Billy Buckhorn and the Book of Spells

By Gary Robinson

Filled with magic, old traditions, and new technology, The Thunder Child Prophecy series will keep readers engaged. An ominous message conveyed to sixteen-year-old Billy Buckhorn by the spirit of his deceased grandmother opens the door to astounding supernatural events. Struck by lightning and brought back from the brink of death, Billy must contend with extraordinary visions and psychic insights. These new “gifts” prove both challenging and necessary as Billy begins to understand the peril behind his grandmother’s words and realizes his calling to protect and defend his people. Billy’s first vision and adversary is the ancient Raven Stalker, who appears in the form of a peculiar high school teacher who has the power to suck the very life force out of human beings. Little does Billy know that this is just the beginning of a prophesied quest to vanquish mythical evil forces that have materialized and now threaten to overtake the Cherokee Nation. Can Billy, his best friend Chigger, his medicine-man grandfather, his college professor father, and an archaeologist defeat these beasts before they rule not only the Cherokee Nation but also all humankind?

• Language: English
• Publisher: 7th Generation
• Release date: Dec 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781939053701

Book preview

ecil Lookout awoke abruptly with words from a dream message still fresh in his mind. It is good that you have remembered the old ways, practiced the traditions, and recited the prophecy after all these many years, the message said.

A few members of Native Nations still managed to hold on to ancient traditions and pass on ancient prophecies. In Cecil's tribe, the Osage, it seemed that only his family continued to remember wisdom imparted by elders and ancestors some thirty generations ago.

The eighty-year-old elder sat up in bed, listening quietly in case there was more to the message. It had been so long since he’d last heard from the ancestor spirits; he had to be sure he’d heard what he thought he heard. Or was it merely his imagination? The lines of communication between the land of the living and the land of the dead could become faulty after long periods of disuse.

As the Keeper of the Center and the leader of the Intertribal Medicine Council, it was his responsibility to hold fast when others had ceased to believe, when others had given up hope and taken the easy path of religious and cultural assimilation.

But not Cecil or his grown son Ethan. Not his grandson Cody, or his granddaughter Lisa. They had stayed the course and remained true to their calling. And hopefully, not for the thirteen members of the Intertribal Medicine Council scattered among the various tribes.

Cecil sat on the edge of his bed, still quietly listening for more, either an external or internal message. He’d give it a few more moments.

Then it came, penetrating his mind.

The time of fulfillment has come.

There it was! Of course, the message had to be verified through ceremony, but Cecil was certain it was a true and accurate communication from the ancestor spirits.

It was just before sunrise on an August day known as the first day of the Full Green Corn Moon. Cecil rubbed the sleep from his eyes as his thoughts turned to the immediate task at hand.

Cody! the elder called to his grandson, who was still asleep in the house’s other bedroom. The time has come! The command was delivered! I need your help!

What did you say, Grandpa?

This response came from the other room more as a moan than a question. Moments later, Cecil’s fifteen-year-old grandson burst into the elder’s bedroom.

Did you say what I think you said? the boy asked with excited anticipation in his voice.

Yes, you heard right. The voice of the ancestor spirits spoke to me just now. We must prepare.

Cody knew that meant Cecil would need his ceremonial headdress, eagle feather fan, and beaded moccasins, all of which were kept in a cedar-lined closet near the back door. The teen had been training to take over his grandfather’s position as the Keeper of the Sky Stone’s centerpiece for the past two years.

He was now both excited and disappointed that the call from the ancestors had come today. Excited because of its significance, disappointed because it meant he would never take his place in the thousand-year-old tradition of the Keepers.

Cody retrieved the ceremonial regalia from the closet, carried the items to his grandfather, and helped him dress.

As the old man began dressing, he said, Repeat the signs that we, the Original People, have already seen.

First, the light-skinned strangers arrived on Turtle Island, Cody said, bringing their cravings for domination. Second, the foreigners spread like locusts across the land, devouring everything and everyone in sight. Third, the Original People were hunted almost to extinction, our means of physical and spiritual sustenance stolen. Fourth, the very essence of existence was threatened as the Red, White, and Blue Nation unleashed an explosion of unholy power on the Yellow Nation. Fifth, the Eagle flew from Earth and landed on the moon. Sixth, a Black man was chosen by the people of the Red, White, and Blue Nation to live in their White House. And seventh, the Crown Disease spread across the face of Mother Earth, decimating the world’s population.

