Gray Magic Page 5

"It's gone. It looked at me."

  “Wonderful," Gwen said, and shivered a little. "It's forty degrees and you go out to commune with the wildlife."

  "I don't feel cold."

  "Trust me. It's cold." She touched Stoner's shoulder. "Come back to bed."

  "It looked at me, Gwen. As if it knew me."

  "I don't care if you sat down over beer and pretzels. Come back to bed." She looked down. “Where are your shoes? Do you have any idea what might be crawling around out here?"

  "No. Do You?"

  "I'd rather not know. Come on, Stoner. At this very moment, anything could be climbing up your leg."

  Stoner laughed. "There's nothing out here."

  "Then what was that coyote hunting?"

  "I think," she said slowly, "it was hunting me."

  "Stoner McTavish, if you're going to turn weird on me, I'm taking the next plane back to Boston."

  She followed Gwen into the bunkhouse and sat on the edge of the bed. "Have you ever gone somewhere and had the feeling you'd been there before, but you hadn't?"

  "Yes," Gwen said, tossing a few sticks of wood into the stove and sprinkling them with kerosene-soaked sawdust from a Maxwell House Coffee can. "It's called deja vu, and considered a perfectly normal phenomenon, or a symptom of incipient psychosis, depending on your point of view."

  "I felt it just now, out there. But it was more than that. It was as if something was trying to remind me of something."

  "It's a common occurrence, Stoner," Gwen insisted. She struck a match and tossed it into the fire. A billow of orange light illuminated her face. "So common it's in the dictionary."

  "I don't know..."

  "Look, this is a strange place. We might as well be on the moon. You're disoriented, that's all." She got into bed and pulled Stoner down beside her. "Get some sleep. It'll be dawn before we know it, and something tells me the dawn comes up like thunder out here."

  Stoner curled around her. "I just have a funny feeling."

  "You're a Capricorn," Gwen murmured. "Everything feels funny to a Capricorn."

  High on Long Mesa, the coyote watched the bunkhouse windows and waited for the day.

  * * *

  She left Stell and Gwen to gossip over the breakfast dishes and strolled out toward the mesa. The ground was still cool where night had eaten the last of yesterday's heat and morning shadows lay in slate-like pools. The low rolling desert hills, their layers of yellow and lavender and brown vibrant in the clear light, were stacked like unglazed pottery bowls turned upside down to dry. Distant mountains stood out in sharp relief, a few lace wisps of cloud flying from their peaks. At the horizon, earth melted into sky in a watery smear. A hint of gray-dawn dew had settled the dust. The air was clear, and crisp as celery.

  At the foot of the mesa, she searched among fallen rocks for signs of last night's visitor. "Coyotes!" Stell had scoffed. "They'll lose their charm in a hurry once they've kept you up three nights in a row with their infernal howling and yipping."

  But this was no ordinary coyote. This coyote had looked into her eyes. This coyote knew something.

  And what will you do if you find it? Hunker down for a chat about its Eastern cousins, who are - even as we speak - being hunted, poisoned, and blasted into oblivion, sorry about that, but you know how it is, boys will be boys?

  Suppose it asks you to lunch? Are you prepared to share a desert rat in the interest of cross-species good will? Would refusal be perceived as an insult? How far are you willing to go for Peace on Earth?

  She knelt to examine a minute disturbance in the sand. Tracks of insects and small rodents. Broken lines where a clump of uprooted brush had raced ahead of the wind. A row of delicate, dog-like prints.

  It had crossed the road. She followed, slid down a packed-clay hillock, followed a dry gully for a while, picked her way across a valley floor. The tracks led her around a butte and into the desert.

  This is absurd, she told herself. It's miles away by now.

  But the tracks drew her on. Across another dry wash. Around the next hill, and the next, and the...

  I shouldn't do this, she told herself. I'll get lost.

  Lost? Out here? With the air so clear you could see Los Angeles with a cheap pair of seven by thirty-five binoculars?

  Overconfidence, she told herself, is the hiker's greatest enemy. She kept walking.

  Something caught her eye. Something pinkish lying in a heap in the shadow of a rock. An old knee-sock, maybe, or a cast-off belt. A dead sneaker? Litter, even out here. Narrowing her eyes against the glare, she reached for it.

