Skinwalker! Cradle of the Water Babies

By Veronica Lawson

Stories of flesh-eating, unworldly creatures living in streams and lakes, have flourished for centuries. For indigenous tribes to survive during famines, mothers sometimes drowned their newborns. Native Americans know them as water babies. The dispossessed children continue to hibernate in the reservation lakes and rivers, their small bodies str

• Language: English
• Publisher: Book Vine Press
• Release date: May 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781952835049

Veronica Lawson

Focusing on the Native American culture, Veronica Lawson was a successful artist, published freelance writer, and owned an art studio in Vernal, Utah. Her technical illustration skills, paradoxically, helped propel her into a Facility Configuration Management career in the Department of Energy's nuclear program. After developing and instituting the first formal CM process in the D.O.E. NNSA complex, she retired and re-entered the thrilling, combined world of art, literature, paranormal intrigue, and imagination. She is now authoring adult fantasy/science fiction novels. A Dark Feather Novel is the series' title of her books. Summer of Stolen Souls was the first novel written; the Cradle of the Water Babies is the second; In the Shadow of Bones will be the third installment.

Book preview

Dedication

For Mama Jo, my beautiful aunt who has been my heroine, since I was a mere child. Armed with her offbeat, southern sense of humor, quirky but shrewd opinions, and her insatiable taste for living, she fearlessly led me through some very difficult times.

For her sons, Larry and Michael, my diversely talented cousins, whose many accomplishments dwarf the ordinary. Life is, indeed, mysterious. When my mother passed away, they stood by my side as if they were my siblings. With quiet strength and no apologies, they helped me relinquish my mom’s blessed soul to her final destiny.

I am forever grateful.

Acknowledgments

This is my opportunity to thank, in a formal setting, those who were most instrumental in helping me with this latest endeavor.

Terry and Marlis had an unyielding faith that I could write the second book. I had my doubts. They gave frequent feedback and pulled me out of the depths of periodic writer’s insecurities. Marlis, as my editor in the final lap, rode the plot through to the finish line, and Terry was there with her pompoms.

Honest preliminary readers are as essential to a good novel’s production, as is any other undertaking within the publication process. My astute readers, Shay, Marjorie, Debra, and Aeron performed amazingly by the types of discrepancies they found. Each of their perspectives was unique and added significantly to the book’s integrity.

My nephew, Pat, provided technical input regarding the Oil and Gas Extraction Industry, and it proved to be priceless. In our discussions, he gave me several points of inspiration. Because of his expertise, I was able to transform a particular fictional character’s experience into a believable, horrific situation.

Rebecca, my devoted daughter, despite her overwhelming work schedule, supported me in several ways by assisting in personal, medical, and business decisions. Had she not done so, it would have taken much longer to write the novel, or perhaps it would not have come to fruition, at all.

I want to acknowledge the members of the Uintah and Ouray Reservation, located in northeastern Utah. Their rich culture is the motivation behind writing the Dark Feather Novel series. I hope the latest embellishments to their extraordinary stories are received with assurance that this white woman’s perspective comes from the heart. Writing the series is truly an act of respect and honorable intention on my part. This book is pure fiction. The Native American experience is not.

Introduction

Dark Feather Novel No. 2

Heed these words.

Native Americans know them as water babies. Drowned by loved ones, the babies slept for hundreds of years—dispossessed, somewhere between life and death. A malevolent creature found them in their watery cradles and woke them to carry out its bidding.

Stay away from rivers and lakes. If your eyes can count all of your own children, beware the beckoning cry or laugh from an unknown child. Deceit is the power of water babies, and they are good at it. After their long slumber, they are hungry and will eat you alive.

The Author

Prologue

The thin veil that separates us from the other world is as close as the breathing behind you. I know this to be true.

