Assault on Atlantis

CHAPTER FOUR

The old mountain man with the.54 caliber Hawkins rifle in the crook of his arm towered over the dark-haired teenager at his side. They were deep in the Rocky Mountains, near the continental divide in the northern part of the land; those far to the east in Washington had labeled the Colorado Territory. Jim Bridger was a legend from the west coast to the east, the most well known mountain man in the land. He wore fine buckskin. With half the fringes gone. Used as expedient string for one thing or another during this trip.

“Tunes are changing,” Bridger said. His voice was rough unused to speaking much. He had never had a companion — until the boy came into his life.

The boy made no reply. His blue eyes scanned the land ahead, searching for a way up to the divide, which was about ahead. Searching for a way up to the divide. Which was about two miles to the west and five thousand feet above. He’d been with Bridger ever since he could walk. Gaining experience by his side, and he’d learned that when the mountain man spoke. Which was rare. He was imparting something of importance. They’d left St. Louis four months ago, heading west. On a trip the purpose of which Bridger had kept to himself. The boy’s name was Mitch Bouyer. A name given to him by Bridger. Mitch, because, as the old man said, it sounded like a man’s name, and Bouyer, because it sounded kind of French and deflected the rumor that the boy was half-Indian. Bouyer had no idea who his parents had been, nor had Bridger ever spoken about how he had come to take the youngster in.

Bouyer wore buckskin, too, but with a black-and-white calfskin vest over the shirt. The vest was a gift from the foster family he’d lived with in St. Louis for several years, and he took great care of it.

“It’s time for you to know your part in those changes,” Bouyer said.

“What do you meant Bouyer asked. Feeling a stir of excitement. He had learned the patience of a hunter and trapper from Bridger over the years, so be had never questioned the older man, accepting that if and when he chose to reveal things, he would, and not a minute sooner.

“I been out here for thirty-eight years,” Bridger said. “I found the Great Salt Lake in ’24. South Pass in ’27. The hot geysers on the Yellowstone in 730. I’ve crossed the mountains-” Bridger nodded toward the peaks ahead-“twenty-six times. Some say I’m lucky. Some say I’m good at what I do. I am both.” The words were simple, no sign of a boast ‘’But there’s more.” He turned toward Bouyer and tapped the side of his own head with a long, leathery finger. “I got the sight. That’s why you were brought to me. You got it, too.”

“Who brought me to you?’ Bridger had never spoken of bow be came to bringing up a boy not his own, and Bouyer had never raised the subject, simply happy to be in the company of a man who knew so much and wandered in wondrous places.

“Another with the sight. A woman.” Bridger laughed. “A ‘Very strange woman. She brung you to me when you was just out of the womb. I was on the Yellowstone, camped in for the winter with the Crow. You were still covered in your birth blood. I had to get a squaw who’d just given birth to feed you along with her own. Cost me quite a few pelts to keep you alive that winter.”

Bouyer put the stock of his own Hawkins rifle-a.50-caliber, but a genuine Hawkins nonetheless on the ground and leaned on it. “Who was this woman? My mother?”

“Don’t know. She wouldn’t say who your mother was. Nor your father, for that matter. She said you were special, but I saw that as soon as I set eyes on you. Felt it.” Bridger shrugged. “Can’t quite explain it. You know. You got the sight, t~. You hear the voices, the spirit voices, as the Crow call ‘em. I think you got it better than me, much stronger. Powerful medicine, as the Crow say. In touch with the Great Spirit, whatever that might be.”

Bouyer did know what the old man was talking about. Sometimes he had visions of things, visions that most would call dreams, but some of his came to be true. He’d learned to trust those visions and the feelings he got. He also heard things. Once, when recovering traps high up a mountain stream away from the old man, he’d heard a voice whisper “danger” and he’d stopped what he was doing and hid ridden by. Bouyer knew they’d have had his scalp if they’d seen him. He knew Bridger had managed to stay alive on the seen him. He knew Bridger had managed to stay alive on the voices.

