Ghostcountry's Wrath (9 page)

That was the other reason he wanted rain. If clouds brought welcomed darkness, rain would bring a steady sussuration that, again—if he was lucky—might lull him to sleep. Certainly it would give him some focus besides the things that had been troubling him with increasing frequency lately—and looked set to have him tossing and turning and staring at the irksome wall and equally unpromising ceiling most of this night as well.

If only he hadn't made the promise.
The Red. Man had warned him about such things, damn it!—but that caution had come two days late. Oh, it had seemed like the right thing to do at the time—almost exactly a year ago now, at the close of the Spearfinger Affair—but tonight…he wondered.

He'd been in south Georgia, then, recovering from one of his and Dave's Otherworld jaunts. He'd intended to hang out there and get his head straight about shape-shifting and such. But
then
he'd been accused of murdering his dad and discovered that Spearfinger was following him in hopes of getting at Dave. And somewhere in there he'd fallen in with a pair of Florida runaways named Robyn—that was the sister—and Brock. Brock had been just a kid: thirteen and full of attitude and testosterone and curiosity. Unfortunately, he'd also ferreted out the secret Calvin had tried so hard to hide because nobody
could
know such things and view the world the same after.

But Brock had seen him change shape and, like most kids his age, was crazy to know things others didn't. He'd promptly attached himself to Calvin like many lads did to sports heroes and rock stars, and Calvin, unused to being idolized, had enjoyed that adoration. In due time Calvin had literally dissolved Spearfinger—and had a war name and an atasi to prove it (and odd new tattoos on his shoulder blades to mark it: quarter-sized cross-in-circles, surrounded by curving sun's rays). But he'd been unable to dispose of Brock so neatly; and finally, after the dust had settled, Brock had asked him to teach him magic. Calvin hadn't wanted to—even then he knew it was dangerous and had in no wise made him happy—and had told the boy as much: that sure, it
sounded
wonderful, but it was in fact far more a curse and responsibility to be endured than a treat to be enjoyed, and that he suspected Brock wanted it so as to be thought special, when the last thing in the world one ought to do with magic was show off. Still, the kid had looked
so
earnest, and had begged
so
pitifully, that Calvin had promised to meet him back there in Willacoochee County a year from then and teach him one piece of conjury.

And now that year was nearly up, he had a promise to keep, knew he had to keep it—and didn't want to. But, as the Red Man said, promises were not to be taken lightly, especially when they concerned magic, especially when one was an apprentice adewehi.

Not that he'd actually seen Uki in the year since he'd acquired his war name, he hastened to add. Mostly he'd been taking high school equivalency courses at Western Carolina University and learning about the world at large—or the consensus reality most folks assumed was that world, more properly. But he'd been studying other things as well: had read every book on Indians he could find, had started haunting the pow-wow circuit, and had spent what little free time remained learning to identify every single plant and animal in the Appalachian woods, with their real and reputed properties.

That had all been cool. But now rashness had caught up with him, and he was afraid: afraid to fulfill the promise he'd made—and afraid to break it.

Trouble was, Brock showed every sign of holding him to the very letter of his vow. True, the boy had accompanied his sister to England to escape their abusive stepfather and be with her when she delivered the kid the old asshole had got on her. But he'd sent Calvin a series of notes—one per month, like clockwork. The latest had arrived earlier this week: too recently to send a reply. It had been postmarked in York; the message short and to the point:

Cal, m'man!

Greetings from the motherland—my motherland, anyway. I'm heading out on Saturday for
your
old home turf—so to speak. I'll see you where I saw you last. Be there or be square! Looking forward to learning
lots.
Aloha. Make that
Siyu!
(I read that in a book!)

Cheers,

Brock-the-Badger No-Name

And that was that. Brock assumed he would fulfill his promise and was flying all the way from England to collect.

Calvin therefore had no choice but to oblige.

But if that troublesome lapse of responsibility was giving him grief (and that didn't even count the small matter of what sort of arcana might be
safe
to teach
a flaky teen), it was nothing to the other problem that had been deviling him of late.

He had become haunted.

It had been subtle at first, all small signs: a coolness near the winter fire where no drafts could find their way. The scent of tobacco smoke while hunting in the trackless woods. A voice, one ridge over, calling out to Forest.

Unfortunately, Forest was one of his dead father's favorite beagles, now in custody of one of his old man's hunting buddies down in Jackson County, Georgia—not far from where Spearfinger had first appeared, in fact. Which didn't bode well at all.

—Not in light of the sightings. Always at the
between
times they were, sunset or noon, midnight or dawn. A man-shaped shadow on open ground. A deeper darkness among the banks of rhododendron upslope from the cabin. Once, he was certain he'd seen eyes peering from a tree at precisely his dad's height. But whenever he looked closely at any of them, they vanished. Even when he'd squinted through the hole in a water-bored stone, he'd got zip.

And now there were even more tangible signs. He'd leave something lying around—a new-flaked spear point, say, or a handful of porcupine quills. And the next time he looked for them they'd be gone. It was always his stuff, too: things that were part of his Cherokee heritage. He'd always found them—so far. But every time—every time—they'd moved west, as if some odd magnet had drawn them that way. And Calvin knew what lay in that direction. Tsusginai, the Ghost Country, in Usunhiyi, the Darkening Land, realm of the Cherokee dead.

And this week, the displacements had grown even more frequent, the spectral images clearer, so that he now found himself loathe to face the setting sun, because that was where the half-shapes always stood, the point from which the bodiless shadows spread.

