And the words came to his mind unbidden, with all the bitterness in his heart:
There will be a reckoning.
He had lost his hat during the struggle, and the ugly white scar on his forehead, cut in the shape of a cross from temple to temple, was visible. The girl didn't seem to notice—other horrors consumed her at the moment. He picked up the hat, put it back on, and grabbed up his Schofield from where it had fallen on the ground. He said, "Look away."
Anpao did, turning her face to the wall. Hawthorne stood over the boy, aimed the revolver, and shot him in the face.
After a long moment, the girl pulled herself together. She gripped the sack that held the bow and arrows of her great-grandfather, and said, "Now, White Man? What do we do?"
"My name is Hawthorne. Use it." And then, "You know where they come from?"
She nodded. "I believe so, White—Hawthorne. The Tree of the Moon."
"Good," he said. "It's time to take the fight to them."
They trudged across the dark, wet hills, and a cold rain fell on them. Anpao led the way, wordlessly, and Hawthorne couldn't tell if she'd recovered from the ordeal in the cave. They had left Enapay there, packed a sack with food and some whiskey, and set off into the pines. Anpao clutched the sack with the bow and arrows to her chest. The horse was dead, torn open from throat to stomach, and so walking was their only option.
Now, hours later, the sky above was wide and black, and jagged streaks of lightning flashed in the far distance. Thunder rumbled the wet ground, and the air smelled of moist, decayed vegetation.
They slogged through the woods, water up to their ankles.
He finally said, "How far is it?"
Anpao started, the sound of his voice pulling her out of some dark reverie. "What?" she said.
"The Tree of the Moon," he said. "How far?"
She glanced at him but didn't stop walking. "Through the forest that lies ahead of us. Another three miles, perhaps."
And again they fell silent.
* * *
After a long time, Anpao spoke again. "My great-grandfather found them among the gnarled roots of the Tree almost by accident," she said. "With his bow, carved from the petrified trunk of an ancient conifer, he slayed them, although it cost him his life. The others of our tribe found his corpse. He had marked the Tree of the Moon, and had written on a piece of bark, in his own blood, how he had destroyed them, sent the
Iktomi
back to whatever dark place they sprang from. The bow was revered in our tribe, and especially in my family, for all the decades after. My older brother kept possession of it until ... until this morning. Now, I am the only one left of my family. I am the only one left of my tribe."
She spoke matter-of-factly, not looking at Hawthorne, not slowing her pace through the woods. The rain had slacked off and the moon rose fat in the black sky, filtering gold light through the canopy of leaves and twisted branches.
Hawthorne said nothing. They walked.
"The closer we get to the Tree of the Moon, the more certain I am that we will not succeed." She swallowed hard, still not looking at him. "I fear that, before this night is over, we will both be dead."
"Death is always a possibility."
"And that does not concern you?"
"Why should it? We all die."
She looked at him oddly, her head cocked. Then, "In the cave ... I saw the scar on your head. The cross. That is a symbol of the white man's god, isn't it?"
"It's a symbol of a lot of things."
"How did you ... I mean, if I may ask ... how did you—"
He walked a little faster, leaving her behind. She caught up, lugging the long sack. When she was abreast of him again, she looked at his profile, started to speak, but thought better of it.
* * *
The Tree of the Moon was an old willow with leaves so dark they were almost black, and the branches drooped and brushed against the damp ground.
Nine mounds of dirt surrounded it, laid out in a symmetrical pattern.
Silence reigned in the forest here, the air thick and cloying with a corrupt dampness.
Anpao stopped at the edge of the clearing, set her sack on the ground and opened it, revealing the fine, hand-made bow within. With reverence, she lifted it out and ran her delicate fingers over the polished wood.
She began stringing the bow.
"I'll string it," Hawthorne said. "If I'm going to shoot it, I should string it."
She considered for a moment before handing the weapon over. He examined it, marveling at its perfect weight and dead-on balance. He couldn't recall ever seeing this bow's equal.
