Tears of the Shaman

by Rebecca Daniels

  He rolled onto his side, turning his back to a cold gust of wind. He thought of Susan, with her bright red hair and pale green eyes. Her smooth, white skin had been flecked with color—freckles that darkened whenever she walked in the sun. He’d been so captivated by her, so dazzled. She’d been so different, so unlike anyone he’d ever met before. He’d liked her finishing school manners, her independence and sophistication. She had a way of making things seem so easy, so affable—like nothing bad could ever really happen. He remembered telling her about the reservation, about growing up poor—of the hardships and suffering his people had endured, of the prejudice and injustices.

  But he doubted now if Susan had ever truly believed him. For her life was easy and uncomplicated, and the struggles and anguish of a people whose customs were strange and unfamiliar to her seemed distant and unimportant.

  Graywolf twisted restlessly in his sleeping bag, turning around and shifting his weight to the opposite hip. Maybe that’s what bothered him the most. Maybe being with Susan had been his way of forgetting, too—forgetting the years of crippling poverty, of growing despair, and of just getting by. Maybe it had been his way of turning his back on the customs of the shamans, the yataalii, and of Hosteen Johnny. He’d left the reservation to find himself, and for a while, he’d done that in Susan’s arms.

  But he’d learned the hard way that life in the white man’s world was as volatile and unstable as the love of the white man’s woman. He’d made a mistake leaving the reservation, trusting Susan. The truth had been a bitter pill. He now knew that what demons he had to face, he had to face here—on the reservation—among his people and his past.

  As he stared at the tent, it shifted and swayed to one side. She was moving around inside. He imagined her in D.C.—pictured her there and her life as a reporter. She didn’t belong here. This was his world, and there was no room in it for Mallory Wakefield—no room in his life, in his head, or in his dreams.

  Chapter 6

  Mallory reached for a fresh tissue. The one in her hand was little more than a handful of shriveled fibers. She tossed the wadded mess onto her lap, adding to the considerable stack that she’d accumulated over the course of the last few hours, and wiped her wet brow with the fresh one.

  It was blistering hot. Beads of perspiration covered her, and her shirt was wet and stained. She would have given anything for a pair of Bermuda shorts at the moment. Her denim jeans felt like woolen leggings against her skin. It was hard to believe just a little over twelve short hours ago she’d been bundled in Marissa’s bulky down jacket, and thought she would freeze to death.

  She glanced at Graywolf, whose dark eyes were focused on the road in front of them. He’d shed his denim jacket and flannel shirt long ago, leaving only a white T-shirt that clung to him. He’d pulled his long hair back, working it into a braid, and his skin gleamed dark with moisture. He didn’t appear to be nearly as uncomfortable as she was, but still she felt better knowing he wasn’t as impervious to the heat as he apparently had been to the cold.

  It had been another miserable day of endless driving, and the temperature had climbed as the hours wore on. It was nearly five now, and the glare of the sun through the open window of the Jeep felt like burning embers against her skin.

  She had no idea where they were, or what direction they were traveling, and her eyes were tired from having spent hours scanning the countryside looking for a sign that might indicate they were on the right track. She took heart that the mountains had grown closer, but as far as she was concerned, the road they’d been following had all but disappeared. Yet Graywolf seemed set on his course and she was reluctant to disturb it. Still, his silence bothered her. If only he would say something to her once in a while, something more than just a grunt, or a nod, or a shrug.

  Even though the long hours of driving had seemed endless, Mallory had been grateful for the few brief stops they’d made since they’d started out this morning. One stop had been at a lone hogan they’d come upon early in the morning where Graywolf had made an inquiry, and another had been a moment to study the road when it forked into opposite directions. But later, as they followed the right fork of the road to the east, they’d come upon a dilapidated cluster of buildings and rusted-out vehicles huddled together that seemed to appear out of nowhere.

  To Mallory’s amazement, the deserted-looking outpost was actually inhabited, consisting of a general store with a faded neon sign proclaiming Smokes Inside through the dingy window, a lone gas pump, a shack and an outhouse.

