Apparition Trail, The (26 page)

The mouse peeped out from behind the fox.
What warnings were we given?
it squeaked.
The spotted disease came and killed us without warning. The traders we extended a hand of friendship to did not warn us that they would kill all of the buffalo. The Long Knives south of the Medicine Line give us no warning when they slaughter our people, and you red coats are no better!

The eagle screeched its agreement.
You, yourself, helped the men who bring the iron horse to steal our land.

I felt my feathers bristle.
The Mounted Police are not like the American soldiers
, I said.
We treat you fairly. The Queen’s law is the same for Indian and white man alike.

When a white man and an Indian quarrel and come to blows, it is the Indian who finds himself with shackles on his feet
, the deer said quietly.

I started to hoot my indignation, but a part of me recognized the truth in his words. In my years with the North-West Mounted Police, I’d met more than one magistrate who refused to believe the testimony of an Indian, especially when it came in halting English or was garbled by a translator. I wanted with all my heart to believe that justice was being served, but in truth I had seen it falter many times. The solution, however, was neither war, nor magical transformation. All that was needed was for the Indians to settle down and become respectable farmers — the testimony of a productive citizen is always given more weight — and to learn to speak English. I could never before see why this had been so difficult for them, but I was beginning to understand. Why adopt the white man’s language and ways if you believe the Day of Changes is coming? I needed to put a stop to their magic, but what could I do? I had been transformed into an owl and was trapped inside a tepee with creatures larger and fiercer than myself.

I felt the tips of my wings clench in frustration — and suddenly realized that this was something that wings did not normally do. Were those fingers I felt, instead of feathers? I turned my head slowly from side to side, looking around the tepee. Given the fact that we had been transformed into beasts, I expected to see piles of torn clothing at our feet, but the ground was covered only by robes and blankets.

I began to wonder if I had truly been turned into an owl, or whether Poundmaker’s magic had altered only my senses and not my physical form. My arms certainly felt like wings, and when I brushed them against my sides they seemed to touch downy feathers, rather than the rough serge of my jacket. My feet felt bare, even though they must still be clad in woollen socks.

I glanced around, looking for a weapon I could use to fight my way out of the tepee. Poundmaker’s war club lay on the ground beside the drum, but it was too far away for me to reach. Even had it been within my grasp, I couldn’t be certain that I could grip it; my fingers were as stiff and splayed as wing feathers. Then I spotted a soft leather pouch near Big Bear’s feet and recognized it as my tobacco pouch. I suddenly realized that it held the best weapon of all.

The animals were talking again, the lynx insisting that I did not know Iniskim’s whereabouts and should be killed, the bear equally insistent that I could lead them to her. Even the grey-furred mouse was squeaking; it stood beneath the deer on its two hind legs, trying to get the larger animal’s attention. Soon all of the animals were talking at once. I hopped closer to the bear, flapping my wings as if I wanted its attention. To my surprise, I actually rose into the air. My perceptions were still very much in the spirit world — and if the same were true of the others, they would not be able to see through my feathers. When I settled to the ground, I let one wing droop over the tobacco pouch. I felt a familiar, hard lump inside.

Now I needed a distraction. I turned my head back over my shoulder to look at the deer, which I guessed was Mountain, the chief who had carried a shield painted with a deer design. He had a personal stake in all of this — the Peigan chief had called Iniskim his granddaughter, and whether he had intended the term literally or not, he was probably related to Emily. That was probably why he’d agreed to meet with his enemies, the hated Cree. I’d noticed his dislike for Big Bear earlier, and now I intended to use it to my advantage.

Once I had the deer’s attention, I turned back to the bear.
I’ll tell you where Iniskim is — but only you. That way, I’ll know I won’t be killed. Tell the others to leave. I do not trust them, and nor should you.

The bear pondered this a moment, then glanced at the other animals. The mink and crow nodded, but the deer protested, as I had expected.

