The Wind in His Heart

by Charles de Lint

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

  “I’d like you to go to the White Horse medicine wheel as soon as you get back home.”

  Thomas sighed. “I don’t hate being a Kikimi.”

  “I know that.”

  “So you don’t have to send me to some ceremony for me to understand what the traditions mean.”

  “I know that, as well.”

  “Then why do you want me to go?”

  “There’s going to be trouble there,” she said, “and I am hoping you will do what you can to stop it.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  She didn’t answer; she just fixed him with a steady gaze.

  “You don’t have to be so mysterious,” he said.

  “It’s not deliberate. It’s just how things have to go sometimes. But you’ll know what to do when you get there.” She paused, then added in a quieter voice, “I hope.”

  “Okay,” Thomas said. “I’ll go. But you have to tell me where it is.”

  “It’s on Aggie White Horse’s land.”

  “I’ve never seen a medicine wheel there.”

  “It’s old,” Aunt Lucy said. “And it doesn’t look like one anymore.”

  She meant the fire pit, Thomas realized. He tried to think of how Aggie could be harmed again, or rather, who would try.

  “Has this got something to do with the girl that knifed her?”

  “Everything’s got to do with everything else,” Aunt Lucy said. “We’re each on our own wheel, but eventually our individual journey affects the journeys of everyone else—people we might never meet. Only the thunders can see every pattern.”

  “What do you see happening?”

  “That you should go to the White Horse medicine wheel.”

  “Okay.”

  He was about to stand up, but Aunt Lucy caught his hand before he could do so. “First, finish your stew,” she said. “You’ll return at the same time whether you eat or not, but everything makes more sense on a full stomach.”

  She didn’t have to ask him twice, the food was that good. She poured water from the jug into the two clay mugs on the table between them. Pushing one toward him, she drank from the other.

  “You know this is weird, right?” Thomas said around another mouthful of stew.

  “How strange a thing is depends on your normal.”

  He smiled. “You talk more like you’re writing T-shirt logos than I remember.”

  Aunt Lucy laughed. “It’s hard being a young medicine woman. Leila and I have spoken of this many times. People don’t always take you seriously.”

  “Auntie—Aunt Leila’s not young anymore. She’s old now.”

  Aunt Lucy nodded. “I know. I remember being old, and young, and all the years in between. Here, I’m as you see me. In your time, I’m dead.”

  The words sent a small pang to Thomas’s heart. “I wish you weren’t,” he said.

  She shrugged. “You can always visit me here.”

  He wanted to ask if she was a memory, or real, but knew that even if she answered, he probably wouldn’t understand. This whole business of the past, present and future all happening at the same time was beyond confusing.

  “Is it true that you taught the medicine ways to Ramon Morago?” he asked instead.

  “Ah, Morago. He left the Painted Lands as a colt and came back a stallion. I had little hand in his transformation, but I might have told him a thing or two after he got back.”

  Thomas sopped up the last of his stew with another chunk of cornbread. He drank the cool water that Aunt Lucy had poured for him. When he stood up this time, she didn’t stop him.

  “Any last minute advice?” he asked.

  She came around the table to give him a hug. “You know the difference between right and wrong,” she said as she stepped back. “Trust in that, stand up for what you believe, and it should go well.”

  Thomas nodded. “I told Aunt Leila about meeting you. She didn’t seem too surprised.”

  “Why should she?”

  “Because…never mind.”

  She said something else to him, but he couldn’t make out what it was. The desert faded around him and he found himself sitting on the edge of his bed, fully dressed, feet on the floor. Sunlight poured in the window. He looked down at his high-tops to see that they were covered with a thin patina of dust—not red, like the dirt here in the Painted Lands, but a dull brown. Like the dirt in Aunt Lucy’s yard.

  It was disorienting, to say the least.

  When he got downstairs, Santana was just about to go out the front door. She paused at the sound of his footsteps and turned to look at him.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “After Auntie.”

  “Where’d she go?”

