by Mel Odom
"Who is Raven?" Max asked.
"He is the Trickster," River Dog explained. "He was the person that could travel between the earth and the places of the gods. In other tribes of the People, Raven is sometimes known as Coyote. He's always portrayed as a man more than human but less than one of the gods. His agenda is always his own."
Max listened as politely as he could. He tried to concentrate on the sweat beading up on the glass of iced tea in his hands. He wished he could pull the numbing chill into himself so he couldn't feel the anxiety that rattled through him.
"On that day, so the story handed down through our tribe goes," River Dog said, "Raven went forth among men and watched them dying of old age. Raven never aged and he didn't understand how men could die, or why the gods would let them."
Max nodded, not knowing how what River Dog was telling him applied to him. There was also the whole unresolved issue of how he was supposed to help. But he waited.
"Raven thought for a long time," River Dog said, "and he decided that since the sun was necessary for all life, to make the plants grow and to warm the world, then it must also hold the secret to eternal life. So Raven flew from this world to the sun."
That caught Max's attention. Was the story about space flight? "How?"
"Raven, like Coyote, has magic powers that he can use," River Dog said. "He used his magic to fly to the sun. Once there, he scooped up some of the sun's flames in his beak and flew back into the world. However, the suns flames were too hot even for Raven. As he reentered this world, his beak began to burn, and that is how Raven's beak came to be black. Unable to withstand the pain of his burning beak, Raven spat the flames out. The ball of fire crashed into the world where the Mesaliko reservation and the desert are."
Max sipped the tea and waited.
"The Elders say that when Raven spat the ball of fire from the sun," River Dog continued, "that was what created the parched lands of the earth. A few of the Mesaliko people who had gone to meet and aid Raven in his quest to steal the sun's flames died when the flames scarred the earth. Days later, their spirits rose again and went and spoke to the Mesaliko people."
"Why would the spirits rise?" Max asked.
"Because the sun was angry with Raven," River Dog said. "The sun punished Raven by taking away his feathers and making him go naked through the world for a time. Raven was embarrassed and angry, blaming everyone but himself, as Raven always did, so he stayed hidden in the mountains for a long time."
"The Mesaliko tribe moved because they were hunted by the ghosts of the dead warriors?"
River Dog nodded. "Those warriors who perished with Raven returned first, but as the days continued, other ancestors returned as well. In the end, the People had no choice but to go."
Max turned the story over in his mind. Somehow it seemed important that the ghosts of the warriors who supposedly accompanied Raven had come back first, but he couldn't figure out why. "What about the prophecy?" he asked.
"When the Mesaliko returned to this land, first by choice and then because the United States government created the reservations here, the shamans protested, saying that the ghosts would rise again. You see, the gods never forget, and the sun would never forget how men tried to steal the immortality that could only belong to the gods."
"Do you know where the Mesaliko warriors perished?" Max asked.
River Dog waved to include all the hills that lay before his home and the village. "Out there somewhere."
Max stood, and leaned against the roof support poles on the porch. He gazed up into the tall ridges overlooking the small village tucked into the foothills. The blue sky looked innocent, streaked by wisps of clouds. Flurries of dust skated over the harsh, parched earth.
"There has to be a reason these"… Max hesitated… "A reason that the ghosts have returned."
"Perhaps," River Dog said, "it's only to punish the Mesa-liko people for moving back into this area. But the shaman before me believed that since I had helped Nacedo recover from wounds that would have killed a normal man that I had angered the gods. Proud Redbird told me that the prophecy would return because I helped the Visitor live, and that the act was like Raven's attempt to give immortality to the People."
Max turned, shifting so he could look at the shaman. "Is that what you believe?"
"I believe many things," River Dog said. "But I also know there are many things that I know nothing about. Until Nacedo came to me, I thought people from another world were only inventions created by writers of radio shows, comic books, television programs, and old movies my father would sometimes take me to when my grandfather did not know. Perhaps if my father had not done such a thing, I would not have been so helpful toward Nacedo when he came among us."
From the tone in the man's voice, Max knew that River Dog harbored some regrets about the aid he'd given.
"You had a vision with me in it?" Max asked.
"Yes," River Dog answered. "You and your friends." He sipped his tea and looked up into the hills that would shadow the village as the sun began its descent into the west. "Somehow, you and they have a part to play in this."
Part of Max doubted that. Probably River Dog's vision was based on wishful thinking. Still, that wishful thinking wouldn't have existed if the ghosts/spirits/phantoms had not started manifesting.
"I don't want any part of this," Max said.
"But it will want you," River Dog said softly. "Until you arrived this morning, I had watched my ancestor for hours. Bear-Killer flickered in and out of existence, into this world from the next, then back again, without touching me. His voice had been only a whisper, not the shouts that you'd heard."
"I didn't do anything," Max protested.
"You were there. Somehow your presence made the ghosts stronger."
Max lifted his hands and gazed at them. A tremor passed through his fingers and wouldn't stop. He knotted his fists and put them away in his jacket pockets. "It's not me."
