by Multiple
It was on my fourth night there I heard a commotion and looked out the front door. His wife and Daisy were already there. “He’s back,” Daisy said quietly.
“Who is it?” I asked her.
“Bad man from Colville.”
With no warming there was a crack of thunder. I could see Uncle Feeney’s back. He was holding a pitchfork I had seen him use earlier in the day. He was softly singing a song I couldn’t quite hear with the door closed. I put my hand on the knob and his wife pushed me away. Uncle Feeney brought down the pitchfork with such force it was buried into the ground, and lightning lit up everything so brightly I went temporarily blind.
Over the next few hours, I watched him cut up the body of the man and feed the parts to the hogs. I threw up when he started to hack the body apart. I went to bed with a much better understanding as to why so many people would only whisper his name. I never did find out the name of the Twatee from Colville.
After a few days I found everything was disgusting. Uncle Feeney had no electricity and we had to use an outhouse, since there was no running water. The hogs were disgusting and everything smelled like pig shit. After watching what was also included in their diet I went vegetarian. Aries was right—my worst fear was being covered in hog turds. I found out things I didn’t care about, like the fact they had no regular sweat glands but got rid of heat through their awful hairy snouts. They liked to wallow in mud because it cooled them off and protected their skin against the sun and insect bites. They stuck their faces in the watering trough to wash off the mud they were constantly in. I hated them. I had learned to hate the taste of pork served with every meal even before I watched Uncle Feeney use his pitchfork. I hated being told if I kept them fed on a regular basis the bastards wouldn’t try to eat me.
“I hate you!” I yelled at one of them, when it tipped over the slop bucket and covered my Nikes in something gross.
“Like you’re such a prize,” it said in English with a heavy Native accent.
“So what the hell are you, Charlotte?” I kicked the bucket with the tip of my ruined shoe. “And for god’s sake—speak to me in English or Indian, but skip what sounds condescending to me. Besides, a pig isn’t even Native. You’re just another European import.”
“Charlotte my ass,” it replied, taking on an upper class British accent. “I prefer to be called Wild Flower.” It narrowed its eyes. “Emphasis on the Wild. And it’s just prejudice on your part to think people indigenous from North America are somehow superior. There’s a long time European tradition of swine representing the Underworld when it comes to spirituality. The Swineherd was a sacred role. We represent Death. The only domesticated animal as dangerous as we are would be the bull, and a bull won’t eat you.
“I’m from good Tamworth stock. There’s a Jesuit Priest who was initiated into the Winter Spirit Dancing, and his spirit animal is a poodle.”
I had actually heard of the priest. He was almost a legend. Everyone under the age of ten would laugh out loud when told what his spirit animal was. “Why aren’t the other pigs talking?”
“An interesting first question. Most humans are in shock I can talk. My brethren aren’t interested in you enough to say anything. Be more entertaining and they might. Let me tell you, you’re considered a major buzz kill, and all of us would prefer to be fed by Daisy. You treat us as if we’re just turds.”
“A talking pig isn’t that big a deal. I have two spirit animals and they talk to me. They speak to me in our language—not English.”
“Oh, like that’s an accomplishment,” it snorted. Excuse me—Wild Flower snorted—”English is a much harder language to master than yours. You don’t even have a pluperfect form.”
“I know that’s from Latin. So you’re telling me you speak Pig Latin?”
“Right-bay oy-bay,” Wild rooted in the trough.
“Is there a point to this? Are you going to tell me a legend, or send me on a Pig Quest?”
“We took a vote. The fact is we all hate you and the only way we can figure out how to get rid of you other than killing you is to have you finish your time here so you can leave. Then Daisy takes over again. We’re happy, Daisy is happy, and you’re happy to be gone. It’s a win/win.”
“Fine. What do I need to do?”
“Start with getting a better attitude. Feeney’s wife keeps some cheese in the fridge—bring me some. It’s a pale yellow.”
“My Pig Quest is for cheese?”