He strung it, tested the tension, and the girl handed him an arrow from the sack. He nocked it, pulled the string back and sighted along the shaft before letting the string relax and removing the arrow. "What now?"
With a trembling hand, she pointed at the mound of dirt closest to them. "You see how the soil there is drier? That is the one who attacked us in the cave, I feel. It must have arrived back at its sanctuary only recently."
"It'll be the first one to die."
He stepped into the clearing, nocking the arrow into the bow as he approached the grave-mound. His eyes moved constantly, watching the other mounds, the forest around them, alert for any movement or sign of impending attack.
He stepped up to the fresh mound, gazed down at it. In his mind, he could see the horrible white creature beneath the dirt, burrowed like some vile grub worm, staring up at him through the soil with dead black eyes and lunatic grin.
He pulled back the bowstring, aimed along the arrow's shaft at the heart of the mound. He took a deep breath, and, releasing it, let the arrow fly.
It
thunked
deep into the soil.
A horrid screech cut through the forest and two long white arms shot out of the dirt, fingers twisted in agony. Hawthorne leapt back just as the wet earth exploded upward and the
Iktomi
came out of his grave, face contorted in pain. The arrow lodged in its throat, and the thing clawed at it, screeching and wailing.
A low, plaintive moan which seemed to come from the trees themselves vibrated through the forest. Hawthorne took another step back from the mounds. The moan grew in volume and intensity, sweeping across the clearing, swaying the black leaves of the Tree of the Moon. It was like the sound of the earth itself, dying in slow agony.
The dirt of the other mounds trembled.
"Another arrow!" Hawthorne shouted to Anpao.
Before the words were out of his mouth, all eight mounds disintegrated, and eight white forms sat up slowly from their uneasy slumber, like pale sickly mushrooms. Dirt cascaded off narrow shoulders.
As one unholy organism, the eight remaining demons of the Spider Tribe turned their black and hungry eyes to him.
They were long of body, these creatures, white as paper, with narrow soulless faces and wild jet-black hair. Their arms seemed almost twice as long as their legs, and where there should have been genitalia, there was only wrinkled white flesh. They moved like gangly insects.
Hawthorne felt Anpao's slim fingers trembling as she pressed an arrow into his hand. The
Iktomi
scrambled out of their graves, white skin streaked with mud. The one he had shot ceased its wailing and slumped dead in the dirt, but the others seemed unconcerned. They pushed themselves up on their long thin limbs, grinning their madman grins.
Hawthorne nocked the second arrow, took aim at the nearest one, and fired.
The arrow found its mark in the creature's chest. Its scream echoed through the forest, and the moaning that reverberated through Hawthorne's head hit a high pitch. The thing fell back into its grave and was still.
The others hesitated, but only for a moment. They did not look at their fallen comrade, but only started across the clearing on all fours, moving slowly toward Hawthorne, like the stealthy, patient predators they were.
The moaning, he realized, came from them, from somewhere deep in their throats. It was a lustful, expectant sound.
He backed up another step as they neared, and Anpao handed him another arrow. "Quickly!" she hissed.
One more shot
, he realized.
Only time for one more shot before they come howling down on us
.
He nocked the arrow, pulled back the string and fired, all in one fluid motion. The arrow slammed into the forehead of another one, who screeched in agony and flopped over backward, and then the remaining creatures were wailing and jabbering and rushing at him.
"Run!" he said.
He caught a glimpse of the diaphanous green spiders swimming toward them, flowing from the fingertips of the Spider Tribe, before he bolted. The
Iktomi
themselves were right behind.
Anpao ran before him. She'd left the sack behind, but still clutched a handful of arrows. Gaining on her, he shouted, "Another arrow!"
Without slowing, she held out her hand and he snatched an arrow from her fingers. Still running, he nocked it, said, "Keep moving! I'll catch up!"
"No! Run!" she yelled.
"Keep moving, goddamnit!"
He steered himself toward a giant oak tree, pulling the bowstring taut, and steeling his nerves he spun to face the enemy, slamming his back against the tree as a brace.
