Stoneskin's Revenge

by Tom Deitz

That done, he checked the sky—he had no watch, but fortunately it was clear—and, deeming that there were still a couple of hours until midnight, set himself to alternately meditating and beating off mosquitoes until the water was done bubbling and he was able to take his first dose of bogus-black drink. A double helping of dark crystals made sure it was bitter enough.

  And made sure that Calvin, who had not had a proper night’s sleep in longer than he could easily remember, would probably not get one that night either.

  Four cans later it was approaching midnight, and Calvin was so wired he could practically hear himself shaking. His stomach was also giving him grief—not surprising, given that it was awash with acidic liquid mixed with grilled catfish. Purgation—likewise part of the ritual—was doubtless not far off, but he knew it was not proper to artificially induce it, which he could have done with little prompting. He was sitting on the ground now, as he had been since he’d finished the first batch of black drink, gazing across the tiny fire and at the water. He had been trying to center his thoughts, to determine a battle plan, but that had proved a near impossibility.

  The best he’d been able to manage was that the smart thing was to try to contact Uki, though he did not know precisely when he had decided that. He did not even know if such a thing were possible, for always before Uki had summoned him, had opened the gates between the Worlds himself; or else Calvin had simply bunked an uktena scale and gone to Galunlati that way. Trouble was, teleportation scales had to be specially prepared, and the one he still possessed had not been so empowered. They could make you shapeshift in their native form, but to use them to gate between the Worlds took special effort—which Calvin could not duplicate with the resources at hand. Not that he expected his make-do ritual to actually pierce the World Walls, but he thought that his spirit might possibly somehow be able to slip through.

  And then he could delay no longer. Moving with the near-silence born of long years of pride in that art, Calvin followed the creek to a point a dozen yards south of his camp, where the bank dipped low enough for him to wade into the water. That was important: water was powerful and you had to approach it reverently, otherwise it could turn on you. Calvin wished he still had his medicine bag—some of the things in there would be of use now, notably the colored clays he needed to mark himself; but perhaps he would be forgiven that omission this time. First thing in the morning, though, first thing, he would start looking. No more would he find himself unprepared.

  A glance at the sky told him it was as close to midnight as estimation could account for—and so he began. A moment only he hesitated on the shore, and then he stripped very quickly (he was only wearing jeans and a T-shirt to start with, and them mostly to keep the wretched mosquitoes at bay) and marched very slowly into the water. He did not spare a thought for what might lurk beneath that inky surface, though he had checked on the whereabouts of the grandpa snapper with the last of the light—and found it gone, which was some relief. But he was really too wired to focus on such things; his thoughts were bouncing everywhere, and—he realized to his dismay—the coffee-and-catfish stewing in his gut had finally come to loggerheads. For as soon as the water reached his belly, his stomach began to spasm, and he found himself vomiting copiously into the creek.

  Which was not the style in which this sort of thing was supposed to be accomplished. He had no prayer of apology to offer the water, either, as he lowered himself the rest of the way into it, letting the dark liquid sweep away the last of the drool that unheroically decorated his chin.

  That done, he proceeded to feel his way along the muddy bottom until he was as close to the middle as guesswork would allow—a point where he could just touch bottom and keep his head above water. And there he stayed for one hundred and twelve breaths—twenty-eight breathed as he faced each direction. He felt a little stupid doing it this way, but could think of no other rituals—the one he had undergone at puberty he could not remember, and the one Oisin had spoken when first he had gone to Galunlati, and which Calvin had subsequently memorized, was not appropriate. It was for men going to the ceremonial ball play, which was sometimes surrogate for war, not for half-crazy kids on a Vision Quest. The hundred-and-twelve-breaths bit was one of his own devising: four the number of power of his people, and seven that of his adopted folk. That seemed right, and Calvin knew enough about magic to know that what seemed right—and was attempted with absolute sincerity—often was right.

  …twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight—those addressed to the north, and Calvin began making his way out again. Nothing seemed different, except that he felt cooler, and of course emptier. Maybe a little light-headed, in fact, which was undoubtedly desirable.

