Ghostcountry's Wrath (12 page)

“Everybody come on out and line up!” Kirk yelled abruptly. And anetsa was underway.

As the teams began to face off in midfield, Calvin finally got a look at the Na Hollo captain: a short, stocky, strong-looking man in his early thirties. His black hair was caught up in a bun and a tattooed Mayan glyph showed on one shoulder, while two more, in a different style, decorated his burly torso. That which bracketed his right nipple looked like an insignia from the first
Star Trek,
but was in fact a Southeastern Indian motif. “That's John Gregory,” Richie Bauchenbaugh confided. “Part Choctaw. Better watch 'im; he's better'n he looks.”

Calvin only half heard him, though he dutifully laid his sticks on the ground before him as the rest of the Wolftown boys fell in on either side.
That tattoo!—
it
represented the eye markings of a peregrine falcon—which was
his
totem. What it meant on a member of an opposing team, he had no idea—save that falcons had a habit of impinging on his reality at crucial junctures, often as not in warning. Which was all he needed, seeing how he already had half a dozen crises about to boil.

Oh, well…

Kirk, who was Driver, a.k.a. referee, stood at the far end of the facing ranks, a willow withe held whiplike in his hand. He studied the teams for a moment (there were roughly twenty on either side), and frowned. Then, striding down the line, he made adjustments, matching each person against someone of similar bulk or build. When play began, everyone would be charged with keeping his opposite number out of commission. The guy currently facing Calvin was a wiry fellow in his mid-twenties, a few inches shorter than he, with slightly receding brown hair and wire-framed glasses that would last about five seconds: not a good match. Kirk noted that as well and substituted the red-haired dancer. Calvin probably had him by a pound or two; on the other hand, Red-hair was taller and might have reach.

“Okay, you guys know the rules,” Kirk was saying, probably for the Na Hollos' benefit. “You
have
to use the sticks to get the ball off the ground, but after it's knee high, hands are okay. You have to take it
through
your opponent's goal, and you—or someone from your team—has to bring it around the goal and onto the field again. Remember, stay with your man. You can take him out at any time, but I don't want to see any unnecessary roughness. That
clear,
Rifle? I'm gonna give you guys one minute to get your heads straight and look pretty for the cameras, and then it's war—until one team scores twelve points.”

“How many breaks?” someone asked.

“None—'cept the ones in your bones!”

A general nervous chuckle.

Calvin took a deep breath and reclaimed his sticks, looking past the Na Hollos to survey the crowd at large. Most were typical tourists: white folks in bright colors, shades, and baseball caps. There were also a fair number of locals, most clumped together to one side. One was not, however, and Calvin found his attention drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

If not clearly Cherokee, the man was nevertheless so determinedly Native American as to be almost a caricature. Likely in his early thirties, he stood half a head taller than the surrounding crowd: easily six three or four. His jet black hair hung in thick braids like twisted tar, and he wore tight jeans, western boots, and a skintight black T-shirt emblazoned with a cobra's head
affronte
picked out in scarlet, save for poison green eyes. Even at this distance Calvin could see that he was leanly, if powerfully, built.

And his eyes…

Calvin shouldn't be able to discern any detail at this distance, yet somehow he knew that man's eyes were…wrong. In spite of the glare, they were wide open, not squinted to slits; and they had a cold quality to them, like a reptile's. He felt a sudden chill and wondered, half seriously, if the lids might not flick in from the side or bottom.

Nor could he resist following that troubling gaze, for the man was glaring at someone in the encircling crowd—and glaring hard.

It was then that Calvin saw the girl.

Though reasonably tall, she was slim and lithe. Native American, too—probably—but with her inky hair growing to a point on her forehead and cut short enough on the neck and sides to show her ears. She had a small, pointed chin and enormous dark eyes that, together with wide cheekbones, gave her a feral cast. She too wore black—jeans and riding boots—but a green T-shirt depicted a grinning Indian boy: Nathan Chasing-His-Horse from
Dances with Wolves,
if Calvin could trust his memory.

