by J. M. LeDuc
* * *
Pamoon saw confusion in White Eagle’s eyes. “Kamenna had nightmares?”
“Eha.”
“Of what?”
“Of a demon long ago banished by our people. We thought she had them because of stories that were told around the campfires when we were children.”
“What kind of demon?” Pamoon’s voice was barely audible.
“A skull—”
“With wings and fangs and blood dripping from its eye sockets.” Pamoon finished his thought.
She didn’t know what frightened her more; the fact that Kamenna had the same dreams or that White Eagle and Nuna’s complexions were stark white.
No one spoke for what seemed like an eternity. When White Eagle finally did, his voice made her jump.
“This brings the circle to a close,” he said.
“More riddles!” Pamoon yelled. “My life is being torn apart by . . .,” she crumpled the letter and threw it at him, “by some letter and a leather coat, and all you have is riddles!”
“Not riddles, Pamoon. Proof that you being here is not by accident. Proof that you were meant to be Kamenna’s daughter.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Open the jacket.”
Unable to move, Nuna did it for her. On the lining of the jacket were symbols burned into it. Not just any symbols, but symbols that made up the Cree language.
“Do you know what you’re looking at,” Nuna asked.
Pamoon nodded. “It’s in Cree.”
“Can you read it?” White Eagle said.
“Kamenna tried to teach me the language. I can speak some, but reading it is harder. Kamenna wrote a book of translations for me to study, but,” she shrugged, “I never did.”
“Do you still have the book?” he asked.
“Back at the house—Kamenna’s house.”
“Nuna will go with you. Get it and bring it back. I need you to translate what is written.”
“Why? Can’t you just tell me what it says?”
“I could, but I think it’s important that you do it yourself.”
12
Evil
March 3, 12:30 a.m.
* * *
Powaw’s eyes rolled back as his head struck the cedar floor of the sweat lodge. He had spent all day in the lodge and the spirits were finally speaking to him. They spoke of a demon from long ago.
The images that bombarded his mind were vile. Images of one who brought fear and death to his people. Images of evil incarnate. More than once, he wanted to leave but knew that wasn’t an option.
Sweat seeped from his pores as he struggled to sit up. His tongue, dry, he licked the salt from his parched lips. Throughout the day, he had eaten small pieces of beef jerky and sipped water from a Bota bag—a water pouch made from animal hide—to help ward off dehydration. There was a fine line between purifying his body and mind and the shutting down of his organs. Sustenance and water were the only things stopping him from falling into an abyss.
Shuffling his feet, he scooted his body backward until he supported his weight against the cedar wall of the lodge. With the additional support of the wall, he relaxed and slowed his breathing, slipping into a trance. The images that filled his mind, images of a mythical flying skull, caused his heart to ache and broke him from his meditation.
The visions I’m seeing are not possible. Our ancestors sent pimihawin mistikwan into the netherworld never allowing that demon to escape. No one would ever call it forth.
The spirits gone, he knew it was time to leave. He hoped beyond hope that the visions he’d seen were wrong. He prayed his thoughts were misguided.
13
Demons
March 3, 1:00 a.m.
* * *
Bobby pried his eyes open and glanced around at his surroundings. His mouth dry, his lips cracked from the oppressive heat. I must be in some sort of a cave, he thought, looking at the rock walls and dirt floor. Although the cave was void of light, he saw with clarity. The last thing I remember is running from the campsite, and then . . .
He tried to scramble to his feet, but fell flat on his face. Too weak to stand, his muscles betrayed his mind. He trembled as he recalled the stench of death in the wind and the two fiery eyes glowing in the woods just before he passed out. He remembered opening his mouth to scream for help, but whatever belonged to those eyes silenced him.
But how?
That’s when he remembered the bite.
A pounding headache clouded his thoughts. Maybe I’m just really hungover. Maybe this is just a bad dream. Forcing himself to sit up, he saw a puddle not too far away. Instinctively, he crawled to the water and drank.
Not like a person, but like an animal.
That’s when he saw his reflection. He recoiled, falling backward, staring but not seeing. “What the hell,” he groaned.
Inching his way back towards the water, his reflection looked like that of a rabid dog. He was covered in patches of fur, bald spots pitted with scabs, seeping blood. His face wolf-like—with a long snout and pointed ears. Saliva dripped from the corners of his mouth. Sitting on his haunches in utter disbelief, he heard moaning. Turning from the water, he saw his friends. They, too, were no longer human, taking the shape of different creatures. Mike was now a cat, he looked like a panther, his coat black and shiny. Ralph appeared to be some sort of prehistoric lizard, his forked-tongue flicking in and out of his mouth; and Scott . . . well, Scott was something Bobby had only heard described in fables. Some sort of dragon, but without wings. He reminded Bobby of a gargoyle from The Hunchback of Notre Dame.
Bobby watched as his friends dragged their bodies toward the water, each drinking in the same manner he did.
Eyeing each other, they communicated without talking.
“Where are we?” Scott asked.
“What are we?” Ralph said. “Are we dreaming?”
Mike said nothing. He appeared comfortable in his new skin.
