TITLE:
Death Chant
AUTHOR:
Vella Munn
HEAT
RATING: Simmering
FORMAT:
EBOOK
ISBN:
978-1-78651-070-9
SEXOMETER:
1
WORD
COUNT: 82,860
LANGUAGE:
English
BOOK
LENGTH: SUPER NOVEL
PAGES:
255
GENRES:
ROMANCE
THRILLERS AND SUSPENSE
THRILLERS AND SUSPENSE
BLURB
Vonna
Harper writing as Vella Munn
When
her mentor disappears, Winter follows his trail to the Pacific Northwest, where
the untamed wilderness is beautiful…and hides deadly secrets.
Anthropologist
Winter Barstow knows nothing of her past or ethnic heritage and tells herself
it doesn’t matter. Everything changes when Doc, her mentor, sends her an
authentic ceremonial wolf mask from Olympic National Forest. The mask calls to
her in ways she can’t understand or explain.
Then
Doc disappears. Determined to find him and discover the mask’s origin, she
travels to the mysterious, awe-inspiring forest where she’s confronted by
Native American ranger Jay Raven, who has no love for Doc.
The
deeper Winter digs into her mentor’s disappearance, the more alarming things become.
She begins to hear a mysterious wolf’s howl…even when no one else does.
Jay
warns Winter to leave, but she owes Doc and herself the truth.
And
even though it goes against everything he has promised his tribe’s elders, Jay
can’t walk away from Winter. Not only has a spirit wolf reached out to her, but
he also suspects she’s in terrible danger…and his growing feelings for her are
too strong to ignore.
Publisher's
Note: This book has been previously released elsewhere. It has been revised and
re-edited for re-release with Totally Bound Publishing.
General
Release Date: 20th September 2016
BUY
LINKS
TOTALLY
BOUND PUBLISHING: https://www.totallybound.com/book/death-chant
EXCERPT
“Peace
and renewal. That is what Cha’lak’at’sit has always meant to the Chalat. The
river was a gift from K’wati, who intended it to provide for our people.
Whatever we decide now must be done with traditional Hoh belief in mind.”
Jay
Raven rubbed his aching right shoulder, doing his best to pay attention to his
uncle. At thirty, Jay was in the best shape of his life, but that didn’t mean
he was Superman. “I was certain he’d say that,” he whispered to his brother,
who stood next to him on the banks of the Cha’lak’at’sit—or, as the non-Natives
called it, the Hoh River—near where it fed into the Pacific Ocean in Western
Washington. “Our uncle and the rest of the elders will always see everything in
the context of the past.”
Floyd
jerked his head at the cedar canoe they’d pulled onto the gravel shore after
bringing their uncle to where the Narrow Roaring Creek stretch began. “They’re
going to be at this for hours. At least we’ll be moving with the river’s flow
when we head back.”
“Fighting
the current about did me in. Thanks for the help.”
“No
sweat, bro. I knew you couldn’t get Uncle here on your own. I wish he’d sit
down.”
So
did Jay, but Uncle Talio was doing what he believed he’d been born to do.
“Seeing
so many of the Chalat here today fills me with gratitude.” Uncle Talio moved in
a semicircle, connecting with the over one hundred Hoh Native Americans who’d
come for the meeting. “This shows that the decision we’ve been asked to make
means a great deal to you.” He shifted position, leaning more of his weight on
his cane. “Before I read the request from Dr. Anthony Gilsdorf, I’ll do my best
to make sure everyone grasps the ramifications should we decide to have
anything to do with the anthropologist.”
It
had rained last night and, judging by the sodden clouds, Jay figured another
downpour wasn’t far off. He’d grown up in and around Olympic National Forest.
He didn’t quite have webbed feet, but as he’d told the woman he’d naïvely
thought he’d spend his life with, one reason he’d left the Northwest rainforest
was so he wouldn’t grow gills.
Leaving
hadn’t lasted long, but he’d changed during those years while the forest
remained the same. A thousand years after his death, this wet realm would
endure. Ancient moss-studded Sitka spruce and western hemlock would still rise
above mats of vine maples and fern. Maybe he should let it absorb him as it had
his uncle and other members of the small tribe.
