by Jeanne Rose
But Onida was clearly upset. “He’s been so busy . . . and then there was the death of Victor Martinez. He was a clan elder.”
“That’s enough,” Luke stated, though he touched his mother’s arm gently to soften his order.
“Actually, it isn’t.” Frustrated, Mara told Onida, “I’m sorry for your loss,” before turning back to Luke. “I want to get this out in the open – the mystery surrounding your paintings. That’s what I’ve really been wanting to talk about. Does your imagery have something to do with Kisi mysticism? Does it obsess you, get into your dreams?”
Once again, Mara commanded both Isabel’s and Luke’s full attention. They seemed startled, especially Luke, and suddenly she wondered if he had recurring nightmares just as she did. Might that be why he was so isolated and angry? Is that why she felt this mysterious connection?
Luke rose. “I don’t want to talk about dreams . . . or anything else.” He glanced quickly at Isabel. “I think even Grandmother will agree it’s time for you to leave.”
The older woman said nothing, though Onida crumpled a paper napkin and laid it on the table. “You’re being rude, Luke.”
“It’s rude to come to someone’s home uninvited.”
Deeply disappointed – she’d barely mentioned the topic in which she was so invested – Mara wasn’t in the mood for more arguing. The tension really got to her. Gathering her purse, she scooted her chair back.
“It is late. I really should be going.” The sun sank toward the western horizon. She told Onida, “Thanks for your hospitality.”
“Will you return?” asked Isabel unexpectedly.
“I’m not sure.” Though Mara wasn’t certain that was an invitation, she made a point of saying, “I appreciate your asking.”
She hated to lower herself to Luke Naha’s level by being hostile but she couldn’t help sniping at him when he followed her through the gate and out to her car.
“You don’t have to strong-arm me again.”
“I have no intention of touching you,” he said, though his tense expression belied his words.
Nearly shivering at the thought of those long fingers touching her once more, Mara paused in the deepening shade of the big cottonwood tree. “You do have strange nightmares, don’t you?”
He halted a few feet away and stared. She could hear him breathing. And knew she’d struck a nerve.
“I can tell,” she went on, her pulse thrumming. “I suffer from nightmares, too. That’s really why I came here. I dreamed about one of your paintings. It was so vivid, so strong . . . well, it frightened me.”
“Forget about it.”
“I can’t forget.”
His eyes were opaque, black as night. “You need to be careful, white lady. There are things in the universe that don’t fit your neat little rules.”
Then he turned abruptly and left her standing in the shadows, her breath coming in a gasp. Even more spooked – no doubt the reaction Luke had wanted – Mara glanced about before getting into the car. A light breeze whispered through the tree’s leaves and the surrounding hills glowed with vivid colors. The light here seemed even clearer and more beautiful than in Santa Fe.
Yet the shadows beneath the tree were deep and dark. She carefully buckled herself into her seat, glancing all around before pulling out.
She wondered if Luke Naha was half as menacing as he would like her to believe. She hadn’t exactly felt in danger of physical threat, but the man had done an excellent job of playing on her inner fears.
Though alleviated by daylight and consciousness, the weird atmosphere of her dreams had followed her into Kisi country . . . an ambiance which frightened and fascinated her at the same time. Like Luke himself.
Which made her ponder the odd chemistry that bubbled between them. It was more than physical. Her emotions were high. How could she be so emotional about a stranger?
Mara drove for the reservation’s entrance, passing Tom Chalas’s store, which was now closed. As usual in mountainous areas, twilight came on quickly. Lights would be a good idea, yet she hesitated to switch them on until she pulled out onto the highway.
A few yards down, the beams picked up something white beside the edge of the road and Mara stepped on the brakes, her heart sinking. An animal that had been run over? She hated road kills. But she felt compelled to look anyway. Gazing out the window, she saw that the body was that of a sheep . . . whose bloody throat gaped open.
A coyote rather than a car had obviously killed the poor thing. But how awful. In daylight? And so near the reservation?
