“Even if we agree to split up,” Davery says, “how are we going to get to the other mountains?”
“Leave that to me,” says Łizhin. She takes a step back, lifts her beak, and begins to sing. Her song is beautiful, a trilling, twisting melody that fills the winter air. It rises into the sky and travels toward the top of the world, beyond Sisnaajiní. We all listen, rapt. When she finishes, Mac claps politely.
“I have called the heralds of Tsoodził and Dook’o’oosłiid,” Łizhin explains. “They will be here momentarily. Each herald will take you to their mountain and alert the guardian to your presence, and the guardians will help you find what you need.”
“How will the heralds take us?” I ask nervously. “Are…are you going to carry us in your talons?”
Łizhin blinks at me and I’m pretty sure she’s smiling. “Talons, no. Carry, yes. You will each ride on one of our backs. Nizhoni, you will ride on mine.”
“Well,” Davery says, “I certainly didn’t see that coming.”
I eye Łizhin’s back, excitement starting to edge out my fear. It seems broad enough to hold me and her feathers look soft, but there’s one thing missing.
“I’m all for giant bird riding, but how can I stay on without a saddle?”
“Or a seat belt?” Mac asks. “We always buckle up for safety.”
Łizhin laughs. “Are you worried that, as we fly through the clouds hundreds of feet above the earth and you have nothing to hold on to but a handful of feathers, you might plummet to your deaths?”
“Yes,” we all say at once.
“Then I guess you’ll just have to hold on really tight!”
We hear the heralds coming before we see them. Great feathery bodies block the sun and the sound of what seems like hundreds of massive wings fills the air. The wind grows stronger, blowing us back so hard we have to dig our feet into the ground to keep from falling over. And above us, two birds appear, both as big as trucks. One blue, one yellow.
The bluebird lands first. The plumage on its back and wings is the brilliant hue of a perfect summer sky, and its belly is a grayish white.
“Yá’át’ééh,” it says, its voice a deep rumble. “I am Dólii, the herald of Tsoodził, the Mountain of the Day, the southernmost sacred mountain and the home of the Turquoise Guardians and the Bluebird Heralds.” It turns its head to Łizhin. “I heard your call, sister, so I came. How may I help?”
“Dólii, my brother,” Łizhin says, “this child, called Mac, is a descendant of one of the Hero Twins. You must take him to Turquoise Boy so he may collect the gift he needs to offer Spider Woman. The tiny cheii will accompany you.”
Dólii bows his head to Mac. “I would be honored to take you to my mountain so you can meet my guardian and request your boon.” He drops down until his belly rests against the snow. “Climb on my back, child called Mac and tiny cheii, and we will be off!”
Mac gives me big eyes. I know that expression. Those are his chili-cheese-dog-on-the-roller-coaster vomit eyes.
“You’ll be okay, Mac,” I say firmly. “You can do this. Just think about reuniting with Dad.”
“What if there’s a test?” he asks morosely as he climbs on Dólii’s back. “What if I’m not tough enough to do it by myself ?”
“You can do it,” I repeat, reminding myself of my basketball coach. Okay, Coach doesn’t always have the most original sayings, but I try to make it sound reassuring anyway. “Besides, you’ll have Mr. Yazzie to help you.” I hand the horned toad up to him, and he tucks him into the neck of his own black hoodie. “He’ll make sure you get the turquoise.”
Mac nods and puts his brave face on.
“We will meet at the top of the Spider Rock in Canyon de Chelly,” Łizhin says to Dólii.
“I will see you there no later than sunrise tomorrow,” Dólii says before he gathers his great body and launches himself into the air. I think I hear Mac screaming. Or maybe that’s just the wind. Hard to tell.
The second herald, who has been waiting patiently for Dólii to leave, lands in the spot the other bird vacated.
“Yá’át’ééh,” it says in a soft laughing voice that sounds like clear water running in a rocky stream. “I am Tsídii, the herald of Dook’o’oosłiid, the Mountain of the Afternoon, the westernmost sacred mountain and the home of the Yellow Corn Guardians and the Yellow Warbler Heralds.” It turns its head to Łizhin. “You rang?”
