Here Be Dragons

A Spooklight on the Devil's Elbow Prologue

The Wilderness (La Nature Sauvage)

- part one -

October 3, 1719

Liquifacted ground swelled towards Jean-Baptiste Grenoble, loyal mount Fantôme rearing anxious on the forest’s undulating soil. Collapsing in a high magnitude earthquake, a towering Shortleaf pine splintered, crashing down in front of the Frenchman’s frightened dapple gray Percheron.

Brilliant azure skies turned overcast. The marbled cloudscape above reflected nauseating green hues. Surrounded by primordial wilderness bathed in eerie silence, the colonial accountant navigated a worn path to a swollen stream.

Another seismic shockwave struck the lone rider creekside. Torrential flow reversed, wet sunfish scattered flopping across granite-hewn banks. Bone chilling howls pierced dark woods, glowing eyes stalked to the water’s edge.

Ravenous, a wolf pack descended on the beached fish, fighting and snapping at their lupine brethren, tearing through fresh meat.

Drawing his cavalry broadsword from a silver engraved scabbard, Jean-Baptiste steadied Fantôme, saddle decorated in royal fleur-de-lis leatherwork.

Pausing, the dominant pack member strode forth. The pale beast’s intense gaze followed the tenacious Frenchman riding hard through a chaotic streambed, vanishing over the far embankment.

The Crossroads (Les Carrefours)

- part two -

Perched in an expansive American chestnut centered in a narrow clearing, an unkindness of ravens croaked and cawed above a solitary figure seated on a woven grass mat.

Heaped around the tree’s ancient trunk rested a monumental collection of sun-bleached animal bones, offerings left by travelers over eons seeking safe passage.

Covered in small circular scars, thin hands tapped a buffalo hide drum with deer mandible in languid syncopations. Burning sage bundles smoldered thin smoke curls surrounding the stoic Osage maiden staring ahead, lost in a deep trance. Red ochre pigment streaked down her narrow hair part, a flying raptor’s silhouette tattooed across her delicate neck.

Slow percussion ceasing, the maiden bent over in a hacking cough spasm, blood trickling from her lower lip. Eyes rolling back, head drooping forward, long flowing black hair covered her gaunt face. She ripped off the fur-lined buckskin cape ornamented in floral quillwork made by her mother several winters past, laboring through suffocating shallow breaths.

Mind wandering, visions losing her small tribe to an apocalyptic wildfire during summer’s hunting season swept into the girl’s fragile consciousness.

Finding temporary refuge from the inferno’s aftermath with sympathetic French fur trappers, les coureurs de bois, curious about native customs and languages, she soon bore the signs of smallpox and her voluntary departure from the cordial woodsmen’s primitive camp was swift.

Convalescing concealed under crumbling limestone bluffs in a rock shelter obscured by thick timber, a fever dream revealed a primeval Osage enemy.

Vivid nightmares flooding, the demon’s confident laughter reverberated blithe anticipation; taunting the living from an impossible distance, preparing to shatter the invisible crystal-latticed threshold, bursting forth unchained and unchallenged.

Drenched in sweat, she awoke screaming full blast. High-pitched wail echoing off cold rock walls into the surrounding darkness.

The haunting moment revived a bright spark within. Reinforcing the necessity for old tribal knowledge, sacred Mo’kon ton’ga medicine taught by a favorite uncle now deceased, consumed in a catastrophic prairie fire along with her modest village.

A single tear rolled down her chalky orange cheek for Night Sky and others no longer remaining in the Ho-e-ga Snare of Life, clearing a moist, darkened path through pale orange hues of her dried pumpkin pulp facial cosmetic.

“Mademoiselle,” a concerned voice from behind startled the maiden.

She straightened up, smoky almond-shaped eyes popping open.

Reaching for an obsidian knife tucked inside her wraparound skirt, desperate fingers grasped the fluted blade’s sinew wound handle.

“Mademoiselle, do you need assistance?” queried the stranger in a refined French accent.

