by Faith Hunter
And now Beast was bound to Leo. I chuffed with amusement. We had changed places.
I turned and leaped into the limbs of tree with winter leaves. Walked along limb. Leaped to top of brick fence and over, into dark. I lifted snout into wind and smelled big water, river, name twisting like snake. It was too far to walk, but close to ride. Beast needed truck heading to sunset. I trotted along road, watching for truck, feeling new weight and power and mass in body and limbs. Jane did good. Jane did very good.
Trucks were few and I walked long before I saw/heard truck in distance, growling like Leo, eyes bright like twin stars, going toward river. I jumped into tree and crouched. Thinking. Beast will have to land lightly, or new mass will rock truck, like throwing prey to its knees. I crouched, and when truck was beneath I leaped forward, in direction of truck and landed lightly, scrabbling with paw and claws on truck top until balance was found. Then I settled, snout to the air, smelling, mouth open, lips stretched back to show killing teeth to world. Beast is big! Beware of Beast!
• • •
Truck stopped before reaching river, roaring heart gone silent. I landed in shadows at tail of truck. But truck had no tail. Not even boar tail or bison tail. No tail at all. Truck had no blood and had bones of metal. Was alive and not alive. Still did not understand. I wandered off into night, following wind that called to me of fish and water and river birds asleep on banks.
World fell away before and below. River with snaky name was down cliffs, farfarfar. Much farther across river was land—city of Vidalia—and man lights, to steal vision. But here night was greens and silvers and grays; water was rich and powerful, rising with mist on chilled air. I liked twisty big water. Scented water birds on air and alligator and fish and human smells of gas and oil and stinky breath of trucks and boats. One long boat floated below, calling lonesome into dark. Boat was barge. Remembered barge from hunger times. Sick and dying humans on board as it floated by. I snorted at remembered stink of putrid flesh.
Opened mouth to cleanse away stink memory, pulling in river air over roof of mouth with soft screee of sound. Flehmen behavior, Jane called scenting. Upstream, smelled human town of Natchez. Below, smelled/saw/tasted water. Had not rushed down cliff in many moon times, and this cliff had no rock to secure landing. But did have trees and roots and places to land/leap.
I spotted a limb far down cliff face and gathered body close, paws together beneath belly. Leaped. Extending front legs and front claws. Landed and pushed again, jumping to small root, too small for Beast mass, landed and pushed again, hearing old root crack and break. Body flying like bird, fastfastfast, downdowndown, hit log buried in up-and-down mud with front paws and shoved, twisting body, whirling tail for balance. Go-bag slid and bumped neck. Body went to side and small ledge of sand. Hit and pushed, hit and pushed, down and down and side and side, bag and nugget bouncing. Swiveled body, changed direction, landed, pushed. Heard falling stones and mud and man waste of plastic bottles and cups falling, slower than Beast.
I slammed into small tree, its roots clinging for life into mud and dirt. Roots held and Beast stopped. Fast. Hit hard on chest and belly. Chuffed with delight. Water was close, whispering like low growl of big-cat and vampires and like thump of many running prey through ground.
Vibrations, Jane thought at me, waking up from sleep of shift into Beast. The vibrations of the water grinding on the earth, like a snake grinds on the ground to— Hey. How’d we get . . . ? No way. You did not jump. Crap. You are insane.
I chuffed with laughter. Was good leap. Ground is close.
No! Ground is, like, thirty feet below us.
Not far. I leaped and bounded from small limb, letting it bend with our greater weight and mass. Landed on mud at bottom. Jane said words in mind, words that she did not like. I chuffed again. Jane was frightened of short jump. Jane was silly like kit. I looked up cliff to sky, hidden by rising earth. Jane went silent in shock, as if shot by man gun. I chuffed again with laughter.
I hungered after shift and trotted upstream. Found sleeping place of water birds, all silent, white feathers bright under pregnant moon. I leaped and caught birds in claws of each front paw. Feathers flew into the dark. Birds made no sound of fear or death, but all other birds screamed and flew into night. Both birds in claws died. I ate, crunching bones and swallowing feathers and webbed feet and spitting out long bones and curved beak. Egrets were much good taste but not enough meat for new Beast shape and size. Wanted deer. Looked across snaky river to see deer on far side, safe from Beast. Snorted. Sneaky deer, to live on other side of river.
