There Will Be Lies

by Nick Lake

  As the elk says it, I see it’s true—the smaller elk are cowering behind the larger ones.

  Mark, Coyote, whatever, nods and then jumps up into the air again, shifting as he does, fur becoming skin, and clothes, until it’s a man standing there; Mark.

  Thank you, says the elk.

  You are welcome, says Mark. I did not mean to frighten you.

  The elk kind of snorts air through its nostrils, like it’s laughing. You are Coyote, it says. Who knows what you mean?

  I frown.

  Maiden, says the elk. I look around, and then realize it’s addressing me. Why do you walk with First Angry?

  First Angry? I say.

  Yes. The One Who Caused the Flood, the One Who Created Death, the One Who Scattered the Stars. Coyote. He has many names.

  I glance at him. I don’t—

  I am helping her to rescue the Child, says Mark. To kill the Crone.

  Why? says the lead elk.

  Mark gestures to the dead wolves, to the parched ground beyond the thin strip of beach. Because of all this. The drought. The wolves.

  The lead elk snorts. Was it not given to Coyote and to Coyote alone to call the rain? he says. It is one of your gifts. Why can you not simply make it rain?

  I look at Mark. You can make it rain? I say.

  Yes, he says. I mean no. Usually I can. Usually, I am the only one who can. But not now.

  Why not?

  Because the balance has been upset, he says. The Crone has the Child. Now her power is greater than mine. I have no more say over the rain. When she is dead, then … then I can call a downpour and soak the land. But not before.

  Truly? says the elk.

  Would I lie? says Mark.

  Yes, says the elk. You are Coyote. The Liar. The Player of Tricks.

  I am not lying now, says Mark.

  Listen, I say loudly. Mark and the elks turn to look at me. Can someone tell me what the hell is going on here? I am not the Maiden, I am Shelby Jane Cooper. You are Mark. But you’re … you’re a coyote, suddenly?

  No, says Mark. I am Coyote.

  And the difference is …

  The difference is that between a lightbulb and the sun.

  Oh, yeah, I say, fake unfazed. Totally. Sure. That’s normal.

  Coyotes are born and die every day, he says. I am older than this world. I am the son of the sky and the earth. Some say that I made man and woman.

  And did you? I say.

  He just shrugs.

  And outside the library … when the car hit me … that was you?

  Yes, he says. I wanted to warn you.

  About the lies. “There will be two lies and then there will be the truth,” right?

  Yes, he says.

  So you being Coyote, and keeping it secret, was that one of the lies?

  No, he says.

  What about my mother saying that Dad was coming to kill us?

  He nods his head.

  And this stuff about being Anya Maxwell?

  I can’t tell you that. Some things you have to learn for yourself.

  If you want me to kill this crone, or whatever she is, and rescue this child, you need to answer my—

  I don’t want you to rescue the Child, says Coyote. You want to rescue the Child.

  I stare at him. What? I say.

  Listen, he says. Close your eyes, and listen to the wind.

  What? Why would—

  Just do it, he says.

  I close my eyes and I hear Mark mutter some words. I concentrate on the wind. It is not loud—it is a low breeze, humming through the canyon, a quiet hushing sound difficult to separate from the running of the water, but very slightly higher pitched, almost like a voice, almost like someone …

  someone crying …

  and then I hear it, under the wind, so faint, but there. The sound of a child crying, and then it seems to get louder and louder, until it’s vibrating in every cell of my body, resonating in me, like it does in my dreams.

  And of course that’s what it is, I realize.

  It is the crying from my dreams. The very same crying. The little child, sitting on the floor of the hospital, reaching its arms up to me, wanting to be comforted, wanting to be held …

  I feel wetness welling up in my eyes. I open them and take a breath. Stop it, I say to Mark.

  He nods, and the crying is gone.

  That was the Child, he says. It is dying. We must save it. Yes?

  Yes, I say. Yes.

  We all look at one another for a moment.

