“Is that so?” asks the conductor. “Well, we do get unaccompanied minors on occasion, especially going back to Gallup. But—”
“You can call him if you want,” Mac says. “Nizhoni has a phone.”
The conductor scratches his cheek, thinking. I give him my winningest smile. Like the one that convinced Coach to let me take the final shot. Please, please, please let this work.
Just then someone in the seat in front of ours calls, “Conductor, could you help me read this train schedule, please?” I turn to see a middle-aged Navajo woman turning the folded paper in her hands like she can’t tell which way is up. “I don’t know why these have to be so confusing.…”
“Give me a minute, ma’am.” He reaches for our tickets.
“But I don’t know if I’m on the right train or not,” the woman whines. “I really need your help now.”
The conductor wrinkles his nose and, after a moment’s hesitation, scans our tickets. “Tell you what,” he says to us, marking our seats with paper stubs. “I’ll keep an eye on you both. If you need anything, let me know.” He flashes us a big grin.
“Sure thing,” Mac says, throwing the conductor a thumbs-up.
Phew, that was close. I watch, relieved, as the conductor moves on to the woman, and we take our seats.
“What’s wrong?” Mac asks. “You look a little freaked out.”
“Nothing,” I say. “Nothing at all.”
“Hey, didn’t you say Davery was coming? We’re leaving any second. He better hurry.”
“He’ll make it,” I insist, but I’m worried, too.
Davery’s still not here when the train rumbles to life. I check my phone again, but there’s no text. My stomach does a flip-flop. I thought I could do this on my own, but I’m scared.
Mac pulls out his iPad and opens his animation app. I look out the window one last time, just as the train lurches forward, and to my utter astonishment, there he is. Davery is running full speed across the concrete platform, headed for the closing train door.
And Adrien Cuttlebush is right behind him.
“Look!” I yell, pointing out the window. Mac whips his head up, and we watch Davery leap for the door. He makes it through just in time, one hand grasping the support pole and the other gripping his backpack strap. The door slides shut in Adrien’s face, and I can almost hear his yell of frustration as he pounds a fist against its window.
Adrien’s head swivels toward me, his eyes meeting mine, and that horrible sensation—my monster detection—springs to life. The hair on the back of my neck rises, and a chill like the trail of an ice cube scuttles down my spine. The train inches forward, and as we pass, Adrien opens his mouth and shows me a mouthful of sharp, pointed teeth.
He may not have been a monster before, but he definitely is one now.
But before I can process how Mac’s bully became a carnivorous red-eyed creature, Davery bursts into the train car. I stand up and wave, and he comes bustling over, murmuring, “Excuse me,” to the other passengers as his swinging backpack whacks them on the shoulders.
He slides into the seat next to me, huffing.
“What happened?!” I whisper-shout, trying to keep my voice down so the other passengers don’t get too curious.
Davery holds up a finger.
I sigh impatiently.
His glasses are fogged up, and he takes a moment to pull a kerchief from his pocket. He rubs the cloth back and forth over the lenses, making sure to get every corner.
“Are you serious?” I say, exasperated.
He doesn’t say anything, just rolls his eyes up to give me the Patience, Nizhoni look. I swear he practices that one in the mirror.
I cross my arms and flop back in my seat. I check the window again to make sure Adrien is gone, and I’m rewarded with a view of the quickly disappearing city of Albuquerque. From here until we hit Gallup, in about three and a half hours, it should be just wide-open vistas of juniper, red rocks, and windy mesas. No monsters. (At least I hope not.) I’m still not sure how we’re going to get from the Gallup station to Spider Rock, but I’ll find a way. My dad is depending on it.
Finally, Davery slides his glasses back on and gathers himself.
“I think you’re correct about the monsters,” he says matter-of-factly. “And I believe the particular monster that’s chasing you, the one you were calling Mr. Charles, may in fact be a shape-shifter.”
Of course! That explains Adrien Cuttlebush. If people really smacked their foreheads in eureka moments, I’d be smacking mine.
