Cherokee Bat and the Goat Guys

by Francesca Lia Block

  When they had circled the lake twice, Cherokee leaned against a tree to catch her breath. She felt as if Coyote had been testing her, forcing her forward.

  “Coyote,” she said. “I have to ask you something.”

  Coyote was tall. He never smiled. He had chosen to live alone, to work and mourn and see visions, in a nest above the smog. The animals came to him when he spoke their names. He was full of grace, wisdom and mystery. He had seen his people die, wasted on their lost lands. Cherokee had never seen his tears but she thought they were probably like drops of turquoise or liquid silver, like tiny moons and stars showering from his eyes. She knew that he had more important things to do than give her gifts. But still, she needed him. And she had gone this far.

  “Coyote, Angel Juan is jealous of Raphael. He’s shy around girls—even Witch Baby, and I know he loves her. Witch Baby is jealous of how Raphael is with me. She wants Angel Juan to treat her the same way. Angel Juan is the only one of The Goat Guys I haven’t made anything for,” Cherokee blurted out. Then she stopped. Coyote was eyeing her.

  “Cherokee Bat,” he said. “The birds have given you feathers for Witch Baby. The goats have given you fur for Raphael Chong Jah-Love. What do you want now?”

  “I want the horns on your shelf for Angel Juan,” Cherokee whispered.

  She was braced against the tree, and she realized that she was waiting for something, for thunder to crack suddenly or for the ground to shake. But nothing happened. The morning was quiet—the early sun coaxing the fragrance from the pines and the earth. Coyote did not even blink. He was silent for a while. Then he spoke.

  “My people are great runners, Cherokee. They go on ritual runs. Before these they abstain from eating fatty meat and from sexual relations. These things can drain us.”

  Cherokee looked down at the ground and shrugged. “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. You are very young still. So is Raphael. Angel Juan and Witch Baby are both very young. You must be careful. While your parents are away, I am responsible. Use your wisest judgment and protect yourself.”

  “We do. I do,” Cherokee said. “Weetzie told me and Witch Baby all about that stuff. But this is about Angel Juan. We all have what we want, but it’s been harder for him his whole life and now he’s the only one without a present.”

  “There is power, great power,” Coyote said. “You do not understand it yet.”

  “I am careful,” Cherokee insisted. “Besides, if I haven’t been responsible, it doesn’t have to do with you or with the wings and haunches. I just want the horns for Angel Juan so he won’t feel left out.”

  “I cannot do any more for you. You’ll have to make something else for Angel Juan. I cannot give you the horns.”

  “Coyote …”

  “I want you to try to get more sleep,” Coyote said. “If you want to find the trail, if you want to find yourself, you must explore your dreams alone. You must grow at a slow pace in a dark cocoon of loneliness so you can fly like wind, like wings, when you awaken.”

  I’m awake now, Cherokee wanted to shout. I’m a woman already and you want to keep me a child. You want us all to be children.

  But instead she turned, jumped on Raphael’s red bicycle and rode down the hill, away from the lake, away from Coyote.

  Cherokee could not stop thinking about the horns. Why was Coyote so afraid of giving them to her? She had always known inside that the wings and the haunches were not just feathers and fur. The horns must have even greater power.

  Cherokee rode home and found Witch Baby practicing her drums in the shed.

  “I tried to get a present for Angel Juan,” Cherokee said. “But Coyote won’t help me. I don’t know what to do.”

  “What about those goat horns you were talking about?”

  Cherokee played with one of her braids. “Coyote said the horns have a lot of power. He’s afraid to give them to us.”

  Witch Baby crunched up her face. “It’s not fair. Coyote helped you get presents for me and Raphael.” She was quiet for a moment. “I wonder what’s so special about the horns,” she said. “I want to find out.”

  “Witch, don’t do anything creepy,” Cherokee said. “Coyote is like a dad to us and he is very powerful.”

  Witch Baby pulled a tangle-ball out of her hair, looked at it and growled. Watching her, Cherokee wished she hadn’t said anything about the horns. Witch Baby might do something. But at the same time Cherokee was curious. What would happen to The Goat Guys if they had the magic horns?

