Fawn fell to the ground and landed hard on her back. Whisper, who had again lowered to her knees at the sound of the scream, crawled over to the woman and searched for any sign of life, but she was too late, and there was no time to mourn.
Ian watched as Whisper straightened and stepped over Fawn’s lifeless body, holding the machete like a sword with her head slightly turned to the side in a pose he recognized as listening to the wind. He glanced around, unable to tell tree from enemy, branch from limb, and so instead kept his attention on Whisper, silently praying for her safety. He needed her alive so much more than she needed him.
“Where are you,” she whispered, flexing her fingers on the handle. She scanned the trees again. Ustahli had to be hiding in the cluster just to her left, she was sure of it, and so she observed the bark, the roots, the leaves, the canopy. Black bark lined the trunks with branches that arced out across the sky, leaves seeping the tar-like substance. The air was still, the sky gloomy, casting the trees into the shadows and silence.
But only one tree breathed.
“Osiyo, Ustahli,” Whisper greeted, and pushed forward with the machete.
“Whisper!”
Ian couldn’t help the shout that escaped when a limb slithered across the ground and wrapped around Whisper’s ankle, jerking her off her feet.
Her breath flew from her lungs as she fell flat on her back. The arrows strapped to her shoulders scattered across the ground. When the limb started to drag her across the ground, she slapped at the tree-bark arm attached to her ankle with the blade. Free, she tossed the bow aside and prepared herself, risking a sidelong glance at Ian, who was clenching his hands into fists nervously. She was secretly pleased that he hadn’t moved from the circle.
Bracing herself, Whisper moved forward, keeping her eyes on the tree she believed to be the Ustahli. She leapt when another limb swept at her feet, landing solidly, her stare never faltering. That was the reason why the Ustahli was so hard to kill—people lost concentration. In the Land of the Dead, the men and women of the Weeping Forest could not focus, could not think through a plan of attack, and so they perished one by one, like Fawn. The Ustahli was not prepared for Whisper, though, and did not expect her skill.
The Ustahli attacked suddenly from the west, knocking Whisper off-balance and sending a shooting pain through her right shoulder. She responded by waving the machete above her head in an arc, connecting with solid limb, and smirking at the wail that sounded through the air.
The beast moved then in a shuddering motion, pushing past the trees and snapping them in half as it shoved its way closer to Whisper, whose black eyes widened at impossible sight.
Standing as high as the tallest tree, with a torso as round as the widest trunk, the Ustahli loomed over Whisper, staring down with watery gray eyes and a mouth of jagged teeth. Its dark brown body, made up of thousands of veiny scales covered with slime and dirt, undulated and heaved. More than a dozen appendages protruded from various outlets, three of which had been cut in half by his enemy. The creature’s low, hoarse moan echoed around the woods, thundering in her mind and causing her heart to shudder. The Ustahli was powerful, and likely didn’t even know his own strength.
The eye in the center of his stomach, the wind said as it blew past her ears. His weakness is your strength.
As the beast edged closer, leaving behind a thick trail of slime, Whisper dropped her weapon and grabbed her bow from the ground, knocking a single arrow. She would only get one chance. Her eyes narrowed in concentration as she scanned the beast’s gullet, then down his stomach, watching for that one small spot unprotected by rock-hard scales.
“There you are,” she whispered, and released the arrow.
The guttural scream that rocked the woods roared through the trees, forcing Ian to cover his ears with a low moan of pain. Whisper’s hair blew back from her face as the rotten stench of blood and guts pierced her nostrils. She didn’t give the beast the pleasure of showing the incredible pain behind her eyes, and she moved only her head to watch when the Ustahli shuddered and stumbled and came crashing through the trees, landing inches from where she stood.
Ian leapt from the protective elemental circle as the Ustahli slammed to the ground, narrowly missing being torn apart by the creature’s sharp limbs. Staring down at the beast incredulously, Ian absently wiped at the Element that clung to his skin in sticky strings and took in the amazing sight.
