Evil Heights, Book I: The Midnight Flyer

by Michael Swanson

  "Why'd you do that to your hand?” he finally had to ask. He was sweating and shaky, like a man I'd seen once who'd been bitten by a copperhead. And he's still rolling his fingers up and back, up and back."

  Lee realized his hands felt sweaty, and he too was rolling his fingers in and out.

  "Porter, who'd just begun to unwrap his harmonica from his bandanna, looked up into Bailey's big ol’ scared eyes. ‘Osia, the Liar,’ he said. Porter pointed to the fire with the arrowhead somewhere within down in the coals. ‘That thing, it was one of his.'

  "'Osia?’ yelled Bailey. ‘This is some Indian shit? Ain't it?'

  "Porter didn't say a thing.” Javier shook his head, seriously. “He picked up his harmonica and studied it, twisting it back and forth, watching the fire glint off of the polished metal surface. ‘I'll tell you about Osia, the Liar. If you think you want to hear.’”

  Lee almost interrupted, he was so eager to tell Javier that he wanted to hear.

  "Well, ol’ Porter had become real quiet and serious. All of us during the nights out there had told some stories, there wasn't much else to do. I told about the deserts and mountains around Monterrey and the legends of the Chupacabra, the Goat Sucker. One man who'd been in the war told us about the ship he'd been on, sinking in the Pacific and the men who had been eaten by the sharks one by one. Everyone had some sort of campfire story, except Porter. He'd never spoken much; he just sucked on that harmonica at night and worked like the devil during the day.

  "Of course, after what we had just seen, we all had to hear the tale. So Porter puts his harmonica back in his bandanna, wrapping it up real slow and official like, before stuffing it back into the pocket of his jeans. Then he pulls a bag of something out of his shirt. It was a pouch made from an animal's skin, which had been hanging on a leather thong around his neck. He took a pinch of powder out and tossed it on the fire. I know I expected a flash, but that didn't happened. There was just a puff of smoke and then a sweet smell, like sage. Then it was gone."

  Javier took another long drink of his beer, draining it.

  "You want to hear the story he told us?” Javier put the empty in an empty slot and removed the last beer from the carton.

  Lee grabbed the crate below and scooted in closer, now about as close as he could get without climbing up on Javier's lap. Lee had his fingers wrung together, hanging down between his knees by his new PF Flyers, which were stacked tightly one shoe on top of the other. He nodded quickly, then reached for his glass and took a sip of the sweet, sugary water in the bottom that had melted off from the remaining ice.

  "O.K. I'll tell you,” Javier said, settling in himself. “I think we have time. Then we'll eat."

  Lee no longer noticed any trace of Javier's accent or slurring from the beer once he began. It was spooky, almost like he was seeing the words rather than hearing them. For sure Javier's English wasn't as descriptive as what Lee felt, but it was the emotion Javier imparted to the tale that made it come alive in Lee's imagination.

  "It was long ago,” Javier began softly. “Long before any of the first white men came. The land was wild, tall trees stood uncut, as many as the blades of grass. And the river ran high and cold in the spring and low and slow in the summer. Beaver were plentiful, as were the deer and the eagle. Great bears and pumas would come down out of the deep mountains and did just as they pleased.

  "Along the river, a natural break in the stone face of the high bluffs led down to the riverbank below. It was at that spot that a solitary, an Indian who had no tribe, no people, built his lodge and lived according to his own laws. He was tall and very fierce, as it was well known that only a man who can kill and eat the meat of a bear he's slain himself can grow the thick muscles that corded the legs and arms of this enormous brave.

  "Like his body, his lodge was large and stoutly made. With a sharp stone ax, he had cut many logs from the forest of pines that grew tall in the sandy soil around the river. Some were as thick as the brave's great thighs, and these he used to form the lower walls. Smaller sections from the upper trunks, he had lain across the top. Stretching hides over the poles he made a good roof that kept out the water from even the strongest rain and when frozen could support the weight of the winter's snows. Without a wife, without the comfort of others around the fire, he made his life here, alone in this place. At times months would pass with him seeing few others, except the brown bears and feeding deer passing through with the changes of the fall and the spring.