She pressed down on the accelerator and sped away. Because his paintings were both profitable and beautiful, she hoped Luke’s work would continue to be handled by her gallery. But personally, she’d had quite enough of Kisi mystery and mysticism, not to mention Lucas Naha himself, for the foreseeable future.
She only hoped his artwork would stay out of her dreams.
EARLY IN THE EVENING, a three-quarters moon rose over the Nacimiento Mountains as he reached his destination, a cabin built against the side of a rocky hill. A fire blazed, piercing the darkness, its yellow glow a portent of the evil he sought to harness.
Glancing back at the lights of the Kisi pueblo some miles away, he gunned his vehicle over the rutted road leading to the cabin, quickly parked it and headed for the fire.
“Olvera!” he called.
A Yaqui Indian with a scarred face rose from stoking the flames. “So . . . you’ve returned.”
“I want to learn everything.”
The man laughed. “Do you have enough money for everything? Power doesn’t come cheap.”
“I have money, Witch, don’t worry.”
The Yaqui laughed again. “It will give me satisfaction to work with a Kisi. They brag about their ancient wisdom.”
“I don’t want to travel that road. It would take too long.” Not that he didn’t have some ability. “I want to destroy my enemies before they destroy me.” As well as deal with invaders like the white woman who had been poking her nose around today. He pulled out a hundred dollar bill. “Here’s the first payment.” “Done.” The Yaqui’s eyes glittered as he snatched the money, stuck the bill in his pocket and took out some green cactus buttons to roll around in his palm. “You have the anger and the lust. All you need is the means to capture what you’re seeking.”
“Will that do it?” he asked, eyeing the peyote, a potent hallucinogen.
“Can a coyote kill a rabbit?”
He joined in when the Yaqui laughed this time. He had confidence in his choice of a teacher. Olvera was known far and wide as a dangerous witch, able to dominate the dark forces.
Although he had a healthy fear of the other man, he felt no guilt for using Olvera’s knowledge to pervert the ways of the Kisi. Why not take the short path? He cared nothing about dreams of wisdom and ancient spirits. Anger had burned that away.
Olvera put the cactus buttons back in his pocket. “The time for this will come soon. Sorcery is stronger when the moon is full.” He sat down in front of the fire. “Meanwhile, I can give you other suggestions.”
He joined the other man, watching the flames, listening carefully as the witch told him what to do.
THE SUN HAD LONG FLED when Luke awoke from a restless nap and went out the door of his personal living quarters to get some fresh air. Having painted since dawn, he’d been exhausted, had gone to his bedroom at dusk to lie down. Now it was late. He’d obviously slept through supper. Not that Onida wouldn’t have something waiting on the stove for him, being used to his erratic working schedule. He strolled past the adobe-walled yard to the kitchen.
Dreams. He couldn’t believe Mara Fitzgerald had brought up the topic during her visit today. He was certain her insistent, oddly perceptive nosiness was what had gotten under his skin, made him toss and turn . . . though, hopefully, he’d done nothing else during his nap.
On the other side of the yard, the Jeep Comanche sat in the same place. At least as far as Luke
could tell. He hadn’t risen then to drive the vehicle somewhere while sleep-walking or in some other bizarre mental state, something that had happened a couple of times before.
Nightmares. Luke didn’t even want to think about them.
He walked on, his boots crunching gravel. Some distance away, he saw a flashlight beam glimmering from the direction of the community center. Must have been some sort of meeting. Not that he’d been invited. When he’d agreed to do the murals for the center at his grandmother’s insistence, the reservation’s other citizens had been friendly for awhile. But then a few individuals had persisted in trying to help out and his temper had gotten away with him. Now he worked alone.
He wasn’t a people person, wasn’t good at conforming with clan or tribal rules. He didn’t particularly identify with the Kisi community, and they resented him for being a rampant individualist.
Though they’d more than resent him if they knew what had brought him back to the pueblo. They’d fear him if they learned why he’d left Arizona . . . that he might have been responsible for the fire that had consumed his home.
