The End Has Come and Gone

The Blood Locket

“Severed Hand, what do the spirits divine for our hunt?” Chief Running Bear asked.

Severed Hand had spent the majority of the fall day secluded in his tepee with twigs of ash, elderberry bush, and sage smoking on an enclosed fire pit.

“It is not good, Running Bear. I cannot get a clear message from the spirits. I think that you should wait until I have been shown the path,” Severed Hand told his exasperated Chief.

“That is the same message as yesterday and the same as it was the day before. If we wait much longer, the herds will be gone and our clan will suffer greatly come the approaching winter,” the Chief said.

“I fear Running Bear that to leave now would endanger our people even more.”

The Chief snorted in disagreement. He normally deferred to the spiritual leader as long as the Shaman spoke words the Chief wanted to hear. It wasn’t that Chief Running Bear was too egotistical to listen to his advisor and friend, it was that he had sixty people in his clan that looked to him to make it through the harsh winters. If they did not secure at least three bison on this next hunt he would lose a great many people to disease and famine, and he loved them too much to let that happen.

“I will give you until the sun has risen tomorrow, Severed Hand, to coax an answer from the spirits.”

“Chief, you of all people know that it does not work that way. The gods will tell me what they feel I should know when they feel I should know it.”

“As long as it is by tomorrow,” the Chief said, heading back to his tepee. The cold of the night was beginning to seep deep into his bones. ‘A few more seasons and the younger bucks will need to prove who is worthy to lead us,’ the Chief thought. ‘But not yet.’

Severed Hand reentered his smoke filled hut. He sat cross legged on his stack of elk and bison furs breathing deeply of the aromatic smoke, controlling his breaths that he might achieve a state of heavy meditation. His eyes rolled up into the back of his head; his second sight was shrouded in a thin veil of black. A lone crow blacker than the veil stood on the other side, one flat black eye staring at him hungrily. It cawed once and as it jumped into the air and flew away, the veil was parted. The emptiness beyond was too much for the Shaman who passed out. It was several hours later when he awoke. The Chief and twenty of the tribe’s braves were already gone on the hunt.

“What have I done?” Severed Hand lamented as he clutched the amulet tied around his neck.

The women, children and infirm gathered around the main fire at the center of their encampment like they were wont to do when the men went on their hunts. Severed Hand spent the day asking all of the spirit guides for as much protection as could be afforded for his people.

“Chief Screaming Hawk, we need to get the people to a safer location,” Severed Hand implored the former leader of the clan.

“I am old, Shaman, the people no longer follow my rule,” Screaming Hawk said as he stared deep into the fire, remembering a time when he was as fast as the animal he was named for.

“You are not so old that they do not listen to your words. Do not pretend to have gone soft in the head, your people need you,” Severed Hand said forcibly.

“What would you have me do?” Screaming Hawk asked, angry that he had been disturbed from his reverie.

“I do not know, but I feel that this land that we stand on now is not safe.”

“The spirits have said this?” Screaming Hawk asked curiously. Severed Hand had always been a trusted advisor while he had been the chief.

“Not in signs that I can divine, Chief, but that we should leave immediately I do not doubt.”

“Leaping Frog,” the old Chief said to a young boy that was running around the fire. “Get your mother.”

The boy stopped immediately. As the son of Chief Running Bear he was afforded special privileges. But to not do as an elder, and a former chief at that, asked was more trouble than he cared to find himself immersed in. Leaping Frog nodded and ran off.

Leaping Frog’s mother, White Fawn, was headed towards where Screaming Hawk and Severed Hand were sitting by the fire. She shivered as the warm touch of the sun slid from her shoulders and behind the mountains. A preternatural chill rippled up her spine. She sped her step up but it was too late as she felt her flesh rip from her side to the bottom of her shoulder blade. She fell to her knees as her spine became exposed to the cool twilight air.

Severed Hand turned to watch as she fell face first into the soft dirt. The black abomination that straddled her prone body had the same flat black eyes as the crow he had seen in his vision. Severed Hand rose, quickly grabbing his staff and running towards the fallen woman. Screaming Hawk was just turning around as screams of fear and pain issued forth from around the camp.

The blackness had moved from White Fawn; blood poured forth from her wound. Severed Hand reached into his pouch, grabbing a handful of blended herbs that were proficient in stopping bleeding. He looked into White Fawn’s eyes but they had already clouded over. He saved the herbs. Just then Leaping Frog sailed over his head. Severed Hand tried to jump and grab him, but it was too late as the young boy landed in the middle of the fire. His screams pierced the night as the flesh melted from his bones. His small charred body crawled a few feet, almost coming completely clear from the fire before collapsing.