Lately, he’d been having strange visions. Of many soldiers. Led by a man with golden hair. Soldiers falling into an Indian village. A village of many tribes, Cheyenne, Lakota, Crow, others. It was a strange vision because Bouyer knew those tribes would never camp together.

“What’s my part in these changes?” Bouyer asked. Bridger had brought him back to St. Louis as a baby and put him in a foster home for several years. He had been homeschooled to read and write and do math. Then, when Bouyer could carry a pack. Bridger had shown up one fall, wintered In the city, and then took him west. That was SIX years ago, and they’d covered many miles together, every spring heading west. Sometimes wintering out there, twice going back to St. Louis.

They worked well together on the frontier. Bouyer spoke little and Bridger even less. It was as if each knew what the little and Bridger even less. It was as if each knew what the words.

Bridger shook his head. “If I’d a known, I’d have told you long before now.”

Bouyer frowned. ‘’Then-” he paused as Bridger pointed.

“She who knows is up there.”

“Who? My mother? The woman who brought me to you?”

“One who has the sight better than us. Word’s been sent for us to meet. For her to meet with you.”

Bouyer picked up his flintlock. ‘’Then let’s be going.”

Bridger shook his head once more. “It will be dark soon. Best we rest. Go at first light.” His eyes narrowed as he looked to the north. “Besides, I see a storm coming.”

Bouyer looked in that direction but saw only blue sky and white peaks reflecting the setting sun. He had learned to trust the old man on such things, so he shrugged off his pack and set about making camp.

Gathering wood, Bouyer paused, feeling a warm breeze across his face, but he noted that the leaves on the nearest bush didn’t move at all. Strange. He picked up the Hawkins as he slowly turned, searching for the source of the strange feeling.

“Wrong?” Bridger picked up his own rifle.

“Don’t know. Felt something.”

“Like?”

“I don’t know. Never felt it before. A warm breeze on my face, but there isn’t a wind.” Bouyer looked to the north. “There’s someone coming. I can feel him.”

Bridger put his rifle back down. “Your brother.”

Bouyer turned to the mountain man in shock. “My brother?”

“Sorta. The woman who brought you to me told me you were-” here Bridger shifted from English to Lakota-” one of two alike but not alike from one who came forth from one womb. Half of a whole that must come together.” He shifted back to English. “I figured that kind of to mean you might have a brother of some sort, given the way the Lakota speak.”

Bouyer wondered what else he didn’t know about himself, but he didn’t have a chance to dwell on it as Bridger continued.

“It would make sense if you’re up here that he’d be up here, too. Both drawn to the same place.”

“If-“ Bouyer began, — but Bridger cut him off.

“Get Some sleep. You’ll be needing it. Tomorrow promises to be an interesting day.”

The light snow touched Crazy Horse’s skin and melted, adding to the sweat pouring down his naked body and the steam that drifted upward. He moved slowly about the center pole, slapping each bare foot to the frozen ground with a solid thud. The two lariats from the top of the pole were attached to bone splinters thrust through his chest on either side. The splinters were not only under the skin, but imbedded into the muscle. As he leaned away from the pole, the skin was taut around the self-inflicted wounds. His eyes were closed, yet he walked among the arranged buffalo skulls without tripping over them, as if he knew the exact placement of each one.

His hands were painted red and black, in a pattern as if he had stuck them in a fire until they were scorched. Large black circles surrounded his eyes, and red tears were dabbed among the paint. He paused, turning to face the pole and leaning back, the bone pulling on the covering muscle and skin until they were four inches out from his body. The flesh held, even as he pushed backward.

He was on the fourth day of his private sun dance. Normally held by a tribe during the summer, Crazy Horse had come here alone, traveling far from his village. He could not wait for the next summer. Nor did he wish to dance with others, for he was seeking a vision, and he knew, deep inside, it was not a vision that could be shared.

