Shaman Tales

 The Chronicles of Little Hawk

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 So Much at Stake

Back Jacket Cover:   

David “Little Hawk” Lightfoot is a 12-year-old Native American boy who has been traumatized by a vicious roadside attack, which he believes left his parents dead. Only his grandfather, a very powerful shaman, is able to pull him back from his paralyzing grief. While recovering from the attack, David learns his parents have not really died, but have been turned into vampires and he vows to hunt down the monster who took them.

 

When Little Hawk discovers his parents and the monster may have fled to New Orleans; he is determined to follow them. Unable to deter him from this course, two members of the Tribal Council decide to join him in his quest. While preparing to perform a ritual of protection over the travelers, Grandfather reveals a secret he has held since David’s birth; Little Hawk is destined to replace him as shaman of their tribe. Armed with only the protection of the ritual, a bag of stakes and holy water, and slowly emerging shaman abilities, Little Hawk and his companions set off for New Orleans. Can they find and destroy the monster that claimed David's parents; and, if necessary, can he find the strength to save his parents from the terrible fate that has befallen them?

 

Prologue

The Coming of the Night

 

   The scorching New Mexico heat beat down on David as he made his way home; it never ceased to amaze him how it could be so hot during the day and then so cold just a few short hours later. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and looked up at the blazing sun; it seemed to pulsate through the shimmering waves of heat radiating from the desert around him. At this time of year, it was a long walk to his house from the bus stop. It was even worse since he now had to make the trek alone. His friend, Billy Kirtland, used to come over after school to hang out until his mom got off work. They lived on a small farm between the reservation and the town of Watusca; so, Billy would either wait for her to pick him up or cut across the tribal lands to get home.

   David and Billy had a lot of fun during their after-school visits. However, last year, Billy’s father had died, and Billy had missed a lot of school. So much, in fact, that he was held back. When he did finally return to school, he was sullen and withdrawn; though David had tried to be a good friend, Billy pushed him away. Now everyday seemed the same.

   David climbed the porch steps, relieved to be home. Stepping into the living room, he sighed, glad for the cool breeze from the small air conditioning unit installed in the window. He dropped his backpack next to the door.

   “Is that you, David?” his father called from the kitchen. David looked at him with melancholy eyes, as he stepped into the living room. “You okay?” his father asked.

   David nodded. “I’m just hot; it’s a long walk from the bus stop.”

   “How about I pour you a glass of tea and make us both a sandwich?” his father offered.

   David smiled. “Iced tea sounds great, but I’m not hungry.”

   “Okay, I’ll make you only half a sandwich; it’s going to be a long while until dinner.”

   “How come?” David asked.

   “Your mom has a meeting tonight, and from what she said it’s going to take a while. She’s on her way home to get ready for it. So, I thought we’d all go into town and go out for dinner when it’s over. I need to pick up some model parts, so we can go shopping while we wait for her,” his dad explained.

   “Cool,” David replied. He loved eating out; they always had a lot of fun on the trips between town and home and during dinner, more so than when eating at home. He wished they could do it more often, but his parents said the reservation was too far from town.  He got a glass from the cupboard as his father retrieved the tea and sandwich fixings from the refrigerator.

   “If you have any homework, make sure you get it done before we leave. It’ll be getting dark before we head out, so you won’t be able to do it in the car; and we probably won’t be home before bedtime,” his father said.

   “I will,” David replied.

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***

   David stared out his window at the passing desert landscape awash in the glow of a crescent moon, surprised such a small moon could be so bright. He gasped as a sudden gust of wind launched a large tumbleweed toward the highway; it bounced several times before rolling onto the road as the family’s SUV sped past.

   “You okay back there, Son?” his father asked from the driver’s seat in front of him.

