Spiritride

by Mark Shepherd

  At any rate, they didn't have much time to decide. And as the first humans for the mages to have a clear impression of, they would have to do.

  The transformation required a great deal of power, more than the two mages were capable of producing at that moment, so the other elves and Mort contributed to raising the magic. It seemed to take a dreadfully long time to the demon, but soon they tapped wild energy feeds lurking in the area, in the desert, in the mountains beyond. They were brief fountains of nodal energy which ran dry as soon as they were accessed, but it was enough, just enough, to accomplish their task.

  The 'steeds took well to being motorbikes, images of the ones they saw around them; Mort knew they would have to make changes in their final appearance later, lest they be misidentified by one of these goons as their own bike. Mort grinned wryly at the prospect of one of these humans mounting one of their elvensteeds, and trying to kick start it. Japhet's 'steed became a later model Fat Boy Harley, with chrome wheels and a sidecar. The other 'steeds became other patched-together jobs; a Yamaha with a variety of different parts, a Harley, another Harley.

  The nameless substance that mimicked steel in the motorcycles was inert and harmless to Elves; on command, the new bikes even flashed headlights, and sounded like motorbikes. On closer inspection, however, Mort discovered that each had the same sound; the roar of the bike that first approached them. It was the one and only sound of a motorcycle the mages had ever heard. The issue would have to be addressed later. A rice burner sounding like a hog would not go unnoticed and unquestioned in this world.

  The transformation of 'steed to bike required the most power, and by the time they got around to their own appearance their pool was nearly depleted. The glamories Nargach implemented did little more than smooth out the rough edges; the elves looked less elvish, their ears became rounded, a little more human looking. Their attire was the easiest to change, as the former livery and court dress became the raw material for the ragged jeans, leather and denim jackets, the black boots. Mort didn't bother to mention helmets, since not a one was in sight. This crowd didn't seem to find them necessary.

  Most of the bikers had wandered off, some still screaming, some looking, apparently, for the bar. No newcomers had arrived on the scene, but Mort knew that wouldn't be the case for long.

  "We should go now," Japhet said, pointing away from the city lights, to the expanse of moonlit desert. "Out there, somewhere. Away from the city."

  Mort hopped into the sidecar. As a unit, they eased onto the road and took off as a pack, five different bikes having the same, ringing roar.

  Chapter Six

  Wolf came awake with a start, reaching for the Beretta that wasn't there.

  There are Iraqis out there in the desert, and they're coming, he thought as he struggled to get up. But something else was wrong: this was not a sleeping bag, and he was inside somewhere, away from the desert sun. He didn't taste or feel sand grit anywhere. Still looking for his gun, he rolled over on his side, but nothing was there to hold him up. His fall to the floor was brief but painful, and sent a shooting pain through his still-healing ankle. His panic ebbed and he focused on his surroundings.

  Dangling from the ceiling was a Chaniwa dream catcher, a five-pointed pentagram in its center, woven of wool and sinew, rocking gently in the breeze that wheezed through the trailer's postage stamp windows. He groaned, realizing he was thousands of miles and six months removed from Desert Storm. Wolf gazed at the dream catcher, remembering the dream, the Iraqi Guard.

  Thought you were supposed to bring good dreams! he thought, now aware of a pain in his back. As he lay on the floor of Grampa's tiny trailer, he knew this was the only spot on the floor long enough for him to stretch out. The trailer wasn't a mobile home, it was a temporary, weekend shelter for hunters, campers and fishermen, and was never meant to be a permanent residence for anyone.

  From the trailer's only other room, Wolf heard his grandfather, Fast Horse, cackling softly to himself. No doubt the old Indian had heard Wolf's noisy waking, again. He had heard the dry laugh nearly every morning since his return from the war, a response to some amusing way Wolf had decided to greet the day. Fast Horse had wisely moved the double barreled shotgun from its place on the wall to his bedroom, lest Wolf's vivid dreams prompt him to take up arms. Somewhere in there was also a Ruger Security Six, though he was uncertain where; which was probably a good thing, given the nature of his dreams.

