The Shaman's Secret (25 page)

“They have betrayed us,” I whispered to Boy. “Your Indian friends have betrayed us.”

Tears overflowed her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.

“Why did they do this? You always said the Hopi were the most peaceful of Indians. Why let this madman—”

My words were cut off as two Indians picked me up bodily. I struggled, fighting and kicking with all my might as they carried me over to the altar. It was no use; they were strong, their bodies hard. They swatted away my gouging fingernails and biting teeth as if they were the stings of a gnat.

Cecil Baker glided by me, murmuring into my ears: “This tablet will make it all come true for me. I sought other objects of power: the waters in Tibet, the book in Egypt, the bones in China—”

“You lost them,” I spat.

“Who cares? This tablet exceeds them all in power. This prophecy rock is so powerful. Especially here, where the skin between the worlds is so thin. Like gossamer, like silk. So thin I can flick them apart and move between life and death.

“This tablet was given to the Hopi by their gods. It is as ancient as the canyon around us. Men crawled out of the earth here, dreaming of a higher world. It will give me the power I seek over life. It will make me complete—and you, Kit, are the heart of my plans.”

I turned my head away while he spoke, shutting out his insistent voice. I would not let it enter my ears and sully my
thoughts. Then I had an idea. I raised my head and looked into his eyes.

“You do know, don't you, about your twin?”

“What of him?”

“Your brother, Cyril Baker. The only real love of your life.”

“That's not true. There were others—your mother.”

“Don't waste your breath on my mother. She had no time for you. No, the only person you ever cared for was your twin. You schemed together, grew rich together, your hearts beat together. And now—” I paused, letting the silence lengthen.

“Now he is dead,” Cecil said calmly. “You cannot shock me. I knew it as soon as he passed.”

I took a deep breath. It seemed I could not disturb his manic composure. “So, he is dead. He died in Chloride. He died dreading the hell he was doomed to, for all the things you did together.”

If the man had loved anyone, it was his brother, his twin. For a moment there was a spark of something in his pale eyes, some remnant of human emotion. Then they filmed over and there was nothing there. Once more they were empty. He clapped his hands and other gruesome
kachina
s picked up my friends, carrying them toward the basalt altar. I was laid upon the Anasazi tablet and my arms were untied. I tried stabbing into the masked eyes of the horned
owl that was holding me, but I was too weak and too slow. With a shrill laugh the creature tied me to the tablet, passing the rope round my body and under the stone altar.

My friends, trussed up with willow cords and thick sisal, were flung at the base of the altar. There was no way out.

I turned my head sideways and began to pray that I would have the strength to escape from these bounds. The tablet was made of smooth marble, pinkish, white-veined, cold under my cheek. I could see gawky stick figures on it. Animals, birds, lightning, the sun. Petroglyphs of an immeasurably ancient civilization.

Cecil's face loomed over me, rising up like a deformed crescent moon. His eyes were glazed over with pus, while his mouth moved. In the background the drumming and chanting reached a crescendo and sulfurous smoke began to coil round the altar, wrapping its way round my body, insinuating itself into my nose and up, dreamily, to my mind.

“Have no fear,” Cecil said. “I'm not going to hurt you.”

Cold hands jerked the tablet away from under me, then laid it on my chest. It sizzled there, burning my skin as if it was a flaming branch. I felt the snake writhing under the tablet's power, diminishing. Inside my head I was screaming and screaming, but no sound came from my lips.

Abruptly, the drumming stilled. Cecil's hissing voice filled the silence.

“Is she ready?”

“Yes, master. The snake is gone.”

“Let me see. I want to see for myself.” A naked flame in the darkness … cold, rotting breath above me. “Yes—you have done well.”

“Thank you, lord.”

“Very well.” His exultant voice filled my ears. “The end of Cecil Baker begins.”

I knew then that the smoke was poison. The smell was bitter-sweet, lulling me to a drugged sleep. I knew I must not give in.
I must not close my eyes
, because if I did Cecil would destroy me. But there was something stronger than my will, the scent rank and rich. Not only in my nostrils, but seeping through my head. My lashes were so heavy I could not keep them open. Slowly they drooped—and closed.

The world went black.