  The rest of the ordeal was simple: once on the bank, he gathered his clothes and returned to camp. He did not re-don them, but quickly removed the palmetto-frond door of the asi and scooted inside. Heat hit him like a wave—the dull light of the bit of fire far out of proportion to the warmth the hut retained. Calvin wasted no time, though, in building up the fire as hot as he dared—which was not far; the hut was maybe four feet at the tallest, and he had to be very careful of both sparks and smoke. Almost immediately he began to sweat profusely and his stomach to knot tighter, and he closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. A few herbs rested on the stones near the fire—certain ones he had found in passing and decided might be of benefit—and as the stones beneath them heated, he became aware of their fragrance blending with the smoke that was almost making him gag all over again.

  But it was working, was slowly drawing him out of himself, which was what one needed to do. A bit of water dashed on the edge of the fire when it threatened the roof filled the hut with steam, and made it a little easier to breathe, and it was at that point that Calvin took the bundle of cattail reeds he had gathered and began to flagellate his thighs. He could not do it well, there was no room in the cramped space for him to work over his entire body, which was what the ritual really required, but it served its prime function, which was to further sunder his soul from his body. His eyes were closed—had been since he’d raised the steam—and he kept them that way, but now he focused on the red landscape inside his lids, watching the circles there appear and dance and recede. He tried to follow, to imagine them going beyond the World Walls, and began slowly trying to recall Uki’s face. Like his own, somewhat, or at least with the common characteristics of the Ani-Yunwiya, which Calvin had seen often enough, though somewhat muted in his father’s line by the white blood that had sneaked in a few generations back. Wide cheekbones and arched nose (Calvin’s differed there); almond-eyes and long head, square chin, the skin white as chalk, the eyes an unlikely blue, though the hair was black. Calvin tried to picture the demigod in his most characteristic pose: standing at the edge of the cliff above Hyuntikwalayi: Where-It-Made-a-Noise-as-of-Thunder, which in his own World was called Tallulah Gorge. He would have his arms lifted until they were level with his shoulders and would be chanting, summoning the rain, or the sunshine.

  But nothing happened. Calvin would construct the image, hold it a moment, and then, as he began to compose an invocation, something—a spark fallen upon his leg, maybe, or a snap from the fire, or a surfeit of smoke that made him cough—would distract him, and it would dissolve and he would have to start all over.

  Finally he gave up in disgust. This method had failed; there remained only one viable alternative—one of which he was far more dubious, but which might therefore ultimately be more productive.

  Sighing, he rose to a crouch and eased out of the asi, leaving the fire to die of its own accord, since any other way would be an insult to that most capricious of servants. The first impression he had was of coolness—largely an illusion this far south in June, but he did not dare let himself be distracted, for he was still more than a little distanced from himself and that was good. Otherwise, that work, too, would be to do all over.

  What he was about to attempt would be a thing he had done only once before in this World
, and that was to raise a fog. Then—it had only been a day and a half ago—he had not been careful, had raised a mist far and wide in order to summon the Little Deer so that he would not have to poach on a friend’s land when he needed blood for the ritual he had used to help Dave rescue Fionchadd. That had created problems, though, for he had almost been unable to see, so thick had that mist become. This time he would raise a very little fog, one whose limits he could control, and in that nether-place between the Worlds, he would try to send his spirit to reach Uki. That was something else he had done only a few times, and never without supervision. He didn’t know if it would work now, he only knew he had to try.

  Sighing the softest of sighs, Calvin reached into his backpack and drew out the potent-looking Rakestraw hunting knife. With the back of the blade he incised a six-foot Power Wheel in the sand, and when that was complete, laid himself in the middle of it, with his head to the north, his feet to the south, his hands to east and west. He could feel the sand grating against his still-damp body, bonding to his sopping hair, but that did not matter now, for it was the earth he called on, his figurative mother, for he was born of earth as much as water. The chant he used was a silent one: lips shaped the sounds but did not set them into the air; rather he willed them down into the soil, awakened it, told it to send forth its enemy water, to blend it with its ethereal brother, air. It was the magic of the between things again: fog which was often born of earth, but was a mix of air and water, and which could likewise suffer at least a small amount of fire. A powerful thing indeed: strong enough, sometimes, to dissolve the Walls Between The Worlds.