I’m staying
, it said. It folded its legs beneath it, flopping down on the ground.

A muffled squeaking came from beneath the deer. My attempt at a distraction had worked even better than I’d planned — the deer had accidentally sat on the mouse. In the ensuing commotion as the mouse extricated itself, I wrapped my talons around the buffalo stone. Then I leaped backward.

The lynx growled and lashed out at me with its claws, but missed. I held the spiral-shaped stone in front of me, menacing the lynx with it.

Stay back!
I told the animals.
Or I’ll touch you with the stone and turn you all into buffalo.

I was gambling that this was true — that our current transformation was illusional, and that they would fear the more tangible and lasting transformation wrought by the buffalo stone. I wondered if I should try to turn them all into buffalo and put a stop to the Day of Changes, here and now, by using the stone, but there were too many of them. I’d never be able to touch them all with it.

Anger flared in the lynx’s eyes. Although the other animals were hesitating, it was clear from the flexing of its claws that it was about to attack.

Just as the lynx sprang at me, I flapped my wings and rose into the air. I aimed for the tear in the tepee wall, folding my wings tight against my sides only at the last moment and squeezing through the hole. Bursting out into the night air, I beat my wings for all they were worth.

They didn’t carry me any further. Instead of flying, I landed in a sprawled heap on the ground, knocking the wind from my lungs. It seemed I had found my way out of the spirit world on my own. I was a man again. A lump lay under me: the buffalo stone. As the warriors who had remained outside the tepee leaped to their feet, I grabbed the stone and scrambled upright, holding it out in front of me like a weapon.

“Stay back!” I yelled, repeating the warning I’d given inside the tepee. “Stay back or I’ll turn you into buffalo!”

The tepee had stopped shaking, but the door flap rustled. The Indians outside had tied it shut again. Fingers fumbled at its edges, clumsily untying the flap from within. I didn’t want to be here when the chiefs — or animals, or whatever was inside that tepee now — emerged.

I turned and ran.

It was dark, and my human eyesight seemed poor, indeed, compared to the owl-vision I had just moments ago. I ran in the worst possible direction: toward the bluffs. Only when I suddenly felt nothing but air beneath my feet did I realize my mistake.

Fortunately, the fall was a short one. I hit a patch of sandy ground, bounced, and rolled. Rocks clattered around me, and dust filled my mouth and nostrils. I tried to stop myself from tumbling, but the slope and the loose ground prevented me from getting a grip. Suddenly I was in the air again. I twisted around like a cat, trying to get my feet under me, and saw a patch of something darker below: trees. Then I was among them. Branches tore at my jacket and breeches and leaves whipped across my face. For a moment my fall was arrested as my jacket caught on something — and then the jacket tore free. I landed in a heap, knocking the wind from my lungs. Sparkles of light danced before my eyes, and something painful was under my chest. I turned my head, spat dust from my dry mouth, and feebly wiped away the spittle. That was when I realized that my hand was still clenched tight around the buffalo stone.

The world was still spinning. Up above and to my left, I heard shouts and excited voices. I tried to rise, but my body was as limp as a rag doll. My jacket and undershirt had been torn from my body in my descent through the trees, and my upper body now was naked. Whatever was causing the pain under my chest seemed sticky; it held me to the ground. I hoped the stickiness wasn’t my own blood. I managed to roll over onto my back, and felt a tearing in my skin. I turned my head, and saw a clump of prickly pear. The cactus was smashed flat and several of its pads were torn away; I could feel their spines sticking into my flesh, holding them to my chest. I lowered my head again, resting the back of it against the ground. Something white drifted down from the trees above. At first I thought it was snowing, but then I realized I’d fallen into a grove of cottonwood.

I lay on my back for some time, unable to rise. At any moment I expected the Indians to descend the slope and come for me — either to kill me or to recapture me, depending upon who found me first — but although I heard voices coming from the darkness above for some time, they never came any closer.