Screaming Hawk took his small flint knife from his leg sheath and ran towards where the most intense screaming was coming from. His war cry stirred the air, it was the last sound he would ever make. Severed Hand found him the next day nailed through the throat to a tree with that same knife.

No matter where Severed Hand went that long night, it was always moments behind the plague that was tearing his people apart. He came across a little girl, he thought her name might have been Wading Brook. She had been torn in two, the ragged halves spread twenty feet apart. Deep Water, her mother, was lying in a pool of blood. Her head and spinal column had been detached from the rest of her body, her mouth still twitching.

When the dying had completed their destiny, a shadowy image appeared from beyond the fire.

“I see you demon!” Severed Hand shouted.

“As I see you, Medicine Man,” Eliza said as she appeared to walk through the fire.

Fear clutched Severed Hand’s heart as she approached.

“Why?” Severed Hand asked as he looked upon the blood soaked apparition before him.

“I was bored,” she said with a small laugh.

“What are you?” Severed Hand asked in horror. Anger was beginning to take hold.

“I am Death,” she replied proudly.

“You are not death. Death does not sow, it reaps.”

“Clever Shaman, but I will give you no further information. I know how powerful names can be to those who know how to use them.”

“Why not tell me who you are and then let me join those you have taken?”

“Very well, I had hoped to leave you alive so that you could tell others about me. I grow weary of always being in the shadows. It is time that people are afraid of me and not my legend. But I will grant your request. Perhaps it will be fun to take my time with you. Come, you and I will sit by the fire as I tell you my tale.”

“No one will fear a demon that destroys women, children and the old,” Severed Hand said defiantly.

“FOOL!” Eliza said, hitting Severed Hand with the back of her hand. He slid effortless across the ground. “Did you not understand the visions I sent to you?” Eliza was fairly shaking with rage.

The insult did as he had hoped. While he struggled to get up, he ripped free a deerskin pouch he had wrapped around his waist. “Your pride will be your end,” Severed Hand murmured before standing up completely.

“Now, come sit by the fire. I have a story to tell you before you die,” Eliza said, all of her earlier hostility seemingly dissipated.

Severed Hand rubbed his jaw. If he ever got to eat again, it would not be without some significant discomfort.

“My name is Eliza and this is my tale.” For several hours, Eliza related her story to Severed Hand about cruelties interlaced with atrocities piled high atop destruction.

“The world has no need for the likes of you,” the Medicine Man said gravely.

“It was this same world that produced me,” Eliza said. “I am merely returning the favor.”

“I could end your suffering,” Severed Hand offered sincerely.

Eliza laughed, “I enjoy the turmoil I cause, sorcerer. I fear our time together grows short,” she said as the eastern sky began to lighten.

“Do you fear seeing what devastation you have wrought?” Severed Hand asked as he glanced at the horizon Eliza was watching.

Eliza turned to him without saying anything. She gripped him around the neck and lifted him effortlessly off the ground. “Pity, I would have so enjoyed a few hours more of your time,” Eliza said as she slowly closed her grip.

Severed Hand threw the contents of his right hand up into the air. As it rained down, wherever it made contact with Eliza, tiny wisps of smoke arose. Severed Hand grabbed a hold of a lock of Eliza’s hair as her grip around his neck released. She reared back in pain.

“What have you done, witch doctor?” Eliza screamed.

“I know you for what you are, soulless one,” Severed Hand rasped, his throat on fire. “You will bother the Lakota no more. Every surviving member of my people will wear our skins infused with Hawthorn and Rowan.”

Eliza’s eyes gleamed at Severed Hand, “Our time now is done, but we have unfinished business,” she warned as she left.

Severed Hand fell to his knees, dragging in breaths that seemed to ignite the coals placed in his throat. “You are right demon, we do have unfinished business,” he said, looking at the strands of hair he had pried loose from her head.

For seven days and seven nights Severed Hand alternated between performing burial rituals, burying the dead of the tribe, and hunting for one particular type of gem stone. He only stopped long enough to gather more Hawthorn and Rowan and to take small drinks of water. The demon did not return. On the morning of the eighth day, Chief Running Bear and his braves returned triumphantly with five bison, confident in the fact that his people would make it through the winter, warm and fat.

The sight of the smoke from many funeral cairns at first stopped his advance and then made him speed up. His horse came to skidding stop at the hunched over body of Severed Hand who had just finished placing the last rock on the old Chief’s cairn.

“What has happened here?” Chief Running Bear asked alighting from his horse, wildly looking around for his wife and his children, in fact, anyone.

