Trail of Lightning (The Sixth World Book 1)

by Rebecca Roanhorse

  He grins, measuring me up. “Bit of a gearhead?”

  “I know a few things,” I admit. “If you can’t fix your own car on the rez, you’re going to do a lot of walking.”

  “Didn’t mean anything,” he protests, hands raised. “Just an observation.”

  “Yeah, well, observe from the passenger’s seat. We need to go.” I take in the position of the sun, the shrinking shadows. “We’ve got maybe another hour of driving before we’ve got to break.”

  “Break? It’s not even noon.”

  “Right. This switchback we’re on cuts through at Twin Lakes. We can stop there. It’ll be noon by then, and then we’re back on the road around three o’clock. Too hot otherwise, and if she overheats, we’re walking.”

  “I thought you said your truck was some kind of supermachine.”

  “No, I said she was a classic, and that means you treat her with respect. Once you get past Twin Lakes, the road’s pretty much a suggestion up until Nahodishgish. Overheating’s bad, but one big pothole and the axle’s toast. Any idea how hard it is to replace the axle on a 1972 Chevy these days?”

  “I’m losing some faith here.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll get you back to Tah’s in one piece.” I open the driver’s side door and climb in. Kai gets in on the passenger’s side. “Assuming nothing goes wrong.”

  “We’re not driving when it’s hot. We’re not driving the bad roads in the dark. What could go wrong?”

  I grin big when I start the engine, but my eyes involuntarily cut to the place where we saw the coyote. “Well, there’s always the monsters.”

  We stop a little after noon like I said, just past Twin Lakes. There are, of course, no lakes here. Whatever water was ever here dried up long ago.

  Kai sits cross-legged in a dusty patch of earth in the relative shade of a cliff overhang. He’s got his tie thrown over one shoulder, sunglasses firmly back in place, and he’s chewing on a piece of jerky Tah was generous enough to pack for us. We’re sharing a canteen, taking measured sips when we need to, enough to keep our mouths moist. If it was hot before, it’s blistering now. More than a few minutes and it feels like your skin starts to burn, like you can feel the cells frying bright red, even our naturally dark skin offering little protection in a sun this fierce. But like they always say about the high desert, it’s a dry heat. Unbearable in direct sunlight, but a good twenty degrees cooler in the shade. So I’ve parked the truck up as close to the shady overhang as I could get, draped a blanket over the lee side to block any sudden gusts of dust-filled air, and Kai and I are sharing lunch.

  “So why’d that Law Dog call you a freak?”

  I answer around a mouthful of jerky. “Longarm’s an idiot.”

  “Clearly. But that didn’t really answer my question.”

  I swallow the meat. Take my time picking a roasted piñon from a small cloth drawstring bag. I eye the medicine-man-in-training as I pop the nut into my mouth. It’s turned rancid and I spit it out, disgusted. “What has Tah told you about clan powers?”

  He loosens his tie and pulls at his dress shirt, tenting it away from his chest, sweating. “That they’re gifts from the Diyin Dine’é. That they come from your first two clans only, mother’s first and then father’s. That they manifest in times of great need, but not to everyone, and not everyone is blessed equally.”

  “Tah called them a blessing? Said they were gifts from the Holy People?”

  Kai takes another bite. “You don’t agree?”

  “I’m just saying that your cheii means well, but he doesn’t get out much.” I’m leaning against the wheel of my truck, across from Kai, and I pull a knee up to my chest. Scratch at a place on my calf that itches.

  “I suppose it’s all perspective, really,” he says. “Some people see the bad things that happen to them as a burden, others as potential for growth.”

  I snort loudly. “Some things are just bad. There’s no redeeming value in suffering. All that noble savage shit is for suckers.”

  Kai looks unperturbed. “I met this girl while I was stuck waiting in Rock Springs for border control to process my papers. I don’t remember her mother’s clan, but she was born for Tązhii Dine’é.”

  “Tązhii? Don’t know it.”

  “Turkey. She was born for Turkey People clan.”

  “Huh.” For the life of me, I can’t imagine how that might manifest as a clan power.

