by Mia Darien
He looked up into the sun as it was lowering, then he and Gabby spoke at once, “It will be a full moon tonight.” The two looked at each other and laughed, then Gabby blushed slightly and looked to Jemi. “Want to sit? If Mica lets you, of course.” Another small laugh escaped her as the dog pressed into Jemi’s hand again.
She nodded with a smile. Touching the dog calmed her, but she was curious now. Jemi followed behind Tobias and Gabby, then sat at Gabby’s side. “Do you know where Winterhawk is?” she asked as Mica put his head in her lap.
Tobias smiled at Jemi, then at Gabby. “She has been out on a walk for a week. She has been staying at Mary’s home, hoping one day you would come back.” He stopped and his eyes narrowed as he took off his hat. “No, she knew you would be back. She told me a little while ago to keep my eyes out as the spirit of the wind was blowing someone home, but she didn’t know it would be you or she would have said.”
“Is that why you said Taku Skanskan told you to watch?” Jemi asked, then turned to Gabby. “Taku Skanskan is the master of the winds, and Wolf is one of his creatures.”
Gabby nodded, but turned to Tobias as he spoke, “Yes. In our last sweat lodge, he guided me that I would be welcoming a leaf upon the wind. It was pretty vague to be honest, but then the spirits usually are.”
Gabby laughed, and Jemi felt she should explain Gabby to him for some reason. She looked to the older woman, who seemed to know what she was asking and nodded. “Gabby is a druid. She honors other spirits than ours, but holds the ones of the land here sacred as well, just has never talked with them. I was with her one night watching her when Wolf came to me, and since then, Gabby has been helping me find my way back.”
The almost cocky grin the lawman had turned into a warm smile, dimples creasing his cheeks. “Then our people are in your debt, druid.”
Blushing softly, Gabby smiled. “Jemi is my friend, no one owes me a thing.”
He looked back at Jemi and asked, “You are what? Sixteen?”
Her comfort shrunk as he spoke. The legality of her being there was a problem and she knew it. “Yes, I couldn’t stay with the home I was in though.” She wouldn’t talk of the abuse she had taken there, but she was sure the pain and shame was in her eyes as she dropped them.
She had never told anyone, not even Gabby. The other woman placed an arm around her shoulder and hugged her gently. “She needed to find her family, and I will work with the courts to become her guardian, if necessary, to ensure she has what she needs.”
The woman’s words were fierce and protective and exactly the support Jemi needed, but in case it wasn’t enough, Mica pressed up on the bench and licked her face. “Is he really a coyote?”
Tobias’ eyes were on them, Jemi felt it and saw the thoughts flash through them. She wondered what they might be, then he spoke, “He is, found him out in the prairie. His mother had been poisoned and he was sick from her milk, so I took him in.”
As if knowing he was being talked about, the coyote looked across at the man, then sat and pressed his side into Jemi’s legs as his tongue lolled out of his mouth in a wolfish grin. “He is very well behaved,” Gabby said. “You have trained him well.”
“More he trained me, these are his visitor manners. He is much more a spirit of hospitality than I am, and Jemi there seems to have a way with him,” Tobias said. “I was going to put in a couple extra hours tonight, but with the full moon and all, should be a good night to try and find Winterhawk, don’t you all think?”
Jemi’s eyes lit up and her head bobbed. “You can do that? You know where she is?”
He shook his head slightly. “No one can find old wolf when she is alone but the spirits, and you, I think, as they are with you. But I am more than happy to help you on your way along with Gabby, if you will let me.”
Jemi looked up at Gabby, who hugged her gently once more then let her go. “It is your journey, Jemi. I am only here to support you.”
Looking back at Tobias, she said, “Please, I need to find her.”
The man stood. “Let me get you the spare key for her house. You can put your things there and change if you like. I will put together dinner and some things we will need to be out tonight. Come back when you are ready for dinner.”
“We appreciate your help,” Gabby said, then stood. “Come on, Jemi. If we are going out tonight, I certainly need to change out of my skirt.”
