Wind Catche

by Jeff Altabef

  I stand on a cliff of bluish rocky soil. Below me is the beginning of a battle. Short, wide people with bushels of curly black hair on their heads and faces wield wooden spears. Leather skins cover only a small portion of their bodies. Thick-knotted muscle bunches on their arms and legs and backs. At least a thousand adults brandish spears. They look angry, nervous, scared even.

  They’re not human. They have bent backs and only a few teeth, which are filed to sharp points. Their eyes burn blood red. Both men and women have curly black beards. Only the small ones – the children - do not. The adults form a ragged line six deep in front of round, blue, clay huts that I guess are their homes, while the children stand fifty feet behind them, bows and arrows with shiny metal tips clutched in their little hands.

  The second group is tall and thin and hairless. Their features are fine and handsome, and their eyes shine an electric shade of violet. Dressed in light, almost translucent tunics that hang to their knees, they could pass as extraordinarily beautiful humans, but they’re different. Marching forward in perfect formation of neat squares five rows deep, each warrior holds what resembles a glass sword with light glimmering off the sharp edges. They have no fear. They move as if they are conducting a harmless training exercise. All the fear emanates from the short brutish people even though they outnumber their opponents two to one. Nothing separates the two forces except flat, bluish rock.

  The children shoot a wave of arrows that take flight like a flock of birds that whistle through the air.

  The oncoming army never slows their gait. When the arrows start their downward plunge, they fall harmlessly to the ground five feet in front of the approaching warriors as if all their momentum was somehow stolen away before they could do any harm.

  One of the short, brutish warriors jumps in the air and waves his spear in looping circles over his head. He must be the leader of his people. He wears a long leather cape and stark white horns protrude from the curly hair on his head. I can’t be sure, but the horns are probably from an animal—decoration or a symbol that he’s in charge. He turns to face his people, screams a high-pitched battle cry that echoes in the rocky canyon, and his army surges forward. The ground shakes from their sandals and anger and fear.

  The taller soldiers never break formation or change their pace. When the two forces collide, it’s no contest. The glass swords carve through spears and into flesh. They cleave away muscle and bone as easily as the arrows had flown through the air. The horned leader is the first to fall. Blood splashes the ground. Screams echo and death spoils the air.

  Within minutes, piles of dead, brutish warriors litter the battleground—hundreds of dead. I want to scream for the battle to stop, but I have no voice. I can do nothing as the remaining brutish people turn to retreat. Parents frantically wave at their children to flee. The attackers race forward. Their long legs carry them past the brutish people in a blur as they swing their glimmering swords of death.

  A horrifying scene of carnage plays out below me. I hope the children will be spared, or can escape, but they are neither fast enough nor shown any mercy. Most run and are struck in the back. A few try to fight, swinging their small bows as clubs. They are no match for the beautiful soldiers. I try to look away, but I cannot turn. In a few minutes, the entire village is massacred. Not one member of their tribe stands.

  I search for the dead among the taller warriors. Surely a few have been killed, but only one man appears injured. A spear has pierced his side. He wobbles on his knees. Four compatriots stalk toward him. The tallest of the four swings his glass sword; the injured man’s head topples from his shoulders. I wince at the brutality of the scene and wake.

  Scorching air roasts my flesh. When I open my eyes, there’s nothing but darkness. Not normal darkness, but disorienting total darkness, as if all light has been sucked out of the world. Am I awake? I can’t tell.

  I push away the horrible images from the battle, and memories of Ms. Arnold and the apartment shove their way into my mind. I sit up fully awake now. I’m on a rough mattress and hear a nearby shuffling sound in the darkness.

  I’m not alone.

  My heart skips a beat and my mouth goes dry.

  “Who’s there?” My voice sounds timid and my eyes strain against the darkness. I expect Gold Tooth or Slicked Back Hair to answer or grab me. I’d run if I could see where to go.

  A shadow strikes a match and tosses it on a small stack of dry wood, which instantly bursts into flames. The sudden flash burns my eyes. The flickering firelight provides enough light for me to see. I’m sitting at one end of a small oblong structure made totally of clay.