  “She had a natural thing for turkeys. Like she could find a wild turkey a mile away. And they came to her. She’d call them—she had this turkey call she could do—and they would come. It may not be the superpower you hoped for as a kid, but if you’re starving to death and you need to eat, being able to call a turkey is pretty damn useful. Plus she could sell the feathers for trade.” He gestures, hand open. “There you go. A gift.”

  “Just because one clan power manifested benevolently, doesn’t mean they all do.”

  “You said nothing good could come from suffering. I’m saying that’s not always true.” He takes another bite of meat, and we pass the canteen. “So why such strong feelings from your law enforcement friend there?”

  My mouth twists involuntarily. “Why do you want to know, Kai? You worried about being seen with me?”

  “Not at all,” he says with a disarming smile. “I’m new around here, remember? I figure if you and Longarm are natural enemies, that’s probably a sign that we should be friends. Because that guy’s strung way too tight. And I tend to take my cheii’s view of things. If the Diyin Dine’é blessed you in a time of need, I hardly think that makes you a freak.”

  I dig my nails into the itchy place on my leg until I feel skin split beneath the fabric. “You sure know how to talk nice.”

  He dips his chin in a little bow of acknowledgment. “And you know how to avoid answering a question.”

  What the hell. “I’m Honágháahnii, born for K’aahanáanii.”

  He nods, thoughtful. “Honágháahnii I know. ‘Walks-Around.’ And that means you’re . . . ?”

  “Fast. Really fast.”

  “We’re talking . . . ?”

  “Faster than human, let’s put it that way.”

  He whistles low in appreciation. “Now, that’s a superpower. Wish I could see.”

  “No, you don’t,” I say. “If Honágháahnii comes, it means we’re in trouble.”

  “Right,” he says. “Forgot about that part. So what’s your other clan? What does K’aahanáanii mean?”

  “ ‘Living Arrow.’ ”

  “So does that mean you’re good at archery or something?”

  “No, Kai.” I stand up, stretch. Brush the dust from my backside and my thighs. I can feel blood trickling down my calf where I dug into the flesh hard enough to make it bleed. I look down at Kai, still sitting with his tie over his shoulder, face curious like clan powers are an intellectual exercise. Or maybe cool superpowers that don’t make people distrust you, don’t get you treated like you’re diseased or a step away from being one of the monsters yourself. That they don’t make your mentor turn from you in disgust, your bloodlust so terrible that even he, a warrior of legend, cannot fathom what drives you. Tah may think them a blessing, and Kai, too. But I know better.

  “Living Arrow means I’m really good at killing people.”

  Kai pushes his aviators up, like he’s trying to get a good look at me. Then he blinks, slow and heavy-lidded, before he lets them drop. Flips his tie back in place and yawns big, stretching his arms over his head. Leans back to rest his elbows on the Pendleton and says, “Well, Mags, at least you know what you’re good at, right?”

  I stare. I was ready for disgust. For horror. Even disbelief. But equanimity? I remember Kai back at Tah’s, gently petting that severed head like it was a house cat and not a . . . well . . . monster’s severed head.

  “I mean,” he continues, “if you’re given a gift, you’re sort of obligated to use it, right? Granted”—he holds up a hand to stave off my reply—“granted, y
our talents might be considered a little unconventional, and I wouldn’t recommend it as a career choice for most, but if it’s working for you . . .”

  I pick at the place on my leg. “So you’re really not bothered? You could be stuck out here alone with a stone-cold killer.”

  “When we’re trying to find whatever, or whoever, was powerful enough to create the monster I saw back at my cheii’s? No, I am really not bothered.” He hesitates, then gives me a megawatt smile. “As long as I’m not on your shit list.” He shifts to the side, leaning on one elbow. “Don’t get me wrong. I know I’ve got a long way to go in my training, but I am a man of peace.”

  “A lover not a fighter?”

  He grins. “Bingo. And it’s all a balance, really, isn’t it? I figure if there’s someone like me, there’s got to be someone like you, too. So long as I’m on your good side and you’re not tempted to . . .” He makes a slashing motion across his neck with one hand.

  I chuckle. “Take a nap, Kai. If you wake up, you’re on my good side.”

  He thumbs the edge of his blanket. Hesitates.

  “I was just kidding,” I say.

  “No, it’s not that.”