And then, cat-quick, the woman's head snapped around. Her eyes darted about, then stabilized—fixed, Calvin was certain, on him. The tall man's face swiveled his way, too—and his eyes narrowed, his lips curved in an odd, surprised smile. The hair on Calvin's neck prickled.

“Hweeee!”
a voice cried.

Calvin jerked himself back to the business at hand
just
in time to see Kirk fling the ball high in the air. The sky was slashed by upraised sticks, by arms fair and bronzed, as the teams surged together. He was jostled from the right as he forced himself toward the huddle of legs and backsides that were vainly trying to recover the ball from the ground. A hard impact from the left was Red-hair checking him—and not doing badly. The air filled with grunts and half-heard curses. He was already sweating.

All at once the seething mass of bodies broke asunder. Part of it boiled his way. The ball exploded from between dark hairy legs, caromed off a foot—and bounced toward him. He snapped his sticks toward it, simultaneously bracing for the impact old Red-hair ought to deliver—assuming he knew that much.

Closer… One stick brushed the ball. He flipped it upward, even as he dropped his other stick to grab it.

And felt all the breath burst out of him as someone slammed hard into his ribcage. The ground scooted out from under him; strong hard arms clamped around him; and he was borne to earth. The ball shot into the sky—he saw it there, along with his other stick and a flash of dark red hair.

And couldn't move!

He'd been pinned by a college boy!

Grunting, he dug his elbows into the ground and twisted—hard. Red-hair flipped off him. Half-dazed and panting, Calvin struggled to his feet, snatching up his sticks as he rose.

Following the shouting showed him that the Na Hollo captain had caught the ball on the fly and was dashing toward the goal, short legs pumping like pistons. Rifle Runningbear was closing on him, though. Gregory wasn't going to make it.…

But he did!—was through the goal. Rifle caught him there and slammed him to the ground. Which meant the Na Hollo either had to escape or get the ball to a teammate to bring it out again. Neither seemed likely, as body after body flung themselves into the fray. The saplings shuddered, bent beneath the press of flesh. The Na Hollo with the long braid dropped his sticks and hauled on a Bauchenbaugh in hopes of freeing his captain. One of the Wolftown boys jogged around and was probing somewhere near the Na Hollo captain's head.

Suddenly he stepped back, raised his sticks—and threw—just as a small blond guy laid him low.

And the ball was coming straight toward Calvin, who was—almost—alone in midfield.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Red-hair on an intercept course with either himself or the ball. Calvin was closer, ran faster. He grabbed at the ball and missed, saw it roll along the ground toward the crowd. He chased it. Red-hair was right behind, with members of both teams charging up fast. Calvin made a grab, barely touched it, but accidentally spun it even closer to the crowd. He grimaced, steeled himself for impact, yelled “Look out!” mostly from reflex.

He had it then, prisoned in his sticks. But there were too many people around for him to escape. Desperate, he spun in place and flung the ball back toward mid-field—just as Red-hair piled into him again. He toppled backward, felt his shoulders scrape the ground. Saw sky, then feet, then mostly stars. “Sorry,” Red-hair panted, scrambling off him—primarily for the sake of the startled tourists, he imagined.

Calvin found himself lying on his back surrounded by spectators. He remained where he was for a moment, gasping, regaining both breath and equilibrium, as he heard the tide of play surge away once more.

Abruptly, a face swung into view above him—a familiar face. He squinted at it, puzzled—then had a chill.
It was the weird-looking guy he'd seen before!
The one with the disturbing eyes. And those eyes were staring—not at him, but at the uktena scale plainly visible on his bare chest!

The man's mouth opened, as though he were on the verge of speaking, but something clicked in Calvin, and he sprang up again. Red-hair was waiting on him at the margin of the crowd, looking concerned. If Calvin went out, so did he.

