Apparition Lake Read online

  Apparition Lake

  Daniel D. Lamoreux, Doug Lamoreux

  Copyright (C) 2005 Daniel D. Lamoreux and Doug Lamoreux

  Layout Copyright (C) 2014 by Creativia

  Published 2014 by Creativia

  eBook design by Creativia (www.creativia.org)

  Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  About the Authors

  “This we know… the earth does not belong to man, man belongs to the earth. All things are connected; like blood which connects one family. Whatever befalls the earth befalls the children of the earth. Man did not weave the web of life – but is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself.”

  Chief Seattle, 1854

  Chapter 1

  Above the stark silhouette of jagged mountain peaks, daylight shed its lifeblood in crimson streaks across a deep purple sky. The blue of dusk settled like a blanket over the watchful pines. From within that bed of shadowy forest came the rhythmic echo of booming Shoshone drums; red man's thunder amid a white man's storm.

  It was the year eighteen hundred and seventy-eight.

  For thirteen years, President Abraham Lincoln lay moldering in his tomb; placed there by a bullet from the gun of John Wilkes Booth. Crazy Horse had ascended to the ranks of his ancestors two years past, having massacred General George Armstrong Custer and two hundred fifty-six of his pony soldiers at the Little Big Horn. The Freemen's Bureau, organized to protect the interests of former slaves, had been in operation for one week. Carl Sandburg was a suckling newborn, Annie Oakley a budding tomboy of eighteen. Judge Roy Bean was four years from becoming “the law west of the Pecos” when he would turn his Vinegaroon, Texas saloon into a part-time courtroom. Geronimo and his warriors would have another eight years to plunder and murder white settlers in Mexico before their surrender. Only twelve years of life remained to a discernible American frontier…

  …and there was much pain in the ancient Stinking Country.

  The streaks in the sky spread into darker hues of red that spanned the horizon. From within the black void below, another light began to glow. As if fueled by the increasing intensity of the pounding drums, the ceremonial fire climbed toward the heavens fighting back the approaching darkness.

  A lone Indian brave, feeding the flame, stood within the fire's flickering circle of light. Silently he stirred the coals and added fuel, mindful of nothing but that one most important task. The drums beat while the flames cracked and popped throwing sparks in ever-rising circles to the sky. Beyond the edge of the fire's light stood the few members of the rogue Shoshone party, the Sheepeaters. Flickering shadows danced across their faces, making their sculpted features grotesque and shapeless. Yet, reflected in each staring eye, the image of the fire burned with perfect clarity. Silence ruled all.

  Further back, in the gloom, stood their temporary village. Brain-tanned leather stretched over triangular stacked poles created their lodges. Small fires within two of these rounded pyramids cast distorted images upon their leather walls, creating eerie stages upon which their occupants conducted ageless shadow dances.

  In the first, Silverbear's shadow dance was one of solitude. Though the drums continued to beat just outside his lodge, they were beyond his hearing. The holy man sat upon crossed legs before his small fire. His weary, chiseled features, the color and texture of hammered copper, spoke of a long and difficult life. He cradled a buckskin bundle in his hands and lifted it forward and up, offering its contents to the Gods. Chanting softly, he closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened the bundle in his lap. From it he removed his sacred crystals and medicinal powders, and lay them on the cold dirt floor at his side. Then, Silverbear removed his medicine feather; a gift given him by an eagle messenger from the Great Spirit. The holy man held it gently, golden and perfect in the palms of his hands, contemplated it deeply, then lifted it high in thanksgiving. Silverbear placed the feather upon the floor with the other charms and, lifting his aged and weathered face toward the roof of his lodge, began to softly chant his prayer.

  Confident the Gods had heard him, the holy man lit his pipe, breathed deeply of its smoke, and relished the smooth taste of the tobacco. It would soon be time.

  In the adjoining lodge, Silverbear's assistant prepared the ceremony participants for the ancient Bear Dance. He dipped his fingers into a bowl of powder and patted the faces and chests of the two older braves seated on the ground before the fire. With the skill of an artist, he created intricate white patterns on their skin. The young brave, not yet old enough for his own spiritual journey, understood the honor and responsibility given him in being tasked with participation in this most sacred of ceremonies.

  A fourth Indian, Norkuk, the leader of the Shoshone band, stood watching the proceedings. He was pleased. After the inaction of the reservation life, it was good medicine to again be the master of his own destiny and that of his people. In bringing his party to this place he had defied the trust of his chief. But in doing so he had done the more important, he thought, honoring the wishes of the Great Spirit and the trust of those who followed him. It was good to be back on their homeland. It was also good that they were preparing for the Bear Dance. They would no longer be inactive while their land was being defiled. They would no longer sit by while the white men slaughtered the animals the Great Spirit had provided for the Shoshone. They would no longer watch while the poachers desecrated all that was holy and good with Mother Earth.

