Lindsay McKenna - Heart of the Storm

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To Mary Buckner, RN, and Linda Metzler,

Physician’s Assistant, friends. Thank you for your

help and support over the years; I couldn’t have

gotten this far without you. George Abbott, we

couldn’t ask for a better neighbor. In a day and

age where respect, honesty, integrity and courtesy

are dimming in our society, you shine with these

wonderful human qualities. We’re lucky we live in

the same canyon with you.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“THE VICE PRESIDENT of the United States needs to die. Now!”

Rogan Yalua Soquili, known as Fast Horse, was insistent as he stood triumphantly outside the circle of twelve Native American women. Their rapt attention fixed on the Cherokee métis medicine man, they sat in their ceremonial garb. Rogan placed his hands on the strong, capable shoulders of Blue Wolf, a Shoshone woman near his own age of forty-five.

“Make it happen,” he declared, his voice booming.

The Sierra Nevadas in early June took on a shadowy, menacing aura as midday thunderclouds grew above them. Rogan looked around gleefully. They were nestled within the Eagle’s Nest, his compound built high in the mountains, on a cliff. The wooden walls provided them sanctuary as they stood on the hard-packed earth. It was the perfect place to carry out their task. The air around them leaped and throbbed with living energy.

In the center of the women’s circle, a light feathery mist began to gather. It moved counterclockwise, never touching any of the participants. Rogan watched, mesmerized, as the wispy cloud became darker and began to resemble a doughnut whose hole was closing. Cauliflower-like towers grew upward from the sluggishly swirling clouds, and when flashes of lightning occurred, Rogan’s jaw dropped in awe. Surely, the ceremonial Storm Pipe and these women were connected to the most powerful magic he’d ever seen. Excitement coursed through him.

The women chanted as one, their voices rising and falling as the thundercloud built with the whipping wind. Rogan’s hair fell across his face, but he didn’t feel it. His eyes were on the cloud invoked by the sacred pipe Blue Wolf held in her hands. With each chant, the intensity increased and the thundercloud turned more malevolent, eventually shooting skyward to thirty thousand feet. It was coming from the pipe; Rogan could see the energy flowing out of its bowl.

As he stood behind her, he dug his fingers into Blue Wolf’s sturdy shoulders. The rhythmic chanting ebbed and flowed, ebbed and flowed. The very pulse of the building storm responded to the women’s voices, which rose in a powerful crescendo.

Rogan’s order echoed throughout the cedar structure on the side of the mountain. Standing in the west, the position of death, he kept his firm contact with Blue Wolf’s elk skin-covered shoulders. Like a bolt of lightning, heat and electricity coursed through his hands, leaped up his arms and shimmered throughout his tense body. Keeping his knees slightly bent, Rogan closed his eyes, took a deep breath into his abdomen and then slowly released it.

The thundercloud manifested by the pipe and the women was inspiring to Rogan. He’d never seen anything like this. Oh, he knew ceremonial pipes were powerful, but to create a mighty thunderhead in a matter of minutes…that was awesome. Lightning continued to radiate from the dark, churning mass far above them. Most of the electricity, millions of volts, was held within the cloud. Rogan knew that the powers involved with the pipe would not allow any of it to harm the circle of women. It would be contained within the building storm overhead.

Rogan gazed around at the seated figures. Their knees touched one another to maintain physical contact. In doing so, they became the container for the Storm Pipe’s power, and helped direct the energy and the building of the thunderhead.

Blue Wolf lifted a very old pipe made of catlinite, its red bowl glowing in her hands. The smooth, polished oak stem was decorated with small seed beads depicting a thunderstorm with a lightning bolt. She began to sing a ceremonial song to invite the lightning that flashed above them. Her hands grew hot and felt as if they were burning; they were merely responding to the power amassing through the powerful ceremonial pipe.

The women gripped one another’s hands at the right moment, as the electrical charge within the churning clouds swirled, growing in strength. The two sitting next to the pipe carrier each placed a hand on her waist, for Blue Wolf needed her hands free, to hold the pipe upward in supplication.

Her voice rose and fell, like a howling wind moving within the circle. She felt Rogan grip her shoulders more tightly with anticipation. He couldn’t hold the pipe himself, for the ceremonial object belonged only to women. If he touched it, he’d die instantly. He could focus the energy, however, and direct it to whomever he envisioned in his mind.

Today, the vice president would die. Blue Wolf smiled inwardly as she sang from her heart and soul.

Their song became more strident, in accord with the energy unveiling itself before them. The Storm Pipe felt almost too hot to hold any longer, but Blue Wolf focused, as she had been taught. All the women in the circle felt the same heat, she knew. They held the pipe’s energy, carrying the power, just as a womb cradled a growing baby.

Rogan smiled inwardly as he maintained his grip on Blue Wolf’s shoulders. She was trembling physically now. The building energy made her sweat freely, as it did him. Her singing changed in pitch, and at that moment, Rogan pictured the vice president’s face in his mind. Focus! He must focus one hundred percent.

Dizzy from the gathering, spinning energy, Rogan was trembling so badly he collapsed to his knees. As if he were a lightning rod, an electrical current leaped and flowed through his hands, up his arms and through his body. That was Rogan’s mission as he understood it: to ground the power of the Thunder Beings that trod restlessly across Father Sky. He began to slip into a deep, altered state as the chanting continued. It was all Rogan could do to stay mentally connected.

Stealing the Storm Pipe had been the key, he thought with satisfaction. His body was vibrating now, so fast he felt as if he were shredding apart, cell by cell. Too powerful an energy could make a person vanish into thin air. It wasn’t happening to him due to the great strength and long training of these twelve women, he knew.