Tears of the Shaman

by Rebecca Daniels

  Mallory nodded as she helped Ida to a seat, then turned and glanced back at the tent. “It looks as though everyone got out okay, though. Thank God for that.”

  “What happened, anyway,” Esther demanded, lowering herself down onto the hard ground and cradling her infant son in her arms. “Was there a fire?”

  “Some kind of electrical one,” Mallory explained.

  “But they’d already put it out,” Charlie observed. “I don’t know why they had to interrupt the meeting.”

  “Better safe than sorry.”

  They all turned around at the sound of the voice behind them. Mallory looked up into Graywolf’s eyes and felt her entire body go weak with relief.

  “Try to explain that to my screaming baby,” Charlie Nez joked, smiling and extending a hand. “Yaa eh t’eeh, Graywolf.”

  “Yaa eh t’eeh, Charlie,” Graywolf said, returning Charlie’s traditional Navajo greeting and the untraditional white man’s handshake. He moved then to give Ida a hug. “Everyone all right here?”

  “We’re fine,” Ida assured him, smiling up at him. “Just a little shook up.”

  Graywolf greeted Esther, taking time to give the crying baby a gentle pat on the head, then turned to Mallory. “You okay?” he asked quietly.

  “F-fine,” Mallory stammered, still shocked by his familiarity with her friends. “I’m fine. You know Ida, her family?”

  Graywolf glanced down, spotting the silver bracelet on Mallory’s wrist. “The reservation can be a lot like a small town,” he said, reaching down and taking her hand in his. He pulled her wrist close and studied the bracelet. “And sometimes it seems that everyone is related to everyone else.”

  “You mean...” Mallory gave her head a shake. “You mean you and Ida? You’re related?”

  “This is nice,” he said, turning to Ida and gesturing to the bracelet. As he looked back to Mallory, his hold on her wrist tightened. Could it be possible that she’d grown even more beautiful? That he could want her more now than he had out on the desert? “Moon and stars,” he murmured, moving the silver band around her wrist with his finger. “Ida is Hosteen Johnny’s niece, my mother’s cousin.”

  Mallory couldn’t hear much after that. The ringing in her ears was much too loud. Ida was saying something, and Graywolf answered. Esther joined in the conversation, and then they all seemed to be laughing. But as far as Mallory was concerned, it all could have been happening on another planet. It seemed impossible that of all the thousands of people at the powwow, she would have stumbled upon relatives of his. Do coincidences like that really happen, or was there some kind of cosmic conspiracy going on in her life?

  But it wasn’t the quirky happenstance that had her mind spinning, it wasn’t the pandemonium of the crowd or the excitement with the evacuation. It was Graywolf—it was seeing him, it was his presence, his nearness, the sound of his voice.

  She felt so awkward, so ill at ease. She’d never been in a situation like this before. How was she supposed to act? What did she say? They were far from strangers, yet did their time together really qualify them as lovers? They’d shared a moment, a passion, an adventure in time, but that time had ended twelve days ago. Where did they go from here?

  But even as her mind reflected on the unusual predicament she found herself in, there was a more immediate concern that seized her attention. He still held her hand. He was still touching her, and that thought alone consumed what rational thought she had left.

  His attention was with the others, with the conversation he shared with Ida and her family. But as he spoke, as he laughed and joked with the others, his thumb absently stroked the palm of her hand. It was an innocent gesture, unplanned and unintentional, but like an ancient method of torture, the small, subtle motion was slowly driving her insane.

  She could think of nothing but him—of him holding her, touching her. She remembered the feel of him, the taste of him, and how she longed for him again. She thought of how his skin had looked in the moonlight, heard the sound of his soft groans in her ear, and felt the weight of his body against hers.

  I love you.

  She had said those words to him. She had opened her heart and offered it to him, and yet he’d refused her gift and walked away. So where did that leave them now? Did that give him the right to hold her hand, to make her crazy with longing? Who was Benjamin Graywolf now—friend, lover, stranger or enemy?

