Whitefeather Sample

Sample chapters from the 
upcoming novel called Whitefeather



Coming Home

          He awoke to the bluest of skies. Birds flew past, side to side and here or there. For at least a few seconds there were no thoughts in his mind; his inner voice was as clear and uncluttered as the vista before him. There was no pain in that wondrously smooth painting; there were no deeds that needed to be done, there was just the sky – the perfect sky. That’s odd, a strange thought suddenly occurred to him, this place I’m in looks strangely like my bedroom. Yet I know my skylight is broken; I shouldn’t be able to see this sky. I should see nothing but my old blanket tacked up to the ceiling. Where’s my blanket? Maybe I’m dead and in heaven. No, in heaven my skylight would have been fixed by now. Am I dead? Well, if I am, then at least I have my sky to look at. He could gaze at the clear blue forever. Maybe he would do just that . . .

“Well, Mr. Sleepy Pants, it’s about time you woke up!”

The old man was forced to refocus his attention on the speaker before him. He recognized her of course. Although he wasn’t quite sure as to what was going on, he nonetheless knew that he would have to acknowledge the woman’s presence. She glided above him, large and obstructive, blocking the perfect sky. She was doing her job, allowing him to never awaken to an empty room. In a gentle but firm way, she fluffed up the pillow beneath his head. She did this purposely. The closeness and casual physical contact would give him a reconnection with the living. She wanted him to know that she was there for him, and the small gesture established her authority as his guardian. She looked into his eyes, her tender smile masked the real concern etched on her unavoidable and unyielding face as it hovered mere inches from his own.

Silently she waited; this woman wasn’t going to budge until he responded in some positive way.

On second thought, he realized, this isn’t heaven.

“Elizabeth?” he croaked. “Is, that you?”

“Well, who else looks like this?” she answered, as she held up her arms, revealing her full height – tall and formidable to say the least. “Well, Ernest, glad to see you can still smile. At least something’s still working.”

He didn’t know it but he must have been smiling. He trusted her observations.

As the seconds passed, the old man regained more awareness and memory. The troubling events of the immediate past were still with him - fragmented and shallow but still available. And they were growing stronger.

“How long . . .”

“Three days now,” she answered, “After the Doc at the clinic patched up your leg, he released you into our care. We thought you’d be happier to wake up in your own bed.”

“Roy . . . how’s Roy? Is he ok?”

“He’s fine. Don’t worry about that young man. He’s as tough and ornery as his ancient old uncle.”

Elizabeth was looking carefully at her old friend, trying to determine if he was ready to hear the rest of the story, or if she should let him go back to sleep. She didn’t want to overtax him but it was important that he start to come out of his deep, coma-like state. Elizabeth TallTree had worked as a nurse for many years. That experience had taught her to look for the telltale signs of a proper recovery. She checked his vitals, then the I.V. solution and connection, making sure they were still in place. His eyes followed her steady movements. That was a good sign so she prepared a glass of water and two small tablets. She then helped him sit up.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Just codeine. You took some nasty bruises to your back and that gun shot you took in the leg is going to start to hurt soon . . . if it isn’t smartn’ already. And it looked like you had some even older scraps and cuts around your chest and arms.”

As she spoke Elizabeth pointed at his exposed chest area. Whitefeather followed her lead and couldn’t help but notice that besides the obvious wounds, there was something else that lay upon his body. His long ponytail and eagle feather had been neatly placed over his torso and was in plain sight. He felt better just seeing them.

“Don’t know how you got those.” She said indicating the cuts. “Clay didn’t know either, but don’t worry I’m taking care of those things too.”

After she had placed the codeine in his mouth she guided the cup to his lips and watched him drink in the water and medicine. The water felt refreshing and delicious so he reached to her hand in an attempt to drink more fully. She allowed him to take a few more sips but stopped him from over doing it. She took the cup from his hand and then gently helped him back to a reclined position. She was all business, watching his reactions at each step, until a thought occurred to her; it was only natural after waiting for three days, there was bound to be a lot of curiosity and her idea might be a good way to re-engage his conscious awareness.

“Clay only told me some of the story. But I could guess that you’ve been through quite a bit lately.”

Elizabeth’s casual, leading statement was her way of letting him know that if he wanted to talk about the incident in the cavern, then she was ready to listen. She peered at him for a long second, thinking that he might be ready to respond. When he didn’t, she returned to her examinations. Her experience in hospitals had taught her that the patient/caretaker relationship could be long and intimate. Sooner or later the patient would open up and tell whatever story he or she had to say. So she could wait for him to want to talk. She busied herself with checking his various bandages, removing some, replacing them with new ones after applying antibacterial ointment. The bandage removed from his leg wound was caked with a small spot of dried blood, almost black in color.

“Looks bad at first,” she said, noting that he too had seen the bandage and stitches, “but it’s healing nicely. The Doc’ did a nice job of closing this.” She was careful to gently clean the area before applying a new wrapping.

