Nightingale

by David Farland

  People had built whatever they wanted. Olivia passed a little pine-shaded park where a sign announced "Mortensen Reunion." Perhaps a hundred cars crowded around.

  Olivia stopped at a restaurant next to a gaudy statue of a giant horse and purchased dinner. It came in a brown paper bag that smelled heavenly. Moments later they reached the entrance to the campground for Pine Valley Reservoir.

  A ranger's hut squatted in the middle of the road; a tourist had stopped his car at the hut's window, and he was buying a permit to enter. Bron wondered if Olivia lived in the park—maybe in a ranger's cabin, or in a camping trailer?

  But Olivia turned onto the very last driveway before the park. Cedar poles formed a gate on each side of the driveway, and a huge log overhead, split down the middle, served as the backdrop for a sign that read "Heaven's Gate Ranch."

  "Great," Bron said, eying some black-and-white cattle grazing in the distance. "Am I going to have to milk those things?" For a moment, he almost longed to be slaving away for the Stillmans. At least they didn't have barns to clean and stinky cows to milk.

  "Those are beef cattle," Olivia said. "No one milks them. Mike takes care of them—though he might need you to help chase one down if it breaks through a fence."

  A ranch, huh? Bron wondered. Ranches were big pieces of land, and he wondered idly if maybe Olivia was richer than he'd thought.

  Bron studied the herd, and couldn't help but feel that something was odd. "What's wrong with those cows?"

  "They're called Oreo Cookie cattle," Olivia said. "They're black on each end and white in the middle." Now that she'd mentioned it, Bron could see that it was true. Each of the cattle had a band of white around the middle of its stomach, and was a dark-chocolate brown, almost black, on each end. He'd never seen anything like it.

  Olivia continued, "Their real name is 'Belted Galloways.' They're a rare breed out of Scotland. Their fur is shaggy, so they take the snow in the winters here pretty well."

  She was trying hard to talk about normal things, he decided, to avoid discussing the attack. Bron gave in.

  "Snow? I thought we were in the desert?"

  "Sure, down in Saint George, but we've climbed a couple thousand feet into the mountains here." She jerked her chin toward some homes off to the left. "Most of these houses are just summer cabins for families from Saint George. People come up here to get out of the heat, or maybe do a little sledding in winter. Once the snow flies, the locals all huddle in. The driving gets dangerous then—between the ice, and the deer and elk leaping across the roads."

  Bron glanced at the neighbors' houses, and caught sight of a young woman in a red one-piece bathing suit. She had beautiful long blonde hair, and she was walking around with a hose, spraying down a deep-red Lexus LX that couldn't have cost less than $85,000.

  "Nice scenery," Bron said without enthusiasm. A girl that gorgeous, he'd never even get up the nerve to talk to her, and girls that rich wouldn't bother talking to him.

  Olivia honked the car horn as she neared her house, and a huge man came walking out from the barn dressed in blue jeans, boots, and a red-and-white checkered work shirt.

  "That's Mike," Olivia said. A black Labrador retriever danced about, wagging its tail, at Mike's side.

  To say that Mike was a massive man was an understatement. He was huge—probably six-eight, three feet across the shoulders, maybe three hundred and fifty pounds. His fists were so big that Bron imagined that they could drive fence posts into the ground.

  Bron suspected that this was the custom for the Hernandez family—buying dinner on the run, honking the horn to let Mike know that it was time to eat.

  Olivia drove down to a little single-story ranch house that looked as if it had been there for a hundred years, and pulled into the shade of a butterfly bush. Hummingbird feeders hung beside the window, and wind chimes made of stained glass tinkled by the backdoor. Bron got out and smelled the clean mountain air and listened. Not a human sound came to his ears—no racing engines, no police sirens, no honking of horns. The only noise came from cicadas in the fields, distant birds. The quiet settled over him like a dead weight.

  So this is home.

  Mike trudged close, and stood with a smile across his face. "Hi," he said. "You must be Bron?" The black lab raced up to Bron, wagging her tail and sniffing for danger.

  Mike reached out to shake, and Bron's hand disappeared into his grasp.