  "At times of hardship or war, like the animals, their natural cousins, tribes both large and small would move throughout these lands searching for new places to live. The brave who lived here would trade with these people as they made their way north or south, moving down through the cut in the high stone cliffs to wade across the river dragging their belongings on poles behind them. Sometimes the travelers would camp near the lodge. But though the grass was tall and fish were many in the river, none ever stayed for long.

  "On the walls of this brave's lodge were the signs of many peoples. He bore the mark of the Cherokee across the deerskin hanging at his door, though he said he was not of them. The mark of the Seminole and Creek were to be seen there too, along with Choctaw and Cree. This man spoke many languages, learning quickly from those who crossed the river and traded at his lodge. And for those from far away, whom he couldn't understand with words, he was adept at making himself known through the use of signs he could make with his hands.

  "Amongst the many tribes and nations that lived throughout these mountains, tales of this brave, who called himself Osia, had grown from a whisper. And the whispers said the spirits were uneasy at the bend in the river where he had chosen to make his place.

  "At times, he would appear at the camps of the many Cherokee tribes, who claimed the land from the tall mountains all the way to the sea. He would bring hides, meat and dried fish to trade. Especially prized amongst all were the fine arrowheads and keen stone blades he fashioned from the dark flint and glossy chert found on the gravel bars and along the sandy banks of the river. Always he was a shrewd trader, but bargained for only one thing in return: a wife from the youngest and prettiest of girls. Sometimes he would make a successful trade only to return again before the change of a single season. When questioned as to what had happened to the one he taken before, he wove tales of woe, describing the sickness, snakebite or accident that had befallen the young girl. Such was his luck he claimed. After a time, all the local tribes shunned him, naming him Osia the Liar, and he was not welcome amongst the camps of any who knew him. But then girls would disappear. Sometimes it would be found that one had run off with a boy her father had refused to allow her to marry, and sometimes they might find the body mauled and eaten by a bear. But many times not a trace was ever found, and the mothers would grieve and the old women would talk of an evil spirit that had hunger only for the flesh of young women.

  "One fall, as the days were growing short and the leaves had already turned, a poor tribe came through the pass. Their people had been driven from their land by a war with the Creek and numbered fewer than twenty. Their chief was old, and because of a wound his left arm hung ruined at his side. Amongst the rest, there remained only five strong braves; the others were but women and children.

  "They were welcomed by Osia, who invited them to camp by his lodge. He gave them meat and fish, though they had nothing to trade in return. He told them of a valley to the west where they might live if the Cherokee would allow it. He promised to help them with all these things in return for a wife.

  "The girl he had favored was still very young. She had not yet fully become a woman, though the breath of life was very near her. She was a daughter of the chief, one of only two children he had left. Her name was Stalk of Corn, and she was thin, with soft brown eyes, long, fine fingers and skin of coppery gold. Though her mother approved of the trade, the chief did not, claiming that he would need her to care for him when they camped for the winter. Osia offered meat and dried fish far in e
xcess of the girl's worth, but the chief would not be swayed. Such became the argument between the two that after but a few days rest, the weary group abandoned their comfortable camp along side the river, leaving Osia behind, and going in search for the promised valley on their own.

  "The morning after the second night they camped away from Osia's lodge, they awoke to find the girl missing. Immediately the chief guessed what must have happened. He assembled his men and returned to the river in less than a single day.

  "They found Osia in front of his lodge, staking a fresh deerskin out in the sun to dry. Without paying respect to the greeting from the tall brave, the chief confronted him about his missing daughter. Osia ignored the insult from his former guest, and claiming ignorance, offered to help them search for the girl. He suggested it might have been a bear that had entered their camp and stolen the girl away. He said this happened often in this part of the forest so close to the mountains. This infuriated the chief, as he knew no such thing could have happened. There were no bear tracks, and certainly the girl would have never strayed far from the camp, and if she had been attacked by an animal she would have cried and he would have heard.

