Graham Masterton - Revenge of the Manitou

Let us seek their power in taking our revenge.”

From the classroom window, Mrs. Novato could see the children gathered around Toby, listening to what he was saying with intent faces. She watched them for a while, and then she went across the porch into the next classroom, where Miss Martinez was chalking up the names of trees in preparation for her next lesson.

Mrs. Novato said, “Joan-look out of the window for a moment. Over there, by the annex.”

Miss Martinez put down her chalk and walked to the window. She said, “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

“My children. Look at them. What do you think they could be doing?”

“I don’t know,” shrugged Miss Martinez. “Playing, perhaps?”

“Yes, but playing what? They all look so serious. And you never find the whole class playing together like that, not usually.”

Miss Martinez looked for a few moments more, and then went back to her blackboard. “Don’t ask me,” she told Mrs. Novato. “Children are always plotting something or other.”

That afternoon, out on the wharf at Bodega Bay, while Neil was putting the finishing touches to the brasswork on the White Dove, Dave Conway came out from the fish market and called him.

“Neil-there’s a long-distance call. Sounds like someone called aspirin.”

“Thanks,” said Neil, and climbed onto the jetty. He walked quickly under a sky that was hazy but cloudless, and he wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand.

Inside the fish market, there was a sweet, salty smell of crabs and flounders and bass, and the telephone was sticky with scales. He picked it up and said, “Yes?”

“Neil Fenner? This is Harry Erskine. Listen, I have some news for you.”

“News? What kind of news?”

“Bad news, mainly. I talked this morning to John Singing Rock out in South Dakota.

He’s a medicine man, you know? But a modern one. I mean, he knows all the old spells but he tries to apply them in an up-to-date way.”

“What did he say?”

“He said that he’d heard of the day of the dark stars, and he was sure that what you told me was genuine.” Neil switched the receiver from one ear to the other. “Is that all? He’s sure I’m genuine? Listen, I wouldn’t have called you if I hadn’t been genuine. I wouldn’t have known your name, even. There was no way I practically got myself killed because of an overworked imagination.”

“You sure didn’t,” said Harry. He sounded as if he were sucking cough drops. “The day of the dark stars is supposed to be mentioned in stories that were handed down by tribes from all over America. Most Indians have heard of it, apparently-either from their parents or their grandparents, but there aren’t many Indians today who can remember what it’s all supposed to signify. They’ve gotten themselves too integrated, you know? Even Singing Rock sells insurance on the side.”

“Did he say what I could do about it? The trouble I have here is that nobody believes me, not even my wife. Nobody else saw the wooden man but me, and they’re putting the children’s nightmares down to hysteria, or indigestion. Everybody thinks I’m going crazy.”

“You’re not. Singing Rock says that the Hopi have stories about the day of the dark stars, and so do the Oglala Sioux and the Modoc and the Cheyenne and the Wyandotte. The Paiute used to call it the day when the mouth would come out of the sky and devour the white devils, but they always were kind of wordy.”

“So what can I do?” asked Neil. “Can I exorcise these manitous, or what?”

“Not with a bell and a book and a candle. I learned from the last tune I met Misquamacus that you can’t dismiss Red Indian demons with white man’s religion.”

“But how did you destroy Misquamacus before?”

“It’s pretty hard to explain. But Singing Rock says we just don’t have the same kind of situation here at all, and he doesn’t think we could manage a repeat performance.

Last time, Misquamacus was weak and confused and on his own. This time, it sounds as if he’s strong, and on his own territory.”

“You don’t sound very optimistic, Harry.”

‘Tm supposed to sound optimistic? You call me up and tell me twenty-two Indian spirits are after my blood, and I’m supposed to sound optimistic?”

“I'm sorry,” Neil put in hastily. “What I meant was, it sounds like we don’t have an easy way out of this.”

“Listen,” said Harry, “I’m going to fly out to San Francisco on Sunday morning, which is the earliest I can get away. Singing Rock is coming out from South Dakota, and he says he should get to California by Monday morning at the latest.”

“You’re actually coming out to help? Well, that’s terrific.”

“Neil,” said Harry, “we’re coming out because we faced Misquamacus before. If we hadn’t, we would have put you down as a crank, just like everyone else has. But the last time we faced him we came about as close to the happy hunting grounds as I ever want to get, and I don’t want that to happen again. This time, I want to face him forewarned and forearmed, and I want to make sure that he doesn’t have a chance to conjure up any of those demons that jump out at you and bite your head off.”

“Are you joking?”

“Do I sound as if I’m joking?”

Neil stepped aside to let a fishmonger pass with a barrow of fresh blue-green lobsters.

“No,” he said. “You don’t sound as though you’re joking at all.”

“Okay,” replied Harry. “Now, this is what Singing Rock wants you to do. He wants you to keep a close watch on your son, and he wants you to make sure that he doesn’t go off on his own this weekend. Do whatever you have to do-take him bowling, or swimming, or whatever it is you people do out at Bodega Bay. Just don’t let him out of your sight. And one more thing. Make sure that he doesn’t get together with any of his classmates from school. If you can go, get bun out of school right now-so much the better. Singing Rock says that before the twenty-two wonderworkers can emerge, they have to go through some kind of performance with lizards or something, and they have to do it all together.”

“Lizards?” frowned Neil.

“Don’t ask me,” said Harry. “I know as much about Indian magic as I do about dancing the Highland fling. Apparently, the medicine men do something repulsive with lizards.”

“Okay,” said Neil. “I’ll do what I can.”

“There’s something else,” Harry put in. “If you think that Misquamacus is really starting to get a grip on your son-if your son starts talking like Misquamacus and looking as though his face is changing-then call me right away. If it gets really bad, then get the hell out of there.”

“But what about Toby? If it does get bad, what’s going to happen to him?”

“It’s pretty hard to say. He might have a chance of survival. But if you and your wife stay around too long, you’re going to find yourselves in much worse danger than he.”

“What kind of danger? What are you talking about? What do I have to look for?”

“You don’t have to look for anything,” said Harry dryly. “Whatever it is, it’s going to come looking for you.”

He met Doughty on the jetty. The old man was sitting on the front bumper of Nell’s pickup, smoking his pipe. Neil said hi.

Doughty stood up. He questioned, “Did you hear the news?”

Neil shook his head. “What news?”

“Billy Ritchie died this morning. I thought you might have heard.”

Neil felt cold with shock. “He died? How did it happen? He looked fit enough to me, apart from his legs.”

“His house was burned out,” said Doughty. “His neighbor said it was a freak stroke of lightning, sent the whole place up like a bonfire.”