Looks Over(Gives Light Series) (37 page)

By dawn I had exhausted my repertoire of songs.  I needed a new distraction.  Somehow I got the bright idea that I was going to create a song of my own.  I started piecing together different notes in a blind effort to make them fit.  It didn't take long before I realized I was a crappy composer.

The sun rose behind me, soothing and cool.  Blue ink bled into the black and starry sky, chased away by white-gold sunshine.  Sunrise was a beautiful sight to behold, and it captivated me, until I couldn't remember the real reason I was out here.  By the time the sun was high and merciless in the sky, the hawks screeching for their morning ascent, I remembered why.  My tongue felt as hot as embers.  I looked wearily at the shaman's bota bag.  I wasn't fooling anyone.  I knew I had to take a drink.

The sweet water was a welcome alleviant against my sore throat.  I tied up the bota bag and set it on the ground, and immediately I started to dread what I had done.  It wouldn't be long now before Taken Alive came back for another bizarre chat.  What the heck was in that water, and what ever possessed Plains People to start drinking it?

Around midday the sun was so hot, all I could think to do was take my shirt off and fan myself with it.  Soon I was drowsy again.  I folded up my shirt and laid it on the ground.  I laid my head on my shirt and took another nap.

The second time I awoke, it wasn't to snow, but to a soft carpet.  At first I couldn't remember what had happened, why I had fallen asleep, and I hastily put my shirt back on.  I stood slowly and looked around.

I recognized this house.  There was a closet next to the front door, twin bedrooms to my right.  The door at the far end led to an outhouse.  The walls were covered in charcoal drawings; when I tried to get a closer look at them, they blurred and distorted before my eyes.  I placed my hand against a raw support beam.  My eyes followed the light leaking through the ceiling to an east-facing alcove.

"Hello," my mother said.

I couldn't take my eyes off of her.  She sat on the window seat in the alcove, her leg tucked beneath her.  In a frumpy white dress and a green apron, her teeth poking out of her mouth in a rabbit-like underbite, she was adorable.

I gazed at her in yearning.  I couldn't bring myself to take a step closer.  I thought it was cruel that my imagination had summoned the one person I'd always wanted to know.

"Are you just going to stand there all day?" Mom asked.

"Well, yeah," I said, sheepish, "that was kind of the intention."

Mom scoffed.  "You get that from your father."

My father.

I couldn't help it when dull resentment surged through my being.  I took a cautious step closer.  "Which one?" I asked, and tried to sound polite.

Mom frowned at me.  "The only one you've ever known."

"You really hurt him," I said, the words tumbling haphazardly from my mouth.

"I know."

"He doesn't deserve that."

"I know."

"Then why'd you do it?"

"I'm only human, honey," Mom said.  "We're known for our mistakes."

I was too afraid to draw near.  I was afraid she'd vanish if I touched her.  She wasn't real.

"I'm real," Mom said, her eyebrows dancing.  "Just because you imagine something doesn't mean it isn't real.  Remember when we used to sit by this window and watch the sun climbing over the pines?"

I swallowed.  "I do remember that," I said.  It was one of the few things I remembered about her.  How young the both of us had been.  I realized Mom was little more than a kid when she had had me.  And when she died...

"Was it fast?" I asked.

"Yes.  It was."

I smiled ruefully.  I knew she was telling me what I wanted to hear.

"Come here," Mom said.

I sat tentatively on the window seat with her.  Suddenly I wanted to be small again.  I wanted those days when I didn't know what fear was, when I didn't have to pretend I knew what my mother's voice sounded like.

Mom reached for me.  Maybe she was going to hug me; I don't know.  Because my stomach started hurting again, and I knew it was only a matter of time before I threw up.  Please don't, I begged my body.  I didn't want this to be over, not yet, not now, I wanted to hug my mother--

A wave of sickness pulsed around me.  I fell to my knees.  My stomach clenched with nausea, sickness and sickly-sweet water pouring out of my mouth.

I drew a deep, gasping breath.  My head was about ready to burst, my eyes swimming with tears.  The badlands were bright, brutal, the sand under my hands scratching my palms raw.  My stomach tightened with hunger.  Whether mere hours had passed, or days, I didn't know.  I just wanted the shaman to come back.  I couldn't take this anymore.  I couldn't understand how Plains People went through this with ease.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.  I heard a coyote yipping somewhere in the badlands, somewhere south of me.  I wondered at that; coyotes, as far as I knew, were mostly nocturnal.  I squinted at the blurry southern horizon.  My body felt cooked from the inside out.  I wished I had my willow leaves with me, because I was pretty sure this was the start of a fever.

The yips drew closer.  The yips turned into barks.  That I found odd.  A coyote can "bark," I guess, but it doesn't sound anything like a dog's bark.  It sounds more like a honking goose.  This sounded like a real bark.  A wolf's bark.

Balto bounded across the grainy sand.  He skidded to a halt at my knees, his sharp nails catching on the clay ground.

I couldn't believe my eyes.  A coywolf was definitely better suited to the badlands than a human was, but I had no idea how he'd managed to find me.  I sat up on my knees and reached for his muzzle.  He dropped a dead ferret at my feet.  It was very thoughtful of him.

Home
, I signed. 

I meant for him to go home--but he must have misinterpreted.  He started south, then stopped, his bushy tail held high.  He turned his head and gazed back at me expectantly, panting.  He wanted me to follow him.

And really, I'd had enough of this.  I didn't want to talk to dead relatives anymore.  I just wanted to take a bath.

I picked up the shaman's bota bag and started after Balto.  He barked, showing me his approval, and took off at breakneck speed.  I had no choice but to run if I wanted to keep up.

