Dulce Truths

Noro straightens, firming-up his stance while keeping his eyes locked on Anderholt’s. The men are of equal height, though vastly different experiences. Anderholt is a man of war, having fought in one and now overseeing the start of what’d likely be countless others. Noro, on the other hand, is a man of peace and the earth. He seeks way to resolve conflicts while Anderholt blindly charges forth, eager to create them. And am I ready to die for those beliefs? Noro thinks to himself as Anderholt continues to point that gun at him. The answer comes quickly: Yes.

Noro was about to voice that thought — in a vehement, “No!” that he expected would earn him the bullet that’d earn him his death, but instead a force seems to take him over and the words are unable to come out. He wants to speak out, but can’t. What he can do, and what his body seems to want to do against his own will, is turn around and continue on the last short bit to the entrance of the cave.

Lead him, a voice comes to Noro, a voice not his own. He narrows his eyes and glances from Anderholt to the other soldiers gathered about. None looked to have said a thing.

Noro looks back at Anderholt, his resolve to say, “No!” all the stronger. He manages to take a step forth to say the word, and although his mouth quivers with the effort of getting it out, nothing comes out.

Lead him… or die, the voice in Noro’s head comes again, and this time it’s accompanied by worst headache the Indian’s ever experienced. So strong is it that he sways on his feet, and nearly falls to his knees. He would have, he realizes a moment later when he’s able to open his eyes, had Anderholt not rushed forth to latch onto his arm.

“You alright?” the colonel says, a concerned look on his face. Noro can barely focus on that face, however, so searing is the memory of the pain in his mind. It lasted for only a second or two, but seemed a lifetime.

Lead him… the voice comes again, and this time Noro does focus on Anderholt’s face. He knows he’s the ‘him’ that they’re referring to.

“Noro?” Anderholt says, his eyes narrowed, though Noro now thinks the concern in them is more for the mission, not for his condition.

“I’ll take you to the entrance, no further,” Noro says in a shaky voice as he begins to push himself up. Anderholt takes one arm to help him.

“That’s all I ever asked,” the colonel says.

Noro nods to that and the small group starts down the trail once again. It takes them another few minutes to reach the boulders that Noro had pointed out from the ridge but then they’re there, and Noro is looking none too happy about it.

“All the way,” Anderholt says as the Indian stalls a bit, looking around instead of going behind the final boulder.

Lead him, the voice comes to Noro once again, and with it the slightest of sharp pains behind his temples. With a frown at Anderholt, Noro turns and heads to that final boulder.

It’s large but behind it is a slight crack, a sort of opening that perhaps two people can slip through at a time. Noro stalls again, but some loose rocks skittering behind him tells him that Anderholt is right there, likely with that gun of his still out and ready to use. Noro moves on, despite his better judgment, and passes behind the boulder.

Then he’s in, right at the opening to a very large cave. Its ceiling is high and the walls are spaced more than twenty feet apart. That’s not what Noro notices most, however. No, what really catches his eye are the bones on the floor, a large pile of them, perhaps a dozen or so men. Noro knows they’re Indian bones, those of his ancestors. Bits of decaying feather headdresses and the occasional arrowhead stick out here and there. Skulls stare out with empty eye sockets and wide, often toothless mouths. They look to be screaming, every single one of them that Noro can see.

The Jicarilla still speak of the legends when they occasionally gather around the fires on spring and summer nights. They speak of the daring braves that went forth long ago to look in the cave of evil, the cave of nightmares, the cave of… them. Noro knows he’s looking at those braves from long ago, and then a slight movement catches his eye from further down the cave. At that point he knows he’s looking at what killed those braves, he’s looking at them.

“My God!” Anderholt says behind him, though Noro doesn’t turn around. His eyes are locked on the same thing that Anderholt’s are — a large, spindly-armed creature walking toward them, large black eyes staring out from the head on its narrow neck. It has no clothes, nor any kind of sexual features. It barely has a mouth! What it does have, however, is a presence about it, a command authority that seems to take hold of Noro and Anderholt both, bowing them to its will. And then it speaks, though not with that tiny mouth, but with its mind.

Your kind is not to come here, you know this.