Mac has totally bought into Mr. Charles’s act. My little brother has no idea that we’re both in danger, and I can’t warn him without my phone.
More voices and footsteps, and they’re all leaving. I hear the click of the front door as it closes. I rush to my window to watch everyone pile into the big black Escalade and drive away. Everyone except Ms. Bird, who turns and heads back to the house. I open my door a crack to see her plop down on the living room couch and pick a magazine off the coffee table. Looks like she’s getting left behind to make sure I don’t escape.
And just like that, my day of average humiliation becomes a day of spectacular humiliation.
No family, no phone, and everyone believes a monster’s word over mine.
I flop on my bed and maybe, just a little, because nobody’s here to see it, I cry.
No matter what I do, sleep won’t come. I toss and turn and flip and flop, utterly miserable. I try to get more comfortable, fluffing my pillows and smoothing my blankets until they’re all lined up with the sheets the way I like them, but nothing works. Still wide-awake. Because, honestly, how could I sleep after what Mr. Charles said to me?
I replay the conversation in my head, trying to make sense of it. According to him, my dad is totally normal but my mom is a former enemy, because she’s directly related to Changing Woman’s son, whoever that was. And that makes me a threat. But how can I be a threat? I did land a pretty spectacular head butt to his stomach, but he wanted to kill me even before that.
Maybe I should run away. But I can’t leave Mac behind. Charles wants him for something. What did he mean by He will come in quite handy…? My empty stomach flops at the thought of Mac being brainwashed—or worse—by a monster at this very moment.
But if Dad doesn’t believe me, what am I supposed I do? His boss can lie all he wants, but when I told the truth, I got punished.
“I do not deserve this,” I say aloud.
“There are very few things we do deserve,” says a voice from the top of my bookshelf. It sounds croaky, a bit like that of an old man who’s smoked too many cigars.
I sit straight up, blinking furiously.
“Haven’t you ever heard that saying,” the voice continues, ‘Life is a box of chocolates?’ Oh dear, no, that’s not it. ‘Life is a bed of roses?’ No, no…What is the blasted saying? I know: ‘Life’s not fair’!”
Am I hallucinating? Did the basketball to the face knock something loose?
“Did…did someone speak?” I ask hesitantly.
“Why, of course someone is speaking. Me!”
I slide off the bed and make my way warily toward the source of the voice. It’s coming from the top shelf of my bookcase, where I keep my favorite stuffed animals. I know I’m a little old for them, but some have been my friends for so long, I just couldn’t bear to give them away when Dad came around with the donation box right before Christmas.
“Who’s there?” I scan the shelf for a hidden speaker. Maybe Mr. Charles bugged my room. But the voice sounds nothing like his, and I don’t see anything suspicious.…“Hello?” I ask cautiously.
“Yá’át’ééh!” someone responds in Navajo.
I reach up and quickly part the animals, pushing aside a purple bear and a pink narwhal named Cupcake, to find the owner of the voice.
In the middle of the shelf sits my stuffed horned toad, Mr. Yazzie. But Mr. Yazzie is no longer a toy. He’s a very real, very alive lizard—spiky head, beady black eyes, and all. And I’m pretty sure he’s smiling at me.
“Are you—” I whisper in awe.
“A na’asho’ii dich’izhii?”
“Uh…I was going to ask if you were a talking horned toad.”
The little guy frowns. “Na’asho’ii dich’izhii means horned toad, and I am most certainly talking, so I believe the answer to your question is yes.”
“Is this for real? I mean, how did you get here? Where did you come from?”
“Why, from you, Nizhoni. You picked me out at the Museum of Indian Arts and Culture gift shop. Have you forgotten?” He looks crestfallen.
“Not at all!” I rush to reassure him. “I just remember you being a bit different.”
“Oh, yes. You mean”—he pokes his side with a little claw—“not alive.”
