Primal Fear (19 page)

“Something tells me things didn’t go as planned,” Harry said.

“Even their combined powers were no match for Wyh-heah Qui Waq.  The demon turned against them and attacked their village.  There were a handful of survivors this time, but not many.  Just enough to flee the destruction, enough to witness the tupilaq’s escape into the Tesmacha Forest.

“Of the original shamans who’d first brought the tupilaq to life, only three survived its attack.  They realized they had given flesh to the demon of the wind, they’d allowed it to escape in solid form.  When the rest of the village survivors moved on to start a new life further west, the three stayed behind and began to track the demon, determined to banish it back to the spirit world and destroy the tupilaq.

“Jha-Laman was one of the three survivors, and it was he who led the hunt.  It’s his account of that final journey that forms the rest of the legend.  His tale has been passed down through the generations of his people, so that no one will ever make the same terrible mistakes he made.”

“Did they ever find it?”  Laurie asked.

John nodded, but didn’t turn around.  “It took months, but they finally tracked their creation down.  It had already left the Tesmacha Forest by the time they began their search, and it started to make its way south from there.  It traveled from village to village, from settlement to settlement, destroying everything in its path.  Jha-Laman and the other two shamans followed its trail, further and further south, the days growing into weeks and then into months.  But they couldn’t give up, not after having been responsible for freeing the demon in the first place.

“Finally, they managed to catch up with the tupilaq and trap it in a place that Jha-Laman’s own story describes as ‘a world beneath our own, where daylight has never dared to venture’.  I’d always wondered what he meant by that.  Now I think I know.

“Anyway, after trapping it, they began to exorcise the demon from its body.  It turned on them again, attacked its own creators.  All but Jha-Laman were killed, and in the end he was unable to drive the demon from its new solid form.  But he outwitted it, as the legend goes, and eventually imprisoned it within the tupilaq’s body.  Once it was bound there, he buried the tupilaq and restrained Wyh-heah Qui Waq there with a spell.  With the last of his strength, he somehow made the journey back to the Tesmacha Forest and then eventually to his people’s new settlement.  The battle with Wyh-heah Qui Waq had weakened him terribly, and the long trip home left him close to death.  In his final days, dying in the care of the survivors of his village, he recounted the entire tale to his one remaining son.  Shortly after that, he died.  And the legend was born.”

John fell silent, coming to his feet and crossing the room again.  He came to a halt at the end of the couch, standing with his arms crossed over his chest.  His eyes were far away, as if he was somehow reliving the experiences of the fabled shaman. 

“There’s just one more thing,” John said, his gaze swinging back to Harry.  “One more part of this, and it’s something I didn’t know until I talked with Mahuk a few days ago.”

“What is it?”

“The spell that Jha-Laman cast on the tupilaq, to keep Wyh-heah Qui Waq imprisoned there . . . it was meant to last forever.  The legend says it will last as long as the greatest of bloodlines, in this case the one of the man who banished Wyh-heah Qui Waq.  The shaman Jha-Laman.  But the spell is about to be broken.”

Harry frowned.  “Wait a minute.  The old man in the hospital, this Mahuk—you said he was a direct descendant of Jha-Laman.”

“It’s true.  He is.  But—”

“Then the bloodline is still intact,” Laurie put in. 

John shook his head slowly.  Sadly.  “Mahuk is the last of his bloodline.  The very last.  And he’s dying.  It’s a miracle he’s still alive at all.  He began the same journey that Jha-Laman made nine generations before, prepared to renew the spell before it could be broken.  Before it was too late.”

“Before he dies, in other words.”

“That’s right.  I don’t know how far he traveled, or even where he came from.  But a friend of mine—a doctor at the Parkland Medical Center in Montreal—is currently in charge of his case.  Mahuk was in poor health to begin with.  The exposure to the elements nearly killed him.  The doctors are doing everything they can for him, but . . . speaking honestly, it doesn’t look good.”

