Amarok (15 page)

Emma awoke slowly, caught up in the disorientation of waking in a strange place. She stared up at a ceiling of bones and hides as her mind struggled to interpret what she saw. Where was she? She rolled onto her side, her body complaining with each movement. Pungent smells swirled around her—dampness, fungus, decay.

A shroud of ice fog surrounded her like a veil of gauze. The thump of drums and the skirl of chanting swirled from within its murky depths. A swelling fear engulfed her, as her memory came pouring back. The chanting, the cave, all of it flooded her terrified mind. Emma sucked in a frightened gasp, struggling to sit up, paralyzed by the haunting rhythm. She gawked in wide-eyed horror at the source of the terrible sound. A hunched figure, barely discernible, crouched in the icy mist. A smug smile cracked across a brittle face dominated by a huge, jutting forehead above wrinkly eyes. Misshapen, black teeth gleamed in the torchlight, a forked tongue darting between them.

Emma opened her mouth to scream, but terror strangled her vocal cords. The shaman threw back his head and laughed, shaking a set of rattles, spiraling around her. She clamped her eyes shut, trying to close out the sounds, fighting the burning pain searing her skin. Emma remembered the lost totems. Bitter tears sprang to her eyes. She tried to raise a hand to wipe her face, but every limb felt weighed down by blocks of stone. With an overpowering certainty, she knew what the old man was doing. She’d risked everything to free Amarok and instead, she’d experience the half-life he’d lived for so long. Very soon, she’d be transformed into an animal with a human mind, trapped forever.

The chanting and rattling intensified, sending shards of pain slicing into her head. The horrible pressure bulged behind her sinuses. Her temperature spiked, yet her body shook with chills. He was trying to make her sick, invade her mind—weaken her spirit. Emma twisted and contorted in agony, feeling her bones soften, her tissues expand. Light exploded behind her eye sockets and she feared they would burst from her head.

Anger and pain collided inside of her, only to be replaced with cold conviction. She clenched her teeth until her molars ached. Emma knew how to beat him. She’d use one of her worst habits; something she fought constantly, but would now be to her advantage. Emma inhaled deeply and let herself drift away…

Amarok hurried from the cabin, struggling to get used to the feeling of being vertical. His steps were slow and stilted at first, but his skill and confidence increased with each moment. Amarok’s heart pumped with exhilaration as his soul ascended new heights. He would find Emma, and nothing would get in his way.

His boots churned up bits of soggy moss and ferns with his slow, lumbering pace. At the foot of the path, the cramps assaulting his calves ceased. He paused to rest, watching angry thunderheads churn from gray to black, fertile with burdensome bellies of rain. He didn’t have much time before the storm blew inland, soaking the land in sheets of freezing precipitation, encapsulating the forest in a cold and impenetrable ice-bound prison. The rivers would rise with the rain, making travel even more treacherous.

Amarok stumbled along the rocky path to the river. The scent of fermented moss berries, mulch, and cedar flavored the air with a musky tang. Drifts of heavy snow already littered the water’s edge in a ring of white. He glanced at the dock, his clothes damp with perspiration. How could he have forgotten? Emma had taken the kayak. He’d have to hike to Ben’s place north of the river, an impossible feat. An uphill climb across some of the roughest terrain in the area, and he was a century out of practice.

Knotting his fists, Amarok kicked a rock into the middle of the river. It would take him a full day or longer to get there, and there was no guarantee the trapper would be home. A skilled bush pilot, Ben transported hunters and tourists around remote areas of the Alaskan frontier. Weasel Tail had known Ben’s schedule. He’d wait, lurking in the brush until Ben left, and while the trapper was gone, Weasel Tail would raid his traps. Amarok suddenly remembered a beat-up canoe stored in a southern cache. It would be only a short hike, but repairs would take half a day.

A motor whined in the distance, breaking his concentration. The drone grew louder and stronger. Upriver, the outline of Ben’s boat came into view. Amarok waved his hands to get the man’s attention. He watched as the vessel drew near and he spotted the trapper’s face. Ben appeared ashen, his lips pressed tight. He slowed and idled to the dock, watching Amarok with suspicious eyes.

“Thank God—Ben! You have to take me to the dark valley before it’s too late.”

Ben lifted his chin, and squinted. “Do I know you?”

“Please, just listen to me. I need a ride downriver. It’s not far. My friend went there and she needs me—please!”

The trapper’s mouth opened, and then sadness rushed into his eyes. “I took her there several hours ago. I’m sorry, but she didn’t come back.”

Amarok closed his eyes, willing the horrible words to evaporate from his mind. He opened them slowly, feeling as if he’d just swallowed a blade.

“I’m sorry,” Ben said. “I told her I’d wait an hour and I waited almost two. If she wasn’t back by then, she’s not coming back.” He lowered his dark eyes. “I didn’t want to leave her, but I couldn’t risk staying. I’m sorry, son, but she had to know going in she wouldn’t stand much of a chance against what lives there.” The native’s eyes strayed to the totems circling Amarok’s neck and he smiled sadly, as if his suspicions had been confirmed. “You’re brother wolf, aren’t you? It was you she was trying to save.”

Amarok’s knees buckled. He couldn’t be too late. It was his job to protect her. The girl he loved couldn’t have died giving him a chance at life. Emotions flooded him, choking him with despair.

Ben cleared his throat. “You know the history of that place as well as I do. No one lasts long there.”

“But you don’t know for sure what happened to her? Not for sure?” Amarok begged, clinging to any shred of hope he could find.

“No. I assumed, when she didn’t return, she’d ended up like all the others. No sane person would set foot in the place. It’s too dangerous.”

