Demon Shadows Read online

  DEMON

  SHADOWS

  Mike Sirota

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Originally published by Bantam Books, New York, NY

  Atoris Press edition 2011

  Demon Shadows. Copyright © 1990, 2011 by Mike Sirota

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-0-9840072-1-9

  Cover design by Karen Phillips

  Thanks to

  Jeff Sherratt and

  Michele Scott, good writers

  and great friends, for helping

  me begin this new adventure.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Excerpts from John Thorburn’s diary, 1845 - 46, published in Trails of Promise—The Way to California:

  November 18, Tuesday—First chance to write since a week ago, when we came to the lake. The snow was deep; we couldn’t make it through the pass, even though the summit is only two miles from here. Tried again yesterday, but there was a terrible wind and it began to snow, so we came back. Only the Lord knows if we will be able to cross these Sierra mountains.

  November 23, Sunday—Snowing four days now. The Stillwell families are in an abandoned cabin on the lakeshore. It is a pathetic shack, with a roof of pine branches. The other cabins we built are not much better. Two are near the Stillwells. Ours is along a creek some distance away. I think that is best, because of all the arguing that goes on among us. We are sharing the cabin with the McClains, an agreeable family.

  December 6, Saturday—The first storm lasted seven days. This new one has gone on for three. Hard wind from the west. Very cold, snow up to the roof. Our food supply is low. The McClain baby has a bad cough.

  December 12, Friday—Clear and cold today. Meeting this morning by the lake. Ezra Mackey died from the consumption. Mrs. Hardman (the mother) will not be with us for long. We are bad off for food. If we had enough, we could endure here till spring. Tried hunting, no game but a couple of squirrels.

  December 14, Sunday—Very cold, but not snowing. The McClain baby died last night. Krueger the German read from the Bible. Mrs. Hardman is failing. My teamster, Milt Ramsey, is making snowshoes. He and young Georgie McClain are leaving at dawn tomorrow to try to reach Sutter’s fort. May God be with them.

  December 24, Wednesday—It is without joy that we await the Christmas day. The Gibbs boy is the fourth of our party to die at the lake. One of the oxen was uncovered by Noah Tyler, frozen in the snow. The creature had been gaunt when we came here. Its meat will not last long.

  January 2, Friday—Snowing again, not hard. No sign of snowshoe party or rescuers. I am sure they never made it to Sutter’s. Ada Krueger died. Ate our children’s dog, as there is nothing else. Everyone is starving. George Stillwell said we should think about eating the flesh of our dead. We heard stories at Fort Bridger of mountain men doing it. God in heaven help us if this is our only hope! So far I have forbidden it.

  January 4, Sunday—Jordy Fry said he saw a figure through the trees in the direction of the pass. Tyler thought he saw it too. Maybe our Salvation is near.

  Patches of snow dotted Fallen Leaf Meadow. Despite the cold, the winter camp of the Washo people stood far enough down the mountainside, and they were comfortable in their lodges. The fishing and gathering time was far off, when they would climb to the high water, the great Ta-ho lake, center of their world. For now, though, they had enough food.

  Tall Runner, wearing three layers of rabbitskin blankets, hurried across the meadow to his lodge, where Red Fawn waited. He knew he’d made her angry for going off so many times lately. Perhaps he would tell her what he’d found in the mountains. In any case, the recent trek had been rewarding. Two plump hares were slung over his shoulder. Red Fawn would be pleased.

  Strong Bow, the tebayu, knew about the white men’s camp on the North Lake. It was Tall Runner’s duty to inform him of anyone trespassing on Washo land. Strong Bow felt indifferent toward these white devils, these mushege, who had recently begun crossing their mountain world. But he continued to send Tall Runner back to watch them. Everything would be all right, Strong Bow believed, as long as the mushege left with the spring thaw.

  A few village suku barked at Tall Runner as he neared the uneven rows of cone-shaped lodges. Smoke from many fires twisted upward above them. It pleased him to think of warming himself by one, with Red Fawn pressed alongside him.