   David met his dad’s eyes in the rearview mirror and gave him a weak smile. “Yeah,” he replied. Running his hand through his unruly mop of black hair, he sighed and turned on his tablet. He had hoped this trip into town would break up the boring routine of school and life on the reservation; but other than the excitement of Mom yelling at Dad, when he wanted to stop and pick up a hitchhiker, and then getting to have ice cream before dinner, the trip had been a letdown.  All during dinner Mom and Dad talked about her school board meeting, and his current development project. Now, instead of singing along with the oldies station, and making up funny lyrics for some of the songs, they were rehashing the same stuff from their dinner conversation. He leaned back in his seat and lost himself in the magical world of Dragon Years.

 

   David felt a familiar tickle in his stomach, as the car ascended a small hill. Then he was jerked from the fantasy world of his game by his dad swearing and the tires squealing. He looked up in time to see the hitchhiker, lighted by the beam of their headlights, standing right in the middle of the road. His mother screamed as the car skidded toward the man and launched him into the air.

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***

   Reverend Mitchell inserted the key into the ignition of the ancient Volkswagen Beetle and prayed it would start this time. With a quick “Thank you, Father”, and a wave to the family standing on the porch, he shifted the car into gear and headed toward town.

   Pulling onto the state highway, he turned on the radio; a heavy metal guitar solo screamed from the speakers. Last week, in hopes of drawing in younger listeners, the radio station had changed its evening format. How anyone could consider such noise to be music was beyond him. He frowned down at the radio and pressed the button to switch to the local country music station. Looking up, he slammed on his brakes; the car skidded to a halt. A small sport utility vehicle sat on the opposite side of the road with its hazard lights flashing and its doors standing open. Two bodies lay on the asphalt several feet beyond it; a young boy knelt next to them.

   The reverend parked on the shoulder of the highway and hurried across the road. The boy turned to him with tears flowing down his cheeks. He gasped as he recognized the boy, David “something”. He glanced at the bodies again and the last name came to him, Lightfoot. The family attended his church… not every week, but more often than the holiday-only attendees.

   “Help them,” David pleaded, his voice a whisper and choked with grief.

   Reverend Mitchell pulled his phone from his pocket and knelt next to David, just in time to catch him, as he collapsed into unconsciousness.

1

       Awakening         

 

   Above the mesa, far from the artificial illumination of city lights, the stars sparkled like a million diamonds. Most nights, the old man would have gazed at this sight, reflecting on all the beauty and wonder the Great Spirit had bestowed upon our world. But, tonight, there was no time for such reflection. As the waxing moon climbed higher into the deepening night, a constant reminder of the urgency of the situation, he sat cross-legged before a blazing fire; his voice filled the night with a rhythmic and melodious chant.

   He reached into a weather-stained leather pouch, and tossed a handful of fine, white sand into the fire. A multitude of colorful cinders erupted from the fire and the flames leapt toward the sky, releasing a cloud of smoke with a fragrance not unlike the combined scents of honeysuckle and lavender. When the fire settled down, he stopped chanting. In the distance, a lone coyote howled, and a chilly breeze blew over the mesa.

   He tossed several more sticks into the fire and looked at a young boy, sitting stiffly on a log, several feet away; he grimaced at how pallid and drawn his bright, copper-toned face now appeared.  "Little Hawk, it has been six days; you cannot go on like this for much longer. It is time for you to come back to us… to return to your life," he commanded, in a gentle voice. He threw another handful of sand into the fire. Again, the flames leapt toward the sky and colored sparks crackled and bounced on the ground in front of him. The scent of honeysuckle and lavender permeated the air.

   Little Hawk sat motionless, his deep-set blue eyes gazing into the fire as if entranced by the dancing flames. The old man watched him for any sign of a breakthrough. A single tear drifted down the boy’s cheek and he let out a mournful sigh.

   The old man smiled. "Well, that's a start," he said, as if to himself. The breeze grew stronger. He retrieved a wool blanket from a small stack of supplies behind him. Walking to the boy, he placed the blanket around his shoulders and said, "It is getting colder, Little Hawk, and we may be here for quite a while yet; your grandma would never let me hear the end of it, if I let you catch pneumonia."

