by K. D. Keenan
“Kanaloa, we objected to the building in the ocean because the whales hated it,” Chaco said. “The Menehune asked Kama for help. Kama agreed. We just, uh, reminded Kama of his promise to the Menehune. Really. That’s the truth.” Not one hundred percent of the truth, but Coyotl the Trickster was comfortable with half-truths. And lies, if absolutely necessary.
“Liar!”
So much for that.
“Well, let Fred go, anyway,” Chaco said in a reasonable tone of voice. “Why do you have him tied up like a chicken? He’s harmless.”
Kanaloa lifted his muscle-corded arm to look at Fred as though he had forgotten he was toting a rope-bound mannegishi. “This is a Fred? I am going to sacrifice it. It intruded on my holy space at a sacred time. This is kapu, and the penalty is death.”
“If you want good results, my advice is don’t sacrifice a mannegishi. Where he comes from, it’s supposed to be a thousand years bad luck. Now, sacrificing me is another thing altogether. I’m immortal, of course, but if you can manage it, I’m supposed to be an enormously powerful sacrifice. A thousand years good luck, I should think. Let Fred go and take me instead.”
Kanaloa dropped Fred from shoulder height and crouched, spear at the ready. “Die like the dog you are!” Kanaloa roared, and swiftly jabbed his heavy spear at Chaco. Chaco didn’t bother to flinch, but to his surprise, his earth-filled vest tore away with a horrible ripping sound, and he felt his mana drain away. At the same instant, the ghost-energy released him and Chaco sprang to his feet. Although he was weak and sick from losing his mana, he managed to sprint away from the heiau like Fred after a chocolate bar, taking refuge behind an enormous boulder. He knew he couldn’t last long against Kanaloa without his powers, but he hoped to gain a moment or two for negotiation.
The angry Avatar leaped after him, brandishing his spear. “Why even bother, you mangy puppy? Your mana is gone. No one can stand against Kanaloa!”
“Except Pele,” Chaco shouted, and leaped up the side of the boulder to avoid a spear thrust that fountained green fire as it struck the stone. He might be merely a mortal now, but he was a mortal with a young, strong body.
Chaco scrambled over the boulder and slid down the other side, using the undergrowth to shield himself from Kanaloa. He yelled, “Come and get me!” then slid away through the trees to another sheltering boulder as Kanaloa’s spear sparked green fire where he had just been hiding.
Kanaloa paused, peering around for his quarry in the entangled dark of the trees and brush. Chaco crept silently into another stand of trees, ears and eyes straining anxiously to locate Kanaloa’s current position. His mortal senses were far less acute than his Avatar-powered senses, and he was feeling handicapped on all fronts. As he ducked to avoid a tree limb, a massive brown arm swept around his throat and held him in a chokehold.
“Got you!”
Chaco struggled against the arm, which felt like carved granite. He couldn’t breathe. The arm lessened its grip slightly, enough for Chaco to take a full lungful of air. He drew in the warm, humid air, smelling of flowers and sea air, and wondered how many more breaths he could count on, as Kanaloa swiftly bound his arms with heavy rope. The Avatar began dragging Chaco back to the heiau. It was like being dragged by a mountain; Chaco could no more pit his mortal strength against this force than he could fly to the moon.
They came swiftly to the immense platform of stones, and Kanaloa leaped on it with a single bound, carrying his victim. Chaco’s legs dragged across the jagged surface of the lava rocks, shredding skin and clothes, but that was the least of his worries. Kanaloa stopped in the center of the heiau. He dumped Chaco roughly onto the stones, where he sprawled without moving, waiting for an opening if it came. Kanaloa discarded Chaco’s vest several yards away, where Chaco would not be able to reach it, even if he managed to free himself.
Kanaloa stood straight and tall beneath the blazing stars. The moon had set, so there was no light to compete with the stars. The night sky was a vast pavilion of blue-black velvet, pricked with the light of a billion ancient suns. He unsheathed an obsidian knife from his waist. Holding the blade in his huge right hand where its translucent blade caught and held the starlight, Kanaloa stretched his arms wide and muttered an incantation. Immediately a hulking black shape appeared at the far corner of the old temple and approached with a grinding rumble. As it neared the center of the platform, it became visible as a black boulder roughly the size and shape of a desk. The boulder ground to a halt before Kanaloa, now appearing to be precisely in its accustomed place. It was an ancient altar, impregnated throughout its porous bulk with the blackened blood of many sacrifices. Kanaloa turned to his victim, stooping to pick him up—and froze in astonishment.