  The shaman sat in the sweat lodge. Tall Runner knew this even from afar. The steam that escaped from the small hole in the peak danced wildly, agitated by the gumsuc, the dream-thoughts of the medicine man, now wrapped in the stifling heat.

  Red Fawn was grinding dried piñon nuts into meal on a flat stone when she saw Tall Runner. She stood with great effort, for at sixteen she was full with their first child. The old woman that helped her accepted the hares from Tall Runner.

  “You were gone so long,” Red Fawn said.

  “Only three days,” the man replied. “Are you well?”

  She patted the roundness under her robe. “We are. Your son is strong. He kicks with the legs of a jackrabbit!”

  Tall Runner smiled and gestured toward the lodge. “Come inside.”

  “Not now. Strong Bow stopped by earlier. He wants to see you. You must go.” She touched his hand. “Later, my husband.”

  The tebayu’s lodge stood at the other end of the camp, close to a stream that ran across Fallen Leaf Meadow. Strong Bow’s old wife and young wife knelt by the frozen rivulet, looking for pockets where schools of minnows had been trapped by the ice.

  “Uncle, I am back,” Tall Runner called at the narrow entrance.

  The tribal leader of the Washo band emerged from the lodge. Tall Runner took a step back. In his fifties, Strong Bow had always been an imposing figure, and remained so, even though Tall Runner stood a head above him.

  “What news from the North Lake?” the tebayu asked in his blunt way.

  “There are five death markers in the snow,” Tall Runner replied. “They did much arguing before, but now seem too weak for that. They do not fish and are poor hunters. There is little food in the camp.”

  “Those who left have not yet returned?”

  Tall Runner shook his head. “I met one of our western brothers. He said that only one of them made it, but was nearly dead when other mushege found him in the foothills. This happened a few days ago.”

  “He will send others back,” the tebayu said.

  Tall Runner shrugged. “It may be too late.”

  Strong Bow kept silent for a long time. Tall Runner knew his uncle well, and realized the troubled look on Strong Bow’s face was from more than his report. Finally the tebayu said, “I dreamed.”

  Tall Runner nodded. “What was the dream, Uncle?”

  “I moved with the wind, high above the snow, and saw the North Lake. The mushege were outside, holding up their arms, trying to speak to me, but without sounds. I looked down at them, turned my back, and went on.”

  The tebayu paused for a moment, shuddering. “I was traveling toward the great Ta-ho lake when the sounds finally came to me. It was like our women wailing over the dead. I ran on the clouds, and it grew fainter.

  “Then, from Ta-ho, I heard the cry of Water Baby—”

  “No!” Tall Runner exclaimed.

  “It beckoned me. I turned in another direction, but could not control which way I went. Water Baby pulled me down from the
wind, close to the snow. Then the wailing began again. It tried to pull me back, but Water Baby was stronger. I saw his shadow and knew that, in a moment, I would see him.”

  “That is when the dream ended,” Tall Runner said hopefully.

  Strong Bow nodded. “The shaman sits in the sweat lodge to learn its meaning. But from what you told me, I fear that I already know.”

  Tall Runner, though puzzled, knew better than to question his uncle. “What would you have me do?”

  “Go to your woman, for now.” His piercing eyes found Tall Runner’s. “You may be returning to the North Lake sooner than you think.”

  The short winter day ended abruptly for Tall Runner. To his chagrin, he’d slept away most of it. He hadn’t planned that; he wanted to lie with Red Fawn, tell her about what he saw in the mountains, listen to her talk about their baby. But their lodge was warm, his belly full from the rabbits.

  Red Fawn still slept. In the way of their people she continued to work hard, despite her condition. Too hard, Tall Runner often thought but never said. As he slipped gently from her arms, he looked at the smile on her smooth child’s face. It pleased him that Red Fawn was his.

