by Brian Hodge
He had to find the creatures, would have to search until … until he found them.
The fear was growing inside him, trying to escape, trying to take over, trying to make him fail. But he wouldn't. Some calmness came over him, and when he thought he was okay, he moved again.
He walked forward, hesitated before entering the first adobe room. Wisps and tendrils of something insubstantial seemed to drift through the air toward him. He pushed a strand aside with his hand, and a voice whispered. He jerked his fingers back, took a deep breath and entered. Here it was even darker than in the cave, and he could barely see. He took out the flashlight, pulled a feather from it, stuck that back in the pouch. He switched it on, flashed the light around. The room was empty; here there were no shadoweyes. Only the bleached remnants of ghosts of a long-dead people. Something crunched underfoot. He stooped to pick it up and examined it. A bone. Slender. Like that from a finger. He dropped it, dusted his fingers on his shorts.
His uneasiness increased. He wasn't happy being in a place filled with the spirits of dead people. A dead people who were not his, either. He licked his lips, felt a chill cross his shoulders.
Better get going. Time was passing, and he still hadn't found a damned thing.
He entered each room, searched it carefully. The fetish belonged here. Somewhere. In a kiva. He would have to find the round underground chamber built for religious and ceremonial uses. But as yet he hadn't seen anything remotely resembling one. The cone of light flickered; he shook the flashlight; the cone wavered, strengthened, faded, went out.
Goddamn it.
Angrily he threw the now-useless flashlight as far away as he could. It landed against an adobe wall with a metallic clack that was very much out of place in this dead pueblo. The sound echoed throughout the cave.
Smart, Chato, real smart. If they didn't know you were here before, they do now.
Past the last adobe house the path veered sharply, digging deeper into the mountain. As he followed the path, the light from outside faded, faltered, was gone. Yet he was able to see. The walls glowed with a faint phosphorescence, and when he reached out, the stone felt slightly moist. He held his fingers to his nose, wrinkled it at the sour odor. He didn't know what gave the light, but it certainly didn't smell pleasant.
Finger-like veins of glittering minerals radiated in all directions in the walls. He stopped to admire one design. Then he stepped forward, feeling too late the stickiness that clung to his face, chest and upper arms. Panicked, swallowing the scream that wanted out, he stumbled backward, batting at the tenacious substance.
A spider's web.
They call the strands of the web sunbeams, he thought, and say that if you damage them, the sun will make a web inside you and kill you.
If it wasn't the shadoweyes, it would be the sun. Great. He tried to grin, and failed, his facial muscles as stiff as though they had been frozen. He brushed away the last of the silken strands, started forward, stopped, the back of his neck prickling.
He was being watched. He could feel the force of their eyes staring at him, but when he looked, he could see nothing.
They were watching and waiting. For him. For the touched one.
His mouth was completely dry. Each footstep became harder, and he made an effort to move forward again.
Doom, he thought, he was going to his doom, and he thought he heard laughter echoing in his mind.
The pathway delved deeper into the rock of the mountain, leading downward until he thought he surely must have reached the lowest region of hell. At one point, slightly out of breath, he paused and listened, thinking he heard the sound of rushing water far away. It had to be his imagination, and yet, when the path twisted abruptly to the right, he stepped without warning into icy water that bit at his ankles.
Startled, he jumped back. The underground stream was dark and turbulent and he did not like its look. There was a flicker of white, gone in an instant. He squinted. An albino fish, blind because there was no light where it lived. He wrinkled his nose in disgust.
He didn't want to have to wade the stream or swim through it, but he wasn't sure he had any other alternative. He stooped, found a stone the size of his palm and picked it up. He hefted it, then dropped the stone into the water.
It sank without a sound. And he still could not discern the depth of the water. He wished for something to plumb the water, but there was nothing he could use. He stared at the stream, calculating its width, and at length decided he would risk jumping it.