  The shadow moves and I look into gray eyes framed by long white hair, and a deeply tanned, lined face. The flickering firelight plays games with his eyes, turning them wild.

  My heart jumps. “What’s going on, Sicheii? Where are we?”

  He moves close beside me. “We are at my sweat lodge, as the Great Wind Spirit has commanded.” He speaks matter-of-factly as if he is merely reporting the weather. I know he has a secret sweat lodge. All medicine men have one where they ask the spirits to cure people or speak to them or whatever weirdness they do in private. I’ve never asked to visit his or even seen one before.

  “Who are these people that are after us?”

  Sweat glistens off his chest and the twisted arrows tattoo over his heart. “That’s a very complicated question.” He lifts the back of his hand to my brow and frowns with his lips and eyes. “You have the fever. We don’t have much time to talk.”

  “Tell me what’s going on!” The words escape fast as I ball up my hands into fists. He’s so infuriating.

  “You are a very special young woman. You are not ill as your mother suspects.” His face twists sourly; his displeasure at Mom reflects in his eyes. “These voices you hear are a gift from the Great Wind Spirit. You can understand the thoughts of those around you, human and animal. You must embrace this gift and learn to control it to break the fever. It’s your first test before you receive your other gifts.”

  “What do you mean gifts?” I huff. “I don’t want any gifts. What’s wrong with everyone?”

  “The time for childish games is over, Juliet.” Sicheii touches me on the arm. His fingers are cool to the touch, and the simple gesture steadies me. “You know differently. You can’t deny your uniqueness any longer. You must be a rock.”

  “How did you know I would see the number eight when I was with Doctor Dan last night?” I have so many questions, I’m not sure why this one jumps to my lips. Still it did, and it spilled out.

  He smiles. “I told him to clear his mind and think only of that number. I knew you would read his thoughts.”

  I slump my shoulders and sit heavily on the mattress. “You’ve gone insane.” Still, as crazy as he sounds, he does make some sense. How else would he have known I was going to say eight? Eight isn’t even my favorite number. My favorite number is six.

  A mischievous smile springs to his face. “You know the truth. You just have to let yourself believe.”

  Could I have gifts? I’ve never been special—just an average student, a good lacrosse player but not great, an average looking girl—nothing special.

  “What do I have to do?” I sound mousy and small, as far away from special as imaginable.

  Sicheii glances back at the flames for a moment before his eyes meet mine. “Every animal has the spark of life given to it by the spirits. That spark is unique to the creature. Your mind is more finely tuned than others. You can pick up their sparks and hear the thoughts behind it.” He smiles. “If you concentrate hard enough on the voices, you can understand them like a radio receives stations. People generally think in words, but animals see images.”

  I recall the day Troy and I found Roundtree dead behind his house. I saw those cuts on his chest. They weren’t my imagination. They could’ve come from the goats. Argh! This is so weird, but there’s truth underneath the weirdness. “How do I tune my brain? Do you have this
gift?”

  He shakes his head. “The Great Wind Spirit chose you. You are Chosen. No one else has these gifts.” He passes me a glass of water. “As our leader, Roundtree knew more. He had the Ancient Book of Gifts, but he refused to give it to me. All I can do is help you with the old ways: through the stones, the prayers, and the ancient medicines.”

  “How come you didn’t tell me about this earlier?” I practically growl at him. “Why does everything have to be a secret?” I feel heavy and tired like a pack animal that has carried supplies for too long.

  “I am only an agent of the Wind Spirit.” His face softens and his shoulders go limp. “This is how it’s written. Besides, you would be in danger if others knew about your special nature before you accepted your gifts.”

  “Did you kill Roundtree and the others?” The words come out pillow-soft. I have to ask. I study his eyes, but the firelight dances in them, so I don’t see the truth.

  “There is no time for that.” Tension jumps into his body, his back stiffens, and his jaw clenches. “We must concentrate on you and controlling your first gift. Later we can talk about all you need to know.”

