get
it,” persisted Neil. “These were taken three days apart. What’s so strange
about that?”
Billy Ritchie
cackled. “What’s so strange about it is that the picture in the woods was taken
by a photographer called Lewis Clifton, of Massachusetts, up by the Wampanoag
settlement on the Miskatonic River in New England.
These photographs were taken three days apart, sure. But they were also taken
three thousand miles apart.”
“That’s
impossible,” said Neil. “In 1915, it would have taken almost a week to get from
New England to the Napa Valley.”
“That’s right,”
nodded Billy Ritchie. “And yet both of these photographs are authenticated, and
their dates are plumb correct.”
Neil peered
closer at the calm, amused face of the Wampanaug medicine man. Even though the pictures were almost seventy years old, they had
a curious freshness about them, as if they had been taken only a few weeks ago.
He said, “That’s strange, that’s really strange.”
“Not strange at
all when you know who that is,” said Billy Ritchie. “That’s the best-known of
all the Indian men, the most powerful Indian sorcerer who ever lived. That’s Misquamacus .”
“ Misquamacus ?”
“That was what
they called him, among a whole lot of other names. But the reason I spent some
time finding those photographs is because of what that trapper told me, up in
the Modoc Forest. He said that when the day of the dark stars came around, this
man Misquamacus would be the fellow to bring all the
twenty-two wonder-workers together. This man Misquamacus ,
he said, was obsessed with taking his revenge on the white folks, and that his
whole aim in life was to see white people die in the cruelest way possible.”
Billy Ritchie
began to stroke his cat again. “I’d say that the cruelest way possible would be
to call down Nashuna and Pa-la- kai and Ossadagowah , and let them loose. Now, that would
be cruel.”
FOUR
T hey talked until midafternoon. Billy Ritchie, as the Old Crow
loosened his tongue, began to ramble about his childhood, and the old days in
Calistoga and the hot springs country, and the girls he’d known and chased.
Neil began to feel claustrophobic in the small, airless house, but he stayed
because he wanted to know more about Bloody Fenner ,
and about the day of the dark stars.
He said to
Billy Ritchie, “Do you think that Bloody Fenner could
have done anything to irritate the Wappos , or any of
the tribes? Something they might have wanted revenge for?”
Billy Ritchie
shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. I never heard tell of him falling out with
the Indians. The way I heard it, they was always the best of friends, and
that’s what made him so treacherous to whites.”
“But you don’t
know for sure?”
“Who does? All
that happened one hundred and forty years ago, and there wasn’t more than a dozen men in the whole of the Napa Valley who could read or write,
so they didn’t keep no diaries. They were dark days, for sure. Mighty dark days.”
Neil took out
his handkerchief and wiped sweat from the back of his neck. “Well, tell me
this,” he said. “If Bloody Fenner had done something
to upset the Indians, way back in the 1830s, how would an Indian medicine man
go about taking his revenge?”
“You mean
today? Here and now?”
“That’s right”
Billy Ritchie
puffed out his cheeks. “I can only tell you what I know from stories, and from
what that trapper told me. A lot of those real mystical Indian rituals, well,
they’re so secret that half the Indians don’t know them. But what you have to
understand is that a medicine man’s spirit-what the Indians call his manitou - that never dies. It’s reborn, lifetime after
lifetime, for seven lifetimes in all, until the medicine man has performed enough
magic on earth to earn himself a place up in the
stars, alongside of the great spirits.
“The point is , the manitou can only take on
flesh if it finds itself a suitable human being to lodge
it,” persisted Neil. “These were taken three days apart. What’s so strange
about that?”
Billy Ritchie
cackled. “What’s so strange about it is that the picture in the woods was taken
by a photographer called Lewis Clifton, of Massachusetts, up by the Wampanoag
settlement on the Miskatonic River in New England.
These photographs were taken three days apart, sure. But they were also taken
three thousand miles apart.”
“That’s
impossible,” said Neil. “In 1915, it would have taken almost a week to get from
New England to the Napa Valley.”
“That’s right,”
nodded Billy Ritchie. “And yet both of these photographs are authenticated, and
their dates are plumb correct.”
Neil peered
closer at the calm, amused face of the Wampanaug medicine man. Even though the pictures were almost seventy years old, they had
a curious freshness about them, as if they had been taken only a few weeks ago.
He said, “That’s strange, that’s really strange.”
“Not strange at
all when you know who that is,” said Billy Ritchie. “That’s the best-known of
all the Indian men, the most powerful Indian sorcerer who ever lived. That’s Misquamacus .”
“ Misquamacus ?”
“That was what
they called him, among a whole lot of other names. But the reason I spent some
time finding those photographs is because of what that trapper told me, up in
the Modoc Forest. He said that when the day of the dark stars came around, this
man Misquamacus would be the fellow to bring all the
twenty-two wonder-workers together. This man Misquamacus ,
he said, was obsessed with taking his revenge on the white folks, and that his
whole aim in life was to see white people die in the cruelest way possible.”
Billy Ritchie
began to stroke his cat again. “I’d say that the cruelest way possible would be
to call down Nashuna and Pa-la- kai and Ossadagowah , and let them loose. Now, that would
be cruel.”
FOUR
T hey talked until midafternoon. Billy Ritchie, as the Old Crow
loosened his tongue, began to ramble about his childhood, and the old days in
Calistoga and the hot springs country, and the girls he’d known and chased.
Neil began to feel claustrophobic in the small, airless house, but he stayed
because he wanted to know more about Bloody Fenner ,
and about the day of the dark stars.
He said to
Billy Ritchie, “Do you think that Bloody Fenner could
have done anything to irritate the Wappos , or any of
the tribes? Something they might have wanted revenge for?”
Billy Ritchie
shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. I never heard tell of him falling out with
the Indians. The way I heard it, they was always the best of friends, and
that’s what made him so treacherous to whites.”
“But you don’t
know for sure?”
“Who does? All
that happened one hundred and forty years ago, and there wasn’t more than a dozen men in the whole of the Napa Valley who could read or write,
so they didn’t keep no diaries. They were dark days, for sure. Mighty dark days.”
Neil took out
his handkerchief and wiped sweat from the back of his neck. “Well, tell me
this,” he said. “If Bloody Fenner had done something
to upset the Indians, way back in the 1830s, how would an Indian medicine man
go about taking his revenge?”
“You mean
today? Here and now?”
“That’s right”
Billy Ritchie
puffed out his cheeks. “I can only tell you what I know from stories, and from
what that trapper told me. A lot of those real mystical Indian rituals, well,
they’re so secret that half the Indians don’t know them. But what you have to
understand is that a medicine man’s spirit-what the Indians call his manitou - that never dies. It’s reborn, lifetime after
lifetime, for seven lifetimes in all, until the medicine man has performed enough
magic on earth to earn himself a place up in the
stars, alongside of the great spirits.
“The point is , the manitou can only take on
flesh if it finds itself a suitable human being to lodge
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