by Jeanne Rose
Mara’s heart thundered. Luke had painted her as part of his nightmare.
Her intent gaze quickly shot to the second painting, a closer look at the torched pueblo. Flames leaping off the canvas were so real, she had to take a deep breath and rub the gooseflesh from her arms.
But the third canvas held her riveted the longest. Now Luke had gotten inside the burning pueblo. Flames seared every surface . . . flames that, given a harder look, were in truth faces . . . tortured, horrified faces of the people who had died in that fire. She remembered her Comanche lover staggering out of the burning pueblo, his arm seared. He had been witness, then, to terrible sights.
Without fully realizing what he had done, Luke had painted something far more complex than simple nightmares – what were, in fact, his own macabre memories.
She didn’t know how long she stood there, picking out those agonized faces one by one, inspecting them intently. Did she really recognize them or was she reaching? Could that be her mother? A neighbor? Her husband?
Mara was stunned. Luke had been so close. So very close. How could he have not realized that? How could he not have taken the last step?
He hadn’t wanted to, an inner voice told her. His fear of himself was too great.
The art therapist in Mara surfaced. Rather than railing at Luke, she should have taken a firm, but more positive, approach. Backing off from the power that did, indeed, leap off the canvas, she determined to find Luke and convince him to try again. Offer to be with him when he sought the truth he’d shut out, if that would help.
She quickly checked the house, but he hadn’t returned.
When she stepped outside to find him, she grew uneasy. She didn’t think she’d been inside so long, but hours must have passed since they’d returned from the cliff dwelling, for the sky had darkened to a greenish gray, and a chill wind swept through the courtyard. The cottonwood quivered under the assault. The air was damp, signaling rain.
Odd . . . she didn’t remember any storm warnings.
Rubbing some warmth into her arms, Mara jogged out of the yard and through the pueblo, alert for a glimpse of Luke. But all she saw were a couple of people heading into their houses and a dog skittering around a rusting car without any tires. She headed toward the pastures, wondering if he’d gone out to the desert again.
“Luke!” she called, to no avail.
No one answered. No one was around to hear. The pueblo appeared deserted, the vacant windows of the mud-brick buildings staring out at her like unseeing eyes, reminding her of Isabel’s blindness . . . and vulnerability.
“Luke!” Her voice echoed hollowly into the fast approaching night.
The abandoned feel of the pueblo spooked her, so that when thunder rolled in the distance, she jumped. Lightning quickly followed, cackling from the near-black sky, forking down to the silhouetted mesa in the distance.
Lightning Over Red Mesa.
Her pulse jagged as she stared out into the distance at the corruption of Luke’s vision. Rather than magical, the vista appeared sinister. The very air around her felt heavy and menacing.
She was fatigued, imagining things, for the moment discouraged.
“Luke!” she yelled one last time.
Hearing nothing but the wind and the spatter of rain against dry earth, she headed back the way she’d come. Her bone-weary body was starting to protest. Her legs were heavy and she felt as if she carried a burden on her shoulders. She desperately needed sleep.
Perhaps her exhaustion was playing tricks on her, for suddenly she had the weirdest feeling she wasn’t alone. A whisper on the wind rose the hair on the back of her neck and the flesh along her spine. Continuing faster toward Luke’s home, she searched through the curtain of raindrops, but saw no one.
The whisper came again – a fluttering sound so light she might have imagined it. This time Mara turned her face up into the driving rain.
A large shadow loomed against the darkening sky – a bird with a wing span of four or more feet. Startled when the horned owl seemed to come straight for her, she tripped and went down to her knees with a slight splash. Wet seeped through her clothing. Her breath came sharp, her heartbeat accelerated. Pressing her hands against the already sodden sandy earth, she pushed off and ran for home.
Something soft and yet firm whacked her in the head. Hard. She ducked and glanced up to see the bird wing away and circle around as though it meant to dive-bomb her again.