Anger drove him.

He had chosen the center pole tree carefully. Straight and strong. He’d carefully cut off all the branches and stripped off the bark, a job usually done by elaborately dressed maidens. Then he’d fasted for a night before “attacking” the tree in the morning, firing several arrows into it to symbolically kill it. After that he cut it down and brought it to this open Spot. He placed a large buffalo skull that he had found on a hunt three years earlier on the top, tying off the lariats through the eye sockets. Then he placed it upright, sliding the other end into a hole he’d dug.

He’d arranged the rest of the skulls he’d brought, all from beasts he’d killed over the past several years, in five parallel lines facing east. The buffalo skull was on the top, facing west. The pole represented the center of the world, a connection between the heaven and earth, between the dancer and Wakan- Tanka, the Great Spirit. The skulls represented the powerful spirit of the buffalo, the beast on which the survival of the Plains Indians depended.

Once all was set he had taken two arrows and broken off e point with six inches of shaft. He’d pinched one breast between his fingers and skewered the point through on one side, then the other. Then he’d attached the lariats. He’d been dancing ever since.

The goal was two-fold: to have a vision while dancing and then ultimately to break free of the skewers by ripping them out through his flesh. But in the process, one was supposed to be reborn as the torture represented death. And Crazy Horse desperately wanted to be reborn.

His throat was parched, as he had long since drained the leather flask of water he’d carried within reach. His stomach was a tight knot, empty for days.

Crazy Horse stopped. Not from the pain, but because he sensed something. He took a step closer to the pole and slowly turned outward, the lariats sliding over his shoulder, fresh blood dripping down his chest unnoticed over dried blood.

For a moment he became aware of his surroundings, The pole was set in the center of a glade next to a river. It was ten feet high, a cottonwood stripped of branches and bark. A scattering of snow covered the ground and surrounding trees. Through the trees came a woman. She wore tan pants of some fine material and a leather jacket that was tattered and torn. She had a staff in her right hand that she used to support tom herself.

Crazy Horse took an angry step forward as he saw the woman more clearly and was jerked back in pain by the skewers. She was white, with curly brown hair, like the woman his mother had described who had visited at his birth, the one who had made the terrible prophecies and taken away the other who had been born with him.

Crazy Horse blinked, not certain if this was the vision he had been seeking during his four days of self-torture, or if she was real. She paused at the tree line. Returning his gaze. Her face was lined with. Anxiety, and she appeared as exhausted as he felt.

He shook his head and blinked once, but she was still ere, although now he could see there was a fog behind her, slowly moving down the hillside toward the glade, passing through the trees. She raised her left hand, her palm open toward him. Then slowly she turned her hand until the back faced him. Then she gestured with her fingers for him to come to her.

Without hesitation he stepped forward. The lariat tightened. The arrows jamming against the covering layer of muscle and skin. He took another step and the arrows tore through muscle and skin, the blades ripping free. The pain was distant, a dull throbbing, the blood flowing down his chest now unnoticed like the snow that still fell.

‘’Warrior,’’ she said in perfect Sioux, even though from her skin and dress he knew she was not of his tribe. You are the one who was named Crazy Horse after your father and born)f Nahimana, the mystic one.”

Crazy Horse knew it was a statement, not a question.

“You seek a vision from the spirits,” she continued, “something to guide you in battle against those who encroach on your land. You seek to be reborn as someone who does not have the fate your mother foretold hanging over you.”

“Are you the one called Earhart?” Crazy Horse asked. He reached down and picked up his hatchet. Feeling more secure with the weapon in his hand. With the other hand he grabbed a spear.

“Yes.” She was looking over her shoulder at the encroaching fog that was now fewer than a hundred feet away. For the first time Crazy Horse noticed there was something strange about the white mist. Its front was a uniform straight line, and he could not see far into it. There were swirls of yellow on the leading edge. A disconcerting odor preceded the mist, something that made Crazy Horse take an involuntary step back.

