by Dixie Lyle
I cradled Ben’s head in my lap. He coughed a few times, and his eyelids fluttered.
“So that’s what this is?” I asked. “You’re counting coup on another Thunderbird? Why? Who, exactly, are you demonstrating your bravery for?”
She shook her head. “This isn’t about bravery. It’s about me asserting my power over another member of my tribe. It was never my intention to steal Ben’s powers, Foxtrot, but it was vital that I demonstrate exactly where he and I stood in relation to each other, and that I do it in a formal, ritual manner. He was raised in a culture very different from that of his ancestors, and I needed to remind him of his roots.”
“What?” Ben moaned. “Ahh. Make the world stop spinning…”
“Many Native American tribes are matriarchal,” Teresa said. “So are Thunderbirds. I’m not Ben’s enemy, Foxtrot. I’m his teacher.”
Ben sat up. He looked at me first, a little groggily, and said, “I don’t want to go to school today, I’m sick.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “You can stay home, drink ginger ale, and watch cartoons.”
He put one hand to his head. “Oww. Did I win?”
“Not so much. But you did come in second, and that’s still pretty good.”
He mustered enough energy for a glare. “I’m not finished.” He tried to stand up, failed completely, and wound up rolling away from me. He made it to his knees, then lurched over to the edge of the rock and retched.
“No,” said Teresa, “you’re not. You’re just getting started. Meet me here tomorrow, same time, and I’ll show you how to do that ice tornado trick.”
Ben turned around, stared at her, and blinked. “You’re not going to de-thunder me?”
“Not if you show up on time and pay attention in class.”
“Uh … okay?”
“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She rose into the air, a whirlwind forming around her, and vanished.
Ben and I looked at each other. “Why was she naked?” Ben asked.
I grinned. “After what just happened, that’s your first question?”
“It seemed like a good place to start.”
“I’m guessing she ditched her clothes when she changed shape.”
“She changed shape? Into what?”
I sighed. “A gigantic marshmallow man. Into a bird, doofus. Any guesses what kind?”
He rubbed his forehead with both hands. “No, that one seems pretty obvious. Sorry, my brain’s still in neutral. What just happened?”
“A giant supernatural bird just kicked your butt with an electric hail vortex. But you put up enough of a fight that she doesn’t consider you totally hopeless, so instead of taking your powers away she’s going to train you how to use them. Got it?”
“I think I’m going to throw up again.”
But he didn’t. He just took a few deep breaths, stared out at the sky—which was now a pretty, cloudless blue—and said, “She’s not the enemy.”
“Doesn’t look like it. We had a talk before you woke up, and she informs me that Thunderbirds are a matriarchy. She just felt she needed to make that clear in a way you would understand.”
“Huh. She could have just told me.” He didn’t sound resentful, and I thought that was probably a good thing.
“Like you would have listened.”
“I’m not completely thick-skulled.”
“No, just mostly.” I walked over to where he stood and took his hand. “You need to learn when to let people help you. Nobody can do it all on their own.”
“Says the woman who does everything for everyone.”
“Yes, but not by myself. I have partners. I have friends. I have people I trust to look out for me when I can’t look out for myself.”
He met my eyes, then looked away. “Okay, okay,” he sighed. “I may have a problem when it comes to letting others give me a hand. It’s just that I always felt I needed to prove myself, you know? You might think suddenly being able to control the weather would make you feel powerful, but mostly I feel like I’m a kid again. Not knowing exactly what I’m supposed to do, just knowing I can’t screw it up.”
“That’s not how kids are supposed to feel,” I said softly.
“Maybe not. But that’s what it was like in my family. ‘You’re responsible for your own success and your own mistakes,’ my father always said. I guess that’s why I always fought so hard to win on my own terms—if I was going to take all the blame for my failures, then I was sure as hell going to take all the credit for my accomplishments.”
“No one’s trying to take anything away from you. Especially not me.”
He looked back at me, his dark eyes serious. “I know that. You’re good at giving—I’m just not so good at receiving. Some part of me needs to earn what I get, and another part feels that I’ve haven’t earned anything in my life. I didn’t earn these powers, I inherited them. I didn’t earn my job, it was given to me.”
“No. Opportunities are what you were given. It’s what you do with them that earns you the right to keep them. That’s how it works for everyone. And you do a damn fine job of earning that, every day.”
“Well, I haven’t given anybody food poisoning, yet. Or flooded a town.”
“True,” I said. “And as much as you hate to accept gifts, you’ve just been given another opportunity—the chance to learn how to really use your powers. Which, considering your stance on responsibility, I really think you should take advantage of.”
“So you trust her now?”
“Hell, no. But I trust you. And I don’t believe she means you any harm. She may not be a stellar human being, but she seems to be on our side. Or your side, anyway.”
“And how about you?” He took my other hand in his. “Are you still on my side?”
“Always,” I said. Then, being no fool, I kissed him. On the cheek, because he’d just thrown up.
