Amarok (13 page)

True to his word, Jock had come to Alaska soon after, but he’d preferred the life of a fisherman to that of a prospector or trapper. While Tok and his family headed to the cursed lands, Jock settled near the ocean and the pubs of town. On one burly bicep, Jock had worn a tattoo of a bird—an owl in flight—so if he were ever lost at sea and his body drifted to shore, he’d be identifiable.

One golden September day, Amarok had received a letter from his favorite uncle. Jock was coming to get him. He was to spend two glorious months at sea with his idol. The life of a fisherman seemed exciting and mysterious, compared to the tedium of walking trap lines. On the day Jock was to arrive, Amarok had woken early and nearly worn a path in the floor from checking the window for signs of Jock. By nightfall, all hopes of seeing his uncle were dashed. Day after day, he watched and waited, praying for any sign of the big man. But when the autumn leaves fell and snow covered the ground, Amarok gave up hope. As weeks passed with no word from the big man, Amarok’s father grimly concluded his brother was gone, lost to some unnamed danger.

Now, Amarok knew differently. Somehow, the old shaman had captured Jock and turned him into an owl—the very owl perched on his windowsill, and the same one that had followed him across the tundra. He’d even given the girl a silver feather from its plumage.

If only he could stand and get to the door, he’d let him in. It would comfort to him to have Jock at his side. Through all the years, everyone he’d known had died. Now, here was the uncle he’d loved like a father, alive and well. Not in human form, as he would have wanted, but alive nonetheless.

Amarok thought back to the time the shaman had transformed him, to the days when he’d lain in agony while the transformation had taken place. During those nights, he’d heard the beat of wings against the hut and the screeches of a bird. Could it have been his uncle trying to save him? And, slowly, he recalled seeing an owl on the arm of the old shaman when his first master, Abe, had come for him. More than once, a lonesome hoot had broken the silence of the long, cold nights.

An arrow of doubt shot through his veins like lead. Had he imagined it all? Had he really seen the mark on the bird’s wing? Was it just his dying mind giving him comfort? Amarok closed his eyes, refusing to not believe in what he had seen. After all the years of needless suffering, this one thing had to be true.
Please, let it be so
.

As Amarok struggled to sit up, a sharp pain flashed through his side. He put his hand on his waist, feeling blood seep through his bandages. He made his agonizing way to the cold hearth. With his remaining strength, he stoked the fire into a blaze and collapsed on the bed.

It’d been years since he’d slept within the shelter of four walls and a warm fire. Amarok soaked in the warmth, staring at the flames licking the wood, devouring it. He thought of all the other people enslaved by Milak, their lives destroyed. Something dreadful occurred to him. If Milak was as old as the ice age, then perhaps there were others who’d lived centuries in slavery. Amarok clamped his eyes shut. He couldn’t imagine such a horrible thing.

Emma peered into the metal box. Underneath an antique pocket watch and three gold coins, she spotted a hardbound book. On the cracked leather of the spine, the word “Journal” was stamped in gold lettering. She reached inside and gently eased it out. Carefully, Emma leafed through the musty pages. Most were unreadable, smeared with specks of mold. She flipped to the last entry.

January 21, 1865

I’ve grown sicker by the day. My vision is so poor I can hardly see to write this entry. The native tales of cursed lands and ill fortune ring true. I saw the evil one with my own eyes, and in his hateful glare he cursed me with a terrible blight that has taken over my body. I fear for my wife and son. Beware all those who near his mountain, for inside it lies not a man, but a terrible monster
.

Louis Baptise

Emma shivered and closed the fragile diary, returning it to the box. She glanced out the window at the mountain, eyeing its dark, oppressive peaks. A terrible dread filled her gut—somewhere deep within those rocky folds, the shaman hid. Maybe he already knew she was there, and so was watching and waiting for her. Either way, it didn’t matter. She was going to get Amarok’s totem, and nothing would stand in her way. Determination steeled her spine; she pushed open the door and headed out. Emma hiked from the cabin up a set of barren hills toward the base of the mountain. She adjusted the heavy pack, keeping the massive landmark in focus. Something about it repulsed her, made her feel cold and unclean, and she fought the urge to turn back. The unsettling feelings only confirmed her belief that this was where the shaman resided, as if his presence had corrupted the place, permeating even the rock with his evil. She lumbered through patches of dead grass and slush, her footsteps the only sound.

Emma kept to the trees, trying to remain hidden. The back of her neck prickled. All the while, she felt eyes watching her from every angle. She glanced around. Branches snapped behind her and she paused. Her pulse hammered in her ears, an unswallowable knot forming in her throat. She took two more steps, and the shuffle of feet crunched behind her. She whirled, holding the gun high, scanning the land around her. No one—not one sound. She continued a few yards, until a shrill scream broke the silence. Emma froze, unable to move her feet, her heart punching into her ribcage.
What the hell was that?
She waited a minute, then two, but no threat materialized. She worked her way up and up, peering over her shoulder all the while to make sure she wasn’t being followed. A few steps later, she reached the base of the mountain.

