Walk the Sky

by Swartwood, Robert

  “What,” Witashnah said, her voice even more hesitant, “does the god plan to do?”

  “You mean that isn’t obvious by now?” Clay shook his head slowly, his gaze fixed on Akecheta. “It intends to destroy us all.”

  18.

  The fire flared again. Another flurry of sparks danced against the high smoke-stained ceiling of the cave.

  Clay sat down on a nearby rock and stared into the red-hot embers. A thick silence fell over them. Clay had a better understanding of what was going on now, and the world was suddenly a much darker place. He played the entire story over in his head, not once but several times, and at one point noticed Witashnah staring curiously at her grandfather.

  “He can’t.”

  His voice broke the heavy silence. It was enough to startle the girl.

  She asked, “He cannot what?”

  “Take his own life. Not like ... not like your mother did. Our souls—our spirits—are protected by our bodies. This is why the god cannot find Akecheta. But if he were to take his own life, there would be a moment or two—or even longer—when your grandfather’s spirit would be between this world and the spirit world. The god would sense him at once, and still take over. It wouldn’t work.”

  Witashnah said nothing to this. She returned her gaze to the fire. Clay couldn’t be completely certain that was what she had been thinking about, but it was a safe bet. After all, he knew Akecheta had considered the same thing once, before realizing it wasn’t an option.

  The silence continued, and Clay found his thoughts leading him back to something much more immediate.

  “Do you have any weapons?”

  “A knife,” Witashnah said. “Why?”

  “My friend is still in the Reverend’s jail. If he hasn’t taken my place in tonight’s sacrifice, he’ll be sacrificed tomorrow night. I can’t let that happen.”

  “What brought you and your friend out here?”

  He wondered how much detail to go into and if he should tell her the circumstances of their travel together. He decided that it wasn’t important. Instead, Clay told her about coming across the boy in the desert and how the three of them had arrived in the first town and encountered the Reverend’s men.

  “I know this town,” Witashnah said.

  Clay had gone back to staring into the dancing flames. His thoughts had shifted slightly, from first entering the town to something he had almost forgotten—Goodman’s Mercantile. At the back, there was a section of guns and ammunition and a crate of dynamite. George had warned him about the dynamite, said it was unpredictable, but between the guns and the dynamite, that should give them plenty of fire power.

  “The town is watched by the Reverend’s men,” Witashnah said. “It brings drifters like you and your friend that can be used for sacrifice.”

  “Are his men always there?”

  “From morning to late-afternoon, but never later than two hours before sunset.”

  Clay nodded, trying to decide when it would be best to slip back into the town for the weapons.

  “I will take you,” Witashnah said. “Before sunrise.”

  Clay wondered if she had been reading his thoughts.

  “Why so early?”

  “There is something I want you to see.”

  * * *

  Exhaustion overtook him. Clay closed his eyes and drifted into a sleep so bottomless it felt as if he might never find his way to the surface again.

  When he opened his eyes, Witashnah was standing over him.

  “We leave now.”

  Outside the cave, the black of night was just beginning to surrender to the dark blues of morning. The moon sat high overhead, painting the top of the scrub brush and tree tops with a thin line of gray-white light.

  “This way,” Witashnah said as she crossed a small opening of red rocks and disappeared around a corner.

  Clay followed her down a trail that wound back and forth through a series of gullies that seemed oddly familiar. This was the same trail they had followed last night, only in reverse, he guessed, and that was why it felt so familiar.

  But it wasn’t the same trail.

  Clay had never been on this trail before.

  Yet the landmarks seemed so familiar. An outcropping with a single slender lip fern growing out of the rock. A cactus that resembled a man. A stairway cut out of the red rock. A field of blue grama.

  “When I was a little girl, my grandfather took me along this path to the edge of the town not long after it was settled. We sat out of sight and watched the white man with his families and his bartering, and my grandfather told me I should never trust a white man.”

  “He was trying to protect you.”

  “I know.”

  “We aren’t all evil.”

  Witashnah smiled. “I know this too.”

  Suddenly it dawned on him why the trail and surroundings seemed so familiar. Akecheta had walked these landmarks many times, and because they were familiar to him, they were now familiar to Clay.

  He knew everything the old Indian knew.

  Everything.

  Except ... except there was a blind spot in these memories he shared with Akecheta.

  It wasn’t one of those fuzzy memories that just needed a little time before it would eventually take form and become clear to him. It was as if he had sneezed and something important had escaped his notice. Or more likely, it was as if Akecheta had purposely blocked that particular memory so Clay wouldn’t have access to it.

  “This way,” Witashnah said.

  * * *

  They arrived at an open field, the town still nowhere in sight, as dark blues wiped the last of the black from the night. It was still dark out, but beneath the blues, painted in a thin, hazy line across the horizon, the first hint of orange and red pushed up out of the distance.

  Witashnah stopped. “We wait.”

  She went to her knees, and from her knees dropped to the ground on her belly, and slowly surveyed their surroundings.

  Clay dropped to the ground next to her.

