Cicada Summer

by Jeff Dosser

  Contents

  Copyright

  Title

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or

  by and means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

  recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

  without permission in writing from the author, except in case of

  brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  Publisher’s Note:

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are

  the work of the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is coincidental.

  Solstice Publishing – www. solsticepublishing.com

  Copyright 2018 – Jeff Dosser

  Cicada Summer

  By

  Jeff Dosser

  To Tonnie:

  White knuckling it beside me on the roller coaster of life.

  It wouldn’t be any fun without you.

  Prologue

  Late July 1846

  Roving-Wolf’s moccasins beat out a pattern of dull pain along the worn trail leading to Green River Falls. He’d been running since dawn—long years of experience screamed he was pushing the razor’s edge of endurance. Despite the desire to find the others, he slowed, gulping down lungs-full of humid, summer air, willing his hammering heart to slow. His wife, Ta-ha-mo-nee, warned him he was too old.

  “After forty-seven winters you should be instructing children and enjoying your wife’s company, not chasing spirits through the woods.” With a grimace, he squared his shoulders and glanced towards the full moon. The younger warriors had left him behind hours ago. Now he pushed the boundaries of his ability using every trick he knew to catch up. He hated when she was right.

  Roving-Wolf was one of five Osage warriors tracking a creature known to the tribe only as ‘two-face.’ No living person had seen this two-face, but the shaman assured them the monster was responsible for the deaths and dismemberment of seven villagers, most of them children. One of those killed had been Roving-Wolf’s childhood friend, Red-Tree, his mutilated body found only a mile from the village, his arms never recovered.

  He followed a trail cut through the center of the dew-wet fields, the breeze carrying the sharp tang of wildflowers and grasses. It would have been a fine night for a stroll with his wife. Roving-Wolf paused to slake a thirst that had nagged him the last four miles before dropping to a knee to examine the moonlit trail. As clearly as pages on the white man’s books, the muddled tracks written on the grassy path told of the other braves’ passage. He brushed calloused fingers across broken stalks and raised them to his nose, and then shook his head in disappointment. The tracks were less than an hour old, but soon the trail would grow rocky, difficult to follow. He’d hoped to be much closer. As he slung his empty water gourd across his back, a cloud passed across the face of the moon and revealed a splash of dark color beside the path.

  He bent to examine a bit of goo dripping from a twig; sticky between his fingers, the taste was flat and metallic on his tongue. He had no doubt it was blood. Roving-Wolf spat it out and stepped further from the trail. The vegetation here was flattened, a pool of ichor soaking the brown earth. A path of crushed grass wound to the north as if a body had been dragged that way. He debated whether to follow. If he did not catch the others soon, they would engage the two-face without him. With a sigh, he returned to the trail and set off. Someone had been injured there, possibly killed, of that he was certain. He prayed to the gods it was not one of their own.

  Little more than a half hour passed before he approached Lone Beaver Creek. He loped breathlessly into the grassy clearing and spotted Big-Bear and Walking-Rain resting near the water’s edge. Walking-Rain squatted on the shore spooning up water with his meaty hand. Big-Bear leaned against a tree, his gourd upended, a stream of clear liquid spilling down his throat. Both men glistened in the moonlight, their war paint streaked from exertion. A blood-soaked bandage wrapped Walking-Rain’s forearm.

  Big-Bear was the first to catch sight of Roving-Wolf as he entered the clearing. He lowered the container and swiped an arm across his mouth before pushing away from the tree. His muscles rippled with youthful vigor beneath burnished copper skin.

  “About time you showed up,” he sneered. “You have managed to avoid the two-face all night.”

  Roving-Wolf ignored the younger man’s jibe and dropped to a knee beside the flowing stream. He parted the cattails and held his gourd beneath the river’s surface. It gurgled softly for several seconds before he brought it to his lips and drank. The cool water dripped light and clean down his arm and across his chin.

  Big-Bear eyed him in the shadow-flecked darkness and shook his head in disgust. “It is just like the Eagle clan to send a worthless gray hair on such a quest.”