  “Great.”

  He turns and shouts in the old language to the fire-keeper outside. Every sweat lodge has a fire-keeper. He or she keeps a fire burning, makes sure the stones smolder, keeps everyone safe, and protects the lodge from outsiders. Even though this is a secret sweat lodge, I’m not surprised he has a fire-keeper. I wish I can understand what he said, but I’ve never tried to learn the language.

  He ambles toward the opposite end of the lodge where a leather hide acts as a door and takes the handle of a long shovel and lifts three smoldering stones. Thin wisps of smoke circle above them. He meticulously places the three stones into the fire and creates a perfect triangle. The stones sizzle in the fire pit. He tosses sage, cedar, and sweet grass on top of the hot stones to purify the smoke. The heat spikes. He returns the shovel to the fire-keeper and closes the leather hide.

  Before he returns, he chants an old song and shakes a leather and wooden rattle. He asks the Great Wind Spirit to guide us and protect us. The flames dance upward for a heartbeat, and I see the adobe bricks that make the sweat lodge and the grass that’s been used as mortar.

  As the flame burns brighter, the air turns hotter. Why make it hotter? The air is practically on fire as it is. I bring my hand to my mouth to thwart some of the heat. The sweltering temperature blasts me in suffocating waves. When I take in air, the heat burns my lungs, and my skin feels like it’s on fire.

  He returns to my side and frowns. “You have the fever. You must concentrate hard on your gifts. You cannot fail.” His eyes lock onto mine; they look like diamonds, sparkling in the firelight, hard, severe, untamed.

  My head swims, but I don’t like the jagged edge to his face and the desperation in the tilt of his head. “What happens if I fail?”

  “If you fail to control your gift, the fever will consume you, and the Great Wind Spirit will take us both.”

  I struggle to stand, but my arms and legs are loosely tied to a wooden post by heavy rope.

  “Are you insane? Untie me!” I pull hard against the rope with both arms, but the restraints hold, and the cords dig into my wrists, so I stop. “It’s hot in here, and I don’t feel well.” My head reels, thoughts collide against each other, none make any sense. The herbal incense and the fever burning through my bloodstream send my mind careening out of control.

  Sicheii scowls at me, as if I had given him the wrong answer to an important question. “You must quell your anger to survive. There’s nowhere else for you to go. White medicine can’t cure you.” He brushes a couple of stray hairs from his eyes. “It is written The Great Wind Spirit requires you to face this test in a sweat lodge. You must search within and embrace your gift. It’s the only way to break the fever. You must control the gifts the Wind Spirit has given you.”

  “Help!” I shout at the gate, hoping to reach the fire-keeper. “Help me!” I repeat the cry four times. Each time, my voice loses more steam.

  He glances from the leather door to me. “You will find no help from outside, Little Bird. You must look within. You must ask the Wind Spirit to guide you.” He moves toward the gate where he takes another handful of herbs from his leather pouch.

  “Please, Sicheii, let me go!”

  He ignores me, begins chanting again, and tosses more herbs on the flames.

  The fragrance fills the lodge. The air is heavy. Is he crazy? Could he be right? My thoughts spin and spin and spin. I see the photograph of the secret society from the article, Roundtree’s dead body, the twisted arrows tattoo, the look on Ms. Arnold’s face after she drugged me. The heat rises and the smell of incense fills my lungs. I sag down on the mattress, my body a led weight. He circles the fire, round and round, and ignores me as if he’s alone. My anger bursts into all-consuming rage like a wildfire. I need to let it go, but I can’t.

  I collapse on the mattress and slip in and out of consciousness. Dreams twist and torque through my mind. One moment, Troy is next to me. He seems sad, with moist eyes and a deep frown. The next moment, a hatchet slices open my chest.

  Morgan and Tiffany show up in one of my visions. They laugh at me and call me Indian trash. They tell me I’ll never be welcome in their clubs.

  Ella tries to explain something important about the murders while she drives her Ford recklessly, and Katie is crying. I can’t console her. I fail her.

