The Night Visitor, page 34
A second missile is launched from the bluff above the pond… a white, egg-shaped stone.
There is a thin whistling sound …
It strikes the spear-carrier’s skull.
… a sudden, mind-numbing pain.
The young hunter grabs his head, feels something hard protruding from his skull. He stumbles like a drunken man.
The mammoth takes another halfhearted swipe at the stricken man with its long tusks; the hunters rush into the pond—hoping to distract the animal with loud cries and the sting of flint-tipped darts.
It is all over so quickly. A hail of ineffective missiles are launched. The dying animal, oblivious to this assault, has simply lost too many gallons of blood. The mammoth stumbles, reels… and falls onto the injured spear-carrier. The great beast struggles only for a moment… and sighs like a weary soul ready for that final sleep. Then, ever so slowly, the huge creature sinks into the dark grave where he will lay for a thousand thousand days and more. But not alone.
Then …
Filthy water fills his mouth… he struggles… gags.
Bones snap like dry twigs.
He sees the yawning mouth of the pit …
is swallowed up in darkness.
Then …
Someone comes… someone merciful.
It is Death. She whispers to him… caresses his face.
Pain slips away like melting wax.
It is over.
Indeed, it is finally, truly finished. His weary soul is released and now may find its rest.
The murderer pauses on the brow of the bluff; he must have his moment to gloat. His rival has been eliminated, and he is greatly pleased. But he must return to the pack before he is missed, so the shadowy figure leaves the bluff. Like a stealthy rodent, he scurries unseen through the hillside brush… slips furtively along the reedy bank of the black marsh. He is secure in the knowledge that his young rival is no more. The woman will be his alone. But two things bother him. First, there is the nagging sense that he has done this all before. Many times. And he is filled with the superstitious fear that someone… a stranger… has witnessed his crime.
The child has seen it all.
The leader pauses as he wades toward the still form of the fallen beast. He pulls his foot from the sucking muck, and recalls the mammoth’s vain struggle. The seasoned hunter scoops up a handful of ooze from the bottom. He rubs a sample between thumb and finger. Sniffs at it. Grunts his displeasure. He holds up his hand to halt those who follow and mutters a guttural command.
They understand. It is the dreadful black sand that will swallow a man alive.
Except for one soul whose overwhelming hunger overcomes his fear, they retreat to the reedy bank. He wades through the black waters, barely able to pull his feet from the clutching muck. The desperate carnivore climbs upon the beast’s quivering leg and begins to hack away great chucks of bloody flesh. While his comrades watch, he gorges himself on this raw meat. On orders from the leader, the hunters break up dry reeds and tie them together in bundles. They will produce a makeshift raft to rescue the enthusiastic butcher… and as much precious flesh as can be salvaged.
Later, in the depths of winter, tales will be told of the youthful hunter’s bravery. Songs will be sung about his great heart, how he carried the long spear, how he crept up behind the animal with sweeping tusks—only to be crushed when the beast fell. So the hero will not sleep with the young woman. He will have neither son nor daughter to remember his name. Alas, his remains will not be carried back to the camp for the ritual burning. His body has vanished under the dark waters.
Though most are sorrowful at the loss of the young man, these are not a sentimental people. There will be time later for such mourning as hard-pressed nomads can afford. Thoughts quickly turn to filling one’s stomach. There was little enough meat to be salvaged before the beast was swallowed into the belly of the black sands, but it will feed a few mouths for a few days. At the edge of the pond, the surviving hunters make a circle of heavy stones. A surviving pine-knot torch is used to ignite birch twigs. Soon, a small fire snaps and pops. More fuel is added. Dry branch of pine and cedar. Stringy flesh roasts over the flames.
The child who dreams moves away.
At the camp near the base of the great rock pillar, there are those who anxiously await the return of the hunters. It is especially the women who watch the forest for any sign of their men. The few aged souls who have survived many cruel winters wait patiently for either food or starvation. A small floppy-eared canine who is more wolf than dog lays his muzzle between his paws and whines.