  “Why are we stopping?”

  “Be patient.”

  The desert was wrapped in an eerie silence, almost as if all its creatures had paused to watch the pending sunrise. But it wasn’t long before Clay realized it wasn’t the sunrise that had quieted the desert. It was the movement of the creatures.

  He heard the shuffling sound first, off in the distance, gradually approaching from the west.

  Clay raised his head, peering over the surrounding desert plants into the dark of morning.

  Nothing.

  There was that sound, though. That weight dragged across the sand and echoed a hundred times over until it was almost a hissing.

  Growing louder.

  Stirring up wind.

  Until Clay saw the dark shadows stepping out of the nothingness, one after another, lumbering in their direction.

  “They’re going to stumble over us.”

  “Quiet.”

  And no sooner did the word pass Witashnah’s lips than the horde of dark shadows suddenly ground to a halt. In unison, every single lumbering creature stopped in place, as if time had hit a wall.

  The morning desert air fell into complete silence.

  A sandy cloud of dust settled back to the earth around the creatures just as the tip of the sun peeked over the distant horizon.

  Nothing stirred.

  Clay couldn’t take his eyes off the nearest demon—was that what they really were, an army of demons?—even as his heart slammed against the inside of his chest and he found it impossible to breathe.

  The human-like creature appeared to teeter in place for a moment, like a spun coin at the end of its last turn.

  Then, quite suddenly, the creature—or demon or whatever the hell it was—writhed and shed its night skin, which fell to the ground and vanished in a thin cloud of black soot.

  Left standing in its wake was ...

  A cactus.

  Clay glanced at Witashnah and re
alized she had seen this all before. He pushed up from the ground and sat in the sand. Scanning the landscape that had been wide-open desert terrain a few short minutes ago and was now populated with a scattering of full-grown cacti as far as the eye could see.

  * * *

  “Why not destroy them while they’re like this?” Clay asked as they quietly neared the cacti.

  Witashnah shook her head. “They are not as harmless as they appear.”

  “I stabbed one of them last night. It stopped and bled, so obviously they’re not immortal. Why not just burn them now?”

  Witashnah did not answer. She bent as she walked, picked up a long stick, and continued on, Clay keeping pace beside her.

  The distance between them and the cacti quickly vanished. Soon they were only feet away. Witashnah extended the stick toward one of the cacti, the tip almost touching its weathered pale green skin ... until suddenly the cactus began to move.

  Just as Clay had watched the demons transform into these cacti, he now watched as this cactus transformed back into a demon. Not completely, though. Just the top half of it, the faceless head forming, its mouth opening, the arms growing out of the cactus on each side, and with one of those arms the half-demon tried to swat at the stick before Witashnah pulled it away and quickly took a step back.

  The half-demon seemed to stare at them with its eyeless gaze for several long seconds, before, quite suddenly, the arms disappeared and then the mouth and then head and it was just the cactus again.

  Witashnah said, “They rest during the day. But they are not wholly gone. The sun causes them to slow down, but it does not stop them. I have tried what you suggested. I destroyed many of them, but it was not enough. Their number is simply too great. Not just here, but all over this land. Many of our tribes are gone, as are the white settlers. The god has turned those that were not outright killed into ... these.”

  “You mean they were human once?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s nothing we can do for them anymore, is there?”

  “No.”

  “Why can’t we just leave?”

  “The god will not allow it. Those in town tried. Others did as well. The demons came back to life and killed them all.”

  “So we’re trapped.”

  Witashnah nodded. “The god allowed you and your friend to come here, just as it allowed the others headed to California to come here. But it will not let you escape. Not with your life.”

  They continued on, skirting the edge of the cacti.

  Another hour passed before they finally reached the town Clay and George had stumbled across after finding the boy in the desert. The sun was above the horizon now, though it was still low in the sky, leaving long western shadows.

  “We must hurry,” Witashnah said. “The Reverend’s men will come soon.”

  “Let’s check the mercantile first.”

  Clay wasn’t sure if the dynamite would be useable or not, but at least there would be guns and ammo in Goodman’s.

  “You go,” Witashnah said. “I will check the jailhouse.”

  “Fine, then. Meet me at the mercantile when you’re done.”

  While Witashnah started across the street, Clay headed to the plank walkway fronting the town’s businesses and followed it down to Goodman’s Mercantile.

  Inside, the floor was strewn with penny candy.

  This gave him pause, but he shook it off and moved down the nearest aisle to the back of the store, where he found the crate of dynamite right where he remembered it.

  Clay knelt for a closer look. The schoolteacher in him didn’t know much about dynamite, but the Akecheta in him knew that if the dynamite was sweating it was probably unstable and dangerous. So that was the first thing he looked for, and he was pleased to discover the sticks were dry.

  Behind him, a floorboard creaked.

  “That was fast,” he said, smiling as he continued to inspect the dynamite. “I think this is just what we need.”

  Silence.

  “Witashnah?”

  But before he could turn around, the barrel of a gun kissed the back of his head.