Robert Caddarown, Medicine Man

Aeron Yazzi was the self-proclaimed smarter brother. When he pulled the maroon baseball cap off his head, he revealed his black, stringy hair. Deep in concentration, he combed the loose strands back from his face with his fingers and replaced the hat. After intently scrutinizing the male Indian sprawled on the wet asphalt, he wiped his nose against the back of his hand and said, He’s dead.

How can ya’ tell?

He ain’t breathin’.

Barry was the younger of the two siblings. He leaned closer to the tall, burly figure and shined his Rayovac flashlight on the lifeless face. Look at them eyes, man. They look like they’ve been cooked. What do ya’ think happened to him?

Aeron answered, I don’t know and I don’t care. Could be he got stabbed in the back. He’s layin’ in a lot of blood. Come on, let’s get out of here.

Oblivious to his brother’s words, Barry glanced around and asked, Do ya’ see anybody else? There’s two cars.

There ain’t two cars. There’s one car and one SUV.

More curious about what had transpired than his brother’s quibbling, Barry stepped back and probed the muddy premises with his flashlight. Yeah, okay…whatever. Maybe the people in the car killed him and ran away. All the doors are open. They must’ve been in a big hurry. Yeah. They’ve got to a killed ’em.

He sniffed and snorted with each breath of pungent air. You smell that? It stinks around here. Smells like, I don’t know, like…battery acid and dog shit…mixed up together. There’s somethin’ else…static. It’s makin’ my hairs stand straight up. I’ve seen this guy on the Rez. He’s Manny Caddarown, that Ute medicine man’s grandson. This is bad, man. His grandpa’s powerful. I’ve heard stories. Somethin’ bad’s goin’ on here. Can’t you feel it? Like we’re bein’ watched? Maybe we ought to call the cops. We could be gone before they got here. If we don’t do somethin’, we might get cursed. I mean this could come back to haunt us. Not being able to shake his morbid curiosity, he continued to study the stilled figure lying on the pavement. What’s that sticking out of his shirt?

What’re you talkin’ about? Aeron pointed his flashlight down onto the dead man’s glassy necklace, barely visible under the collar. It’s a big crystal. So, what?

Bein’ who he is, I’ll bet it has powers, Barry answered. Probably worth some money.

Aeron blew up, Stupid! Use your head. Don’t mess with it. We already got a pound of weed in the shack. It’s in the middle of the night and it’s been pourin’ down rain. What if the cops show up? Ever think they’d want to know why we’re out here in this damn storm? Huh? We’re lucky there ain’t been any traffic. Ever think about that? That’s your problem. Ya’ never think. I told you buryin’ the weed in that oversized outhouse was stupid.

Barry whispered, Simmer down. I didn’t say I wanted to take it or nothin’. I was just sayin’ it’s probably valuable, magical or somethin’. I wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot lodge pole.

The two men heard a splash—then a second.

Ignoring Aeron’s tirade, Barry walked toward the creek. I got to check this out. Somebody’s out there, he said. I’ll bet they’ve been hidin’ in the water all along. He continued to scan the inexplicable panorama, then stopped and focused on the exposed interior light of the Impala. There was blood on the car seat. As if drawn to the macabre display, he moved closer to the empty vehicle.

Aeron followed Barry, ranting and waving his arms. Where’re ya’ going? Come on. Let’s get the stash and get outta here.

Barry slid down the steep bank to the creek bed yelling, Who’s there? Need some help? We just wanna’ pick up somethin’ of ours outta that shack and get outta here. We don’t care about nothin’ going on here. If you’re hurt, maybe we can help, make a call or somethin’.

He listened for a response—nothing. He spotted a strip of blue, flowered fabric hung up in the grassy bank. Next to the cloth was a dull, thick white ball bobbing indifferently in the water. He squatted down for a closer vantage point.

Oh, shit! Oh, shit! Aeron! It’s a freakin’ human skull, man. It’s a freakin’ skull!

From his squatting position, he attempted to backup on the muddy incline. His boots could not get enough traction to get away from the water’s edge. The more he fought, the closer he slid to the creek. Help me, Aeron! I can’t get up! It’s too slick!