The young girl slowly let go of the hidden weapon. Rising to her feet, she turned around.

Struggling in broken French pieced together from what she learned earlier, gesturing in native universal sign language, the maiden responded holding out both index fingers in a cross shape, “I,” trying to stifle a new flurry of dry coughs, “I…need…a Jesuit priest.”

Jean-Baptiste’s eyes widened. Pulling a beaded necklace from his silk shirt, he showed the Osage a carved wooden crucifix pendant in disbelief.

“Oui, white man’s god,” she said, arms outstretched, glancing skyward.

Grabbing the startled maiden’s wrists, inspecting her open hands, the Frenchman saw intricate spiral tattoos on both palms, each healing from a sharp instrument’s deep gash.

Fatigued and frustrated, Jean-Baptiste peered back and forth towards either end of the small enclosed pasture’s thick treeline, “By what name shall I call you?”

Gesturing, “I am Gthe-don’win, Hawk Woman.”

“Jean-Baptiste Grenoble, at your service.”

Hawk Woman touched his offered calfskin glove in an awkward manner before succumbing to another violent coughing fit.

“Where is the village, the mining village located?”

Motioning towards a nearby opening in the woods, her eyes rolled back, knees buckling.

The surprised French accountant swiftly caught the limp Osage with both gloved-hands and carried her towards his awaiting steed.

The Fiancée (La Fiancée)

- part three -

June 1, 1719

“And voilà!” a white-gloved hand snatched off the silver serving tray’s hefty lid, “Roast pheasant sauteed with wild mushrooms, leeks, and onions in a savory almond milk reduction.”

On cue, a string quartet, framed by the palatial solarium’s exotic potted plant menagerie, played an uplifting tune.

The Marquise de Raincourt, ghoulish visage plastered stark white, copious rouge bombardments occupying mature cheeks and lips, delighted in the lavish lunch hour presentation, gazing owl-like through diamond encrusted opera glasses.

“Bienvenue au Château Raincourt, Monsieur Grenoble. How was passage to Besançon from Versailles? No banditry, I pray,” the hostess inquired from her plush head table seat.

“Your hospitality is most gracious,” bowing his head. “I assure you, Marquise, my sword is sharp and flintlock’s aim true, but rogues of the night concern me not,” pausing for a footman to serve a silver-plated entrée, ”Our Father in heaven is my guardian, protector from darkness on perdition’s tempting road.”

“My youngest daughter informs me the savages’ profane habits captivate you, and are soon bound for New France,” the Marquise continued, meticulous in sampling the epicurean banquet’s sumptuous offerings.

“Maman,” Marquess Mathilde de Raincourt, dressed in a sky-blue silk damask mantua robe brocaded in silver thread, trimmed in exquisite lace, intervened on her blushing fiancé’s behalf, “Jean-Baptiste has been named Mississippi Company Treasurer.”

“I admit, the aborigines of Louisiana possess fascinating qualities, more nuanced than our current understanding,” he continued.

“We might be situated at the disruptive precipice of an enlightened age, but I find them providing nothing but wanton depravity,” the Marquise flicked her hand fan open, clutching a crystal wine goblet, “Where, in the moonless shadows, they lie naked, impulsive, a writhing dirty flesh pile, gorging on an infinite buffet of carnal desire.”

“Maman excels at weaving fantastic tapestries,” a dismissive Mathilde smiled, gesturing for more of the sprawling estate’s vintage.

“Your absent father, the newly appointed Marquis, romanticized similar sentiments. My husband’s schoolboy naiveté was rewarded with an interminable task, wandering the malaria infested East Indies, searching for the crown’s precious rubber,” the Marquise huffed, picking at a small circular scar at the nape of her neck.

“Carthusian monks instructed us humble orphans to contemplate everything inhabiting God’s creation, celebrating his glorious domain robust in both spirit and curiosity,” the accountant parried, dabbing his mouth with a gold embroidered silk napkin.

