Ancient Forces Collection

by Bill Myers

  “No problem.” Ryan took the bag from her and started out onto the bridge. Immediately it began to sway.

  “Be careful,” Becka called, although she was sure he would be. Who wouldn’t be careful with a five-hundred-foot drop staring you in the face?

  The bridge was only a hundred feet across, but by the time Ryan got to the middle, it was swaying pretty hard. Still, after another minute or two, he had managed to cross it safely.

  “I’ll go next,” Scott said as he grabbed the computer and other gear.

  The bridge seemed to sway even more as Scott eased his way across, but, like Ryan, he arrived on the other side without much of a problem.

  Mom went next. A little more slowly, a little more carefully, but finally, she also made it to the other side.

  Now it was Rebecca’s turn.

  “Hurry, Beck!” Scott called. “That thundercloud is getting a lot closer.”

  Becka glanced up. It was true. The cloud hovered directly overhead, and it seemed to draw lower and closer. She took a deep breath, wrapped the handle of the makeup bag around her wrist, and stepped out.

  Instantly, the bridge swayed under her weight. It was scary, but nothing she couldn’t handle. She gripped the side ropes fiercely and took two more steps. Then another, another, and another. Except for the slight dizziness she felt when she glanced down (a five-hundred-foot drop will do that to a person), she was doing just fine.

  Until the wind came.

  Although they had all been watching the thundercloud approach, no one had expected the wind to kick up so fast. Or so hard.

  Almost instantly the bridge began to sway. Violently.

  Becka screamed and froze. She didn’t dare move her feet. It was all she could do to keep her balance when she stood still, let alone when she walked.

  “Come on, Beck!” Scott shouted. “Keep coming!”

  But Becka could not. She would not. She could barely move at all.

  The wind grew stronger, and the bridge swayed harder. It arced out a full ten feet to the left and then swung back a full twelve feet to the right. The arc grew with each swing, and Becka found it more and more difficult to hang on.

  “Hold on!” Mom screamed. Then, turning to the boys, she shouted, “She’s losing her grip!”

  Despite the heat of the day, cold terror filled Becka. She swung to the left fifteen feet, then to the right almost twenty. Things were getting worse as she kept swinging back and forth, farther and farther.

  Then on the fourth or fifth swing she lost her footing. Her left foot shot through the gap in the ropes, and she went down.

  She screamed as she fell — until her right leg snagged in the rope.

  The bridge swayed back to the left. Becka’s weight pushed hard against the ropes, and they spread farther apart. As they spread, Becka slipped farther through the gap.

  Now the bridge swayed to the right. As it did, Becka’s body slipped the rest of the way through the gap. Fortunately her leg was still caught in the ropes, but that meant she was hanging, dangling over the gorge by a single leg.

  “Becka!” Ryan shouted. “Beck, hang on!”

  She lunged for the nearest rope rail but failed, unable to grab it. The bridge swayed back to the left — and her leg slipped.

  Mom screamed. Becka saw her mom start toward the bridge, but Ryan and Scott grabbed her arm.

  “No!” Ryan shouted. “You can’t go out there. The extra weight on the bridge will only make things worse.”

  Scott turned to Becka and yelled, “Grab the rail! You can do it!”

  There were only seconds to spare. Becka’s leg was loosening, and she would fall. She lunged for the rope again.

  And missed again.

  Her leg slipped a bit more. She tried again, but the farther she reached, the more her leg slipped. Realizing that her makeup bag hampered her reach, she let it go, watching for a brief, dizzying second as it tumbled toward the desert floor.

  She had time for one more try. If she missed, she would follow the makeup bag’s descent.

  The bridge started back to the right.

  “Please, Jesus!” she gasped. “Help me . . . Help me . . .” Becka stretched for all she was worth — but her leg pulled free, and she began to fall. She screamed, her arms waving and flaying . . . until she caught hold of something. One last strand of rope.

