The Wind in His Heart

by Charles de Lint

I read the hard look in Auntie’s eyes and think, yeah, that’s not going to happen.

  “Señora Corn Eyes,” Si’tala says, her voice gentle. “Is this truly the best solution to your problem?”

  Auntie shakes her head. “The problem can’t be solved. We both know that. This is just revenge.”

  Something clicks in my head when she says that, and I think back to all the nights I’ve spent sitting around campfires on the rez and out in the canyons, listening to the storytellers spin their yarns.

  People usually think of the Kikimi as a peaceful tribe, a farming community that used primitive irrigation canals to grow their corn, beans and squash on the banks of the San Pedro River until they were pushed away from the water into the mountains. First, it was by the Spanish who tried to enslave them, then by the western expansion of the fledging American States, who thought it more expedient to simply kill them. But while it’s true that the Kikimi prefer peace to war, they are more than capable of fighting.

  When they retreated into the mountains, they became ghost warriors like the Apache, striking hard and fast from one end of the valley to the other, some riding stolen horses, dog boys running on all fours alongside the mounted warriors. Their hunting parties attacked ranches, farms and soldier patrols in deadly waves, leaving behind a wake of destruction before disappearing back into the canyons. Troops sent after them rarely returned from the high country.

  But eventually, the Women’s Council saw the futility of battling the endless tide of invaders—just as, more recently, they’d seen the futility of fighting Sammy Swift Grass and the casino crowd. They made their peace with the invaders, signed the treaties, and allowed themselves to be herded onto the barren lands of the rez.

  Now the old stories and the history of the tribe have been relegated to campfire tales. Some of them are lesson stories, while some are ribald or just humourous. Many are about Jimmy Cholla—part trickster, part shaman, part village clown. But he was also a spirit of vengeance, and the stories of his great victories over his foes, even after death, are told the most when there are only adults around the campfire or the story drum.

  A bloodthirsty death isn’t necessary. Listeners are just as satisfied with Jimmy Cholla’s enemies being humiliated, preferably in a way that reflects back on their original transgression.

  I’m no longer surprised by the popularity of these stories—not like I was when I first began to hear them—and now I see that their roots go deeper than a storyteller’s narrative. Even under the lined features of an old woman like Leila Corn Eyes, the spirit of Jimmy Cholla lives on.

  “What are the other Aunts going to say?” I ask her. “You know, the rest of your Women’s Council.”

  “I’m no longer on the council and it’s of no concern to them. This isn’t tribal business—it’s personal.”

  “Don’t do this for me,” Thomas says, his eyes pleading.

  “Listen to your nephew,” I tell her. “Don’t be a Jimmy Cholla.”

  Her attention doesn’t waver. The gun remains steady in her hand, pointed at the raven woman she’s already shot once. “None of you understand,” she says. “When we die in this world, we go on to another. That’s how the wheel turns. Once we leave, we are safe from all the dangers and sorrows of this world. But because Thomas has been marked by the salvagers, he won’t get that same safety.”

  “The salvagers,” I repeat.

  I’ve heard the term a couple of times now and I don’t quite get it, though maybe I’m alone in that. I see a number of ma’inawo make warding signs with their fingers at the use of the word, as though just hearing it gives them the creeps.

  Si’tala looks at me with pained features. “They travel the roads of the dead,” she explains, “and collect anything that’s been lost or abandoned in our world. Those roads belong to them and they can salvage anything that has found its way onto them. Sometimes it’s harmless things. An old car that doesn’t run anymore, a wagon with a broken axle, a box full of empty oil cans. But sometimes it’s a soul that gets lost, or has taken its own life. And sometimes a very foolish person still alive stumbles upon one of those roads, and if they manage to escape, they are still marked. Once seen, once smelled, they’re never forgotten.”

  I nod like I totally understand what she’s saying. “When you say ‘salvagers,’ that presupposes that there’s some kind of profit involved. Where do the salvagers sell what they find?”