  “Then what? Look, I didn’t sleep last night and it’s catching up w—”

  “I have dreams.”

  He has my attention. Diné take their dreams seriously, especially if they’re coming from a medicine man. Even a not-quite one like Kai. “What kind of dreams?”

  “Nothing to worry about. Just . . .” He fiddles with the edge of the blanket. “If I start talking in my sleep or anything, wake me up. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  He touches his lips, a clearly unconscious gesture, and I’d bet that Two Grey Hills I left in Lukachukai that he’s thinking about his long-gone whiskey. “I mean it. Don’t let me—”

  “I said okay. You talk, you roll on your side too often, and I’ll wake you. Promise.”

  But it’s not Kai who dreams.

  The smell of bad medicine hits me first. The sky is shades of green, a roiling sickness of vomit and pale yellow lightning, thunder cracking dissonant and hollow in the distance. Clouds scuttle black across a bloated red moon, and the earth moans low and painful, rolls in her agony, shifting mountains and oceans and drowning the cities of the world in blood-capped tsunamis.

  It is the Big Water of my nightmares, but I don’t stay long. Time shifts and I’m in a moonscape of desiccated earth and flat empty nothingness.

  I recognize this place. I’m back on Black Mesa.

  There’s someone here with me. Someone just out of eyesight. I try to turn my head, but I am made of wood. Petrified and hard and immobile. I roll my eyes in their sockets, but can only catch a glimpse of the intruder. Long raven-colored hair flares like wings. Neizghání.

  I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. Try to lift my hand, but it stays frozen at my side. My jaw works, making a wet sucking sound. Blood coats the inside of my mouth and I choke on it, thick and warm and meaty. Neizghání hears, and our eyes meet. His eyes are gray, the color of dead things left too long in the sun. His teeth are yellow, stained with the fat of human flesh. Globules of it stick to his gums. On his head is the skin of a coyote, furred and trailing down his neck, across his shoulders. Around his neck, a silver striped tie. It’s all wrong. Neizghání’s eyes are onyx, his teeth diamonds. And only a yee naaldlshii would wear an animal’s pelt. I scream, choking on my own blood, the cords in my throat trying to work, but they’re being chewed on, bitten through by a monster with no soul, wearing a crown of flames on his ash-covered head. His rough fingers caress my cheek, trail almost lovingly through my hair. There’s a weight on my shoulder, the monster’s blunt teeth worrying my bones. My skin breaks open and maggots stream out of my flesh in a putrid puddling mess. Longarm laughs and scoops them up with two fingers and pops them into his mouth. “Tastes like chicken,” he says to Kai. Kai smiles, bright and charming. A pair of massive insect wings flare open behind him. Mounds of thick cobwebs cover his eyes, blinding him. “Kill them,” he whispers to me, his words a lover’s plea, his graceful long-fingered hands glittering with rings, his touch soft as spring rain against my skin. He leans in to kiss my blood-filled mouth as he says it again. “Kill them all.”

  I wake, chilled and shivering in the overhang’s shadow. Kai’s still across from me, sleeping soundly after all. The air smells of dust and heat, not bad medicine. And I’m the only potential monster around for miles.

  By the time we are back on the road, the sun is a kinder, gentler smear of gold headed toward the horizon. Kai tries to engage me in conversation a few times, but I can’t shake my dream. The diseased sky above Black Mesa, the smell of witchcraft. Neizghání dressed as the yee naaldlshii witch that murdered my nalí, right down to the muddy gray eyes and yellow teeth. The coyote head was wrong, though. The witch who attacked us wore a wolf’s pelt. But it’s close enough, and combined with the rest of the dream, it’s got me off-kilter. So when Kai asks about my family, I say, “Dead.” When he asks who raised me, I say, “Probably dead.”

  Until he finally stops asking.

  I rub at my shoulder absently, thinking about the monster. Thinking about evil. And wondering if what I saw in my dream is all just coincidence, or if it means something.

  “Tell me what you know about these . . . what did you call them?”

  He’s leaning against the far side of the truck, eyes focused out the window. “Hmm?”

  “You said you recognized the monster back at Tah’s place. Called it a tsé naayéé’?”

