Ghostwind

Fiction by Ken Hoover

The crossroad was mostly white sand, but patches of trampled earth and cracked asphalt of ancient roads peeked through. It stood at the edge of the territory of the Ghostwind, the white fog that sucked memories right out of your skull, one by one, reducing them to sand as white as sun-bleached bone as it slowly devoured you.

As Boz’ campfire began to burn low, the wolves came. First one, then three, then twenty. Their golden eyes gleamed in the darkness around him. Boz paid them little mind. They could not enter his protective circle of stones and white sand without his permission. His wife, Alma, rest her soul, had taught him well, and he’d chosen this spot because crossroads were ley lines of magical power. To pull this off, he needed all the help he could get.

From his seat on a rough volcanic rock, he tossed a juniper branch onto the fire and stoked it with his gnarled wooden staff. As the flames flared, wolves with mottled fur of brown, black, and gray surrounded him, tongues lolling hungrily. Their breath feathered the night air. The softwood burned quickly, and he hoped he had gathered enough from the nearby desert shrubs and trees to last. His old bones still ached from the effort.

“You’ll find no meal here,” he said, laying his shotgun across his lap and huddling in his leather jacket and plaid shirt. In the silence, the juniper branch popped, causing a few wolves to flinch. He stroked his silver beard as he studied them, searching for the alphas, the parents of the pack. He saw young, hungry faces, but didn’t see a watchful leader. He’d seen packs of coyotes from time to time, but a wolfpack this far into the desert was rare as a good man.

Then again, these weren’t ordinary wolves.

“I’ll parley with an alpha and no one else,” he said.

A large male with dark brown fur pushed his way to the front, receiving annoyed growls and spiteful glances. He looked like an alpha, that was for damn sure, but there was no deference here.

“You’re wasting my damn time,” Boz said. “You’re nobody.”

The large wolf bared his large teeth and growled, but the barrier, humming with energy, kept him at bay. One inch closer, and the wolf would receive a nasty surprise. The pack would learn that he was full of nasty surprises, but it wasn’t time yet.

“Stand down, Coop,” a female voice said.

At this, the large wolf sneered, confirming Boz’s hunch. This upstart wanted to be an alpha, but he hadn’t earned it yet. Boz could use that against them.

The pack parted for a sleek gray and brown wolf. She sauntered up to the barrier, sniffing the edge of the stone circle but not touching it. Her coat was perfect woodland and desert camouflage. The pack bristled in her presence.

“I am Dezba,” she said.

“There are usually two alphas in a wolfpack.”

“You killed my mate,” she snarled, “so now there is only one.”

Yesterday, at the edge of the black malpais, a wolf had surprised him. It leapt from high ground, and Boz had barely gotten the shot off, blasting the wolf in midair. Skinwalkers weren’t easy to kill, but his shells were filled with shot rubbed with white ash and crow feathers. It was a quick death.

He hung his head and said, “It brings me no joy to have separated you.” His wife of decades had recently been killed by these outlaws, ending the only loving relationship he’d ever had. Without her, he was adrift, a ghost of a man.

“We nearly had you in the malpais,” Coop said, his voice a rumbling growl, “but the stink of petrabeasts masked your scent. It took us some time to find you again. And now here you sit with death all around you.”

“Quite the predicament,” Boz said. He’d been lucky to avoid the man-eating petrabeasts in the badlands. Their black teeth could shred him to the bone. But it was worth the risk to delay his pursuers.

“You cannot stay in this circle forever,” Coop said.

“Don’t plan to.”

Dezba sniffed at the circle, then barked an order at the wolves toward the back. They growled and snapped at each other until a skinny wolf was forced to the front. It approached the stone circle, tail between its legs.

“It must be done,” Dezba said. “You are strong and brave.”

Nervously, the skinny wolf inched forward. As soon as it touched the barrier created by Boz’s circle, an electrical pop hurled the wolf back several feet. Yelping, it convulsed in pain. The smell of burnt fur lingered. Dezba nuzzled the wolf for a moment, then returned to the circle.