“I saw him,” I say. “More like I saw his teeth, to be exact.”
“Did Mr. Charles have any compatriots? Helpers?”
“He had two bodyguards.”
Davery nods. “I think he and his bodyguards are shape-shifters of some kind. That means we’ll have to be vigilant. No one can be trusted. They could be a monster in disguise.”
I shudder. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Davery says, although his voice seems a bit shaky. “But it was close. He waylaid me at the bus stop by the school, tried to get me to tell him where you went. He had some fantastical story about Mac controlling the sprinkler system like a character from the X-Men.”
“Who, me?” Mac says around a mouthful of bologna. I mean, Mac’s water powers are cool and all, but when he’s eating with his mouth open and has Flamin’ Hot Cheeto crumbs flecking his lips, he’s about as far from an X-Man as possible.
“We can tell Davery the truth,” I say to my brother. “He knows about my monster-sensing abilities.”
“You’re saying Mac really did shoot water at Adrien and his friends by using his mind?!” Davery’s eyes are wide with surprise.
Mac straightens in his seat, looking proud. “Well, when you put it that way, I do sound pretty awesome.” And then he ruins it by burping loudly before taking another bite of his sandwich.
I take a deep breath. “There’s more,” I tell Davery.
“More?” he asks incredulously. “More than monsters and superpowers?”
I hand Davery his sandwich and Cheetos. He gives me a baggie of his vegan cookies in exchange and I put them in my backpack “for later.” Like that will ever happen.
“Something else happened,” I say. “Back at the train station.” I tell them about the cart lady who knew our names and gave us the free food. “This was in the bag, too.”
I pull out the rolled-up paper. It’s a flyer for the upcoming Navajo Nation Fair in Window Rock, Arizona.
“An ad?” Davery asks.
“There’s writing on the back,” Mac says, taking another bite of his sandwich.
I turn it over, and sure enough, he’s right.
“What does it say?” Mac asks.
“It looks like a poem or song lyrics of some kind,” I say.
“Read it,” Davery prompts me.
I start to read it to myself.
“Aloud, so we can hear it.”
“Better yet, if it’s a song, you should sing it!” Mac says.
“I don’t know the tune, you dork.” I start reading, just loud enough for Mac and Davery to hear me.
“Ancient powers lurk in your bones.
Four mountains bind you to your home.
Four days to find you are not alone.
“White shell, blue turquoise, abalone, and jet,
Two to remember, one to forget.
The last, take from the progenitor’s debt.
“The spider reveals the rainbow road.
Two will pay what one once owed.
Beware, beware the friendly toad.
“A talking stone, a field of knives, a prom of thorns, a seethe of sand.
Thoughts take form, form becomes true.
To defeat the trials, you must know you.
“Who will pay the lost ones’ price?
Blood and flesh will not suffice.
A dream must be the sacrifice.
“The Merciless One keeps vigil true.
&
nbsp; Heir of lightning, overdue.
What once was old is now brand-new.
Only then will you be you.”
When I’m done, we sit in silence until Mac says, “Sounds like a heavy metal song to me. All that blood and sacrifice stuff ? ‘The Merciless One’? Definitely metal.”
“Nah,” Davery says. “If it is a song, I think it’s meant to help us.”
“Help us rock out?” Mac raises both hands, making the horns sign, and bobs his head, swinging his hair around.
“Better than that,” Davery says excitedly, ignoring my doofus brother. “It’s a puzzle. We know the powers that ‘lurk in your bones’ now, right? Those are your ancestral powers, the ones that come from Changing Woman’s son.”
“Okay,” I say. “What about ‘Four mountains bind you to your home’? There aren’t four mountains near our house, and how could they keep us home, anyway?”
“They didn’t,” says Mac, more serious now. “We ran away from our home.” He looks out the window wistfully and mutters, “I hope we can go back soon.”
“It must mean some different kind of home,” Davery says gently.
“And what about four days to find we aren’t alone?” I ask.
“Well, we have each other…” Davery offers.