The newly appointed Mississippi Company Treasurer’s mind began to wander off, drifting to an intoxicating land of adventure and mystery. Before lunch in the château’s enormous library, he explored untamed wilderness charted on a well-worn parchment map.

Enraptured, Jean-Baptiste navigated down serpentine india ink rivers bisecting simply rendered, v-shaped mountains. His pulse quickened, breath labored at the cartographer’s handwritten Les Missouris and Pays des Osages. But, his buoyant astral projections ceased and trailblazing heart slightly sank at the ominous This whole country is full of mines.

“Curiosity? Hah! Curious men usually prefer dispersing themselves to promiscuous locales, leaving their wives to run entire estates,” the Marquise’s strigiform eyes shot upwards, rolling around in a wide circle, “Once comfortable in hedonistic paradise, they continue dispersing themselves, it comes all too natural.”

“I was hoping after the luncheon we might discuss something slightly less polemic, our wedding plans, perhaps,” Mathilde interjected pleasant-faced, eyelashes fluttering around a sharp glance. “Jean-Baptiste is a brilliant gentleman coming from nothing, pardon moi,” she soothed, looking over at her vexed fiancé, “It is true and you mustn’t hide it, mon cher,” touching his hand.

“This my dear, is exactly why I gave my blessing in your father’s stead,” the Marquise hiccuped, “because so many men coming from something are worthless tits! Look at your poor mother, a man’s pursuits are simply not proper for a lady. I’ve gained weight and look like the devil, bah!”

Straightening an itchy powdered wig, Jean-Baptiste finished his coffee, staring hypnotic into Mathilde’s twenty karat sapphire dangling from her pearl choker necklace embraced by heaving debutante cleavage and sighed.

The Village (Le Village)

- part four -

Crickets chirped in dark velvet stillness. Fantôme’s feathered hooves floated through hovering mist, mischievous coyotes howling and yelping in the fog-choked distance.

Alert, the Percheron broke its stride, long ears swiveling, halting on a crude cobblestone path. Jean-Baptiste inhaled deep, biting off a hunk of dried meat.

Stashing the elk jerky, he cocked his flintlock’s ornate hammer. Waking to the clicking sound of the primed pistol, Hawk Woman found herself on horseback behind the Frenchman, leaning forward against his supple leather riding jacket, arms locked around his waist.

A furious, bellowing roar echoed across the winding valley in the far distance below.

Jean-Baptiste’s mind visualized a menacing gargoyle statue in Notre Dame Cathédrale, a grotesque winged reptilian frozen in stone.

Reaching for his sealskin pocket Bible, he flipped to a gilt edged page, reciting verse in Latin, “Thus, say the Lord God: Behold, I am against thee, Pharaoh of Egypt. The great dragon which lies in the midst of his rivers…”

At ease with French, a language described by natives possessing a flowing birdsong quality, the Osage stiffened at unfamiliar harsh Roman tones, reaching for the concealed obsidian blade.

“...et Spiritus Sanctus, amen,” the devout Catholic concluded, crossing himself, kissing the small book.

As retreating clouds revealed a radiant moon, the cautious horse continued through the quiet village of Mine La Mothe. Smoke rose from stone cottage chimneys poking above moss-covered thatched roofs. Steaming served dinners lie untouched on hand-carved wooden plates inside empty candlelit homes.

The riders dismounted outside a two-story log cabin, discovering the wrought iron gate and front door wide open.

Sparks showering, Hawk Woman struck two chert pieces together. Flintlock in one hand, lantern in the other, the Frenchmen entered, Osage following silent behind.

Resting on a sturdy oak table, the tallow lantern’s glow illuminated postage addressed in fine calligraphy to M. Renault. Hawk Woman picked up a hammer near scattered galena samples, inspecting the tool.

Jean-Baptiste cast her a disapproving glance. Blinking doe-eyed, the maiden returned the hammer next to a pair of metal calipers and stared into a tear-dropped glass beaker sitting on a metal stand nailed to the floor.