While they sat around trying to figure out what had happened, an odor filled the cave. Bobby’s neck craned, his nostrils flared; it was the same odor he smelled in the woods, but now instead of it being foul, it was enticing. Looking up, he saw two black sockets where the eyes should have been, yet he sensed life deep within those cavernous spheres. They grew larger as they approached from the far end of the cave.
The eye sockets belonged to a skull. A flying skull.
He no longer felt fear, but excitement.
Bobby and the others watched as the skull hovered a few feet in front of them. He could now see that the eyes were not hollow like he thought, but oozed a dark crimson.
The skull, their master, spoke—its voice, more a vibration than a sound, “Welcome.”
Bobby and the others sat at full attention, transfixed by the demon.
14
Translation
March 3, 1:00 a.m.
* * *
Pamoon rubbed her eyes as she laid down her pen. She had spent the last few hours translating the Cree language, burnt into the lining of the jacket, into English. She had translated each word but had not read them in context. Her stomach growled, reminding her of how long it had been since she had eaten. Grabbing the notebook, she and Scout headed for the kitchen. “If we’re lucky, there will be some of Nuna’s casserole left over.”
She was surprised when she saw Nuna and White Eagle sitting at the table.
“That coffee smells good,” she said. Is there anymore?”
“Sit and I’ll get you a cup,” Nuna replied, “and how about some left over casserole?”
Pamoon’s stomach growled again. “You read my mind.”
“Speaking of reading,” White Eagle said, “have you read the translation?”
“Not yet. I was gonna get a bite and then read it.”
Nodding, he pulled out the chair next to him. “Let’s see what you translated. Go ahead and read it.”
“A demon will be released from captivity and only the
wiles and power possessed by the one marked with the flames will be able to send it back to a fiery death. Until then, it will scour the earth searching for the weak. The winged demon will destroy both flesh and spirit, gaining strength by the blood and souls of its prey.”
Pamoon trembled as she reread the words, goosebumps flooding her exposed skin. Wide-eyed, she stared at White Eagle. “You’ve read this before?”
“Eha.”
“Who else knew of it and knows what’s written on that jacket?”
She twirled her new ring around her finger, waiting for his answer. Somehow, touching it brought her comfort.
“Jim Steger, the tribe’s historian, Kamenna, and myself.”
“Kamenna knew what this said, and she never told me? Why would she do that?”
“Because she loved you,” White Eagle said, without hesitation. “She wanted to protect you. She . . . and I hoped this day would never come. That’s why we involved Jim. We hoped he could find answers. That what’s written wasn’t true.”
Pamoon held the paper in her hand and shook it. “You think this is true? I mean it can’t be true, can it?”
White Eagle answered her with a question of his own. “Is that as far as you got in the translation?”
“No, I translated all of it.”
“Finish reading, and then I will answer your question.”
“These words were written by the gods and cannot be fully understood unless they are read inside the Spirit Cave. The marked one must enter the Misty Woods by following the bent trees that mark her way in order to find the cave, but beware, if one strays from the path or is pricked by a thorn, death is soon to follow. Enter the cave and the spirits will unravel the truth.”
White Eagle grabbed the paper from Pamoon. “This translation. It’s wrong.”
“I agree,” Pamoon said. “This whole thing is wrong, but that is word for word from that jacket.”
“The jacket, where is it?” The words were pouring out of the chief’s mouth, stumbling over one another.
“In the bedroom. I’ll go get it.” Pamoon turned her gaze on Nuna and raised her eyebrow, as if to say, Is he okay?
“No.” White Eagle grabbed her arm, keeping her in the chair. “You stay. Nuna will go.”
Nuna was back in seconds. Pamoon’s level of fright escalated as White Eagle yanked the jacket from his sister’s hands and spread it out on the table. Tracing his finger along the words, he read the same thing he had read a thousand times before. Finished, he tapped his finger hard on the jacket. “Show me where it says anything about the Misty Woods or the trees.”
Pamoon pushed her chair a little further from the table. She had never seen White Eagle lose his cool. Her fear must have registered with Nuna, because her aunt placed her hand on top of her brother’s and in a soft voice told him to “calm down.”
“You don’t understand,” White Eagle said. “The three of us—Jim, Kamenna and myself—all read what’s burned into this lining. We all read the same thing. There is nothing here about the Sacred Woods or the markers that lead the way.”
“I’m not lying,” Pamoon said, standing up. “I might just be some poor white girl you found on a doorstep, but I’m no liar.”
“I’m not saying you are,” White Eagle said. “Please show me what you see.”
Pamoon’s fear had vanished in lieu of her anger. She mocked the chief by using the same finger movements he did moments before. She read word for word until she got to the sentence that ended in “Spirit Cave.” As she continued to read, White Eagle stopped her.
“You see words there?”
“Yeah, don’t you? It’s the part about the woods and the trees.”
White Eagle looked at Nuna. “Do you see words there?”
She shook her head. “I see a space. The next thing I see is the sentence about discovering the truth.”
White Eagle nodded. “Eha.”
