Tears of the Shaman

by Rebecca Daniels

“The problem,” she said quietly, staring into the flames of the camp fire. “The problem is that I wanted it to, and it didn’t.” She reached down and picked up a handful of dried twigs, tossing them into the fire. “You see, I was the girl everyone wanted to be. I had it made—the perfect sister, the perfect boyfriends, head cheerleader, homecoming queen, lots of friends. Everyone just expected I would take the world by storm.” She gave a small, sad smile. “I guess I expected that too.” She was quiet for a moment, feeling the heat of the flames along her face. “Do you have any idea how hard it is being perfect? How much pressure that puts on you? I mean things just had to turn out perfect for me.”

  Graywolf had set the frying pan aside, and sat watching her closely. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear any of this, wasn’t sure he wanted to feel anything else, and yet he was fascinated. The perfect white woman wasn’t so perfect after all. “And a less than perfect marriage didn’t fit in the picture.”

  She laughed, but her laughter had a sad, hollow sound. “I took the world by storm all right. Miss Perfect stormed into marriage and screwed up royally.” She tossed the rest of the twigs into the fire, watching the flames flare up. “I just wish if I’d had to screw up, I could have done it without hurting anyone else.” She gave her head a little shake. What was she doing talking about all this? She’d hired him to find her sister, not listen to her complain. Embarrassed, she took a deep breath and dusted her hands off. “Geez, how did I get rambling about all of that? You must be bored stiff. Is that hash ready yet?”

  Graywolf sensed her uneasiness, and understood the reason. Frankly he was a little uneasy himself. She’d revealed a lot just then, obviously more than she’d intended, and maybe they both needed a little time to reflect and absorb. They ate the rest of their meal in silence, mainly because he kept his head down, and his eyes directed on his food. The woman was becoming just a little too real to him, too complex. He’d liked it better when she was just a white woman, just someone he didn’t like.

  As the night grew late, the temperature continued to drop. Mallory bundled herself up again for the night—adding a shirt to her T-shirt, then a sweater, then the down parka. Graywolf added wood to the fire, coaxing it from a small cook fire to a warm, glowing blaze.

  “Do you think it’s a bad sign?”

  He looked up from the fire to find her studying him. “Is what a bad sign?”

  “It’s been two days,” she said quietly. “We haven’t found anything—not even anything that could tell us if we’re on the right track.” She leaned forward, wrapping her arms around her knees. “Do you think it’s a bad sign?”

  Graywolf leaned back on his elbow, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Not really.”

  She picked up a small pebble by her feet and tossed it into the fire. “But it certainly isn’t a good sign.”

  “I don’t think it’s any sign at all,” Graywolf said. He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “They don’t call this the Big Res for nothing. There’s a lot of territory to cover out here. You can’t just do it overnight. And don’t forget, your sister has a seven day start on us.”

  “I guess.” Mallory sighed, sounding unconvinced. “I just thought...I don’t know. I guess I thought we’d have found something by now.”

  Graywolf sat up slowly. He really wasn’t in the mood to comfort her. “Look,” he said, his voice more testy than comforting. “I know it isn’t easy, but just try and be patient, okay?”

  Mallory nodded her head, but his words had done little to ease her concerns. She stared at Graywolf through the fire, searching for something to get her mind off her fears. “Are you really a shaman, or was that just tabloid trash?”

  “I’ve done some studying,” Graywolf said, making light of the long hours of instruction and training he’d done since returning to the reservation.

  “Have you ever done a sing?”

  He glanced up, clearly surprised she would have any knowledge of the Navajo curing ceremonies. “What do you know about sings?”

  “I’ve done a little reading,” Mallory said with a little smile, pleased to know she could throw him a curve now and again. “I thought if I was going to be covering the powwow, it would help to know something about tribal customs and ceremonies.”

  “Ah, yes, a little reading. Just like a reporter,” he said cynically. “And to think people have spent their lives studying our customs. They could take a lesson from you.”