  Mike wasn't a Mexican, Bron decided. Mexicans just don't come that big. His face was as broad as a catcher's mitt, and more the bronze that Bron associated with Indians. Mike had blackish-brown eyes, dark-brown hair, a day's stubble. He smiled at Bron and tried to nod cordially enough, but his movements were uneasy.

  "I'm sorry that I couldn't make it to the school to meet you," Mike said. "I have a breeder coming in from Australia tomorrow, and I had to spruce things up."

  Bron studied Mike. He dwarfed Olivia, and she wasn't a petite woman. Bron had seen Mike's unhappy expression on other people before: disappointment. He was displeased that his wife had picked out a son who was practically grown; he probably felt jealous of the stranger in his house. In Bron's experience, every family had one person who felt that way. Mike might even be worrying about how much Bron would eat, or whether he'd steal the family silver.

  Bron nodded. "Thank you for letting me stay, Mr. Hernandez. You've got a beautiful place here."

  Mike grinned broadly at the compliment. He was that easy to please. He eyed the car. "What happened to the window?"

  "Someone broke in while we were at the store," Olivia said. "Must have gotten scared off. They didn't take anything."

  "We'd better move it into the barn until I can get that glass replaced," Mike said. He scratched his head thoughtfully, as if planning the job. "Well, Bron," he changed subject, "come on in and make yourself at home, I guess." Mike trundled into the house. Bron followed in the giant's shadow.

  "How do you think you'll like the farm?" Olivia asked. "I mean, I know that you're new to the idea still...."

  "Seems kind of lonely out here," Bron said. "I don't imagine that there are many kids to hang out with."

  "It's not so lonely if you know where to look," Mike said. "One house down, big log mansion?" He jerked his chin toward the three-story log house, gleaming of lacquered white pine, with the blonde scrubbing the LX beside it. "That's the Mercer place. Their daughter, Galadriel, is cute."

  "Please, Mike," Olivia cut in. "She's an idiot."

  "When she's hosing down that car in her swimsuit," Mike laughed, "she sure looks brilliant to me."

  Galadriel Mercer was hosing dust off the Lexus when Olivia's white Honda CRV rolled in. Galadriel almost waved as Olivia got out of the car. They weren't great friends, but Pine Valley was lonely. If you saw someone you knew, you were expected to watch out for them, and say hello.

  A fat mosquito landed on Galadriel's arm. She brushed it off. Washing the car in a swimsuit kept her from getting her clothes wet, but it left her exposed to mosquitoes that sometimes drifted up from the marsh out in the back field.

  She glanced up and saw a boy climb from Olivia's Honda, and Galadriel's heart began to pound.

  She tried not to stare. From this distance she couldn't really see him well, but he looked hot, maybe even super-hot.

  Galadriel remembered the binoculars in the living room.

  She set down the hose and turned off the water. As she did, the phone rang in the house. Her mom picked up. By the time that Galadriel reached the front door, her mom was already opening it.

  "Olivia Hernandez got a new son!" her mom said. Marie Mercer wasn't the town gossip—far from it—but news traveled fast in Pine Valley.

  Galadriel went to the binoculars that her dad kept by the bookshelf. Usually he used them to look at the elk that often came down from the hills to graze in the fields, or to appreciate the bald eagles that nested nearby. For once, Galadriel found them useful for spotting her own quarry.

  Galadriel didn't even have to m
ove the focus rings. Bron's image popped right out at her. He had on a t-shirt, and she could see his six-pack right through it. His hair was stylishly cut, his jaw strong. But it was the sensuousness of his lips that left her weak—that combined with the sensitive expression in his eyes.

  She studied him. He looked... frightened, shell-shocked, alone. She wondered how long he had known that he would be moving. She figured that this was all a big surprise for him.

  His eyes seemed to say, "I've known pain, and I know your pain. Speak softly, and I will comfort you."

  Marie trembled at Galadriel's side. It was unusual for Galadriel's mom to get so excited.

  "Well?" Marie demanded.

  "Yummy!" Galadriel said.

  Her mom instantly went cold. Galadriel glanced to her left. Her mother's brow was pinched with worry, and the excited smile had fled.

