Steven turned away. Stabbed by a memory always close at hand, he tried to gain at least some comfort from the black-and-white picture on the windowsill. “Then you know about my dad’s death.”
The cup in his grandfather’s hand slipped, spilling down the front of his robe. The ceramic material broke as it bounced atop the wooden floor. “Dear me, dear me,” he said, focused on the mess, at first ignoring Steven’s question. “How careless. These old hands don’t work the way they used to. I’ll get a damp cloth and clean up.”
He rose slowly, but as if suddenly dazed by intense fatigue, he fell back into the couch, stared forward, and sighed with sadness. He could not avoid Steven’s words. “I felt him. On the day he died. I was sitting in my rocking chair and smoking a pipe of new tobacco. His soul ran through me. He was scared—so very, very scared. Hurt. I lied to myself. Said it wasn’t him. But an emptiness ate at me for many days until I finally faced the truth. And said . . . goodbye.”
With a shaking hand, his grandfather rubbed the tea stain sensitively, as if somehow the action might be soothing. “I blamed myself for his passing,” he continued. “Had I not been such a burden on Westcreek, created such fear and anger, I could’ve been there to protect him. Saved him from himself. Gladly traded my own life for his, if possible.”
After squeezing his robe in mental anguish, he turned to Steven. “How has your grieving been, my child?” he asked sensitively.
Steven reestablished eye contact, his pupils dilated and tense. “I cannot forget what happened. Nor forgive.”
Feeling his grandson’s angst, the old Indian tried to search for wisdom. “Your father was a good man. He loved you and your mother dearly. For most his time on earth, he carried himself with quiet strength and dignity. Only at the end of his life did he step off a path of honor.” Closing his eyes, he allowed his head to bow, the truth coming forth painful. “I’m afraid he became a victim of the sickness in this valley, long before he was killed. Tragic his loss is, my child. But you must bury your hatred. Bury it far, far down. Do so in memory of your father.”
Steven didn’t comment. Instead, he visually sought out the black-and-white picture for comfort.
His grandfather opened his eyes and noticed Steven’s left hand balled in a fist. He felt the conversation should take a different course. “Our words—they are not fitting for such a morning as this.” He pointed out the window. “Behold, the sun is up. The air is crisp. The forest is alive. We must celebrate our reunion. There will be time for grieving later. But for now, we must find joy.”
Rising with grimacing pain and a soft grunt, Steven’s grandfather shuffled slowly to the cabin door. “Tell me, my child, do you still fancy mystical ways?”
“Yes, very much,” Steven responded instantly, vaulting to a stand, his eyes eager and his left hand suddenly relaxed.
“Then we must go. To see this flock I speak of and practice magic one last time. Then I may truly rest in peace. When my time comes.”
The two departed. With Steven hobbling close, the old Indian led the way to the west, to a place deep within the forest. Behind, as if synchronized with the shutting door, a funnel of horizontal air whipped through the home’s windows, extinguishing every lit candle. The museum—shrine of memories—closed, a hoard of eerie caretakers watching from the roof and nearby trees and chattering in gibberish.
/////
Steven struggled to keep up. Winded, stumbling over large tree roots, jostled to the left and right as he staggered into and out of mud holes, and slapped in the face by sharp pine limbs, he was baffled by his grandfather’s ease of movement. The old Indian strolled effortlessly. Needing to rest, Steven stopped and observed his grandfather more closely. What he saw was amazing.
As if on an invisible, steady conveyor belt, his grandfather floated through the air a few inches above the ground, high grasses and trees leaning slightly away as he passed, as if extending some level of respect. His grandfather even whistled an upbeat song, oblivious to his grandson’s physical ordeal.
“Grandfather?” Steven hailed with surprise. “Wait!”
“Hmmm?” his grandfather answered, turning slowly. “Yes? What is it, my child?”
Laughing, Steven pointed at the bottom of his grandfather’s robe.