Did I mention that times passes differently in the Thunderbird realm? You can stay there for an hour or two and only minutes go by back in the default world. Why, you could spend a whole morning in the Aerie—even sunbathing in the nude if you wanted, because who would see you?—before going back to plain old reality. Yep, you could totally do that.
But it would help if you came prepared.
* * *
“Next time?” I said as the winds spiraled up and Thunderspace faded away, “I’m coming prepared. A blanket, some sunscreen, and definitely some food. I am starving.”
He wrapped an arm around me and pulled me closer. “Well, we did burn off more than a few calories…”
[Ahem.]
“Oh, hello,” I said to my two partners. “We’re, um, back.”
Whiskey discreetly sniffed the air. [Indeed. May I conclude from the post-coital pheromones you’re both exuding that the duel went successfully and this is a celebratory occasion? Or is it more in the nature of a reconciliation in the aftermath of crushing defeat?]
I looked around, stretched, and yawned. “Not as simple as all that, kitty. Ben lost the duel, but won … a scholarship, I guess.”
[Intriguing. She’s taking you under her wing, then?]
[No, your line was going to be about dismembering and eating a Thunderbird, and speculations about its flavor.]
[Quite right. I apologize for inadvertently invoking a metaphor that was situationally awkward, and follow that with congratulations to Mr. Montain on retaining said weather phenomena for himself. Does this mean you’re departing for some sort of extradimensional college, or will we have the pleasure of once more enjoying your daily cuisine?]
Ben laughed. “I’m coming back to the kitchen, Whiskey. Foxtrot convinced me to stick around for a while, anyway
. But yeah, looks like I’ll be studying with Professor Firstcharger, too.”
Tango gave an annoyed flick of her head.
Ben bent down and stroked Tango’s back. “It won’t be like that, kitty. I think we’ll do most of it in Thunderspace. What do you say we celebrate with some of those CatYummi treats you like so much?”
“Where to?”
Ben grinned. He has one helluva grin. “Right.”
“Got it.” Tango trotted away, then stopped and looked back. Ben surrendered to the inevitable and followed her. “Guess I know what I’m doing for the foreseeable future.”
“Don’t be too hard on François,” I called after him. “He knows he’s only temporary.”
“He better not have rearranged my pots…”
Whiskey and I watched them go. [Well. That seems to have worked out.]
“One crisis down. Well, two, actually; three if you count my love life. A good morning.”
[One that’s barely started. The sun just came up.]
“Oh, right, the time difference thing. Hey, if we hurry we can still make breakfast. I am starving.”
But then I heard the sirens.
As I realized they were getting closer, I broke into a run, Whiskey at my heels. Oh, well—three solutions forward, one problem back. That’s a dance step I’m all too familiar with: the Catastrophe Foxtrot, named after its creator and most experienced practitioner.
I just hoped nobody else had died.
* * *
The sirens, it turned out, were those of a police vehicle as opposed to fire or ambulance. It seemed Sheriff Brower had decided to make a spectacular entrance—either that or he’d forgotten how to work the on/off switch for the siren, which was also entirely plausible. The amount of respect I have for Brower is equivalent to the admiration Tango has for swimming dogs, which is zero. She likes to watch them, though; when I asked why, she made an optimistic reference to sharks and drowning.
I sighed as I walked into the house via the back door, and wondered if Brower ever went to the beach. Maybe I could send him a surfboard anonymously. And a one-way ticket to Australia.
I found him in the foyer, talking to ZZ. Brower’s in his sixties, with thinning white hair and a protruding belly; ZZ’s around the same age, but she carries her years with a great deal more grace and style. Today’s style was an art-print T-shirt of Godzilla stomping on Rush Limbaugh, with black yoga pants and gladiator sandals. Brower was dressed like a sheriff, or at least someone who liked to pretend he was one.
“And I’m telling you, ZZ,” Brower fumed, “I have a warrant for her arrest. I know she’s staying here, so tell me where she is!”
“If you have a warrant, show it to me,” ZZ said pleasantly. She had this trick where she would match her politeness and cordiality to the other person’s belligerence, becoming nicer and nicer as her victim got more and more upset. Brower always seemed to fall for it.
“It’s just a figure of speech,” said Brower. “It means I have a good reason to arrest her and that’s what I’m going to do.”
Brower seems to have gleaned most of his legal knowledge from watching cop shows and action movies. “It’s not just a figure of speech,” I said. “It’s an actual, real document. You don’t need one to arrest her, of course—but you do need to have some kind of reason. Who are we talking about?”
I was secretly hoping it was Teresa Firstcharger, but Brower surprised me by saying, “Theodora Bonkle. I know she’s here, so you’d best give her up.”
I knew Brower wasn’t going to give me any more information than he had to, but I had to ask. “On what charges?”
“I don’t have to answer that unless you’re her lawyer. Are you?”
“No. But I am the one that can probably locate her.”
“Then do it. I’ll wait.”
