Demon Shadows Page 3

  It was nothing that concerned him, the young Washo told himself. He looked away from the cabin and pulled the blankets tightly around his body, for it had grown even colder. Must sleep, he thought. Must let the dreams have their way. But still he fought against it. If he were farther away from the North Lake, where he could not hear the mushege or see their fire, then maybe . . .

  The meeting continued for an hour. Despite how hard he tried to ignore them, the intensifying voices pierced Tall Runner’s defenses. So much anger there; so much. Why? What was happening? Was it because of . . .

  The stranger. He had not gone with the mushege from the nearer cabins. Tall Runner had assumed he was already there, awaiting them. Not so. Without looking he knew the dark one lurked close by. His hunter’s instincts told him, as well as the crawling of his flesh. If there was any consolation, it was that his faculties had not yet gone dormant from the terrible fatigue.

  Tall Runner turned slowly. The stranger was not as close as he had imagined, a vague shadow standing in front of some trees thirty yards away. Tall Runner had no doubt the small eyes watched him across the snow. And while his fear screamed at him, he could not get up and flee.

  The stranger started for the silver tebayu’s cabin. Tall Runner’s gaze followed him as he moved like a wraith. Soon he was lost in the fire’s glow among the people of the camp. For the first time in a while the North Lake fell silent.

  Tall Runner tried to watch the activity by the creek cabin. The silence grew as unnerving as the loud voices had been. They must be saying something, he thought. If he could be closer . . .

  Soon the curiosity overcame the fear. Shedding all but one of the blankets, Tall Runner moved quickly to the nearest trees. Enough cover stood between himself and the mushege. Instinctively he used it, until he was more than halfway to them. Only then did he consider that the silver tebayu and his people would not care that he approached, while the stranger would know he was coming, even if he crawled through a tunnel below the earth.

  Tall Runner stepped out into the open, ninety yards from the cabin. Why go there? he wondered. He could not understand what they were saying. Nor did he know how close he would come to them before he stopped. He walked slowly to prolong that decision.

  The snow directly in front of Tall Runner lay smooth, unbroken. That the white people’s footprints went off in wide arcs on either side of him, as though they had deliberately avoided the direct route, went unnoticed by the Washo. A single sound rose from where the mushege gathered, halting Tall Runner in mid-stride. It came from a woman’s throat, he believed, but was catlike, a pitiful mewling that hinted at pain and fear. It was low and grew gradually, affecting Tall Runner as the proximity of the stranger had earlier.

  Closer now, fifty yards from the cabin. Tall Runner suddenly wondered why the mushege had not walked straight across the snow. The mewling cry slowed him. He tried to find the source of the suffering but the blinding flames denied him.

  Why did they go around?

  Then, in his path, there was…something. In the snow or on the snow, he couldn’t tell. There were three of whatever they were.

  Holes dug through to the earth.

  He stood frozen, watching them, which was how he knew they moved.

  Stains. Some kind of spreading stains…

  …each the size of a man’s hand, but they were growing, moving farther apart.

  Shadows.

  But shadows of what? Were they cast by flames, or moonlight? Tall Runner looked up reluctantly, afraid of what he might see. But he saw nothing, even though he turned everywhere, and this made him more afraid.

  The spots of darkness on the snow had grown three times their earlier size but for now seemed to have stopped moving. The cry from the meeting place trailed off into silence.

  Then the shadows grew more rapidly than before as they stretched toward the mushege. It was as if the sun had fallen behind a triad of towering monoliths. A new sound was born at its full intensity, a sound of the wind howling fiercely through rockbound canyons. But at the North Lake he heard only the sound, felt no wind at all. Tall Runner tried to cover his ears but could hardly raise his arms.

  The shadows stretched halfway to the cabin. The cry began again, and there were others, as loud and as full of fear. They are watching, Tall Runner thought. They can see what is coming.

  Windsound ripped through his brain. Please, memdewe, don’t make me see this. Don’t make me a part of what is happening.

  Tall Runner willed his body to turn away. The shadows touched the edge of the meeting place, but he saw nothing else. He covered his ears yet could not run, for his legs shook.

