Raven's Cry

     Her eyes belie her age. Cold and hard, like two lumps of coal. Certainly nothing like the supple contours of her young maiden’s face.

     Maiden. I assume too much, for I know nothing of her—or the others, for that matter. She says nothing, though I have spoken to her in her native tongue many times before. Even now, her gaze pierces me like the icy arrows of winter.

     “What is your name?” gado detsadoa?

     Silence. No more.

     “Do you want to eat?” tsadulis tsaldati?

     Her eyes flicker recognition, but still, there are no words spoken. Instead, she shudders from the cold bite of the wind, and curls in on herself.

     And it is cold. This cursed squall has left us stranded—separated from the wagon train in front of us—with howling winds, sleet, and a blanket of heavy snow between us. Unusual for November to be sure, even in the Smoky Mountains. We left Red Clay, back in October, over six hundred wagons bound for the west, in a cold, drizzling rain. A month removed and we are no better off. In fact, we are far worse.

     This is madness! The treatment of the Cherokee has been deplorable. I’ve seen old ladies drug from their homes, driven at bayonet. Women with young children, taken away barefoot, without a blanket or warm clothing. Many have died already on our long march, from exposure to rampant disease. I am ashamed to have been witness to these atrocities, and yet have done nothing to put an end to this brutal execution march. I am only a private—an interpreter, no less—in this American army and nothing but a small cog in this great machinery put into motion by President Jackson. Still, I am human, and it is in this regard I have failed.

     The sun has disappeared behind the hills now. It will be dark soon. We’ve tried sheltering ourselves from the savage winds in a small grove of birch, but its bite still reaches us even here. Our meager camp fires do little, yet it is our only defense against the savage cold.

     The dozen detainees in our ward are huddled together like a ball of clay, sheltered by the massive roots of a fallen tree, while our lone wagon remains exclusive to the five soldiers assigned to this detail. The only exception, the defiant woman with hard, piercing eyes. Even now, she scoots herself closer to the fire, right beneath the nose of Sergeant Briggs.

     She is shivering and I cannot sit idly by. Removing my coat, I walk over to her and slip it around her shoulders. I remain near the fire, taking a seat next to her.

     It is then, she smiles, just a hint of amusement tugging at the corners of her mouth—but with no sincerity, no warmth—as if she is a cat amongst birds. I try a smile of my own, and this time she responds.

     “Diguhsgi.” Her voice is thick, raspy.

     “Spider?” I ask, curious as to the soundness of her mind now. Not in November--not in this weather.

     “They call me Spider,” she repeats in her native tongue.

     “Ah. I understand. My name is Adams. Jessop Adams.”

     “Your coat is welcomed, Jessop Adams, but it changes nothing. You will die. All of you.”

     “I don’t understand.”

     She answers me, but not with words. Instead, her eyes turn to narrow slits, and she turns away. She looks to the far side of the wind swept meadow, where dark woods stand sentry.

     Worse, she is right. I do understand. This is a terrible nightmare and I don’t believe I’ll ever wake up. I feel an icy rush of guilt wash through my veins, but I can honestly say I feel no fear. Not from her—not from this child almost grown.

     I look over at the sergeant to see if he had noticed the woman huddled next to the fire. He does not, as his head is bowed, sheltered beneath the collar of his coat.

     “Are you a medicine man?” I ask. Didanawisgi? I’ve heard tales that medicine men could experience waking dream…dreams that could foretell the future.

     She doesn’t appear to be listening, but nods almost as an afterthought. In the distance, a raven sounds, its raspy call cutting through the prevailing winds like a rusty saw. “I am from the Paint Clan,” she answers finally. “These people are my brothers and sisters…my family. We are strong in the ways of medicine. We are a people of honor. Your Soldier Clan has none. They murdered my husband.”

     I turn and shift my weight as if to shelter myself from the sting of the snow. Yet it is her words that are uncomfortable. Leave my face red.