  “What are you thinking?”

  Mallory jumped, realizing he was watching her with dark, mysterious eyes. She looked quickly away, afraid of what he might see in her eyes. “Uh, nothing. Nothing at all.”

  An explosion of wind and dust blasted across the desert, sending canopies flying, ripping paper signs from their posts along the marketplace, and picking up debris from the blacktop walkways and tossing it around in all directions. Charlie’s wide-brimmed felt cowboy hat was snatched from his head, and he took off through the stalls after it.

  Mallory protected her eyes from the dust, shielding her face with her free hand. “This wind, it’s getting worse.”

  The knot in Graywolf’s stomach tightened. “Mallory,” he said above the din of the wind. Squeezing her hand tight, he pulled her close. “Mallory, listen to me. There’s something I have to tell you.”

  Mallory opened her eyes. There had been something in the tone of his voice, something that had the hair on the back of her neck standing on edge. Looking up at him, she felt a tremor rumble through her. “What it is? What’s the matter?”

  He stared down at her, trying to decide what to say, trying to find the right words. But then it was too late. Another blast of hot wind charged out from across the desert, stronger this time, and a terrible groan sounded from behind them.

  Mallory turned, her hair flying wildly around her face. She watched in disbelief as the wind tore through the massive tent, ripping up stakes, tearing at moorings, and sending the tremendous canvas toppling to the ground.

  “Oh, my God,” she cried in a strangled gasp, her voice blending with the screams of others as they all watched, horrified. She staggered back a step, her legs weak and uncertain, and felt Graywolf’s hands at her waist, steadying her.

  Within a matter of seconds, the giant tent lay in shambles, its huge anchor posts snapped and broken like matchsticks in a fire, bits and pieces of what had once been the dais lying scattered and broken amid the tangled debris on the ground.

  The crowd that had scattered after the evacuation slowly began to gather again. Police and fire officials were quick to move in, cordoning off the area and keeping the crowd at bay. The wind was all but gone now, almost as though it had never existed at all, and an eerie stillness seemed to settle over the area.

  Oddly quiet, people milled around, as though lulled by the suddenness of the incident, and the horror. Most could only stand and stare, gazing down at the demolished structure inside which only short minutes before hundreds had been gathered.

  Cameras clicked frantically, and reporters seemed to appear out of nowhere. Mobile units crowded the parking lots, raising their satellite dishes skyward and transmitting live feeds to their mother stations across the country. They all wanted to be first with pictures, first with the story. Amazingly, miraculously, a tragedy had been averted, and the news spread fast.

  Feeling was slow in coming back. Mallory stared down at the ravaged remains of the tent, feeling stunned and numb. But her mind reeled, thoughts flying fast and furiously in her head. She couldn’t stop thinking about the people who had been jammed inside that tent only moments before the collapse. It would have been such a terrible disaster, such a tragedy, had the crowd remained inside.

  Mallory turned and looked up at Graywolf. She remembered him at the side entrance of the tent—the look on his face, the tense set of his shoulders. She’d known then there was something the matter.

  “You knew, didn’t you?” she said amid the confusion going on around them.

  He looked away, freeing her of his hold, and said nothing
. He didn’t have to see her face to know what was there. He’d seen it before—in other faces, at other times—the shock, the amazement, the...fear. Mallory was aware of his special gifts, knew it could enable him to help people from time to time. But would she understand that it sometimes was more than simple hunches and intuition, that sometimes it tormented him and made his life torture?

  “That’s what you were trying to tell me, wasn’t it?” she continued, following him. “There was no fire—there never was. You knew. You wanted those people out of there because you knew this was going to happen.”

  Graywolf closed his eyes, trying not to think of the horrible vision that had come to him in the night. He didn’t want to remember what it was he had seen—the broken bodies, the bleeding children, the cries of the people. He just wanted to forget, to pretend it never happened and pray that it never would again.

  “That’s not important now,” he said in a flat, unemotional voice. “Everyone got out in time, that’s all that’s important.”

