Nalusa

Nalusa -The Shadow Man

The soft light of a new day slipped under the door of the cabin. Josh stirred and burrowed deeper into the rug that covered him. Ice coated the small windows and smeared the view of the forest outside. Half awake, he dreamt of Mary and summer days, of happy times among the townsfolk of Saint John, New Brunswick, his hometown. He rose and pushed out against the snow banked against the door and took stock of the weather. Blue sky and wild clouds above and a keen wind from the north meant more snow and hunting would be impossible. Soon after, soft flakes of snow began to cover the frost bound earth. It would be a day indoors, cleaning his guns, chopping wood and drying pelts.

He was a sturdy man of medium height with long brown hair tied back.His grey eyes set in a lined face, told of years of hard work and wilderness living. He faced his remote life with determination and good common sense. A practical man. he fixed what he could do and made do with the rest. He listened closely to the moods of the winds, the prospect of snow and the strange noises of the forest creatures. Life had settled into a routine of work and solitude. Setting traps for beaver, checking snares and hunting for food filled up the day, but nights were long, up here and company scarce.

By early afternoon, with most of the work done, the snow stopped. He glanced at the declining sun with regret. By four o'clock it would be dark, and a long evening confronted him. He sat for a while, reading through his diary. It was drudgery he hated, but the fur company who employed him insisted he kept a record of skins. He noted any happenings and the state of the weather briefly. It gave him a smidgen of pleasure to skimp the exercise. Later, the fire in the hearth began to slip and threw no flames; he needed to bring in more wood. He cleared the door and stepped outside.

The trees stood silvered with frost, motionless as a painted background. The path felt brittle underfoot where the ice turned mud into sparkling ridges. He paused, taking in the stillness and the raw clarity of the cold air. As he turned to gather logs, a flicker of movement caught his eye, a shadow darting away into the trees. Standing rock still, he listened for sounds; the scamper of some small animal, the footfall of some intruder or the blundering of a bear, but there was nothing, just silence. Later, he checked the window fastenings and battened the door. First thing, the next morning, he scoured the plot outside the cabin for clues. Apart from the prints of squirrels and marmots, no sign of larger animals showed. It confirmed his thought that the flicker had been his imagination.

It was when Caleb Winn rode up, things changed. Caleb lived down among the settlers in the valley some fifteen miles away. He made a living from tracking, sometimes men, or beef or stolen horses.

'You seen anything strange?'

'What? You mean, people or things?'

'Well, A posse got raised an' might 've have gone by...'

'What for?'

'Something attacked old man Josephs and people think it headed up into the forest.”

Caleb squinted and scratched the stubble on his chin, and after a moment's silence gave a thin laugh. He sniffed and hesitated.

'You knows the woods. What you say? You comin' with me?'

He had no choice, he must go; things like this were everybody's concern. He took his hunting rifle and some ammunition and followed him. The day was bright with little wind, and the snow lay firm. They followed the trail through the woods. Some half mile on, Caleb stopped "What happened here?"

He pointed to the ground. The earth was scuffed and a path of broken branches led away into the woods. His eyes narrowed against the glare of the snow, and he pulled down the worn Stetson on his head.

"Stay right here. I'll be back shortly."

He put a boot to his horse and disappeared into the trees. Josh stooped and studied the marks. The scuffing and mud mingled, but there were no obvious footprints. Something, or someone, had rested here and moved on. There were no telltale marks moving away from the scene, but the hoof-prints of Caleb's horse were clearly visible. They led on into the dark interior of the forest. Eyes wide and hand on gun, Josh followed. Looking ahead, it was hard to make out the tracks under the canopy of branches which obscured the light.

"Caleb"

His voice seemed muffled by the trees. He shouted louder but the sound rebounded as if stifled by the forest. He slid back the bolt and loaded his rifle, moving carefully among the foliage. Something stirred to his right, and he stiffened, thumbing off the safety catch. A dark shape loomed in the shadows. Then he relaxed, it was Caleb's horse, snuffling the leaves for some nourishment. Of the man, there was no sign. The ground showed the random scuffs of the loose horse. He followed the back tracks, gripping his gun, half crouched, as he made his way through the trunks of fir and cedar. Not a breath of air disturbed the space between the trees. He could hear the beat of his heart and the tread of his boots as they crunched in the soft snow.