Frowning at the medieval alembic, Jean-Baptiste tipped the curious glass upside down, spilling out fine powder. Holding sparkling digits next to the glowing lantern, he rubbed pure gold dust across his open palm.

Leaving the abandoned cabin, Jean-Baptiste and Hawk Woman located the gothic hamlet’s tavern occupied by a lone figure across the low-ceilinged room, back to the door, seated in front of a roaring fireplace.

The accountant ducked through the doorway, removing his muddied tri-corner hat and fur-lined leather riding jacket. Hawk Woman stumbled inside, throwing herself down on a Grizzly bear skin rug.

Striding over to the bar, he poured a rare cognac into a dirty glass.

“Where is Monsieur Renault?” the impatient Frenchman demanded, staring ahead at a near wall.

Crack and spit of the blaze the only response, Jean-Baptiste took a sip of cognac.

Resting on a low wooden stool, the silent form, silhouetted by firelight, inhaled a long draw from a thin-stemmed clay pipe.

Continuing in his native tongue, “Of all five colonies in New France, this is by far the most wretched and ungallant.”

“Aye,” the man seated, re-lighting his pipe with a red-hot poker, gazing into bright flame, responded in growling Scottish-accented English, “It ‘tis, it certainly ‘tis.”

Turning towards the Scotsman, speaking perfect English, Jean-Baptiste added, “Would you like to offer what has also happened to the townspeople and Haitian miners, Monsieur MacDougall?”

“They ran, screaming into the woods,” Falstaff MacDougall shrugged, tapping his pipe, “Making the most horrible, child-like cacophony. Fleeing from Beelzebub, himself.”

“Beelzebub, Demon Prince?”

“Aye, Devil Karkaghne.”

“I think you need no reminder. I am the Treasurer of the Mississippi Company and current employer, but also, personal attaché of your cousin Duke of Arkansas John Law,” finishing his drink, “Hundreds of millions of livres are at stake.”

“Your missing metallurgist entered the lead mine six days ago after an earthquake. The poor wretch won’t come out.”

Opening a cast iron pot hanging near the fire, Jean-Baptiste sniffed at the simmering contents and filled a pewter bowl with hot opossum stew, leaving the steaming food next to the wheezing Osage.

“Ye, I did not take for a squaw fancier,” chuckled the bearded Scotsman, eyebrows raised.

“She is alone, suffering from consumption. All God’s children deserve compassion, Falstaff. Including heathens themselves.”

“Heathens and their simple vexations are the least of our worries, laddie.”

“I am here because Le Banque Royal’s issuance of paper notes in lieu of stock purchases has reached an unsustainable pace, seven-hundred and ninety million livres and counting. Bubble rumors infect Parisian society.”

The Frenchman cleared his throat, pouring another drink, “I was to be met by your representative in Nouvelle Orléans. I waited three weeks. Three weeks,” he repeated, downing the entire glass, “Yet, your man never arrived,” he coughed, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, “I then chartered a leaky barque flatboat. It almost sank, and later was boarded by river scum. Pirates, foul frigatebirds from far corners of a barbaric viceroyal hellscape,” he finished, instinctively grabbing for the simple crucifix around his neck.

“Ye look unmolested. Proper in health and constitution.”

Inhaling, “They were paid quite handsomely,” the accountant slammed the empty glass on the tavern’s smoothworn bar, cut from a sycamore’s trunk centuries old.

Jean Baptiste brought a chair to the fireplace, sitting down next to the mine’s foreman.

“If the Mississippi Company is not soon exceeding expectations, France’s stock market could collapse overnight from the Duke’s ill-advised scheme, inflating the money supply beyond my means of control,” the unblinking Frenchman said, staring hard into Falstaff’s bloodshot eyes. “And now, everything depends on Satan’s expulsion from Mine La Mothe.”

“A Cornish fellow once called a mine spirit Knocker. We Scots name this abomination Karkaghne. Noncorporeal in shape, turns men stark raving mad from sheer mental torment,” taking a long draw from his pipe. “Very nasty thing, this Karkaghne,” Falstaff’s voice trailing off.

