“I read about that,” said Maya. “They had refused to hand their children over to authorities?”
The professor nodded. “They were declared to be standing in the way of their children being educated. It wasn’t mentioned that the children were taken away from their families and villages and that this forced ‘education’ resulted in Hopi children being forbidden from reading their own language, wearing their own clothes, much less worshipping their own Hopi deities.”
“That’s dreadful,” I said.
He shrugged. “History is full of dreadful things. In the case of my ancestors, they dealt with the impositions of the Spanish missionaries and then the Union-led massacres against villages in the mid-1800s. You don’t have to look very far to find historical atrocities against native peoples in this country.”
I was at a loss for words.
“I want people to understand our complicated history,” Guzmán continued, “to recognize the role we played in the development and history of the United States that we experience today. But then again . . .” he added with a smile, “a few scholarship programs wouldn’t hurt by way of reparations.”
“We should mention it to Kyle Cheney,” I said. “He seems eager to invest in the community.”
“You know Kyle Cheney?”
“Just barely. He’s sponsoring the Festival of Felons, a charitable fund-raiser being held on Alcatraz in a few days.”
“A festival on Alcatraz seems like a really bad idea,” Guzmán said, shaking his head.
“Could you tell us more about what happened with the occupation?” Maya asked.
“The leaders weren’t Ohlone, I can tell you that. They called themselves ‘Indians of all tribes’ and the original leaders came from several different nations: Mohawk, Cherokee, Eskimo, Ho-Chunk. They set off in a boat from Sausalito, offered to buy the island from the US government for some glass beads and cloth, and claimed the island for ’as long as the rivers run and the sun shall shine.’ They kept the occupation going for almost two years, which was impressive given what a struggle it is to get enough water and food out there for such a large group. The cause was recognized by some celebrities like Jane Fonda, which popularized the cause.”
“You’re right, that is impressive,” I agreed. “So what happened?”
“Over time, the idealism wasn’t enough to sustain them. The group started to split into different factions, and then the daughter of one of the leaders, Richard Oakes, fell from a stairwell and died. Oakes left the island. Fires broke out in a number of buildings—some say the authorities set them to drive the occupiers out; others say it was vandalism carried out by the occupiers. But I’m no expert on Alcatraz. There’s a curator out on the island, a former guard, and his father was a guard there before him. Seems to know his history; I’ll bet he could be more helpful to you than I can. His name’s Ralph Gordon, here’s his number.”
“Thank you,” I said, taking the piece of paper with the number from him. “As it happens, I met him the other day.”
“I’ve thought about joining the sunrise ceremony one of these days, just to acknowledge what it represents,” said the professor. “But I don’t know. It’s hard to go up against a grandmother’s warning. She always believed the island was cursed.”
“Really,” I said.
He nodded, watching our reactions. “That doesn’t surprise you.”
“Not exactly, no.” I let out a humorless laugh. It was strangely comforting to know that I wasn’t the only one who felt the island was cursed; it was an ancient acknowledgment.
“My grandmother told me stories of creatures that lived out there, sort of half-human, half-bird. Some called them Feather People, while others described them as feline, but with wings.”
I rummaged through my backpack for the page Maya had printed out, which showed a medieval conception of the demon Sitri.
“Similar to this?” I passed him the page.
“Could be,” Guzmán said. “The depictions I’ve seen are much more stylized. This is European, though, obviously.”
As I knew too well, demons recognized no national boundaries.
* * *
• • •
Oscar was snoozing when we returned to the car, which I had parked in a shady spot on a side street a few blocks from campus.
His piggy eyes blinked at me, the message clear: Next stop, gargoyles. Oscar had already searched for gargoyles near Oakland’s Paramount Theatre, but there were still several other spots in Oakland left to check out.
I hadn’t thought through what to say to Maya about why we needed to hunt for gargoyles in downtown Oakland. I could simply claim I wanted to take a quick tour of the older buildings in this historic East Bay city, but how would I explain Oscar’s frequent comings and goings? Should I brazen it out, say I did this all the time, and my pig was just fine roaming the streets of Oakland all alone? If I were Maya, I wouldn’t buy that for a second.
I glanced at little piggy Oscar in the backseat, and then at Maya, the intelligent young woman who had accepted with equanimity everything I’d thrown at her so far, from spellcasting to demon exorcisms. I gave an inner sigh. The weight of keeping secrets was starting to press down on me at the very time I needed to reserve my energy to confront one pesky demon. I wanted to come clean with Maya about who, and what, Oscar was.
According to Bronwyn, friends placed trust in one another. It was time I lived that philosophy.
I drove to Old Oakland, a pretty section of town full of Victorian-era town houses that had been repurposed to house businesses and art galleries. On 9th Street, between Washington Street and Broadway, lionlike creatures with golden rings in their mouths gazed down upon the street from their positions under the eaves. These weren’t the gargoyles Oscar was looking for, but the lions made me think of what Professor Guzmán had said: There was a legend about half-cat, half-bird creatures on Alcatraz. Could they be Sitri himself or his minions? A powerful demon could hold thousands of underlings in thrall. He commanded sixty legions. . . .