When I came to, there was a ringing in my ears. The cavern was pulsing with light pouring out of me, flowing straight and strong across the floor and up the walls. I saw everything, every rock, every mask, every feather. Each speck of dust was precise and purely drawn.

I had been untied. I stretched my arms, enjoying the power rippling through my young girl's muscles. I flexed my fingers, blinked, moved my fat tongue in my mouth. Slowly I uncoiled off the altar. A deep chill filled me, in my bones, my fingers, my eyes and my mind. I was so cold. Otherwise I had never felt better.

I was
alive
. The sentimentality, the emotions, that useless clutter that had clung to me like fog, were gone. I was able to look around, to view everything with a keen, calm vision. The chill was one of perfect logic, of sense unbound by feeling. Now, finally, I was ready to seize any opportunity. I glanced down at my chest and saw that the snake had disappeared. Gone, in a puff of smoke. Exultation filled me. The ritual of the sacred Anasazi tablet had worked. It had cleansed me of
the evil snake brand. Now I was finally free and whole. No wonder I was so refreshed.

I
was in charge now. Who am I? Why—it is plain for all to see.
Me, Kit Salter
.

Like a panther springing, I leaped off the altar and landed on the rock floor of the cavern.

I saw the face of the yellow-haired boy, his eyes wide with wonder and hope. I picked up the knife, the handle inlaid with turquoise stones, a silvery blade gleaming.

“Kit,” he said, “they haven't harmed you?”

I stooped down and attacked his bonds. The knife slashed through willow and twine like cutting butter. Swiftly I freed the others: Hilda, Rachel, Isaac and Boy, the Indian squaw.

“What happened to Cecil Baker?” Hilda babbled. “It was as if he suddenly had a fit. He hasn't moved. What's going on? Kit, tell me. Why did they let you go free?”

I glanced over to Cecil. He was standing frozen, his eyes glued to the altar. He was in a trance, bewitched. I looked away, trying to stop myself shuddering. He revolted me, the white, papery skin; the weak chin; narrow, drooping shoulders; the ugliness of his body. No wonder my beautiful mother, Tabitha, had rejected him.

Waldo rose and came toward me. His eyes were brimming over with some emotion I could not understand. Love. Yes, maybe it was love.

“Kit—dearest,” he said, holding out his arms to embrace me.

I moved toward him. “I am not your dearest,” I replied, and thwacked him across the face. I heard the crunch of bone as my knuckle connected with his nose. Saw the shock on his face. The screams of the girl, Rachel. The bewilderment as Waldo put his hand to lip. But I had no time to dwell on his pain, enjoyable as it was.

“Take them to the altar,” I shouted to my people, and the
kachinas
swarmed from all corners of the cave to gather the human rubbish. That fat woman with the loud voice. The lanky boy in glasses, the Indian squaw, the other miserable children. The brown-haired girl was pretty, very pretty. Butterfly lashes. Eyes the color of tea. I might have some use for her. But the rest of them … so much debris that I must dispose of in a sensible way. A way that will enhance my power.

The fat woman is gurgling at me: “Kit, Kit, Kit! What's wrong with you?” I knock her over as I pass. She is old and ugly. Even worse than the children.

I am freezing. Cold to my very bones. I see clearly, but everything is rimed with frost.

“A blanket!” I call, and a
kachina
rushes to put a rug over my shoulders. From far above there is a giant rumble of thunder, the sound of the earth splitting open. The heavens
cleave and a mighty gush of rain falls from the sky. My people are screaming, rushing around. But the water glances off me.

I am invincible.

This is the time to truly enjoy being me and to make my plans for the future. Not to be distracted by these annoying insects or the ice in my blood. As I pass the burning peyote tree, a whiff of strong smoke swirls up into my mind. Such sharp colors, such detail. The Anasazi tablet, patterned with creamy, pinkish veins and adorned with beautiful markings. What power it has given me.

My knife is smooth in my hand. It is a good knife, solid, the handle carved out of buffalo horn, the blade shining and polished. The feel of it pleases me. A
kachina
cowers as I pass him, knife in hand. Pleasure gusts through me. I have so many creatures. Buffalo, water maidens, warriors, clowns. So many souls bound to me. My slaves, my things. They feed into my power, making me swell with energy.

The time is near.

Soon it will be time for the final step.