  “Graywolf,” she whispered, reaching out and resting a hand along his back. “You saved those people’s lives. You saved my life.”

  Graywolf felt the warmth of her palm against the material of his shirt, and it radiated through his body like a warm ray of sun. It had been twelve days since he’d left her standing on the porch of her sister’s tiny bungalow in Sedona—twelve long, grueling days.

  But as long and torturous as the days had been, the nights had been worse. It would have been better if he’d never gone to her, if he’d never shown up on her doorstep that night. It would have been easier then—easier to forget, easier to go on. He never should have touched her, never should have allowed himself one night in her bed.

  But as it was, he had touched—he’d touched, and he’d shared, and he’d loved. It had been a mistake, a big mistake. One he would spend the rest of his life trying to get over. He knew now what it was to taste heaven. He longed to hold her again, to feel her against him and taste her in his mouth. He knew exactly what he was missing, and that made it impossible for him to forget.

  “Look,” he said, taking a deep breath and doing what he could to push all those feeling aside. “I don’t want to talk about this. Just forget it, okay?”

  Mallory stared up at him in disbelief. “What do you mean, forget it? How do I do that?” She searched his face. “Graywolf, what happened today is extraordinary. It’s an incredible story.”

  The cold spread through his system like a blast of arctic air. “Oh, wait, I get it now,” he said in a harsh voice. “It’s an exclusive.”

  “Exclusive?” she asked, giving her head a shake. “What are you talking about?”

  “The story,” he said simply. “I mean, how lucky can you get? It all but dropped into your lap.” He laughed, a grating sound that had little to do with humor, and gestured to the newspeople gathered around the collapsed tent shooting video, snapping pictures and conducting interviews. “Look at them out there, climbing and crawling all over one another. But I guess you don’t have to worry about them scooping you, do you? You’ve got the inside angle.”

  “You think I want to report this?” Realization hit her like a sock on the jaw, and she staggered back a step.

  “Well, don’t you?” he asked flippantly. “I mean, you are a reporter, aren’t you? And a story like this doesn’t just come along every day.” He raised his hand up, reading an imaginary headline. “Shaman’s Vision Averts Disaster. Yeah, I like it.” He leaned close, giving her a cynical smile. “Just make sure you spell my name right, okay?”

  “Stop it,” she demanded, feeling the sting of tears in her eyes.

  “But just a little advice,” he said with feigned enthusiasm. “I’d maybe leave out the part about sleeping with the medicine man. It doesn’t really look good for your credibility, you know what I mean? Besides, pretty little rich girls with long blond hair really shouldn’t be going to bed with redskins, anyway.”

  “How dare you,” Mallory challenged, her anger making her start to shake. “How dare you say that to me.”

  “How dare I?” he repeated. “You expect me to believe a reporter would walk away from a story like this? I know a little something about you media types, or have you forgotten?”

  Mallory marched up to him, aware of how their argument had caught the attention of Ida and the others. But she was too hurt, and too furious to care. How could he accuse her so unjustly? She thought he knew her better than that, thought he’d come to care. But now she understood just how wrong she had been. Nothing she did or said would make any difference. He didn’t trust her—not because she’d betrayed him, but because of who she was, and what she did.

  “I haven’t forgotten anything,” she said in a low, carefully contained voice. “Including what a prejudiced, closed-minded, intolerant son of a bitch you really are.” She turned and stalked off toward the parking lot.

  Graywolf stared after her. She’d called him prejudiced— him. That was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. He wasn’t prejudiced. Jaded, maybe, embattled, certainly, but prejudiced?

  Graywolf shook his head, clenching his fists at his side. What would someone like her know about prejudice, anyway? What did she know about hardship and injustice and the kind of anger that can seize your soul?

  “Was it my imagination, or was that lady just a little angry with you?” Charlie asked dryly, gazing over Graywolf’s shoulder as Mallory stormed toward the parking lot.