   Little Hawk let out another low sigh as the old man tied two corners of the blanket around his neck, then tucked one edge under the other around his waist and hoped it would keep him warm enough. Resuming his seat by the fire, he began to chant again. This time there was an intense urgency to the sound and rhythm of his voice.

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***

   The faint crow of a rooster greeted the new day as the sun peeked over the horizon. The old man stood, faced the rising sun, and spread his arms. Throwing his head back, he called, “Oh, Great Spirit, hear me! Please, return the spirit of life to this child, my grandson.” He dropped to his knees with his head bowed and his arms crossed before his chest.

   The boy let out a mournful groan. The old man looked toward him; tears streamed down the young man’s face. “Little Hawk?” the old man said.

   “Yes, Grandfather?” the boy replied. His voice was scratchy and weak.

   The old man jumped to the boy’s side and swept him into his arms. “Little Hawk... I thought I had lost you, too,” he said. Tears filled his eyes, and he threw his head back.  “Thank you, Great Spirit... thank you,” he called. He held the boy by the shoulders, at arm’s length, and smiled. Little Hawk stared back at him, with empty eyes.

   Grandfather wiped his eyes and walked to the spot where he had been sitting, fasting and chanting, for the past several days. Retrieving a full canteen of water, he returned to Little Hawk’s side. “Sip this slowly; it will ease the dryness in your throat,” he said. He walked back towards his seat. “You must eat something and then we will start for home,” he called over his shoulder. He looked around the camp and recalled the sparse cache of supplies he had brought with him. “Wait here,” he said. He picked up another blanket and headed toward the path that led down the side of the mesa.

   Little Hawk looked after him. “Yes, Grandfather,” he said with indifference. He stared into the smoldering remains of the fire, his eyes still lifeless and blank.

 

   Little Hawk sat staring at the embers, sipping from the canteen and thinking about the terrifying events of that night, almost a week ago, until his grandfather returned. In the blanket he had taken with him, he carried a small desert hare, some cactus fruit and several wild herbs. Little Hawk watched, with no sign of interest or understanding, while the old man skinned and butchered his catch and then stashed the pelt in a canvas sack.

   Setting a cooking tripod and skillet over the fire pit, Grandfather threw a handful of kindling and several larger branches into the embers and stoked the fire back to life. The smell of roasting meat filled the air as he prepared a quick hash of the hare and cactus fruit, as well as several small potatoes and an onion from his stash of supplies.           Tossing the herbs into the pan, he took the canteen from Little Hawk and added a good splash of water. It sizzled and steamed as he mixed it with the other ingredients, turning the hash into a thin stew.

   As he retrieved a deep metal plate from his sack of camping gear and scraped a large portion of the food onto it, Little Hawk looked towards him.  “Grandfather?” he said, his voice scarcely more than a whisper.

   “Yes, Little Hawk?” the old man asked. He held the steaming plate of stew toward him.

   “He wasn’t human... I mean the thing that killed Mamma and Dad; it wasn’t human,” Little Hawk said, his voice a little stronger but still ringing with sadness. He took the plate from his grandfather, looked at it, and took a small, disinterested bite. A minor twinge of discomfort, the result of his fast over the previous three days, ran through his stomach. He waited for it to pass, then scooped another bite from the plate.

   To Grandfather, it sounded like he was on the verge of crying but was managing to hold back the flood of emotion. “Yes, David, I know,” he replied. He took a bite of what remained of the stew; then sat considering his grandson, and eating from the skillet, while the boy finished his plate.

 

   With Little Hawk restored to some semblance of life, it was time for them to return home. Grandfather knew there was still many days of healing ahead, but the danger of losing his grandson had passed. He extinguished the fire and set about clearing their camp. Anytime Little Hawk made a move to help, Grandfather would say, “Just leave it there, David; I’ll get to it in a minute.” So, Little Hawk just sat and waited. Finally, Grandfather finished packing their supplies and turned to him. “Are you ready?” he asked.