And Sunday, he realized with a shudder, was the first anniversary of his father's death! Why hadn't he remembered that? Perhaps because he'd been sort of unstuck in time all spring, and not, for a change, thrall to schedules? Or maybe he hadn't
wanted
to recall.

But
something
evidently, did, for the empty orbits of one of the masks on the wall across from him had suddenly acquired open eyes!

Wolf clan,
he noted with a start: his own clan, though it had taken him most of last summer to chase down anyone at Qualla Boundary who knew enough of such things—and of Calvin's genealogy—to tell him so.

But now something was taking shape below that mask. It could almost have been another shadow—except that it was slightly too dense, and the moonlight reflected off it a tad too unevenly. And it could easily have been Sandy's Driza-Bone that hung on the brass coat stand next to the door directly above Calvin's outdoor boots—except that was half a yard too far to the right.

Whatever it was had now acquired arms, a suggestion of legs, and an odd sort of three-dimensionality, as it continued to stare at him from the mask that was now much less a mask and far more the likeness of his father: fortyish, square-jawed, and prematurely aged, but still handsome beneath longer hair than Calvin recalled.

Chills stomped across him where he lay propped against the headboard, wishing on the one hand that Sandy would walk in right
now
and by some cogent observation about quarks or cosmic string banish it forever, and on the other hand hoping very hard indeed she would stay gone longer so as not to have her peace of mind disturbed by whatever post-trauma stress Calvin might succumb to.

And so he lay and watched, his skin alive with goose-bumps, where it wasn't drowned in the sweat breaking out like pustules across his forehead, chest, and shoulders.

The image was almost complete now, though he couldn't tell skin from clothing, nor what form either might have. A lump plugged his throat as a host of memories flooded back—most of them bad.

He hadn't loved his dad.

A half-blood himself, Maurice McIntosh had tried to seal off his son from his Cherokee heritage, insisting that being different rarely made one happy, and wanting Calvin to be happy at all costs. That had prompted rebellion, which had led to words, and finally, when Calvin was sixteen, a schism. But there'd been moments of closeness, too; and as Calvin grew older, he regretted more and more that there were a whole host of topics he wanted to discuss with the old man and would never be able to.

But the worst thing was that they'd parted in anger. Calvin's last sight of his dad had been of him standing in the doorway of the ranch house down at Stone Mountain two Christmases back, staring at him accusingly, with an awful mixture of pain and anger branded across his face when Calvin had repeated yet again that no, he was
not
going to move back in, because he still hadn't got his head straight about which world was his: white, or Cherokee.

He'd missed the funeral, of course, first because no one had known where to find him, then because they thought he'd precipitated it—though how a guy barely twenty was supposed to scoop out a grown man's liver without a struggle, he had no idea.

But one thing he
did
know was that if he could see that mask-face just a
little
more clearly it would show the same angry/hurt expression he'd seen on that final holiday.

Fortunately, he couldn't quite get it to focus—yet didn't dare look away. Vainly he tried to think of some formula to banish such things, even as his more rational aspect told him that something which had no substance could wreak no physical harm; that
he
was master of his mind, and no other.

And yet those eyes bored into him—accusing, almost pleading—and now, it seemed, beckoning; as though his dad's shade was trying to convince him that if he would only slip out of bed and come closer, they could reconcile all the guilt that lay between them and give them both peace.

But then Calvin saw something that made him shiver so violently he could actually hear the bed frame creak.

His father was not alone! Another shape accompanied him, a smaller one, whose face had begun as knotholes in the paneling. More shadowy than his father it was, and yet clearer. A boy, he thought: blond, early teens, solidly built and intense. The expression—what Calvin could make of it—could only be described as haunted.

Michael Chadwick! It was Mike Chadwick!—one of the three boys he'd met in south Georgia during the Spearfinger Affair. And the one thing this kid had in common with Calvin's dad was that they had both been killed by that monster!

But Spearfinger was dead herself, and Calvin had been absolved of the blame…

Or had he?

Assorted law enforcement agencies had backed carefully away (or been backed away) from a situation too outré to bring to hearing, much less trial. And Uki had told him that while he had done wrong by admitting Spearfinger to this World, he'd balanced that by removing her again.

Except that, apparently, two…ghosts…? shades…? spirits…? thought otherwise.

Which didn't make sense either, because Spearfinger had killed
four
people. Present company excluded, she'd also done in a redneck housewife in Jackson County and the ten-year-old sister of Chadwick's best friend, Don. Which, beyond the obvious difference in sex, just didn't jive.

Abruptly, a clock chimed in the greatroom, announcing 1:00 A.M. And with that, the visitations faded, in reverse of how they'd formed, with his father's eyes going last. But as the last echo drifted into silence, he heard a voice, faint but clear, whisper, “Help us, my son, only you can.”

Whereupon reality reclaimed the night.

For a long time Calvin lay there, flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows of the rafters slide as the moon continued its march. More than once he thought of phoning Sandy at her hotel and trusting to her solid good sense to set him a course that was true. And far more than once he considered making a pot of coffee and sitting up the rest of the night. Surely he could find
something
to distract him until daylight and temporal distance dulled his memory to the point where he could dismiss tonight's occurrence as a dream.

But still the words gnawed at him:
“Help us, my son, only you can!”

But how could one help the dead? Shoot, what kind of help did the dead
need
?
Where did one go? What did one do?

What was Michael Chadwick doing with his father's shade?

And, drat it, what about his promise to Brock, that was rapidly approaching zero hour?