"It isn't you alone. There is something more than you that brought these ghosts from their rests in the world beyond ours." River Dog pierced Max with his direct gaze. "But you are part of it."
Max looked away, trying to figure out what to do. "I'm not part of this." Don't make me be part of this. I've already got enough things in my life that are going wrong.
"The ghosts will continue to get stronger," River Dog said. "Back when they returned the last time, the ghosts only appeared to the People and spoke to the families. After a time, however, they became violent. They could ride the wind and bring storms from a clear sky. And the touch of a ghost could bruise and eventually maim and kill. Bear-Killer could never touch me till this morning."
Max remained silent. Somewhere only a short distance away in one of the houses a radio came on, bringing a semblance of normalcy. A woman's voice said something that sounded urgent, and the radio noise disappeared. That sounded more normal and relaxing than anything he'd heard all morning.
"Maybe your people should think about moving," Max suggested.
"To where?" The shaman spread his hands. "This is our home. It has been for hundreds of years. My people can't go anywhere else, and the United States government would have to be dealt with." He fell silent for a moment. "I don't think you would want the government agencies looking closely into this matter any more than I do."
"No," Max agreed. He'd had enough of government agencies, secret and otherwise. None of them had his or his friends' best interests at heart. By not departing on the Granilith, they'd given up any hope of returning to their original birth world. The government agencies would take them away from the world they'd chosen to remain in if their secret was revealed.
Running feet sounded out in the dust-covered dirt road that threaded between the homes. The hound at River Dog's feet raised his gray-streaked muzzle and barked at the two small children who raced around a fifty-year-old Ford pickup parked next to the porch.
"River Dog! River Dog!" the two young boys yelled. "You must come!"
&
nbsp; River Dog put his drink down and stood. "What is wrong?"
"Our grandfather," the oldest boy said. He wore ragged cutoffs and was brown from the sun. Dust covered his bare feet and legs. He pointed back down the narrow alley between houses.
"What about your grandfather?" River Dog asked.
"He has come back," the oldest boy said. He wrapped his arms around the younger boy, who was crying and holding his head. "He's yelling at Mom, saying terrible things to her!"
River Dog turned to Max. "Come on."
The last thing Max wanted to do was go with the shaman, but he felt drawn into the events. If River Dog was right about the occurrences somehow being connected to Isabel, Michael, and him, he needed to know.
River Dog led the way out into the alley, pausing only long enough to take each boy by the hand.
As Max trotted after the shaman and the boys, he heard a woman screaming in terror and pain. Other men and women ran from their houses, joining in the rush to reach the house where the sounds came from.
For a moment Isabel believed that the van bearing down on Jesse and her was filled with government agents. In that moment, she was certain that their secret had somehow spilled out again. Then she spotted the terrified woman behind the steering wheel.
The driver had her mouth open, screaming in terror, but the roar of the racing engine drowned the sound. The woman was looking over shoulder, staring in wild-eyed horror at something in the back.
Even as Isabel finally freed herself from the frozen moment, Jesse gripped her in his arms and got her into motion, pushing her back toward the picnic area. Caught off-guard, Isabel dropped the picnic basket.
Jesse propelled her from the path of the speeding van, but tripped as he shoved her. Isabel saw in an instant that he'd lost his footing and was unable to move to save himself. She turned and caught his jacket in one of her hands, then pulled him backward, acting like she'd tripped as well.
They went sprawling as the van rushed by, then hit the paved area of the rest stop hard enough to drive the breath from Isabel's lungs. Remembering the driver's frightened face, Isabel rolled from Jesse's protective embrace and turned to watch the van.
Evidently the driver came to her senses. The van jerked away from its course toward the stone picnic tables and benches. But the effort came too late and resulted only in causing the vehicle's tires to lose their precarious traction on the pavement. Rubber shrilled as the van's speed and weight tore the vehicle into an uncontrolled skid.
The passenger-side tires slammed into the high curb at the edge of the picnic area. Off-balance and riding high center, the van flipped over on its side. The momentum continued to flip the van another 180 degrees as the vehicle crushed one of the picnic tables and benches. The engine continued racing, revving out of control till it sounded like an explosion was imminent. The horn blared, holding steady and true over the banshee wail of the racing engine.
"Oh my god," Jesse said.
Isabel struggled to her feet. The woman inside the van might be still alive.
"Come on, Jesse!" Isabel cried. "We need to check on her."
"Who?" Jesse asked, not letting go of her.
"The woman driving the car." Then Isabel turned and started for the van.
"You saw a woman?"
"Yes." Isabel had to speak loudly over the screaming engine. The odor of burning oil and gasoline tainted the hot, thin air. "She looked scared. She was screaming."
Familiar electronic beeps caught Isabel's attention as she closed on the rear of the van. She turned at once, watching as Jesse punched in the three numerals on his cell phone.
"What are you doing?" Isabel asked.
"Calling nine-one-one."
Isabel grew more afraid then; 911 meant law enforcement personnel and reports, maybe even reports with Jesses name and her name on them. Her father was an attorney in Roswell; he looked at legal documents all the time. It was a stretch to think her father would see the report on the accident on U.S. 285, but the instant those reports were filed, that possibility existed. And if her father found out they'd been together, what would he do? And what could Max do? Thinking about her brother made Isabel feel even more guilty. Max had been through enough. Knowing she might have found happiness would make his own loss seem even sharper.
