by Mike Duran
Chapter 53
They buried Belle Walker at Moncrieff’s, near the fence line overlooking the northernmost edge of Death Valley. It was spring then, and after an especially wet winter, the folks in Endurance were calling it the bloom of the century. How fitting, he thought, that his mother would die when the world was alive with color. Rivers of wildflowers coursed the dry landscape, veins of lavender, crimson, and gold fingering their way through washes and ravines. And when the breeze rose, it drove the fragrance through the old cemetery like a wisp of heaven itself.
But standing at his mother’s graveside, no aroma on earth could replace the stench of hell the boy prophet felt. And maybe that’s when hell took root.
At thirteen years old Zephaniah Walker did not possess the emotional mechanisms to accurately process such an event. Perhaps it was due to the special relationship he and his mother shared. At first Zephaniah felt somehow complicit in her death. He had been doubting his own gifting, questioning those around him, most notably Belle. And then came thinning crowds. The Telling was growing distant, coming less often. The Plains Prophet was conflicted.
Now, five years later, he returned to that cemetery. So much had changed. Not only was his face cloven, but a fissure had left his faith sundered and shipwrecked. Meanwhile his father’s disregard had gone to seed. Turned out the old man thought Belle was a wacko all along, but he never had the courage to say it when she was alive. He played the game, bowed his head at the dinner table, and looked the other way when Belle locked the door on her only son.
How could God let this happen? Pearl got three meals a day paid for by the state, his father slouched back to Endurance, and Zephaniah was scarred for life.
“I didn’t want this!” Zephaniah’s words echoed past the headstones into the flower-laden landscape. He stared through tears at his mother’s grave, clenched his fists, and turned away. “No more words—I’m done with You. I’m done with everything! I don’t want to hear the Telling ever again.”
So it was, at eighteen years of age, near the graveside of his mother, that Zephaniah Walker died. To some he became Zipperface. To the rest he became only Zeph Walker. Recluse. Outcast. Sad, sad story.
He turned and left the cemetery. He deserved to be struck by lightning. Instead of lightning, however, the sweet smell of blossoms met him, a slap in the face of his rage. As he walked past the large, marble angel that guarded the entrance, a voice called to him.
“It’ll make a fine story some day.”
Zeph stopped in his tracks and turned to see a young Indian man, stout and tanned, leaning against the wall, watching him. Probably another vagrant, hitchhiking his way along the 395. But what was he doing all the way out here?
Zeph peered skeptically at the man. “What’s a fine story?”
The young man just smiled. A gust of dry wind cast his hair about his face.
Zeph pursed his lips and turned to leave.
“A prophet never loses his calling,” the man said, “only his way.”
Zeph studied the man’s deep-set eyes. Pain was etched there, as was wisdom. His face seemed familiar. And his voice …
“Brother Walker!”
The shadow inside of Zeph flinched. Uncoiled.
“Brother Walker!”
It was the voice of that same man. This voice wasn’t inside him, dredged from the mud of his memory; it was outside him. And when he heard it, something came alive inside of Zeph Walker.
And he remembered the magic.
Chapter 54
Brother Walker!” Little Weaver’s voice echoed in the foggy canyon.
Tamra leaned into the sagging fence, feeling the prick of the barbed wire in her palms. “Maybe he didn’t come here,” she wondered.
Hiking through the ragged stand of birch had left her panting. However, part of her breathlessness was the rush of finally looking down upon the mythical ninth gate of hell.
Little Weaver gripped his javelin and peered into Otta’s Rift. Seeing him standing there with the sleek metal implement and its ornate handle conjured images of primitive hunters in prehistoric wastelands. Although Tamra seriously doubted that any primitive hunter brandished a pair of motorcycle goggles like Weaver did.
“Brother Walker!” The misty shroud seemed to swallow the sound of Little Weaver’s voice.
She returned her gaze to the gorge, staring forward in hopes of spotting Zeph Walker. Suddenly Little Weaver touched her shoulder and pointed into the ravine. A trail had been forged through the scree slope, and at its base the mist cleared enough for her to make out the mouth of a charred, timber-framed shaft in the granite wall. And before it lay the pale form of a man.
