Trail of Lightning (The Sixth World Book 1)

by Rebecca Roanhorse

  We make fast time running across the open land toward the mine. The men are where we expect them to be. And from the paleness of their skin, my guess is that they’re refugees who made it past the Wall, here to steal what they can for their own malignant purposes. I rush forward, eager to remind Neizghání why he saved me. One of the men raises a gun, points it toward me. I laugh and K’aahanáanii trills a deathsong that becomes a full-throated dirge. I knock the gun from his hand, send it spinning. He grunts, tries to strike me with his fists. My Böker takes his hand off for the transgression. I turn, rip my knife across his throat, as inexorable as rushing water cutting through mesa rock. Blood sheets the air like rain, and where it falls, the black coal stains blacker.

  Another man rushes me, swings at my head with the flat of his shovel. I duck, come up under his arm, plunge my knife into his belly, and rip him open. Viscera pools at my feet. It should horrify me, but I can’t stop grinning. Laughing.

  Then they all come, shouting, with weapons. One by one, I take them down.

  When I finally rest, giddy and breathless, I am surrounded by the dead.

  I bend over, hands to knees, to catch my breath. Grab the nearby edge of one of the dead men’s coats to wipe the gore from my knife.

  “See,” I say to Neizghání, my voice a little high and excited. I clear my throat and try to contain my awful joy. “See. It doesn’t matter what you call them. They all die the same.”

  He’s standing, staring at me. He didn’t engage in the fight at all, his lightning sword still holstered across his back, his armor unblemished. His arms hang loose and empty at his sides.

  I hesitate, my next words forgotten under his gaze. My pulse accelerates, faster than can be explained by the adrenaline. The distance between us lengthens. I swallow, suddenly aware that I’m standing on a precipice I was too stupid to see before.

  “Evil is a sickness,” he says to me.

  He’s gone the next morning. I wait at our camp in the shadow of the Black Mountain. A week. Two. Afraid that if I leave he won’t be able to find me again, or if I abandon the camp, it will portent something bad, something I won’t be able to walk back. But I am only a five-fingered in the end, and my body needs food. Water. Warmth. I last a month, sleeping on rocky ground, eating what’s left of the Bad Men’s rations and collecting morning dew to drink, before I admit that he’s not coming back for me. A week after that, I stumble into Tse Bonito dehydrated, my moccasins worn thin and my feet bloody, asking Grandpa Tah for help. I don’t know where else to go, I mumble to him through cracked lips, and he assures me I am welcome. But the shame, the confusion, is more than I know what to do with. I know I can’t stay with the medicine man, no matter how kind he is to me. So I find a trailer, a truck. I try to work for the local mercenary crew, but they capture people alive mostly, and once they understand what I am, they want nothing to do with me. So I sit in my trailer and stare at the walls, day after day. Month after month. Until Lukachukai comes calling.

  And now I’m in Crownpoint, looking at lightning burns and learning nothing. Except how much I want to go back and fix whatever it is I broke with Neizghání.

  Chapter 10

  “You got anything?” I ask as I enter the library.

  Kai’s camped out at one of those long wooden tables up front. He has a dozen discs spread out around him, little white labels stuck to each, and he’s scribbling notes on the edges of a page torn from a magazine. A reedy woman’s voice wafts up from the speaker of a CD player, talking Navajo mostly, with a few random English phrases thrown in. I drop into a nearby chair and lean in to listen.

  “I know this story,” I say.

  Kai looks up from his notes. I’m surprised too. But the story is familiar, one I’ve heard before. A story about Coyote and the Black God Haashch’ééshzhiní. Once the two tricksters were best of friends and were tasked with setting the stars in their place in the sky. Haashch’ééshzhiní, the Keeper of the Fire, had a plan for how the stars should be set. It was methodical. Ordered. But Coyote grew bored with his plan and tossed the stars into the sky haphazardly with an impetuous flip of a blanket.

  The woman’s voice slows to a slur just as Coyote is reaching for the blanket, and a little red light on the player blinks furiously at us. Kai hits the stop button.

  “Batteries,” he says with a shake of his head. “I’m surprised we got that much juice out of the thing. It’s been sitting here how many years?”

  “No charger?”