  Tall Runner stepped outside. The night air was crisp, but not as biting as it would be when the wind started. Although a few small fires burned, the light was too meager for him to see much beyond the lodges that flanked his own. As he stared into the darkness, a small boy appeared.

  “Hurry, Tall Runner,” the boy said. “Strong Bow wants you. The shaman has come out of the smoke!”

  The boy turned and jogged back through the village. Tall Runner stayed close with long strides. Others watched them pass, aware that something significant was happening, a rarity during the snow time.

  The boy completed his important task by leading Tall Runner to the opening of the tebayu’s lodge. Inside, the shaman sat cross-legged on a thick pile of rabbit furs. Though not an old man he was respected, even feared. His was the power of Great Bear, the spirit being held in high esteem all through the mountain world of the Washo.

  Strong Bow and two elders also sat inside the lodge. They looked at Tall Runner impatiently, not because he was late, but because they were anxious to hear what the medicine man had to say. As he joined the circle in the place indicated by the tebayu, Tall Runner suddenly became aware of his own importance, however brief it might be. He nodded solemnly at the others.

  The shaman spoke immediately, his voice filled with emotion. “I waited for Great Bear by the bay of Ta-ho. It seemed to be the hunting season, for there was no snow anywhere. He came and told me to climb upon his back. We started for the North Lake. On the way we saw mushege riding in their wagons to the California land beyond the foothills. Then they were gone, and as we came to the North Lake the snow again covered the earth.”

  “What was their camp like?” Strong Bow asked.

  The shaman closed and opened his eyes as he rolled a shell necklace around in his hand. He did this with the sacred fetish the entire time he spoke.

  “Three lodges,” he said, “together near the shore, and a fourth, apart, all covered with hides and branches. Thin strings of smoke rise from them.”

  Strong Bow looked at Tall Runner, who nodded. He’d never described the camp to anyone but the tebayu. This impressed him.

  “None of the white devils were to be seen at first,” the shaman continued. “Great Bear carried me to a place in the snow where small flat trees grew. There were many of them.” He held up five fingers. “This, more than three times.”

  Tall Runner was confused. “Five. There were only five death markers,” he said. The others glared at him. Strong Bow made a gesture that warned him to hold his tongue. The medicine man went on.

  “It was as I looked at the flat trees that Great Bear suddenly reared and threw me into the snow. I felt his anger. Rising, I wondered what I might have done to provoke him. With one paw he pointed at the cabin that stood alone. Mushege were coming from it; not walking, but dragging their bodies through the snow. Their faces were gray, lips cracked and bleeding, eyes sunk deep. Their feet were bare; toes were missing from the cold. As they pulled themselves along, they left trails of something dark in the snow. It hurt them to move, and they cried out the whole time. I became afraid when I realized they were crawling toward me.

  “‘Make them stop!’ I called to Great Bear, but he stood silent.” The shaman twisted the necklace furiously now. “I turned to run away, and I saw many more of them coming from the other lodges. Arms were raised, fingers pointed, faces angry. The closest was a bow’s length away. I could not run or say another word. It was then that Great Bear spoke.

  “‘You knew the mushege were here,’ he said. ‘You could have saved them but you did nothing. Now they are all dead.’ ‘I will help them!’ I cried. ‘It is too late,’ said Great Bear. ‘No, they are still alive!’ I told him as the fingers of the first crawling corpse reached for my ankle. From somewhere I heard the call of Water Baby and wished that I could go to him. ‘The Washo can help them!’ I insisted.”

  The shaman paused for a moment. Tall Runner could see how shaken the others were. For one to wish he could go to Water Baby! Tall Runner, also uneasy, dared not do or say a thing.

  “I spoke those same words, over and over,” the shaman said, his voice wavering. “Then I became aware that I was sitting in the smoke. Great Bear had let me go free of the dream. I knew that I was right, that there was still a chance for our people to appease the spirit beings. Do you understand, Strong Bow? Do you see the meaning of your own dream?”