The Ustahli’s body was more than five feet around, sleek and gray with dark circles indenting its body in giant rings from head to toe. Thin, veiny flesh moved in tune with its shallow breathing, remaining limbs feebly reaching out for help.
As he moved around the head of the beast, Ian crouched down and peered into the watery black eyes only as big as his fists. Hate glared back at him, and he had the fleeting thought that it was a look Whisper had long since perfected. Huge holes on either side of its head, which Ian took to be ears, made up for the lack of sight. They were covered with a translucent film that retracted at the slightest bit of noise.
“You sure are good at killing,” he commented, glancing over at Whisper, who was rubbing her injured shoulder.
“Your time to kill will come, Mr. Daivya,” she warned in response.
“No…I could never do what you do.” He shook his head and almost sneered. “I’m not a killer.”
Whisper unclenched her teeth and settled the insulted rage in her heart. “…No…perhaps you do not yet have the courage to do what is right.”
Ian didn’t answer, but instead stared back down at the Ustahli. With an arrow in its gut, it no longer seemed threatening. In fact, he kind of felt bad for it, and supposed it was the landscaper/naturist side of him that hated to see a creature so beneficial to the environment as the earthworm shuddering in pain and death.
Watching the blood ooze from the wound, he knew that he was nothing like Whisper. Murder was not something that came so easily to him, and it didn’t take courage to see what was right and wrong.
Ian jumped when a hand suddenly clamped down on his arm. He spun around and faced Whisper, who was gripping her bow tightly.
“We must go, Mr. Daivya,” she said urgently, fingers digging into his muscle.
“What’s the hurry? The thing’s dead, isn’t it?”
“The Ustahli cannot die in the Land of the Dead. It can only be slowed,” she replied, casting one final glance at the beast she had shot through the stomach before retrieving her arrow. “We will head west as quickly as possible. The Ustahli will not be disabled for long.”
With that, she grabbed Ian by the arm, and together, they plunged into the woods.
Chapter 20
Just before daybreak, Julia and David hiked through the woods without a single break in stride until they reached Howling Vines. The distraught mother had turned to her father for support, guidance, and a tough helping hand. David, a career military man, knew how to get information out of people. The thought of interrogating the Elder excited him, gave him a fresh kick in his step. Ever since his retirement, he had missed the thrill of combat.
“Here we are,” Julia said as they entered the clearing, lit only by the glowing embers in the hearth. The fog, illuminated with an orange glimmer, cast an eerie light around the circle. She turned to her father. “What should we do?”
“Go for the direct approach.” David wasn’t going to waste time, and decided that a surprise ambush was the best line of attack. Squaring his shoulders, the retired colonel stalked over to the small hut and yanked back the deerskin curtain. “Smoke Speaker!”
Emptiness echoed David’s voice back to his ears. The hut was empty.
Julia peered over her father’s shoulder, disappointment coiling in her stomach at the sight of the vacant bed. She’d been expecting and hoping the old man would be asleep, so they could startle him into telling the truth.
“Where do you think he is?”
“Maybe the trees told him we were coming.”
David sensed t
he sarcasm, and turned to his daughter to silence her with a stern glare. “Be careful who you mock, Julia.”
Julia regarded her father with a cynical glare. “Please, Dad, since when did you become superstitious? I thought military men were supposed to be tough and real.”
“Some things deserve respect.”
David slowly lowered himself to his knees, wincing at the cracks and pops as he peered beneath the bed for anything that might serve as a clue to the Elder’s whereabouts or guilty actions. He wasn’t willing to get into an argument with his daughter, especially over a culture she didn’t understand. After all, he’d grown up hearing old stories from his grandfather, who had been close friends with a Navajo elder from the western plains. Although the stories varied from the Cherokee legends that dominated the North Carolina mountains, they were similar and fascinating enough to capture his attention. A military man he may be, but there was still something about the Native American spirituality that enthralled him.
But he’d never shared those stories with Julia. As a child, she was more interested in science, toys, and boys. The souls of the world were never her area of interest.