I nod. While others might scream or faint when a formerly stuffed horned toad speaks to them, I’ve been raised to take seemingly supernatural things in stride. Up to now, talking animals hadn’t been a part of my everyday life, but my shimásání told me that there’s more to the world than we humans can see, and it’s best to keep an open mind. So that’s what I’m doing—keeping an open mind. A slightly freaked-out open mind.
“Well, quite right,” Mr. Yazzie says. “Of course. Thank you, by the way, for choosing me. It gets a bit boring, living in a museum. I mean, it’s not that I don’t enjoy a seeing a new exhibit every once in a while, but honestly, even lizards like a bit of adventure. And let’s face it—living things don’t belong in a museum.”
A couple of years ago, Dad dragged Mac and me to the Museum of Indian Arts and Culture in Santa Fe for a lecture on contemporary Navajo jewelry. The lecture was pretty good, but Mac wouldn’t stop fidgeting, so Dad had sent us out to browse in the gift shop. He even gave us some spending money. Mac went straight for the art books, of course, and I loved looking at all the bright scarves and silver jewelry, but what really caught my attention was the shelf of stuffed toys based on animals native to the Southwest. There had been a lot of great choices, but the palm-size horned toad was my favorite. He had a sand-colored hide and a wide, flat body, with a mane of small horns that flared around his face like a fierce cross between a lion and a dragon. The tag attached to his short tail said that horned toads were considered a blessing and symbol of protection by traditional Navajos. If you caught one, the little grandfather (as we sometimes call horned toads) might help you in the future. Best of all, he was soft and fluffy but tough and prickly at the same time, kind of how I saw myself. We were kindred spirits.
But that was before he started talking to me.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” I say, “but how long have you been…alive?”
“Oh dear, where are my manners? Allow me to introduce myself. I am Theodous Alvin Yazzie.” He holds out a little claw to me.
“Yes, I know.” I gently pinch his claw between my thumb and finger and shake. “I gave you that name.”
“You did?” he murmurs. “Indeed, indeed. How could I forget? That’s what sitting on a shelf will do to the old brain. Don’t suppose you have any coffee?”
Of course my previously stuffed horned toad wants coffee. Totally normal.
“I’m not allowed to drink coffee. Dad says it will stunt my growth. But if you really want some, maybe later I could warm up some instant.…” If I ever get out of my room, that is.
He makes a disgusted face. “Instant? Bah.”
I’ve never understood the appeal of a drink that smells like gym socks and dirt, but adults—and talking horned toads, apparently—take it quite seriously. Wait, why am I thinking about coffee? Focus, Nizhoni! Recently animated stuffed animal here! “So why are you talking to me?”
He smiles. Or at least I think he does when the sides of his wide mouth curl up like that. He could just have gas for all I know. “Because you need me. To help you fight the monster.”
“You mean Mr. Charles?”
“Most assuredly.”
“I seem to be the only one who can tell. My dad thinks I’m making it up.”
“Because he’s not familiar with the old stories,” Mr. Yazzie says with a melancholy sigh. “Or he has forgotten them in his grief over losing your mother.”
I wonder how the lizard knows so much about my dad…and my mom. Everyone seems to know more about her than I do. It’s getting frustrating.
“The elders don’t pass things down the way they used to,” continues Mr. Yazzie, “and the young people don’t care to learn. Back when I was just a small toad,
we were taught all the old stories—the Four Worlds that came before this one, First Man and First Woman…My personal favorites are the Hero Twins,” he says. “No one tells any of these stories very much anymore, so people have forgotten how to live in the world.” He sighs again.
“I’m sorry,” I say, seeing his spiky mane droop sadly. “I mean, I’m sorry no one’s learning the stories. My shimásání taught me some when I had my kinaalda.” Then something occurs to me. “In fact, now that I think about it, I saw my first monster soon after that.”
“Your coming-of-age ceremony surely awakened your powers,” Yazzie says matter-of-factly. “So shall we go slay the monster, then? But I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I? Never lock a gift horse in the house.…No, you can lead a horse to fodder.…No, no.…Oh, yes. We must not put the cart before the horse!”
