Spirits Collide, page 16
part #2 of Evil Awakened Series
Ayas turned in the direction of the female voice. “The one I love, the one destined to become the Kiche will one day walk the Spirit World; I wish to walk beside her.”
“Better.”
Ayas thought he heard a softening to the tone of the voice. “Thank you,” he said, bowing his head. This time he didn’t say anything further but waited for those before him to speak.
“We have brought you here,” spoke the male voice, “because we were curious as to why you, of all people since the dawn of creation, would have been given the gift of The Wanderer.”
“Gift?” Ayas said. “I thought I was cursed when I was shunned and forced to spend my days as the Wandering Spirit.”
“Yes and no,” the feminine voice said. “You were shunned from the Spirit World by The Creator because of your pride and ego, but you were not cursed when given the power of wind . . . among others.”
“Others?” Ayas questioned. “I don’t understand. I have been one with the wind since I can remember. Even as a young boy, I identified with all associated with the air—smells, temperature, friends and enemies approaching, but . . .” Ayas paused to gather his thoughts, “but I don’t know what you speak of when you say, ‘among others.’ What other powers do you speak of?”
Ayas heard a murmuring of whispers among those present, some louder than others, some languages he understood, others he did not. When silence cut the air, a brisk wind blew in his face, frosting his cheeks and filling his nostrils with overwhelming scents. “What does the wind tell you, Wanderer?” a new voice asked.
“Many things,” Ayas answered, raising his nose to the wind. “I smell curiosity and power, yet not anger. I smell herbs from my homeland and those of my people, but I also smell others that are foreign to me.”
“What don’t you smell?” asked the same voice.
Ayas’ nostrils flared, as he inhaled one more time. He closed his eyes to block all distraction and felt the air wash over his nares. As the cold wisps of air skirted into his throat, he could taste all that came with it. He smelled and tasted all he spoke of but something was missing. Opening his eyes, he stared at the shadows. “Humanity.” The word more a breath than spoken. “I don’t smell humanity.”
“Light the hall,” the first voice commanded.
As the lights came up, it became so bright, Ayas had to squint and bring his arm up to shade his eyes. It took a moment to be able to look upon the scene in front of him. Accustomed to the light, he gazed upon a dais of four heavenly beings, not sure if they were gods and goddesses or some other heavenly host. Two he recognized, Native American legends of a time gone by, but the others were unfamiliar to him. He thought he recognized them from stories told of a civilization that traveled to the land of his ancestors many, many moons ago. The male was larger than his people, both in size and muscularity. He was bearded and his hair was the color of corn, long and wild. The female, also large and muscular, still maintained her femininity. He knew them from tales told of Vikings—great warriors from a distant land who came to his own to learn, not to conquer.
Ayas dropped to one knee and bowed his head, showing reverence to the immortals. “How can I be of assistance?”
He heard footsteps but still gazed down at the stone floor. As the footsteps stopped, he spotted two feet, feminine and bare. “Look at me, Wanderer,” she said.
Ayas lifted his chin until he gazed into the bluest eyes he had ever seen. The goddess was light skinned, like Pamoon, but her hair was the color of straw. She had it pulled behind her in long, thick braid that wrapped over her shoulder and fell across her cleavage. The silk gown she wore did little to hide her assets. The only item giving her any sense of modesty was a cloak of falcon feathers which she wore over her shoulders. He swallowed hard as he stared into her eyes.
“Rise.”
Ayas lifted his frame from the stone and stood in front of the goddess.
“My name is Freyja, the Norse goddess of many things including war.” She unclipped the gold chain around her neck which held her cloak. Holding her feathered-shawl in front of her, she continued. “This cloak is used in the matters of love and will tell me if your love for Pamoon is pure.” She placed the cloak across Ayas’ shoulders and smiled. “Your love is both pure and unconditional—rare in your day and age.”
Holding the garment in one hand, she reached behind her with her other and drew a sword. “This is the sword of my brother, Freyr. When held by one worthy, it will infuse the owner’s powers into itself. Hold the sword in your right hand.”