I smelled herbed smoke on wind. Stopped, snout high, sniffing. I remembered this scent.
Herbed wood smoke, Jane whispered. Dried sweetgrass and sage. A tribal Indian scent.
I sniffed into wind and trotted from bloody sleeping-place of birds. In distance, I saw flickering light. Fire. I slowed and curved from water toward fire. Scents grew stronger. Fire was burning plants used in Jane-ceremonies. I dropped to belly and crept closer, paws pulling-pushing me to light. When fire was close, the I/we of Beast slowed, stopping beneath leaves of winter plant, hidden.
Sitting across fire was tribal Indian woman, like Jane, but also different. Jane had strong nose and chin and golden skin. Woman across fire had knobbed nose and chin and darker skin, like metal coin humans used, left long in sun.
Old copper, Jane whispered to mind, seeing skin. Sniffing odor of fire she thought, Rosemary, sage, sweetgrass, and marijuana. Weird.
Old Indian woman smiled across fire, looking at Beast hidden in shadows. She had gray hair worn in a single braid over shoulder, and she wore a dress made from grain sacks, maybe blue with yellow flowers. Hard to tell in Beast night vision. On her feet were boots made from the skin of deer decorated with dyed porcupine quills. This is the woman from the photograph, Jane whispered to me, but old. Really old. I dropped head to paws, jaw heavy, ears curled forward. Nostrils wide and fluttering, I scented.
“Come, skinwalker,” the old woman said softly. “Sister of my people. Conqueror of my people. Come make ceremony with me.”
I brought paws beneath me, tight, ready for killing attack or running away, shoulders high.
Listen, Jane said to me. Listen to her!
“Come,” the old woman repeated. “Sit with me.” Smoke billowed before the wind. “Nuwhtohiyada gotlvdi,” she whispered. They were old words, Make peace with me, in Cherokee dialect. The words the white man spoke to the Cherokee before he stole the Cherokee land and forced the tribe west. Beast remembered, remembered the lie. Humans lied. Humans always lied.
But this is an Indian woman, Jane thought. Not the white man, not the speaker of lies.
“You will come to the church on the cliff at dawn,” the old woman said. “It is an old church, white painted. A tiny chapel with a very tall narrow steeple. It smells of humans and witches and much time. Its roof is stone, like overlapping leaves in the sun, dark gray in the moon. And it is no more.” She gave me an address on Jefferson Street. “You will come in human form. And you will know what you wish to know.”
The old woman leaned forward and tossed branches on the fire. The scent of burning rosemary filled the air, intense, hurting my nostrils. I backed away on slow paws, leaving tracks in sand from river. Smoke from the fire billowed up and burned my eyes, and I backed faster. When the smoke cleared, the flames were gone. I pawed forward. The old woman was gone too. I crawled to the fire, smelling an ancient flame wet from many rains, cold for many more than five days.
She was never here, Jane murmured. But . . . I’ve seen that church. I’ve seen it in a . . . a photo somewhere. Back at Esmee’s. And if I remember right, it burned down in the sixties. We need to get back up the cliff.
I tilted neck up. And up. Long climb. Better if Jane walks than Beast. I thought of Jane snake. And entered place of change.
No!
But it was too late. Beast was gone. Jane remained.
• • •
“You snea
ky dang cat!” I dressed in the lightweight clothes in the go-bag: thin pants, flip-flops, long-sleeved tee, and a cheap hoodie. Somehow I’d forgotten to fold in panties, so I went without. Dressed, I looked up the cliff, which was a lot smaller here than where Beast had made her descent, and spotted a narrow path, something suited to a mountain goat, but it would have to do. Luckily, someone human used the path often enough to have left handholds of knotted ropes tied to roots and trees, and deep depressions where feet might go. I lost my flip-flops on the way up and arrived barefoot, sweating in the icy air and chilled to the bone, muscles quivering with fatigue and hunger, which was the body’s way of asking, What are you doing, idiot?
Once at the top, I saw the lights of Natchez in the distance and thought about calling a taxi. Instead I called Eli, who answered on the first ring. “’Sup?”
“I need a ride and some clothes. I’m about a mile upstream of Natchez. I can see the city lights in the distance. And I see a car running parallel to the river, maybe a thousand feet from the river.”