  “Reporters,” Graywolf scoffed, but watching her push through the crowd and disappear within the maze of cameramen, reporters and mobile remote units left a cold, empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. He turned around slowly, gazing into Charlie’s watchful eyes. “You can’t trust any of them.”

  “Think so?” Charlie asked, arching a brow.

  “I know so,” Graywolf said. “Take it from me, a reporter is always on the lookout for a story—don’t ever forget that.”

  “Oh, I won’t, I won’t,” Charlie assured him. “I guess we just sort of stopped thinking of Mallory as a reporter when she drove Esther and the baby to the clinic when my truck broke down the other night. She just seemed more like a friend after that.”

  Graywolf’s eyes widened in surprise. “She drove to the clinic?”

  “Yeah, but thanks to you I’m onto her now,” Charlie assured him. “And I can see now that her coming by the trailer last night and sitting with the baby so Esther and I could go out for a while—well, hell, that must have just been her cagey way of worming her way into our confidence.”

  Graywolf stared at Charlie, imagining Mallory in Charlie’s tiny camp trailer, and felt himself begin to cringe. “She baby-sat?”

  “Yeah,” Charlie said, the smile slowly fading from his lips. “She did. Funny thing, though, none of that’s in the articles she wrote about us.” He shot Graywolf a sidelong glance. “They’re done. She let us read them, you see.”

  Graywolf glanced back across the parking lot, feeling small and pathetic. He tried to picture Mallory out there somewhere, lost and alone in that sea of cars and chaos. He of all people knew how warm and how caring she could be, how generous and good-natured. So why then had he turned on her so? Why was he being so hard, so willing to think the worst?

  “Don’t take it so hard,” Charlie said, as if in answer to Graywolf’s unspoken questions. “Everyone’s allowed to act like a jerk sometimes.” He smiled and gave Graywolf a friendly slap on the back. “Even a shaman.”

  Chapter 15

  Graywolf leaned into the flames, letting the heat sear his bare skin. The air inside the small lean-to was stifling, burning his lungs with each breath, and the perspiration streamed from his pores in a thousand tiny rivulets. He was woozy from the heat, yet he forced himself to stay within the meager enclosure.

  He welcomed the cleansing burn of the fire, wanted its flames to purge him of the poisons in his system, wanted it to leave him purified, healed. But closing his eyes, he knew it would take more t
han a sweat bath to cleanse him of the sickness that plagued his soul.

  In the darkness he could see Mallory’s face, hear her voice in the quiet rustle of the night. There was no curing ritual, no powerful medicine or appropriate sing, that could make him forget her, that would make her vanish from his thoughts. She was a part of him now, like his arms or his legs. Her image was firmly imprinted on his brain, etched indelibly in his heart. Yet, there he sat—before a scalding fire, looking for absolution and wanting nothing more than to forget.

  The sound of his own words played unmercifully in his head—over and over again. If he could just make them stop. He didn’t want to remember how much he’d hurt her, didn’t want to think about the stupid things he had said. If he could just find the right ceremony, recite the proper chant, exercise the correct magic, that would let him go back, that would give him a second chance, prevent it from ever having to happen at all.

  But even the strongest medicine would never make her smile at him again.

  He searched that secret part of his consciousness, that hidden point of awareness where the visions flowed and insight swirled like the waters of the river. But with frustrating awareness he was forced to accept that secret spot held nothing for him now—no foresight as to where she was, no prediction as to what she was feeling, no prophecy as to what would come.

  He forced the familiar swell of anger down in his heart, concentrating instead on the cleansing flow of the sweat as it washed away the poisons. He’d grappled with the question too many times in the past, too many times he had searched for an answer that wasn’t there. Why didn’t he just accept the fact that he would probably never know why his visions were so often filled with the faces of strangers—with people and places that had little to do with him and his life. He would never know why they revealed so little for him. Why was what he could give so freely to others denied to him? He yearned to know something about her, craved for that special insight, that undaunting awareness, and yet he sensed nothing.