Heart of Ice



 

  Heart of Ice

  Prequel to Thunderstone

  Barbara Pietron

  Copyright 2014 Barbara Pietron

  These stories were the libraries of our people. In each story, there was recorded some event of interest or importance... A people enrich their minds who keep their history on the leaves of memory.

  Luther Standing Bear, Lakota

  Chapter 1

  Ice squatted next to the wood pile located just inside the door of the vision quest lodge and noticed his fuel supply was getting low. Three days ago, he thought he'd moved an ample supply inside, considering the single-digit temperatures and below-zero wind chills of winter hadn't reared their ugly heads since March.

  But even without a thermometer, Ice knew it was colder than the predicted low- to mid-thirties. The thin layer of birch bark that covered the small hut did little to insulate the interior, so he could estimate the weather outside by the size of his fire. As he added a fresh log, he guessed the temperature had dropped to at least twenty degrees.

  Zipping his coat up to his chin and pulling his gloves on, Ice hunched down and pushed through the hide-covered doorway. Fortunately, having lived in northern Minnesota his entire life, he knew April didn't dictate winter's end so he'd chopped extra firewood, leaving it within reach outside. He paused for a moment to breathe in the crisp, fresh air. Daylight faded from the sky, casting the snow-covered landscape and frozen lake in shades of gray. Heavy clouds rendered the sunset nearly colorless.

  An icy blast of wind rushed up the hill and smacked the door flap against its frame, urging him into motion. Later, he'd realize that was the moment the spirit entered the lodge behind his back, but at the time, Ice was unaware that he was no longer alone. Heaping wood on his arm, he twisted sideways and shoved it into the hut, then repeated the motion. After a moment spent considering the few remaining logs, Ice gathered them up and added them to the jumble inside the door.

  That one decision may have saved his life.

  He stooped and entered the lodge, his attention focused on stacking the wood neatly while he struggled not to dwell on his growing apprehension that a vision was not forthcoming. How pathetic would it be for the medicine man's apprentice to fail in this endeavor? He frowned. No. He refused to think that way; he'd always completed his vision quests successfully. Doubting himself was pointless.

  Except that at sixteen, Ice's self-sureness seemed to be waning. If this vision quest yielded nothing else, he'd at least realized why his self-confidence was suffering lately. He could sum it up in one word: hormones. And more recently, two words: hormones and Lynn.

  Lynn Ballentine, sister of Troy Ballentine, acclaimed captain of the Cass Lake High School hockey team. Ice wouldn't even know she existed since he was home-schooled, except he'd decided to participate in an extracurricular sport at the school—hockey. One fateful day, Lynn showed up at the boy's locker room door with some of Troy's pads just as Ice approached. She'd asked him if he'd give the pads to Troy and Ice agreed.

  After that close encounter with her root-beer-colored eyes, long, straight shiny brown hair, and some kind of exotic scent, Ice looked for her in the stands. He wasn't sure if she'd always been there, but since the day they'd run into each other, she showed up for every game and sometimes sat on the bleachers during practice, doing homework.

  Just before leaving for this vision quest, Ice had emerged from the locker room to find Lynn loitering in the hallway. Their eyes met and she smiled and said hi. He still wasn't quite sure if he'd managed a return smile—he hoped so—but he did say hi and then unfortunately spewed out something about Troy being almost ready and that he should be out soon. His ears, which were surely already red, burned when she said she'd been waiting for him, not her brother, and then proceeded to ask him to a dance at the high school.

  To Ice's credit, he'd been listening to his teammates talk about the dance for at least two weeks —discussing if they were going and which girls they were going with (or hoped to be going with). So without too much floundering, he'd managed to accept Lynn's invitation. From that point on, though, it seemed the upcoming date was all Ice could think about.

  He sighed, placing the last few pieces of wood on the pile and wishing the dance was weeks away instead of days away. Then perhaps he could focus on a vision. Ice set the last log aside to add to the fire next, then turned toward the fire pit, recoiling in surprise when he saw a seated figure calmly watching him. "Who are you?" he exclaimed.

  "Who do you think?" the specter said, gray eyes alight with the dancing flames of the fire. Icicles covered the man's long white hair, bushy beard, and mustache. He wore a white fur-trimmed cloak and his pale face resembled the tissue paper Ice's mom used for gifts.

  Ice blinked. "You're not… are you my spiritual guide?" Most often, he was taken on his quests by an otter. In only two incidences had he been met by an ancestor, and both times he recognized the familiar spirit. This figure in gray and white was no relative.

  The man narrowed his eyes. "Did you not beckon for a remedy? Do you not seek a solution to a problem?"