Tobias grinned, almost mirroring Mica’s look. “That is a shame, it is lovely on you.”
Jemi watched and laughed softly as Gabby blushed. “Thank you. We will be back later,” the older woman said, then looked at Jemi. “Shall we?”
They took the key and parked Gabby’s car at Jemi’s home. Nothing had changed from when Jemi left except for her grandmother’s room, which was clearly now Winterhawk’s. Jemi teased Gabby about Tobias, Gabby blushed as they spoke and readied themselves for the hike, denying any interest. It made Jemi relax and tease her even more. She was sixteen, not a baby, and she could see Gabby liked him. They both changed clothes, though Jemi did not have too many clothes to change into. Locking the house up again, they returned to Tobias’ home.
As they approached, they saw smoke and heard chanting. Walking around to the back of the house, they found him there, walking around a fire pit with a sage bundle. He raised and lowered it, making patterns in the evening breeze. His deep voice chanted to the spirits, and Jemi could see patterns and forms in the smoke. Gabby shuddered slightly next to her, then kneeled down to place a hand on the warm dirt. Mica came from within one of the plumes of smoke that carried from the fire out onto the prairie, stalking forward, slightly lowered to the ground, then lay at Jemi’s feet.
Jemi didn’t understand the words Tobias sang, but she felt them deep within her. As the spirits formed in the smoke, she saw them, the spirits of her dreams and of the stories Auntie Winterhawk told her, as they danced in the grey and the wind. Rising in height, then spilling out over the prairie, the last one, Wolf, curled around Jemi, then moved out after the others and made a path along the land that Jemi could see.
Stepping towards the path as Tobias’ song ended, Jemi watched and began to follow the spirits. “Dinner first,” Tobias said softly, stepping up next to her. “I will call again after we eat. That was the first call for them to bless our path, next call will be the one for guidance.”
Tipping her head to look up at him, she asked, “Can you see them too?”
“I am not a seer, but I can call them and feel them,” he said. “Around here, only your great-aunt can see them anywhere but dreams, and now you, it seems.” Flashing her a warm smile, he said. “Steak and salad for dinner all right? I didn’t know what either of you liked.”
Gabby spoke up, her voice a little quieter than normal. “I didn’t get to look this way avoiding meat. That sounds wonderful.”
Jemi nodded and watched as Tobias looked back at Gabby with a smirk. “I am glad, never could understand a person that didn’t like steak.”
Tipping his head toward the house, he allowed Jemi to walk before him. When they reached Gabby, he held a hand out to help her up. “You can feel them too, can’t you?” he asked.
Gabby looked up into his eyes. “Feel, yes, as you said, but I cannot see them. What you called is so different than what I normally work with, the wildness and depth of feeling they shared was almost overwhelming.”
He smiled warmly. “Come and be welcome to our lands, Gabby Williams. The spirits welcomed you, now it is my place to.” Jemi could see him squeeze Gabby’s hand then let go, leading them all in to eat.
After the meal, they went out and Tobias chanted again with Jemi standing where Wolf had walked from her earlier. This time, the smoke and the spirits she saw danced around her, moving to the song Tobias called. At the end of the song, Wolf appeared again to Jemi and began to walk out along the trail that led from the house. Jemi stepped forward and this time, Tobias and Gabby stepped behind her.
The light of the moon was brig
ht enough to light the path, but Jemi didn’t really need it. Wolf led her along a rise in the dirt, guiding her over a path along which Jemi would sense, then see the other spirits step up and fade away.
They walked for hours, but to Jemi, it felt like only a few minutes in a dream. Along the edge of a ravine, Wolf began to quicken her pace and Jemi moved in time. Tobias and Gabby used their lanterns to help mark the edge of the path. A small creek ran through the ravine, then into some of the famous Black Hills before them. Rising high overhead, the aged rocks stood. Upon the cliffs, Jemi could see the shadows of the warriors of her people, watching over them. A little further into the canyon, a small hide tent appeared. No fire stood before it, but the moon’s glow illuminated it in the dark of the night.
