I love mythology. In a recent read I came across the trolls. This made my mind jump to a modern day troll issue.

TROLLS IN THE LAND OF MAGA

Under the Facebook Bridge,
Lived a clan of trolls.
Ugly and stupid and bug-eyed,
They had no self-control.

Anyone who tried to cross
Their bridge into MAGA land,
Had to endure many insults,
And pay taxes into their hands.

As people crossed the bridge,
Travelers would often speak
About Deep State crooks & election fraud,
This angered the troll-like geeks!

All it took was one wrong word,
To cause them to attack,
They wanted to frustrate and frighten,
So you’d never want to come back.

Church bells made them crazy,
Religion was not their thing,
“I’m Proud to be an American”
Was a song they’d never sing.

Once, travelers played the Trump Card,
It scared the trolls to death!
They fled and hid in the Swamp,
And tried to catch their breath.

But to this day Trolls continue
To attack, provoke and annoy,
Even eating MAGA Hobbits,
Not caring who they destroy.

I Feel Like I Was Living in Russia Again . . .

  I recently conducted an interview with, Nadia, a Russian immigrant. Tall and attractive, she’s been a LEGAL citizen now for a few years. She was born and raised in Minsk, was a Lenin Eagle and later a Pioneer. She now resides in New Orleans. Until the COVID shutdown, she had been making a living with a floral business and decorating for weddings and special events.

Our conversation led to describing her life in this American COVID shutdown. We talked about Alexandr Solzhenitsyn, whom she admired. When I told her that I had everything Solzhenitsyn had written, she said, “You’re the first American I’ve talked to who knew anything about him, and the first who really understands what life is like in a communist country.”

“How would you describe your life now?” I asked.

“I feel like I’m living in Russia again,” she said. “I haven’t worked for months. Since I’m self-employed, the only money I’ve been able to receive is a little bit of relief money. In Russia, the government will provide a stipend, but not enough to live on. The government controlled where you could live, where you could go, what you could buy—if you had any money—and controlled what you could say. The government determined what was acceptable to say.  You had to be very careful with what you said, Neighbors would turn you in for making your own bread or making your own vodka, so that had to be done in secret. If you wanted to purchase something, anything, you had to count on waiting for hours in very long lines. Many things were not available at all, not at any price.”

She paused and looked directly at me. “That is my life now. I’m living in a ___ hole. Sometimes I think I might as well be back in the Russian ____ hole. I see how Americans are headed toward the same kind of life—with a government-controlled media, where you have the rich elite who control everything and who have everything and anything they want. Then there’s everyone else, the rest of the population that the leaders don’t care about.  The rich leaders are hypocrites, who feel they don’t have to obey the same restrictions and rules as a normal citizen.”

She paused as if remembering the little girl she once had been standing in the breadline for hours. She went on to describe the total censorship, the ruined lives of those who spoke out, how they used mob violence to deter protests or stepping out of Party lines, and the common fraud and power struggles in elections.

The similarities between her life experiences and what she is experiencing now were striking and obvious.  She concluded our interview by saying, “Most Americans don’t know what it’s like to live in constant fear of being arrested, spied on, fined, or for a family of four to live in one very small room.

“But someday they will . . . .”

SOLZHENITSYN’S GHOST: AMERICAN SAMIZDAT, #1

     Under the Witch’s Mark is an excellent example of coming of age during the Age of Aquarius.

In the late 1960’s, millions of Flower Children rebelled against their conventional, post World War II upbringing by experimentation with psychedelic drugs, “free” love and out of the norm costumes and music. They (we) embraced any behavior that would shock society.

By the early 1970’s the movement had become wide spread with some young people learning that freedom from convention led down roads from which there was no return.

Rickey Pitman simply and distinctly gives the reader a glimpse of how evil walks among us and how quickly innocence can turn into evil when the weak and susceptible.

Those who believe the devil is a myth will rethink their convictions after reading Under the Witch’s Mark.

The first novel I read in 2021 was Innocence Lost: The Legend of Henrietta Clay by Rita Ownby Holcomb. (Fountain Springs Publishing).  The novel is well constructed with 44 dated chapters starting with August of 1860 and ending Christmas Eve, 1864. Innocence Lost is the first in a series that spans from 1860-1920.