Very good, Cecil said. Now, according to the prophecy, what will unfold next?

Cody collected his thoughts before speaking.

Ancient forces will awaken, he said. The veil separating the worlds will become thinner. Inhabitants of the Underworld shall rise up, become manifest here in the Middleworld, and try to take control yet again. Spirit beings of the Upperworld will join the Chosen One to combat the dark forces here in the Middleworld. The future of mankind will hang in the balance.

Very good, the old man said. And our Native American brothers and sisters will be called on to return to their ancient traditional teachings to help support and empower the holy beings to subdue the denizens of the deep.

But Cody was left with one unanswered question.

Who is the Chosen One? he asked.

Ah, that is the question, the elder answered. That is yet to be revealed. We must begin the search and remain patient until they are found.

Unsatisfied, Cody nevertheless remained quiet. His grandfather always seemed to know best.

Fully cloaked in his tribal regalia, Cecil headed through the kitchen toward the back door. Followed by his grandson, the elder stepped out into the backyard of his modest home. The elder’s house was located on Ohio Street in St. Louis, very near the western shore of the mighty Mississippi River.

Generations of Keepers of the Center before him had dedicated their lives to staying in this region of the country, long part of the original homelands of the Osage tribe, also known as Niukonska, the Children of the Middle Waters.

Next door to the elder’s house stood a centuries-old man-made earthen mound known to the locals as Sugarloaf Mound. In reality, it was the last remaining mound built by his people hundreds and hundreds of years ago, one of dozens of mounds and flat-top earthen pyramids that dotted the nearby Indigenous landscape.

Before ascending the grass-covered slope, Cecil turned to his grandson.

I am proud of you, Cody, he said. You have remained faithful to your duty. After we’ve finished this morning’s ceremony, I want you to call your cousin Lisa and all your cousins so they know what has happened this morning.

Yes, Grandfather, the young man replied. I will do as you ask.

Then, aided by his grandson, Cecil climbed the slope of the grass-covered structure and made his way to the center. Turning eastward toward the rising sun, the old man cast his vision across the river.

With Cody at his side, Cecil began the fulfillment ceremony with a prayer to Grandfather Sun in the Osage language, as he’d been taught by his own grandfather, asking for a blessing upon his family, a blessing on the spirits of his ancestors, and a blessing on his descendants yet to be born. He asked Creator for extra guidance and assistance on this significant day for himself.

Finally, he sat down cross-legged on the mound and asked for the Thirteen Ancestors to appear to him and speak the words of fulfillment, if that was truly their intent this day. Then the old man closed his eyes and waited.

Slowly, an all-encompassing vision faded into view, completely engulfing him. While his body sat on the ground, his mind and spirit body were caught up into a whole other world. In this other world, he stood in the middle of a circle of Native men and women who were seated on buffalo robes, looking back at him from inside a tipi. Without counting, Cecil knew there were thirteen of them from different tribes, each dressed in their own particular ceremonial regalia.

The glowing translucent form of an unspeakably old Native man, dressed in ancient tribal regalia, stood and approached Cecil. The man spoke, using only his mind.

The time, foretold a thousand years ago, has arrived. The signs have all come to pass. The milestones have all been reached. And the Thunder Beings will soon select the Chosen One. As the Keeper of the Center, you must call the Intertribal Medicine Council together, locate the Chosen One, and prepare to reassemble the Sky Stone.

It was an event Cecil had waited his whole life to witness. It was the message generations of Original People had known was coming but had probably forgotten.

Confident that they’d been heard and understood, the thirteen visitors faded from view.

As the designated Keeper of the Center, it was now Cecil’s job to carry out the command. He must call the Keepers and the other members of the Medicine Council together. The Keepers would bring their hidden and guarded sections of the Sky Stone together. Then, when the Fire Crystal was fit into its place in the center, the reassembled Circle would activate, empowering the Chosen One to fulfill his destiny.

After his supplication, the elder lingered on the spot for a short while, basking in the aura of the spiritual energy created by the spiritual appearance. In his mind’s eye, the elder could see beyond the river a few miles farther to the northeast, to the remains of the ancient mound city now called Cahokia, the largest Native American city ever built.

