Gray Magic Read online

  Stoner reached for the door handle.

  "Hold it!” Stell knocked her hand away. She took a bandana from her hip pocket. "Use this. Metal gets wicked hot out here."

  "Everything's hot out here." She yanked the door open and let the dead air fall out.

  Stell swung up into the driver's seat and scrounged through the glove compartment. "Use these," she said, handing over a pair of scratched and battered sunglasses. "They're not pretty, but they'll save your retinas."

  Stoner put the glasses on and sighed with relief. "How's your cousin?"

  "Seems to be doing a little better," Stell said as she started the motor. "They still don't know what's wrong with her. Darndest thing, she just seemed to wither up overnight. Wouldn't be surprising, considering the climate. Except Claudine and Gil have been running that trading post for over thirty years, and Claudine's folks before that. She's not exactly a stranger to Arizona summers."

  She rammed the truck into reverse and backed up, narrowly avoiding a collision with a yellow Mercedes, and eased toward the ramp.

  "There's been rumors of the same kind of illness farther north on the reservation, which makes you think about radiation. Especially since Anaconda and Kerr-McGee pile the uranium slag from the mines out in the open. But they tested Claudine for that and she's come out clean. Matter of fact, they've tested for everything from leukemia to ectopic pregnancy-which would be a small miracle at her age."

  "Maybe it's the water," Stoner suggested. "Or even the fresh vegetables. If the soil out here's deficient in something..."

  "Not likely. Gil doesn't show any signs. Anyway, they're keeping her under observation. Which is a fancy way of saying the doctors don't know what they're doing and they want her to pay the bills while they find out."

  She cut in front of an airport limousine and came to rest in a No Parking Zone.

  “Who's looking after Timberline?" Stoner asked.

  "Ted Jr. and his lover." Stell laughed. "Can't wait to hear how that goes down with some of the regulars. Well, it should separate the wheat from the chaff."

  "Uh ... do you like his lover?"

  "So far. Rick seems like a nice young man." She shot Stoner a knowing look. "Quit trying to test the water. You know it's okay by me."

  "I'm sorry. We've had our problems lately."

  "Yeah." Stell dug a cowboy hat from the floor behind the seat and crammed it on her head. "How are things going?"

  Stoner shrugged. "So-so. Gwen doesn't seem to know what her next move should be. I think she's hoping for a reconciliation, but so far she hasn't heard anything from her grandmother. It must be getting her down, sometimes it's hard to tell with her. She's better than I am at pushing things into the back of her mind."

  "Probably a good thing to get away, then. Might give her a new perspective." She tapped the steering wheel with her fingers. "How much am I supposed to know about this? I wouldn't want to put my foot in my mouth."

  "She knows I told you. It's fine."

  "I might feel compelled to express my opinion."

  Stoner smiled. "Your opinion's always welcome."

  "Tell that to my ever-loving husband. He's had thirty-five years of my opinions."

  If Gwen doesn't show up soon, she thought, there won't be anything left of us but grease and bones. The truck cab felt like a kiln.

  "Do you like running the trading post?" she asked.

  "It's a challenge." Stell pushed open her door and stretched one leg onto the running board. It made her look a little like an aging rodeo queen. "Most of the Indians trust us enough to keep shopping there, on account of we're related to Gil and Claudine, and being related counts for a lot with them. But it's hard to forget we're visible representatives of a race that's been screwing them for four hundred years. Makes you kind of overly cautious and overly sensitive." She glanced over at Stoner. "Shoot, why am I explaining this to you? You know what it's like being hated for nothing you did yourself."

  "I'm glad we decided to come here, Stell. It'll be good for Gwen to be around you."

  Stell hooted. "First time anyone ever called me a good influence on the young." She peeked up from under her hat brim and jabbed her thumb in the direction of the terminal. "Don't look now, but this vacation's about to get under way officially."

  Gwen backed through the door, lurching under the weight of their luggage.

  Stoner leapt from the truck.

  "Jesus!" Stell exclaimed loudly. "Must be love."

  Gwen dropped a suitcase and shielded her eyes. "They're trying to kill us!" she gasped. "Hey, Stell."