I looked to ZZ for guidance, since it was her call. She nodded and said, “Go ahead, dear. Give her a call and see if you can find her, anyway.”
I pulled out my phone, got Theodora’s number and hit call. She answered right away. “Hello?”
“Hi, Theodora, it’s Foxtrot. How’s your day going?”
“Oh, fine, fine. Last night was somewhat eventful, but a good night’s rest has put it all in perspective. And you?”
“Oh, you know—same old same old. Listen, there’s a police officer here who would like to talk to you. Do you have any idea why?”
“Yes, I’m reasonably certain I do. I expect he wants to arrest me.”
“Why?”
“Well, that’s a bit of a tale. Is there any chance I could regale you with it over a hot cup of tea?”
“Fine by me. Just hold on a second.” As I talked I used one thumb to turn the sound all the way down, then took the phone from my ear and looked at it in irritation. “Damn. I got cut off. Sorry, Sheriff. ZZ, can I try yours?”
ZZ has the same model of phone as I do. I took hers and pretended to call Theodora back. “Can’t get a connection. Oh, well, I’m sure she’ll call back.” I casually pretended to hand ZZ’s phone to her, but palmed it at the last second while surreptitiously slipping my own phone into my pocket. Now that I had both phones I breezily said, “Well, I was just on my way to grab some breakfast. I’ll let you know if she calls back—”
Brower held up one beefy hand. “Foxtrot. Give me your phone, please.”
“Why?”
“So you can’t call Miss Bonkle back and warn her. You think I was born yesterday? Now give it here or I’ll charge you with obstruction of justice.”
I resisted the urge to make any sort of reply, and instead handed him ZZ’s phone with a resentful frown. ZZ herself didn’t say a word, just smiled at me in a Good job, dear, sort of way. Then I turned around, marched resentfully away, and once I was out of sight in the kitchen I put my own phone up to my ear and turned the volume back up. “Sorry about that. Earl Grey okay?”
“Splendid.”
“And where am I bringing it to?”
“Ah. Well, that’s a bit unusual, I’m afraid. I’m in an animal pen of some sort. In the menagerie.”
“Um. Which one?”
“I’m not sure, honestly. I was following Doc and Very; it was their idea, you see. In hindsight that may not have been the wisest course of action, but I was feeling a bit anxious.”
Anxious enough to follow your hallucinatory friends into a wild animal pen, I thought. I just hoped it wasn’t the jaguar or that boar with the enormous tusks. “Look around you, Theodora. Tell me what you see.”
“I’m in a small, shed-like enclosure. There’s some straw on the floor, which I’m reclining on. I had thought I was alone, but I see now there’s something in the corner under the straw. Not terribly large, perhaps the size of a beaver. White fur, with darkish bits. Can’t see it terribly well.”
“White fur with darkish—wait, like white on top and dark on the bottom?”
“Ah, it’s shifting a bit. Yes, that seems to be accurate. Looks a bit like an oversized skunk, really, though it doesn’t smell like one.”
I swallowed. “I’ll be right there, Theodora. Whatever you do, don’t antagonize it.”
And then I was running, the phone still to my ear, calling out mentally for Tango to meet me immediately.
At the honey badger pen.
* * *
Honey badgers, for those of you who aren’t familiar, are native to South Africa. In terms of durability, attitude, and behavior, they make a wolverine look like a field mouse. Their skin is so tough it can deflect arrows, they will eat anything—including hooves and horns—and seem to be incapable of fe
ar. A honey badger is like a small, stubborn, hungry tank, one that considers lions a minor annoyance and cobras a tasty snack. Their totem animal is Chuck Norris.
And now Theodora had invaded a honey badger’s home. Well, not its actual home—it was staying in a temporary pen while Caroline made some modifications to its old one. Honey badgers are also smart, and if you aren’t very, very careful, they’ll escape.
And this honey badger, unfortunately, I knew all too well.
I heard Tango in my head before I saw her.
Theodora’s in the pen with the honey badger.
Owduttf was an acronym for what the honey badger claimed was its name: “One Who Does Unspeakable Things To Foxtrot.” That was the short, paraphrased version, as the real thing went on for a while, making it hard to pronounce.
Also, it was horrifying. And extremely personal.
I got there at the same time as Tango. “Okay, Theodora, I’m here,” I said into my phone. “What’s the honey badger doing?”
“Snuffling, mainly. He knows I’m here but hasn’t approached. Doesn’t seem all that bothered, really.”
Which meant nothing. Honey badgers didn’t really get bothered, they just wreaked destruction. “Just stay still for a moment, okay?”
“I shall, certainly. But I’m afraid I can’t say the same for Doc or Very.”
“Just—just let them do their own thing. I don’t think the badger will notice.”
Let’s start by getting his attention. Fortunately, Tango spoke fluent Honey Badger. Hey, Owduttf! I thought. Long time no see!
Tango listened to my thoughts, then translated them into a series of grunts, snorts, and chuffing. After a moment, a reply in the same vein issued from inside the enclosure, and the conversation was on.