One keeps himself apart from the others. He is old now, terribly crippled from an encounter with a great bison. Under the moon—now sailing high across a choppy sea of iceberg clouds—the wizard sits cross-legged before a fire. He tosses a handful of gray moss onto the embers. And bits of precious dried herbs.
The fire-spirit accepts the offering; bluish-yellow flames dance before the wizard.
He pulls up a pinch of loose skin on his thin neck and pierces it with a cactus spine. He repeats this ritual with seven spines, leaving all in place. Blood trickles onto his chest. The throbbing pain quickens his perception of things unseen. The wind suddenly whips the flames, sending smoke into his face. The gaunt man closes his eyes, breathes the acrid fumes deep into his lungs, as he whispers the powerful words passed down from shaman to shaman over many centuries. He waits.
Presently, he perceives the hunters… and the hunted. His closed eyes see torches waving in short arcs, his old ears hear—though faintly—the hoarse call of hunters to the cornered animal. The men are afraid of their prey, and rightly so. He can feel their racing heartbeats thudding under his own ribs. Gradually, the whole scene unfolds before him. The wizard watches the beast back slowly into the brackish waters of a reed-lined water hole. He feels the fear and desperation of the wounded prey. And senses its elemental urge… escape… escape… escape.
But the weary creature does not charge.
The wizard sees the brave youth—his nephew—with spear in hand. Approaching the great beast from behind. The vision fades. The old man opens his eyes.
Thinking his vision finished, he is greatly astonished.
In the smoke above the fire, the old man sees the face and form of a child.
* * *
It is a girl, with dark skin and oddly slanted eyes. She is not of his people, nor does she speak his tongue. And yet… she is of a kind with hint. Closer to the wizard than his wife, his sister… even his mother.
Now, her lips move. The child’s words are alien, but in his soul the old man understands.
He inquires politely: from what far world does she come… Does she have a name?
And so she tells him her name—and of her world and herself. Her mother and father are dead—now she lives with an old woman whose home is… or will be… by the mouth of a nearby canyon. She describes another child with pale skin… whose hair is like fine gold. And she reveals many great wonders that are yet to be. The girl also tells her tale of a great beast whose bones will lie undisturbed for ages and then be uncovered… The bones of a young man will also be found. And then she falls silent.
The wizard is also silent for some time, and heavy with sorrow. Then he tells her of many secret things… and much of what has been.
As they commune, the flames flicker.
The earth turns.
Young stars are born quietly in wombs of glowing dust.
Old stars expand like crimson cosmic balloons… and perish in terrible fury.
Their very cinders are swallowed up in the ultimate darkness of infinite gravity.
And forgotten.
Vagabond comets swing past earth’s star in lonely, elliptic orbits.
And fall into the outer darkness from whence they emerged. And forgotten.
Immense herds of great beasts are slaughtered without thought of economy.
And perish to the last living creature.
And forgotten.
Great empires are born, and flourish. Grand cities are built on glistening seashores.
The nations rot from inner corruption and topple like aged trees. The cities crumble into rubble and are covered by the sands of time.
And forgotten.
Through all of these things, the flames of the distant camp-fires flicker.
The people are born. They hunger and lust and strive. And die.
Their whitened bones are scattered like fragments of chalk under the dust of ages.
And are… so it seems… lost to all memory.
But forevermore, nothing in creation… that was… or is… or is yet to be… shall be forgotten.
Not one strand of gray hair on the old woman’s head.
Not the least sparrow that falls.
Not the most feeble cry of despair.
Because… amidst the churning chaos… an eternal flame flickers.
It is… so it may seem… a small light.
But the fullness of night cannot comprehend this radiance.
Nor can all the powers of darkness extinguish it.
Sarah felt herself being pulled back.
Butter Flye was tugging at her arm. “Wake up.”
Her limbs felt so very heavy.
“You’re snoring again. I cain’t sleep when you’re makin’ all that racket.”
But Sarah is barely aware of her surroundings. The Ute-Papago girl had seen the ages unrolled like a scroll before her eyes. She has seen it all. Now, she knows many things. Secret things. It was quite a long time before she found her voice.
