The Night Visitor (43 page)

It may be that what followed was merely the result of suggestion influencing an imaginative young mind. Had the winds not raised the swirling sands to the upper edge of the atmosphere—and the moon retained its silver sheen—perhaps Sarah would have dreamed a child's dream. Of dancing pinto ponies… fragrant blue flowers… pink cotton candy …

But what Sarah Frank saw from the small window of the bedroom was
… a moon that bled.
And so she knew that the journey promised by the
pitukupf
would begin on this very night. The little girl did not pack her tattered suitcase or make plans to purchase a bus ticket; she knew it was not to be that sort of journey. She got into bed, and pulled the covers to her chin. And trembled with anxious anticipation of her departure.

She did not have so long to wait.

The child's consciousness floats like a golden maple leaf on the surface of a crystalline lake. The surface of the earth lies far beneath the still waters.

As she drifts over the world, the child is aware of
everything.
The single aspen leaf that shudders in the cold breeze… the pungent aroma of a broken blade of grass. She experiences the perceptions of all the creatures. Fear. Hunger. The thrill of being alive.

And the dreamer is aware of an unseen companion… a guardian… a guide.

Sarah knows that she must not stray too far. She might not find her way back to Daisy Perika's home. She speaks to her companion. “Are we almost there?”

There is no answer. And the whole world is covered with darkness. She wonders when morning will come. “What time is it?” She hears the response.

It is early… and late.

This practical child, who has little interest in riddles, is annoyed by the answer.

But it is early. It is far before the time of pottery, or woven basket. Of all the world's animals, only the wolf has been domesticated.
The brilliant mind that will invent the bow and arrow will not be born for many centuries. It is also late. In the Age of Man, already the eleventh hour approaches.

The dreamer drifts below a rolling sea of clouds. Her peculiar perspective is both above and before. She perceives a world at once familiar and alien.

Attached to the mountain's shoulders are long, muscular arms that bristle with pine and spruce. These limbs terminate in weather-worn hands that reach out to caress the lush, rolling grasslands. Between the fingerlike mesas are deep gorges gouged by rushing streams carrying snowmelt. The water-stained walls—fractured with a multitude of narrow, shadowy crevasses—echo with the lonely call of the great white owl. The sandy canyon bottoms are carpeted with great clusters of yucca spears and thick patches of prickly cactus.

Well beyond the snowcapped mountains and stark sandstone mesas, a rolling prairie spreads toward a distant horizon. There are endless meadows of hardy grasses and communal gatherings of tall cedars where yellow-beaked ravens gather in noisy community. Small camels graze peacefully here… nervous herds of three-toed horses clatter across stony ridges. In low places there are lush cattail bogs and brackish ponds crowned with jittery halos of black mosquitoes. The cruel grit-laden wind snaps its lash fiercely here—whipping up undulating waves on the seas of blue dune grasses.

Nearer to the canyons, the wind is a gifted craftsman of infinite patience. The artful breeze sings a solemn hymn… and slowly sculpts sandstone into fantastic shapes. The most impressive is the great tower that stands alone and aloof. Over the ages, it will be known by many names. First Man. Old Woman's Thumb. Apache Sentinel. The Devil's Hitching Post. Chimney Rock.

This is—on the whole—a harsh, arid land. But hidden among the folds of the mesas' pleated skirts… under the overhangs of jutting ledges… nestled in spruce-shaded bogs… there are damp emerald glens. In such places, delicate blue frogs croak raspy love-songs. Among pulpy ferns, ruby-eyed spiders weave intricate webs. Like pearls embroidered on a delicate veil, glistening drops of amber nectar are
suspended from these silken fibers. Perhaps to attract the thirsty moth who flutters by in search of yucca-bloom.

Sarah would tarry in such an enchanted place… She yearns to touch the poisonous frog's glistening cerulean skin… to rescue poor moth from the eight-legged monster's snare. It is a lovely, frightening place. But is this her final destination? It is not. This is but a way-station; a stopping-place on a long journey just around the corner of time.

