Free Ghostcountry's Wrath by Tom Deitz

curving sun’s rays). But he’d been unable to dispose of Brock so neatly; and finally, after the dust had settled, Brock had asked him to teach him magic. Calvin hadn’t wanted to—even then he knew it was dangerous and had in no wise made him happy—and had told the boy as much: that sure, it sounded wonderful, but it was in fact far more a curse and responsibility to be endured than a treat to be enjoyed, and that he suspected Brock wanted it so as to be thought special, when the last thing in the world one ought to do with magic was show off. Still, the kid had looked so earnest, and had begged so pitifully, that Calvin had promised to meet him back there in Willacoochee County a year from then and teach him one piece of conjury.
    And now that year was nearly up, he had a promise to keep, knew he had to keep it—and didn’t want to. But, as the Red Man said, promises were not to be taken lightly, especially when they concerned magic, especially when one was an apprentice adewehi.
    Not that he’d actually seen Uki in the year since he’d acquired his war name, he hastened to add. Mostly he’d been taking high school equivalency courses at Western Carolina University and learning about the world at large—or the consensus reality most folks assumed was that world, more properly. But he’d been studying other things as well: had read every book on Indians he could find, had started haunting the pow-wow circuit, and had spent what little free time remained learning to identify every single plant and animal in the Appalachian woods, with their real and reputed properties.
    That had all been cool. But now rashness had caught up with him, and he was afraid: afraid to fulfill the promise he’d made—and afraid to break it.
    Trouble was, Brock showed every sign of holding him to the very letter of his vow. True, the boy had accompanied his sister to England to escape their abusive stepfather and be with her when she delivered the kid the old asshole had got on her. But he’d sent Calvin a series of notes—one per month, like clockwork. The latest had arrived earlier this week: too recently to send a reply. It had been postmarked in York; the message short and to the point:
    Cal, m’man!
    Greetings from the motherland—my motherland, anyway. I’m heading out on Saturday for your old home turf—so to speak. I’ll see you where I saw you last. Be there or be square! Looking forward to learning lots. Aloha. Make that Siyu! (I read that in a book!)
    Cheers,
    Brock-the-Badger No-Name
    And that was that. Brock assumed he would fulfill his promise and was flying all the way from England to collect.
    Calvin therefore had no choice but to oblige.
    But if that troublesome lapse of responsibility was giving him grief (and that didn’t even count the small matter of what sort of arcana might be safe to teach a flaky teen), it was nothing to the other problem that had been deviling him of late.
    He had become haunted.
    It had been subtle at first, all small signs: a coolness near the winter fire where no drafts could find their way. The scent of tobacco smoke while hunting in the trackless woods. A voice, one ridge over, calling out to Forest.
    Unfortunately, Forest was one of his dead father’s favorite beagles, now in custody of one of his old man’s hunting buddies down in Jackson County, Georgia—not far from where Spearfinger had first appeared, in fact. Which didn’t bode well at all.
    —Not in light of the sightings. Always at the between times they were, sunset or noon, midnight or dawn. A man-shaped shadow on open ground. A deeper darkness among the banks of rhododendron upslope from the cabin. Once, he was certain he’d seen eyes peering from a tree at precisely his dad’s height. But whenever he looked closely at any of them, they vanished. Even when he’d squinted through the hole in a water-bored stone, he’d got zip.
    And now there were even more tangible signs. He’d leave something lying around—a