Race to the Sun

by Rebecca Roanhorse

“Right here,” says a familiar friendly voice. Spider Woman, still wearing her rock-climbing gear and carrying Mr. Yazzie, approaches us. Walking next to her, his black locks gray with webbing, is my brother.

  I grin, relieved to see him in one piece, but hesitate when I see the expression on his face. He looks a little green around the edges, like he’s going to puke.

  “Mac, are you okay?”

  He nods glumly and runs a hand through his hair, dislodging a few strands of spiderweb. “Did you know she was going to wrap me up like a tasty fly?”

  Spider Woman grins, looking not sorry at all. “I told him it was the only way.” She shrugs.

  We all laugh and group-hug Mac until he finally relaxes and smiles a little, too. But not without one last shudder at the horror of it all.

  “We’re not done yet,” I say. “We’ve still got to find Dad. With Mr. Charles and his henchmen dead, how are we going to do that?”

  “We’ll search everywhere,” Davery assures me.

  “No need,” Spider Woman says. “I found him, too. They had him all tied up in a big black SUV just over the Chuska Mountains. Thought he might belong to you.”

  “Dad!” I shout. He comes around from behind Spider Woman, where he was hiding. He looks a little banged up, his Albuquerque Scorpions hockey T-shirt torn at the collar and a few small bruises on his face, but he seems okay otherwise. Mac and I rush over to hug him, and he laughs as he wraps us up in his arms.

  “My kiddos,” he whispers against my hair. “I’m so sorry. I never meant to leave you.”

  “You didn’t leave us, Dad. Monsters kidnapped you,” Mac says.

  “It feels like I should have done more. I should have protected you. Believed Nizhoni.”

  “I did tell you that he was a monster.”

  “And you beat them all,” he says, holding me out and looking at me like maybe he’s never seen me—the real me—before.

  I blush, feeling proud but a little embarrassed. “Well, Mac helped a little.”

  “Excuse me, I helped a lot!” Mac protests. “I saved your butt up there.”

  I punch him in the shoulder. “Of course you did. And Davery did, too.” I step back so Dad can see Davery, who is offering his water bottle. But his eyes land on someone else.

  “Bethany,” he says, his voice soft with wonder. “You’re alive!”

  Mom steps up, tears in her eyes, her chin raised defiantly. But she pats down her hair and looks at Dad like she missed him, too. “I—I can explain—” she starts before Dad cuts her off.

  He pulls her into an embrace, and I hear him say, “Tomorrow. We have time to talk about it all tomorrow.”

  Mac makes a face at me. “Gross. Are they going to kiss?”

  I look. “Yep.”

  We all politely turn our backs, Spider Woman included. “What now, kids?” she asks.

  My stomach growls, and I realize I haven’t eaten anything since our morning Spam burritos. “Don’t suppose you have any more burritos…?”

  “No, but if you want to come back to my place, I know a monsterslaying girl who can make some mean frybread.”

  “I’m not doing beans again,” Mac groans. “I got the worst gas. Farted for days.”

  “Hey, who’s that?” Davery asks.

  We all look, squinting into the sun that’s now halfway to its zenith. Coming down a dirt road, headed right toward us, is a bright green pickup truck. It’s an old one, nothing fancy, and a cloud of dust trails out from behind it as it approaches.

  “I recognize that truck,” I say.

  “Shimá,” Mom says from behind me, her voice soft. “It’s my mom.”

  My grandmother pulls up to stop in front of us, her old pickup rattling. “Hey,” she says. “I heard there was a commotion out this way. Scared my sheep. Thought I better come check it out. Anyone need a ride?”

  She gets out, and she looks just like she did in my dream—but without the apron. We all start talking at once. There’s a lot of tears and hugging, and soon enough my shimásání is shooing us toward the truck, talking about getting us back to her house.

  “We’ll have a feast,” she says. “In honor of Bethany coming home and Nizhoni and Marcus discovering their powers. I’ll make mutton stew and frybread.”

  “Did you know, Grandma?” I ask, curious. “About our family legacy?”

  She nods, her face solemn. “I was never called on to fight the monsters. That was my brother, Eugene. And when your mom went missing, I knew she had been called, too.”

  “Maybe the family can finally enjoy some peace for a while,” says my mom, putting her arm around my waist and squeezing. “Thanks to Nizhoni.”