  Lucid times mingle with the visions. Sicheii gives me water from a glass. The visions and reality twist together so neither is recognizable. Anger is my only constant companion, consuming me, sucking away my energy.

  I must have fallen into a deep sleep because I find myself in a vast city made of crystal. I feel different, lighter. It’s serene and otherworldly. The anger has finally vanished, a weight lifted from my body.

  I twirl in a lazy, looping circle. Tall structures soar upward in all directions. Paved roads sparkle with silver and crushed stone, and small circles of sapphire colored grass appear randomly. Crystal structures stretch off into the distance as far as I can see. The city should teem with life, but I find none. No vehicles or people or noise of any kind.

  I wander down the widest of the ghost streets and pass buildings of increasing size and elaborateness. They’re completely foreign looking. Some curve with vast arches, while others point with jagged edges. Most are translucent, but a few are opaque and block out the light. A sun, larger but dimmer than ours, floats high in a greenish sky with three small moons that circle close to it in the distance.

  Where am I, and how did I get here?

  As I travel down the wide avenue, the buildings become spaced farther apart until a circular stadium shines in the distance. The first traces of life sprout as I move closer to the stadium—signs appear. Not paper signs, but screens with fixed images. Most have a purple triangle with a yellow circle in the center. An “X” drawn in red crosses out the entire symbol. A few have an image of a beautiful looking man. He’s hairless with fine features. Purple islands float in the otherwise blue ocean of his eyes. They seem to glow dangerously. The same red “X” crosses through his face. He isn’t human. He’s one of those warriors from my prior dream who ravaged the short, brutish people.

  I feel as if I’m floating above the street as I go. Before realizing it, I cross the arched entranceway into the stadium. It is vast, much larger than any stadium I have ever seen. The sides stretch as tall as the tallest building in Phoenix. Energy, anxious and angry, buffets against me as I push open gray crystal doors and enter the main floor of the arena.

  Inside the crystal coliseum is a field of knee high, wispy, blue-green grass surrounding a wide stage six stories tall. On the stage sit three tall, hairless, almost human looking people. Two are men and the third is a woman. They wear white and silver tunics that shimmer with the symbol of the triangle and the circle on their chests.

  Six others sit on glass thrones that tower over those wi
th the symbols—three men and three women. Their tunics glisten with golden specks and each has a crystal pendant shaped like a disc hanging from their neck. I cannot tell their age. Their lack of hair and fine features disguise them, but the man and woman in the center throne chairs are clearly well aged, with lines around the eyes and stooped backs.

  The oldest woman shouts, her face red as spit flies from her mouth. Her hands clutch the side of her throne chair, the muscles on her forearms tense. I tear my eyes from her and glance up into the stadium, where I see thousands and thousands of these people. I can’t tell one from the other, but a quarter of the stands are full with those who wear tunics with the triangle and circle symbol in one section. Separated from the rest, they’re guarded by others who hold clear crystal swords. The sun reflects off the weapons and makes it appear almost as if the guards hold staffs of light.

  When I return my gaze to the stage, the old woman stops yelling and glances at her comrades who sit on thrones beside her. A sly, confident smile graces her face. A decision must be reached. Her chair is a few feet taller than the rest. Each of her comrades nods his head and beats his chest with a fist. They are all in agreement.

  When the last one does the same, the old woman faces the three sitting before her, her expression severe. She grabs the crystal pendant around her neck and it turns blood red. She waves her other hand and the tunics of all three are ripped. A red slice appears across their foreheads as if she has cut them with an invisible knife.

  The stands roar. Not a cheer or shout or cry, but the sound of thousands and thousands of people beating their fists against their chests and stomping their feet. A wave of energy, like a current, races through my body. Those in the stands with the symbols on their chests stand stoically. I squint and see their tunics rip. Blood splashes across their foreheads.

  The ground beneath me sways. I open my eyes.

  Sicheii gently shakes me. “You cannot sleep now, Little Bird.” I sit up and he says, “You must concentrate on the voices.”