Chapter Nine: Circles

Nathaniel

 

 

“Chris! Is that you?” I rush to his side and cast Steven’s confiscated bow to the ground.

“You’re not welcome here, Shadow.”

“It’s me, Nathaniel,” I say, and reach for the eerie sack-like mask over his head. He jerks aside causing me to miss.

Chris fell to the ground when the arrow hit him and I was by his side in an instant. He applies pressure above the arrow sticking clean through his leg. Chris releases his leg to swat at my hands.

“Do not touch me. You are Death. Go from this place.”

The other shaman begins singing at my back. He dances with slow methodical movements. His feet lightly tread over the earth as he holds his hands and face to the sky.

“I’m trying to help you. What do you need me to do?” I ask.

“Leave this place. You bring darkness.” Chris scoots across the ground to put space between us.

“White Wolf. I need my sack from Vannah,” Chris says.

The man gives a slow nod, finishes his dance, and walks away from the fire. He leaves the circle of light and walking backward so he never turns his back to me.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Chris. Take off the mask.”

“You don’t get to see my face, ugly spirit.”

“You’ve always misunderstood what I am,” I say in anger. “Please, let me stop the bleeding.”

“Get away from me,” he growls.

I lean away from the injured shaman. Forcing my help on him isn’t why I’m kneeling in the dirt next to him. With respect for who he is, and respect for what he’s done to help Juliana, I do as he says. I don’t want to see him suffer in pain. Pain caused by my client. I try once more to convince Chris I mean no harm. “You’re Juliana’s friend, and I can give you some relief. Let me.”

I don’t get the chance. A commotion to my right grabs my attention. Steven huddles behind Dominic, working frantically to release his friends’ ropes. The second after I realize what he’s doing, I tackle him. He lands on his back and I roll to my feet. Steven is quicker than I give him credit for and he slashes at my shins with a knife before I realize he’s armed.

I experience a brief moment of panic. The last knife that passed through me was infused with magic and the damage to my spirit was instantaneous and unpleasant. This time however, it is an ordinary earthly blade and I feel nothing. Well, not nothing exactly. I see the wound on my legs. If I wanted to manifest pain and blood, I could, but I’m an angel made of universal energy. With only a thought, the gash in my angelic flesh heals. There’s no fuss, no pain, and no blood.

“What are you?” Steven backs away from me, gripping the knife like it’s the only thing anchoring him to reality.

Poor kid. The look on his face is one of being suddenly awakened to things he thought didn’t really exist. Or maybe good ol’ Pip the ghost did that. Between the hellaciously vehement spirit on the loose and myself, I can’t help but wonder if Steven is still wearing clean shorts.

“Are you scared enough to take my advice now?” I ask.

“What the hell is happening?” he screams.

“Put the knife down and give up,” I say.

“Never.”

“I know you’re suffering, Steven. And I understand you want to help your friends, but this night is over. You’re going to get yourself hurt or killed. Be smart and walk away from this before it’s too late.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” he snarls and continues to back up farther and farther into the shadows.

“You steal horses to prove you’re powerful. But knowing why you’re alive and why you choose to live is true power. The answer is inside of you. Be the man you were born to be and know when to surrender.”

Steven looks equally petrified and roiling with anger. “You don’t get to tell me what I am.”

“Do you want to die for this?” I gesture toward his friends and the horses lost to the shadows of the night behind the old dilapidated shack and end up pointing at Chris, who is bleeding on the ground. “Why are you wasting your life on this?” I ask, letting him hear my incredulity.

“You’re dead, aren’t you?” he asks as if he’s finally catching on to the fact that I’m a spirit.

“Of course, I am,” I say.

I’m vaguely aware of Chris watching us this entire time. He doesn’t interrupt or move from his place on the ground. White Wolf returns carrying a bulging bag. He squats next to Chris and opens the flap and begins looking inside. The dog noses in to sniff Chris’s wound. Chris orders the dog back then speaks to his father. Their voices are low so I can’t hear what they say. Chris begins to peel the mask over his head. Pip decides this is the most opportune moment to make another appearance.