Tamra pressed forward. “Zeph! Something’s wrong with him.” She pushed past Little Weaver, trudging toward an open section of the fence. “He’s hurt. Zeph!”
As she prepared to sling her leg over the sagging barbed wire, Little Weaver grabbed her with his gloved hand and yanked her back. She nearly slipped on the moist earth and fought to steady herself.
“What’re you doing?” She glared at him. “He’s in trouble!”
Little Weaver met her gaze with equal ferocity and, for a moment, Tamra glimpsed in his eyes the same fiery intensity she had encountered at Zeph’s house. However, she didn’t back down. Instead she clenched her fists and stared up at him. “I’m going down there. And you can’t stop me.”
He studied her, his eyes clouding over with curiosity. “Brother Walker is not the only one in danger, Warrior Soul. The land is poisoned. The dark angels grow strong. The Rift bleeds its magic into root and rock.”
Tamra swallowed hard. Then she stared down into the gorge. “It’s just a hole in the mountain—that’s all.”
Little Weaver seemed surprised by her assessment. Then his eyes widened and a grin creased his ruddy features. He laughed, a sound that rose in such crescendo its joy seemed to shear the foggy veil before them. He laughed until the canyon boomed with the sound. So incongruous was his joy in that gloomy place that Tamra couldn’t help but laugh along with him, even though she wasn’t sure what was so funny.
“Indeed, you are the Warrior Soul!” Little Weaver playfully slapped her shoulder, sending Tamra scrambling for footing. Then the glee drained from his face and the sternness returned. “If I tell you to stay here, I know you will not. The Warrior Soul follows her heart, not the commands of others. And you have already determined to rescue him. You now feel a kinship with his pain.”
She fought to stifle a flush of embarrassment, and then nodded, as if a great secret had been exposed.
“Ha! This is how the great stories are made!”
“Hopefully we’ll live to tell this one.”
Little Weaver’s eyes glistened and he said reverently, “The great stories never end, even though one dies. Follow me! But guard your mind. The dark angels feed on your fears. That which you lock inside, they will find and exploit. Move with caution, Warrior Soul.”
Little Weaver stabbed his javelin into the earth on the opposite side of the fence. He brushed the moisture off his goggles, strapped them on, and then climbed over the barbed wire in two great strides. He reached across and helped Tamra over. Then he plucked the javelin out and followed the trail toward the mine.
“Brother Walker is in the shadow slumber,” Little Weaver said over his shoulder. “He is not dead. Though some never wake from such sleep.”
She wanted to ask him what shadow slumber was but feared she might provoke a riddle, so Tamra remained silent.
As they worked their way into the gorge, she trained her eyes on Zeph’s form. Though she could see no wounds on his body, he remained motionless. Nevertheless, despite her concern for him, the charred mine wooed her attention.
She recalled Joseph Blessington’s journal entries: the abandoned mine equipment, the field of skins, the pits of burning debris, the carcasses of animals strewn about the area. What had happened here? Could the miners really have unlocked some great subterranean evil? And if
so, how in the world did Little Weaver expect Zeph to stop it?
The granite wall rose above, a deafening curtain that disappeared into misty gray. The temperature seemed to dip with every step. Tamra was not sure she believed in haunted places. But if they existed, this place was a perfect candidate.
Broken glass crunched under their feet as they neared the floor of the ravine. Small animal bones dotted the gravel. Ahead a lean-to of twisted branches tilted near a crude fire ring. As they passed, Tamra slowed. Inside of it lay a mound of debris, soiled pornographic magazines, and wooden bowls. A rotten stench brought her to an immediate stop. She peered into the decrepit dwelling. A soft rustle emerged. Was someone inside? She glanced toward Little Weaver, who continued on, oblivious to her wonder. Overhead a crow cawed, and she traced her eyes up the towering rock face.
