Mintikwa and the Underwater Panther

by JR Green

  He knows of Mintikwa’s lineage? Willow tried to stay impassive about this realization. “What power does this talisman hold?”

  “It’s the only thing that will save my people,” he said.

  “From whom?” Willow asked. For a moment, he stared blankly at her, so she answered her own question, “Us, I assume. You seek the power to destroy us?”

  The Soulless shook his head. “From the Maulsa,” he said.

  “The Maulsa?” Willow said, not even attempting to hide her dismay.

  “Yes,” the Soulless said, nodding. “The destroyers have returned.”

  “You are out of your mind,” Willow said, leaning back and looking away. “They are a dreamt-up people from the fifth world. They exist only in our stories.”

  “Not entirely,” he said contemptuously.

  “You’re not such a good fighter, Soulless, but you do tell a good story,” Willow scoffed.

  His eyes suddenly shown with fire. “My brother bled at their hands,” he shouted. “And many of my friends died.”

  She thought of her conversation with Mintikwa about the Soulless having another enemy. “You’re telling me that the Soulless have met Maulsa in battle?” she asked.

  The Dark One barely nodded.

  “You weren’t going to kill him,” Willow said, realizing for the first time that the Soulless was only looking for information. “At least not at first. Why do you think Mintikwa knows where this talisman is?”

  “He is descended from Great-horned Owl,” he said again. “This knowledge is passed down.”

  “I have never heard of such a talisman,” Willow said defensively.

  He laughed. “You are not of the Great-horned Owl line.”

  “Mintikwa doesn’t know either,” Willow said, leaning in. “You wiped out his entire family at Sugar Maple Tree Creek.”

  “I did this?” he said sarcastically. “I had no idea I possessed such strength.”

  “Do you understand what I’m saying?” she told him. “Mintikwa doesn’t have the knowledge of his ancestors.”

  The Dark One was silent.

  “What could this talisman do against the Maulsa?” she asked. “If they exist.”

  “Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. “But if they find it … they could rule the world once again.”

  The door struck the wall with a crash as it shot open. Then it slammed shut again. Footsteps echoed in the cave-like room.

  Mintikwa looked around. He was back in the bowels of one of the Maulsa buildings. Where could he go? There was no place to hide.

  A man walked past the place where Mintikwa crouched. He had a menacing look about him. It was the brute from outside—the one who clubbed the Soulless to death with one blow.

  Mintikwa shot up and sprinted for the door.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man reel and heard him curse.

  Mintikwa reached the door and pulled. It wouldn’t budge.

  The man moved behind him, racing to the door.

  Mintikwa pulled hard, but it would not yield.

  A hand struck his shoulder, then spun him about, and pushed him back on his heels. Mintikwa staggered away from the door.

  The man stood before him. For the first time, Mintikwa faced him directly and up close. The brute sneered at Mintikwa. He hadn’t felt such contempt since the Soulless attack.

  Mintikwa suddenly felt desperate to get away from him.

  He spoke. Mintikwa couldn’t understand the strange words, but it was a demand of some kind. Mintikwa guessed it meant, who are you?

  He spoke again just above a whisper. The sound of his voice was alien, but Mintikwa suddenly knew the words.

  “You understand me now?” the man demanded.

  Baffled, Mintikwa backed away. Impossibly, the man spoke the language of his people!

  It troubled Mintikwa to hear his language spoken by this Maulsa. The accent was odd yet also familiar. Mintikwa had heard it before.

  The man stepped forward. “Who are you?”

  In the next instant, Mintikwa realized why the accent was familiar. The Soulless that attacked him spoke this way. Did the Soulless know these people?

  A knife appeared. It was a weapon like no other. It gleamed in the dim light, infinitely sharper than any knife he had seen. The man waved the wicked blade eagerly. Mintikwa looked into the brute’s eyes and saw madness.

  He lunged at Mintikwa.