  I don’t need to know, Cherokee told herself. I’ll think of something else for Angel Juan. And Witch Baby is only a little girl. She won’t be able to do anything Coyote doesn’t want her to do.

  Witch Baby was little. She was so small that she was able to slip in through the window of Coyote’s shack one night. Witch Baby was very quiet when she wanted to be, and very fast—so quiet and fast that she was able to lake the goat horns off a shelf and leave with them in her arms while Coyote slept. Witch Baby was very much in love. She had convinced Angel Juan to drive her up to Coyote’s shack late at night and wait for her because, she said. Coyote had a present for them. Witch Baby was so in love that all she cared about was getting the horns. She didn’t even think about how Coyote would feel when he woke a few moments after the red truck had disappeared down the hillside and saw that the familiar horn shadow was not falling across the floor in the moonlight.

  When Witch Baby and Angel Juan got back to Witch Baby’s house, they sat in the dark truck.

  “Well, aren’t you going to let me see?” Angel Juan asked.

  Witch Baby took the horns out from under her jacket and gave them to him.

  “Oopa! Brujita!”

  “They’re for you. I asked Coyote if I could have them for you.”

  Angel Juan held the horns up on his head and looked at himself in the rearview mirror. His eyes shone, darker than the lenses of the sunglasses he almost always wore.

  “Thank you, Baby. This is the coolest present. I feel like a real Goat Guy now.”

  Witch Baby looked down to hide the flowers blooming in her eyes, the heat in her cheeks. Angel Juan leaned over and kissed her face. Bristling roughness and shivery softness, heat and cool, honeysuckle and tobacco and fresh bread and spring. The horns gleaming like huge teeth in Angel Juan’s lap. Then Witch Baby leaped out of the car.

  “Wait! Baby!” Angel Juan leaned his head out the window of the truck and watched her run into the shed. The horns were cool, pale bone.

  Angel Juan attached them to a headband so he could wear them when he played bass. The next night, backstage at The Vamp, he put them on and admired himself in the mirror. He looked taller, his chin more angular, and he thought he noticed a shadow of stubble beginning to grow there. He took off his sunglasses and turned to Witch Baby.

  “Hey, what do you think?”

  “You arc a fine-looking Goat Guy, Angel Juan.”

  Cherokee and Raphael came through the door. Raphael and Angel Juan hadn’t been speaking since the fight, but now, wearing his horns. Angel Juan forgot all about it. And Raphael was so impressed by the horns that he forgot too.

  “Cool horns,” he said, swinging his tail,

  Cherokee gasped and pulled Witch Baby aside.

  “What did you do?” She dug her nails into Witch Baby’s arm. “Coyote will kill us!”

  “Let go, clutch! I did it because I love Angel Juan. Just like you got goat pants for your boyfriend.”

  “I didn’t go against anyone’s rules.”

  “You and your stupid clutchy rules!”

  “We have to give them back! Witch!”

  Witch Baby jammed her hand into her mouth and began gnawing on her nails, Cherokee looked over at Angel Juan. He was very handsome with his crown of horns and he was smiling.

  Maybe it would be okay just this once, Cherokee thought. We could play one show with the horns. Angel Juan would feel so good. And maybe the horns are really magical. Maybe some
thing magical will happen.

  Angel Juan was still showing Raphael the horns. He looked over at Witch Baby. “That niña bruja got them for me. Pretty good job, hey?” He grinned.

  Cherokee sighed. “Listen, Witch,” she whispered. “We’ll play one gig with the horns and then we’ll tell Angel Juan that Coyote has to have them back. We’ll get him another present. But we can’t keep them.”

  Witch Baby didn’t say anything. It was time to go on.

  If the crowd had loved The Goat Guys before, had loved the Rasta boy with animal legs, the drummer witch with wings and the dancing blur of blonde and fringe and beads that was Cherokee, then tonight they loved the angel with horns.

  Angel Juan’s horns glowed above everything, pulsing with ivory light. His body moved as if he were the music he played. When he slid to his knees and lifted his bass high, the veins in his arms and hands were full.

  We are a heart, Cherokee thought.

