A Little Season

By G.P. Andersen

An archaeologist uncovers mysterious ancient artifacts in the desert of Arizona. While traveling back to the Field Museum in Chicago with his prized discoveries, his van and the artifacts are stolen. He sets out to recover the van before it's too late. Meanwhile, a young reporter looking for a big break thinks there's something to this stolen van and missing artifacts and investigates further.

• Language: English
• Publisher: G.P. Andersen
• Release date: Mar 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370269334

Book preview

A Little Season

Copyright 2018 G.P. Andersen

Published by G.P. Andersen at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

About G.P. Andersen

Prologue

1

THE pain in her gut was growing worse. It rolled and twisted inside her like a ball of angry wasps, a fistful of thorns that grabbed at her bowels and threatened to rip her belly open from within. She knew the excruciating pain had to stop or she would die.

It was not the only pain she had known in the last few days. Only the latest.

She looked down at her crooked leg through sweat-burned eyes. A knurled knot below the knee and a ragged pink scar where the bone had ripped through the skin were vivid reminders of what she had suffered through already. She thought of the gift the mind had; its ability to forget the intensity of pain, to blot out the agony and remember only that pain once existed. And when pain becomes too much for the mind to bear, it mercifully shuts down to protect itself.

Sweet Spirit! She prayed for that mercy now.

She wondered how long it had been since she last attempted to move, before the pain and the fear of pain had crippled her and locked her body into its cramped position. The sunlight had barely begun to kiss the mouth of the cave then; it had inched across the floor and now slashed her body at the waist. Five hours? Could that be right? How much longer could she survive with this horror?

In another hour, the raw afternoon sun would be blazing in her face.

She clenched her teeth and tried to shift along the limestone wall, further into the shadow of the caves overhang and precious relief from the rising heat. But the pain raked through her stomach as soon as she moved. It drove her naked back against the rough wall, pinning her rigidly in place again. Her scream echoed through the hollow stone rooms around her. They shook loose a hawk that had perched above her on the cliff face. Other than her own cries, the quick rustle of its wings was the only sound she had heard all morning and it drew her attention to the entrance of the cave.

She forced herself to focus on the hawk as it silently glided out. Its wings were a black silhouette against the tan mountains on the horizon. Somewhere in the mottled expanse of dry tableland beneath them, an unsuspecting life was about to end, prey to the deadly wings. It was a cycle of life in the desert; a death for one, a life for another. It was about to be repeated.

The wings tilted. The plunging death swoop began.

She stared after the hawk as it slipped from the sky and disappeared from her view. In the brilliant sunlight she could see the sage that rambled across the plain like brown sheeps-wool. Broken only by a few scattered islands of dying beech and cottonwood trees, it covered the face of the desert from the far mountains to the creek that snaked past the base of the cliff; the shallow creek with its dark water and slippery rocks- rocks that rolled suddenly beneath sandaled feet and broke the legs of the unprepared.

How long ago had that been? A week? More? Her condition made it almost impossible to think clearly, to recall the walk to the far side of the river to gather the last few morsels of grain that withered on the drought-dried stalks. In her mind, she relived the return, the crossing back over the rocks she had stepped upon thousands of times before.

It was while she thought of other things that her caution had failed; the mental meandering that took her attention away for the briefest of moments could have been one of many. It could have been of her husband, victim of a rattlesnake, struck down before he ever saw his son smile; or of her sickly son, his two-year old body wasting away as he waited for her in the cave. Or maybe she was thinking about her decision to stay behind and build her own strength when the rest of the tribe migrated north to greener croplands. Perhaps it was the beauty of the day: the air was cool and sweet, gentle breezes filled with the perfume of creosote and cottonwood and the lilting trill of birds in the sparse branches; few had been as pleasant since the start of the drought.

She tried to remember, but couldn’t.

She stepped on the rounded stones, and they had betrayed her. They twisted her violently to the left and she stumbled. The meager collection of food flew from her arms as she tried to keep her balance. She splashed headlong into the shallow water. There was a sharp cracking sound and a sudden burning sensation exploded in her leg as splintered bone tore viciously through the flesh below her knee. Her face slammed into the sand of the river bank. She passed out.

When she awoke, the sun had shifted far to the west and the entrance to her cave, high on the face of the cliff, was now fully in shadow. It took all her strength to drag herself to the base of the cliff, but then she could go no further. She had no way to pull herself up the ragged rocks at the base of the cliff, or to climb the lashed wooden ladders to the shelter of the cave. She knew that when the sun set in another hour, the desert would cool quickly; a fire would be needed to ward off the cold of the night.