     There had been rumors that Cherokee were still living south of Miller Creek, so two days ago, our five-man detail was dispatched from the main body of the wagon train to round up stragglers. We found only a couple of small farms, but rounded up the families and took them in to custody. We didn’t expect to find any resistance. Yet it found us. This young woman’s husband, a formidable man to be sure, came home to find soldiers taking his family away. What’s worse, the soldier’s intentions were less than honorable with his wife. The Cherokee man did not take kindly to it, and was shot in the back as he tried to come to her defense. And for this, I am ashamed. I did nothing. I could have stopped it—should have stopped it.

     It was on our return to the main body of the patrol that we were overtaken by this demon storm. Now we are stranded, left to our fate.

     I start, as Sergeant Briggs has discovered the Cherokee woman taking refuge by the fire. His abrupt movement and savage voice has snapped my senses to full alert. What? With a rawhide quirt in hand, he has struck the helpless woman, whipping her like an obstinate horse. She cowers from the blows, but much to her credit, she doesn’t cry out. Madness!

     In two steps, I have closed the distance between the sergeant and myself, a reluctant palisade to the young Cherokee woman who tries to make herself small against his vicious wrath. “Sergeant! No!”

     My forceful interjection surprises me nearly as much as it does the sergeant, his eyes growing wide as dinner plates. But the shock I see is washed away in an instant, replaced with something much more volatile, savage.

     I don’t have time to react. I don’t even see it coming. But the blistering sting of the quirt leaves no doubt, as an angry gash is opened across my cheek. I blink, stunned by the sudden turn of events. “Out of the way, private!” he screams, his spit flung like venom. His eyes are cruel, wild.

     A maelstrom of emotion floods my senses, fuels a rage I didn’t know existed, and I strike back at the sergeant. Quick as thought, I snatch the Colt pistol from his holster and strike him in the temple. But a savagery of my own has taken hold, and I don’t stop with one blow. The sergeant immediately crumples beneath the weight of the onslaught. It takes the combined efforts of Privates Herrick and Wyckham to pull me from the sergeant.

    “That’s enough, Adams!” one of them screams, even though I have already been separated from the bloody pulp that once was our commanding officer. “What’s the matter with you?”

     I feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins, my breath coming in ragged, gulping mouthfuls.

     It takes both men to drag Sergeant Briggs to the wagon. There, they tend to his immediate needs. He has a broken nose, and is missing a couple of teeth. They try to stem the gush of blood with a bandana.

     I turn my attention to Diguhsgi, who despite her quirting, seems little worse for the wear. She sits up from a fetal position, looks around. Her eyes flash, darting about like a bird, before her attention finally settles on me. She tilts her head. It’s then, I hear the raven’s cry once more, its caw loud and shrill, much closer than it was before. Diguhsgi turns to the bird’s raucous call, shielding her eyes from the pinpricks of blowing snow. That is when I see a ball of light streak across a distant ridge and it is gone in an instant. Lightning? In this weather?

     “He is coming,” the young woman states. She remains still, unnerved. I kneel by her side.

     “Who is coming?”

Ka’lanu Ahkyeli’ski. “The Raven Mocker.”

     I feel the icy talon of fear clutch my chest. Raven Mocker. I remember this name. Back in Polk County, Tennessee, where I grew up, I was friendly with most of my Cherokee neighbors and traded with them frequently. Many a night I spent around their campfires, sharing meat, drink and stories. One such story told of the Raven Mockers. They are the most dreaded of Cherokee witches, capable of stealing the very souls of people. They often take to the air in a fiery shape, with enormous wings. They make cries like the raven as they dive through the air, looking for their next victim. That is why all who hear this are afraid, because they know that death is near. Even now, I realize I am still clutching at the sergeant’s ruined pistol, my knuckles white.

     Unexpectedly, a powerful blast of wind forms overhead, its strong gusts buffet me and the young woman. So strong are the currents, they douse the fire.