With his return, he brings another forceful blast of wind. The ghost focuses on the dying fire. An eruption of sparks and hot coals shower over everything on the north and east side of the campfire, including Chris and his father. Glowing cinders land on the desert floor, the bushes, and tuffs of hardy grass. Pip howls with glee as he circles over White Wolf’s head. A knee-high shrub catches on fire from one of the larger coals. Distracted by the sudden wildfire, I kick and throw dirt and sand on the small flames.

Chaos erupts. The dog barks at the sky. Steven disappears from my line of sight as I work on extinguishing yet another small flare up. White Wolf appears to be holding up the stars as he chants something in the Native language.

White Wolf then calls to Pip in English, “Little weasel, show your face! You want my best horse? Come back and take her from me, you coward!”

His voice is taunting; teasing and with a totally different tone than Chris’s earlier commanding approach.

“You think you have what it takes? Prove you’re not a brain-dead chicken, little Pip.”

If his intention is to goad the dead horse thief, then he’s doing a great job. Pip rushes in with another blast of air. He pulls up short in front of the shaman. White Wolf leans against the wind and reaches forward. His weathered hands wrap around the spirit’s neck in a choke hold.

White Wolf yips and hoots with victory. Chris kneels on his good knee while his injured leg sticks out awkwardly. The ghost struggles against the shaman and manages to kick White Wolf’s in the chest. The shaman falls onto his back, but he doesn’t let go. With the fire barely glowing, my eyes strain to follow what happens next. The tussle on the ground becomes a rolling blur of masked shaman and wriggling ghost. How is he holding onto Pip? Men do not touch ghosts. But this is happening before my eyes and I’m a seeing-is-believing type of guy.

A large cinder catches my attention as a patch of grass glows orange and tries to burn. I smother the coal with dirt and turn my attention back to Pip, White Wolf, and Chris.

White Wolf is now on his knees with Pip in a strangle hold in front of him. His pale mask reminds me of a hideous caricature of a certain friendly ghost. Chris hobbles forward, reaching for the ghost in his father’s arms. He grabs the top of Pip’s head, black hair clutched in his fist. With a fast swipe of his free hand, he uses a hunting knife to take the scalp off Pip.

The ghost howls in rage and shock. The sound is like hurricane force wind whipping through a narrow canyon. The wind carries on and dies down to a howling scream. Stillness follows, then calm night air. As silence returns, Pip fades from White Wolf’s grasp.

Chris raises the ghost scalp to the sky and shakes it at the stars. “Great Spirit, a foolish brother comes your way. You will know him because he wears the look of the defeated. Take him to his grandfathers and teach him the meaning of honor.”

Chris stumbles over to the fire. The pain in his leg must be excruciating, but he manages to kneel. He digs a small hole in the ground with the blade of his knife and places the ghost scalp into the earth and covers it back over with dirt. White Wolf approaches carrying a small leather pouch. He dips his fingers inside the leather and takes out a pinch of something. He holds his hand up to the northern sky and says a prayer. Then he sprinkles the fine powder over the spot where the scalp is buried. Moving sun-wise, the shaman makes his way around the fire, adding a prayer and a pinch of the powder at each of the compass points, east, south, and west. The last pinch he takes he releases into the fire pit. Chris blows heavy breaths into the remaining coals. Renewed heat and sparks rise into the air, lifting the powder toward the sky.

Chris lowers himself to the ground. I search for any leftover rogue sparks or embers to stamp out but find none. Low on the eastern horizon is the faint glow of an approaching sun. There’s no trace of Steven. Scraps of cloth and lengths of cut rope are the only remaining signs of Dominic and Arrio.

White Wolf removes his mask and his fur cape. The age lines are deep on his sun-weathered face and his long white hair is pulled back in a queue. He moves with the ease of someone half his age. But his eyes are the most surprising, or shocking, depending on who’s telling. They’re bottomless in color. Even in the predawn light, the dark, ancient, and mysterious depths to his irises are evident. The urge to look away before I see something about myself inside his eyes that I don’t want to see turns my head.

“Hey, you,” he says. “Get ready for the two of us.” He grins. “We’re on a roll. Chris, grab your hunting knife.”

White Wolf steps closer to me. His dog stays on his heels. Chris doesn’t reply and doesn’t move from his spot on the ground.

“Wait a second.” I hold up my hands.

“He surrenders like a loose woman,” White Wolf says.