He backed up, looked, decided to move back even more. He rubbed the sweat and dirt off his cheek, puffed slightly, then took off. He ran, and jumped, his arms held back, and landed on the other side, just bare inches from the edge of the water.
He breathed deeply with relief and started walking again. He didn't have much farther to go, for the path ended abruptly in a cavern filled with stalagmites and stalactites. He knew they were natural formations of limestone, but now they suggested nothing more than the fangs of some creature.
Straight ahead of him an oblong rock towered into the air. He stepped closer, frowned, brushed his fingers over the rough surface. On one side the semblance of a shadoweyes had been carved. He stepped back, flinching at the realism.
Still no kiva. There had to be one. This had been a pueblo culture, and at the center of all pueblo civilizations was the ceremonial kiva.
He paced the perimeter of the cavern, ran his hands along the smooth walls, seeking crevices he could enter, and when his foot hit air and he stumbled and almost pitched forward face-first, he knew he'd found it. The kiva.
He stared at the black hole.
He would have to enter it, descend into the greater darkness.
And he knew the shadoweyes waited for him there.
In hell.
His hands were shaking, and he rubbed them down his thigh, cringed at the clamminess of his touch. God, he had to go down in there. He didn't know what was there. It might be nothing, but— He shuddered. Things unknown lurked there. Things that might reach out for him, might touch him, grab him; things that—
Calm down, he told himself, taking deep breaths in gulps. He pushed back the hairs that had come loose, looked around, breathed rapidly.
Sunny. He thought of her, of how short a time he'd known her. He remembered telling his mother there wasn't a woman around who could interest him. She had cried, and he'd laughed. He had hurt her; why had he hurt her so, he asked himself, why, and now he didn't have a chance to tell her he was wrong, couldn't tell her that he had found a woman, couldn't—
The darkness beckoned seductively.
It was closing in on him, squeezing the breath from him; he had to take a leak; he had to do something; he had to get away from that darkness below, from that pit that he had to enter.
He could leave, turn around now. Leave town quickly, quietly, and no one would know. Sunny would go with him, and they'd wander from state to state.
He would know, though. And it would follow him wherever he went. He couldn't do that. Couldn't let Sunny down.
So he would have to descend. Go into a place he could not see into, go down into a darkness that was tangible, that could reach out and touch him, that could kill him.
He trembled again, clasped his hands together and tried to pray, but no words came. His religion failed him, and he knew then that he would not come out alive.
He sucked in a breath, coughed explosively, and he knelt. His fingers groped, found the ladder. He started down.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
He slowly descended into the kiva. Inside, the air was heavy, oily with some unknown substance, and he heard a rasping sound, as if someone were breathing heavily. The air pressed down on him, against him, was gagging him, choking him—
He touched the pouch, and the darkness cringed, and he breathed easier.
Cautiously he walked forward, brushing something with his knee, and a light suddenly flickered a few feet away. A torch burst into flame, and he star
ed at the object he had touched in the darkness.
It was a basket woven of natural fibers, and it was filled to the top with raw flesh. He had little doubt as to the origin of the flesh. Dozens of baskets, all containing the glistening pulp, littered the hard-packed dirt floor. Recoiling in horror, he stepped away, and something soft caressed his shoulders. He whirled and stared into the flat eyes of the creature. It hissed at him.
He leaped back then, knocking the first basket over. He slipped on the flesh, almost fell, managed to regain his balance. He kept retreating as the shadoweyes advanced. They were all around him, shades everywhere, the shadoweyes crowded into the chamber. When his spine was pressed flat against the kiva wall, he reached up to the pouch at his neck. The shadoweyes stopped.
And a high-pitched cackling filled the kiva.
He frowned. He'd heard that sound before. But—Another torch flared.
And he saw the chair. Its arms and legs, back and sides were made of white bones, bones bleached by the sun, bones gnawed clean. A shadow swept across the grisly chair, a shadow larger than the others he'd seen, darker, and its yellow eyes were immense. At its side crouched Junior Montoya. The old half-breed cackled again.
