Cave Interlude #3

This had been a bad idea, and now it was an even worse situation.  The seven Yurok warriors were hopelessly lost, and grumbling openly.  Their parched lips questioned the dubious leadership abilities of River Otter, who had brought them up this hot, cursed valley, insisting it was a pass revealed to him in a vision.  It was becoming more of a nightmare.  Four of their party had been killed, and three were badly wounded, from strong Wintun resistance to a bold but fruitless daytime raid, and now the sun was nearly setting.  They had few supplies, and none of the riches River Otter had promised them.  Morale was low, and the braves muttered in frustration.  There had been many bad omens on this trip, and the pointed spires of the mountains seemed to mock them grotesquely.

Camp Robber Jay was the first to voice what they were all thinking.  “This is the wrong way.  It is a bad way.  Our lands lie with the setting sun.”  He pointed challengingly up and to their right, where the sun was approaching a steep rim.  River Otter had just led them past a lake that looked like a good place to camp for the night, and now they had turned south, up another pass that seemed to lead only to the darkening sky.

“It is there.”  River Otter gestured confidently with his spear.  “The path was shown to me in a dream, it is real.”  The others suspected he was lying, and that his medicine was weak.  It was far too late to retrace their steps back to the river, but the lake was cool and inviting.

“Brothers, let us go back to the lake and camp,” Grey Goose gestured as best he could with his wounded shoulder.  In answer, River Otter turned his back on the group and resumed his defiant march up the pass.  One by one, they reluctantly followed.  This place was full of evil spirits, and the braves felt better if they stayed together, but they didn’t like it one bit.  Grey Goose averted his eyes from the faces in the rock wall that seemed to leer at him, and grimly fell silent.  Finally, they crested the pass, as the last rays of the sun glinted off the peaks around them.  There was no path.  Another lake lay before them, and ridge after ridge blocked their way home.  The grumbling turned into open defiance.

“I shall not go another step towards that evil place.”  That was Woodpecker, the youngest one, who was full of his own spirit and keen to be the leader before his time.  Two of the wounded warriors slouched down exhaustedly on the ground.

“Suit yourself,” River Otter shrugged without respect.  “It is getting dark.”  He turned again and walked away from the group.  Brown Elk lurched to his feet, leaning heavily on his spear.  Old Beaver did not get up.  He was dead from his wounds – his life force had bled out like melting snow on the way up to this hope-forsaken place.  Woodpecker bristled at the retreating back of their leader, and glanced back with fear at the slumped, lifeless body of Old Beaver, his cousin’s uncle.  Was that his shadow stealing away among the rocks?  He shivered involuntarily, and hurried to catch up with the others.

They reached the lakeshore at twilight, when the gray spirits of the mountains were beginning to lean menacingly into the corners of their eyes.  After they had drunk their fill, glancing nervously at the hostile shapes looming all around them, River Otter led them directly away from the lakeshore to a hidden cave.  “Here is where we will stay.  It was revealed to me in my dream.”  The whites of his eyes glinted confidently in the fading light.  Much impressed, and willing to rally around this unexpected feat of clairvoyance, the braves who were able swiftly collected firewood; and they all stooped low to enter the cave.  Blue Heron lit a fire outside where the last vestiges of light let him see what he was doing, and he carried the burning bundle of shredded bark inside.  Camp Robber Jay had a teepee of sticks waiting, and the burning bundle was thrust inside.  Soon they had a cheery fire, and their moods lifted.  At least, they did not have to endure the hostile stares of the evil spirits lurking outside!

They settled down in the small cave, finding the best spots to spread out and rest.  A few old bones were scattered about, and Woodpecker tossed one into the fire disgustedly.  “This is truly evil.”  Sparks flew out and bounced off River Otter’s powerful thighs, but he did not flinch or look away from the young warrior’s challenge.  Woodpecker did not back down, either.  “This is the cursed cave of a she-bear,” he declared expressively, making sure all were looking at him.  “It was revealed to me in a dream,” he added with sarcasm, looking directly at River Otter.