Fear shuddered through her, and with it came a staggering sense of vulnerability. Tamra was not used to this feeling. She turned and stared back up the scree slope into the shrouded foothills. All alone. They were all alone. A perfect setup. Perhaps they’d been coaxed here. But by whom? Whoever it was, something could happen and no one would ever know.
A faint buzzing sounded, and she turned back to the rickety structure to identify its source. A slight breeze rustled the pages of one of the magazines, and she glimpsed what looked like photos of a surgical procedure. Sutures. A wound. Bloody gauze. She stepped closer. Who would be reading such a thing out here?
The buzzing intensified.
As did her unease.
She could not say when her parents had stopped caring or when their addictions eclipsed the welfare of their own children. Self-reliance had sprung up in her not from active cultivation but as a means of survival. She could fend for herself. That was one thing Tamra Lane could do. Nevertheless, it was her self-sufficiency that seemed so pitiful; in the murk of this defiled canyon, before this ancient maw of madness, her confidence was exposed for what it was: a glaring façade.
She crept forward. A dark, filmy liquid filled one of the bowls. Was it blood? Flies ringed its rim, and as she approached, they buzzed with agitation but did not scatter.
A shadow fell across the earth.
She thought about Dieter. What would happen to him if she died? But why must she die? Tamra Lane could fend for herself. That’s what she’d done for most of her life. She’d learned to do the laundry on her own and make meals for the family. At sixteen she got her permit, and every weekday before taking her mother to the crack house, she took her brother to school. And at night she tucked Dieter in with a story, whether or not Dad was lucid enough to care. Yes, Tamra could take care of herself. But in the shadow of this chasm, on the very ground of the Madness, she wondered if she could stand against the evil that dwelt there.
It was the same evil that took her mom and dad.
“Warrior Soul!”
Perhaps hell fed on people like her, those too strong-willed and stubborn to see their abject poverty, too independent to need the truth. That’s what Otta’s Rift was—a graveyard. A graveyard for the once self-sufficient.
The shadow advanced.
“Warrior Soul!”
Little Weaver’s voice startled her.
Tamra stopped and stared blankly at the wooden shanty. There was no shadow. Nor were there any bloody pictures. The lean-to was empty.
She gasped and quickly located Little Weaver. He stood over Zeph’s body, peering at Tamra through his goggles, shaking his head. Then he spiked his javelin into the earth.
She glanced back at the wooden structure before hurrying to Zeph and Little Weaver.
“A north-south terraline that oscillates east and west.” He pointed to the Rift and drew imaginary directional arrows in the air. “It intersects an east-west terraline that oscillates north and south. There is a spot inside the mine, which, if you stand on it, you will sway with a rotary motion, usually in a counter-clockwise fashion. Unless, of course, you are left-handed.”
Tamra studied Zeph and, without looking at Weaver, said to him, “I take it you’ve been here before.”
“I am the guardian of the gateway.”
“Right.” She knelt at Zeph’s side. He appeared to be coming to.
Little Weaver continued, “The phenomena is caused by the alternating movement of the east-west, north-south lines. But there are other effects of this confluence of coordinates.”
“Like hallucinations?”
“I warned you.”
Tamra returned her attention to Zeph. “Is he all right?”
“For now, yes.”
Little Weaver bent down, scooped his large hands under Zeph, and helped him sit up.
“Pearl,” Zeph muttered, shaking his head and blinking hard to adjust his vision. Then he stared into the Rift.
Tamra followed his gaze.
Zeph said, “She was in there.”
Little Weaver did not look into the mine. Instead, he stared at Zeph through the thick goggles. “Greater demons than your stepmother inhabit that foul place. Can you stand?”
Zeph nodded. Tamra positioned herself on one side, Little Weaver the other, and together they helped Zeph to his feet. Tamra continued to steady him while he wobbled for footing.
“More is at work than I have imagined.” Little Weaver plucked the javelin from the ground. “The journal—I have learned much. Quickly. We must not delay. We will return again to this foul place. But before we do, other battles must be fought.”