This construct gives the story the feel of a memoir, telling the story of fifteen-year-old Henrietta Clay from Hogeye, Arkansas. The young, naive girl marries a man who promises her a beautiful life, but instead uses her and drags her into the seedy world of war-torn St. Louis. Fate rescues her from her difficult circumstances and leaves her with the gift of a child and an inherited brothel.  Henrietta Clay is actually the great-great-grandmother of the author.

The author skilly constructs her plot with the kind of chapters I like to read: short enough to read in one sitting with very descriptive writing that moves from one conflict to another. The storyline has plenty of conflicts and twists and at times has the feel of a romance novel, but as mentioned before, it feels more like a memoir, and one that is full of historical details indicating the extensive research the author must have done,  Even though I’ve long been a student of the Civil War, some of these facts are surprising, such as introducing Lissie Keckley, a free slave who became the personal dressmaker of Mary Todd Lincoln. As the War Between the States is always in the background, the protagonist is an observer of the St. Louis civilians as well as the Federal and Confederate officers and soldiers whose destinies and actions affected the city.  In a way, one could say that this is very much a story of St. Louis.

Rita Holcomb is a member of the Authors Roundtable Society and a member of the Texas Authors Association. You can read more about her and her fine books HERE:

Line of Blood: Uncovering a Secret Legacy of Mobsters, Money, and Murder by Jana Marcus

A Short Review by Rickey Pittman

I discovered the writing of Jana Marcus in my review of her earlier book, In the Shadow of the Vampire, which you can read on this blog. That review led me to read and review this work. But first, a word about Jana Marcus. Marcus is the author of two photodocumentary books, “In The Shadow Of The Vampire: Reflections from the World of Anne Rice” and “Transfigurations,” which received the Gold Award for Best LGBT Non-Fiction Book of 2012 by the Independent Book Awards of New York. She is a multi-award-winning photographer based in Santa Cruz County. You can discover much more about her and many illustrations of her exceptional photography at her website.

I am happy to have discovered her, a careful writer who has a fantastic inner theatre, an imagination no doubt fueled by her expert photographer’s eye. The subtitle of the writing gives the reader a strong hint of what is found in this murder-mystery-memoir–there is much here about mobsters, money, and murder. This is a tale of a Brooklyn family with their histories, their family trees, their secrets, and their faults and strengths. There is a section of family photos that bring places, family members, and graves into focus and helps the visualization of the narrative.  Marcus’s years of obsessive and careful research led her on her tedious quest for answers for unsolved murders. She found answers to many of her questions, but her discoveries were often painful, heartbreaking, and disappointing. I encourage you to read this fine book to discover for yourself what she found. She obviously knows how to create a documentary.

As a reader, I most enjoyed learning from this read.  Marcus used a psychic in her search and I learned much about how a psychic works in their communication with the past and with the dead. There certainly seemed to be some very haunted places connected to the murders. Marcus and her friends help her expose the massive corruption that had taken place in the DA’s office and the Brooklyn police in the 30s and 40s. The reader meets the Italian and Jewish mob leaders who, along with the corrupt law enforcement agencies, controlled the gangsters, the businesses, as well as the region’s prostitution, gambling, and murder for hire. Her narrative made me realize better than any crime movie of that period how corrupt things can become. Marcus says, “What was extremely evident to me was just how rampant corruption ran within the ranks of the police department and the higher authorities in the 1930s and 1940s” (p.111).

Here are some interesting discoveries I made:

Murder Incorporated. – an organized crime group in the 1930s and 40s that enforces the crime groups in the greater New York City area. Marcus covers their history from their formation to their end.

I learned much about Jewish gangsters. They were much more formidable a crime force than I had realized before this reading. Marcus also introduced me to many Jewish/Yiddish words and customs.

Marcus spent half her life in her search for answers. To conclude, I think this is the most memorable quote in the book: “I’ve learned the dead do talk…if you listen.”

You can order Marcus’ book HERE: 

Stonewall Jackson: A Great Christian, General, and Inspiration PART TWO

My children’s picture book, Stonewall Jackson’s Black Sunday School is out of print, but don’t despair! I will gladly email a free part one HERE:  Download part two HERE:

Here is the original cover.  Perhaps you’ve seen it around. It received an award from the Colonial Dames of America.

A.        