  The whites knew the shadows now. Their screams and wails were like those in Strong Bow’s dream. Tall Runner also screamed, mostly in fear, but partly in a hopeless attempt to deny the windsound and the shrieking death from the meeting place.

  Turn around, Washo. Turn and see what casts the shadows in the snow.

  He lowered his hands. It was senseless not to. There was something nearby, at his back—reaching for him, wanting him, willing him to turn. He fell forward, hands clutching at the snow, trying to grab hold of something, crushing the snow, feeling it seep through his fingers.

  Look, Washo, look at them…

  The cries of the mushege rose above the windsound, striking him like the back of a giant hand, driving him face down in the snow. His eyes squeezed tightly shut, for he was afraid that it would make him turn. His body knew pain as he dragged himself toward the lakeshore. Soon he reached the windbreak, where instinctively he gathered up his blankets and other possessions.

  The thing eased its hold on Tall Runner. Able to stand now, he staggered toward the slope that would take him away from the North Lake. He opened his eyes, fighting not to look back. The windsound again dominated as the cries of the mushege grew faint.

  But this changed halfway up. One loud, terrible scream was followed by more, probably from the throats of all the mushege—those still able to scream. This time Tall Runner nearly glanced over his shoulder. But he surmounted the need and again covered his ears as he struggled for the summit.

  Turn around, Washo, turn and see…

  He made it to the top without understanding how he had done so. Falling, he began to crawl again then pulled himself up. The pain of his first step warned him that he had twisted an ankle. No time for this now. He dragged the leg through the snow, still forcing himself not to look back.

  Turn, Washo…

  In a few yards the hill sloped down. He fell on purpose and began to roll, disregarding the scrape on his arm from a protruding clump of brush halfway down. He could no longer see the North Lake; nor would he look upon it till many hunting seasons had passed, for it would be shunned as taboo by the Washo people. Even so, Tall Runner could not escape the screams of the mushege, which never ceased but after a while faded into the night breeze beyond the snow-covered hills.

  He had no memory of when the darkness ended and morning came. Even when he could think about it, Tall Runner didn’t know how he came to be at Fallen Leaf Meadow the next day. He must have squeezed through the rift in the mountain below Arrow Point, a dangerous passage at night. But the young Washo remembered nothing until he saw the worried face of Red Fawn, who stood in front of a crowd of their people, between Strong Bow and the shaman.

  “What is it, my husband?” she asked, holding out a hand but hesitant to touch him. “Why do you sit here like this?”

  He sat just outside the camp, his legs spread. The bear’s claw, taken from the pouch, lay beside him. His clothes were torn, with stains of dried blood from his cuts. He looked around from face to face, confused. Then he remembered, and his body shook. Someone handed Red Fawn a blanket. She put it around him, but it did not help.

  Strong Bow knelt and caught Tall Runner’s darting gaze. “Stop this!” the chief ordered. “Tell me what happened at the North Lake!”

  Tall Runner stopped shaking. He looked into Strong Bow’s eyes,
and the rest of the people closed around him.

  “The mushege have seen the shadows in the snow,” he said and began trembling again.

  Excerpt from John Thorburn’s diary:

  January 7, Wednesday—We rejoice this morning, but also grieve. Some men from Sutter’s made it through the pass. We are going off the mountain and will soon be in California. But we are leaving sixteen of our people at the lake, because of the terrible illness that befell us so near the end. Mary Ann Parkhill was the last to die, at dawn. We buried her alongside William and their two children. Everyone else seems as well as can be expected. We said nothing of the epidemic to the rescue party, lest they turn and leave us here. I think everything will be all right, once we are away from this place.

  CHAPTER TWO

  November 28, 1991—Thanksgiving

  The clock read 8:07.

  Damn digital clock, Paul Fleming thought. They used to make round clocks with numbers spaced apart, and hands that moved. A lot of the clocks ticked. Looking at them you thought of time in descriptive terms: almost seven, a little after four, half past noon. And the round ones weren’t on your VCR or microwave oven, your pen or pocket calculator.

