A Gathering of Shadows

By Jesus Cavazos, Jr

When the world was born, a force moved over it and shaped it to its liking. Beings born in its wake tried to change the world to fit them. The force took the world back and gave it to new beings that had been created. Wanting revenge on the new beings, the Old Ones perverted some of the New Ones so they would kill the un-perverted. These creatures were called Shadows.

Guilty of crimes against man in the name of religion, Simonson has been tasked with finding and killing the Shadows. As further punishment, he is not allowed to use weapons to kill the monsters. He could only use his hands and whatever items he can find around him. Traveling through the ages and across the continent in search of these creatures of death and destruction, Simonson finds and loses friends and allies along the way, hoping to one day to be allowed to die so he can join his family.

For Mature Audiances Only—Language and violance

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jesus Cavazos, Jr
• Release date: Mar 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463502013

Jesus Cavazos, Jr

Jesus Cavazos Jr. has been creating stories all of his life. At first, he told the stories only to himself. Then he began writing them down. After a few years, he turned to oral stories. For over two decades, while telling his stories, he gained a reputation as a wordsmith. Though being a bard was satisfying, he found more joy in writing down different kinds of stories. So, for the last few years, he has concentrated on writing down his imagination. These Shadow stories are but the first of those he has written down.

Book preview

A Gathering

of

Shadows

Jesus Cavazos, Jr.

Copyright © 2019 Jesus Cavazos Jr.

All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT

SHADOW OUT WEST

SHADOW TOWN

SHADOW NIGHT

SHADOW IN THE SUN

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

SHADOW OUT WEST

The full moon sailed slowly through a cloudless, star-filled sky. Its light shone down on the earth so brightly, it was as if twilight. The only other light seen for many miles around was a campfire on top of a small hill. Four young Apache men sat cross-legged before the fire. With the help of a brew from sacred herbs, each man was on his own spirit journey; hoping the spirits who lived in the mountains would teach them how to live, what ceremonies to perform, songs to sing, and dances to do. It was a rite their young shaman, Walks Crooked, insisted they must perform.

The men sat, oblivious of the world around them. Each walked alone through the spirit world.

A long shadow moved toward the four young warriors. It approached the fire and stopped just outside the circle of light, while it studied the young men in their daze. After several moments, the shadow walked up behind one of them. The youths did not stir. It moved around the campfire behind each of them, smelling their spirits. It returned to the second human and stopped behind him.

Glancing to those on either side, the Shadow smiled. It reached around and cupped the youth’s mouth, pulled him back, and rammed its claw under his rib cage and into his chest cavity. Blood poured down over the Shadow’s claw.

The young brave woke and grabbed the Shadow’s arm as he tried to pull it out of his chest.

The Shadow wrapped its talons around the boy’s heart, and with a single closing of its claw, ripped the heart to shreds. The young man’s body spasmed twice and went limp. The creature looked at the warriors. None of them noticed.

It drank the man’s soul and savored its taste.

The Shadow again sniffed the men, until it stopped behind another one. It squatted behind the youth, reached around, cupped his mouth, wrapped its other arm around the torso pinning his arms to his sides, and quickly pulled him off the ground. The young man woke. The creature opened its mouth full of sharp, jagged teeth, and sank them into the soft tissue of the victim’s throat. In one quick jerk, it ripped the human’s throat out. Blood squirted across the creature’s dull, white eyes and featureless face. The boy jerked. He reached for his neck, but the Shadow had his arms pinned. The brave struggled to no avail. The only sound the victim made was gurgling as blood filled his lungs. He gasped for air, but only inhaled blood.

The Shadow also drank his soul.

The creature walked behind the third man. It reached high into the air, and in one quick motion drove its talons into the young man’s lower stomach, curled its claws under the skin and muscles, and ripped upward. The warrior woke with a scream, throwing his arms out in shock. Looking down, he wrapped his arms around his abdomen. He stared in shock as his entrails spilled past his hands, between his legs, to the ground. He tried to scoop his guts back into his stomach, but the blood-coated entrails slipped through his fingers and fell back to the dirt.

With one swipe across the back of the neck, the Shadow severed the youth’s spinal cord.

The fourth brave woke. Looking around, he saw his friends about him dead or dying. He turned toward the Shadow only to see it leap over the fire at him. In one wide swipe, the creature’s talons tore the human’s face off. The boy screamed and sprang to his feet, hands covering his ruined face, trying to escape the pain and death before him. Blood and flesh obscured his vision, still he ran.

The Shadow lunged out and cut the man’s back leg muscles. The warrior fell. He screamed for help, knowing there was none.