  As he stood to his full height his head knocked the edge of the dreamcatcher. Then he remembered her. He took two steps to the kitchen, which was a sink, two propane burners and a counter, and smiled.

  The dreamcatcher worked after all. The dream opened up in his mind like a flower, and within the petals he saw the girl who had been haunting his sleep. It was as if setting foot in New Mexico had bespelled Wolf with this vision, a consistently beautiful and unexplainable vision, of the most beautiful female he had ever seen or imagined.

  He spooned three scoops of coffee into the open maw of the paper filter, yawned, and added another scoop. The drip coffee maker, fondly referred to as the "Mr. Wake the Hell Up," was amber with use, the color of whiskey. He filled the glass pot with tepid water. The pleated, environmentally incorrect bleached filter looked like an open moonflower, reminding him of the girl.

  Even though she stirred him up and made his stomach flutter, she was not human. She was chi-en, of the Chaniwa mythos, human in all aspects except for her long pointed ears and slitted cat's eyes. Her alien appearance made her all the more inviting, with long blond hair and blue eyes that could bore holes in steel. The chi-en were said to be the distant relatives of the Chaniwa tribe, but this was all fable, bedtime stories which Grampa kept alive.

  Once the coffee was started, Wolf turned to a pack of Marlboros on the floor next to the door. It was a morning ritual, fall out of bed, hide from Iraqis, make coffee, sit on the front step with the oval door propped open with a cinder block and have his first cigarette. After putting on a well ventilated pair of cutoff jeans he sat on the step and looked out over their tract of desert, the dusty dirt road winding toward Highway 60, about a quarter mile away. A match flared to life. In the distance were the Manzano mountains, and beyond them the Sandia mountains, which shadowed Albuquerque. This was not quite the desert Iraq was, as there were things growing on the hills, and rain occasionally fell here. In Iraq there were dunes, rolling, shifting, turning layers of hot dry sand, no rocks, no brush, no trees. Here you had scrub, pinyon, and one-seed juniper, clumps of small green Christmas trees. The juniper dotted the land thoroughly and consistently with splotches of green. It was a dry, mostly dormant land clinging to life, awaiting the brief but often torrential downpour of the winter rains.

  A single strand of electrical wire traveled the horizon on leaning power poles, detouring to an ancient meter affixed to the trailer's far side. Out here there were no neighbors, not even other buildings, just wind and sand and lots of sun. Just the trailer, a flimsy shack for storage, and the fragile umbilical cord that gave them power. The equally ancient water tap on the line that ran to Mountainaire, several miles down the road, was a blessing.

  Water and electricity. The staff of life. No telephone, no cable, no hassle.

  The coffee pot blurted loudly one last time, announcing the end of the brew cycle. He drew on his cigarette and regarded the isolated landscape, realizing when he glanced at his watch that he had been here six months, to the day.

  I'm getting restless, Wolf thought, remembering the first few weeks here with Grampa. It was as if his life had come to a screeching halt after the war; once the army discharged him, with honors, he didn't really know what to do. His parents had died when he was young, and he was independent and unrestrained at an early age. He had known he had a grandfather somewhere in New Mexico, but he hadn't known where, or if he was even still alive. Running with the biker gang in Texas had taken up most of three years, starting when he was fourteen and ending when he was busted for marijuana. But
the judge knew who he was, who he was running with, and what he would become if drastic measures weren't taken. Those drastic measures turned out to be enlistment in the Army, at a time when Kuwait was furthest from President Bush's mind.

  During boot camp he watched with growing alarm as Iraq brazenly invaded its tiny but oil-rich neighbor, claiming it for its own. He knew, then, that the Army would be more than a job, that he might even see battle. Certain commanding officers came to talk to him shortly after boot camp, officers involved with the Rangers. Was he interested?