Slowly the flap opened and a small, older woman stepped out in a white deerskin dress ornately decorated with feathers, beads, and bone. Opening her arms, she cried as she saw Jemi walking to her. “Welcome home, daughter of Slade. Welcome home, spirit seer. Welcome home, my blood. Welcome home, earth’s daughter.”
Jemi ran into her great-aunt’s arms and from behind them, Mica began to yip and howl. The world around them came alive with other calls of the night animals, all joining in to welcome Jemi home.
From the Author: Some of the mythological details and information used here were found on the following website: www.theoi.com; http://www.theoi.com/Daimon/Oneiroi.html
(Five Years Previous to Main Events)
In Afghanistan, it was a great mercy when night fell. This war-ravaged country with its ancient hills and age old customs had the most beautiful sunsets. Yet it was the blanket of night that allowed for the most artistry.
The stunning moon let the mountains cast shadows over wavy fields of grass. Any precious water in the region could be kindled into twinkling, ethereal ripples. Old villages with collections of square mud buildings straight out of some long lost text were quiet and watchful.
Hoping to avoid destruction.
Scott was there to kill people. Specifically, the people there who wanted to kill him. To weed out the ones with the hateful eyes and murderous intentions. Remove their ability to control the region and be a threat.
There was no point sugarcoating a salty-sweat drenched, dust-caked quest for blood. He’d already experienced being face down with a dry throat, surrounded by clouds of smoke and showers of metal.
He’d grown accustomed to the pops and cracks that signaled incoming danger. The noises that meant a very possible, very real death. He’d fired his weapon along with his platoon, contributing to the racket of war. Eventually, the doom-laden vibrations would go away.
Scott, so far, had lived.
His patrol brought him past a poppy field. Here was the source of heroin and morphine: the opiate that could infect cities with crime and ruin, or provide hospitals with a means of pain relief. There was the occasional addict laying in waste as they patrolled compounds.
The very profitable drug trade, however you look at it.
Not like he hadn’t seen a heroin addict before in his own country. Nights out in town were filled with strung-out lost souls, wasting away in the shadows. Outside of the cozy pubs and stylish wine bars. On the cold, wet streets of a relatively wealthy country.
England.
Don’t give them any money. They will only spend it on more drugs. That’s what everybody says.
One night, near Piccadilly station in Manchester, Scott leaned over a homeless man and gave him a bottle of water, a cup of coffee, and a cheese and onion pasty. He dropped a couple of pound coins into the bloke’s little plastic cup.
Least he could have something to eat. A hot drink. He’s not all alone.
The scrawny lad stirred and his dirty fingers grasped the crinkly white paper around the pasty.
“There you go, mate, look after yourself. You’re too young to be wasting away like this.”
Scott smiled and carried on to the train station. It broke his heart. He’d always had a soft spot for troubled kids.
The young men and boys trying to kill me are deeply disturbed, easily manipulated, troubled kids.
Now, walking past an opium field, he thought of that scraggly teenager and hoped he’d eaten the pasty. Drank the coffee. Pocketed the water, and realised how much more precious it was than the drugs. How the world should value things like water and love above profit and power.
But that wasn’t something he could dwell on once the sounds of impending doom arrived. For now, things were quiet.
His boots trod the dirt path, his gaze scanning for any sign of IEDs. Perspiration dripped down his face and stung his eyes. Scott thought of the morphine auto-injector he carried in his pocket. He squinted, unable to escape the intensity of the air around him.
While his shock-proof glasses shielded his eyes and his helmet technically provided shade, his head still cooked inside it. It was like the burning sun had ways of slipping into every nook and cranny.
He couldn’t wait for sunset, and night’s descent. Freedom from the scorching sun. Scott was beginning to understand the simple pleasure of sitting in the shade.
He’d begun to crave it.
