Trail of Lightning

Chapter 12

When I was fourteen, before the Big Water, when the TVs still worked and the melting of the polar ice was generating reports of record storms from Florida to Maine, and the flooding along the Eastern Seaboard made Hurricane Sandy look like the female rain of a light summer shower, Coyote came to me. He came in a dream that first time. He would wait another year, until I had lost not just my family and my place in life, but my entire self, to manifest physically. But it is still that first time, when Coyote-in-a-dream visited me, before I woke up to the nightmare of a Big Water world, that I remember best.

He wore a dapper gentlemen’s suit right out of the Old West. His shirt was a white high-collared affair, tucked into trousers that were striped an outrageous crimson and olive and gold. Over the shirt was a double-breasted vest of the deepest red velvet. It was topped off with a golden puff of a silk cravat, embroidered with delicate rose-colored thread. A gold watch hung from a chain tucked in his vest pocket, and over his shoulders spread a camel-colored topcoat with a thick gray fur collar. The coat flared out around him when he walked, like the mantle of a rogue king. He carried an engraved mahogany walking stick with a golden handle, and greeted me with a wide mocking smile and a tip of his top hat. He was every inch the gentleman scoundrel from some old Hollywood Western.

I think now that it must have tickled him, a creature who could change his shape as easily as humans shed clothes, to dress the white man’s frontier dandy when visiting a Navajo girl. He looked splendid, of course, but the choice was subtly cruel. I knew the stories of the Long Walk, of duplicitous land agents and con men. To remind me of them was no accident on his part.

We sat together in that dreamland sipping whiskey from china cups. The tickle of the amber liquid down my throat had a caramel twinge set for a child’s imagination, but the warmth it produced in my belly and the slightly fuzzy sense of reality it created in my head were real enough. He stretched long legs out in front of a heartily crackling fire and told me horror stories.

Of how long ago, in a world before I existed, birds had plucked his eyes out and eaten them. How beavers had beaten his body with their long flat tails until he was a bag of molted skin holding shattered bones and burst organs. How it felt to have his toes and fingers, the latter now gleaming hooked and clawlike in the dreamfire, crushed one by one, grown back, and then crushed again.

I shivered in my cotton pajamas, terrified as only one asleep and unable to wake can be. I was too afraid to speak, and my legs didn’t seem to work. I struggled against his words, even covered my ears with my hands. He didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he certainly didn’t care.

Finally he seemed to tire of his stories, as a hint of sunrise blossomed on the far horizon.

“Time to go,” he said, checking his pocket watch and planting his hat upon his head. He stood and stretched his skinny frame in a theatrical yawn. “I have enjoyed our chat, Magdalena. Have you?”

I was bug-eyed with horror, afraid for him to leave me there in the dark alone, but equally afraid that he would never leave.

“We are friends,” he comforted me, favoring me with the smallest of smiles. “Would you agree?”

He stared at me, eyes demanding an answer. I nodded a yes, which seemed to please him. He patted my leg, his claw catching on my knee and drawing blood. Turned dull brassy eyes on me and through a howl that made me throw my hands back over my ears, left me with a final warning. Or threat, I still don’t know.

“Prepare, Magdalena. The monsters are coming.”

The same creature, looking mostly like a man and wearing the same outlandish Western costume, now sits drinking tea in my favorite chair in my living room.

“Magdalena, dear, is this really all you have? Tea?”

“Hello, Ma’ii,” I greet him. He’s the only person, or non-person as it were, who calls me by that name. But it would be useless to correct him.

“Yes, yá’át’ééh, good morning, or, evening, really. Now, could you . . . ?” He waves a hand across his cup and then at me. Long gray fingernails spark sharp as moonlight.

I sigh. Lean against the wall. “There’s coffee and sugar in my truck.”

Ma’ii brightens, ruffling his shoulders and setting his topcoat swaying. “Excellent. Could you? And while you are there, tell that handsome man in your motor vehicle to come inside.”

I grimace. He’s seen Kai. Of course he has. But I have no intention of having Kai join us before I know what Coyote is up to.

I walk back to the truck to grab the canister of coffee and the sugar. Kai’s eyes are wide with curiosity as he stares at me through the window glass. I shake my head and mouth “fifteen minutes.” I spare a glance at the setting sun. I’m not sure it’s a great idea for Kai to be out here alone in the dark, but it’s not such a good idea for him to be inside with the trickster either. The danger known, or the danger unknown. Hopefully, it won’t come to that. I know how to get Coyote to talk.

I come through the door and go straight through my small living room, past my small bathroom, to my equally small kitchen. Coyote hasn’t moved except to set his teacup down on the table at his elbow and to wrap his long fingers around the handle of his walking stick. He taps those grotesque claw-nails against the wood in irritation.

“Why didn’t you bring your friend in?” he asks over his shoulder.

“He’s not my friend,” I call back from the kitchen. “He’s my guest for the night, and the less you have to do with him, the better.”

“You could at least make the appropriate introductions. Where is the harm in that?”

“Not until I know what you’re up to, Ma’ii.”

“Oh? All these years, Magdalena, and you still do not trust me.” He doesn’t sound offended. If anything, he sounds amused.

