Burial (64 page)

I tried calling Amelia but for most of the evening the lines were busy, and when I did get what sounded like a ringing tone, nobody answered.

Papago Joe said, ‘We may have taken out the black souls that gave Aktunowihio his extra strength, but don't let's forget that he's still a formidable spirit to deal with. I mean seriously powerful, the god of darkness. And don't let's forget that Misquamacus means business, too. He's cruel and he's wily and he'll do anything to stop us. Absolutely anything.'

‘Sounds cool to me,' said E.C. Dude. ‘When do we leave?'

We slept for two-and-a-half hours; and then, at seven minutes past three Central Time, we dressed and sat around the table, while Papago Joe carefully divided out our remaining death-powder.

‘I just hope the heat don't decide to rush in,' said E.C. Dude. ‘I'd hate to be busted for sniffing up somebody's sacred remains.'

Papago Joe sniffed first, then E.C. Dude, then me. Then we all sat back and looked at each other.

‘Hey man, this is a downer,' said E.C. Dude. ‘No wonder they call it Downer's Grove. I'm not even
high
.'

But in the next instant, he turned and stared at me wide-eyed and yelped, ‘It's all gone dark, man! Who switched off the fucking light?'

Papago Joe reached out and took hold of his wrist. ‘It's all right, E.C. No need to panic. We're all experiencing the same experience. We're dead.'

‘I don't want to be dead!' E.C. Dude shouted, jumping to his feet. ‘Fuck this, man! I don't want to be dead! I changed my mind!'

I grabbed hold of his sleeve and pulled him down again. ‘For Christ's sake, you're not really dead! Your brain is hallucinating that you're dead, that's all. If it didn't do that, you wouldn't be able to get through to the Great Outside, would you? Living people don't get to Heaven, no matter how much they may want to go there.'

E.C. Dude petulantly tugged his sleeve away. ‘All right, I'm not dead. All right. That's extra. Let's forget it.'

Led by Papago Joe, we walked Indian-file out of the Four Lakes Lodge, and across the parking-lot to a scrubby building-site. The concrete foundations had been poured, but it looked like the developer had run out of money. The rest was wild grass and rusting concrete-mixers and reinforcing rods and broken fencing. The night wind whistled mournfully through the chicken-wire.

Papago Joe said, ‘The reason I chose the Four Lakes Lodge was because of this site.'

‘Well, it's cool,' said E.C. Dude. ‘But, you know, I wouldn't spend the summer here or nothing.'

There was a dark drainage trench dug into the soil; and we climbed down into it; glowing as dark as the dead men we were; and broke through the crust of the soil with a rusty-bladed shovel. Below the soil was darkness, and emptiness — an emptiness that fell as far as infinity.

E.C. Dude peered down into it, and then looked at Papago Joe, and then at me. ‘No fucking way, man. That's
eternity
.'

Calmly Papago Joe said, ‘Harry and I have been there. Harry and I have both come back. You can do the same.'

I slapped his arm. ‘Come on, E.C. You can do it.'

‘I can't do it, man!' screamed E.C.

For the first time since he had opened that trailer door and blinked at me sleepy-eyed, E.C. Dude annoyed me. I took hold of his shoulders and pressed my nose flat against his nose so that our eyes were so close that we couldn't even focus on each other.

‘You're going to do it, okay?' I breathed into his face. ‘You don't have any fucking choice.'

E.C. Dude took a deep, quivering breath, and then he said, ‘Okay … okay. I just freaked out is all. I'm okay now. No problem. Everything's extra, okay?'

Papago Joe went first, climbing/slipping/falling into the blackness. E.C. Dude went next, clutching onto my hand as he did so, and I heard him scream out, ‘Oh,
shhiiiitttttt
!

Then I followed, dropping into darkness, dropping into death. There was something familiar about it now; something soft and warm and welcoming, like dropping into bed. Maybe death welcomed you, when you were older. Maybe death knew that you would soon be joining it, ashes to ashes, darkness to darkness.

We found ourselves on a dark windblown prairie, under the stars. Lake Michigan was too far away for us to see, but we could feel the breeze blowing off it. Papago Joe said, ‘Come on, now, let's gather together. Let's call up those spirit guides. Let's get this Ghost Dance finished, once and for all.'