  Galadriel enjoyed the reaction. Anything to get a rise out of mom.

  "I don't think," Marie said, "that one should discuss boys as if they were comestibles."

  Where do you get those words? Galadriel wondered for the ten-thousandth time. Her mom was always so critical.

  "Why not?" she asked.

  Galadriel pulled up the binoculars again, heart pounding. The neighbors wouldn't see her, she knew, behind the glare of the window. The boy looked even better the second time around. She wanted to stand there forever, to really appreciate his beauty. I want to chew those lips.

  Galadriel's mother waited for her to say something more.

  "I think we should go welcome him to the neighborhood," Galadriel suggested.

  "Not dressed like that, you won't!" Marie said.

  Marie didn't approve of flirting, even among animals. Galadriel remembered a few months ago, her mother had been watching some elk out in the fields. Snow had been falling, and the young calves were loping about with their tongues out, trying to catch fat snowflakes. They were having so much fun. But then one young female had gone near a large bull, her tail up, and had nonchalantly begun to graze just a few feet in front of him. The bull's nostrils had flared, and he immediately took interest.

  "See that," Marie had said angrily, as if she wanted to spank the elk. "She's such a flirt!"

  It was just nature. At the time Galadriel had thought of her parents' daily motivational speeches. They were always telling her how, "If you want something in life, you have to go out and take it."

  That's what the elk cow had done.

  Now as Galadriel watched Bron head into the house, she knew what she was going to do.

  "Yummy, yum-yum," she said.

  The house was ranch style. The outside was covered with siding, but inside Bron could see that this was an old log cabin. The bare walls displayed varnished wood, bronzed with age, with calking between the logs. The house had a solid feel to it, but the walls were sagging. It was only a matter of time before the logs settled so far that it needed to be torn down. The ceiling was only slightly vaulted, and perhaps in its day the exposed pine rafters had seemed chic, but compared to the gleaming new extravagant cabins in town, the place looked antiquated. The ancient atmosphere was confirmed by a wood-burning stove in the living room, and a pair of muzzle-loaders with powder horns hanging above it.

  The family sat down to a picnic table just off the kitchen. Mike took a bench all to himself, and Bron felt that he probably liked the picnic table just for that reason: he could fit on it.

  Mike sat quietly, looking at the food. Bron couldn't have felt less welcome at the dinner table if he'd been a raccoon. No one acted as if they were hungry. Bron's stomach was still queasy from all the excitement, and Olivia seemed lost in thought.

  Bron tried to break the silence with an innocent question. "So, Mike, you don't look much like a Hernandez?"

  "I'm not," Mike said. "My great-grandfather was Navaho. When he left the reservation, he took the name Hernandez. He thought that trying to pass himself off as a Mexican would give him a leg up in the world."

  "What made him leave the reservation?" Bron wondered. It seemed to him that a place that offered free land would have its attractions.

  "Ah," Mike said, as if to say, "thereon hangs a tale." He took a deep breath and launched into the story in a voice both soft and deep, like distant thunder. "When he was nineteen, he became a brave, and a few weeks later, the tribal elders caught a skinwalker. Do you know what that is, a skinwalker?"

  Bron shook his head. He'd heard of them, of course, but he wanted to draw Mike out, let him establish his expertise.

  "It's a man who uses sorcery to change into monsters, creatures half animal and half human. This man kept the hide of a puma, along with its claws and teeth. The sorcerer used magic to turn himself into a cat, and he attacked a woman and tried to kill her, but some men in the camp heard her cries and stabbed the cat, and drove it off.

  "Later, the sorcerer was found in a cave with a spear wound to the chest, and his animal furs lying on the ground beside him."

  "So the elders of the village put him on trial, and executed him. According to the law, he was executed at dawn and his body was cut up into four pieces.

  "When you kill a skinwalker, you have to be careful. You have to carry the pieces far away from each other, so that the skinwalker doesn't rise from the dead. The heart cannot be near the head, and liver cannot be near the gonads. My great-grandfather, being a young brave, was given the honor of taking one of the sorcerer's quarters, and he rode off on his horse. The village Medicine Man warned him to ride far that day, at least twenty miles, and then to bury the leg at sundown, covering it with rocks, so that no one would ever find a trace. The goal was to make the evil sorcerer disappear forever.

