Thief Of Souls

24. The Confluence

Life began at the Confluence. At least that was the belief of many Southwest tribes. It was the place where the Colorado and Little Colorado merged into a single river. It was a place of magic. A place of powerful spirits, both good and evil.

Radio Joe—second-degree burns on his hands and part of his face from the real flames of the fake vol­cano—had taken a car, sold it for a horse, took the six-hour trek down into the Grand Canyon, and waited at the Confluence for the world to end. When the river began its backward flow, he knew the time was near.

He watched as body after body drifted by in the cur­rent, and he awaited the coming of a god, or a demon.

At twilight, as Radio Joe cooked himself a hot meal over an open fire, he saw a raft approaching him on the river. He thought he recognized the raft’s single occupant—but wasn’t certain until the raft had been beached and the visitor’s face, bruised and swollen, was lit by the flames. It almost looked surprised when it saw the old man, but hid it quickly.

“You’ve abused their body,” Radio Joe told the dark Quíkadi; the thief of souls. “I would think a creature of your power would have kept it in better shape. Un­less you’ve met your match.”

“Don’t anger me, old man.”

Radio Joe reached into his pot and offered a helping of stewed rabbit.

“I don’t need your food,” it said.

“Then what do you need?”

“I’m looking for the one who changed the course of the river,” said the thief of souls.

“And you think it was me?”

Then the thief leaned closer into the fire, until beads of sweat appeared on his bruised face—still the perfect synthesis of Lara and Jara. “I think you have eyes that see more than most. Tell me what you’ve seen on the river.”

Radio Joe gnawed his meat. “I’ve seen bodies carried around the bend, deeper into the canyon. I’ve seen fish swimming in perfect schools. I’ve seen the holes in my shoes close as I stood in the water.”

The thief waited for more, but Radio Joe offered nothing further.

“I know he’s nearby,” said the thief. “I think you know more than you say.”

“And if I do?”

“If you don’t tell me all you know I’ll do what I should have done to begin with. I’ll leave you worse than dead.”

“And what about Lara and Jara?” demanded the old man. “Are they worse than dead? Did you devour their souls?”

“They sleep,” said the thief. “They merged into one, and now they sleep.”

Radio Joe nodded. If he hadn’t destroyed the twins, then he spared them for a reason. But perhaps he didn’t need them anymore. He decided to gamble.

“Free their spirits, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

The thief of souls was taken aback. His face hard­ened, and for a moment Radio Joe thought he was done for. But then the thief grinned. He gave his head a shake, flicking his long mane of hair from his eyes—and as he did, Radio Joe felt the soul of the twins pass clear through him.

And behind him, his horse began to whinny and buck.

“There,” said the thief. “I’ve freed them.” His gaze intensified. “Now tell me what you saw.”

“I saw him float past here, two hours ago,” said Radio Joe. “The water bore him like a pillow as he slept, refusing to let him drown.”

The thief turned his eyes to the two rivers, tracing the larger one’s winding path. But the hour was late, and the outline of the river disappeared into shadows as pitch-dark as the new moon.

“The Colorado travels north a ways, then winds back to the south,” Radio Joe told him. “Camp in the shadow of High Pebble.” He indicated a pillar of darkening red stone in the distance. “You’ll see him at dawn.”

The thief wasted no time with thank yous. He slipped back into the shadows, and disappeared.

When he was gone, Radio Joe left the fire, his kettle of stew in hand. His horse was tied to a rock, but tried desperately to pull itself free, with a spirit the young gelding hadn’t shown before. It looked apprehensive and angry as Radio Joe approached, but it calmed as he brushed its mane.

“You’re free from it now,” he told the spirit of the twins. Then, taking out his knife, he cut the horse loose from its bridle. Instantly it took off into the canyon. Radio Joe listened until the hoofbeats were over­whelmed by crickets, then he turned and headed with his bucket of rabbit stew toward the small cave in the canyon wall behind him.

“I hope you like rabbit.”

Dillon was awakened by a gruff voice, and reached up to peel back the blanket that covered him. His mem­ory was foggy, but he vaguely remembered being pulled from the river by the old man. The muscles in Dillon’s arms and legs had been knots of hard rubber, and his jaw had locked from chattering. The old man had carried him to this cave, rubbed warmth into his arms and legs, and covered him with a blanket. It was the last thing Dillon remembered before slipping from consciousness.

Now his muscles felt looser, and his body felt warm. Dillon had never tasted rabbit before, but right now, it smelled awfully good to him. The old man served Dil­lon the stew in a cracked bowl, but the crack healed quickly enough . . . and hadn’t the blanket that covered him once been dilapidated? Even in this desolate cave, he could not escape his aura of mending anymore than he could escape his own shadow.

Dillon ate with his fingers, trying to put those thoughts aside.

