Bear Dance Observed Solstice Night Tamara Thorne   The winter solstice.  Even today, even with central heating and supermarkets that never run out of food, there is something primal in the appeal the shortest day of the year holds for us.  It's not surprising, really, since it’s been part of our wiring since our earliest ancestors sheltered in caves and stored what they could for the chill, lean days of winter.  Winter solstice is symbolic death, intrinsically tied to the earth and fertility. It is the antithesis of spring, of rebirth, heavy with terror and the hope.  The early Christian church placed Christ's birth near the solstice to combine their holiest day with countless older traditions.  Yule, for instance, is a word from the pagan days that is still in use, indeed becoming more popular again as people expand their horizons.  The Christmas tree was first a Yule tree.  Green even in winter, at the darkest hour, it gives us hope that light may come again.   The shortest day of the year is a time of darkness and of peace. It is a time to thank whatever deities a culture worships for the past harvest and to wish them good rest in hopes of a fruitful harvest the following year. The high desert of California is starkly beautiful in the winter, and on Solstice 2004, as we made our way to the ancient sacred site where local natives used to worship their creator and totem spirits, the night air felt cool and fresh against my skin.  It was long past sunset, and the brilliantly hued beauty of the geologic wonders near Calico had dimmed to shades of gray.  Overhead, only a few high cirrus clouds streaked the eastern sky, illuminated by moonlight and gleaming stars.  It was a night for wonders and legends. Bill and Danny built a campfire in a clearing near the edge of a mountain. From this vista, the town of Calico was merely a memory.  A few lights from ranches dotted the desert floor, and far to the south, the shadowed ridge of the San Bernardino Mountains loomed dark against the moon-lit sky. Even the interstate between Los Angeles and Las Vegas went unseen and unheard.  Except for the folding chairs, it might have been 1904 or 1804.

The Dance   We settled in around the fire and listened to Bill's tale of the Bear Dance and the hawk feather that put him on the path that had led us to the place we inhabited this evening.  Finally, he switched on a CD player and native music winged into the night, beautiful with flutes and plaintive song.  Soft drumming filled the air. Before long, people began to notice things near the fire, to sense things.  To the majority of the dozen, it felt as if we were being watched by many eyes, that invisible visitors were edging nearer and nearer to the fire and the music. Soon, someone who had walked to higher ground to watch the group phoned Bill to describe a growing number of dark shapes and shadows, both near the campfire and along the mesas above.  Before long, an electrically charged mass of heavy air began hovering behind Jill.  Even when an occasional breeze made the flames writhe and dance, this anomaly remained constant and unmovable.  To me, it felt large and thick and when I kept my hand in it for a few seconds, the characteristic sensation of this variety of cold spot (not especially cold, but more of a low-voltage phenomenon) clung to my fingers and arm for some time afterward. I've seen all sorts of anomalies in my years of research, but when there are more than a couple of people around, I tend to be distracted by them - people-watching is what novelists do, after all!   So, while I didn't notice any apparitions or other phenomena with the exception of the large unmoving cold spot,  several who did experience these sensations strongly are people I know well enough to trust.  They don't exaggerate. Perhaps the most skeptical person present (other than yours truly) described how something passed right through him - the ice-cold energy - and that impressed me more than anything.  It rang especially true, since his account matches something I've also experienced in the past: It's a phenomenon powerful enough to put you on the ground if you're unprepared. And even if you are prepared, it takes hours to recover completely.  Imagine ice invading your heart and lungs and then ripping through you, leaving cold water in your chest.  And that's only part of it.  There was an anomaly that everyone saw that perhaps intrigued me more than anything else, especially after I researched it and found no rational explanation for it.  It was mist. Perhaps half a mile away, it hovered at a bend on an old mining road near another ancient sacred site.  The high desert does not harbor mists. Arid, cold, dry, without vegetation in winter, the atmosphere simply should not have allowed it. Yet it lingered there, unmoving, for hours, the only changes being an increase in size and density.  I was enchanted, wondering if it would come closer. My inner horror-writer thought of one of my favorite movies, The Fog, and wondered what might lurk within.  It inspired story ideas and more than a little thrill of shivery nervousness. When we finally broke camp, the fog remained.  Another time, perhaps, we'll explore the mysteries within the mist.    © 2005 Tamara Thorne

Tamara Thorne Tamara Thorne is a lifelong student of the paranormal, folklore, and shameless humor. She is the author of such supernatural thrillers as The Forgotten, Bad Things, Eternity, and Thunder Road. She has also written horror novels, based in research but often slightly tongue-in-cheek, including Haunted, Moonfall, and The Sorority Trilogy. Thorne and her husband, Damien, spend their spare time hoping not to sleep in haunted hotel rooms and prowling other anomalous sites, hoping to be accosted by poltergeists, falls of frogs, or phantom jackalopes. Currently, she is working on a new novel about a southwest haunting and putting together a nonfiction book about ghosts, including stories from her own adventures. Her official website is www.tamarathorne.com.