Ayas held out his hand, hoping he was worthy of the sword’s power. As his skin touched the hilt of the sword, he felt a cold burn in his skin. A cold he had never felt in all his days. He had been impervious to cold weather for as long as he could remember, but holding the sword, he thought his hand was frostbit. Afraid to show pain in front of the goddess, he gritted his teeth and continued to stare into her eyes. That’s when he realized her eyes were the color of ice. An icy blue only found in the furthest recesses of the great white north.
As he stared into her eyes, they transformed from icy to warm, and so his flesh. The skin on his hand no longer felt as if it would burn from bitter cold but felt warm.
“You have been found worthy by the steel which you hold,” Freyja smiled, “and the power you possess has been revealed.”
Ayas looked at the sword in his hand, studied it for the first time. Made of gold and some other rare metals, it was light to wield, yet he could tell it was unbreakable in its strength. His eyes went from the pommel on the end of the handle, traced along the grip and cross-guard, and finally the length of the blade. As he stared at the blade, he saw the etching of a tornado and another of a wave. Air and water, he thought. That’s when he realized why he felt the intense cold when he first gripped it.
“I possess the spirit of air and water?”
Freyja nodded. “And when blended together, they combine to form ice. You, Wanderer, are elemental in nature. You were born to control both air and water. The sword you now possess will help you in battle, but if you abuse its power it will kill you and return to Valhalla from hence it came.”
Confused by Freyja’s words, Ayas asked, “What is Valhalla?”
“It is known to you as the heavenly realm beyond the gates you see behind the dais.” Freyja pointed to the now empty marble table behind her. “One I hope you do not enter for a long time.”
“Wh . . . where did the others go?”
“Their jobs here were done. They have gone to help others like yourself. Now you must return and continue to walk your intended path.”
Ayas’ mind was spinning with questions and confusion. “You said I was elemental in nature but I only control two of the four elements. Who controls the others?”
Freyja smiled, her blue eyes sparkling. “The one who controls the fire, controls the earth as well. Goodbye warrior,” She said as she began to fade beyond the golden gates behind her, “defeat those who would come against you, those who possess evil, and claim what you seek.”
Startled, Ayas woke to find himself inside his tee pee. Looking outside, he saw that the moon had barely moved since he fell asleep. “Just a dream,” he muttered. He closed his eyes and rolled over, hoping to find slumber when his face touched something ice-cold. He rolled in the opposite direction, jumped to his feet, and pulled the knife from his belt. There next to his bedroll lay a sword, the sword given to him by the goddess, Freyja. The sword whose blade was as blue as the eyes of the goddess.
Heart pounding, Ayas bent down and picked up the sword. He half expected to feel the bitter cold of frost but felt nothing but the chill of metal on a winter’s night. Holding the sword toward the moonlight, he looked upon the emblems etched in the blade. Thoughts of ice ran through his mind as he focused on the blade. The blue of the blade became a sharp-edged piece of ice, ice that would cut through anyone or anything. Shaking the thoughts from his mind, the blade returned to its natural state.
Reaching down again, Ayas retrieved the scabbard that had lay beside the sword. He slid the blade into the sheath, shouldered the strap and stepped into the night air. There are more important things to do than sleep, he thought, as he walked into the mist.
36
Home
Pamoon spotted Celia and Scout before they noticed her. “It’s good to see you, too,” she said mockingly.
She wasn’t sure which one ran faster. Scout jumped on her, slathering her with kisses, and Celia wrapped her arms around her in a vise-like grip.
“It’s about time,” Celia said. “I thought you were . . . I don’t know what I thought, I’m just happy, really happy, to see you.”
“Me too,” Pamoon smiled, scratching Scout behind the ears.
“Can we go home now?” Celia asked, pointing to the opening of the cave.