“And when he dies?”

“When he dies, his bloodline dies with him, and so does the spell.  The spell will be broken.  The demon will go free.”

Harry leaned back onto the couch.  His muscles were tensed, his nerves on edge, all from listening so closely to John’s story.  He turned his head, felt the tired muscles of his neck loosen and contract.

“It’s more than just a story, Harry,” John said.  “It’s the truth.  A week ago, I wasn’t even sure myself.  Now I know it’s true.”

“I know.  I’m just saying . . . it’s a lot to take in.”

John’s eyes narrowed, locked onto Harry’s.  “So,” he said.  “Do you believe me?”

Harry stared back, choosing his words carefully.  He could sympathize with John, could easily put himself in the other man’s shoes.  During his years of working his way up at the station house, how many times had he struggled to make his own voice be heard?  How long had it been before his fellow officers—and better yet, his superiors—had begun to trust in his instincts and hunches?  True, John’s story was a much bigger pill to swallow, but deep down, the situations were very much the same.

Harry smiled weakly.  “Yeah.  I believe you.  I do.”

John seemed mildly surprised.  Maybe he’d convinced himself that Harry would attempt to offer some rationalization for everything that had happened over the past couple of days.  “Can I ask you why?”

“Shouldn’t I?”

“Of course.  But what is it that makes a guy like you—a black-and-white, bottom line kind of guy—what makes somebody like you suddenly believe in something like this?”

Harry’s smile faded away.  He swallowed, a dry click in his throat.  “I believe you because of what I felt when Marty Slater’s body was looking me over like a Christmas goose.  And from what I felt at the quarry today, out there in the cold but not feeling cold at all.  I’ve never felt that way in my life.  It’s just not . . . natural.  I don’t know how else to describe it.  But it feels real.”

John nodded.  From his pocket, he produced the strange object he’d offered Harry at the rim of the granite pit.  He held it close for a moment, as if considering its value, and then he stretched out his arm and brought it within Harry’s grasp.

Harry stared at it warily, the same way one might examine an unfamiliar weapon before accepting it.  “I’m not sure I want it,” he said quietly.

“Go on,” John urged.  “This far away, its power is barely noticeable.  It’s safe here, I promise.”

With a slow sigh, Harry accepted the object, still handling it as carefully as he could.  It was about five or six inches long, and slender, at its thickest point barely wider than his thumb.  Halfway along its length, there was a slight bend in its direction; it vaguely reminded Harry of a knuckle, but he pushed the thought away. 

He could feel a slight vibration within the object, as if a tiny electrical charge was passing through it.  Not powerful enough to harm him; just enough to leave him feeling strangely uneasy.

Turning the object, he examined its jagged tip, the same tapered point he’d assumed was a break in its structure.  It was quite sharp, curved inward, like an animal’s claw, or the talon of some large bird of prey.  He raised an eyebrow, suddenly unsure.  The sharpened end of the stick felt like bone, as if it had been crafted from the carcass of an animal.  But the opposite end was certainly wood, something hard and solid like oak or fir.

He peered at the middle of the piece, just below the lump of the knuckle.  There was no obvious seam between the bone and the wood, no indication that the two had been grafted together by hand.  A sudden chill crept up his spine as a new possibility occurred to him.

“This is a part of it, isn’t it?”

John scanned Harry’s stunned expression.  “Yes.  It’s the last surviving artifact of Jha-Laman’s victory over the demon.”  He paused.  “Other than the tupilaq itself, that is, but it’s still buried somewhere in that cave.”

Harry wrapped his hands around the artifact, suddenly aware of its power, as though the first wrong move might set it free.  “Jesus . . .”