“Need my consent to pass through this hex,” Boz said. “My wife, Alma, taught me how to make it. She was a powerful witch.”

A witch could be many things, but in Alma’s case, witch was more akin to healer. She could do terrible things, yet she chose to use her powers to defend and heal. After they’d settled at the Trading Post, people came from many miles for her help.

Dezba sat back on her haunches, head held high, somehow managing to look down her snout at him. By sitting, she gave the subordinates permission to sit, and nearly all of them laid down, panting after the long chase across the hot desert.

“Bet you could use some water. Too bad the arroyos are all dried up,” he said, opening a canteen and savoring a sip of metallic-tasting water.

“We will drink your blood,” Coop said.

Boz capped his canteen and set it on the ground, ignoring the threat, hoping it would anger the upstart. “Dezba, tell me about your mate.”

Her wolfish expression soured. “He was foolish, and now he is gone. There is nothing more to say.”

“Oh, surely there was a time when you thought of him fondly.”

Dezba stared at the ground for a moment. “Perhaps.”

“There you go. I knew there had to be some trace of him in your heart. You see, ever since Alma passed, I think of her every day. I feel her in the garden behind our trading post, in the pasture with the livestock, in our bedroom, the kitchen, the hallways. I can almost see her, hear her, feel her next to me. I miss the sound of her kind voice, the lovely smell of her. I miss her so deeply I’d do just about anything to get her back.”

“Enough prattle,” Coop said, all yellow teeth. Then to Dezba, “We should rush his barrier. Look at him. He’s an old man. His magic cannot be that strong.”

“You first,” Boz said with a sinister grin. “See what happens.”

Dezba studied Boz, unblinking. After several long moments, she said, “A pack has patience.”

“Good call,” Boz said, grinning. “I like your style, Dezba. You’re thinking of the good of the pack. Unlike Coop here.”

He let that sink in as he put another branch on the fire. He poked at it with this staff, feeling the warmth on his hands and face, a contrast to the cold on his back.

“Alma always saw the best in people. She was the only woman I ever loved. We never could have kids, so we persevered with our love for one another, a glorious little life until the day she died.” The last of his words were choked with grief. He gripped his shotgun until his knuckles turned white.

“These emotions make you weak,” Dezba said.

“You’re wrong. Emotion allows you to tap into that magic easier.” He paced around the campfire, skirting the perimeter of his circle, careful not to break the line of sand and stones, or else his barrier would fall, and the wolves would tear him apart. “We rarely left our Trading Post, Alma and me. It’s neutral ground, protected by powerful hexes, a lot like the one I’m in now. But she needed some sort of root or flower only found in the mountains. She went alone while I manned the shop. I should’ve gone with her. If I had, maybe things would’ve turned out differently.”

“You might have died alongside her,” Dezba said.

“That’s where I belonged.” It was Boz’s turn to growl. Every morning, he woke with terrible regret and a void in his soul, an emptiness that could not be filled. “If the outlaws had known how good she was, surely they wouldn’t have killed her. Do you know how they did it? After they came across her scent, they chased her, hounded her, tormented her until she was too tired to run, and then they hanged her from a cottonwood tree for sport. Didn’t turn her. Didn’t eat her. Just left her there to die. Alone.”

“How do you know this if you weren’t there?” Coop asked.

“When she didn’t come home, I cut for sign to track her. I followed the long trail to her terrible end. I took her back home and buried her beneath her favorite tree.”

“Now you are a pack of one,” Dezba said, and it almost sounded like there was sympathy in her voice. “I could make you into one of us.”

“You can’t be serious!” Coop snarled. “He killed Longley.”

“I would rather die than join you!” Boz’s words were choked by snarling anger now, and he glared at Coop with murderous intent. In response, the energy of his barrier hummed and crackled. Coop retreated a step, as did the other wolves, all except for Dezba.

