The Spirit

Lit by bronzed fire reflected off the fireplace hearth, the huge lips moved. The Indian pressed his hands against them, trying to stop the word from creeping out between his child’s fingers.

He tossed on the bungalow bed, trying not to wake up. He was ripsawed between his faith and the growing press of his grandfather speaking to him. He fervently wished the doctors were here with their calming needles. He tried to shut his mind to his grandfather’s voice, lest he say something that would destroy him.

Someone rapped on the door. “Mr. Moon? Mr. Helder sent me. You’re late.”

The Indian groaned at the suffocating weight of reality. The wind blew fiercely, shrieking past roof eaves and through branches. The Indian’s feet slid to the floor, and piece by piece he got himself to a standing position, from which he lurched across the room. “Yeah, I’m awake,” he said, tugging the knob.

The pistol butt came straight for his forehead. The Indian’s head turned an infinitesimal fraction of an inch, enough to divert the full force of it. He awoke fully on his way to the floor, blood flowing from his scalp. His eyes were closed, but his ears were attuned to the stranger stepping in and closing the door behind him. The Indian waited for his chance.

Jason had struck quickly but not accurately, and he

hoped not too hard. The Indian’s chest rose and fell in

steady rhythm, his eyeballs rolled under his lids, but otherwise there was not a twitch from him.

The room stank of meat gone bad. Gun in hand,

Jason kneeled beside the Indian and untied the medicine

bundle. He opened the flap, and the stench poured forth in

such waves that he gagged.

He overturned the bag. Out fell a clay pipe, a medal

box, a billfold, a crucifix, and some dried corn. Whatever

else was in there was stuck to the leather, as if hiding for

a last few seconds. Jason shook the bag.

It tumbled onto the floor with a sticky plop. Jason

recoiled with a sheet of cold zipping down his spine as

though it were some kind of spider. But it was just a toe. The thing was unrecognizable but for the suppurated cuticle anchoring the huge brown nail. The flesh had drawn up from the severed bone, leaving it exposed. Hair clumped the top of it.

Jason grasped it between thumb and forefinger. Vertigo swirled through him, rushing out of his eyes to the toe like a drain for his emotions. After a second he calmed down. What was the matter with him anyway? He was at peace for the first time in weeks. Here was something for his efforts, at least. The end was in sight—the end of endless lonely exertions that had played havoc with his business and his life, the cauterizing climax of days of constant fear that he had lost the beast forever.

He turned it to the gray light from the window. It was big, at least the size of a silver dollar in breadth. In length it was well over an inch, jointed between two long bones as if Nature had designed it for a gorilla’s clutching foot, then changed her mind at the last minute. Decay was advanced. The hair was loosening. He would have to get it into preservative quickly. There must be alcohol in the infirmary—

The Indian’s hand caught him on the side of the neck. It hit like an ax blade, sending a bone vibration up the vertebrae to his skull, where darkness exploded in a black globe that drove light from his eyes.

He came to flat on his back with his own gun muzzle hovering like an evil eye between his nose and forehead. The Indian was seated on the bed, holding the pistol in both hands. The medicine bundle was tied fast to his waist.

“All right,” said Jason. “I’m ready.”

The Indian’s body was relentlessly still. Only his hands moved, rotating the gun in small circles.

“Moon?” Jason said to break the silence. “I’ve seen it. I’ve seen your spirit.”

The gun muzzle steadied on his forehead.

“I know what it is. It’s not a spirit at all. Never was. Do you understand me?”

Moon’s head vibrated in small negative shakes.

“He killed two men last summer. I was with them. Don’t you remember that?”

“I never seen you before.” His words were contemptuous, as though too precious to waste on a doomed man.

“In Canada, Moon. You hit me with a rifle. I had a beard then. Remember?” Jason tried to define a beard with one of his hands on his chin.

“No.”

Jason raised himself on his elbows. Moon’s foot pushed him down again. “Dammit, Moon, he tore off their heads!”

“I don’t remember nothing past yesterday, no sir. My memory’s gone.”

Jason tried to sit up again.

“Stay put.”

“Can’t I have a last cigarette?”

The Indian nodded. Reluctantly.

Jason sat upright, tenderly rubbing his neck. The ache was a pole of agony that flared whenever he moved his neck. “Thanks for hitting me on the right side, Moon. It balances my left arm.”

Moon was not amused in the slightest. This apparition had many words which he would use to shake his faith. “Just stay on the floor.”

Very carefully Jason withdrew a cigarette from his pocket. “You really don’t remember me, do you.”

Moon shook his head.