Zeph steadied himself and stood upright on his own. “I think I know one of the battles you’re talking about.”
Chapter 55
They hurried through the ragged birch grove, as if some dread phantom was on their heels. Zeph’s head was in a fog. He was ashamed about being found in a fetal position—especially after such a courageous effort on his part. Perhaps going it alone was the wrong thing to do. But after eight years of going it alone, it was a hard habit to break. His stepmother’s ghostly presence wandered the dark periphery of his mind, as if the Rift had awakened her buried remains inside him. What manner of evil could extract such memories from a person? He shivered at the thought of returning to the dreaded mine but knew he must.
Little Weaver led the way, his javelin doubling as a walking stick. He was unusually quiet, and Zeph wondered why the Rift had not affected the man. Or had it? Tamra walked beside Zeph, and out of the corner of his eye he could see she was watching him closely. He remembered their brief talk outside last night but forced himself to not wander that lonely road of possibility. Through the trees Zeph saw Little Weaver’s jeep parked in front of his truck along the mule road. The atmosphere was so dank and depressing here, he half-expected his vehicle to have been vandalized or stolen by mountain men. Nevertheless, it sat untouched where he had parked it.
Plink.
Zeph halted at the sound, skidding in the decaying mat of leaves.
Pa-plink.
Tamra gasped and reached for him. “What is it?”
Little Weaver spun about with the javelin hoisted at half-mast. His goggles dangled at his chest, and his eyes surveyed the thicket.
Zeph looked nervously at the dream catcher swaying gently from the tree.
Plink.
Little Weaver followed Zeph’s gaze, exhaled, and lowered the javelin. “A werevane, harbinger of dark tidings.” He spat. “Look not upon it!” Then he turned and hurried through the trees.
Little Weaver went to his jeep and wedged the javelin into place while Zeph and Tamra plodded out of the decrepit woods. They went to Zeph’s truck. His clothing was soaked from lying in the damp earth, and his boots were equally full of muck from the hike to and from the Rift. He leaned with his back to the vehicle, closed his eyes, and massaged his temples.
“Are you okay?”
Zeph peeked through one eye. “Other than feeling like my brain’s been blowtorched, I’m terrific.”
“What happened out there?”
Zeph winced at the reminder of his foolhardiness. He had a
chieved the opposite of what he’d intended: drawn them here. Now he looked like a wimp. “It’s hard to explain,” he said. “I thought I could …” He looked away, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I just didn’t want anyone else to get hurt.”
Little Weaver stopped rummaging through his jeep to watch them.
“The police were at your house,” Tamra said. “They said you called them.”
“I did. It’s my neighbor. I’m afraid she’s been …” His voice cracked with emotion, but he quickly composed himself. “She’s dead.”
Tamra gasped.
“One of those things …” Zeph’s gaze drifted to the gorge, its sheer face rising above the fog. “They buried her body out back.”
“Do the police know?”
“If they aren’t part of this, they know now.”
“Which means they know that we know.”
Zeph nodded.
“They wanted us to stay,” Tamra said. “But we ran. They’ll be after us, Zeph. They’ll come looking.”
“And they’ll bring others.”
Little Weaver clomped over in his muddy boots, his tools clanking underneath his camo jacket. Even in these defiled woods he seemed to be alive, impervious to the unfolding darkness. He carried Annie’s journal, approached Zeph’s truck, and assembled some of the documents on the hood. They surrounded the Indian, mystified over the strange archive.
“It is worse than I feared,” Little Weaver said. “The journal is not only a scientific record but a rune to open the black mirror. A spellbook to summon the dark angels.”
Zeph bent closer to see symbols, cuneiform scripts, hand-drawn letters comprised of lines, angles, and stars.
“An angelic alphabet,” Little Weaver said. “Once thought only fable.”
Zeph squinted, trying to make sense of the symbols and words. He read haltingly, “Grimel. Nun. Va—”
“Silence!” Little Weaver thundered. His voice echoed through the foothills.
Zeph stumbled back from the truck.