“I should have never come,” Jean-Baptiste whispered under his breath, wiping his forehead with a silver embroidered silk handkerchief.

“This certainly was a profitable venture before a nightmare was unleashed in the New World.”

“I am an educated gentleman, Monsieur MacDougall, with no time for sad soliloquies of the mentally infirm,” gathering his belongings, “nor does our temporary ruler Philippe believe in abominations, as you say. He is an impatient regent, one of science, reason, and above all else, the bottom line.”

Jean-Baptiste turned for the door, adding, “If this lead mine does not resume operation in a few weeks, both our heads will roll. Guaranteed.”

He stepped out into the blinding moonlight, Hawk Woman following close behind.

The Lead Mine (La Mine de Plomb)

- part five -

Standing in the void’s rush of frigid air, Jean-Baptiste’s lantern flickered at the yawning subterranean entrance into Mine La Mothe. He raised the light above the cave’s opening, illuminating an enigmatic Latin inscription HC SVNT DRACONES carved in sparkling sandstone.

Tugging his sleeve, Hawk Woman pleaded with her companion not to enter, “In there lies death, Monsieur.”

“But, I must. I must find Renault,” he insisted, shaking his head.

“Kar-kag-ni killed your friend.”

“Fear not,” gently laying a hand on her shoulder. “Only, the Lord Almighty holds dominion over our souls, sweet child.”

Jean-Baptiste removed the beaded necklace, gifting her his rosary.

Producing a small beaver skin pouch, she anointed his face in charcoal grease wailing a war chant, calling upon divine Mo’kon ton’ga medicine, shaking a puma’s teeth bone rattle in sweeping arcs. Once finished, he looked at her smiling as the remaining tallow in the lantern sputtered out.

Blazing torches in hand, Jean-Baptiste and Hawk Woman descended down a timber scaffolding’s spiral staircase terminating at a horizontal main shaft, stretching infinite into the dank labyrinth beyond.

Frenchman and Osage navigated claustrophobic tunnels past pickaxes and wooden shovels, wading knee deep through submerged sections, climbing rickety ladders, rattling hanging chains; and, in several chilling moments, almost falling down vertical shafts of unknown depths. Each time afterwards, gripping one another airtight in sheer terror, Jean-Baptiste whispering prayers of gratitude under his breath, Gthe-don’win wishing she was back in her village near the forest-carved bison trace leading the way to wide open prairie.

Light waning, Hawk Woman tore away her fibrous arm and leg wrappings, adding precious fabric to dimming torchfire. Spare lanterns or torches, found affixed to the mine’s moist walls or nailed into heavy timber bracings, were lit on the way past to aid an easier exit from the haunting rock maze’s foul stench of death and decay permeating every dark corner.

The Mississippi Company Treasurer paused, straining to pinpoint faint squeaking.

In a flash, a warm blooded powder keg of screeching bats exploded through the tunnel past the exposed spelunkers shielding their faces from the winged onslaught. Barely able to see through the chiropteran frenzy, Hawk Woman pulled Jean-Baptiste into an adjacent alcove’s safety.

Stunned, he removed a glove, touching his scratched face, staring at red stained fingers in waving torchlight.

Distracted, the Osage maiden held her torch up high to a red ochre pictograph mural.

Enraptured by the detailed primitive scene depicting megafauna long extinct, the stone floor collapsed as Hawk Woman approached closer, suddenly disappearing from sight into a large hole.

“Femme Faucon (Hawk Woman)!” he shouted down into shadowy dust clouds.

Jean-Baptiste’s foot struck a broken ladder remnant with a dull thud. On both knees, he struggled lowering the wooden pole into the dark crater.

Determined, the Frenchman stepped back into the central corridor searching for a rope bundle they passed earlier. Overwhelmed by another sudden flying bat barrage, he fumbled the torch, dropping it smoldering into a shallow pool of water.