  "Hey, yourself. Scooch in next to me. It's tight, but it beats riding stern-side in the sun."

  Stoner tossed the suitcases into the truck bed. "Should I tie these down?"

  "You better. There's a lot of bounce between here and Spirit Wells."

  Stoner secured the suitcases and climbed in next to Gwen. Gwen reached over and jiggled her sunglasses. "Very butch."

  "Stop that," Stoner said, and slapped at her hand.

  Stell slammed her door, turned the air conditioner up full, and revved the motor. "Hang onto your bra straps, kids. We're making tracks."

  "How far is it?" Gwen asked as Stell pounced on the exit ramp.

  "About two-hundred miles, as the crow flies. We'll be home late afternoon."

  Stoner made a quick calculation. "Two hundred miles - that's close to four hours."

  "More or less. Out here, we have a healthy disrespect for speed limits. I have to stop at the IGA in Beale. Won't take a minute."

  "Great," Gwen said. "I can pick up a trashy book. I don't imagine you'd have anything like that at your place."

  "Absolutely not. Out here, we never read anything but the Great Books of the Western World."

  High-rise buildings, monoliths of concrete and glass, lined the streets in their ugly functional way. Family cars and taxis inched forward against the lights, motors snarling menace, drivers casting dark and hostile looks. Pedestrians jay-walked. Teenagers skateboarded with wild and life-threatening abandon. Buses fouled the air. Only an occasional patch of grass, a Victorian or Mission-style touch of architecture broke the monotony and provided a glimpse of Character.

  “What's your first impression?" Stell asked. "It's very clean," Stoner said politely.

  Stell laughed. "Let me tell you about Phoenix. Of the six tallest buildings in the city, five are banks. The sixth is the Hyatt Regency."

  "That's all you know?" Gwen asked.

  "That's all I need to know." She braked for a red light and rolled down the window to release the heat that built up immediately in spite of the air conditioning.

  So this is Arizona. Pueblo Country. Cattle Country. Gold Country. Indian Country. Cactus Country.

  The only pueblos she could see were fifteen-story apartment buildings. There were no cattle being driven to market, only expensive cars with vanity plates. The only Indians were two little kids playing dress-up. And instead of cactus, there were palm trees, as artificial-looking as set pieces for a 1920s musical.

  She watched the people crossing the street in front of the pick-up. They were just like people in cities everywhere - a little dulled out, as if they didn't want to see too much, or hear too much, or think too much. As if they had somehow managed to cancel themselves out. On a Citi-ness scale of one to ten, she’d give Phoenix a seven.

  Provincial, she scolded herself. There are thousands, maybe millions of people who genuinely like cities. Who enjoy, or at least tolerate, standing in lines. Who thrive on noise and motion. Whose idea of Hell is a small town with no all-night deli.

  "Stoner," Gwen said, "you're grinding your teeth."

  "Sorry."

  "Are you going to be sick?"

  "I hope not."

  “Want another dramamine?"

  She shook her head. Too little sleep, she was barely coherent as it was. Darn Marylou. Nobody in their right mind would choose to crawl out of bed at four a.m., tackle Logan Airport at five, cross most of the cou
ntry and three time zones, to be assaulted by airline food and High Noon in Phoenix-and then try to appreciate the scenery. "Get a jump on the day," indeed. The next time a day needed to be jumped on, Marylou Kesselbaum could jolly well do the jumping.

  “What's new in Boston?" Stell asked as she turned north through a suburb of Spanish adobe houses with tiled roofs, sprinkler-lush lawns, waiting barbecue pits, and white wine chilling in the refrigerators.

  "Aunt Hermione was initiated into the coven. They finally waived the herbal healing requirement. I don't know why, but she can't seem to keep the herbs straight."

  "Hasn't poisoned anyone, has she?"

  "Not yet," Gwen said.

  “Well, that's a blessing."

  “We're in our seasonal slowdown at the travel agency. Marylou's joined a Fat Oppression Support Group."

  "Marylou's an inspiration to us all," Stell said.

  "Now we keep lists of Fat Oppressive resorts, and won't book into them." She laughed. "Between my politics and Marylou's, one of these days we're going to put ourselves out of business."

