They Come When You Sleep: 16 Tales of Horror and the Supernatural (Stories for Late at Night), page 10
In contrast, the owl warrior wore a headdress shaped like the giant head of a barn owl, with two glittering dark eyes and a sharp curved beak perched atop his head. In the shadows of the firelight, he resembled one of the great owl gods of legend.
Other warriors in the circle wore the hide of a bear, wolf, or bison with the sacred creature’s head atop their own and its teeth hanging from necklaces and the fringes of their clothes. Two warriors wore the hide of a deer and an elk, with tall antlers casting long shadows on the ground.
From the east, a warrior wore a buckskin shirt with turtle shells affixed down the chest and across the shoulders. Under different circumstances, these warriors would likely face each other in battle as the fortunes of their Native American nations ebbed and flowed. Many had already fought in skirmishes between each other’s nations. However, tonight they stood as uneasy allies, eyeing the shaman suspiciously.
The shaman stood and raised the clay bowl in one hand toward the dark heavens of the night sky, firelight glinting off the copper bands he wore around his ankles and wrists. In his other hand, he shook a ceremonial mace; leather straps holding bird skulls and feathers dangled from the smooth, round wooden head. The skulls clicked together, sounding like ghostly crickets as he shook his hand. He wore the ancient beak of a large bird over his nose held on by leather straps tied behind his head.
He stood nearly nine feet tall, a giant among the assembled warriors but diminutive by the standards of his people. The shaman felt the distrust of the warriors, even though they joined for a common purpose. His people, the First Born, the Mound Builders, were their ancient enemies. Even now, nearly two hundred years since the nations allied together and threw down the ancient stronghold of Cahokia, eradicating all but the memory of his people, there was still a fear of his vanquished race.
The shaman wore his buckskin shirt tied at the chest; the cold air felt good against his skin as he drank the bitter brew. His body swayed to the earth’s heartbeat, causing his long, gray-streaked braid to pendulum across his back. As he felt the potion course through his veins, he nodded to the Chippewa boy, and the youth began to feed bundles of sage into the fire. The flames greedily consumed the dried leaves and filled the night air with the acrid smell of the burning herb.
He closed his dark eyes, shutting out the world around him as he let his inner sight travel to the spirit world. Geometric shapes flashed through his mind, and a floating sensation surrounded his body. Slowly the feeling changed from floating to falling; his heart beat rapidly in his chest as he plummeted through the darkness. His mind reeled at terrifying thought of his body striking the ground and shattering like a fragile seashell clawed at his mind.
Then he was soaring. The darkness cleared, and after momentary disorientation, he realized he was seeing out the eyes of a great bird, an eagle by the talons he saw beneath the body. Trees and ground passed beneath him in the night, his eyes detecting the movement of nocturnal creatures in the brush below. The eagle soared over the agricultural fields and darkened huts of the small villages that supplied the walled city of Cahokia. The bird came to land on the high wooden fortification that protected the Cahokia, its sharp talons digging into the ancient wood. The rows of wooden homes and open plazas were devoid of people, only the occasional stray dog slinked through the shadows.
The shaman looked toward the massive, four-terraced platform mound rising over one hundred feet in the city’s center. Hundreds of torches burned atop, and his heart sank with the memories of this night. The eagle retook flight, its strong wings propelling the mighty bird high above the titanic mound.
Atop the massive mound, the warriors of Cahokia stood in three concentric circles from the outer edge of the plateau. Each held a spear in one hand and a torch aloft in the other, the fires glinting off the copper arm rings of the warriors like stars in the night sky.
Other warriors led dozens of captives, several feet shorter than the towering Cahokians, in a procession that wound up the terraced mound. The shaman knew from the captives’ long dark hair and lithe bodies that these were mostly women seized from the nations by the Cahokians. The steady thumping of the ceremonial drums mingled with the terrified cries of the captives as they were led toward the center of the mound, where the desiccated corpse of a male Cahokian lay.