Jackson was a deacon in the Presbyterian Church. He started a Sunday school on Sunday afternoons for free blacks and slaves. He taught them to read, (when it was illegal to do so) gave them Bibles, and taught them their catechism. One student in Jackson’s Sunday School became a pastor and he raised money from the black community for a stained glass window to honor Jackson with his last words on it. Here’s an image of that window:

Here are two videos that honor Stonewall Jackson in song. The first is a song written and performed by Jed Marum:

The second song that honors Stonewall Jackson is “Christmastime in Washington” that Jed Marum and I wrote and recorded. Considering the. current Cancel Culture and the politically correct war on Southerners, tradition, statues, and history, this song has an appropriate message.

You can listen to the song HERE:

Here are the lyrics!

Stonewall Jackson Facts

• The United States Navy submarine U.S.S. Stonewall Jackson (SSBN 634), commissioned in 1964, was named for him. The words “Strength—Mobility” are emblazoned on the ship’s banner, words taken from letters written by General Jackson
• Stonewall Jackson appeared on the CSA $500 bill (7th Issue, February 17, 1864).
• “Let us cross over the river, and rest under the shade of the trees.” —Jackson’s last words
• “You may be whatever you resolve to be”—Stonewall Jackson
• It was during the Battle of Bull Run in the Civil War when Jackson assumed his nickname. Amidst the tumult of battle, Brigadeer-General Barnard E. Bee stated, “There is Jackson standing like a stone wall.”
• Jackson also appears prominently in the enormous bas-relief carving on the face of Stone Mountain riding with Jefferson Davis and Robert E. Lee. (In Georgia)
• Stonewall’s steed, Little Sorrel (the Confederacy’s 2nd most famous horse)
• Jackson was said to be especially fond of lemons. Visitors frequently leave them
  at his gravesite.

“Stonewall” Jackson has two separate burial sites. His left arm, which was amputated after the battle of Chancellorsville, was buried on a nearby farm. A week later, Jackson died and was buried in Lexington, Virginia. Stonewall died on a Sunday. He had prayed that he would be allowed to die on the Sabbath.

Songs and poems were written about Stonewall Jackson even during the Civil War. One of those was “Stonewall Jackson’s Way.”  According to a book, War Songs and Poems of the Southern Confederacy, “these verses were found written on a small piece of paper, all stained with blood in the bosom of a dead soldier of the old Stonewall Brigade after one of Jackson’s battles in the Shenandoah Valley” (47).  According to http://www.poetry-archive.com/p/stonewall_jackson_s_way.html it was later discovered that the author was John Williamson Palmer (1825-1906).

COME, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails,
Stir up the camp-fire bright;
No matter if the canteen fails,
We’ll make a roaring night.
Here Shenandoah brawls along,
There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong,
To swell the brigade’s rousing song
Of “Stonewall Jackson’s way.”
We see him now, — the old slouched hat
Cocked o’er his eye askew;
The shrewd, dry smile, the speech so pat,
So calm, so blunt, so true.
The “Blue-Light Elder” knows ’em well;
Says he, “That’s Banks, — he’s fond of shell;
Lord save his soul! we’ll give him —;” well,
That’s “Stonewall Jackson’s way.”
Silence! ground arms! kneel all! caps off!
Old “Blue Light’s” going to pray.
Strangle the fool that dares to scoff!
Attention! it’s his way.
Appealing from his native sod,
In forma pauperis to God,
“Lay bare Thine arm; stretch forth Thy rod!
Amen!” That’s “Stonewall’s way.”
He’s in the saddle now. Fall in!
Steady! the whole brigade!
Hill’s at the ford cut off; we’ll win
His way out, ball and blade!
What matter if our shoes are worn?
What matter if our feet are torn?
“Quick-step! we’re with him before morn!”
That’s “Stonewall Jackson’s way.”
The sun’s bright lances rout the mists
Of morning, and, by George!
Here’s Longstreet struggling in the lists,
Hemmed in an ugly gorge.
Pope and his Yankees, whipped before,
“Bay’nets and grape!” hear Stonewall roar;
“Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby’s score!”
In “Stonewall Jackson’s way.”
Ah! Maiden, wait and watch and yearn
For news of Stonewall’s band!
Ah! Widow, read, with eyes that burn,
That ring upon thy hand.
Ah! Wife, sew on, pray on, hope on;
Thy life shall not be all forlorn;
The foe had better ne’er been born
That gets in “Stonewall’s way.”

Thirty Days to Halloween, Day 30: Psychobilly Music

Some time ago, I stumbled onto the song, “Psycho” by Elvis Costello. It was my first introduction to the genre of Psychobilly music. The song is terrifying and disturbing and as it’s sung in first person, the listener feels like the killer himself is singing. Texas Music Magazine has a great article about the story behind the song. Read it HERE:

HERE is a great and extensive article about Psychobilly. And here is Elvis Costello singing the song.