This was no accident, no freak of nature, Mara realized, beginning to shake from the damp and fear. First coyotes. Then pronghorn antelopes. Now a horned owl. The coyotes may or may not have been real. The antelopes had not been, as she had proved. This was no illusion. She’d felt the wing graze her. But an owl wouldn’t normally attack a human any more than a coyote would.
Witchcraft.
Then how to fight it?
The brown-speckled owl opened its hooked beak and screeched at her, the belligerent sound skittering down her spine. Shuddering, she raised an arm to protect her head and to fight off the oncoming bird if necessary. The owl’s wings fluttered as if in a braking motion, and its razor-sharp talons came straight for her.
Tensing all her muscles, ready to dodge the bird at the last second, Mara thought quickly. She swooped down toward the ground and with her free hand grabbed a hunk of wet earth, which she quickly pitched. The clod thunked the bird and rained sandy mud all over her.
The owl screeched indignantly, its wings rushing as it reconnoitered.
“Begone!” Mara yelled in Kisi without thinking, scooping up more cloying mud. “Evil, turn back on yourself . . . return to your sender!”
Her command was backed by another roll of thunder. The sky lit spookily, allowing her to see clearly as the bird shifted course away from her.
Mara pitched the second handful of wet earth. The clod’s trajectory was perfect. The mud hit the owl’s tail feathers as it flapped furiously away.
Then, wet and filthy, lump in her throat, chest squeezed tight, Mara ran for all she was worth, slipping and sliding over the wet ground but not stopping until she reached Luke’s home. Heart pounding wildly, lungs feeling ready to burst, she threw open the kitchen door and herself inside, sinking to the floor in a loose-limbed puddle.
She didn’t know how long she remained collapsed there, wet and shaking, before realizing she wasn’t alone.
Barefoot and bare-chested, hair loose and jeans riding low on his hips, Luke stood in the doorway, looking only half-awake and sexier than she’d ever seen him. He was staring at her, his expression grim.
“What happened?” he asked tightly.
A breath shuddered through her. “A horned owl attacked me.”
“You’re not hurt?”
If he was concerned, then why didn’t he move toward her, help her off the floor, take her in his arms? Instead he remained frozen. Hostile? Certainly closed off.
Suddenly chilled inside, Mara got to her feet on her own steam. What in the hell was wrong with him? Why was he acting so peculiar?
“I was out looking for you,” she said, trying not to make her statement sound like an accusation.
“We must have just missed each other. You were gone when I returned. I . . . fell asleep.”
Drawing closer, she realized his expression wasn’t hostile but haunted. Surely he didn’t blame himself? Then, again, a logical part of herself questioned, did he have reason to? Each time she’d been in danger, she’d been alone. Each time, Luke had some reason to be angry with her.
Surely not.
Still . . .
Not knowing what else to do, she stared at the floor and tried rushing by him only to find her arm manacled by his hand. She stopped short.
“You’re wet and cold.”
She wouldn’t tell him she was shivering more from the contact with him than from the results of being rained on or of being attacked by an owl.
“You ought to get into a hot shower and into some dry clothes,” he continued.
She tried to lighten the heavy atmosphere. “Like I packed a suitcase before I came.”
“I can spare a t-shirt and cut-offs while your clothes dry.”
The thought of Luke’s clothes snugged against her skin warmed Mara from the inside out. “Uh, thanks.”
Just when she thought he would let her go, he roughly pulled her into his arms. She fought her qualms. She knew this man. She’d known him for longer than this lifetime, perhaps forever. He would never intentionally hurt her.
She stared up into his fathomless eyes and willed him to know her. To know himself.
And when he warmed her with a burning kiss, she thought surely he must realize the deep familiarity of the embrace.
Then for a moment, she forgot everything but the present, the heady sensations she was experiencing pressed against his length. Her tongue met his in an explosion of desire. Her hands traveled over the smooth skin of his chest. His heat drugged her. Consumed her. She wanted nothing more than for him to lead her into his studio and make love to her amongst his visions on canvas.