The man, He Who Raises the Earth, lay atop a bed of thousands of white marine shell disc beads. He was the ancient god of the Cahokians, having come to them from the sea after the great cataclysms, and taught them crafts, skills, and magic. Even in death, he remained their most significant source of power.
With the eagle’s keen sight, the shaman scanned the dozens of Cahokia holy men dancing around the bed of shell beads, raising their long copper and bone knives in the ceremonial calling to He Who Raises the Earth. He spotted the young man he sought in the throes of the reverent dance and recognized his younger self.
The shaman pleaded with the eagle to turn away from the plateau to spare him from reliving the terrible deeds of that night, but the eagle held fast. An anguished wail escaped the shaman’s throat that emanated from the eagle’s mouth like a mournful cry as the scene below unfolded.
The terrified screams of the captives as the warriors led them forward. The chanting of the Cahokians as the shamans sacrificed the prisoners to He Who Raises the Earth, coating the skeletal body and seashells with waves of dark red blood. The primal frenzy of the Cahokians as the procession continued until there were no more to sacrifice.
Silence descended upon the plateau as the eagle drifted on the night wind. The high shaman, coated in blood and gore from the night’s work, beckoned four tall warriors to come forward. The men wore long black robes covering all except their heads and hands. The robes trailed the ground as they crossed the plateau and stepped over the bodies of the sacrificed.
The high shaman led them to the four stone tablets and directed the men to lie down. The eagle stared down into the stoic faces of the four men as they lay, their dark eyes looking skyward.
The ceremonial drums continued to beat as the high shaman walked to the first man and raised a sword, crafted from the bone of a bison, over the man’s head. The acute hearing of the eagle could pick out the chants of the high shaman to He Who Raises the Earth among the mingled voices of the ceremony.
The man did not flinch as the high shaman brought the white blade down and sliced the man’s head from his body. With slight adjustments, the high shaman brought the sword down twice more, separating the man’s hands from his body. Two Cahokian women placed the head and hands reverently in a basket. They followed behind the high shaman as he repeated the process on the other three warriors. Each accepting his end without sound or movements.
The shaman saw his younger self step forward with three others, each carrying a basket they set down beside the headless warriors. The high shaman returned to stand beside the first warrior, his hands circling the air over the body as he swayed and chanted.
Reaching into the basket, he withdrew the black-clawed skeletal paws of a bear and placed them against the corpse’s bloody wrists. The high shaman withdrew the skull and jawbone of an elk from the basket and set it atop the decapitated neck. The creature’s antlers branched outward from the head, and the impenetrable blackness of the eye sockets seemed impervious to the hundreds of burning fires on the plateau.
The eagle circled the plateau as the high shaman adorned each of the warriors’ corpses with the skeletal accouterments, the only sound the incessant beating of the ceremonial drums as the shamans began to dance around the bodies of the slain Cahokians.
Then the high shaman chanted, calling on He Who Raises the Earth to place his hand upon the warriors. The encircled warriors joined their voices to the chant, stomping their feet in rhythm with the drums.
The eagle swooped lower as all the drumming and chanting suddenly stopped. The shaman watched through the eagle’s eyes as the first warrior slowly sat up. The creature’s skeletal claws clenched and unclenched, then it slowly turned its elk skull to watch as its three companions slowly rose.
As the Cahokians shouted praise and thanks to He Who Raises the Earth, the first warrior stared upward and fixed the bottomless darkness of his eyes upon the eagle. Blackness engulfed the shaman’s vision, and the sensation of falling resumed. His mind screamed, certain he would plummet to the earth.
Then he blinked back against the brightness as the feeling of soaring through the air returned, and daylight filled his vision. He was once again within the body of a bird, and with a sidelong glance, he saw the sleek black wings of a crow had replaced the mighty wings of the eagle.
The crow cawed as it circled high above an island the shaman recognized as the Powhatan island of Cuscarawaoke, which the pale invaders now settled and called Rawranoke, after the white beads made there as ornaments and currency for the Algonquian nation.