But there was no fire in the cave that night. And there was no way to stop the terrified and lonely cries of her starving son. His cold screams mixed with the sounds of her own helpless sobs and drove her to the brink of insanity as the early autumn night chilled the land.

The screams in her head continued long after his had stopped.

She stared at the desert, unseeing, lost in her dark memories, until the sudden screech of the returning hawk snapped her back to cruel reality and the stifling heat in the cave. Sweat flowed from her dark body and glistened on the stone floor. She tried to stretch her taut neck muscles but even that small movement aggravated the pain in her belly. She clenched her teeth against it and stiffened her body. Her bladder relieved itself; she had no more control over it than any other bodily function. It mingled with the heat and produced a vile stench.

Her head swam, white and black spots danced in front of her eyes. And despite the heat and the odor and the pain, she fell over sideways, unconscious.

2

She awoke with soft moonlight casting a grey blush about the darkened room. The sun had done its damage to her exposed body while she slept, and in the pale light she shivered violently.

(A fire,) she thought. (I must build a fire.) But before she could think any further, a sudden sharp spasm of pain raked her gut. It was as if it had waited until she was fully awake and most vulnerable to assault her. She cursed the pain with a shriek.

And she cursed her God as well: Why had the Spirit chosen her for this ordeal? Hadn’t she suffered enough; was He not satisfied with the deaths of her husband and only son? Was it so necessary for Him to torture her more?

She drew her tattered blanket over her body, a flimsy shield against the night. From the coarse weave of the cloth, she caught a whiff of her son’s aroma. Tears welled in her eyes and she began to sob uncontrollably.

‘My son, my son.’ She cried it over and over, her body heaving in the dark. Memories returned with their own special pain.

She resigned herself to the fact that she could do nothing for him, and forced herself to consider her own survival. She tended her wound as if in a trance, emotionlessly forcing the broken bones back into the tender flesh. She bound a stiff branch against the leg with strips from her own dress and, with a compress of matted leaves and grass, managed to clamp the ripped skin shut. Mustering her strength, she dragged herself back to the creek and soaked her shattered limb in the slow-running water.

At the end, his screams had faded slowly away, unanswered in the wind. Sometime during the second night they stopped altogether, and she knew the terror was over for him. She forced thoughts of her son out of her mind as best as she could; it did no good.

The following morning she watched the birds circle the face of the cliff. They darted in and out of the cave, and she knew that when they flew away they were carrying whatever pieces they had been able to tear loose from his tiny body. The birds came and went throughout the day, and when they finally stopped, very little mattered anymore.

She became an animal. She ate grass and insects and rummaged through the tribe’s garbage pit. Blood continued to seep from her torn leg and flies fed on the wound. Her body became raw from the intense sun that blazed on her during the day, and filthy from hiding in the sand for warmth at night. Time lost all meaning.

Finally, exhausted and crazed, she collapsed on the desert sand. The moon that night was a bright crescent that grinned at her; a ghostly pall of fog graced the spindly trees along the edge of the creek. It was then, in the cold of the night, she decided to end her misery. With her life become carrion, death held no fear; it could bring only relief.

She drew her knife from its sheath, placed it against the side of her throat and closed her eyes. Her fingers tightened on the bone handle, one at a time, securing her grip. She opened her eyes, taking a last look at the silent moon, and then...

A large shadow suddenly blocked the moon from her view. Towering and black, it filled her vision. Moonlight swirled around it like a luminescent halo. Her mouth dropped open in awe; the knife slipped slowly from her hand and fell to the sand.

‘Oh Spirit! So soon have you come for me?’ she said.

The shadow spoke with a strong and raspy voice, a deep sound that compelled her to listen through the fog of her anguish. ‘Where now are you taking your life?’ it asked.

She answered with a voice that was not her own, as if it came from somewhere far away; its tone was weak and came out in flat cadence, without inflection. ‘My seed is gone, and I can live in this place no more.’

The deep voice came back, soft and entreating. ‘For want of a seed, you would throw all away?’ The dark specter moved closer, descending like a black cloud.

Her eyes were wide and unblinking, unable to focus on the apparition that hovered over her. A cold rush swept through her; gooseflesh rippled down her arms and legs and her muscles seemed to lose their ability to respond. (Yes, O Spirit), her mind said. (Yes. Take me.)

‘Woman, your seed need never run dry.’ The voice was subtle this time, almost a caress to her ears. ‘Save only that you bear the fruit unto... me.’

