Walk the Sky

by Swartwood, Robert

  The girl did not jerk back like he thought she would. It had not been his intention to try to harm her—he had concluded by this point that she was here to help him, whoever she was—but as a schoolteacher he certainly knew the laws of physics.

  When something was moving at such a fast speed and was stopped suddenly by another force, that force would then jerk back. That was just the way things went.

  But the girl surprised him.

  Her hand never left his, not even when he halted, and while she did stop and tug at him, she never once lost her balance, and she never once fell back.

  She tugged once more, paused, and looked at him.

  The clouds shifted again, revealing the moonlight, revealing her small dark face.

  Clay was amazed that barely a bead of sweat dotted her brow, and that she was not breathless.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered.

  “I ... can’t,” he huffed, wriggling his hand from hers and placing both hands on his knees. He slowly breathed in, slowly breathed out, again and again. Blood rang in his ears.

  He expected the girl to protest, but she merely said, “I believe they have lost our trail.”

  The cicadas continued to trill around them, only there seemed to be less of them now, their song not as powerful.

  Clay asked, between breaths, “Who are you?”

  The girl stood tall and silent, her eyes closed and her face tilted toward the sky. Clay couldn’t tell what she was doing—thinking, praying, simply being—but then she opened her eyes.

  “Yes, I think we are safe for now.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I can no longer smell them.”

  “Smell who?” he asked, and immediately remembered her strange words: Those That Walk The Night.

  “They are not natural. They are not of our world anymore.”

  “But they ... once were?”

  She ignored this. “Where is Joe?”

  “Who?” It took him an extra second, and then he remembered the Reverend’s man. “Why do you care where he is?”

  “He is a friend.”

  Clay shook his head angrily. “He’s with that crazy Reverend, is what he is. He’s a murderer.”

  The girl’s face did not change. “Joe is a friend,” she repeated.

  Clay spat at the ground, disgusted. “Well, then I’m sorry to tell you,” he said with no remorse in his voice, “but Joe is dead. He was killed this morning.”

  For the first time the girl’s face fell. She looked down, looked back up, and said softly, “I worried that might happen. Without him, it will not be much longer.”

  Clay’s breathing had gotten under control again. He said, “It’s because of your friend Joe that a boy was killed last night. It’s because of Joe that I was almost killed tonight. And it’s because of Joe”—here Clay’s voice broke—“that my friend George will no doubt be killed tomorrow night.”

  The girl was indifferent to this news. She simply shook her head and whispered, “Joe is a friend.” She paused. “Joe was a friend.”

  Clay didn’t know how much more of this he could take. The girl just wasn’t making any sense.

  He said, truly angry now, “Damn it, girl, who are you?”

  Again the clouds shifted, revealing more moonlight, revealing the softness of her eyes and the few tears trailing down her cheeks.

  “I am Witashnah,” she whispered. “I am the last woman of the Tachucua tribe.”

  “The last woman,” Clay echoed softly. The sight of her tears had drained him of his anger.

  “Only Akecheta and I remain. The rest ... they have all vanished.”

  “Where”—Clay spoke softly—“where did they go?”

  But the girl only shook her head. She motioned him toward her.

  “Come. We must not wait here any longer. We must hurry.”

  And again, before he knew it, she took his hand in hers and led him deeper into the dark.

  16.

  It did not take long before Clay became disoriented in the night.

  Behind them, the town faded into the shadows of the desert and the surrounding hills and disappeared altogether. In front of them, the terrain gradually grew steeper as they journeyed through a series of small canyon trails that took them to higher ground.

  Eventually, as they rounded yet another bend, their surroundings opened and Clay was able to look down on the desert again. Far off in the distance, he could see the dark outline of what he thought was the town. It was little more than a few black, block-shaped patches in the night, but it stood out from the rest of the terrain like an anvil in coal dust.

  They continued onward, through patches of manzanita and mesquite and scrub oak. Near an outcropping halfway up the mountain, surrounded by thick underbrush, was an opening in the earth.

  “This way,” Witashnah said, leading him into the opening, which was three or four feet wide and five feet high, causing them to duck. “We will be safe here.”

  The tunnel gradually expanded as they moved deeper into the mountainside. Two minutes later Clay found himself standing at the mouth of a large chamber, illuminated by a fire in the middle.

  An old Indian man sat alone on a block of granite at the edge of the fire.

  He looked up at them, his eyes clouded and unseeing. He cocked his head slightly to one side.

  Witashnah spoke quickly and softly in what Clay guessed was her native tongue. She crossed the chamber and stood next to the old man, one hand on his shoulder.

  “This is Akecheta.”

  Clay approached the fire. “Hello,” he said, then immediately felt simple, because he remembered the old man couldn’t understand him.

  But Akecheta slowly nodded. In the firelight, the face of the old Indian was marked with the deep lines of time. One end of a wool blanket was wrapped around his waist, the other end hanging over one shoulder.

  “Akecheta was an elder of our tribe. We are all that are left.”

  “What happened?”