  He was, and within a week he was on his way to his new assignment, a special kind of boot camp in a place that had no name. In two months he was on a plane, bound for Italy, where he would be based. His commanding officer had made no secret of the fact that they were all hand picked, and groomed specifically for missions in and around Baghdad. At their last stop in Turkey, they boarded Blackhawk helicopters and took off, destined to be dropped in Iraq by parachute, in squads of five. Wolf had done three such drops before the one in which his psychic powers came rampaging to the surface. The experience still had him spooked, even though he had been unable to invoke the powers a second time. On the following mission, while they were drifting on chutes, a squad of Iraqi snipers opened fire on them. To avoid being hit he dropped in faster than was safe, and broke an ankle when he landed. The mission was a washout, but when they evacuated he had a distinct feeling this was the last time he would see Iraq.

  From a hospital bed in Germany, Wolf watched the UN forces invade Iraq and Kuwait. This was the real battle, the one that mattered, the one that everyone knew about. In two days, it was over. Saddam Hussein was still in power, but that didn't matter much; Wolf was tired of playing soldier boy, and he was going home.

  He had located his Grandfather's address in some old papers that had belonged to his mother. During boot camp Wolf had sent a letter to Grandfather, and even though he had never written back the old man was waiting for him at the airport. In the following weeks Wolf spilled out the story of his experiences, including the incident of the healing power. Fast Horse nodded in understanding. He knew about battle, having served in the Pacific during the Second World War. As Wolf told his tale, he realized why he had wanted to come here to live with his grandfather. He had to know what these powers were, if they were real or some sort of hallucination.

  Grampa understood because he was a shaman, the last Chaniwa medicine man, and he knew how to reach the spirits. For the first time in his life Wolf took the powers seriously. Fast Horse assured him that the powers were real, and a vital part of him. The power ran in their family, and existed in his grandfather, and in his grandfather's father and grandfather before that. But his were undeveloped, Fast Horse admonished. Wolf was the only Chaniwa with the gift who had undergone no training whatsoever.

  So Wolf agreed to stay with him, and learn the ways of the shaman and of the Chaniwa. Wolf plunged headlong into the training, into the fasting, the hours of meditation, the songs, the dances. Fast Horse made him build his own sweat lodge, which he had done by digging a pit and covering it with a dome of branches and canvas scraps.

  Then after a physical exam at the Veteran's Hospital in Albuquerque, Wolf learned he had brought back a little gift from the Gulf.

  Some soldiers who had fought in Desert Storm—including a large number who had, like himself, fought behind enemy lines beforehand—were coming down with an unknown illness, tentatively dubbed the Gulf War Sickness. Wolf reported a numbness in his hands when waking, which had only gotten worse as the days went by. It was a progressive and sometimes fatal illness, something the doctors knew nothing about, except that it affected the central nervous system. Army Intelligence had speculated that it was a nerve agent released by the Iraqi army, as it was also well known they had used bacterial and chemical weapons during the war. But what precisely had been released, and where, and who it had affected, was still "under investigation." Wolf knew enough to read between the lines. Likely, they would never know what this was.

  The news landed on him like a ton of bricks. To survive the Gulf, and be nailed by this . . . something you cannot even see. For a time the condition improved, and now he hardly ever felt any numbness when he woke. The doctor had suggested he try an unproven treatment, a course in coenzyme Q10. Either this or the healing herbs Grandfather had given him was having some effect, or the disease had gone into remission on its own. The doctors at the VA didn't know what to tell him, except that he might have a milder form of the disease. Only time would let them know one way or another. Keep using the Q10, they'd said.

  That was some weeks ago, and his training had gone on as before. Only now he didn't feel the same urgency he did when he began, and he often found himself questioning the importance of his shamanistic learning. If Fast Horse noticed, he didn't say.