  “Wouldn’t that be nice,” says my shimásání. “But that’s not usually how it goes for our people.”

  That reminds me of something Mr. Yazzie said. I look around for him and see that he is perched on top of Spider Woman’s helmet.

  “Grandma?”

  “Yes, Nizhoni?”

  “Would you tell me more of the old stories sometime?”

  She pats my shoulder. “Why, of course. We can all share stories after we eat.”

  “Hey, Grandma!” Mac shouts from behind us. “We found Eugene, too. He was in the Lost and Found with Davery and Mom and me. He’s with the other slayers on the other side of Shiprock.”

  So they did make it after all.

  Grandma blinks, surprised. “Is that so?” Her voice is matter-of-fact, but she rubs a tear from her eye.

  “I bet he and the others need a ride,” Mom says gently. “Wanna go get them?”

  “I’m going to have to make two trips,” my shimásání says, “but maybe I could fit one of them, at least.”

  “And which one might that be?” Mom asks with a laugh.

  “How are we going to explain all these relatives?” Dad says, sounding bewildered. I think Davery tried to bring him up to speed while we were talking to Grandma, but the poor man still looks overwhelmed.

  “This is the rez,” Spider Woman says dismissively. “Stranger things have happened than a few missing relatives showing up. We’ll figure it out.” She gives us a wink.

  “Are you coming?” I ask her.

  “Why not? I’ll hang around for a while. Make sure you show shimásání your bread-making skills. You better give me credit, though. That’s my recipe.”

  Mom and Dad climb into the front seat, and Spider Woman and us kids hop into the open bed. Grandma turns the truck around and heads back down the road, the way she came. We bump along, holding on to the sides, the wind blowing our hair back.

  “I love stew and all,” Mac says, “but you know what I could really go for right now? Some Hot Cheetos.”

  While Mac babbles on about food, Davery touches my arm to get my attention. “What are you thinking about?”

  “The song,” I say. “The map of wonder the cart lady gave us.”

  “What about it?”

  “It talks about the ‘heir of lightning.’ In that last verse.”

  “That’s you,” he says solemnly.

  “Maybe not quite yet. But I’m getting there.”

  “Are you sad?” he asks. “That you’re finally a hero but nobody back at school is going to know about it?”

  “No screaming fans? No one carrying me on their shoulders? No YouTube or Insta to prove it happened?”

  “Exactly.”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. I look at my mom, dad, and grandma chatting away in the cab, trying to make up for lost time. Mac, droning on about Hot Cheetos to Spider Woman and Mr. Yazzie, who are listening politely. Then Davery, my best friend, right beside me, still clutching his lightning book of knowledge.

  “The important people know.” I bump his shoulder with mine, and he smiles. “And even better, they’re all here. What more could a monsterslayer ask for?”

  GLOSSARY OF NAVAJO TERMS

  ahéhee’ (ah-HYEH-eh) thank you

  bináá’ yee aghání (bih-NAAH yee agh-HAH-NEH) the monster
s that kill with their eyes

  cheii (CHAY) grandfather (slang)

  Dibé Nitsaa (dih-BEH nih-saah) the northernmost Diné sacred mountain

  Diné (dih-NEH) the People, the name the Navajo call themselves in their language

  Dinétah (dih-NEH-tah) the traditional homelands of the Diné

  Diyin Dine’é (dih-yin deh-neh-EH) the Diné Holy People

  Dólii (DOH-lee) bluebird

  Dook’o’oosłiid (dooh-KOH-oos-CLEED) the westernmost Diné sacred mountain

  hatałii (hat-tah-CLEE) medicine person

  hogan (HO-ghan) traditional Diné house

  Jóhonaa’éí (JOE-ho-nah-AI) the Sun

  k’é (k-EH) kinship, relatives, family

  Łigai (CLEH-gay) the color white

  Łizhin (CLEH-zhin) the color black

  na’ashjéii (nah-ush-JEH-ee) spider

  Na’ashjéii Asdzáá (Nah-ush-JEH-ee as-ZUH) Spider Woman

  na’ashó’ii dich’izhii (nah-ush-OH-ee dih-CHIH-zhee) horned toad

  Nayéé Neizghani (Nah-YEEH nez-ghan-nih) Monsterslayer

  Niłch’i (Ni-CLEH-CHIH-ee) the wind, who provided life to First Man and First Woman and helped the Hero Twins