A hand reached out from the darkness towards her. The nails of the thin fingers were sharp and curved, like the talons of an eagle. Moonlight flashed on their shiny surfaces. Involuntarily, she reached for the hand.

The fingers slipped past her hand and wrapped around her wrist. They were hard and cold and held her with a strength that told her that wherever they decided to take her she would have no choice but to go. She looked into the face that suddenly appeared before her. It floated in the blackness, vague and incomplete. Dark crimson eyes, slitted and fringed in yellow stared back. They were hypnotic eyes, eyes she could not tear herself away from. The face came closer.

From somewhere deep inside, a long forgotten memory swam to the surface of her mind. It told her of things she didn’t want to hear, of things she didn’t want to know. It told her that she knew that face.

(No!) her mind screamed with it’s final thought. (It cannot be! It cannot...)

The fingers that gripped her wrists tightened. ‘Behold,’ the shadow whispered. ‘The day has come for a new seed, and it brings new life.’

It fell upon her, driving her backward into the sand. Spread-eagled, she was immobile and totally vulnerable. Its weight settled between her outstretched legs. With a single thrust, she was savagely penetrated. Her mind, shattered by sorrow and the horror that had come on so quickly, no longer responded to what was happening. Even as she was being violated, it blanked out the reality it could not comprehend just as surely as it would a pain it could not bear. She lay there while it raped her, silent and numb, and stared at the cold stars.

3

Somehow, she had survived the attack. It took a long while for her to realize that she was still alive in the same world.

But was it the same? She wondered. There were too many things that she couldn’t understand.

She awoke in the cave; how she got there, she didn’t know. Fresh food had been laid out for her, but she could not explain where it had come from- the drought had left the desert too barren to have provided such nourishment. The succulence of the fruit was ecstasy. She wondered if delirium had taken her to the point were cattails and creek moss had become corn and honey.

Perhaps delirium had summoned the shadow too, she thought. Perhaps it had all been a nightmare, an insane dream. But she had seen the dried blood on her belly and thighs...

Insanity or not, the food brought her strength back rapidly. Her leg began to heal at a tremendous rate, and she felt that within days she would be able to cope with the ladders that ran up the face of the cliff.

The body of her son was gone; the cave held no sign that he had ever been there. She was torn between the feelings of loss at not being able to see his face for a final farewell and to prepare his body for the trip to the next world, and the merciful relief of not having to witness how he had been pecked and torn apart by the feeding birds. He was dead, she was alive; and somehow she felt that she needed to stay alive.

The cave was clean. The floor was swept clear of wind-blown sand and her blankets were stacked neatly against the wall, as if she had never been away. Fresh water filled her earthen pots and a small pile of firewood stood ready. Under other circumstances she might have questioned the condition of the room, but not any more. That night, for the first time since leaving the cave in search of food for her son, she slept quietly.

It was to be the last quiet night of her life. The first twinge of pain began the next evening.

She had eaten well. A luckless bird, possibly the same hawk she would later watch glide over the desert, had dropped a large trout on the ledge of the cave. Had it missed the ledge, it would have fallen into the tribe’s ceremonial kiva, some ninety feet below.

She turned the fish on a wooden spit, ate it, then curled next to the fire. At first she had thought a spark from the golden embers had landed on her belly, because the pain was sharp and hot. She brushed the spot automatically, to clear it away before it burned her. But then, below her navel, it bit at her again. Pulling aside her dress, she ran her hand over her abdomen, gently feeling the area above her pubic hair. It was slightly swollen. She dismissed it as being the result of filling herself so ravenously with fresh food after being hungry for so long. A full belly may feel tight, but it felt better, she told herself; much better than an empty one.

She lay back on her side, stroking her stomach, easing its fullness. But a moment later, the stinging pain suddenly hit again, jerking her upright. Her hands grabbed her stomach. Beneath her fingers, she felt something move.

She told herself that it couldn’t be. It was a mother’s loss of a child that played with her senses; a roll of the food on sore muscles and nothing more; a trick of twisted emotions.

But the trick continued through the night and all the next day. The pains grew in intensity, and soon there were other evidences that she was not suffering delusions. The stretch marks from her first pregnancy began to widen, the skin became taut and tender.

And by the end of the second day she knew for sure; in the growing light of the full moon, she could not ignore the bloated belly or the kicking, twisting forms below her navel.

4

Another labor pain shot through her gut. She doubled her knees up under the blanket, burrowed her fingernails deep into the flesh of her thighs, and told herself she would not be able to endure this torture much longer. A whittled splinter of bone, the unsheathed blade of her knife, gleamed in the moonlight on the far side of the cave. If this ordeal didn’t end soon, she would end it herself.