  “Those That Walk The Night came and took them all.”

  “What are those things?”

  A small breeze blew in from the mouth of the cave and Clay felt a chill ride up his spine. He moved closer to the warmth of the fire.

  “Evil,” Witashnah said. Her voice was strong, yet gentle. And in the firelight her features reflected that voice. Her face was thin, her cheekbones high and prominent and dignified. Black hair framed her face, turning to braids that fell below the line of her breasts. The braids were tied at the end with strips of leather. Her earrings were made of three rows of bones and feathers, held together by more leather. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old.

  Clay could sense she wasn’t going to tell him any more about the creatures—at least not on her own—so instead he asked about Joe.

  Her face fell again. “What about him?”

  “You said he was a friend.”

  A slow and sad nod. “He was.”

  Clay shook his head, anger rising because he felt they were about to start talking in circles again. “But he wasn’t. He was one of the Reverend’s men.”

  “Joe left us food. Every day by a certain tree, he would toss it in the bushes for me to find. He did not leave much, but it was enough to satisfy our stomachs and made it so we would not have to rely on game. As it is, there is not much game around here anymore.”

  “Why would Joe do that?”

  “Because he and Marilyn understand how Akecheta must be protected.” She paused, catching her use of tense, and whispered, “Joe did understand.”

  “Marilyn? The Reverend’s wife?”

  Clay didn’t know why this should surprise him. After all, the Reverend’s wife had helped him escape.

  “They were lovers,” Witashnah said. “Joe and Marilyn. Their love was secret. She is right now with his child.”

  “Okay,” Clay said after a long moment, trying to wrap his mind around all of this. “But if Joe was a friend, then why would he
lock me and my friend up? Why would he allow that poor boy to die?”

  Witashnah had a beautiful face—nearly as beautiful as his own daughter’s had been—but now fear clouded it. She shook her head slowly.

  “Akecheta must be protected from Those That Walk The Night.”

  “Why?”

  “Those That Walk The Night are searching for him.”

  Clay closed his eyes, placed a hand to the bridge of his nose. His head was beginning to hurt.

  He walked back a few paces to the cave wall and leaned back against it and lowered himself into a sitting position. He stared across the dancing flames at the old man who seemed to stare back at him.

  “Doesn’t he ever talk?”

  “Not since he called forth the god. After that, he cut out his tongue so he would never speak again.”

  A flurry of sparks exploded from a pitch pocket in the fire.

  The old man gave no reaction.

  Clay watched him, thinking about George alone back in town, the Reverend’s next victim, and how Clay needed to do whatever it took to save him. He even wanted to tell Witashnah this, how he needed to return, but before he could Akecheta grunted softly. He turned his head toward Witashnah, extended his hand, and motioned her to come closer to him.

  Witashnah leaned forward and placed a hand on the old man’s shoulder.

  The old man took her hand, squeezed it two times. Witashnah seemed to know what this meant, for she began to help the old man to his feet. It took nearly a minute, the old man’s bones no doubt very frail, and then once he was standing he slowly began to shuffle toward Clay.

  Clay rose to his feet, watching as Witashnah led the old man around the fire.

  “What’s happening?”

  Witashnah didn’t answer and continued to help the old man as he walked forward, step after unsteady step, until they reached Clay. Then he let go of the girl’s hand and reached out toward Clay, his hands searching for Clay’s face.

  Clay’s first reaction was to step back, move out of the way, but his back was up against the cave wall, and besides he didn’t think the old man intended him any harm. So he stood still as the old man’s hard and dirty fingers touched his face, moving around his cheeks and nose and chin and forehead.

  The old man gave another soft grunt, and lowered his head as he kept his hands on Clay’s face.

  “What—” Clay started to say, but all at once there was a flash and the world was gone.

  17.

  One second, maybe two, and then it was over.

  Clay’s eyes snapped open and he pushed the old man away. It was a slight, jerky push, just putting some distance between himself and Akecheta, and thankfully the old man did not fall back into the dancing flames. Instead he stood there for another moment, staring at Clay with his milk-hued eyes, before he turned away and reached out his hand. Witashnah took it and helped him back to his place beside the fire.

  Clay realized he was breathing heavily. He was sweating, too, as if the temperature had suddenly risen forty degrees. In his ears he could hear his heart thumping rapidly, and he leaned back against the cave wall, worried that he might be dying.

  After several minutes when he realized he was okay—when his breathing slowed, when the temperature dropped back down and the pounding in his ears subsided—he looked at Witashnah and said, “You’re his granddaughter.”

  Witashnah said nothing.

  “And they—they killed her. That’s what this is all about. They raped and killed your mother, and that’s why your grandfather called forth the god.”

  Still Witashnah said nothing.

  “I saw it,” Clay whispered. “I saw everything—his entire life. I saw his childhood and I saw ... everything.”

  Another flurry of sparks exploded from the fire, causing Clay to start. He was still on edge, despite his now normal breathing and heartbeat. He couldn’t get over the simple revelation that, for just a second or two, the old man had managed to transfer all of his memories into Clay. Everything the old man had experienced—everything—Clay now knew.