  Roving-Wolf pushed up with a groan, leaning heavily on his spear. “The council chose warriors based on wisdom as well as strength, Big-Bear. You would do well to remember this.”

  Big-Bear snorted, gesturing towards the luminous Buck moon. It glowed brightly above the oaks and witch hazels casting dancing shadows about their feet. “The demon is nearing her lair, old man, and we are the last of the chosen. The last who can stop her.”

  Roving-Wolf looked up, his brows arched in concern. “What do you mean, the last?”

  Walking-Rain stepped nearer, his frame lithe and quick. “Little-Horn and Shadow-That-Comes-In-Sight are dead.”

  “Dead?” Roving-Wolf saw from Walking-Rain’s flat expression that he spoke the truth. “How?” Shadow and Little-Horn were great braves, Shadow one of his closest friends.

  “She caught us by surprise,” Big-Bear spat. “It will not happen a second time.” He turned angrily and faced the woods.

  Walking-Rain stared for a moment at Big-Bear, his gaze drifting back to Roving-Wolf. “She caught Shadow on the trail,” he said. “One second he was ahead of us, the next he was down and she was upon him. When we reached the fight, she fled. But not before relieving Shadow of his head.”

  “What of Little-Horn?” Roving-Wolf asked.

  “We sent him back along the trail to find you. He never returned.”

  “You’re responsible for my brother’s death, old fool.” Big-Bear turned and jabbed a finger at Roving-Wolf. “If you didn’t need a nursemaid, he would still be alive.”

  Roving-Wolf shook his head sadly. The blood he’d found on the trail had to be Little-Horn’s. “I am sorry for you brother’s death,” he said. “But it is all the more reason to stick together. The elders told us that before the full moon sets, at least three spirit bags must be in place around the two-face or the spell of entrapment will fail. That means we must work together, Big-Bear.”

  Big-Bear waved a hand as if to wipe away Roving-Wolf’s words. “You speak foolishness, old man. The council was not agreed on that. Many say she cannot be trapped. The only solution is for a warrior to take the creature’s head.” He puffed out his sweaty chest and stamped the butt of his spear into the ground. The sacred medicine bag he carried swung to and fro beneath the weapon’s iron head. “With these enchanted weapons and the blessed medicine bags, Walking-Rain and I will avenge my brother. By night’s end, I will carry the two-face’s scalp on my belt.”

  Walking-Rain glanced at Big-Bear with a look of apprehension before his eyes returned to study Roving-Wolf.

  “After we destroy the two-face,” Big-Bear spat, “you can join the old women by the cook fire and make some use of yourself.” He turne
d and stomped into the woods.

  Walking-Rain watched him go before meeting Roving-Wolf’s eyes. “Big-Bear won’t speak of it but he is afraid. We battle no Comanche or Lakota brave, my friend. This creature strikes fear into the staunchest of our people.”

  Walking-Rain closed his eyes, his chest expanding with a slow, even breath. He let it out slowly and stared at the sinking moon. “She is terrible to behold. As quick as a panther and deadly as the rattler.”

  He stepped over and laid a hand on Roving-Wolf’s shoulder. “I was no further from her than that tree when I threw my spear.” He nodded towards the gnarled trunk of a fat oak not four feet away. “She dodged my attack as if I were a child playing games. But not before giving me this.” He held up his bandaged arm. A drop of blood dribbled down his elbow and hung like a prophecy before splashing to the ground. “Shadow managed to stick her with his knife before he died. Then she hewed off his head and was gone.”

  “Does she carry a weapon?” Roving-Wolf asked.

  Walking-Rain shook his head. “No. But there are bony blades, sharp as knives, protruding from her elbows, and teeth like a badger. Those were enough.” He picked up his spear and dusted his hands. “Don’t delay too long, old friend. Big-Bear is a great warrior but his anger unbalances him. We will need your help.”

  Roving-Wolf nodded. “I will follow, but Big-Bear is right. I am an old man.”

