Decoreous’s face turned sickly pale. His senses heightened, noticing an unexpected wind blowing from the south. The stream of air felt hot and spiritually uncomfortable. He got a whiff of rotting flesh, and he shivered. “Please, Rolly,” he said, almost crying. “Please put your weapon down.”
“Do it!” the sheriff echoed.
“This is your last chance!” Pike yelled, thrusting the pistol into Decoreous’s chest. “Get rid of ‘em!”
Dissociating—glancing to the heavens as if watching a falling star run out of light—Decoreous murmured sadly. “Dear me, dear me—it’s you, after all this time . . .” He appeared faint, gripping the wooden staff with all his might. “This will not be the end. I promise. I save my last trick for you . . . my last breath.”
Desperate to intervene, the sheriff slapped at one of the mayor’s finely shined boots like the action might somehow dislodge the weapon. “Drop it, Rolly! Please!”
The ever-building storm and eerie chatter suddenly ceased. It was as if someone had pressed pause on a supernatural mechanism.
Then—without a finger near the trigger—Pike’s gun went off.
Click, click, BOOM, and a large hunk of lead exploded out of the barrel, penetrating Decoreous’s chest and exiting his back.
A series of events rapidly followed: dropping to the forest floor, the Indian chief trembled; Cullin screeched in agony, as if reexperiencing a trauma; Pike stood statue-like, shocked by the gun firing, his bolo slipping off his head as he stared downward in disbelief at Decorous; a teenage male scream from farther up the valley echoed through the trees; and several short humanoids with old Indian faces and large, thin ears sucked in tremendous amounts of air, inflating their cheeks and bellies like balloons. Each creature flapped its ears vigorously, facilitating a lifting effect from the brush. Those already on branches took a step off, flapped less, and blew out air, allowing their little bodies to descend from proximate tree limbs in feather-like grace. All stretched out long black claws and scratched at the exposed flesh of Cullin and Pike. From an owl’s point of view, the scene resembled a wilderness bouncy castle gone wrong, where little people floated up and down, bumped into each other, and tried ridding the woods of a perceived threat.
The sheriff and mayor sensed they had no choice but to retreat. Swatting at the creatures with feeble hands, incurring thin but deep cuts on their scalps, faces, and necks, they left the valley slope for whence they came, and over several small hills, falling frequently and shrieking in pain.
The questioning of Decoreous Blackfoot was over.
/////
“Grandfather?” Steven wept, hobbling to the old Indian’s side. “Grandfather, speak to me. What have they done?” Sitting quickly, he cradled the man in his lap.
Decoreous made wheezing noises as blood filled his lungs. “My child,” he whispered in pain, “I’ve misjudged our time together. Days have become hours, hours . . . minutes, minutes . . . maybe just seconds. The spirits, they call for me now.”
“Save your strength,” Steven urged, not listening. “We need to get you back to the cabin. Find a doctor.” He started to get up—to ease his grandfather back home.
“No, no,” Decoreous said, fighting his grandson’s actions. “There’s no hope . . . please, accept my coming death. Behold.”
Grabbing for Steven’s hand, Decoreous guided the boy’s fingers to his heart and the warm fluid that soiled his robe.
“No . . . ,” Steven whimpered.
Gripping Steven’s wrist, the Indian chief’s eyes got big. “Listen to me, my child. My fate is certain. But yours is not. You must run from this place and bury the hurt and anger of this day. The forest, she must not feel your pain and sorrow.” He squeezed Steven’s wrist even harder. “Please . . . this is no place for a boy all alone.”
“You mustn’t talk,” Steven said. “We have to get you aid . . .”
“Promise me, child! Promise me you will leave this place!”
Before his grandson could answer, Decoreous expelled a slow, final moan, his body almost wilting into the ground. No movements followed, and his eyes remained open. Wanting-like.
Sobbing, Steven’s long black hair unexpectedly fluffed and swirled as six earies floated down from above after chasing off Pike and Cullin. Auricles flapping madly, they landed. Then they folded their hands and bowed their heads.
Steven and the creatures mourned together.
Moments passed, until the only sound left was the boy’s tears, as if the earies respectfully waited for his next move.