Maybe then he would know her true name.
When he broke the kiss and led her to his wing of the house, she was convinced he meant to make love to her, especially when he dragged her into the bedroom. Her breath quickened as did every nerve ending in her body.
Then he let go of her hand and, broad bronzed back to her, started rummaging through a chest of drawers. A moment later, he turned, his hands filled with a soft cotton t-shirt and washed- out denim cut-offs.
“Here,” he said, handing her the clothing. And unnecessarily he pointed out the door to the bathroom. “Shower’s in there.”
“Coming with me?” She kept her tone light, hoping he would take her up on the invitation to shower together, to make love to her until nothing else mattered, but trying not to let him know exactly how much it would mean to her.
To her disappointment, he backed off and grabbed another t-shirt from an open drawer. “I’m going out to check and see what’s going on around the pueblo.”
Mara fought her warring emotions. Perhaps making love at the moment wasn’t the best idea. Still, she already felt his loss.
“Be careful, Luke. I think the evil one is getting desperate.” And he had not yet found his power. “When you get back, you’ll find me with Isabel.”
Nodding, he slipped the t-shirt over his head, and Mara took the opportunity to escape into his bathroom. Once inside, she closed the door and pressed her back against the wood panel, straining to hear his every movement around the bedroom. Only when the soft scufflings faded did she approach the shower.
Perhaps with his grandmother’s help, she could talk Luke into trying again, into seeking his spiritual self, into taking the final and most important step necessary to become whole at last. If only he could forgive himself, Mara prayed, she and Luke could surely stop the evil one before anyone else died.
Only then would they have a chance to make up for some of the lives lost because of their love that had been doomed over several lifetimes.
DOOMED . . . he was a doomed man unless he acted shrewdly . . . and fast.
His dreams were totally out of control, haunted with scenes of blood and fire and death, visions that felt more like truth than fantasy. He had learned to fear sleep, for sleep had become his enemy.
But what to do?
Mara Fitzgerald was the one responsible for his terror. She was growing stronger and stronger while he was fast losing his mind. He’d seen her in his dreams, and so had recognized her true power.
He’d tried to scare her, to stop her by using Kisi magic, but she was clever. She had not buckled. Had not died. She had turned his magic against him.
If he didn’t act fast, figure out a clever, diabolic way to stop her, he would be the one to die.
DEATH WAS UPPERMOST on Luke’s mind as he traversed the perimeters of the pueblo, looking for trouble in the unfathomable dark. Victor Martinez’s death. Rebecca’s death. Now both his grandmother and Mara were in danger. The question was, from whom? Him?
Mara had been attacked yet again by the doings of Kisi magic. He’d been asleep. Dreaming. Had he gathered the dark forces buried deep within himself and sent them after her in the form of an owl? He didn’t know.
His boots squished against the wet sand. The rain had stopped and unless the skies reopened, the porous desert earth soon would be dry. A miracle of nature.
He needed a miracle.
He needed to see, for once unfettered by the blindness that went beyond his grandmother’s handicap. Mara had been right to reproach him. Fear kept him from delving deeper within himself, for what if he did so and therefore unleashed a monster? Thinking about the third in his newest series of paintings, he concluded that only a monster could have created those horrific faces in the flames.
A monster whose nightmares were, in fact, truth.
Night had fallen. The air was still and cloying, and from the innermost reaches of his gut, Luke could sense evil rising around him . . . and could only hope the corruption didn’t come from himself.
“Naha, there you are.”
Luke would know that voice anywhere. “Looking for me, Mahooty?”
A light flashed in his face, and Luke sensed Charlie Mahooty wasn’t alone. No doubt his slimy pal Delgado was with him.
“We’ve got you now, Naha,” Mahooty stated. “Two witnesses are saying they saw you out by the community center an hour or so before it burned.”