“Yes, sister.” Łizhin introduces Davery and explains his mission, and Tsídii lowers her body to let Davery climb on her back.
“I guess I’ll see you at Spider Rock,” I tell him, feeling suddenly extra anxious, like maybe I won’t see him again.
“Don’t worry about me, Nizhoni,” he says, guessing what I’m thinking. “I’ve never ridden on a bird’s back before, so this should be fun!”
Did I mention that Davery is the best?
I watch as Tsídii flaps her great wings and takes to the air. This time I’m sure I hear screaming.
“Well, Nizhoni,” Łizhin says, “are you ready to go to the Black Mountain?”
Now that the two of us are alone, I can tell her the truth. “I think there’s been a mistake,” I say. “I know what Mr. Yazzie said, about me being related to the original Monsterslayer and how I’m supposed to be the backup guardian of Dibé Nitsaa and everything. But, and this is hard for me to admit”—I take a deep breath—“I’m no hero.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for Łizhin to laugh at me. When I don’t hear anything, I open one eye enough to peek. She’s standing in the same place, waiting patiently.
“Uh, did you hear me?” I ask. “Zero hero material over here. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m a loser, but I’m not exactly a winner, if you know what I mean. So maybe you should try someone else.”
“I think I’ve got exactly the right person,” Łizhin says. “Why don’t you just pretend you’re a hero for a while, and let me carry the burden of believing in you?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s scary to have people expect something from you. Sometimes it’s so scary we want to run away or give up.”
I nod my head vigorously. “Bingo,” I whisper under my breath.
“So don’t worry about what you’re supposed to be. Just be who you are.”
“Just…Nizhoni Begay?”
“Exactly.”
“But what if that’s not enough?”
“Who you are is always enough. Now, climb on and we’ll go for a ride. I want to show you my beautiful mountain.”
I clamber onto Łizhin’s back, digging my hands into her thick layer of feathers. “I’m ready!” I shout.
“Then hang on tight!” she says as she takes to the air.
I do as she says, pressing my face against the soft down on her neck and squeezing my eyes shut. My stomach flutters and dips as the earth goes out from under me. But I am proud to say I do not scream. Not even once.
Łizhin had said her mountain would be beautiful, but as we descend toward it, I’m not so sure. Rocky black peaks jut up through the clouds like sharp claws, and when we get lower, everything is shrouded in a dark gray fog so thick and heavy I can’t see through it.
“We’re going to land here?” I ask with a gulp.
“We must,” Łizhin says.
The air turns icy, even colder than on the snowy mountain we left behind. Or maybe it’s a different kind of cold. This chill doesn’t remind me of hot cocoa and Christmas presents and sledding—it feels alive, like it could eat my flesh and gnaw on my bones with its frozen teeth. I huddle closer to Łizhin’s back, whimpering quietly.
The currents grow stronger, buffeting us violently, and for a minute, I think I’m going to fall off.
“The wind is trying to throw us against the rocks!” I shout over the howl of the gale.
“I won’t let it!” Łizhin growls as she fights with all her might to bring us down safely. When we are close enough, the herald gives one great flap of her massive w
ings and lands hard, digging her claws into the side of the mountain. I tilt dangerously, almost slipping from her back. The squall pulls greedily at my clothes and hair, but once Łizhin has a hold on solid land, it dies down.
Not just dies down, but totally disappears. The air around us becomes completely still and eerily silent. The heavy mist remains, and it’s hard to see much besides the distinctive big black rocky mountaintops. But at least the weather doesn’t seem to be trying to kill us anymore.
Points for us.
“Well, that was unexpected,” Łizhin says, ruffling her plumage, “and not a good sign.” She ducks her head under her wing and straightens a few crooked feathers. “But nothing broken. No worse for wear.”
“Is it always like this on Dibé Nitsaa?”
“No,” Łizhin says, and I catch the worry in her voice. “This strange weather must be related to Black Jet Girl’s disappearance. Without her here to keep the mountain in balance, things have become perilous.”
“Great,” I mutter.