“Wolf, I need you over here,” Chris says. “This arrow has to come out of my leg.”

I focus on Chris, who I would still gladly assist if the stubborn shaman would let me.

“Ahh, battle wounds make the best stories,” White Wolf says with a measure of awe.

Chris’s father is so far from what I expected that I’m stunned into immobility as I process his quirks.

“Now, Dad,” Chris says with his usual short and to the point directness. “It’s not a good story if I die.”

“Now there are two women in camp,” White Wolf mutters as he shambles over to the discarded sack on the ground. “The brave warrior dies in the good stories,” the old man says.

Chris’s jaw tightens and he blinks slowly, but otherwise doesn’t show the frustration with his father I suspect he’s experiencing.

“Does your father know who I am?” I ask under my breath.

“Are you still here?” Chris says with contempt.

“Afraid so. I’m staying until I know you’re not bleeding out.”

“Why do you care what happens to me? I would rather send you back to the void like Pipoo rather than look at you,” Chris says.

He stares after his father instead of looking directly at me. The elderly man walked away, carrying Chris’s bag under his arm.

“You’re helping Juliana and I appreciate it. For her peace of mind, I will take care of my part in this.”

There’s a stack of firewood near and I add smaller pieces to rekindle the flames. If we’re going to remove an arrow from Chris’s leg, we’re going to need the light.

“I heard what you said to the raider,” Chris says to my back. “Why were you speaking to him that way?”

“What way?” I ask, trying to clarify Chris’s question.

“Like you are not here to take his soul.”

“Because I’m not. You may have your ideas about me and that’s fine. You may choose to not like me or what I am, and that’s your choice. Being an Angel of Death wasn’t my idea of a happy ever after, either.”

“Your motivations are unclear to me,” he says.

“He is my charge. You have that part correct. My client is seeking destructive ways to express himself. I can help him live a better life, or I can help him cross over. That is what I am, Chris. Get it straight in your head already,” I say with finality. “I’m not the monster you believe me to be.”

A huff passes from the wounded shaman’s lips. He neglects to look me in the eye. “White Wolf knows what you are,” he says, answering my question at last.

Before I say anything else, the gray and black spotted dog runs up to Chris. The dog whimpers after sniffing Chris’s bloody pant leg.

“Stay back, Fetch.” He eases the animal away from his injury.

The dog lowers to its belly with a whine.

“Come here,” I call.

He ignores me so I take him by the collar and walk him a few feet away from Chris. The slightest look of surprise passes over Chris’s face, but I ignore it as I soothe the animal by running my hands over his coat.

“He’s all right, boy. Don’t worry. He’s going to be fine.” I give the dog’s ears a scratch. Fetch watches me with attentive eyes. We seem to have come to an understanding and I loosen my hold on his collar. He doesn’t run off, but begins to explore the scent of my pants and shoes.

“What happened to you?” Chris asks as White Wolf returns. His arms are loaded with gear.

“This and that. And you needed the first aid supplies from Mika.” He places the bundle down. “Fetch likes the Shadow,” White Wolf says.

“I see that,” Chris says.

“Fetch dislikes all spirits.”

“I know,” Chris says flatly. “Pull this arrow before I pass out.”

“Maybe you should let a doctor remove it,” I add to their discussion.

They glance my way as if surprised I’m still here even after what I told Chris.

“If Fetch likes him, he is all right with me,” White Wolf says.

“You’re unbelievable,” Chris says. “The Shadow thinks he owes me for helping Juliana.”

“Let him. He holds much power from the star people. Fetch feels it.”

“You trust your dog’s opinion over mine,” Chris says.

“You got that right,” White Wolf says.

“I can’t ride a horse in this condition,” Chris says to me. “The arrow has to come out.”

“Did it hit the bone?” White Wolf asks.

“I don’t think so. The longer it has time to swell, the worse it’s going to be when we remove it. We should hurry this up.”

“Wait,” I say and move in closer. “The tip is bullet shaped. It’s wider than the shaft and going to hurt like hell coming back through.”

“It already hurts worse than imaginable. Get this over with or I’ll do it myself,” Chris says, and then adds, “Tie a tourniquet above the arrow, Wolf. Then pull.”

White Wolf slices Chris’s pants open with a long-handled knife. The swelling is already visible. The flow of blood is minimal, but I know that will soon change when the arrow is dislodged.