Luke stiffened. “The community center?” He’d dreamed about fire that night but hadn’t thought he’d walked in his sleep, too. Delgado snickered.
Mahooty went on, “Got a warrant for your arrest. You’re some piece of work, Naha. Arson. Didn’t want anybody else to enjoy your murals or something?”
The air around Luke wavered crazily. Was this solid proof that he could be lethal when he was sleeping? “If there are witnesses, why didn’t they come forward before?”
“They were scared,” said Delgado, moving closer to clamp metal around Luke’s right wrist before he could react.
“But nobody’s gonna have to be scared any longer. Lucas Naha, you’re under arrest,” Charlie Mahooty stated.
Delgado got hold of his other arm and twisted it behind his back. Click. He was handcuffed, unable to struggle, even if he wanted to. He didn’t. Maybe this was best. Maybe he was finally going to suffer for his wrongs, even if a community center hardly compared to the lives of his wife and child.
Though he could still dream in jail, he worried. His arrest wouldn’t necessarily make anyone safe . . .
“C’mon, get going.” Delgado pushed at Luke, making him stumble forward. “We’re gonna lock you up tight until the county sheriff arrives. Then we’re turning you over. Arson’ll get you a prison sentence. You won’t be no danger to nothing and no one, at least for awhile.”
“What about my family.”
”Maybe if you cooperate, I’ll tell your family where you are in the morning,” Mahooty said.
Mahooty on one side, Delgado on the other, the two men held Luke’s arms prisoner as though he might try to escape. He wouldn’t. His only real regret was that he wouldn’t get to say goodbye to the people he loved in person. His mother and grandmother. And Mara. Definitely Mara. He felt as if he’d loved her for more than a lifetime.
His thoughts caught up with losing the woman he loved, Luke didn’t realize where the two men were taking him until they stopped in the middle of the plaza. The jail was still a hundred
yards away.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“We’re gonna make sure you can’t ever interfere with my business again,” Mahooty stated.
Delgado snickered.
And for the first time, as he heard the gun cock and felt the metal barrel press into his head, Luke realized he’d been a fool to go along with the thugs without a fight.
“Open the kiva,” Mahooty told his cohort.
The sacred heart of the pueb
lo was a subterranean structure. Luke could only see Delgado’s silhouette as the man rolled back the cover from the circular opening. Normally one descended into the kiva by ladder through this smoke hole for the fire that burned during ceremonies. But now Delgado was pulling out the means of entrance and exit. He lay the ladder on the ground and grabbed Luke’s arm.
“Make sure he don’t wake up too soon,” he told Mahooty with another snicker.
For a second, the deadly gun was removed from Luke’s temple. Then he heard it rush back toward him. He ducked. Still, metal met flesh again and again, and stars exploded inside Luke’s head. He crumpled forward. As if he were observing from outside his body, he felt himself falling . . .
. . . and awoke sometime later to a vacuum. Dark. Airless.
Where was he?
He shifted too quickly, and his throbbing head and battered body reminded him. Mahooty had thrown him down inside the kiva. Fearing something might be broken, he tested his limbs as best he could, considering his hands were bound behind him. Thankfully, everything worked in some fashion. Luke peered into the dark, wondering how long he’d been unconscious. Wondering how he would get out of this place. Wondering if his grandmother and mother and the woman he loved were all safe.
Hard to keep his thoughts straight when his head throbbed like a drum.
He lay back. Drifted. Prayed for strength. And wisdom. For how long a time, he wasn’t certain.
Gradually, he felt another presence.
He knew that in the floor of the kiva was a round, navel-like notch of the sipapu, symbolic of the place where humans had emerged from the earth, also thought to give spiritual access to yet another world deeper below. And from the wall behind the altar was a spirit tunnel. Pueblos had always accepted more than the corporal state of being.
“Who’s there?”