"You are a very clever boy," Montoya said.
He said nothing. He was breathing rapidly from his earlier fright, and he was also evaluating his position. Ahead of him were the shadoweyes and Montoya. The other creatures were arranged in a circle around him. He couldn't tell how many there were, but dozens and dozens of eyes glowed, picking up the light of the torches.
"They respect you," Montoya said.
"Good for them."
"They think you're almost as clever as they. Almost. But it won't save you." He chortled, the choking sound eerily echoing in the kiva.
"It got me this far."
"Do you think you would have made it if they hadn't wanted it, hadn't allowed you to come this far?"
"Maybe, maybe not." He paused. "How long have you served these things?" He pointed to the baskets of flesh. "Are you responsible for those?"
The old man cocked his head, remembered. "I have been with them since I was a boy. I brought them campers. I brought them here. It was always good. Until a week ago." Montoya grinned, showing the stumps of his teeth. "But they are no longer content to stay here."
While the old man had been talking, he had studied the round chamber. Faded line drawings in umber and ocher covered the walls, but the power of them had been lost long ago. They meant nothing now. Were useless. There was only one exit from the kiva, that now blocked by the shadoweyes crouching at the ladder. Pueblo Indians believed that the whole kiva was a powerful symbol. The interior gave way to the two worlds—the earth, the world above, and the netherworld below, from which man had come. That would be of little use to him now. He certainly wasn't about to enter the netherworld, not if he could help it.
He glanced around again. All he could see were the baskets with their grisly contents and the chair. Neither of which would help him. But something in the kiva had to be of help to him. Something here had to be able to stop the shadoweyes.
If the fetish had stopped the shadoweyes once, could it do it again?
He put his hand on the pouch.
How?
Again he looked around, wondering what he could do. "What happened to the Indians here?"
"They went away. They left the shadoweyes to their home. They are older than the mountains." He cackled, scratched his cheek, flakes of skin peeling away. "Far older. Older than the idea of demons, as you have called them."
Chato said nothing.
"Come join us, boy. Those others don't appreciate you or your ability. They don't know about your talents like we do. The whites … what use are they?" He spat noisily. "Eh? It is not so very bad. No, not after a while. You might miss the girl at first, but there will be others, many others, more than you can count through all the years. Eh, come, boy, study with me. I will make you more powerful than any shaman. The darkness is better, far better." The old man laughed, the sound echoing.
He had to do something. And now. Before the creatures attacked him. They were restless; he could hear them rustling, shifting, waiting.
His back still against the wall, he scuffed a rough circle with the toe of his sneaker, stepped quickly into it. The creature on the throne hissed at him.
"What are you doing?" Montoya demanded.
He did not answer. He must first protect himself. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to remember what he had heard long ago, what he had really not paid attention to, what he had forgotten after all the long years. Too late he understood the importance. Too late. He ground his teeth. He wouldn't give up. Not now.
Slowly words formed in his mind, words he thought he'd long ago forgotten.
He spat on the palm of his left hand, dipped the first finger of his right hand in it and made a cross on the left foot, thigh, forearm and cheek. As the crosses were made, he called out loudly upon the four thunders: Black Thunder, Blue Thunder, Yellow Thunder and White Thunder.
Then: "Black flint is over your body four times. Take your black weapon to the center of the sky. Let his weapons disappear from the earth."
Four times he repeated the prayer, changing only the colors. Then he rubbed the first finger of his right hand horizontally across his lips four times. He drew out his knife, held it against his chest, pointing first downward to the left, then upward to the right. At the same time he faced east and prayed. He then worked the weapon over the right shoulder, across the back, and down to the left hand. He ran the knife through his mouth, sucked some of the "juice" of the steel off. He spat that saliva into the palm of his left hand and began making the crosses once more. Again he repeated the prayer.
