Seed of Evil by Greig Beck (great reads .txt) 📕

gate open this time; for some reason, Mitch had the urge to have a fast and clear path back to the car if they needed it.

Greg threw a hand out to Mitch and grabbed his arm, stopping him. “You hear that?”

Mitch turned back and concentrated. He then did hear something. It sounded like a rattle and a low chanting. And there was also a smell, like rosemary and eucalyptus leaves burning.

He looked about at the dry trees and spindly underbrush. “Not a great place to be caught if there’s a brushfire.”

“Well, we’re here now, so we need to check it out. And if there is a fire, we need to report it,” Greg said and nodded forward. “Besides, I’m dying to see this mystical mine of yours.”

They crested the steep hill and slowed. The last time Mitch had come here, the dry and dusty mine had been converted to an oasis. Now the water had evaporated or drained away, but the banks of the dry pond were still lush and green, and the trees closest looked bountiful and healthy.

Greg walked forward and stared into the basin. It had a greenish tinge on the bottom and sides that gave off an odor like overcooked broccoli.

Greg waved a hand in front of his face. “Phew. Tide is out.”

“Yeah, whatever those seeds and spores were, they’re not rotting just yet.” Mitch turned about. “The ground must be saturated, as the plants are still enjoying the wet.”

Greg stepped into the basin, put a hand over his eyes, and squinted into the dark hole. “Can’t see a thing.” He walked up to the mine edge and peered in. “Hallooo!”

The echo bounced back several times, but that was it. He turned. “Still smells damp in there.”

“Yeah, Kehoe was right. The mine pond has dried up, but it seems to still be receding.”

“Back to where it came from,” Greg replied. He turned to Mitch. “What do you want to do?” He shook his head. “You know what? I can still smell that weird smoke. It’s even stronger here.”

He turned back to the mine, just as a figure appeared out of the stygian darkness of its mouth.

“Jesus.” Greg fell backward.

“Not quite, but close.” Nightbird laughed out loud as he stepped into the light.

“That’s how assholes get themselves shot.” Greg scrambled to his feet.

“What are you doing here?” Mitch demanded.

The old Native American shrugged. “Same thing you are, I guess. Checking on the state of the mine.”

“I’m betting that smoke we can smell is your doing?” Mitch replied.

“Yep.” Nightbird briefly turned to the mine entrance. “I performed a barrier spell. But I doubt it will hold for too long.”

“Barrier spell, huh?” Greg scoffed. “Welcome to the dark ages.”

“That’s right.” Nightbird glared. “And given you two men of science are baffled and I’m the only one that has dealt with this before, I suggest you quit the sneering and pay attention.”

He went on. “This outbreak, or madness, or curse, will go on until it decides it is finished. It may end today, or tomorrow, in a week, or a month. The last time, nothing we did stopped it. It decided to stop itself when it was good and ready.”

“It?” Greg turned to Mitch.

“Adotte Sakima, the tree god, right?” Mitch replied evenly.

“That’s right.” Nightbird walked further out a few paces and looked up at the sky. “Sundown is coming soon. I don’t want to be around these parts in the dark.”

“Why, what happens after dark?” Greg asked.

“Maybe nothing,” Nightbird replied. “But look around.”

Greg and Mitch did as requested. Mitch saw it then—the footprints, lots of them. Some of them barefoot.

“Many people have been up here.” He frowned. “Some without shoes. And they seem to head into the mine. Not many come back out.”

“They must have come out another way,” Greg replied. “Or the tracks were obscured.”

“What were they doing in there?” Mitch asked.

“Serving the tree god,” Nightbird replied. “Like I said, if they are in there, I don’t want to be here if they come out to feed. Or are looking for more food for their god.” He lifted his chin. “But that’s just an old superstitious injun talking, right?”

“Lighten up. We’re trying to protect the community, just like you,” Mitch replied.

Nightbird turned back and his expression softened. “Okay. Come on, let’s get out of here. Maybe you can return the favor and buy me a beer.”

“Hey, you made us pay for those beers last time,” Greg scoffed.

Nightbird held his arms wide. “Part of my consultancy fee.”

Mitch laughed softly and slapped his friend on the shoulder. “There’s nothing else we can do here. The upside is the mine pond is draining away, so at least there should be no more Angel Syndrome cases turning up.”

Greg turned back to the mine. “Barrier spell…now I’ve heard everything.” He shook his head and followed his friend.

CHAPTER 29

Joanne and Gary Adams stood on the back porch just staring out over the grass hedge to the land beyond their property line.

Both held bottles of Eldon Spring Water—Super Health Tonic, and neither bothered checking on their son James anymore. Ever since he had returned from hanging out with his friends up at the mine, he had been sullen and then withdrawn to his room where he had pulled the blinds, eventually crawling beneath the bedcovers and staying there.

He had said, when he was still speaking to them, that he heard singing. Joanne and Gary had thought it was a hallucination brought on by a passing fever accompanied by a pebbly rash that had covered his body.

But now they heard it too.

CHAPTER 30

“The tribes had no written language.” Johnson Nightbird put his beer down. “The first written language, as Europeans know it, was created by the Cherokee, in the early 1800s. It was a syllabary, because each of the graphic symbols represents a syllable.”

“Always wondered about that,” Greg said. “How you passed along information from one generation to the next without some form of writing.”

Nightbird nodded. “Our history is one that is spoken and