A point had been scored, apparently; probably by Casey Cooper. The teams were regrouping in midfield—raggedly, though. Not everyone had to be present. Calvin jogged that way, and for the third time in as many minutes saw the ball rise, fall, then sail directly his way.

He batted it to the ground, ran toward it, with Red-hair right behind, racing a middle-sized blond in a buckskin breechclout—Frank, he thought his name was.

Calvin reached it first, extended a stick. Flipped the ball up, felt it thump into his hand. His fingers closed on it. He ran…

And was lifted from the ground….

For an instant he floated there, oblivious to gravity. And then he fell—hard—aided perhaps by Blondie's arms. He'd been bodyslammed.

But he still had the ball!
He tried to fling it away, but someone was kneeling on his arm. He twisted, felt pain in his back and shoulders, knew a muscle had pulled, but managed to roll over just as a heavy body piled onto his back. More joined it quickly: half a ton of young male muscle grinding around on top of him. It was hard to breathe. If they didn't get off soon…

Something was digging into his chest, too: something hard and sharp. He felt it slice into his sternum, knew by the gush of warmth that he was bleeding. And the world was getting dim, as the pressure on his chest grew too great.

Dammit!
This wasn't right! You weren't supposed to pile on this hard and this long! Where was Kirk? He was supposed to stop stuff like this!

But he couldn't escape.… Not as
man,
he couldn't. But if he were smaller…

Another body hit somewhere above. The pain bit into his chest. Calvin's awareness narrowed.
Out,
he wanted
out!
And to do that…

'Possum? Squirrel? 'Coon?

Pain wracked him; his body spasmed. Something very far away remembered and screamed
No!
His arms felt odd, especially the one with something hard in it. It drew back. The thing rolled free.

And the weight diminished. Shouts filled the air. The weight was…gone.

Air hit Calvin's lungs.

He dragged in breath after breath. Felt his cutoffs oddly loose.

And almost screamed—for he had glimpsed his arm: shorter than it should be and covered with thick dark fur. “Jesus!” he gasped—and flung himself back to the ground, grinding the uktena scale into his flesh once more, feeding it on his blood as he thought desperately,
Man, man, man!

Pain again, and a stretching—and then darkness.… The next thing he knew, hands were easing into his armpits, and he was being moved.

He opened his eyes, saw Kirkwood looking at him with an odd mix of concern, curiosity, and—almost—fear. “Cut up chest and maybe cracked ribs, cuz,” he said shortly. “You're not playin' anymore today. Sorry.”

“Tonight…?” Calvin was desperate enough to counter.

Kirk's face went even grimmer. “Very definitely yes,” he muttered. “After what I just saw—or thought I did—no way I'm lettin' you escape now!”

“What'd you see?” Calvin managed, as blackness once more hovered near.

“Something I hope nobody
else
saw!”

But as a pair of unknown Cherokee carried him from the field toward a waiting van, Calvin glimpsed one particular face among the nameless crowd: the guy with the odd eyes, staring at him—speculatively.

Unconsciousness, he concluded, was better.

Chapter VIII: Recompense and Revelation

(north of Qualla Boundary—Sunday, June 17—2:00 A.M.)

“Sorry to be such a pill,” Calvin grunted as he eased into a more comfortable position in the armchair Kirk had dragged onto the porch for him hours earlier. As the last set of taillights winked out behind the walnut trees, the yard faded to a plain of moonlit dimness surrounded by mountains of laurel, with the banked embers of a bonfire still glimmering and smoking out past the steps like a baleful red eye—which was
not
a comforting image. In the ranch house up the hill a single light still shone in a bedroom. He resented it: it upset the ambience, like a chaperone at a party—which in a sense it had been. But he was damned grateful for it, too, because it was in Kirkwood's parents' place, and therefore belonged to Calvin's own aunt and uncle. The ones who suffered their crazy college-educated son to live in a handbuilt cabin on the lawn and who gave him no grief when—like tonight—he hosted the forty-nine: the post-ball game party.