The Dogman Cometh

Part I

The Dogman Riseth

"The God, who took away my eyes,

that now my soul may see"

From the gospel song The Blind Plowman

Chapter One

The Ma’heono Rapids

Glacier National Park, Montana

Another birthday had arrived, and Jared Neeling was thirty-two years old. Six rugged-feet tall, bar-bouncer wide, laden with the kind of attitude that befriended few and pissed off most, Jared had neither cake nor candles on his mind this brisk Montana morning. The sun was in full force, sharing the sky with a white and blue expanse, the air whipped clean by mountain winds.

He clambered over a high cliff edge and descended fifteen feet down a rock wall leading to his favorite and most private spot in all of Glacier National Park. The remote perch was inaccessible to anyone but an experienced climber. A seven-year veteran of the Rangers, Jared had been here many times; knew every foot hold and finger crevice.

A whinny drew his attention upward to his trusted companion, an Appaloosa mare, peering down at him from above. Jared had forgotten to hand out the customary palm full of oats upon reaching this summit and his horse was not letting him forget it. Though the mare occupied a precarious point as it watched him, Jared was not concerned for her safety. Stonewalker, named appropriately by her former Native American owner, could sure-hoof her way over rocky terrain in a way that shamed Billy goats. The only danger confronting Stony was that she might miss out on lunch.

Once at his spot, Jared settled onto the blanket-sized outcropping of smooth granite jutting from the cliff, situated seven stories above the wide and powerful Ma’heono Rapids. The raging torrent saturated the air with reflective droplets and slip-sliding air currents, creating a hovering rainbow patch of prisms in the mist. A short distance down river, the turbulent waterway spilled over the one-hundred-and-eighty-foot Ma’heono Falls into a picturesque basin, even-roar softened to a steady hush.

Jared removed his backpack, propped it against the wall for a cushion, and settled in. Thirty-two and out of a job, out of a relationship, and just plain out of luck. His live-in girlfriend of five years had broken up with him last month and the wound seemed as fresh as if he had just caught her in bed with another man. However, infidelity was not the reason for her absence or his unemployment. Jared’s tendency toward recklessness the past twelve months had escalated, disturbing behavior that had not gone unnoticed by Jenny or his boss.

Whether he wanted to admit it or not, his adoptive parents’ tragic death in an auto accident one year ago had affected him more than he realized. On their way over to celebrate his thirty-first birthday, then wham, bam, you’re dead ma’am, they were gone. A sour grief had fermented in Jared’s heart ever since, a melancholy born of regrets, unfairness, and the pain of loss.

Jared had never mastered any social graces, never would. For the most part he was a loner and liked it that way. Other than his adoptive parents and Jenny, lasting ties were not part of his psychological equation. He depended on one person: himself. Trusting others led to hurt and disappointment. Now that the three people he had let into his steel-plated life were gone, he was more a loner than ever. Once an orphan, always an orphan, someone once said to him.

He leaned over, peered down at the churning rapids, mist shining his face, the morbid curiosity of falling to one’s death enticing. How easy it would be to end his troubled journey with a leap into the abyss. Better to perish alone in death than live alone in life, right?

He scolded himself. He did not come here to dwell on heavy-handed mistakes or fatalistic solutions, but to focus on where life’s course would steer him next. This lone, jutting ledge mirrored his own isolation and provided a place to shore up his troubled spirit. He had always loved the night sky and tonight would be spent out here in scenic solitude, camping under the stars in anticipation of the lunar eclipse, a celestial event that represented more than an awe-inspiring dance of shadows. It stood as a philosophical metaphor for his conscious effort to let go of the past and embrace the future, in essence to begin life anew. In keeping with that affirmation, he decided then that upon his return home, he would resume his efforts to seek out his biological parents, discover his heritage; things that may offer some closure.

Money was not an immediate problem. In spite of losing his job, he was a practical man when it came to financial matters. Along with a modest inheritance, he had saved enough to live on for a few years if necessary. He was aware from past attempts that uncovering the identity of his birth parents would not be an overnight endeavor, and may lead him to journey far and wide.

An eagle nesting on the cliff face directly across the river took flight with an echoed screech, wings flapping. Seventy feet below, the rapids sounded a brutal song.

Ears tuned, eyes closed, he grew still as a stone gargoyle on a parapet, wandering in thought if not in body: sharing his pain with no one save for Mother Nature.

A building noise reached him, the beat of a distant drum. Initially he thought he was hearing his own pulse inside his head, but the beating grew louder until it echoed off the canyon walls.

As soon as he opened his eyes, the drumming ceased. He surveyed the area, confirmed that except for his horse, he was completely alone, probably the only human within a twenty-mile radius, the sound a trick of the wind. He closed his eyes, relaxed a deep breath.

In moments the drums returned, steady, insistent, accompanied by a male voice chanting in an unknown tongue.

