by Sharon Sala
Farley was struggling to maintain his composure. “How did this happen? Why didn’t we know she had surface to air weaponry.”
Harper shoved a shaky hand through his hair. “I just got off the phone with the base. They have the pilot’s radio transmissions recorded so there’s no misunderstanding. She took them down with a bow and arrows; picked the men off one at a time as they were coming down on ropes. They fired back at her, trying to distract her enough to land the men, but the bullets ricocheted off some crazy wind blowing underneath the chopper, bounced back up into the belly, and took out a couple of their own men out as well. She finished off the rest.”
Farley couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He kept remembering that video of her being attacked, and the wind that had killed all the men before whisking her away.
“That’s not possible?”
He didn’t realize he’d asked a question instead of stating a fact, but Harper heard it.
“Yes, well, it happened. And she’s gone. The rescue chopper did a quick recon of the area, ascertained no survivors, and no one at the camp. The military satellites are down. Base said it has to do with the passing meteor and as soon as it is out of earth’s atmosphere, they’ll be back up, but in the meantime we don’t know where she is.”
Farley dropped. “I’ll call you back,” he muttered, and hung up.
When he tried to put in a call to the Cheyenne Tribal headquarters, no one answered. He tried calling a couple of his cousins, but no one answered at their homes, either. Then he called the nursing home where his great-uncle was living, and to his relief, someone answered.
“May I speak to your manager, please?”
“One moment sir.”
He’d been put on hold. It had been a while since that had happened to him, but it was his own fault for not identifying himself.
“This is Steve. How can I help you?”
“Good morning, Steve. This is President James Farley.”
The man laughed. “Yeah right. Who is this really?”
Farley frowned. He should have had Amelia do this.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t go through the usual channels, but this is James Farley. I have a great-uncle residing in your home, and I’d like to speak with him.”
The manager sucked air like he couldn’t get enough down to breathe, and finally found his voice.
“Mr. President, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You just took me by surprise. Yes, we knew Maxwell Little Horse was a relative of yours.”
Once again, Farley felt his world spinning farther out of control.
“Was? Are you telling me that he passed and I knew nothing about it?”
“No sir, not at all. I didn’t mean to frighten you. It’s just that I would have assumed you already knew about the exodus.”
Farley’s head was beginning to pound. “What exodus?”
“The one to the Navajo reservation in Arizona, Sir.”
“And what’s happening there?”
“I’m not sure what they are doing, but I know why they went. It has to do with some sign they’ve been waiting for. Once that meteor showed up, they began some kind of pilgrimage to the reservation.”
He remembered catching something about a big powwow on the news, but assumed it had to do with Layla Birdsong’s brush with the spirit world. He didn’t know the People had begun some kind of exodus. This was bad. He cleared his throat and spoke again.
“When you say, they, are you referring to the Cheyenne?”
“Oh no, sir. All kinds of Indians… I mean, Native Americans from all over the place. They’re clogging up the highways and interstates with all their vehicles.”
“I see, well, thank you for the information, and you have a nice day,” Farley said.
“Yes sir. You, too, sir. And may I say it was an honor—”
Farley hung up. He was officially scared shitless and didn’t feel honorable at all.
***
Someone from the Naval Observatory leaked the latest news about the impending doom. Farley’s press secretary was frantically fending off the media and the White House press, while the president was on the way to the DOD.
The news went worldwide, and people began trying to leave the cities, as if hiding in the country side would protect them from what was to come. It didn’t take long for the media to link impending doom to the Native American exodus and Layla Birdsong.
People close to the Native American community were telling all they knew about a Windwalker appearance, and that it often signified world catastrophe. They were claiming the rescue of the Birdsong woman was proof, and that she’d been rescued because she was the key to their salvation.
Cities all over the world were in chaos. People began gathering in numbers, building bonfires two stories high and painting their faces in blood, as if they could conjure up the same Windwalker from the video for themselves. And through it all, the fireball got closer as earth’s lifespan grew shorter.
***
Hours has passed since Layla left the Anasazi ruins. The day was exceptionally hot, but the wind blowing on her body kept her cool. She rode past the Navajo ranches with their flocks of sheep, but saw no people. Their cars were gone, the animals scattered. She passed the occasional Hogan, but there were no cooking fires burning—just a goat or two grazing, and a dog now and then, lying silently at the doorway.
She stopped by one of the shallow rivers running through a canyon to refill her canteen. As she knelt by the bank and leaned down to let the clear water flow in, she was struck by the silence. She rocked back on her heels and looked up. There were no birds, no animal sounds, not even the wind had bothered to come here. Earth was already dying. The quiet made her uneasy and sent her running back to the bike.
It wasn’t long before sundown, and even though the urgency to get back to her grandfather was uppermost, she could not do it in the dark. She started the engine and rode away with the wind in her hair and the light of the dying sun in her eyes. She knew where she was, and where she intended to spend the night—back in their cave in the Canyon del Muerto.