Pamoon yanked the jacket off the table and tossed it on the floor. “If this is some sort of joke you two are playing or some sort of Cree initiation rite, I don’t like it! You’re freaking me out.”
Nuna picked up the jacket and placed it back on the table. “I would never do anything like that to you. I swear, I don’t see any of those words.”
Pamoon slunk down in the chair and pulled her feet up, wrapping her arms around her knees. She dropped her head between her knees and said, “What does this mean?”
“It means the legends are true,” White Eagle said.
“What legends?” she asked, lifting her head.
“Legends have been passed down from generation to generation that a sixteen-year-old girl as white as the winter snow would one day come and save us all.”
* * *
An hour passed and Pamoon was finally calm enough that she regained her appetite. After nibbling on Nuna’s casserole, she addressed White Eagle.
“I feel like there’s more you haven’t told me.”
“I’ve told you enough for one night. Sleep on what you’ve learned and we’ll talk more in the morning.”
Pamoon rubbed her sleepy eyes and yawned. “Okay.”
“I want you to do something for me. When you sleep, if you have the same nightmare, I want you to try and stay in it.”
Pamoon’s body grew ridged. “Those nightmares scare the heck out of me. How am I supposed to stay in it?” she said, flashing air quotes.
“Maybe I can help.”
Pamoon looked over at Nuna.
“When you were little and Kamenna had to work nights at the medical center, you would sometimes wake up with night terrors. It helped if I slept with you. How about I sleep with you tonight?”
Pamoon’s lower lip quivered in relief. “I’d like that,” she whispered.
White Eagle didn’t say anything. He just leaned down and kissed Pamoon on the forehead.
* * *
“Go get ready for bed, and I’ll be right in,” Nuna said. When her niece was behind closed doors, Nuna glared at her brother. “What aren’t you saying?”
“I don’t know what—”
“Don’t give me that bull. I know you better than you know yourself. And I know you’re holding back. Now spill it, or I’m leaving in the morning and taking Pamoon with me.”
“Fine,” White Eagle sighed, “I’m hoping that if Pamoon can stay in her dream, she might be able to see the bent trees. If she can figure out where they are, maybe one of us can enter the Misty Woods and find the cave in her place.”
Nuna pushed her brother on his shoulder. “You never were a good liar. If what is written is true, no one except Pamoon will be able to enter the woods or the Spirit Cave.”
15
Dreams
March 3, 2:30 a.m.
* * *
Pamoon drifted into a fitful slumber, her nightmares returning soon after.
* * *
She chilled, her vision minimal at best. Inhaling, her environment smelled musty and earthy. Standing on wet grass in her bare feet, her toes curled, digging into grass and soil.
Where am I?
She knew she was in the woods, but it was so foggy, she couldn’t see more than a few inches all around her. Shivering, she swept her hands in front of her and to the sides. She didn’t want to bump her head or fall. Using what little light there was, she shuffled forward, remembering what she’d read on the jacket. She wanted to make sure she stayed on the path. Moving, she could see the outline of bent trees. Some were bent right, others left. They were markers telling her which way to go. As she continued to creep, a hot acrid breeze came out of nowhere and blew through her, burning her skin.
Her eyes teared from the stench as she remembered the breeze that scared Scout. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to relieve the irritation. She wanted nothing more than to awaken from her dream and return to the comfort of her room, but White Eagle’s words reverberated through her dream in a repeating loop. Wiping her eyes with her sleeve, she placed one foot in front of the other, cautio
usly moving along the path. Each inch she crept caused the wind to kick up until hurricane-force winds blasted her body. The gusts picked up loose sediment, stinging her exposed flesh.
The odor worsened—so putrid, she gagged and her stomach began to cramp. Pulling the collar of her t-shirt up over her nose, she lowered her head, leaned into the wind, and continued forward towards an unseen foe. A few feet later, Pamoon tried to take another step, but couldn’t. Using her hands, she expected to find some sort of barrier, but didn’t. Her hand moved freely. There was no wall or obstruction, but no matter how hard she tried, her feet remained glued in place.
Pamoon gathered her strength and grunted, attempting to push through the force that stood in her way. Unable to budge, she squinted, trying to see through the mist; that’s when she saw the flash of two luminescent orbs glowing in the distance. She wanted to run, but didn’t. Scared to death, her whole body shook as the glowing specks grew as they neared, incandescence lit the woods and allowed her to make out the shape of eyes. Eyes that oozed evil, like a deadly wound oozed blood. Shaking, Pamoon grabbed a stick that lay on the ground and gripped it with all her might.
As her fear grew, the branches on the trees seemed to reach for her, trying to grab at her. Her paralyzing fear seemed to excite whatever was coming closer. She heard an unnatural groan and spotted the shape of a skull. A skull covered in decayed flesh, bloody tissue and the remnants of cloth hanging from its teeth. She tried to scream when she saw the scrap of cloth but no sound emanated. She’d know that cloth anywhere. It was a piece of Bobby’s favorite shirt.
Pamoon dropped the stick and ran back in the direction she’d come. Tripping over an exposed root, she stumbled and fell, clawed her way back up, and ran faster.