This would be his last tour. His dad had died a couple of years ago, and Mum long before that. He’d decided to go into teaching at a local school.
When his folks were alive, he would have lunch with them, sitting on a bench in St. Ann’s Square. He remembered walking past St. Ann’s Church, with its reddish brown stone structure and the stained glass windows. How different the ground was there in town. Scattered rain puddles would collect in the random depressions of the grey slates.
In front of the church, there were a couple of curved wood and metal benches where it was possible to sit and have a sandwich.
“I will meet my future wife here. This is it where I’ll meet her.” The romantic fantasy of a little boy.
And just before he passed, his dad had patted his hand and said, “You go on, lad. You go to St. Ann’s Square and meet your lady. I know you will… I know you will…”
At the time, it was too painful to consider. Scott just wanted to escape into his call to be a warrior. To prove to himself he had what it took. To make the spirits of his parents proud. He’d almost forgotten his romantic side in the pain of his unbearable loss.
The day he’d walked away from the hospital after his father died, he’d felt some foreign touch on his arm. Like someone had firmly stroked him with the tip of their finger. Written on him. Yet Scott was too distracted by grief to pay attention or remember.
His platoon was nearly finished with their patrol. As they set about heading in the other direction, all Scott could think of was how those benches in front of St. Ann’s church seemed like heaven.
He absently rubbed the top of his arm and looked to the side, bemused by the sensation. It felt like powdery dust had been smeared on his flesh.
Something he hadn’t noticed before. What the hell is that? he thought, still trying to rub the side of his arm.
Then a shrill noise made him look at the sky. The pitch of it struck him like a blow. It was more of a living shriek.
Like an animal.
Then there was a pounding sound. The ferocity of his heartbeat competed with the pulsating noise.
A helicopter?
But it was wings.
Some sort of eagle, owl or falcon? he thought.
The mad scream hit the air again and he started looking around.
“Did you hear that?’
Scott couldn’t catch his breath. The other members of his platoon didn’t appear to be reacting. They continued in their quiet progress while he was captured by a menace only he could sense. Scott was being singled out.
Trapped.
Scott feared he was going to be one of those who cracked. One who lost it under all the pressure and heat, crumbled under the weight of fear. That he was now a liability to the others.
I’ll get through this. I’ll get through. I’ll make it through to anothe
r night. I’ll get to St. Ann’s Square, clear-headed and intact. I will. I. Will.
The wings made a deep whooshing sound followed by the barbaric wail. The plumes of smoke got far too close. Then everyone else reacted. They threw themselves to the ground.
Someone or something was pulling him. It was like he was being split. Something was trying to rip him from himself. An agonizing tearing savaged his core.
The demon clawed at him. Scott screamed and roared back.
He didn’t manage to get to his morphine injector.
He hated the sound of the helicopter blades. It was too similar to the beating wings, those awful expanses of doom.
Dozing in and out, the cooking heat turned to air conditioning. Air conditioning turned to cool, outdoor air. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Could neither see nor feel his limbs.
There was the beep-beep-beep of medical machines.
The white and grey air in front of him had hazy moving shapes. There was pressure in his veins. Morphine? The world before him kept flickering. Scott wasn’t sure what part of it he was in.
The light from whatever window beside him was getting dimmer.
It’s nighttime. Finally. I’ve got to get to St. Ann’s Square…if I can just get in front of the church.
And then, he could see it. The rain-wet stones, moon-cast shadows, street lights…
And the great night sky above the church in the very centre of the city.
* * *
Five Years On
It was getting closer and closer to Summer Solstice, and the evening’s late sunsets were bewitching. Like the darkest, most dangerous night masquerading with the innocence of day.
The dingy corners and alleys in Manchester never bothered Amanda. Her heart held an unwavering faith in the power of love. Kindness and love always took precedence inside her. Wherever she went, even in the rougher parts of town, Amanda could envision love taking place there.
But romantic love was her favorite.
Romance, kisses, binding ceremonies that signified a gateway to a life of loving someone. Knowing them.
