Obsidian Tears (Apparition Lake Book 2) Read online

  Exhausted, Glenn sank back onto the couch. “You never cease to amaze me, Johnny. How do you meet times, events like these, and simply accept the bizarre circumstances you encounter?”

  A sad smile crossed Two Raven's dark face. “It's as much a challenge for me as it is for you. I just explained the difference. In your black and white world truth is absolute and finite. In mine truth is absolute but, perhaps, incomplete. You're not wrong. We're merely both unfinished. We can know and understand the truth before us. We cannot know or understand the truth we've yet to meet.”

  Glenn nodded, though he clearly still had something on his mind. Two Ravens drank his drink and waited. When it finally came, it did so out of left field. “What,” the ranger asked, “do you understand about little people?”

  “Do you mean… What do you mean? Dwarfs? Midgets? Leprechauns? What little people?”

  Glenn frowned, annoyed with himself. “I don't know.”

  Two Ravens laughed, until he saw that Glenn wasn't laughing along. “You're asking me. So, by asking me, are you asking about Indian little people?”

  Glenn frowned deeper, twisting his lips, his annoyance moving up a notch to frustration. “I don't know. I'm asking you because you're the only one I can ask, the only one I trust, and you can see how comfortable I am asking.”

  “Okay,” Two Ravens said with an evil grin. “In that case, I liked The Wizard of Oz. Beyond that I don't know anything about dwarfs or leprechauns.” Both drank, to kill the awkward quiet, then Two Ravens added, “There are Indian legends about little people. I don't really… Why are you asking?”

  Glenn hesitated a long while, sighed a deep sigh, and finally said, “Come on out to the truck. There's something I need to show you.”

  Chapter 21

  The Shoshone outfitter felt no better about his nagging fears having seen the item locked in a box, wrapped in a coat, and secured in Glenn's truck as if it might escape on its own. Nor did it help when Glenn explained that this thing he called Pedro was the idol Ranger Franklin had apparently died protecting. Just looking at the tiny figure made Two Ravens inexplicably afraid. He'd seen the Earth cry. He'd felt an awakening evil. Now this. Glenn had his recent experiences and the return of feelings he'd experienced during the events of Apparition Lake. Now, between the two of them, there was plenty of unease. Two Ravens had no answers but he did have a suggestion for them.

  That's why Glenn and Two Ravens, after three years of relative quiet, were off again to see the wizard. They were headed for the residence of Bill Pope, the Shoshone medicine man, known on the reservation as Snow on the Mountains.

  The Shaman's house was as unmended and untended as Glenn remembered it; a simple two-story structure with a second floor that could only have featured a single bedroom. A door occupied the center-front of the ground level atop three crooked wooden steps with no landing. Two windows, one on each side of the door, looked out over a faded picket fence that separated the brown yard from the brown road; weary eyes and a smile missing teeth on the house's sad face. The chief ranger felt a sudden wave of guilt and embarrassment, even remorse, that he hadn't been back since the events that had first brought them together. He'd been busy with other things, many other things, in the park and had let time and life slip by. They had not become friends in their previous journey, but Glenn and the Indian holy man had liked each other and had found a form of respect for one another. He should have stopped back, Glenn knew, just for a moment, just to say hello. The ranger suppressed a sigh. That was all he needed, one more regret.

  On his last visit, Glenn remembered, a little mutt dog had been yipping at the end of a rope tied to the sagging front gate. The dog was gone but the rope remained, the ranger noticed, hanging empty. There'd been a second dog as well, a monstrous thing, half husky and half school bus, laying like a sack of potatoes across the top step without a leash or a care in its world. And it, Glenn saw, was there now as if it hadn't moved an inch in three years.

  Bill Pope appeared in the door.

  Unlike their first meeting so long ago, this time Glenn knew what to expect. The shaman hadn't changed a wisp. He was a slightly stooped old man. He wore faded jeans with the right pant leg tucked into his worn cowboy boot and the left riding over, a small knife with a buckhorn handle on his hip, a western-cut red shirt with a slip rope tie, and a straw cowboy hat with a black eagle feather pointing to the rear. He walked slowly, not from any physical infirmity, because it was his way. The copper skin on his sallow face had been sun baked for at least seventy years yet his blue eyes danced with life. “I saw you coming,” the Indian said.