  "So my grandfather rode up out of the Grand Canyon and into the desert. The sun was very hot, and often he was tempted to stop and take a nap, but he did as the Medicine Man told him."

  Bron glanced over to Olivia, who sat with her hands folded, eyes half closed, with a knowing smile. She'd obviously heard this story before.

  "At last, at sunset, he was more than thirty miles from the village, out in a lonesome wash. He spent an hour digging a hole, and would have kept digging longer, but the leg began to jerk and kick in its sack, so he tossed it into the hole and buried it quickly, weighing it down with stones."

  Mike sat back in satisfaction for a moment, letting Bron think. Outside, the evening was utterly quiet. There was no road noise. Bron heard a clank on the window and looked out. A moth had batted against the window, and smaller bugs were covering it, drawn to the light.

  Here in Pine Valley, nightfall did not come all at once. The sun had dropped behind the mountains half an hour ago, and the sky was tinged with a hazy smoke from California wildfires. The setting sun left a band of violet on the horizon, with a touch of rose overhead, filling this little bowl of land with cold shadows that shut out all sound, like a hand clasped over a mouth. Bron shivered.

  "My grandfather danced above the site and sang prayers, trying to force the skinwalker's soul to rest, and when the moon rose, grandfather began to lead his horse home.

  "But a burrow owl screeched and rose up out of the ground at his feet. That is an evil portent, for the owl warns against death, and my grandfather did not dare return home. Instead, he stopped at that very spot, and he worried that something had gone wrong.

  "He did not sleep all that night. Instead, he danced within a magic circle, and at dawn a girl from the village came for him, running and crying, so weary that she often stumbled. He was in love with her, and hoped to marry her someday, and she felt the same for him.

  "She told him that one of the other warriors was dead. He had not carried his portion far from the village, but instead had stopped beside the river to take a rest through the heat of the day, and he must have fallen asleep. The young brave had been carrying the sorcerer's head and right arm, and the brave was found dead—strangled and covered in bite marks from human teeth.

  "The skinwalker had survived!

  "So my grandfather
turned away from the reservation and rode north, and made his home here—far away, where the sorcerer would not look for him."

  Something about the story left Bron shivering in fear. It wasn't just the tale of the skinwalker, it was the strangers in town, Bron's worries about the school—a mounting pile of things.

  Mike fell silent, then asked in a happy tone, "Who wants chicken?"

  He grabbed the bucket from Olivia and began to fill up plates. Olivia just sat with her hands folded. She looked to Mike, "But we don't believe in skinwalkers in this house, do we?"

  She said it as if it were an old argument, as if she had trouble with Mike's superstitions.

  Mike stopped grabbing food and stared up at her guiltily. "Well, I don't know...." he said. "I've heard a lot of strange stories. Doctor Carnaghan used to work down on the reservation, and he saw one once when he was getting ready to land his bush plane. He said it looked like half-man, half black bear, and it ran on all fours. He clocked it at forty-five miles an hour!"

  "But we don't believe such stories, do we?" Olivia urged.

  "You know what I believe?" Mike said, not to be cornered. "I believe that the world is stranger than we know, and we should eat this chicken before it gets any colder!"

  After dinner, the Hernandez family didn't watch television like normal people do. Olivia got out her guitar and showed Bron her fingering techniques. She played a song that she had composed, using picks on each finger, thumping the guitar like a drum, humming a counter-melody.

  It was a song about wind rushing over water, and pine trees creaking in the hills, and a bold elk coming out of the forest at dawn, with its rack held high, as it smelled the world of men for the first time.

  At least, that's the picture that formed in Bron's head, and the music was just like that—sounds turning to pictures and colors and emotions all rolled into one.

  Olivia wasn't just good, Bron decided within a minute. She was phenomenal—too good to be hiding her gift out here in the woods. He'd thought that she was exaggerating when she said that she'd once given a lesson to Joe Satriani. Now he realized that she had probably told the truth.