“Clothes? You want me to bring you clothes?”
“I’m not naked; I’m just underdressed for the weather. And bring boots and weapons. I have a place we need to check out. And stop and get some burgers. Maybe six.”
To his credit, Eli didn’t waste time with inanities like “Why?,” “How?,” or “Are you insane?” He said, “Google says Cemetery Road parallels the river. Get to the road. I’m not coming in the woods to find you.”
“And socks,” I added, but he had hung up. I started for the road in the distance and learned real quick about the burr grasses that grew offshore. The round, spiked seeds hurt like a son of a gun, and stuck fast to bare skin or clothes until pulled out. I said some more words I’d not repeat to a housemother, but I made it to the road in under an hour, which felt like good time, except that I could see an SUV parked on the verge in the grasses. He saw me waving and limping and was sporting nearly a full-sized grin by the time I got in and slammed the door.
There were no overhead lights, and so I demanded, “Flashlight.” Eli passed the oversized torch into my hand with a splat, like a tech with a surgical instrument. I used the bright beam to examine my sore feet. They were bloody, and several long slender thorns were deeply embedded. “If you make fun, I’ll hurt you,” I snarled.
“Me?” It was said with an attempt at innocence and a stifled snicker.
I slanted my eyes at him with a look that promised pain, and picked out the splintered thorns as Eli made a three-point turn. I remembered the street name of the church we were going to, though not the number, and I gave Eli directions before climbing into the backseat and changing clothes. I was relatively sure he didn’t watch, but I smelled his amusement and practically felt his stifled desire to mock. We were back in town, stopped at a traffic light, when he said, oh, so casually, “So, you shifted and went hunting?”
I thought about not answering, but the cat was out of the bag, literally, and there was no point not sharing. I climbed back into the front seat, pulled on my old, scratched, worn, Lucchese boots. I started braiding my hair and said, “Yeah.”
A weight fell off me, so heavy it moved like a landslide, thick and full of dangerous debris, a rumbling that I felt from scalp to toes. I took a breath and it felt just the opposite, weightless and softly lit, as if by candlelight. I blinked into the night, seeing but not seeing old houses and businesses as we motored past. All I’d said was Yeah, but it was like I found something that had been buried for eons. A smile formed on my face, all unwittingly, and to hide my reaction, which felt deeply private and personal and stupid too, I said, “So. Burgers? I smell ’em.”
Eli handed me a paper bag with golden arches on it and I chowed down, putting away three of them in less than a minute, describing the church remembered from the photo between swallows of half-chewed bites of burger.
“Your mama nev—” He stopped abruptly, and I breathed out my laughter through my nose.
“I’m sure my mama taught me to chew my food. Right after I brought it down and ripped out its throat.”
Eli laughed with me, a chortling snicker, soft but explosive. “Yeah. Okay.” He pointed. “That the church?”
“Yeah.” Eli pulled over and I got out, smoothing my palms on my jeans. I wasn’t nervous. Not really. Or not totally. But my palms were sweating. Eli appeared beside me and I jumped. I hadn’t heard him get out or walk to me. Okay, so I was nervous. “You mind waiting outside?” I asked.
“You mind taking a weapon?” He extended two of my own semiautomatics snapped into their leather holsters: the matching Walther PK380s. The handguns were lightweight and ambidextrous, with bloodred polymer grips loaded with standard rounds, in the event of a human or blood-servant attack. Normally, one went under my arm, its twin at the small of my back. “That is why you had me bring them, right?”
“No. Not right now.” I wiped my palms again, this time feeling the damp of sweat through to my skin, chilled by the night air. “That’s for later, if we need them. I can’t take weapons into the church.”
Eli shrugged and locked the guns in the case in the back of the SUV. As he came back toward me, I said, “Eli? The church may not really be there. Okay?” To his credit, Eli merely wrinkled his forehead. I headed up the white walk. It started to rain, soft, heavy splats that fell straight down and left marks on the white concrete shaped like the burrs I’d pulled from my flesh. It seemed significant somehow, that the bloody burrs and the raindrops left similar imprints. I reached the church doors, narrow and twelve feet tall, painted the color of old blood. Lightning flashed and hit with a sizzling crack that brightened the world, and the door turned color for a moment to teal green. I pushed both doors open and they felt oily and damp beneath my hand, the dark of the church ahead, the dark of night behind. They stayed canted open as I entered, the night breeze and scent of rain following me inside.
