Cradle Lake (19 page)

The walking stick in hand, he proceeded down the path and through the thicket. The forest rushed up to meet him almost out of nowhere. Nettles twined around his ankles. He paused only once to look back, spying the slouching, whitewashed shack framed within a clutch of cottonwoods and evergreens.

The crushed gravel path cut straight through the forest with hardly a twist or undulation. Around him, however, the forest seemed to swell and rise, flanking him like a canyon of juniper, at the bottom of which ran the path. The old woman's warnings still resonating in his head, he remained alert for the presence of others—for footfalls in the dead leaves and rustling in the nearby trees—but he couldn't hear or see anyone. He was utterly alone.

Not for the first time, the notion that he was being set up returned to him. Was it possible this whole thing was yet one more peg in Sheriff Landry's attempt to warn him away from the healing lake? As he walked, crunching the tiny bits of gravel beneath the tapered metal tip of the walking stick, he tried to put all the events that had led him here back into place: Hank telling him the story about the Morelands; the sigils and words carved into the walls of the Moreland house, which hadn't been cleaned up since the incident, as if it sat waiting for him to arrive. Was it possible this was just another staged event in a long line of them? Something to scare him away, keep him quiet and obedient?

You don't believe that, sport,
a voice spoke up in his head. It sounded strangely like Jimmy Carmichael's.
You don't believe this is a setup any more than you believe you can fly.

It was impossible to estimate how long it took him to reach the end of the path, but by the time he crossed out of the woods and into a rocky, lichen-slick ravine, the sun had repositioned itself in the sky. Silver threads burned through gaps in the cumulus. Digging the staff into the earth and hoisting himself out of the ravine and to the crest of an embankment, he felt his exhaustion weighing down on him like a physical thing—a feeling he hadn't known since he'd started going to the lake each morning. The ulcer kept a steady pulse against the lining of his stomach.

See? There is no power in that lake. I've been exercising, swimming, and that's why I've been feeling better,
he told himself.
There is no power there. I'm walking through a dream. And I only feel sick now because of that concoction the old woman made me drink. Or maybe it's this forest, this place. The path itself. Or just being here on this reservation.

Could he keep denying the effects the lake had on him? Could he continue being so forcefully, willfully blind?

What are you afraid of?
Jimmy Carmichael wanted to know.

Below, the vista was breathtaking. Alan paused to soak it all in. An impossibly lush, impossibly green panorama of sloping countryside loped on toward the purple foothills, bisected by a dazzling, fire-lit river. Weeping willows, their long, tendril-like fingers stroking the grass, rose in pods, their arrangement so perfectly symmetrical it looked preordained. He was closer now to the mountain range than he had thought; he could see the fir-studded peaks and valleys, the shadowed cols and canyons in sharp relief, the broken shale and loose talus heaped in mounds within the crevices of the foothills. The spectrum of color was infinite.

Continuing down the other side of the embankment toward the river, he was overcome by the distinct impression that he was no longer in North Carolina—and not just into the next state but somewhere far, far off, as if following the path had somehow transported him to an alternate plane in an alternate time. Any minute, wild buffalo could overtake the distant fields, pumping their powerful legs and kicking up dry plumes of dust, and he wouldn't have been surprised. This was a special place. The air tasted cleaner, smelled fresher and untouched by mankind. How could a city like New York reside on the same planet—in the same universe—as this remote and hidden place?

Alan saddled up to the river, which was more like a large stream and quite shallow. He noticed smooth brown stones on the floor of the river, and the water looked crisp and clean. The muscles in his thighs aching and his heart strumming like a guitar string in his chest, he followed the left bank of the river through the valley. Overhead, clouds intersected and turned the color of soot. Distant thunder rumbled.

He followed the river until it cut sharply down a steep slope—steep enough to create a small waterfall and, below, a whirlpool of choppy white foam. Pausing here, Alan stretched his calves on a nearby boulder and popped the tendons in his back. It seemed as though his tattoos had once again regained their potency, the sharpness of their color and design standing out against his white flesh.