  The ritual preparation complete, the painted braves donned thick bearskins and ornaments for the ceremony. They stepped from the lodge and into the chill night air and moved to their places alongside the fire. They stood side-by-side, facing west across the flames, and waited on the holy man.

  Norkuk took his place within the circle of firelight, listening to the intensity of the drums. He looked upon the stoic faces of his people circled around and pride welled inside him. It was good to be Shoshone. His people would once again wield the great power of their ancestors.

  The drums stopped as Silverbear approached from the darkness. The holy man stood facing east before the fire and his people. The feathers of the golden eagle, tied with colorful beads on leather thongs, dangled in bunches from his flowing gray hair. The massive curved claws of the grizzly bear adorned the necklace encircling his throat and the hide and head of the bear covered his own flesh and skull. The ceremonial garments, illuminated by the dancing flames, gave Silverbear the appearance of a great bear. He raised his arms to the stars and the drums began beating anew
.

  The painted braves chanted in unison and began the Dance of the Great Bear.

  Silverbear watched the beginnings of the ceremony with steel gray eyes. He was pleased. There would be strong medicine in the movement, and a great healing for their troubled homeland. Removing a handful of sparkling crystals from his medicine bag, Silverbear offered them to the Great Spirit, and then sacrificed them to the fire. He handed a second, larger leather sack to one of the braves. The young man danced in a circle around the flame, sprinkling its contents of sacred sand onto the ground. As he completed the circle, the drums ceased.

  Silverbear hesitated, taking in the silence of the mountain. The sun's light was shining its last and that was good; the final rays would carry his words to the Creator. Silverbear raised his hands and, in his native tongue, began his invocation. He offered his prayer in each of the four directions; south to north, then east to west, representing the four aspects of Man's nature – the physical, the mental, the emotional, and the spiritual.

  The drummers began again, striking the stretched animal skins with fervor. As one, the group took up a chant, interspersed with high-pitched screams. As they sang to Duma Appah, the Great Spirit, the young brave presented the holy man with the centerpiece of the ceremony, the sacred bear fetish. A small statue, roughly carved from stone in the image of the grizzly bear, the fetish possessed magic powers. Silverbear gripped it tightly, showing only its head above his fingers and, lifting it to the red flare of ebbing sunlight, offered his prayers as the drums increased their tempo.

  Three Indian women in brightly colored ceremonial clothing approached the circle. The first carried a ceramic jar. She knelt, bowed her head, and laid the jar on the ground at Silverbear's feet. The others, holding baskets of cornmeal, took their place on either side of the first.

  Silverbear held the fetish toward each of the women in their turn and blessed the food they offered to the Spirit Bear. The statue was placed in the jar; the cornmeal poured in over it to feed the Spirit. The jar was sealed and tied atop a piece of lodgepole with a leather strap. Silverbear lifted the holy staff above his head and joined in the drummers' chant. The women returned to the crowd, leaving only the medicine man and the two braves dressed as bears in the circle of firelight.

  “Appah created the Earth with the help of the animal nation,” Silverbear said. “Man's spirit now kills the animal; destroys the Earth. War, oppression, hatred, greed, jealousy,” the holy man called out, naming the vices carried to their land by the white men.

  The drummers cried, “He-agh, He-aghhhh,” in response to each.

  Silverbear moved the sacred staff to the four corners of the Earth, asking the Great Spirit for healing. He laid the staff on the fire. Though the flames enveloped it, the fetish jar did not burn.

  The two braves stood facing the band of Indians on the opposite side of the fire, and became little more than silhouettes as the darkness increased. Silverbear stood over the fire, the light dancing red and yellow on his weathered face. His assistant lit the ceremonial pipe and delivered it to the medicine man. Silverbear lifted the pipe skyward, drew deeply from it, lifted it skyward again and exhaled. The young brave carried the sacred pipe to the Bear Dancers, who also smoked of it.

  Silverbear laid the bear fetish at the feet of the first brave, who had seen wapiti poached near Blacktail Deer Creek. The elk had been killed only for their coats in a senseless waste of their meat, their life, and their spirits. Silverbear waved his medicine feather violently about and repeatedly laid his hands upon the brave's head. He spit upon his hands, rubbed them together, and again placed them on the brave. Taking up the medicine feather once more he swept the air around the brave, and then shook it at the fetish jar.

  The medicine man spoke to the Great Spirit and then held his breath. A moment of utter silence followed. No one moved and not a sound left the plateau, save the harsh crackling of the fire. Silverbear exhaled emphatically, leaned forward, and sniffed the air like an animal. The loud, rhythmic sniffs were interspersed with quick, sharp exhalations. Twice, the sniffing stopped and an eerie howling from the forest broke the silence around the campfire.

  Norkuk smiled. The howls came from the coyote, the creator of human life, and he knew that Appah heard their prayers.

