Spirits Collide, page 2
part #2 of Evil Awakened Series
“You’re not blood!” Bobby retorted through gritted teeth.
“She is Cree, not through blood,” a quiet yet powerful voice rang out, “but through actions and spirit.”
Everyone turned to see Powaw, standing in the shadows; Scout by his side.
Stepping from the shade of the trees, Powaw moved with the grace of a man much younger than his years. “Pamoon has proven herself to be more Indian than most Cree I know,” he said with a quiet strength, scanning the teens.
With a total lack of respect, Bobby stared his elder down. “You should be teaching us the tribal secrets, old man, not some pale-faced bitch.”
With more speed than anyone expected, Powaw back-handed Bobby, sending him to the dirt. Bobby scrambled to his feet, wiped the blood from his split lip, and snarled like an animal, his eyes flashing amber before settling back to brown. “You’re gonna regret that, old man.”
Powaw spit Cree words at Bobby and his friends, which they didn’t understand, yet had them slinking away.
Once they were out of sight, Pamoon stopped biting the inside of her mouth and burst out laughing. Not because anything that happened was funny, but because she understood what Powaw had said. “Dog poop,” she whispered. “You called them dog poop?”
Powaw gave her a wink. “Sometimes I forget you now speak perfect Cree.”
Pamoon smiled with pride at his remark.
With a quick whistle, Scout was once again by her side. Petting her best friend, she looked up at Powaw. “That move you just used on Bobby, that was the chopping maneuver used in Okichitaw.”
Powaw smiled back at her. “Okimikahn Kiskino Huma Kew—the Okichitaw Master—taught you all the basics of the Cree martial art during your time in Canada, and you have continued to hone your skills since returning, but the Kiche will not conquer her enemies with might alone.”
Pamoon nodded, half understanding Powaw’s comments. Riddles, she thought. My life is one big riddle.
“Come,” Powaw said, walking ahead. “Today you begin to learn to use your other weapons.”
3
Rebirth
The frozen bluff bubbled in a soft boil as a low-pitched grumble seeped from the mouth of the cave, causing the mountain which slumbered in winter’s peace to wake prematurely.
Heavy icicles hung like stalactites from the top of the maw, masking the opening. The glacial daggers spider-webbed and cracked with the ever-increasing vibrations until they severed from their stout anchor and dropped like lightning from the night sky, revealing the ancient crevasse. Inside the cave, the earth sloped downward until the ground leveled off deep below the surface. In the far recesses of this hidden world, the murmur heard on the mountain roared a ravenous growl. This forgotten, frozen wasteland trembled with the ferocity of molten lava about to erupt.
And erupt it did.
As centuries of old dirt and rock gave way, the stone and ice inside this cavern splintered, no longer able to contain its wicked secrets any longer. The slivers and fissures in the earth’s crust cracked open with each angry tremor until they melded together, forming a gaping hole.
On this eerie, moon-filled night, something birthed from that hole as if it had no choice. A deformed, skeletal hand gripped the side of the opening, pulling its body free from the timeworn sarcophagus. Its initial movements leaden, as if woken from deep hibernation, a beast birthed from the earth’s womb. As the creature continued to rise, there were signs of humanity—a humanity lost long ago. In this forgotten, underground world, the only things that shown through the pitch blackness were the glow of eyes, the yellow tint of flesh, and a red, slithering tongue: all features of a wendigo.
Unable to stand upright in the confined area from which it rose, the beast, hunched and brooding, made its way up to the mouth of the cave. Outside, it unfurled its lanky, paper-thin body to its full fifteen feet. As the beast inhaled, it felt the icy-heat of the sub-zero temperatures burn its lungs. Hissing distain, its breath crystalized and hung in the air, before a blast of frigid wind blew it elsewhere. The wendigo scrutinized its surroundings before peering up at the night sky. The corner of its lipless mouth quivered into an icy snarl, its beady eyes squinting at the intrusive light.
