Mother Earth is crying. Yellowstone is dying.
New troubles are stacking up like cordwood for Chief Ranger Glenn Merrill, as Yellowstone’s existence is threatened by earth tremors and an imminent supervolcano. After a series of gruesome deaths claiming animals, tourists, and a ranger, it’s clear that something’s gone terribly wrong at the nation's oldest national park.
But putting an end to these mysterious deaths is more than just the chief ranger’s job — it may be his end.
Obsidian Tears plunges Glenn, his Shoshone friend, an aggressive young seismologist and an Arapaho healer into a world of Indian mysticism. Will man and nature join forces, or risk losing all of humanity to an ancient evil?
An observer, straining in the dark, may have caught a glimpse of the man's stark silhouette among the night's shadows as he sat amid the rocks. A listener might have heard his delirious chant echoed only by the call of night birds and the sorrowful howl of a distant wolf. The brisk night air might have brought an onlooker a whiff of herbs smoldering in the smudge bowl on the ground before his folded knees or, possibly, the skunkish odor of smoke coiling up from his medicine pipe. But may have and might were merely dreams. The only observer, listener, or onlooker was the cold hard earth. All else was solitude… and loneliness.
After a long journey into a vast wilderness Nakos, a young Arapaho medicine man, traveled further yet into a deep and long sought-after vision.
The year was 1740 but nobody within thousands of miles knew that or cared. The holy man sat on a tiny spot in the vast Yellowstone-Absaroka region of the Rocky Mountains in northwestern Wyoming. That didn't matter either. More than one hundred years would pass before any of those areas were given any of those names. This was the wilderness, the holy place, place of the rocks and writing, place of Nakos' vision quest, south of his home in the Stinking Country. That was all.
Though sitting on the firm ground in that dark valley, Nakos had a sudden feeling the bottom had dropped from his stomach and an equally sudden feeling of weightlessness. Still chanting, he opened his eyelids just enough to find himself rising into the air, over the rocks, over the prairie, and up above the mountains. Rising to float in the moonlit sky. His hands shaking, he brought the pipe to his lips again, and drew deeply. He held the warm smoke in his lungs; held it, then let it escape.
Already translated. Translated by Elisabetta De Martino