The Shadow laughed as the human yelled and groped for support. The creature had killed the others quickly. This last one, it would take its time killing. The third soul had escaped it, the fourth would not.

The Shadow smiled its blood stained, toothy grin as it walked around the young man. It dropped on him and held down one of his arms with a hand, and the other arm with a knee. It then slowly drew a cut down the brave’s chest. It wanted to see the boy’s beating heart, before tearing it open. The young man’s screams of pain were a wondrous sound to its ears.

The creatures of the desert night were silent. Their usual night cries were quelled by the howls of the last warrior, who screamed far into the night, until the Shadow took his soul as he died.

***

Simonson walked, face downcast, through the scorching landscape. Heat radiated from the sunbaked ground and burned through the soles of his boots. The wide brimmed hat he wore sat high on his brow to cover the back of his neck. A red bandana hung untied around his neck to absorb his sweat and gave him a little relief from the sun. He used the end of the bandana to wipe sweat from his face and eyes. The wind might have helped a little in cooling him, if not for the fact it was just as scorching hot as the land it blew across.

The creaking wheels of the wagon train paralleling his trek were a constant, never advancing, never retreating sound. The endless turning wheels of the wagons were a mesmerizing image in the corner of his right eye, accompanied by a continuous sound in his right ear. Snorting horses laboring against the pull of the laden wagons sounded in the distant to his exhausted mind.

Mr. Simonson.

A call from behind him cut through the haze of his addled mind. It was the Widow Adams again. If only he could lose that sound in the recesses of his mind. Maybe he had, and this was but the last in a string of calls.

When the urge to head southwest and find the creature had come upon him two months before, he had managed to find a wagon train going in the right direction, from St. Louis to Santa Fe to southern California. Simonson had bought a mule and joined the train.

Four days out from Fort Yuma, along the southern edge of the Colorado Desert, one of the widow’s two horses stepped in a hole and come up lame. Morgan Barney, the train’s hostler, determined it would take several weeks of care, which meant no walking, to heal the horse’s knee. That was time and care the train could not afford. Another option was to leave the horse behind to suffer a slow and painful death. Barney advised the animal be put out of its misery.

With all the spare horses of the ten-wagon train spoken for, to offer one of those to the widow would have put one of the other families, or those who worked the train, in distress or danger.

As the only single rider with the train, it had fallen on Simonson to offer his mule to the widow. His bedroll and sack with his meager belongings now lay in the back of her wagon. All else had been left behind by the trail with the dead horse.

At first, Simonson had ridden with the widow in the wagon. After two days, he decided to walk. He still preferred to walk rather than to listen to her endless babel.

Now the widow was constantly calling on Simonson to help her with ‘man things’ or inviting him to meals. On Saturday nights when the people of the wagon train held their dance, she would ask him to dance with her. Regardless of how many times he turned her down, or made himself scarce, she persisted in her invitations. She was determined he would make her Mrs. Simonson, by the time they reached the Spanish mission town of El Pueblo de Nuestra Senora la Reina de los Angeles del Rio de Porciuncula, or as the white settlers called it, Los Angeles.

There were times Simonson wished the Shadow creature he sought would come out and face him so he could kill it, it kill him, or both kill each other, just to be rid of the widow.

Mr. Simonson, Mr. Simonson, wait. She ran up behind him and slipped her arm around his.

How can anyone run in this stifling heat? Oh yes, she’s riding in a wagon, in the shade, being pulled by my mule.

You know, Mr. Simonson, it would be a lot easier if you just told me your first name so I wouldn’t have to keep calling you Mister all the time.

I know, he said, and then was silent.

She laughed. Oh, Mr. Simonson, you’re such a devil, she said, giving his upper arm a playful pat. Mr. West, the wagon train boss, said the scout, Mr. Hale…

I know who they are. Why must you insist on telling me those things over and over again. Just tell me what you want to say, woman, and be gone. Please.

…found a place where we can rest for the night. So, Mr. West decided to stop there for the night. She gave Simonson a nudge. I’ll have dinner a little after sunset. I’ll be waiting for you, Mr. Simonson, she cooed.

Simonson thought quickly. I paid the wagon train cook to feed me all the way to California, he said. Might as well get what I paid for.

Oh, Mr. Simonson, a meal cooked by a man isn’t the same as a meal cooked by a good, loving woman. She stroked his arm. I’ll be waiting for you. Her tone implied more than just a meal. She smiled as she gave his arm one final squeeze before turning around and heading back to her wagon.

Maybe she’s part of my penance for all the evil things I did. No, nobody could be that cruel. I’d have to be dead and in Hell for her kind of punishment.