“They are dead,” Severed Hand said standing up, his hands nearly scraped clean of skin from his burial efforts.

“Who did this?” Running Bear asked, tears streaming down his face as he sought an enemy to lash out against.

“It is not a ‘who.’” Severed Hand said. “And your spears and bows would do nothing against it. Mourn, Running Bear, then come and sit with me. I have a way in which we can strike out against the demon that destroyed our people.”

Running Bear barely acknowledged the words of his Medicine Man, so lost was he in the depths of his loss, but still he nodded. Severed Hand rubbed a small amount of his mixture onto every warrior’s head and clothes as they fell where they were, cries of despair rising as one lone sad song across the now accursed ground.

For three days the remaining members of the tribe grieved for their lost ones. On the night of the third, Chief Running Bear entered into Severed Hand’s teepee. He was barely able to see the Medicine Man in the gloom, but he could see that he was beginning to shrivel away since he had not emerged to eat or drink in that whole time. The Chief sat across from Severed Hand who was only here in the physical sense, his spirit was walking the planes. The entire night the Chief merely sat and watched as the Shaman from time to time would shout out incoherent mutterings of warning and surprise.

“Hello, Running Bear,” Severed Hand said exhaustedly as the sun arose, light spilling through the top of the teepee’s smoke hole.

“Hello,” Running Bear returned the greeting, a determined look set on his face. “Can this demon be destroyed?” he asked.

“My spirit guides have shown me a way, but I will need the tribe’s help to achieve this. Even then I am not sure if we will be strong enough.”

“You will have all the help you ask for,” Running Bear said. “And if anger can be your source of energy, than you will have all you will need.”

Severed Hand gave the Chief a list of items he would need for that night’s spirit walk.

“Come old friend,” the Chief said to Severed Hand. “You have not drank or eaten in three days’ time. Let me get you something while we walk among the trees.”

“I would welcome some water, Running Bear, but I fear I will never walk in the light of day again. What I do the spirits have told me requires a high price.”

Running Bear nodded once, stood up and went to get his Shaman some water.

That night Running Bear was instructed by Severed Hand to bring ten of his strongest warriors into his teepee. The Chief did as he was told. They sat in a circle around the spiritual leader of the tribe. Kills Coyote handed over the peyote buttons in a ceremonial bowl. Running Bear watched in concern as Severed Hand ate five of the magic seeds. He had never seen him take more than two. After a few minutes of chanting, Severed Hand became violently ill, heaving up his spirit as an offering to the spirits. Kills Coyote took away the proffered bile in a wooden bowl.

Severed Hand began to rock back and forth. The eleven Lakotas around him joined hands, their chants joining his. Higher and higher his spirit rose, further than it had ever gone before. His spirit guide, the antlered Hawk, warned him that if he traveled too far he would not be able to find his way home and still Severed Hand soared. He passed those who did not know they were yet gone. Some watched as he went by, but most were too wrapped up in their own events to even notice. Up to the edge of the Spirits’ Home he went, to Purgatory, the location of lost souls. Tears rained down from these tortured individuals, they had been cursed in one form or another. Some bargained their eternity away for a bit of fame and fortune that was gone in the blink of an eye from this vantage point. Most had committed mortal sins and were banished from any form of a spiritual nirvana. A select few had had their souls stripped from them, some willingly, most not.

“I seek the one named Eliza!” Severed Hand cried among the lonely souls surrounded on all sides by their brethren, but they no more acknowledged each other than leaves on a tree. “I believe that I have something of yours!” Severed Hand said, holding Eliza’s hair high up in the air.

For long moments nothing happened and then off in the distance Severed Hand could see a parting of souls as one walked among them. Crevices had formed in the girl’s face from the tears that never stopped running through them. Her mouth was open in a wide oval as if she were screaming yet no sound was heard. Her arms were outstretched as she beheld the locket of hair Severed Hand held.

“You are Eliza?” Severed Hand asked. It was difficult to compare the evil being that had destroyed his people with this hunched over, tortured young girl. He had a moment of regret for what he was about to do. At least here she could walk free, forever searching for the body that had given her away. Once in the blood stone she would be trapped fast, even her tears would not be able to flow.

Eliza walked quickly to where Severed Hand stood. She was desperate to touch anything that had once belonged to her. When she reached out to touch the hair, Severed Hand pulled it close to his body and with the other hand gripped her arm tightly. “NOW!” he screamed in the ethereal world as well as the real.