Chaco’s bonds were neatly sheared through, lying limp and discarded on the rough stones of the heiau. There was no sign of Chaco, Fred—or Chaco’s half-empty—but half-full—vest.
Chapter 31
Sierra swam up from a dream. It had been a dream about vacationing in Hawai‘i. She and Clancy had been swimming among colorful corals and fishes. They lay in the sun on a white sand beach drinking mai tais. Then they found themselves in a beautiful room. There was water below them, as if the room were a boat sailing on a calm sea, and the hull was fashioned of glass. They could see fish of all sizes and colors swimming beneath them among the waving fronds of seaweed and the coral trees. Then they made slow, delicious love in that sun-filled room, the light spinning and wavering around them as it shimmered across the ripples. But now, something was tugging at her, pulling her away from that lovely vision. Something unpleasant awaited her, but she didn’t know what.
Sierra opened her eyes—no small task, as they were gritty and stuck together. She was in the guest bedroom in Auntie Keikilani’s house, and morning light streamed through the slats in the venetian blinds. Sierra blinked at the light, trying to throw off a deep grogginess to remember her beautiful dream. It was, she recalled, a dream about Clancy.
Clancy.
Clancy was dead.
Sierra’s head began buzzing, and there were annoying white flickers at the edges of her vision. Her head began to ache, and she was having trouble hearing anything over the buzzing. She was afraid of moving; it might make the pain worse. She heard the door to her room open quietly, but lay still with her eyes closed. She didn’t think she could bear interacting with another human being. Someone sat on the bed next to her and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“Sierra, wake up,” said Rose’s quiet voice. “I need to talk to you.”
Sierra tried to pretend that she was still asleep, but Rose was having none of it. “Come on, Sierra, open your eyes. I have something important to tell you. About Clancy.”
Sierra rolled over and put a pillow over her head. She was entitled to some privacy under the circumstances, and this intrusion was too painful to bear.
“While you were asleep, I meditated on my spirit guide. I ran through a number of exercises that Mama, Kaylee, and I learned at the conference in Sedona.”
Sierra removed the pillow and stared at her friend. She was so numbed with pain—if that was a thing—that she didn’t question why Rose was telling her about her spirit guide meditations when all that mattered was that Clancy was dead.
“I had a vision from my spirit guide. It told me that Clancy didn’t go into the water yesterday.”
No, this really was too much. Sierra began channeling Clancy. “No. I’m sick and tired of the mumbo-jumbo. I saw him go over the side with my own eyes. Just do me a favor and get out of here. Please.”
Rose again laid a hand on Sierra’s shoulder, which she tried to shrug off. “Sierra, I’m as sure as I can be. Don’t you trust me?”
Sierra sat bolt upright. “I hate all this stuff. I just want to be a normal person. If I’d never met Chaco, never got involved with all this weird shit, Clancy would still be alive. He’s the one who had the right idea—and he’s the one who’s dead. It’s just not fair!” Tears began trickling dow
n her cheeks, but Rose refused to budge.
“All right. If you don’t believe me that Clancy is still alive, will you believe the loa?”
Sierra stared at her friend resentfully, but nodded. “I trust you, Rose. Of course I trust you. I just don’t trust the supernatural. Look where it’s gotten me. And Clancy. If Clancy is still alive, where is he?”
“Clancy was wearing my medicine bag. I gave it to him earlier yesterday, and he was wearing it when he went overboard. I think that might have saved him. That doesn’t answer your question about where he is, though. I’m sorry. I don’t know.”
Finally, Sierra asked, “What was in your medicine bag? How was it able to protect him?”
“What a shaman keeps in his or her medicine bag is very private and personal. I need to think about whether or not to tell you. No offense, but it’s not something I would normally do.”
Sierra got out of bed. “I’ll be out in a few minutes. I’m going to take a shower.”