Ignoring her father’s strange comments, Julia rifled through a stack of clothes, reaching between the folds of scratchy rags and soft hides. Her fingers touched the edges of something hard.
“What’s this?” she muttered to herself, pulling out a thin, buckskin-covered pad of parchment. The papers were tied together with frayed hemp, and covered with a slate of wood carved into an intricate tribal design that circled around what looked to Julia like an owl.
While her father continued to rummage around the end of the bed, shuffling through stacks of clay and woven baskets, Julia gently lifted the cover of the book.
The portrait of a young woman stared back at her with haunting black eyes. Sketched onto the parchment with thin charcoal lines, she peered at Julia as though seeing straight through to her soul. Long black hair lifted in an invisible wind and disappeared into the edges of the paper. Her mouth was relaxed, but there was a hint of something in her eyes that suggested a deep, internal sadness.
Mesmerized by the portrait, Julia turned the page. This time she saw the woman from head to toe as she leaned over the riverbank and peered into the water. A bow and pack of arrows were slung across her back, and a knife was secured at her waist. Even in the charcoal drawing, Julia could see the toned muscles in her arms and the scratches across her cheek and shoulders.
This was Whisper, the Elder’s apprentice. Julia was sure of that fact. This was the woman Deputy Duff was secretly in love with, the one her husband had joined for a mysterious trek through the woods. She was beautiful, mysterious, poignant, confident, and exuded an unnerving sense of danger. Julia got the feeling that trouble followed this young Cherokee apprentice wherever she went. Or maybe she just went looking for it.
Prying her eyes away from Whisper, Julia turned her attention to the next picture, and nearly lost her breakfast when she saw the image of her son standing on a rock in the middle of the river.
“Jules?” David rose and placed a hand on his daughter’s back when she gasped and lifted a hand to her mouth. Unable to reply, Julia handed him the book of drawings with a shaking hand.
“Oh…no,” David whispered, thumbing through two more pictures of Cole, one of which depicted the boy waist-deep in the water, staring at two black figures on the shore, and the other showed the child gripping an intricately carved dagger.
“He knows what Cole looks like,” Julia managed to say through the sobs that were stabbing through her heart. “He knows, Dad. He knows what happened to my little boy.”
David gripped Julia’s trembling hand, gently kissing her fingers. He desperately wanted to offer her comfort and soothing words, but he needed to see more. He had to know.
Julia couldn’t tear her eyes away from the drawings as her father turned one page after the next. She unwillingly watched a running narrative of her son’s disappearance, her husband’s journey, and Whisper’s unfailing guidance. Ian stood before a terrifying ghoul with a gaping mouth, then at the base of a bridge with three cats blocking the way; Cole stared defiantly at a gorgeously dressed Indian women who held a bundle of clothes, his young face determined to show hate and fury; Whisper leaned over Ian as she dressed wounds across his back, while he winced at the touch.
“Ian,” Julia whispered, reaching out to the image, drawing back her hand when they came to a picture of him holding a fascinating woman. Rage and disappointment surged through her blood, until she saw the arrow through the woman’s stomach.
David’s lips parted in amazement when he came to the last page, a terrifying drawing of a beastly worm towering over Whisper, who was lowered into a warrior’s stance as she held a machete out at her side. At the edge of the page was Ian, standing in a gray circle.
“It exists.”
She wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or to himself, but Julia’s curiosity got the better of her. “What exists?”
“The Land of the Dead.”
“The what?”
“The Land of the Dead,” he repeated, the realization of what that meant slamming into him like a wall of bricks. “Ian has gone to the Land of the Dead to save Cole.” He shook his head, gripping the book to his chest. “The Elder’s apprentice led him to the Land of the Dead. They know how to save Cole.”
Julia shook her head. “What…what do you…you’re saying that Cole…” She collapsed to the bed, tears streaming down her cheeks as she choked on the painful words. “Dad…..did they kill him?”