“Roll onto your side facing away from the light,” I say.

Chris glares at me and doesn’t move. I grab the blanket roll White Wolf brought with him and thrust it at Chris.

“Do it,” White Wolf orders.

“I saw Steven assemble the arrows,” I explain. “They have screw on tips. I’ll take the tip off first.”

Chris gently lies on his side. White Wolf ties the tourniquet while I unscrew the arrow tip. Chris bites the leather sheath of his knife as we work. Next comes the part I’m really here to do. I want to pump Chris full of universal life energy to help him get through the next few excruciating moments. Chris’s hand lashes out and grips my T-shirt. He stares hard into my eyes, trying to pin down my true motivations.

“Channeling the energy will work better if you allow it to happen,” I say with a tight jaw.

He attempts to push me away, but only succeeds in grunting as White Wolf and I hold him still.

“You believe in the sacred circle, don’t you?” I don’t wait for a reply. “This is the circle coming back around. You helped Juliana. Now, I’m helping you. While I still can.”

There’s too much swelling and the arrow is being squeezed like a tight fist in Chris’s swollen muscle tissue. The pain is distracting enough that Chris stops blocking my efforts and energy passes through me and pours into him. White Wolf braces Chris’s leg and pulls the arrow free in one swift unapologetic yank. I place my hands over the wound and direct the flow of energy to repair the torn tissue and blood vessels.

Chris passes out. I’m thankful he receives this gift of temporary unconsciousness to escape the pain. In his current state, he’s not resisting me, which I consider a blessing. White Wolf sings a chant while sprinkling the same golden powder he used earlier over Chris’s wound. The healing happens before my eyes as the bleeding stops and Chris’s skin grows together.

The older shaman squats next to the pile of supplies and removes a long-stemmed pipe from a bag. He settles on the ground near Chris’s head and holds a twig over the fire before lighting the pipe. White Wolf concentrates on his work and his lids grow heavy. Likewise, I close my eyes and focus on finishing what I’ve begun. When the energy begins to taper off, I reopen my eyes and see the pipe smoke roll over Chris, surrounding him like a blanket of fog.

White Wolf appears to be far away as he continues to puff and blow the fragrant smoke over his son. Chris’s breathing alters. I think he’s conscious again, but he stays still and quiet. I release the tourniquet and Chris’s eyes open wide in an alarming and distrustful glare. He reaches for the strap but I stop him. Chris’s gaze shifts from me to where the gash in his thigh was.

“Go easy. It’s still tender,” I say. “Rest now. I’ll be back later.”

 

∞

 

Chris will recover from the arrow wound. All I did was speed up the healing his body would have done naturally. I can’t change fate. At least, as far as I’m aware of. The road of life seems to be paved before we ever get to drive a car on it. The starting and finishing points are immoveable. Sometimes, we have control over what’s happening inside our car. How we feel about our journey. And to some extent, we can change the pit stops we make along the way, and sometimes even alter the itinerary. If Chris was supposed to die from the arrow, an Angel of Death would have been with him. No angel showed up. His body was willing to accept the energy I passed to him, even if his obstinacy disapproves. Juliana will appreciate what I did for Chris. And Steven doesn’t have to know.

Steven is my current concern. By the time I catch up with him, he, Dominic, and Arrio are most of the way up the slope of the Bull’s Horn. The rock covered crest of the mountain is only ten yards in front of them. The rising sun provides a red and orange backdrop that is both beautiful and eerie. Juliana would say, red sky in morning, sailors warning. But what kind of warning should be issued to two avenging shamans and three raiding horse thieves?

The three of them huff it up the mountainside, staying close to available trees and attempting a low profile. I guess they’re unaware that no one is following them. At least, not at the moment. Steven leads. He has his bow in one hand and I curse myself for not disposing of it more thoroughly. He must have picked it up from the ground where I threw it when he rescued his friends. Dominic holds the middle position, wounded arm cradled against his body. Arrio’s in the rear, appearing haggard, but uninjured. From the direction they’re headed, I assume they’re returning to their vehicles.

I make a quick decision to take a break from my client and find a moment’s sanity in the company of the only person who’s able to remind me life is worth living. She makes me believe life is good and I want to be part of it again.