  Glenn stifled a grin. The screen, missing from the door three years before, had yet to be replaced. Snow on the Mountains could easily have walked through the opening but, as before, the old man swung wide the door to step out over the sleeping dog. He carried a bowl of table scraps and laid them on the ground beyond the dog's nose. The animal opened its eyes, one blue and one brown, and studied the bowl. Then, having decided the effort would be worth it, lifted its haunches and made its way down to grub.

  “Hello, Bill,” Two Ravens said.

  The old man wiped his hand on his pant leg then clasped hands with Two Ravens. “Johnny.” He turned and, as eagerly, shook with Glenn. “Chief Merrill. It is good to see you.”

  “Glenn,” Two Ravens put in. “You remember Snow on the Mountains?”

  “Of course. I'm delighted to see you again.” Glenn stopped talking because Snow on the Mountains had stopped listening. He'd released Glenn's hand and stepped past him. The shaman was staring at the chief ranger's Suburban. Glenn looked to Two Ravens. The outfitter shrugged.

  “I apologize,” Glenn said, trying to reclaim the shaman's attention. “I apologize for not having returned – in friendship – before this.” Glenn reached inside his jacket and extracted a rolled pouch. “Please accept this, with my thanks, for seeing me today.”

  Snow on the Mountains smiled, unwrapped the gift exposing a fat package of tobacco, and smiled even wider. He reached around, with a child-like glint in his gray eyes, and produced an old pipe from his back pocket. Glenn and Two Ravens laughed. Snow on the Mountains let them, digging the pipe bowl into the fresh pouch. Then he paused and stared at Glenn's vehicle again. He stared for a long while without speaking, without lighting his pipe.

  A gust of wind pushed a dried branch of sagebrush down the road beyond the yard fence. Glenn watched it go. Two Ravens ignored it, his eyes on Snow on the Mountains. The shaman rewrapped the tobacco, put it and his pipe into his pocket, while continuing to stare at Glenn's Suburban. Finally, out of nowhere as was his way in their prior meetings, this time without taking his eyes off the truck, Snow on the Mountains asked, “What did you want of me?”

  Glenn was taken off guard. The last time there'd been small talk, between the shaman and the outfitter, lots and lots of small talk, reservation gossip, a swipe or two at the government, familial chatter. And they'd been invited inside to sit. This time Snow on the Mountains showed no interest in finding a comfortable seat. He'd still yet to light his pipe; unheard of in Glenn's experience.

  “What did you want of me,” the shaman asked again.

  Glenn was suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling of deja vu. But this time it wasn't a dizzying quandary. He had been there, in that exact position, before. As before, the chief ranger was unsure how to begin. It wasn't any easier a second time. How did one start a conversation about murder, evil spirits, Indian curses, and the like? He still didn't know if he had the capacity to believe any of it, no matter what he had seen.

  “There's…” Glenn cleared his throat. “There has been a lot of trouble again, strange deaths, odd happenings in and around the park.”

  “A rock slide,” Two Ravens put in. “At Obsidian Cliff.”

  Glenn eyed the outfitter with a mix of curiosity and annoyance. True, there'd been an obsidian slide and, yes, he'd heard Two Ravens' interpretation of what that meant. But, really, it was time to stick t
o facts. The facts gouging him that minute were more important than–

  “Mother Earth cries,” Snow on the Mountains said, interrupting the chief ranger's thought. “The ground trembles in fear.”

  “Yeah,” Glenn said, his annoyance growing. “There's been accelerated seismic activity. The park's watching that. But that isn't particularly unusual and I'm not here because of a few earth tremors. I'm here because four people, maybe five, have died in and around Yellowstone by violence in the last few days. And not just run-of-the-mill violence. It's… odd. Inexplicable. Animals, too, have died strangely. One of my rangers, a good man, died last night. His last words made no sense. He said…”

  “Little people.”

  Glenn's mouth dropped open. Two Ravens' mouth fell open, as well; it was another unheard of reaction. Both Glenn and Two Ravens stared in alarmed awe at the shaman.