“Hmmm?” his grandfather said again, staring downward. He suddenly realized Steven was wondering about his mode of movement. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just that I find air much easier to get around on than trudging through this damnable forest.” He smiled widely, gradually building to a laugh that rivaled Steven’s in loudness. “No matter, we have arrived. Behold . . .”
Stepping off of nothing, he moved his feet again, using the large staff to traverse rocks of varying sizes on the way to the middle of a great clearing. Steven followed but paused near the last line of trees to get a complete picture. Ever-brightening sun dripped through low-lying clouds, as if to bathe what he saw in gentleness.
The clearing was oval shaped, with the longest dimensions running north and south. The width was half the size, as if squeezed together by tall pines on each side. At the top of the clearing, an old mine, with thin vines swaying across the opening rhythmically, almost hypnotically called Steven inward. Farther north, from what Steven assumed was the Indian community of Wasin, he could hear singing.
But it was the middle of the clearing that most intrigued him.
A Great Rock, speckled with quartz, sat in a riverbed of stone and stubble, towering over the valley. It was shaped, he thought, like an Indian warrior rising from the earth, an oblong torso supporting a head and a long, single arm stretching forward. A large finger, he thought, pointed at Westcreek, damning the people within and staking out Indian land. Steven watched as his grandfather carefully shuffled atop the arm.
“Where is this flock of yours?” he asked, hobbling to the base of the Great Rock, staring up.
“Easy, child, easy,” his grandfather replied, eyeing the area with pride. “One must not search for what is already present.”
Steven scanned the very same clearing. “But I don’t see anything!”
“Patience, patience,” his grandfather urged. “Search less with your eyes and more with your heart.”
The wind picked up, the air felt warmer, and the bottom of the clouds rotated slowly.
“I don’t understand, grandfather,” Steven said, shaking his head, growing frustrated.
Gripping the staff lightly in his left hand, the old Indian pushed out both arms and gently floated them from side to side, as if conducting an orchestra. “You will, my child, you will. Close your eyes.”
“But—”
“Do as I say.”
And Steven did.
After what felt like too many minutes, his grandfather spoke again. “Now . . . open them.”
Steven immediately felt a pulling sensation in his gut. It tickled, felt warm, and as he raised his eyelids, he noticed the presence of others. Large faces floated throughout the clearing, followed by wispy entrails that seemed like translucent hair. The faster the images dove and rose, the longer the entrails that followed. At one point, one of the images stopped and stared at Steven. It hovered just inches from his nose, as if curious about this stranger. Steven took a closer look.
He saw piercing but kind eyes, lips that talked but said nothing, and cheeks that stretched tightly across the air. The face was like a see-through bubble, holding its form for only so long before morphing into another shape. After a brief grin and a wink Steven’s direction, the image darted up to the nearby clouds and faded away.
“Is this your flock?” the boy asked, estimating that hundreds of transparent faces floated into and out of the clearing.
“Yes . . . ,” his grandfather answered.
“Who are they?”
“The very lifeblood of our culture. Your ancestors going back hundreds of years. A flock of souls, if you will. As guardian it is my duty to watch over them until I, too, join their ranks and return my duties t
o the forest.”
With a shaking hand, Steven reached out to touch some of the faces as they passed by. They felt gelatin-like, icy, but comforting, and they often mussed his long, wavy black hair while whooshing sporadically upward and downward. “Is this where you get your magic?”
Steven was falling in love.
“Yes,” the old Indian said, “the spirits affect everything. I’m connected to them, and they to me. My will becomes their will. My feelings become their feelings. The impossible becomes possible.” He reached out with his right hand and plucked two invisible strings, vibrating the associated molecules, spreading all outward and causing a high-pitched sound. “One just needs to know where to touch.”
The wind suddenly blew strongly from south to north. One after another, the many spirits in the clearing flew through Steven and his grandfather with such force as to nearly bowl them over. Each flailed, trying to stay upright. With a few well-positioned hand touches, either on the Great Rock or the clearing floor, the two remained standing.
