Witch Dance (27 page)

Thunder crashed, closer now, and jagged lightning streaked across a sky as gray as death. As the man lifted his face upward, the awesome power of Father Sky filled him and a vision of the sacred circle almost blinded him. First the darkness, then the light. First the storm, then the calm. Out of the gray skies would emerge a rainbow whose light would fall upon the land until all the people knew, and knowing, they would remember, and remembering, they would sing. Their songs would lift upward on the wings of eagles, and bending down, he would hear them and be blessed. He, the avenger.

Kate’s horse turned into the dark pathway of trees, and the man knew where she was going. There was only one family who lived at the end of that trail, and Kate Malone was taking the long way around.

Clinging to the sheer face of huge rocks, the man climbed. Almost, he could spread wings and fly like the eagle.

Below him, the witch woman’s skin glowed in the dark woods, as white as death.

 o0o

Lacey Wainwright was fit to be tied. His lawyer sat in a fat chair across from Lacey’s desk, talking nothing but pure bullshit, and that rat-faced little pipsqueak he’d hired to cover up all this mess was nowhere to be found.

He punched the intercom and bellowed to his secretary, “Get Hal Lightfoot in here.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Hal is out.”

“Well, when he comes
in
, you tell him his ass is fired.”

The overpriced lawyer cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. Paper-shuffling sonofabitch. Didn’t they ever bring good news?

“Now, about this class action suit against Witch Dance Tool and Die. The parents are charging wrongful death as well as intentional infliction of emotional distress.”

“I’m not interested in what a bunch of disgruntled Indians have to say. What I want to know is what you’re going to do about it?” It was all that Kate Malone’s fault. If she’d kept her nose out of his business, he’d be kicked back in his chair right now, smoking a cigar and dreaming about a vacation to the Bahamas. Hell, he’d even be willing to go to New Jersey. Anywhere would be better than this stinking rat hole.

“I’m not certain you understand the seriousness of this charge—”

“I don’t have to understand. That’s what I’m paying you for. Now, what in the hell are you going to do about it?”

“There is a procedure I will follow, of course. I will put together an irrefutable body of evidence proving that there was absolutely no intention on the part of Witch Dance Tool and Die to dump toxic chemicals into Witch Creek.” The skinny lawyer leaned toward Lacey with his squinty eyes watering. He looked like a damned long-necked, nearsighted turkey. “You
do
have company policies listing correct methods of disposal, don’t you?”

He had policies running out the wazoo, thanks to that damned nosy governor. It had cost him a fortune to clean up Witch Creek, and he’d had to put every damned move he made on paper.

“Hal Lightfoot’s got all of that.”

“The man you just fired?”

“Don’t you know a joke when you hear one? Hal Lightfoot is my right-hand man. When he gets back, he’ll explain everything to you.”

Lacey clamped down on his cigar. Hal had better explain everything. If he didn’t, he’d be back in the basement so quick, his head would swim.

 o0o

Marjorie Kent was a large woman with a sweet smile, a tendency toward hives, and rheumatoid arthritis. Kate had been treating her for three years, and now Marjorie stood in the doorway, wringing her hands.

Kate looped Mahli’s bridle over the porch railing.

“I thought I’d never get here. How are the children, Marjorie?”

“I shouldn’t have asked you to come.” Marjorie glanced anxiously over her shoulder.

“Nonsense. You know I’m always willing to make a house call.” Kate unhooked her medical bag and strode toward the porch steps. She was cold and glad to be out of the woods. The smoke coming from Marjorie’s chimney was the best thing she’d seen all day.

“Maybe it would be best if you just go on back.”

“Marjorie, what’s wrong?”

Marjorie glanced over her shoulder once more, and that’s when Kate heard it, the distinctive sound of the gourd rattle.

“You called in the shaman?”

“No. My husband did.” Marjorie continued to block the doorway. “The medicine man just arrived.”

“It’s all right, Marjorie.” Kate put a hand on the woman’s arm. “The shaman and I understand each other. I’ll cause no trouble.”