Aeron was stupefied as his brother floundered at the water’s edge. Barry resembled a large-mouth bass flopping in the mud. Boiling bubbles surfaced on the far side of the creek and headed straight toward Barry. In an instant, the creek burst open with a loud splash and pulled him into the murky depth—out of sight. Aeron stared, spellbound. That was the last he saw of Barry. He did not know what he had just witnessed but it was time to go. Nothing could help his brother now. Survival was the game. Like Barry said. This is bad! He dropped his flashlight as he scrambled to the shack to retrieve their goods.

The shack’s wooden door had swollen from saturation. Coupled with a missing latch, there was no means of opening the door. Aeron searched for something to pry it open when he thought he heard child’s laughter stemming from the direction of the stream. Was he losing his mind? No matter. He had to get away from there. The first stick he found broke into three pieces as did the second. While searching the darkness for others, he realized that the door had an opening at the bottom, enough to push his hand through. Grabbing the top edge of the hole, he shook the slab door until it jerked open with a loud, grinding thud.

The remaining Yazzi brother frantically stared into the pitch-black room. This is` stupid. I don’t have the damned flashlight! The darkness did not keep him from retrieving his cache. Aeron placed his hand on the wall and followed the wooden structure to the right-hand corner. He bent down on his knees and dug at the moist dirt—like a starving dog after a freshly buried bone.

Bingo!

He found the plastic bag. As Aeron pulled the stockpile from the dirt, he heard a child’s ungodly laughter erupt from the open doorway.

Chapter 1

For the better part of twenty minutes, Manny ignored the crow’s agitated caw. When it physically assaulted the large, plate glass window, it got his attention. That does it! You’re rotisserie, Bird, he mumbled under his breath.

He shuffled his intimidating, six-foot-five frame across the linoleum flooring and opened the front door. A solid blast of moist wind blew his long, black braids back behind his shoulders. The cottonwoods behind his house frantically beat against the roof. Manny was surprised, but listened carefully. The air moving past his face was weeping.

With feet bare against the cool concrete, he stepped further out on the porch and instinctively turned to the west. A violent, green-black vortex was approaching the Butte. An angry spirit had already reached the town of Randlett and was lashing out with its lightening tongues. This could mean one of two things—there was a life in balance or death was a done deal. When he looked toward the east, he saw yellow and white cumulous clouds quickly exiting but promising to come back when things calmed down.

The overwrought crow circled the yard and dived straight at Manny’s feet. It was holding half of a child’s lavender shoelace in its beak. It glared into his eyes, drumming its flared wings. The over-sized crow was furious Manny had taken so long to hear its calls.

Manny reached down and slowly reached toward the crow. What is it? What do I need to know, Brother Crow?

The black bird flew into a frenzied, feathered fit and impaled Manny’s arm with its sharp talons. Manny jerked back, flabbergasted. Holding his bloodied arm, he yelled, What’s the matter with you?

The crow dropped the shoelace and with painstaking effort, picked it up and flipped it at Manny. Why are you so thickheaded?

Manny’s stumped expression melted into one of horror when he suddenly comprehended the crow’s bizarre antics. The kids. Something’s happened to Sara and the kids! Oh, no, God, Please, no.

Ignoring the raw pain in his hips, Manny limped across the gravel to his Explorer. It had not been driven for almost two weeks. He floundered with inserting the key and made several attempts to start it before the engine turned over. Unknown to most mortals, when a human being is in a hurry, vehicles do not start right away. It is an inside joke among tricksters, who relish in hiding within the depths of an engine’s metallic crevices. This SUV was no exception.

Before backing up, Manny leaned out the window and yelled. Brother Crow, go to Grandfather!

Pushing his arms against the seat cushion, he angled forward and wiggled his sore hips into a tolerable position. The inflammation meds that Dr. Caldwell prescribed had taken its toll. Manny had been dizzy for at least a couple of weeks and obliged to move around like a lethargic moose.