“Whoops!” his grandfather joked. “Sometimes the place to touch is not exact.”
As if a reward for their acrobatics, a galaxy of shooting stars fell downward from the light, low-lying clouds like a sudden, sparkly rain shower, each drop ricocheting off the earth and vanishing.
“How did you get this power?” Steven asked with intense curiosity.
“For an Ojibwa,” his grandfather answered, “you can’t be given what is already yours. It’s in our blood. But for most, just to a small degree. Only a chief or guardian can command magic to the fullest.”
“Does it last forever?”
“As long as one’s strength remains strong. And only—only if emotions never collide. Otherwise . . . it dies.”
His grandson played with the spirits, his own soul overjoyed. Jumping like a drunken ballerina, he touched as many faces as possible. The beings of long ago returned gestures of positive regard, sprouting occasional arms and hands to stroke Steven’s cheeks or pat him on the head. Circling above or around his legs, they pursed their lips, beamed, and opened wide, as if to chuckle, any one expression lasting but a few seconds before forming into another or melding with other souls.
“Make them do more!” Steven pleaded.
His grandfather smiled. Pulling back the sleeves of his robe, as if readying for heavy exertion, he raised his fingers into the air and fanned them about. “Dear me, dear me, but of course!”
The inanimate became animated.
Rocks in the clearing, those of all shapes, sizes, colors, and textures, took on a life of their own. Each defied gravity, the bubbles racing in oval patterns and conversing with each other in silence. Rising into the air, one after the other until they numbered fifty, the multitude of stones at first hovered, then began rotating around the clearing, Steven and his grandfather acting as centerpieces. The chunks of earth moved lackadaisically at first but built speed, lighter rocks moving faster than heavier ones. Around and around they went. Around and around. A supernatural carnival ride had begun.
“All things have life,” Steven’s grandfather said, admiring his work. “From the smallest pebble to the biggest tree. From the slightest insect to the largest bear. The spirits—they tap into that life and make it their own. I simply tell them what to do.”
His grandson wasn’t paying attention.
Captivated—taken in by the moment and giggling for reasons even he could not fully discern—Steven felt little hands tugging firmly on his stomach, intestines, and surrounding muscles; so he tugged back. And a new world opened. It was like several strands of thread pushed outward from his abdomen and split into a tremendous, three-dimensional spiderweb, and all he had to do was manipulate a strand or two to gain control. He suddenly felt in sync with the dead, his vision becoming their vision, his wants becoming their wants, his mood becoming their mood.
Under the watchful, surprised eye of his grandfather, the boy practiced real magic. But the rocks lost their spacing. Though rotation continued, the stones, especially the heaviest, crashed into each other. Some of the resulting shrapnel dropped to the earth; some continued around but at a much slower pace; and still others rocketed over the treetops like a home run ball in a wilderness game of baseball, Steven at bat.
“Did you see that, grandfather?” he asked with excitement. “Did you see what I did?”
“Yes!” the old Indian answered in a shrill. “You’ve became quite a man of the forest. A guardian in your own right.” His enthusiasm waned. Glancing up to a few spirits that passed overhead, he felt relationships were being built too hurriedly. “Taken quite a liking to my grandson, have you?” he said with an eyebrow raise. With worry he gazed down at Steven. “Go easy, my friends,” he said. “He’s a boy with a heavy heart.”
Steven could hardly contain his joy. Years of dreaming—imagining—had led up to this moment, a moment in which he was master. He could command. He could entertain. Forest animals, like deer, fox, and martin appeared around the circumference of the clearing, curious about the lights and sounds that disturbed an otherwise peaceful morning. Steven felt they should be part of the show. Reaching out to the web and pinching a few strings, he closed his eyes and slowly danced.
One, two, three, he moved, stepping solidly on his right leg. One . . . two, three.
