Skinwalkers

by Hill, Bear

  They reached the pen’s gate and halted. The dog was now in a berserker rage. Joe and Garrett stood staring at each other for several seconds without a word passing between them. Then Garrett lowered the lantern to the ground, opened the gate, and shoved Joe inside.

  The dog was upon him within seconds. Joe screamed as the dog closed its jaws over his face. The starved mongrel began shaking its head from-side-to-side, Joe’s face held tight within its fanged mouth. Joe felt his arms close around the base of the dog’s skull. In desperation he rolled his body, forcing the dog’s torso in one direction and its head in another. There was a loud snap, like a tree branch breaking under the weight of snow. The dog yelped and then fell still.

  Joe rose to his knees. He stared at the dead dog, blood pouring from the bite marks on his face.

  I have killed you, my brother. For our white father’s love, I have killed you!

  The gate opened to reveal Garrett’s silhouette surrounded by a corona of lantern light. Joe looked at Garrett, licked the blood off his lips, and screamed.

  “What the hell are you talking about, Little Joe?“ Wilson asked. “Some kind of Indian hoodoo bullshit?“

  “It is not bullshit,“ Little Joe said. “Have you not seen Coyote’s medicine with your own eyes? He has given them the bone-sickness. He has taken their souls and twisted them so they are skinwalkers. And now they walk the earth in his image.“

  Farnsworth rose to his feet. “I grow weary of this heathen gibberish. Surely you are in agreement, Reverend?“

  Phillips shook his head. “I don’t know what to believe anymore,“ Farnsworth exhaled in disgust. He crossed the room and then sat in the corner farthest from the group.

  “Who is this Coyote you speak of?“ the bounty hunter asked. “Is he really the devil?“

  Little Joe nodded. “He was once a Dine yenaldooshi, what you would call a Navajo witch. But that was long ago. Through the decades he has grown in power, becoming less a man and more chindi with every woman he rapes and every child he sacrifices.

  “Some of the Dine tribes have tolerated his existence out of both greed and fear. Greed for the spoils his medicine brought to them in battle. Fear of what he would do to whoever dared oppose him.“

  “Outside of town, we seen a blind old Navajo,“ the bounty hunter said. “Hell, old’s not the word. This sonofabitch was fucking ancient. He seemed … wrong. You could feel the bad coming off of him like heat from a cook stove.“

  Little Joe nodded. “Coyote.“

  The bounty hunter paused, considering. “Has this ever happened before? Have the skinwalkers ever attacked on this scale?“

  “No,“ Little Joe said. “Until tonight, no one would have said there were this many. Skinwalkers and their dark medicine are considered evil by the people. They must live in secret and seclusion. But a group of skinwalkers this large would never have been able to do that. While Coyote cannot be found unless he wishes for it to be so, even his medicine could not have kept such a large group hidden.“

  “Which means,“ the bounty hunter said, “these ain’t your normal skinwalkers, and something else entirely has happened.“

  The bounty hunter turned to Sanchez. “Private, that village—“

  Sanchez hung his head.

  “You said there were women and children,“ the bounty hunter said. “You said the men were gone?“

  “There were old men,“ Sanchez said, his words coming slowly. “One attacked me. I shot him, but he just kept coming—“

  “What about their braves? Their warriors? Did you ever find them?“

  Sanchez looked up at the bounty hunter. “No. I told you, we were attacked—“

  “By a company-sized pack of skinwalkers, yeah, I heard you.“

  “What are you getting at, stranger?“ Wilson asked.

  Farnsworth clanked back to his seat among the group. His face had gone white and his eyes held the light of dawning realization. “When we saw the troll, uh, Coyote, he was with a Navajo war party. It would’ve been around the same time the private said they were butchering the Navajo village.“

  “If those Indians came home to find their women and children murdered …“ Wilson began.

  “They would’ve been shit-storm mad,“ the bounty hunter finished, “and likely so crazy and ate up with hate they would’ve done anything to get revenge.“

  “Even sell their souls to the devil,“ Phillips said. He put his face in his hands and began to pray. But the reverend’s supplications faltered as shrill howls began to rise into the night sky outside the church.