Reluctantly, the woman stood aside. The room was dark and smoky, with all the blinds drawn and the ancient chimney malfunctioning. Rachel and Adam lay on quilted pallets in the middle of the floor, and Kate’s old nemesis danced slowly around them, waving his rattle and chanting in a singsong voice.

Even without checking, Kate knew that her worst fears had come true: Witch Creek had not yet claimed all its victims. Fever burned in the eyes of the children, and a faint yellow cast tinged their skin.

She hoped it was not too late. Approaching the shaman, she tried for the right combination of authority and cooperation.

“I came to help,” she said.

The shaman continued to dance as if he had not heard her.

“
Oo’ole
,” he chanted, invoking the eagle to dart down as quick as lightning and hide his children in the protective lee of his wings.

“I have powerful medicine,” Kate said, refusing to give up.

The shaman was so old, the whites of his eyes were yellow, and when he turned his face toward her, Kate had the sensation of looking into the eyes of a snake. Pure venom radiated from him.

She tightened her hold on her medicine bag. The lives of children were at stake: She would not back down.

“For many years you have provided healing for these people, but you are like the great oak tree whose dry leaves rattle on dead branches. I am a sapling, strong and fresh, with new ways of healing in my magic bag.” Kate entreated him with her right hand extended, palm up. “Let the circle spin itself out to completion.”

His eyes glittered with hatred and confusion as he stopped his chanting. He glanced from Kate to Marjorie, then lifted his face toward the ceiling and invoked his deity in a tragic voice.

Chills ran along Kate’s spine. On the pallets, the children drew rasping breaths. If they didn’t get help soon, it would be too late for them.

But Kate dared not step into the shaman’s sacred circle. Finally his terrible voice faded, and the old shaman tucked his gourd rattle into the folds of his buffalo robe and slipped out the door.

Kneeling beside the children, Kate said a prayer to her own God that she would be equal to the task ahead.

 o0o

Hidden among the trees, the avenger saw her leave. She’d been in the house a long time, and she was mounting her white mare with the black medicine bag clutched in one hand.

“It won’t be long now,” the man thought. Or did he say it aloud? He must have, for the hawk circling above his head suddenly darted upward.

The slow clip-clop of the horse’s hooves echoed off the rocks. With her head slightly bent, the white witch woman appeared drained of all energy. An overhanging tree branch caught the sleeve of her coat, and she didn’t even brush it away, but instead let it take hold and tug until the forward momentum of her horse pulled her loose. Moving along on a parallel course high above her, the avenger saw the ragged hole torn by the tree limb.

A pity. He liked his opponent fiery, at the top of her form.

Had the children died? Another sin to add to the witch woman’s long list of transgressions.

Briefly the trees hid her, and then she came into view once more, holding on to a saddle horn tilted slightly to the left. The rocks beneath her horse’s hooves were cold and gray and deadly. Kate swayed a little as the horse rounded a treacherous curve.

Empowered, the avenger stood on the rocks and lifted his hands toward the heavens. As if the Great Spirit had been waiting for his signal, Mahli’s girth snapped.

“Whoa,” the witch woman screamed. “Whoa, Mahli.”

But it was too late. Nothing could stop her headlong plunge toward the ground. Nothing could cushion her fall against the rocks. Nothing and no one.

She lay with her left foot at a crazy angle and her arms outflung, as if at the last minute she’d tried to call upon her own gods to save her. Beside her, the black bag was open, its contents spilling onto the ground.

Mahli stood watch for a long while, her saddle hanging sideways and her bridle dragging the ground. She whinnied softly then flattened her ears as if she were waiting for her mistress’s voice to tell her what to do.

The white witch woman’s skin glowed like death.

High above her, the avenger opened himself for a vision—fires leaping into the sky, burning away the darkness until there was nothing left except light.

With the stealth of a night creature he left his watch on the rocks. Below him the witch woman lay broken, her powers forever ended.

Chapter 31

Winston Mingo sat beside the fire, wrapped in a woven blanket while Eagle stood with his arm propped on the mantel. Even in repose he looked tense, wired for action. Winston sometimes wondered if he’d made a mistake when he named his oldest son his successor.

