With sleep crowding his eyes, Robert Dark Owl collapsed into an unmade bed. Not bothering to take off his clothes, he stretched out on the mattress, boots and all, and was snoring moments later. He dozed fitfully for an hour before waking in a sweat. The temperature in the house had become stifling, and the Indian caught a whiff of smoke. When he saw it billowing from the kitchen, he bolted through the doorway just in time to see the sooty air transform into a huge gray wolf. The wolf fixed Robert with its yellow eyes and then spun and leaped through the solid oak door.
Unnerved by the encounter, Dark Owl put a pot of coffee on to boil. There would be no sleep that night, so he sat at the kitchen table to pray to the Great Spirit for protection. He took a beaded medicine bag and a crucifix from his pocket and placed them in front of him as he entreated. His prayers continued until the first rays of daylight gleamed in the window and his last sip of coffee was gone.
Rising to his feet, Robert walked outside and took a deep breath of cool air. “According to the shaman, my answer lies within 250 feet of this house,” he muttered. “That’s where my ancestors are buried and the reason for my trip. Let it be an inner journey, as well.”
Robert took 250 paces from the front porch into the dewy field ahead. His pant legs were soaked before he accomplished the task, but he paid his wetness no mind. With intense concentration, he began circling the house. He knew the Iroquois buried their dead in an upright position, so he scanned the ground for telltale mounds of earth. When he found no trace of a cemetery in the field, he entered the woods at the base of a steep hill.
Dark Owl had no sooner stepped into the shadowy tree line when he was beset by a swarm of gnats that blinded and befuddled him. Then, he heard a vague chanting echo from the hillside above. The monotone voices were somber and strange and repeated the same word again and again. The gnats’ fierce buzz kept him from distinguishing what the choir sang.
The voices were hushed by the screech of a hawk, and the insects mutated into fog. Robert now found himself in a graveyard ringed by dark hemlocks. Instead of individual grave sites, he tottered on the brink of a mass burial pit sunk into the damp earth. Shards of pottery and clay pipes protruded from the soil along with bones and leering skulls.
While Robert surveyed the grim scene, blood bubbled suddenly from the ground. With a shriek he raced from the woods as branches raked his face and knocked him sideways. He trampled mayapples and bitter-smelling ferns in his mad scramble. Pursued by disembodied voices, he tore across the yard and on into the house.
Robert stood panting with his back to the door that he had somehow banged shut behind him. Immediately, the windows began opening and closing in the living room. He could hear them through the archway to his left. The slamming became more violent until the sound of shattered glass forced him to investigate. When he entered the room, the windows were still intact, but on the rug beneath them lay the ace of spades.
The hair elevated on Dark Owls’ head as he cried out to the Great Spirit for deliverance. All grew silent with his prayer, and he began to pace and ponder. His pacing continued until mid-afternoon when weariness from his sleepless night overcame him. After one last look around, he fell on the couch and lapsed into a heavy slumber.
Robert woke with a splash of sunlight on his face. As he fought to escape the hot glare, he saw dangling in the air above him a flint-tipped arrow pointed at his throat. With a surprised yelp, he dove from the couch just as the arrow hissed through the air and buried itself where his neck had just rested. Gibbering with fear, he scrambled to his knees only to find the arrow had vanished. . .