Anger seethed within the monster until it exploded outward. The wendigo stretched its arms downward like a toddler about to throw a tantrum, arched its spine, and craned the sinewy muscles of its neck and torso until it stared straight into the light of the moon, as if searching for a fight. With all its pent-up aggression, the demon howled into the night with venomous rage, its eyes bulging and bloodshot.
The monster relaxed its muscles, took a deep breath, and blinked away tears from the frigid winds as it searched the area as well as its own memory. The creature knew this place. It had been its home and hunting grounds before it was willed into hibernation—one the witches promised would last forever. Continuing to scan the mountain, the monster found what it sought. Drawn to the ice-covered lake below, which sparkled in the moonlight, the enraged beast trounced down the mountain, ripping through the heavy snow with ease, until it stood at the shore of Lake Mameigwess, one of the many lakes within the Kenora district of Ontario. Hunched on all fours, the wendigo punched through the thick ice, dipped its head into the frigid waters, and drank until it was no longer parched.
Attempting to stand, the beast bent forward, hands on its knees, as a series of cramps rifled through its core. Spasms initiated by a pain—a hunger—that could only be satiated by human flesh.
With a final flick of the tongue, the wendigo lifted its nose and sniffed in all directions. Its ears stood at attention, and the fine hair that covered its hide tingled when it sensed what it longed for. The beast turned on its heels and followed the scent. The scent of flesh and blood.
High above the lake, a Golden Eagle perched like a statue on the branch of a tall maple. A week earlier, the majestic bird answered the request from a sacred wind. Doing as instructed, the eagle, one of many, flew north, following the scent of a long-forgotten evil. With each new day, the acrid odor grew stronger until the bird found itself on this mountain top. There, the eagle stayed among these trees waiting for the unknown . . . until tonight when the evil could no longer be contained. Tonight, as the earth trembled, the miasma woke the dead.
When the wendigo emerged from the mouth of the cave, the eagle sank its claws deep into the branch, its feathers quivered, its pupils dilated. The large bird stalked in silence, its eyes mere slits, and its wings tucked close to its powerful torso. Only when the monster slinked far from the lake, did the Golden Eagle spread its wings and launch into the night. The massive bird soared high above the trees and flew south, hoping time was on its side.
The gravestones shook as the earth trembled. With each thunderous vibration, more of the stones crumbled along with the dirt and rock that held them upright. In the oldest parcel of this ancient burial ground, hidden among the dense forests of northeastern New England, one grave sat separated from the rest without a marker or a stone. Scratched into a nearby tree were words written in the language used by the Wabanaki Indians. Here lie the ashes of the last Skadegamutc. To disturb this grave is to bring certain death.
The quake which had begun moments earlier strengthened as it reached this parcel until the frozen ground cracked open like an eggshell. From the depths of this forsaken plot came a ghost-witch, a vampiric package of hatred, horror, and sadistic evil. The Skadegamutc floated out of the grave, a mixture of gray smoke and ash, before materializing into flesh and bone. Naked and skeletal, the features that stood out from the rest were its eyes and mouth—or lack of. Her eyeballs consisted only of the sclera, the whites, no pupil or any other anatomy which would give the witch the natural ability to see. The mouth sewn shut with pieces of its own viscera. She scanned her naked frame and with one shake of her totem beads, a dirty, opaque, silk burial gown covered her body.
The ghost-witch panned the cemetery, turning its head to and fro. A broad, lopsided, closed-mouth grin rose from her cracked lips as she shook totem beads clutched in her fist. The shaking of the beads caused other gravesites to crack open, dispelling other dark spirits. An ear-piercing screech rose from the Skadegamutc’s throat. Upon hearing her shriek, the other ghost-witches materialized and raised their voices along with hers. The ear-splitting pitch and subsequent echo caused trees to fall and windows, miles away, to splinter and shatter.
With another shake of her beads, the lead ghost-witch, Ayamihewiskwew, meaning High Priestess, silenced her followers. She floated amongst the others, corralling them into a tight group. With a cursory nod, she shook her totem necklace one last time. In the fraction of a second it takes a humming bird to flap its wings, all the Skadegamutc transformed into orbs of eerie, iridescent light and disappeared into the night.