“It doesn’t matter what the Quest is about. It’s about the Journey. But no—I want the cheese because I happen to enjoy it. Do something nice for someone for a change. When is the last time that happened, you selfish bastard? Bring me the cheese and then I’ll explain more.”
I stared at Wild Flower. I started to sing my Eagle Song under my breath. “Won’t work,” he said his mouth full of disgusting slop. “Feeney has the whole farm warded, where your spirit songs are useless.” He chewed a few more times and swallowed loudly. “We get attacked at least once a week. He has to keep the wards renewed all the time.” Wild looked up at me and said, “Tick tock—the faster the cheese gets here, the faster you go home.”
I spun on my heel and stalked back to the farm house, my ruined Nikes squishing with every step. I tried singing my Eagle Song and for the first time it was just a song. It was as if the battery had been taken out of my Ipod, and the buttons had stopped working. I never felt so alone in my life. I tried the Deer song and got the same result.
I slipped into the kitchen and pulled out a couple of drawers in the old Sears and Roebuck refrigerator until I found a brick of what my mom always called “commodity cheese.” Fit for a pig. I put it in my coat pocket and went back to the sty. Night was falling and things were looking strange. Well, stranger than the standard pig farm. The colors were off. Daisy was standing by the trough, wearing her eternal smile. “Did you bring him the cheese?”
There was something different about her. It felt as if for the first time she was “connecting.” I took out the pale yellow brick and held it up. “Did he tell you about it?”
“I’m not really here,” she smiled. “I’m inside doing really piss-poor beadwork. I’m just reflecting a part of Wild Flower because he got bored trying to talk to you.” She took the cheese and unwrapped it from the plastic. She took a small bite and chewed on it thoughtfully. She nodded and Wild came back to us and she handed it to him. He gave a contented snort and went over to the western corner of the pig parlor, as Uncle Feeney called it. “You need to leave. Head East. Until you step outside of my father’s protections, you’ll never learn anything, other than how to piss off pigs.” She smiled again. “And you’ve already mastered that.”
“Walk East is a little vague.” I pulled my jacket more tightly around me. It was getting colder.
“I’m done,” she said. For the first time since I had known her, her smile disappeared. Then she did too. I looked over at Wild and he turned away from me. Fine. I stomped out in the direction of sunrise.
Chapter Fifteen
I really had no idea how much property Uncle Feeney had, or how far the wards extended. I figured I would just keep walking until things felt different, or my songs started working again. After thirty minutes or so, I started humming my Eagle Song. After I had sung it through four times, it suddenly came “on-line” again, so I figured I was far enough away from Uncle Feeney.
I sat on the ground, wishing I had brought a bottle of water. The moon was starting to rise and it was half full, casting long shadows. “Help me,” I heard. The voice was buzzy as if it were more in my head than my ears. I looked around and saw a large moth caught in a spider’s web. I sighed and gently freed it, which resulted in the most insulting look I’ve ever gotten from a spider. Moth Spirit Power or Spider Spirit Power—too bad I didn’t get to vote.
“Thank you!” it buzzed inside my head.
“No biggie,” I replied. I waited. I knew enough of the legends to realize the next move belonged to the Moth
.
“When you have need of me,” she said sweetly, and I was suddenly aware the Moth was female, “just Call me. I shall come.” In our language, the word for moth literally meant “flame-lover.”
I tried to imagine what help I would need from a moth. If I were attacked by giant sweaters? She seemed to sense I was a little skeptical. “Fine,” she said, “what if I told you I’m Coyote, and this is just a disguise to keep away a lot of bill collectors?”
“You’re not Coyote,” I said a little too quickly.
“Well, you’re not Feeney Dennis,” she spat. I looked up at the moon and wondered how many Spirit People I could manage to offend before sunrise. I was starting to see a pattern. Maybe I did have a “tude” problem. Stick anyone on a man-eating pig farm for a while and it comes naturally.