  Mintikwa tried to evade, but he was too slow. A thick-knuckled fist struck his jaw. His eyes watered, blinding him. His ears rang. A kick to the knee sent Mintikwa to the floor. Then the brute was above him with the knife. Powerful corded muscles drove the weapon closer to Mintikwa’s chest.

  The big man sneered. He was smiling, delighted by how near he was to killing him.

  “No!” Mintikwa shouted, his voice echoed through the cave.

  The man put a finger to his lips and made a shushing sound, as if to say, just give up and die. The knife pressed down. Mintikwa pushed back with everything he had, but with the fasting and everything else that had sapped his energy during his long journey, what little strength he had left vanished. Veins popped out over the Maulsa’s arms, his muscles flexed, and the knife plummeted. The impossibly sharp point touched Mintikwa’s chest and drew blood.

  One last shot of adrenaline coursed through Mintikwa’s veins. The knife lifted briefly. But his arms quaked and gave in again. The point pierced his skin.

  It felt like fire. Mintikwa screamed.

  To his horror, the man shrieked in delight at the sight of it.

  The blade slipped through the upper layers of his skin.

  The door burst open. A woman shouted at the brute.

  He withdrew the knife and moved off of Mintikwa.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. “I told you to take him to the lab.”

  Who was this woman to command such an animal?

  He cowered. “He tried to escape, so I had a go at him.”

  “Had a go at him? You were about to kill him!”

  Mintikwa collapsed and gripped the place on his chest, staying the flow of blood.

  “Now, pick him up and take him to the lab,” she said.

  It was dusk. They were nearly at the border between their peoples’ land.

  The Soulless waded into the water.

  “That’s far enough,” Willow said.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” the Soulless assured her, reaching into the water. He was fishing for something.

  When he came out of the water, she was taken aback by what was in his hands. He was holding an armful of mussels. What were the odds that this Soulless would collect mussels, just like Mintikwa?

  Willow was at a loss for words, but then she asked, “Do you have a name?”

  The Soulless turned to her disdainfully. “Of course, I have a name.”

  Willow shook her head. “What are you going to do with those?” she asked.

  “Make dinner,” he said.

  He was going to eat them? The thought of consuming the mussels made Willow sick to her stomach.

  “That’s disgusting,” she said.

  “Nonetheless,” he said. “I will eat them. And I will no longer be hungry.”

  “Aren’t they poisonous to you?”

  “They once were,” he said. “But now they are clean.” He left the riverbank and walked into the woods.

  She followed him from a safe distance.

  He set the mussels down and began to gather kindling for firewood.

  “I find that hard to believe,” she said.

  “Try one and see,” he offered. He reached down and retrieved a fat piece of wood.

  “You’d like that wouldn’t you,” she said.

  “I’m not trying to poison you,” he said.

  “You tried to kill me,” Willow said, trying to keep their conversation in perspective.

  He reached for a vine, and with a jagged stone, he cut a length of it free.

 
As he walked back to the mussels, he brushed debris from his block of wood.

  The Soulless sat down. He began to fashion together a fire starter, carving out a groove in the wood with his rock and making a bow from the strand of vine.

  “Laughing Crow,” he said.

  Willow blinked. “What did you say?”

  “You asked me if I had a name,” he said.

  “Your name is Laughing Crow?” she said, smiling slyly. It was the antithesis of everything she thought about the Soulless. She couldn’t help but laugh.

  “My name is funny to you?” he asked. Crow finished his fire starter. He set the stick against the groove in the wood and began the laborious process of heating it up with friction.

  “It’s just not what I expected,” she said.

  He bore down against the groove and spun it rapidly. The bow oscillated against the stick, almost sounding like a melody. Soon, he’d have smoke and then a spark enough to catch the leaves on fire.

  “Do you have a name?” he asked.

  “Of course, I have a name,” she said, echoing his admonition.

  The muscles in Crow’s arms bulged as he bore down against the block of wood, betraying a latent strength she didn’t know he still possessed. The bow spun ferociously. Moments passed, and the sound, which had almost become a melody, somehow turned harsh and sinister.