It's all in my head. A trick of the daylight.

The storm was creeping down the mountains and would be here shortly. Shielding the sun with one hand, Alan peered in the approximate direction of north. His
gaze settled on the silhouette of a twin-horned crag, black against the overcast sky: the Devil's Stone, surely. Dark smoke twisted up from behind the stone and vanished into the air.

Continuing in the direction of the Devil's Stone, he approached from what he estimated to be the southern side, the pillar of smoke growing thicker in the storm-pregnant sky. Indeed, the stone looked like a face—no, a skull—sprouting twin goat horns. Two cavernous pits recessed into the stone like vacant eye sockets, each one the size of a manhole cover.

Alan walked around the side of the stone and found George Young Calf Ribs sitting on the ground before a smoldering fumarole.

The Indian motioned for Alan to sit opposite him on the other side of the fire pit. Fiery orange light issued from the pit and cast deep shadows across George Young Calf Ribs's sharp features. Alan could tell he was old, but the Indian's actual age was impossible to determine. He wore a buckskin shirt, denims, and a bone breastplate. His hair was raven and threaded with silver wisps. Two inky black feathers protruded from behind his right ear.

Setting aside the walking stick, Alan sat down and folded his legs under him. The heat from the hole in the ground struck him with dizzying effect, the smoke making his eyes water.

George Young Calf Ribs's somber eyes pierced through to his soul. Alan couldn't move, couldn't blink, couldn't look away. Skin like burlap, the knuckles of his big hands like the turns in a hangman's noose, the old man cleared his throat. Alan could hear a dry rattling deep in his lungs.

Death rattle,
he thought.
Illness.

“I dreamt of your arrival for six moons without break,” George Young Calf Ribs said in a whiskied voice. “Since then, I have been coming out here to the valley and the Devil's Stone, guided under the protection of the warrior
Tsul Kalu
, waiting for the day of your arrival. I'm glad it is today.” He grimaced without pretense. The lines of his mouth were like cracks in ice. “I'm tired and the summer days are long.”

“I found your name written in blood on the wall of a vacant house,” Alan said, his own voice sounding paper-thin. “A house where something horrible happened.” He wiped sweat off his brow. “How did you know I'd come? It couldn't just be from … from a dream …”

“There are some future events that have already been written. It is up to us only to act them out. You coming here is just such an event.” There was a pile of pinecones beside the old man. He picked one up and tossed it into the fire pit. The firelight intensified, and more smoke spiraled up into a sky that seemed to be darkening prematurely. “Of course, not all events are predestined. We have the power to make our own decisions.”

“Why am I here?”

“Because you do not know all there is to know about the lake.”

“You've been to the lake?”

“It was many years ago and only once. I traveled with my father, and we found the hidden clearing. There were no houses to mar the land back then, and much of the countryside was forest straight out to the foothills. The deer were
plentiful, and we watched them drink from the lake, strong and healthy.”

“Did you go in the lake?”

“No.” The old man's voice was sharp. “That day, the lake was not for us.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was not the right moment for us to use it. We had not been allowed. We could only observe it and respect its power.”

“Its power to heal—that's real, isn't it?” It wasn't until the words were out of his mouth did he find he actually believed them. Despite the heat from the fire, the notion sent a shiver up his spine.

A hawk circling overhead cried out. Startled, Alan looked up and watched it soar through the burning cumulus clouds.

“Your question does not require an answer,” said the old Indian, his onyx eyes holding him in their stare. “You are well aware of what the lake is capable of, I think.” And there was more than just suspicion in his tone.

Suddenly, Alan felt as open as a textbook. “Then why am I here?”

“You are here to learn the things you
don't
know.” He tossed another pinecone into the fire. It blazed, belching out a billow of dark smoke, then simmered back down. “I have attempted to explain this once before, to change the direction of one's path. Unfortunately,” he said, with a slight agitation of his hand, “I was too late. I'm hoping I am not too late with you.”