  "With his braves behind him, exhausted but defiant, the old chief insisted he be allowed into Osia's lodge to search.

  "This, Osia would not allow. He stepped back to the door and smiled at the men. It was said his teeth became long, his eyes became yellow like the wolf, and a snout drew itself out of his face, such was the evil presence that possessed him.

  "The chief pressed forward, angered to madness. Osia ripped him up the middle with the stone knife he had been using on the buck skin, spilling the old man's intestines to the ground and hefting the chief free of his feet as the great force of Osia's upward thrust met the breast bone.

  "Startled by the unexpected attack, the braves moved slowly, but Osia did not. Even before the dead chief's body touched the ground he was upon them. Using his great size and strength to his fullest advantage over the tired and weakened men, he plunged into them slashing out with his knife with a rabid joy, and struck two more of them down before a spear could be raised in defense. The three who remained, backed away holding their spears out before them, now hoping only to keep the savage at bay. These were brave men, the survivors of the war with the Creek. They knew killing, yet before Osia and the powerful evil of his transformed face, they knew terror in their hearts. Instinctively, the three made a defensive circle back to back to back. Osia stood just out of reach, taunting and violently slashing at the air before the tips of their outstretched spears, snarling and gnashing his teeth like the animal into which he had transformed.

  "One brave launched his spear, hoping to strike at the heart. But, Osia was too quick for the throw, stepping easily to the side and catching the lance in mid air. He tossed it up flipping it around. No sooner was the shaft back in his hand than Osia, had thrust it forward, piercing the brave's face, slicing cleanly through the nose, the stone blade cleaving apart his face right between the eyes.

  "The man's knees buckled and then he fell, as the other two broke in panic. One ran towards the safety of the woods while the other made for the river. Ignoring the man running to the river, Osia caught up to the other before he could reach the thick groves of standing pines. From behind, he drove the man to the ground, riding him across his back on his knees, the victim sliding face first through the pine needles and leaves. The force of the impact and the weight of Osia on his back knocked the breath from the strong brave. As the man struggled to get air, Osia rose up off him. Grabbing the man by his hair and with the other hand, by the crotch of his buckskin breeches, Osia lifted him free of the ground, pressing him up to the sky as though he weighed nothing. With all his force he dashed the man back down to the ground, slamming him flat on his face. With a great zeal he bent over and forced his knife through the man's buckskins, penetrating his anus. Though crushed and dazed the man released a hideous last scream. Empowered by the pain, Osia pressed his knees down on the brave's lower back, and pulling upward with the blade, he cleaved the pelvis bone, such was the force that he used.

  "The last brave was at the river when he heard the fatal scream. Frantic with fear for the first time in his life, he plunged into the cold, swirling water. He splashed away from shore until he lost his feet. Though he didn't know how to swim, he thrashed with his legs and flailed wildly with his arms, and at last made it to a flat gravel bar near the center of the clear, swift current.

  "He drew himself up on the stones and breathed. He had struggled so in the river he become dizzy. He knelt there, catching his breath, and shaking with shock, as much as from the chill of the water.

  "With a zing of pain his ear tore away. Reacting, he cupped his hand to the side of his head, and felt only warm blood and a shard of skin. Looking back to the bank, he saw Osia at the water's edge, a bow in his hand. Now transformed fully by the evil, Osia had the gray head of a wolf with a great black nose, pointed ears and eyes so yellow they shown out in the sun. Yet his body had remained that of a man.

  "The demon beast took another arrow from the quiver at his feet. Drawing it back and sighting down his snout he let another shaft fly. This one caught the brave in the thigh, the arrowhead splintering the bone.