Augmenting his painful condition, Coyote forbade him and the other warriors to apply the power of the crystals for personal healing or gain, not to mention the wrath they would receive from his grandfather. Old Bob was vehemently against using modern pharmaceuticals except in extremely dire circumstances. Since unexpectedly declaring his retirement as a medicine man, the old Poowagudt was not performing any healing activities. He expected Manny to cure his medical condition with natural herbs. Manny may as well have chewed on a sack of Frito’s corn chips.

He had no sooner reached the south Randlett intersection, when a large object crashed into his windshield with a thud. He slammed on his brakes and swerved as an enormous, white owl struggled to stay on the hood. It stared at Manny for a few seconds and then hopped in front of the vehicle. The emphatic bird flew a short distance down the narrow highway and returned. No doubt, Manny was supposed to follow.

Old Bob always said Brother Owl has so much light inside him that he can see in the dark. Manny believed him. Owls were allegedly messengers of death but this one seemed to have a desire to help him or maybe it was setting him up for some nefarious undertaking. Either way, Manny did not care. Had the owl been any other color than white, he would not have been able to follow it through the sheets of rain.

The sequence of events—the coming of the angry cloud spirit, the long painful cry of the wind, the warning from Brother Crow and the help from Brother Owl through the assaulting rain, reminded him of last summer’s nightmare. In his gut, he knew that he was being propelled fast-forward into a havoc provoked by an old adversary. There was nothing he could do about it now. His priority was finding Sara and the kids.

Where are the other Rainbow Warriors? He glanced down at the crystal hanging from his neck. It appeared to be sleeping. What’s wrong with my crystal?

The owl lit beside the road and without flinching, stared down the road ahead. Manny knew he must be close to Sara and slowed his vehicle to a standstill. If only he could see more clearly. Squinting through the glass, he could make out the obscure silhouette of a 1998 Chevrolet Impala perched precariously on the edge of the creek bank. All four doors were open. The vehicle’s front-end sloped downward toward the water, mimicking an enormous gray beetle extending its wings in preparation for flight.

Sara, he whispered.

Manny flung the door open, plunged out of the front seat and slipped on the wet asphalt. It was that moment he realized he was barefoot and had left his cell phone and boots at the house. He lowered his head against the rain slapping his face and pulled his shirt tighter against his chest.

Panting with every step, he called out to Sara. Honey, where are you? Are you okay?

Worsening Manny’s frantic plight, his hips locked, sending a searing pain down both legs. He reached out with his right hand to grab the edge of the car door but the Impala inched further away as if being pulled deeper into the blustery mist. In an effort to catch his breath, he began to hyperventilate. Please…Sara…answer me.

A woman’s voice lamented in mournful tune. Help me. Help me. Please! The canary grass around the creek swooshed and swayed with each sweet, anguishing word.

Manny’s head spun around. Sara?

No one was there. When he turned back around, he was only an arm’s length from the side of the drenched vehicle. He seized the side of the open door’s window with both hands and pulled himself up to a full standing position.

The rain abruptly stopped, giving him a chance to focus on the task of finding Sara and the kids. Manny could only hear the sound of his labored breath fighting its way to his lungs. The thumping of his heart was like a distant drum being played somewhere in time, in another place.

Beaded balls of moisture had gathered on the car’s windshield, forming tiny streams that escaped under the squeaking, undulating wiper blades. The interior backseat overhead light aimed its beam directly on the faces of two identical Barbie dolls—each one blankly staring back, both lying in pooled blood.

Manny reached down with a broad, trembling hand and pulled out one of the dolls. Oh, God. He squeezed it over his heart and screamed, Sarrrrraaa!

Deep crimson swatches covered the interior of the vehicle as though something had attempted to paint, willy-nilly, a grotesque rose-red mural. Rain had saturated the blood on the gray cloth seats, carpeted floorboard, and unceremoniously, continued to drip off the bottom of the metal door casing.

