James Doss - The Shaman Laughs

Parris became aware of a dark form half covered by a large animal skin. "What… who is it?" Cain, of course.

Moon would not look toward the corpse or speak the name of the dead man. "He's there. Head, horns, tail, and all." Wrapped in a buffalo hide. Rolling Thunder's hide.

Moon switched on his flashlight; he illuminated the corpse. The face had a well-trimmed mustache. It was Oswald Oakes. His entire body was painted black, except for yellow circles around his eyes. Around the man's neck was a rawhide thong decorated with tooth of elk, shell of periwinkle, quill of porcupine. And there were trophies on the necklace-the shriveled ears of deer and elk and horses and bulls. Here was JoJo's Dancing Devil and Louise Marie's loup-garou and… and the beast he had seen in Canon del Serpiente . The beast that Herb Ecker had come to dance with.

"He lured me out here," Parris spat dirty saliva, "to see a dead bull."

"I know," Moon said. "Been watching him for a week or so."

Parris heard himself answer; he felt oddly detached from his voice. "What kept you?"

"Busted a fan belt out on the main road. Had to walk in." Moon held a small object close to his friend's face. "He always had one of these things stuck in his mouth."

Parris blinked and sniffed. It was the stub of a cigar; the smoking tip was a dull red ember. So this was the beast's single red "eye," that blinked in synchrony with his breathing. "How did you figure out it was…?" Parris left the question hanging in the night air.

"Hunch." Moon pitched a rumpled pile of clothes at Parris's feet. Later, when the time was right, he would tell his friend that he'd had his inspiration in the flower shop. From a television perfume commercial. My Confession. That was when he remembered Oswald's sarcastic suggestion that he pray for a confession. "My Confession," the lovely woman on the television screen had whispered, "is subtle, barely touching his consciousness." And that, of course, was exactly how the confession had been offered. Subtle. Barely touching the Ute policeman's consciousness.

Oswald's "confession" played and replayed in his memory, much like the lines of an old song that would not go away: "… surely the mutilator will confess his crimes to you… you were quite right to come to me… I can describe precisely how the bull was mutilated." The old man had described the mutilator as if he knew the criminal intimately. But the Ute policeman had dismissed these statements as the foolish ramblings of an overzealous eccentric-a self-deluded old man who believed he could understand the mind of a madman he had never met.

And what had Oswald said when they were barely inside his door? Something about wanting to try a new contest. "One that challenges the intellect."

The compulsive gambler's final hint now surfaced from the Ute's memory; it whispered in the frigid breeze that shook the little trees:

"It is only a game, don't you see?" A sudden gust whipped at a juniper and the writhing branches repeated the whisper… Only a game… don't you see… don't you see… don't you see ?

But Moon hadn't seen. This confident player had purposely shown his hand to his opponents. And, Moon realized bitterly, he hadn't bothered to look at Oswald's cards. Oswald had even presented the lawmen with the weapon he had used to kill Big Ouray. The old man had taken pains to guide them away from false assumptions about the physical strength required to crush the bull's skull, insisting that a twelve-year-old could swing the club with sufficient force to do the job. It was only a matter of accuracy, and that required nerve. Oswald was not short on that commodity.

Rolling Thunder had probably been killed in the same manner, to provide Oswald with the skin to wear on his midnight prowls. Moon leaned over to pick up the Mayan club with the smoky yellow quartz head. Oswald had gone straight to the book with the figure of a bovine skull, recited the thickness of the bone, pointed out the precise location where a fatal blow must fall. He must have enjoyed that mocking game; demonstrating to the slow-witted lawmen exactly how he had bludgeoned the animals. Knowing they wouldn't understand the significance of his testimony. Certain that he would eventually win the game. And he had come close. Too close.

But it was Emily Nightbird who had unwittingly unlocked the vital knowledge buried deep in the Ute's subconscious. It was what she had said to justify the brutal castration and suffocation of her husband. "You had to be there." Almost as she spoke the words, Moon had remembered the conversation in Oswald's parlor with crystal clarity. The old man had made the teasing remark: "… this mutilator certainly was not the pitukupf . Or one of those old Anasazi spirits defending his resting place."

Oswald, that tireless collector of such arcane facts, would know that the pitukupf reportedly lived in Canon del Espiritu . And the Canyon of the Spirits was also where the local Anasazi had left their impressive petroglyphs on the flat sandstone walls. But how did Oswald know that the Hereford bull had been killed in Canon del Espiritu ? He had only been told that the bull was killed in a canyon. There were hundreds of canyons on the reservation, dozens with enough water and grass to support livestock. But Oswald had known precisely where Big Ouray was slain because he had wielded the club that cracked the skull. It was like Emily had said. He had to be there.

Parris shivered as he buttoned his shirt, but not from the cold. "I still can't imagine this old guy taking on a full-grown bull… armed with nothing but a stone club."

"He was," Moon said, "one of a kind." One hoped it was so.

There was a long silence before Parris spoke. "But why?"

Moon helped his friend to his feet. "For Oz, it was a game." That was all. Life, the gambler had often asserted, was a game. Oswald had sweetened the pot on this ultimate contest. And lost.

Parris nodded toward the painted body. "He's dead?"

The Ute nodded. Between the Moon of New Grass and the Moon of Dead Leaves Falling, he had killed two men. It was time to think about another line of work.

Parris thought he saw a leg twitch. "You sure he's dead?" In the horror movies, this would be the time when the body of the beast would be reanimated.

"I'm sure." The Ute, who remembered his bitter frustration when Benita died… and Arlo Nightbird was beyond his reach, was certain that his friend wanted Oswald to live. So he could get his hands around a throat that still pulsated with life.

But Moon was mistaken. Hatred, while the vision lived, was not possible. Faint whispers of the sweet song lingered in Parris's senses like the remnant of a delicate fragrance. Music infinitely pure, more lovely than could be imagined.

He closed his eyes and thought he saw a faint afterglow of that bright light across the singing river.

But he wondered. What did the spirit of Oswald Oakes hear, what awful visions did he see? And what dark mansion had been prepared in his father's house… across that other river?

Scott Parris bowed his head and closed his eyes. And prayed. For lost souls.

Daisy Perika held the Southern Ute Drum under the sunlight that streamed through her kitchen window, illuminating a trillion tiny particles of floating dust. She read the story on the front page carefully, forming each word with her lips. Oswald Oakes had killed the tribe's buffalo for its skin-then he had killed and mutilated Gorman's prize Hereford bull! But she remembered something about Oakes-this was the man that Charlie Moon played poker with. Oakes was a compulsive gambler. She thought about this and smiled. Of course. And the buffalo spirit had pointed her toward this man! The shaman closed her eyes and remembered. She could see the deep forest… and the chalklike skeleton that dropped the rectangles of pottery on the moss, then gazed anxiously at them to see the result. The skeleton was playing some form of ghostly solitaire, like an old warrior playing wisa-nipi with his painted wooden disks. The skeleton was a gambler.