  The snake raised its head. Its body was tightly coiled, and still as stone. The tongue flicked in and out, tasting her scent. At the tip of the tail, a pyramid of rattles trembled.

  Damn.

  She tried to estimate its length. Also the distance to her right ankle. They came out just about the same, with the advantage going to the snake.

  Well. Now what?

  She felt the prickle of her own sweat, tasted the rusty taste of fear. Pictured the emergency snake-bite kit Stell had given her, lying new and useless on the bureau back at the bunkhouse.

  Ten minutes from civilization, and already I'm in trouble. No boots, no snake-bite kit, no means of defense. And nobody's going to come looking for me because I didn't tell anyone where I was going.

  Welcome to the desert, McTavish.

  She blinked at the snake. The snake didn't blink back.

  Be casual. No threatening moves.

  She forced the tension from her arms, twisted her body into a pose of nonchalance, and hoped Brother Snake could read her intentions better than she could read his. Because, if he couldn't, Gwen's homophobic grandmother was going to be the least of their problems.

  Nice morning, she said silently. Perfect for a walk.

  The snake lowered its head a fraction of an inch.

  Looks like it's going go be a scorcher. If I were you, I'd hang right in there in that patch of shade and not exert myself too much. If you know what I mean.

  She fought against a compulsion to clear her throat, knowing it would sound like dried beans in a tin can and be construed as a sign of hostility.

  Listen, I'm new around here. What you locals call a 'green-horn'. Don't know the customs, and I certainly didn't mean to intrude....

  She took a tentative step backward.

  The snake didn't move.

  Haven't learned the rules yet, don't you know? But willing to learn, oh yes.

  She took another step.

  We don't have many snakes back east. At least, no fine, handsome creatures like yourself. We used to, but they were all extermin... Excuse me, I didn’t mean that, I...

  The snake appeared to inhale deeply. About to speak? Or strike?

  What I'm trying to say is, I've never in my life seen such an elegant reptile.

  The snake's tail twitched.

  I know, I know, 'reptile's' an ugly word. But it's only a word, 'no judgment intended. We human beings have an obsession with naming things. Even though our language isn't always aesthetically pleasing. Now, my lover - Gwen - she was married to a man named Oxnard. How would you like to be called an Oxnard? Next to Oxnard, 'reptile's' sheer poetry. But she married him, which just shows you we don't put much stock in names.

  She risked another step.

  Of course, he tried to kill her. But I don't think it had anything to do with his name. I mean, who would kill over a name? Did you ever hear such foolishness in your life? Ha Ha?

  The snake gave her a look that resembled disgust and slithered down a crack in the ground.

  At which point she looked around and realized she was lost.

  The scenery was completely unfamiliar, landmarks gone, the trading post out of sight behind a hill.

  Which hill?

  No sweat. Turn around and follow those old coyote tracks back the way you came.

  Except that the coyote tracks were gone. So were her own.

  She searched the ground, go
t down on her knees and looked from a dozen different angles. Nothing.

  It must have been the wind, blowing the sand, covering....

  There hadn't been any wind.

  All right, all right, let's not fly into a panic here. Tewa Mountain lies east of the road. Tewa Mountain was behind me when I started out. It's morning, the sun in the east.

  Basic stuff, orienteering for beginners and idiots.

  She kept her eyes fixed on the ground and walked away from her shadow. The sun was hotter now, and seemed to burn from everywhere at once. Her lips felt dry. A soft white powder sparkled on the backs of her hands. She tasted it. Salt.

  A feeling like claustrophobia swept over her.

  Claustrophobia? In the middle of nowhere?

  In the middle of the greatest amount of Nowhere she'd ever seen in her life?

  She was paralyzed. Everywhere she looked there was nothing but sand and sky and scrubby bushes and...

  "Pahana."

  She whirled around. On a little rise of ground a few yards away sat an old woman. A very old woman.

  A very old Indian woman who hadn't been there fifteen seconds before.

  She was painfully thin, her skin dark and creased as cedar bark, her nearly white hair, falling across her shoulders. Her hands, knobby with age, lay quietly in her lap. She wore an age-worn purple velvet dress that reached to the tops of ragged blue sneakers.