A hundred paces further and he saw some movement ahead. Josh's finger tightened on the trigger as some low dark creature edged towards him. It was Caleb. His bare hands clutched at the ground as he heaved his way forward, his legs dragging behind him. At Josh's approach, the wounded man lifted his head. The scalp was torn open, and blood crusted on the flap of skin that exposed the skull. As Josh bent to raise him, Caleb’s mouth sprang open in a raw, hacking cough, a spume of frothy blood spraying across Josh’s sleeve with a putrid stench. The pulse fluttered like the faint throb of a bird. Josh lifted the fractured body across the horse's back and slowly tracked back to the cabin. By the time they reached it, Caleb was cold and unresponsive. Josh wrapped him in blankets warmed by hot stones and, at last, the eyes flickered, and life came back. He cleaned the damaged skull with cloth and stemmed the blood. The lower parts of his body were caked in gore and mud. His legs tremored like an epileptic and beat the dirt in an irregular rhythm. Something had to be done, so he braced them to splints to control the delirium as best as possible.

Josh bent close to the face of the man. "Caleb, I gotta get help. I'm goin' for help. "

The body of the injured man twisted, and the fingers reached up to grasp his arm. He made some incoherent sounds, but his wide eyes sent an urgent message. Just one word cleared his lips.

"Alone!"

He was terrified, yet Josh knew this man was a frontier man, one of the pioneers who had faced the wild country and its many dangers. He faced a choice between leaving him, terrified, alone, likely to die, or giving him comfort with little chance of success. Josh put his hand on his shoulder and promised to stay. Through the long days that followed, the trapper shared his food with Caleb and dressed his wounds daily. Within a week, the older man recovered enough to walk a few steps with crutches and help with the chores. Josh broached the subject of the attack.

"Tell me what happened. What attacked you? Was it a bear?"

Caleb looked away, he stirred the fire and hunched over as if to shield himself from the enquiry. For a long minute, he was mute. Then he spoke low, in hardly a whisper.

'It come at me from behind- a great black thing, taller than a bear. It dragged me from the saddle before I could reach my rifle."

He put a hand to his head, touching the bandage as if to be sure the dressing was secure and stared into the flames. Josh waited, but the tracker said no more. His teeth bit into his chapped lips as if to stifle them. It seemed cruel to press on, so Josh sat back and reached for the bottle of firewater to take a pull. A minute passed before the man spoke again. They were sounds rising from within his soul.

His lips never moved, yet a spurt of words spilled from them. The pitch of the voice was high and unnatural, as if some spirit inside forced him to speak.

"It had a face; a human face and it stared at me."

The man was reliving the attack, the eyes staring, the hands curled in terror. Josh put out a hand to comfort him, but Caleb shrank back agitated and afraid.

'Did you know him?'

The tracker stared, a wide-eyed gaze as if the truth was obvious. "Of course, it was Nalusa."

It meant nothing to Josh, but he nodded to ease the man's troubled spirit.

'Did he speak to you?'

"Not till you disturbed him."

'And then?'

"He told me to wait, he would return."

Josh passed the fire water to him and watched as he put his bruised lips to the bottle. Some slight colour tinged his cheeks.

. "You done me proud, son, he had to leave me"

The trapper shook his head, unsure what to believe. Something or person attacked the old man, but who or what remained unclear. The only course was to be on guard and defend oneself. Within a week Caleb had mended enough to ride again. His lanky frame and tough constitution managed to cope with the physical trauma of the attack.

His scalp healed but a broad strip of exposed flesh stretched across the forehead showed where he had suffered the terrible injury. He was ready to make the journey home.

He pointed to his scalp. "Sure miss my hat. Kinda cold up there." He put a hand on Josh's shoulder. "Listen, ain’ no use in gettin' together 'nother posse. The Nalusa come for me, like he come for old man Jacobs. He won't touch you."

Josh stepped back, 'You bin holding out on me? I never asked you about that thing cos you was crazy minded at the time. You had a week to tell me, and you never said a word.'

Caleb looked away then faced him. "I meant to tell it all but never found the time to catch the right moment. I was always goin' to tell you."

Josh waited, too angry to say a word. Caleb paused and his eyes shifted away to avoid the angry stare. After a pause he spoke, the words heavy as stones.

"Me and old man Jacobs was buffalo hunters back in the Forties. We roamed the homeland of the Cherokee Nation and did good work for many months. Then trouble began with the local tribe."

'What sort of trouble? Shootin? Killin'?"

The old man shrugged and shifted his feet. "We had some. But the end of it was, we had to defend ourselves against 'em."

'You mean you wiped them out?'

"Just the braves. We weren't like them soldiers. That's when Nalusa got called.'

'Explain yourself.'

"The Cherokee had a spirit Nalusa to take revenge against their enemies. They called him up."

Josh took a step back. For a moment, the shadow in the woods and the signs of terrifying violence among the trees filled his mind. For months, he had suppressed his fears when the howls of animals and strange movements outside occurred. Now, he was confronted with evidence of savagery with no rational explanation. His knuckles whitened and he gripped the butt of his rifle. His eyes under the fur cap were wide and focused.