Brooding on that, he headed back toward the main part of his house, passing a neighbor’s place. A startled face gazed out of a window, spotted him and quickly drew the curtains. They were turquoise, a color meant to ward off evil.
Maybe the community feared him now.
Sometimes he wondered why he had returned to the Kisi pueblo. He loved his widowed mother and cherished his wise woman of a grandmother, but he had no more desire for a traditional way of life than the young people who fled the reservation.
Perhaps he’d returned simply because he’d needed a place to hide.
Luke went inside the house, passing his grandmother’s bedroom and heading toward the kitchen. Since she hadn’t been willing to abandon her home, he’d built the sprawling new one around these two rooms of her original adobe. A widow who’d been living in a trailer, his mother had been pleased to have a real house to fuss about again, and Luke had portioned off one wing of the place for his own use. He was happy that his artwork supported everyone, though he wasn’t willing to lick boots to collect the money for his paintings – not even boots belonging to a beautiful woman.
He was still angry that Mara Fitzgerald had muscled her way into his abode today, had disturbed everyone, especially him.
He was furious that he’d been so attracted to her.
Even now he could see the clarity of her eyes as blue as a New Mexican sky; he could see her face whose fine bone structure tempted an artist to capture it on canvas; he could see the shoulder-length golden brown hair that tempted a man’s hands to slide through its thick silkiness.
Even now, he could feel the urgency that had made him want to kiss her, enter her, leave his mark in her.
Damn Mara Fitzgerald, especially the strange and confusing feelings she’d aroused in him. He nearly felt as if he knew her, as if they’d shared a past together . . .
Realizing his jeans tightened painfully, he rubbed at his discomfort, forcing himself to put the disturbing woman out of mind at least for a while. He would think about her much
later, when he was once again alone in his bed.
Meanwhile, the kitchen’s rich, spicy odors were making his mouth water. A pot of posole – hominy and pork stew – simmered on the stove and fry bread lay on a platter nearby. About to help himself, he heard voices coming from the living room.
Heading there, Luke saw that they had two visitors. Rebecca Harvier sat on the couch near his grandmother, her plump hands twisted in her lap, while his mother sat stiffly in the rocking chair across from the two elder ladies.
Charlie Mahooty stood near the center of the room, obviously having dropped by uninvited, since nobody in the house liked him. “I’m gonna be the new Governor of the Kisi. Everybody will vote for me, what with all this weird stuff going on.”
“Weird stuff?” Luke scowled. If there was anyone he disliked in the pueblo, it was this bully. How dare the man issue a warning. “If by weird, you mean bad, I’d blame you.”
Mahooty’s thick lips formed a straight line. “I don’t make witch lights float over the church at night, Naha. Or call up a big yellow coyote with glowing eyes. It killed a sheep today in broad daylight.” He glared at Isabel and Rebecca. “Somebody is practicing witchcraft.”
“Wise elders do not practice evil,” answered Isabel. “They seek wisdom. They try to heal.”
“Well, maybe you two are just too old to control yourselves anymore,” said Mahooty. “Maybe you’d better hang up your prayer feathers.”
Rebecca’s eyes flashed behind her glasses. “Sacrilege! No one is ever too old to be a finished person.” Her voice trembled. “You have no respect for the traditions of the Kisi and neither do the people who follow you. No wonder there are no more ceremonies in the kiva.”
An underground chamber where the most sacred kachinas or statues of hallowed spirits were kept, the kiva had been the “sacred space” of the Kisi, like all Pueblo-related clans.
Isabel added, “Furthermore, no one can become governor without the elders’ approval.”
Mahooty wasn’t moved. “Maybe the laws are going to change. The tribal police named me captain and I’m going to hold a vote at noon tomorrow. The people will take a look at the old laws and who should be governor. They will speak.”
Isabel rose to face the man. Her voice was sharp. “Because they fear you, Charlie Mahooty. But your power is perverted.”