  Before they turned in the night before, Grandfather had dropped some strong hints that today's training would be important. Wolf suspected he was only responding to his apparent ambivalence toward the Chaniwa way of life. If so, he was right, he was questioning the whole thing. Especially in view of the fact that his life might be cut short in the next few years by a disease that didn't even have a name.

  He poured his first cup, and a second for Grampa, who had emerged from his tiny bedroom. He was a thin, old man, but far from frail, wearing a thin konsainta, a garment resembling a nightshirt. He had about ten or twelve of them, one of them a ritual robe that was over a hundred years old. This was also part of the ritual; Grampa didn't get up until his cup was poured. Coffee was the only white man vice he permitted himself.

  "Po-kwa-te," Grampa said in Chaniwa. It was not a "good morning" but a generic greeting used on waking, whenever that happened to be. "Sleep well?" Grampa added with a smirk.

  "Could have been better," Wolf replied, pushing the bed up, making it a couch again. "Same dreams, same girl."

  "Mmmm," Grampa said, taking a sip of the brew. The old man preferred it stronger than this, but they were running low on coffee. They took chairs at what passed for a small kitchen table, their place to drink coffee, talk, and wake up.

  Fast Horse was probably around seventy-five years old, but no one really knew for sure. He had the hard brown, leathery skin of someone who lived in the sun; Wolf had become considerably darker himself, having sat in the sun for hours in meditation, several times during the week. Horse knew the Chaniwa language fluently, and was teaching it piecemeal as the studies progressed. The old man had long, white hair, double braided down both sides, and when he smiled his whole face contorted in a riot of creases and wrinkles, each one a tiny smile.

  "Morning energies," Horse said, and Wolf was surprised he had them already. Perhaps he had been lying awake for some time already. "Your ailment. Let me see."

  Wolf presented his hands, palms up, on the kitchen table. "They're fine this morning," he said. "No numbness."

  Horse wasn't paying any attention to what he was saying. His eyes were closed as he took his wrists in his old, callused fingers. This was a part of the training that hadn't yet been covered, the healing with the use of earth energies. Wolf had often wondered if this, instead of the herbs, was responsible for his recovery. Relaxing his hands into his grandfather's, he thought of them as being apart from himself, giving them over completely, surrendering his ownership of his hands to the medicine man.

  He felt a sudden heat, as if he'd stuck them over a stove, and when Grampa turned them loose the backs itched.

  "Well?" Wolf asked, scratching them.

  "You play with yourself too much," the old man said. "You need to find you a woman. Get married."

  Wolf blushed, but knew better than to argue. "Tell me about it!" he said, flicking his ash angrily into a mangled pop can. "I dream of the perfect one every night, but she's only a dream."

  "Why only a dream?"

  "She's chi-en. I'll never meet her." He looked away, knowing his grandfather was scrutinizing him.

  "Why never? The chi-en wer
e our ancestors."

  "Yeah, right," Wolf said. "We're descended from elves."

  Fast Horse laughed loudly and heartily, his usual response whenever Wolf distrusted the legends. "So much you don't know, Wolf."

  He drank his coffee in response. "What are we going to do today?" he asked, feeling the urge to get up and do something. The caffeine was doing its job nicely this morning. "I'm thinking about taking the Harley into town. We're low on coffee."

  "You can take the truck," Grampa said, but Wolf knew he was baiting him. He knew how he felt about the bike, how he sought every opportunity to ride it, in spite of their lack of funds to buy gasoline. Wolf received a small sum from the VA but it wasn't much. They usually waited until they had a long list of things to purchase, making the bike impractical. If he went now, while the list consisted only of a can of coffee, he had a chance of getting out of there on two wheels.

  "Are you ever going to get that old Indian motorcycle working?" Wolf asked, knowing that parts for the thing were probably next to impossible to find. It was a classic '46 Chief, but had fallen into disrepair. The rubber on the tires was old and cracked, and something was wrong with the electrical system. When Wolf drained the gas he found a lot of water in it, a bad sign for the bike. Under the dust, the old red Indian was beautiful.