  “But a shrewd one.” Walking-Rain grinned. “I will hold Big-Bear back. If you hurry, we may all arrive at the lair together.”

  Walking-Rain turned and vanished along the trail, his passing swallowed by the chirping song of tree frogs and hiss of the wind.

  Roving-Wolf followed the others’ track for an hour before he heard Walking-Rain’s voice rising and falling in a death song. He unslung his father’s shield and set it on his arm. Roving-Wolf’s mother was a powerful shaman among the people. In years past, she had laid strong magic on the device, painting the sacred emblem of the bear on the shield’s thick face. It had served him and his father in many battles. As he pushed through the underbrush towards the sound, he prayed to the Earth mother it would protect him once more.

  Before catching sight of his friend, a war cry boomed across the night. It was Walking-Rain. Roving-Wolf rushed to the sound of tearing branches and thudding bodies—the medicine bag at the end of his spear throbbed and pulsed like the coals of a winter fire. Springing into the open, he heard two cries ring out. One, a sharp, anguished cry of pain, the other a savage howl of victory.

  Roving-Wolf froze. He’d come to a spot where a majestic oak had been thrown down, its unearthed roots opening the fertile ground to the star-flecked sky. Spindly saplings grew in twisted clumps about the huge trunk, the skeletal branches twined with thorny vine. Nothing moved in the shadow laced darkness. He scanned the brush and trunks of surrounding trees. He could feel the two-face’s presence like the oppressive weight of a summer storm.

  Close to the oak’s upturned roots, he spotted a faint red glow. It was Walking-Rain’s medicine bag and spear. Something sat atop the shaft illuminated in the bag’s soft red pulse. Roving-Wolf squinted into the gloom. Took a step forward. The object perched atop the spear was a head—Walking-Rain’s head! —his friend’s mouth frozen in a cry of torment, his vacant black eyes rolled towards the heavens.

  “May your spirit fly with Wa-kon-tah,” he whispered. Roving-Wolf eyed the gloom for Walking-Rain’s killer, alone in a world suddenly filled with childhood demons.

  He glided along the shattered trunk until he stood at the foundation of the mammoth oak. A cool, fetid breeze wafted from between those tortured roots. Roving-Wolf realized the darkness beneath was not just a hole but a deep, vacant pit.

  This must be her lair, he thought. He replayed the words of the shaman in his mind: ‘To trap the creature at least three medicine bags must surround it.’ Beneath Walking-Rain’s severed head his medicine bag throbbed. The bag on his own spear seemed to match its deliberate pulse as if tuned to the same slow heartbeat.

  Roving-Wolf dropped to a knee and squinted across the glade. He eyed a third red glimmer on the opposite edge of the clearing. He knew with certainty that Big-Bear was gone, his head mounted on his spear just like Walking-Rain’s. Oh, please, Wa-kon-tah, let him have set his medicine bag as well.

  Roving-Wolf pushed to his feet and crept to a spot where the three bags would form a triangle, an enclosure with the creature’s nest at the center. As he moved, he could feel the demon’s eyes follow him. he had been hunting long enough to know when he was the prey.

  He slid through the malevolence-filled air like a man pushing through deep fog. Some loathsome will ordered him to stop, the hate and cruelty in the command stinging like biting winter frost. It took every ounce of his resolve to force his feet forward. Roving-Wolf had passed through his own lifetime of anguish. He alone would pick the time of his death, not another. He stooped, eyeing the dark trunks around him. The moon pulled free of her cloudy veil and flooded the glade with luminance. Paces away, a shadow paused, an unformed darkness that merged suddenly with the night.

  Roving-Wolf turned his back on the shape of his foe, faced the pit. Around him, the woods stood silent. For the first time in years, the slow tingle of panic wormed its way into his breast. He closed his eyes, willed his hammering pulse to slow. Then with a measured, even breath, he opened them.