  Mallory bristled at his sarcasm. “I didn’t say I was an expert or anything,” she said defensively, wondering why he always put the worst spin on everything she said. “I would think you would welcome an opportunity to educate the public on Navajo practices and rituals.”

  “Why should we care what the white public thinks about us?” he asked, not even trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “They don’t seem to care what we think about them. Besides, you know what they say about a little knowledge being a dangerous thing.”

  “I don’t believe knowledge is ever dangerous.”

  He laughed, a sound that had nothing to do with humor. “You have no idea what this powwow means to us. To you it’s just some colorful ethnic thing—a souped-up craft fair or festival or something.” He shook his head. “Do you have any idea what some of the tribes and lodges have had to do to get here, how long they’ve had to scrimp and save to make the trip? Some have given up all they have to participate. That’s how important it is to them. You think reading some silly article you want to put in a newspaper about Navajo blankets and Hopi pottery will suddenly make people give a damn about what goes on in the reservations?”

  “I didn’t say that,” she said, angry at his cutting description of the work she did. “But surely you can appreciate the fact that a lot of people find your customs and ceremonies interesting.”

  “Ah, yes, interesting,“ he said caustically. “There are going to be important issues discussed at this powwow— poverty issues, substance-abuse problems on the reservation, health and educational concerns. But will you cover any of that?” He shook his head, not giving her a chance to respond. “You forget, we’ve been through this before. No. You’ll write about the colorful costumes, the funny-looking costumes—feathers, buckskin, loincloths.” He laughed again. “By all means make us interesting to the American public. Do what you can to promote those old stereotypes.” He snapped his fingers. “Hey, I know. Maybe you could help us to become a new, trendy culture—really start something, you know? Replace meditation or New Age philosophies.” He held up his hand, envisioning the headlines. “How’s this? Invite a Zuni to lunch—fv or hire a Hopi gardener, try a Cherokee massage. Or maybe study Navajo shamanism as a career enhancer and be the first in your block to ask for good fortune—to have a blessing way.”

  She studied him for a moment. “Why are you so angry?”

  “Angry? You think I’m angry?”

  “It certainly sounds that way.”

  “Does it bother you?” He glared at her from across the fire. “Does it make you a little uneasy to be out in the middle of nowhere with a savage? Are you afraid I’ll whip out my war paint? Take your scalp?”

  She could not only see the anger in his eyes, she could feel it. “Now who’s promoting stereotypes?”

  He turned away, staring out into the darkness and wishing she would just leave him alone. It was a stupid conversation they were having. He was arguing just for the sake of arguing, and not because he believed any of the nonsense he was saying. He didn’t want her interested in him, or interested in the People. He just wanted her to shut up, he wanted her to stop talking and leave him alone. He wanted to forget about her, to get her out of his head and out of his mind. But he couldn’t do that when everywhere he looked, she was there.

  “You never answered my question.”

  He glanced back in her direction. The fire had burned low, and the glowing embers made her hair look like liquid gold. Annoyed, he sighed heavily. “All I’ve done tonight lady, is answer your que
stions.”

  She knew he was irritated with her, and for some reason it pleased her. She could rile him, and she would bet Benjamin Graywolf didn’t get riled very often. He’d been baiting her ever since they’d met, and it felt good to give the shaman a bit of his own medicine. “No, you haven’t. You never answered when I asked you if you’ve ever performed a sing.”

  He stared at her, his eyes barely more than dark slits. “A couple of times.”

  “Have you cured anybody?” she asked, knowing she was pushing.

  He slowly stood and reached for his bedroll. “It’s getting late. You should get some rest.”

  Mallory nodded her head, rising to her feet. She started for the tent, but then stopped. “Graywolf?”

  He turned and looked at her. “Yes?”

  “I’ve read where Navajos keep their names secret. Is yours secret?”

  He hesitated as he started to unroll the bag. “How could it be secret?” he asked sarcastically. “You just said it?”

  “No, I mean your real name, your war name.”