  It wasn’t like Auntie to go anywhere unless someone was driving her. In these later years, she appeared content to spend the better part of every day sitting on the porch with her crows.

  “I haven’t a clue,” Santana said. “I was listening to tunes on my phone and fell asleep on the couch. I woke up a few minutes ago when she came come down the hall with that old pistol from the trunk where Mom keeps Dad’s things. When I asked her what she was doing, she gave me this fierce look and then went marching off into the desert. Think she’s gone hunting?” Santana smiled as though they were sharing a joke, but Thomas saw the flash of worry in her eyes.

  “I know where she’s gone,” he said, “and I think maybe you’re right.”

  In the dream, Aunt Lucy had told him to go to Aggie’s place. Everybody knew that ma’inawo gathered at the fire pit from time to time. And if one of those ma’inawo was Consuela Mara, and Auntie’s friends from Yellowrock Canyon had told her about it, then Thomas knew exactly what Auntie was planning to do.

  “I am?” Santana said.

  “Only one way to find out.” He shooed her out the door and closed it quietly behind them.

  “Where are we going?” Santana asked as she followed him across the yard and into the desert scrub.

  “To Aggie’s fire pit.”

  “What makes you think she’s going there?”

  Thomas hesitated before admitting, “Aunt Lucy told me to go there.”

  “Wait a minute. You never said anything about that before.”

  “That’s because it just happened this morning. I thought I was dreaming, but…” He remembered the dust on his shoes, the way his stomach still felt full, how the taste of the stew remained on his lips. “I think I really went back to her place in the otherworld.”

  Santana stopped dead. “Are you shitting me?”

  “No.” Thomas gave her arm a tug and they continued weaving their way through the cacti and shrubs.

  “You went back to the otherworld,” Santana said. “On your own? And you hooked up with the young Aunt Lucy again?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And she told you Auntie’s going to do…what, exactly?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t tell me anything about Auntie. She just told me to go to the fire pit, except she called it the White Horse medicine wheel.”

  “It used to be a medicine wheel?”

  “Apparently.”

  “So what does any of that have to do with Auntie?”

  “I figure there are only two reasons she’d want me to go,” Thomas said. “Either there’s something going on there to do with tribal traditions, or the ma’inawo are up to something over there. But she said there’s going to be trouble, and that I might be able to stop it if I can figure out the right thing to do.”

  “Could she be any more vague?”

  Thomas laughed. “Yeah, that’s pretty much what I told her.”

  “This still doesn’t explain why Auntie’s stomping off into the desert with a gun.”

  “I think it’s a ma’inawo gathering, and if that’s true, then maybe Consuela Mara will be there.”

  “Oh crap,” Santana said, and she picked up her pace.

  Thomas hoped he was
wrong as he and Santana followed a dry wash down from the arroyo that ran alongside their house. But when they climbed up the side of the wash to look down at Aggie’s property, the crowd of ma’inawo came into view below. None were sitting around the fire pit. Instead, they had gathered at the far side of the circle, with yet more up on the bluff beyond it.

  Shading his eyes, Thomas saw what the center of attention was: Morago and Steve, and a white woman with dark hair. Facing them was the raven woman. There appeared to be an argument happening, with the ma’inawo standing closest joining in.

  “I don’t see Auntie,” Santana said.

  Thomas turned his attention back to the crowd, looking for Auntie. As he searched he got a feeling of déjà vu, as though he were back in Ancestors Canyon. The ma’inawo were of all shapes and sizes—human, animal and startling combinations of the two. No two were alike, and they presented a bewildering array that made it difficult to pick out one old Corn Eyes woman among them. Finally, he spotted Auntie making her way through the ma’inawo, on a collision course for where Steve and Consuela Mara were facing off. He pointed her out to Santana, then headed down the slope at a quick jog. Santana kept pace behind him.