Beneath the right rear door lay a bloody, crushed brown paper sack. It had spilled out onto the pavement, seemingly forced to regurgitate its last meal. The unrelenting rain had soaked the emptied picnic contents into a compost of unrecognizable splatter. One bottle of Welch’s Apple Juice sat upright, unaffected.

A mass of long, blonde hair, partially hidden behind the rear tire, danced succinctly with the rhythm of the rain on the asphalt. Megan? Riley? When he touched it, the hairy lump disengaged, still attached to what was left of a human scalp. It washed downhill, out of sight in a stream of red rainwater.

Manny struggled to reconcile his confusion. One force held his body flat against the asphalt surface, the other attempted to pull him underground. The relentless tugging between the two was excruciating. Physically engaging either one was hopeless. His body did not respond to his thoughts.

He imagined his legs were granite boulders—they would not budge. Perhaps, they were not there anymore? He could not open his eyes or raise his neck to see. Rain drizzled on his comatose body and ran down his yellow shirt, forming a muddy pool under his bleeding shoulder blades. The drizzling rain seeped along his braids to the nape of his neck, crunching his shirt collar into a crimson wet rope. He was so cold.

Except for an occasional roll of thunder and brief cloudburst, his present world was as quiet as a coffin. Manny did not know where he was or remember how he got there. Was he dead or trying to be dead? Certain that a corpse could not feel rain, he finally surmised that he must be alive. If he was having a bad dream, it was time to wake up. Either way, he could not escape the arduous jerking within his body.

He begged the hateful storm spirit to find another place to display its anger for a while and promised to accept the next storm with grace. The downpour stopped. The spirit took pity on him and dissipated in haste, leaving the moist air charged with static in its wake.

A familiar electrical odor tickled Manny’s nose and throat, but he could not remember where he smelled it before. Voltaic charged particles slowly rose from his chest. Ever so slightly, he began to feel their warmth. They curled up, hiding under his open shirt’s neckband. He resisted breathing or swallowing for fear he would choke on them. And something else—he was not alone.

A small, wheezing figure scuttled around him in the darkness, stopping just long enough to make a deep guttural clicking sound before moving again. It periodically snickered. This relentless activity seemed to last forever. The unknown entity crept up to his head, sniffed his eyebrows, and snorted over his closed eyes. With each raspy breath, hot drool dripped on his forehead and flowed down into his squeezed eyelids. The burning sensation was excruciating. Manny wanted to scream but no sound was forthcoming.

He grimaced as, what felt like the end of a stick, scraped along his hairline—from one ear to the other. It caught on the rawhide strip around his neck and stopped. When it pulled on the leather, his crystal was exposed. Whatever the thing was, hissed and quickly jerked away. A woman’s scream filled the void surrounding him. The sadistic intruder that had infringed on his debilitating space disappeared over the creek bank.

Chapter 2

Sunning himself on his rocky bed as he did most days, Coyote lazily surveyed the earthbound elements surrounding the small wooden houses below. The sacred flat-topped bench was perfect for contemplating his blessings. It was not that he disliked being human but he preferred his unkempt coyote form. Like now, he could see a storm was in the making to the southwest. If it reached the Randlette Butte, all he had to do was curl up inside the thick, young juniper. His prickly fur would repel any rain that might come his way. From its sentinel point at the peak of the cliff, the beloved Dog Stone would help withstand electrical charges that toyed with his nerves. He did not need a dwelling. His friends let him visit their homes whenever he felt the desire to feel closed in, which was not very often.

A flock of quacking Pintails was flying low, away from the storm. Their lack of formation was odd, possibly from the static in the air. During heavy rains, the ducks huddled together in shallow water’s grasses and reeds, protecting themselves from nature’s stormy inclinations. There were many shores to choose from on the reservation. He surmised this group might have been headed toward Pelican Lake.