The boy carefully closed the Indian chief’s eyes and kissed his forehead. “I’m sorry, Grandfather. I cannot leave,” he said. “I must have revenge.”
Gelatin-like spirits materialized. Up high, they began circling in a slow but deliberate, elliptical pattern, their facial expressions changing from sadness to anger. Brief moments of rage were intermixed, in which the ancient dead yelled out in a war cry.
The message was clear to the boy.
“He dies, he dies,” one of the earies whispered, its ears sagging, its chin trembling. “You rise, you rise.”
Mentally dissociating, Steven delicately laid Decoreous’s body back down on the forest floor. Then he stood, staring back, like he hoped the man was just sleeping and would soon awake; but he didn’t. Steven roughly rubbed his water-soaked eyes. And though he hated to leave, Grave, the smallest of earies with a torn left ear, grabbed his hand and marched to the northwest, fireflies lighting the way with irritated bursts of light. Bleak, the largest of the earies, and who had a mohawk striping his otherwise bald head, walked in front. Behind the trio, two more creatures removed the staff and robe from Decoreous’s person and followed.
The group traversed several feet of dense woods with no problems in footing. And in a rocky clearing, ascending a large boulder—steps sure and exact—Steven skulked to the end of the long, single arm pointing down at Westcreek, a hoard of earies suddenly in toe. His heart ached terribly. His teeth chattered in unbridled derision. And gradually his eyes dried, narrowed, and shuddered. Above, the blackest of clouds gathered, bubbling like an upside-down cauldron. Dripping from the sort of brew, the spirits multiplied and raced around the perimeter with greater and greater speed. The gale generated made the tall pines dance unwillingly.
Steven knelt. Memories came to him: of his birthday party in the park gazebo, stopped by a citizenry stunned by unexplained mysticism; of his father’s wooden casket being lowered into the ground behind a little steepled church; of noises made by faceless men, heard from an attic, hurting his mother below; and of demeaning stares and whispers while downtown, on his way to honoring an anniversary.
Steven’s breathing became labored, seeing the valley in only red and white colors.
To no one, he spoke with wrath. “And Lazy Boy dreamed. He dreamed of a mighty eagle that whispered instructions on how to kill the Great Monster. When he awoke, he found a magical knife in his hand. Lazy Boy waited until dusk. He stalked the Great Monster, who lay on a lush riverbank, full from eating—too full to defend itself. And with little effort, Lazy Boy killed the beast, slicing open its gut and releasing all the village men inside.
“Oh, little town,” he continued, pointing at Westcreek like the arm of the Great Rock, “you’ve taken and taken from this valley, and now you too lie on a lush riverbank. Bloated from your own wickedness. I will lead a fire march. I will call on the drums of war to rattle this valley. I ask that the underworld rise and dance, that earie and animal fight in my honor, that the smallest white pine and the tallest birch trees purge the forest of those who trespass.
“Get ready, little town,” he continued, spitting through his teeth, “‘cause here it comes.”
As if prompted by the words, the earies draped the blood-soaked robe over his scrawny frame and placed the staff firmly within his rigid right hand. Then they hissed.
“Ginoo akii bimaadizi,” the young guardian spat, speaking in the Native tongue the same words spoken
at his father’s grave.
Long . . . live . . . the war.
/////
Mayor Pike and Sheriff Cullin stumbled through the front door of the sheriff’s office. Both dabbed with their fingertips at the small cuts that covered their faces. Each earie slice led to redness, inflammation, and long-lasting discomfort.
Cringing from his own touch, Cullin was the first to speak. “What the hell just happened up there?” he said. “What were those things?”
Grabbing for his hanky, Pike eased himself into the sheriff’s desk chair, leaning back, lightly caressing the multitude of wounds. “I don’t know,” he said, dumbfounded, “some fuckin’ hybrid dogs or wolves or inflatable pygmies—I don’t know!”
“It doesn’t seem real.”
“Well it sure as hell feels real!” Pike blasted, shaking his red-soiled hanky for show.
A brief lull ensued, consisting of both men huffing, groaning, and Cullin pacing around in disbelief. It ended when the mayor spoke submissively.
“I didn’t shoot that old Indian,” he said.
“I know,” Cullin responded.