“Danger comes,” she said. “I will help you with the vision you seek-and more-if you will help me.”

“What help do you need?” Crazy Horse was confused. Should he help her? She was not of his tribe. And according to his mother she was the one who had foretold of his people’s ultimate doom.

She pointed to the fog. “You must come with me to meet someone. It is part of your destiny as your mother foresaw.”

Crazy Horse looked at the fog and knew it was dangerous, like a bad patch of snow high on a mountainside that hid unseen crevices.

“Go!” The woman shoved him in the back, and Crazy Horse bristled at her manner. ‘’There is not time to stand here and think about it.” She turned toward the fog, leading the way.

He followed her with his spear at the ready, his hatchet tucked into the leather belt around his waist. His shoulders hunched involuntarily as he entered the mist. It felt strange against his bare skin, unlike anything he had ever experienced before. He felt an almost overwhelming sense of dread and fear, but the warrior in him ignored those feelings and continued forward. He could see barely a few feet, but he could sense movement all around. His stomach rumbled and he staggered, nauseous. He wretched, spitting out acid.

Crazy Horse twisted and turned nervously. The woman was now at his side, nudging him to move. A scream echoed through the fog. Someone was in extreme fear and pain, worse than Crazy Horse had heard when they’d burned captives at the stake. He tightened his grip on the shaft of his spear.

Something leapt toward him from the right, and he reacted as he had been trained to since he could walk, spinning, the point of the spear leading. A bizarre animal was spitted on the spear, one he had never seen before and didn’t have time to study, as it struck at him with a scorpion like tail. He twisted the spear, staring at a mouth full of three rows of razor-sharp teeth, the head mounted on the body of — the only thing he could think of was a mountain lion. He let go of the whipping out the hatchet and slamming the edge into the creature’s skull. It collapsed to the ground, but still the barbed tail jerked spasmodically, seeking a target. Crazy Horse gave the body a wide berth.

He heard movement in several directions. At least he knew the way back out-downhill. He was tempted to turn and run, but duty held him. Plus the woman showed no fear, indicating that he should continue to follow her. He was a Warrior, a Sioux warrior, and his entire upbringing had taught him to stand fast in the face of danger; indeed, this was the time to excel, to earn honor.

He turned left as he heard something crashing through the trees. A man, dressed in a strange garment, staggered toward him. He held up his arms, and blood sprayed from bloody stumps halfway down his forearms. He reached for Crazy Horse as if he still had hands, smearing blood down Crazy Horse’s chest.

‘’Leave him,” the woman yelled over her shoulder as she ran through the trees.

Crazy Horse hesitated, but then the man slumped over, dead.

Crazy Horse stepped over the body, but when he looked about, the woman had disappeared into the mist. He heard a yell, the woman’s voice directly ahead. Although it was hard to judge the distance in the fog. Bathed in blood, Crazy Horse let go of his fears and charged forward. A tree limb smashed into his face. Breaking his nose. He snorted, blowing out blood, and continued, dodging limbs. Something snatched at him, something red and long like a whip, and he ducked under, rolled, keeping the hatchet tucked tight across his belly, and sprang to his feet.

“Hurry!”

A woman giving orders-it was unheard of. But Crazy Horse didn’t argue. He scrambled to catch up with the woman, following the sound of her voice. He spotted her about ten feet ahead. Beyond her was a black circle about eight feet in diameter. She waved at him to follow and then stepped into the circle. She was gone.

Crazy Horse reached. The circle and hesitated. He could hear things moving, branches snapping under a heavy Weight. He spun about as a tree crashed to the ground, his eyes widening in disbelief at what he saw; a massive snake with seven huge heads, each as large as a horse’s.

Crazy Horse turned back to the circle and jumped into it.

He landed bard, rolled, and was on his feet, the hatchet at the ready. There was no sign of the fog, and within a second the black circle he had come through disappeared. All that remained was the woman.

