Assault on Atlantis Page 5

  “Wrong?” Bridger picked up his own rifle.

  “Don’t know. Felt something.”

  “Like?”

  “I don’t know. Never felt it before. A warm breeze on my face, but there isn’t a wind.” Bouyer looked to the north. “There’s someone coming. I can feel him.”

  Bridger put his rifle back down. “Your brother.”

  Bouyer turned to the mountain man in shock. “My brother?”

  “Sorta. The woman who brought you to me told me you were--” here Bridger shifted from English to Lakota--” one of two alike but not alike from one who came forth from one womb. Half of a whole that must come together.” He shifted back to English. “I figured that kind of to mean you might have a brother of some sort, given the way the Lakota speak.”

  Bouyer wondered what else he didn’t know about himself, but he didn’t have a chance to dwell on it as Bridger continued.

  “It would make sense if you’re up here that he’d be up here, too. Both drawn to the same place.”

  “If-“ Bouyer began, -but Bridger cut him off.

  “Get Some sleep. You’ll be needing it. Tomorrow promises to be an interesting day.”

  *****

  The light snow touched Crazy Horse’s skin and melted, adding to the sweat pouring down his naked body and the steam that drifted upward. He moved slowly about the center pole, slapping each bare foot to the frozen ground with a solid thud. The two lariats from the top of the pole were attached to bone splinters thrust through his chest on either side. The splinters were not only under the skin, but imbedded into the muscle. As he leaned away from the pole, the skin was taut around the self-inflicted wounds. His eyes were closed, yet he walked among the arranged buffalo skulls without tripping over them, as if he knew the exact placement of each one.

  His hands were painted red and black, in a pattern as if he had stuck them in a fire until they were scorched. Large black circles surrounded his eyes, and red tears were dabbed among the paint. He paused, turning to face the pole and leaning back, the bone pulling on the covering muscle and skin until they were four inches out from his body. The flesh held, even as he pushed backward.

  He was on the fourth day of his private sun dance. Normally held by a tribe during the summer, Crazy Horse had come here alone, traveling far from his village. He could not wait for the next summer. Nor did he wish to dance with others, for he was seeking a vision, and he knew, deep inside, it was not a vision that could be shared.

  Anger drove him.

  He had chosen the center pole tree carefully. Straight and strong. He’d carefully cut off all the branches and stripped off the bark, a job usually done by elaborately dressed maidens. Then he’d fasted for a night before “attacking” the tree in the morning, firing several arrows into it to symbolically kill it. After that he cut it down and brought it to this open Spot. He placed a large buffalo skull that he had found on a hunt three years earlier on the top, tying off the lariats through the eye sockets. Then he placed it upright, sliding the other end into a hole he’d dug.

  He’d arranged the rest of the skulls he’d brought, all from beasts he’d killed over the past several years, in five parallel lines facing east. The buffalo skull was on the top, facing west. The pole represented the center of the world, a connection between the heaven and earth, between the dancer and Wakan- Tanka, the Great Spirit. The skulls represented the powerful spirit of the buffalo, the beast on which the survival of the Plains Indians depended.

  Once all was set he had taken two arrows and broken off e point with six inches of shaft. He’d pinched one breast between his fingers and skewered the point through on one side, then the other. Then he’d attached the lariats. He’d been dancing ever since.

  The goal was two-fold: to have a vision while dancing and then ultimately to break free of the skewers by ripping them out through his flesh. But in the process, one was supposed to be reborn as the torture represented death. And Crazy Horse desperately wanted to be reborn.

  His throat was parched, as he had long since drained the leather flask of water he’d carried within reach. His stomach was a tight knot, empty for days.

  Crazy Horse stopped. Not from the pain, but because he sensed something. He took a step closer to the pole and slowly turned outward, the lariats sliding over his shoulder, fresh blood dripping down his chest unnoticed over dried blood.

  For a moment he became aware of his surroundings, The pole was set in the center of a glade next to a river. It was ten feet high, a cottonwood stripped of branches and bark. A scattering of snow covered the ground and surrounding trees. Through the trees came a woman. She wore tan pants of some fine material and a leather jacket that was tattered and torn. She had a staff in her right hand that she used to support tom herself.

  Crazy Horse took an angry step forward as he saw the woman more clearly and was jerked back in pain by the skewers. She was white, with curly brown hair, like the woman his mother had described who had visited at his birth, the one who had made the terrible prophecies and taken away the other who had been born with him.

  Crazy Horse blinked, not certain if this was the vision he had been seeking during his four days of self-torture, or if she was real. She paused at the tree line. Returning his gaze. Her face was lined with. Anxiety, and she appeared as exhausted as he felt.

  He shook his head and blinked once, but she was still ere, although now he could see there was a fog behind her, slowly moving down the hillside toward the glade, passing through the trees. She raised her left hand, her palm open toward him. Then slowly she turned her hand until the back faced him. Then she gestured with her fingers for him to come to her.