That city had been the spiritual center of a religious and cultural movement that had spread among the Indigenous peoples of North America, one that had never been witnessed before or since. One of the results of that phenomenon was the construction of thousands and thousands of earthen ceremonial mounds in an area that stretched from the Gulf Coast to the Great Lakes and from the Atlantic Ocean to the Mississippi River and beyond.

Known as Solstice City to its original twenty thousand inhabitants, the centerpiece of that vast cultural kingdom a thousand years ago had once been home to the Son of the Sun. This demigod, known to some as the Falcon Priest and to others as the Sun Priest, was the human representative of the Upperworld on earth.

he muggy August air clung to Billy Buckhorn’s brown Cherokee skin like a wet blanket. He and his best friend, Chigger, were night fishing on Lake Tenkiller in eastern Oklahoma. This region, part of the western branch of the old Cherokee Nation, was filled with rivers, creeks, and lakes all nestled between heavily wooded hills.

Drop that light down closer to the water, Billy said in a loud whisper.

Chigger let out a few more inches of rope until the camping lantern almost touched the water’s still surface. How’s that? he asked.

Just fine, sixteen-year-old Billy replied.

Chigger, also sixteen, tied off the rope and picked up his fishing pole.

Night fishing was one of Billy’s favorite things to do in the summer. Well, really, he liked fishing any time of day or night, any time of year. And hunting too, for that matter. He liked Cherokee bowhunting the best. Billy had learned these skills from his Cherokee grandfather, Wesley.

From somewhere off in the distant darkness along the lake’s shoreline, the boys heard the snap of a breaking branch and a rustling of leaves.

What was that? Chigger whispered nervously. Unlike Billy, he wasn’t such a big fan of night fishing. Or doing much of anything at night that involved being outside in the dark, because of all the scary old Cherokee legends he’d heard. But he’d follow Billy anywhere, anytime.

Probably just a possum or badger hunting for food, Billy replied calmly.

Chigger picked up a flashlight from the seat next to him. Turning it on, he pointed its beam in the direction the sound came from. A pair of glowing red eyes peered back at him from the lake’s edge.

What the—! Chigger exclaimed with a jump, dropping the flashlight into the lake.

Not so loud, Billy demanded in a loud whisper as he watched the light sink out of sight. Now look what you’ve done.

There was somethin’ evil looking over there, watching us! the scared Cherokee boy declared. It could be one of the Water Cannibals my grandparents talked about, come ashore to hunt human flesh.

A Water Cannibal was one of the many supernatural creatures said by traditional Cherokees to live in the Underworld and come up to the Middleworld from time to time.

You’re letting your imagination get the better of you again, Billy said, clearly impatient with his gullible friend. It was a possum, just like I said.

Peering down through the water, Billy was more concerned with his drowned flashlight than the harmless animal on shore. As the light floated toward the lake’s bottom, Billy thought he momentarily saw the moving form of some underwater creature he hadn’t ever seen before. I’m tired—maybe my mind is playing tricks on me, he thought.

Their eyes glow red when you shine a light in them, he said, continuing his logical explanation for the shoreline illusion.

Oh, Chigger replied sheepishly. I knew that.

The two boys had known each other since the first grade. Most days after school they had played together outdoors. In those days, Chigger’s dad worked at a plant nursery near the shores of the lake. On Saturdays he’d often taken the pair with him to work on the plants, trees, and shrubs the nursery grew.

Of course, the boys had often ended up playing hide-and-seek among the long rows of greenery. And their favorite fishing spot was the inlet of water where they were now. It was near the old nursery, which had gone out of business years ago.

Chigger’s fishing pole jerked in his hands.

I think I’ve got a bite! he whispered excitedly.

They always whispered when they were fishing. Even though the water muffled human noises, Grandpa Wesley taught Billy that it was best to avoid sudden movements or sharp sounds. Such things could spook the fish.

Chigger yanked the line up out of the water. He found nothing but a water turtle hooked on the end of it.

Ah, another turtle, Chigger said. That’s the third one tonight! They musta chased off all the fish.

Have you forgotten that turtles are good luck? Billy asked as he unhooked the five-pound reptile from his friend’s line. After all, he continued, it was Grandmother Turtle who brought up the mud from the bottom of the waters so Creator could make land.

He let the turtle slip back into the dark water. It paddled quickly away. Billy scanned the lake’s nearby surface just to make sure no other less familiar creatures were watching them tonight from the legendary Underworld.