Owen,
Alan thought.
He's talking about Owen Moreland. That's why those words and symbols were on the walls.
But Owen hadn't listened, had he?

“Tell me what I need to know,” Alan said.

“It is called the
Ataga'hi.
It was meant as a gift to the animals in order for them to heal themselves after being struck by a hunter's arrow or cut by man's blade. For a long time, the lake remained hidden from man until it was made visible to the People from Yowa, the Great Spirit. It healed the sick and the lame and gave spiritual and emotional peace to those possessed by evil thoughts. It was to be used and treated with respect.

“But countless winters of abuse and selfishness—of man's greed and raping of the land—have soured the waters and the forest whose job it is to hide and protect the lake. Our people stopped going to the lake long ago when we saw how it had been corrupted. But others
—your
people, people not of the land—continued to go. Then, years later, they built houses and streets of pavement, lampposts and ballparks and industry, which not only further soured the land but angered it, too. It has been poisoned.”

“What are you saying?”

George Young Calf Ribs leaned forward over the fire pit, the flames casting his face in a demented orange hue. “It has become a bad place.” His tone was simple, matter-of-fact. “It no longer hides and offers rejuvenation to those worthy enough to find it. Now it calls to whoever is careless enough to seek it out. That is its revenge on the ones who have soured its waters and poisoned its land.”

He thought of Owen and Sophie Moreland, of course. He thought, too, of Hank's bum leg that refused to heal no matter how many times he went into the lake.

But then there was Catherine whose leukemia had been seemingly cured by the lake. And there was Cory whose neck had surely been broken. How many others had secured their own personal miracles on its shore?

It fixed my ulcer and made me stronger,
he thought.

Alan stammered, “It does good things, too. I've heard stories; I've seen firsthand what it can—”

George Young Calf Ribs held up one hand, silencing him. “Don't be fooled. There are still healing powers in the lake. But even those powers are shrouded by the black cloud of evil.”

Hearing the word
evil
succeeded in shaking George Young Calf Ribs's sermon into the realm of science fiction. Alan uttered a wavering laugh and shook his head before he realized what he was doing. He hadn't meant it to sound obstinate and disrespectful, but there was no denying that it did. Immediately, he apologized.

“Your laughter is a sad response, considering you are currently in a most dangerous position.” He paused, heavy eyes locked on Alan once again. “You … and your wife.”

His mention of Heather shook him to his core. All lightheartedness evaporated from him like steam. “What about my wife?” It came out as a wheeze, a whisper.

“The lake is like a magnet,” he said simply. “Your house is the closest thing to it. It's too close to the forest and sits on the soured land. Your house rots with you and your wife in it. Rots like carrion.”

He thought instantly of the hideous buzzards—the carrion birds—and how they'd started occupying the trees in the yard, creeping closer and closer to the house like vultures
circling over a coyote dying in the desert.

“Vines keep it tethered to the soil,” the Indian said, “like a balloon. They are channels, conduits, for the transfer of power.”

“The vines,” Alan muttered.

“You can cut them away but they grow back. They come up through the earth. They are the lifeblood, the beating veins, of that house now.”

Alan's mouth went dry.

“And those symbols,” George Young Calf Ribs continued. “Carved into the stones.”

“Yes. What are they? What do they mean?”

“They are the eyes of the Great Spirit. A man who approaches the path is judged and either permitted admittance or turned away. His soul is judged to see if he is ready. If he is not ready, the symbols say one thing. If he is right and just—if he is truly ready—the symbols will say so.”

“How do I know what they say? How do I read the symbols?”

“That is of no importance to you.” Another pinecone tossed into the fumarole
—whoosh.

“But the upside-down triangle,” Alan went on. “The same symbol you had carved back at the house on that slab of stone in the yard—”