He took out his sticks and tapped in rhythm. E.C. Dude watched him in fascination. ‘That's a cool rhythm, man. That really is. We could make a demo of that, you know,
with some kind of rap. You know, the Death Rap or something.'

I gave a cold-rivet stare, and so he shrugged, and sniffed, and said, ‘I'm sorry, okay? I wasn't trying to be tasteless or nothing.'

Papago Joe said, ‘I'm calling on spirit guides … spirits to help us … I'm calling on Singing Rock and Martin Vaizey and one more spirit. I'm calling on William Hood, the shadow-catcher.'

We sat in that windy prairie, listening to the grass rustling, and then we saw two flickers of light. They were small and flickering and dim, way off across the prairie. But they were Singing Rock, no doubt about it; and Martin. Soon they were flickering lights no longer, but shining spirits, beautiful shining spirits, and they walked towards us through the grass, and we embraced.

And — as we embraced — they vanished inside us.

Possessed us.

E.C. Dude stared at Papago Joe and then he stared at me. ‘Pardon me for being nosey,' he said. ‘But those guys …' He paused, and looked around, baffled. ‘Where did those guys go?'

‘They're still here,' said Papago Joe. ‘They're right inside of us.'

E.C. Dude peered into my eyes. ‘I don't see nothing.'

‘I know,' I told him. ‘But I feel something.'

He shook his head. ‘That's extra, you know? That's something extra.'

I felt Martin inside of me, sharing my brain-cells, sharing my consciousness. I closed my eyes and said, ‘Welcome.' The warmth of his personality flooded my arteries and ran through my veins, and together we were one.

‘Listen,' I asked him. ‘What about the forks? What do the forks do?'

‘
What does it matter? The forks are lost.
'

‘But they're not lost. I talked to Amelia. She went to the precinct house and rescued them. She has them now.'

‘
She has them now? She really has them now? Then you can catch Misquamacus for good
.'

‘How, for Christ's sake? I couldn't kill Misquamacus with a sawn-off shotgun. How am I going to get rid of him with two forks?'

‘
They're very simple … very logical. Celts made them, back in Wales, centuries and centuries ago
.'

‘Yes, great, but how do I use them?'

‘
Like dowsing-rods, like lightning-conductors. The Celts learned how to make them from the Egyptians. You see — when the Egyptian seafarers first discovered the New World there were demons and spirits walking the land everywhere. If they wanted to land, if they wanted to explore, they had to protect themselves
.'

‘There were demons and spirits just strolling about? Is that what you're saying?'

‘
Of course. They were able to walk about openly above ground because the land was innocent and the native Americans believed in them, and gave them food and milk and buffalo-blood. Columbus saw some of them … men without heads, and wild dogs who walked on their hind-legs. In those days, even Aktunowihio walked above ground, in the shadow of buffalo, and discontented men
.'

‘But how can we use these forks?' I pressed him.

‘
I told you. It's simple. Every spirit has an electrical charge — that's all a spirit is, really. If you hold the fork-handles toward it, it will jump into them. Then all you have to do is to cover the handles with rubber or any insulating material, and the spirit will be faced with only one way out — through the tines of the forks, all six of them. It will have to split itself up into a magical number — 6 — and it will need to find two more spirits similarly split before it can make itself whole again
.

‘Three spirits, split into
6
?' I asked him. ‘That's
6, 6, 6
.'

‘
Exactly. The number of the beast. Always has been, always will be. It goes back much, much further than the Bible
.

Papago Joe had been sorting through his eagle-sticks. ‘We're ready to move,' he said, impatiently.

‘So where's this Hood character?' asked E.C. Dude.

‘I don't know,' said Papago Joe. ‘If he doesn't come now, we'll have to leave without him.'

‘Hey … too dangerous, man,' said E.C. Dude.

‘I wouldn't worry about it,' Papago Joe retorted. ‘You wouldn't have to come with us. You couldn't, without a spirit-guide.'

‘Pardon me for being relieved,' said E.C. Dude.