“I have to know, either way. Will you give me a ride?”

The trapper held up his hand. “Look, we’ve already lost one soul. I’m not going to endanger another person. Don’t throw your life away, boy. Don’t make her sacrifice for nothing.”

“But I might be able to save her! If you’re not willing to take me, at least let me borrow your boat!”

The man hesitated.

“Ben, please!”

The man nodded. “All right. I warned you, but I suppose there’s nobody who knows the dangers better than you. It’s your life. Get in.”

They traveled downstream, the calm water rippling out from the bow to lap at the nearby banks. The passive section of the river merged with an angry branch and the route stretching before them became a rushing torrent, clogged with snags and dangerous logjams. Amarok clutched the side of the boat and frowned. Over the last century, the river had changed drastically. He thought of Emma and his heart twisted. He would’ve never sent Emma if he’d known how dangerous it was. He gazed into the belly of the river, remembering the plentiful trout it once provided, how they would burst to the surface on his line, the sizzle of their tender flesh in his mother’s frying pan. The memory of the succulent smell of fried fish and pepper permeating the once-cozy cabin caused his stomach to grumble with hunger.

The river branched, and Ben chose the left fork. The color of the water intensified, the aqua blue hue deepening and changing until it turned an ugly brown, heavy with silt. The swells grew taller and deeper in the agitated water. Each wave crested in froths of white claws, scraping at the sides of the boat.

A bird shrieked overhead. Amarok spotted the owl flying low, gliding silently on the winds. With three powerful upstrokes, it sailed across the sky, disappearing into the trees ahead. He breathed a heavy sigh, thankful for his uncle’s presence. Over the years, he’d only traveled here a few times as a wolf, and his human perception was so different, it could well have been a different place. Now everything appeared darker, more lifeless. Even the wind seemed absent, and it struck him how heavy the feeling of death hung over the land.

A tinge of melancholy came over him. He remembered his father’s excitement about this unexplored frontier, so untouched by human hands, and he wondered how they’d missed the desolate quality of the region. The land had fooled his parents into trusting it. Even his native mother, who’d always been so perceptive, hadn’t recognized what deadly, devious secrets the land held. It had killed her, and then cradled her and her husband in death, roots twisting into their graves to forever hold them prisoner in its rotting, forsaken soil.

A fogbank shrouded the shoulders of the land like a widow’s shawl. A mile downriver the haze lifted, and Amarok spotted the sad cabin perched on the rise, and the dilapidated crosses marking the graves. He choked down the lump rising in his throat, feeling as if his gut had been shoveled out with a rusty spade. All the terrible sorrow he’d endured so long ago washed over him anew. His eyes swept across the cold and lonesome graves, the crooked and weather-beaten crosses. So many memories lay buried in the soil with them.

Ben cut the engine and coasted close to shore. Waves slapped the hull, rocking the boat violently. Amarok braced himself and jumped out onto the sandbank.

He glanced over his shoulder at Ben. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

The trapper nodded. “Try not to be too long.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Amarok hurried into the brush, fighting through a maze of alder bushes and overgrown trees. The once-tiny saplings lining the path in his youth now towered toward the sky. Their shadow created a dark and dismal canopy over the lonely trail. Blades of brown grass poked up from snow-encrusted tussocks. Amarok broke through the brush and stood at the front door of the cabin. He’d known every nail, every notch in each hand-hewn log in the structure—now just a dust-covered artifact of dreams destroyed, a family ruined.

He gripped the cold doorknob, closed his eyes, and dropped his hand quickly. He had no time to lament, no time for painful memories. He had to find Emma. Amarok passed the lonely graves with a stab of regret and ducked into the trees.

He wove a shortcut through the tangled undergrowth. The sun poked from behind the clouds, shooting narrow shafts across the earth as if guiding him. Its pale rays shimmered off skiffs of snow jacketing the gray foliage. The sun faded and darkness crept in like a living thing, sucking the life from the land, shrouding it in breathless silence. The quiet rang in Amarok’s ears. Inching forward, his eyes shifted back and forth, ears straining to pick up any threatening sound. He skirted the top of the rise, stepping from tree to tree to keep his outline obscured. Carefully, he worked past the base of the mountain and into a stand of trees beyond.

Huddled between two giant pines, the shaman’s hut squatted, just as he remembered it. A depressing, dilapidated shack, with smoke billowing from a crude hole cut in the ceiling. The scent of sage and cooked lichens set his instincts on edge. He’d smelled the pungent mixture, boiling in a pot for days, during his transformation. Amarok crept forward, one careful step at a time, as soundless as the fog. He leaned his ear against the door, listening. Nothing. He steeled himself, grabbed the wooden handle and burst inside.

Amarok swept a quick glance around the interior of the smoky hut, on the lookout for the shaman crouching in the shadows. The walls, blackened by centuries’ worth of wood smoke, barely kept the weather out. Packed earth made up a dirt floor, and the circular hole in the thatched roof provided ventilation. All of this was, of course, for his victims. The shaman neither needed shelter or comfort for his immortal shell, but he needed to keep the unfortunate humans alive long enough to complete the transformation. When he was finished, they had nature’s protection of fur or feathers and no longer required the meager shelter offered by the ramshackle dwelling.

Amarok’s eyes burned from the thick haze of acrid smoke and cooked herbs. Nothing was discernible in the smog. As his eyes struggled to adjust, he saw a cast iron pot hanging over the open firepit, boiling the hateful mixture he remembered so well. He advanced and turned the pot over with a savage kick, extinguishing the flames below. Deeper in the dwelling, he spotted wooden masks and spears carved of bone cluttering the filthy walls. A woolly animal shivered on the floor, near the fire.