The news that Clancy, if not accounted for, might still be alive, compounded with a hot shower, restored Sierra to a near-functional condition. The raw wound of his death was replaced by a tightly wound ball of worry lodged in her solar plexus, but that was more bearable than the awful grief of certainty.
Sierra joined the others in Auntie’s kitchen. Auntie had served up pancakes with fresh pineapple and bacon, and Rose was just finishing her portion. After a cup of coffee, Sierra tucked into her share of pancakes with a newly restored appetite. She sighed and sat back.
“That’s better,” she said. “Rose, maybe you could tell me what you think happened?”
“As best I can,” replied Rose. “I’m as surprised and clueless as anyone, you know. Anyway, for the last few days, Clancy had something dark hanging around him. I’ve seen this before, usually right before someone dies violently. I don’t know what causes this. Maybe an evil spirit. Maybe a curse. I didn’t want to tell him, given how much Clancy dislikes supernatural stuff—he’d have pooh-poohed it. I wanted him to have some protection, and the best I could do was to give him my medicine bag. It has—it had—great power, and I hoped it would shield him from whatever was threatening him. So I just gave it to him and asked him to wear it. I guess he trusted me enough to do it.”
Sierra addressed Rose again. “I know it’s not good form to ask about your medicine bag.” Rose began to reply, but Sierra held up a hand. “However, I think whatever was in the bag might give us a clue as to what happened to Clancy. What do you think, Rose?”
Rose looked troubled. “It might. I don’t know.”
“If you revealed the contents, would that in any way invalidate the power of the bag?”
“Oh, gosh. I don’t think so. It’s just that, well, it’s not traditional to share the knowledge. If someone were ill-intentioned toward me, they might be able to use that knowledge against me.” Auntie Keikilani nodded at this. Clearly, this was a principle that fit into her own traditions.
“Nobody here would ever harm you, Rose. Am I right?”
“Yes, of course you are.”
“Then maybe you could tell us what was in the bag? Just on the chance that it might help us to get Clancy back?”
Rose thought hard, tradition warring with need. Then she nodded. “Okay. The bag had a tiny figure of Kukulkan in it. A very ancient amulet. Along with cornmeal and white sage, of course.”
“Of course,” Sierra said. “What’s Kukulcan?”
“The plumed serpent god of the Maya…”
“Wait a minute. I thought Quetzalcoatl was the plumed serpent god?” Sierra was personally acquainted with Quetzalcoatl from her earlier adventures, but she had never heard of Kukulcan.
“Yes. Quetzalcoatl was the plumed serpent god of the Aztecs. Kukulcan was the plumed serpent god of the Maya.”
“There’s two of them?”
“Yes and no. In a sense, they are the same god. In another sense, they are not the same.”
“Thanks for clarifying that. Could you elaborate?” Sierra unsuccessfully tried to keep the impatience from her voice. She felt as though every minute that passed placed Clancy’s continued existence—potential continued existence—in greater jeopardy.
“The Maya occupied Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula and down into Central America. The Mayan culture began to erode around the end of the ninth century CE. We don’t know what happened, exactly, but some of them probably wound up joining other tribes and influencing them. A few hundred years later, the Aztec tribe followed a vision quest and founded what is now Mexico City. One of their key gods was Quetzalcoatl, which I think is obviously Kukulcan under a new name. They are both powerful creator gods and both are represented as plumed serpents. To the early Mayans, Kukulcan was also the ‘spirit snake,’ the bridge between man and the numinous. The amulet I had in the medicine bag was the spirit-snake version of Kulkulcan. It depicted a spirit ancestor emerging from the jaws of the snake—and it looks almost exactly like the Aztec depictions of Quetzalcoatl. When I first I received the amulet, I knew it was a powerful object, so I put it in my medicine bag and called on it for power during healing ceremonies.”
A long and thoughtful silence followed Rose’s explanation. “Let’s call Mama Labadie,” said Sierra. “I want to believe, but I saw Clancy go over the rail with my own eyes. I almost don’t want to hear what the loa say, but I need to. By the way, did Chaco and Fred ever come back?”
“Here we are,” said a familiar voice at the kitchen door. And another, squeakier voice said, “What’s for breakfast?”