Elvis Costello and the Attractions – Psycho (1981)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v-akyoO4MqI

Here is a video that discusses the history and importance of Psychobilly!

Thirty Days to Halloween, Day 29: Gothic Horror

Gothic literature has always fascinated me.  Ever since I discovered the writings of the Gothic authors (You can see a complete list of these authors and their works HERE) I keep returning, rereading, and rethinking their hauntingly powerful prose.  I discovered a fine article that lists the elements of a Gothic novel. Read that HERE: And here is a video that discusses the features of Gothic literature.

In college, I discovered the Southern Gothic genre in writing of Faulkner, Flannery O’Connor, The Oxford Research Encyclopedias says that the characteristics of Southern Gothic include the presence of irrational, horrific, and transgressive thoughts, desires, and impulses; grotesque characters; dark humor, and an overall angst-ridden sense of alienation. You can read that fine article HERE:  And here is a video devoted to Southern Gothic literature:

There is even a genre of Southern Gothic music. One source says that: Southern Gothic (also known as Gothic Americana, or Dark Country) is a genre of acoustic-based alternative rock and Americana music that combines elements of traditional country, folk, blues, and gospel, often with dark lyrical subject matter. Spotify has a playlist of Southern Gothic songs HERE:  Try it out for some unique Halloween music!

Thirty Days to Halloween, Day 28: The Ice Caves and the Chindi

When the unclean spirit is gone out of a man, he walketh through dry places, seeking rest; and findeth none.–Matthew 12:43

          EDUARDO STEPPED UP ON A BOULDER AND SCANNED THE DESERT FOR THE NEXT CAIRN MARKING THE TRAIL. The heat waves shimmered into the sky from the desert ground and the distant mountains moved and bent in the refracted air.  After he spotted the cairn, he lifted his straw cowboy hat and wiped his forehead with the long sleeve of his khaki shirt.  He slicked back his shoulder-length black hair with his hand, then slid down the boulder. Sheridan and Bronwynn, his two fellow hikers, were studying a topographic map spread on the ground.

“I spotted the next cairn, Sheridan,” Eduardo said.  “Shinny up this rock and take a look. The ice cave is an hour beyond the cairn.”

Sheridan spat dry phlegm from his mouth and took a long drink from his water bottle. He stepped up on the boulder and scanned the dark ground surrounding them. “You’ve got better eyes than I do, Eduardo.  I can’t tell which pile of rocks you’re talking about.”

Eduardo squinted his eyes, focussing on blurred movement in the brush.  A roadrunner battled with a rattlesnake.  Both creatures seemed abnormally dark, their midnight-dark coloration a camouflage in the rugged volcanic terrain. A strange contrast to what desert visitors would see fourteen miles south, where the black New Mexico landscape would give way to white gypsum sands, and there the skins of the same animals would be abnormally light.

Edward saw Bronwynn shudder when a scorpion scurried past the toe of her boot.

“God, even the scorpions are black here,” she said.  “It’s so damned hot out here. Are you sure there’s ice caves out here?”

“Yeah,” Eduardo said. “I’ve seen them.  And the temperature in them never gets above 31 degrees. Hard to believe, isn’t it? Ice caves in the Valley of the Fires.” He handed Bronwynn his water bottle.

Bronwynn chugged down several swallows and handed the bottle back to him. “I don’t think I like desert camping. Everything either bites or stabs you. My socks are full of cactus spines. And the landscape looks like Mars or something.  Look at my boots. The rocks have cut them up so bad I’ll have to walk back barefoot.”

Eduardo looked down at his own boots.  They were gouged and cut from their walk as if a madman with a razor had slashed out at his feet. “Yeah, it’s a rough hike, but seeing this cave will be worth the scratches and blistered skin. Think about it. How many people have ever seen an ice cave in the middle of a desert?  And I’ll get some great photos and a good magazine article out of it.”

“What will we get?” Bronwynn asked.

“An unforgettable adventure and my gratitude for your company,” Sheridan said.

“The trip’s already unforgettable,” Bronwynn said. “I’ll never come to the desert again.”

They passed through a thicket of scrub juniper and cactus skeletons and came upon a jacal.  An old woman, her skin wizened and blackened from the sun, sat in the shade of the brush hut picking at her tangled gray hair with bony hands.

