Chapter Thirty-One

Arrival at Baptiste Cabin

“I can sense your fear, Paul, but take heart. I have heard that those who have crossed the sun’s Path of Fire can unleash the true power of the Kesemanetow. Our enemies have not done this. They depend upon sacrifice.”

Sacrifice, I thought. Like the kind Isabel made of herself? No. The kind Umbra inflicts upon children.

Jean interrupted my thoughts. “Once you fully embrace the True Path, you will learn the things you need to know. Light and I weren’t born with that knowledge, after all.”

My mind began to ignite into another barrage of questions and thoughts, but I let them dissolve. I was so tired.

Jean fashioned a pair of shoes for my bloodied feet out of thick corn husks and lengths of splayed twine, which did little to relieve my suffering. We spotted a boulder the size and shape of a giant tortoise. Jean bent down to read the markings, and we were soon walking the mature forest of Dark Woods.

I was hungry, cold, and exhausted. I slowed considerably. Sensing my fatigue the two hunters relaxed their pace until we set up camp along the shores of Rowley’s Bay. We had not passed this far east during my previous journey. “Dark Woods expands and contracts,” Jean told me. “Like the breaths of a great beast.”

“I don’t think I can make it all the way back to Green Bay, however far that is,” I confessed. I was shivering from the wet cold, and my feet were bleeding.

“My family has a cabin several miles from here,” he said. The hermit warrior has a family? That spoke of childhood, schooling, Christmas celebrations, histories that seemed ill-suited to the deerskin-clad man before me. Sensing my disbelief, Jean shrugged and grunted. “Everyone comes from someplace,” he told me. We exited Dark Woods and followed an isolated road.

* * * *

The Baptiste home was a beautiful log cabin that stood one and a half stories tall and faced the Lake Michigan shore. Rough-hewn timber and sturdy Door County cornerstones blended to create a rugged and rustic look. The large rectangular house had a gabled roof on the north and south ends. Several aged oak trees graced the front lawn. Leaves were strewn about, but the house looked well cared for. No lights were visible inside.

Several hours after our departure from the Door of Death we entered the prow-shaped great room. The fireplace, like the exterior, was built of blue and copper stone harvested from a quarry in Door County. Heavy oak timbers spanned the asymmetric roof line, typical of the French Country style favored in decades past. An arched window on the center of the east wall offered an unfettered view of Lake Michigan. A Franklin stove stood along the south wall, just outside the master bedroom. Two smaller bedrooms, separated by a partitioned wall of vertical boards, were located just to the north of the front door.

“My father built this place,” Jean explained, observing my respect for the architectural details. Through the arched window I could see Light. He was facing the water, standing guard over the cabin.

“It’s a beauty,” I said, wondering what had become of the Baptiste clan. The cabin appeared to be used with some regularity as the two small bedrooms had fresh linens and only a thin layer of dust coated the glass coffee table in the family room. The dresser in one of the rooms offered black sweatpants and a red flannel shirt that had to have belonged to someone. I helped myself to them. No pictures decorated the oak mantel or the walls of any room.

“My sisters have taken good care of it,” he said as he took a seat upon a brown leather recliner.

Sisters?

“Our paths seldom cross these days, not since...” His words trailed off.

“Not since the Kesemanetow entered your life,” I opined.

“Yes,” he said reluctantly. “There is an evil out there, Paul.” Jean sat forward and turned his head to face the lake. “You have seen them for yourself. You have felt their very touch!” His iron countenance became suddenly very animated. The transition made me uneasy.

“Isabel is gone. There is only Light, me, and you now. There is no one else who can fight the Miskenupik.”

I was finally growing accustomed to the dual meaning of ‘Miskenupik’. Evil tarot cards and followers of said cards.

“I feel the battle here.” I placed my hand over my heart. “I am with you in this fight, Jean, but I am no warrior. I’m always flying by the seat of my pants. Just once I’d like to be one step ahead.”

