Spirits Collide, page 17
part #2 of Evil Awakened Series
“Quiet!” White Eagle yelled. “We did not come here to squabble, but to ask for your help. Help we will not find if we fight amongst ourselves.”
Micco nodded. “Can you prove to us that you are the one of legends? The one who will take her place on the mount as the Kiche?”
Pamoon looked to White Eagle and Powaw for guidance. In their eyes, she saw trust. She stood from her chair and raised her left hand. “I’ve been marked with the flame that secures my destiny.” She moved about the table, letting everyone see the flame on her palm and her neck. “I have walked the Misty Woods and have heard the cries of the Tree People. I have stood on the Mount, and I’ve seen the mist begin to encroach on our most sacred of land. I have envisioned the ghost-witches on the battlefield. They are assembling an army that will soon be too powerful to stop if we don’t stop them. Now.
“As we sit in this room arguing, Ayas—the Wandering Spirit—and Kwanokasha are gathering in the Valley of Blood to face off against a foe that is too strong, yet they gather anyway.”
“If what you say is true, why would they gather knowing they can’t win?” Holata sneered.
“Because they have hope. Hope that the Kiche will find a way to turn this war in their favor.”
“And what hope can a girl give them?” Holata said.
“Not a girl,” Pamoon said calmly, “but the hope only the Kiche can provide.”
“So far, you have proven nothing. You stand here and tell us stories. Stories that may be true but maybe just fables. Prove to us you are who you say you are.”
Pamoon shook her head. “I have said all I wish to say. I won’t succumb to preforming magic tricks to win your favor. If you don’t wish to help me, I will find another way.”
Holata laughed at her words. “See,” he said those gathered, “she is a fraud, just like I told you.”
Pamoon turned to leave when the doors to the room burst open. Standing in the doorway was a group of Seminole women. Their presence silenced Holata and the entire room. The eldest of them appeared wise and worn. Her long gray hair braided with beads and bits of bone, bird feathers—owl feathers—wove through her tresses. Her eyes, black as night and specked in yellow, surveyed those present. She nodded in the direction of Micco and stepped into the room, shoulders back, head high, striding with a sense of leadership. She glared at those gathered before she looked upon Pamoon with a knowing glace.
Holata moved to confront the woman when Micco held him back. “You have had your chance to speak, now we will listen to our sister, Opa.”
“Opa?” Pamoon breathed.
“What she says is true,” Opa stated, “I have witnessed her fight and defeat the young braves whose spirits are more demon than man. I have seen her converse with Kwanokasha. She carries the Chieftain Blade,” she said, glancing at the knife Pamoon carried. “Only the one destined to become the Kiche could have done what I have seen her do and wield such a weapon.”
Opa smiled as she looked upon Pamoon. “You said my name as if you already know me.”
“I don’t know you, but we’ve met, sort of.”
“Tell me, Kiche, when did we meet?”
“You were in the woods when I fought the young braves you mentioned—Michi-pichoux’s followers.”
“Tell me more.”
“You were in the form of an owl, hidden among the pines.”
Opa nodded. “And you know this how?”
“Your eyes are the same as those of the owl.”
Opa nodded. “We will leave the men to finish this debate. For me and my sisters,” She scanned those seated around the table, “we will listen to your plea.”
38
Owl Women
Pamoon followed Opa and the other women from the meeting hall, across the reservation towards the area that bordered the woods. Although the reservation was busy, everyone they passed moved aside giving them ample room. She wasn’t sure if they did so out of fear or respect, but Scout never growled at Opa or the rest of the woman, so Pamoon assumed it was respect.
Nearing the woods, Pamoon spotted a large tee pee. From the outside, it appeared spacious, but the inside was dark, musty, and foreboding, making Pamoon feel as if she stepped into the woods in the pitch of night. A cold sweat dripped down her spine as she eyed what hung from the top of the tee pee.
“Tell us, Kiche, do you know what we are?”