Sheridan waved. “Hello.  We’re students from the University of Texas in Austin. Do you mind if we talk to you?” The old woman stared at them but said nothing. Sheridan glanced at the others. “What do you make of this, Eduardo?”

“Bruja,” he said. “She’s a witch. They’re the only Indians that live alone in the desert.  Let’s go on.”

“Ah, come on,” Sheridan said. “Let’s go meet her. This might be a real photo opportunity. I’d like to meet a real witch.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Eduardo said.

“Maybe she’s got something cool to drink,” Sheridan said.

“That’s real funny, Sheridan. There’s hardly any water out here. That’s why we’re toting two gallons of water each for a two-day hike. I wouldn’t eat or drink anything she offered anyway.”

“Why not?” Sheridan said.

“Witches poison people if you’ve got something they want.”

“What would we have that she’d want?  It’s hard for me to understand how you can spend all your money getting a journalism degree, yet still be eaten up with Indian superstition.”

“Shut the hell up, Sheridan. Alright, we’ll go up to her and you take your picture, but we can’t stay long if we want to reach the cave before dark.”

Eduardo walked up to the woman. He bowed his head slightly and greeted her in Navajo.

She shook her head.  “Soy Apache. Sientate,” she said.

“What did she say?” Bronwynn asked.

“She’s Apache,” Eduardo said. “But I think she knows enough Spanish to talk to us.  She said we could sit down.”

They pulled off their packs, sat down in the shade near the woman, and gulped down some water from their bottles. Sheridan took his camera from his pack and pointed it at the woman.

The woman straightened herself and smiled, revealing a few jagged and yellow teeth. After Sheridan took the picture, she slumped back against the hut wall.  “Donde van?” the woman said. She held out a rusty tin cup that Eduardo filled with water from his bottle.

“To the ice caves,” Eduardo said.  The woman shook her head, so he repeated himself in Spanish. “A las cavernas del hielo.”

The old woman nodded. “Frio, muy frio. Lago de invierno. Lago de muertos.”

The woman held out a basket filled with fruit-like pods. “Quiere las tunas?”

Sheridan picked out one. “Gracias,” he said. “Looks like prickly pear apples.”

“You idiot,” Eduardo whispered. “It may or may not be prickly pear. A witch can poison or drug you.”

Sheridan took a bite. “It tastes like prickly pear. Don’t be so paranoid.” Sheridan reached into his pack and pulled out a Granola bar and handed it to the woman.

She unwrapped the bar, threw the paper to the ground, and stuffed the bar into her mouth. After wiping her mouth with her arm, she pointed to Bronwynn’s ponytail.  “Damelo,” she said. “Damelo.” She reached over and fingered the elastic band holding back Bronwynn’s hair.

“She wants you to give her the band,” Eduardo said.

Bronwynn smiled, slipped off the band and handed it to the woman, then reached into the pocket of her hiking shorts and for another band to use on her own hair. The woman grinned and pulled back the tangled mass on her head and slipped on the band. “¿Está bien?” she said, turning her head from side to side.

“Está bien,” Eduardo said. “Okay, Sheridan, you’ve met your witch. We better hit the trail.”  He stood up.

The woman held up a small serpent-shaped stick, pointed it at a javelina skull hanging on her hut, then pointed in the direction they were going. “No va allá,” she said. “Chindi, mal, mal.”

“She says we shouldn’t go to the cave,” Eduardo said. “Says something about the chindi being there.”

“Sí, sí, chindi, chindi,” the woman said. She raised her hands like they were claws and growled.

“What are chindi?” Bronwynn asked.

“Ghosts,” Eduardo said. “The earth-surface dead. I’m not sure what the Apache think, but Navajos believe that when someone dies, the evil part of their spirit often returns to torment travelers and settle grudges with people they knew.”

“Do you believe that crap, Eduardo?” Sheridan said.

“I’m half Navajo, so I guess I half believe it. Grandmother said the chindi killed Grandfather. One night they chased their flock of churro sheep into the desert and attacked and mutilated several of them. Grandfather went out to herd the flock back, and a chindi jumped out and clawed him.  Gave him the ghost sickness.”

“Oh, that’s great, Sheridan” Bronwynn said. “You’ve brought us to a haunted desert. What happened to your grandfather when he got this ghost sickness?”

“First, he got really sick. The family knew he was dying, so they carried him out of the hogan and laid him under his favorite shade tree. Two nights later he died. Then we brought him here to the desert and buried him near the ice cave we’re going to.”