  From Myths and Monsters of America, by Fred Newton…

  Lycanthropy, or Werewolf Disorder, is the term for a genetic mutation that causes hair to grow all over all over one’s body. The term Lycanthropy comes from the combined Greek lykoi, meaning “wolf,“ and anthropos, meaning “man.“ The gene causing this disorder is passed through the X chromosome and may lay dormant for years.

  Its psychological counterpart, clinical lycanthropy, is a neurosis resulting from the delusional belief held by the affected person that they are, or have in the past, transformed into a wolf. Many of history’s infamous mass murders and serial killers, such as Vlad Tepes Dracula and Jack the Ripper, are thought to have suffered from clinical lycanthropy.

  In folklore, lycanthropy is the magical power of a human being to undergo transformation into a wolf or other animal—generally the most dominant predator of the region. The legend is consistently found in various forms across the globe.

  The version of the werewolf best known to modern society is the one portrayed in film and television—that of the tragic figure, typically a man, cursed to become a monster when the full moon rises. This is in contrast to the legends of Eastern Europe regarding witchcraft in which this particular manifestation of the myth is rooted. Typically in such lore, a person would, by choice, don the pelt of a wolf in order to physically become the animal in question, the purpose for doing so being to enact revenge or partake in evil for evil’s sake.

  In Scandinavia, tales of Viking berserkers became the basis for werewolf myths. Berserkers were savage warriors said to take on the superior strength, speed, and ferocity of a wild animal by wearing its hide. Before battle, these fighters would work themselves into a frenzy, even cutting themselves before enemies to show their immunity to pain. With the use of such demonstrative intimidation tactics, it is easy to understand how the superstitious peoples of the day would have come to associate berserkers with shape-shifting and other forms of black magic.

  The American offshoot of the werewolf myth is the skin-walker legend found in the native tribes of the United States. While tales of skin-walkers exist in numerous forms among many Native American cultures, the most sensationalized occurrence of the myth comes from the Navajo of America’s southwest.

  Relatively little is documented about the Navajo skin-walkers as the topic is taboo among the Dine, or as the Navajo are also called, the People. However, what follows are the facts as generally accepted.

  A skin-walker, or yenaldooshi—often called a witch by outsiders—possess the supernatural talent to change shape into a chindi, a type of demonic spirit typically endowed with animal characteristics, the most infamous being the form of a coyote. In this chindi shape, the skin-walker would prowl at night wreaking havoc and death. Once again, this holds true to the werewolf myth as coyotes were the predominant predators of the region, and often a nuisance to the Navajo of the Old West.

  The skin-walker supposedly gains his or her ability to transform into a chindi by murdering a close relative. The skin-walker is also feared for his or her ability to perform black magic, or “bad medicine,“ through the use of bone sickness. By bringing a person into contact with corpse powder made from human cadavers, or shooting a bone pellet from likewise origin into a person’s body, the skin-walker is said to be able to inflict illness and ultimately death upon victims of his or her choosing.

  Unlike their shaman counterparts, skin-walk
ers are, for obvious reasons, a secret society among the Navajo known only to themselves. It is often speculated that small groups practicing the rites and beliefs of skin-walkers still exist among the tribes today, leading normal lives during the daytime while performing acts of mischief and evil in chindi-form at night.

