Whispers of Old Winds (5 page)

I look closer at the faces of the two prone men. “That’s….” I glance at Michael, then back at the painting. “That’s Digger and me. The way we were. And Hank is there,” I say, pointing at the figure in the distance. I again look at Michael. “How did you have time to paint this? It’s only been three days and….”

“I finished it a month ago,” he says.

I stare at Michael for another moment and then look at the painting again. “How could you have known?”

“I don’t know. I wanted to paint something special for this Christmas, something different than what I usually do and…. The scene just got stuck in my mind. You know I usually paint from pictures, but this…. This was the picture in my mind that I couldn’t shake. I had to finish it.”

“Man oh man.” I take the picture from him and place it against the wall. “Come here,” I say.

Michael scoots next to me.

I grab his glass from the floor and hand it to him. We both sit silently, staring at the painting. One of the logs hisses and snaps, and a momentary burst of bright flame illuminates us and the painting. “I don’t know what to think about this,” I say. “It’s beautiful.” I put my arm around his shoulders. “It tells a story…. No, it tells
the
story. But how did you know?”

“When Hank was talking to you in the hospital, I—”

“You saw him? You heard him?”

Michael hesitates before answering. “Yes, I did.”

“Wow….”

“But,” he hesitates again. “He wasn’t really there, Sam. I mean, his body wasn’t really there. I wanted to tell you then that… I guess I’ve always wanted to tell you that I see things, hear things that I… shouldn’t. Or maybe I should. The caul thing, I guess. All the time I was growing up, I experienced it. I…. When you gave me your dog tags, I told you I felt the pulse of sadness in them? Do you remember?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“I can’t wear them anymore. I can’t touch them anymore. When I do, I see….” He sets his wine glass down and wraps his arms around me. He begins to sob into my shoulder.

I also set my glass down and hold him tightly to me. So tightly. It is as if I must shelter him from the torrent of my own demons.

M
Y
NUMBER
two deputy, Don Hoag, came back from Orlando suntanned and determined never to make that trip again. Said he didn’t mind his own children’s whining, but had had enough of everybody else’s kids making life miserable for everyone else the second day he was there.

Jim Harris, my number one deputy, told me today the VA had finally diagnosed the mysterious symptoms he’d brought back with him from Nam, that were until now thought to be part of his PTSD. They told him it is cerebral malaria. He’d had malaria in Nam, which had put him down for about two weeks, and he’d thought that had been the end of that. But it hadn’t, and now he says he’s got to retire and move closer to Denver, where he can get the treatment he needs. Don’t know what I’ll do without him.

Digger is…. Well…. Digger is Digger. We’ve not talked much about our experience in the bowl. I think we both know it was a kind of enforced intimacy that is best left shoved to the corner and left out of sight or mind. I know we’ll never forget it. I do admit to myself that I missed the opportunity to cop a feel of his lovely ass as we lay there with the body of… a freakish bear hovering above us. Yeah, it would have been nice to run my hand over those sweet cheeks, but I still get pleasure just looking at them. I’m sending him to Denver next week to get some training in forensics. I don’t think he’ll ever be a very good patrol officer. He’s just too, oh, nice is probably the right word. And not that we have much need for a good forensics officer up here, but hell, the smile he gave me when I told him about it was worth the hit our budget is going to take.

Right now I’m heading up the mountain to Hank’s place. Brunhilda is spitting and coughing her discontent, and I know she needs some TLC at Skip’s Garage. I’ll drop her off there tomorrow.

I pull onto Hank’s property and again notice the deficiency of his chimney and those black dried berries that surround his door and windows. It’s not that cold today and it hasn’t snowed for two days, but damned if it isn’t obvious he’s still burning wood to beat the band in there.

The door opens when I turn off the engine, and he steps out on the porch, his gray hair in a ponytail. Old Charlie sticks his head out from behind Hank for a moment and then goes back into the house.

When I get to his door, he’s already sitting in his parlor, his feet resting on a hassock made from the skin of some damned thing and probably stuffed with juniper berries. I close the door, unbutton my coat, and take a seat in the other recliner.

“You normal now?” Hank asks.

“Oh, I’ll never be normal, Hank. How are you?”

“Feel good. Staying warm. How’s your helluva deputy?”

“More normal than I am.”

“You want a beer?” he asks, leaning forward and looking at me.

“No, thanks. Wanted to ask you about a couple things.”

“Okay.” He sits back in his chair.

“Got a call from the forest service. The guy said he came up here to take a look at the bear that died.”

“John Spotted Elk?”