  “It wasn’t in the box. And even if it was, no electricity.”

  I worry the inside of my cheek, thinking. “That story mean anything to you?”

  “Did you catch that part about fire?”

  “Haashch’ééshzhiní. He gave fire to the five-fingereds. Set the stars ablaze.”

  “Just a thought, but . . .” He trails off, taps the nub of the pencil he’s holding against the table.

  “A thought?” I prompt him.

  “I don’t know. Something about that fire. Maybe it’s related. Maybe it’s not. But I’d like to listen to the rest of these.” He runs a hand across the discs on the table. “See if something else comes up.”

  I hesitate, drawing in a breath, and he looks over, expectant. “My trailer’s not far from here,” I tell him. “Just through the pass. Closer than Tah’s by a couple of hours. Why don’t we head there? I probably have batteries somewhere, and if I don’t, we can go back to Tse Bonito in the morning. Surely someone in the market is selling a plug that’ll fit that thing.”

  He nods. “Sounds like a plan, Mags.”

  “Sorry Crownpoint was a loss.”

  “Not a total loss. We know something about an object that can give the stars life. And if they can give stars life, maybe they’re related to what we’re looking for. It could be a clue. You find anything?”

  “Nope,” I say, not ready to explain my theory about Neizghání yet.

  “Nothing more on your hunch about those burn marks?”

  For a minute I think he must know I’m holding something back, but his face is set in blank friendliness, nothing suspicious. “No.”

  “Well, we still may find some good info on the CDs,” he says, dumping the CDs and their player into a tote bag emblazoned with the technical college’s logo.

  “Nice bag,” I observe.

  He lifts up the canvas tote, inspecting it. “Found a whole bunch of them over there behind the reference desk. You want one?”

  “I’ll pass, thanks.”

  “I wonder if I should get one for my cheii.”

  “Sure. We went to Crownpoint, saw a bunch of dead people, learned about a firestarter, and all I got was this lousy tote bag.”

  He laughs. Nobody ever laughs at my dumb jokes, and it’s enough to make me flush, pleased. He starts toward the exit, looping the tote bag handles over his shoulder. I follow. Watch as he gives one last mournful look at the abandoned library and pushes open the double doors.

  He freezes, halfway through. Sucks in a startled breath, his knuckles turning white as he grips the door.

  “What is it?” I ask, instantly alert. I slip the shotgun from my shoulder holster and come up beside him, using the wall for cover. He still hasn’t moved and I drop to peek around the corner, but all I see is the wheelchair ramp, an empty parking lot, my truck.

  “Kai?”

  He turns toward me, face ashen. Whispers a word I can’t quite hear. I lean closer, so he says it again.

  “Ghosts.”

  “How many?” I ask, my voice terse.

  “Dozens,” he says. “More. Blocking the path to the truck.”

  “Okay,” I say, thinking. Trying to remember what Neizghání said about how to fight ch’įdii. Trying harder to forget the helplessness of the ghost sickness. Because if I think about it too much, I might lose my shit. Fighting flesh and blood is one thing, but fighting sickness, something that kills from the inside, that’s something I’m not so good at.

  “Do you still have tho
se shotgun shells I gave you?”

  Kai slowly lets go of the door. Reaches into his pocket and pulls out two shells. His hand shakes. He takes a deep breath and it steadies. I have two shells in my gun and another four in my ammo belt. But eight shells should be enough to get us to the truck.

  I pull the obsidian throwing knife from my moccasin wrap. Take the shells from Kai. I wedge the tip of my knife into the edge of a shell until it cracks. “Hands.” Kai holds out his hands and I pour the obsidian shot into his palm. The corn pollen puffs briefly and then settles on his skin. I repeat the process with my other shells until there’s an oversize mound of obsidian and pollen cupped carefully in his hands. I take half for myself.

  “Okay,” I say. “We’re going to move toward the truck. I can’t see them, so you’re going to have to lead. I’ll follow, so keep a clear path. You need to move one, or they get too close, you toss some right at them. Pollen should ground them to the spot, and the obsidian should hurt them. Make them go away if we’re lucky.”

  “If we’re not lucky?” he asks.

