Gray Magic

by Sarah Dreher

  Gwen turned in her arms and laughed. "I've never made love in an astral body."

  "I probably shouldn't," Stoner whispered without much conviction as she pulled the blanket around them both. "I'm in training."

  Gwen snuggled against her. ''What were your exact orders?"

  She scanned her memory. "I'm supposed to... get rid of bad thoughts. And do what my body tells me."

  "And is your body sending any messages at the moment?”

  "As a matter of fact," Stoner said with a delicious shudder, "it is."

  Gwen’s hands touched her naked skin, stroking, gentling. Not ghost hands or spirit hands or astral hands, but very clear and very present.

  "Gwen, I..."

  She let herself be eased backward to the ground. Gwen's hands, her soft, sure hands... touched, and touched, and...

  I ought to stop this, she thought as her own hands, of their own volition, fumbled with Gwen's clothes and sought her private places. At least I ought to think about it first. It might not be the right thing to do.

  After all, tomorrow's an important day. I can't afford to make a mistake.

  After all...

  Gwen was completely naked now, lying along her, touching at every point. She was warm, she was smooth, and she was... Her mind lost control of her body.

  Gwen's hands moved over her and over her and set up warm, damp quivers.

  "I love you," Gwen whispered, and her head found Stoner's chest, her mouth found Stoner's breast.

  We...

  Her mind turned to water.

  * * *

  "As long as you're here," Stoner said later, "why not stay? Then I won't have to worry about you and the Ya Ya Bundle."

  Gwen finished buttoning her shirt and shoved it into her jeans. "I don't think it works that way. Sooner or later, like Marley's Ghost, I'd just fade away."

  Stoner sat up and pushed her hair into a semblance of order. "Do you have any idea where you are? I mean, where the rest of you is?"

  "Not in the slightest. I was thinking about you, and suddenly I was on my way. I guess I use the same method to get back." She slipped into her shoes. "How will you find me?"

  ''Well...'' She hesitated. "It's kind of bizarre."

  Gwen brushed dust from her shirt sleeve. "The only thing that would be truly bizarre out here would be a fast food restaurant."

  "A crow is coming for me."

  Gwen stared at her. "I take it back. That's bizarre. Should I worry?"

  "Probably."

  "Try not to be late, okay?" Gwen said as she started for the door. "Despite my jocular facade, I'm scared to death."

  "Gwen..." Stoner stopped her. ''When we... I mean, just now... did you... well, was it out-of-body?"

  "No, Dearest," Gwen said. "It was most definitely in body." She stepped through the door and disappeared.

  Stoner scrambled to her feet and ran outside, but Gwen was gone.

  The night seemed a little softer. Over in the east, she thought she could make out, barely, the outline of a hill.

  Oh, Lord, she thought, I probably smell white again.

  She hurried back inside and built up the fire.

  * * *

  Angwusi the Crow awoke in the Purple Dawn time, vaguely remembering that she was supposed to do something today. Something important. Too early in the season to check the corn for ripeness. Another moon at least. Though it wouldn't hurt to peck at a few ears, just to annoy that old grouch of a farmer over by Shongopovi on Second Mesa. Peaceful People indeed.

  Something important, something important.

  She scavenged for delicacies among the weed seeds.

  Something to do with... rituals? Dances? That's not it.

  She glanced uneasily at the sky. Yellow Dawn was coming on fast.

  Better get your act together, kiddo. Once that old Tawa-sun comes creeping over the horizon, it's gonna be hotter'n the rear seat of a buckboard.

  Buckboard. Travel. That's it. I'm supposed to pick up a party of one, out at the Village- That-Has-Forgotten-Its-Name and take' em to Pikyachvi Mesa. Village-That-Has-Forgotten-Its-Name, for the love of Angwusnasomtaqa Crow Mother, what kind of a name is that, Village-That-Has-Forgotten-Its-Name? Why can't they call it something sensible like... Hoboken? Hoboken is a name you can sink your teeth into.

  And why me? What's wrong with this Two-leg, can't read a map? Anybody who can't read a map has no business hanging around out here in the Petrified Desert.

  She hopped to the spring and drank a little water to wash the dust from her throat.

