Algorithm - Book 1 - The Medallion

Chapter 22

His hand brushed against the door and the door hissed.

***

Hedda was released from the hospital and no charges were filed pending further investigation by the Pittston police. Preliminary findings pointed to self-defense. The Pittston police liked Hedda and the crime lab somehow failed to provide a complete ballistics report. Fortunately, Herman's bullet had passed through her thigh and no major arteries were severed.  A few stitches, a few days rest, and Hedda was back at her museum hobbling about on crutches, doing what she could to straighten out her collections and sort out her memories. The events of the past week would long remain with her. A knock from the front door stopped her brooming mid-sweep.

"Ma'am, you be Hedda, Hedda Morrison?"

The visitor wore khaki overalls, held a large brown metal box and sported a low-slung and fully stocked leather tool belt. He was a big man with a dark clay complexion and long black hair tied neatly into a ponytail. 

"And, you must be the carpenter, right?"

"Yup. that's me. Name's Windstorm, Jay Windstorm, ma'am. I guess this here's the door you want fixin'?"

Hedda's eye was drawn to a fragment of yellow police tape still caught on the edge of the door frame. Cool air wafted through the door, fluttering the tape and carrying with it a scent of fallen leaves.

She nodded. "Windstorm. Unusual name."

"Yup, it's native American or what the English translation would be.  My father's side ... his family was part of the Sasquehannock tribe, descended from the Algonquins."  He then gave the door a closer look. "You're gonna need a whole new door. I can probably save some of the hardware and rebuild the outer frame. Looks like someone without a lot of patience came through here."

An involuntary shudder ran through Hedda as she recalled the deadly encounter.

Windstorm gave the museum a quick glance while he made a show of fishing in his belt for a screwdriver. "You must be a lover of history. The stuff you've got in here ... it's like the story of mining in this valley."

"It only goes back about a hundred years."

Windstorm nodded. "This valley, this whole area has a rich history ... more than just mining, and it goes back thousands of years."

"You mean native American history?"

"Yup. That's the real history of this country."

Hedda paused in reflection. "Mr. Windstorm, I were wondering, and I hope you don't mind me askin'... askin' you about Indian, eh ... native American religions. What I mean is what do the Susquehannock believe about creation, ya know, how we came to be?"

Windstorm tilted his head to one side. "Hey ... there's a question I don't hear too often in this job, but I don't mind tryin' to answer it. Our beliefs aren't much different from most other native Americans."

He found the screwdriver and began working the bottom door hinge. "I guess you'd call it a creation myth these days. Honestly, I don't recall all the details, and there are a lot of versions, even among the northern Nations, but here's how I remember it. There was a great Earth mother who had two sons, one good and one evil. After their mother died, the good one - his name was Glooskap—made plants, animals and humans, while the evil one, Malsum ... well, his job was makin' snakes and poisonous plants. It turns out neither one was immortal, so in a fight with Malsum, who used some trickery, Glooskap was killed. But he managed to resurrect himself and eventually kill the evil one. He kept making good things, while Malsum went underground becoming a kind of wolf spirit, hasslin' humans ever since."