Boz regained his composure, saving his magic. He would need it soon. “I’ve been hunting those outlaws for some time. They never stayed in one place long, so I was always chasing them from a distance, until yesterday, when I came across them in the malpais. I tried to sneak in close, but I was spotted. I fled into the malpais, using the petrabeasts to mask my scent, and then I found this here crossroad. It was the perfect place to lure you into my trap.”

“He talks too much! He is just an old man. We should rush his barrier and end this!” Coop snarled.

Some of the wolves yipped and barked, all except for Dezba. “Silence!” she snapped, whirling on Coop. “You killed his mate?”

“So what if I did?” Coop said. “She was a witch.”

“She was the love of my life!” Boz shouted, his rage and pain crackling through the barrier.

“You killed his mate, and Longley paid the price,” Dezba said, baring her teeth. “And so did I.”

Coop retreated a few steps. “He killed Longley, not me.”

“Who else was part of this crime?” Dezba asked, sweeping her eyes over the pack.

A division formed amongst the ranks, some siding with Coop, but the majority remained loyal to Dezba. The physical separation between them was what Boz had been waiting for. He had no desire to bring justice to those undeserving of it. Alma wouldn’t like that. Enough innocent blood had been spilled.

Just another moment, and Alma’s killers would be right where he needed them to be. He waited for a heartbeat. There!

In truth, there were five circles of stone on the crossroads. Four intersected his like the petals of a flower. He tapped his staff to the ground four times, drawing upon the power of the crossroad, and then he tapped the circle that surrounded Coop and his gang. Currents of azure energy rippled through the large wolf’s body, as well as his followers. They fell to the ground and writhed in agony as if crushed by a terrible weight.

“No. I will see to their punishment,” Dezba said. “The pack delivers its own justice.”

“Not this time,” Boz said. “I’m no murderer. But I will geld them.”

Spit shot from between Coop’s bared teeth, and he clawed at the ground. His claws retracted, turning to fingernails. His snout withdrew into a human nose. From what little Boz knew about skinwalkers, the swift transformations were painful, but not as painful as their magic draining into the crossroads.

When it was all done, there were five humans in the stone circle, four men and one woman, wearing buckskins, leather, and fur. Two of them had passed out, while the others whimpered in pain.

“What have you done?” Coop screamed. His bearded face pressed into the dirt and rocks, and he struggled to move.

Boz ignored him and faced Dezba. “I am sorry for the loss of your mate. If I could take it back, I would.”

Dezba was staring at Coop and his gang, pity in her amber eyes. “What happens now?” she asked.

“We’ve got two options, as far as I see it,” Boz said. “We can all wait for the Ghostwind to take us. It cannot be stopped by a hex. Once it swallows us, we won’t give a damn about anything anymore.” He gave her a sympathetic smile. “It’s tempting, don’t you think? All that terrible heartache would just drift away into sand, and we would finally be at peace. It’s one way to go.”

“What is the second option?”

“You go back to the mountains. I go home. We all live.” He flicked his chin at Coop, still prone. “Now that the weeds have been plucked, your pack will grow strong under your leadership.”

“And you will remain a pack of one.”

“Yep. Home is as close to Alma as I can get, and I’m not ready to leave this earth just yet.”

She flicked her snout at Coop and the others. “What becomes of them?”

“The Ghostwind can have them as far as I’m concerned.”

Her ears flattened. “A slow death.”

“That’s the idea,” Boz said.

For a long moment, Boz could only hear the crackling fire and the whimpers from Coop and his gang.

“So be it,” said Dezba, turning and leading her pack into the darkness.

Boz gathered his things and kicked dirt over the fire. Soon, the area was clouded with low, gray smoke. Coop and the others coughed. Without the firelight, Boz could see the Ghostwind’s ethereal glow in the distance. It sensed prey and would arrive soon.

“I’ll kill you,” Coop said, spitting dirt from his mouth and coughing.

“Enjoy that thought while you still have it,” Boz said.

With a shotgun in one hand and his staff in the other, Boz stepped out of his circle and strode toward home, where memories of Alma would be waiting for him.