  But would it hold? More important, could she pull herself back up onto the bridge? But as the bridge reached the arc of its swing and began falling in the other direction, the force helped lift her. She took advantage of the movement and with one hard tug found herself lying back on the bridge, gripping its sides with both hands as it swayed back and forth, back and forth.

  She was safe.

  “Thank you, Jesus. Thank you . . .”

  She heard commotion at the end of the bridge. Scott was shouting about going out and saving her.

  “Just stay there!” she yelled. “I’m all right! Just stay there till the wind dies down!”

  Slowly the wind began to ease. The swaying grew less and less. When Becka was finally sure it was safe to stand again, she rose to her feet. And then, with the encouragement of the others, she slowly finished crossing the bridge.

  When she arrived, she fell into Ryan’s arms, trying to hold back her tears, to catch her breath. As Ryan held her, and as Mom and Scott asked again and again if she was okay, Becka slowly raised her eyes from the bridge — up toward the nearest peak. She wasn’t sure why she looked up, but she immediately wished she hadn’t.

  It appeared for only an instant. Then it was gone. But she knew she’d seen it. The outline of a man, silhouetted against the setting sun . . .

  A man with two great horns rising from his skull.

  3

  Once they crossed the bridge, they faced less danger, but things weren’t any easier. The heat grew more and more oppressive until it was nearly unbearable, which only made their climb over rocks and rugged terrain that much more difficult. Rain would have brought welcome, cooling relief. But though the storm continued to flash its lightning and boom with thunder, not a drop fell.

  Within half an hour the ground had leveled off. The straggling group had reached the top of the plateau. Now all they had to do was cross to the village, which Oakie Doakey had said was nestled in the hills up ahead.

  Although no rain fell, the wind kicked up again. It whipped and howled through the surrounding hills, making a mournful, wailing cry. Becka thought it sounded almost human.

  Awwooo . . .

  Becka and Scott glanced at each other uncomfortably.

  “Was that my imagination, or did the wind just say, ‘Yoouuu’?” Scott asked.

  Becka tried to shrug it off. “It’s just the wind.”

  Awwooo . . .

  “See?” she said, doing her best to sound cheerful. “Same as before. It’s just the wind.”

  Scaaah . . .

  “Did you hear that?” Scott exclaimed. “It called my name!”

  “No, it didn’t. It said, ‘Scaaah.’ ”

  “So I should feel better because it can’t spell?” he quipped.

  Becka laughed in spite of herself.

  “Hey, guys,” Ryan called from up ahead. “I think I see the village.”

  Scott, Becka, and Mom hurried to catch up with him. Now they could see it too. Rows and rows of crude shacks and small sod huts peeked out from behind a distant hill.

  “That must be it,” Mom said.

  “Yeah,” Scott agreed. “Only where’s our hotel?”

  “It’s probably at the other end of the village,” Ryan suggested. “That looks like the older part of the village. All the new stuff must be at the other end, behind that ridge.”

  They walked for nearly an hour. As they came closer and closer to the village, Becka noticed that Ryan’s gaze seldom left the huts. “This is so cool,” he said. “It’s just like I imagined. Just like the history books. It’s like we’ve been dropped back in time.”

  “Yeah, gr
eat,” Scott replied. “Only where’s our hotel? We should be able to see it by now.”

  At last they reached the edge of the village and entered. A young Indian woman carrying a baby came out of a nearby hut and watched them. They waved self-consciously, and she nodded — but she said nothing.

  Farther on, an old man, his long white hair divided into two braids, approached them. When he came within ten feet of them, he simply stopped and continued to stare.

  “Hello, there,” Ryan ventured. He gave a slight wave to the old man. But the man barely acknowledged his presence.

  Ryan shrugged and looked around. Becka followed his gaze and spotted a younger man — she guessed he was around twenty — lugging a large bag of grain over his shoulder.

  “Excuse me,” Ryan called. “Would you help us out?”

  The man turned and stopped. He studied Ryan suspiciously.

  “Do you speak English?” Ryan asked.