“They let him die outside alone?” Bronwynn said.

“What else could they do?” Eduardo said.  “He had the ghost sickness. If he had died inside, she would have had to burn the hogan to keep the evil spirit from coming back.”

“But to die alone!” Bronwynn said.

“We all die alone, Bronwynn,” Eduardo said. “Every culture has its demons. Navajos have the chindi. I guess if one demon doesn’t get you, another one will.”

“Sí, sí, chinde, chinde,” the old woman said. “Ustedes van a jornado de muertos.”

“What did she say, Eduardo?” Bronwynn said.

“She said we’re going to a dying place.”

*         *        *

AFTER they passed the next cairn, they came upon a string of kipukas.  Past volcanic activity had chemically altered the large sandstone islands’ color so that they had yellow and pink surfaces, and in other spots, the sandstone had metamorphosed into giant blocks of quarts. Beyond, black volcanic rock and obsidian covered the ground.  Many of the stones were green-streaked with a patina of red and purple, and the colors danced like flames in the sunlight.

They crossed a barbed wire fence, with a NO TRESPASSING sign wired to one of the old mesquite posts. “We’re trespassing,” Bronwynn said as they slipped through the wire.

“What the owners don’t know won’t hurt them,” Sheridan said. “Besides, the NPA has prohibited access to all known ice caves and won’t even reveal their locations. It’s actually good this cave is on private property. The government might not even know it exists.”

When Sheridan heard a snort and a sharp barking sound, he looked to his left and saw several javelinas bedded down in the shade of some junipers. He stomped his foot and the javelinas jumped, crashed into the brush, and vanished.

Bronwynn jumped forward and grabbed Sheridan’s arm. “What was that?” she said.

“Javelina,” Eduardo said. “They’re all over this part of the country. Watch out for them. They’ll tear your ass up with those long teeth.”

“They didn’t seem dangerous to me,” Sheridan said. “I thought I scared them off rather easily.”

“This time,” Eduardo said.

Bronwynn pointed to a deer carcass under one of the junipers. “Yuk!” she said. “They were eating something dead.”

“They’ll eat anything,” Eduardo said. “Live or dead.”

At sundown, they came to a rise of ground with a tumbled mass of boulders and volcanic rock, and Eduardo set down his pack. “Okay, we’re here. The cave’s right up there in those rocks, by the two biggest boulders.”

A thick black stream swirled from the rocks and then separated into specks that vanished into the sky.

“Look at all those birds,” Bronwynn said.

“Those are bats,” Eduardo said. “They live in the caves.”

“Sheridan, you didn’t say anything about bats being in this cave,” Bronwynn said.

“Don’t worry, they don’t bite. I just hope we don’t have to wade through a lot of guano. Let’s go take a look at the cave,” Sheridan said.

“Wait till tomorrow,” Eduardo said. “The ground’s rough and it would be easy to break a leg in the dark. There’s a bunch of lava tubes up there and since I haven’t been here in a long time, I’ll need daylight to find the right hole to crawl into.”

After a supper of crackers and sardines, Sheridan pulled a bottle from his pack. “Hey, I brought some mescal,” Sheridan said. “Let’s celebrate reaching the cave. You want some, Eduardo?”

“Sure. But I can’t believe you’d bring that rot-gut stuff when you could have bought some perfectly good whiskey.”

“Just felt mescal would fit the setting.” Sheridan poured some into each of their cups. “Here try a sip, Bronwynn.”

Bronwynn took a small swig and shuddered and handed the cup back to him.  “God, it tastes like kerosene. How can you drink that?”

As darkness fell, stars blanketed the sky and the moon rose. Sheridan lit a lantern, and they listened to the wind as it wound its way through the brush and rock formations.

“Listen,” Bronwynn said. “Sometimes the wind sounds like someone’s laughing or talking. It’s weird.”

“Desert’s a strange place. Maybe it’s the chinde,” Eduardo says. He stood, stretched his arms, and smiled. “Or it could be skinwalkers. Maybe they don’t like us camping here.”

“You mean they might think we’re trespassing?” Bronwynn said. Her white face glowed in the light of the lantern and the moon.

“Would you like someone camping on your front lawn?” Eduardo replied. “I read about people disappearing out in the desert. Some places possess evil powers. Witches will gather in secluded places like this take over the corpses of travelers who die to harm people who anger them. They can shapeshift into animal form.”