Chief Running Bear and the braves began chanting the words that Severed Hand had taught them earlier in the day. He felt his spirit being dragged back down even faster than he had risen. It was too fast and yet he kept speeding up. Severed Hand slammed back into his body, almost relinquishing his grip on Eliza’s soul. Everyone but Running Bear gasped as they saw the vision before them of a white mist which formed the shape of a young woman in the grip of Severed Hand.

Kills Coyote ran towards Severed Hand and with a torch of burning sage swept it completely around the medicine man and the apparition. Severed Hand let go of Eliza who was trapped for the moment in the smoke of the Sage. He spoke a few words to the Spirits of the Ground. The Blood Stone shone from within, the red light illuminating the faces of those around it. Eliza was panic stricken as Severed Hand once again grabbed her; his spirit intermingled with hers as they both plunged into the stone. The light from within flashed brilliantly and then just as quickly died out. Severed Hand’s body slumped forward to the ground.

“Is he dead?” one of the warriors asked Running Bear.

“No, he will live forever,” Chief Running Bear said as he stood up and grabbed the red stone from the open hand of Severed Hand. He held the stone up to the light of the new morning; two minor blemishes deep in the depths of the stone stared back at him. “I will miss you, old friend,” Running Bear said sadly as he placed the stone into a pouch that Severed Hand had given to him the day before.

“You do this for me, Colonel,” Eliza said. “And I will return your family safely.”

“What proof do I have that you have them? I can’t just take my troops a hundred miles to the West and destroy an Indian tribe that has not so much as stolen a chicken,” Colonel Broward said to the beautiful woman before him. He had been summoned by his sergeant to meet her in the town saloon. She said that she had word of his family.

“Would you not recognize the earrings that you bought your blushing bride?” Eliza asked.

“Of course I would…” Colonel Broward gasped as Eliza produced the earrings still attached to the ears that once worn them, “My God, my Mary! What have you done?” the Colonel said in shock, getting louder and nearly rising from his seat.

“Sit!” Eliza commanded, “If you do not, I will leave and you will never see the rest of your precious Mary,” she fairly hissed out.

The Colonel sat, the white of shock spreading through his features, his eyes never wavering from the blood encrusted ears that Eliza left on the table.

‘My… my children are safe?” the Colonel asked, finally pulling his gaze up from the macabre image before him.

Eliza nodded once.

“All I have to do is kill a few Indians and you will give me my family back?” the Colonel asked, nearly breaking down.

“That is the deal I am trying to broker with you,” Eliza said amiably.

“Swear it!” the Colonel demanded. “Swear it on your accursed soul!”

“I swear it on my soul,” Eliza laughed.

“I will leave tomorrow. We are done here,” the Colonel said, rising to his feet. He was eager to get away from the abomination standing before him.

“Colonel, you will leave tonight,” Eliza said as she stood up.

The Colonel nearly fell over as Eliza tossed his wife’s ears at him. The last sound he heard was Eliza’s laugh as the saloon doors swung open.

“Captain, get forty of your men. I want to do a long range patrol out to the western edge of the Lakota nation. I have heard rumors of an uprising,” Colonel Broward told his captain.

“I have not heard any such thing. Have we received orders from Washington?” Captain Reynolds asked.

“Just get the men ready! If you question my orders again you will be cleaning latrines!” the Colonel shouted.

“Who will be leading the men?” the Captain asked, snapping to the position of attention.

“I will,” the Colonel said resignedly. “Let me know the moment they are ready. You are dismissed.”

“Colonel?” the Captain asked. This was not like his commanding officer, he was hoping to get an explanation.

“Go Captain,” The Colonel said with less force. “Perhaps someday I will be able to tell you…”

“Yes sir,” the Captain said, saluting and then turning around to do as he was told.

Five days later the weary cavalrymen, pushed to their limits, came across the remaining members of the Lakota tribe. Chief Running Bear, although caught completely by surprise, rallied a stout defense. The army lost ten of its best, but that Lakota tribe was erased from the annals of history that day.

The remaining soldiers picked through the dead looking for souvenirs to impress their girlfriends or friends back home.

Corporal Tenson was almost caught as he peered into the red jewel he had found among the possessions of the dead Indians.

“Corporal, I ordered everyone on burial detail. Get your ass over there!” Sergeant Clanton bellowed.

Corporal Tenson slid the stone into his pocket. He had never before been so happy digging a hole in his entire life. ‘I’m rich,’ was all he could think.

Colonel Broward returned home five days later. His two children and wife were home, but the light of life had been extinguished days previously. The stench of decay permeated his entire home, flies and maggots fought for position on the bodies. Colonel Broward placed his Colt .45 against his temple and joined his family in death, but not in spirit.

Check out these other titles by Mark Tufo