  The moon waned as she crept behind her gossamer shroud. The leather handle of his shield creaked beneath the pressure of his nervous grip. He waited. Waited for the two-face to come. In the dim passage between seconds, he counted the beats of his heart.

  One…

  Two…

  Three…

  Roving-Wolf dove to the ground and rolled to his back. He held the shield above him and tucked his knees to his chest beneath its protective face. At the same instant, a weight crashed down upon him. He caught a half-glimpse of a pale, gibbering face leering past the shield’s border. In a flash of blue light, a boney spike punctured the reinforced face of the shield. His calf screamed with purple fire as the spike buried itself into his flesh. Half in pain, half in anger, he voiced his war whoop and kicked out. The sudden, forceful movement rocketed the shadow towards the pit.

  The creature screamed as it fell, a high keening wail of frustrated rage. It hit bottom with an ugly, hollow thud.

  Roving-Wolf was already scrambling to his feet. As the abomination clawed to the surface, he raised his spear and with a shout, sank the shaft into the earth.

  An explosion of pale blue fire swelled at the end of his spear. Across the glade, Walking-Rain’s spear thrummed as well; then Big-Bear’s medicine bag illuminated the night on the far side of the clearing. Each orb of incandescence reached out tentative, glowing fingers, each light merging with the others. They knit a fence so bright Roving-Wolf ducked away, raising a hand to shield his eyes.

  From the direction of the pit, raving cries rose to a fever pitch. At the formation of the triangle, they became a yammering scream of torment. Through squinted eyes, he watched the shadow slink into the pit and disappear within. As it vanished from sight, the glowing orbs dimmed but their pulsing glow remained.

  Chapter One

  Shadowy forms of simple brick homes and single-story farm houses crept past Sadie’s car as she wound through Thunderbird Fall’s early morning streets. Here and there windows sparkled with an eager morning glow but the majority of the town was shrouded in pre-dawn darkness. The little community reminded her of visits to her grandparents’ farm in east Texas. Thunderbird Falls even had an old Dairy Queen just like gran and pappy used to take her to when she was little. Sadie vowed that when she was done painting, she’d stop for a burger and a shake before heading back to Alsuma.

  Once she’d weaved through town, it wasn’t ten minutes before the tires beneath her green Subaru Outback ground across the gravel lot of Denver Corners Gas and Bait. The ancient store was the last stop before pulling into the park. A final opportunity for gas, toilet,
and, God help her, coffee.

  She guided the old wagon to a parking space at the side of the store and stepped out into a cool May dawn. The sun bloomed on the horizon in shades of amber and gold, bathing the heads of oaks along the roadway in fiery illumination. Sadie arched her back, stretching away the stiffness of the drive before walking across the lot towards the front of the building. It had taken the better part of an hour to get from her apartment in north Alsuma to this parking spot below the faded mural on the Gas and Bait’s cinder block wall. If she didn’t get some caffeine into her system she was certain she’d nod off at any moment.

  * * * *

  Rounding the corner, Sadie never saw the old woman before she almost bowled her over. They both shouted in surprise, Sadie grabbing the old woman’s elbows to keep them both from tumbling to the ground.

  “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry,” Sadie blurted.

  The old lady’s surprised eyes were set in folds of wrinkles that disappeared into laugh lines as a gap-toothed grin spread across her face. “You almost got ol’ Granny El,” she cackled.

  “I wasn’t watching where I was going,” Sadie apologized. “Are you all right?”

  Sadie released her grip on the old woman’s arms once it appeared she wasn’t about to topple over. The crone bent with a groan and scooped up a fat wicker basket she’d dropped. For the first time, Sadie was able to get a good look at the character standing before her.

  Her gray hair was pulled into a low pony that ran to the center of her back. Across her shoulders hung an Indian weave shawl in patterns of jagged red and orange waves. Clutched in her arthritic hands was a worn wicker basket. Peeking from beneath a soiled red bandana and filling the air with their pungent, earthy aroma was a pile of odd looking mushrooms.

  “What has you in such a rush, child?” the old woman wheezed.