Troubled Waters, Part 9

Jul 08, 2006 10:56

Title:  Troubled Waters

Rating:  PG, Gen

Summary:  In northwestern Washington, Sam and Dean run into a cult, missing people, plagues, some really humid weather, and possessed trees.

Disclaimer:  As usual, I don’t own anything.  The geography in this story is fairly accurate; everything else is fiction.  Oh, and apologies to William Butler Yeats.

Author's Note:  Much thanks to
big_pink, who listened to me whine about the troublesome nature of writing a story with an actual plot, and who did a fantastic beta-ing job.

Previous chapters

Part Nine:  Sunday, July 9, night

It always rains on tents. Rainstorms will travel thousands of miles, against prevailing winds, for the opportunity to rain on a tent.

-Dave Barry

xxxxx

“Animals are dying around here, Sam,” Dean said without preamble.

“What?”

“A squirrel, a dog, some birds.  Dropping dead entirely out of the blue.  For no obvious reason.”

“That’s weird,” commented Sam.

“That’s helpful.”

Sam didn’t bother responding, was already beyond that.  Quietly, “Dean, another one of the plagues was the death of livestock.”

“A squirrel counts as livestock?  Guess they’re taking the definition a bit loosely.”  A snort.  “At any rate, I’ll head over to the fire pit; maybe they’re performing another little ceremony.”

“We found the fishing boat,” said Sam abruptly.

“You did?  That’s great!”

“There’s no one aboard.  No sign of struggle.”

“A ghost ship,” pronounced Dean.

“That’s what they’re saying.”

xxxxx

Dean saw the thin light from the hurricane lanterns through the trees.  He stood in the forest, watching, thirty feet from the clearing around the fire pit, which was as near as he dared get when there were a dozen cult members out there.  He’d missed the ceremony, had arrived in time to see its aftermath.

The fire was burning itself out, helped along by the deluge.  Half a carcass of a cow was being methodically hacked into pieces by someone who knew what he was doing-a butcher in another life?  Cow parts were loaded into a wheelbarrow and several loads were carted off in the direction of the house.  Steak for dinner, and Dean’s stomach growled.  Then some cow parts-bones, mostly-were buried in a trench around the fire.  Unusual, reflected Dean.  More wheelbarrowfuls were dumped in the sea.

When there was nothing left of the fire but coals, a fireplace poker was used to extract sooty, scorched cloth from the pit.

These people are crazy, thought Dean, and not for the first time.  Several people left the area, returning to the house, and Dean began circumnavigating the clearing, leaving a trail of salt behind him.  The spirit would be trapped in the protective circle.  He supposed that this was why he’d been unsuccessful in banishing the spirit from the arbutus-it was otherwise occupied here at the fire.  However, having exorcised the tree, the spirit would be unable to hide out on Pass Island.  He half-wondered if there was anything special about the arbutus, or if it had been made special by the cult’s choosing.

When he got to the gap in the trees on the ocean side of the clearing, he extended his circle out into the wet sand of the desert.  He would be exposed for a few seconds, but it was a risk he was willing to take.  The noise of his running would be drowned out by the ocean, and the cult people were pretty intent on their work.  He was quick and went unnoticed, although he saw more dead gulls and a rat sprawled on the sand.

He heard a cawing behind him, and turned in time to see a crow flying north over the cult’s property, towards the state park.  It seemed to be coming in for a landing, which was a perfectly normal behavior for a bird, except that, about twenty feet off the ground, it suddenly nose-dived into the beach.

Dean stared at his completed salt circle-he’d used up ten pounds of salt once destined for a pickling plant-in dismay.  He hadn’t broken the spell.  He pulled out his dad’s journal, hurriedly ran through the ritual-if he did it once more tonight, he’d have it memorized-and waited to see what effect it would have.  It might not do anything, he admitted.  The spirit could be over at the octopus tree and there was nothing he could do about that until Sam was off the boat.  Whatever had possessed him to get on the damned thing in the first place?

There weren’t many birds about, either because of the rain or because they were dead.  Then Dean saw a small V of Canada geese fly in from the sea, and could only watch in horror as they passed over the beach and, one by one, plummeted to the parking lot.