“The legend says that Jha-Laman chopped off one of the tupilaq’s fingers, to bring back to his people as proof of his story.  I’d always thought that was just one of those pieces of dramatic fluff that gets added to any myth as the years go by and the story is passed on.  But then I found that with Mahuk’s possessions.  It wasn’t as powerful then, so far away, but I could still feel its strength.  And I began to suspect what it was.  There’s something . . . dirty about it, something that tells me it’s still alive, even though it can’t possibly be.  But I wasn’t prepared for the power I felt in it at the edge of the quarry.”

“Is it really . . .”

“It’s known to my people as a ‘P’oh Tarhei’, an old saying that basically means something that’s been touched by evil.”

“The way it feels . . . it’s like bone, but I can’t see how—”

“They say that Wyh-heah Qui Waq was very fond of its new solid form, that it began the long process of changing the wooden tupilaq into flesh and bone.”  Before Harry could comment, John went on.  “It’s an impossible transformation, I know, but there it is.  You’re holding the proof right in your hands.”

Harry held the P’oh Tarhei out toward Laurie, but she only shook her head and pushed herself further into the corner of the couch.  Her body language could not have been more specific: she had no intention of touching the strange item of wood and bone that Harry was offering her.

“Now I can see why you made the trip down here,” Harry said, laying the artifact down on the coffee table.

“And now you see what we’re up against.”

They talked for another hour, this time more about John’s impressions of the Glen Forest area and the few people he’d met since arriving.  It was a more casual topic, and helped to reduce the tension they’d all felt earlier, but it also lulled them all into a more relaxed state, where their combined exhaustion could take hold.  It was Laurie who gave in to fatigue first, and she politely excused herself, placed her empty wineglass in the kitchen sink and said goodnight. 

John watched her climbing the stairs and turned back to Harry with a tiny smile on his face.  “No children yet?” he asked.  “No little Harrys running around to deputize?”

Harry shook his head and lowered his voice.  “Not yet.  And I wouldn’t bring it up in front of Laurie if I were you.  It’s a bit of a touchy subject around here.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to—”

“Relax,” Harry told him, waving off John’s apology.  “It’s not that we can’t have kids.  I just . . . I don’t know . . . I’ve been putting it off.”

John thought for a moment before responding.  “It’s something to think about.  Among my people, family is one of the most important things.  There are no ties stronger than your bloodline.”

Harry nodded, taking in the recommendation.  It felt odd for John to offer such a personal bit of sentiment, but his tone seemed sincere enough.  Finally, taking one more look at the clock, Harry decided that he could sleep on such well-intentioned advice.

“Tell you what,” he said, “I’ll promise to think about that, if you’ll just answer a couple more of my questions.  Shouldn’t take more than another few minutes.”

“Sure.  What else do you want to know?”

“This whole ‘It begins with death’ thing, what exactly does that mean?”

“I’m not sure I follow you.”

“Mahuk gave me that warning, through Slater.  And then you come in telling me the same thing.  So how does that figure into all of this?  Is there some kind of a sacrificial rite we’re talking about?”

“No,” John said, “not per se.  I mean, the old spirits aren’t expecting us to sacrifice a virgin every time we need something.  That’s not the way it’s supposed to work.  But the Eskimo perception of death—or at least of what comes afterward—it’s not the same as yours.  I told you that my people believe in a sort of reincarnation, in the return of a dead person’s essence, or strengths, in the next born child in their bloodline.  But when a spirit has reached its highest form, it crosses over to the other side, beyond the sky, to live with the great old spirits forever.”

“You’re talking about heaven.”

“Sort of.  Same idea anyway.  But what I’m getting at is the belief that death creates a natural gateway between this world and the next.  When a spirit departs its body, the great old ones must look down upon it to either allow it passage or to send it back to be born again.”

“So if someone dies . . .”

“The realm of the spirits is momentarily open to our world.  A gateway is created.”

“And something could also come over from their side.”

“Exactly.  Legend has it that Jha-Laman, along with the five other shaman, they . . . they each sacrificed one of their children in the summoning of Wyh-heah Qui Waq.”

Harry stared back at John, his eyes narrowed.  “They what?”