  He looks like he wants to hold out, probably irritated by my shitty attitude, but I can already tell that holding out isn’t his style. “Well, tsé naayéé’ isn’t exactly the right word for it,” he admits. “But it’s something similar. I know I’ve heard of them before. Like I said, my father was a professor of Navajo studies. He would bring home recordings sometimes, verbal accounts from elders about the old stories. Creation stories, legends, monsters.” He grins. “I remember he had this big box of VHS tapes. You remember those? No? Anyway, he’d gotten this grant from the tribe to digitize them. I used to sit in his study and listen along while he worked.”

  “Digital recordings? Is that what you think we’ll find at the library in Crownpoint?”

  “That’s what I’m hoping, Mags.”

  I frown at the unfamiliar name. “You called me that before.”

  “Mags? It’s a nickname. Do you like it? Someone told me that you’re supposed to give girls a nickname. It makes them like you.”

  “Someone’s lying to you.”

  “Yeah, well.” He leans back and props his leg up against the console, gives me a movie star grin. “You let me know when it’s working, partner.”

  “Look,” I say, “don’t get any expectations from this partner thing, okay? It’s not personal. I just work better alone.”

  “I thought you had a partner before.”

  Neizghání. But how do I explain him? He was more than a partner, more than my teacher. “Gone,” I say simply. “I’ve been on my own for a while.”

  “Hunting monsters?”

  “No,” I admit. “The tsé naayéé’ was my first solo hunt. I’ve been . . . well, I did some merc work with a local crew a few times, but that didn’t work out. Mostly I’ve been taking a break.” If staying holed up in my trailer could be considered taking a break.

  “Well, there you go. Perfect timing.” He spreads his arms. “Here I am.”

  The man is relentless, but I feel a smile threatening to break despite my best intention to scowl at him. Even so. “I’ve got dogs,” I mutter.

  “Hmm?”

  “I said . . . shit . . .”

  We’re cresting the last hill, Crownpoint spreading out before us.

  The town of Crownpoint is a few miles of trailers and NHA tract housing rolling across low hills, sloping down to the modest campus of the technical college. I remember the main road we’re on skirts the east edge of to
wn so that if we keep going, we’ll find a Bashas’ grocery store turned trading post and a small restaurant that opens once a month for mutton stew. At least that’s what Crownpoint used to be. Now it looks like an abandoned battlefield.

  Blackened, burning, and strewn with the bodies of the dead.

  Chapter 9

  We drive down Route 9 into the heart of Crownpoint, silent. I’ve got my shotgun resting across my lap, and Kai’s staring out the window, looking for what I’m not sure. Signs of life, maybe. But he’s not having any luck. The corpses littering the ground around us are clearly not alive.

  “So many ghosts,” he whispers.

  “Do you mean . . . ?”

  “Ch’įdii. Everywhere. Can you see them?”

  I shudder, and it feels like a million tiny ants are crawling down my spine. “No.”

  He nods. Says nothing.

  In Navajo, the souls of the dead are ch’įdii. They are the residue, the evil deeds every man and woman leaves behind at the moment of death. They can possess the living, causing drowning sickness. Drowning sickness can be a slow death, a sinking into melancholy and depression until you forget to get out of bed, forget to eat, and eventually, forget to breathe. Or drowning sickness can be aggressive, an attack that feels like you’re suffocating, being pulled under and into the grave. Quick or slow, either way, ch’įdii kill. Luckily, they tend to stay near the body or infect the dwelling where the deceased met their end, so as long as we stay away from them, they should stay away from us.

  “I had the ghost sickness once,” I say, mostly to hear myself talk. “We were hunting this man, a human, but he had become evil. He’d butchered his family out near Ganado. Wife, kids, cousins, even the horses. My old partner was there with me, but we’d split up, following different leads. I was on my own when I found him. Cornered him in an old abandoned hogan and shot him. Didn’t take his head, though. My mistake. Anyway, his ch’įdii was strong. All that evil, waiting to rise up and take form, and me, stupidly inside the hogan with him, no room to get away in time. My mentor found me hours later. Fevered, delirious, and screaming about drowning. He took me to your grandfather. Four days and nights it took to save me, but he did it.” I glance over at Kai. He’s still staring out the window, but he’s listening. “That’s how I met your cheii. He saved my life.”