  “There’s no way to stop it—the god. But you knew that already.”

  The girl didn’t look like she was ready to speak quite yet, but slowly she nodded and whispered, “I began to suspect.”

  Witashnah, Clay knew, had spent much of her life around the white settlers. This was why her English was so good. Her grandfather had never approved of this, fearing the settlers would eventually take over their land. He had met many kind white men over the years as they passed through on their way to California, but he had also met a fair share of devious men who wanted nothing more than to cheat Akecheta and his people out of everything they owned.

  And this had indeed happened only a few months ago. A group of white men had come to trade but had instead stolen. Not only that, two of them had had their way with Akecheta’s daughter, Witashnah’s mother. (She had been defenseless because her husband had died the previous year of small pox.) They had beaten her so badly she could barely see out of both of her eyes. Akecheta had been filled with a rage he did not know existed, and demanded the warriors of his tribe hunt down these men and kill them. The warriors started out the next day in search of the evil white men. They never returned. Word did not come back until two weeks later that they had been killed, each and every one of them. And so Akecheta began to pray. He prayed first to one god, then to another, awaiting a reply. None came.

  By that point Akecheta had not eaten in days. He believed his grief was so great that his body did not deserve any food, not until things were made right. Things, however, became even worse when his daughter, who had faced shame and depression ever since her violation, ended her life. When Akecheta learned this, his knees collapsed and he fell to the ground, releasing a scream that some said could be heard for miles.

  Finally he journeyed many moons to another tribe to speak to their eldest holy man. Akecheta explained the terrible things that had happened and how he wanted vengeance. He told the holy man how he had prayed to the gods but received no answer. The holy man told Akecheta that there was still one more god he had yet to try, a long forgotten god who only came out at night. This god was a trickster with no name, but a god who just may do Akecheta’s bidding ... for a price.

  What was that price?

  “He gave up his eyesight,” Clay whispered, staring at the old man sitting by the fire. Then he shifted his gaze to Witashnah. “And you knew the reason why.”

  After the ritual that night there was no immediate proof that the god had been called forth. But Akecheta’s eyesight was suddenly gone. The tribe’s holy man had one of the young men help take Akecheta back to his own tribe, where his granddaughter met him, worried because he hadn’t told anyone where he had gone. She led him to his bed and gave him water and asked him what had happened to his sight, but Akecheta would not answer. He did not want to speak of the god in case that would somehow cause the god to go away.

  “He told me after several days,” Witashnah said. “By then we were not aware of Those That Walk The Night. They had not yet reached our tribe. But they were out there, killing all of the white settlers. When Akecheta told me what he had done, I did not believe it at first. But when word came about how the white men and women were all killed by creatures that came in the night, I knew it was true. That was when Those That Walk The Night began coming for the rest of us.”

  Those That Walk The Night—the nameless god’s minions—began to come for the other tribes around the area. There was no stopping them. Everyone was panicked. It wasn’t until a few more days passed that the young man who had brought Akecheta back to the tribe showed up again, this time with the old holy man. The holy man requested to speak with Akecheta alone. And so it was alone, just he and the holy man, that Akecheta understood the god’s nature.

  “It deceived them,” Clay said. “The holy man did not know what the god would do. He believed it would take vengeance on those white men and then return to the spirit world. But the
god ... it wants to stay in this world. And it needs your grandfather to do that. That’s why you’ve been hiding in this cave.”

  “We have hidden other places. Occasionally we will move. From what I can guess, the god has limitations. It cannot know everything at once.”

  “No, it can’t. At least not yet. Not until ...” Something occurred to him. “Marilyn knows the truth, doesn’t she? That’s why she and Joe”—he shook his head, still trying to accept the fact Joe had not been a bad person—“that’s why they were helping you. What all does she know?”

  “Almost everything. I have known Marilyn for many years. We are close. She did not believe me at first. But then when Those That Walk The Night came ...”

  “According to the holy man, the god wants your grandfather to walk the sky.”

  Witashnah frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “The god’s time on earth is limited. It cannot exist for long by itself. It must possess a human form. But a human’s body cannot last very long with the god inside it, especially in sunlight, so it must keep transferring to different bodies. Unless it transfers to the body of the one who called it forth.”

  “And then,” Witashnah said hesitantly, “Akecheta will walk the sky?”

  “His spirit will. It will be torn from his body and forever trapped between our world and the spirit world. And if that happens, the god will become even more powerful. Sunlight won’t stop it. Nothing will stop it.”

  Witashnah’s face was a mixture of worry and fear. She looked once again at her grandfather. After the holy man had told Akecheta about the god, Akecheta had taken a knife and cut out his tongue. He had nearly choked to death on his own blood. So until now, Clay knew, Witashnah had only suspected bits and pieces of the truth. She knew about the god and she knew about Those That Walk The Night and she knew the god was searching for her grandfather. But she did not know the magnitude of what would occur if the god ever found him.