Bronwynn shuddered. “Shut up, Eduardo. You’re creeping me out.”

“No more ghost talk,” Sheridan said. “Let’s get some sleep.”

When Sheridan stood up, he staggered and nearly fell. “Whew! That mescal’s pretty stout.” After he recovered his balance, he and Bronwynn spread out their sleeping bags on a bare slab of sandstone. They took off their boots and lay down. Sheridan could feel the hardness and coarseness of the stone against his back even while he felt the softness of Bronwynn’s arms around him. Some coyotes howled neared them.  Sheridan sat up and saw two coyotes sitting on their haunches on the large boulders Eduardo said marked the entrance to the cave. Sheridan lay down again and when he closed his eyes, he felt like he was tumbling, and when he opened them, the stars spun wildly. “God, I hope I don’t get sick,” he whispered to Bronwynn. “I think this stuff is fermenting in my stomach.”

“You’ll be alright,” Bronwynn said. “Just don’t drink anymore. You always try to do too much of everything. Just quit talking and go to sleep.”

*         *        *

EDUARDO could hear Sheridan snore. He poured himself another full cup of the mescal. He drained it, then turned off the lantern and lay down on his own sleeping bag. As he drifted into sleep, he heard a snort and felt hot breath on his face. He jerked up and saw javelina by his bedroll. Its eyes glowed red in the moonlight and the coarse hair on its back bristled.  The javelina snorted again and its nostrils flared as it popped its long front teeth. Eduardo kicked out at the javelina, grabbed a rock and hurled it.  The rock struck the pig on its thick collar and ricocheted to the ground.

“Shoo, you sorry excuse for a pig. Git out of here!” Eduardo shouted.

The pig turned and ran into the brush a few feet, then stopped and turned around again.

When Eduardo jumped up and ran at the pig, it disappeared into the brush. Eduardo picked up two more rocks and followed. He threw the rocks hard at a dark spot of ground where he thought the pig might be. He heard movement and strained his eyes to find the shape of the javelina in the shadows. Instead, he saw a human shape rise and walk toward him.

“Who’s there?  Bruja, is it you?  Even a kook like you should know better than to come into a camp at night!”

The shape stepped back into the shadows.

“Why don’t you show yourself?” he shouted.

Bronwynn shook Sheridan.

“What is it, Bronwynn?”

“Listen. What’s wrong with Eduardo?”

Sheridan sat up and willed his mescal-beaten eyes to focus on Eduardo who was standing and shouting at the darkness.

“God he must be really drunk,” Bronwynn said. “Listen to him. Who’s he talking to?  Maybe the desert really does make people crazy.”

“He’s probably just had too much mescal.  Hey! Eduardo, you okay?”

Eduardo wobbled on his feet and pointed at the desert. “A javelina came into camp and after I ran him out, I saw someone in the brush. I can’t find my flashlight, or I’d go out and kick their ass.”

“You’re drunk, Eduardo, and you’re seeing things,” Sheridan said. “No one’s out here.”

Eduardo sat down on his sleeping bag, still looking out into the dark. “I tell you someone’s outside our camp. I can hear him moving in the brush now. Right behind me. Put your light on them. For a moment, I swear I thought it was my grandfather.”

Sheridan stood, turned on his flashlight, and scanned the ground behind Eduardo. The beam caught several pairs of red eyes close to the ground. “It’s feral pigs, Eduardo. That’s all it was.”

“It could be skinwalkers or a chindi.” Eduardo picked up another rock and threw it. The herd of javelinas squealed and snorted and ran wildly away from the camp. Sheridan followed them with the beam of the MAG-LITE. The herd stopped for a moment as another one joined them and then they vanished into the desert night.

*         *         *

SHERIDAN woke in the gray twilight of dawn, shook out his boots to make sure they contained no scorpions or snakes, and made coffee.  Eduardo lay sprawled on the bare ground, the empty bottle of mescal in his hand. Sheridan sipped his coffee and watched the sunrise, and when the soft reds of the dawn sky disappeared into an explosion of light, he woke Bronwynn and Eduardo.

“Up and at’em, campers. Let’s get on to this cave.” He took each a cup of coffee.

Eduardo sat up. “I don’t know if I can get up.”

“Maybe it’s true what they say about Indians and firewater.”

“Screw you, Sheridan. Got any aspirin?”