If he didn’t feel the pain before, being reminded of what he’d been through combined with Elizabeth’s probing of the dressings surely focused his attention on the ever-increasing sensations of aches and pains. He winced when she spread the ointment around the stitches in his leg. He was starting to wake up quickly now.

“How’d I get to the clinic? The last thing I remember was talking to Roy. That was in the caves. How’d he get me . . .? Where is he? What’d you say, three days ago! ? How . . .! ?” With every question, Whitefeather’s voice became stronger and more hurried, especially when it concerned Roy Clay Jr.

“Slow down, Ernest,” interrupted Elizabeth. “There’s plenty of time to find out what happened. The important thing is that you’re both safe. And from what I can gather, you two managed to stop those bastards from illegally dumping that nuclear waste.”

Elizabeth paused for a minute and then added, “Should of known they were up to something.”

Elizabeth’s statement not only rejuvenated his curiosity, it also relayed crucial information. After all, if his struggle was worth a damn, and all those lost lives were to have any meaning, then hopefully he had accomplished his goals. He could have remained calm, absorbing the information and allowing it to sooth his concerns, but his expression must have told a much different story.

“Yup,” she began, tilting her head and raising her thick eyebrows in the process, “we all know about how certain Tribal members were getting pay-offs to secret those three radioactive, concrete casks in the caverns. It’s been a busy few days around here. A lot of press, a lot of activity . . . they’re all over the caves. They say there are signs of recent Earthquakes. Some newly hired engineers say that there were some unmapped tunnels that were recently blocked by falling rock caused by the Earthquakes. They don’t know what’s below the blockages but most agree that there’s no more radioactive material unaccounted for. So that’s the good news.”

The Caverns

The group of men had traveled far below the point where the railing had ended. They had been walking through the murky corridors for three to four hours, going deeper, and much further than Stacey had ever dreamed of venturing. The trails they stepped over consisted of numerous twist, turns, divergent tunnels, some occasional climbs, but mostly acutely angled descents. Fortunately at least, many of the pathways were tall enough to accommodate the men’s standing posture, as long as they maintained a single file order.

But still, it wasn’t easy. At least two of them, Stacey’s men, were squeamish about going any further. The Benson Clan however, had no reservations – nor any doubts. They did what Wayne told them to do. If the Clan chief said ‘jump’, well, asking how high would have to be done while they were already leaping through the air.

Wayne wanted to examine the source of his vision. If his instincts about the images were correct, and he was near to certain that they were, then some heavy-duty action was in order. That’s why he brought along his Clan. They would ensure success. They would put in motion measures that would settle his Tribes’ financial welfare and cement Wayne’s legendary status as chief. There was nothing more important than that.

“Look,” said Stacey nervously, “We really don’t need to go any further. We should head back now?”

Ever since they had taken their divergent route down an unknown fissure, Stacey had been worried that the Bensons’ were up to way more than simple exploration. The group walked down underground pathways that were taking them miles inside the Earth, and likewise through totally unknown territory. Stacey had mapped-out the entire Repository caverns – that was his job as site engineer – he had stepped over every square inch of the tunnels, and he had never seen the opening they had recently breached. There’s no way he could have missed it. Something wasn’t right.

“Wayne, I’ve never seen that fissure before,” he said in reference to the odd tunnel opening they had crossed.

It was really more of a question than a challenging statement. Stacey wanted to know what was going on but he also had to talk softly around Wayne. Walking on eggshells was more like it; Wayne Benson was not the kind of man that took kindly to being told what to do. Stacey knew better than to try anything more than ‘suggest’ a course of action with the Clan chief. Although Stacey had the technical expertise and therefore should have been in command of any tunnel activity, that wasn’t how things had played-out. He could do nothing but follow Wayne’s lead. Stacey flashed his lantern in the direction of his two men, looking for support. Their hollow eyes told him that they too were anxious to return to the light of day.

“This place gives me the willies,” one of them said.

Stacey refocused his lamp upon the grim face of Wayne Benson. If Stacey was hoping that he would have seen a little give in Wayne’s resolve, he was sorely mistaken. Wayne flashed Stacey a look that said ‘go that way and don’t give me no crap’.

“C’mon guys,” said Stacey to his cohorts, putting as brave a face as possible on the situation, “It’s only a little further.” Stacey hoped the commands given to his two men reaffirmed his commitment to Wayne’s leadership. He didn’t want Wayne thinking he would do anything but follow the chief’s directives.

After all, there was only one chief of the Black Eagle Tribe.

That’s right Wayne. You’re the boss. Stacey thought. After seeing the ruthless expression on Wayne’s face Stacey couldn’t help but be reflective upon his situation. So as the group of travelers ventured further into the blackest of subterranean depths, Stacey decided to recall the details of how he just so happened to be where he was.

And it was a tale as mysterious as the tunnels they were presently exploring.

