“What do you watch out for? How can you recognize the bad guys?”
Shaking his head slowly, Michael answered softly, “You can’t recognize them unless they’ve already changed over. Otherwise, they look the same as everyone else.”
“So anyone could be a Skinwalker? Even me?”
“Not you.” He’d said it with a smile, but Lexie didn’t think it was at all humorous.
“Have you called for help? Does the U.S. government know what’s happening? What kind of weapons do you use?” Another thought, far more serious and ominous, occurred to Lexie before Michael could answer those questions. “Has anyone been killed?”
Michael remained silent for so long Lexie began wishing she could take back the questions altogether. She didn’t want to hear the answers.
“The best ways to fight the Skinwalkers is with ancient chants and potions, not M-14s and rockets. Besides, the U.S. government would scarcely believe the reality of our war. You probably wouldn’t have believed it either until you saw it with your own eyes.”
Well, that part was true enough. But boy did she believe it now.
“The Skinwalkers usually attack covertly,” Michael went on. “And they seldom use modern weapons. The Brotherhood has decided to keep the war quiet so as not to terrorize the Dine any more than necessary.
“So far,” he continued with a heavy sigh, “we’ve only had one fatality in the Brotherhood. The Skinwalkers have not fared as well.”
Lexie wasn’t sure he would say any more. After a moment, his eyes grew weary but he stayed focused on his driving. “My aunt, the Old Plant Tender, was killed trying to save a young woman during a skirmish with the Skinwalkers.”
“I’m so sorry,” Lexie cut in. She was mostly sorry she’d asked and didn’t want to hear anything else.
He finished his thought. “That same young woman has now taken on the Plant Tender’s responsibilities out of respect for her savior. And, she also happens to be married to my cousin, Ben.”
Lexie was shaking her head in sympathy over the tragic death when she remembered already hearing about the New Plant Tender from the young woman assistant professor at the Dine College. What else had the assistant professor and Michael been talking about? Oh, yes, an owl.
“You told me once what kinds of animal forms these Skinwalkers can take, but I forget them now. I definitely remember the wolf from the Skinwalker origin legend. And I certainly saw the bear. What else was there?”
“Tradition surrounds which specific animal forms can be used by the evil ones. Throughout the years there have been stories of Skinwalkers who took the form of snakes, ravens and vultures, wild dogs—”
“How about an owl?”
Michael nodded again. “The Burrowing Owl is an ancient enemy of the Dine. The specific animal form that the evil ones choose depends on what kind of treachery that Skinwalker wants to cause.”
Something else hit her then. “Oh, I remember you telling me about the wild dogs. Like the ghost I saw in your mother’s house. Right?”
Michael screwed up his mouth as if he’d tasted something sour. “Enough questions for now. Why don’t you practice becoming more like the People and keep quiet for a while. You wanted to learn the traditions for your son, didn’t you? All your questions will be answered in time.”
Of all the imbecilic, rude and arrogant jerks…
One of these days Michael Ayze would have to listen to her stories. She was suddenly determined to become the Message Bearer, despite what he thought about her visions and her questions.
Lexie sat back, thinking about ways to explain her vision of his grandmother and about the message she had been given. The man was forever talking about the Navajo legends and traditions, but he wasn’t much of a listener.
She had a feeling he might be in for a big surprise. Wouldn’t it be funny if she was the one who ended up having the very answer he needed the most?
Michael was having trouble concentrating on the road while Lexie sat in stony silence in the passenger seat. There seemed to be an eight-hundred-pound gorilla sitting in the front seat between them.
It was the damnable kiss. He’d thought and thought about what had ever possessed him to do such a thing. But thinking about the kiss so much was becoming problematic.
Because what he really wanted to do was kiss her again. He was having trouble thinking of anything else. Moving around uncomfortably in his seat, he became aware that another part of his body stood ready to take over for his brain and stop the thinking altogether.
Many years, a half a lifetime ago, was the last time he’d made out in a truck. But the idea of throwing her into the narrow backseat and having his way with her was gaining a lot of ground in his clearly sex-crazed mind.
There were so many reasons why the two of them being together would be a bad idea that he could barely count them all. They were going to have to work as a team. He’d already promised his mother he would take care of Lexie and give her the job as his assistant. And now he needed to protect her from whatever Skinwalker evil came her way, too.
A temporary fling was the only kind of relationship he could ever have with Lexie. She hadn’t been raised in Dinetah and would never be able to understand why he wanted to spend the rest of his life here. In a few weeks or maybe months, she would be ready to go back to her idea of civilization. It was bound to happen, despite her protests to the contrary.
This place was and always had been his destiny. It had taken him all those years of college and teaching whites to realize how much he belonged here. His one everlasting regret was that he couldn’t have made his brother realize his destiny also lay in the Four-Corners.
Michael thought then of his brother’s son. Would there be enough time for Jack to find his own destiny here? Maybe Lexie would consider leaving Jack behind with his grandparents when she left so he could truly learn the Way.
Whoa. Now his thinking was getting off into the ridiculous and fanciful. Considering a temporary fling with her was one thing, but the idea of Lexie leaving her child was totally out of line. No way would the mother hen ever walk away from her chick.