  "The brave had to make a choice as the thing on the shore drew out another arrow. It was clear from the sureness of the aim that he was being subjected to a number of shots, and would suffer greatly before the fatal draw would come. His only option was the river, though he knew this was death too. Before he could decide, another arrow pierced his shoulder, the shaft flying almost clear through, leaving only the feathered end sticking out of the front of his buckskin shirt. The brave made up his mind. Before another arrow could be notched, the desperate man flung himself into the dark swirls of the fast flowing river.

  "Gasping for breath and struggling for life, he snapped off the wooden shaft embedded in his thigh as he struggled to keep his head up in the powerful current. Foundering and gasping for air, he was drawn into a powerful hydraulic swirling behind a large submerged stone, and the shaft of the arrow protruding from his back was also snapped off. Sucked down and under, his blood billowing out like ochre clouds in the green water, he bounced along the bottom, tumbling end over end through the chill and the dark. The brass taste of panic began to drift away along with the pain, as his heaving lungs fought less and less to draw a breath. But he didn't drown, he broke the surface, his hair plastered over his face, and drew in a breath of sweet, sweet air. His succor was short, as tumbling and twisting he went over the falls.

  "It was almost night, when he awoke, his head, by a trick of fate, caught above water, his body cradled in the limbs of a downed tree snagged between two rocks. Though numb and weak, his fingers already blue, he freed himself from the straining branches and pulled himself up on the bank. There he fell back into unconsciousness.

  "In the morning he awakened, warmed by the sun. Using a branch for a crutch, and feeding ravenously on sweet black berries he found in abundance, he began the struggle to make it back to the clearing where he had left his wife and children. It took three arduous days to make the trek, his determination only matched by his pain. The lone brave was not prepared for what he found.

  "Carnage of the most bizarre and cruel sort had fallen on the camp. His people had been wasted, their bodies torn apart. Though the ferocity had been inhuman, the brave knew no animal could conceive such crimes. An animal, had it been wolves, a bear, or even a mountain lion, would have eaten the bodies, rather than abused the corpses in such a terrible manner.

  "Amongst the sorrows he witnessed, was the split head of a child he recognized mounted on the neck of its decapitated mother. Of the other heads he encountered about the camp, they had all been abused with shorn fingers and toes stuffed in the sockets of the eyes as well as the ears and nose.

  "Dangling high up in the branch of a barren tree, he couldn't understand what lunacy lay behind a vagina hacked free of its torso, dang
ling as it twisted in the breeze, held aloft by a scalp with the ears still attached to each side.

  "Whether good or bad, of his own wife and children, there was nothing, thankfully, the man could recognize amongst the remaining limbs and torsos.

  "For a week he wandered alone, almost out of his mind, before happening across a hunting party of six Cherokee braves. The hunters fashioned a travois of branches and creepers and brought the man back to their village. Near death from his wounds, and his strength to live surviving only on sorrow, he described to the chief the plight into which he and his people had fallen. Afterwards, the women of the camp dressed his wounds applying poultices of powerful ingredients to the blackening wounds, but as though the sorrow having been shared, the brave lost his strength and faded away to rejoin his family that very evening.

  "In the morning, twenty-six men left the camp heading southeast toward the river. They made their way quickly, speaking little as they went. On the fourth day the party looked out upon the lodge of Osia the Liar.

  "This chief, a man named Two Twigs, had known Osia from many years before. Twice that he knew of, young girls had disappeared from his camp without a trace. And though he had no proof, he had always suspected something of Osia. There seemed not to be a village, which didn't revile the name of the Liar. The warnings of the dying brave, about the magical transformation of Osia into a wolf were vivid in Two Twig's mind. Two Twigs knew he was well warned to move slowly and with caution. As these manifestations could as easily be reality as hallucinations.

  "Selecting five men he knew were the strongest of heart, he left the woods, leading the way into the clearing, entering as would a hunting party.

  "No sooner had they emerged from the trees, than Osia appeared at the door of his lodge, drawing back the deerskin and stepping only halfway out into the light.