Senlac

 “Do not fear my brother,” voiced Senlac.

Upon an orange world they stood; one Man and one Pon, two separate species with one common ancestry. Within the orange realm both could communicate using the language most familiar to the human. It was the only option; humans were not as mentally versatile as the Pon, so spoken words were the best way to start their journey.

Senlac relayed his thoughts/words through the magic of the Maana. The power of the Maana, combined with Senlac’s mastery of image-transference, made the meeting possible. Nonetheless Senlac was still surprised as to how he was able to make the surface-dweller’s sounds. Somehow his thoughts came freely from his mouth. To him it sounded like Pon language. But the human clearly understood because Senlac could see the human’s eyes light up as he spoke.

Intriguing, but unimportant, thought Senlac. His unusual Maana-induced abilities were ultimately insignificant. He had much to do and there was no time for intellectual distractions.

When the vision would end, Senlac would have no way of repeating the speaking deed in the natural realm, so he had to take advantage of every opportunity to make his message clear. Time was extremely limited; he had to convey enormous amounts of information, visual, tactile, and verbal, before his energy waned. And the most important message, he would save for last because the human would best remember those items most recently experienced.

Yes, he reflected, it had been decided, Senlac would conserve his greatest Maana-induced, spiritual power for the time when the vision would near its end. At that point Senlac would share the necessary information to give the human his final instructions. In the meantime Senlac would gradually introduce the Pon world to his human companion.

“My name is Senlac. My people are called the Pon,” said the Maana Master as he gestured to orange-tinged landscape. “This place is a spirit realm.”

“The spirit realm,” furthered Senlac, “was intended to be available and yet separate from our peoples.” Doing his best to relay his knowledge of their common heritage, Senlac would first have to explain what he knew of Pon history and culture. There was much to say; too much for the parameters of the vision, but he had to at least give the basic facts. It was the only way to ensure understanding and most importantly, cooperation. Maana guided visions had their restrictions and Senlac had no more alternatives but to make this final attempt a success. His people were in dire need of the human’s assistance; failure was not an option.

“Be aware, be calm, and be ready,” said Senlac as he waved one of his arms.

After Senlac finished his motion the orange world disappeared and transformed into a white nothingness. Senlac wanted to speak with the human called Roy Clay Jr., and the whitish nothingness was all part of a plan that allowed for a focused discussion to take place. Without distractions, the nothingness would help them both concentrate on those images and thoughts that Senlac wanted to impart. Especially important was the sight of Senlac’s unwavering presence within the nothingness. This would eventually register upon his subject’s mind and to that end Senlac’s obvious realism ensured that the human would be attentive to him alone.

Senlac blinked his enormous eyes and gently bowed his head as if to say: I am here. Please acknowledge me.

The human did indeed acknowledge the being before him. There was really nothing else to see so Clay studied the strange looking creature. Clay and the strange man – Senlac . . . he said his name was Senlac shared the nothingness. Clay was not frightened; Senlac’s behavior did not warrant such a reaction. The man-like being stood quietly, at ease, and waiting. Senlac was very careful not to make any aggressive gestures, and his expression conveyed one of deep thought.

But still . . . I’m havn’ another weird one, mused the young man to himself while looking upon Senlac.

Senlac, for his part, then continued to explain where they were and who he was.

As Clay’s listened, somewhat, his first thought was that the strange creature was merely another piece of his usual non-coherent dreams. Clay often had bizarre dreams and he knew from experience that his imaginings were very transitory. It would soon pass; he would then wake up and forget the whole thing. But soon it became apparent that the individual before him was not going to vanish like most dreaming imagery. The man-like being was talking to him. At first Clay could only hear a croaky, baritone voice. The sounds were jumbled and the words or sounds did not exactly match the motions of the creature’s mouth. As the seconds passed however many of the speaker’s words made sense, and Clay’s understanding of the creature’s message became much sharper. The process was further improved as the creature repeated much of the same material over and over.

Clay’s brow wrinkled as he scrutinized the being before him.

The creature had a name; he had a purpose, and a power that helped focus Clay’s attention to the point that his awareness became vivid and real. Clay was drawn to the creature’s gaze; and he was eventually forced to acknowledge the being’s existence and authority.

“Yes, you are now starting to believe I am here so I will repeat, I am Senlac. Be aware, be calm, and be ready as you listen to my voice.”

Hey I’m dreaming, Clay suddenly realized. Like a light switch had been turned on, Clay was sure that he was having a waking dream. It was a fascinating sensation, to be totally aware of your surroundings and at the same time know that you are actually sound asleep.

Yes, I remember. His real body lay on the couch where had fallen asleep. Clay looked at himself. His dreaming body appeared as it had when he last saw it. The same clothes, shoes, and even his watch were all in place. He felt the same; he looked the same, but he was in a totally alien place.

Oz sans Toto. Clay looked around his spot, but there wasn’t much to see. Where’s that crazy mutt when you need him?