He looks so happy, recovered from his moment of melancholy, that I hate to bust his bubble. But bust I must. “I’m all for fighting Mr. Charles, but I’m stuck in my room, if you hadn’t noticed. Besides, what can one girl and a once-stuffed horned toad do against a monster with a knife? No offense about the stuffed part.”
Mr. Yazzie huffs a bit, as if he was indeed offended by the stuffed part, but he says, “He had a knife, did he? Of course he did, being a monster and all. Don’t expect him to fight fair. We’ll just have to procure you some weapons of your own, won’t we?”
“Weapons?” That sounds promising.
“Yes! But we’ll have to go get them.” He looks at me. “Do you have the map?”
“What map?” I ask. “I don’t have any map.” Maybe the weapons are buried somewhere, like a treasure chest. “Maybe we can Google Map it?” I ask hopefully. Well, once I get out of my room and have my phone back.
“My dear,” he says, puffing out his collar a bit, “we are looking for the Glittering World, which, I can assure you, is not on any Google Map. Umm…what exactly is a Google Map? Never mind. The map must have been lost. We’ll need a new one.”
“How do we get a new one?”
“Na’ashjéii Asdzáá can help us.”
“Who?”
“Her map,” Mr. Yazzie continues, ignoring my question, “will show us the path to the House of the Sun. Once you get there, you will ask him politely for the right weapons.”
“I am trying to keep an open mind,” I say carefully, “but you say ‘him’ like the sun’s a person, and last time I checked, the sun was a huge star millions of miles away in outer space.” Or at least I think that’s what the sun is. Where’s Davery with his science facts when I need him?
“The Sun is much more than a star in the Glittering World. There, the Sun has a fine house at the end of the Rainbow Road. Lovely, really. I’ve been there often. Well, a few times, anyway. But, a warning, he can be rude. His nickname is the Merciless One.”
“Umm…maybe we should skip his place, then?”
“No. If you want your weapons, that’s where we must go.”
“Can we do all this before my dad gets home? Because if he finds out I went on some crazy quest to a glittering rainbow place for monster-killing weapons when I wasn’t even supposed to leave my room, I’ll be grounded until high school.” It’s supposed to be a joke—my way of dealing with all the scary things Mr. Yazzie’s telling me—but the horned toad doesn’t laugh.
“If you don’t succeed, Nizhoni,” Mr. Yazzie says, his tone serious, “you won’t have to worry about high school.”
I swallow the lump in my throat.
Mr. Yazzie peers at me with one big eye. “This is important, Nizhoni. I want you to understand that the dangers we will face are very real. You must be prepared. Throughout history, other people have tried to fight monsters and failed.”
“What happened to them?”
“They disappeared and were never heard from again. I can only assume they perished.”
“‘Perished,’ as in ‘d-died’?”
“Well, yes. What do you think happens to monsterslayers who fail to slay monsters? They’re called monsters for a reason, and it’s not because they’re warm and fuzzy.” For a long moment, Mr. Yazzie looks at me without saying anything. Little beads of sweat trickle down the sides of my face.
“Death is always a possibility,” he says finally, “but this is your destiny. You must put a stop to this enemy, and not only for your own sake, but also for your people. If you are brave enough, and determined enough, I will do what I can to help. Are you willing to try?”
My destiny. I’d thought my destiny was to be a sports hero or an internet sensation. But instead, I’m supposed to be a fighter. For my family.
What did he call me? A monsterslayer? That sounds kind of cool. It’s not what I’d expected, but I’m okay with that. I mean, I’m not okay with dying, but this is a chance to do something real, something important. It’s what I’ve been waiting for all this time.
I nod, crossing my fingers that I’ll be up to the task. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
“Very good. Then wake up!” And with that, Mr. Yazzie gathers his powerful legs beneath his reptile body and leaps from the shelf.
Straight at my face.