  When he reached the ma’inawo, the crowd was so thick that he couldn’t help but jostle them as he pushed his way through. “Sorry, sorry,” he repeated, but he never stopped moving, Santana in his wake. There were snarls and growls and angry looks until he heard one of them say, “That’s the Corn Eyes kids.” Thomas had no idea why that made any difference, but ahead of them, the ma’inawo stepped aside to let them pass.

  They were still too late.

  By the time they reached the front of the crowd, Auntie already had the six-gun pointed at Consuela Mara’s head.

  71

  Steve

  I guess Thomas Corn Eyes’ old aunt is the last person I’d expect to show up waving around a vintage six-gun. It looks massive in her skinny hand. The damn thing has such a kick that if she actually fires it, she stands a good chance of the recoil snapping the brittle bones of her wrist and forearm. I don’t know if she realizes this herself, but even if she does, the look in her eyes says she doesn’t give a damn.

  I’m not sure why there’s bad blood between her and Consuela, or at least I don’t know the specifics. Let’s face it, so far, Consuela seems to rub everybody the wrong way. Still, I don’t think shooting the raven woman is any kind of answer. Crap like that’s never the right solution, and having it threaten to go down here and now complicates everything.

  This should have been a simple, private matter. Something just between Si’tala and me, with Morago here to give me some guidance. But first Leah came along, and now I feel like I’m back on stage, the audience growing to what looks like every ma’inawo in the Hierro Maderas mountains. Instead of fans screaming for the latest Rats hit, I’ve got Consuela telling me in graphic detail how she’s about to kill me; Aunt Leila’s ready to shoot Consuela; and we’re surrounded by onlookers.

  This whole situation has gotten way out of control, but I find that I don’t give a damn any more than Auntie does. I told Si’tala I’d help her, and if her sister has a problem with that, they can take it up between themselves—saying Consuela lives long enough.

  I brace myself for the big boom of Auntie’s pistol, but before she can pull the trigger two things happen.

  Thomas and his sister push out of the crowd of ma’inawo to stand on either side of Auntie.

  And the unfired clay doll twitches in my arms.

  I almost drop it. I must have yelled because all eyes lock on me, and next their gazes drop to what I’m holding. I look down as well.

  If the past few days had never happened, I’d be stunned. Back then—and it feels like a lifetime ago—I didn’t know anything about the otherworld or that the beings Morago’s always talking about are real. I didn’t know that Aggie’s paintings weren’t from her imagination. But I’ve been to the otherworld, and right now I’m surrounded by a crowd of those same animal people. So I’m not all that surprised that the red clay of the little statue I’m holding has become flesh, its raven feathers a mane of black hair, my naive attempt at features the face of a beautiful woman who looks like a miniature version of the one standing in front of me—the woman who wants to kill me and wear my body parts as gruesome fashion accessories.

  Except the little being I’m holding isn’t Consuela, not even close, though they could be taken as identical twins if you didn’t know better. But I can tell them apart without even trying. I look into those tiny eyes and see Si’tala blinking and smiling back at me, not Consuela.

  A murmur runs through the crowd. Beside me, Leah puts her hand over her mouth and murmurs, “Oh my god.” Even Auntie seems surprised enough to hold her fire.

  The warm figure in my arms keeps getting heavier, and I realize that’s she’s growing. I carefully lower her, feet first, to the ground, making sure that she has her balance before I let go. She’s about the height of a toddler at this point. By the time I straighten up, she’s up to my waist. A moment later, she’s a full-sized woman standing naked in front of us all. Maybe I should have fashioned her a dress of some sort.

  She makes a quick graceful movement with her hands, and a small dust devil starts up at her feet. The swirling mass of fine dust rises and hides her body for long seconds. When it clears, she’s still barefoot, but wearing a pair of blue jeans and a tank top with a fringed vest over it. Her hair’s in a long single braid, tied off with a strip of leather from which hang four black feathers.

  “How’d she do that?” Leah says, eyes wide.

  “Ma’inawo medicine,” I tell her. “Magic.”

  “I need me some of that. Think of the money you could save on clothes.”