It was not a question of what was good for the nation: Eagle had done a magnificent job as leader of the Chickasaws. But had the mantle of duty been the undoing of his soul? To the casual observer he was a powerful, intelligent man in his prime. But to a father he was a haunted man, a man who hid his bleak heart behind a stern face and careful manners.

Winston rocked back and forth, letting the rhythm of the rush-bottomed rocking chair and the flicker of firelight comfort him. He was like the largest limb on the old tree outside his window, dried up and withered. Soon he would fall to the ground and become a part of Mother Earth so other, greener branches could grow in his place.

The time had come to speak truth.

“My days are slipping away.”

“The doctors say you have many good years left. With patience and therapy you’ll regain some of your strength.”

“I no longer have the luxury of patience.”

The thunder outside punctuated Winston’s statement. Fierce and terrible, it roared over the mountains and threatened the valley.

“There’s a bad storm coming.” Winston never changed topics without a reason, and now he was finished with the old one and no amount of persuasion could make him return to it.

Eagle looked out the window. Already rain was beginning to fall, not the soft, warm rain of summer, but a hard-driving rain that would turn to sleet as the night drew near and the temperature dropped.

“In weather like this a man should be in front of his own fire with his wife and children.”

Eagle let the remark slide. Winston eased the blanket closer around his shoulders. He wasn’t finished with his son yet. Not by a long shot.

“What are your intentions concerning Deborah Lightfoot?”

One of the things Winston liked best about old age was that old men didn’t have to be subtle. He watched the changing emotions on his son’s face, and he knew with a father’s certainty that the white woman was still in Eagle’s blood.

For a moment Eagle bowed his head and stared into the fire. When he looked up, his face was filled with resignation and resolution.

“She will bear my name and my children.”

“It is good. She is full-blood.”

“Yes, she is full-blood.”

“You will court her properly then tell her of this soon?”

A spear of white lightning split the sky, and rain lashed against the windowpanes. North wind moaned around the eaves and rattled the shutters.

“I have no time for courtship. I’m going to tell her tonight. The marriage will be quick and painless.”

Winston thought of Dovie and of how he sometimes could still feel his passion rising just thinking of her soft body lying next to his. He was filled with sorrow for his son, but he kept his tears inside.

“May the Great Spirit be with you, my son.”

Cold winds entered the house when Eagle left, and Winston pulled his blanket closer. His son was virile and passionate. Soon he’d have grandbabies on both knees to keep him warm.

 o0o

When Eagle had been eleven years old he took every chance he could to visit Luther Mattox. Luther would grin his toothless smile and say, “Pull up a chair, young sprout. I know just what you want.” Then he would unlock the glass door of a cabinet and take out the most exquisite knife Eagle had ever seen. It had a curved six-inch blade of the finest steel and a handle made from the horn of a deer. Luther had carved the handle and set turquoise and coral in the niches.

Eagle wanted that knife more than anything in the world. He wanted it so badly, he’d have done almost anything to have it. At home he volunteered for jobs he didn’t have to do, even girl chores like mopping the floor. He did things without being told, such as taking a bath and doing his homework and turning the lights out at ten. Hope sang through him like the sweet waters of the Blue River. His birthday was coming up, and he knew he’d get the knife with the carved bone handle and the beautiful stones.

When the big day arrived, his father handed him a package. It was exactly the right size, long enough for the six-inch blade and the handle that fit perfectly in the palm of his hand. He was so nervous opening the package that his hands were sweaty.

Inside was a knife, an ordinary knife with a straight blade and a plain handle. He tested the shiny steel blade and found it good, hefted the weight of the knife and found it true.

“This is exactly what I need,” he’d told his parents, all the while still wanting the knife with the curved blade and the dazzling stones.

That was how Eagle felt as he drove home in the rain to call Deborah Lightfoot. She was good and true, but still he wanted the woman he couldn’t have, the woman with the white skin and the dazzling hair.

Deborah was at the clinic, and answered on the first ring.

“This is Eagle. I have something of great importance to discuss with you.” A compromise. A business proposition. He’d have told Winston without being asked, for the decision had been made long ago, the day he’d stood at his window and watched Kate drive away with Mark Grant. “Are you free tonight?”