The interior of the church had oiled wooden floors composed of boards twelve inches wide, walls painted white, and benches stained a dark brown. Lightning flashed again, and the sound of raindrops began on the roof overhead, a muted water on stone. I heard a scratching sound and a light appeared ahead under the cross at the front of the church, a lantern lit by a woman’s hand with a paper taper, her body oddly obscured by shadows. I walked forward, my boots echoing off the walls.
The old woman from the river appeared out of the gloom, lit by the tiny flame, still wearing the blue-and-yellow-flowered dress. I sniffed and smelled polishing wax, wilting lilies, the smoke from the match, and another person—a witch—but the scents were faint, as if left over from a long time in the past, and there weren’t enough of them. Even if the church wasn’t still used for worship, there should have been the scents of human tourists, paint, mold . . . but there wasn’t.
The light grew as I approached, and I looked back at the sound of a ringing thud. My shadow reached out behind me, darkening and lengthening as I kept walking forward. The doors had closed behind me, shutting off my escape. Little fear critters latched onto my spine, clinging to the fine hairs there. My breathing went deep as my heart sped. I turned back to the light and to the old woman from the riverbank.
She was American Indian, but I was less certain of her tribe as I got closer, and I didn’t know how to approach, exactly, except as a petitioner. That was why I’d left my weapons behind. She was sitting on the small podium, her feet dangling off the edge, soft-soled boots barely scraping the floor.
“You came,” she said, her accent not quite what I had remembered; less Louisianan or Mississippian, more Texan, maybe.
“I came,” I said. “My father was ani gilogi, Panther Clan of the Tsalagi. My mother was ani sahoni, Blue Holly Clan.” She nodded for me to continue, and I said, “I am called Jane Yellowrock, or Yellow-Eyes Gold, Dalonige i Digadoli, in the tongue of The People.”
“Yellow-Eyes Yellowrock. A strange name for a child. But the people of my mother were always a little pretentious, a little bit touch
ed in the head. Not right since the nunna dual tsuny, the time of the Trail of Tears.” She must have noticed some small reaction at the insult because she laughed, not unkindly, and waved the words away, saying, “Don’t take offense. It’s just the words of an old woman who has lived too long and forgotten how to be careful of her tongue. No offense was meant.”
One did not take offense at the capriciousness of the very old. I tilted my head in acceptance, waiting.
She pursed her mouth as if thinking. “I am half-Cherokee, part Choctaw, a small part Natchez, and some white man, but we all have that.” When I didn’t reply, she went on, “Call me Kathyayini. It means ‘Goddess of Power’ in Cherokee. Like I said, a pretentious people. You know why I called you here. Yes?”
I shook my head. “Not entirely, no.”
“My son married an Acheé woman. He does not know his wife is a witch or that his mother is a spirit walker.” When I looked puzzled, she said, “A wise woman with the power to walk in dreams.”
Kathyayini rocked back and forth as if she were in a rocking chair, giving me time to absorb her words. The smell of the candle was filling the chapel, a sharp herbal scent like rosemary and lime. The power to walk in dreams. Like Aggie One Feather, back in New Orleans? I remembered the dreams I’d had in the sweathouse, and the forms Aggie had taken in them. Could she walk in dreams too? “Okay,” I said.
“Okay,” she repeated. “This old woman wants her secrets, and the secrets of the women, kept secrets,” Kathyayini said. “The men, they are no good with secrets. They freak out.”
I breathed out my laughter at the modern word on the old woman’s lips, and Kathyayini laughed with me. “I think it’s a bit late about the witches and Acheé men. They know. I’m sure the cops told them.”
“Stupid cops.” She shook her head. “No good comes of men knowing secrets. They do best when protected.
“I can see your soul, you know,” she went on. “Old soul. Older than me. Skinwalker soul. I only ever see one like it, and she was even older than you. Long time ago, in another place,” she said before I could ask. “You also coated with magics: magic of skinwalker, magic of a mountain lion, magic of blood-charms. Dark magic, blood-magic charms. You should throw them away. They no good for you.” I remembered the charms in the boot box back at Esmee’s and on the table with our files, and the blood diamond, hidden in a safe-deposit box.