“The gun just went off.”
“I know.”
“You have to believe me!”
“I do,” the lawman assured, biting his cheek. Then he reached for the black phone on his desk. “I’m calling the county. We need help.”
Pike physically blocked the attempt, resting a forceful hand atop Cullin’s. “The county? Are you crazy? No!”
“Things are out of control!”
“And what do you think the county will find when they get here? Huh? If they start poking around Decoreous’s death?” Pike reached for his bolo in an attempt to adjust its fit, only to realize it had been long since lost during the skirmish in the forest. He spoke with worry. “They won’t see it as an accident. They’ll see it as some kind of racism. Especially this close to the land takeover. You know how they are, Brewster.”
Cullin persisted. “We have to follow procedure. No matter the result. We have to tell them what happened.”
The mayor chortled. Standing, he loomed over the desk and glared. “Procedure?” he said mockingly. “Was it ‘procedure’ to bury the report on Decoreous’s son in the back of your file? About his death? Huh? After your gun went off ‘accidentally’ in the General Store, did you call or make sure the proper paperwork reached the county? Did you provide full disclosure? Huh? Ever ask for a death certificate to be issued?” Pike twisted with pain to a tall nearby file cabinet. “As I remember, you started the documentation but didn’t quite finish.” He reached for a handle. “Matter of fact, if I search your records, I think I can find—”
“Stop it—stop it!” Cullin interrupted with torment. Releasing the phone from his grasp, he turned away.
The mayor stood taller, feeling a sense of relief. “I thought you’d see things my way, Brewster.”
Staring at the cot inside the jail cell, Cullin spoke compassionately. “What about his body? Decoreous deserves a proper burial. His next of kin need to be notified.”
Pike slowly approached the sheriff, lighting a cigar. Briefly he got lost in thought. Then, only inches from Cullin’s ear, he whispered reflectively. “Do you remember my father?”
Cullin didn’t respond.
“He was the first mayor of our fine town. Helped it prosper. Retired in 1930 at the age of seventy and planned to spend his remaining years hunting and fishing. Bought a plot of land on the southeast shores of Shell Lake and started building a home. He envisioned it—he designed it. He had a hand in every wooden board and every nail that went into the place. He was so proud, Brewster. So proud.”
Pulling away, Pike stared out the office window and onto windswept Main Street where miniature dust cyclones jiggled to and fro. He nursed his cigar. “But when he and Mother tried to move in, the tribal elders served papers to cease and desist. They claimed it was their land. And because it was ‘their land,’ it was their home. The paperwork was signed by the U.S. government as part of a reconciliation movement.”
Cullin bowed his head.
“My father was literally stripped of his dream. One month later he went out into the woods alone, propped himself up against a tree, placed the barrel of a shotgun in his mouth, and with the help of a twig, blew the back of his head off. He was just seventy. Did I tell you that?” Pike turned back to Cullin. He moved close. “When Mother and I later asked the tribe to reconsider their decision, especially in light of my father’s death, so we could have something to hold onto in his memory, to celebrate what he loved most . . . they told us it wasn’t their problem. It was a white problem.” He paused and then said again, “A white problem.”
Coldly, the mayor placed a hand on the lawman’s shoulder, harshly flicking ash onto the floor. “Sheriff,” he stated unemotionally, “Decoreous isn’t our problem. He’s an Indian problem.”
Cullin resisted the hold, pushing the mayor’s hand roughly aside, seeking out the office window for himself. He witnessed stronger and stronger winds beating on Main Street, some of the winds crashing into each other and forming large vortexes. “Rolly . . . ,” he said flatly, “a boy yelled out, after the shooting. Did you hear him? From somewhere up the valley. Who . . . was that? He may need our help. He might be in danger.”
The mayor strolled back to the sheriff’s chair, plopped decidedly into it, placed his feet on top of the desk, and then admired his cigar. “Probably some kid off the rez. That’s also not our problem,” he said. “Let the tribe figure it out.” Ever so carefully, Pike touched some of the cuts on his face, trying to assess whether the bleeding had stopped. “Anyway, those pygmy things probably ate ‘em both.”
He stared intently at Cullin. “Get rid of your conscience, my friend. It doesn’t fit a man with your past.”