  Without hesitation he stepped forward. The lariat tightened. The arrows jamming against the covering layer of muscle and skin. He took another step and the arrows tore through muscle and skin, the blades ripping free. The pain was distant, a dull throbbing, the blood flowing down his chest now unnoticed like the snow that still fell.

  ‘’Warrior,’’ she said in perfect Sioux, even though from her skin and dress he knew she was not of his tribe. You are the one who was named Crazy Horse after your father and born )f Nahimana, the mystic one.”

  Crazy Horse knew it was a statement, not a question.

  “You seek a vision from the spirits,” she continued, “something to guide you in battle against those who encroach on your land. You seek to be reborn as someone who does not have the fate your mother foretold hanging over you.”

  “Are you the one called Earhart?” Crazy Horse asked. He reached down and picked up his hatchet. Feeling more secure with the weapon in his hand. With the other hand he grabbed a spear.

  “Yes.” She was looking over her shoulder at the encroaching fog that was now fewer than a hundred feet away. For the first time Crazy Horse noticed there was something strange about the white mist. Its front was a uniform straight line, and he could not see far into it. There were swirls of yellow on the leading edge. A disconcerting odor preceded the mist, something that made Crazy Horse take an involuntary step back.

  “Danger comes,” she said. “I will help you with the vision you seek--and more--if you will help me.”

  “What help do you need?” Crazy Horse was confused. Should he help her? She was not of his tribe. And according to his mother she was the one who had foretold of his people’s ultimate doom.

  She pointed to the fog. “You must come with me to meet someone. It is part of your destiny as your mother foresaw.”

  Crazy Horse looked at the fog and knew it was dangerous, like a bad patch of snow high on a mountainside that hid unseen crevices.

  “Go!” The woman shoved him in the back, and Crazy Horse bristled at her manner. ‘’There is not time to stand here and think about it.” She turned toward the fog, leading the way.

  He followed her with his spear at the ready, his hatchet tucked into the leather belt around his waist. His shoulders hunched involuntarily as he entered the mist. It felt strange against his bar
e skin, unlike anything he had ever experienced before. He felt an almost overwhelming sense of dread and fear, but the warrior in him ignored those feelings and continued forward. He could see barely a few feet, but he could sense movement all around. His stomach rumbled and he staggered, nauseous. He wretched, spitting out acid.

  Crazy Horse twisted and turned nervously. The woman was now at his side, nudging him to move. A scream echoed through the fog. Someone was in extreme fear and pain, worse than Crazy Horse had heard when they’d burned captives at the stake. He tightened his grip on the shaft of his spear.

  Something leapt toward him from the right, and he reacted as he had been trained to since he could walk, spinning, the point of the spear leading. A bizarre animal was spitted on the spear, one he had never seen before and didn’t have time to study, as it struck at him with a scorpion like tail. He twisted the spear, staring at a mouth full of three rows of razor-sharp teeth, the head mounted on the body of –the only thing he could think of was a mountain lion. He let go of the whipping out the hatchet and slamming the edge into the creature’s skull. It collapsed to the ground, but still the barbed tail jerked spasmodically, seeking a target. Crazy Horse gave the body a wide berth.

  He heard movement in several directions. At least he knew the way back out--downhill. He was tempted to turn and run, but duty held him. Plus the woman showed no fear, indicating that he should continue to follow her. He was a Warrior, a Sioux warrior, and his entire upbringing had taught him to stand fast in the face of danger; indeed, this was the time to excel, to earn honor.

  He turned left as he heard something crashing through the trees. A man, dressed in a strange garment, staggered toward him. He held up his arms, and blood sprayed from bloody stumps halfway down his forearms. He reached for Crazy Horse as if he still had hands, smearing blood down Crazy Horse’s chest.

  ‘’Leave him,” the woman yelled over her shoulder as she ran through the trees.

  Crazy Horse hesitated, but then the man slumped over, dead.

  Crazy Horse stepped over the body, but when he looked about, the woman had disappeared into the mist. He heard a yell, the woman’s voice directly ahead. Although it was hard to judge the distance in the fog. Bathed in blood, Crazy Horse let go of his fears and charged forward. A tree limb smashed into his face. Breaking his nose. He snorted, blowing out blood, and continued, dodging limbs. Something snatched at him, something red and long like a whip, and he ducked under, rolled, keeping the hatchet tucked tight across his belly, and sprang to his feet.

  “Hurry!”

  A woman giving orders-it was unheard of. But Crazy Horse didn’t argue. He scrambled to catch up with the woman, following the sound of her voice. He spotted her about ten feet ahead. Beyond her was a black circle about eight feet in diameter. She waved at him to follow and then stepped into the circle. She was gone.

  Crazy Horse reached. The circle and hesitated. He could hear things moving, branches snapping under a heavy Weight. He spun about as a tree crashed to the ground, his eyes widening in disbelief at what he saw; a massive snake with seven huge heads, each as large as a horse’s.

  Crazy Horse turned back to the circle and jumped into it.