Opa’s words snapped her attention away from the hanging objects. “I know some,” Pamoon answered. “I know the legend of the Stikini—the Seminole Owl-women—and I know what I witnessed in the Spirit Cave.”
Opa glanced at the other women who now gathered in the large tent before settling her attention back on Pamoon. “Tell me about the legends you’ve heard.”
“I’ve heard that you—the Stikini—use your powers to transform into owls and attack your enemy by stealing their still-beating hearts,” her eyes strayed high toward the ceiling; her mouth dried as if she swallowed sand. Her eyes back on Opa, she finished her thought, the words barely audible, “and eat them.” The stillness of the women made the hair on the back of Pamoon’s neck stand on end. “I’ve also heard that you can only attack under the black of night.”
Pamoon waited for a confirmation of her assessment but none came.
“And the Spirit Cave?” Opa said. “What did you learn from the cave?”
“The cave only gives me small pieces of what might happen,” Pamoon began. “On the cave wall, I saw the Valley of Blood. War parties were lined up along its perimeter. The Ghost-witches and the Pukwudgie lined one side; so many of them, they became a blur. On the other perimeter, the one the bordered the mist, the Kowi Anukasha and the Stikini.”
“And their numbers?”
Pamoon glanced downward. “Maybe half, if that.”
The women began grumbling at Pamoon’s words. One swipe of Opa’s hand brought a deafening silence. “And you wish us to take part in what I can only assume will be a massacre?”
“No.” Pamoon shook her head. “I would never ask you to take part in a massacre, I . . .” Don’t show your hand, she thought. “There are others who have agreed to fight alongside me.”
“Who?”
As Pamoon thought of how to answer, her palm began to tingle. Looking down at her hand, the flame was a piercing reddish-orange. It was so bright, it looked almost 3D. With a heightened sense of self-awareness, she held her palm towards Opa and the others. “Not who, but what,” Pamoon responded.
Confusion painted Opa’s face before the corners of her mouth turned slightly skyward. “Tell me,” Opa said, changing the subject, “about the owl you saw in the woods. You said we had the same eyes. What did you see in its eyes?”
“Knowledge. Power.”
“And mine?”
Pamoon studied Opa’s face. “The same, but more. I see cunning.”
“Do you see evil?” Opa said leaning forward, close enough that Pamoon could feel her breath.
Pamoon felt Scout’s presence. He stepped to her side, leaning against her. “No,” Pamoon said, her heart thundering against her chest. “I sense the same thing the wendigo sensed when your ancestors put him in hibernation.”
Opa leaned back, her eyes wide. “How would you know of such a time?”
“From the wendigo, itself.”
“The wendigo is awake?” Opa asked, her voice a mere whisper.
“He was woken by the same demon that woke the ghost-witches. By the same demon who has turned the Pukwudgie against the other Little People.”
“What demon?”
“Michi-Pichoux. The Water panther controls the Netherworld. He is the one who has started this war. He is the one who wishes to control the Spirit Mount.”
Murmuring turned to yelling—screeching—as the women began pointing fingers at her. Pamoon watched as they began to transform. Their noses—beaks, their fingers—claws—as they pointed at her.
“Enough!” Opa yelled. At the sound of her voice, the women lost their birdlike features. She pointed to the flap of the tee pee. “My sisters and I have much to discuss. Leave us and wait outside.”
Time seemed to crawl as Pamoon and Scout sat outside and waited. The entire time, she heard the screeching of owls inside the tee pee, not the words of humans. About to give up on her quest for help, the flap of the dwelling opened. A foul smell came from within, making her eyes water.
“She saw no one through the opening of the tent but heard Opa speak. “We have decided. Come.”
Opa’s voice had changed; now, high-pitched and menacing in tone. She eyed Scout who pawed the ground, a growl resonating in his throat. She took his face in hers. “Stand down. Do not attack, no matter what.”
Scout whimpered his understanding.