And that’s why we call this land Turtle Island, Chigger said, repeating a phrase he’d heard over and over since he was a kid. I remember that old Cherokee story just as good as you do. What’s that called? A legend? A myth?

One man’s myth is another man’s religion, Billy replied, using one of the sayings his father often used. But the Grandma Turtle story is more of a fable. You know, a traditional story that teaches us something.

Ooh! Did you just go all college professor on me or what? Chigger laughed.

Billy’s father was in fact a college professor who taught Cherokee history and culture at the nearby college. Chigger liked to bring his friend, the professor’s son, back down to the grassroots level whenever he started sounding too smart.

Myth, fable, whatever, Chigger said.

For someone who says he doesn’t believe in ancient Native American folktales, you sure do spook easily, Billy offered.

Old Indian stories are one thing, Chigger said, but ghosts and hauntings and glowing red eyes in the night are something different. That eerie stuff has been documented on reality TV.

Ha! Billy said, much louder than he intended to. Reality TV is mindless mental mush. But there’s something behind old Cherokee legends. Hidden wisdom that’s true at a deeper level.

Enough, professor. You’re making my head hurt.

Billy knew he’d pushed it too far. Let’s call it a night, he said.

Might as well, Chigger agreed. Ain’t nothin’ bitin’ but terrapins.

Chigger untied the rope and pulled the lantern up into the boat. They were in a fifteen-foot skiff with a flat bottom. The flat bottom let them get in and out of shallow, reedy water where fish liked to hide.

Though the fishing boat had a motor, Billy didn’t like to disturb the silence of nature on nights like this one. Another habit he’d learned from his grandpa. He and Chigger used a pair of oars to propel the vessel toward the shore.

What could be better than this? Billy asked as they glided along the surface of the lake. High above them was a dark, velvet sky filled with twinkling stars.

A bowl of homemade ice cream would taste pretty good right about now, Chigger replied.

No, seriously, Billy said, giving his friend a sharp look. Two Cherokees on a summer night surrounded by the wonders of nature? He looked up at the sky, finding the six stars of the Pleiades constellation, known to the Cherokees as the Boys. What could be better?

Nothing, Chigger had to admit as he gazed upward as well. Absolutely nothing.

The only sounds to be heard that night were about a thousand chirping bullfrogs, a million clacking cicadas, and the splashing of two oars lightly stroking the water.

The boys soon arrived at the concrete boat launch. Chigger, nervously checking the shoreline for any more eerie creatures, held the boat steady while Billy walked up the slight hill to fetch his pickup truck and boat trailer.

Moments later, he backed the trailer down the ramp and into the shallow water. Chigger guided the skiff onto the trailer and then cranked the trailer’s winch to secure it in place. With the boat firmly tied down, the pair headed for home.

Billy knew the Oklahoma back roads of the Cherokee Nation like he knew the back of his own hand. Every twist, turn, pothole, and crack was etched into his mind.

Almost every day of his life, he and Grandpa Wesley had driven those roads and hiked the nearby trails in search of wildlife and wonder. Each trip had included the telling of an old Cherokee legend or teachings in the spiritual ways of Native medicine.

While other kids grew up hearing stories of Goldilocks or Little Red Riding Hood, Billy heard about the ancient customs and beliefs of his people. His grandpa was like a walking, talking library of Native knowledge and outdoor lore.

Chigger, on the other hand, had grown up immersed in the world of superhero comics. Every flat surface in his bedroom was covered with stacks of them. One of the boy’s favorite conversation topics focused on superhero powers.

He often asked Billy, If you could have any superpower, what would it be? to which Billy often replied, Not now, Chigger. I have more important things on my mind.

But every now and then, he’d play along, just to make his friend happy, and say something like I’d want to be able to travel back in time to witness history as it happened or maybe I’d like to be invisible so I could visit people without them knowing it.

Chigger thought these superpowers were unimpressive when compared to such abilities as X-ray vision, electromagnetic force fields, telekinesis, or elasticity. All the coolest superheroes can do those things, he thought.

Fifteen minutes after leaving the lake, the pair reached Chigger’s family’s mobile home. It was up a rough dirt road northeast of the capital of the Cherokee Nation.

Did you register for the blowgun contest at this year’s Cherokee Holiday? Chigger asked before getting out of Billy’s truck.

And the cornstalk bow-and-arrow shoot, Billy confirmed. What about you?

