Tom Pawlik: Beckon

“Dude…” Rudy rubbed his eyes. “I’m telling you, I am not going to Wyoming. Especially in that ratty old RV. Does that thing even run?”

“Of course it runs. It runs just fine.” Jack tried to sound confident, though he hadn’t had the vehicle running in over a year. “I’ve just… never actually taken it that far before.”

“Which is another reason why I’m not going with you.”

Jack grew serious. “Look, this is the first real clue to finding out what happened to my dad. Do you have any idea what that means to me?”

“That’s exactly my point. You’re not thinking straight. Your dad disappeared out there somewhere, and now you want to go after him? You don’t think that’s a little dumb? Not to mention dangerous?”

“That’s because he was alone. He didn’t have anyone to watch his back. I’m not going to make that same mistake.”

“No, you’re going to make a whole new one.”

“That’s why I need you ,” Jack said. “I need your expertise.”

“Really? I have a molecular biology degree. How much good will that do you?”

“Come on. You’ve forgotten more about science than I’ll ever know. Plus, you’re the only person I really trust on this.” Jack sighed, and his voice softened. “I’m asking you… please. You’re my best friend. I need your help.”

Rudy stared at him for a moment. A long, painful moment. At length he rolled his eyes and took a breath. “Fine. Two weeks. Just don’t get all sappy on me.”

“Great.” Jack grinned and slapped Rudy’s shoulder. “I knew I could depend on you.”

Eagle Creek Indian Reservation, Western Wyoming

Rain fell in raucous volleys, drumming down on the ramshackle 1978 Winnebago as it crept along a gravel road. Jack gripped the wheel with the resolve of a grizzled sea captain. A metaphor, he decided, that at present was not so far off the mark. Beside him, Rudy was slouched in the passenger seat, baseball cap pulled down over his eyes. Snoring.

Jack had begun planning for this expedition immediately after the estate sale two weeks earlier. He bought all the gear he thought he might need for the trip and packed up his father’s old RV. Then the two of them set out four days ago, making the road trip from Chicago to Wyoming. Rudy had come along as Jack’s science expert, to document the trip on video, and for general moral support.

They lurched through water-filled potholes in the road, some of which looked big enough to have their own lifeguards. The tattered wiper blades swish-swashed valiantly in a hopeless struggle against the barrage of raindrops pelting the windshield like an angry mob lobbing water balloons. Jack knew they could get mired in one of the massive puddles at any second, but he had to keep going. Sheer anticipation was driving him now.

After all these years, he was finally on the cusp of finding some answers.

He could see the A-frame visitor center ahead through the rain and pulled into the small parking lot. The place was empty with the exception of the guy managing the gift shop. He was a burly, middle-aged Caieche with a name badge that read Ben Graywolf and a thick mane of gray-streaked hair pulled back in a braid.

Jack explained that he was an anthropologist curious about Native American myths and legends. “My father was doing research a while back on a lost civilization that he believed may have existed out here a long time ago. And he seemed to think the Caieche might have some stories about one.”

“Lost civilization?” Ben frowned. “You mean like the Shadow People?”

“Shadow People?” Rudy snorted. “Yeah, that sounds innocuous.”

But Jack ignored him. “What can you tell me about them?”

Ben shrugged. “Well, they’re just a bunch of old ghost stories, really. The N’watu, they’re called. The Shadow People. The legends say they lived inside caves somewhere in the mountains.”

“What mountains? Someplace nearby?”

“No one knows for sure,” Ben said. “Like I said, these were mostly stories we heard as children. But if you really want to know more, you should probably go talk to Running Bear.”

“Running Bear?” Jack said, looking around. “Great. How do I find him?”

“He’s the oldest man on the reservation.” Ben gestured out the window. “He lives in a little shack up in the hills. I close up in a half hour. I can take you past his place if you don’t mind waiting.”

Forty-five minutes later, Jack and Rudy were following Ben’s battered white pickup along the gravel road deeper into the wilderness. They arrived at a dilapidated log cabin perched alone on the crest of a rocky knoll jutting out of the forest and sloshed through the mud onto the sagging front porch, where Ben knocked on the door.

“I can stick around if you want,” he said. “You’ll probably need me to translate anyway.”

“He doesn’t speak English?” Jack said.

Ben chuckled. “Oh, he speaks it okay. He just doesn’t always want to. He can be a bit stubborn that way.”

After several long moments the door finally opened, and Jack immediately understood why it had taken so long. Peeking out from inside was a shriveled old man. His face was gaunt and leathery and stippled by enormous moles and liver spots. Had Jack not witnessed him moving under his own power, he’d have sworn the little guy was just some mummified museum exhibit.

Ben gave the old man a greeting in the Caieche language and then introduced Jack and Rudy. Running Bear nodded brusquely with his pale eyes sparkling and waved them inside. The one-room hovel was quite warm and smoky with a fire crackling in a small stone fireplace. He motioned for them to sit down, and since there was only one chair in the place, they all took a seat on the dusty wooden floor near the fire.

The rain continued to drum softly on the roof in a mesmerizing rhythm as Ben asked Running Bear to give a brief history of the Shadow People legends.

The old man sucked in a raspy breath and spoke in the Caieche language with a voice that sounded like a box of rattlesnakes. Or at least what Jack imagined a box of rattlesnakes would sound like. It crackled and hissed, barely above a whisper and with little inflection, fading beneath Ben’s stronger baritone interpretation:

“When the Caieche first arrived on this land, there was already a tribe dwelling in the mountains. No one knew how long they had been there. The Caieche called them…” He paused and cast a quizzical glance at the old man.

“N’watu keetok taw’hey,” Running Bear repeated.

Ben seemed to have difficulty translating the phrase. “The shadows… that… walk.”

Running Bear shook his head, his pale eyes flaring as he said again, “N’watu keetok taw’hey.”

“Sorry. They who walk in shadows.” Ben rolled his eyes and muttered, “He’s very picky about the language. We always just called them the Shadow People.”

Running Bear continued with his discourse and Ben hurried to catch up.

“Anyway, they used to say the N’watu worshiped the spirit of the mountain.”

“Spirit?” Jack said, taking notes in a journal. “What kind of spirit was it?”

Running Bear went on.

“They called it Sh’ar Kouhm—the Soul Eater,” Ben said. “They believed there was a gateway to the underworld deep inside the caves. Sh’ar Kouhm was the queen of the underworld and would come up at every full moon to feed on a human soul… or…” He seemed to search for the right word. “On the emotions. Fear and anger. The strongest emotions of a person’s soul.”

“Soul Eater?” Jack frowned. “So what happened?”