  “Of course. Everyone speaks English.”

  “Great,” Ryan said. “We’re looking for a man named Swift Arrow. We have something to — ”

  The Indian cut him off. “He’s not here. He’s gone on a walkabout.”

  “A what?” Ryan asked.

  “A walkabout.”

  “I don’t understand . . .”

  “It’s like a meditation. A man goes into the desert to think and pray.”

  “Ah.”

  “He should be back tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” Ryan answered politely. “A walkabout, eh? That’s an Indian term I wasn’t familiar with.”

  “It’s not Indian,” the man replied. “It’s Australian. Didn’t you see Crocodile Dundee?”

  “What?”

  “It’s a movie.”

  “Oh . . . well, yes, of course.”

  “You can rent it down at my video store if you’re interested.”

  “You have a video store?” Scott asked in surprise.

  “Fully stocked, from the classics to all the latest movies.”

  “Do you guys have computers?”

  The young man gave him a puzzled look and then broke into a grin. Suddenly he raised his arm and, in a stiff, melodramatic fashion, answered, “Yes . . . we sell ’um many buffalo hides to buy magic screen that glow in dark.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Glowing screen, heap big magic. Help me speak to spirits on Internet. Impress many squaws.”

  Becka bit her lip to keep from laughing. Ryan’s expression showed he felt foolish enough without her adding to his humiliation. “Oh, I get it,” he said with a slow, self-deprecating grin. “Just because the village looks like it’s out of the history books doesn’t mean the people are.”

  The young man shrugged good-naturedly. “I know it’s hard to believe, but we’re as up-to-date in the twenty-first century as anyone.” He returned Ryan’s smile and turned to leave. “See you around.”

  “Wait! Excuse me,” Becka called.

  The man turned back again.

  “Would you tell us where our hotel is . . . the, uh . . .” She turned to Mom. “What is it called?”

  “The Western Ground on the Cliff,” Mom said.

  The young man look puzzled, then broke into another grin. “The Western Ground on the Cliff is over there. Just past that row of homes to your left. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks!” Becka said.

  “Don’t mention it,” the man said with a chuckle and then moved off.

  The group headed in the direction the Indian had indicated. And sure enough, as soon as they had passed the row of huts, they came to a sign that read The Western Ground on the Cliff. But there was no hotel in sight. Only the sign, which was made up of white paint scrawled on some faded, wooden planks.

  “I don’t get it,” Scott said. “Where’s the hotel?”

  “You must be the Williams party.”

  They turned to see a boy of eleven or twelve approaching them from a nearby hut.

  “That’s — that’s not the hotel, is it?” Becka pointed toward the hut with a worried look.

  The boy laughed. “Nah, that’s just where my family and I live.”

  “So could you tell us exactly where the hotel is?” Mom asked.

  The boy smiled again. “There is no hotel, ma’am. This is a campground.”

  Becka and Scott looked at each other. Then at Ryan. Then at Mom. No one looked terribly happy.

  The boy continued, “Your friend has reserved two of our best campsites for you. He also purchased two tents, four sleeping bags, and a week’s worth of supplies.”

  For a long moment there was nothing but silence. Finally, Scott began shaking his head and mumbling, “Good ol’ Z . . .”

  “Well, at least we have sleeping bags,” Mom said with what was clearly forced cheerfulness. “Let’s make the most of it, shall we? You boys can have one tent, and we girls will take the other.”

  “Wonderful,” Scott continued to mutter. “Just wonderful.”

  Becka echoed her brother’s lack of enthusiasm.

  But not Ryan. He actually seemed excited. “I think it’s great,” he said. “I wouldn’t feel right staying in a fancy hotel here anyway. This is like an adventure.”

  “We’ll see how adventurous you feel after a night on this hard ground,” Scott grumbled as he kicked the rocky soil.

  Ryan didn’t seem to even hear him.

  “You’d better start setting up your tents,” the Indian boy said. “It’s going to be dark soon.”