Flushed, Mahooty cut her off with a wave. “You don’t tell me what to do, old woman. And you don’t know anything about my power. Why, you’re a dried-up old crow.”
Which was all Mahooty got out of his mouth before Luke took hold of him by the front of his shirt. “Don’t speak disrespectfully to my grandmother or to Rebecca,” he commanded, looming over the shorter man. “Or you’ll answer to me.”
“Settle down, Naha.” Mahooty shook Luke off, though fear glistened in his eyes. “Why do you care about what the Kisi decide to do? You’re rich. You can move to Santa Fe.”
“But I don’t want to. We’re staying here.” He pointed at the door. “And you’re leaving this house right now.”
Luke followed as the heavy-set man walked down the hallway, the second person he’d escorted off his property today.
Mahooty stepped outside. “Better watch your grandmother, Naha, see that she doesn’t wander too far. She could fall off a mesa one of these nights.” He laughed.
Luke saw red and lunged for the other man. At the same time, Mahooty took off and Onida came running to the door.
“Please, Luke, no fighting.”
Heart racing, muscles poised, he paused. “He threatened Grandmother. I should break his legs.” And maybe his head, too. “He’s a stupid fool, Luke. He isn’t worth it. Please, I don’t want to lose anyone else in a brawl.”
The way Luke’s father had died in a bar in Phoenix. Luke responded to his mother’s pleading tone. Slowly releasing his breath, he turned and came back inside. He had to learn to control his temper.
Who knew what he was capable of when angry or disturbed? Even he didn’t.
A short while later, Rebecca left, Luke walking her up the dark road to her house. On the way back, he took a good look around, sighting neither coyotes nor witch lights – floating, glowing balls created by sorcery.
Not that he would have to see them to believe that there was something decidedly wrong about the community lately. He might not be cheek-by-jowl with the inhabitants of the pueblo, but the dreamseeking training of his childhood, the powers of his grandmother, had shown him there were many levels of reality.
Levels Luke did not try to understand anymore and which he hoped had nothing to do with him at all.
Returning to the house, he went directly to his private quarters, settling down in his studio to gaze at his latest painting, seeking direction. A scuffling in the hallway warned of someone’s approach. He drew a breath of relief when Isabel appeared in
the doorway.
“You look tired, Grandmother,” he said as she joined him on the couch. “You’ve been spending too much time in your dreaming place when you should be resting.”
“Someone must do so, Stormdancer.” Only Isabel ever called him the sacred name he’d taken at his manhood ceremony. “Mahooty was right about the old ways disappearing. Rebecca and I are the only corn priestesses left, the only finished people. There are no stormbringer priests now that Victor Martinez is dead.”
Luke muttered, “Perhaps the old ways should disappear.”
Not that he wanted someone like Mahooty to cause that.
Isabel’s blind eyes glittered. “Would you have evil destroy good, Stormdancer? There must be balance. The spirits entrusted us with sacred responsibilities.” She took a deep breath. “Someone has invaded my dreaming place.”
The sacred abode Isabel envisioned when seeking wisdom, the place that was based on a real spot that she’d always loved. Red Mesa. Only the Kisi knew how to dreamwalk. Only a finished Kisi should have the power to enter others’ dreams or visions.
“Who, Grandmother?”
Isabel’s voice wavered. “When I demanded a name, the invader would not answer.” Her expression darkened. “I do not believe that Victor Martinez died a natural death.”
A chill shot down Luke’s spine and he stiffened. “You don’t think he really had a heart attack in his sleep?”
“I believe he was stalked by someone with power. I fear that someone could be Charlie Mahooty.”
Now he was really spooked. If someone with the morals of Mahooty turned his skills to evil, no one was safe. He remembered the warning about his grandmother going off a mesa.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” he demanded.
“I wanted to find the right words to ask you what I must.”
His heart sank. He knew what she was going to ask of him.
“I want you to dreamseek again, Stormdancer. You have always had the ability. You could be a stormbringer priest yourself.”