“I don’t know.” David’s hands balled into fists as the notebook dropped to the floor. It wouldn’t make sense to kill the boy only to save him, but with these people there was no telling what they were capable of, what tricks and secrets they may have up their sleeve. “But I plan on finding out.”
From the edges of Howling Vines, Smoke Speaker hid. He’d barely managed to escape into the thicket of forest before they arrived, and for the first time in many years, he was frightened.
The Elder was an old man, his heart and soul weakening with each passing day. The strength it took to keep up the fog, to hide Cole Daivya’s body from the police, to keep watch over Whisper in the Land of the Dead and send her messages, was too much to bear. And now, having to hide himself as well, he was finding his ancient body more and more exhausted.
Only an hour before Julia and her father arrived, Smoke Speaker had been awakened by the panicked chirps of Grandfather Bluebird, who was perched just outside his hut. His message was urgent, warning the Elder of enemies on the trail to Howling Vines. They were furious, Bluebird said, urgent, and one, the man, was willing to hurt the Elder in order to get answers.
Knowing there was nothing he could say to Julia that would appease her, nothing but the truth, and that he was not yet willing to admit, Smoke Speaker decided to hide. He rose from the bed, old bones cracking with each movement, wrapped a ratted cloak around his frail body, and hurried into the woods. No sooner had he settled behind a two hundred year-old oak tree than Julia and David marched into the clearing, shouting his name as they burst into his home.
He’d waited patiently, and when he saw them leave with his journal in hand, he was pleased. Now they would know the truth, as much as they needed to know, without forcing him to betray his apprentice. Let them see his drawings, show them to the police. Let them come back with their guns and their hate. Their ways were no match for his. Smoke Speaker had the entire forest, the mountains, on his side. With one word, one message on the tendrils of smoke, he was protected. His enemies would never reach him.
In Howling Vines, he was safe. He only wished he could say the same for Whisper.
Chapter 21
Ian had expected Whisper to be light on her feet, but he wasn’t prepared for the race through the forest. Whisper dodged trees and logs with ease, navigating around thorny vines and branches without so much as flinching when they scraped against her skin. Ia
n did his best to follow in her footsteps, fighting against the urge to look back over his shoulder as the Ustahli crashed through the woods in pursuit.
After what he deemed a two hours of running and jumping and panting, the giant beast ended his chase and went back to prey on the lost souls of the village. Whisper slowed to a trot after being sure he was gone, and stopped completely when they reached a tiny clearing.
“What’s the plan?” Ian asked between pants, hunching over and resting his hands on his knees. He was secretly pleased to see that Whisper too was breathing heavily, still favoring her aching shoulder.
Whisper stared through the trees, searching for any sign of the Ustahli. The Weeping Forest was silent, eerily awaiting their return. But they were headed west, away from the forest, into a land much more dangerous.
“The Barren Plains,” Whisper answered quietly. “A world without mercy. Only hate.”
Of course, Ian thought bitterly. “So what’s up with this Barren Plains place?”
Whisper chewed on her bottom lip, a rare sign of nerves. Her fingers were quickly untying the knife from her belt. She handed the machete to Ian. “Some say that when the Raven-Eater followed his victims into the Land of the Dead, he buried their rotting corpses in the Barren Plains.” She turned her black eyes to Ian. “He cursed the land, so that they may rise only to join his army….Now, only those who serve the Raven-Eater dare to cross the Barren Plains.”
With those final words, Whisper reached out and drew back the floral curtain to reveal their most perilous journey yet. Ian sucked in a breath and dared to follow Whisper’s gaze.
A vast, open land stretched out for miles, cloaked by the treacherous dark sky, lit only by the purple and red lights that arced across the clouds. Trees, shrubs, and grasses were not to be found. In their place was a dry, dusty ground covered with loose dirt.
When they took their first step onto the Barren Plains, Ian made out tunnels of risen dirt that crisscrossed the ground. Whisper was careful to avoid them, stepping over each mound as though she respected the formations.
Beyond the Western Sun Page 17