I am not sure if minutes or hours passed by. Eventually my strength returned. I sat up and pulled the cactus pads from my chest, grimacing as the spines tore free. The tiny puncture marks burned like the points of hot matches. A number of spines remained deeply embedded in my chest; but I didn’t want to waste precious time pulling them out. Not with the Indians looking for me.

I rose to my feet and glanced up the slope. I’d fallen a good thirty feet in that final tumble through the trees, and the bluffs rose even higher beyond that. All was quiet above. The Indians could be anywhere, however. I peered around at the shadows under the trees, imagining Wandering Spirit lurking there. If the warrior was the first to find me, I was a dead man.

The river wasn’t far away, but I didn’t relish the thought of crossing it. I would be too exposed to the eyes of those above on the flat, grassy plain that led to the river, and would be a perfect target as I slowly forded the water. I decided instead to make my way west, parallel with the bluffs. There were one or two small detachments along the U. S. boundary line; if I could reach them I would be safe.

I made my way, shivering, through the maze of sculpted sandstone. I had no jacket and one leg of my breeches was torn and fluttering. Walking in my stocking feet, I had to tread carefully to avoid sharp-ended twigs and the numerous clumps of cactus. Fortunately, the moon was rising. It was still three-quarters full. However, this meant that anyone searching for me would have an easier time of it.

Just as I started out, a rock tumbled from up above. I pressed myself against a spire of sandstone, fearful that someone had found me. I clenched my only weapon — the buffalo stone — tightly in my hand, even though I knew it would do me little good if someone chose to shoot at me from the bluffs above. I waited there until I was shivering, but the attack I anticipated never came.

I took a deliberately winding path after that, staying well inside the canyons between the spires of rock. The ground was broken and rolling, and several times I had to climb up a slope and scramble down the other side. It was slippery climbing on the sandy soil, especially with the buffalo stone still in my hand. I used holes in the stone walls as natural handholds for a time, but once when I put my hand inside a deeper hole, I felt something slither over my fingers and out onto the ledge I was trying to climb onto. I could not let go of my handhold for fear of falling, and so I used my free hand, which held the buffalo stone, to strike the snake and knock it from the ledge. Only after my heart stopped pounding did I realize that it had probably been no more than a garter snake, since I hadn’t heard any warning rattle. I counted myself lucky that the stone, which had brushed against the snake as I struck it, hadn’t turned the animal into a buffalo, or it would have knocked me to the ground.

I avoided the holes after that.

The fear that had spurred me earlier in my wild run from the tepee left me drained and exhausted when it ebbed. The knot of pain in my stomach was back, and the hunger that lay beneath it was a dull rumble. My lips were dry; I yearned for water. Yet I daren’t go near the river. Not yet.

As I slid down yet another slope, I thought I heard a whispered voice. I froze, listening, but heard only the sifting trickle of sand. I hoped it had been just my imagination, and not one pursuer whispering to another. I looked up at the spires of rock that surrounded me, but saw no one.

Standing in one spot only caused me to start shivering again. I decided it was best to keep moving. I glanced around, trying to find an easy path, and saw that the easiest route led past a wide cliff of flat sandstone. I began moving toward it.

I stopped abruptly after just two steps. A moment ago, the cliff face had been dull and smooth. Now I could see lines scratched into it. They had appeared as if by magic. I tried to tell myself that it was only the angle of the moonlight that had changed, that I had moved into a position where the shadows that filled the grooves in the rock became visible, but a tingling sensation at the back of my neck as my hairs rose told me otherwise.

As if drawn by a magnet, I moved closer to the cliff face. The scratches in the stone began just above my head; I reached up a hand to touch them. The sandstone was soft, and a piece of it sloughed off under my fingers, shattering into sandy fragments as it hit the ground with a thud. I jerked my hand away and looked around, fearful that the noise might be heard by my pursuers.