Yep, Chigger replied. Just like last year. Only difference is, I’m gonna beat you at both of ’em this year.

He slammed the truck door and ran toward his mobile home before Billy could respond.

You’re on! Billy shouted loud enough for his friend to hear. Then the teen sped off into the night. In another twenty minutes, Billy reached his own home near Park Hill, south of Tahlequah.

He pulled into the tree-lined driveway that led to his two-story log home. Parking beside the driveway in his usual graveled spot, he opened the truck’s glove box. He took out the pocket watch he kept there. It had belonged to his great-grandfather Jim Bullseye Buckhorn. His grandfather was a famous bow-andarrow hunter in his day.

The watch’s antique hands pointed straight up. Midnight. Later than he said he’d be home. Giving the watch stem a couple of winds, he put the well-worn timepiece back in the glove box.

Being as quiet as he could, Billy slipped out from behind the steering wheel of his forest-green 1985 Chevy Silverado pickup. The vehicle was way past its prime, but the teen didn’t care. It had belonged to his father’s younger brother, Franklin, who had been killed in action during the war in Afghanistan. Billy would never forget the tribe’s touching tribute to his hero uncle when his body arrived back in Tahlequah for burial.

As he slipped out of the truck, Billy looked up at his family’s log house. The lights were still on in his father’s upstairs library study. Billy knew he was busy preparing for the classes he taught at the college.

Stepping quietly onto the porch, he took off his muddy wet boots and left them outside. He tried to keep from making any noise as he moved into the front of the house. He didn’t notice the dark shadow of someone sitting on the couch.

Home kinda late, aren’t you? a woman’s voice said from the darkness. Billy nearly jumped out of his skin.

Ma, you startled me, he replied, trying to catch his breath. Why are you sitting in the dark?

Just collecting my thoughts, she said, turning on a nearby table lamp. She was still in the white nurse’s uniform she wore during her nightly shift at the hospital. The whiteness of her uniform contrasted with her black hair and bronze Cherokee skin. I know you still think it’s summer, young man, she said in a calm tone. But classes have been going on for a week now. I received a message from your school today. It said you haven’t quite been attending on a regular basis.

Ma, you know I can never get serious about classes until after Labor Day weekend, Billy protested. That’s when summer is really over. It’s not fair that they robbed us of the last two weeks of summer.

It’s too bad you inherited your stubborn streak from my side of the family, his mother commented. Of course, your tendency to rebel against authority is from your father’s side.

And they never cover anything important in the first few days anyway, Billy added to his defense.

I’ll put this to you as directly as I can, she said, ignoring his protest and standing up. I expect you to be in class all day, every day this coming week. If you miss even one class, then you won’t be able to take part in any of the activities you’ve planned during the following Labor Day weekend. No bow-and-arrow shoot, no blowgun competition, no all-night stomp dance, and no fishing contest.

But Chigger’s counting on me to—

You should’ve thought of all that before you skipped class.

But—

But nothing! his mother said firmly. Now go to your room and get in bed. And tomorrow you’ll stay home until you’ve written your summer reading report.

Aw, not that, Billy moaned.

You have read the book, haven’t you?

Not exactly.

Of course you haven’t, she said, almost in despair. All the more reason for you to stay home. She walked toward Billy with her hand out. Give me your truck keys.

What?

You heard me. Stubborn and rebellious. Put the truck keys in my hand right now!

He pulled the keys out of his pocket and dropped them into her outstretched hand. One of the things Billy loved about his parents was the freedom they’d always allowed him. It had given him a sense of confidence and self-reliance at an early age. But he figured he’d pushed it just a little too far this time.

You can have them back after you’ve finished the report, she said as she headed for the stairs. If it’s not done by Monday morning, your father or I will take you to school.

His mother marched up the stairs, twirling his set of keys around her index finger.

Billy’s shoulders slumped. His head drooped. He trudged toward his room in the back of the house. His summer had come crashing to an end.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, the boy pulled off his dirty clothes. His jeans were wet from the knees down from when he’d jumped out of the skiff near the boat ramp. After throwing on one of the old T-shirts he slept in, he stepped into the neighboring hall bathroom.

He gazed at himself for a moment in the mirror, seeing the same dark brown eyes he saw at the end of every day. His longish black hair was tousled as usual, and splatters of gray mud from the lakeshore spotted his neck and face. Who is this