  After the set, she watched Angel Juan pick Witch Baby up in his arms and swing her around. Cherokee had never seen either of them look so happy. She hated to think about taking the horns back to Coyote.

  But Angel Juan has the confidence he needs now even without the horns, she told herself. We all do.

  So at dawn the next morning, Cherokee untangled herself from Raphael, crawled out of the tepee and tiptoed across the wet lawn to the garden shed. She saw Witch Baby and Angel Juan lying together on the floor, their dark hair and limbs merged so that she could not tell them apart. Only when they moved slightly could she see both faces, but even then they wore the same dreamy smile, so it was hard to tell the difference. Then Cherokee saw the horns gleaming in a corner of the shed. She lifted them carefully, wrapped them in a sheet and carried them away with her.

  Cherokee got on Raphael’s bicycle and started to ride to Coyote’s shack. But at the foot of Coyote’s hill Cherokee stopped. She took the horns from the basket on the front of the bicycle and stroked them, feeling the weight, the smooth planes, the rough ridges, the sharp tips. She thought of last night onstage, the audience gazing up at The Goat Guys, hundreds of faces like frenzied lovers. It had never been like that before. She thought of the witch and angel twins, wrapped deep in the same dream on the floor of the garden shed.

  Cherokee did not ride up the hill to Coyote’s shack. Goat Guys, she whispered, turning the bike around. Beatles, Doors, Pistols, Goat Guys.

  When Cherokee got home, the horns weighing heavy in the basket on the front of Raphael’s bicycle, the sun had started to burn through the gray. Some flies were buzzing around the trash cans no one had remembered to take in.

  Cherokee felt sweat pouring down the sides of her body and the sound of Raphael’s guitar pounded in her head as she walked up the path.

  Witch Baby was waiting in the living room eating Fig Newtons. She glared at Cherokee. “Where are they?”

  Cherokee handed over the horns. Then she turned and went to her tepee, pulled the blanket over her head and fell asleep.

  The wind blew a storm of feathers into her mouth, up her nostrils. Goats came trampling over the earth, stirring up clouds of dust. Horns of white flame sprang from their heads. And in the waves of a dark dream-sea floated chunks of bone, odd-shaped pieces with clefts in them like hooves.

  At the next Goat Guy show, the band came on stage with their wings, their haunches, their horns. The audience swooned at their feet.

  Cherokee spun and spun until she was dizzy, until she was not sure anymore if she or the stage was in motion.

  Afterward two girls in lingerie and over-the-knee leather boots offered a joint to Raphael and Angel Juan. All four of them were smoking backstage when Cherokee and Witch Baby came through the door.

  Witch Baby went and wriggled onto Angel Juan’s lap. He was wearing the horns and massaging his temples. His face looked constricted with pain until he inhaled the smoke from the joint.

  “Are you okay?” Witch Baby asked.

  “My head’s killing me.”

  Angel Juan offered the burning paper to Witch Baby, She inhaled, coughed and gave it to Raphael, who also took a hit.

  “Want a hit, Kee?” he asked.

  The girls in boots looked at each other, their lips curling back over their teeth.

  “No thanks,” Cherokee said. She went and stood next to Raphael and began playing with his hair.

  The girls in boots crossed and uncrossed their legs, then stood up.

  “We’ll see you guys later,” said one, looking straight at Raphael. The other smiled her snarl at Angel Juan. Then they left.

  “Ick! Nasty!” Witch Baby hissed after them.

  “I saw that one girl in some video at The Vamp,” said Raphael. “She had cow’s blood all over her. It was pretty sick.” He took another hit from the joint and gave it back to Angel Juan.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Cherokee said, wrinkling her nose at the burned smell in the air.

  But the next time Raphael offered her a joint, she smoked it with him. The fire in her throat sent smoke signals to her brain in the shapes of birds and flowers. She leaned back against his chest and watched the windows glow.

  “Square moons,” she murmured, “New moons. Gel it? New-shaped moon.”

  Later, in the dark kitchen, lit only by the luminous refrigerator frost, they ate chocolate chip ice cream out of the carton and each other’s mouths.

  But in the morning Cherokee’s throat burned and her chest ached, dry. There were no more birds or flowers or window-moons, and when she tried to kiss Raphael he turned away from her.