  The chipped and weathered placard above the general store read Hank’s Place in faded red-and-black letters, but when Graywolf walked inside, he greeted the man standing behind the counter as Rawley. A heavyset, flushed-faced white man, who sported one yellowed tooth in the center of his mouth, Rawley had welcomed them inside. He was alone in the small, sparsely stocked store, except for an ancient-looking Navajo woman whose face was worn with wrinkles, who sat in a rocking chair near the front window. A beautifully woven Navajo blanket of bright colors lay draped across her bent shoulders despite the stifling temperature, and she sat staring out across the desert, mumbling to herself and oblivious to everything else.

  After the usual pleasantries had been exchanged, Graywolf had inquired about Marissa. Rawley had seemed interested, and told him that two hunters, a group of archaeologists from Flagstaff, and a young pregnant Navajo woman had drifted through their place in the last week, but regretfully added that no biligaana woman had passed their way.

  As strange as she found the tiny, isolated oasis to be, Mallory relished the opportunity to stretch her weary muscles, buy a few warm colas and potato chips, and take advantage of the primitive “facilities.” She’d remembered hearing her grandmother talk about growing up with a “two-seater,” and after her visit to Rawley’s outhouse, she had a much clearer understanding of the term. By the time she’d finished, Graywolf had filled the Jeep and its auxiliary tanks with gasoline and was sitting in the idling truck waiting for her.

  He had driven back to the spot where the trail had divided, surprising her by actually explaining to her his feeling that they should explore the other fork, as well. As hot and as miserable as she was, Mallory had given him no argument. For reasons she didn’t really understand, she trusted the voice that seemed to lead him, and she knew she had to follow.

  She’d been surprised to smell coffee brewing when she’d awakened at dawn. She’d stepped out of the tent to find Graywolf sitting before a fire, sipping coffee from a tin cup and munching on a strip of beef jerky. All signs of the rain that had pelted her tent in the night had disappeared. The ground had been bone dry, and the sky a clear blue.

  Graywolf had allowed her little time for breakfast, pouring her a cup of bitter coffee and offering her some of the jerky. She’d taken the coffee, but refused the jerky, and within thirty minutes they’d broken camp, repacked the Jeep and been on their way.

  Mallory lifted her hair up, dabbing at the moisture at the base of her neck, and staring out across the windswept landscape. It was rugged country—harsh and brutal. It wasn’t a land that treated its inhabitants kindly, but it had a vastness and a breathtaking beauty like no other place on earth. It amazed her that people could actually survive in such a ruthless environment, and yet Rawley’s small outpost and the occasional house—hogan—they’d passed were testaments that they did.

  Mallory thought of her cramped D.C. apartment, of the noisy rush hour traffic, and her neighbors whose teenage son liked to turn the stereo up to blasting. That urban world seemed like a million light years away from all of this—from the quiet and the solitude, and the unlimited, empty space.

  The Jeep hit a pothole, causing it to lurch violently and sending her painfully against the door. She banged her head, and the collection of crumpled tissues in her lap went scattering.

  “You okay?” Graywolf asked, slowing the Jeep to a crawl.

  “Fine,” Mallory mumbled, rubbing the tender spot on her forehead
. Actually, she was hot and uncomfortable, but she wasn’t about to confess that to him. If he could take it, she could take it.

  “You might want to hang on,” he cautioned, his gaze returning to the road. “It’s pretty rough through here.”

  Mallory peered out the windshield at the rocky canyon they’d entered, and shook her head. “It just seems impossible that Marissa could be out here. Look at this place, it’s full of rocks and boulders. It’s awful. What could she be doing wandering around out here?”

  “Maybe she got lost,” Graywolf suggested, shifting in the seat in an effort to ease the stiffness in his back. “Maybe she gave someone a ride.”

  Mallory shook her head. “It just doesn’t make any sense. I mean, I’ve thought of all those things, and it still doesn’t make sense. She’s been gone for seven days. Seven days. Where is she? What would have made her come all the way out here?” She shook her head again, groaning in frustration. “The not knowing drives me crazy.”