  He could feel it rising around him, feel the ground exhale as it gave up the moisture it had hoarded for the next day’s dew. And now he could see the ghostly white tendrils floating up around him, merging with the moonlight, twining around the trailing beards of Spanish moss. It grew thicker, whiter, and before long, Calvin could not tell where fog and moonlight and moss began or ended.

  He closed his eyes, focused on his breathing, felt his eyes roll back into his head as he entered light trance. His body became a distant thing, a weight upon his spirit, and he willed himself to rise, to leave it behind.

  And did, floated farther, wanted badly to merge with the night wind and ride the skies, and see the Georgia landscape spread below him. But he resisted, concentrated on only one thing. Hyuntikwala Usunhi, he called in his people’s ancient tongue: Uki—Darkthunder! It is I, Edahi, that the men of this land call Calvin, who seeks you. I have a quest before me and would have your aid, your counsel. Hyuntikwala Usunhi, hear me, hear my prayer!

  He repeated the impromptu invocation twice more, became gradually aware of being drawn in a certain direction—but could go no farther. Once a presence tickled his spirit, but before he could reach out to embrace it, to know it for what it was, it vanished—or was cut off, he could not tell for certain which.

  Four more times Calvin tried to contact his mentor. Four more times he failed, and by the time he had reached the last repetition, the wind was beginning to disperse his fog. Fearing he might become lost in the Lands Between, he returned to his body, and as the last of the mist drifted away into the woods, he rose once more to his feet. Not a grain of sand stuck to his body. And he was completely dry.

  Okay, he told himself, you’ve tried to contact Uki, and failed. That only means you have limits; it doesn’t mean you’ll fail at whatever it is that’s before you. You know no more than you did, but neither do you know any less. Tomorrow you will go into town and call Sandy and David. Tomorrow you will…

  But before he had finished planning tomorrow, he was sleeping.

  PART II

  Strong

  Suspicions

  Chapter VI: Sneakin’

  (east of Whidden, Georgia—Wednesday, June 18—just after lunch)

  “You’re a good girl, ain’t you?” Robert Richards drawled at Allison Scott from behind the slightly tawdry gleam of her mama’s Sunday china and silverware—the stuff Daddy hadn’t wanted Mama to keep on account of it had been in his family before him and Mama were married. The stuff Mama had insisted on retaining after the divorce. Allison remembered that, too: the fights, the hollering, and Daddy stomping out and not coming back again. New Daddy hadn’t cared much, ’cause he hadn’t lasted long enough to get upset about things like china: a hunting accident had claimed him not a year ago. Allison wondered if red-headed Robert Richards would become Third Daddy someday. He’d lasted longer than any of the others, anyway; why, he was a regular fixture at Sunday dinner now, and had got to be just about as bad to drop by for lunch during the week, like he was doing right now, though he wasn’t wearing his policeman’s uniform like he usually did ’cause he was off until tomorrow morning. But if he thought he was gonna get on Allison’s good side by telling her how good she was, he was mistaken.

  Of course, she was good, she knew that without being told. Or at least she was when it counted, like when Mama told her to eat everything on her plate and she could have an extra dessert—that was what Robert had been referring to. She wasn’t always good, though; she knew that, too. But she was careful not to get caught at it—at least not by Mama. That was easy enough to do, too, when Mama was mooning and cooing over her latest beau. Then it was simply a matter of staying out of the way and doing what she was told (which often enough was “Stay out of the way like a good girl,” or, “Allison, honey, could you stay in your room for a while?” or, “Allison, baby, me and Robert’re goin’ to a movie, so you mind your brother like a good girl, okay?”).