  Nizhóní (Nih-JHOH-NIH) beauty

  shicheii (shih-CHAY) my grandfather

  shimá (shih-MAH) my mother

  shimásání (shih-MAH-SAH-NEH) my grandmother

  Sisnaajiní (Sis-nah-ghin-NEH) the easternmost Diné sacred mountain

  Tsé Bit’a’í (SAY bih-TAH-ee) Shiprock, the volcanic pillar where the original Monsterslayer imprisoned the bináá’ yee aghání

  tsídii (SIH-dee) bird

  tsiiyéél (see-YEH) a traditional Diné hair bun

  Tsoodził (so-ZEH) the southernmost Diné sacred mountain

  yá’át’ééh (YAH-AH-TEH) hello

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  My ethnic heritage is Ohkay Owingeh and African American, but for the past fifteen years, I have been honored to be a part of my husband’s big extended Navajo family, and for the last twelve, I have been the mother to a smart, funny, and beautiful Navajo daughter. When the opportunity to write a book for Rick Riordan’s imprint arose, my daughter encouraged me to do it. Thinking of her, and all the Native kids this book could reach, and all the non-Native kids who know only the stereotypes associated with Natives, or, worse, labor under the belief that we’re all dead, I knew I wanted to write this book.

  Even before I met and married my husband, I studied Navajo law and lived on the Navajo Nation. It was in law school that I was introduced to traditional Navajo stories and fell in love with not only the adventures, but also the strength and messages about how to live one’s life that they portrayed. I have continued to enjoy them as interpreted in comic books and popular storytelling by Navajo and non-Navajo artists and writers, and it is from the story of the Hero Twins that I drew inspiration for this book.

  I am just a writer of fantasy, not a culture keeper or scholar. This book should not be mistaken for a cultural text. For those who are intrigued by the Hero Twins and Navajo traditional stories, I encourage you to seek out Navajo culture keepers and visit the Navajo Nation to learn more.

  Thanks to Diné scholar and educator Charlie Scott for their insight and advice. Any and all inaccuracies and offenses are purely mine.

  Thanks to my husband, Michael Roanhorse, and our daughter, Maya, for being my first readers and for seeing me through the storm.

  Thanks to my incredibly patient and genius editor, Stephanie Lurie, who found all the plot holes and dug the story out of them many times. You are a goddess in your own right.

  Thanks to my agent, Sara Megibow.

  Thanks to the incredibly talented Navajo artist Dale Ray DeForest for that amazing cover art. Bringing you on the team was a no-brainer. You’re brilliant!

  Thanks to everyone at Rick Riordan Presents for all the hard work you put into bringing this book to readers.

  And lastly, thanks to Rick Riordan himself, for allowing me to share some of what I know of the beauty of the Navajo culture with Navajo readers and the rest of the world.

  OTHER RICK RIORDAN PRESENTS BOOKS YOU MIGHT ENJOY

  Aru Shah and the End of Time by Roshani Chokshi

  The Storm Runner by J. C. Cervantes

  Dragon Pearl by Yoon Ha Lee

  Sal and Gabi Break the Universe by Carlos Hernandez

  Tristan Strong Punches a Hole in the Sky by Kwame Mbalia

  REBECCA ROANHORSE is a Black Indigenous (Ohkay Owingeh) writer of speculative fiction, including two adult books in the Sixth World series, Trail of Lightning and Storm of Locusts, and a Nebula- and Hugo-winning short story, “Welcome to Your Authentic Indian Experience™.” Race to the Sun is her middle grade debut. Rebecca, a graduate of Yale, is a lawyer by day who specializes in federal Indian and tribal law. She lives in Northern New Mexico with her Navajo husband and their daughter. For more information, go to www.RebeccaRoanhorse.com or follow her on Twitter @RoanhorseBex.

  RICK RIORDAN, dubbed “storyteller of the gods” by Publishers Weekly, is the author of five New York Times #1 best-selling series, including Percy Jackson and the Olympians, which brings Greek mythology to life for contemporary readers. Millions of fans across the globe have enjoyed his fast-paced and funny quest adventures. The goal of Rick Riordan Presents is to publish highly entertaining books by authors from underrepresented cultures and backgrounds, to allow them to tell their own stories inspired by the mythology, folklore, and culture of their heritage. Rick’s Twitter handle is @camphalfblood.