She looked sideways at the smaller child. “Butter?”
“Yeah?”
“The man who took you away that night—was he like you? I mean… did he have blue eyes… and yellow hair?”
The white child hesitated, then nodded. “And he was really dirty.”
Sarah sat up on the edge of the bed. And considered all the strange things that had happened. The mud-caked man who had taken Butter to the excavation tent—he was that young hunter who had waded into the water behind the elephant. The same night visitor who’d showed Aunt Daisy the “egg” which had struck him in the head. The little girl thought she under stood why—after such a very long time—he had come back. It was not only because he was awfully tired of being scrunched up there in the dark… under the elephant. There was another, more important reason. The Magician wanted his bones dug up. He wanted someone to know he had been murdered.
She knows. And because time is a great sea for spirits to swim in, she has told his uncle.
So now the fallen hunter can rest.
But Sarah is puzzled by one remaining mystery. Why did the Magician take Butter Flye to the excavation—and show her where his bones were hidden? He could have taken me. Perhaps it was because of Butter’s blue eyes and golden hair. Yes… that was it. The hunter and the little white child—they were of the same tribe.
12
THE HOLIDAYS
ON THE EVE OF CHRISTMAS
IN THE HUBBUB of animated conversation, happy squeals and squawks from the children, bubbling coffeepot, KSUT’S Christmas music program blaring over the small FM radio—it was difficult for those gathered in Daisy Perika’s small kitchen to hear the approaching automobile. Only one among them—and he was expecting this particular visitor—heard the rhythmic throb of internal combustion engine, the protesting creak of springs and chassis. But Charlie Moon gave no sign that he noticed the arrival.
There were squeaks as the porch steps were climbed, then a light knock.
Daisy turned the radio down. The elderly Ute woman hobbled across the cracked linoleum and opened the trailer door.
Anne Foster was standing on the rickety porch, her arms filled with wrapped gifts. She flashed the dazzling smile. “Merry Christmas.”
Well, this was a nice surprise. Daisy stepped aside. “C’mon in, if you can find room. This place is crowded as a herd o’ goats in a phone booth.”
The lovely woman didn’t look directly at Scott Parris, who had got up from his straight-backed chair. Anne kneeled by the girls. And gave them each a box wrapped in iridescent blue paper decorated with floating angels.
The Ute-Papago child—fascinated by this woman’s waves of strawberry-red hair—was very shy. “Thank you,” Sarah whispered. She immediately decided to save hers for Christmas morning. That was when Daddy and Mommy had always opened the presents.
Butter Flye was a product of more aggressive genes. She shook her box. It rattled. “What’s in it?”
Anne laughed. “Open it and see.”
Butter began to tear at the wrapping. Under the angel-paper, she uncovered a pretty red box. Inside was a doll dressed in red silk pajamas. Fantastically chubby cheeks. Impossibly golden hair and periwinkle-blue eyes. The little girl looked up at the red-haired woman. “It’s a nice box.”
“Nice box?”
The child nodded earnestly. “Toe Jam’ll like it. He’s gettin’ tired of livin’ in that ugly old shoe box.”
Anne didn’t dare ask what a Toe Jam was.
Daisy opened her present. It was—though the old woman did not realize it—a very expensive gift. A marvelous reproduction of a black-and-white Anasazi bowl. “Thanks,” she said. “It’s nice.” Just what every Indian needs. Another clay pot.
Moon nodded politely at the newcomer. Anne gave him the hint of a conspirator’s smile, then flashed a sly look at Scott Parris. “How have you been?”
Parris shrugged. “Oh, okay, I guess.” He wondered whether she had a gift for him. And how come—on this particular evening when he happened to be here—she’d driven all the way from Granite Creek to Daisy Perika’s home. Must be a coincidence.
Moon found a week-old newspaper that needed reading. Daisy, at a nod from her nephew, also found urgent things to occupy herself with. Like sparkling clean dishes in the sink that—for some obscure reason—needed another rinse and wipe.