Hoe-tuh met-tuh nay-yah…

Assailed with eerie boding, Jared was certain that someone, or something, was watching him. Pupils tensed, hand sliding to his waist, the hilt of his eight-inch blade tight in his grip, he scrutinized the cliffs.

Within the mist appeared a foggy shape that swirled into a leathered face, an elderly Native American male, staring at him, features partially covered by a severed wolf’s head made into a fearsome war bonnet. Before Jared could question his senses, the apparition repeated the chant.

Hoe-tuh met-tuh nay-yah…

He stifled a shiver, rubbed at his eyes, wondered if the phantom was a manifestation of his inner turmoil, indicating a one arrow shy of a quiver mental state. Sanity reset, he looked again.

The drums, the face, the voice, were gone.

Uneasy, he sheathed his knife, gathered his backpack. Seeing Native American spooks hovering in the mist was a sure sign he needed more than a nature walk to cure what ailed him. Unfortunately, Fifth Avenue therapists were hard to come by in these parts.

He began the climb up the cliff, just as he had done before, a foot here, right hand there…

Halfway up, by devil, destiny, or dumb luck, his foothold crumbled under his weight, then his hand, slipping on the wet rock.

A shout escaped him, for he knew he had made a fatal error, felt the Reaper’s call as he dropped like a stone toward the deluge. His life flashed by in exquisite detail, slapping him with a harsh realization that despite his out of control behavior these past months, he feared death as do most, and was not at all prepared to die.

He plunged into frothing water, barely missing jagged rocks mottling the surface, was immediately swept away, smacked hard against a boulder, flailed for a handhold, the unyielding current tumbling, dragging, bobbing him toward the falls. Stunned and bleeding, he clutched at a passing formation, landed a firm hold, pulled his torso onto a couch-sized crop, gasping, blood coloring the water around him.

His River Ranger training calculated avenues of escape. Without anyone knowing his location, there was no possible way to effect an outside rescue. He couldn’t access survival gear within his backpack. Releasing his hold in the slightest would guarantee another ride on the rapids. His demise seemed imminent, saving himself a fool’s hope. For once in his life, he wished not to be so alone.

He clung for minutes more, strength ebbing, limbs growing numb, head pounding. He wondered if his adoptive parents would be there to greet him at death’s door, the way they claim on those crossing over programs. That thought afforded him some comfort, as he believed in an afterlife, and in the final moments before the inevitable outcome, he prayed that his departure from this world be free of suffering.

He released his fragile hold, let the waters take him, wholly ensconced by doom.

Then, Jared Neeling, thirty-two years young, plunged over the falls, and fell to his death.

Chapter Two

Jared’s first sensation as he reclaimed consciousness was a tongue, licking his face, less course than a cat’s, and larger. A cow? The deafening thunder of the falls was close, dank air thickly misted. A multitude of pains next: throbbing head, cracked knees, arms lacerated, his body as battered as a sneaker in a clothes dryer. A wiggling of his toes and fingers detailed no broken bones, though a fracture or two seemed likely. The bulk of his backpack was gone, stolen by the rapids. His knife had survived the assault; that and his wits his only survival tools.

Soaked and shivering, he rose to an elbow, wiped black matted hair from his eyes, surroundings blurred. He was behind the falls. Two arm lengths at his front, thousands of gallons of water rained a furious descent, a benign elegance that moments ago represented certain death, afternoon sunlight visible beyond. The reason for his survival became evident. Instead of dropping eighteen stories to his death, he had fallen ten feet to land here on a plateau large enough to park a limousine, its existence hidden by the fall’s never-ending gush. A dense layer of vegetation had cushioned his drop. The absence of a cow or other such animal cued him that his licked face was another figment of his worsening mental condition.

By happenstance or divine intervention, he was not certain. Luck, destiny and God’s Will were gray areas to his spiritual sense. The belief in the existence of a supreme being who guarded over each and every one of us twenty-four-seven seemed too naïve to be taken seriously. Nevertheless, he sent a heartfelt thank you to any such power that may have had a hand in deeming his life worth saving.

Raising a finger to his temple, he gingerly examined an inch-long wound. The bleeding had stopped but left behind a throbbing pain clouding his faculties. He rose to his feet, limped to the rim, and searched for a means to scale an escape. Each end of the plateau revealed the same smoothed absence of handholds. Teasing irony snickered at him. It seemed he had escaped one pitfall to arrive at another.

Then, from behind, the same hollow voice beckoned.

Hoe-tuh met-tuh nay-yah…

He turned from the falls to the cliff wall at his back; squinting at a shadow that turned out to be an opening in the rock broad enough to accommodate a Volkswagen.

Hoe-tuh met-tuh nay-yah…

A palpable malaise purged from the cave, crawled under his skin, rippled his superstition. Raised by white, middle-class parents since the age of eight, ghosts were not part of his Christian training. Entering a dark tunnel seemingly possessed by demons was as foolhardy and dangerous as tramping naked through hell.

Hoe-tuh met-tuh nay-yah…

Left with little choice, he unsheathed his knife, approached the entrance, steel blade held ready as though capable of slaying both beast and ghoul.