  It's the People. The People and their damn rituals. For everything they have to have rituals. Can't even brush their teeth without making a ritual of it. And when you have rituals, you have to get everyone involved--birds, plants, snakes, you name it. Everybody's got to be part of the ritual. Whoop-de do!

  Next year I get smart. Next year I take the Central Am Flyway down to Ole May-hee-co for the winter, hang out with the other senoritas on the beach, then take the Eastern route north with the spring. Once you make it past Kentucky, they say, it's smooth sailing straight up to Heaven. Of course, Kentucky can be a serious problem. They have a sincere dislike of blackbirds and their relations down in my old Kentucky Home. Like to blast' em out of the sky, poison' em on the ground and fry 'em on the barbed wire. Step right up, folks, for some good old Kentucky Fried Crow.

  But I sure would like to see New Jersey, I sure would. Life in the fast lane on the Garden State Parkway, pecking among the food wrappers with the traffic going by and little kids yelling, "Daddy! Daddy! Lookit that Big Bird. " Now, that's living.

  She shook out her wing feathers. Meanwhile, we got the party of one to get to Hard Rock Mesa from Village—Et. Cetera.

  * * *

  If anybody ever says 'As the crow flies' to me again, Stoner thought, I'll rip out their throat. She felt as if she'd been following the wretched bird for days. Up the sides of mesas. Down the sides of mesas. Across hundred-year-old wagon ruts. Down canyons—big canyons and little canyons and canyons that twisted and turned like mazes. Along dry washes. Across flat-out, dry-and-dusty desert. Through the heat and blinding sun.

  Her tongue was cracked. Her jeans were torn. Bits of sage and creosote caught in her hair. She had fallen once and bruised an elbow. Once she had seen a patch of shade and stumbled into it to rest, only to find tarantulas already in residence. Her boots were scuffed beyond saving, and her right foot was working on a blister.

  And still the bird went on. If she fell behind, it perched on a rock and harangued until she caught up. If she sat to catch her breath, it flew around her head in tightening circles until its wing tips touched her face and forced her up. Once they passed by a spring. Before she could reach it, the bird had flung itself into the water and stirred up mud until it was undrinkable.

  All the while the sun throbbed. And throbbed. And throbbed.

  She stumbled, fell to her knees.

  The crow flew back and landed on a nearby mesquite bush. ''Walk,'' it nagged. ''Walk, waalk, waalk."

  Stoner glared at it. "I'm not Lawrence of Arabia, you know."

  ''Waaalk.''

  She pulled herself to her feet. "I don't have to do this. It's a free country."

  “Waaalk."

  She trudged forward. "How do I know you're the right crow? I haven't seen any credentials."

  But of course it was the right crow. It was exactly the kind of crow Siyamtiwa would use. Persistent, demanding...

  Angwusi flew to the next mesquite bush and waited.

  "If you're ever in Boston," Stoner panted, "and you need a good meal, don't come pecking around my back porch."

  ''Waaalk.''

  ''We have cats." she shouted. "Hundreds of cats. Mean cats. Hungry, killer cats. Genuinely nasty cats..."

  "Genuinely nasty cats." It sounded like something Gwen would say. Which reminded her that last night she had made love to—and been made love to by—an hallucination, or a ghost, or Ms. Psilocybin of Spirit Wells, AZ. Zip code
860-whatever.

  Or, if it really was Gwen, a wind-walker.

  She plodded on. A valuable skill, wind-walking. If Siyamtiwa wanted to teach me something truly worthwhile, she could have taught me that. But that would make things easy, and making things easy is ka-Hopi, not the Hopi Way.

  According to the legends—about which she now knew more than she knew about Judeo-Christian tradition, more than she wanted to know, more than she had ever wanted to know about anything—according to the legends, all the Peoples were given a choice of which corn would be their corn and signify their way of life. The Hopi chose the short blue corn, smallest of the corn ears, so that their life would be hard and pure.

  Which certainly was reflected in the current situation.

  I mean, face it. Going off into the desert, armed with nothing more than a pretty shirt and a handful of corn meal and trinkets, guided by a foul natured crow, is hardly the Rambo approach to saving the world.