Pamoon stood, wiped the dirt from her dress, took a deep breath, and entered the tent. Opa, or what had been Opa, stood in the middle of the tee pee. The others behind her. No longer women, she looked upon the creatures in front of her. Humanoid creatures whose faces bore beady eyes and beaks, large wings jutting from their backsides. Claws and talons where their hands and feet used to be.
Pamoon steadied herself. Show no fear. She stood directly in front of Opa and waited for her to speak.
“This is who we truly are. Our spirit is more demon than human. Do you still trust us to fight beside you?”
Pamoon felt electricity burn through her flames. She held her palm up. “May I touch you?”
Opa nodded, her sharp beak tilting down, then up. “You may.”
Pamoon rested her left palm on her feathered-chest. She felt the evil within Opa burn her hand. She wanted to pull away. Opa’s eyes told her that the owl-woman expected the same, but Pamoon refused to give them what they wanted. Showing little emotion, Pamoon stared into Opa’s eyes, her jaw clenched against the pain, her hand never moving from the creature’s chest. Pamoon looked past Opa’s eyes into her spirit. She witnessed a darkness, bleak and black, but as she held her hand over the witch’s heart, a light began to emerge. In that light, Pamoon found the truth.
Dropping her hand by her side, Pamoon blinked away her sweat, and wiped her face with the sleeve of her dress. “Like the wendigo,” she said, addressing Opa, “you do not wish man harm. You act like you do to survive. Though I don’t understand your ways, I respect your will to survive in a world that doesn’t understand your ways.”
Opa and the others transformed in a blink of an eye back into women. “Your words and understanding are wiser than your years.”
Pamoon bowed her chin. “Thank you.”
“While you searched for the truth of my spirit, I searched yours,” Opa said as she circled Pamoon.
Pamoon wanted to turn her head and see what the witch was doing, but she resisted, knowing any movement might be seen as a weakness. With Opa once again standing in front of her, Pamoon licked her parched lips, her words stuck somewhere between her brain and her mouth. Taking a deep breath, she found the courage to speak. “What did you find?”
The corners of Opa’s mouth curled up to form a slight grin. “I found the spirit of one whose destiny has yet to come.”
Because of Opa’s severe features, Pamoon wasn’t sure if the witch’s smile was menacing or joy-filled. But what happened next took no thought to decipher. She watched as Opa turned her head one-hundred-and-eighty-degrees so that she looked directly behind her at the other witches. She moves like an owl, Pamoon thought. Even in human form, she is more demon than human.
Pamoon heard Opa and the others screech and chirp at one another before the witch turned her head back around.
“You have proven to be what we have heard through the echoes of the woods. We will fight alongside you for our survival.”
Pamoon nodded. “Thank you.”
“Our feathered-sisters, the Golden eagles, have sent word that the war is about to begin. Leave us to prepare for battle.”
“How will you find the Valley of Blood?”
Opa looked past her to opening of the tent and pointed. “We will follow our sister.”
Pamoon turned to see a Golden eagle perched in the closest tree. “Then I will see you on the battlefield.”
She turned to leave when Opa screeched a warning. “We are trusting you to bring an army. If you fail us, if we are to die, those who remain will hunt you down. Your heart will hang from these rafters.”
Pamoon swallowed the lump in her throat, looked up at the still hearts that hung from strings from the top of the tee pee, but showed no emotion. “Kiche will not fail you.”
Before she walked ten feet, a flock of owls flew past her. Looking at the tree where the Golden eagle waited, she watched as it took flight. The owls flying in formation behind it.
39
Valley of Blood
Ayas stood in the middle of the valley, staring at Ayam, the witch who had been his mother, but not looking at her in the eyes. To do so was instant death.
“I will ask you one more time to join our forces and take your rightful place as our chief,” Ayam said.
“And I will ask you once again, as my mother, to leave this valley and shed no blood.”
Ayam’s stitched lips furled into a snarl. “Your mother died moons ago. My sisters and I will fight for the right to control the Mount.”
Ayas’ hands, now fists by his side, looked past the witch at the hundreds of ghost-witches and Pukwudgie that lined the valley, and sneered. “You have no right to any part of the Spirit World, especially the Mount. Your place is in the grave.”