The first hint of new moisture blew in on a fast-moving gust of wind and felt good against his shaggy coat. Coyote dismissed the strange odor accompanying the surge. Instead, he wagged his tail at the thought of how good life was. The previous summer, he and his warrior friends defeated the army of skin walkers and incapacitated their evil leader. After the battle, he had been able to relax, finally.

Having earned the stature of a spirit guide, his knowledge of the universe was phenomenal. Thousands of years of study and perseverance had been required to grasp the significance of the Rainbow Spirit entity. He did not want to forget or give up a moment of learning. Living in the natural world and teaching human beings was the only way he could retain his knowledge and grow his own soul. As luck would have it, Rainbow Spirit kept his word and gave him permission to stay in this reality, rather than the Laughing Place. He was even given permission to retain his ability to shapeshift into a human and enjoy manly things—or become whatever he wanted.

Feeling content, Coyote laid his head on his front paws and blinked his golden eyes. He perked his ears at the alarming sound of arguing at Old Bob’s house. What, in the world was going on between Manny and that crow? It appeared the disturbed bird was trying to tell Manny something. It was Manny’s next bizarre action that really caught Coyote’s attention. He quickly sat up for a better view. Manny should not be attempting to run on his bad hips. You have to be kidding…he’s getting into his SUV. Where is he going?

Coyote was too occupied with the scene unfolding below the Butte and had not listened to the approaching storm’s threatening voice. The disturbance was actually the product of an angry spirit wanting to test its power against him. Coyote should not have maintained such a lackadaisical attitude toward the thundercloud. It was almost on top of the Butte. How could he misgauge something like that? The damned thing had almost enchanted him! A blast of thunder popped his eardrums and he winced with pain. A determined lightening bolt attacked the ledge, a split second after Coyote crumbled into whirling particles of light.

Although Old Bob’s house was a small framed residence, it had been exposed to years of the medicine man’s use of mystical powers and had absorbed collateral remnants from his magic. When Bonnie and her entourage moved in, the building’s strength grew three-fold. The four ancient souls had been given permission to live freely in this world and were grateful for the home’s fortitude. Almost as if it was a living being, there were times when its structure spoke with creaks and groans, foretelling the coming of negative forces. Tonight, there would be a great storm.

Bonnie’s familiar humming, swishing blue taffeta skirt, and banging pans occasionally broke the peaceful silence. Aromatic waves of sweet, baked treats for human beings filled the rooms from floor to ceiling.

The over-sized Airedale relished the smells and automatically licked his jaws at the thought of tasting a small morsel. He was ecstatically happy and adored those around him, especially Bonnie. Her mental and physical abilities were beyond Scooter’s comprehension, but he knew she was kind. She let him physically and visually explore the world around him as a dog, if he wished to do so. He knew instinctively if she needed his sight for human purposes.

There was much honor in assisting this immortal being. Bonnie was never given the gift of sight but felt no loss. It was not needed. She could directly channel universal energy. Her mystifying powers were indicative of beings that inhabited the Laughing Place. Case in point, Pedro, Old Bob, Coyote, and the Rainbow Warriors also had supernatural talents, forever bound by their celestial heritage. Since transitioning from the Laughing Place, Pedro and he were the only entities to have consistently stayed connected to Bonnie throughout all of her human lifetimes. How long had it been? He did not remember or care. All that mattered was the now time.

This packaged destiny inevitably caused the triage of bird, dog and human to interact as one being, yet separate—each maintaining an individual identity. None of them knew why the original arrangement was set up this way. Perhaps it was Rainbow Spirit’s sense of humor. Be it as it may, they did not question the omnipresent entity.

Old Bob was an exception to the rule, and the only spiritual being to have come close to defying Rainbow Spirit. After last summer’s triumph over the evil Nyatt, he announced out of the clear blue that he was finished with being a shaman. His powers were no longer needed. There were better things to do with his time, like to be a husband. He found Gypsy Mama’s antique store for sale and promptly secured a deal with the owner. The business was perfect for Bonnie’s wide range of interests