Only
he couldn’t.
“Until
whites ventured inland from the ocean,” Uncle Talio continued, “the river and
the land around it was home to us and the other tribes. But even then our
ancient way of life had been threatened by the newcomers’ diseases. Now what
remains of the Chalat live near the mouth of the river we love, even as it
slowly steals what little land we still have.”
“Did
he have to bring this up?” Floyd muttered. “That anthropologist’s request has
nothing to do with erosion.”
Jay
smelled booze on Floyd’s breath, but Floyd wasn’t drunk. As many times as he’d
attempted to get Floyd sober, he recognized the signs.
When
Uncle Talio was acting in his role as a tribal Old People, he tended to sound
as if he barely understood English, but just because he’d grown up speaking
Quinault didn’t mean he was cut off from the twenty-first century. He simply
preferred to live in the past.
Jay’s
shoulders weren’t the only part of his body that ached. His back threatened to
knot, and his knees were tender from supporting his weight the whole time Uncle
Talio, Floyd and he had been in the canoe. As an Olympic National Park ranger,
he was accustomed to spending his days on his feet, not struggling with the
seldom-used but well-maintained canoe.
That’s
what he was, he reminded himself as Uncle Talio held up a deerskin decorated
with the tribe’s symbol of a stylized eagle and a salmon—a forest ranger. He
was proud of who he was, he just didn’t want his heritage to define everything.
Uncle
Talio swayed but caught himself. Concerned, Jay made his way around the Hoh
who’d been standing in front of him. He unfolded the lawn chair he’d brought
along and braced it as his uncle sat down.
He
became aware of the river grumbling and laughing behind him and the darkening
skies. A distant rumble had him looking for lightning, but he didn’t see
anything. The land on either side of the river was open, but the forested
mountains trapped the members of the small gathering. In some respects, he felt
less claustrophobic when he was surrounded by thick vegetation than when he had
a glimpse of space. It hadn’t always been like this. He’d loved growing up with
a temperate-zone rainforest for his playground.
Something
to his right and down the riverbank a couple hundred feet caught his attention.
He recognized a salmon carcass. The thunder continued, slowly getting louder. A
toddler clung to her father’s legs while the older Hoh nodded and occasionally
exchanged glances. They were looking for signs that Thunderbird was in the
forest. Thunderbird, yet another of the legends his uncle had shared with him
while he was growing up.
For
the better part of an hour, Uncle Talio alternated between the tribe’s history
and recent changes brought about because the government had agreed to let the
Hoh purchase thirty-seven acres in the national park. The land was away from
the river’s flood zone, and new houses were being built there. Uncle Talio
didn’t mention that he’d remained in the house his father had built, a house Jay
wanted to keep from falling down around his uncle’s ears.
You
could help, he silently told Floyd. Stay sober long enough to get on
the roof with me.
He
could hire his brother. Floyd could certainly use the money, but what if he
used it to buy booze instead of paying the rent for the singlewide trailer in
Forks? Floyd would wind up homeless, again.
Frustrated,
he closed his eyes. Alcoholism was a disease. It wasn’t as if Floyd wanted to
be a drunk. Still—
“The
request from the university professor was delivered to our director,” Uncle
Talio said. “Ned, would you please read the letter?”
A
heavyset man with graying black hair and deep creases around his mouth and eyes
positioned himself near Uncle Talio. Ned Hudson pushed his glasses higher on
his nose, took several sheets of paper out of the large envelope he was
carrying and unfolded them. Like Uncle Talio, Ned spoke softly. In contrast to
Talio Raven, he never missed an opportunity to express his opinion.
“Have
you decided how you’re going to vote?” Floyd whispered.
Truth
was, Jay didn’t know enough about what Dr. Gilsdorf was proposing to have an
opinion, but even if he did, he wasn’t sure he’d express it. Decision-making
should be left up to those who would be most impacted by it, not by an
outsider.
“Dr.