Caleb turned his head and spat. "Happen it's gone now. Maybe the spell is broke and it's over."

He avoided Josh's gaze, knowing the lie would be exposed if their eyes met. He fiddled with the tack on his horse, pulling on buckles and pushing the rifle hard down into the holster as if the lashings need adjustment. At last, he turned to face the trapper.

"Listen, Come back with me. It's out there in the trees. It knows you helped me, and it won't never give up. We can get another posse and come back up again."

Josh shook his head. 'What good will that do? You lost posse men and Jacob. You barely got away yourself. It makes no sense to bring up more.'

"Then, you gotta abandon this place. It's like a curse; it's going no place else till its blood-satisfied. Come on, we'll pack up."

He went to tether the horse and pulled Josh in the direction of the cabin, and he went with him as far as the door, but stopped short. He stood gazing at the racks of drying pelts and stacks of wood lined up against the timber walls. He saw the bundles of furs packed neatly inside the cabin and his mouth clamped shut.

A muscle in his cheek bulged as it clamped the jaw, and his face became a mask of determination. His fists, latched to the handrail, held him stock still. Caleb pulled at him, but he never moved.

'It's no use.' He said, 'I'm not leavin.'

"What good is that? Take the furs and all and come back next year. You can't fight Fate."

'But you did. You fought the thing and got away.'

"You came to rescue me. It wanted my flesh, but you distracted it and it moved off."

He gripped Josh, exasperated by the refusal, shaking him by the shoulders. His voice took on a rasping urgency.

"He'll come back, he'll come back, I tell you."

For a second, the image of Mary and the family home, far away, rose in Josh's mind. The soft days when the warmth of the sun beamed on the town and life was easy. But the reality of his life came flooding in. The Company could not abandon the post; his job would be forfeited, and his livelihood gone. He shook his head.

“I won't give up. It never touched me, and I ain't moving.”

Caleb Winn hunched his thin shoulders and turned away. He spat on the ground.

"Then stay indoors and keep shut. Keep the fires lit."

He climbed into the saddle ready to set off. In the shadows of the trees, his head seemed elongated by the grey-white scar stretching across the skull. Lank hair hung down each side of the wound like the wings of some graveyard bird.

Josh held out his fur hat. 'Here take this. I'll find your Stetson and bring it back to you.'

The man said nothing but took the cap and kicked the horse homewards.

The quiet glade seemed tranquil after Caleb left and routine tasks felt comforting as he resumed work. There was still a month of the contract to serve before he could travel back home. Meantime, he hunted deer and always kept his shotgun handy even when chopping wood or working outside. As night closed in, he checked the surroundings for movement or strange signs that might indicate some activity, but apart from small creatures and birds, nothing signified. He kept the mule inside the barn each night. Sometimes, he heard the wind wailing through the trees like a dispossessed soul. Other times, he fancied he heard a noise like a voice calling from afar. At night, he drew a bearskin over his head to shut out the noise, convincing himself it could only be the forest moving under the storm.

As Spring approached, the forest floor began to stir and the glimpse of returning life showed in the thin tendrils of grass and fern sprouting in every clearing. Small game and squirrels criss-crossed the clearing in front of the cabin, indifferent to his presence. It comforted him and he began to prepare for his journey back home. He no longer spent time away in the deep forest but kept his traps within a few hundred yards the cabin. Life was serene and calm.

One bright morning, he went to fetch water from the spring behind the clearing. Stepping outside, there were strange imprints marring the soft spring snow. He put down the bucket and knelt, eyes narrowing. The prints weren’t human, nor any animal

he knew: no boots, no snowshoes — more like the heavy, deliberate marks of a large animal, but somehow… wrong. They curved around the cabin, tracing a clear path. He followed. At each window, the prints showed multiple scuffs where it had lingered, watching. As he reached the front door, something lay half hidden by the thin fall of snow. It was a battered Stetson. He knew at once, it was Caleb's. Looking up, he saw the tracks led nowhere, just that circle surrounding the shack.

He stooped to pick it up. It was torn and crushed; stains of old blood, like rust, rimmed the brim. He swallowed hard. It meant the retribution was complete. The memory of the old man's reckless violence and lack of remorse came flooding back. Had he been complicit in the old man's crime? Was his silence a tacit support? He shook his head and his hand trembled slightly as he took a match to the hat. He held it as the bright flames took hold; the smoke curled upwards and vanished in the fresh Spring air, and the hat was gone.

Suddenly, sunlight broke through the mist, melting the thin crust of snow. He managed the faintest of smiles and turned away. Spring, indifferent to every trauma, was unfolding across the land.