  She was willing to bet Larch Begay hadn't chosen the Short Blue Corn Way, either. He probably had enough fire-power at his command to put a sizable dent in the Defense Budget.

  Plus he might already have the Ya Ya bundle and access to its magic.

  And a hostage.

  Hostage.

  Maybe I should call the TV networks. Hostages are big business these days. Or, as they are euphemistically called, 'hostage situations'. Not to be confused with 'everyday life situations', or 'gusty winds and rain, clearing by morning situations'.

  Yep, what we have here is a real hostage situation.

  A crisis situation.

  A hostage crisis situation.

  The operative question is, what the hell do I do when I am finally face-to-face with this actual hostage crisis situation? Siyamtiwa believes I will know what to do when the time comes. Siyamtiwa believes the Spirits will open a trap-door in the top of my head and shout down instructions. Siyamtiwa also believes that animals can talk, that people can change themselves into coyotes at will. Siyamtiwa also believes she is three different people at the same time, one of them dead.

  Siyamtiwa is not playing with a full deck.

  Stoner stumbled a little and slowed her pace. The crow flew back to her and nagged.

  I mean, look at this thing objectively, if you dare. A few people are going to a lot of trouble over a bunch of old artifacts even the Hopis don't seem to want.

  A sudden realization stopped her in her tracks.

  Larch Begay wants the bundle.

  Larch Begay will not be scared off. If he loses this round, he'll try again, and again, and again.

  The bundle is supposed to stay exactly where it is.

  Therefore, the only way to keep Larch Begay from ever getting that bundle… is to kill him.

  Which is why Siyamtiwa was glad to hear I'd killed a man. Which is probably why the Spirits picked me in the first place for this hostage crisis situation.

  She kicked the ground. Listen, Taiowa and Sotuknang and Kokyangwuti and all you other Spirits, I heard your legends. You're a blood-thirsty bunch. Three times you wiped out the entire world. Three times. Once wasn't enough. And, if the prophecies are right, you're working up to doing it again. So where do you get off calling me a killer when all I ever did was help rid the world of one sleaze-bucket. And I didn't have any choice in the matter. It was him or me, and if I'd made the noble sacrifice, you wouldn't have old Green-eyes to kick around. It's your world, folks. You clean it up.

  She looked around quickly, and hoped they hadn't heard her because she happened to be standing in a dry wash. And dry washes were known for turning themselves into raging torrents suddenly and horribly.

  Okay, she thought as she pulled herself together, you've had your fit. Now can we get down to business?

  She went back to putting one foot in front of the other.

  * * *

  Jimmy Goodnight blinked the sweat from his aching eyes, peered through the binoculars, and began to wonder if Mr. Begay was using him. He'd let him hunt for the treasure all along, when it was hot and boring, and now that they were within striking distance, all of a sudden he was stuck out here in the sun while Mr. Begay got to poke around in a nice, cool cave. Matter of fact, ever since they'd found this big entrance hidden behind some fallen rocks and bushes, Mr. Begay had turned kind of unfriendly. Wouldn't let him come in the cave at all, not even stand at the entrance and look in. Just made him stay outside and watch for intruders.

  Jimmy Goodnight had the uneasy feeling that Mr. Begay might not be planning to split the treasure with him at all.

  He wiped his eyes on his t-shirt and squinted toward the sun, measuring its height above the San Francisco Mountains, estimating the time left before sunset. About an hour, he guessed, not much more. Then what? His Dad'd skin him alive if he was out after dark on a Sunday night. He was already ankle-deep in shit for skipping dinner. To make matters worse, the Padres were playing a doubleheader on TV and he'd missed the whole thing. Missed the last Sunday double-header of the season, probably. Wasted a whole day staring at the horizon and getting sun-burnt and watching a dumb old eagle circle around and around and around, stupid bird with a one-track mind, made him wish he'd brought his .22.

  Jesus, he had to get out of Beale. He wanted to see things, do things before he got worn out and discouraged and giving-up feeling like his Dad. Before he spent the rest of his life going around in circles like that old eagle.

