Excerpt: Pasayten Pete

From the darkness of his sleep his mind began to perceive forms, whispers, shifting images barely perceived in the shadows. The dream formed, and he found himself standing in tall sagebrush near a boulder-strewn stream. White water frothed and thundered down through the rocks, spilling into grey-black pools that whirled around, seeking escape, and racing away down through the rock-choked channel. Heavy mists hung overhead; he could not tell if it was day or night, but a dim light surrounded him and reflected off the wet boulders and spray hanging heavy on the willow brush at streams edge. He stood alone, the thundering sound of the water and wet spray buffeting against his face.

Wondering, he looked behind himself and saw only an endless sagebrush plain. Up and down stream, he saw the thick stream-side forest, and the understory of willow brush beneath. Across the stream, looking up the steep slope he marvelled at the pines, towering hugely overhead, long fronds of lichen moss hanging from their lower branches, fed by the moist air rising from the spray off the plunging waters.

The cataract dimmed in his ears at the same time a fluttering, shrill sound rushed past his ear and he fell to the ground, feeling the gust of air of something that had flown past his head. Glancing upward he saw a bird with outstretched wings, rushing upward to soar above the pines, then fluttering away in climbing, dipping movements. It was a nighthawk.

Graydon regained his feet, and saw the dim overhead gloom brighten in the center and move toward him. He stood, rooted, unable to focus clearly on anything but the circle of light, brightening, as it moved closer. A form emerged, a ghostly visage. All around him the world had gone silent. The waters crashed silently behind him, no sound coming from the racing torrent pouring down through the boulders. The circle of light moved closer, brighter. The ghostly shape grew, while all around Graydon his world drew in, closing into his consciousness, until it seemed to be a confining, close space holding only himself and the specter, facing one another.

It was buckskin and feathers and heavy-lidded eyes that faced him, long, grey hair streaming to its shoulders, cheeks painted with zig-zag stripes and beadwork patterns on its leather shirt. The eyes stared at him, a tight-lipped mouth not moving, silent. A gnarled hand rose slowly and pointed to Graydon, then raised itself into a forward facing, open-handed gesture of greeting.

Graydon stood transfixed, unable to move, totally focused on the face and the hand before him. A moment passed, the eyes seeming to hold some message. And then it faded.

Graydon found himself waking, alone in his bed. Outside his rain-streaked window, all was calm. He rubbed his eyes, A sweet, chill wind wafted through the window. He could hear the rolling sounds of distant thunder, far down the valley . He lay back on his pillow, wondering. In moments he was asleep.