The old ones know that such shadowy places do not exist to serve as comely boudoir for lovesick frogs. Or for the culinary benefit of spiders who sit and watch with a multitude of unblinking red eyes for the unwary six-legged creature. No. Their purpose is of a more cosmic nature. Though the whole of darkness seems to approach from the east and retire to the west, the elders know that this is merely a shadowy illusion meant to deceive mortals. Here is what the old sages have perceived: With the coming of dawn, the monster of night is shattered like a broken pot… into many shards. The dark fragments immediately seek out a multitude of cool sanctuaries where they may hide during the sunlit hours… and they will tarry there till day's end. As twilight approaches, there are gleeful stirrings in countless dark retreats. At the appointed hour, these shreds of night come forth to form a population of shadows… darklings… inky ghosts.

Does the sleeping child doubt this report?

The spirits had expected as much. Look closely—do you not see them?

Yonder, a mossy smudge slips from under a cleft of granite. Over there… a parasitic shadow attaches itself to the trunk of a knobby tree—its fellow rests behind a pockmarked boulder. One darkling rides on the limbs of a muscular feline who has teeth like curved daggers. Another wisp embraces a tuft-eared rodent, who stands frozen in fear of the yellow-eyed cat. As the far horizon bleeds crimson across the bed of the sun, these anxious graylings whisper sweet gossip… touch cool fingertip… lightly kiss lip to lip… sigh… and finally merge into the cold embrace of twilight. When this entwining is duly done, the whole of darkness has truly come. The multitude have become one.

A night of such singular character cannot be filled with rest and peace for those who move within it. This is, by its nature, an anxious time devoted to searching. Fleeing. Devouring. Being devoured. This strange congregation of creatures slithers, shuffles, sniffs, scuttles… snarls. Elfin rodents blink from dark burrows with enormous, bulging night eyes. Huge bats emit shrill echo-screams and fasten needle-teeth to dragonfly. Three-horned pygmy deer dart among thick shadows. Slow, cumbersome ungulates browse on sweet grasses or clip moist green leaves off low-hanging branches. Fleet-footed, hooked-tooth carnivores stalk the slower creatures. These predators—madly excited by the lust of pursuit—are eager to stain tooth and claw with warm crimson.

But it is all quite innocent. And necessary. A nightly quest for food; merely this and nothing more.

The dreamer understands, and quickly departs for a more suitable place.

Sarah's spirit sits alone on a towering pinnacle of stone. Beneath the little girl's perch is a small encampment. The dreamer sees round elk-hide tents with south-facing entrances
… a
scattering of weary women… thin children too weak to cry. A aged, crippled man sits by a dying campfire; he chants a guttural prayer-song… imploring Spirit Who Thunders for his blessing on the hunt. The urgent howl of a starving dog echoes off a sandstone wall, then trails off into a pitiful whimper.

The darkening world extends beyond far horizons. The child's vision is not limited by physical eyes—a half-day's walk away from the camp, Sarah sees a weary beast that has drawn blood—and bleeds as well. The unfortunate creature is hunted by a determined pack of hungry carnivores. His day is almost done.

The pursuers—who number about a dozen—are wiry, muscular men. They wear long coats of finely stitched deerskin, their feet are shod in fur-lined boots. Each carries a fine birch throwing stick and a dozen flint-tipped darts. Most keep a bonehafted knife of obsidian in their simple tool kit. The leader carries a stout spear tipped with a magnificent white point that
is called moonstone among their clan. These are—it may be truly said—men of few words. They do not speak as they trot along the rolling prairie highlands like a pack of gray wolves, following a trail of crushed grass and broken reed. But if they are without words, they are not lacking in purpose. These are determined men. And dangerous. Because, like the hooked-tooth cat and the tuft-eared mouse, they are ravenously hungry.

The leader of the pack pauses; he raises his hand. The others gather near him. He points. By his feet is a bloody flint-tipped dart. The animal has shaken it loose.

The trail leads around a low ridge, into a reedy marsh. Now they can hear their victim. There are deep guttural grunts, a shifting of heavy joints… long rasping gasps for air. The wary hunters—who have lost several comrades in such places—approach the bog cautiously. Crawling over the crest of the ridge, they spot their quarry below. Almost within a stone's throw. The great beast is standing on the reedy bank of a small pond, filling his gut with muddy water. The water hole, surrounded by tall reeds, is encompassed on two sides by a thick stand of willow and cottonwood. On the far side of the pond from the mammoth is a bluff. It is not high, but the bank is far too steep for even a healthy animal of this size to climb. And this one bleeds from a wound in his leathery neck.