“Well, yeah. Or so you said. But they left the body—the bear’s body—up here at the rim of the bowl the day of the incident, and the guy said when he got here, it was gone. He talk to you?”

“No. He didn’t come and see me.”

“You know what happened to the body?”

“Yes. I put it in my shed. Dragged it here with my ATV. Covered it with cedar ash.”

“Cedar ash?”

“Yes. Didn’t have no more juniper berries. I cut down that cedar tree last year, burned the wood all night and all day after you and your helluva deputy fell into the bowl. Got the body in my shed and dumped the cedar ash on it.”

“Why?”

“So he doesn’t get up. Works kinda like the berries.”

“He’s not dead?”

“Prob’ly is, but can’t take a chance.”

I sit for a moment, considering what Hank has just said. I decide not to pursue it. Rather, I ask him my second question. “Did you know Michael saw you in the hospital that night?”

“Sure. I was in your head. Michael sees things. You didn’t know?”

“I do now. But you weren’t really there.”

“Maybe I wasn’t.”

“Listen, Hank.” I quickly slide to the tip of the chair and turn toward him. I hear a deep-throated growl from behind me, and then see Charlie limping into the parlor, his teeth bared.

“C’mere, Charlie,” Hank says, and the huge animal keeps his eyes pointed at me and slowly hobbles to Hank’s side. “It’s okay,” Hank says, gently stroking the dog’s head.

“Sorry. Guess I moved too quickly.”

“It’s okay.”

“What I wanted to say…. Michael told me some things and…. What’s going on, Hank?” I hear in my voice a plea I hadn’t intended, but realize that’s exactly what I’m doing—pleading with Hank to make some sense out of all this.

Charlie lies down beside Hank’s chair.

Hank looks into the stove, where the fire burns bright yellow with ridges of blue and orange as he continues to pet the dog. “I went into Michael’s store just after he first opened it,” he says. “I was the only one there, and he had his back turned to me, putting stuff on a shelf. He knew I was there, but he didn’t turn around. I told him he had a nice store. I saw his shoulders drop a bit, and he slowly turned toward me. I knew then that he was… special.”

“He—”

Hank raises his hand and stops me. “We looked at each other. In the eyes. We spoke without speaking. I hadn’t seen magic like that since I was a little boy. He can speak with the spirits.”

“You too?”

“Oh. Sure. But not like him. He is special.”

Hank turns his eyes away from the fire and looks at me.

I stare back and, not knowing what to say, I nod.

“He is a good man to have as a lover,” Hank says. “He will protect you from witches. From skinwalkers.”

“From demons,” I say.

It’s Hank’s turn to nod.

“But how do I….” I pause, knowing what I’m about to say and afraid of the answer. “How do I protect him?”

Hank smiles. “He is an old soul caught in the whispers of old winds. I think the way you do that is to love him.”

The only sound in the small parlor is the creaking of Hank’s stove. We sit a moment, not speaking. Charlie has closed his eyes…
the whispers of old winds
….

“Thanks,” I say as I stand and pull up my coat’s zipper.

Hank remains in his chair, his hand resting on Charlie’s head.

I show myself out and walk to Brunhilda, stoically waiting for me under a sky that has once again opened up. I stop, spread my arms out, and turn my palms upward. The snow is falling slowly, softly, the flakes large and wet, a slight breeze carrying with it a whisper:
Love him
, it says, as gently and fragile as the flakes that find the palms of my hand.
Just love him
….

Yes, of course
, I think.
That will be easy. So easy.

31 stories of holiday love!

www.dreamspinnerpress.com

G
EORGE
S
EATON
lives and writes in the Colorado mountains. He shares his life with his husband, David, and their Alaskan malamute, Kuma (“Bear” in Japanese). His lifelong love of Colorado—both the magnificent land and the critters that inhabit it—is the subject matter of most of his writing. He is an Army veteran, and that experience also carries over into his storytelling.

George was first published in 2009, and his novels, novellas, and short stories have all centered on the interactions of people intent on finding the best path through life, where love is usually the healing salve that makes the journey worthwhile. His stories reflect the conflicts in life that we all must overcome in our search for that place where our hearts tell us peace resides.

George says he writes because he breathes.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/george.seaton

Website: www.georgeseatonauthor.com

Twitter: @GeorgeSeaton

E-mail: [email protected]

Published by

D
REAMSPINNER
P
RESS

5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886  USA

www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Whispers of Old Winds

© 2015 George Seaton.

Cover Art

© 2015 Paul Richmond.

http://www.paulrichmondstudio.com

Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or www.dreamspinnerpress.com/.