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LAST CALL TO HONOR EXCERPT Although the moon’s cold orb had been slightly shaved, it still stared unblinkingly down upon the clearing. Uncle Joab sat on a rough stump, outwardly calm and yet thunderously agitated within. He had assured Elizabeth only moments before that all would be well. The confrontation with the stranger on this cold night would be the last of it. But, what if the Indian persisted? What if he continued to stalk the child, intent on kidnapping him? “Can’t really shoot the critter,” he had grumbled to Elizabeth’s mother the day before. She had said nothing, but he noticed her fleeting glance at the rifle hanging on the wall. He knew what she was thinking. “Maybe YOU can’t shoot him!” The boy rested snugly in his bed. Liz had fed the children early, singing to them according to her custom before tucking them in. Both seemed to be unaware of the drama being lived out in front of the cabin. A nearby owl made the only announcement of the Shaman’s arrival. He stepped from the shadows, now clothed more formally in a cattail cape and fringed leggings. Beneath the woven hat, Joab caught a glimpse of his face, now painted with a mixture of ground-up roots and berries mixed with bear grease. “Didn’t know that we were supposed to git prettied up fer the meetin’,” Joab huffed. “I’d have worn my shirt frill an’ Hessian boots if I’d knowed.” The unwelcome guest stepped forward, arranging himself on a thick woven blanket. Unhooking an elaborately adorned bag from his waist, he poured a collection of carefully polished sticks onto the mat between them. “Brought your play pretties with you, I see.” The preacher found it impossible to contain his growing anger. “I thought that we were comin’ together to settle this thing.” The Shaman said nothing. He continued to arrange the items, dividing them into two bundles, each of which he wrapped in cedar bark. Obviously satisfied with his preparations, he crossed his legs beneath him and leaned forward to stare into Joab’s inquisitive eyes. “Your people would call this a game of chance,” the Indian said calmly. “It is the same with our people. It is played often, and sometimes for heavy stakes.” He held a bundle in each hand, raising them toward the moonlight. “It is not a game of chance when I play it,” he continued. “I am the descendant of a Shaman was confirmed in my own vision quest as a boy. I have followed my own spirit to this place, and I will save it by returning my grandson to his own people. This is not a game,” he warned. “This is a soul battle.” Joab frowned. He was a man who had seen gambling all of his life, and recognized this as nothing more than a primitive form of a good game of poker. “What’s the rules of this shecoonery?” he growled. “I will hold up the bundles before you. You must decide by the expression on my face which bundle contains the one unpainted stick. If you choose right, then it will be your turn to hold the bundles and I will seek to find it. Sometimes, with my people, the game continues for days, without either player stopping to eat or sleep.” “I won’t be missin’ any meals over this business,” Joab promised. “I weren’t born in no woods to be skeered by an owl. Ain’t afraid of you nor any other man. This ain’t no magic nor any other sech. But, I’ll play to git you to shut pan once and fer all.” He leaned forward, fastening the visitor in his gaze. “But I also want you to know that the boy ain’t the stakes. Humans ain’t fer buyin’ nor sellin’ nor tradin’. You’ll be leavin’ without Moses no matter how the sticks business turns out.” There was no reply. The painted stoic face remained unchanged, and only the sound of the rattling of the bundles could be heard above the dim night sounds floating from the dark woods nearby. The Shaman raised the bundles above his head, his eyes dark and lifeless. “Choose,” he said. “Choose and know my power.” |