As if a shroud had fallen, the moonlight in the cave was suddenly curtained by a tall silhouette. It stood at the entrance, with crimson eyes that sparkled in the blackness.

The final horror began.

The pain; beyond measure. The shrieks; filling the cave with her terror. The fists; bruised and bleeding, pounding against the limestone floor. The incredible pressure; tearing her womb open from within. And the cold, spindly fingers; razor sharp talons, clawing between her bloodied thighs.

Once; twice; again...

The pressure was suddenly gone. She lay on the blood-soaked blanket, sweat running off her heaving body, and salty tears filling her eyes. They burned and she blinked hard to clear them. She looked down her naked body, past the cramped legs and matted hair and into his grinning eyes.

He turned sideways, and as the light of the moon fell across him she saw her birthings. He held one in his left arm; and in his right, two more. Oval, blood-streaked and glistening in the eerie glow of the moonlight were the terrible things he had ripped from her body.

She grabbed her hemorrhaging crotch with both hands and screamed.

He smiled, his lips curling back slowly to reveal yellow teeth that tapered to points. Then he tilted his head back and opened his mouth, laughing in triumphant pleasure. The inside of his mouth was white, like the belly of a frog. His forked tongue flicked the air.

‘Behold!’ he bellowed. His voice filled the cave. ‘The day has come for a new seed!’

‘No!’ she cried; her voice was raw with hatred. Her fingers, slippery with blood, balled up tightly in rage. And her eyes... They were open and wide.

For now she knew him. She knew him and she knew his name.

His eyes flashed at her, blazing like distant fire, filled with surprise at her sudden outburst. He lowered his face until it was inches from hers and mockingly asked: ‘I give you a new seed and you want it not?’

He faced her for a long moment. His look changed to one of revulsion and contempt. Then he stood and turned to the open expanse of sky and desert behind him. He shifted the load in his arms. Finally, he turned back to the woman. ‘Then... it is mine!’ he said. ‘My word is true.’ He leaned close to her. ‘It... is... Life!’ he shouted.

The final word rang off the walls like a thunderclap. She flinched at the power of the sound.

He stepped to the entrance of the cave and stood on the ledge in the cold moonlight. His back was to the woman and he spoke without looking at her: ‘Be gone then, Woman. For now, my Kingdom has come.’

Below him, basked in a strange glow, the desert rustled with the passing of the fall night wind. Shapeless clouds with spilled-milk edges floated lazily across the moon’s face. He stood motionless, his children in his arms, and hissed loudly at the desolate landscape before him.

His nostrils flared wide as he sucked in the night air. The needle teeth opened in a grimace of victory; saliva slavered at the edges of his curled lips.

‘My Kingdom has come!’ His voice reverberated against the far mountains. Lightening flashed purple and blue in a hellish fury above their peaks, an eerie wind suddenly swept around him in a violent tempest. He began to laugh.

She lay in the dark behind him, her body rolled on its side, her hands clamped tightly over her shredded womb. With eyes wide and wild, she felt the warm pulsing flow of her lifeblood seep through her cramped fingers. A pungent odor filled the room, and flashing dots of light began filling her vision. She knew she was on the verge of passing out; and she knew if she did, it would be forever.

(Forever!) The word shimmered in her mind like sunlight on a lake. And then she realized that she wasn’t passing out. She was dying.

She fought to stay lucid. ‘Not now,’ she thought; ‘Not yet.’ The merciful death she had prayed for only days before would hold no victory now. It had stolen her husband and it had taken her son and it had cheated her when she wanted it most. But death would not cheat her again. She would have her last desire.

With blood-smeared hands, she forced herself to her knees. The flow from her bowels went unheeded as her fingers groped across the dark stone floor. Finally they curled around the bone handle.

Three quick, staggering steps and she was upon him.

Over and over, she plunged the blade into his thick neck, blindly and with all the viciousness her hate could muster. He howled with rage and agony; his body shuddered with every savage thrust of her knife. A wild flick of flame shot from his mouth.

He pivoted against the assault, trying to shake her loose without losing his precious cache. But she was locked tightly against his pitching shoulders, and she continued to pump the blade across his throat.

The gravel on the ledge rolled and grated with their struggle, and small torrents of loose rock fell into the pit below them. They whirled in their death dance to the edge of the precipice, he clutching his children and she slashing out the last of his life.

The limestone edge suddenly gave way beneath them. Locked together, they hurled into empty space, a cascade of rock and flesh that rumbled down the face of the cliff in the dark. The concert of noise finally faded