  “Well," Stell said, "if you find me doing something wrong at Timberline, I'd appreciate a chance to rectify the situation."

  "Believe me," Stoner said, "there's nothing oppressive about your cooking."

  "Except the lettuce," Gwen said. "I think you must serve the world's most pitiful lettuce."

  Stell grunted. "Tell that to our supplier. I've been trying to get his attention for years. I figure they shunt the stuff onto a siding in Laramie and let it sit a week or two. Even thought about growing my own, but I'm not the farming type."

  They crossed over a dry river bed and were suddenly in the desert. A few paloverdes and creosote bushes clung to pebbly soil. Saguaro cactus jutted from the ground like thorny telephone poles. Tan boulders, pitted by wind and scraped clean of vegetation, tilted into an immense sky.

  “This is the Salt River Indian Reservation," Stell said. "Pima and Maricopa. Pima's used to be a fierce people. Now they live cheek-by-jowl with the rich white trash, and there's not a bit of trouble. Which tells you how the fight's been taken out of them." She gestured at the dried-up river bed. "That dry wash used to be the Salt River, before the Anglos dammed it. If they ever revolt, they'd do well to blow up the dams first. The water around here's in serious need of liberating."

  She glanced over. "Listen to me, on about it again. Every time I come to Phoenix it sets me off. Get so darned mad and ashamed. But I shouldn't be mad, not when I have my gals back with me."

  "Thank you, Stell," Gwen said sincerely. "That makes me feel warm all over."

  "Last time I felt warm all over," Stell said, "it was a hot flash." She pushed her hat up with her forefinger. "Hell, don't know why it's so hard for me to say what I want to say. I've missed you two, and that's a fact. Even if you did worry me half to death last summer."

  "I'm really sorry about that," Gwen said. "I-"

  Stell cut her off. "I'm not looking for apologies. Just hope you aren't planning to give me a scare like that this year."

  "I'll try to stay out of trouble," Gwen said.

  "It's not you I'm worried about."

  Stoner looked at her. "Me?"

  "Yes, you."

  “What kind of trouble could I get in out here?"

  Stell shook her head. "You'll find something. I have great faith in you."

  The land rose gently. In the distance, a range of mountains lay low against the earth. Small gray-green bushes were scattered about like grazing sheep. The sky had washed out to the palest blue.

  It's beautiful, Stoner thought.

  Beautiful and cruel.

  * * *

  Grandmother Eagle soared high over the Colorado Plateau and rested on the wind. Her time was coming. For days now she had heard Masau's gentle voice calling her home to her ancestors. The sun was soothing to her tired bones, bones that carried the chill of winter even through sun-baked summer days. She had seen her final Niman Kachina, the dances, the ceremonies, the Going Home of the Hopi Spirits to the Sacred Mountains. Soon she, too, would go to rest, and embrace the Spirits of her slaughtered young. Her bones would become whistles for a Dineh child to play on. Her feathers, her long, beautiful feathers that sang the Wind-Song, would be gathered for prayer sticks, to carry the pleas of the People over the rainbow bridge to the ears of the Spirits. The thought gave her pleasure.

  Now she was saying good-bye. Good-bye to the vast canyons and buttes and mesas of her earth home. Good-bye to the broad arroyos that churned with chocolate waters in the spring rains. Good-bye to the tall sandstone pinnacles, the windswept mountains where she had built her nests and raised her young and squabbled with her lazy, ill-tempered mate.

  She smiled to herself, thinking of Old Man Eagle, their fights and matings, their hunting flights, the glint of sunlight through his wingtips, his strong presence through the hours of darkness. But she remembered, too, the blue-white flash from the poacher's gun, the handsome body shattered, the feathers drifting earthward through the still air, the echo of the shot cracking her heart, the long and silent years that followed.

  She would see him soon, her Old Man, and once again they would soar upward to the sun, lifted by the Wind Spirits, to play among the Cloud People. Once again they would mate and argue. She had missed their mating, but she had missed their arguments even more.

  The wind-river took her over Indian land, with its cluster of adobe homes and two-room ranch houses, its trailer parks and solitary hogans, the ancient ruins. Over peach orchards and dark green rows of Hopi corn. Over the tortured, twisting San Juan River, the sharp turns and gouged canyons of the Colorado. Over the mounds of tailings from the uranium mines that brought the terrible Gray Sickness. Over the black-plumed power plants that defiled the sacred Four Corners.

