Ritual Chill

by James Axler

  Thompson was looking to McPhee for guidance. He was, after all, the medicine man. He should know how to deal with these things. But McPhee looked just as floored by events as his chief. As for the rest of the Inuit, they were silent. Not their usual silence, but a kind of awed hush. They were all aware that something strange, and possibly momentous, had occurred in front of them, and the thrill of it ran through them like a lightning bolt. Yet they had no real idea what had transpired or what it may mean. For that, they, too, were awaiting a cue from McPhee.

  The shaman was frozen. He’d followed the rituals, said the prayers, blended his herbs. Yet, after so long, it was only in the latter that he had any real faith. The rest was just for show, they were just words. The Almighty had taken so long to shine upon them that the shaman half suspected that he was nothing more than a palliative to get them through the long, harsh winters.

  But now… It seemed to him as though a spirit had been sent down to them. One of their ancestors—he spoke, after all, with the voice—had entered into the empty vessel of the mad old man. The Almighty had sent a messenger down to them. And all he—McPhee—could do was stand with his mouth open catching stray flakes of snow and ice, not believing that, after all these years, there may actually be an Almighty after all.

  He was nudged from his reverie by Thompson, who knocked him on the arm and whispered harshly, “What the fuck is going on?”

  “I don’t know,” the shaman answered without thinking. “I really don’t know.” Although his tone held an awe that suggested he had a good idea and wasn’t quite ready to accept it.

  The few words, in almost an undertone, were enough to break the blanket of inaction that had fallen over the assembled throng. From the crowd surrounding the central area, several Inuit rushed forward, taking a layer of skins and fur from their backs and wrapping them around the seminaked figure of Doc Tanner.

  “That’s better,” he stated, adding, “Not just me, ye dolts. My friends need to be warmed, as well. D’ye want them to perish because of frostbite?”

  Without looking to their chief or the shaman, the Inuit followed the directions of Doc. There was something about the accent and the hint of authority in his voice that made them respond immediately, without recourse to their leader. While Thompson and McPhee watched, astounded, the Inuit freed the rest of the companions from the tables, wrapped them in furs and skins ripped from their own backs.

  The companions were still under the effects of the drugs they had been fed earlier, and so responded passively to whatever was being done to them. They allowed themselves to be lifted up and clothed, without any kind of response beyond blank, confused stares. For their part, the Inuit were under the influence of the herbs in their ritual feast, and so were in a state of rapture at what, in predark days, would have been called a miracle.

  “Good, good, now take them where they can rest and be warm,” Doc said in his rich Scots voice. “Put them together in one of those huts,” he added, gesturing to where they had spent the previous twenty-four hours. Then he set his vision grimly on the still inert, still stunned figures of Thompson and McPhee. “I’ve got a few things that need to be said to yon chief.”

  Responding to Doc as though he had been their leader for many years, the Inuit bore the companions away to one of the huts, putting them together in the one building and firing the stove. Even in their state of rapture, the Inuit were still eerily silent, only a few words being exchanged about the strange events. Those who did speak felt that the event was a miracle, a sign from the Lord that he didn’t wish these people to be sacrificed and had sent them to assist the tribe in its quest… Why else would one of them arise and speak in the voice of the ancestors?

  Befuddled as they were by the drugs that coursed through their systems, a rough idea of what had occurred seeped through the bewildered consciousness of each of the companions. Somehow it seemed as though Doc’s madness had saved them at the last, before they were about to be chilled. Yet how long would this reprieve last—and more importantly, perhaps—what was going on in the old man’s head?

  As the Inuit left them alone, Ryan tried to speak. His mouth felt dry and furred, and although his brain shaped words, his mouth refused to respond. Jak tried to get to his feet, but found he could not stay upright, the world spinning out of control even as he tried to anchor himself.

  “Leave…wait wear off…” Mildred managed to mutter as she saw Jak slump down once more. “Strong…can’t…” The few words that she managed to mushmouth were barely audible or comprehensible, but they made enough sense to the others for them to realize that they had no option but to wait until the effects of the drug had subsided before they could say, let alone do, anything constructive.