The nearest demon was close indeed, less than ten paces behind, three or four floating spiders squirming in the air before it. It yammered in bloodthirsty expectation, launching itself at him.
Hawthorne aimed and released the bowstring. The arrow caught the creature high in the chest, dropping it like a stone at his feet. The spiders evaporated.
The other creatures, coming fast, howled and raged. They loped toward him on all fours, their spiders streaming before them. Hawthorne took to his heels.
Five left
, he thought grimly.
We don't stand a chance.
The girl was not far ahead—despite his command she had slowed down to wait for him.
They ran, and the howls of the
Iktomi
faded behind them. "Ahead," she shouted, "there is a large outcropping of stone. We can gain high ground."
She pressed another arrow into his hand and Hawthorne risked a backward glance. He could still hear them, moaning and wailing in the darkness, but he saw no sign of them.
He wasn't foolish enough to suppose they'd lost them. They were
somewhere
out there in the dark, and he was not comforted by the fact that he couldn't spot them.
From the corner of his eye he saw a flash of white, and then a tremendous force crashed into him from the left. He went down, and the bow went skittering out of his hands.
The creature was on him, ripping at his throat with talon-like fingers, drooling black bile and screeching.
A spider shimmered, taking solid form, and dove at his face. Hawthorne clenched his teeth, struggled to pull the
Iktomi
's fingers from his throat. The spider slammed hissing against his face, biting his lips and jaw with wicked fangs, smashing at his teeth, trying to break through. At the same time, the
Iktomi
clawed at him, howling.
Hawthorne smashed his left fist into the monster's narrow nose, heard bone crunch, but the creature only grunted with irritation and focused its attack on getting Hawthorne's jaw open. Hawthorne pried at the fingers jamming into his mouth, not daring to bite them for fear that even with a small opening, the spider might work its way down his throat. He thrashed his head from side to side, was rewarded only with bites to his ear and above his eye.
It was then he spotted the arrow where it had fallen in the dirt, barely an arm's length away, and a wild hope rose in his brain. He slammed his fist again and again into the demon's face, ignoring the spider that mauled at his jaw, and at last the vile white fingers slackened and the
Iktomi
roared in anger and frustration.
Hawthorne reached blindly and felt the smooth polish of the arrow in his fingers. He gripped it like a knife and slammed the point home, right into the thing's ear.
The roaring ceased and the creature fell away. The spider vanished.
Hawthorne clamored to his feet, wiping blood away from his eyes.
The four remaining
Iktomi
stared at him, less than thirty feet away. They hunkered motionless under the trees, no longer howling, no longer grinning, only staring with their dead black eyes. Several shimmering spiders hovered in the air above them, floating like garish confetti.
He backed up one, two steps. He spotted the bow from the corner of his eye and picked it up. One of the creatures moved forward on hands and feet, and the others followed. Then another move forward, and another.
Hawthorne turned and ran to catch up with the girl, and heard them shift behind him, giving chase again, but this time silently.
A small clearing in the woods revealed a rocky ridge about twenty feet high, silhouetted against the night sky, and he saw Anpao's slender form atop it. "Hurry!" she said. He tossed her the bow, and she reached down a hand to help him up.
He reached the top just as the Spider Tribe emerged into the clearing behind him.
The ridge they stood upon was about ten feet around, and the far side of it dropped down steeper than the front. A decent defensive position. The remaining
Iktomi
crept forward, and Hawthorne slid an arrow into the bow, drew back the string and shot at them before they were three steps into the clearing.
The arrow sliced into the dirt inches from the closest creature's foot.
Frantically, Anpao said, "You missed!"
He scowled, cursing himself for shooting too soon.
"Only four arrows left, you cannot afford to miss again!"
He turned his scowl on her. "Might've been a good idea to bring more arrows."
"I did," she spat. "But, well ... I dropped several in my haste."
The
Iktomi
approached with caution, glaring up at their prey. Hawthorne nocked another arrow, aimed, and let it fly.