A Golden Eagle hidden among the dense pines watched in horror the scene that took place mere yards away from its hiding place. As the orbs disappeared from sight, it took flight to warn all who would listen and to relate the grotesque happenings to its brothers and sisters who waited for a message. A message they would carry back to the valley and the one who summoned them.
4
Choctaw Little People
Deep within the Kisatchie National Forest in northern Louisiana, the Kowi Anukasha gathered for an emergency meeting. The Choctaw Little People had not gathered in one place in many years. Murmuring and gossip spread among the forest dwellers, getting louder by the second. The sound of a walking stick banging on a tree stump silenced the chatter.
All eyes were on the one who now stood on the stump. Kwanokasha—the Watcher—and chief shaman of all Kowi Anukasha instilled awe and trepidation in the Little People. Legends and stories recounted for generations told that he could read the minds and intentions of those in his presence.
“Word has come from the north of a great evil which has awoken after many years of peace,” Kwanokasha said in a voice, little more than a whisper. “Someone or something,” he emphasized, “has called forth the wendigo and the ghost-witches from their graves.”
The murmuring amplified as the Little People began shouting questions at their leader.
“Quiet!” the Watcher yelled. “This is no time for disbelief. Word has come down from our Muskogee cousins, the Fastachee. They have been told of the wendigo’s presence by a Golden Eagle who is warning all who will listen as it flies south. The Wabanaki have witnessed the Skadegamutc as they destroy everything and everyone foolish enough to look them in the eye.”
Kwanokasha squeezed his walking stick tighter as he gazed upon his people. “This is a time for action. We must go out and warn all the tribal little people. Break up into groups and scatter across the land. It will take all of our combined magic to try and stop this evil from spreading.” The old, bearded, little person pointed his stick at those gathered and commanded them to prepare and depart immediately.
As the Choctaw Little People scattered from the glen, Kwanokasha held two back. “I’ve been told you are fleet of foot, is that true?”
The two, stunned to be speaking to their great leader, just nodded, lost for words.
“What are your names?”
The first opened his mouth to speak, but it came out as a squeak. He cleared his throat and once again attempted to answer. “I am Mantema and this is my brother, Shikoba.”
“Hmm,” the Watcher said. “The deliverer of what is sacred, and feather; it seems your names mark your destiny.” He hopped off the stump and stood eye-to-eye with his tribesmen. “I will not lie to you, there is little chance we alone can stop these evil spirits. But the wind carries word of one who has emerged with enough power to possibly stop this evil before it kills many and gathers other evil in its wake.”
Shikoba nudged his brother and whispered in his ear. Mantema nodded and bashfully eyed the Watcher. “May we ask who you speak of?”
“It only seems fitting since I’m going to send you to find her, but why doesn’t your brother speak what’s on his mind?” Kwanokasha said.
“Shikoba has a bad speech impediment and is bashful to speak in front of those he doesn’t know.”
The Watcher grunted his understanding, and answered Mantema’s question. “The wind speaks of the Kiche, or the one who will one day become the Sky Spirit Goddess. If this is true, her powers may be enough.”
Just hearing the name reflexively caused the brothers to suck in air.
“It is said that she lives south among the Cree and Seminoles,” the Watcher continued. “I need you to leave immediately, find her, and send word back to me.” He pointed his walking stick at both. “You are not to let yourselves be seen or to make your presence known to her. Is that understood?”
They nodded, mouths still gaped wide.
“Only I have the ability to judge if she is the one legends speak of,” Kwanokasha added. “When I receive word from you, I will come and question her. Now go.”
A Golden eagle watching from above dropped its beak in response to Kwanokasha. With a quick whistle of reverence, it spread its wings, dropped from the top of the tree, and took flight.
5
Sweat Lodge
After a breakfast of crushed oats and honey, Pamoon joined Powaw in the sweat lodge. It was there that he spoke of the Cree nation’s history and the secrets only known to the tribe’s elders. Secrets he now passed on to her.