  Jimmy Goodnight snapped to attention. Something was there, out on the desert, to the southwest. Something that moved, something that wasn't a heat-shimmer or a dust devil.

  He put the binoculars to his eyes and made out a figure, too far away to identify but coming this way for sure.

  He licked his parched salty lips and dove for the cave entrance. "Hey, Mr. Begay! Someone's coming!"

  * * *

  Stoner walked along muttering to herself and kicking rocks. It had become mechanical, this trudging along. She'd been walking downhill for more than an hour now, down into a canyon that wound back on itself and twisted and turned and finally flattened out to the west like a river delta. She was hungry and thirsty and tired and anxious and just plain all-over miserable. The blister on her right food burned like acid every time she put her weight on it. Her stomach crawled with emptiness and fear.

  Something in the distance caught her eye. A flash of light, a wink of silver like sunlight striking glass. It came from near the top of a mesa. She realized she was completely exposed, no shelter anywhere nearby. Her fingertips tingled.

  She had the feeling she'd found what she was looking for. The crow seemed to know it, too. It turned in mid-air, gave a final hoarse cry, and took off to the east without waiting for her thanks.

  * * *

  Grandmother Eagle observed it all and went to make her report. She found the old woman sitting on a wall, her face to the west, her back against the remains of a ruined house. Her skin had taken on a translucent, waxy quality, as if she were fading away. She held a homemade drum between her knees and tapped it rhythmically with her fingertips. On the roof of her house, a handsome giant of a man sat patiently.

  Masau waits on the roof. The old woman is dying, Kwahu thought. We'll argue no more in this world, old friend. Now is the time for kindness and good manners.

  She settled quietly on the wall and waited for Old Woman Two-legs to finish her prayer.

  Siyamtiwa opened one eye, grunted. "You got news? Or are you just goofin' off."

  Kwahu told her what she knew.

  The old woman nodded and drew her white shawl closer around her frail shoulders. "Good. It begins."

  * * *

  Begay found himself dead-ended again, and cursed. He played his flashlight over the tunnel walls, looking for an opening, even a suspicious pile of rock. Anything that might lead to another room, another tunnel.

  He knew the damned thing was in here. Even now, if he switched to his animal senses, he could feel the pulsing vibration on the air. The trick was pinning it down. Bu
t every time he thought the sound gathered in one direction, it hopped to another and left him going in circles.

  Sometimes he wondered if the whole thing was a joke. Maybe there was no Ya Ya bundle. Maybe it was something the damn Hopis made up like they made up stories to fool the anthropologists. They were known for that. Ask them a question, you'd get an answer. Trouble was, the answer'd be made up right then while they were talking, tricky bastards.

  But this story was one he'd heard all his life, and no matter where he heard it, most of the details were pretty much the same. Even down toward Winslow, where he had grown up, where his dad had run a trashy souvenir stand—even down there, there. were whispered stories about the hidden Ya Ya medicine bundle and what it could do.

  After his old man drank himself into bankruptcy and ended up janitoring at the Indian school, the bundle had become his own obsession. If his no-good old man wanted to spend his life cleaning up after them damn Indians, that was his look—out. Lars Mueller was going to be in charge of things, by God. He'd seen enough of the world on the TV screen to know that Power was where it was at.

  He had wheedled a job helping out at Begay's Texaco, and when Frank Begay had a car he was working on fall off the jack and crush his chest, Lars Mueller took over the service station and the Begay name, and before long nobody cared to remember that Larch Begay had started out as the very white son of a very white seller of cheap imitation Indian trinkets. Not that White law would have given a damn, anymore than it gave a damn that Frank Begay was a very careful man who was not likely to have a car slip off a jack and crush his chest.

  Larch Begay laid low for a long time, working at the station, cozying up to the Indians, and keeping his nose clean. And all the while he was picking up hints and scraps of information, piecing them together until he'd tracked the bundle to the Coal Mine Canyon area. After that, it was just a matter of walking up and down the canyons, keeping his eyes open and using a few tricks he'd picked up from some Navajo sorcerers who knew all there was to know about calling up the animal Spirit. He'd narrowed it down to Hard Rock Mesa, or Pikyachvi Mesa, if you wanted the Hopi word.