I look over the paper again. “Some of this stuff sounds creepy. Blood, sacrifice.” I shiver a little. “We could really use some help right now. I wish that cart lady had told us more.” I realize now that the woman was more than she seemed, but I’m not quite ready to share my thoughts about her with Davery and Mac yet.
“We’ll figure it out,” Davery says encouragingly. “The cart lady wouldn’t have given it to you unless she thought you could. Let’s focus on getting to Spider Rock first.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” I say, yawning. But I’m not as confident as Davery. Plus, it’s not his dad who got kidnapped, and I can’t even talk about it, because I don’t want to freak out Mac.
“Tired?” he asks.
“I didn’t sleep well last night. And a lot has happened today. Plus, too many carbs for lunch.”
“Does that mean you’re not going to finish your Cheetos?” Mac asks, raising his eyebrows hopefully.
I hand him the half-full bag, and he pumps his fist in triumph. His moment of homesickness seems to have passed, which is a good thing, and now he’s babbling to Davery about how XXtra Flamin’ Hot Cheetos aren’t actually as hot as plain old Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, but lime Cheetos are hotter than both kinds, and how maybe his ancestral power, besides controlling water sprinklers, is eating really, really hot cheese snacks.
I listen for a while, but I’ve heard Mac’s Cheeto flavor comparisons before. So has Davery, as a matter of fact, but he’s too polite to point that out. The rocking motion of the train and the droning of Mac’s soliloquy are making me drowsy. I lean my head against the window and close my eyes. Just for a minute, I tell myself. Things are too dangerous for me to be napping. But the lulling movement of the train proves too much, and before I know it, I’m drifting into a dream.
“Nizhoni,” a voice calls from inside the house. “Come inside! Time to wash up for dinner.”
I sit up in my train seat, only I’m not in my train seat anymore. I’m in a sun-warmed pile of leaves, crisp and gilded in the yellow hues of fall. I’m surrounded by a pack of adorable black and brown puppies. I know this place. I’m at my shimásání’s house.
Grandma’s dog, Ladygirl, had a litter, and her three fluffy babies are running around and crawling over my lap as I sit under a golden-leafed oak tree in the early afternoon light. I laugh as the one I named Bandit sticks a wet nose in my palm, and I scratch behind her floppy ear like she wants me to. The other two puppies bark and wrestle and crunch leaves under their oversize paws, all under Ladygirl’s watchful eye.
Grandma says rez dogs are special. She doesn’t “own” them the way people in the city keep their pets. She and Ladygirl and the rest of the pack have a mutually beneficial agreement—Grandma feeds them, and they guard her house and the surrounding land. As long as both parties keep up their end of the bargain, the dogs will stick around, but Grandma told me they’re free to leave if they find a better deal. I’ve seen her sneak gravy and meat scraps into their bowls, and there’s fresh bedding in their doghouse under the back porch, so my guess is they’re not leaving anytime soon.
“Nizhoni!” Grandma says again. “I need you inside. Now.”
“I guess I can never escape chores,” I tell Bandit, who has now decided to chew on my fingers. I extricate my hand from the puppy’s mouth and head inside. Mac, my dad, and my grandpa are in the living room watching football. As I pass them, Mac lets out a dramatic groan. Looks like Colorado State is beating his New Mexico Lobos. Again.
Grandma’s sitting at the big table that takes up most of the kitchen, a pile of potatoes and a bowl in front of her. She’s got her favorite apron on, the one that says KISS THE COOK, which she picked up at the Gallup flea market because she thought it was funny. She looks up, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.
“What is it?” I ask.
“You were outside without a coat?”
“It’s not that cold,” I say defensively.
“You’re going to catch cold if you don’t wear a coat.”
“I’ll wear it next time.”
She shakes her head. “Your mother was the same way. Never listening to me.”
“I’m not like her,” I say sharply. “I’ll wear one next time.”
Grandma picks up on my attitude. “You think you’re so different, but you’re not.”