I found a parking space in front of Bluebottle Café.
“Oh, excellent idea,” said Maya. “Coffee, chai, or something else?”
“Maya, if I treat, will you go in for us? I’ll stay with Oscar.”
“Happy to, but this time it’s my treat. Your usual?”
I nodded, and Maya climbed out of the car and disappeared into the café. I turned to Oscar. “Oscar, how would you feel if I told Maya and Bronwyn about you?”
“What about me?”
“That you’re a shape-shifter.”
“They don’t already know?”
“How would they know? You always stay in your piggy guise around them.”
“They’re your best friends, and you have such a soft spot for cowans.” He shrugged, his big eyes gleaming like green glass. “I just assumed you told them.”
“I would never ‘out’ you without your consent.”
“Thanks, mistress. That’s real classy of you.”
I smiled. “You know I’m not your mistress anymore, Oscar. Not technically.”
“I like to call myself your familiar so it seems only fair to call you mistress. I know we don’t have a traditional relationship, or anything like that. But still.”
My heart swelled. “It works for us, doesn’t it?”
Oscar nodded.
“So you really don’t mind if I tell Maya?” I said as she emerged from the café, coffees in to-go cups.
“Nope,” he said, and shifted back into his porcine form. I opened the car door for him, and he trotted off down the block, glancing up at the lionesque faces high above.
“Is Oscar going to be okay on his own?” Maya asked as she climbed back into the car.
“Yes, actually. As a matter of fact, I wanted to talk to you about him,” I began, accepting the proffered cup of
French roast black coffee with gratitude. I needed the jolt of caffeine. “What I’m about to tell you is going to sound a little . . . strange.”
“Stranger than witchcraft in general and cursed shirts in particular?”
“I guess when you put it like that, it’s not all that strange. All things considered.” I sipped my coffee. “This is really good.”
“Bluebottle. They’re a bit of a phenomenon around here.” Her dark eyes were worried. “Lily? What did you want to tell me?”
“I’m sorry, it’s nothing bad. It’s—”
“And where did Oscar go? Are you sure that’s wise? This is a big city, after all.”
“He’ll be fine. This is what I want to tell you: Oscar’s not . . .” I paused, searching for the right words.
“Not what?”
“Not a regular pig.”
She cocked her head. “I know that. He’s a miniature Vietnamese potbellied pig, right?”
“Yes, but besides that . . .”
“He’s a very special little guy, Lily. I know I wasn’t wild about having livestock in the store at first, but I’ve been won over.”
I smiled. “I’ve always really appreciated that.”
“Good.”
“Okay, I’m going to stop beating around the bush, here. The thing is, Oscar’s a . . .”
She leaned in. “Lily?”
“A shape-shifter.”
She leaned back. “I’m sorry?”
“He’s not a pig—that’s just a guise he assumes around normal people.”
She paused and took a sip of her latte, as though pondering my words. “You’re saying he’s usually something . . . else?”
I nodded.
“What is he?”
“It’s hard to explain. He’s an unusual cross between a goblin and a gargoyle,” I said, the words finally flowing. “Oscar’s been searching for his mother, who suffers under a curse that turns her into stone most of the time. That’s why we’re forever looking at gargoyles.”
“He thinks she’s here, in downtown Oakland?”
“Could be.”
“Huh. I always wondered what was up with him. I know pigs are smart, but he seemed a little too smart. That’s really . . . that’s really something. But . . . aren’t goblins usually considered, I don’t know—evil?”
“They get a bad rap. Some goblins can be, uh, difficult for humans to deal with, but others aren’t. They’re really not all that different from fairies, though usually not as pretty.”
“And Oscar is one of the good ones, I take it.”
I nodded.
She was quiet for a few moments. “Could I see him in his natural form?”
“I’ll leave that up to him,” I said.
“Does he speak English?”
“Oh, yes. He speaks many languages.”
“Geesh, I feel bad now for all the other-white-meat jokes I used to make right in front of him.”
“Don’t worry about it. Oscar doesn’t take offense easily.”
“Is this . . . is this a common thing?” she asked.
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, are there a lot of shape-shifters around?”
“I don’t think it’s all that common, no. But I’ve met a few over the years. You just never know, really.”
“That’s a thought that’s going to fester.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You said Oscar’s searching for his mother? But has no idea where she might be? That’s so sad.”
Just then I saw Oscar trotting along the sidewalk, heading back to the car. He saw Maya staring at him, stopped in his tracks, and returned her stare.
“Try to act casual,” I whispered.
“Sorry,” she replied. “Still processing.”
Maya opened the door and Oscar jumped into the backseat.
“Hello, handsome,” I said to break the tension. “So, where to next? Oakland’s Chinatown?”
“Sure,” said Maya, game as usual. “Let’s go check it out.”
The Asian Resource Center on 8th Street had a few architectural oddities, including several human-ish heads and monkeys eating berries of some kind. They were fun, but not gargoyles, or even chimera, for that matter. Just carved figures.