  “Little people?” Snow on the Mountains said again, this time making it a question. “Were his last words, 'Little people'?”

  “How did you know that?” Glenn quietly demanded. “How could you have known that?”

  The ranger's breathless question went unanswered. The ways of the Indian holy man were, after all, mysterious to say the least. But Glenn's next question, “What, if anything, does 'Little people' mean to you?” did get a response.

  “In days of old,” Snow on the Mountains said. “Long before the white men came to the Stinking Country, there were the mountains, the rivers, the sagebrush, the animals, and the shifting ground. There were many tribes of Indians before they were called Indians. They sometimes helped each other, sometimes fought, and sometimes waged bitter and bloody war against each other. It was no paradise. Life was hard. The weather was harsh. There were many predators. And, at any time, there were as many enemies as friends. But the Indians were free and part of creation. How much closer to paradise, Chief Merrill, can a creature with a spirit get than to be free and in touch with his creator?”

  Glenn nodded his understanding.

  “But the Indians were people… with failings. And they, too, lost their near-paradise. Legend says one night there came an upheaval of the earth. From the Underworld, on thundering feet, came the living punishment for their failings, a race of little people, tiny demon people that the Shoshone called the Ninimbe. They came in the image of man but they were not men. They were evil, created from our failings. How would the white man say it, Chief? They were the living result of our accumulated sins; a tribe of vicious demon warriors. Alive and among us, they hid unseen in the mountains and, from there, came down to attack the natives of… what your people, Chief, call the Great Basin. These creatures were experts with bow and arrow, with hammer, with axe and knife. They were bloodthirsty and on a relentless mission to conquer all that lay before them. These were the little people.”

  “You described them as demons. What did you–”

  The shaman held up a hand, stopping him. “Warriors was the descriptive word, Chief. They were demons.”

  “Demons?” Glenn asked, his disbelief evident.

  “The Indian's crazy,” Snow on the Mountains said. It was a statement, not a question. He shook his head. “After what your park has already been through, Chief, you continue to doubt the spiritual world? And I'm crazy?”

  “I know,” Glenn said, nodding. “It's just a bit hard to accept as real. I mean… miniature demons. And if I add your story to the bizarre facts in front of me… One fact alone, some of the victims appear to have been partially eaten. What do you say to that?”

  “The Shoshone name for these creatures, Ninimbe, means 'mountain man'. They are said to have super-human strength and very sharp teeth. I am answering your question about a legend. But our legends, like the legends of all people, including the white men, Chief, grow from a seed of truth.”

  Glenn stared. Finally, unable to help himself, he laughed. “You're telling me we really do have a problem with midget cannibals?” He was the only one laughing. Two Ravens glared at his friend. Snow on the Mountains had returned to staring at Glenn's truck. “Is that what you're trying to tell me?”

  “Glenn–”

  The shaman laid a hand on Two Ravens' shoulder, silencing him. “I told you the legend of the Ninimbe. They were neither midgets nor cannibals, Chief. They were little demons in the image of men. Whether or not you believe in Indian legend is of no consequence. They were not a joke to my people. They represented, and represent today, the power the spirit world has to protect and to destroy. You have seen Indian legend unleashed before.”

  “I'm sorry,” Glenn said, embarrassed and suddenly very tired. “It's no secret to you I'm ignorant of your legends.” Even to Glenn, it seemed a ridiculous admission but it was also true. He was ignorant of all fairy tales. He'd never gotten them as a kid, had never seen the point. But he wasn't an idiot; he'd learned something from Apparition Lake. “I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm up against. But I came to ask your help and I do. Will you help us?”

  Still looking warily at the Suburban, Snow on the Mountains told the ranger, “I will consider your request, Chief. I will give you my answer in three days.” The shaman turned, nodded at Two Ravens in passing, and disappeared back into his house.

  Back in Glenn's truck, the chief ranger behind the wheel and Two Ravens sitting shotgun, without starting the engine, without a word, they stared at the street without moving. Minutes passed before Glenn finally asked, “Little people?”

  “Those were your ranger's last words, weren't they?”

  “It's what the curator said that he said.”