With only minutes of light left to spare, she rode up to the cave, quickly dismounted and pushed the motorcycle inside as Niyol had done before. The ashes had blown away, leaving nothing to mark their passing but the dark marks from their fires on the floor. The pile of wood they had not burned had been scattered by animals, and she set to gathering it back up.
After she started a fire against the chill of the night, she stripped and walked out to the small pool at the mouth of the cave. There was sand in her hair and eyes, and in her clothes. She had no soap left, but she could remove the grit from her skin. As soon as she refilled her canteen, she got a dropped to her knees by the pool and began to wash.
The scar on the back of her arm was no longer tender, nor was the one on her belly, or the one on her cheek. Her body was hard and thin and burned even darker than before. She’d lost the last tie for her hair and it was loose down her back and windblown. She pulled it all to one side then over her shoulder as she leaned down to wash her face. Little by little, she began removing the grime from her body, wishing it would be that easy to wash away the pain in her heart.
When she had finished, she walked back to the fire and sat naked on her bedroll, eating jerky from her pack as she added wood to the fire when the need arose. Once she was warm and dry, she shook out her clothes and dressed again, then took a rifle from the bike, made sure it was loaded, and walked out to the front of the cave, searching the moon-bathed gorge for signs of danger. All was quiet.
The fireball had come a very long ways in a very short time. It was larger now than the moon. She wondered how long they had left, and how many were waiting for her arrival back at home.
There was anger in her voice when she suddenly raised the rifle over her head and shouted out at the night.
“Niyol! Windwalker! You told me I would lead them, but you never told me where to go.”
The silence was like a weight on her heart as she went back into the cave. She added more wood to the fire, then rolled up in her bedroll and closed her eyes.
Within seconds, there was a voice.
The Anasazi wait. Follow their drums.
Niyol, my heart is broken.
I said that you would love me.
As always, Windwalker, you spoke the truth.
She reached out from beneath her blankets, searching for the rifle until her fingers curled around the barrel. It was all the comfort she had left.
***
Binini Island—West Indies
Landan Prince had a telescope set to watch the fireball’s approach, but eventually quit looking. He wouldn’t accept the prognosis of going out in blaze of glory, and was busy trying to figure out how to escape. After all the years he’d spent accumulating artifacts from other civilizations, he was convinced there had to be an answer somewhere. Madame ReeRee was useless. The spirits she’d tried to conjure were suspiciously absent, which made him wonder if they’d ever been there.
He’d skipped lunch and was digging through some papers when he accidentally knocked the paperweight off the desk. He bent down to pick it up and then realized what he was holding and looked at it anew.
He’d spent thirteen months of wasted expeditions and two and a half million dollars before he’d found the yellow crystal in the cornerstone of an Egyptian pyramid. Technically it belonged to the country of Egypt, but like everything else he’d acquired, he considered possession as nine tenths of the law.
Yes, it was beautiful and he’d found a treasure some historians didn’t even believe existed, but the downside of his acquisition was that he’d never learned how to make it work. Pity, considering it was purported to be a portal to other dimensions. If ever he needed a way out of this one, now was the time.
He took it out into the sunlight as he had so many times before, convinced that the key to its power was hiding somewhere within. At that point he heard chatter and looked up.
The nursemaid had the twins out on the upstairs balcony and, as usual, they were talking between themselves without making a bit of sense.
They saw him and waved. He waved back and smiled, thinking to himself that they were the lucky ones. They had no concept of the world, or that it was about to come to an end.
But he was wrong. Adam and Evan Prince knew exactly what was happening. They also knew a way out of this world, if they could find a way to make that portal key work. Only this was not the time for experimentation.
Chapter Ten
Get up Singing Bird. He is a friend.
Layla opened her eyes to see an old man wrapped up in a blanket, sitting cross-legged on the floor near the front of the cave with a basket by his knee.
Her first thought was he was another Anasazi spirit who’d stood watch for them in the ruins, and then he spoke and she realized he was real.
“I bring food for Singing Bird,” he said softly.
Layla threw back the covers from her bedroll.
The old man stood, but when Layla walked toward him, he backed up.
It was a shock, knowing he was afraid of her. Moving slowly, she picked up the basket and uncovered the food.
“This looks good. Thank you.”
“It was my honor,” he said.
“How did you know I was here?” she asked, as she pushed aside the red cloth in the basket and tore off a piece of the roasted meat; eating hungrily.
“They told me where to come,” he said.
“They who?”
“The Old Ones. In my sleep. Eat well, Singing Bird. You must be strong for what is to come.”
His words were tinged with sorrow.
“Are you coming on the journey?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No. I am done in this life. I will walk another one soon.”
While she was eating, he slipped away.