He stepped on a sharp rock that felt like it had burrowed all the way through the sole of his boot. The soles had been in good condition when he started on this journey. Now they were pliable from walking on hot sand and sharp rocks in the blazing heat.

He pulled his hat down to his brow to give his tortured eyes relief from the blinding sun. The bandana would protect his neck.

The same could not be said about his back. The heavy, cotton shirt he wore did little to shield him from the tormenting sun. At times, he wondered if his back was blistered under his shirt from the heat.

Simonson felt sweat snake down the middle of his back only to be quickly evaporated by the scorching heat of the day. Again, Simonson used the end of the bandana to wipe sweat from his eyes.

A horse and rider rode up to him. It was Hale.

Simonson, called Hale pulling up beside him. We’re going to need firewood for camp tonight. Want to help? It’ll give you a chance to ride and get off your feet.

Hale looked toward the Widow’s wagon.

She smiled and waved.

He faked a grin and waved back. Also give you a break from other things. Know what I mean? he smiled.

Simonson smiled at him. May your fields be forever fertile and your children many fold with long, healthy lives.

Hale laughed, opened his mouth to say something as he looked up at the Widow Adams’ wagon passing by them, but closed his mouth and shook his head.

Looking down at Simonson, he took his boot out of the stirrup and extended a hand. Hurry up before she comes back for something else.

Simonson accepted the offer and climbed behind the saddle. Hale turned his horse and headed for the train’s chuck wagon where those who worked for the train ate, and the train captain had his office.

As Simonson and Hale approached the wagon, Simonson noticed the string of five horses tied to it.

How are the horses doing? he asked.

Not good. We’re running them into the ground. If the wagon train had had money for more horses, we wouldn’t be running them ragged. And you wouldn’t have had to give up your mule to the widow. As it is, we barely give them time to rest before we have to ride them again.

Why didn’t Mr. West buy more horses?

No money.

Why?

Small train, cheap settlers. They wanted to save their money for land and supplies. Thing is, if they don’t have the horses to get there, they won’t be able to buy land and supplies. Just be a bunch of rich corpses. Captain told them that, but they wouldn’t listen.

Hale came to a stop and Simonson slid off. Barney walked up to Simonson leading a tired looking horse.

Take it easy on her, he said, she’s had a rough day.

Simonson took the reins. The horse’s head hung low from exhaustion. He ran his hand along the horse’s jaw. It’s okay, girl. You look like I feel. So, I guess we’ll take it real slow. He patted the horse on the neck and climbed onto its back. The horse let out a long, labored breath.

Simonson looked around for some brush where there might be dry wood. When he spotted some, he turned the horse in that direction and nudged her to a slow walk.

***

Simonson woke with a start. The urge to go somewhere lay heavy in his chest. He looked down at the horse under him. It stood munching on the leaves of a bush.

Simonson looked around at the horizon. He focused on a group of hills a little off to his left. The urge to go in that direction was strong. Pulling the reins in that direction, he gave the horse a light kick in the ribs. It responded sluggishly.

As they drew closer to the hills, he lost the feeling.

The horse slowed its step and its ears perked up as if sensing danger.

Simonson’s anxiety grew.

The creature is somewhere around here.

***

When the Creating Force had moved over the world and formed it to its pleasure, beings rose in the wake of its power. These creatures, having a minuscule amount of the Force’s power, began changing the world as they saw fit, for they assumed the world would be theirs. However, the Force changed the world back and fashioned new beings. It deemed the world would belong to these New Ones. The Old Ones were not happy. These New Ones did not have any power. They were helpless against the world.

Angered, the Old Ones decided to make the New Ones suffer, so they created the Shadows.

Shadows were creatures of death and destruction. They had once been New Ones, but due to their weak minds, or black souls, the Old Ones had corrupted them. The Shadows were then sent to cause death and destruction. The Shadows could corrupt other New Ones and make them their Toys.

The Force decided to fight the Old Ones. But not by confronting them. No. It would use the very instrument they sought to destroy, the New Ones. Those creatures who called themselves man.

Simonson, for his crimes of killing his fellow man in the name of his God, had been ordained to find these Shadows and kill them. That was to be his penance, and his curse. When he felt an urge in his chest, he would have to go in the direction the urge drew him. When close, the urge would go. He then had to find the Shadow on his own.

The one drawback was that Simonson could not use firearms, swords, or any instrument of death. He had to kill the creatures by hand, or with whatever was at hand.

***

Simonson reached the foot of a small hill to which the feeling had drawn him.

He dismounted and headed toward the hill on foot. He heard the sound of people talking among some rocks. Not knowing who they might be, he crept quietly closer to the rocks until he reached them. He leaned against one. The voices seemed to be in an argument.