The crude circle glowed with a faint light.
The shadoweyes hissed, wavered in the torchlight, crept closer.
He opened the pouch at his side and began withdrawing its contents. Now, if only he would have the time to do something, to figure out how to do something.
Montoya watched with curiosity as Chato aligned the eagle feathers along the glowing lines of the circle. Outside the circle, abutting the feathers, he placed lightning-struck twigs. Inside the circle and over his shoes he dropped pebbles of red ocher, coral, jasper, turquoise, obsidian, and agate.
"Stop it at once!" Montoya shouted. He stumbled to his feet, rushed toward him and tried to destroy the circle. He drew back a fist, slammed it into the old man's chest, and choking, Montoya fell back.
He heard the whispers. Rising and falling, calling him by name, asking him to come to them.
His hand trembling, he brought out the packet of pollen and carefully opened it. The pollen of the piñon. He dipped his finger in it, slowly traced circles around his eyes, his mouth, and down to his chest, outlining his heart. The remaining pollen he put into his mouth and began to chew.
The hissing gained in volume, and outside the circle the torches had blown out. He could see the yellow of the eyes around him, on all sides steadily creeping toward him. The hissing filled the kiva, flooded his ears, permeated his body, ripped at his veins and muscles.
They summoned him, and he didn't know why he was trying to harm them. They had never hurt him. Never.
He sank to his knees and stared up into the kindly eyes. They whispered to him. Asked him to brush aside the twigs and feathers, so that they might help him to his feet. His hand twitched, then stopped as his fingers stroked the softness of a golden penna.
He had been touched.
He blinked his eyes and stared at the evil, creatures. Even in the dark he could see their talons, their fangs. They waited for him.
Constantly they moved, making him look at them, keeping his attention from his work. With an effort he looked down, concentrated.
He piled fragrant piñon sticks, and the stiff, sharp-tipped leaves from the yucca in the middle of the ring, then stood and stepped back until his heels brushed the feathers.
The hissing almos
t drowned out his thoughts, making it difficult for him to think. He pulled the flint and steel out and struck it. A thin flame leaped up from his hands, and he saw the eyes, the eyes that stared, the eyes that devoured, the eyes, the eyes.
He dropped to his knees again, lit the pile of sticks and it ignited. From his pouch he pulled a handful of white clay and tossed it onto the fire. Instead of quenching the fire, the clay added fuel, causing the flames to dance taller, to turn blue and white and gold.
"Mountain People," he said aloud, his voice trembling with nervousness. He called upon the old gods of his people, the old gods he had turned his back upon for so many years. His voice strengthened. "I call upon you to strike down your enemies. Mountain People, come to the aid of your son. I ask you to strike down these unnatural creatures, these who are your enemies."
He heard laughter then, high, hissing, horrible, and saw the creatures reaching into the circle toward him with their talons. The hissing grew louder, hurting his ears, fillinghis head.
His voice faltered, stopped.
It wasn't working. All this time, effort, expectation. For nothing. It wouldn't work.
The laughter swelled, filled him, even as the hissing swept over him.
He stumbled backward, away from a downward-arching talon that sought his heart, and the pouch on his chest thumped hard against him. He had forgotten about it. Eagerly his hands tore at the thong, pried opened the leather, drew out the image.
Talons, colder than the icy stream, raked across his bare shoulders, down his thigh, bringing bloody welts. His fingers stroked the black fetish. And he stared at the fetish, feeling the panic rise in him.
Now that he had it out, he didn't know what to do with it. He didn't know how to use it to save himself. Didn't have the knowledge. Didn't know; hadn't learned. Had failed.
"Tenorio, help me!" His voice rattled in the kiva, cutting through the hideous hissing.
Shrill laughter, Junior's laughter, answered him.
The shades twisted, shifted in his eyesight, and the blackness moved to engulf him. From behind something clutched at him, and he cried out.