He had to do something.  There were probably a thousand people in the campground.  Prior to the thunderstorm, it had been a beautiful, hot weekend in July, and the campsite was full.  Probably crawling with dogs; maybe they’d succumbed already.  And if animals were dying, would the curse start affecting babies and small children?

But how to evacuate?  Dean knew.  He’d done it before.  He dialed nine-one-one.  “Forest fire near Cranberry Lake!  Caused by a lightning strike!  Fire!” he shouted, and the panic was only half-fake.

The park rangers were mobilized immediately, and by the time Dean got up to the first campsites, shouting, “Forest fire!  Forest fire!  Evacuate immediately!” there were pick-up trucks driven by rangers guiding people away.  He saw big blue tarps hurriedly erected that afternoon and lit by Coleman lanterns and shaky flashlights and the flickering of a few campfires, which belonged to the true outdoorsmen, those who could light a fire in the rain.  A ranger pulled a shovel from his pick-up and piled dirt over the flames.

“Leave everything!” they were told through a squawky megaphone.  “Share rides, we don’t want to clog up the highway with vehicles!”

There was some hysteria, because there was always some hysteria, but the entire campground was evacuated within twenty minutes.

Dean, with six passengers (a mom and dad, two small kids, and an elderly couple), drove out to the highway and headed south, towards the Naval air station where the campers were directed to assemble.

At the base, Dean heard about some dead dogs and one cat, heard campers compare stories and listened as they speculated that the pets had been aware of the forest fire before the people were, had sensed it, and had somehow expired from the fumes that nobody noticed.  Like canaries in a coal mine.  Others nodded, and said that they were feeling ill, strong pounding headache, upset stomach, like they’d been poisoned by carbon monoxide.  The power of suggestion.

He endured medical attention:  “Really, all I need is a cloth to wipe the blood off; no stitches are necessary; see, it’s already scabbed over.”

They didn’t want to let him leave.  They were trying to do a head count, compare the numbers with those registered at the campsite, and though they’d never reconcile the two figures, losing a person wouldn’t help.  It was only by waving his RCMP badge (quickly, lest the sergeant actually see it) and by mentioning his ongoing investigation with Sheriff Douglas that Dean convinced the soldier to let him go.

And then he was troubled with the question of where to go.  Oak Harbor?  The octopus tree by Cranberry Lake?  Pass Island?  There was something to be said for impetuousness, but now and then, a person needed to stop and think.

The arbutus and the cow sacrifices were the work of the cult.  They were hailing some sort of spirit and, apparently, causing the plagues.  And power outages, but in the midst of an electrical storm, who could tell?  The octopus tree…  By virtue of geography, it seemed to be linked to the cult.  But he’d been unable to complete the exorcism there, whereas with the cultic possessions, he’d completed the exorcisms, just without any measurable success.

So, to sum up, he knew more than he’d known that morning, and it didn’t make a bean of difference.

And he remembered the wind.  The wind that was unrelated to the cult, but had returned around the octopus tree.  It had to be related to the missing girls, because it was windy where Sam was, by the face of the Native American girl.

And he was back to square one, because how do you kill off an Indian legend?

xxxxx

Jasper Kelman was celebrating the success of his plague.  He’d never proclaimed anything but unshakeable faith aloud, but he was nonetheless amazed by what he had caused to occur.  When he saw his followers’ wonder at the plagues, at the success of their rites, he was sure that-though they would never admit it-they had been as skeptical as he.  This victory would undoubtedly elevate his position; in fact, he hoped that this unspeakable behavior had been corrected for good.  This was a sign for his followers-something to inspire a bit of faith in himself.

xxxxx

“Stick a fork in me, I’m done.”  Sam threw open the passenger door of the Impala and collapsed into the front seat.  The Coast Guard vessel had finally returned to port and Dean was just picking up his brother in Oak Harbor.  Sam pulled the door shut, slumped against the window and closed his eyes.

“Except we’re not,” replied Dean.  “It won’t be long before they discover it was a false alarm, that there’s no fire, and they let everyone go back.  We’ve gotta do this now.  We’ll head over to the beach and do the ritual by the tree and get out of this town.”