  A few hours later, Becka leaned against Ryan’s shoulder. The group sat around the fire, cooking hot dogs and baked beans. It wasn’t as elegant as room ser vice in some fancy hotel, but it was definitely more romantic, and Becka loved it. She would have loved it even more if Ryan had paid some attention to her.

  It wasn’t that he ignored her, but she definitely got the feeling she came in second when compared to the sights and sounds around them: the mountains, the desert night sky, and all of the Indian culture. Well — Becka glanced around them — who could blame him? How could anyone compete with such majestic beauty?

  When they finally crawled into their tents, Becka was surprised at how much the ordeal at the bridge had taken out of her. Despite the hard ground, when she slid into her sleeping bag, she was asleep within seconds.

  The next morning she woke up to the sound of a hawk screeching overhead. For the briefest second she remembered her dream on the airplane. But the memory quickly faded in the peace and tranquillity of early morning at Starved Rock. Though she heard Scott and Ryan shuffling about making breakfast — most likely cold cereal and milk — she gave a long stretch and decided to stay with Mom a bit longer in the tent. Something about the chilly morning, the warm tent, and the complete and utter peace Becka felt made it more than a little difficult to rise and get moving.

  After breakfast, Scott and Ryan decided they’d explore the village a bit. Last night when they had arrived, it was nearly dark and they really hadn’t seen much. So now they were ready to go.

  They spotted the Indian boy who ran the campground, and Scott asked him what there was to see.

  “Not much, I’ll tell you that. But if you want the grand tour, I’ll take you.”

  “Great,” Scott said. “But don’t you have to check in people coming to the camp?”

  The boy smiled sadly. “Nobody comes to this camp. Not anymore.”

  Scott and Ryan exchanged glances.

  “My name is Little Creek,” the boy said, extending his hand.

  “Hi, Little Creek.” Ryan reached out and shook his hand. “My name is Ryan.”

  “And I’m Scott Williams,” Scott added, also shaking Little Creek’s hand.

  “I’m very glad you have come to visit,” Little Creek said. “We used to get tourists but not for several months now . . . not since the drought. Come on, I’ll show you the sights.” With that, he turned and started down the road. Scott and Ryan fell in step beside him.

  “How long has the drought been go
ing on?” Scott asked.

  “It started during the last growing season, killing most of last year’s crop.”

  Ryan scowled. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Little Creek nodded. “And it’s continued into this year. Many people didn’t even plant this spring because the soil is so dry.”

  “Can’t you irrigate or something?” Scott asked. “I mean, isn’t that what modern farmers do?”

  “Wealthy modern farmers, sure. But it costs too much to run irrigation pipes all the way up into these mountains.”

  “That’s not a great situation,” Ryan said.

  “Our people have always depended on the rain,” Little Creek answered. “The crops we grow don’t need much, but there has been no rain for so long that many people are thinking of leaving the village and moving.”

  Scott glanced about as they moved past the small shacks and sod huts. “Why don’t you just pack up the whole village?” he asked. “Doesn’t seem like it would be too hard. There’s not that much stuff.”

  Little Creek smiled. “Things are easy to pack, but people aren’t. Our traditions weigh much more than our material goods.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Ryan asked.

  “It means the old people are too stubborn to move.”

  Soon the three came to the end of the village. Just beyond it was a huge rock, bigger than any boulder Scott had ever seen. “Check it out,” he said, pointing to the colossal rock. It jutted up against the sky like a gnarled, clenched fist.

  “That’s Starved Rock,” Little Creek explained. “That’s where the village gets its name.”

  “Why do they call it that?” Ryan asked as they moved closer to examine the big boulder.

  “Back in the 1880s, a hundred braves made their last stand in this place. They were surrounded by cavalry, but instead of the soldiers coming up the mountain and fighting like men, they merely stopped the braves from escaping . . . until each and every one had died of starvation.”

  “That’s awful,” Ryan said.

  “Yes,” Little Creek replied. “It is said that their spirits still cry out from these rocks at night.”