  “At a crossroads,” Auntie says before Si’tala can answer. “To the spirit that lives there. And what those spirits do with what they acquire, no one knows.”

  Si’tala nods. “But not just any crossroads. Those spirits live where powerful roads cross each other, which makes them powerful in turn.”

  “Exactly,” Auntie says. “What happens to Thomas if one of them gets their hands on him?”

  “You still can’t just kill her,” Santana says. “That’s not going to solve anything.”

  “But it’s the only way for us to stay safe,” Auntie says. “If we let her go now, we’ll always have to be looking over our shoulders because she’ll be back. And the next time, we won’t see her coming. Don’t believe for a moment that she will spare our lives.”

  Consuela tries to sit up, but Auntie brings the six-gun even closer to her head. “Uh-uh,” she warns. The veins in her hands rise as she tightens her grip on the gun.

  We’re at an impasse. Any moment now, she’s going to pull the trigger.

  I look at Morago, hoping that as the shaman, he might be able to defuse this tinderbox. “Do something,” I say.

  “It’s out of our hands,” he says. “This is between the two of them now. And the thunders.”

  All this time, the audience of ma’inawo has been quiet. I’ve looked for Calico, but she seems to have faded back in amongst the others after speaking her piece earlier. I can’t spot her. I can’t get a read on the general mood of the crowd, either. Then an old man shuffles forward. Instead of hair, he’s got a lizard’s crest running from the top of his scalp down his back.

  “We need an arbitrator,” he says.

  All around us, heads nod in agreement.

  And then they’re all looking at me. I remember the story Morago was spinning earlier—how the ma’inawo call me the Arbitrator.

  “No,” Auntie tells him before I can say the same thing. “He’s already told us what he thinks.”

  The lizard mans shakes his head. “That doesn’t matter. He’s the Arbitrator. He will put aside his personal feelings and listen to both sides before he makes his decision.”

  “Can you do this?” Auntie asks me. “Can you give us each a fair listen?”

  All I can do is tell her the truth. “I don’t know,” I say. “But I can try.”

  She studies me like Morago did before we started to make the raven sculpture. Maybe it’s because they’re both medicine workers, maybe it’s a Kikimi thing, but under her scrutiny I feel that she can peel back the layers of any secret I might think I can hide.

  “I find him acceptable,” she finally says and lowers her six-gun.

  “And you?” the lizard man asks Consuela.

  “A moment,” she says. She pushes herself up to a sitting position, then gets to her feet. She sways, catches herself. Lifting her arms she suddenly shifts into her raven shape. Just as quickly, she becomes human again, but now there’s no sign that she was ever shot. The blood’s gone from her clothes, as is this bullet hole. Whatever pain or weakness she was feeling a moment ago seems to have vanished.

  It appears Auntie had that much right. Ma’inawo only need to shift their forms to be healed. So what else is Auntie right about?

  “I will abide by the five-fingered being’s decision,” Consuela tells the lizard man. Her attention turns to me. “What is your name?”

  In the fairy tales I read as a kid, one of the things you were never supposed to do was give someone your full and true name because that gave them power over you. It doesn’t work like that among the Kikimi, and
I’m guessing that holds true for the ma’inawo as well. With them, everything turns on truth, and that begins with your name.

  “My parents named me Jackson Steven Cole,” I tell her.

  72

  Leah

  “I knew it,” Leah said as soon as the words left Steve’s mouth.

  She turned to Morago, but his only response was a shrug. “I didn’t think you would lie,” she said.

  “And I didn’t,” the shaman said. “Everything I told you in the hospital was true. I just never clarified which Steve I was talking about.”

  “Semantics.”

  “Truth.”

  “But you deliberately misled me.”

  Morago nodded. “Because it was not my secret to tell. Especially not to…” He lets his voice trail off.

  “Someone who’d broadcast it to all the world,” Leah finished for him.

  Morago gave her another nod.

  “Steve doesn’t have to worry,” she said. “I’m not going to tell anybody.”