Panicked, Jean-Baptiste staggered, hunching over tip-toed in pitch blackness.

“François! Monsieur Renault,” cries echoing.

Inhaling deep, he recited, “Night far spent, the day is at hand,” extended arms reaching out into the abyss, “Let us cast off darkness, taking up whole armor.”

Jean-Baptiste sensed something beyond his comprehension recoil.

Continuing, “The Belt of Truth. Breastplate of Righteousness.”

Wandering into a side tunnel’s tapering crevice, his head smashed against a wood beam, losing his tri-corner hat. He slipped forward, sliding down a diagonal air shaft. Dazed, he squinted ahead, blurry eyes adjusting to a fuzzy orange dot at the conduit’s faraway terminus.

“Gospel’s Sandals. Faith’s Shield.”

Mud covered, Jean-Baptiste emerged on hands and knees into a spacious dome-shaped room; thin lava veils flowed lethargic down the far wall, diverting into side channels along the perimeter’s cavernous base.

Rising to his feet, concluding, “And the Sword of God.”

Jean-Baptiste stood momentarily blind, wiping gritty soil from his covered eyes. He winced, feeling a cosmic gutpunch as a blurry figure emerged into sharper focus.

“Ah, Monsieur Grenoble. Bienvenue, à mon magnum opus,” a surprised François Renault exclaimed, standing shirtless at a rudimentary altar, wearing cowhide gloves and a blacksmith’s heavy leather apron.

“Such insolence,” Jean-Baptiste muttered, straightening himself, “I demand to know why the mining ceased!”

“A new age dawned, promises kept. Mining,” he chuckled, “is now a mere child’s game.”

“Either you’re a mad fool, or truly enthralled by this demon Kar-kag-ni.”

Next to the altar, two young women from the village, one Acadian, one Haitian, began striking a single buffalo hide drum.

“I like to think he’s, shall we say, more of an advisor and confidant.”

“Your soul, François. It’s not worth it.”

“Soul? Allow me to demonstrate a soul’s true value.”

The geologist’s cursed cathedral was lit by an enormous candle chandelier, hoisted to the cave’s ceiling above his rock slab workspace.

Renault untied a rope attached to the wall, lowering the heavy lighting fixture, “I am quite pleased you found it so urgent to come this far for such a demonstration.”

Drum pulsating, the women sang discordant in a forbidden vernacular.

“Kar! Kar-kag! Kar-kag! Kar-kag-ni,” the sirens chanted, eerily drawing out the final strident vowel, eyes glazed and unmoving.

High on a flowstone formation, a life-sized portrait of the song’s namesake flickering in candlelight, accurate in grotesque visage, loomed over the foul ceremony.

Holding out a glass beaker, “Refined sulfide of lead,” Renault winked, pouring the pulverized ore into a ceramic crucible.

Using metal tongs, he held the stone container over a shimmering magma pool, “Life is not a sphinx’s riddle. It’s basic, mon ami. Elemental.”

Jean-Baptiste flung off his riding jacket from the cave’s intense geothermal heat, wiping his face with the handkerchief. Checking his flintlock, he found the holster empty.

“Join male and female, finding what is sought,” Renault opined cryptically, placing the glowing crucible down on the jutting altar, “Out of the One comes Two. Out of Two, Three. From the Third comes One as the Fourth.”

Renault opened the red hot crucible, dumping out transmuted molten gold.

“Kar! Kar-kag! Kar-kag! Kar-kag-ni!” the shrieking sirens crescendoed, and then ceased.

The alchemist’s lair grew macabre in its sudden baroque underworld silence.

“The Philosopher’s Stone,” a stunned Jean-Baptiste exclaimed, chilled to the bone.

“And with it, a world reborn. The alchemist arisen,” Renault replied, candlelight glinting off his sword’s gold hilt adorned in mystical Masonic motifs.

Jean-Baptiste recoiled at this black sermon, the usurpation of all things holy and good, “How dare you. Standing before me in such a manner. I shall return you to France, if I must shackle you to a jackass travois.”