“If there is anything I’ve learned from Coyote stories, it’s that you’re supposed to be who you are and not try to be someone else. I celebrate your Mothness.” I had no idea if Mothness was even a word. It seemed to satisfy her and she moved her brownish wings seductively. I frowned and wondered if there were gay Moths. When she opened them all the way, it revealed eye spots so her wings looked like an owl mask. Great. Owl was the messenger of death. Not the best symbolism.
“Listen well and remember.” She taught me her Song. It wasn’t like anything I had ever heard before. I practiced it to make sure I would be able to sing it in the future. “Keep walking East,” she said. “There is a lot you need to learn.”
I nodded and started off again. My Nikes felt cold and damp. I picked up the smell and then heard the sound of a river or more likely, a creek ahead of me. When I got to it, I wondered if I were expected to cross it. I looked around and saw Uncle Feeney sitting on a boulder, his eyes fixed on the water. He didn’t seem to notice me, but he wouldn’t have heard me behind him. If this was really Uncle Feeney. It might be Wild again. If he could do a Daisy, he could do a Feeney.
“Sit, Boy,” he said. I walked over and sat next to him. He smelled like Uncle Feeney, but so had Wild. “I need to renew the wards. You’ll help me.”
“I’ve never warded anything,” I said after a moment. He stood up slowly, looking very old and unstable. He reached down and picked up a yew staff, like the one in the Coyote legend. For a moment I wondered if his spirit power was Coyote. I figured I would have known, but I had never heard of anyone having Coyote Power in real life. It was the sort of thing that only happened in Stories. Some say Coyote had left for another World not long after the White People arrived.
I followed him and he struck the earth with his staff in a steady beat. He sang a Song. It was easy to follow. In our language, you don’t “learn” a song—you “catch” it the way it’s said you “catch a cold.” As I began to sing it, I could see every time his thick yew stick hit the ground it cast up white sparks. I couldn’t tell if the sparks were made of moonlight or starlight. I wondered if it mattered. After a few verses of the song he pushed his lower lip to his right and I saw a yew stick similar to the one he was using. I reached out and it seemed to jump into my hand. It felt unnaturally warm, as if it had just come from being out at high noon on a hot summer day. I followed him, keeping up the rhythm of his song and it threw up the same sparks as his, but mine were a little brighter.
We followed the small river. My throat was dry and I was trying not to cough. A ball of fire flew past my head and struck a Douglas fir. It went up in flames and I turned in the direction the attack had come. Uncle Feeney had lifted up his staff, holding it horizontally. It seemed to pulse with power. My own staff felt as if it were heating up. I mirrored his stance, not having a clue as to what I should be doing.
His wife stepped out of the shadows. Not actually his wife, probably no more than my Uncle Feeney was really beside me. This version looked much more alive and sensuous than the aunt that kept charring the pork chops. “I see that got your attention,” she said. Yeah, this was so not Feeney’s everyday wife. She lifted up her hands and fire played around her fingertips. “Little Pisces,” she laughed. “Water Boy. Moon of the Singing Frogs. How much steam will you make if I hit you with my heat?”
She threw another fire ball at me and I felt my yew staff push it away so it curved around me, slamming into the ground. “Beginner’s luck,” she said.
I looked around and Uncle Feeney was gone. I could see the twin trails of white sparkles we had created as we sang. I called the sparks and they swirled about to form a circle around me. She laughed and tossed another fireball at me, but it bounced off the circle. I guess I had learned how to ward something. I sang Uncle Feeney’s Song and I felt the circle strengthen.
“Little Fishy,” she crooned. “Do you know what my spirit power is?” She lifted up her hands and the flames from her fingertips formed the design of a spider’s web I had seen on the pottery in the home of my father’s father.
“You aren’t Spider Woman,” I said. “Just as Uncle Feeney doesn’t have Coyote Power. You’re just trying to mess with my mind. Now that I’m thinking about it, Uncle Feeney’s spirit animal is Rattlesnake. It’s one of the reasons people are so afraid of him. Spider Woman and Coyote are way too big to be hanging around outside of a pig farm.”