  I hid my true face from you, says Mark to the elks. And I am sorry for that. But will you still stand with me? Will you stand with the Maiden?

  Yes, say the elks, together.

  But I don’t understand, I say. The Child, who is it? I mean, did I have a sister once, or … or what? Why do I know that crying?

  It is the Child, says Mark, as if that’s a simple answer that makes any kind of sense. The Dreaming bleeds into your world.

  I don’t know what that means, I say.

  No, he says. But you will.

  The Crone’s castle is still unimaginably far away but the elks offer to carry us. They take a step forward, and begin to bend their backs, for us to mount them. The big leader steps delicately around the corpse of the wolf at his feet, skirting the rock on which its back broke by splashing through the shallows of the river. And at that moment, I see a movement out of the corner of my eye. A liquid movement, a sine wave slipping through the water, fast.

  I grab my knife and shout. Look out—

  But it’s too late. The snake’s head flicks up out of the river, and its fangs glisten for a moment in the starlight, and then it clamps down on the majestic elk’s leg, mouth snapping shut with a click that I can hear.

  No, I say.

  Knock.

  Mark whips into motion, his hand seizing the snake as he bends, and then he flings it far out into the river, where it hits the water with a splash.

  He pushes the elk out of the shallows, toward the rock wall, the path. He is patting its side, whispering to it, eyes narrow with concern. The other elks are doing that panicked bellowing again.

  Knock.

  I look down at the leader’s leg.

  Two drops of crimson welling from the fur. The hide. Whatever it’s called. Suddenly I wish I knew what it was called.

  No, I say.

  It is all right, says the elk.

  No, I say. No, it’s not all—

  But his legs are already crumpling. We are many, he says as his eyes begin to dim out of the world. We are Elk.

  No, I say. I’m still clutching the knife like a talisman, like something that can keep me safe. Keep us all safe.

  Knock.

  Save the Child, says the elk. Don’t let us all die. Don’t let—

  But he doesn’t say anything else because then his legs buckle and he falls to the ground, foam beginning to fleck the corners of his mouth.

  Shelby? Shelby, what are you doing in there? Shelby, I’m coming in.

  It’s Mom’s voice, breaking into the Dreaming.

  No, I scream. No, not now; but then there is a hand on my shoulder and it’s not a hand in this world and I am—

  Chapter 30

  —Standing in the middle of the room in the judge’s cabin, and Mom is shaking my shoulder.

  I Heard her, I think. I heard her, when I was in the Dreaming. Calling through the door. How is that possible?

  But then I suppose if she was shouting loud enough, I WOULD hear. I mean, I have 10 percent hearing.

  She must have been shouting loud. She must have been worried.

  Mom takes a step back and signs at me. What the hell, Shelby? Are you okay?

  I … My hands are shaking. A physical stammer. I’m … fine.

  Then I realize that the knife is still in my hand. I look down at it, the sharp blade reflecting liquid light.

  Mom looks too.

  It’s not mine, I say. I found it in—

 
; What’s not yours?

  I stare at her. What?

  What are you talking about? she says.

  This, I say. I show her the knife.

  Your hand?

  I shake the knife. This. This knife.

  I don’t see a knife, she says. I just see your hands.

  Shocked, I look down, but yes, the knife is in my hand, the solid antler handle of it, the wicked gleam of the blade.

  Are you kidding? I say.

  She touches my face. I’m really worried about you, Shelby, she says. I think you need to have something to eat. Then you need to rest this afternoon.

  What the hell?

  Am I losing my mind? Am I going crazy? I guess it wouldn’t be surprising, what with everything that has happened. Maybe something has snapped inside me, like an elastic band stretched too far. Or maybe it IS just a dream, and now the dream is lingering somehow in the real world, and that’s how come the knife.

  But … who dreams standing up? Who FALLS ASLEEP standing up?

  I look up and see that Mom has an expression of really major concern on her face. I don’t want to see that.

  I’m all right, I say. Just a daydream, I think.

  She frowns, unconvinced.

  Really. I’m fine. Did you say lunch?