She ate quickly, packing what was left on her bike, then on impulse, twisted the red cloth into a band and tied it around her head to keep the sweat from her eyes. It was barely daybreak, and already the air felt too hot to breathe.
She glanced up, her eyes widening. The fireball was visibly larger than when she’d gone to bed last night.
Firewalker comes. Make haste.
The knot in her belly tightened as she pushed the bike out of the cave and mounted it. The engine rumbled to life and then she was gone.
***
George Begay was ready and waiting.
His granddaughter would come home today. He’d seen her in his dreams, riding back into their midst. But the Layla who’d ridden away with the Windwalker was gone. The woman coming back was another. Singing Bird, they would call her. It didn’t matter. He just needed to see her face.
He walked out of his house into the heat carrying the bag he had packed. It wasn’t yet sunrise and already too hot for comfort.
The drums had been beating for so long now that he’d forgotten what silence felt like and the beat was so strong he felt the vibration in his body day and night.
More people had come while he slept. Their number was so large now he could no longer see where they ended. He glanced toward the council fire then looked up, judging the height of the smoke—wondering if she would be able to see it—if she would hear their drums calling her home.
The People were anxious and ready to leave. They felt the heat. They knew the signs. They, too, were waiting for Singing Bird.
George crawled up into the back of Leland Benally’s pickup truck, then up onto the top of the cab. She would come from the north. He would sit watch.
***
The wind no longer cooled the skin on Layla’s body and the rumble of the engine was loud inside her head. The air was hot, so hot it was almost painful to breathe. No one had given her a timetable, but the urgency was obvious. She finally rode up out of the canyon back onto an actual roadway, and even though it was not paved, she accelerated.
The rumble became a roar—the scenery a blur.
Somewhere along the way she began hearing drums over the sound of the engine, but not the ones inside her head. The farther she rode, the louder they became.
She recognized the sounds.
It was the Dineh- calling her to them—guiding her home.
***
George had been sitting on Leland’s truck so long that the metal was hot against his skin—his eyes were dry and burning from the heat and the wind. It was only ten a.m. and already the thermometer on the front of the little grocery store registered 115 degrees.
“George, come down. The sun is too hot,” Leland said, and handed him water to drink.
George took the water and downed it gratefully but wouldn’t give up his perch. There were so many people here now that he was afraid she’d never find him in their midst. He took a deep breath and then closed his eyes, but there was too much noise to concentrate and it was too hot.
Frustrated, he stood up on the top of the truck cab and then reeled from the sight before him. He had not realized how many were actually here. How would they ever get them moved to safety in time? He didn’t know where Layla would take them, but the desert was a harsh place to live. They could only go so far before the vehicles would have to be abandoned. Some people were too old. They would die along the way, and yet they would die anyway if they did not try. It was a nightmare to consider.
His gaze shifted a little to the north east as he focused on a trailing cloud of dust. Maybe more people coming. His frown deepened, and then in his head he heard her.
Grandfather. Stop the drums.
George yelled. “Stop the drums! Stop the drums!” and began waving toward the crowd of drummers sitting hundreds deep around the fire.
; Word spread quickly, and when the drums suddenly silenced, the singers also stopped.
The sudden negative of noise was abrupt and unexpected.
Everyone stopped—looking first to the sky, then to the tall, gray-haired man standing atop the cab of an old pickup truck. When he threw his arms up into the air and then pointed north, all eyes turned to look.
At first all they saw was the dust trail and then they heard the faint but unmistakable sound of a motorcycle with the engine running at full throttle. There was a collective gasp, and then the people began to move of their own accord, parting a near-perfect path from the truck on which George was standing, to the dust trail hanging in mid-air.
She came over a rise with her dark hair flying, a blur of might and metal, running with the power of eighty horses between her legs. When the drums stopped, she knew her grandfather had heard her. A wind rose up at her back, pushing her forward even faster.
Do not tarry. Others are coming who do not belong. You will have to stop them. They cannot pass through the gate.
How long do I have?
Twelve hours to disappear.
Her path was set. Then she came over the last rise before home and gasped at the sight before her.
Thousands, there had to be thousands.
If it had wheels, they’d driven it here.
Windwalker! This is not possible.
Then they die and so do you.
All of a sudden she saw the crowd begin to move in an unspoken, coordinated shift that created a path for her all the way to the little town beyond. It gave her hope. If they could do that so quickly to allow her access, then maybe they would follow her without question, as well.
All eyes were on her as she reached the farthest edge. No one moved. No one waved. But when she passed in a cloud of dust, they stared.
The silence was unnerving. Except for the roar of the engine, there was nothing. About halfway through the crowd, she saw a man standing high atop a truck, and he was holding up one arm, as if hailing her return.
Grandfather!
She sped past them, riding full throttle to the council fire burning hot in an already scorching land. By the time she reached the truck, he was coming toward her with tears on his face.