30 years ago –
Upstairs, the baby stopped crying and Blake Calder knew that little Regina was in her mother Molly’s loving arms.
Afternoon naptime was over and clearly he needed to finish this little home improvement job up. Satisfied with the marked measurements, he put aside the wall lamp and armed himself with hammer and nail. The old house was solid as a rock, but it still needed some things to make it a home.
"Oh, Daa-ddy, where are you?" sang Molly from the top of the main stairs. The toddler giggled, which always made Blake smile. He leaned over, looked through the arch between the main entry hall and the sitting room.
Molly’s long, straight hair tented over little Regina as she carried her child down the stairs. Molly’s Chickasaw heritage had come out strongly in the baby, with striking almond eyes and hair blacker than any Blake had ever seen. Little Regina was looking right at Blake as her mother carefully negotiated the stairs.
"Peekaboo!" To his delight, Regina laughed again. "Almost done, my loves." After a smile and wink he moved back to the task at hand, bringing light into their happy inheritance.
Bad times had forced them to give up their first cottage, so when the death of Molly’s obscure aunt left them this house, it had been a prayer answered.
He lined up the finishing nail on the top mark to punch a starter hole, took a gentle swing. The nail spun off and the hammer banged the tip of his thumb. He choked down a curse and shook the offended digit. There came a floor-shaking thud and the baby wailed. He leaned back out, looked at the stairs.
A black figure stood where his wife had been five seconds before, little Regina bawling in its arms. Searching eyes found his wife's body lying at the bottom of the stairs, her head grotesquely lodged between balusters, her neck obscenely twisted, her eyes staring blindly into his.
Blake didn't feel himself run and vault the handrail, didn't hear his own roars as he rushed the figure, never tasted his tears as he cradled his baby daughter and dead wife.
He never believed it was an accident, could never explain the shadow figure, could only throw himself into raising his daughter and trying to keep her safe.
700 years ago –
It was the time of year when Summer wrestled with Winter. The tribe had camped atop a nameless hill overlooking the Mississippi, above the rich but treacherous floodplain. In the hours before dawn, breath of the North Wind had frosted pole and grass throughout the camp. Utter darkness and near freezing temperature did nothing to deter the naked men muttering around one traveling lodge. In point of fact, each was armed with spear or bow and did not regard himself as naked.
“Quiet yourselves,” spoke Tsoshominko’, War Chief of the Chakla Band of Chickasaws. “You do not want to sound like old women in front of Chaklaminko’ and Old Man, eh?” The warriors growled, laughed, and shook their weapons at the insult, but when the Primary Chief and elderly tribal shaman approached, the warriors met them with respectful silence.
Primary Chief Chaklaa held a lamp in one hand and supported Old Man with the other. They had taken time to don robe and leggings, mostly in deference to the Spirit Talker’s age. Old Man had been alive so long only the spirits knew his true name, or so he claimed at the Council Fire. None living had ever heard the claim disputed.
“Chokmah, boys,” the Old Man greeted them, breath ghostly puffs, voice gravelly from years of smoke and chants. The most feared warriors in the Mississippi Valley returned the greeting like so many children at lessons. Old Man fixed his eyes on the war chief. “Tso, can you tell me more?”
“No, Spirit Talker.” Tsosho grounded the butt of his spear and ran a free hand over half-shaved scalp, kept that way to mark his readiness for battle. “A scream, like nothing I have ever heard from a man’s throat. I ran here from my bed, called for others. There came chanting from inside, in another tongue, Sioux perhaps, that faded quickly away. Nothing else.” Flame from the rendered-fat reed lamp danced from rolling eyes and shifting flint points as the gathered warriors stirred, unsettled by the story.
“None of you have entered? And none have come or gone?” Old Man grunted at Tso’s nod, turned to Chaklaa. “You were right to awaken me. This is the lodge of my apprentice and the signs are ill.”
“What will you do, grandfather?” Chaklaa patted Old Man’s hand. “And what can we do to help?”
“Try not to get in my way,” Old Man said snippily, pointed at the band of men. “And none of you boys run off, hear me?”
Pulling a turtle-shell rattle from under his robe, Old Man raised a prayer to quell angry spirits. His dance became a rhythmic shuffle toward the lodge flap. The warriors eased back, weapons casually at ready. As the Spirit Talker approached the flap, he motioned for Tso to open it. Experience had taught the war chief long ago that the careless man is soon the dead man; staying back, he reached with his spear butt and flipped back the leather flap.
Vile smoke rolled from the lodge, overpowering the smell of burning grease from Chacklaa’s lamp. The inside was red-lit by coals in the fire pit, but far brighter than outside. A young girl, perhaps six years old, lay sprawled on a buffalo rug between the door and the fire pit. Though swaddled in a burial shroud, she was clearly breathing. The Old Man was taken aback by the sight, but grimly entered the lodge. In moments he was backing out, clutching the girl in one arm as he rattled with the other.