  Yes, she says. Baked potatoes. Tuna.

  Great, I say.

  But nothing feels very great. My mom’s a murderer, I’m apparently going insane, and the big elk is dying, the one who carried me on his back, and I’m stuck here in this place where I can’t help and I can’t even HEAR anything, this half world that I live in with my psycho mother.

  I didn’t even know his name—but then maybe elks don’t have names, they are a herd, they are many, they are Elk—

  Shelby? says Mom. Earth to Shelby? It’s like you’re living in another world.

  Yes, I think. Yes it is.

  Chapter 31

  Mom and I have lunch—baked potatoes with canned tuna—and then she insists that I rest in the living room for the afternoon. She finds a pack of cards and we play a few games, then Scrabble—Mom is good at Scrabble, from all the courtroom touch-typing, and I’m not bad either. But she always beats me.

  Though this time, she lets me win a couple of games. I think it’s because she’s feeling weird about her being a secret murderer, though she doesn’t mention it, which in itself is weird.

  It’s like neither of us knows how to bring it up.

  The moon is gone from the sky now, at least, so when I look out the window the world seems normal and bright, though colder than Phoenix. Wisps of cloud scud across the sun and the air is crystal clear. Some kind of hawk flies past the window.

  Can we go outside? I say when we finish our game of Scrabble.

  She frowns. I wanted you to rest.

  I’ve rested. I’m fine. Honestly. But it looks nice out there.

  Okay, honey. We can take a look at that canyon, she says. It’s no Grand Canyon, but still.

  I smile because she’s making an effort. Yeah, thanks, I say.

  We go through the cabin and out the front door. The sun is low in the sky. We’re so cut off from everything here—deep in the forest, at the end of this little dirt track, the green leaves all around us, the canyon scarring the earth in front of us. It’s like a gingerbread cottage in a fairy tale, lost in the woods. Like no one could ever find us.

  We don’t walk far from the cabin, because of my CAM Walker—just to the edge of the canyon. From here, you can see the river stretching away, turning and twisting, as it cuts through the forest. The red of the rock below shines in the sun; the river is precious metal now, gleaming.

  Look, says Mom. A deer.

  I see it—a flash of antler, of haunch, and it is gone, blinking away into the woods.

  Soon after that a hawk begins to circle lazily overhead. I can almost see the blue of its feathers. The air here seems thin, pure. Like you could see for miles if you climbed one of these trees, like the very atmosphere is cleaner and lighter than anything I have ever known before.

  We sit down on smooth rocks, furred with moss. The forest breathes around us. I see a rabbit, breaking cover and running fast for the undergrowth. I see a squirrel run up a tree.

  It’s like a fairy tale, says Mom.

  What I was thinking, I say.

  Other than that we stay silent. We sit there for like 499 hours, it feels like. But I never get bored—I love watching the river, how it’s never quite the same, the foam breaking, leaves rushing past, caught in its swell, the eddies and currents like someone doodling, endlessly.

  At some point, we go inside and eat a snack. Beans—from a can again. Then we go outside again and sit, without speaking to each other. It’s like we’ve been wounded, and we’re slowly healing without saying anything about it. Getting used to a new idea of what we are.

  I wonder if there are coyotes here, I think as we sit in the gradually darkening forest.

  Then I push the thought down with the other one

  (the Mom being a murderer one)

  and I bury them in the same shallow grave, and I don’t let them out again. There are no coyotes. I mean, there are coyotes. Of course there are coyotes. I’m not mental. But there is no Coyote, no Player of Tricks with capital letters in his name. I shiver: a memory flashes through me, like a glinting fish, of the wolf impaled on the antlers of the elk.

  The elk who is dying, bitten by the—

  Ugh.

  I bury that thought too. My weird dreams should stay in the dark, where they belong. Under the stars.

  Another minnow flashes through my mind: Mark’s skin melting, prickling into fur—

  No.