  I know what she’s doing: trying to make light of it all, to make the impossible seem normal so that she doesn’t freak out. The reason I know is because I’m feeling the same way, like I’m right on the edge of some kind of a meltdown. Making clothes out of dust isn’t the biggest miracle I’ve run across recently, but this whole manifestation, topped by the casual efficiency with which Si’tala dealt with the problem of being naked, makes me a little unsteady. The ground feels spongy underfoot.

  But even with the sensation of being unbalanced, I can’t help feeling a little pleased that I managed to pull it off.

  Consuela doesn’t share my pleasure. “What. Have. You. Done?” she shouts.

  Her booming voice seems to come from some far distance. Her gaze is fixed on Si’tala, but I know she’s talking to me.

  I don’t answer. My own attention is fixed on Auntie and the gun she holds with a steady hand.

  “He’s given me my life,” Si’tala says, “to do with as I please instead of being tied to you.”

  “You have no life,” Consuela says, “except what I have given you.”

  “Once, maybe, but that no longer holds true. I am my own woman now, and as such,” she turns her gaze to Auntie, “I offer you my apologies, Leila Corn Eyes. I was present when the salvagers were set upon the scent of your nephew, so I bear part of the blame. I understand your anger, but I ask you to consider that, because of this undertaking, Thomas has been befriended by a spirit of death, and I know that this spirit, Gordo, will do all he can to protect your young man. All will not be lost when his time to enter the afterworld comes.”

  Auntie gives Si’tala a confused look—I’m guessing not least because of her uncanny resemblance to Consuela. But the gun doesn’t waver in her hand.

  “You can blame me, too, Auntie,” Morago says, taking a step forward. “I let Thomas go represent the tribe instead of going myself, which is what I should have done.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Consuela says. “No one is to blame. The encounter with the salvagers was an unfortunate accident, that’s all.”

  Auntie ignores both Si’tala and Morago. Instead, she gives Consuela a long piercing look. I don’t know Leila Corn Eyes well, but it’s easy to see that the darkness in her
eyes is completely at odds with the calm tone of her voice when she finally speaks.

  “The problem with some of the older ma’inawo,” Auntie says, “is that they presume to know our needs better than we do, ourselves. They mean well, but their conceited attempts to improve the world inevitably lead into disaster. Never for them, of course. Instead, it falls upon those unlucky enough to be standing close by when they set one of their ill-considered plans in motion.”

  Consuela takes a step forward, reaches up a hand. “Enough of this. I’m going to take that gun and stick it where—”

  She doesn’t get to finish because Auntie shoots her. The sound of the six-gun is like a thunderclap. The bullet hits Consuela in the shoulder and spins her around. Blood jets from the wound. Most of it sprays over Leah. Some reaches Morago and me.

  Consuela falls to the dirt, her eyes wide with shock and disbelief. Auntie takes a step forward, still pointing the gun at the raven woman. The dark circle of its muzzle is aimed at her head. Si’tala takes a step back, but otherwise remains motionless.

  Though I’m vaguely aware of Reuben helping Leah wipe blood from her face, I can’t look away from the tableau in front of me. There’s something wet on my own cheek and I wipe it away without looking.

  “Jesus,” I find myself saying. I can’t believe what just happened.

  What also gets me is that the big handgun’s recoil had no effect on Auntie. It’s like she just fired a pellet pistol. I don’t think she’s a cousin, but like a lot of the ma’inawo, she’s far stronger than she looks.

  “Don’t go feeling sorry for her,” Auntie tells me. “Ma’inawo like her can heal their wounds just by shifting to their animal form and it’s like nothing ever happened. Unless they get taken down with a shot to the head, or they get hit by a bus. Buses don’t run out here, but I’ve got five bullets left and my aim is good, so maybe,” she adds, addressing Consuela now, “it’d be best if you just lie still until our business here is finished.”

  “Or we could put the gun down, Auntie,” Thomas says softly, holding out his hands.