Several seconds passed with Crooked Tree continuously pelted by rocks. He started to pull himself back up, getting renewed strength from his anger, when another heavy stone connected with his chest, ripping his right hand from the wall. He clamped his jaw shut as two of his claw-like fingernails were stripped from his fingers. He batted his hand back towards the cliff, trying to regain purchase, but before he could grip the cliff, another rock connected with his left wrist. Splitting in two, the radius bone tore through his skin and muscle. It jabbed out into the moonlight. His left hand fell from the wall and he spun as he fell.
Crooked Tree thought about his brother as he tumbled through the cool night air.
He landed flat, chest down, on the sharp rocks of the clearing. His massive body shook the ground as he hit and most of the hunters backed up a step reflexively. Several more stones, hurled from above, caught up with him. Pain ripped through his flesh—the first he’d felt since he had become a spirit. He laid still, trying to catch his breath, until the first spear drove into his thigh. His head came up and he spotted his potential salvation—one of the tumbling stones had knocked aside a rock, revealing a cave entrance. Pulling with his broken hands, he lost more fingernails and chunks of flesh to the sharp rocks. His legs dangled useless at the end of his torso, his spine shattered from the fall. Men emerged from the trees, screaming their bloodlust. Their spears reached him first.
Crooked Tree reached the small mouth of the cave just as the first warrior landed on his back, trying to work his crude flint blade between Crooked Tree’s ribs. He thrust one mammoth arm backward, crushing the man’s chest and launching him towards the next two attackers. A loose rock fell on its own and took out three other men, missing Crooked Tree’s foot by a hand-length.
The hole in the rocks was just high enough to accommodate his giant frame. Through the opening, the floor fell away, allowing Crooked Tree to fold his torso under and pull his legs through quickly. Facing out towards the entrance, he brought his bloody hand up in time to fend off the next attacker by crushing the warrior’s cheekbone back into his brain. The man fell limp, helping to seal the cave, but was pulled back by the next eager stalker. Crooked Tree found a rock that fit his fist and hurled it at the next man who appeared, silhouetted by the night sky.
Spears came through next, one driving into his shoulder, but they did little to injure Crooked Tree and offered him more weapons for his defense. He jabbed through the opening, killing several more men before the attacks subsided. Crooked Tree cocked an ear towards the hole and found a flat rock, flecked with shiny mica, to reflect the moonlight around his cave. The burrow was small for his big body, and offered no other avenue for escape. Turning his attention back to himself, he gripped his left hand and pulled, tucking the sharp bone back into his skin. His teeth were clamped so tight that one of his molars cracked, but he didn’t utter a sound.
He pulled himself slightly closer to the opening and heard the din of a large crowd, debating their course of action. Crooked Tree’s deliberation was short and easy. He would stay put, healing faster than the hunting party could imagine, and kill them one-by-one as they tried to attack.
By the time the group made their next move, the night had worn thin. The moon had set, and the stars began to fade. Using his keen senses, he smelled their smoke. He wondered if they knew how nocturnal he had become; wondered if they were just waiting for the daylight to stage their final attack. Although it had been a while since Crooked Tree had been awake in the sunlight, he suspected it wasn’t impossible for him.
The hunting party grew quiet just before their next move. Creeping feet approached and Crooked Tree readied himself for battle. Even without feasting on victims, he’d had time to heal. His legs mostly worked, although he wanted to avoid testing their power, and the bone of his left arm had nearly knit back together. He armed himself with a long spear and a heavy rock and kept his eyes trained on the opening.
The next thing through the hole wasn’t a spear or a man, but a log. A smoldering log, giving off thick, acrid smoke rolled down through the opening and landed next to Crooked Tree’s hand. He picked it up to cast it back out, but it collided with two more logs coming in and all three rolled back into the hole. Soon his cave was thick with gray smoke and Crooked Tree couldn’t take a deep breath without coughing it back out. His cave grew dark; the men placed a large rock over his exit.
Crooked Tree shoved the rock aside with one of the burning logs, but an instant later it was replaced with another boulder. He fought back and forth with the men trying to block the cave, but the smoke took its toll. Each stone blocked the hole a little more. The walls of his cave shook with the next rock they dropped into place. He imagined the size of a rock required to knock the dust from the walls and pictured dozens of men hefting it into place. Ready or not, he decided it was time to test his legs. Pulling in a thin lungful of air from the only crack in the wall that still smelled fresh, Crooked Tree braced his feet against the cave floor and pressed his shoulder into the obstruction. He felt it move, but not nearly enough. The most he could accomplish was to shift the rocks a few inches.
The exertion spent the rest of his energy. Crooked Tree sunk to the floor of the cave and pulled shallow breaths by pressing his nose to the crack in the wall. Outside the cave, he heard the men piling on rock after rock, sealing him in with the smoky logs.
He drifted into a trance, robbed of his consciousness and silently suffocating in his tomb.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Davey
“USUALLY BY THE THIRD VISIT, my guests start to talk a little bit,” said John.
John was the first adult Davey had met who insisted on being called by his first name. He had been impressed for about fifteen minutes, and then found the soft-spoken man both boring and irritating. John’s bald head was accented by a thin beard. Davey guessed that the little man would rather die before getting dirt under his fingernails or going to a hockey game.
“How is school going, David?” asked John.
Davey generally ignored the doctor’s statements, but he was too polite to not respond to a direct question.
“Okay, I guess,” said Davey. He squirmed in the big leather chair.
“I thought I heard that perhaps you had a bit of trouble this week,” stated John.
Davey kept to his rule and offered no information in response to the stated fact.
John corrected his approach and asked, “Did you get in trouble?”
“Yeah,” sighed Davey.
“Could you tell me what happened?” asked John.
“The teacher caught me putting a dead mouse in some kid’s book,” Davey admitted.
“Where did you get a dead mouse at school?” asked John.
“I found it,” said Davey.
“You found it,” John stated.
Davey kept quiet.
“Somehow, I sense you’re not giving me the whole story, David. How was your friend Paul involved?”
“He didn’t do anything.”
The psychiatrist paused and reviewed his notes, trying to find a way to get Davey to open up.
“The notebook belonged to,” John started, flipping back through his notes, “Ted?”
“Yeah,” confirmed Davey.
“Does Paul have a problem with Ted?”
“I guess,” said Davey.