  While no true empirical evidence of skin-walkers is known to exist, much has been made of the skeleton found in the remains of the ghost town thought to have been Perdition, New Mexico, and the unfortunate accidents surrounding its excavation. Although considered to be a fake by most experts, the skeleton known as Homo lupus, or barking man as dubbed by the news media, continues to be the basis for much debate among the scientific community. Until such time that the colorful theories surrounding its origin can be disproved, the question remains: does the New Mexico Museum of Natural History and Science have the skeleton of an authentic skin-walker in its possession? Perhaps with future improvements in anthropological research, technology, and dating methods, a definitive conclusion will one day be reached …

  Chapter 7

  THE ARMORY

  “Goddamn varmints,“ Wilson said, having to talk over the yowls of the skinwalkers. “I’ll kill every fucking one of them.“

  Farnsworth massaged his burned hand. “And how, sir, do you propose to accomplish such a Herculean labor? We are but a few men with depleted arms, while they are many with an endless supply of fang and claw.“

  “We could throw you out there and let you jaw them to death.“

  With Pablo calm for the moment, Maxine joined the men. “He’s got a point. What are we going to do?“

  “I say we wait them out,“ Reverend Phillips said. “Surely these servants of the devil will have to crawl back into whatever hole they call home when the sun rises.“

  “Didn’t you hear me?“ Private Sanchez asked. “The sun hasn’t risen since they attacked us.

  “There isn’t going to be a dawn!“

  “It is Coyote’s doing,“ Little Joe said. “His power has become so great he can even pluck the sun from the sky.“

  They looked at one another blank-faced for a moment, and then, as though they were a single organism, turned their gaze on the bounty hunter.

  “We can’t wait them out.“ The bounty hunter checked the chambers of his revolvers. “And I got maybe ten shots left, and that’s probably more than the rest of you put together. There’s no chance we’re fighting our way out of here, either.

  “I don’t know what to do.“

  A look of despair moved from one face to the next, taking them one by one into its grasp, save for the reverend. He raised his head and fixed his eyes on the bounty hunter. “There … that is … what I mean to say is …“

  “Well, Reverend, spit it out.“

  “There may be something that can improve our situation.“

  “Take it all out!“ the reverend said. “Every statue! Every picture of the virgin! Every last idolatrous item the Whore of Babylon would corrupt God’s church with!“

  The reverend stood in the mission, barking orders to Mexican workers as they gutted the place of all Catholic iconography. “Trash it all but the gold. I will see to it personally that those items are used to further fund God’s true work.“

  And am I not employee in the true work of the Lord, Phillips thought as a smile touched his lips. One in dire need of compensation?

  He walked across the room, moving beyond the pulpit to throw back the curtain shielding what had been the priest’s rectory. He eyed the shrine he found there with disgust. He began snatching up candles and tossing them over his shoulder into the main room.

  “Idolaters!“ He tossed a small statue over his shoulder. “False prophets!“ The reverend kicked the shrine so that it tumbled over into the room’s corner. The rug beneath the falling shrine was yanked up. Something odd about the floor space caught the reverend’s eye. He did a double-take and saw that a large trapdoor had been carved out of the floorboards. “What’s this?“

  Reverend Phillips walked over to the trapdoor and heaved open its double doors. He lay down on the floor and ducked his head into the voluminous hole left in the doors’ wake. The righteous indignation he’d been feeling drained out of him to be replaced by shocked awe. “Good Lord in heaven!“

  The bounty hunter and Little Joe shoved the reverend’s desk aside, revealing the large trapdoor Phillips had promised would be there.

  “I’ll be goddamned!“ Wilson said. He stood with Maxine, Farnsworth, Sanchez, and Phillips where they huddled just inside the study door. The bounty hunter and Little Joe backed away from the trapdoor and turned to peer at Farnsworth. The bounty hunter drew his revolver. “Open it.“

  Farnsworth gazed at the bounty hunter in disbelief. “Me? We haven’t a clue what terrors may now lie beneath. Why should I be the one who risks skin and bone?“

  “Because I says so,“ the bounty hunter said. “Now open it.“

  “I shall not!“ Farnsworth said.

  “Professor,“ the bounty hunter said, “If I don’t see your skinny ass running over here and opening those doors in about three seconds, I’m gonna—!“

  “No,“ Maxine said. “He’s right. He’s risked as much as the rest of us. It’s not fair to force him, no matter what kind of bastard he is. I’ll do it.“

  “But you’re a lady,“ Wilson said.