• • •
In between wolfing down pancakes and bacon, Chaco told their story. When he got to the Night Marchers, Auntie drew her breath in horror.
“No one survives the Night Marchers unless they are of the same bloodline,” she breathed. “Yet here you are!”
Chaco explained that he had been unable to flee the Marchers due to the pitiful ghost that held him fast to the stone. “But then Kanaloa came along with Fred. He was intending to sacrifice him. I don’t think he knew anything about Fred’s role in getting Kama and Pele involved. But he knows about you, Sierra, and he’s not happy with you, either.
“Anyway, Kanaloa didn’t know about Fred’s, um, special abilities,” Chaco continued. “So I told him Fred was harmless, not a good sacrificial victim at all, and he ought to sacrifice me, instead. Much better results than a mere mannegishi.” Fred looked up from his breakfast, snorting loudly.
“And who was it that rescued you from being sacrificed?” the little creature demanded indignantly.
“I’m getting there. Be patient.” Chaco smiled fondly at Fred—possibly a first, thought Sierra.
“Wait a minute, Chaco,” said Rose. “What about your vest?” She stared pointedly at the ragged, dirty remains of Chaco’s vest, now tied awkwardly around Chaco’s slim waist and shedding California dirt on Auntie’s clean floor.
“I guess he knew that my mana source was in the vest. He dropped poor Fred like a hot potato and tore the vest off with his spear. And he got me, too. Eventually.”
“So what was Fred doing?” queried Rose.
“That was the beauty of it. Once Kanaloa dropped him, Fred used his teeth to shear through his bindings.” Fred paused his chewing of syrupy pancake long enough to smile, revealing an arsenal of jagged teeth that would make a mako shark proud. Chaco looked at Fred with an expression of open admiration, sharply contrasting with his usual expression of rage or exasperation where Fred was involved.
“When Kanaloa dropped him, Fred disappeared and grabbed what was left of my vest. When Kanaloa paused to perform his sacrificial ceremony—me being the intended victim this time—Fred slashed my ropes and gave me the vest. With my Avatar powers restored, it was easy for us to slip away undetected.”
Fred stared up, both saucerlike eyes trained on Chaco. Amber syrup dripped down his face onto his rounded, green tummy and he clutched a rasher of bacon in one six-fingered paw.
“Fred,” said Chaco solemn
ly, “You are the best friend an Avatar could wish for. Thank you for saving my life—as a mortal, there’s no question I would’ve died up there. I can’t promise I’ll always be patient with you, but you have my eternal gratitude, and that’s not an exaggeration. Thanks.”
Fred began to blush. A slow, forest-green stain darkened his face and he blinked rapidly. He stuttered slightly, subsided, puffed, and sighed. Abruptly, he launched his small, sticky self into Chaco’s arms.
“Argh! No! Yuck! Oh, okay.” Chaco gave the little creature a hug and gently set him back in his chair. “Don’t get used to it.”
Fred tried to brush away the California dirt that now stuck to his front, but only succeeded in smearing it around in the syrup. Auntie abruptly stood, picked up Fred and hauled him off to the bathroom.
“You’re a fine mannegishi, Fred,” they heard her say as she strode down the hall. “And a fine, brave mannegishi should also be a clean mannegishi.” No protests were heard from Fred, so he must have agreed.
“Then what happened?” asked Sierra. “Did you come back here right away?”
“No, but I can tell you about that later. First, you need to know that Kanaloa is after you as well as me.”
“Me? Why?”
“Because you asked Kanaloa for help and then betrayed him by getting Pele involved.”
“But that’s not how it was,” Sierra protested, and Chaco gave her a look.
“That’s the way you see it. Kanaloa sees it differently.”
Rose sadly regarded the stained, slashed, dirt-leaking mess of cloth around Chaco’s waist. “That vest is just…I don’t know. Awful. Can you part with it for an hour or two so that I can tidy it up a bit? I can’t fix it, but you can’t go around with that thing leaking dirt everywhere.”
Chaco frowned. “If I take it off, I lose all my mana. It’s a horrible sensation—I imagine it’s like bleeding to death if you’re mortal. Only I don’t bleed to death, I just feel weak and puny and miserable and powerless and…”