Coyote’s already boiled water for his tea in my one good pot, so making the coffee is easy. I throw the grounds into the steaming water and let it steep before I pour us each a cup. I hesitate a moment before dumping a good teaspoon of sugar into Ma’ii’s too. Only then do I join him in the living room.

My living room is less than fifteen feet across, and all I’ve been able to fit in the space is a sagging loveseat and two mismatched armchairs, all clustered around a makeshift coffee table made of plywood and covered by a thin sheet of patterned blue fabric that’s trying for cheery but, even I have to admit, fails. At least it matches the homemade curtains I’ve strung over the windows, my only real attempt at housekeeping despite being holed up in my trailer for months now. Truth is, I’d take being on the road over spending time at my place. Being here just makes Neizghání’s desertion all the more real. Better to stay busy somewhere else doing something else.

I sit across from Coyote in my other chair, my back to the entrance, acutely aware that Kai will be coming through that door with a shotgun soon, and I want to be close when he does.

Coyote takes a sip and smiles. “The coffee is excellent, Magdalena. I hope you made enough for a second cup.”

“You’re not staying long enough for a second coffee.”

His face droops, and for a moment I think I see the flick of a long lupine ear behind his human facade. “So rude.”

“Why are you here, Ma’ii?”

“Tell me about the handsome man you are hiding in the truck. Who is he? Is he your new lover?” He widens his eyes suggestively and flicks a thick-veined tongue over thin lips.

“No.”

“Too young for you?” he asks. “All the better for a lover, no? Young and eager. I find that what the young lack in skill they make up for in enthusiasm.”

“Ma’ii.” I let that one word drip with disapproval.

“I had a young lover once,” he goes on, ignoring me. “A girl in a jingle dress from Many Farms. She reminded me more of a flopping fish than a woman, but she was admirably enthusiastic.”

I rub my head. I am not up for stories of Coyote’s sexual conquests.

“No, no, boys your own age wouldn’t be your taste. Your taste . . . I know your taste. Big strapping muscular warriors. Immortals. Yes, that would be more to your liking.” He puts heat into that last word. His sly eyes watch me for a reaction. I keep my gaze steady and my mouth set in a neutral line.

“Naayéé’ Neizghání,” he says, eyes never leaving mine. “The Monsterslayer! What a specimen! Truly something made of scorching sun and rare beauty. To have him as your lover, yes, that would make even your handsome friend suffer in the comparison.”

“Neizghání and I were not lovers.”

“Never? In all those years, not even once? A kiss? A stray touch? A cold night on the hunt, under a shared blanket? Oh, Magdalena. It is awful to lie to me, but even worse to lie to yourself.”

“I know what you’re trying to do.”

“And you. So damaged, so alone, after that unpleasantness that killed your grandmother and left you, well, quite . . . eaten up, wouldn’t you say?”

“Stop it, Ma’ii.” My voice is low and quiet, but I can’t quite hide the tremor.

“It’s only natural that you would fall in love with your savior, and then for him to become your mentor. For him to find something worthy in you where others would only find a pitiful broken little girl.” He leans forward, eyes fixed on mine. “If you truly weren’t lovers, then the lust must have driven you mad. How many nights did you lie in bed, shyly touching yourself while thinking of him? Confused by the wetness under your fingers, the tightening of your—”

“Enough!” The threat in my voice is palpable. He can only push me so far before I lose my control, and he’s close. So close.

He stares for a moment, weighing my anger, before he leans back. “Really, Magdalena,” he says, flicking imaginary lint off his velvet vest and continuing conversationally, “did you expect anything lasting to come from your time together? Love? A marriage, perhaps? Monsterslayer babies?”

My cheeks flush hot under his merciless scrutiny. I know he’s just digging for my weak spot, hoping to see me crack. It’s a coyote’s nature to be vicious, and I try not to take it personally. But he makes it very hard not to want to smash his mouth in with my fist.

I make myself exhale, relax. Remind myself that it doesn’t matter. Coyote can dig all he wants. The only thing between Neizghání and me now is nothing at all.

But my patience with Ma’ii’s casual cruelty has run out.

“What do you want, Ma’ii?” I say, my voice impassive. “What do you want? What do you want? What do you want?”

He rears up, affronted. To ask four times forces an answer from the trickster.

“So rude! Was that necessary? We have things to say to each other.”

“Not about Neizghání, we don’t.”

He scowls at me.

I wait.

He tries to stay silent, but his jaw works in protest as my words compel, until he breaks. “A retrieval,” he barks, clearly furious. “I need you to get something for me. You do retrieve things, don’t you?” he spits. “Dead girls? Severed heads?”

Cold fingers down my spine. “How do you know—?”

“I know everything. I am Coyote,” he says. “So you will do this thing for me? Yes?”

“You haven’t told me what it is.”

“Perhaps it is a mistake to ask you. You won’t understand. You are mortal.” He tsks like it’s such a shame. “No wonder Neizghání left—”

“What is it?” I snap, irritated by his posturing. And tired and irritated by this whole day. Lukachukai, Longarm, the dead in Crownpoint, the constant talk about Neizghání. Something in me breaks and I shout, “What is it, what is it, what—!”