  It was funny. Even though she knew the truth now, she still thought of him as Steve.

  “What comes out of your mouth isn’t my responsibility,” Morago said.

  What a weird way to put it, she thought, but then she realized something had been happening while she’d been talking to the shaman. Steve, Consuela Mara and Auntie were walking away. The ma’inawo parted in front of them, making a corridor until they reached the fire pit in the middle of the clearing. When the three figures stood alone in the center, everyone moved back until no one was close enough to overhear their conversation.

  “What’s going on?” Leah asked.

  Morago glanced over to the fire pit. “Steve’s going to mediate the dispute.”

  Leah thought of the videos she’d seen of Jackson Cole, when the Rats had just broken big, rocking it out in front of a stadium of screaming fans. And then later, when the crowds were just as big but the tone was more thoughtful, how the fans were even more mesmerized by the magic that the four musicians created. Admittedly, half the fans were probably stoned—hell, half the band was probably stoned—and by then they’d added a couple of backup singers and Derek Fahy on keys, but the four main players were the heart of the music and they’d never been more popular.

  She tried to imagine what Cole would say if she could go back and tell him what the future held. How he’d go from riding an unparalleled wave of popularity and goodwill to living alone in the desert among people who could take the shape of animals.

  “This is so weird,” she said.

  Morago cocked an eyebrow.

  “Oh come on,” Leah said. “That’s Jackson Cole. It’s like having Elvis—the real Elvis—officiate at a hearing.”

  “It’s just Steve. Whatever he was before doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “Except it won’t go well, this talk,” Si’tala said.

  Morago looked at her. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because I am her memory. I know what she’s done. There’s a reason that Raven dissolved their marriage and no other has taken his place in her heart. She…” Si’tala sighed. “She’s good at bloodshed and starting wars. Not so much at thoughtful discussions where she has to plead her case. I remember when she called herself the Morrigan, and led her armies to feast on the dead—then she was in her element.”

  “There’ll be no more bloodshed today,” Morago told her. “She is honour bound to abide by Steve’s decision, even if it goes against her.”

  Si’tala shrugged. “Honour bound, yes. If those two were ma’inawo. But they are five-fingered beings, and she holds no respect for them. In the end, she’ll do whatever she wants. It’s what she always does.”

  73

  Steve

  And now it’s just the three of us sitting on rocks by the fire pit. I can smell the cold remains of one of Aggie’s campfires, the scent of the ashes faint but still pungent. As I wait for the women to begin talking, a few turkey vultures make lazy circles up above the ridge trail and I can’t help wondering if they’re ordinary birds or cousins. I remember the hawk I saw earlier, but it’s no longer in sight.

  I lower my gaze and look over at the crowd of ma’inawo who watch and wait as they keep a respectful distance from the fire pit so that we have some privacy. I keep searching for Calico—her red hair should make her stand out—but if she’s still here, she’s keeping a low profile.

  Finally, I turn to my companions. Auntie’s scowling at Consuela, who makes a deliberate show of looking bored.

  I’ll be honest. I’m surprised that either of them agreed to this, and I’m not sure how I got to be the monkey in the middle. The ma’inawo might think of me as their arbitrator, but I don’t feel remotely qualified for the job. I was a musician. Now I’m just another desert rat. Nothing about that past prepares me for anything like this, yet here I am all the same.

  “So which of you is going to start?” I ask.

  “This is pointless,” Consuela says. “It’s like trying to have a conversation with the birds and beasts. They hear the sound of your voice, but they’re unable to comprehend what’s actually being said.”

  I see Auntie bristle, more anger gathering in her eyes. Her fingers lightly tap the barrel of the six-gun lying in her lap.

  “So tell me, why are you even sitting with us?” I ask Consuela before Auntie gets a notion to pick up the gun and fire it a second time.

  “Out of respect for the ma’inawo who have gathered here today.”

  “Okay. So, out of respect for them, why don’t you tell your side of the story?”

  She doesn’t say anything for a long moment; instead she just studies me.