  Graywolf cursed silently to himself. She had done some reading. “What about it?”

  “Do you have one?”

  He straightened the bedroll with a violent shake, purposely avoiding looking at her. “Most Navajo do.”

  “So, is that a yes or a no?”

  “Yes, I have one.”

  “Is it?”

  He stopped and turned to her. “Is it what?”

  “Secret?”

  He stared at her. In the dim light, her white skin looked soft and inviting, and he felt the muscles in his stomach tighten. He knew what she looked like, knew how beautiful her body was beneath all those clothes, and he hated himself for wanting her. He wanted to close the short distance between them. He just wasn’t sure if he wanted to strangle her, or gather her into his arms.

  “Go to bed,” he said in a tight voice.

  “Good night, Graywolf,” she said, reaching for the zipper on the flap of her tent. “If that really is your name.”

  * * *

  “Slow down.”

  “What is it?”

  “I think I saw something.”

  “What?” Graywolf asked, easing his foot off the accelerator.

  “I’m not sure,” Mallory said, shoving her sunglasses up to rest on the top of her head. “It was a flash or something, I’m not sure——there!” She leaned forward, pointing at a spot in the distance. “I saw it again.”

  “There?” Graywolf asked, sensing something in her tone.

  “No, there,” she said. “Just beyond those trees.”

  Graywolf squinted, peering through the windshield to the thicket of brush and cottonwoods beyond. Suddenly, he caught a glimpse of light. “I see it.”

  He gunned the motor, heading for the spot as fast as the rough road would allow. As they approached, he shot a glance in Mallory’s direction. She was perched on the edge of her seat, both hands braced against the dash and her eyes intent on the spot where they headed.

  He’d awoken this morning with a...feeling, and he’d known they were on to something. It happened that way sometimes. He’d get a feeling, an inkling—nothing as clearly defined as a vision, or a forewarning. Just a...feeling.

  He turned back to the flash of color in the road in front of them. He wasn’t sure yet what it was they’d stumbled on to, but intuition told him it had something to do with her sister. Turning back to Mallory again, he could more than see the hope and excitement in her face, he could feel it. The bond between her and her sister was strong, so strong that it had kept her hope alive for eight long days. But was it strong enough to help her cope with what they might find?

  “It’s her car,” Mallory shrieked, grabbing Graywolf’s arm and tugging on it excitedly. “Graywolf. My God, that’s it. That’s Marissa’s car.”

  It seemed to take an eternity for the Jeep to travel the lengthy distance over the potholed road to where the blue, late model Volvo wagon sat. The Jeep lurched and pitched violently, tossing them around until finally Graywolf brought it to a stop about thirty feet from where the car rested. He’d purposely parked at a distance with the intention of having Mallory wait in the Jeep while he checked things out—just in case. But before he could even reach for the key to turn the motor off, she was out the door and running toward the car.

  “Wait,” he called, leaving the engine running and taking off after her. “Hey, stop. Come back here.”

  Mallory heard him calling, but she couldn’t stop. It was Marissa’s car—right there, right in front of them. Finally, after more than two long days of searching, they had the first tangible piece of evidence to prove they’d been on the right track. At last there was something to show that Marissa hadn’t just vanished into thin air.

  “Wait,” Graywolf said again, catching up with her and grabbing her by the wrist.

  Mallory skittered to a stop, held firm by Graywolf’s grip. “What’s the matter?” she demanded, struggling against his hold. “Why are you stopping me?”

  “Mallory,” he said, moving his hold from her wrist to her upper arms, and holding her firm. He’d forgotten about the tension there was between them, about his anger and impatience with her. All he could think about was the pain in her eyes, and how he wanted to take it away. “Stop. Calm down for just a moment.” He held her until she stopped struggling.

  With a resigned sigh, she looked up at him. “All right, all right. I’m calm, I’m calm. What’s the matter? Why can’t I go?”