“Magdalena!” Coyote bursts out of the chair.

I shudder at the blast of fury that pours from his body. For a moment, the pretense of the Western gentleman falters and I glimpse his true form under the facade. Shaggy gray-and-brown muzzle, dull yellow eyes, a mouthful of teeth meant for tearing carrion. He fills the room, frightening and unnatural, and I am back at that fire, a child of fifteen facing a Bik’e’áyéeii for the first time.

But just as quickly, he gathers himself back in, shrinking to man-size and steadying the illusion. With excruciating dignity he places himself back in my chair.

With one booted foot he pushes a bag across the floor to me. It’s shaped like an old-fashioned five-sided carpet bag, brass clutch and all, but the hide is made from something dark and smoky that seems to shift in the gathering darkness of the room. I hadn’t noticed the bag before, and it’s possible it wasn’t there at all until this moment. I turn on the lamp at my side and open the bag.

“What are these?”

I pull out five feathered rings, each about a foot wide. They aren’t heavy, or particularly light either, but perfect in my hand. They’re covered in downy feathers, like each ring has been rolled in baby bird feathers and then dipped in dye—black, blue, yellow, white. The last one is a dense swirl of all the colored feathers flecked through with flakes of glittering mica. They’re like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Beautiful and sacred and definitely powerful.

“They are naayéé’ ats’os,” Ma’ii says. “They will help you in your task.”

I wrack my brain for stories and legends that involve hoops and come up blank. But the colors of the hoops give me a big hint. “These are directional hoops, aren’t they? East is white, south is blue, west yellow, and north black. And this one,” I say, turning the multicolored one in my hand. All colors, all directions. “Where did you get these?”

“Where they came from is of no consequence.”

I know a dodge when I hear it. “You don’t want to tell me?”

“Their origin is entirely irrelevant. You should concern yourself with what they do, not where they came from.”

“Okay then, what do they do?”

“Do you know the story of First Man and First Woman?”

“Vaguely.”

“I see Neizghání neglected your education just as he neglected your bed.” He raises a hand to hold off my protest. “I shall tell you a story, Magdalena, if you will listen.” He pauses, hand still raised. Waits until I nod.

“Long ago it is said that First Man and First Woman were fashioned from the ear of a cornstalk. First Man from the white corn, First Woman from the yellow. They were covered in buckskin cloth and then Níłch’i blew across them, giving them life. It is that breath of Níłch’i that made them human, just as it makes you human.”

“I don’t—”

“Níłch’i is the sacred wind. The giver of life. I want you to go to Canyon de Chelly and use the hoops to bring me the breath of Níłch’i.”

“Oh.” I pause. “Is that all?”

“Yes.” He smiles, indulging my sarcasm. “A reasonable request for someone of your talents.”

I almost laugh, more amused than irritated at this point. “He’s a god, Ma’ii. I can’t capture a god. I’m just . . .”

“A monsterslayer?” He clicks his teeth. “I’m not asking you to capture him. Just his breath.” He claps his hands. “Come now, Magdalena. Where is your sense of adventure? Your thirst for a challenge?”

“Let’s just pretend that I say yes. What are you paying?”

“Ah.” He smiles, thin lips curling at the edges, but his eyes are cold. “What is your heart’s desire, Magdalena? What is it you truly want most of all?” He glances out the window, then back to me. “I could make the handsome boy in your motor vehicle fall madly in love with you.”

“No.”

He taps his chin theatrically. “More’s the pity. Let’s see . . . Would you like to see Neizghání again? I could arrange it.”

My heart speeds up a little, but I don’t trust the trickster with anything that involves Neizghání. “No,” I say, but my refusal is slow out of my mouth, and Ma’ii sees it.

He shrugs. “Very well. Then that leaves only the girl.”

I sit back, surprised. Does he mean Atty? “What about the girl?”

He leans in, his voice a whisper. “Such a monster . . .”

My stomach drops to my feet and my throat closes. Does he mean me? But how could he know what Neizghání said to me at Black Mesa? What I told myself on that mountain in Lukachukai? To hear it out of his mouth is chilling.

He rises up from his chair, pushes himself forward until his face is only inches from mine. “The sad truth you do not wish to face, Magdalena, is that sometimes the ones we call our heroes are the greatest monsters of all.”

My fist is swinging before I even understand that I’m moving. But I only connect with air, as the place where Ma’ii’s face was a fraction of a second ago is empty. He’s back in his chair, but I’m up out of mine and halfway across the coffee table between us when I hear my front door open. I ignore it, launching myself at the Coyote, hands reaching to wrap around his throat. But he’s not there and I crash, bad shoulder first, into the place where he was sitting. Send the chair toppling over with me in it. Thump to the ground in a heap of rage. I try to push to my knees, but my feet get caught in that damn blue tablecloth and I fall back down flat on my ass. Bang that damn shoulder against the edge of the table. The fight goes out of me and I scream, “Ma’ii!”

I’m answered by a canine chuckle, then Kai’s voice as he asks, “Am I interrupting?”