  She raised an arm and gestured Stoner forward. "Pahana," she repeated.

  "Oh, hi," Stoner said. "My name's Stoner McTavish, and I'm lost."

  The woman gazed at her.

  "I mean, I'm staying with Stell and Ted Perkins at the Spirit Wells Trading Post, and I went for a walk and I can't find my way back. .. "

  She felt foolish and let the sentence die.

  The old woman's eyes were black, and hard as coal.

  She probably doesn't speak English. "I'm sorry I disturbed you. I'll go right along as soon as I figure out which way... "

  The woman was silent, her face expressionless.

  Stoner hesitated for a moment, shifting from foot to foot. "I'm sorry," she muttered, and turned away.

  “PAHANA!" The word resonated like thunder.

  Stoner turned back. "I don't understand... "

  "Means White person."

  "Oh." She brushed her hair aside nervously. "I see."

  The old woman gestured again. "Come. Sit."

  Stoner climbed the little hill and sat. The woman stared at her.

  "My name's Stoner McTavish," she repeated:

  "That's okay." The woman went on staring.

  “What’s... I mean... do you have a name?"

  "Plenty."

  "That's nice. Plenty. That's a nice name... "

  The old woman grunted. "I have plenty of names."

  "Oh. Well... uh... what should I call you?"

  “Why you want to call me? I'm here."

  "I mean... "

  "If you say what you mean the first time, you don't have to explain so much."

  "I ... "

  "Maybe you enjoy explaining, eh?"

  Stoner clenched her fists. "Can you just tell me your name? Okay?"

  "Okay." The old woman bent over and wrote something in the dust with her fingertip.

  "Siyamtiwa?" Stoner read.

  “Siyamtiwa."

  "And that's your name?"

  "It's how I'm called."

  "It's pretty," Stoner said, feeling as if she had cleared a tremendous hurdle. "Is it Navajo?"

  "Hopi." The woman offered her hand. Stoner took it. Siyamtiwa held her hand firmly, no pumping or shaking, for a long moment. Stoner had the feeling she was being read.

  “What does your name mean in English?" she asked.

  "Something Disappearing Over Flowers. What does your name mean?"

  "Nothing. I mean, I was named for Lucy B. Stone, but it doesn't mean anything."

  "Grandmother Stone was a great woman," Siyamtiwa said disapprovingly. "If her name means nothing to you, you dishonor her memory."

  "I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd... " She caught herself. "I'm sorry."

  The wrinkles at the corners of the old woman's eyes deepened. "You say 'sorry' a lot. Maybe you did something pretty bad, to be so sorry. Maybe Grandmother Stone should come get her name back."

  "I didn't take it," Stoner said. She felt like a fool. "My Aunt Hermione gave it to me." A pebble was cutting into her ankle. She shifted her foot. "She reads palms. In Boston. That's in Massachusetts."

  "I know Boston," Siyamtiwa said.

  "Right." She wondered what asininity would pop out of her mouth next. "Look, I'm a little nervous. I've never met a Native American before."

  "Is that how they call us now? Kinda hard to keep up."

  "I'll call you anything you prefer," Stoner said eagerly.

  “We call ourselves The People."

  "Okay."

  The old woman chuckled. "Okay. If we're the People, what does that make you?"

  Stoner realized she'd been had. She sighed. "You know, this is a little frustrating."

  "So now you will take out a gun and make me walk a thousand miles to die in a strange place."

  “What?"

  "That's what pahana do to Indians who annoy them."

  "I know," Stoner said. "It was a terrible thing. I'm sorry."

  The old woman covered her head with her arms. "You gonna shoot me now?"

  "I'm not going to shoot you."

  Siyamtiwa shrugged. "My great uncle was shot by a white man who stepped on his foot. It's your way of apologizing."

  Stoner was silent.

  "Of course," the old woman went on, "I wasn't there so I don't know if it's true. But my grandfather told me, so it's probably true." She glanced at Stoner. "You look like a raincloud."

  "You're not being fair," Stoner said. "I don't even know what's happening here."