     Diguhsgi brushes the tangle of hair from her face, looks to me with her frozen eyes. “No. The Raven Mocker is already here.”

     Another banshee wail tears through the night, sending another shiver down my spine. It’s then that the surrounding camp erupts into a cacophony of cries and anguished screams. A mere twenty yards from me, an elderly Cherokee woman falls over, the first victim of tonight’s brutal cold. Madness! The other women and children around her scream out in wails of anguish, tears streaming down their faces as they clutch her limp body to their heaving bosoms, as if that alone will revive her. But it is too late.

     I hardly have time to wrap my mind around the fact that the Cherokee prisoners are dying from exposure when I hear the panicked shouts of Herrick and Wyckham. Sergeant Briggs is convulsing, his arms and legs thrashing about like a man who is being beaten by a heavy sack of potatoes. He cries and hollers and carries on something awful.

     “Damn, Adams! Do something! I think the sergeant is dying!”

     “But that’s impossible!” I stammer. “I just pistol whipped ‘em a little!”

     A foamy spittle of pink oozes from the corner of the sergeant’s mouth, his eyes rolling up into his head, milky and ghost-like. “Where’s Davis?” I ask, stumbling on over to where the sergeant is still thrashing about. Private Davis is nothing more than a litter-bearer, but the closest thing we have to a doctor in our small cadre. “Perhaps he’ll know what to do!”

     Herrick turns to me, his mouth agape, his face stripped of all color. He fumbles over his next words, his tongue thick with panic. “I—I’m not sure. He said he was going to check on the horses!”

     I rip my attention away from the morbid spectacle and look at the young medicine woman. “Do something! Help the sergeant…please!”

     She remains wrapped in my coat, shielding herself from the brunt of the wind, but looks at me with disregard. A grimace is carved deep into her otherwise supple face.

     “He is dying!”

     She stares at me, not blinking. “No. He is already dead.”

     And like wet fingers snuffing a candle wick, the sergeant falls silent, still. I can do nothing but shake my head in disbelief.

     “The Raven Mockers have taken his heart and devoured it,” she explains, her voice weak and barely heard over the mayhem erupting all around us. “They are here amongst us, but are unseen, for it is said, if they are discovered in their human form, they will die within seven days.”

     I turned my attention back to the sergeant, his purple, swollen tongue hanging from his mouth. As if she can read my thoughts, she speaks up.

     “No, you can’t see his wounds. But my words are true. His heart is no longer there.”

     Wyckham approaches me, clutches at my sleeve. “What does she say?”

     “She says there are evil spirits about us. They have taken the life of the sergeant...and the old lady.

     Wyckham’s eyes flash alarm, and he backpedals from me and the medicine woman. He begins to speak, but before he utters a single word, the muddled cries within the camp are interrupted by a shrieking cry of terror from somewhere nearby in the woods. It is long and guttural and then…stops. I feel a rush of fear, and I stop dead in my tracks, listening. I then hear the squeals and screams of our horses, quickly followed by their thundering hooves, making escape into darkness unknown.

     “Christ Almighty! That had to be Davis!” snaps Wyckham. “What is happening?”

     “I better get our rifles!” yells Herrick. He makes for the wagon, but only takes a few steps before he comes under attack. It happens so fast, my mind doesn’t have time to process the images playing out before me. The private’s head explodes, as if hit by cannon fire, a spray of arterial red and brain tissue all that remains as it rains down upon Wyckham and I. It is a brutal, gory end, and it leaves me in shock, unable to move as all hell breaks loose around me. Our wards, the Cherokee, scatter now, screaming in terror as they scatter to the anonymity and safety of the deep woods. Their horrible, panicked cries wane in the distance, eventually disappearing all together, as the storm’s fury swallows them whole.

     I have collapsed to my knees, relieving my stomach of its contents, my evening meal of hardtack and jerky. There…I hear it again, the Raven Mocker soaring overhead, it’s terrible cry, scraping across my spine like a sharp stone, and severing any courage I may have forged.