  Two Ravens nodded. The silence grew around them again. “Bill is right,” the outfitter finally said. “I don't know much about them. But many Indian cultures speak of 'little people' in legend.”

  “But they're legends.”

  Two Ravens nodded again. “I won't argue with you.”

  “I don't want to offend you, Johnny,” Glenn said. “Or your beliefs. But you didn't see Franklin lying there. I can't wait three days. I don't know what I'm going to do but I can't just wait.”

  Two Ravens remained silent, for a long time, a silence that would have seemed absurd were it not for the look on his face. He was clearly fighting an intense internal battle. Glenn held his breath until, finally, resigned if not decided, Two Ravens looked up. Though he appeared to detest the idea, the outfitter asked, “Would you like to try another healer?”

  “Another… What other healer?”

  “Snow on the Mountains spoke of the other tribes of the Great Basin. There are Arapaho on this reservation and they have legends, too. Maybe that is where we are meant to go.”

  “I didn't know the reservation had two medicine men.”

  “It has two tribes. But I'm not speaking of a medicine man… exactly,” Two Ravens said. “The Arapaho medicine man died two years ago without a living son to carry on. It's all sort of… involved.” He looked at his watch. Then he pointed to the middle console where Glenn's jacket, and the Pedro box it hid, had been moved. “Can you lock up our little friend here in your truck?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Then do. We'll leave the truck here and go for a walk.”

  Chapter 22

  “Have you ever been to a Pow Wow?” Two Ravens asked.

  Glenn and Two Ravens walked half-way across Crowheart. Now, as they neared their destination, the chief ranger saw why the walk had been necessary. The edge of the normally quiet reservation town was a parking lot, without an empty spot to be found. Cars with all manner of license plates were being vacated and a crowd of all manner of people was quickly building. Above and beyond the throng could be seen the tops of four white, and one blue, square open-sided tents arranged in a large semi-circle. Above the buzz of humanity, the rhythmic beat of drums and the sounds of chanting had begun.

  “Pow Wow? No. I imagined all that jazz was just for the tourists.” Two Ravens stopped, repeated 'All that jazz' in a mutter, and shook his head. Glenn lifted his hands in innocence. “What?
”

  “Sometimes, Ranger Rick, you show all the sensitivity of a charging buffalo.” Two Ravens took up walking again. “In a lot of ways, I suppose, you're right. Today most Pow Wows are social events for the tourists.” He pointed ahead. “This gathering will be mostly that. But it's not always so. Historically Pow Wows were – sometimes still are – sacred tribal gatherings. Even this kind of thing, dressed up for the public, helps keep the culture alive.”

  They entered the fray where little around them spoke of things sacred. Volunteers in t-shirts pointed visitors to tents where they could purchase t-shirts of their own, and beads, blankets, head dresses of brilliantly colored feathers, and cheap bows and rubber arrows. Volunteers operated a tent where they could sample Native American snacks. An announcer's echoing voice sounded over loudspeakers on the east and west corners of the open grounds welcoming their honored guests, the paying public, to the ceremonies.

  The speaker, William Shakespeare, the Shoshone Tribal elder and chairman of the Tribal Council, emceed the proceedings from a main tent with a microphone in hand. “The focus of the Pow Wow,” he told those gathered, with a pause for a shriek of feedback, “is the sacred circle where the ceremonies and dances take place. The Pow Wow begins with a prayer.”

  The pounding of drums led a 'holy man', a stand-in brave (Snow on the Mountains wouldn't have been caught dead) dancing in an explosion of brilliantly colored feathers, to the center of the massive circle. Chanting, he raised his arms to the heavens.

  “Throwing the tourists a bone,” Two Ravens told Glenn as they joined the throng outside of the circle. “It's a prayer of thanksgiving, thankful but generic. The real sacred rituals are for the tribe alone, not performed publicly, photographed, or broadcast.”

  Finished with his opening bit, the brave cleared the way. A whoop sounded and a flood of color and movement hit the field as Indians, all men, danced into the circle shouting, spinning, and thumping the turf with their moccasins. Over the speakers, above the tumult, boomed the voice of Shakespeare. “The War Dance!”