  Graywolf knew her questions were figurative, that they came from her frustration and fears, and that she wasn’t really asking him for answers. “Maybe it’s just as well that you don’t.”

  Despite the perspiration streaming down her body, Mallory felt a sudden chill. “What does that mean?”

  Graywolf turned the wheel sharply, swerving just in time to avoid another large pothole. “Nothing, forget it.”

  “I won’t forget it,” she said insistently. “Explain what you meant.”

  He gave her a cool look. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure out in all likelihood someone brought your sister out here.”

  Mallory sat up in her seat, straining against the seat belt. A sickening, cold feeling spread through her body. She remembered the child in Washington, about Graywolf’s sense of suffocation and knowing the child had been buried alive. “Do you know something? Have you had a...a feeling or something about Marissa? Are you keeping something from me?”

  Graywolf cursed to himself. He heard the accusation in her voice, but it was pure fear in her eyes. It had been a stupid thing to say, bringing up the possibility of foul play—stupid and insensitive—and he felt like a heel. She was a smart woman. She’d no doubt already figured out for herself that the possibility that her sister had fallen victim to something unseemly was a very real consideration. But blurting it out like that had been cruel. She’d been trying very hard to cling to the hope that her sister was still alive, still safe, and he’d ravaged that effort with one malicious remark.

  “No,” he said meekly, feeling contrite and small. “Nothing like that.”

  “Are you sure?” she demanded. “Are you telling me the truth?”

  His head snapped up at the notion she might think he was lying to her. Yet he knew he deserved her rancor. “Look,” he said in a quiet voice. “Let’s make a deal. You tell me any feelings you might have about your sister, and I’ll tell you mine. Deal?”

  Mallory stared into his dark eyes, hating him at that moment. The way she felt right now she wasn’t inclined to tell him anything ever again. All she’d wanted from him was a little conversation, something to divert her attention away from the heat and the discomfort, but he’d been sullen and uncommunicative all day. Now she just wished he’d never talk to her again.

  Graywolf watched as she turned her cold, blue gaze away from him to the rugged scenery outside. What was the matter with him? Why was he acting like such a coldhearted bastard? Maybe he was restless and annoyed, maybe he was even a little angry, but that gave him no right to be cruel. Yet he’d struck out at her in the meanest way possible, for no reason at all.

  Well...that wasn’t entirely true. There was a reason—it was a small, petty one, but it was a reason. The fact was he was angry about the dream—that stupid, meaningless dream that he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about. He was irritated to think she had managed to creep into his thoughts, that she’d interfered with his rest, and that she could make him wonder what it would be like to hold her in his arms.

  It didn’t seem to matter that the woman was innocent, that she virtually had no control over what filled his dreams or what thoughts bounced around his subconscious. He’d realized his anger was unreasonable, that it was illogical and made no sense. He knew he was being completely unfair to her, knew how ridiculous and absurd the whole thing was, but it hadn’t changed the way he felt. He blamed her for the dream. He blamed her for the fact that he was curious about how her skin would feel, that he wondered how her soft body would fit against his own, and how her smooth, soft lips would taste—he blamed her for all of that.

  The mountains loomed around them, and the afternoon sun sent long shadows falling across the canyon floor. Graywolf pulled the Jeep to a stop near a shaded clearing, sheltered from the sun by a twisted stand of cottonwoods and overgrowth.

  “What is it? Why are you stopping?” Mallory demanded, sitting up in her seat again.

  “We’re losing the light,” Graywolf said, twisting the ignition key off and setting the parking brake. “We’d better make camp before it gets dark.”

  Mallory stepped out of the Jeep, stretching her cramped muscles and rubbing at a stiff spot on her neck. It was still miserably hot, and even the wind against her face felt dry and burning. She turned and watched as Graywolf opened the back of the Jeep and began to unload their gear for the night.

  What was it with him? He acted as though the very sight of her annoyed him, as though she made him angry. In fact, he’d been acting that way all day—impatient and snappy. What had she done to make him dislike her so much?