The web pattern fell to ash and she smiled in a very frightening way. Who knew a smile could be so scary? She lifted up her hands so the backs of them touched together and suddenly she became a pillar of fire. As I watched, she lowered her hands and when the flames died down a very beautiful young Native man was looking at me. He had my eyes, but he was, well, he was more masculine looking than I was. He looked like I probably would when I had my full growth.
“This is more to your taste, is it not?” His voice was deeper than mine. In fact, he sounded a lot like Uncle Feeney, or maybe the way Uncle Feeney had sounded when he was twenty. My mind was racing through Stories, trying to find a match. Spirit Woman turns into seductive male. I got nothing.
“Coyote had been going there,” I began, “but he was long gone. Spider Woman was just a dusty voice in a faded ancient basket.” I kept up a steady beat with my staff. I wondered for a moment if I could do a legend as a rap, or if that could make something blow up. Like my head. “Come with me, the seducer offered, his eyes flashing in the moonlight. Come with me and I will show you the pleasures of the flesh you have only dreamed of. Come joyskinning with me. He smiled and took a step closer to me.” And he did.
“What is your true name?” I asked him. He grinned and shook his head from side to side in negation. His hair was as long as mine, but loose. The tips were caught by a light breeze and he looked like the star of a music video.
“Moth,” I whispered. “I need you.” I caught a flutter of movement to my left. “What is the true name of the one before me?”
I felt the furry touch of her antennae on my cheek and the surprisingly sharp tips of her feet as she landed on me. She whispered a word in our language. Emboldened, I released her and continued the Story. “The seducer realized he was powerless before the one who was born in the Moon of the Singing Frogs. He was overcome by desire for the one before him. He felt the pull of human warmth and need.” I hit the earth four times with the end of my staff. I lifted it and a white light spit from the tip, hitting the youth in front of me, burning away his clothing so he was completely nude. And uncut, I happened to notice. Impressive, I had to admit, but I suppose a shapeshifter could be just as well-endowed as he chose.
“He danced lightly to the human he hungered for so much, wanting to feel true love for the first time.” And he did. “He reached out and his fingers brushed the full soft lips of the one born in the Moon of the Singing Frogs. He realized he would never do anything to cause harm to this one whom he now loved and wanted to protect.” His fingers touched me and they felt unexpectedly rough and cool. I lowered my staff and took him into my arms. I realized I did not lust after him. I appreciated his beauty, but it was the way I would admire an Iris. The fact I found it lovely didn’t mean I wanted to screw it.
My eyes widened and I realized this was really no different than what I had done with Nathan, the Doctor’s son. This wasn’t my desire—it was what I had forced on to another person. He kissed me passionately and I traced the inner side of his thigh upwards. He felt smooth and firm. I brushed against his balls and he took in a sharp breath. I wrapped my fingers around his erection and he made a small sound. I leaned forward and licked his left nipple.
And I felt nothing. Even less than I had towards the end with Nathan. “He then realized he would always profoundly love and protect the one who was born in the Moon of the Singing Frogs. He realized he would always come when he was Called by this human he loved so much. Whenever he was Called.” I moved away from him and held him with my eyes. God, he was beautiful. And about as erotic to me as the commodity cheese had been. There were instructions when you went on a Vision Quest, you weren’t allowed to masturbate because it was said spirits didn’t like the smell of semen. I considered this and decided there were undoubtedly some spirits who would. Different bait for different results.
I kissed him one last time and said distinctly, “He loved his human, and he knew he would return when his name was Called.” I smiled. “His name was Echo.” As I watched, the young man faded away, just like his name.
“Well, that was different,” I heard Uncle Feeney say. “You’re a strange one, Boy.” He was sitting on a log and he was holding a yew staff. I realized this was my real uncle. It was a different stick of wood. The place felt different. The spiritual aspect had gone quiet. Still there, but quiet. “But in the end, you get judged by the results—not by the technique.” He stood up and leaned on the staff. “Let’s finish renewing the wards.” He didn’t look back to see if I were following him. I started singing his Song and watched the white sparks dance around our staffs.