  He glanced up at her.

  “Never mind my name,” she said, with a bit more animosity than she intended.

  The stick whirled violently.

  “Are you going to sleep tonight?” he asked.

  “That’s not your concern,” she said, anger flaring.

  “You look tired,” he said. He could tell she was on the verge of collapse.

  Smoke issued from the groove. The tender was already beginning to ignite.

  She might have dozed off. What was she thinking? Whatever ease she felt while conversing with this Soulless quickly evaporated. Sleep would take her, though. There was no denying her exhaustion. Despite the threat of panic, Willow calmed herself. She would watch him eat these horrid mussels, wait until dark, and then disappear somewhere close by for a catnap. Perhaps she’d lie in the bough of a big tree. If Crow fled, she’d just pick up his trail again. He was still in worse shape than her. Or at least she thought he was.

  The huge man bound Mintikwa’s arms, and they took him to another place within the depths of the building. He shoved him through the threshold. Three tables stood in the room.

  Another Soulless was stretched out on one table, Mintikwa realized. He was strapped down. His body was bruised and bloody, with strange wounds over his arms.

  On each of the other two tables lay a body, but they were beyond recognition. They appeared to have died a very long time ago. They were not much more than skeletons, one wrapped in clothes, much like the Maulsa. The other seemed to have been naked when he died. Ancient leathery skin wrapped feebly around bone. Strangely, the chest was split open. The white bone of the skull on one side of the head was exposed. It had a section that was cut away in perfect proportions.

  Mintikwa’s spine turned cold. He got the feeling that the naked body had been violated and examined after death. He wondered if they were from the fifth world.

  The Soulless stirred. Still alive! He moaned. Mintikwa thought of the one who attacked him but quickly realized that this was not him. He blinked heavily, suddenly conscious of where he was. He began to thrash about violently. He struggled against the straps, but they were too strong. The Soulless bore his teeth and growled at the Maulsa.

  “What do you want me to do with him?” the big man asked the woman.

  She glanced up. “I have his blood sample. I don’t think he’s going to tell us anything else. We don’t need him anymore,” she said directly. “He’s too dangerous to keep alive. Get rid of him.” The woman turned back to her work.

  The big man pulled something from his waist, pointed it at the Soulless. Mintikwa immediately realized it was a weapon of some sort. He gripped the weapon sharply. Instantly, a wicked flash shot from its tip, and the room erupted violently.

  Bound at his wrists, Mintikwa reflexively lifted his hands and pressed his fingertips against his ears.

  Smoke filled the room.

  Mintikwa straightened and looked back at the table. Most of the Soulless’s head was gone. Blood and brain matter were splattered everywhere. It dripped from the table.

  The woman cringed. “God damn it!” she shouted, suddenly enraged.

  Mintikwa’s head felt like he was underwater. He could barely hear her words.

  “You idiot!” the woman said. “Why the hell did you do that?”

  The big man sneered, pleased with his work despite her protests. He didn’t seem phased by her rage. “I was tired of seeing his face.”

  He turned to Mintikwa menacingly. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll use my knife on this one.”

  “Not yet you won’t,” she said. “I need his blood. And he may yet talk. Look. I know you hate these people. But God damn it. I need you to keep it together. It’s too dangerous here for you to be firing your weapon at will.”

  “Yeah, I suppose so,” he said, idly scratching his temple with the tip of his weapon.

  “I want to know what the hell these people are doing here,” the woman said.

  “Then can I kill him?” he asked.

  She held a sinister-looking weapon that gleamed in the dim light. She held it up with one hand, briefly examining it. It had a long point as thin as a spider’s thread. She squeezed the weapon, and a liquid spurted from its end. She eyed Mintikwa.

  “Lay him on the table,” she said.

  The brute walked to the table with the skeleton and, with one sweeping motion of his arm, sent it flying to the floor. It struck the wall and broke into pieces. He moved toward Mintikwa, eyeing him evilly.