We waited and waited, under that ink-black sky, on that ink-black prairie, in the land of the dead. The wind smelled of mesquite and other smells that modern America would never know. At least, I
hoped
they would never know them. I suggested to Papago Joe that he should call William Hood yet again; but Papago Joe said no; and inside of my mind Martin Vaizey agreed with him. A spirit can only be called for once; and if he or she doesn't choose to answer — well, that's another of those prerogatives of being dead.

I had almost given up hope when we saw a dim greenish flame on the horizon. A thin greenish flame that danced gradually nearer, and waxed slowly brighter, until it resolved itself into a figure — a thin youth in a wide-brimmed hat who was striding toward us in a big hurry. A youth in ragged leather, with bottles and flasks hung around his waist. He came right up to us and stopped, and looked boldy from one to the other. He was needle-nosed and sharp-eyed and his chin was prickly with blond stubble. A ratcatcher's face.

‘Are you William Hood?' I asked him.

‘
What if I am
?'

‘You're a shadow-catcher, right? We need to catch a shadow.'

‘
What shadow
?'

‘The biggest shadow that ever was. Aktunowihio.'

‘
I could catch Aktunowihio. I caught him before
.'

‘I know. You caught him at Little Big Horn.'

William Hood stared at me chillingly. ‘
How did you know that
?'

‘I saw the photographs that Mark Kellogg made.'

The chilling stare slowly melted. The thinnest of smiles. ‘
Well, then, you're a believer. That's good to know
.'

‘Do you know what's happening now?' I asked him. ‘Aktunowihio has pulled down half of New York; half of Chicago; as well as Phoenix, and Las Vegas, and scores of small communities.'

‘
The dead can hardly fail to notice more dead, my friend. Apart from all those buildings, and all of that junk. I never saw such junk
.'

‘Will you help us?' I asked him. ‘You can take over E.C. Dude here, he's about the same age as you. He can show you what it's like to be living again. That's if you can show him how to catch a shadow.'

William Hood thought, and then he nodded. ‘
All right … I don't mind. Eternity's a long time, don't you know? Anything helps to break the monotony
.'

Papago Joe lifted his eagle-stick. ‘Here,' he said. ‘Grasp it. Let's go.'

Both E.C. Dude and William Hood stepped forward to grasp it, and as they did so, their outlines merged. Light rippling through light, shadow rippling through shadow. E.C. Dude looked left, and then right, and then turned around and looked behind him. But then he clapped his hand against his chest and said, ‘Shit, Harry! He's
inside me
! He's me!'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘He's you.'

Clinging to the eagle-stick, along with Papago Joe and E.C. Dude and all of those spirits who possessed us, I heard a small compressed
kkkkrakkkkkkkk
! and then we were there,
back in New York, standing on a rocky brownstone outcropping. All around us, in the darkness of the Great Outside, there were nothing but rocks and trees and scrubby bushes. But the dimmest of lights was shining up through the grass. This was the gateway through which Misquamacus had first snatched Karen. This was Room 212 at the Belford Hotel, right beneath our feet. It was the only gateway back to the real world that I knew of, that I could find for certain. We stood around it for a while, looking down. We could see the springs beneath a divan bed, and part of the ceiling. Then one by one we climbed down into it, and gravity reversed itself, and we found ourselves standing in the room where George Hope and Andrew Danetree had died for the sin of being descendents.

This time, we didn't leave our spirit-guides behind. They came with us, deep inside our souls, Singing Rock and Martin Vaizey and William Hood the shadow-catcher.

We carefully opened the door, and looked around.

‘Everything's cool,' said E.C. Dude. ‘Not a deek in sight.'

‘Hey, wait a minute,' I asked him. ‘If you're going to go shadow-catching, what about a shadow-bottle?'

‘Goddamnit,' said Papago Joe. ‘I hadn't thought of that. Didn't you tell me that Dr Snow had one?'

E.C. Dude frowned for a moment, as if he were concentrating on something inside of himself. Then he said, ‘It's okay … William says it's okay. We don't need a special bottle, any bottle will do. That bottle he brought from Serbia. It's a vinegar-bottle he stole from a restaurant.'

I looked at Papago Joe in exasperation. 'Jesus … the great magic shadow-bottle, and what does it turn out to be?'

But Papago Joe was busy with his eagle-sticks. ‘I can sense movement … enormous movement … Something's happening here in New York … something bad.'