“But, Dean, before-” Sam had straightened up, turned towards his brother and, distracted, stopped short.  He reached a hand towards Dean’s right eye, hovered a few inches from the neat row of butterfly bandages.  Instinctively, Dean looked up and to the right, craning to see where Sam was pointing.  “That’s the cut from the tree branch?  When you mentioned it on the phone, it sounded like you were maimed.”  There was silence while Sam waited for a response, but Dean had nothing to say.  “Well, anyway, before we exorcise the tree, we need to figure out why it’s so critical to this.  Why it’s stealing away engaged women.  Why-”

“Who cares about cause and effect?  The whole chicken and the egg thing.  What’s it matter?  Why don’t we just go kill it?”  Whatever patience Dean possessed was long gone today.  He turned the key in the ignition, flipped on the lights and the wipers, revved the engine.  Squinted into the darkness, turned the wipers on as high as they would go.  “It’s raining harder out there.  Just what we need.”

Sam decided on changing the subject.  Sometimes it wasn’t worth it to argue with Dean.  “Bet the salt didn’t work because it’s immune.”

“Immune?”  Dean glanced over.

“Yeah.  It’s a beach.  Salt air, salt water.  It’s used to it.”

“Okay.”  Dean paused.  With exaggerated patience, he said, “So what do you suggest instead?”

Sam gave him a sharp look but didn’t pursue it.  “Maybe we just carve symbols into its trunk.  Bind the spirit.”

“And the next person who climbs it, what, gets thrown off by a sudden strong wind?”

Sam smiled without humor.  “And that is why we need the cause, Dean.  Can’t get rid of the effect if you don’t know the cause.”

Dean, temporarily stymied, took a moment to reply.  “You won’t let me burn it, will you.”

“Dean, there’ll be fire fighters crawling all over that place now.  I’m thinking a bonfire is not the best idea.”

“What other options are there?  In similar situations, we’ve… burnt down the tree.”

“Yeah, well.”  Sam brainstormed.  “A tree is going to get possessed because something’s buried by it?  Like the arbutus.  Or because… one of its branches was used for some sort of evil purpose.  Maybe.”  He snorted in disgust.

And suddenly it hit Dean.  “Sam, you nearly had it when you mentioned symbols.  It’s a Native American legend, right?  And they used to make crest poles.  You know, totems.”  A shrug.  “It was more common up north, in Alaska, but I think they did it around here a bit, too.  Mostly out of cedar, but occasionally out of other things, too.  Maybe there’s stuff carved into the tree, hundreds of years old, from the time that the girl went off to live in the sea.  Totem poles tell stories, or list lineage.  Probably the carvings are grown over, covered by new bark or something, but I bet that’s what it is.”

Sam was staring.  He was pretty sure he’d never seen a totem pole before in his life, and here was Dean talking of them like he’d grown up with them.  Sometimes his brother astounded him.  “Sounds logical,” he said finally, somehow unable to make a more encouraging comment.  He cleared his throat.  “So we… add our own symbols to counteract the Indian ones.  Straightforward enough.”

Grimly, Dean said, “Except, of course, the tree’s not exactly going to stand still and let us.”

The hilarity of that comment hit Sam like a truck and he burst into gales of laughter.

“Sam?  You okay?”

Sam nodded, bent over in the seat, clutching his stomach.  “Trees are usually noted for their ability to stay rooted in one place,” he choked out, and the mirth was catching and Dean was chuckling, too.

xxxxx

They’d sharpened their knives, still in the harbor parking lot, and determined which symbols were the simplest to draw.  They’d get those ones onto the tree first, then, its power diminished, they’d attempt the more elaborate ones.  “It’d be easier if we could just draw them on,” lamented Dean, air-carving a sigil with a six-inch hunting knife.

“Hey, watch it with that thing.  And what would we draw with?  Hard to write with a pen on the bark of a Douglas fir.”

“Spray paint.”

“Dean!  We’re not going to vandalize that tree!”

“You don’t count this-” Dean gestured with the blade “-as vandalism?”

“Nobody’ll notice cuts in the bark.  But graffiti?  It’s a state park!”

He shook his head in disbelief.  “Shades of grey, indeed,” he observed, and Sam wondered what the hell that meant.  But Dean went on before he could pursue it.  “All right, all right, we’ll just use the knives.  So, are we ready?”

“We’re ready.”

troubled waters, fic, spn

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