  My voice is a little breathless and I realize that I’m geeked up, the adrenaline starting to course. Ready for a fight, even if it’s one I can’t quite see coming. “Either one of us gets too close, the ghost sickness is going to get us. So I suggest we get lucky quick.”

  Kai blinks, and I notice the rich brown of his eyes has paled around the edges, the dark circle around his irises now a quicksilver. A shiver crawls across my shoulders that has nothing to do with the ch’įdii. But there’s nothing to be done about it right now. We need to get out of here. And Kai’s on my side, after all.

  “Okay, you ready?” I ask him.

  He nods. “I’ll do my best to make sure the ghosts don’t touch you.”

  I push the door open and we go.

  I may not be able to see the ch’įdii, but I feel them in my gut, like a rising sadness that makes me want to howl, to weep for everyone and everything I’ve ever lost. My nalí. My parents. Neizghání. Even a stuffed horse doll that I had when I was ten. The feelings come fast and furious, threatening to take me over. A sob rises in my throat, but I swallow it down before it escapes. Kai moans, a low sad sound, and I know he must feel them too, his own memories of loss. I shudder and force my feet forward.

  Kai heads steadily for the truck, spreading the shot in a wide arc. I’m careful to keep in his footsteps, scattering the shot around and behind me. When he stops abruptly to throw a handful of obsidian at a blank space three feet in front of us, I yelp. He looks back. I nod and motion him forward. We keep going until we hit the passenger’s side door.

  I throw open the door, ready to dust the inside with shot if I have to. “Nothing in the truck, right?” I ask Kai. But I know there’s not. I can’t feel them anymore, the crippling sorrow of moments ago lifted like it never was.

  His brow scrunches up like I said something funny. “All clear,” he assures me. “They pretty much took off when I doused that first one.”

  “Doesn’t hurt to ask,” I say defensively as I climb over the seat and slide in behind the wheel. He gets in beside me, shrugging the tote bag off his shoulder, careful to keep the shot from slipping from his hand. I reach into my pocket and pull out one of the empty shells. He cups his hand and pours what’s left of his pile back in.

  “Not so bad,” he says. “In fact”—a corner of his mouth quirks up—“that was kind of fun.”

  I shudder. “Fun” is the last word I’d use for that feeling. I start the engine and don’t bother to comment.

  “So I make a pretty good partner after all?” he says.

  I pull the truck out of the parking lot and onto the road. Head west toward the mountains and out of Crownpoint. Kai’s good humor fades as we pass the deserted houses, the bodies along the road, the reality of what made those ch’įdii staring us in the face. The sensation of a deep, unrequited longing lingers over us even though we’re safe in the truck. Neizghání’s face rises unbidden from my memories, and I turn up the radio, hoping for a distraction. But the only song playing in the whole of Dinétah is Patsy Cline, and she’s falling to pieces.

  Halfway through Narbona Pass, I turn to Kai. “What’s up with your eyes?”

  He blinks, like he didn’t hear me. But I know he did. I can almost see him spinning an answer. “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “When you said you saw those ch’įdii, before we walked out there, your eyes turned silver. Just like they did when we stopped for the coyote.”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “The hell you don’t.”

  He widens his eyes theatrically, turns that handsome face toward me. “Pretty sure my eyes are brown.” He’s right. They’re back to brown, hints of reddish gold streaking his ridiculously attractive but perfectly normal eyes. He gives me a reassuring smile. “It was probably just a trick of the light. Mags. I think I’d know if my eyes were silver.”

  It’s possible. Sure, it’s possible. It’s probably more possible than Kai’s eyes changing colors, but he did see the ch’įdii when I couldn’t. I thought it was just something about his medicine training, but now I’m wondering, thinking it might be something bigger. Something I should know about. “You shouldn’t keep secrets from me, Kai. That’s not how partnerships work.”

  He perks up. “So we’re partners?”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  A bolt of lightning streaks across the late afternoon sky, cutting me off midsentence. We watch as it strikes somewhere to the west. The direction we’re going. Thunder booms shortly after. We both blink in the afterburn.

  “Whoa, that was pretty close,” Kai says.