Enough. The air had suddenly turned stale inside the cab of his truck. He needed to get away from all this thinking and temptation for a moment.
As if he could…
9
M ichael pulled his truck into the large parking lot connecting the Black Creek Trading Post to a convenience store and takeout. He’d stopped at this place so he could get enough space for breathing room away from Lexie for a while.
“You going to wait in the car?” he asked, trying not to show the hope in his voice. “I’ll only be a few minutes. I want to talk to a guy in the trading post.”
She turned to glare at him and he felt the prick of her anger running down his neck and landing in his chest. He didn’t want her coming with him. The trading post owner was a traditional Navajo and might have heard the rumors about Lexie from the kids at the college. Even though Lexie still wore the medicine pouch he’d made for her, not many people who believed in witches would want her around until she’d had the special Sing done.
“I’m hungry,” she said with a sniff. “We missed breakfast. I’ll go get something from the convenience store, if it’s all the same to you.”
He figured it should be okay for her to be seen in the convenience store. During the weekdays the newer stores in the area had mostly older whites or modern Christian Navajos working behind the counters.
“Fine,” he said as he pulled a few dollars out of his pocket and handed them to her. “Here you go. Don’t take too long.”
“What’s this for?”
“Food. They use actual United States currency here and that much should be enough for breakfast.”
She stiffened her back and narrowed her eyes at him. “Not funny. Besides, I have a few dollars left. I don’t need your charity.”
Damned woman. “It’s not charity. You are on my payroll as of this morning. Consider it a perk
of the job. Or as an advance, if you’re being stubborn.”
Opening her door, Lexie swung her feet out but turned back for one last parting shot. “I choose the perk. Thanks, boss man.” She flashed him a phony smile and climbed down from the pickup.
They went their separate directions. And he was never so glad to be out of someone’s presence in his entire life.
As he stepped up to the trading post doors, though, he couldn’t help shifting his gaze toward her. Would she really be okay by herself?
He saw her striding across the pavement with herchin held high and her hips swinging. It was a tantalizing view and he couldn’t help taking a moment to admire what he thought of as one of the most spectacular sights around.
Unlike him, though, Lexie never hesitated for a moment or even bothered to turn as she dragged open the heavy glass doors and stormed into the store. Still angry. Maybe he ought to find a different way of dealing with her. What he’d been doing didn’t seem to be working.
When Michael realized he’d been staring for over a minute at the empty spot where she’d last been, he mentally kicked himself and went inside. It was stuffy in the close air-conditioned interior of the old trading post. But the place smelled just the way he remembered from his childhood. A combination of herbs, coffee beans and peppermint candy. Every time he smelled any of those scents, he went right back to his beginnings.
This morning there wasn’t one other person in the front of the store. For over a hundred years trading posts had been the local meeting spot for “sheep-camp” traditional Navajos, the one place where they’d buy or trade for supplies and catch up on the news. Today, quite a few of the old trading posts on the reservation had closed and stood abandoned in favor of the Navajo Nation’s more modern grocery stores.
In fact, Michael didn’t intend to buy anything, either. But he couldn’t help feeling regret and nostalgia when he saw the untouched shelves of canned goods and while he watched dancing dust motes play in sunlight streaming through dirt-streaked windows. Low stacks of twenty-five-pound flour sacks, set out in the front of the store to entice customers, seemed almost to have petrified right where they sat. How sad.
“Ya’at’eeh, Professor Hataalii. It’s been some weeks since we last saw you.” The familiar voice shouted out to him from behind the rows of groceries.
Michael walked down the center aisle and found the owner of the voice, proprietor Nokai Joe, sitting on the very same old stool behind the very same old counter as always. The man had probably sat there in that same exact way every day for the last fifty years or so.
Hastiin Joe was much smarter than most trading post owners, though. He’d seen the tide changing several years ago and had moved his operation to the main highway. At the same time he’d added a convenience store, takeout and gas station. Now he did business with more tourists than Dine.
But obviously not here in the old-fashioned store. The place seemed utterly devoid of any business activities.
“Ya’at’eeh,” Michael answered in traditional greeting. “How are you feeling, my friend? Is the arthritis any better?”
“Yes, hataalii. The poultice you made for me a few months ago has freed me from the pain in my knees. Have you come in for payment?”
Traditional Navajos, especially the old ones, refused to use modern medicines. Most had never even taken an aspirin. Fortunately, the ancient medicines and chants usually worked just as well for them.
Michael surreptitiously studied Hastiin Joe, without blatantly staring in a non-Navajo manner. The salt-and-pepper hair had been a part of the trading post man’s appearance for as long as he could remember. And the hair hadn’t changed a bit. But the grooves in his forehead and the lines around his eyes seemed to have somehow miraculously lessened with time.
It caused Michael to wonder if Joe had found a hidden fountain of youth.
Except for wearing new glasses, the older man looked younger than ever. Michael wasn’t particularly fond of his friend’s new oval glasses. They were a surprising fashion statement on such a traditional Navajo, and made Joe look as if he was one of those young superintellectuals. Joe was smart in ways most people would never know, but he was no youthful genius.