Emma scanned its heights and focused on a high eave. Behind it, a yawning cave punctured the granite. The rocky surface angled upward from the ground to the cave ledge, making an imperfect set of steps.

She leaned face-first against the icy wall, inhaling the pungent odors of sage and moss. Using her fingertips, she grasped at tiny protruding ledges, pulling herself up. The weight of the backpack caused the straps to bite into her shoulders. Emma winced, sweat beading her forehead. Gritting her teeth, she climbed higher, muscles screaming, until she reached the lip of the cornice and peered over the top. Loose shale and scattered twigs cluttered the surface. She hauled herself up onto the broad ledge and shrugged off the pack, surveying the sweeping valley below.

Emma peered down at Amarok’s old cabin. She wrapped her arms around herself as an unsettling thought occurred to her. She could see into the windows. Her stomach knotted, thinking how the shaman must have stalked the family, watching and waiting for just the right time to unleash his deadly curse, keeping himself coiled, like a venomous snake, in the shadows.

Emma filled her lungs with cold mountain air, trying to take the edge off her agitated nerves. She eyed the cave opening and slipped on her pack. Moss clung to the vertical limestone walls, and an eerie fog hovered in the void between the floor and ceiling.

Her scalp tingled. What if she ran into a bear or disturbed a nest of bats? She shuddered. An animal encounter would be better than one with the shaman. She could feel his evil presence seeping out of the walls, a presence so strong she could hardly breathe.

Emma peered into the cave, her gaze swallowed by the impenetrable blackness. She took a step inside, senses on high alert. She clutched the rifle until her knuckles burned. Clicking the flashlight on, she took another step. The clammy interior exhaled a musty breeze, chilling its way into her bones.

She fought to focus in the haze, seeing tiny flicks of lights appear, then fade into nothing. Emma took another wary step. Something crunched beneath her boots. A chill sliced up her spine. She shone a beam of light over the floor. Hundreds of dead beetles lay scattered on their backs. Bones of all sizes lay strewn across the flowstone on brown stains of dried blood, like a slaughterhouse floor. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, fighting the urge to gag.

Emma steadied herself, stepped inside, and let the darkness swallow her.

The windowsill stood cold and barren, empty of life and love. Amarok rested on the floor, listening for any sounds of the owl’s return. Once in a while, he would see the glint of falling snow, or hear the shrill of squirrels preparing their dens for winter, and his pulse would race. How hard it was to just lie there, helpless, worthless. So utterly alone.

Amarok’s thoughts returned, time and time again, to Emma. He tried to console himself, convince himself, that his uncle would protect her. But what could a bird do? Hope struggled for a foothold. Maybe, if nothing else, he could guide her to where the totem lay hidden, if she made it that far. The need to believe she was out of harm’s way warred with the knowledge of what she faced, and his head began to pound. It seemed like days since her departure instead of hours. Her absence left a hollow emptiness in his very existence.

A violent wave of fear stabbed through Amarok’s spine. So many dangers lay ahead of her—the river, the plunging temperature, wild animals and, worst of all, Milak himself.

Amarok closed his eyes, attempting to push the terrible thoughts from his mind. He tried to visualize what life might be like if Emma returned with the totems. His eyelids flew open, and he released a heavy sigh. He knew better than to humor such outlandish ideas, but somehow, it made the pain of his wounds almost bearable.

Emma deserved to have someone to care for her, to love her. It wasn’t right for her to be left all alone, with no one to protect her.

He only wished that somehow, he could be the one at her side, but time was his enemy and he feared the endless sleep would take him before he even had a chance to see her once more.

Emma stumbled through the dark, following the faint beam of her flashlight. Shale and bits of gravel rolled from beneath her boots. The rocks scattered ahead and disappeared with a loud splash. She jerked to a stop, shining the flashlight along the stone floor. Inches from her feet, an enormous sinkhole punctured the ground. Emma sucked in a breath, staring down into the watery pit. One or two more steps, and she would’ve plunged into a boggy grave. She had to keep her wits about her, even though she was painfully aware of the minutes ticking away. Being careless would cost her more than time. Slow and cautious was better than quick and dead.

She eased her way around the gaping hole and entered a wide chamber. Jagged stalactites, like stone daggers, hung from the ceiling. Foul water dripped down their sharp blades into deep, scummy ponds. A narrow trail wove among them.

A putrid scent of decay seeped from the walls. Emma fought to stay on the narrow path. She stumbled and stepped ankle-deep into one of the murky puddles, almost losing her boot in the sucking mud. She pulled her foot loose and pushed on. Around a tight bend, Emma came to a massive entranceway, braced on each side by a giant tusk and topped with a massive skull. She waved the flashlight over the colossal skeleton of what must have been a mammoth. Deep etchings of interlacing circles and arrows marred the bone surfaces. Her pulse quickened.
This has to be the right way!