Łizhin gives me a reassuring look. “Courage!” she says. “You were born for this, and your hero quest is only just beginning. You must be steady.” The herald points up the mountain with her beak. “I have done my best to get close to Black Jet Girl’s home—now you will have to climb the rest of the way.”
I squint through the fog, hoping to spot something that resembles our house back in Albuquerque, or Rock Crystal Boy’s hogan back on Sisnaajiní, but I can’t see anything. I’m about to say so when something catches my eye. I scramble up the mountain a little ways to get a closer look and Łizhin hops behind me. Sure enough, there’s a door built into the side of the peak. It’s made of a single piece of smooth black jet that seems to absorb the afternoon light. And I’m not positive from here, but it looks like the mist covering everything is coming from a chimney above the door.
It’s creepy, and I get that feeling again, like there’s something on this mountain that would eat me if it could. I shudder, rubbing my arms before tucking my hands inside my sleeves.
Łizhin glances up at me knowingly. “That shiver you feel? It’s your monster-sensing instincts, Nizhoni. They’re warning you that danger is near.”
“Do they ever do anything besides that?” I ask. “I mean, Mac has, like, sprinkler powers, and Davery knows everything ever, like a human Google. I think knowing when monsters are near but not being able to do much about it is sort of crummy.”
“Don’t undervalue good instincts,” Łizhin says. “Trusting your gut will keep you safe when others tread recklessly. It’s a beginning.”
“Yeah, you said that already.” I don’t mean to sound rude, but I’m starting to get scared. Łizhin wants me to go up the mountain alone, and I don’t know if I can do it.
“So I did,” she says patiently, ignoring my impoliteness. “Now it’s up to you.” She lifts her head suddenly, eyes searching the area around us. I follow her gaze, but I don’t see anything except rocks and mist. “I must go,” she says tensely. “My presence here may attract more monsters. You’ll have a better chance of defeating them without me.”
I really doubt that. Having a giant talking bird by my side seems like the distinct kind of advantage I’d like. “But how am I supposed to find Black Jet Girl and fight the monsters, too?”
Łizhin plucks a single feather from her wing. “Take this.”
I accept the huge black plume and it immediately shrinks down to normal bird size, small enough to fit in my hand.
“When you are in need, use this and it will become what you require most.”
“It’s a weapon?”
“It is ingenuity.”
“Ingenuity? Pretty sure that’s one of the vocabulary words I missed on our test last month.”
“No more talk,” Łizhin says, her voice sharp. “I can feel the monsters searching the mountain for me. They don’t know to look for you, and I think your powers may keep you hidden from them, at least for now. But you must hurry. I’ll be back at sunset. If you haven’t found Black Jet Girl by then, I fear it will be too late.”
“Too late?” I squeak. “Too late for who? Me?! You can’t just leave me!”
But leave me she does. Without another word, Łizhin leaps into the air. Immediately, the wind comes howling back, even more vicious, more ravenous. The mist closes in, hiding her from view.
As the hungry gusts nip at me, I quickly tuck Łizhin’s plume into my pocket to keep it safe. With nothing else to do, I decide I’ve got to tackle what I came for. Time to find Black Jet Girl and kill some monsters…with a feather.
Yeah, great plan, Nizhoni. What could possibly go wrong?
Dilemma: When facing a door made of solid black jet and possibly leading into a dark scary cave where a nonhuman Navajo mountain guardian lives, should one knock? Normally I would, but all things considered, including the fact that my monster instincts are screaming at me something serious now, I decide to go on in.
I push the door open a crack and whisper-shout, “Hellloooo!” in case Black Jet Girl made it back unexpectedly and she’s in the shower or something. And then I remember she’s Navajo, so I whisper-shout, “Yá’át’ééhhhh!” to cover my bases.
No answer, so I slip inside.
And immediately wish I hadn’t.
Black Jet Girl’s house is clean, and maybe, at another time, it might be cozy. It’s not a cave but an octagonal room, just like Rock Crystal Boy’s hogan. In the middle is a pit where a nice bright fire is crackling. But on the other side of the fire are, well…
…two of the ugliest buzzards I’ve ever seen.