The homes of the invaders looked deserted, with their hearth fires extinguished and their fields long untended. The crow turned westward and flew across the expanse of water separating the island from the mainland. Swooping low along the coast, the bird cawed, calling the shaman’s attention to the dozens of abandoned boats that dotted the coastline. Several small wooden boats had washed up on the sandy shores, while others lay smashed against the rocks or drifted aimlessly in the surf.
The crow landed on a footpath that led away from the beach. Through the bird’s dark eyes, the shaman could see scores of footprints, the stiff leather footfalls of the invaders, had passed this way, crushing the soft grass.
The shaman’s vision swam in a dizzying lurch as the crow took flight, and the ground rapidly disappeared below them. The crow flew northwesterly, covering hundreds of miles as it soared across the bright blue sky. Thousands of acres of forested land streamed beneath them as the bird followed the trail made by the travelers.
When they finally caught up to them, the crow circled in a wide arc and flew low over the heads of the men and women traveling in a silent procession. The shaman could see they wore clothes common to the English invaders but looked ragged and worn. As they ambled forward, their eyes stared straight ahead, vacant and unseeing.
The crow craned its neck, and the shaman’s heart sank as a terrible fear rose in his gullet. The last two hundred years had not been kind, washing away all traces of the past and leaving only fields of green grass. However, there could be no mistaking the four-terraced platform mound that rose up before them.
The invaders were being summoned to Cahokia.
The shaman fell to his knees and wretched, coughing up bile in thick, hacking wads. He felt the eyes of the warriors upon him, judging their ancient enemy for his weakness.
“What did your vision show you?” The warrior dressed in the bear skin eyed him.
“It.” The shaman slowly rose to his feet. “It is worse than I had feared.”
“Did you see the Wendigoes?” the Bear pressed him further. “Are they truly all here?”
“I believe they are.” The shaman nodded.
“Why would the Wendigoes gather here?” The Elk shook his head. “They have plagued our people for generations, but never more than one has been seen at a time.”
“They gather here because it is the place of their creation.” The shaman looked at him with deep remorse.
“Their creation?” The Crow stared at him with hard eyes, and the Turtle spat at the ground before the shaman’s feet.
“Yes, the Wendigoes are the children of Cahokia.” The shaman steeled himself for their anger as dark murmurs rippled through the gathered warriors.
“Anasazi.” The Wolf spoke his people’s word for their ancient enemies as he glared at the shaman. “All from Cahokia are our enemies.”
“Why would Cahokia create such monsters?” The Eagle gave the shaman a baleful look.
“It was pride and folly.” The shaman met the gaze of each of the warriors. He deserved their hatred for his role in the dark deeds of that night. “Cahokia was defeated. Its empire had fallen, overpowered by the nations. Cahokia created the Wendigoes to punish the nations in the bitterness of defeat. To forever haunt the nations with an echo of Cahokia, a curse upon the victors.”
“Our elders tell the tales of those days.” The Bear looked at the warriors and then turned to the shaman. “They say the nations came to the people of Cahokia with peace in their hearts, but Cahokia made war upon them.”
“This is true.” The shaman nodded. “The nations came to us seeking to live side by side in peace. Our elders saw the potential for trade between our peoples and prosperity. But they grew fearful when they beheld the multitudes that came with you. The First Born live long lives, many times longer than your people. However, our children were few. The elders feared that you would swallow the empire up and pour over the walls of Cahokia.”
“And we did.” The Elk let the pride in his words show on his face, and the other warriors nodded in agreement.
“But only after Cahokia attacked the nations.” The Turtle looked at the shaman. “You reaped what you sowed. And still, you unleashed the Wendigoes on us. To kill our people and steal our children in the night.”
The Bear raised his hand to call for silence, and all eyes turned toward him. “Our elders have sent us to end the terror of the Wendigoes, and the shaman has led us to the gathering of these vile children of Cahokia, as he promised the nations.”
“The blood of our ancestors calls out for vengeance, and they shall receive it, my brothers.” The Bear met the eyes of each of the warriors with a steady gaze. “But first, the Wendigoes will die upon our spears and arrows, so I wish to hear what the shaman saw in his vision.”