“You should know that I don’t have much luck with hermits,” Dillon said.

The old man shrugged. “I’m not a hermit, I’m an electrician.”

It was as the old man turned, that Dillon had a mo­ment of deja vu. He had seen this face before. “Do I know you?”

The old man hesitated before answering. Then he said. “People call me Radio Joe.”

Dillon’s hand began to shake, and he put down the bowl, as he realized the significance of the name. “The Shiprock Slayer.”

Radio Joe smiled. “I’d be lying if I said I’d been called worse things.” He picked up Dillon’s bowl, studying where the crack had healed. “But the task was beyond me. You completed what I began.”

He held out the bowl to Dillon, and Dillon took it. “What are you?” Radio Joe asked.

Dillon considered the question. “Damned if I know,” he said, finally. Truthfully. For at that moment, he didn’t know. He couldn’t say if he was good or evil; a hero or destroyer; a gift to this world, or its greatest curse.

“Does the river still run backward?” Dillon asked.

The old man nodded, and Dillon was not surprised; it had only been a matter of time until his powers grew too strong for his will to control.

“I hear talk of a river up north,” Radio Joe told him, “that also flows in from the sea. Its waters are healing, and to drink of it means to cheat death.”

Dillon closed his eyes. “The Columbia River.” Did every place he tread bear the indelible print of his in­fluence now? And would the rivers flow to the sea once more if he were dead? He didn’t know. He didn’t even know if he could die—and that thought added a new level to the misery, because it meant he didn’t even have control over his own existence.

How strange, he thought—to seek control over everything, and find himself in control of nothing at all. Powerless, in his own power.

Radio Joe watched Dillon eat, and ladled him a sec­ond helping. Only after he finished did he offer Dillon the unpleasant news.

“It came looking for you,” Radio Joe told him. Dil­lon felt his world-weariness settle more heavily on his shoulders. Dillon knew Okoya would not rest as long as Dillon was alive.

“Do you know how to destroy it?” Dillon asked.

Radio Joe only picked through the bones in his own bowl. “This rabbit,” he began, “not much left of it now. I suppose if it still lived, it would want to know how to destroy me. To a rabbit, we are the evil ones. But by what means can a rabbit destroy us?” He dropped the bones into the sand. “It must fail, because what we are, and what we know, are far beyond this poor rab­bit’s ability to ever understand.”

Dillon felt his stomach grumble. It was as if he could hear the spirit of the rabbit growling in his gut. He swallowed hard to keep his meal down, and wondered if a vegetarian lifestyle was in his future. “I can’t de­stroy it,” Dillon realized.

“If you don’t understand its life, how can you bring about its death?” The old Indian took Dillon’s bowl, turning it face-down over the bones of the rabbit. “Maybe it’s best to let it be. Leave it to do what it does, and stay out of its path, forever. Because without someone like you to do its bidding, it could never have the power it desires. It could never devour the whole world.”

Dillon stood. His knees still felt weak, but he knew his strength was coming back. He walked out of the cave and turned up his eyes to the clear night sky. A trillion stars. The living eyes of the universe staring down on him.

Yes, he could run from Okoya, like a frightened rab­bit running from the hunter . . . but if he did, those tril­lion eyes of heaven would be there in accusation, every night of his life. He had often thought about it, but now beneath that Grand Canyon sky, he truly began to won­der whether his life was an accident brought on by the sudden death of a distant star, or was there more to it than that? Did his existence serve some purpose he had yet to learn? If so, it would explain why the world seemed so reluctant to let him die. Or to run.

“I can’t run from Okoya,” he told Radio Joe. “I can’t run from him anymore than I can run from myself.”

Radio Joe offered him a knowing nod. “It is said, ‘Wherever you may travel, wherever you may roam, the center of the circle will always be your home.’ "

“Ancient wisdom?” asked Dillon.

“John Lennon,” answered Radio Joe.

The old Hualapai added more wood to the fire, send­ing sparks streaming into the night. “Ten miles west of here, you’ll come to a place called High Pebble. He’ll be there at dawn, looking for you.” He handed Dillon a flashlight. “Here. The batteries died, but I suppose that won’t matter to you.”

Radio Joe had called that one right; as Dillon held the flashlight in his hands, the batteries began to charge. In a moment, it glowed a dim orange flicker that kept glowing brighter.

“What about you?” Dillon asked, but Radio Joe seemed unconcerned.

“I’ve retired to the canyon. Either they find me here, or they don’t. If they do, it doesn’t matter, because the worst of it is over for me.” Radio Joe gave Dillon his jacket. “Cold night,” he said.

Dillon took the jacket with a nod of thanks. “I’ll bring it back to you when it’s all over.”

Radio Joe pursed his age-worn lips. “Never make promises you may not live to keep.”