“What was that?” Crazy Horse demanded. “What happened?”

“They tried to ambush me, To stop me,” She shook her head. “And someone else was using the gate.”

“Who? What are you talking about?”

“There are those who invade the world, just like the whites invade your hunting grounds and sacred lands.”

‘’Who?’’ Crazy Horse repeated.

“Those of the Shadow.”

‘’What is this Shadow?”

“Your mother foretold your future. Yours and your brother’s.”

Crazy Horse spit. “I have no brother.”

“He is your brother in fate,” she corrected.

Crazy Horse held back his irritation. “What do you know of my mother’s vision?” he demanded. All his mother had told him was that he would meet his half-brother in a great battle, one that would determine the future of the people, and that while winning the battle, his people would eventually lose the war to the whites.

“You will fight a great battle that will open a gate through which the salvation of the world will pass.” She paused and looked to the southeast. “Even now, your brother comes closer. Come with me.”

Bouyer woke to the sound of thunder. They were camped on a flat spot high on the side of the creek they’d been following up into the mountains. They were high enough so that if it rained above them, the water coming down wouldn’t flood the site. Bouyer had been in many storms in the mountains and his oil slick that he had wrapped around his body would repel even the heaviest downpour, but he didn’t go back to sleep. He lay still. Listening to the approaching thunder, seeing the immediate area lit up by lightning strikes higher up. He heard Bridger unwrap from his slick and Bouyer immediately did the same, picking up his Hawkins, his fingers checking the priming, making sure it was ready.

In the next flash of light, Bouyer saw Bridger kneeling at the edge of the camp, peering upslope to the north, weapon In his hands. Bouyer silently crept up to a position next to the old man.

“Something’s coming,” Bridger said in a whisper.

Bouyer glanced hard at his mentor. Something? What did he mean by that? Bridger could tell any animal in the mountains by track, scent and just plain experience. And they’d seen no sign of Indians for more than a week.

“Something bad,” Bridger added. He nodded to the right and up. A white fog was rolling down the slope. Bouyer had never seen the like. The front edge was smooth, and it moved without a wind to propel it. He felt a knotted ball of fear in his gut. He agreed one hundred percent with Bridger’s comment-his was bad, whatever it was. During the brief moment of illumination from another bolt of lightning, he saw that the fog was a boiling mess of white and yellow, a very unnatural color. It was now about four hundred feet away and approaching slowly.

“We should leave,” Bouyer suggested.

But Bridger was looking to his left. Bouyer shifted his attention from the strange fog to that direction. As another bolt lit the mountain, he saw two figures coming toward them. He saw one was a woman, but little detail else. He had to figure the woman was the one who had sent for him. Next to her was a young brave, a hatchet in his hand.

In the next flash, Bouyer could see that the woman had halted. And she was signaling. Indicating that he and Bridger should come to her.

Bridger saw the same thing. “Let’s go. Leave everything but your weapon.”

Bouyer hurried after the mountain man, scrambling along.e steep terrain to where the woman and brave waited. During another flash he could see the woman was middle aged, with short brown hair. She had a pack over one shoulder. When he shifted his gaze to the young warrior, he felt the bond that had always been distant begin to solidify. The brave had blood on his chest and was smeared with war paint. As he got closer, Bouyer could barely make out the images: a lightning bolt on his chest along with hailstones. strange symbols. The brave was staring back at Bouyer, his dark eyes emanating hate.

The woman raised her hand in a peaceful greeting, but her first words, spoken in Lakota. Contrasted the gesture. “Shoot for the eyes.”

“Whose eyes?” Bridger asked in the same language.

“Their eyes.” The woman was pointing behind them at the strange fog.

Bouyer turned. Three figures were floating in the front edge of the fog, three creatures unlike anything he had ever seen. All white, With red bulging eyes and hands that ended In blades.