  19.

  “Don’t move.” The voice was young and nervous. “I don’t want to shoot you.”

  Clay said, “I don’t want you to shoot me.”

  The barrel didn’t move from its place on the back of his head.

  “Now you’re gonna stand up real slow like, okay?”

  Clay kept his hands held out at his sides. His first thought was Witashnah, what had become of her. Then something strange happened to his mind—a mental fog began to lift—and he found himself asking, “Have you ever killed a man, son?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Have you ever even fired your gun at someone?”

  “I said shut up.”

  “I’m going to give you a chance. You and the rest of your friends can leave this town now and escape with your lives. If not, well, I certainly hope your soul is right with the Lord.”

  “Shut up!” the young man shouted, poking the barrel hard into the back of Clay’s head.

  Clay closed his eyes, wondering where all of that had just come from. It certainly wasn’t something he would normally say. Even the feeling—the complete lack of fear—was something new.

  “Now stand up,” the young man said. “Slowly.”

  Clay rose to his feet, his knees popping with the effort. Once he stood straight, he slowly turned to find that the young man was barely even a man.

  “How old are you? Sixteen? Seventeen?”

  The young man stepped back and kept his revolver leveled on Clay. He motioned with the barrel for Clay to walk.

  Clay walked slowly back down the aisle, headed toward the front of the store. The toe of his right boot struck some of the penny candy, sending them skittering across the floor. The young man waited for him to pass and then kept pace behind, keeping the barrel of the gun pressed against Clay’s lower back. Clay had to hand it to the kid. No matter his age, it was a smart move. If Clay tried anything, it would take less than a second for the young man to pull the trigger and shatter Clay’s spine with the bullet.

  Assuming, of course, the gun didn’t misfire.

  Assuming, too, the gun was even loaded.

  Through the open door Clay could see others in the street. At least two of them. Each held rifles in their hands.

  “I got one!” the young man shouted. There was pride in his voice.

  Clay considered reminding him what his actions right now meant—how he was essentially murdering Clay—but he knew better than to waste his breath. This young man had been fooled by the Reverend, just like everyone else in that godforsaken town.

  Clay spotted Witashnah the moment he stepped outside.

  Another man held her at gunpoint. He stood several yards away by two horses. The other two men—older men, gray in their beards—didn’t move from where they stood directly in front of the mercantile.

  “Only four of you?” Clay asked, stepping down off the plank walkway into the dirt. “Are you sure that’s enough?”

  “Shut up.” The barrel nudged him in the back. “The Reverend’s none too happy with you.”

  “The demons didn’t get me last night. Did they get anyone else?”

  The young man hesitated. “No.”

  “But doesn’t that go against everything the good Reverend has taught you?”

  “Don’t listen to him, Jerry,” said one of the men with the rifles. “He knows he’s a dead man.”

  “Gentlemen,” Clay said. “I’ll give you the same chance I gave Jerry back inside. Leave me and my companion alone, and I’ll let you live.”

  Again, Clay couldn’t believe he spoke the words as they left his mouth. The two men couldn’t seem to believe the words either. They smiled at each other and guffawed.

  “Stupid old man,” Jerry said behind him, and the barrel disappeared just long enough for Jerry’s foot to replace it.

  The heel hit Clay right in the
back and sent him stumbling forward, sprawling in the dirt.

  Clay landed on his face, his hands splayed out at his sides. He groaned and slowly inched his knees forward so his buttock was raised in the air.

  “Jerry? That was a very unwise thing to do.”

  “If you don’t shut your mouth, old man,” Jerry said, stepping close and leaning down so the gun’s barrel was right by Clay’s head, “then I’m going to shut it for you.”

  That, Clay thought, closing his eyes, was an unwise thing to do as well.

  And suddenly he jerked himself up, grabbing the revolver out of Jerry’s hand, twisting hard enough to snap Jerry’s trigger finger.

  As the young man screamed, Clay took possession of the gun and fired at the two older men with the rifles, one shot each, both in the face.

  He was on his feet a second later just as Jerry tried to kick out at him.

  Clay grabbed the young man’s foot in mid-air and twisted, sending Jerry sprawling to the dirt.

  He stepped past Jerry, shooting him in the chest, and raised the gun at the man who had been holding onto Witashnah.

  This man raised his weapon to fire at Clay but Witashnah hit him at the last second, sending the man’s shot wide, and Clay aimed and fired and struck the man in the shoulder.

  But the man didn’t go down.

  He raised the gun again.

  Witashnah tried to hit him again.

  He smacked her with the gun on the side of the head, sending her to the ground, then aimed once more at Clay who was advancing, taking close aim, squeezing off a shot—bang!—and the bullet tore into the man’s arm, sending his weapon flying.

  The man, panicked, turned and grabbed hold of one of the horses, swung himself up onto it and kicked it hard, the horse whinnying and then galloping away.

  Clay tossed the revolver aside and hurried over to the two older men. He picked up one of their rifles, checked the chamber, and then brought the stock to his shoulder.