I collapsed upon the brown leather sofa in front of the fireplace. I pulled a red quilt from its arm and wrapped myself snugly. I turned my back to the fire like a sullen child. The fire’s heat had not quite penetrated the cabin, and I had not yet lost the wet chill despite my change in clothing.

“I have found that sleeping with the painting placed over my heart sometimes quiets my nerves and occasionally brings answers.” Jean then bid me good night and walked outside to join Light in sentry duty. I wondered if those two ever slept.

I placed the two Kesemanetow inside the flannel’s front pocket, just over the left side of my chest, wrapped my body tightly in the thick quilt, and turned to face the fire. The warmth became penetrating and blissful. I closed my eyes.

* * * *

I found Isabel immediately, or rather, she found me. I was back on the rocky soil of a distant island where she was waiting for me.

“Is this real?” I asked.

“Those who have crossed the Path of Fire and returned again can do things they didn’t think possible.”

“How did I get here? I wasn’t even trying this time.”

Isabel laughed. “The best things happen when we quiet our waking minds. But to be honest, I was the one who brought you here.” She growled the words for emphasis.

Before I had time to ask her the secret of that trick she grabbed my injured right hand and held it tightly against her heart. A sudden uncomfortable heat penetrated the damaged bones until the pain became unbearable. It almost deafened me to whatever Isabel was saying. “There are some things that I can heal on this side,” she told me. The look of concern in her eyes told me our visit was not just about my hand.

“Your path is going to get more difficult now,” she said. “You must beware the Miskenupik. They are obsessed with separation. Their art is dominated by the fractured sunset. You have seen this symbol.” Isabel’s grip on my injured hand loosened considerably. The pain in my hand swelled, reached a crescendo, and then disappeared.

She handed me a third Kesemanetow.

“How many of these things are there?”

“Enough. I hand them out when the need arises. Most I’ve scattered like rays of light.”

I studied the card. A blindfolded individual of indeterminate sex sat upon a stone bench with a tranquil sea in the background. The quarter-moon rose toward the upper right corner, and the sun set over the upper left. The scarlet-robed figure held staffs of fine ash crossed over the heart, one pointing toward the sun, the other toward the moon.

The crossed staffs formed lines that resembled a fish’s tail. The mark of the Broken Path. I could not see the mark of the True Path. This card caused my stomach to tighten into uncomfortable knots. “What does this mean?”

“Think upon the story I once told you. The Door of Death.”” Something caught Isabel’s attention, and she looked through me toward a distant promontory. “You must awaken now, Fire Walker,” she commanded. The crash of thunder filled the entire sky, and I heard the distant sound of children crying. All went black.

* * * *

I awakened to the sound of wind rattling the cabin windows. My hand began to throb, and I massaged it gently as I sat upright upon the worn leather. The card with the blindfolded figure dropped gently into my lap.

“Holy shit,” I cried out but my excitement abated as quickly as it rose. This was Miskenupik.

Why, Izzy? I slipped the unnaturally cold painting into my pocket to keep company with the other two. Isabel had a reason for everything. Of course, she seldom offered explanations.

As I began flexing my wounded fingers I was shocked to find them compliant and strong. The bones ached, but my hand was healed. I bolted off the couch and lifted an iron poker from the gray stone hearth. I balanced the bronze handle in my right hand, mimicking the motion of swordplay, and laughed out loud at the sheer joy of it. I felt whole.

I continued to work the hand, absentmindedly flexing and extending the digits into and out of a fist, all the while looking out the windows for some hint of my two guardians.

A soft orange glow ascended over Lake Michigan, and the eastern horizon was cast in shades of lavender and pink. Dawn’s light set the cards to life. I felt their heat penetrate my clothing. The front door was suddenly thrown open, and the morning’s solitude was shattered.

Jean barreled into the foyer, his breathing heavy and labored. Light followed closely behind, limping upon an injured right foreleg. “They found us,” the stony Torch Bearer grunted. He eyed the cabin suspiciously, searching for signs of unwelcome guests. “We need to move,” he commanded, casting a pitying glance at my bare and blistered feet. “I saw a pair of hiking boots in the second bedroom. Grab them. Quickly.”