  Now time was precisely 11:32, or 5:49, or 2:12.

  Or 8:07. You seemed to notice it more when you were alone.

  Paul figured it could be worse. Some of them read 8:07:42, then :43, :44…This one wasn’t so explicit. Just the hour and minute, just…8:08.

  Alone was the big damn half-empty Laguna Hills condo he’d taken after they’d sold the house. He had moved out first, even though Jeannie had started the whole divorce business. That had bothered him, thinking what it might mean to Jason and Bree. But they understood pretty well, though only ten and eight years old. They had been included all along and knew that Dad wasn’t leaving…that no one was leaving them.

  Alone was listening to children playing on the grounds below and knowing that none of them were Jason and Bree. It was looking at their latest artwork, held up by magnets on the refrigerator. It was talking to them on the phone every few nights, then hanging up and wondering why you couldn’t help with that week’s spelling words, or play zip-the-lip and try not to crack up, or read a couple chapters from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. It was driving to John Wayne Airport to put them back on a plane to San Francisco every third Sunday evening, trying not to think about how long till the next time.

  Alone was Paul Fleming’s new state of being, achieved in his thirty-sixth year of life and—ironically—coming right after the success for which he had worked so hard. He accepted it now, because he knew that Jeannie had done the right thing. More, as hard as it was to admit, it was what he too had needed.

  Jason and Bree were with the right parent. As much as he loved his kids, he could not deny that truth. All the times he hadn’t been there for them—or Jeannie—working meaningless but necessary jobs, writing his stories, his pieces of dreams that never seemed to fit together, until finally they did.

  But by then, Jeannie was gone.

  Pushed away first, slowly, steadily, over years. Then pulled by a growing consciousness of who and what she was, of her changing needs. That had become the legacy of their earlier life together, a time when they depended so much on each other, and a time of a deep love that had been so good.

  The old dream was real now. Three successful novels, one made into a blockbuster movie; a lucrative contract for more books. Everything that he had wanted.

  So why hadn’t he written a word in eight months? Or jotted down one workable storyline? Or even just polish some old material that would probably sell now?

  He had played a mind game with himself: Writing is the great catharsis, the consummate purge of emotions. This experience will draw the best from the deepness of my soul. And it will help take my mind off what I’m going through.

  What bullshit.

  Writer’s block was an affliction that log-jammed writers at a word, a sentence, a chapter. Paul’s logjam had become his career. And the worst part: he couldn’t seem to give a damn.

  Gary Marks gave a damn. Paul’s excitable, cadaverous agent—he looked as if his last meal had been many months ago—let him know as often as he could how he gave a damn. He’d stood by Paul when nothing sold, then surfed the Fleming wave. Now he feared the wave would break.

  Empathy, Gary’s first phase—a short one—had been right after Jeannie and Paul had split up. Paul hadn’t shared his troubles with anyone until then.

  “Paul, I’m really sorry, I know how tough it is. Christ knows I’ve been there! Listen, take some time off, fly to Vegas, drive down to Mexico. Don’t worry about Ann, she understands. Been through a couple herself. After you get back we’ll give her your new outline. That’ll keep her people happy.”

  Phase two, castigation. “What is this, Paul? Two months and nothing? Tell me you’re bullshitting. Tell me you’ve been working on something and keeping it to yourself. It’s all that racquetball, that bicycling up and down the coast. How the hell much of it can you do? Get your ass off the bike seat, Paul, and down behind the desk. What the hell do I say to Ann this time?”

  Finally, guilt, the longest phase. “Paul, this is bleeding me, it really is. You don’t survive in this business on what you did before. I can’t go out and find another Paul Fleming just like that! Ann’s getting pressured too. She told me.”

  That’s what bothered Paul the most. He felt indebted to Gary Marks and Ann McGill, his editor, who had stuck her neck out for him. He would do anything for them.

  But he couldn’t write a damned word.

  Gary Marks had come up with something that he thought might be a solution. He had discussed it with Paul. No, he had told Paul what he was doing. Paul had agreed; he had to. But he knew it would be a waste of time.