“We can. Just let me check one thing before we leave.” She stood in front of the tapestry of the wendigo and let out a sigh of relief. It showed the wendigo sitting on the rock where she spent the better part of the day. Holding her left palm, the one she had cut, up to the threads, she felt the power of the flame. In return, the wendigo held up its hand and nodded.
A blood oath cannot be broken, Pamoon said.
And won’t be, the wendigo answered.
Two hours later, the three of them made the leap through the Y-shaped tree and landed back in the natural world.
It was late by the time they made it back to White Eagle’s, but he and Nuna were sitting at the kitchen table when she and Celia arrived. Pamoon could see worry etched on their faces; the wrinkles around their eyes and mouths—deep, the circles under their eyes—dark. Their skin sallow and gaunt, they looked as if they hadn’t eaten in days. Nuna’s manicured nails, bitten off.
Nuna shot off her chair. “Oh my God! Thank the heavens you’re safe. You had us worried sick.”
“Sorry,” Pamoon said in a muffled voice as Nuna pulled her into her ample bosom. “We came back as soon as we could.”
Pamoon looked at White Eagle, salt and pepper stubble grew on his cheeks. “How long have we been gone?”
“Five days,” White Eagle answered.
“Five days!” Celia yelled. “My parents are gonna kill me. I need to get home.”
White Eagle held out his hand. “Your parents are fine. I told them that you and Pamoon went on a fieldtrip with a group of tribal young people to spread word of our culture to those who live around the reservation. They were excited you wanted to go.”
Pamoon punched White Eagle on the shoulder. “Nice work, chief.”
White Eagle shot knives at her with a cold stare. “This is not a time for jokes. I didn’t like lying, but you left me no choice.”
Pamoon’s eyes drifted downward. “Sorry. I forgot time passes so much faster in the Spirit World. I had no idea we were gone that long. It’s just that we had a lot to accomplish, and—”
“Stop babbling and have seat,” White Eagle said, holding out a chair.
“You stop being an ass,” Nuna countered. “God knows what these two girls have been through.” She pointed to the chairs. “All of you hush up until I put some food in you.”
White Eagle grumbled, but said nothing.
Once they had all eaten, White Eagle cleared his throat. “Tell me what you learned.”
“A lot,” Pamoon said. “First I need to know if anyone has seen Bobby or his buddies around.”
“Eha,” White Eagle replied. “The night you left, Tihk saw them limp from the woods. They looked beaten, physically and emotionally. I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that?”
“They ambushed us as we neared the bent trees. They were more beast-like than ever and threatened to kill us—well, me. Bobby wanted Celia to side with them.”
“And what happened?”
“Scout and I kicked their ass.”
“Watch your language,” Nuna said, slapping her with a spoon.
Pamoon rubbed her arm and blushed. “Sorry.”
White Eagle nodded at Pamoon. “And the dress?”
“That’s part of what happened while we were gone.”
“Tell us everything.”
Pamoon and Celia recanted their adventure, leaving nothing out. When she mentioned the owl-women, she noticed White Eagle’s pinched brow. “You know where to find them, don’t you?”
“Maybe. The story of the Owl-women comes from our Seminole brothers.”
“And sisters,” Nuna added.
White Eagle rolled his eyes. “And sisters. If they exist, we might be able to learn of their whereabouts from our neighbors.”
Pamoon stood, pushing her chair from the table. “Let’s go. I need to find them.”
White Eagle held out his hand. “In case you forgot, it’s one-o’clock in the morning. You both need to rest, I’ll call the chief at first light.”
Pamoon grumbled but acquiesced. By the time she washed up and laid her head on her pillow, she was sound asleep.
37
Seminole Doubt
It seemed as if she had just laid down when White Eagle shook her from her slumber. “Come,” he said.
“Where to?” she said, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“To the Seminole side of the reservation. We have a meeting this morning with their elders.”
“Should I wake Celia?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“This does not concern her. Celia has other concerns, today.” Before Pamoon could speak, White Eagle continued. “Tihk is helping her learn to fight. She needs to learn how to use the staff and bow if she insists on being part of this war.”