  In the meantime, they could only wonder what the hell Doc was doing.

  WATCHING THE PEOPLE he knew were his friends carried off, he felt a sense of achievement that he had secured their safety. He didn’t know their names, but had a deep gut instinct that they had traveled with him for a long time and that to save their skins was to repay many a kindness, many a debt.

  He turned to where the Inuit chief and the shaman were standing. “Ye two, I’m wanting a few words with ye,” he bellowed, striding toward them. “There’s a lot for us to talk over.”

  As he approached, he could see a flicker of fear in the eye of the chief, but in the shaman’s face was something else. Something like awe, yet also a hint of disbelief. Why not? He was as astounded about this turn of events as anyone. He looked down at the weather-beaten body and made a mental note to check a mirror. He wondered if his face resembled anyone he had known, or if it would be strange to him—as strange as the knowledge that only an hour ago he had been someone else, someone he could no longer remember. Not even his name.

  “Are ye who I think ye are?” the shaman asked him as he neared them.

  “That depends who ye think I might be,” he replied with a wide grin. “So why don’t ye start by telling me that?”

  “A messenger,” McPhee said slowly, shrewdly eyeing the figure of Doc Tanner. “A messenger from the Lord.”

  A frown creased the brow of the old man standing in front of the shaman. “Y’ know, I’m not sure. Maybe I am, at that. It hadn’t occurred to me. Just that I was back where I belong, and that I had a new body.”

  “What?” Thompson’s first word to the “stranger” standing in front of him was uttered in a strangled croak, as though forced out against his will.

  “Have ye never heard of the concept of transmigration of the soul?” he said with a grin spreading across his face. “Surely your Almighty, my Lord, tells you of that.” He looked around and took in a deep breath, then wrinkled his nose at the smell of sulfur. “Aye, things have changed, but I was here before. A long time ago, by the looks of it, but I was here. I recognize the way ye look, although ye never spoke like that when I knew ye. Now ye speak like me, which is a strange idea. And this has changed—aye, changed a lot,” he said almost to himself as he cast a glance around. Coming back to the two men standing in front of him, he could see from their faces that they needed further explanation.

  “I was here a long, long time ago. It was 1865, and we were a party of twelve making our way from the south toward Anchorage, where we sought to sell the pelts we had spent time trapping. It was freezing, and there were storms—big, strong ones that ripped through our party, scattering us across the wastes. Somehow we always managed to find our way back to one another, to stick together somehow… Aye, it takes a lot to keep us down when we’ve got the bit between our teeth. And we found ourselves shelter eventually, with people like ye. Although ye didn’t have these kinds of houses, and there was no trees like this. And the air didn’t stink like it does now. But it was around here, I can feel it.

  “We were tired and weary. Hungry, too. All our food was either eaten or lost, and we couldn’t hunt because the weather made it hard enough just to stay alive. Well, we stumbled into your people and thought that we would be slaug
htered, that ye wouldn’t want us intruding on your land. Used, we were, to people out here in this godforsaken land being hostile to strangers. We left the homelands to get away from those who were hostile to us because of our beliefs, and we made homes here, but it was still the same. People are people are people, I’m supposing. The good Lord made us all the same in his eyes, but then maybe we don’t see through those eyes like we should.

  “Anyhow, I’m getting away from what I should be saying to ye. We found your people, and ye weren’t unkind to us. Rather than try to wipe us out, ye took us in and tried to nurse us back to health. For make no mistake, we were in a bad way by then. The weather had taken its toll and many of us had fevers. When the fever takes ye, ye see things that are not there and imagine that people talk to ye who are not really there. It’s a strange thing, not knowing anymore what is real and what is not.