  She felt a pull at her heart and turned her attention southward. Curious, she drifted slowly over the old Town That Has Forgotten Its Name, past the rough shale of Long Mesa, past Dineh Wash and Tewa Mountain where the sun rises. Spirit Wells Trading Post lay still beneath the mid-afternoon heat. Her sensitive ears picked up the blare of a television set from Larch Begay's Texaco Service.

  Everything seemed as usual.

  She circled west over the Painted Desert, searching for... she wasn't sure what. Her eyes caught a faint movement in the shadow of a rock. Rattlesnake. A delicacy, but she wasn't hungry very often these days. Lucky for you, Brother Snake, grown careless with the heat. She shrieked once, to put him in his place, and circled wider.

  As she swept again over the old town, she spotted something she had missed before. A Two-leg, an old Indian woman. She had never seen such an old woman. Older than the cedars. Older than the ruined town, it seemed. Maybe older than Long Mesa.

  Two-leg faced south, waiting.

  The eagle slipped closer. Careful, it could be a trap, experience warned her. Maybe old Two-leg is hunting nice, fresh feathers for her prayer sticks.

  A little shudder swept through her. To be sacrificed in a ceremony may be an honor, but it's no pleasure.

  Curiosity nibbled at her caution. She circled again.

  Two-leg looked up. Their eyes locked.

  Ya-ta-hey, Grandmother Kwahu. Two-legs sent thoughts to her.

  Ya-ta-hey, Grandmother. Eagle returned the Navajo greeting, but kept a safe distance.

  Something is going to happen here, sent Two-leg. Do you feel it?

  All I feel these days is winter in my bones. I've been singing a duet with Masau since the time of the Planting Moon.

  Two-leg grunted in agreement. This will be my last battle, then my Going Home.

  Battle? Grandmother Kwahu soared upward and slid down a windfall. Old woman, your mind has already Gone Home. A bag of hollow bones like yourself is a poor spear for battle.

  Nevertheless, Two-leg said. Maybe this old world has one more surprise for you.

  Or one more disappointment for you. Eagle circled to leave.

  The old woman raised a hand in farewell.
When you see your friend Masau, tell him Siyamtiwa will come to him when this is over.

  She gave an indignant snort. The Guardian of the Underworld doesn't take orders from broken-down Indians.

  The Guardian of the Underworld hasn't met Siyamtiwa.

  Grandmother Eagle flapped her arthritic wings and made a great display of climbing a sunbeam. The exchange of insults had rejuvenated her. Maybe Masau will let me stay a while longer, she thought as she turned a somersault. I'd like to see one last battle.

  In her excitement, she nearly overlooked the pick~up truck as it crossed the reservation boundary, trailing its ribbon of dust.

  * * *

  She started to feel it about the time they passed the bullet-riddled sign that marked the edge of the Navajo Reservation:

  NO LIQUOR NO FIREARMS

  OBSERVE TRIBAL LAWS OBEY TRIBAL POLICE

  A strange sort of concentrated restlessness, as if all her neural impulses were gathered in the pit of her stomach.

  It was probably a delayed reaction to the plane ride, seven hours on the Sardine Special, crammed in a seat designed for Munchkins.

  Or the air, arid as the inside of a clothes dryer.

  Or the light, angled with evening and violently gold.

  Or the way the wind picked up whorls of dust and set them dancing.

  Or maybe the scenery, the vast emptiness, the ground falling away from the roadbed, as bare as if a tidal wave had swept through and scoured the land clean of sagebrush and trees and rabbitbrush, and all other forms of life foolish enough to try to live there.

  To the west stretched low hills of packed clay and shale, purple with shadows, folding back on themselves, ridged with gullies, soft as whipped cream. To the east, mountains. To the north, mesas rising in silhouette against the sky.

  A little house of logs, octagonal, its doorway facing east, stood in the shadow of a butte. A tin stovepipe protruded from its mud roof. A ragged blanket covered the door. Nearby, a raven picked at something unseen.