Anthony Gilsdorf is an anthropology professor in the California university
system,” Ned began. “He wants our cooperation and assistance while he
researches the possibility that our ancestors, and the ancestors of other local
tribes, established settlements at a distance from the waterways.”
Sharp
thunderclaps stopped Ned. When the sounds fell away, Ned started reading. Dr.
Gilsdorf was in the process of submitting a grant application based on his
premise that the recent discovery of bone and stone barbs from hunting weapons
miles from the Hoh River was proof that ancient Native Americans had ventured
far inland.
“In
historic times,” Ned read, “there were at least seven permanent settlements
along the Hoh River. Locating and documenting those sites and others deep
within the Olympic Forest is vital.”
Floyd
nudged him again. “You see what our uncle’s doing?”
Jay
studied Uncle Talio. The older man clutched the deerskin to his chest, with the
symbols next to him. His eyes were closed, his mouth moving. The river
continued its endless run behind him, and the murky clouds had stripped most of
the color from his features. He looked not old so much as timeless, part of his
environment. The wind had tangled his longish hair, making him appear a little
wild. Just the same, Jay had no doubt his uncle, the man who’d raised him, was
at peace.
Praying
to his guardian spirit.
Jay
looked up, half expecting to see Eagle overhead.
“I
know what’s on your mind,” Floyd whispered. “How does it happen? Damn it, how…”
How
could a sixty-something man communicate with a winged predator? Because Uncle
Talio’s belief went that deep. Because Eagle and Uncle Talio had connected in
ways Jay would never experience.
It
took Ned several minutes to get through the multi-page request. Dr. Gilsdorf
stressed the public’s right to understand indigenous populations and
anthropology’s responsibility to collect, analyze and share all possible
information—with him taking the lead.
“We
don’t owe him anything,” one of the older men muttered. “We don’t dare have
outsiders nosing around where they don’t have a right.”
Jay’s
stomach knotted. It didn’t matter that he no longer lived and breathed his
heritage—he was still a Hoh. If anything was sacred, it was Grandparents Cave.
“Here’s
Dr. Gilsdorf’s pitch,” Ned said. “The grant is limited to the professor’s
expenses for four months. Any assistance he receives from local Native
Americans will have to be donated. Of course he hopes he’s convinced us of the
necessity for this essential project, but whether we do or don’t,
he’ll be there. So there you have it.” Ned shrugged. “We’ve had anthropologists
and archeologists here before.”
“But
he’s the first to intend to focus on the interior,” a woman said.
“Tell
him to stay the hell out of our business,” Floyd grumbled.
“It
isn’t that easy,” Ned replied. “We don’t own the forest. The federal government
does.”
And
I work for the government, Jay silently added.
“We
have two options,” Ned said. “Either we can pretend to cooperate or we turn
down his request for assistance.” He’d barely gotten the words out when thunder
sounded.
“What
about you, Jay?” Ned pulled his jacket against his neck. “If your supervisor
orders you to work with him, you’d have to, right?”
“That
won’t happen. With all the budget cutbacks, I’m already working overtime.” He
rammed his hands in his back jeans pockets. It was starting to drizzle.
Well-accustomed to western Washington’s weather, he’d worn a rain jacket. What
he wasn’t looking forward to was getting Uncle Talio into the canoe and back
home in a downpour.
Uncle
Talio pointed his cane at Jay. “My nephew is searching for his truth. He walks
in a world I don’t. I can’t tell him what to do any more than I can order my
spirit to guide us in the right direction.”
“What
does your spirit say?” an elderly woman with gray braids asked. “You’ve been
praying to it.”
Uncle
Talio stood. The auto accident had taken a toll on his physical body but hadn’t
diminished his intellect. “I’m not here to sway my people’s decision. That’s
never been my way. If you want to grasp what thoughts my spirit has handed to
me, I’ll tell you, but you each have to make your own decision.” He nodded at
several members of his audience, Jay included.
“He
isn’t going to say we have to do everything possible to protect Grandparents
Cave,” Floyd whispered. “He’ll never advocate for violence.”
“I
hope it won’t come to that,” Jay muttered. But it might.