After a long period of silence and meditation, Pamoon opened her eyes to find Powaw mixing herbs in a bowl and grinding them into a fine powder. “Did you see Bobby’s eyes change when you hit him?”
“Eha,” Powaw nodded, as he continued to mix and grind. “Kanontsistonties spirit still courses through their bodies. You’ll have to be careful in their presence.”
Pamoon traced the faint scars on her left arm from her battle with Kanontsistonties. Her body chilled. “That explains why Scout gets protective when they’re around.”
“Eha,” Powaw nodded again.
Trying to erase the images in her head, Pamoon asked, “What are you mixing?”
Powaw drew a white-tipped wooden match from his pocket and struck it on the wood floor, lighting a small fire under the copper kettle which held the herbs. “Just close your eyes and breathe deep. You’ll know soon enough.”
Pamoon trusted Powaw enough not to ask further questions. Her eyelids grew heavy as she inhaled through her nose, exhaling through her mouth. Continuing to breathe slow and deep, she allowed her mind to wander wherever it wanted to take her. The more relaxed she became, the further into her subconscious she tumbled. She fell so deep into the recesses of her mind, she barely picked up the smell of the crushed herbs: sage, oak, birch, and peyote. It was the birch that helped focus her thoughts.
Ayas materialized in the depths of her mind, his face was partially covered in blood. He stared, not blinking at something outside of Pamoon’s vision. Her skin tingled an alarm, and she attempted to wake from her meditative state.
“Stay calm and breathe,” she heard Powaw say, his words mere murmurs, echoing in the vast darkness of her imagination. “You’re just experiencing the effects of the peyote.” Pamoon opened her mouth to inhale and was corrected again. “Inhale and exhale through your nose. Slow your breathing.”
With the peyote taking control of her thoughts, Pamoon had no idea if she had been sitting for ten minutes or ten hours. Her mind swam with a sea of impossibilities. Visions of the Misty Woods bombarded her thoughts. Mythological creatures and beasts, spoken about around Indian campfires, flittered in and out of her vision. She saw them peeking out from behind the trees or hiding high in their branches. Every image so brief, she couldn’t get a clear view of any of them, yet she knew they were there. About to give up, she witnessed a monster that thirsted for blood and towered as high as some trees. Her skin prickled when the beast turned sideways and seemingly disappeared. As it angled back toward her, it once again came into view. Her mind swirling, Pamoon tried to blink away the image.
“Breathe,” she heard Powaw say.
Taking slower, deeper breaths, she dove deeper into her subconscious, hoping to find peace, but that was not to be. She envisioned a vile scene in which an owl clutched the beating heart of a beast in its beak. Pamoon’s heart quickened as the owl turned and faced her head on, pointed not a wing, but a long, crooked finger at her and cackled a threat or a warning, she couldn’t be sure.
This time there was no possible way Pamoon was going to be able to stay within her vision. With sudden fright, she opened her eyes forcing herself to wake from her hallucinations. Scurrying and clawing at the wood floor, she tried to stand, wanting out of the lodge and away from the smoke that now filled the cedar dwelling.
“Relax,” Powaw said, grabbing her by the shoulders and forcing her to stay seated. “You woke much too fast. Stop moving or you will get sick. Very sick.”
Pamoon’s heart felt like it would explode from her chest and sweat poured from her brow. Not the sweat created by the heat of the lodge, but perspiration born of fear. She fought her panic and with Powaw’s help, relaxed her body, feeling a sense of security in his grasp. The last thing Pamoon remembered was hearing Powaw chanting. A chant that calmed her nerves and lulled her back to sleep.
When she woke, Pamoon was not in the lodge, but in the Spirit World. She was not in the Misty Woods but in the Spirit Cave. The feeling inside the cave made no sense. She had seen the cave bright with the light of her confidence and dark from the fear of her destiny, but she’d never seen it like this. All around her was a sense of evil, and evil was not supposed to be able to inhabit this sacred dwelling.