  Silverbear moved far off, outside the reach of the firelight, where he loudly and violently threw up to dispel the evil spirits. He returned to the firelight, placed the bear fetish at the second brave's feet and began the ceremony anew. The second brave and his party had witnessed the result of a wholesale murder of bison; animals killed with no respect of their value as creatures of the Great Spirit. Their coats were removed and their bodies left to rot in the blistering Wyoming sun. He used his hands and the medicine feather, each time directing the spirits captured in the feather into the sacred ceramic jar.

  The crackling of the fire became more prominent as Silverbear spoke to the Great Spirit. His words and manner were calm but powerful. He looked into the fire and then to the sky, admonishing in a loud voice the messengers of fear and evil to loosen their hold upon the land. “We ask Appah that the Bear Spirit be made free,” Silverbear called out. “To do the work in this world that is meant for him to do.”

  The braves stared into the fire with stony faces. No one moved.

  The despoiler of the land had escaped the hand of white justice at every turn. Those of the blue coats and yellow legs had proven impotent at stopping him. The Shoshone now called on Spirit Bear to stop him.

  “We ask Appah that it be this way.” Silverbear lifted his medicine feather and pointed it at the braves. From the darkness behind the bank came the shrill hoots of an owl. It was not a random call but focused and insistent, as if made by a child hidden in the trees. All heard it; none turned to look. Silverbear, at first, seemed not to notice but when the owl's calls persisted, Silverbear gazed in the direction of the sound. “We reject your word,” the holy man shouted, his eyes reflecting the firelight.

  The hooting stopped. When it was apparent the owl had spoken its last, Silverbear raised his hands to the heavens. “Let this not be your sign.”

  The drums began to beat. The two fur-clad braves circled the fire, crouching, then erect, reaching to the sky and chanting in unison with the rhythm of the drums. Like two dark, enchanted grizzlies, they bobbed and kicked their legs and waved their arms in the orange flickering firelight.

  “He-agh, He-aghhhh!”

  Frenzy overcame the dancers as the circle of Sheepeaters joined them.

  “He-agh, He-aghhhh!” The tempo increased, shrieks and whoops rang out. The fire blazed and the darkness fell.

  “He-agh, He-agh, He-aghhhh!”

  Chapter 2

  The bison's charge erupted from serenity.

  The bull had been minding its own business, nibbling the grass on the lawn of the National Park Service administrative building at Mammoth Hot Springs. Minding its own business, that is, until a tourist carrying a video camera had walked to within six feet of the animal and yelled out, “Hey, dummy, look up!” The bison gave him more than he'd asked for. He charged. The camera was tossed skyward and the tourist became a blur of churning white legs and arms.

  Having successfully intimidated the pest, the bull ended its charge as quickly as he'd started it and returned to grazing. The tourist, meanwhile, covered one hundred yards of open ground despite losing his camera and his left shoe. He came to a stop, bent at the waist, panting for breath and staring at the shiniest pair of boots he'd ever seen. Still gasping, he followed the polished footwear up past pressed olive pants, a perfect military gig line, an olive duty jacket over a starched khaki shirt with a glittering gold badge, and a well-shaved square jaw below an icy stare, topped by a trooper's hat. The tourist, had he tried, could not have found a worse way to introduce himself to Yellowstone's Chief Ranger Glenn Merrill.

  “Had that bull been anything more than mildly irritated,” Glenn told him, “or you a split second slower to react, we would this
minute be wrapping you in a body bag.”

  Ignorance about park wildlife was more the rule than the exception. As that was the case, the chief intended to let the fellow off with a lecture. But when he got his wind back, rather than take the lesson, the tourist squawked about his rights, his taxes, and his contributions to Glenn's paycheck. He received a written citation to boot. Many did not understand the park's laws. Rules and regs existed, generally, to protect people from their own ignorance. They were often violated out of that same ignorance. It was all black and white to Glenn Merrill; no shades of gray. There was nothing gray about ignorance or stupidity. Press hard, sir, six copies.

  It was the year nineteen hundred and ninety-six.

  For thirty-three years, President John Fitzgerald Kennedy lay moldering in his tomb; placed there by a bullet from the gun of Lee Harvey Oswald. Four years past, Operation Desert Storm had been fought and won in twenty-eight days, allowing the United States to strut its modern warfare technology. South Los Angeles had exploded in riots two years before, as the rusted chains of slavery were replaced by the gleaming chains of prejudice; fettering men of all colors. Newt Gingrich, despite lying to an Ethics Committee, had been re-elected House Speaker. Slick Willie Clinton, despite lying to everybody, had been re-elected President. Madonna, a pop singer, was the top news story in the country and the darling of the media for becoming a single mother. Computer technology was turning the world into a global community…

  …and there was much pain in the ancient Stinking Country.

  Yellowstone was the nation's first and largest national park. Its diversity and complexity was a wonder and fascination to most everyone who happened across its threshold. Its land mass was a mosaic of mountain habitats stretching across 2.2 million acres; sagebrush flats, high plains prairie, lodgepole, spruce and fir forests, lakes, rivers and streams, snowcapped granite peaks and valleys spewing forth the scalding steam and the hellish sulfur of the earth's inner core.