  The phone rang…at 8:10. Paul hoped to hear Jason’s express “Hidad,” or Bree’s excited “It’s me, Daddy!” But it was Gary Marks, as always skipping a formal greeting and getting to the point.

  “I got it arranged, Paul. Jesus, you wouldn’t believe what a bitch it was!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Getting you in! Your name didn’t mean shit. But I managed. Paul, you’ve got four weeks at the Thorburn colony.”

  “When?”

  “You’ll go up day after tomorrow. It’s like we talked about. You’ll be done in time to pick up the kids at the start of Christmas vacation. Four weeks at the most significant artists’ and writers’ colony in the West!” Gary’s excitement poured through the phone. “Nothing to do but work. That’s work, Paul, like in ‘gimme something new.’”

  Paul shrugged. “I hope you’re right.”

  “Of course I’m right!” his agent exclaimed. “You’ll see, Paul, things will change for you at the Thorburn colony. Oh, by the way, happy Thanksgiving.”

  “Right.”

  Saturday, November 30

  “Stillwell? Yeah, mebbe twenty or so miles.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re goin’ to the art colony, I betcha.”

  “That’s right. How’d you know?”

  “Kin always tell, easy.”

  The attendant at Huey’s Gas & Market in Tahoe City was over fifty and thin. Paul Fleming thought he resembled a rubber-faced actor on television who did lots of commercials and now made movies; the “Hey Vern guy,” Jason called him. This one had on an Oakland A’s cap, and he practically stuck his face against the windshield as he cleaned it. He worked hard to scrape off hundreds of miles’ worth of bugs and road grime from the glass.

  “Not many other reasons for goin’ to Stillwell,” the man continued. “No skiin’ there. Some huntin’ and fishin’, but the season’s ‘bout over. Besides, you look like you’d be headin’ for the art colony.”

  Paul wondered what he looked like but didn’t bother to ask. The Hey Vern guy finished cleaning and pumping then came around to collect.

  “Is there much snow up that way?” Paul asked. “I mean, I won’t need
chains or anything, will I?”

  “Nah. Snowed some last week, no big deal. They keep the main roads pretty clean. Can’t say what it’ll be like comin’ back down, though, if you’re stayin’ a while. December kin bring some nasty storms.”

  Wishing more than ever that Gary Marks hadn’t made him do this, Paul guided his Cutlass Supreme SL back onto Highway 89. Twenty miles, the Hey Vern guy had said. At least he didn’t have far to go.

  Stillwell, California, was the mailing address of the Thorburn colony, and the nearest town. Not a big place; one map didn’t even show it. Why Stillwell? Paul wondered. The information brochure they had sent him mentioned Thorburn Lake, Thorburn Pass, Thorburn Summit, and numerous other monuments to a man familiar to many as a writer, historian, and patron of the arts. So who or what was Stillwell?

  December kin bring some nasty storms. Why couldn’t it have been May? Paul, a born and bred southern Californian, didn’t care much for snow. Drive up to the four-thousand-foot level, let the kids toboggan down a hill, throw a few snowballs, head back down, and walk on the beach. Jeannie had once talked him into a ski trip at Mammoth. For years he had been trying to forget that weekend.

  But it didn’t matter, he supposed. He was going to the Thorburn colony to write; to try to re-tap the flow of creativity that had once been impossible to turn off. Just Paul and his imagination, alone in a small room somewhere in the high Sierras. Spartan accommodations, the brochure said. No TV, no phone. A place to work, and to know that you won’t be interrupted from that work for any reason.

  Maybe there was something to it. On the drive up he had actually tried to work up a new storyline. He’d thought of something, although it was vague. But it could be pursued, because, after all, he was going to have the time and the spartan accommodations to shoot for it. The point was, it had a place in his mind again. Not the kids, not the end of his life with Jeannie, not the uncertainty of his future. Paul Fleming was thinking about work. Maybe just going to the Thorburn colony was a catalyst. Whatever, he had a positive feeling about it.