The shaman nodded to the Bear and then addressed the assembled warriors. “The Wendigoes gather atop the Great Mound of Cahokia. However, they are not alone; they have called nearly a hundred of the pale invaders from Rawranoke to them.”
“The Wendigoes are allied with the English?” The Turtle looked shocked and alarmed.
“We will gather more warriors.” The Wolf nodded. “We will shed the blood of the invaders alongside the Wendigoes.”
“No.” The shaman’s rebuke came out sharply. “The invaders must not be harmed.”
“They are both our enemies.” The Bison narrowed his eyes. “Why fight one enemy and leave another to fight another day?”
“The Great Mound at Cahokia is a place of power and sacrifice.” The shaman threw the last bundle of sage onto the fire, causing it to flare and send burning embers floating into the night sky. “It is the resting place of He Who Raises the Earth, who your people call Krowatowan, and he demands blood in return for his power and favor. I believe the Wendigoes called the invaders there to sacrifice them.”
“Let them shed the blood of the English.” The Turtle spat on the ground. “I will not cry for their dead.”
“No, their blood on the Great Mound of Cahokia is what the Wendigoes seek.” The Bear stared into the flames.
“So we must protect the pale ones and kill the Wendigoes?” The Deer shook his head.
“That is correct.” The shaman nodded. “Whatever their dark purpose, the Wendigoes need the blood of the invaders to invoke the power of He Who Raises the Earth. We cannot let that happen.”
The Turtle swore and kicked at the dirt as uncertain murmurs spread among the warriors.
“How can we stop them?” The Bison looked to the shaman. “How do we kill the Wendigoes?”
“Your weapons alone will not harm the Wendigoes. They know this, which will give us the element of surprise.” The shaman pointed to the dying fire. “We will coat our weapons in the ash of the sage leaves. The sage will make our weapons deadly to the Wendigo.”
“I am brave. I can fight with the Wendigoes.” The Chippewa boy gripped a deer bone knife and looked up at the tall shaman.
“Yes, you are fearless.” The shaman smiled at the boy. “But you are also very fast; if we fail, we need you to warn the nations.”
The boy opened his mouth to protest, but the shaman placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. His shoulders slumped in resignation, and the boy looked down at his feet. He did not look up again until the shaman and warriors headed into the darkness.
The shaman gripped his spear tightly as he ran alongside the warriors, his long strides compensating for the speed of the younger men. The faint light of the crescent moon did little to light their way, but it also hid them more easily from the eyes of the enemy.
The villages surrounding Cahokia had long ago turned to dust, leaving only a vast, flat expanse leading up to the four terraces of the Great Mound. The men could see fires burning atop the Great Mound, causing the high plateau to glow orange against the night sky.
The moon was at its nightly peak as they reached the base of the Great Mound. The Elk silently pointed at the well-trodden grass on the winding path up to the plateau, indicating that many feet had passed this way recently.
The Bear led their ascent up the path of the Great Mound; he clutched two ash-covered war hatchets in his hands. Behind him, striding side by side, were the Bison, Wolf, and Elk, each carrying long, iron-tipped spears. The Eagle, Crow, and Owl followed four paces behind them, arrows nocked in half-drawn bows. The Turtle and Deer strode alongside the shaman in the last rank, armed with their ash-coated spears.
The cool night air blew the scent of burning fires down to them as they ascended the first two plateaus. As they quickly moved up the path, the steady beat of a drum reached their ears, growing ever louder as they climbed higher.
Memories of ascending the heights of the Great Mound in the days of Cahokia’s greatness flooded back to the shaman and filled him with nostalgia, mingled with the feeling of growing dread as they neared the plateau.
As the warriors passed the third terrace and neared cresting the plateau, the Bear signaled for them to stop. Lowering himself to the ground, he quietly slid forward to peer over the lip of the table. The warrior’s dark bearskin masked him against the darkness as he crawled forward.