Bridger had his Hawkins tight to his shoulder. Bouyer followed suit, sighting down the long barrel as his mentor fired. He sighted in one movement, smoothly pulling the trigger. The stock bucked against his shoulder as the half-inch-diameter bullet sped down the barrel. It smashed into the left red bulge in the creature’s face. The impact knocked e ~g back a few feet, but it remained upright, even as black smoke-not blood-issued forth from the hole.

Bouyer was watching the creatures even as he reloaded, his movements so well practiced that he didn’t need his eyes to ensure he was doing it correctly. He saw that Bridger had hit the middle creature in the same spot with the same result. Both were halted, but the third continued forward, fewer than a hundred yards away now. Bouyer packed the powder he’d poured down the muzzle with his ramrod, noting out of the corner of his eyes that he was still slightly behind the older man, who was already tamping a.54-caliber ball in his own gun.

Both were startled when the brave let out a yell and dashed forward, hatchet raised. Bouyer was so shocked he even paused in his loading, but not Bridger. The old man was Priming his weapon quickly but carefully. The white figure, till moving, had raised both arms, claws extended, accelerating toward the charging brave, moving out of the forward edge of the fog. The two were fewer than five feet apart when Bridger fired. The ball passed just over the brave’s left shoulder and hit the creature’s right eye, smashing through.

The brave skidded to a halt. Swinging his hatchet at the other eye. It bounced off harmlessly. The fog enveloped both the brave and the creature.

“Crazy Horse!” The woman’s voice echoed into the darkness.

The brave stood still for a moment, his figure slowly fading from view in the fog, then Crazy Horse slowly backed up, hatchet at the ready. The fog stopped and Crazy Horse came out of it as Bouyer brought his musket to his shoulder, at the ready. He couldn’t see the first two creatures, as the fog had swallowed them. The third wasn’t moving, black smoke seeping from the hole in its right “eye.”

Bouyer fired as another creature swooped in from the right toward the damaged one. His bullet hit the left side of its “head” and ricocheted off, causing no apparent damage. This latest creature swept up the damaged one with one taloned hand and disappeared into the haze.

Slowly the fog began to dissipate, but that didn’t stop Bouyer from quickly reloading. Bridger had taught him never to have an empty rifle in his hands.

“It’s been a long time,” the woman said to Bridger.

The mountain man was watching the fog disappear, weapon at the ready. “I’m here like you wanted. With the boy.” As the fog disappeared completely, he turned to her. “And I see you brought his brother.”

Bouyer could feel both the connection to the warrior and the hate that rode over it.

“Very courageous charge,” Bridger commented in Lakota, “but not very smart.”

“A coward stands at a distance and fights his enemies,” Crazy Horse said.

Bridger chuckled. “A smart warrior uses the best weapons available.”

Crazy Horse spit at the ground to indicate what he thought of that.

The woman stepped between the three men. ‘’My name is Amelia Earhart.”

Bridger made the sign for peace to Crazy Horse, who ignored him. Bouyer did the same, but again, the sign had no effect on the warrior. Bouyer studied Crazy Horse. The war· nor was physically impressive, with broad shoulders and a noble face, marred only by the anger that consumed it. His skin was surprisingly light for a Sioux. A very dangerous man, Bouyer realized, and one full of rage.

“And your name?” the woman asked, startling Bouyer out of his examination. She was staring at him intently, which made him shift his feet m discomfort, unused to such attention.

“Mitch Bouyer.”

Bridger put the stock of his Hawkins rifle on the ground and leaned on the long rifle. He looked from one young man to the other. “Not much resemblance.”

Crazy Horse spoke for the first time. “’That is because we are not brothers.”

Earhart reached out and placed a hand over the one Bridger had on his rifle. “I must speak to the young ones alone. I must talk to them of their destiny.” She removed her hand.

Bridger picked up the rifle and moved off. upslope to an over watch position. The woman slowly sat down on a log, then indicated for Bouyer and Crazy Horse to sit in front of her. They did so, Crazy Horse angling himself so that both Earhart and Bouyer were in front of him.