His eyes refused to focus within the dark passage, forcing him to rely on other senses. Save for the occasional spider web, there were few obstacles in his path. The smooth walls did not have the feel of being carved by manmade tools, rather a branch of the river where water once flowed.

The tunnel floor was sloped, leading him under the rapids; each soaked hiking boot making a squishing sound as he tested the ground before putting his weight to it. He did not want to discover the presence of a bottomless fissure by falling into it. He continued his slow pace for half a mile, running his hands up both sides, checking the ceiling, the need to mentally map his environment vital to his survival. He came upon interspersed tunnel branches, stayed on the main path, one slowed step after another, ice-cube chill in the stagnant air, dulled roar of the rapids now distant.

Immersed in a total absence of light, Jared tensed at a scuttling of claws, expecting a return of the ghost from the mists. Whatever it was seemed more frightened of him, the scritch-scratch disappearing into tunneled bowels. He resumed his steps, black void ahead and behind, no way of telling how far the tunnel continued, whether ten yards or ten miles, to freedom or misfortune.

Eventually he lost track of time, his normally tuned senses robbed of any outside influences. His depth perception was that of a submariner trapped on the ocean floor. Even his sense of reality seemed subtly altered.

Splashed water at his feet stopped him short as paranoia spread a frightening possibility through him. He might not be standing in a harmless puddle, but unknowingly positioned at the entrance to a large cavern containing a vast underground lake; skeletal remains cluttering the shore, like dead man tales of those who had failed their blind attempt at crossing.

Stacked odds bearing down, he stooped to his haunches, growing delirium compounded by physical trauma. He doubted his chances of surviving the tunnel, wondered if he had been better off back at the falls. A closer inspection might reveal an earlier missed path to safety, a hanging vine or miniscule ledge. Yes, that was the best plan. He stood to leave.

The response was thunder inside his head.

Hoe-tuh met-tuh nay-yah…

He balked at his traumatized brain. The voice was not real, he was not fatally wounded, would not perish alone inside a granite coffin.

The drumbeat resumed, a deep thrum emanating from the rock itself, and the voice, as haunting as any nightmare.

Oeškeso He-tah-ne.

No longer able to trust his own mind, he cried out as might an ailing wolf sensing its end. Who are you!

His echoed shout sounded desperate to his ears.

There was no response, the quietude of a dungeon taking hold, leaving him alone in the dark with the angered spirit of the mountain.

Unsure of how to proceed, his thirst decided for him. He cupped water in his hands, brought them to his lips, sniffed. It smelled clean and pure; tasted even better. He drank as one preparing to cross a dessert.

His quenching was interrupted by a sudden onslaught of chills. The temperature had steadily decreased during his passage. If he didn’t get warm and dry soon, he would eventually succumb to fever, pneumonia, more nails in his coffin.

Reduced to the point of despair, he berated himself for his behavior. A rising insight reminded him that throughout his life, whenever overwhelming adversity challenged his mettle, he would sink to a moral low in the face of insurmountable odds, only to then rise above the strife with a steadfast inner strength. He understood he needed that strength more than tools or torches to survive.

Holding back tides of discouragement, he took a final drink, straightened, and listened to the sound set forth by his stamped foot in the water. The echoed splash was shallow, no more than made by stomping pooled rainwater. He stepped over the puddle uneventfully, continued on, begrudging his madness, evil spirits be damned.

He had not gone far when he detected the whiff of burning wood. He kept his hope even, aware of the implications. Where there was smoke, there was fire, the scent making its way here from a possible exit to the outside world.

The path ahead soon revealed a yellow radiance spreading from around a bend, the shine engendering a ray of hope. Jared approached the turn with the lightness of falling snow, concealing his presence, sensing that whatever lay beyond would decide his outcome, ruin or rescue, defeat or freedom.

Breath stayed, knife ready, he peered around the corner.

The passageway opened into a barn-sized cave, flutter of bats overhead. In the center of the cave, sitting cross leg in profile before a campfire was an old man dressed in Native American garb, unarmed and unthreatening. He untied a tethered pouch from his waist, and spread a handful of powder into the fire. It flamed high and bright, the released scent of marshmallow root and lemon grass. Smoke rose through a funneled hole in the vaulted ceiling. The stranger began chanting in a tongue that affronted Jared with surreal confusion.

Now I know I’ve gone off the deep end.

The Native American ceased his chanting, tilted his head toward Jared, his tone that of a concerned counselor beset by a strayed teenager. You are safe now. Come out from the shadows.

Bewildered, Jared looked around and behind, confirming they were alone and that it was to him the man spoke. With the vulnerability of an injured eagle, he positioned himself across the fire from the stranger, putting away his knife.

Please, I need help. I’m hurt, need a doctor. Do you know the way out of here?

The Native American nodded. I will show you the way out, but first you must sit, rest your spirit by the fire.

A hard throb pulsed Jared’s temple. "I don’t have time