“Come now, like the song, let us take the moon with our teeth,” offering a hand, “We will be immortal.”

Lowering his head slightly, taking a long breath, “No,” he responded, shooting daggers into Renault’s disappointed, manic eyes.

A terrifying roar shocked Jean-Baptiste’s psyche, knocking him off balance, heart skipping several beats. Near fainting, he held his head in anguish, struggling to breathe. Falling to his knees, his eyes rolled back into his head. In his final moments before death, he prayed to Saint Mary, reflexively touching his neck.

Something unseen in the room recoiled, an ancient presence, an insensate evil. Howling like an invisible wounded animal, echoing between kaleidoscopic worlds.

Like a dove soaring on dawn’s first wings, deep faith swelled into a maelstrom before the leviathan unmasked. The sanctity of Goodness prevailing became Jean-Baptiste’s only reality. A white hot sun, pinpoint of pure belief shone in the midnight of his wilderness; a lighthouse beam on his desolate darkened shores of self-doubt and temptation.

“Blasphemy! En garde,” Jean-Baptiste commanded, drawing his bejeweled cavalry broadsword, bequeathed as a personal gift from Louis XIV during a ceremony at Versailles, featuring a lion wearing a crown of thorns.

Sparks flying from sharpened steel, Jean-Baptiste’s sword and parrying dagger blocked Renault’s lightning quick rapier thrusts. Dueling weapons interlocked, two men grappling close, the geologist clenched his teeth straining to push Jean-Baptiste into bubbling lava.

“Grenoble, you imbecile,” snarled Renault, “The hour is late. Empires will fall,” man and monster shrieking in menacing unison, “Your king is dead!”

Chandelier swaying, tremors vibrated the cave floor as a dark figure emerged ghostlike from the air shaft in the far corner unnoticed.

Jean-Baptiste shoved past, grabbing a dangling rope. In a swashbuckling move, he swung into Renault with legs extended, knocking him over.

Waking from their hypnosis, the village women ran screaming.

Obsidian knife unsheathed, Hawk Woman pounced on unconscious Renault, a fistful of his hair extended outward, a hummingbird’s heartbeat away from scalping the vanquished enemy.

“No!” Jean-Baptiste shouted.

Tremors intensifying, they struggled maintaining balance.

Grabbing Renault, “Come, we must hurry,” he said, lifting the deadweight.

Fleeing the deathtrap cavern, rocks falling in every direction, splashing lava waves overtaking the floor, Jean-Baptiste carried Renault draped over his shoulders, Hawk Woman running ahead into a dark tunnel, blazing torch in hand.

Looking back, Jean-Baptiste witnessed the cave’s ceiling collapsing, immense chandelier crashing onto the golden altar in a heaping cloud of dust and debris, as the thundering floor violently shook.

Sprinting towards the Osage’s distressed shouting ahead, he saw her torchlight ascend towards morning’s dim light.

Above ground, Hawk Woman held out her hand to Jean-Baptiste, helping him climb out of the massive sinkhole carrying Renault, both falling down exhausted.

Jean-Baptiste rolled over, sitting up. From the sinkhole’s edge, he observed slow lava rising, steaming liquid rock filling the depression, ceasing halfway. Exhaling deep, he prayed in gratitude.

“Merci, Hawk Woman. Thank you, for helping me,” catching his breath, “I know of a physician in Nouvelle Orléans who can treat your malady,” he offered the Osage. “A river barge awaits, docked on the Mississippi,” wiping sweat from his brow.

Wearing the rosary around her neck, Gthe-don’win looked at her scarred palms, “You are a brave warrior, Monsieur. Go, I will,” she smiled, “but next time, heed my warnings.”

The End

Spooklight on the Devil’s Elbow

A French cavalry broadsword circa. 1720.

Duke of Arkansas John Law

A ten livres bank note issued in Paris circa. 1720 courtesy British Museum.