They ate a breakfast of oatmeal and orange drink and enjoyed the cool of the desert morning.  Then Eduardo led them to a pair of basalt boulders near the mouth of the cave.

Sheridan glanced at the towering rock surface and smiled. “Look, petriglyphs.” Carefully etched onto the smooth surface of the stones were geometric symbols, a seven-foot horned rattlesnake, a javelina, and several masked people. “You didn’t tell me about this, Eduardo.”

“I’d forgotten about them.”

“How could you forget something like this?” Sheridan said.

Bronwynn put her finger on one of the human figures and snickered. “Look, he’s anatomically correct. So what tribe of Indians lived out here?”

“The Jornodo Morgollón,” Sheridan said. “Most of them were eaten by the volcano that made this valley and the ice caves. I don’t know if they were the ones that made these though.”

“What does Jornodo Morgollón mean?” Bronwynn asked.

“The stupid ones,” Eduardo said. “No one in their right mind would live out here. My father and grandfather came to the ice cave once or twice a year. I always hated it when they brought me with them. But they said there was big medicine here and that I needed to make peace with the desert.”

Sheridan smiled. “Did you?”

“No.”

Sheridan laughed and after he finished taking pictures of the petroglyphs, Eduardo pointed to a small hole in the ground near the boulders.

“There’s your ice cave entrance,” Eduardo said.

“That little hole is a cave?” Bronwynn said.

“It’s a lava tube, and it’s deep. It gets a little wider once you’re inside.”

“How far down is the ice?” Bronwynn said.

“Seems like we crawled an hour or so before we reached the ice.”

“Let’s go in,” Sheridan said. “I want to be first.” Sheridan stuck his head inside, turned on his mag light and peered down the shaft. After he put on his leather gloves, he slid down the lava vent feet first.  He felt the jagged and rough surface of the lava against his legs.  A few yards down the tube widened. “So far, so good,” Sheridan said. “The slant is not too bad. You two might as well come on. Be careful. The rocks are sharp.”

Eduardo and Bronwynn joined him, and they crept slowly down the lava tube.  The cramped size of the tunnel slowed down their progress. As they went deeper, the temperature gradually decreased, and in spite of the exertion of moving, Sheridan felt chilled.  The cave widened into a large room and there they found the ice. A thick layer covered the walls, floor, and ceiling of the cave.  Sheridan had heard that the ice in some caves was up to twenty feet thick. The ice had a blue-green tint and the color reminded Sheridan of the color of the ocean. “Look at how blue the ice is, Bronwynn, blue as your eyes, bluer than the sky.”

“I thought it would look more like Carlsbad Caverns and have ice cycles,” Bronwynn said.  “I’m cold now. How long do we have to stay in this icebox?”

“You two can go back to the camp if you want, but I’ve got a lot of work to do here. This is fantastic,” he said. “Do you know how old this ice is?” He pulled his camera, tape measure, and note pad out of his daypack.

“I’m ready to go too,” Eduardo said.

“So go. I’ll be up later.”

“Better hurry, it will be dark soon,” Eduardo said.

*         *         *

SHERIDAN finished his last roll of film, made some final notes, put a small sample of the ice into a jar, and began the long crawl back to the surface. He rolled out of the opening and walked into their camp. Bronwynn and Eduardo looked to be fast asleep in their sleeping bags. Exhausted from his journey into the ice cave, he drained the bottle of Mescal and fell into a troubled sleep. He didn’t hear Bronwynn and Eduardo call out to him.

*         *         *

AT sundown the next day, the Apache woman stood over the bodies of the campers.  Sheridan had been staked out spread-eagle to the ground.  Ants covered much of his body and thorns and cactus spines had been pressed deep into his white flesh, but he was not dead yet.  The mutilated bodies of Bronwynn and Eduardo lay on either side of him.  She stripped the bodies of their clothes and emptied their backpacks on the ground and filled one of the packs with everything she wanted.  She looked toward the cave and saw the two coyotes sitting on their haunches by the entrance, and the bats rising from the dark holes of the earth into the sky.  The wind stirred and she heard the malignant whispers of the chindi and knew they were near.  For protection, she fingered the amulet pouch around her neck, a pouch containing the gall bladders of a bear, coyote, and deer. Sheridan moaned loudly, and she could hear the herd of javelinas crashing through the brush toward him. “Sí, sí, chindi, chindi. Voy,” she said.  She rose, and dragging the heavy pack, hurried back toward her jacal while the javelinas fed on the three travelers.