In response, Ayam pointed over his shoulder and laughed. “Your war-party is a mere pittance of ours. How do you intend to send us to our grave?”
Ayas turned and faced his army. On the other side of the valley stood the Watcher, the Kowi Anukasha, and other tribal little people. “Time for words has ended,” he said, glancing back at Ayam. “When the sun moves to the top of the hour, we fight.”
He stopped momentarily, his breath caught in his throat, as he heard the shaking of Ayam’s totem beads. He wasn’t sure if he could trust her not to kill him where he stood, but death didn’t come. He exhaled and walked back to lead his warriors in battle.
Ayas huddled with Kwanokasha. “Are your people in place?” he asked.
Kwanokasha answered with a curt nod. “They are. The surprise should buy us more time, but without Pamoon—”
“She’ll be here with a war party,” Ayas interrupted.
“How can you be sure?”
Ayas looked to the trees that lined the mist and pointed with his eyes. Golden eagles littered the branches of the pines, too many to count. “The messengers have returned. They wouldn’t be back if Pamoon wasn’t on her way.”
Kwanokasha raised his brows. “Any word of the Water Panther and his followers?”
“None.”
“That’s worrisome,” Kwanokasha answered.
“Eha.”
“What do you suggest?”
Ayas peered across the valley. “I suggest we handle the problem we can see and deal with the one we can’t when it presents itself.” Eyeing the multitude of the enemy, he hoped Michi-Pichoux wouldn’t show. Facing Kwanokasha again, he said, “Remember, the witches cannot kill when they appear as orbs. They are only deadly when they are in their natural form.”
“My people know. You have told them every day since we arrived.”
Ayas opened his mouth to speak, but the sound of hundreds of totem beads being shaken at once startled him. He snapped his head across the valley as the witches transformed into orbs of light. The corner of his mouth edged upward in a snarl. “I knew she wouldn’t wait until the top of the hour.” He growled.
Kwanokasha’s hand slid to his waist and grabbed his blade.
Ayas pulled his bow free of his shoulder, brought two fingers to his lips, and blew. The high-pitched whistle signaled his army that the battle had begun. As he ran back towards the mist, hundreds of eagles soared from the trees; some banked left, while the others banked right. As Ayas climbed the tallest pine tree on the perimeter of the valley, the eagles surrounded mountain bowl in a cloud of black and gold.
Hand over hand, Ayas climbed in the same manner he had had practiced daily since he had arrived in the valley. He scampered to the top of the pine to a hollow he had cut from the branches so he could see the entire valley. Looking left and right, he eyed his stash of arrows and spare bow. Plucking one of the arrows from his quiver, he strung his bow, pulled back until the string almost broke and let it fly.
The arrow arched high and far into the sky before the weight of the tip pulled it toward the earth. Ayas watched its flight as he strung another. He watched as it sunk deep in the chest of one of the Pukwudgie, dropping the fairy before it knew what happened.
The rest of the Pukwudgie screamed a battle cry, knives thrust in the air, their wings jutting out from their sides. As they took flight, the eagles sprang into action.
The war had begun.
40
Life and Death
Pamoon ran back to the meeting room where the council still gathered. Bursting through the door, she startled those within. Breathing hard from her sprint, she eyed White Eagle. “The battle started. I need to get back to the reservation and find Celia.”
White Eagle jumped from his seat, Powaw in tow. “We will come with you.” He glared at Micco, Holata, and the rest of the council. “Do what’s right. Guard your people. Don’t wait until the battle comes to you, for it will be too late,” Eyeing Pamoon, he continued, “Pull the jeep to the front door, I’ll help Powaw.”
Pamoon was running before the last word left his lips.
Pamoon jerked the jeep to a stop next to the area where she trained with Tihk. Jumping from the front seat, she ran up to Celia before the dust had a chance to settle. “The war in the valley has begun, we need to go.” She said, her eyes fully dilated.