Here in this cavern, deep in the greatest canyon in the world, the womb of the world, where humanity crawled on its belly out of the slime, I can feel the thinness of the ties that bind us to one world or another. I can feel the strength of my power to slip between souls, here with the rare air and the sacred smoke slipping into my lungs.

Who am
I
?

Well, I am no longer Cecil Baker; my need for that ugly old man is done. Now
I
am something far, far better. I am the skinwalker. I am the shaman. I am the thing that picks and chooses which body it shall use.

While I enjoy possession of this body, I am also Kit Salter. And I do enjoy it very much, the young body, the healthy mind. Yes, it is a strong vessel. I have chosen well.

It is clear to you, is it not? I, the skinwalker, have taken control of Kit Salter. Through the power of the Anasazi tablet, I have taken her body. Her soul, her weak, helpless soul, is gone, banished forever. I shall have no more trouble from
her
.

Yet what is this? Somewhere far away is a locked room. A small voice. It whines. I must pay it no attention.

“
You can do it, Kit
,” the voice cries. “
You can fight the monster
.”

Unbidden, an image flashes before me, the skinwalker. I sense that Kit's soul is seeing the same thing. An oval locket. A white blouse, a face engraved in the locket. Spirited eyes. Tabitha. They flash. They're signaling. But not to me. They are talking to that small voice in the locked room.

“
Fight, fight, don't give up, girl
.”

My mother. Her arms around me. Pushing me out of the cell where the skinwalker has imprisoned my soul. So much love in her touch. Love. I never knew the strength of her love
.
She is pushing me and embracing me at the same time. She never gave up, so I must not
.

Tabitha. Tabby. My mother. And now others join her. A whole chorus straining into that locked room. My father, Aunt Hilda, Waldo. Boy, her eyes full of tears
.

“
Don't give up. Get out, Kit. You're still there, fight him
.”

But no. The old Kit is not here. Me, the skinwalker. I have her mind. The shaman. The person who used to be Cecil Baker.

This chorus inside me is nothing but an irritating mewl. I am stronger than these voices. The skinwalker is Kit Salter now. Her body is mine, and her soul. I will be Kit and thus I will escape hell and I will live forever. The tablet has cured me of the parasite inside me and the snake outside. I am strong and free.

And so young.

I have my whole life ahead of me. And then when I tire of Kit Salter … another body. Another ripe young body. It will be so easy.

“
Conquer him, Kit. Pity him. Touch his heart
.”

Not so easy. I have no heart. Still, I had better do it. Take that final step. Only sentimentality holds me back, and I have no time for feelings.

I glide over to the shell of Cecil Baker as he droops in front of the altar. I see with satisfaction that my people have tied up
the intruders, piling them one on top of the other. The fat lady, Hilda Salter, is on the top of the pile. Ha! She will squash the rest of them.

Cecil stands there, frozen, gaping at them. How could I ever have called that body my own? He is repulsive. I collected beautiful things—just look at him! He was never much to look at! Why did I never leave that carcass before? I had the soul of an Apollo—was it fair that I was stuck with the body of a louse? Still, finally I have righted that error.

Better make it quick. I raise the knife, aiming for Cecil Baker's heart. When he is dead … Well, Cecil Baker will be dead forever and the skinwalker will be Kit Salter.

The knife is firm between my fingers. And then—
there it is again
! That same small voice …

“
Pity him!
”

Another soul, pure of heart, opposing me with all its might. And that chorus, urging the rebellious soul on.

“
You can do it, Kit. He knows nothing of life or love. He is already dead. Pity him
.”

I feel the opposition surging down my nerves into my fingertips. Like gas flaring, the strike of a match in darkness.

Panic takes over my mind. I must do it. I must do it now. Plunge the knife into the heart, feel the skin burst, the blood spurt. I must do it quick—or else …

I plant my will in my fist and bring the knife down onto the creature. Cecil doesn't flinch as the knife grazes his skin. I have a foretaste of victory coursing through my veins. So close! I am so close! Then that other will opposes me once again. The girl called Kit. We fight, silently, bitterly, over the knife. But she is not playing fair. She is not fighting; she is wrapping me in pity—and, worse than pity, love. She has learned to love Cyril, and through him—me.