  He landed bard, rolled, and was on his feet, the hatchet at the ready. There was no sign of the fog, and within a second the black circle he had come through disappeared. All that remained was the woman.

  “What was that?” Crazy Horse demanded. “What happened?”

  “They tried to ambush me, To stop me,” She shook her head. “And someone else was using the gate.”

  “Who? What are you talking about?”

  “There are those who invade the world, just like the whites invade your hunting grounds and sacred lands.”

  ‘’Who?’’ Crazy Horse repeated.

  “Those of the Shadow.”

  ‘’What is this Shadow?”

  “Your mother foretold your future. Yours and your brother’s.”

  Crazy Horse spit. “I have no brother.”

  “He is your brother in fate,” she corrected.

  Crazy Horse held back his irritation. “What do you know of my mother’s vision?” he demanded. All his mother had told him was that he would meet his half-brother in a great battle, one that would determine the future of the people, and that while winning the battle, his people would eventually lose the war to the whites.

  “You will fight a great battle that will open a gate through which the salvation of the world will pass.” She paused and looked to the southeast. “Even now, your brother comes closer. Come with me.”

  *****

  Bouyer woke to the sound of thunder. They were camped on a flat spot high on the side of the creek they’d been following up into the mountains. They were high enough so that if it rained above them, the water coming down wouldn’t flood the site. Bouyer had been in many storms in the mountains and his oil slick that he had wrapped around his body would repel even the heaviest downpour, but he didn’t go back to sleep. He lay still. Listening to the approaching thunder, seeing the immediate area lit up by lightning strikes higher up. He heard Bridger unwrap from his slick and Bouyer immediately did the same, picking up his Hawkins, his fingers checking the priming, making sure it was ready.

  In the next flash of light, Bouyer saw Bridger kneeling at the edge of the camp, peering upslope to the north, weapon In his hands. Bouyer silently crept up to a position next to the old man.

  “Something’s coming,” Bridger said in a whisper.

  Bouyer glanced hard at his mentor. Something? What did he mean by that? Bridger could tell any animal in the mountains by track, scent and just plain experience. And they’d seen no sign of Indians for more than a week.

  “Something bad,” Bridger added. He nodded to the right and up. A white fog was rolling down the slope. Bouyer had never seen the like. The front edge was smooth, and it moved without a wind to propel it. He felt a knotted ball of fear in his gut. He agreed one hundred percent with Bridger’s comment--his was bad, whatever it was. During the brief moment of illumination from another bolt of lightning, he saw that the fog was a boiling mess of white and yellow, a very unnatural color. It was now about four hundred feet away and approaching slowly.

  “We should leave,” Bouyer suggested.

  But Bridger was looking to his left. Bouyer shifted his attention from the strange fog to that direction. As another bolt lit the mountain, he saw two figures coming toward them. He saw one was a woman, but little detail else. He had to figure the woman was the one who had sent for him. Next to her was a young brave, a hatchet in his hand.

  In the next flash, Bouyer could see that the woman had halted. And she was signaling. Indicating that he and Bridger should come to her.

  Bridger saw the same thing. “Let’s go. Leave everything but your weapon.”

  Bouyer hurried after the mountain man, scrambling along .e steep terrain to where the woman and brave waited. During another flash he could see the woman was middle aged, with short brown hair. She had a pack over one shoulder. When he shifted his gaze to the young warrior, he felt the bond that had always been distant begin to solidify. The brave had blood on his chest and was smeared with war paint. As he got closer, Bouyer could barely make out the images: a lightning bolt on his chest along with hailstones. strange symbols. The brave was staring back at Bouyer, his dark eyes emanating hate.

  The woman raised her hand in a peaceful greeting, but her first words, spoken in Lakota. Contrasted the gesture. “Shoot for the eyes.”

  “Whose eyes?” Bridger asked in the same language.

  “Their eyes.” The woman was pointing behind them at the strange fog.

  Bouyer turned. Three figures were floating in the front edge of the fog, three creatures unlike anything he had ever seen. All white, With red bulging eyes and hands that ended In blades.

  Bridger had his Hawkins tight to his shoulder. Bouyer followed suit, sighting down the long barrel as his mentor fired. He sighted in one movement, sm
oothly pulling the trigger. The stock bucked against his shoulder as the half-inch-diameter bullet sped down the barrel. It smashed into the left red bulge in the creature’s face. The impact knocked e ~g back a few feet, but it remained upright, even as black smoke--not blood--issued forth from the hole.

  Bouyer was watching the creatures even as he reloaded, his movements so well practiced that he didn’t need his eyes to ensure he was doing it correctly. He saw that Bridger had hit the middle creature in the same spot with the same result. Both were halted, but the third continued forward, fewer than a hundred yards away now. Bouyer packed the powder he’d poured down the muzzle with his ramrod, noting out of the corner of his eyes that he was still slightly behind the older man, who was already tamping a .54-caliber ball in his own gun.