  And she’d nod yes and then go right on and do what she wanted to, because she knew that Brother Don couldn’t do anything to her no matter what she did, on account of the fact that she knew Brother Don had plenty of secrets of his own—like those magazines he’d hidden under his bed until he’d moved ’em to his and Mike’s treehouse (or that’s where she thought they were; that was one place even she didn’t dare violate). Or what he did while he was looking at those same magazines in the bathroom, or some of the things she’d heard him and Mike mention about looking in a certain young lady’s window down the road, which just happened to be about the time there were rumors of Peeping Toms (she thought that was the term) in the neighborhood.

  Yeah, Don Larry Scott might be a lean and hungry fourteen, but he sure wasn’t lord of the manor. At least not when nine-year-old Allison Jane didn’t want him to be.

  He was staring at her now, too: or glaring, rather: aiming a mixture of scorn and envy at his younger sister that was only slightly less virulent than he fixed on Robert, whom he cautiously admired, but did not want to encourage in the art of Allison flattery, even when it made Mama happy.

  That was the key these days: make Mama happy.

  And that’s what Allison was good at.

  Mama chose that moment to lay a hand on Robert’s before gazing wistfully at her only daughter. “She’s been mighty sweet these days,” Mama said. “Mighty sweet indeed.”

  Don rolled his eyes and started to say something but puffed his cheeks instead, which Allison thought made him look even more like a chipmunk than he usually did. Margo—that was her best friend, Amy’s, older sister—said he was cute, but Allison didn’t think so. Least he wasn’t as cute as she was: no curly blond hair (his was dark brown and sort of spiky-burry), no bright blue eyes (his were greenish-gray). The only thing he had over her, she figured, was long black eyelashes. Or that’s what she’d heard Margo say one time: “That boy’s got the prettiest eyes I ever seen. I wish I had eyelashes like that.” To which someone had replied that yeah, it was a pity poor little Allison was so blond, ’cause it made her eyelashes go invisible. Mama had told her she could wear mascara when she was eleven. Allison couldn’t wait.

  “Can I be excused?” Don asked as soon as decorum allowed.

  “Sure,” Mama said absently. “But just remember it’s your turn to do dishes.”

  “Maaaaa!”

  “Now don’t argue, Don Larry, you know I
can’t trust Allison with my good china. It’s supposed to go to her when she gets married. Suppose she dropped a piece? It’d break her heart.”

  “Sure would,” Allison affirmed triumphantly, and Don Larry knew he was stuck. He was usually stuck now, ’cause anytime it was her turn and Mama wasn’t around, she’d just threaten to mention a thing or two, and good old Don’d take over. She’d have to start being a little cleverer, though; ’cause Don had lately taken to arranging to be elsewhere when dish-washing time rolled around, and Allison knew she couldn’t delay too long. Having two sneaky kids in one family was a problem. But at least, of the two, she was the best.

  “I’m goin’ over to Mike’s to game in a little while,”

  Don told Mama. “And we’re goin’ campin’ later, don’t forget.”

  “Then you’d better hurry up with them dishes,” Mama told him back, with a shake of her hair (which gesture Allison had taken to imitating lately, which made Don so mad he could spit when she did it to him).

  “Can I be excused?” Allison asked primly. “I don’t think I want any dessert right now.”

  “Yeah, run on,” Robert chuckled, dismissing her with a wave of a freckled hand.

  And that’s just what Allison Scott did. She ran right to her room and changed out of the white-and-pink sundress Mama had made her wear to lunch ’cause there was special company, and into her red shorts and the blue-and-yellow Simpsons T-shirt and her little white Reeboks. And as soon as she heard the door to the den close at one end of the hall and the dishes start rattling and clinking at the other, she was making a beeline for the front door.

  She paused with her hand on the knob and stood on tiptoes to peer through the peephole.

  She was about to do something bad—something really bad. She was going to go play in the woods. But not the oak woods behind her house; that was her brother’s domain, and besides, that way eventually turned into swamp, and that kind of scared her. No, she was going to play in the nice pine woods right beyond the railroad tracks. She had a playhouse there: a collection of boxes within a grid-work of carefully laid out pebbles. Trouble was, she couldn’t get there very often, and didn’t dare stay there very long when she did, because Don didn’t know about it yet, and if he ever found out, she’d lose one of her prime advantages over him.