“You were born out of the same mother,” Earhart said. “You were connected at birth, and you will be connected in death.”

“He is not my brother.” Crazy Horse said it flatly, slapping his open palm onto the flat side of his hatchet blade to emphasize the point “He is not of the Lakota. He is white.”

“So you can see with your eyes if you wish,” Earhart said as she leaned forward and pointed one hand toward Crazy Horse’s face. “Do you see that he has two hands? Two feet? Two eyes? That he is a man just like you?”

“He is not like me,” Crazy Horse argued. “He has blue eyes and pale skin, and his heart is not like mine.”

“That is where you are most wrong.” Earhart said. “Your hearts are more alike than you can imagine.”

“Why have you summoned him,” Crazy Horse demanded, “and brought me here?”

“I have been shown things and heard the voices,” Earhart said.

Crazy Horse interrupted her. “What were those things in white?”

“Servants of the Shadow.” Earhart said. She held up her hand as Crazy Horse opened his mouth to speak again. “You must listen. You and your brother will meet in a great battle and a victory.”

It made no sense to Bouyer. But he said nothing, listening as Bridger had taught him.

“That is the prophecy my mother gave me,” Crazy Horse said. “Which she received from. You. But I do not accept it as my fate. I do not accept the end of our way of life for my people.”

“It doesn’t matter whether you accept it or not,” Earhart said. “It is what will happen.”

“Not if I don’t allow it to,” Crazy Horse argued, which brought a slight smile to Earhart’s lips.

“Do not laugh at me, woman,” Crazy Horse spit out. “I do not have to lead anyone into battle. I can ride away.”

“And be called a coward?” Earhart asked.

Crazy Horse leapt to his feet, hatchet raised. Bouyer was up as quickly, his Hawkins rifle half aimed toward the warrior.

“Sit down!” Earhart snapped.

Surprisingly, both young men reclaimed their position on the ground.

“I have only been shown so much,” Earhart said. “I have been told by the voices that when enough men come together in a desperate situation they can achieve that which cannot be achieved any other way.”

Seeing the looks on both men’s faces, Earhart tried to explain as much as she knew. ‘’There are pathways, gates, that lead from one place to another. Paths you cannot see, and gates that only open at certain times.” She looked at Crazy Horse. “You just traveled through one of the gates. Will you deny that?”

Reluctantly, Crazy Horse shook his head.

“Will you deny there were strange creatures in the darkness?” She pressed. “Creatures you have never seen before?”

I have not been everywhere,” Crazy Horse argued without much conviction.

“The two of you have some power,” Earhart continued. “Combining that power with that of others in a battle. You can do that which needs to be done. Along with this.” Earhart reached into her bag and brought out a crystal skull. She extended it toward Bouyer. Who carefully took it. He was surprised how heavy it was.

“What is this?” Bouyer asked.

“It will channel the power. Use it carefully at the right time.”

“And how will I know when that is?” Bouyer asked.

“You will know it when it happens.”

Bouyer caught Crazy Horse’s look, and he felt a flickering kinship with his ‘’brother.’’ That feeling was gone in a second as Crazy Horse stood.

“Your words are those medicine men use when they do not know the truth and seek to confuse the stupid with many words.”

“But you are not stupid, are you?” Earhart asked.

Crazy Horse stared down at her for a few moments before gesturing at Bouyer. “If he will know it when it happens, then I will know it, too. But do not count on it to be what you want, woman. Until then I will go my own way.” Crazy Horse walked off into the darkness and disappeared.

Earhart stood. She looked down on Bouyer, who was turning the crystal skull to and fro in his hands. She switched to English. ‘There will be more.”

“More?”

‘’More visits, more signs, more parts. I hope you can keep your mind open, unlike your brother.” Then she turned to walk away.

“Where are you going?” Bouyer asked.

“Back where I came from,” Earhart said.

“Will I see you again?”

“I don’t know.”