  Siyamtiwa patted her arm. "I test you. See if you have a sense of humor."

  "Not much."

  “Well, that's okay." The old woman sat in silence for a while. "Got anything to eat?"

  Stoner felt her pockets. "I'm afraid not, but I can get something. If I can ever get un-lost.”

  "Look out there," the old woman said, and gestured with her chin toward the endless desert. "Think you can walk across that?"

  Stoner laughed. "No"

  "Humph." Siyamtiwa glanced at her sideways. "I did. But it was a long time ago. Lots of people did that, back then."

  "It must have been frightening."

  "Not frightening. Hot. Lots of sand. Some animals. Nothing bad." She contemplated the desert. "So now you met a real, honest-to-God Indian. What are you gonna do about that?"

  Stoner looked at her, "I don't know what you mean."

  “Want me to sneak you into a ceremony Whites aren't supposed to see?"

  "Of course not. It wouldn't be right."

  "Want to buy some rugs and jewelry cheap? Want to take my picture for a quarter?"

  Stoner shook her head.

  “Well," said Siyamtiwa. She folded her arms and stared toward the horizon. "I got to think about this."

  Stoner waited. She tried to project herself out onto the desert and back in time, to when the wagon trains had crossed. She could feel the sun, and the baked earth beneath her feet. Could see the scorched land all around, the unbroken, waterless distances. Could taste the mineral salts that whiskered the rocks with white. Could hear Death as it crept along behind her...

  She shook her head to get rid of the image, and saw Siyamtiwa looking intently at her.

  "So," the old woman said.

  "So?"

  "You feel Masau's breath on your neck."

  "Masau?"

  “What you call death."

  Stoner felt her skin crawl. "How did you know... ?"

  "A trick," Siyamtiwa said. "I bet this Hermione of yours that reads palms in Boston, Massachusetts, can do it."

  "Yes," Stoner admitted, "she can. It's pretty disconcertin
g."

  "Maybe sometime I can meet this Hermione. Maybe we have a contest, find out who has the most kataimatoqve." She held up her hand before Stoner could ask.” Kataimatoqve means spirit eye. What you call psychic."

  "She'd love that," Stoner said eagerly.

  "Maybe I can help her with the medicine plants, eh?"

  I didn't tell her about that, she thought uneasily. I know I didn't.

  "Maybe she has things to learn from me," Siyamtiwa went on. "Maybe I have things to learn from her. Put us together, makes a lot of Power, eh?" She sat for a long, silent moment, rocking and chewing a thought. "This coyote you look for, you won't find him. Hosteen Coyote will find you if he wishes. That's how it is with him."

  "How did you... ?"

  Siyamtiwa cut her off with an impatient gesture. "Too many questions. How can you hear answers with your head stuffed with questions?"

  "I'm sorry," Stoner said.

  “What terrible thing have you done?" Siyamtiwa asked sharply.

  "Nothing. I think."

  "Then why do your Spirits order you to beg forgiveness of everyone you meet?"

  "It's... a habit."

  "Maybe something not so good happens to me if I talk to someone with all this sorry." The old woman looked closely at her, her black eyes bright and deep. "This Hosteen Coyote is dangerous. I think you better stay away from him until you know more." She glanced away. "I think he may be istaqa, Coyote-man. Sometimes man, sometimes coyote." She frowned. "It has been a long time since I saw Coyote-man. I thought they had all gone away. I don't like this thing." Siyamtiwa's mouth turned down in a thoughtful pout. "If this is true, if this is a sorcery thing... you know what a sorcerer is?"

  Stoner nodded. "I know what a sorcerer is."

  "Your Hermione is a sorcerer?"

  “Well, yes and no." She hesitated, wondering how to explain. "She does magic. I mean, she might do a spell, but only to make something good happen… like if someone needs a job or something. But she says black magic comes back at you threefold. She believes in karma."

  "I know karma," Siyamtiwa said.

  "Sometimes she talks to Spirits."

  "Everyone talks to Spirits. Lotta time they don't know it." She looked hard at Stoner. "Is she your mother's clan, or your father's clan?"

  "My mother's."

  "Good." She drew an object from deep in the folds of her skirt. "I think this is for you."