Seeing the movement of a shadow at his feet, Simonson turned and came face to face with a young man falling on him.

Simonson saw a knife in the man’s hand and grabbed for the arm.

The youth screamed as they crashed and fell to the ground.

Rolling on the ground, Simonson fought to control the knife and push the young man away, but the man clung to him. The youth yelled in some language Simonson did not understand.

Rolling them over so he would be on top, Simonson quickly pinned the youth. He then covered the young man’s mouth, to silence him.

Hands grabbed Simonson’s arms, hair, and face. He was pulled off the man and thrown to the ground. Fists and kicks rained down on his body. He fought back to no avail against a group of young men. Stars exploded as fists struck his eyes. Simonson tasted blood and felt ribs break. He rolled to his hands and knees to escape his attackers. Before he could get up, a large rock fell on the middle of his back. Pain exploded through his lower body, overpowering the sensation of the other blows. He hit the ground, was spun around, and his arms pinned to the ground as more blows fell on him.

The pain receded, and his world faded to black.

***

From behind a clump of trees nearby, a shadow witnessed the exchange, and smiled.

***

Voices penetrated the darkness that enveloped his mind. Pain came rolling back into his existence.

Simonson lay on his right side. He tried to open his eyes, but they were swollen shut. Reaching up with his left hand, he felt his face. It was swollen and wet. He guessed the wetness was blood. Placing his hand against the floor, he tried to push himself into a sitting position, pain shot through his entire back.

He fell back onto the ground with a moan and waited for the pain to recede to a tolerable level.

As he lay there, he thought, Can’t feel my legs. Wonder if I can move them.

He tried, but nothing happened.

They really gave me a beating. Back must be broken. Wonder how long that’s going to take.

The only two good things about this job were a purse that always had just the right amount of coin needed to buy only what was necessary for him to do his job, and a healing ability that fixed most injuries in just a few hours, the rest took a little longer. After all, he couldn’t be incapacitated too long in this profession.

Simonson let the darkness overwhelm him again.

***

Searing pain shooting down his back into his legs woke Simonson.

He tried to open his eyes but could only peek out of one of them. The swelling was going down. He looked up at young, brown faced men as they lifted him off the floor and carried him out of an enclosure. A dark sky and stars replaced the roof.

The men carried Simonson to a fire and dropped him next to it.

He cried out as pain shot throughout his entire body, pushing him close to passing out again.

Simonson heard a female voice calling to him.

He felt a poke on his shoulder.

He ignored it as he tried to get control of the pain and his breathing.

There was a harder poke on his shoulder. This time the voice broke through the pain.

Why did you kill our young men? the voice asked.

Wha…?

The young men on the hill, why did you kill them?

Kil ‘em? Din kill an’one.

Then why were you sneaking up on the other men?

Simonson opened his one good eye. Hovering above him was a young, redheaded woman.

Who a yu? he asked.

It doesn’t matter who I am. What matters is why you killed our young men.

Tol yu, I din—

A voice broke in. It spoke the same language Simonson had heard in the hills. The girl answered back. A young man stepped closer and shoved her to the ground. The young man wore a head covering with bones and feathers dangling from it. His face was painted black and he wore a leather shirt, leather leggings, and a cloth hanging from the front of his pants.

The young man stepped over Simonson with one strangely angled foot and straddled him, staring down at him. He yelled something at Simonson.

Walks Crooked wants to know why you killed the men, said the girl.

I din’t kill ‘em.

The girl said something in the strange language.

Walks Crooked yelled at Simonson again, raised a club with a rock attached at one end, and brought it crashing down next to Simonson’s head.

Simonson looked at Walks Crooked coldly. If yo feel you mus kill me, go ahead. But it’s not gonna change the fact I din’t kill yo men.

The girl spoke.

Walks Crooked’s eyes grew wild. He raised his club again, but before he could bring it crashing down, a voice called from one side. Walks Crooked turned to it and lowered his club.

Simonson followed the shaman’s gaze and saw a group of men on horses.

The man in front of the group spoke to Walks Crooked.

Stepping over Simonson and moving toward the riders, Walks Crooked answered angrily, pointing his club at Simonson. The man on the horse spoke again with authority.

Walks Crooked started speaking angrily, waving at Simonson.

The man on the horse barked something at Walks Crooked, then spoke a little louder with authority.

Walks Crooked stood still for a couple of seconds, then turned and limped away angry.

The girl knelt next to Simonson. She indicated the man in front of the group with a point of her chin. "That is Three Eagles. He is the leader. He said he followed