  “What is in this for you?” she asks.

  I smile. No one ever really gets it, other than Morago, but I tell her anyway.

  “I get to live here,” I say. “In beauty. Away from the madding crowd.”

  Her dark eyes narrow. “Tell me the truth.”

  “It is the truth. I had everything a person could want, but I traded it for this because all that other stuff wasn’t as important.”

  I don’t bother to tell Consuela that I didn’t start out knowing that. Guilt and unhappiness put me on the journey to my old pal Morago’s homeland. I came here because of his stories. And because it sounded like a place where I could lose myself and the world wouldn’t find me again.

  It’s a big land, he told me on more than one occasion. One of those places where a man can step out of the world and live his life with no one ever seeing him again.

  At that point in my life, the appeal couldn’t be denied.

  “Enough about me,” I say. I’m still hyper aware of the gun on Auntie’s lap and her diminishing patience. “Tell us your story,” I say to the raven woman. “Or maybe we should let Auntie deal with this in her own way.”

  Consuela glares at me until Auntie shifts on her rock, her fingers curling around the grip of the gun. The two women regard each other with equal disdain.

  Finally, Consuela gives a brusque nod and begins to talk. Gazing off at some distant place between Auntie and me, she runs through everything that’s happened since she first stopped in at the Little Tree Trading Post on Friday morning. She speaks in quick, clipped sentences, but it still takes a while.

  I have to force myself to concentrate. I’m dog tired, the heat’s oppressive, and I find myself wishing I had some water. I’ve heard a lot of this before—some from Thomas, some from Reuben—and I guess Auntie has too, but this time we hear what was going through Consuela’s head while it was all going down.

  As I listen to her story I pay as much attention to Auntie, trying to gauge her reaction. Auntie’d make a good poker player. Her face gives nothing away. But she does have one tell: as Consuela keeps speaking, Auntie’s hand slides away from the six-gun on her lap. Not far, but it’s better than having her point it at the raven woman, hammer cocked.

  So this is good. At least she’s calmed down some.

  When Consuela finishes, her ga
ze returns from whatever distances she was looking at to settle on me.

  I glance at Auntie, whose mouth remains set in a straight line. It’s clear she’s got no intention of commenting.

  I look back at Consuela. “I don’t think anyone thought you deliberately intended for this to happen,” I say, “but Thomas is still in danger because of your actions.”

  “What am I supposed to do?” Consuela asks.

  “Fix it,” Auntie tells her through gritted teeth, stomping her heel on the ground and raising a little cloud of dust.

  A cold look comes into Consuela’s eyes. “Don’t push your luck,” she says. “I am not an enemy you wish to have.”

  Auntie’s hand has returned to grip the six-gun. “Did you ever wonder,” Auntie asks, “why the ma’inawo and the Kikimi get along as well as they do in the Painted Lands?”

  Consuela blinks at the sudden switch in topic.

  “Why’s that, Auntie?” I jump in, hoping to reestablish some calm before Consuela can make it worse.

  “A long time ago,” Auntie says, “the ma’inawo in these mountains were just as arrogant as you, Consuela Mara. Humans, they felt, were put on this world only for their amusement. I could tell you awful tales of the things they did—how they stole away our young men and women, flooded our crops, harried our hunters—but I’m just an old woman. I don’t have the stomach or stamina for such a long and unhappy story.

  “What I can tell you is that then, as now, we Kikimi were a peaceful people, but as the ma’inawo grew more and more cruel with their tricks and their torments, we’d finally had enough. Like you, they laughed when we warned them to leave us in peace. But the next time some antelope women lured away one of our young men, the first chief of our dog soldiers went after them.

  “He had studied with los tíos, the Toltec hawk uncles down south. They taught him how to see the difference between animals and cousins, and trained him how to fight the ma’inawo, compensating for their strength and speed. He was gone two days and a night, but when he returned from the mountains, the stolen boy walked at his side and three antelope had died unfortunate deaths in the canyons.