  The tebayu nodded solemnly. “We must help the mushege at the North Lake. They cannot die on Washo land without our trying to do something about it. Tall Runner, you must return!”

  “I will start at daybreak,” the young man said.

  The elders leaned over and spoke quietly to Strong Bow. Finally the chief said, “You must leave tonight. You will bring them food and blankets, gather dry wood for their fires. We will do this until their own people come for them, or until the snow is melted.”

  Tall Runner looked at the medicine man, who nodded. It was a strange request, to journey into the high mountains at night. The Washo usually avoided it. The thought made Tall Runner uncomfortable, but he understood the importance of what had transpired since Strong Bow’s dream. He dared not question his fate.

  In his heart he wished he’d never set eyes on the mushege camp at the North Lake.

  “I will send others with him—” the tebayu began.

  “He must go alone,” the shaman interrupted. “The next time, others will go. But Tall Runner must do this by himself. I…know it from the dream.”

  The elders were puzzled, but Strong Bow understood. So did Tall Runner. Mushege were not fond of Indians. With their thunder sticks they could kill many before they realized the Washo just wanted to help them. This way, only one need die.

  “Go, then, Tall Runner,” the tebayu said. “Tell Red Fawn you are leaving. All will be ready for you. Do not take too long.”

  Tall Runner returned to his lodge. Red Fawn still lay under the blankets but was awake when he slipped inside.

  “You are going back to the mountains,” she said, not needing to ask.

  “It is important,” he said.

  “So important that you must leave at night?”

  “Yes. Do not worry about me, Red Fawn. I will return soon.”

  “I will worry anyway, no matter what you tell me.”

  He shrugged. “I must go.”

  Red Fawn lifted the rabbitskin blankets. “Just for a little while,” she said softly. “They cannot deny you that.”

  Strong Bow had sent a travois to Tall Runner’s lodge. The supplies were being tied down as Tall Runner came out. There were plenty of blankets, but not as much food as Tall Runner thought there would be. Piñon nuts, the Washo staple, filled two baskets. There was some dried meat and the whole carcass of mogop, the fox, which had been caught that day. Despite his respect for th
e spirit beings, Strong Bow knew he had to look out for his own people in this season, not a good one for hunting, gathering, or much else.

  “Stay close by the mushege for a day or two,” Strong Bow instructed Tall Runner. “If you can hunt for anything, then all the better. Make them understand that you will be back.”

  “I will try,” the young man said, but with doubt.

  No ceremony preceded Tall Runner’s departure. The travois slid easily across the frozen ground of Fallen Leaf Meadow. It would become harder on the mountainside, and in the deep snow farther up.

  Tall Runner was not concerned about finding his way in the dark. All Washo boasted that they could travel anywhere in the mountains with eyes covered. Something else worried him, something that his people had come to know at their earliest time of understanding.

  Their world was a terrifying place, especially at night, with many spirit beings wandering through it. Even the benevolent ones were given to whims of frenzy. There was Ang, the great bird creature, and Hanglwuiwui, the cyclopean, one-legged giant, both of whose favorite food was Washo flesh. There were the hairy wild people, who people always saw darting among the trees, and the fearsome Water Babies, who occupied every body of water, no matter how small. And there were many other things that horrified the Washo. Some of these they dared not even think about, at the risk of bringing down the worst kind of misfortune upon themselves.

  So Tall Runner was apprehensive as he started up an old trail from Fallen Leaf Meadow. Even the sight of the half-moon, appearing from behind clouds for the first time in a few nights, brought him no comfort. Its pale light cast twisted shadows of hemlocks and foxtail pines on the snow, shadows that moved, Tall Runner swore, when he crossed them. At times he found himself giving them a wide berth.

  When he finally thought about it, he realized the sight of the moon meant less chance of another storm hindering his journey. The most recent one had ended just before his last visit to the North Lake. But lulls of more than a few days were rare. Perhaps the spirit beings planned on helping this time, rather than leave it all to the Washo, which was usually their way.