“Everyone
with Chalat blood has the ability to connect with his or her spirit,” Uncle
Talio continued. “Our grandparents and grandparents’ grandparents lived their
lives according to their spirits’ wisdom.”
Although
Uncle Talio stopped talking, Jay knew he wasn’t finished. His uncle wasn’t
determined to make up people’s minds for them, but when he believed in
something, he didn’t let go.
“The
spirits are with us today.” Uncle Talio indicated the sky.
“It’s
just thunder,” Floyd said. “He’s going to turn this into a history lesson when
we have an important decision to make. Are you as tired of the whole spirits
thing as I am?”
He
was. Floyd didn’t live with Uncle Talio, which meant his brother didn’t have
the ‘whole spirits thing’ as Floyd called it constantly hanging over him.
The
thunderclap sounded as if it was directly overhead and was so loud it hurt
Jay’s ears.
“T’ist’ilal.”
A look of peace came over Uncle Talio’s features. “Thunderbird wants us to heed
his wisdom as we make our decision.”
Floyd
shook his head. “Does Thunderbird flip coins?”
Maybe
Floyd had had more to drink than Jay had thought, because cold sober his
brother would never show disrespect around their uncle.
“Who
is T’ist’ilal to us?” Uncle Talio asked. “Thunderbird is one of the great ones.
He lived in a lair beneath the Blue Glacier and loved whale meat. When he was
hungry, he flew down to the sea, swooped and grabbed a whale as if it weighed
no more than a salmon.”
“Yeah,
that’s right,” Floyd muttered. “And if you buy that, I have a bridge to sell
you.”
“Sometimes,”
Uncle Talio continued, “the whale would struggle out of Thunderbird’s grasp.
When that happened, the whale fell to earth and died. It then changed into the
great Whale Rocks near the ocean. Sometimes, Thunderbird grew tired from
carrying the whale and set it down. The whale would thrash its tail, knocking
down many trees.”
“And,”
Ned said, “those actions helped form the land where the Hoh have always lived.”
Thankfully,
Floyd didn’t say anything. No matter how many times Jay fought his uncle’s
efforts to pull the past into the present, he never fully succeeded. Maybe
today’s storm and the Thunderbird legend were simply coincidence, but what if
there was something to it?
His
ancestors believed Thunderbird, or T’ist’ilal, was one of the creators. The Hoh
had been charged with protecting the land. However, forces beyond their control
had spelled the end to their ancient way of life. These days the Hoh clung to a
few acres. Grandparents Cave meant a great deal not just to the Hoh but every
Northwest tribe. No one would let Dr. Gilsdorf get close to it.
Someone
might resort to violence to keep that from happening.
Jay
looked around for something to take his mind off the possibility. Uncle Talio
was staring at him.
“Thunderbird
does many things,” the man said. “Is many things. We can’t forget any of them.”
Jay
sucked in more wet air. “What can’t we forget?”
“Thunderbird
and Yakanon speak to each other of death,” Uncle Talio said. “Many times like
when one of them sees something that has died”—he pointed at the fish
carcass—“their conversation remains between them, but sometimes Yakanon hears
news in the wind about the death of a soulless one. Because only Thunderbird
comprehends Yakanon, Thunderbird agrees to pass on Yakanon’s message.”
A
few people were trying to protect themselves from the downpour, but most stared
at Jay.
Yakanon
wasn’t real! The spirit or force or whatever the Old People chose to label it
was a fairy tale. Part of his ancestors’ attempt to give order and reason to
what they hadn’t understood.
Ned
laid his hand on Uncle Talio’s shoulder. “Is that what you’re hearing today?”
Ned asked. “Yakanon, through Thunderbird, is warning of such a death?”
Uncle
Talio stepped toward Jay. “I hear thunder and stand in a storm. Those things
remind me of what I learned from my elders, and I feel compelled to pass on
that wisdom. Whether someone believes as I do or walks his own way is up to
him.”
He
tilted his head back. Rain washed his face. “If you believe this is simply a
storm, that’s your decision. But if you believe, as I do, that Yakanon is
looking into the future, then you must ask yourself who doesn’t have a soul.”
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