Steven facilitated a lifting effect. Near the southern edge, two deer levitated, wiggling their heads and kicking at nothing, trying to compensate for the sudden loss of ground. Each floated to the oval-like flow of stone debris and became part of the revolving mass. Hobbling to the east, Steven strummed the web like a harpist hitting a final series of notes during a solo. The result was three red foxes peeking shyly through a row of honeysuckle bushes taking flight. Hanging limply in air, as if unseen fingers grabbed them by the scruff, each joined the deer and stones.
And Steven still wasn’t done. Twisting 180 degrees to the right with sureness, he saw four small martins clinging to the small branches of a jack pine on the west side. The ferret-like creatures sniffed the winds vigorously, trying to understand the turmoil they felt and observed. The boy dashed toward them, ducking under the circling rocks and animals, stopping beneath the arm of the Great Rock. He rubbed parts of the web near his chest, causing each martin to rise and somersault to a place of their own on the grand merry-go-round. Staring up, estimating speed and distance between critter and critter, and critter and rock, he danced again, painting his hands through the air.
One, two, three, he waltzed. One . . . two, three.
He added special effects. Mumbling to himself in the Native tongue, he triggered lightning to glow above the white clouds on beat one and thunder to rumble on beat three, each light and sound growing with intensity.
One, two, three, he continued to move. One . . . two, three.
A loud growl abruptly broke his concentration.
Limping around the Great Rock to the northwest to discover the source, Steven saw a large black bear lumbering in the direction of the clearing. The beast skulked over the upper hills, rubbed roughly against the overturned ore car by the mine, and headed directly for the boy, its sharp teeth glistening.
Steven gasped. He felt his muscles tighten with anxiety. Glancing up to his grandfather for reassurance—but instead, receiving a plain stare—the sudden mystic froze, unsure what to do.
The bear came closer, ducking under the spinning fray, its claws extended.
Steven’s heart pounded, his breaths becoming short.
A mere three feet away, the blubbery animal stood on its huge back feet and growled.
The boy shut his eyes, screamed, and grabbed a chunk of the web with both hands. He then waited for the worst. He braced for a claw to the head or a bite to the face.
But nothing happened.
Steven opened his eyes. He was delightfully surprised. The bear was gone. He, as guardian, had survived. A soft grumble from above suddenly drew his attention, and he was shocked to see the beast slowly turning in ci
rcles, succumbing to the effects of antigravity—like the crown of a toy top spinning but missing parts below. Slowly, around and around, the animal went. Around and around. The creature seemed content, sitting on its backside, pawing limply at the air, biting lightly as if near a blueberry bush thick with nourishment; but here the berries were playful spirits. Steven guffawed, glancing to his grandfather to share in the merriment, and with a returned wink, the boy realized the extra hand present in his conjuring. The boy was a guardian under apprenticeship.
“What will your finale be?” his grandfather asked lightheartedly.
Standing tall, more forceful and confident in his steps, Steven moved away from the Great Rock, his hands and arms outstretched. With pageantry and tightly closed fists, he jabbed at the web, first with his right hand and then his left. A crescendo followed. The various-sized rocks raced around the clearing at higher and higher speeds. Most animals, circling above, started spinning in place at a dizzying rate. And the black bear, once comfortable, flipped over backward with verbalized, grumpy irritation.
Pacing became chaotic. Steven tried to keep the carnival ride intact. Realizing some of the mechanisms were not working properly, he attempted a supernatural fix, running to the north and hoisting his fingers high into the air. The response was unexpected.
The magic became fragmented. Rocks and stones dipped down to the ground, many slamming into the earth and then either becoming still or splitting in two. Deer, fox, and martin, once equally spaced, collided with each other, instinctually fighting or resorting to survival-skill behavior in midair. And the black bear hung upside down, trying to paw its way back to solid earth.
Steven tried harder. Breathing heavier, running more earnestly around the clearing, from north to east to west, his sore right leg dragging, he mumbled a Native phrase repeatedly, hoping the gears of an unbelievable ride would be righted.
The Guardian Hills Saga Page 8