   David nodded and rose to his feet. His movements were stiff and jerky, like those of someone who hasn’t used their limbs for a while; which, in a manner of speaking, was the case. Since the incident, he had existed in a state of shock; living in a fog of loss and mourning. And, for the better part of a week, he had not moved a hand, arm, leg or foot, at least not of his own accord.

   Grandfather turned his back to him and bent his knees. “Climb on,” he said.

   “What?” Little Hawk asked, certain he had misunderstood what his grandfather said.

   The old man looked back at him. “Climb on,” he repeated. “I’ll carry you down to the truck on my back.” He faced forward again.

   “No, Grandfather, I can walk,” David said.

   “Are you sure?” Grandfather asked. Casting a doubtful eye at him, he straightened his legs.

   David nodded. “Yes, I’m sure; and I can help carry some of the camping stuff, too.”

   “No, you just take care of carrying yourself; I’ll get the rest.”

   “But...” David countered.

   “No,” his grandfather interrupted, “with what you have been through, I shouldn’t even be letting you walk down. If I were a bit younger, believe me, I wouldn’t. But I’m not younger, and this old body thanks you for knowing.”

   David smiled. It felt good to smile, it seemed like forever since he had. Then his smile faded and the blank look, of one lost in mourning, returned to his eyes.

   Seeing his grandson smile brought a tear to the old man’s eye; he turned his back to the boy again, in pretense of starting their journey, and stealthily wiped it away. “We’d better get moving, Little Hawk,” he said, as they started down the path to the bottom of the mesa. “Your grandmother will probably be watching for us.”

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***

   The old woman stood on the back porch, shielding her eyes as she looked out over the barren desert landscape. A dust cloud appeared in the distance and she drew in a hopeful breath. Could it be possible… could her grandchild be back, safe and out of danger? She hurried across the porch, descended the steps into the yard and took several, hesitant steps toward the fence.

   She waited and watched. The growing dust cloud drew closer; now she could make out a slow-moving vehicle, in the midst of the dust. The vehicle drew nearer and became more recognizable as her husband’s truck. She ran to the fence and opened the gate, waiting to greet them.

   The truck slowed as it rolled past the large honey mesquite tree, several yards beyond their fence. Grandmother smiled and waved them on. She closed the gate and hurried toward the house as the truck came to a stop by the back-porch steps. She stopped by the rear bumper, looking nervous.

   Grandfather climbed out of the vehicle and hurried around the front. He opened the passenger door and extended his arm. David grasped it and stepped from the truck.

   “Oh, Little Hawk, you’re back,” Grandmother said. “I am so glad.” Tears of joy streamed down her cheeks. She ran forward and hugged him. His body stiffened, and she pulled back to look at his face; his eyes reflected a distant look of indifference and sadness. She looked at her husband, her lips quivering.

   He laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “He’s back, but not fully,” he said. “But, don’t worry, he will be whole again, soon.”

   She rubbed her cheek against his hand and then straightened her back and wiped her eyes. Smiling down at her grandson, she said, “A little birdie told me that you would be coming home today, Little Hawk. So, I spent the morning baking up a big batch of oatmeal, molasses and piñon nut cookies… your favorite. I’ll set a plate for you with a nice, cold glass of milk. Okay?” She hurried off toward the house.

   Little Hawk looked at his grandfather as if he had no comprehension of what had just been said, the distant, sorrowful look still showing in his eyes.

   “A little birdie, my eye,” Grandfather said, with a wink and a grin, “I’ll bet you she’s been making a fresh batch of cookies every day in hopes I’d be bringing you home. The flies probably love our trash cans.” He laughed and laid his hand on David’s shoulder. Little Hawk gave him an ever so small smile, as they stepped toward the house.

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