  “I want to check things out first,” he said. His voice was quiet and deliberate, but he emphasized the importance of his words by tightening his hold on her arms. “I want you to wait for me—right here. Do you understand?”

  “Wait for you?” Mallory protested, shaking her head and struggling again. “No. Why?”

  But she knew why, he could see it in her eyes. “I have to check things out first,” he told her again, giving her a small shake to calm her down again. “And you have to wait for me here.”

  Mallory looked toward her sister’s car, then closed her eyes. When she looked up at him, tears spilled onto her cheeks. “You think something has happened, don’t you. You think we’re going to find her...that she’s...”

  “No,” Graywolf said firmly. Without realizing it, he’d pulled her close. “No, I don’t think that.” The lie had been a small one, but it had been necessary. “I just want to check it out first, and I need you to help me. I need you to wait for me, right here. I’ll come right back for you.”

  Mallory glanced at the car, and then back into his dark eyes again. “Honestly?”

  “Honestly.”

  “And you really don’t think she’s...she’s...”

  “Hey, we had an arrangement,” he reminded her in a soft voice, reaching up and wiping at a tear on her cheek with the back of a finger. “Remember? I tell you any feelings I have about your sister, and you tell me yours, right? I haven’t had any.” He looked down at her, thinking how natural and comfortable she felt in his arms. “Now you’ll stay?”

  Mallory nodded. “Yes.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise,” Mallory whispered.

  He led her back to the Jeep. Reaching across the passenger seat, he turned off the running motor and settled her inside. But as he turned and started back toward the abandoned car, he could feel her eyes watching his every move.

  When he got nearer, he slowly began to circle the area where the car was parked, instinctively scanning the sandy ground for any sign of tire tracks or footprints. There were no signs of either. It was as if the sky had opened up and dropped the suburban-looking station wagon into its place in the sand.

  But Graywolf knew better. The faint, rippled ridges in the sand were clear signs of a flash flood, something that was as natural to the area as was the sun. And it was obvious that recent floodwaters had wiped all signs of tracks from the area.

  He walked carefully to the car. The left front tire was flat and buri
ed to the hubcap in mud, which days ago had dried and cracked around it. Even before he’d peered through the windows, he’d known there would be no one inside. Marissa Wakefield had been here, but she was long gone now. Still, she had left something behind that might help them—a box full of school supplies, and a carload of feelings.

  Graywolf opened the car door, taking a seat behind the wheel. Closing his eyes, he immediately smelled the rain, heard it pelting against the roof, and felt it cold against his face. Marissa Wakefield had driven her car to this spot, in the darkness, and in the rain.

  Graywolf lifted his hands to the steering wheel, placing them on the spots where Marissa’s had rested. He could feel her presence in the car, feel her anxiety and her fear. She had lifted a hand to her necklace, the gold cluster of stars, and she had thought of her sister.

  Graywolf opened his eyes, feeling the sun again and feeling the connection with Marissa slipping away. She had been there all right, not long ago. But there had been something else, too. She hadn’t been alone.

  * * *

  Mallory thought she would go crazy waiting. She watched as Graywolf studied the sand, checked the outlying area and slowly circled the car. His slow, steady deliberations seemed to take forever, and impatience threatened her very sanity. She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath until her depleted lungs had her gasping for a fresh supply.

  Mallory felt a lump of emotion form in her throat. The comfortable-looking station wagon looked so endearingly familiar. She and Marissa had shopped for it together before Marissa had taken the job in Arizona. But seeing it now—looking so out of place and forgotten against the rugged canyon walls—made her want to cry.

  She’d been so excited, so thrilled, when she’d spotted it. For a foolish moment she’d thought this whole nightmare was over, that she would have Marissa back and everything would be okay again—back to normal. But now, watching Graywolf slowly approaching the car, she wasn’t so sure. She was almost afraid of what he’d find.

  She knew why he’d wanted her to wait, and she knew it had nothing to do with him wanting to “check things out.” He hadn’t wanted her with him in case he found Marissa’s body.