  “Yes, one who also has risked as much as the rest of you. More so because of my child. And so I have the right to take charge of my fate rather than just sit back and let you or the skinwalkers dole it out to me.“

  “You sure?“ the bounty said, pronouncing the word sure like shore. “I can go down while Little Joe—“

  “I said I’ll do it,“ Maxine said, her voice soft but firm.

  “Thank you my dear lady,“ Farnsworth said. “It’s quite refreshing to see that at least one—!“

  “Oh, shut your fancy cocksucker, Professor.“ Maxine stepped forward and dropped to her knees. Little Joe crouched down and grabbed hold of the trap’s double doors. He looked at her and mumbled something to her in his native tongue—a blessing, she hoped.

  “All right.“ The bounty hunter aimed his revolvers at the trapdoor. “Ready.“ Little Joe waited for Max to gather herself. She exhaled and then nodded to him. He nodded in return and then slowly opened the trapdoor, the rusty hinges moaning in protest.

  Maxine stared into the dark, rectangular abyss left in the door’s wake. As she listened for movement, the already large opening seemed to swell beneath her, growing like the mouth of a giant wanting to swallow her whole.

  After several moments of silence, Maxine took hold of the doorframe and leaned her head beneath the floor. Darkness met her eyes. She rose and turned to the group. “I need a match.“

  “I’ve got some.“ Sanchez drew a match from his pants pocket. He stepped forward and handed it to Maxine. She lit it with her thumbnail and began to kneel.

  Reverend Phillips hands rose to warn caution. “Be careful!“

  Maxine frowned at him. She took a knee and held the match out over the gaping hole. She imagined its light revealing a skinwalker just as it reached out with its long, black claws and ripped her face off. She shook herself, then lowered her upper body into the hole.

  The light of the match revealed strange, angular shapes. Before Maxine could make them out, the match extinguished as it burned the tip of her thumb. Maxine cursed and dropped the charred match. “I need another match.“ She did not bother to rise from the hole. She merely held up her hand. A match pressed itself into her palm. She ignited it with her thumb and dim light filled her field of vision. She gasped at what she saw. The ground had been hollowed out so that the church sat on posts above a deep dirt pit filled with munitions. Everywhere Maxine looked, her eyes met crates of muskets and barrels of gunpowder.

  “What do you see?“ the bounty hunter called.

  Maxine smiled. “Wilson might get to put a bullet in all those skinwalkers, yet. It’s a goddamn arsenal down h
ere!“

  Maxine rose out of the hole and then swung her legs over its side. “Give me another match. I’m going down.“

  The bounty hunter shook his head “Maxine, the gun powder—“

  “Give me another match, damn it. I’m not an idiot. I’ll be perfectly safe.“

  Sanchez handed her another match and then she slipped through the opening to drop into the pit. Her feet met earth and she found she could stand up right without hitting the church floor. She struck the match and waved it front of her, its light revealing open crates of ordinance. Her eyes grew more accustomed to the dim light, allowing her to see a number of lanterns hanging along the posts holding up the mission.

  She took a lantern and lit it. A steady, soft orange light filled the chamber. Maxine saw there were even more weapons and ammunition than her first glance had revealed. She heard a thunk and turned to see the bounty hunter dropping to the floor behind her, Little Joe on his heels. Wilson and Reverend Phillips followed behind. Farnsworth and the clinking remains of his shackle brought up the rear. They passed out the lanterns and spread out, each inspecting a different corner of the pit.

  “I figure this must have been a secret bunker for Santa Anna,“ Phillips said, “or at least that of a loyalist. Hell, this whole church is a farce; constructed more like a small fort than a mission. Be careful with that!“ Phillips jerked Farnsworth’s arm away from several barrels the writer had been inspecting. He’d been dipping his lantern down among them.

  “Hey!“ Farnsworth said. “What is the meaning of this?“

  “You numbskull!“ Phillips pointed to the barrels. “That’s gunpowder. Stick your lantern in the wrong place and the whole church will go up like the Fourth of July!“