The sheriff’s right hand felt numb.
13. Prelude to War
13.1 The Eye of the Storm
July 20th, 1945, 10:26 p.m.
The eye of a massive storm stalled over the Westcreek valley. Clouds rolled monstrously in from the west, muscling lesser ones to the side. From far above, it looked like a heavy shroud had been plopped atop an open coffin, and not even the moon and stars could penetrate. Their cumulative energy got drawn into the darkness. The valley became shadowy, heavy regarding barometric pressure, and hard to breathe in. Downtown, because of power failures, gas lanterns were set out on large nails outside store fronts, weary business owners hoping to stave off would-be robbers. At first playful winds swung each lantern from side to side in a gentle rhythm, metal rubbing on metal. Back and forth, they swayed. Back and forth. But as the winds became stronger, as they taunted the effort for light, many of the flickering flames extinguished or, within their glass canisters, crashed onto the boardwalk or bounced into the gravel road, sometimes in flames.
The air intensified even more. Forced downward by the clouds, the air bullied oak, maple, and willow trees scattered here and there across the valley floor—particularly in front of Steven’s home, making the already burnt willow appear like a frail cheerleader leading a reluctant rally. And if enough light had been available—had most of the Westcreek citizenry been awake and witness to the weather changes—each might’ve seen puffy, hawk-like talons or bony human limbs dip down from the eye of the storm and scratch at rooftops, punch at the sheriff’s office and town hall, and kick at streetlights and street signs.
From the east, a siren bellowed. Mounted on a tall pole, its manual crank was turned near the bottom in a clockwise fashion by a bombardier who once flew missions over Europe. The heavy drone rose and fell with the passion of a baritone opera singer becoming more and more angry. The mayor had just issued a severe thunderstorm warning, and the bombardier, through intense ratcheting of the handle, tried to convey an auditory message of seriousness.
Use of the siren would have consequences, though.
A skeletal cloud took form. Staring down directly above the bombardier, it pulled in nearby energy to
add definition to its hollow eyes, broad cheekbones, and large teeth. At first, the face just watched the man, perhaps privately assessing his devotion to making such a racket; once assured of his determination, the face dove at the siren, mouth open wide, biting at both pole and man. Over and over, the skeleton did this—over and over as the bombardier ducked for cover.
Eventually the siren fell to a sick, low-level whine.
13.2 Wilbur “Will” Nelson
10:41 p.m.
Will heard the siren. Sitting on his porch in a rickety rocking chair and holding a double-barrel shotgun in his lap, he believed the sound was a warning that Natives had breached town limits and were going to loot his home. Internally he vowed that no Indian was going to step foot on his property. Stroking both barrels of his weapon affectionately, he watched for any sign of movement.
Did someone just duck into my tool shed? he wondered, leaning forward, becoming motionless. Over there, by the lilac bushes, are two braves watching me? Are they going to attack? And what’s that knocking on the side of my house—are the Indians playing games?
Will carefully pulled back both hammers of his shotgun.
From behind, a lady in curlers pushed open a creaky screen door.
“It’s time for bed, you old fool!” she nagged. “There’s nothin’ out there but rabbits—rabbits!”
“Don’t tell me my business, woman!” he shouted back. “I’ll be in when I’m damn good and ready!”
Preceded by an exasperated snort, the screen door slammed shut.
Not taking an eye off his yard, Will reached for a nearby whiskey bottle, hoisted up the bottom, and nursed the top, taking a long swig. Then he started rocking again. “Come, come, little braves,” he said to no one. “Come one, come all. I won’t hurt you. Much.” He ended with an evil cackle.
Will anticipated that something would happen, hoped something would happen, wanted something to happen.
13.3 Dex, by Sterno Light
10:53 p.m.
Hunched over a square metal tray with flimsy legs stuck into the ground, Dex ate leftover perch and mashed potatoes on a rusty plate warmed by Sterno light. To his left, three lumberjacks slept in a tent, each wiggling about for better comfort. Outside, a heavy flyaway zipper flap waved in the air. To Dex it resembled a crude conductor’s baton trying to lead a band of tone-deaf snorers inside. He smiled.
The Guardian Hills Saga Page 12