The badlands were slippery under the soles of my shoes.  I tripped more than once, crashing to my knees; Balto was kind enough to circle around until I caught up to him.  I wasn't really in the mood to run; my lungs felt like they were about to explode.  But soon we came upon the tent rocks; then the southern oak grove; then the promontory.  We were halfway home.  Balto might have gone on to the reservation; but I wanted to stop by the shaman's house and return his bota bag.  I got down on my knees to collect my breath.  Balto loped back to me, sniffing, bemused.  I reached out to stroke his pelt.

He vanished as soon as I touched him.

I stared, incredulous, blank, at the empty stretch of ground.

Guess the drug was still in my system.

24

Pilot Whale

The shaman scrutinized me from across the little round table.

The shaman's house was antiquated, animal hide walls stretched firmly across a skeletal wooden frame.  The house was floorless, the would-be floor nothing more than sand.  Sunlight streamed in through the parted leather doorway; otherwise the house was very dim.

A pair of heart-shaped windchimes hung from a pole across the ceiling.

I'm sorry
, I began to sign. 
But I
--

The shaman stopped me with a raised hand.  Resigned, I slumped.

You will tell me what you saw
, he said.

I had expected him to be kind of mad at me that I'd cut my vision quest short.  Or maybe I hadn't; I don't really know how long I was out there.  Either way, the shaman didn't seem to care.  Dumbfounded, I signed to him--about my crazy hallucinations--and he sat up gradually, nodding, cunning eyes bulging.  I almost saw a smile on his face.  He clapped his hand on his knee the moment I had finished.

A speaker!
he signed. 
You will speak on behalf of families.

I stared at him.

What?

That sounds good--it does--but I can't speak.

"Tammattsi!"

I really wished he would stop shouting that at me.

Your spirit guide is the coywolf
, he signed to me. 
And the coywolf belongs to two worlds.  Balance comes from maintaining both worlds.  Beware that neither claims you wholly. 

"Toko."

The shaman's granddaughter came into the rustic house, her eyes bulging.  Following her was my father.

I stood up so quickly, I was dizzy.  Dad stilled me with a hand on the back of my head.

"You really need a bath," he said apologetically.

I smiled at him.  I was very aware.

"Aishen," Dad said to the shaman.  He took me by the shoulders.  "Let's head home, Cubby."

I was exhausted by the time Dad and I returned home.  I wanted nothing except to lie down and sleep for hours.  Dad had ideas of his own.  Sternly--which didn't come easily for him--he sent me out to the outhouse to get cleaned up.  My hair was sodden by the time I padded back inside. 

"You're going to eat," he said.  "I know how strenuous the vision quest can be for your stomach.  Trust me, I went through it at your age."

We went into the kitchen together and ate chokecherries from the icebox.  It was probably a good thing that Dad had abandoned more intricate culinary endeavors.  I sank into a wooden chair, relieved to be out of the hot sun.  Dad sat across the table from me, studying me in silence.

"A while ago," Dad said, "you wanted to know about your mother.  But I brushed you off, and that was wrong of me."

I swallowed a chokecherry and gazed at him, wondering whether he knew--but how could he know?--what I had seen in the badlands.

"Her family was Finnish.  Her father had some English in him, I believe.  Her parents divorced when she was very young.  Her father walked out on the family and never looked back.  Her mother buried herself in her work.  For the most part, Christine grew up alone."

I rested my elbow on the table, a frown on my face.

"The mistakes your mother made...  You have to understand.  She was just trying to fill a void.  She wanted love."  Dad looked at me meaningfully.  "I think that void was filled once we had you."

I ducked my head, embarrassed, and waved at him playfully.

"Sky?"

I looked up from the kitchen table.

Rafael must have let himself into the house.  That's just the way it works in Nettlebush.  He thrust his head through the kitchen doorway, and when he saw the two of us, he started to nod.

"Immaculata said you were back.  I thought she was lying.  She kinda does that."

"Come here, Rafael," Dad said.  "Have some chokecherries with us."

"Okay.  Thanks."

It was oddly relaxing, the three of us together at the same table.  Rafael had this really gross habit of spitting his chokecherry pits in the palm of his hand.  Dad and Rafael started a contest to see which one of them could spit his pits the farthest.  When I finally decided to join in, relenting, and spat my pit out the kitchen window, the both of them called foul play.

"That's just not human," Rafael said disgustedly.

"I saw those landscapes you drew for crafts month," Dad said.

Rafael did this thing with his shoulders, a sort of half-shrug.  "They kind of suck..."

"I didn't think so."

"Thanks."

Dad got up to wash his hands at the wash basin.  The mention of crafts month had reminded me of something.  I pushed my chair back and ran from the room.

"Sky?  Where are you going?"

Rafael wasn't the sort of boy who could sit still for very long.  He followed me into the front room while I opened the drawers beneath the computer desk.  I found what I was looking for and stuffed it into his hands.

He examined it in silence.

"Is that a pilot whale?" he finally said.

It was foolish of me, maybe, but Annie and I had had some glasswort left over.  I had looked up the pilot whale on Granny's computer and tried to recreate it out of glass.  The finished result was a small blue pendant on the end of a willow string.  My rendition was kind of blobby.  I probably should have asked for Annie's help.

Rafael's face lit up in an irresistible grin.  He wrapped the willow string twice around his wrist.

"Dumbass," he said.

I don't know, I thought, grinning back.  Maybe I really was a dumbass.  Everyone needs a pilot whale sooner or later, though.  To show us the way home.

The radio in the sitting room crackled with static.  The next thing I knew, men's smarmy voices were bouncing off of the walls of my home.

"Come listen to baseball," Dad called.

"Okay," Rafael returned, and padded out of the room.