She looked around, knowing one couldn't do anything except wait for what was going to happen. All she could do was wait for the inevitable.
7
Taking a deep breath, Isabel nodded to Jesse and tried to calm herself. The odds were astronomical of her father actually seeing the documents generated by the state police or other law enforcement bodies.
Jesse started talking to the 911-dispatch person at the other end of the cell-phone connection, giving the person the location and the details of the wreck.
Staying focused on the van, Isabel started moving forward again, walking along the top of the vehicle rather than the undercarriage. Her imagination filled her mind with the possible bloody carnage that might be waiting.
The van's windshield had shattered with the series of impacts. Small, cube-shaped pieces of safety glass glittered like diamonds in a spray across the paved parking area and the sandy picnic area. The pieces glistened among the shattered remains of the demolished picnic table, too.
Before Isabel reached the front of the van, Jesse caught her by the elbow and stopped her. She turned to face him.
"What are you doing?" Jesse asked.
"Checking on the driver," Isabel replied.
"Don't you smell the gasoline?" Jesse asked, pulling at her and trying to guide her away from the wrecked vehicle. "This van could explode."
"If this were a movie or a TV show, maybe," Isabel responded.
A tender look filled Jesse's face. "I'm serious, Isabel. I want you to back off. I don't want you to get hurt."
"I'm going to check on the driver," Isabel insisted.
"I can do that."
"You're suddenly invulnerable?"
Jesse stared to argue.
"We'll do this," Isabel said. "I've had first-aid courses."
Jesse looked like he wanted to offer a rebuttal to her decision, but before he got the chance, a woman's voice lifted in a terrified wail.
"My baby!" she screamed. "Someone help my baby!"
Isabel spun then, heading for the front of the van. A chill ran through her as she thought about a baby being aboard the wrecked van.
The gasoline smell became stronger. Heat baked into the ground, reminding Isabel that the danger of a fire was real, not something inspired by special effects in a show.
She reached the front of the van, dropped to her hands and knees, and peered inside the vehicle. After being out in the bright sun, adjusting to the darkness inside the van took a moment.
The driver fought against the seat belt restraints, trying desperately to reach into the backseat. She was in her middle or late twenties, with blond hair and pale features. Blood streaked her face, but more fright showed than pain. The air bag stood out from the steering wheel compartment.
Isabel couldn't see how bad the woman's head wound was, and she knew from first-aid classes that those kinds of wounds bled profusely. "Hey," she said as calmly as she could.
The woman still kept reaching into the rear of the van, but she looked at Isabel. "Help me!" she croaked.
"I will," Isabel said, then moved aside so Jesse could join her. "We will."
"My baby!" the woman said.
"We'll get your baby," Isabel promised. She peered into the back of the van.
Two more rows of seats were behind the captains' chairs. Boxes and bags from the cargo area littered the inside of the van. As she looked at all the destruction in the van, Isabel wondered how a small child could have survived the wreck. Don't think like that, she told herself. Everything is going to be fine. She's still alive. The child has got to be alive too. Just the same, Isabel wished Max were there.
Jesse reached into the van and pulled on the seat restraints
holding the woman locked into position behind the collapsed steering wheel. "It's no use. The locking mechanism is jammed." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small Swiss Army knife. "I'm going to have to cut her loose."
"Not me!" the woman yelled. Tears filled her eyes. "Please! Check on my baby! They told me she was gone! They told me she was gone, but there she is!" She pointed. "I can see her! Please! She needs help!"
"I'll get her baby." Isabel slithered into the van.
"Don't," Jesse said, grabbing Isabel by the shoulder.
"I've got to," Isabel said. She stared into his eyes. "We need to get the mother out, Jesse. We're miles from Roswell. It'll be a long time before help arrives."
Indecision showed in Jesse's eyes.
"I'm not giving you a choice," Isabel said.
"Let me get the baby."
"You won't fit." Before Jesse could say another word, Isabel pulled herself into the van. With the vehicle overturned and lying on the driver's side, navigating through the interior was difficult.
"Isabel," Jesse called.
His body blocked most of the light coming through the shattered windshield. If the van had been a passenger model instead of designed for cargo transport there would have been windows all the way around. There would have been more light, and Isabel would have been able to peer in through the windows.
"The gasoline smell is getting stronger," Jesse warned.
Isabel knew that was true. She could smell the change herself. The van was quickly turning into a bomb, and the racing engine might be enough to detonate those destructive forces.
Placing her hand on the van's metal body, knowing Jesse couldn't see what she was doing from his position behind her, Isabel unleashed her power. Part of her alien heritage, part of all of their heritages, was the ability to affect electronic things. The van had electronic parts that controlled the engine and ignition.
Whatever special part of her brain or her senses that controlled her alien powers reached out for the pulse of
the van. She felt the electrical force, then created a surge of energy that raced throughout the van.