“But, I thought she—”
White Eagle stuck out his hand to stifle her. “The Creator told you not to underestimate your enemy. Using her spirit identity might not be the best option. She needs to know how to defend herself. I’d teach her myself, but I am needed to escort you to our brothers.”
“Stay here and help Tihk, I know the way to their reservation.”
White Eagle’s eyes and lips narrowed. “But you don’t know their council. I do.”
An hour later, Pamoon, Scout, and White Eagle arrived at the Seminole reservation which bordered the opposite side of the woods. Getting out of her jeep, she couldn’t help but notice the odd looks she was getting. The dress, she thought.
White Eagle led her to the meeting hall. Stepping inside, she was surprised at the number of people but more surprised to see Powaw among them. His presence helped calm her anxiety. White Eagle led her to the head of the table where he introduced her to Micco, the chief and another brave named Holata.
Pamoon bowed, yet remained silent.
“Sit with us,” Micco said, pointing to a chair next to him. “Powaw has told us much, but I wish to hear from you. Over the past months we have heard much of your exploits. We,” he looked around the table, the Seminoles, “are grateful for your bravery. Without your cunning, Kanontsistonties would still be gathering an army of demons.”
Pamoon sat next to Micco, Scout never leaving her side, White Eagle sat in an empty chair next to Powaw. She looked at him for guidance and he nodded in response. She took a deep breath and faced Micco. “What do you wish to hear?”
“White Eagle tells us you seek the Owl-women, is this true?”
“It is.”
“Why?” This time the question was asked by the brave known as Holata.
Turning in his direction, Pamoon spoke without hesitation. “A great battle is at hand. A war for control of the Spirit Mount. A war that concerns all nations, not just the Cree.”
Holata seemed unfazed. “And how would you know of this war? How would a girl, not of native blood, know what concerns the tribal nations?”
Pamoon heard doubt and anger in his words. She swallowed the lump in her throat and opened her mouth to speak, but Powaw spoke first. “You have been told of Pamoon’s destiny. Weren’t her actions dealing with Kanontsistonties enough to convince you that she is the one the legends speak of?” He went to stand and continue speaking when White Eagle stopped him.
“We have come to our brothers for help. We will let them ask what they wish,” White Eagle said, his voice calm yet with an air of authority.
Powaw nodded and sat back. “Excuse my outburst.”
Micco nodded. Holata didn’t acknowledge him, he just stared at Pamoon.
Pamoon never took her eyes off the brave. “You are named for the alligators that live among us, so I know you’re brave and understand the swamp better than I ever could.” Holata nodded in arrogance. “Tell me,” Pamoon continued, “have you witnessed anything unusual in the past days?”
“Meaning?”
“Have you seen them become more aggressive, more agitated?”
Holata’s brows arched. “I have, but what do their actions have to do with my question?”
“Their actions are just one sign of many,” Pamoon explained. “The animals, all of them, sense what’s coming. Have you seen them turn on one another?”
Holata stood, braced his arms on the table, and leaned toward Pamoon. “Again,” he said, his voice louder than before, “what does this have to do with my question?” He looked around the table before settling on Micco. “Chief, she is stalling. Like I said before, she is not the one of legends.”
“Sit and hear her out. I, for one, am curious how she knows that the gators have turned on one another.”
“Not just the gators,” another brave spoke up. “I have witnessed other animals do the same.” Pamoon noticed others nodding at his words. “I think I speak for all when I say that I wish to hear Pamoon’s explanation.”
“You have our attention,” Micco said, addressing Pamoon.
“I was visited by Kwanokasha and the Choctaw Little People. I was given and passed a test handed down from the original Kowi Anukasha Chieftain. He told me that they were visited—warned—by a Golden Eagle that a great battle is at hand.” Grumbling rose from around the table. Pamoon spoke louder. “A war that would pit us against our own. Those who would naturally fight side-by-side would choose sides and fight against one another.” The grumbling was now a full-fledged debate.