I wake to a quiet knock on the door. I open my eyes, feeling like I’m pulling myself out of a vat of thick honey. And then it all comes back to me in a flash. I remember Mr. Yazzie and the horrible way he launched himself at me, and I bolt straight out of bed. I look around wildly, hands clutching at my cheeks, feeling for damage. I’m not sure what damage a pet horned toad could do, but wild ones are quite fierce, so I imagine it could be bad. But no, my face is fine. Well, except my nose is still sore from basketball. I breathe a sigh of relief.
Another knock, this time louder.
“Who’s there?” I ask warily, half expecting to hear a strange little croaking reply.
“Nizhoni? Can I come in?”
Just Dad. Not a talking lizard. Relief…Or maybe not. Because if it isn’t Mr. Yazzie at my door, then I must have been asleep and dreamed the whole thing and there’s no one to help me fight Mr. Charles.
“Nizhoni?” Dad asks again. “Please let me in.”
I make a quick pass by the bookshelf to see if a certain stuffed animal is where he should be (he is—looking completely not alive) and go over to unlock the door before flopping back down on the mattress. I try to fake being calm, though my heart is beating out of my chest. Mr. Yazzie seemed so real.…
But I don’t have time to contemplate it further, because Dad pushes the door open, and a most wonderful smell enters the room along with him. The aroma is emanating from a round foil take-out container with a white cardboard top that reads PASTA PALACE.
“I brought you dinner,” Dad says, holding the food out to me.
“Thank you!” I lock the weird dream away for now and concentrate on licking off the drool already gathering in the corners of my mouth. “I take back half the mean things I was thinking about you.”
He shakes the container slightly and laughs. “Only half ?”
“Is that Spaghettini Macaravioli?” I ask, pushing myself up to a sitting position and fluffing the pillows at my back.
“I believe so.” He smiles, handing me the foil pan and a plastic fork. I peel off the top, and the most beautiful pile of spaghetti, macaroni, and ravioli covered in red sauce appears before me. Italian heaven! I dig in as he takes a seat next to me on the bed.
He watches me for a while, then gets a funny expression. I pause, my mouth full of melty cheese and three kinds of pasta. “Do I have it all over my face? Is that why you’re staring?” I wipe my mouth with my sleeve.
Dad laughs. “No, no. You’re fine. I just…” He sighs. “What were you thinking, Nizhoni? With Mr. Charles.”
I groan. I should have known that dinner would come with strings attached.
“I need to understand why you attacked him,” he says. “I know you’ve had some problems with kids at school in the past, but this just doesn’t seem like you.”
“He had a knife,
” I explain calmly. I’d practiced using a reasonable voice before I fell asleep and dreamed of Mr. Yazzie. It comes out very convincingly, if I do say so myself. Although, with food in my mouth, it sounds more like He hab a wife, which, admittedly, would not merit a self-defense maneuver. But Dad seems to get the idea.
Yet I can see from his expression that he still doesn’t believe me.
“You think I’m lying,” I say, feeling distinctly worm-buttish again.
He folds his hands in his lap and looks down.
I consider telling Dad all the things Mr. Charles said about mom’s family, but every time I bring her up, Dad gets super sad. Like sitting-around-staring-at-bad-TV-and-forgetting-to-make-dinner level of sad. Until I know more about what Mr. Charles was saying, I don’t want to mention my mom. So I limit my explanation. “He said I could ruin his plans and that he had to kill me.”
Dad’s frown lines deepen to valleys on his forehead. “Why would a wealthy oil executive like Mr. Charles feel threatened by a twelve-year-old girl?”
“I don’t know, but—”
“And kill you? With all of us standing right outside?”
“I know, but maybe the knife was magic.…” That idea just occurred to me, and it’s not a bad one. The knife did not look like a normal one.
“Nizhoni,” Dad says in his no-nonsense voice. “Stop it. Your story doesn’t even make sense.”
I take another bite, but I don’t feel much like eating anymore. My shoulders slump, and I poke listlessly at a ravioli. A single tear treks down my cheek and lands in a mound of cheese.
“There’s nothing wrong with having a big imagination,” Dad says. “Your mom sure did. Always seeing monsters lurking everywhere.”
Race to the Sun Page 4