     Though it is pitch now, I see Wyckham’s face blanch, his eyes flare. “Oh my God! We have to get out of here! Run!”

     I try to warn Wyckham—tell him to take cover, instead of flight. But it is too late. He is already running across the wind swept meadow, a good half mile across to the safety of the forest on the other side. I scream for him to halt, but it is of no use. He hears naught but the wind and the pounding of his own heart.

     I jump to my feet and lurch forward, unable to take my eyes off the fleeing man. From the corner of my eye I catch glimpse of the Indian woman, Diguhsgi, and she joins me by my side. She too looks on, holding her breath, strangely expectant. “Fool!”

     At this moment, another ball of fire streaks across the sky, its flames burning through the raging storm clouds above like sheet lightening on a hot summer’s night. The fire now converges on the private, a lone and scared rabbit. “Run, Wyckham! Run! Don’t look back!”

     But he does…and it’s the last mistake he ever makes. In the blink of an eye, the ball of fire dives from the clouds, a raptor in search of prey. It is over in an instant, as Private Wyckham is engulfed in a fiery explosion of destruction, his screams of agony shrill and inhuman, as he is burned alive. I turn away, unable to watch the grotesque spectacle, but the odor of burning flesh travels quickly in these blustery winds, and leaves me no reprieve. The smell is sickly sweet, and oddly familiar, like roasting meat over an open campfire. It is too much for me, and I wretch once again. The nausea rolls through me in waves, relentless and unforgiving. It seems to never end, an eternity for my heaving body, yet it eventually subsides.

     At first, I don’t move. I just lie there, gulping for air as I try to gain my bearings. My body feels bruised and battered, and it is only then I realize I am shaking violently from the cold. For a moment, I am befuddled, uncertain as to where I placed my coat. But then Diguhsgi approaches and stands over me. She is bundled in my coat, fortified against the cold, but says nothing. She just stares at me with her dark, brooding eyes, her hair snapping in the wind. It occurs to me I am the last of our small band of soldiers. I am alone. What’s more…she knows I am alone.

     I begin to say something, but Diguhsgi’s attention falters. She looks away, then tilts her head, trying to pinpoint a sound she hears. At first, I hear nothing but the whistling of the wind, the moaning of the trees. Then I hear it too: thunderous wings approach, the treetops above, under duress like a ship’s sails on stormy seas. My eyes scour the skies above, desperate to spot a flicker of movement, a flash of light. And then I hear it once again. A raven’s cry, cold and deliberate. Calculating. And it is close. Too close.

     I scramble to my feet, needing to find shelter, desperate to make my escape. I don’t look back. Instead, I make a mad dash through the trees, weaving my way through the undergrowth of the forest. The terrain is dark, and unknown to me, and I pay for my ignorance with my hide. Young saplings snap at my face with whip-like tentacles, thorny briars rip away flesh, and each step grows heavier than the one before it. Yet I know I mustn’t stop.

     The shrill calls are loud now and I fear they are drawing nearer. The Raven Mocker taunts me. It is impossible for me to escape, yet it toys with me, drives me forward. And I am gasping for air. I don’t think I can run any further, but there is a small gully cutting across the ridge…a gully that offers me an opportunity to take cover. It seems too far, an impossible distance to reach. Even now, I can feel the wash of the demon’s enormous wings, feel the intensity of its searing heat on the back of my neck. I’ll never make it.

     I’m exhausted, bogged down by snow that reaches the top of my boots, and it feels as if my heart will explode. But as I approach the gully, my legs pumping furiously, I notice, for the first time, the silhouette of a shadowy figure standing in my path. It’s all I can do to keep from colliding with it, and I come to a sliding halt. Diguhsgi!

     I look over my shoulder, brace for the inevitable strike from behind. But it never happens. Nothing approaches. I thrash about, mad with fear, certain of my doom. Still, nothing lingers near me, save for the certainty of death.