Panting between chants from exertion, the Old Man passed the girl to Chaklaa. Without breaking rhythm he entered the lodge again, this time closing the flap behind him. Chanting soon gave way to a muted conversation. At hearing the strangeness of the other voice, the warriors huddled closer together and pointed their weapons to the lodge. Tso leaned to whisper at Chaklaa.
“Minko’, do you know what’s happening?”
“All I know is that this girl should be dead.” Chaklaa turned her sleeping face to the lamp light. “She is the apprentice’s daughter. She died of fever two days ago.” Both men watched the wispy cloud of her breath prove her life.
An unearthly howl rose from the lodge, echoed from the four directions. Then Old Man stumbled from the door and two warriors rushed to support him as he regained his wind. The rest looked like hunted buffalo, facing outwards in a ring of wild-eyed defense.
“He is gone,” Old Man said as soon as he could. “The foolish boy called on Sioux spirits to bring back his daughter when our own would not.” He opened his hand to show a carved figure – bowed back, brush tail, pointed snout raised skyward in a howl. “My idiot apprentice called on Coyote the Trickster.”
“So, then.” Chaklaa eyed the lodge. “The man is dead?”
“No,” Old Man spat, “although I imagine his plan was to trade life for life. What actually happened was far worse. Look.” He tottered to the door and pulled the flap fully open. Chaklaa could see a shadow dancing on the leather wall of the lodge, but no body was present to make that shadow.
“What is this, Old Man?” Chaklaa said in a whisper.
“Coyote took his living body.” Old Man dropped the flap. “Then left his spirit trapped in that cursed shadow yonder. He is now the black man, a Losaanakni’.”
Chaklaa was a man of kind words, but decisive action.
“Tsosho, burn that lodge. The rest of you get everyone up. We’re striking camp.” As the men eagerly sprang to their tasks, Chaklaa moved closer to Old Man and spoke quietly. “The girl. Dare we keep her?
Looking at the child in Chaklaa’s arms, Old Man saw she was now awake. Her watching eyes were darker than the night around them and raven hair glinted as if full of fallen stars.
“Dare we harm what the spirits have returned?” Old Man shook his head. “Her fate is now twined with the Other World.” He watched as flames kindled from the lodge. “We dare not meddle.”
By dawn the band was miles away down river. A trickle of smoke still rose from atop the ancient mound overlooking an uncaring Mississippi River. Days, seasons, and years passed, wiping all sign of the tragedy away, but no other people would live on Dark Man Hill.
Until the white men came.
Now -
Chill shadows of a Halloween afternoon cut across State 62, the passing shade of each tree a flickering frame of an old film. Gina rode in the black pickup truck watching the Mississippi Valley roll by, caught up tides of grainy memory. Years, mistakes, and a lifetime of miles had separated her from Sainte Genevieve, but the death of her father was rewinding the film, dragging her back to this sleepy Missouri community.
“Here we go, St. Mary’s Road.” Hershel hit his turn signal. “Not long, now.”
“Thanks, dear.” Gina slid across the bench seat, jeans catching on cracked vinyl upholstery, and leaned against his leather-clad shoulder. “I appreciate you coming, y’know?” Her eyes drifted back to the road-side shadows, imagining them moving past instead of her moving forward.
“I know you hate driving.” He slapped her thigh hard enough to sting. “Anyway, couldn’t let an easy gal like you out on her own.” His hand slid higher. “Some old boyfriend might think you were available. And who was gonna assess the property? You?”
Gina laughed with him, but the cut-downs weren’t as funny as they used to be. They’d been together over a year now, since she’d run-not-walked away from Lynn, his lies, and his drugs. Gina was a waitress the first time she met Hershel at the Waffle House in Little Rock. He’d seemed strong and wise; leathery Marlboro Man good looks had been a plus.
He’d taken her in without question, held her former friends and cohorts at a needful distance when she wavered in her resolve. He’d been hard and uncompromising, something Gina felt she’d needed to help get her life back under control. Now it seemed more and more of her life was under his control. She was grateful, she owed him, but it wasn’t love, and that bothered her lately.
She wanted to believe Hershel had come to the funeral to help her, but his interest seemed more about possible inheritance than emotional support. At least he’d dressed up a little, though the new leather jacket had cost Gina most of her saved tips.
As they slowed for the turn a gray Lexus passed, signaled for the same exit. Before Gina’s eyes a coyote appeared out of browned weeds choking the right drainage ditch and loped across the road in front of the Lexus. The driver braked hard and swerved in front of Hershel’s truck. Gina braced her feet on the floorboards, held on to Hershel’s arm as he locked up his brakes to avoid a collision.
The Chevy Silverado fishtailed at the edge of spinout, and for an instant Gina saw the coyote sitting in the other lane, lolling tongue giving her the impression of amusement. Hershel cursed and wrestled the big truck back under control.
“Rich piss-ant ain’t cuttin’ me off,” he growled and floored the accelerator.
“Hershel, please.” Gina resisted grabbing the dashboard. As sure as he would ignore her protest, he would say something ugly if she seemed to doubt his driving.
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