Once, when Mac and I were small and Dad was taking us trick-or-treating in the neighborhood, we came upon this one house—a big old creaky-looking thing with a heavy wooden eave and a wide front porch with deep shadows filling the corners. On that porch, perched on the edge of a bench, was someone in the spookiest costume ever. A birdman creature, with hunched shoulders, strands of black hair combed over a balding head, and a long, curved, mean-looking beak. It sat in front of a plastic pumpkin bucket brimming with the best candy—all full-size chocolate bars, none of the random gross cinnamon candy or (heaven forbid!) pennies or dental floss like at some of the other houses. But the trick was, if you wanted the good candy, you had to brave the creeptastic birdman. I was willing to try, but Mac was too scared. He took one look and started wailing and screaming about how the monster was going to get us, and Dad made us turn around and leave before I could make my move and potentially score a Hershey bar. I complained, telling my dad it wasn’t fair and that Mac was a big baby—which, technically, he was, since he was only five at the time. But secretly I was glad I hadn’t had to get too close to the horrible thing.
That Halloween birdman had nothing on the buzzard creatures on the other side of the firepit in Black Jet Girl’s house.
There are two of them, both hunchbacked and squatting in the firelight. Their hair is black wire, sticking up in patches from their otherwise bald pates. Between their long pointed beaks, they are playing tug-of-war with something that smells like rotten meat. I gag, covering my mouth with my hand.
But worse than their wire hair and rotten-meat lunch are their eyes. Both creatures have bulging eyeballs. Their irises are bright red, and blue veins crisscross the whites of their eyes like cracks in a boiled egg.
Is this what Mr. Charles looks like under his human costume? Yuck! No wonder he wears a disguise.
So far the two cackling vultures haven’t noticed me, too intent on their fight over whatever it is. I definitely don’t want to get close enough to know the details.
And then I spot something else. There’s a girl lying on the floor right beside the entrance, so close I could have tripped over her. She looks about my age and is wearing a traditional Navajo rug dress with moccasins and leg wraps that come up to her knees. But she’s made out of black rock the same way Rock Crystal Boy was made out of white rock. Her skin is smooth and flawless and glimmers in the firelight.
I’ve found the missing guardian of Dibé Nitsaa. But Black Jet Girl is as unmoving as the material she’s named after.
I bend down and try to shake her awake. No luck. She’s cold and hard to the touch. Then I see a tiny drop of water fall from the corner of her eye, cascade down her hard cheek, and pool in the corner of her mouth.
Black Jet Girl is frozen and scared, and my guess is those creepy buzzard creatures are to blame.
Łizhin hadn’t said anything about what to do if I found Black Jet Girl paralyzed. If the bird had known, surely she would have left me with more than a feather to work with.…
A feather! And just like that, I have a brilliant idea. If Black Jet Girl can cry, she’s not completely lost in there.
I pull the plume from my pocket and wave it under Black Jet Girl’s nose. Nothing happens at first, and I’m ready to give up on my not-so-brilliant-after-all idea. A moment later, Black Jet Girl sniffles and snuffles and, with one great heave, sneezes herself alive.
I owe Łizhin an apology. Her gift was exactly what I needed.
And then I realize the babbling buzzards have fallen silent. I slowly turn my head to look across the fire, and both monsters are staring directly at me.
Or maybe they aren’t, because their gaze seems to go right through me, as if they can’t see me at all.
“Who’s there?” one of them shouts, its voice a raspy croak.
“I don’t see anybody, brother,” its companion bleats, sounding annoyed.
“Of course you don’t, fool! You’re blind, just like me. But I heard something.” He shuffles a few feet in my direction. I stiffen. Black Jet Girl doesn’t seem to be thawed enough to move yet. I gently nudge her with my foot, hoping to help her along. She moans a little but still doesn’t open her eyes.
“There it is again!” the first buzzard croaks. “Check the girl!”
“The girl is fine, brother,” the other one protests. “We paralyzed her with our stare. Nothing can resist our stare!”
Race to the Sun Page 11