  She thought back over the day—of the places they’d stopped and the things they had done. She’d tried to do everything he’d asked her to—everything he’d ordered her to do. She’d endured the long hours in the Jeep, she’d endured the rough terrain, the heat and the discomfort without so much as a hint of complaint, so what could she have done to have made him so angry? Had she inadvertently broken some sacred Navajo tradition? Had she spoken when she wasn’t supposed to, walked where she shouldn’t have?

  But then, this wasn’t Jackson High School, and she’d stopped being everybody’s favorite cheerleader a long time ago. Maybe she should accept the fact that Benjamin Graywolf didn’t like her very much.

  And that was just fine with her, she decided as she walked to the back of the Jeep and began to help him set up camp—he didn’t have to like her. The arrangement between them was strictly business. Services had been rendered, fees had been paid. It wasn’t necessary that he like her, it wasn’t even necessary that he be nice to her. All she wanted from him was to find Marissa—the sooner, the better.

  * * *

  Graywolf watched as she hammered the stakes of the pup tent into the hard ground, and felt the tension building at the back of his neck. It had surprised him when she’d carried the tent from the Jeep and began assembling it. She hadn’t exactly struck him as the “camp out” type, and yet she seemed to know what she was doing.

  He glanced away, lifting the lantern and coffeepot from the back of the Jeep and carrying them to the fire pit he’d formed from a pile of rocks. He tried not to think about the way the sun streaked her hair, or the way the wind had sent it fluttering around her face.

  It wasn’t as though she refused to speak to him—she had. It was just that there was nothing friendly in her words, nothing congenial in her tone. And judging from the looks she’d been giving him, there was a good chance there never would be again.

  But that would suit him just fine. He didn’t want her friendliness, or her humor or good nature. He didn’t want to talk to her, didn’t want to think about her. He just wanted to get this whole thing over with—find her sister and get her out of his life once and for all.

  He walked back to the Jeep, reaching for the bedrolls. She was threading the poles through the tent now, slipping them into place at the corners and popping the dome into shape. She’d done this before, he thought as she adjusted the hoops and pulled the nylon tight. Somehow
he wouldn’t have thought that. In his mind he’d pictured her as strictly an urban creature, a woman out of place in the wilderness, a woman whose idea of roughing it was staying in a hotel with no room service, a woman like...Susan. He’d thought after two days in the desert she would be begging him to take her back, itching to return to civilization where she belonged.

  He watched as she unzipped the tent flap, rolling it up and securing it with the Velcro ties. Unfortunately it looked like it wasn’t going to work out that way. The last two days had been rough; their pace had been grueling and the conditions had been harsh. He hadn’t spared her a thing. And yet watching her as she pitched her tent and secured its moorings, she didn’t look anywhere near to cracking, anywhere near to throwing in the towel.

  She straightened up and marched over to where he stood holding the bedrolls. In the shadow of the canyon walls, her eyes had turned a dark green, and they glared up at him like cool emerald gems.

  “I can take that,” she said, reaching a hand out for one of the bedrolls.

  He relinquished one of the sleeping bags, telling himself he didn’t care that she hated him. But watching as she crawled into the tent and prepared her bedroll for the night, he thought of that awful look of dread that had filled her eyes after he’d made that thoughtless crack about her sister meeting with foul play. He’d struck out at her, blamed her for creeping into his thoughts, for crawling under his skin and staying there when all along he should have been blaming himself.

  He didn’t want to want her. So why couldn’t he stop thinking of her? He was Navajo, a singer, a shaman, yataalii. He could make powerful medicine, walk with the spirits, and see through time. There was no place in his life for the biligaana, no place in his heart for her.

  * * *

  “What’s that sound?”

  Graywolf stopped for a moment, letting the small pile of kindling rest, and listened. “I don’t hear anything.”

  Mallory swiped at a bead of perspiration that rolled down her forehead. “That,” she said again. “That rushing sound. Like...like...” She let her words drift.