  “I had the fever worse than many, and I knew after a while that I would not pull through. It’s the strangest feeling, knowing that your time is up and that it will not be long before ye meet your maker. I could feel myself slipping away, the light getting brighter, like I was racing toward the end of a long tunnel. I’d heard many say that before, and never believed them. But they were right. The only thing I really wanted was to see my children and my wife once more, back where I had left them. But I knew that the chance was gone and that I would see them no more in this world. I prayed to the Almighty to keep my soul safe, and if he could give me just one more chance. If I had the chance to redeem myself in his eyes, then I begged him to spare my life.

  “At the last, when I felt sure that my life was about to end, I moved toward the light with a rapidity that startled me. I felt as though my very being was being ripped into a thousand shreds then put back together again. I opened my eyes, and I was here.

  “D’ye not see what this means? I have been spared by the Lord to do his work. My soul has been taken from where I was before and brought to here, wherever this may be. I’m guessing it’s later than when I was last alive, but other than that the only thing I know for sure is that ye need help and that the Lord sent me here to help ye. It’s my chance to redeem myself, and the poor soul who was last in this body—and didn’t take great care of it, by the looks of things—has gone to a better place.”

  His oration finished, the man who was Doc Tanner stood silent, waiting for Thompson and McPhee to respond. The two Inuit looked at each other and then at the stranger in front of them.

  “I don’t know if I should believe you,” Thompson said slowly. “It could be some kind of trick.”

  “I can understand your caution,” the stranger replied. “If I was ye, I wouldnae believe me. Come to that, I don’t know if I believe me, or what I’m seeing,” he replied disingenuously.

  “This is no trick,” McPhee breathed. “It can’t be. There’s no way… Lord help me, I’d almost given up faith in the Almighty without realizing. It’s been so long since there was any kind of a sign.” The shaman fell to his knees. “I just hope the good Lord can forgive me for my doubts, but I now know they were wrong. You are proof of that.”

  The stranger stretched out his hand. “I know how ye feel. Did I not feel that way myself before this happened? But it’s never too late.”

  His hand touched McPhee’s head and the medicine man raised his face so that his eyes met with those that had once belonged to Doc Tanner. Whereas previously the old man’s had only ever seemed empty and blank, now they seemed imbued with strength and life.

  Thompson was aware of the rest of the tribe. Some had stayed around the edges while the others had taken the companions to their rest. These few had heard everything, and in whispers were revealing details to those who had now returned. The chief was aware that his people were watching him, expectant and waiting. But what could he tell them? In truth, he had barely managed to assimilate what was going on for himself.

  He stepped away from the stranger and McPhee to address his tribe.

  “People, there are strange things afoot. This man—who was to be one of the sacrifices—is no longer the same man he was an hour ago. The Lord has emptied him and filled the empty vessel with one who has been here before. One of our ancestors, who has come to guide us in our hour of need. Myself and McPhee must speak with him alone, but we will soon be able to tell you of the Almighty’s plans for us. While he reveals his purpose to us, you must go about your daily tasks. Have patience, people. All will be soon made clear. First, I have to get it clear.”

  He dismissed the Inuit with a gesture. Although confused by what had occurred in the past hour, the tribe trusted its chief implicitly, and he had never before been found wanting. There was no reason to believe that what he now said was untrue. Without a murmur, the tribe began to put out the bonfires and take down the sacrificial tables.

  “As for you,” Thompson said, turning and directing his remarks to the stranger and McPhee in such a way that neither was too sure to whom he spoke, “you’ve got some explaining to do.”

  INSIDE THEIR HUT, the companions were slowly beginning to return to a normal state. The drugs had scrambled their sense in such a way that they couldn’t be sure of what had occurred on the outside. Gradually they pieced together enough recollections between them to make a picture. It wasn’t, however, one that made a lot of sense.

  “The old buzzard’s finally flipped, and this time it might be for good and all,” Mildred muttered at the conclusion. “If he’s adopted a whole new personality, then that’s the mind completely retreating in on itself and making up the new personality to protect the real one. Maybe he’s gone for good, and this shield will be all we ever see of him from now on.”

  “Can’t be sad—stopped us getting chilled,” Jak commented.