  An unexpected needle of alarm burrowed its way into Ice's chest. He studied the visitor, taking in details he hadn't noticed at first. The being was large—certainly larger that most men—and long, claw-like nails peeped from the sleeves of the heavy cloak. As realization dawned, adrenaline surged in Ice's blood stream, preparing him for fight or flight. He wondered how a manitou, a god-like spirit, had come to the vision quest lodge unbidden. "No," Ice answered firmly. "I've come only for advice."

  The surface of the icicles surrounding the deity's face grew glossy in the heat from the fire. Annoyed gray eyes bored into Ice. "Don't waste my time," he intoned, his voice quiet and sinister. "I'm not one to be trifled with."

  Ice's thoughts raced through countless stories and legends, striving to identify the figure that his training told him was a mythological spirit. In an attempt to convince the manitou that he had not conjured its presence, he held out his empty hands. "I have no medicine. I'm here on a vision quest for spiritual guidance. I'm not the one who summoned you."

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Ice realized his mistake. By admitting he had no item of power or any kind of talisman, he'd basically just admitted he had no defense. If the spirit chose to devour him, there was little Ice could do to stop it. Bits and pieces of tales flashed in his memory. He was a storyteller; surely he could remember some clever ruse an ancestor had used to defeat a malevolent entity.

  Droplets had begun to form at the tips of the icicles in the manitou's facial hair and when his flat lips twitched upward at the corners, the drops fell to his cloak. Ice's heart thumped rapidly at the evil light that glinted in the creature's eyes. A few more drips of melted ice spilled and caught in the cloak's furred edges. Suddenly a story heard at Grandfather Great Cloud's knee occurred to Ice.

  The idea seemed crazy in its simplicity, but it was all he had. With forced casualness, Ice reached for the piece of wood he'd left near the fire and nestled it among the flames. "I have no food or offerings," he said, scooting toward the woodpile. "But you may rest here until you're ready to move on." He reached for two more logs and threw them on the fire.

  The manitou shifted forward, a snarl escaping from deep in its throat, and Ice watched in horror as its nose elongated into a snout full of sharp teeth. Clawed hands became large hairy paws which matched the creature's even bigger hind paws. In seconds, the human-like figure had transformed to a humongous bear on four feet.

  As Ice dug his arms into the pile of wood, the beast lowered its head and growled. Gathering as many logs as he could, Ice turned and dumped the load on the fire before the manitou batted him to the ground. Too late, he noticed the la
rge amount of wood had only served to smother the flames and decrease the heat of the fire. He crab-crawled to the back edge of the hut as the bear advanced on him.

  The beast curled its lip, sending a rivulet of saliva over its sharp teeth. When it lunged, Ice cringed against the wall of the lodge. With nowhere to run, the creature easily slammed him flat on his back with a huge paw, then towered above him. As its maw stretched wide, Ice shot his arms up to stop the beast's jaws from snapping his neck.

  A new burst of adrenaline allowed Ice to hold the slavering muzzle at arm's length, but as his biceps began to tremble, he knew his strength would only last so long. Suddenly, the interior of the hut brightened. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and rolled into his hair. The beast remained above him, content to wait for Ice's weakening arms to give out.

  Next to them, the fire began to crackle and pop with life and Ice realized why the lodge seemed so bright. The load of wood was beginning to catch and burn. The sweat trickling into his hair was joined by water streaming off the manitou's fur. He watched as uncertainty crept into the eyes of his opponent.

  In seconds the blaze expanded. Flames surged upward, reaching for the hole at the top of the hut. Ice could feel the radiant heat warming his cheeks. The bear reared back and an instant later Ice was alone in the lodge, the door flap swinging. Outside, a gale howled in frustration and shook the small structure.

  Ice stayed on his back for a moment, catching his breath, stunned that he'd just narrowly escaped a confrontation with the North Wind. He rose to a crouch on weak legs, threw a few more logs on the roaring fire, and then peeled off his coat. Eyeing the pile of wood, he wondered if he had enough to last until the spirit gave up.

  Another gust of wind battered the vision quest lodge, whistling through the seams in the bark covering.

  He sat as far from the door as possible while still able to reach the woodpile. His mind raced. He'd left his phone in his car, so he couldn't call for a rescue. What had drawn the manitou? And why?

  Although it sounded as if a tempest whipped itself into a frenzy outside, Ice's pulse eventually slowed, leaving him feeling drained and frightened. Even after the wind died down, Ice continued to feed the fire steadily, wondering if and when it would be safe to leave.

  Eventually the warmth, exhaustion, and three-day fast caught up with him and he drifted to sleep.

  When he awoke, shivering and still alone in the hut, Ice deemed it safe to leave. He pulled on his jacket, then lifted the bottom of an aluminum drum and placed it over the dying fire. As he bent to duck under the deer hide, his gaze fell on the woodpile near the door.

  Merely four logs remained.

  An elder carries the spirit of a people from one generation to the other.

  Rick Williams, President, American Indian College Fund