  He gripped Mintikwa by the shoulders.

  Mintikwa resisted, but there wasn’t much he could do with his arms bound.

  He was thrust onto the table. A moment later, a fist slammed into his face. His cheek numbed. Mintikwa shook his head, struggling to maintain consciousness. Before he knew it, they had him flat on the table, straps fastened to his wrists and legs.

  He felt something snag at the nape of his neck, and then he heard a loud pop.

  It felt like the man had ripped out his heart. Mintikwa thought of the corpse with its chest split open. He blinked heavily, opening his watery eyes. He looked down.

  His chest was intact. He looked at the Maulsa. Mintikwa’s sacred bundle dangled from his fist. He eyed it lewdly.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  Instinctively, Mintikwa let out a scream.

  “Bring that here,” the woman said, setting her fine weapon down.

  “No!” Mintikwa called out.

  “He sure seems attached to it,” the man said. “He took the bundle to the woman. She snatched it from him and examined the pouch. Then she teased it open and shook the contents onto the table before her.

  The copper scale nearly rolled off onto the floor. The man slammed his palm down on top of it before it left the table.

  “Put it down!” the woman shouted suddenly, recognizing the value of the piece.

  “Take it easy,” the man said. “I didn’t want it to get away from us.” He lifted his palm. She seized it and then gathered all of Mintikwa’s sacred items together.

  Her face screwed up. “What is this?” she said, eyeing the sacrament between Mintikwa and Underwater Panther, the congealed blood of the nature god.

  “It’s disgusting,” the big man said.

  She opened a drawer and fumbled around, finally producing a small stick. She poked at the sacrament.

  The relics in his sacred bundle should never see the light of day, he thought, let alone be poked and prodded by strange people. Mintikwa closed his eyes and moaned.

  “Jesus,” the woman said, noticing his reaction. “He is attached to this thing.”

&nb
sp; She set the stick down and picked up the delicately-pointed weapon. She teased at the sacrament and then rammed it into the congealed blood.

  Mintikwa’s head seemed as if it would split open.

  She pulled it out and squirted it into a transparent vessel, and put the vessel in a case.

  The big man moved back to Mintikwa. The woman approached with the needle. She squirted the rest of the bloody liquid on the floor. Mintikwa’s mind reeled. The blood of the Panther was splattered all over the floor, he thought in horror.

  As she approached, Mintikwa couldn’t help but watch the thing in her hand. It looked menacing, its point infinitely thin.

  Mintikwa struggled against his bonds. He cried out in anguish.

  She moved closer. The weapon rose to his arm. She drew it back slightly, and just as she was about to plunge it into him, Mintikwa saw a small red dot form at its tip. It was the Panther’s blood. She slammed it into his shoulder.

  He screamed in pain. It felt like fire.

  “Hold still!” she shouted.

  The big man held him down.

  Mintikwa looked down at his shoulder and watched in horror as the woman pulled at the weapon and extracted his blood. And that was all. She drew it out of him and then walked away.

  Mintikwa’s arm felt like he had stuck it in a beehive.

  The big man eased up as well.

  He backed away, an evil smirk on his face. This monster really enjoyed seeing people hurt.

  The woman sat down again. She set down the thing holding his blood and made marks against the table just like the other Maulsa. She put Mintikwa’s blood next to the Panther’s blood. It caused Mintikwa to think of the words of the Panther, some of the last between them. Amused at his fearing a blood oath, Underwater Panther laughed at the notion and supposed it was a bad idea. Had the Maulsa inadvertently made him and the god, blood brothers? What was going to happen to him now?

  The Maulsa were packing things away. He thought in horror, what were they going to do with his blood?

  His chest heaved. He breathed as fast as he could, but it wasn’t enough. He wondered if he were about to lose his mind. Fearful, he struggled against the things on his wrists. They weren’t budging, but he wrestled with them nonetheless. He felt dizzy. The little room was closing in on Mintikwa. It grew dark.