moom-bee-chee) a gigantic owl, an omen of black evil. It shrieked again, flapping its wings and beating the other clouds away. The four spirits were gone; the storm went with them.
Snow on the Mountains sat again on the valley floor of Legend Rock. Breathless and confused he dropped his pipe and laid his hands on the ground to find his bearings. He considered all the spirits had told him as he caught his breath. His dizziness passed and, with more ease, he considered it further. He wearily lifted his head, looking through the smoke from his smudge bowl, to see the moon rising above the ridge. The ridge… he had purified the valley and the escarpment. But… something about the ridge now spoke to him. He needed to climb.
Snow on the Mountains climbed like an excited teenager, with no happiness, but in wonder and with much curiosity, to a corner in the rocks that turned away from the valley. Why? He did not know. The place at which he felt compelled to stop would have been difficult to see from the valley floor and a poor spot for a picture or message meant to be seen. Still the shaman felt there was something there for him to learn. He pulled his matches from his pocket, struck one, and parted a clump of weeds grown against the rocks. He stared through the firelight, squinting, and decided, yes, there was something there. But whatever it was had been buried through time.
He shook the match out then, with withered hands, began to scratch and pull at the weeds and to dig at the dirt fronting the rock. He pulled and dug and, as he gained inches of rock face, wiped the clinging dirt from its surface. He threw weeds. He tossed clumps of dirt. He finally reached the base of the flat rock facing him and halted, then ran his hands a final time over the surface to brush the last of the clinging dirt away. He lit another match.
The crude figures he found carved in the rock were very old – yet very familiar. Simply etched but easily recognizable were the four creatures of the clouds he had just met and spoken to in his vision. Here, in rock, the
y hovered above a stick figure of an Indian. No doubt, he imagined, the figure of another shaman from another time. The Arapaho maybe? Could it be? The Arapaho holy man of legend? Nakos, that was his name. Surely the drawing had been carved by Nakos, some two hundred and fifty years ago. And he'd seen the same spirits in the sky. But was the figure the holy man?
He moved the match closer, squinted harder… and saw that he was wrong. It wasn't Nakos or any holy man for that matter. The fleeting thought it may have been him, Snow on the Mountains, in a prophecy, had come and gone quickly. Embarrassed, despite being alone, Bill Pope made a mental note to toady his own ego. The drawing was not of a shaman. It wasn't one figure, but three. Three stick figures closely overlapping one another; so closely that thin pieces of rock had fallen away with time, making deciphering them more difficult. He burned his finger and dropped the match.
Snow on the Mountains struck another and studied the picture in the meager light. The figures were Indians, Indian braves, for collectively they held one long bow in their outstretched hands. One other item completed the picture. Though it too was rudely drawn, Snow on the Mountains saw it for what it was, and now the drawing and his vision (despite the interference of the evil owl) made complete sense. Yes, it all made sense.
The guess that had brought the shaman there, to that ancient sacred place, had been right as far as it had gone. But there was more, he now knew, much more. Snow on the Mountains realized that his understanding of the little people legend had been wrong his whole life. His guess had been verified by the spirits; his people and the Arapaho, in their great war against the creatures, had failed to defeat the demon warriors. But, he saw now, the great shame he'd felt in that had been misplaced. The evils that created the monsters were regrettable, no doubt, but the shame he'd experienced when he thought of his ancestors' failure to destroy the Ninimbe was wrong. He knew now why they failed. The spirits had given him knowledge they never received.
Obsidian Tears (Apparition Lake Book 2) Page 15