“I have come to trade information for medicine,” Michael finally answered. He knew Joe’s interest would be piqued by haggling. It was what a trading post proprietor lived for.
The old man’s eyes twinkled. “Sit down. I’ll pour us a cup of coffee.” This was the way of most normal social rituals for the Navajo. They had coffee over legends, stories, along with every transaction and event.
After Michael had perched himself on a tall stool next to Joe with coffee mugs in front of both of them, his old friend began trade negotiations for information. “What can I tell you that you do not already know, Professor?”
Michael reminded himself to go slow in the traditional Navajo manner. “How’s business going in the trading post?”
“I am comfortable,” Joe told him as he took a sip of the steaming liquid.
At Michael’s skeptical look, the trading post man added, “You see the rugs on the wall behind me?”
Looking up at what must’ve been twenty-five handwoven Navajo rugs on an overhead rack, Michael nodded.
“They are all sold and await shipment,” Joe said with a wry smile. “If you’d like to bid on a rug just as beautiful as these, another group of equal value will replace them in a few days.”
Those rugs were probably worth at least five thousand dollars a piece. Some, maybe double that.
“You must get lots of rich tourists coming through here,” Michael said in amazement.
The older man sat, staring absently at a point on the wall, and let a familiar Navajo silence fill the air. Michael had been trained to be polite and outwait him.
At last, Joe spoke. “We trade now on the Internet. The Black CreekWeaversAssociation has their own Web site.”
Michael knew there was no such thing as the Black Creek Weavers Association, but Joe had thoroughly surprised him. For many years, the proprietor had been taking rugs from the local women on consignment. Now, Michael would be willing to bet he was paying outright for the rugs—no doubt at about two thousand dollars a piece. And then reselling them on the Internet for huge profits.
Yes, indeed, Nokai Joe was one smart man.
“I think it is not my business information you’ve come to trade,” Joe said with a covert smile from behind his coffee mug.
“You’re right.” Michael took a long slow drink of the coffee and let the silence drag on for a few more minutes. “I need information about a person we both know.”
Joe began nodding and set down his mug. “There have been rumors. This information will be useful for the witch woman you now protect?”
Michael was again surprised by his friend, but he recovered fast. “She is not a witch. But she has fallen across the path of evil. Dr. Wauneka has diagnosed her to be in need of a special Sing—one done these days only by the old hataalii Dodge Todacheene.”
Joe’s nodding stopped and he looked more thoughtful. “You are seeking hataalii Todacheene? He was in here buying supplies just last week.”
“Here in Black Creek? Why? He’s rumored to be living way over near Monument Valley with his daughter.”
Michael had assumed the trading post man would have at least some information concerning the reclusive hataalii. Joe liked to trade in gossip almost as much as he liked trading in rugs. But Michael hadn’t counted on Dodge Todacheene having left his daughter’s hogan and then traveling all the way to Black Creek.
“The hataalii is an old man. Much older than me,” Joe told him with a grin. “He says he travels on his last religious pilgrimage to the homelands and sacred places of his ancestors.”
“But that could take months.” Michael knew Lexie didn’t have months to find her cure. “Did he say where he was going from here?”
“The old hataalii will first travel to his grandmother’s birthplace in Tocito
Wash. He wishes to begin at his beginning.”
“Does he have relatives still living there?”
“I think so. But old man Todacheene intends to camp out under the stars like he did as a boy when he watched the sheep. Those are the kinds of supplies he acquired from me. Waterproof matches, plastic tarps. That kind of thing.”
Michael figured the ancient hataalii must be nearly ninety. He also knew the old man was tough. But a man that age should have someone along to help him.
“What kind of car is he driving?”
“He drives the blue pickup he has owned for years.”
“What? I remember his old blue pickup from when I was a boy. The thing must be thirty years old by now. I can’t believe it still runs.”
“It runs.”
Michael stood, put his hands on his hips and made a decision. “The Tocito Wash area isn’t too far from here. Just back up on the Western Slope of the Chuskas about an hour’s drive. I guess we can take a detour to find the hataalii. If he’s still around there.”
Joe stood up, too, but didn’t say anything.
“If we miss him and he happens to come back in here, will you tell him I’m looking for him?”
Hastiin Joe nodded silently.
Taking one of his college business cards out of his wallet, Michael handed it to Joe. “Here’s my cell number. Can you call me if you see him? Or have him call me?”
“I will call.”
Michael stepped back out into the parking lot and looked up at a cloudy sky looming over his head that was bringing a weepy, gray sadness to the day. He felt something evil suddenly creeping around and through the rocks, the plants and the very air he breathed. His skin crawled. It felt as if someone was watching him, and as though the whole world was holding its collective breath. Waiting.
Navajos had no word for time in their language. But right now Michael was afraid that for Lexie, time was somehow running out.
Lexie sat back in her uncomfortable chair at the tiny table in the takeout place. The store had been swamped with customers a few minutes ago, but now everyone else had cleared out.
Books by Linda Conrad Page 103
