Anthony Horowitz - Nightrise

“You Danny?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Danny wasn’t sure what to call her.

“How long they keep you in that prison of theirs?”

“I was there for thirty weeks and three days.”

“You counted every one of them.” She shook her head. “There’s evil people in this world. People who don’t deserve to walk the land and that’s the truth. Now, let’s take a look at this boy.”

Her manner changed as she approached the silent figure of Jamie. She knelt down beside him and rested a gnarled hand against his forehead. Joe was busying himself with a kettle but she called out to him. “Forget that, Joe. Come and help me turn him.”

Joe hurried over and the two of them turned Jamie onto his side. The back of his T-shirt was saturated with blood. Daniel could see the hole where the bullet had gone in. The shaman examined the entrance wound, touching it gently with the tip of her finger.

“Is it bad?” Joe asked.

“It’s bad. It couldn’t be much worse. The first thing we’re going to have to do is get that bullet out. Lucky you’ve got a fire burning. We’re going to need that.”

“Is he going to live?”

The shaman shook her head as if dismissing the question. She turned to Daniel. “I want you to go back into the tepee,” she said. “I know you want to stay and help, but there’s nothing you can do and this is something no young child should have to see.”

“Please…” Daniel wanted to argue, but one look at the old woman’s eyes told him not to waste his time. He did as he was told.

The shaman nodded at Joe. “Take off his shirt.”

Joe knelt down beside Jamie. He didn’t try to pull the shirt over Jamie’s head. Instead, he used a knife to cut the material, then ripped it apart, exposing the wound. The skin was bright red and puffed up around the bullet hole. Meanwhile, the shaman went back to the horse and untied a leather bag that had been strapped to the saddle. As she returned to the unconscious boy, she opened it and took out some muslin packets tied with strips of sinew, some bowls, two glass bottles and a wooden wand, about ten centimetres long, with an eagle carved at one end. Finally she produced a knife. Joe looked at it and winced. There was nothing ancient about the knife. It was a straightforward surgical scalpel.

She caught his eye. “The spirits will only do so much,” she said. “To start with, we have to cut the bullet out.”

Joe nodded.

“Tell me when my tea is ready,” the shaman said.

She leant over Jamie and made the first cut.

Daniel waited for as long as he could. He tried to sleep, but now that the sun was up it was too hot, even in the shade of the tepee. He wished he could talk to his mother but he doubted that the shaman carried a cell phone – and anyway it was the wrong time to ask. Perhaps he did manage to doze off in the end, because the next thing he knew, there were long shadows falling across the tepee and the heat seemed to have lessened. Once again, he crawled out through the flap not sure what he expected to find.

Joe was sitting next to Jamie, who looked no better than he had the last time Daniel had seen him. He was lying on his side with a dressing over the wound. The shaman had made some sort of poultice. Daniel could both smell it and see it, seeping through the bandages. The shaman herself was further down the slope, on her knees, facing the sun. It was late in the afternoon. The sky was already tinged with red. The campfire was still burning, sending a thin trickle of smoke up towards the clouds.

“How is Jamie?” Daniel asked.

Joe turned round angrily. “Stop!” he said. “You must not say his name.”

“Why not?”

“It is our practice. When someone dies, you mustn’t speak their name for four days.”

“When someone…?”

The full impact of what Joe had just said hit Daniel. “You mean…” He forced himself to finish the sentence. “He’s dead?”

There was a long silence. Then Joe spoke. “We took the bullet out,” he said. “The shaman cleaned the wound with yarrow and other herbs. But there was nothing more she could do. He has crossed to the other side.”

Daniel felt the tears well up in his eyes. He looked down at Jamie lying there, at peace. He couldn’t believe that it had ended like this. He had met Scott, Jamie’s twin brother. The two of them were so alike. When Jamie had come into the cell the night before, it had been like the beginning of a new friendship, the first chapter in a story that still had pages to run.

And now…

“I thought…” Daniel began. His voice choked. He turned away and looked at the old woman, who was muttering something, holding the little wand in her hand.

“What’s she doing?” he asked.

“You mustn’t ask questions,” Joe replied. Then, more gently, he continued. “She is doing what she can. She is using powerful magic. Summoning up what we call we ga lay u. Her spirit power.”

“What is that? I don’t understand.”

Joe’s eyes narrowed. “The medicine men get their powers from helpers who give them guidance in their work. They take many forms – but always animals or birds. This woman may not look it but she is very strong. She is not from my tribe but she is famous. You saw her wand with the wooden carving. Her spirit power is the eagle.”

“But if he’s dead…”

“The eagle is the only spirit power that can cross over and bring him back. It is so powerful that none of my people will even keep one eagle feather in their house. It can do too much harm. But she has summoned it to help her. Look…”

Joe pointed.

Daniel didn’t see it at first, and when he did he wasn’t sure if he was imagining it. A bird was swooping down, flying directly out of the sun as if it had just been born in the flames. As it descended, it cried out, a sound that echoed across the mountains. It didn’t land, but flew over them in a circle.

The shaman raised her arms. Her spirit power had heard her call and it had come.

The eagle circled twice more, then soared back into the sky.

This time it wasn’t a dream. Jamie was sure of that much. There was no sea and no island, no seven foot tall man waiting to deliver a cryptic message. And anyway, the world he now found himself in was too real. He wasn’t just seeing it: he could feel it and smell it too. And it was cold. He rubbed his hands together and found himself shivering. It wasn’t possible to feel cold in dreams – was it?

He looked up. Wherever he was, it certainly wasn’t Nevada. The desert sky had been an intense blue by day, the deepest black with a scattering of stars by night. The sky here was a strange mixture of colours, as if someone had spilled a dozen different pots of paint – but it was predominantly grey and red with dense, writhing clouds and no sign of any sun. Jamie took in the ancient trees, which could have been carved out of stone rather than wood; the wild, swaying grass; the twisted rock formations. Not only was he not in Nevada, he wasn’t even in America. Even the breeze was wrong: slow and sluggish and smelling of cinders, wet mud and… something else.

Where was he?

He tried to remember what had happened. He had been standing in the back of a truck which had managed to break through the prison fence, but then he had been shot. He remembered the searing pain as the bullet entered his back, just next to his shoulder. He had felt his legs fail him and had collapsed onto the floor of the truck. That was all. He had thought he’d heard someone shouting, but then the darkness had closed in.

Until now.

He looked around and saw that he was surrounded by corpses. There were dozens of them, lying broken and twisted as if some unstoppable force had scythed through and killed them all in the same instant. With a growing sense of horror, Jamie stumbled to his feet and limped over to the nearest. They were all men, dressed in the same shades of brown and grey. Soldiers. He could see that now. But not modern ones, not like the soldiers he had seen on the TV news, waving and putting their thumbs up on their way to some faraway war.