  The band played more and more shows. Cherokee’s skull was full of music, even when it was quiet. Smoke made her chest heave when she tried to run. She remembered drinks and matches and eyes and mouths and breasts coming at her out of the darkness. She remembered brushing against Witch Baby’s wings, feeling the stage shake as Raphael galloped across it; she remembered the shadow of horns on the wall behind them and Angel Juan massaging his temples. When she woke in the morning, she felt as if she had been dancing through her sleep, as if she had been awake in the minds of an audience whose dreams would not let her rest. And she did not want any of it to stop.

  Some days. Angel Juan would drive Cherokee, Raphael and Witch Baby to school and then go to work. But more and more often they all just stayed home, piled in Weetzie’s bed, watching soap operas and rented movies, eating tortilla chips and talking about ideas for new songs. At night they came to life, lighting up the house with red bulbs, listening to music, drinking beers, taking hot tubs on the deck by candlelight, dressing for the shows. At night they were vibrant—perfectly played instruments.

  Sometimes Cherokee wanted to write to her family or visit Coyote, but she decided she was too tired, she would do it later, her head ached now. They would be out of school soon anyway, so what did it matter if they missed a few extra days, she told herself, running her hands over Raphael’s thigh in the haunch pants. And they were doing something important. Lulu from The Vamp had told Raphael that she thought they could be the next hot new band.

  Angel Juan and Witch Baby were kissing on the carpet. Through the open windows, the evening smelled like summer. It would be night soon. There would be feathers, fur and bone.

  Dear Everybody,

  I know the film Is very important but sometimes I wish you were home. Maybe The Goat Guys can be in your next movie.

  Love,

  Cherokee

  Hooves

  Summer came and the canyon where Cherokee lived smelled of fires. Sometimes, when she stood on the roof looking over the trees and smog and listening to the sirens, she saw ash in the air like torn gray flesh. She wondered what Coyote was thinking as the hills burned around him. If lines had formed in his face when he had discovered that the horns were gone. Lines like scars. She had not spoken to him in weeks.

  That summer there was dry fragile earth and burning weeds, buzzing electric wires, parched horns and the thought of Coyote’s anger-scars. There was Cherokee’s
reflection in the mirror—powder-pale, her body narrow in the tight dresses she had started to wear. And there were the shows almost every night.

  The shows were the only things that seemed to matter now. More and more people came, and when Cherokee whirled for them she forgot the heat that had kept her in a stupor all day, forgot the nightmares she had been having, the charred smell in the air and what Coyote was thinking. People were watching her, moving with her, hypnotized. And she was rippling and flashing above them. Onstage she was the fire.

  And then one night, after a show. The Goat Guys came home and saw the package at the front door.

  “It says ‘For Cherokee.’”

  Witch Baby handed over the tall box and Cherokee took it in her arms. At first she thought it was from her family. They were thinking of her. But then she saw the unfamiliar scrawl and she hesitated.

  “Open it!” said Angel Juan.

  “You have a fan, I guess,” said Raphael.

  Cherokee did not want to open the box. She sat staring at it.

  “Go on!”

  Finally, she tore at the tape with her nails, opened the flaps and removed the brown packing paper. Inside was another box. And inside that were the hooves.

  They were boots, really. But the toes were curved, with clefts running down the front, and the platform heels were sharp wedges chiseled into the shape of animal hooves. They were made of something fibrous and tough. They looked almost too real.

  “Now Cherokee will look like a Goat Guy too!” Angel Juan said.

  “Totally cool!” Raphael picked up one of the boots. “I wish I had some like this!”

  Cherokee sniffed. The hooves smelled like an animal. They bristled with tiny hairs.

  “Put them on!”

  She took off her moccasins and slid her feet into the boots. They made her tall; her legs were long like the legs of lean, muscled models who came to see The Coat Guys play. She walked around the room, balancing on the hooves.

  “They are hot!” Raphael said, watching her.

  They were fire. She was fire. She was thunderbird. Red hawk. Yellow dandelion. Storming the stage on long legs, on the feet of a horse child, wild deer, goat girl …