Oscar circled the building, then trotted back up to us, shaking his piggy head.
Maya checked her phone. “It says here that there are lion-head gargoyles on the entablature on the Bank of America Building on Broadway. Worth a try?”
After a quick tour, we scratched that building off the list and headed north to the Berkeley Women’s City Club, which had been designed by the renowned architect Julia Morgan. According to Maya, it was characterized as “Mediterranean Gothic” and boasted Corinthian columns, banister trefoils, a vaulted ceiling over the staircase, and a line of funny little guys holding shields, but no genuine grotesques or chimera. From there we headed back to Oakland and stopped at another Morgan design, the Chapel of the Chimes, where we took in the beautiful mosaics and painted murals, arches and fountains, and more concrete tracery. But no gargoyles.
“We could check out the Mountain View Cemetery next door,” said Maya.
“Oscar and I looked around the cemetery already,” I said. “A while back.”
“I don’t get it,” Oscar growled in the backseat. “Julia Morgan and Bernard Maybeck have the gall to call themselves medievalists but don’t put gargoyles on their buildings? What’s up with that?”
“I know, can you believe it?” I laughed, then noticed that Maya froze, her eyes wide. She slowly turned around.
“Wow,” Maya whispered. “He’s . . . talking. And . . . he looks different.”
I glanced in the rearview mirror. Oscar’s eyes went even wider than Maya’s.
“Wow,” he echoed. “I’ve never let a mortal see me before. Unless I was trying to kill them.”
“You’re not going to try to kill me, are you?” Maya asked.
“Didn’t even cross my mind.”
“Glad to hear that,” said Maya. “Wait a minute: Isn’t Lily mortal?”
“I mean a cowan mortal,” Oscar said. “No offense.”
“I don’t really know what that means, so I won’t take offense.”
“Cowans are nonmagical folk,” I said. “It can be a slightly derogatory term, coming from certain quarters, but I’m sure Oscar doesn’t mean it that way in your case. Right, Oscar?”
“I’m feeling a mite peckish,” Oscar said, turning the conversation to one of his favorite subjects. “Who’s up for lunch? I hear the New Gold Medal has great noodles.”
“I could eat,” Maya said.
“Let’s do it,” I said, relieved at how well the great reveal had gone. “But since Oscar can’t go inside, we’ll have to get the food to go. We can eat at Lake Merritt, unless Bronwyn needs us back at the store.”
Maya called Bronwyn to confirm that everything was fine at Aunt Cora’s Closet, then placed an order at the New Gold Medal.
It occurred to me that Sailor’s aunt Renna lived nearby, in the Oakland hills. It would be better to approach her in the company of Patience, but yesterday’s experience in the bowels of Alcatraz had lent an urgency to the matter. I feared that Sitri was ratcheting up, gaining strength, and collecting minions; in light of that, I wasn’t sure I would be able to take the full five days for the MoonWish separation and binding spell. But at the very least I could try to make sure Renna was safe—and that she wouldn’t become an unwitting pawn of Sitri’s.
Sailor would not approve of my going there, especially alone, but so be it. I would try to explain it when I saw him tonight. I hoped I had enough energy for our Talk.
Maya agreed to get the food and have a picnic with Oscar while I went to figure out what was going on with Sailor’s aunt. We drove to
the Oakland Hills.
Renna’s house was bubblegum pink and surrounded by a wrought iron fence. A large hand-painted sign, decorated with curlicues and flourishes, declared: FORTUNES READ, DESIRES FULFILLED. I pulled up in front of the gates and reached out to hit the buzzer.
Renna’s husband, Eric, answered the intercom. After a brief pause, he told me to come on in, and the automatic gates swung open.
“You sure you’ll be okay?” Maya asked as she took my place behind the wheel. I slung my backpack full of supplies over my shoulder.
“Of course. Enjoy lunch and pick me up in an hour?” I said, thinking that if Renna, never my biggest fan, threw me out I might not even need thirty seconds.
“If you had a cell phone, you could just call me when you’re done.”
“I’ll use the house phone if it looks like I’ll be done a lot earlier or later.”
“Just saying. You might be overcoming your fear of cell phones, Lily. You’re starting to use mine a lot, you know. Don’t get me wrong—you’re welcome to use mine anytime. But maybe you’re not as scared of them as you used to be. Give it some thought.”
For years I had avoided computers and cell phones because I didn’t trust the ghosts in the machines: all those electrons bouncing around, scattering energy, sapping strength. But Maya had a point: Perhaps I was strong enough now to embrace modern technology.
I was a modern-day witch, after all. Maybe I should start acting like one.
Maya waved as she and Oscar drove off, and I watched with mixed feelings as the cherry red Mustang disappeared around a corner. I did not have great memories of Renna and Eric’s house. I stroked my medicine bag, straightened my shoulders, and marched up to the big pink door, noting the line of salt across the threshold and the loops of rowan along the porch railing. Charms to keep evil at bay. They didn’t always work.
Bewitched and Betrothed Page 20