“I would never leave my family,” I protest. I automatically reach for the turquoise pendant around my neck, but I can’t touch it, because now I’m wearing a puffy orange jacket, zipped all the way to my chin. When did I put that on?
Another shout from the living room, this one in triumph. The Lobos must have scored.
I fan my face, feeling hot, because now I’ve got another coat on top of the orange jacket. This one is black-and-red plaid. Two coats, and I can barely move my arms. Plus, I’m starting to sweat.
“Uh, Grandma…I’m having some trouble here.”
“Of course you are. Because you’re just like her. Your mother was so headstrong. Never listened. I told her not to get married so young and have babies.”
Whoa, Grandma’s never said that before, and for a minute, I’m distracted from my coat dilemma. “Really?”
“But she loved your dad. Loved you and little Mac, too, so she had to go.” Grandma drops a freshly peeled potato in the bowl. “Life has a way of messing up all your plans,” she tells me. “Your mom had plans, too, and see how that worked out. It’ll be the same for you. So you better wear a coat.”
“I think I have enough!” Because now I’m wearing three coats, the last a thick tan canvas Carhartt like my dad wears to chop wood. Sweat is dripping into my eyes, and I’m trying to unbutton or unzip all my coats to get to my pendant, but I have mittens on, too, and I can’t get a grip on anything. “Help!” I gasp.
My grandma just keeps peeling her potatoes, looking serene. “Listen to me, Nizhoni,” she says. “You can never have too many coats.”
“Nizhoni,” Mac says, punching me in the shoulder, “wake up! I think there’s something wrong with the train.”
I slowly come to, yawning and stretching and shivering from the cold. I rub my eyes and try to shake the fuzzy feeling from my head. That’s right—we’re on a train, running from a monster. I can’t believe I even fell asleep at all.
Then again, I’ve always been pretty good at sleeping through big events. Once I missed a tornado warning when we were visiting some relatives in Texas, and I’ve never quite made it to the ball drop on that New Year’s Rockin’ Eve special. Maybe my ancestral power isn’t monster sensing at all, but snoozing. Which would be just perfect. Mac gets water magic and spicy-food eating, and I get the power to nap during a crisis.
“Nizhoni!” Mac repeated. “
Did you hear me?”
“Stop yelling. What is it?”
“Something’s wrong with the train. It’s taking us up the side of a mountain!”
And I’m awake! I push myself up and look out the window. The otherwise-normal Amtrak train is running steadily forward on the track, but in a totally not normal direction: vertical. And it’s not just any mountain—it’s huge, with a snow-capped peak. In fact, it’s starting to snow outside our window, delicate white flakes falling softly around us to blanket the desert floor. No wonder I dreamed about coats. The rest of the dream I’m not so sure about, but it makes me miss my grandma and her dogs.
“We must have gotten on the wrong train,” I say. “We’ll have to find the conductor and ask to switch at the next station.”
“Uh, that might prove difficult,” Davery says. He’s sitting up, yawning and stretching, as if he, too, took a nap. And I notice Mac has sleep boogers in the corners of his eyes. We all must have fallen asleep. “There’s no one on this train but us.”
“What?!” I twist around. Where’s the confused middle-aged woman? And I distinctly remember Davery thumping someone in the head with his backpack as he pushed his way down the crowded aisle. But now all the seats are vacant.
I turn to look the other way, toward the front of the train. Completely empty, too.
We’re all alone.
“Do you think Mr. Charles and his monster crew did this?” Mac whispers fearfully.
“I should think not!” comes a grumbly and muffled voice. “I did it. But no need to worry. We are headed in the right direction.”
I recognize it. “Mr. Yazzie?” Relief bubbles up in my belly as the horned toad from my dream crawls out of my backpack and settles on the seat next to me. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you!”
“Yes, dear child. I am pleased to see you again, too.”
“Again?” Mac says, mouth dropped open like a sea bass. “Since when do you know a talking lizard, Nizhoni?”
“Amazing,” murmurs Davery.
“So you both can see him?” I ask.
“And hear him,” Davery says, nodding.
Race to the Sun Page 8