  I close my eyes, let the sun make red patterns against my eyelids. I must doze off because when I open them again the sun is setting, a burning ball of dark red, like blood through the trees. The clouds above it are on fire, streaked with pink against the pale blue of the sky.

  Beautiful, Mom murmurs.

  Yes, I say.

  After that we go inside. There’s a fireplace, and next to it a great pile of split wood in like an alcove thing. It’s an enormous, open fireplace. Light that, would you, honey? says Mom. I’ll make dinner.

  What about the smoke? I say. What if someone sees?

  We’re ten miles from anything, says Mom. And I’m cold.

  I stare at the grate.

  How do I light it?

  Mom rolls her eyes. What have I been teaching you? she says.

  Your curriculum. Typing.

  She smiles. Okay, well I’m adding fire-building to the curriculum. Honestly, Shelby, she says, the things you don’t know, it’s—

  She stops, stricken, her hands falling to her sides.

  Sorry, she says. I didn’t think how that was going to come out. I mean, I know I lied to you and—

  It’s okay, I say. You were scared, right? That I would judge you for what you did?

  She nods.

  I get it, I say. But I don’t say: I get it and I don’t judge you. I don’t know if that would be true, and I don’t want to say something that’s a lie.

  (He is the First Liar. He is not to be trusted.)

  I just give her a wan smile and she stands there for a long moment looking at me, waiting, and I feel like a bitch to the power of fricking ten, and then she looks away, breaks it first, and I feel so grateful to her.

  We can talk about it later, I say a little desperately.

  Sure, she says. The movements of her hands are flat.

  But she kneels in front of the fireplace. She shows me a little basket with wood shavings in it; sawdust. Tinder, she says. She builds a little pile of it in the middle of the grate, she finds a piece of paper for it to sit on, from a message pad next to the phone, so the dust doesn’t fall down through the bars.

  Kindling, she says, taking some small pieces of wood from the basket. She arranges these cross-wise over the pile of tinder.

  Then logs, right? I say.

  Quic
k study, my daughter, she says. She takes three logs and places them in a kind of teepee over the other stuff.

  What now? I say.

  Now you light the tinder.

  That’s it?

  That’s it.

  Oh, okay, I say. I snag the matches and strike one—it flares bright orange and then settles into a wavering flame. I touch it to the tinder, and soon the whole thing is flickering flame.

  Mom stands there nodding.

  What does it sound like? I say.

  She gives me a sad look. It crackles, she says. And fizzes … and pops … There aren’t any words. It sounds like a fire.

  I nod.

  I’m sorry, she says.

  I shrug.

  Dinner, she says, and goes to the kitchen. I sit by the fire in a low-slung leather armchair. I feel very warm and comfortable. I feel like a lamp that’s switched on; like to someone else looking at me my skin might be alight.

  I want to turn on the TV but I figure Mom might be pissed; I remember her cutting the cable of the computer.

  Then I think of the books on the shelf—the folktales and Native American stuff that I dismissed before. Only now the elks have been talking about Coyote, and I picture the Google results when I typed in “coyote,” the stuff about him being a trickster god in Native American mythology. I get up and hobble over to the books, then glance down the spines. I see one on Apache folktales so I take it down and go sit again, curling up, the book in my lap. The fire glows, expands and contracts, filling the room with throbbing light. It’s beautiful—I can’t quite take my eyes off it, though I try to leaf through the book.

  Words leap out at me.

  Coyote.

  Trickster.

  The moon. The stars.

  Coyote kills the Giant.

  The Man who became a sheep.

  When Coyote stole fire from the Fire God. I scan the page. There was a time when only the Fire God possessed fire, and all others were cold on this earth.

  The Fire God lived in a hogan with high walls. Coyote went to the geese and asked them to help him fly; they made him wings of their feathers, and he was able to join them in the skies.

  Then Coyote flew over the walls of the Fire God’s house. He tied a small branch to his tail, dipped it into the fire to light it. The Fire God saw him and chased him, murder in his eyes, but Coyote used his goose wings and leaped into the air, flying over the wall.