  “There is that to it,” Krysty said slowly. “But… No, it’s too ridiculous, but—”

  “But what if something really has happened and Doc has been taken over by someone else?” Ryan finished for her.

  “That’s impossible,” J.B. snorted.

  “Is it?” Krysty asked softly. “I wouldn’t be too surprised at anything. Think of all the weird shit we’ve seen.”

  “But ghosts—that’s just stupe,” J.B. said with a shake of his head.

  “Is it?” Krysty persisted. “Religious ceremonies, and leaves and herbs that give you hallucinations, alter your mind—they do some strange things that you can’t explain. Mebbe Mildred’s right, but is that any weirder than what I’m saying might—and only might, mind you—have happened?”

  “You put it like that and even I might agree with you,” Mildred replied. “I don’t know, I’m only guessing, like you are… The only thing we know for sure is that Doc sure as shit isn’t himself right now, and that as long as he’s got Thompson’s ear, we’ve got a better than even chance of making it through this in one piece.”

  “Better chance than we had when the sun came up,” Ryan agreed. “Right now, there’s not a damn thing we can do either way. Just got to wait and see what happens.”

  “Must be more,” Jak muttered irritably.

  “Like what?” Ryan questioned. “Yeah, those fire-blasted drugs are wearing off, but we’ve got no clothes and no weapons, and we don’t know where they’re keeping them. In a lot of ways we’re not better or worse off than we were this time yesterday—except for the fact that Doc seems to be someone else.”

  “That makes me feel a whole lot better,” J.B. murmured laconically. “All we can do is sit this one out, then.”

  Ryan agreed. “Looks that way,” he said, trying but failing to keep the note of helplessness from his voice.

  THOMPSON AND MCPHEE took their guest into the chief’s hut after he had dispatched one of his men to get Doc’s clothes.

  “Sit down,” the chief said, indicating a chair. “Get your clothes, then we can talk a bit more.”

  “We?” The stranger laughed. “Listen, I have no idea quite where or when I am, so I think it may be for the best if ye fill me in a little on what’s
going on around here, and why ye were ready to drive a dagger into my heart, and those of the people who were—I guess—my friends.”

  The two Inuit exchanged puzzled glances. Where to start with such explanations? Hesitating, almost stammering over his words, Thompson began to tell the stranger about the nukecaust and the problems the Inuit were having with keeping up the numbers in their tribe. He explained about the previous attempts at sacrifice that yielded little result, and how the companions—including the subject of his lecture—had come to be in the settlement. He stopped only when a tribesman entered with Doc’s clothes, including his lion’s-head silver sword stick and the LeMat, and continued once the man had left, stopping only at the point where Doc had risen up and spoken to them.

  The stranger looked at them with a twinkle in his eye—one that widened as he regarded himself in his new apparel.

  “Well, I don’t seem to be that much of an offering to the Lord myself, by the look of me,” he said with a humorous edge to his voice. This became more guarded as he continued. “So why were ye thinking that the Almighty would like to see these good people sacrificed to him?”

  “Because that was what your people taught us when they first came among us,” McPhee answered. “They came from their old countries and they mixed with us, and they gave us some of their old ways. Some of them were older even than when they first heard of the Almighty.”

  The medicine man paused, unwilling to go further. If this man was truly who he said, and not some clever ruse by the insane one to try to save himself—a lurking doubt of that McPhee still harbored in the depths of his mind—then he would know of the old ways.

  McPhee wasn’t to be disappointed. The stranger looked at him with a faraway glint in his eyes.

  “Aye, I know that. Back in the day, before our religious beliefs saw us driven from our own shores to find solace and a new life out here, we used to worship the Almighty, but we also knew that he gave us Mother Earth, and the seasons had their own demands. Sometimes we would have bad harvests that decimated the lands, blight that meant no food for our children. We would pray to the Lord, but we also knew that what we take from the land we must give back. To insure that the land would give us food, we had to feed it by returning one of our own to it. Their blood, the ashes of their flesh and bones, these are the things that would nourish the spirit of the earth and encourage it to give forth to us once more.”