The leader calls a meeting; the men squat in a small circle, and listen. The chief of the hunt explains his plan with a few words and many expressive gestures. They will make a small fire and light pine-knot torches. Then form a wide arc and close in slowly on the beast, making plenty of noise. This should drive him farther into the water. While their prey is distracted, one of their number—a privileged hunter—will circle around to the bluff on the opposite side of the pond. That man will make his way down the steep embankment, and into the pond. He will approach the beast through the water, while the others hoot and wave their torches. When he is close enough, this courageous man will drive a long spear between the ribs of the beast. And penetrate the heart. The wooden shaft of the lance was cut only ten moons ago not a day's walk from where they stand. But the gleaming tip—it is crafted from the
sacred moonstone—is very old. And has magical powers. No beast who feels the prick of it in his flesh can live.

The leader stands now, and raises the spear above his head. Who will accept this challenge?

There is a noticeable hesitation. Men stare dumbly at the ground. They think of their women… their children. It is dangerous enough to attempt to frighten the animal into the pond with fire and noise. These huge beasts are both intelligent and unpredictable. The prey may charge. It is sufficiently risky to wave the torch and block the path of the wounded animal—only a man who places small value on his life will dare to come close enough to drive a spear into the heart of the beast. No, it would be better to wait until the animal grows weaker—and be ready to run if the prey charges. Even if the beast escapes from the pond, the men can follow his trail until he finally bleeds to death. But no one will question the leader, who is determined to have a glorious kill. And the chief of the hunt will not withdraw the challenge.

Someone must volunteer …

A young man among them is visited by a most singular apparition.

Wispy as evening mist, she floats above them. It is a girl-child, though certainly not of his tribe. Her hair and eyes are black as night… and she is dressed in strange garb. She watches him

The young man, though startled, is not unduly alarmed. He is of a people who oft see visions. But what does this mean—is the girl-child a witch come to curse the hunt? Or is she one of those Wandering Spirits—those who come and go as they please—and sometimes bless the affairs of mortals? He cannot decide whether this is a good omen or ill. The vision above him gradually fades. But the young hunter will remember the dark eyes of this child yet unborn. And he will see her again… after many ages have passed away.

His reverie is interrupted by a harsh call from the leader, who persists with his challenge. Who will take on the noble task that must be accomplished if the people are to eat meat during the long months of chill winds? Who among them is worthy of this high honor?

An older, wiser man smiles and mutters under his breath; the leader should accept this great honor all for himself. Unless some other fool is willing …

The youth steps forward and accepts the flint-tipped spear. He will go.

He is congratulated by other hunters, who slap him on the shoulders with both hands and offer hearty words of encouragement. They are, in truth, grateful to be relieved of such a hazardous task. One of their number has already been disemboweled by a sweep of the great curved tusks. Another lays in his dome-shaped hut with both legs broken… the same as dead. It is a common price to pay for a kill that will feed the tribe through those six moons when snow covers the earth.

The hunters find a sheltered spot behind the windswept ridge, well out of the sight of their prey. A lean man strikes a thumb-sized chunk of flint against a piece of precious blue-black pebble. Sparks fly onto a handful of fuzzy gray moss. He feeds the first hint of flame with bits of red-willow shavings, then with resinous spruce twigs. One by one, the pine-knots are lighted.

It is time.

The hunted creature looks up from the reed bank and sees this relentless pack of predators… his hateful tormentors. He throws back his great head and bellows out a challenge that can be heard for miles. The earth fairly trembles. It is a magnificent gesture.

And a wasted effort.

The hunters respect their prey, but are not impressed by mere noise. They are filled with enthusiasm and tell themselves this: by the time the greater disc has lightened the sky, there will be slices of fresh liver roasting over their campfire. Then they will send a messenger to their winter camp at the foot of the great rock pillar called First Man—to bring the good news to their families. So that their women and children may come to help butcher the kill. And feast upon the flesh of this great beast.