Anne took Scott Parris’ arm. She whispered in his ear. “I want to apologize. For how I behaved the last time we met.”
He frowned thoughtfully. “When was that?”
So he’s still miffed. But she played along. “When you showed me our… your new house. It’s really lovely. And it was very sweet of you to send that young policewoman to pick me up.”
“Alicia—Officer Martin… told you I sent her?”
“She didn’t have to. I was expecting someone from the department. I knew you wouldn’t let me walk all the way home. Later, I felt just terrible. Thinking of how I left you standing there… so alone.”
Well, not quite alone. His ears turned a dull red. “I’m glad you got home okay.”
Poor thing. She wouldn’t tell him how she’d gone back to the Waring place and caught him holding hands with the pretty young policewoman. Not tonight, she wouldn’t. “And I have a confession to make.”
He allowed himself a thin smile. “Policemen and priests hear lots of confessions.”
“I know that you and Charlie helped Ralph Briggs sell the stolen artifact.”
This revelation fairly knocked the wind out of him. When Parris found his voice, he asked: “But how did you …?”
“I was there, of course. Doing my job. Being an investigative journalist.”
Snooping. “Well, you shouldn’t have been,” he grumped. “That was… ahh… police business.”
“Business, yes. Police business… I’m not so sure. Later, I found out you and Charlie kept most of the money. Poor Ralph Briggs only got ten percent.”
The Granite Creek chief of police frowned at the redheaded woman. “Where’d you hear that?”
Anne avoided the least glance toward Charlie Moon. “I have my ways. And my contacts.”
“Sounds like you twisted Briggs’ arm,” he growled. Little twerp must’ve talked. Or maybe it was some big twerp. He shot a mildly suspicious look toward Moon.
The Ute policeman kept his face behind the newspaper.
Anne did have contacts. A cousin who worked at Granite Creek’s oldest bank had—for the price of lunch—revealed the fact that Scott Parris had cashed in his life insurance to make a down payment on the Waring property.
“So,” Parris said wearily, “I guess you want to know why we took the money. And what we did with it. Well,” he added with a stubborn jut of his chin, “I can’t tell you.”
“No need,” she said innocently. “Whatever you and Charlie did, you must have had your reasons.”
He was staggered by this generous expression of trust. And felt somewhat guilty… of several misdemeanors he could not quite recall.
Moon who was looking at the want ads, had heard just enough of the whispered conversation. Boy, this was some kinda slick woman. He had already told Anne Foster that all the money they’d raised from Briggs’ sale of the artifact was for a blue-eyed blond girl—the survivor of Horace Flye, who was rightful owner of the “artifact” her father had made with his own hands. Charlie Moon had used “his” half of the proceeds to set up a trust fund for the child, funded by no-load mutuals. Scott Parris had located the little girl’s paternal grandmother in Arkansas. He’d bought them a nice farmhouse on twenty acres near Pine Bluff. It had green shutters. And a huge yard shaded with maples. After the holidays, the Granite Creek chief of police would take Butter back to Arkansas for a reunion with Grandma Flye. And a housewarming. Parris did not yet know it, but he would invite his sweetheart to go along with him. Anne would drop a hint when the time was right.
As the evening wore on, Charlie Moon noticed that his elderly aunt seemed somewhat distracted. Daisy was glancing this way and that—like she suspected somebody was hiding in a dark corner. About to leap out and grab her. Probably she was just overtired.
Daisy Perika was weary. For two nights, she had suffered an annoying experience. As she drifted off to sleep, the shaman would feel the presence of a troubled spirit. It muttered unintelligible things in her ear, tugged at her covers, haunted her dreams. Losing sleep was bad enough—but now it had gotten worse.
Today the haunt was present while she was wide awake.
She could not see his form clearly—it was but an indistinct shadow that flitted at the corner of her eye. But the Ute elder could smell the distinctive odor of tobacco as he passed by. And sometimes, she could feel his breath on her neck. What was this ghost doing in her home—did it intend to speak to her?