     I snap my attention back to the medicine woman, who stands defiantly in my way, her youthful face as wooden as the surrounding trees. “Fool.”

     Her eyes are unreadable, cold as they are dark. But it is they who betray her, give me a glimpse behind the thin veil of illusion that she has cast. She carries herself with youthful vigor, but her eyes are etched with time beyond ages. It is only now I remember what the Cherokee elders had told me. The Raven Mockers often appear as elderly humans. It is said when they consume the hearts of their victims, they absorb all their remaining years, and it is for this reason, Diguhsgi’s eyes have played her the fool. “You! You are a Raven Mocker!”

     Her shoulder’s slump, and she expels a tired sigh. Her identity exposed, the fragile illusion of youth slips from her face and slender figure, as if dirt being rinsed away by a mighty waterfall. Before me stands a slouching elderly woman, crippled with arthritis, her skin heavily marred with years long since passed. She tries to smile, but it is a hollow gesture. Few teeth remain in her cavernous mouth and her spell over me has broken. But she is still dangerous and full of surprises.

     Over her left shoulder, a flash of light appears, a ball of fire swooping down from a huge and gnarled elm a mere fifty paces away. I have been tricked! Entangled in a web of deceit!

     I shrink from its banshee cry, prepare for the impact sure to follow. I am certain this is the end, but at the last possible moment, Diguhsgi turns to face the new threat and raises her hands above her head to wave it off. And it works! The Raven Mocker pulls out of its dive just before it strikes, and disappears high into the treetops, a trail of sparks following in its wake.

     I turn to the old woman, expecting a savior, but instead, finding death. Her gaze has turned hard, full of contempt for the pitiful, weakened man before her. “Your soul belongs to me,” she states, her deep voice wet and craggy. “And I will not surrender my claim—not even to my husband.”

     The words take me by surprise, but I don’t show it. There is naught else to do, but grasp at straws, try to talk my way out of this mess. “But I saved you! I gave you my coat when you were freezing. I saved your life!”

     A slow, dangerous smile creeps across her face. “I tricked you. What need of a coat do witches have?”

     She recognizes my despair, sees the last flicker of hope dim from my face, and she smiles. “Yes. You will die. Tonight. It is inevitable. It is bitter cold and the north winds will make quick work of you. And I will return. You can count on it, as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow.”

     “What makes you so sure?”

     Again, she smiles, confident in her victory. “You are quick and fleet footed, Jessop Adams. But you are human, and therefore nothing.”

     It was my turn to smile. “Fool. You are so certain of my death, you have forgotten yours! I know what you are. I know you are a Raven Mocker and I have seen you in your human form. Within seven days, you will die. Know now, it was at my hands.”

    The old woman’s jaw clamps down like a steel trap, her body coiled and ready to spring. Her eyes burn bright, rage spreading throughout her body like wildfire. Then she screams, not out of anger or even threat—but rather it is out of anguish and utter despair. Such is the sound of immortality lost.

     In a burst of light, Diguhsgi dissolves into a ball of fire and rockets skyward, up over the treetops, and disappears into the thick wall of clouds above. Her tortured wails fade in the distance, while the howl of the raging wind is all that remains to fill the void.

     I give a sigh of relief, but it is short-lived. Such is my life. I have no coat, no fire for warmth, and no horse to make my escape. In my dash for safety, I have lost my bearings and the falling snow has made quick work of my tracks. I am lost. I am alone.

     Slowly, I make my way down into the small gulley to find shelter from the raking winds. I find a hollow beneath its rim, and pull my limbs in on myself, until I am nothing but a small bundle. The wind can no longer reach me here, but I cannot hide from the cold. I’m shaking violently now and I can barely think straight. Still, I fumble for my journal beneath my coat and write down these horrific events before they are lost to the ages.

     Morning is still hours away, and the darkness, like the cold, seeps through me. I will not see the light of day again. My fate is sealed. But then again, so is Diguhsgi’s. There is small comfort in that.