  I’d say within a dozen miles of us. I can’t stop myself from foolishly searching the sky, hoping to spot a storm cloud to tell me that rain is imminent and the lightning was a natural occurrence. But, of course, there’s nothing to see, certainly no rain, and my heart thuds with fear, thoughts of Kai’s eyes forgotten.

  “Lightning out of a clear blue sky,” Kai says. “Weird.”

  “Yeah, weird.” Although I know it’s anything but. Lightning without a cloud in sight means one thing.

  Visitors.

  Chapter 11

  “We going inside?” Kai asks.

  “Hmm?” I keep my gaze on my trailer, waiting for something, some sign to let me know what I’m walking into. We pulled up a good ten minutes ago, but I’m still sitting in the driver’s seat, unwilling to move.

  “Inside. This is your place, right?”

  “Yeah, but I’ve got a visitor.”

  He turns his head to look briefly around the empty driveway. “How can you tell?”

  “Lightning. And you hear that?”

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Exactly.” I rub my hands on my pants, psyching myself up. “I’ve got dogs, three of them. Rez mutts, not afraid of anything. And right now I don’t see them anywhere, but mostly, I don’t hear them.”

  And there it is. A flicker of a curtain. A face peers out, only briefly, and then the curtain falls.

  I let out a sigh, somewhere between relief and disappointment. I recognize that face. Part of me thought for a moment it might have been Neizghání in there. What that reunion would look like, I’m not sure. But I don’t need to worry. That wasn’t Neizghání’s face in the window.

  “I want you to wait here,” I tell Kai. “Get the shotgun out of the back. If I don’t come out in fifteen minutes, come in with the gun. Don’t worry, I’m not asking you to shoot anybody, but try to look menacing if you can. I’ll probably be okay.”

  “Probably?”

  “Yeah. He’s likely just here to talk, but I won’t want to be alone with him any longer than that.”

  Kai’s staring at the windows of my single-wide now, his face somewhere between thoughtful and nervous. My visitor hasn’t come back to the window for a second reveal, but I can feel the air around us thickening, the dread heavy enough to make me jittery.

>   “If he won’t hurt you, should I really come in waving a shotgun?” Kai whispers, even though we’re alone in the truck.

  I nod and whisper back, “Sometimes you need to make a good first impression.”

  The look he gives me is incredulous. “With a shotgun? Who the hell is in there?”

  I’m pretty sure that first question was rhetorical, but I answer the second one best I can. “An old frenemy. His Navajo name is Ma’ii. You probably know him as Coyote.”

  I open the truck door and step out. The high desert has finally begun to cool off as evening approaches. The faint smell of ozone flavors the air, remnants from the lightning that my houseguest used for transportation. A sense of the uncanny sets my senses on edge, and something animal and instinctual in me tells me not to go into my home. That what waits for me in there means me harm. That instinct isn’t wrong exactly. It’s saved me more than once in dealing with the Bik’e’áyée’ii. But this time I’m not listening. Coyote has come calling, and I want to know why.

  I push down the impulse to run away and take the few steps up the dirt path to the front stairs. I bound them in one leap and open the door.

  Chapter 12

  When I was fourteen, before the Big Water, when the TVs still worked and the melting of the polar ice was generating reports of record storms from Florida to Maine, and the flooding along the Eastern Seaboard made Hurricane Sandy look like the female rain of a light summer shower, Coyote came to me. He came in a dream that first time. He would wait another year, until I had lost not just my family and my place in life, but my entire self, to manifest physically. But it is still that first time, when Coyote-in-a-dream visited me, before I woke up to the nightmare of a Big Water world, that I remember best.

  He wore a dapper gentlemen’s suit right out of the Old West. His shirt was a white high-collared affair, tucked into trousers that were striped an outrageous crimson and olive and gold. Over the shirt was a double-breasted vest of the deepest red velvet. It was topped off with a golden puff of a silk cravat, embroidered with delicate rose-colored thread. A gold watch hung from a chain tucked in his vest pocket, and over his shoulders spread a camel-colored topcoat with a thick gray fur collar. The coat flared out around him when he walked, like the mantle of a rogue king. He carried an engraved mahogany walking stick with a golden handle, and greeted me with a wide mocking smile and a tip of his top hat. He was every inch the gentleman scoundrel from some old Hollywood Western.