  Keep reading for a sneak peek at Sal and Gabi Break the Universe by Carlos Hernandez!

  THERE’S ALL SORTS of bad advice out there about how to deal with bullies. Ignore them. Stand up to them. Tell a teacher, tell a parent, tell your dentist while he’s jamming your teeth back into your face.

  The real way to deal with a bully is to stick a raw chicken in their locker.

  I had my showdown with Yasmany Robles just three days after I had started my new life at Culeco Academy of the Arts, a magnet school in the middle of Miami. To get in, you had to have good grades, pass an interview, and either submit a portfolio (for painting or writing) or audition (for theater or music). You’d think all the effort someone has to go through to get into Culeco would’ve kept out bullies, but I guess not.

  I guess there are just too many of them in the world. If your school only allowed in kids who’d never pick on anyone, you’d have an empty school.

  Whatever. It’s not like I hadn’t learned how to handle bullies back in Connecticut.

  On Wednesday, between fourth and fifth periods, I went to the lockers, along with half a million other kids. I stowed my history book and grabbed math so I could do my homework during lunch, then opened my bag of magic tricks and put on my GOTCHA! stamp ring. We would be doing introductions in my eighth-period theater class, and I thought I could use it to demonstrate some sleight of hand. Magic is kind of my thing.

  I had a minute before I needed to go, so I took out my diabetes bag and fished out my glucose meter. I thought I’d be all right until lunch, but I’d started to feel spacey and dreamy at the end of my last class. Blood sugar levels might be falling. Best to check now.

  As I rummaged, I noticed the tall kid next to me struggling to get his locker open. He was as Cuban as they come: brown, built like a track-and-field champ, with a haircut so short you could see the bumpy skin of his scalp beneath what was left of his tiny curls. He’d wrestled with his combination lock yesterday, too, and never figured it out, so he’d had to carry a full backpack of books to his next class. I’d had trouble with my lock on the first day, until I’d figured out you have to squeeze it as you turn the dial.

  And I’m a nice guy. So I said to him, “Hey, man. My lock sucks, too. The trick is to squeeze the top while—”

  That’s all I got out before he punched his locker. The whole hallway grew a little quieter.

  Yasmany—I learned his name later, but why keep you
in suspense?—slowly turned to look at me. He scanned me up and down, doing some tough-guy calculations to figure out if he could take me.

  Apparently he thought he could, because he stepped up to me fast, ferocious, chest out, arms wide. He’d been in a lot of fights, judging from his flat-as-a-shamrock nose.

  “Just come back from safari, white boy?” he asked. “I mean, if you even are a boy.”

  Let’s take a second to break down this insult.

  The “safari” crack was because I had on canvas cargo pants and a cargo vest, each with four pockets brimming with gadgets and tricks of the trade. Pretty much all the clothes I own have tons of pockets. I’m ready to perform at any time. You never know when the world is going to need a little magic.

  The “white boy” crack was because—I guess?—to him I looked white. Back when I lived in Connecticut, kids were telling me to “go back to brown town” all the time. But I was in Miami now: new place, new rules about skin color.

  And the “if you are a boy”? I kept my hair pretty long. It gave me a place to hide stuff in the middle of a trick. And to this caveman’s mind, calling someone a girl was an insult.

  Whatever. I tried the My Little Pony approach to handling bullies. “Sorry. Just trying to help.” And I started to walk away.

  He body-blocked me. “You? Wanted to help me? Why would a sandwich like you think I’d need your help?”

  Now I looked him in the eye. “Your locker’s still locked, isn’t it?”

  I probably shouldn’t have said anything. But he called me a sandwich. Some insults you can’t let slide.

  In response, he did what bullies do. He slapped my diabetes bag out of my hands.

  It hit the ground with a glassy crunch. My stomach crunched right along with it.

  That pack contained my insulin, my syringes, my blood-glucose meter, my sharps disposal container (for used needles), my Band-Aids, and a fun-size bag of Skittles. If he broke something important in that pack, I could be in real trouble.

  I knelt down to pick it up, my hands shaking as they reached for the bag. I tried to relax. I closed my eyes, breathed slowly, and remembered what Papi had said to me after Mami died: Fear is your body trying to tell your brain what to do. But the brain is the king of the body. It calls the shots.