The warriors shifted uneasily in the erratic firelight.  The bad omens of their day were not being helped by the dissent and tension in their divided group.  River Otter held Woodpecker’s defiant stare firmly like the neck of a duck, until the younger man finally looked away.  The fire popped and sizzled with ill intent, and the acrid smoke burnt their eyes and nostrils.  Brown Elk moved his injured leg closer to the fire, and an involuntary moan escaped from his chapped lips.  His face was ashen, and he did not look good.  All of them had been battered by an unexpectedly stout Wintun defense that seemed to know they were coming.  Grey Goose reflected that at least two dozen opposing warriors had mysteriously been in camp, at a time when they should have been out hunting.  The medicine of the Wintun village was strong, but River Otter had assured them it was protected only by old women and children.  Now, all their arrows were spent.  Between the six of them, they had but four unbroken spears, and a few obsidian knives for skinning game.  He shook his head in bitter regret, and rubbed his aching shoulder.  This was indeed a cursed war party, and they would do well to get back to their people alive.

Grey Goose awoke some time later and added a few sticks to the fire.  Brown Elk was dead.  He shook his head again to bemoan the ill fortunes of their war party, and thought of his snug lodge back at the village.  Why had he ever left home?  There would be plenty of salmon again in the late summer, as always.  They had been led on this war path by sheer boredom, and the charismatic promises of River Otter, a would-be shaman.  He glanced to the cave opening, where the broad back of their leader glowed in the faint firelight as he gazed out into the mysteries of the night.  “Some things are better left to the spirits,” he thought glumly, and tried to get comfortable on the gravel floor of the cave.

He awoke again, after what seemed like only a moment where he had closed his eyes, and everything had changed.  His companions were all gone, and the cave was very large.  He sat up in astonishment to see only the wizened figure of a very old man, squatting on the other side of the fire and looking at him with black eyes as deep as the night sky, and many stars were in them!  The Old One’s face was a gnarled pattern of wrinkles like the bark of an ancient pine tree, and he was grinning at him with a toothless mask of derision that tore at his insides like a thousand knives.  “Who are you?” he demanded brashly, despite his mounting fear that he was no longer in the First World.  A loud buzzing sound seemed to be all around him.  Had he died in the night?

The Old One merely squinted at him with his starry eyes, through folds of wrinkles upon wrinkles, and laughed silently.  He was naked except for a scant loincloth, and his bony shoulders rose and fell with a mocking rhythm.  He did not answer.  “What have you done with our warriors?”  His fear made Grey Goose bold; if he was dead he would surely kill this Old One, too!  He reached for his spear, and fell off a cliff.  Or at least it felt that way, as he tumbled in darkness within his mind, arms flailing and hands grasping at nothing.  He was falling… falling…  It sounded like he was approaching a waterfall, and the roar in his ears grew so loud…

His eyes opened to see a bloody, severed human arm lying next to him in a dull light.  All around were screams upon screams, and a terrifying roar and the hot stench of a large animal!  From where he lay, he could see River Otter was face down, motionless on the floor of the small cave where they had been sleeping, and his arm was gone!  Woodpecker was rolling on the hot coals of the fire, wailing like a woman with half his face gone, and clutching his ripped open stomach to hold in his entrails.  Camp Robber Jay had his leg caught in a huge, moving rock, and was screaming beyond a man’s ability to scream, and the rock became a great she-bear!  Instinctively, Grey Goose’s hand closed on the shaft of his spear, and he flattened himself against the wall of the cave, his eyes fixed in terror upon the fury of the she-bear, who was messily mauling his poor cousin’s leg.  Dark spots of blood spattered on the walls of the cave like spring rain.  Terrified beyond reason, Grey Goose inched closer to the exit, and when the she-bear lost her grip on the lifeless body, he made a break for it.  The mangled corpse of Blue Heron partially blocked the exit, and he shoved the floppy remains aside frantically, gasping for the fresh air outside the cave.  It was so hot!

He caught a glimpse of the cool trees outside, and could see the Old One crouched there, his face framed eerily in the dawn by his mane of grey hair.  His ancient wrinkles were still twisted in a mocking grimace.  The last thing he saw was the spiral mass of distant stars in his eyes, as something incredibly strong clamped on his foot, and dragged him back into the cave.

This was truly bad medicine, and a very inauspicious way to leave the First World.