The Wind in His Heart

by Charles de Lint

  “No, you do, and you could use it to help others,” Ruby told her. “You should talk to Morago. He can help you better understand otherworldly matters, and in exchange, you could help out at the school.”

  “I don’t know that I’m cut out to be a teacher.”

  “Only one way to find out. The kids could use the help of someone like you. You don’t have to teach. You could just advise them on things like passing their SATs, and the value of their own stories.”

  “I suppose I could try. I’ve enjoyed doing some volunteer work with kids back in Newford.”

  The morning had fully arrived while they spoke. Leah thought she should be tired. She hadn’t pulled an all-nighter in years. But she felt full of energy. “I need to get Aggie’s breakfast ready,” she said. “You should join us. Do you eat people food when you’re, you know, in human shape?”

  Ruby laughed. “Dogs eat almost anything in whatever shape they happen to be wearing.”

  “Yeah, but do they help prepare it?”

  Humour continued to bubble in Ruby’s eyes. “I can certainly try.”

  81

  Sadie

  Sadie found it weird being in Newford. It was so different from how it was back home in the barrio. For one thing, it was way colder, which she hated, but apparently a shopping trip for warmer clothes was planned a couple of days from now. It was also a much bigger city. The traffic was crazy; it never seemed to stop. She’d lie awake in her room in the middle of the night and hear cars on the street, groups of people wandering by, talking in too-loud drunken voices. Sirens all the time. Really. Sometimes it felt like they never fucking stopped.

  She had no idea how long she’d be staying—it all depended on how she did in “the program.”

  She was living in an apartment provided by some organization called Angel Outreach. The place had two bedrooms, a kitchen, bathroom and living room. Everything was kind of shabby, but at least it was clean. Candice, the adult supervisor, had one small bedroom. The larger room where Sadie slept was set up dorm-style, with four beds. At the moment there were only two other girls: Willow, who was from North Carolina, and Jennifer, from Alaska.

  Alaska. Wasn’t it always ten feet of snow and forty below or something there? Jennifer probably thought she was on a Caribbean vacation with the fall weather here. She’d be totally used to it being way colder.

  Sadie thought she should probably look that up when she finally got computer privileges. She could just ask Jennifer right now, but a simple question would be like starting a conversation, and who the hell knew where that could go?

  Sadie wasn’t ready for conversations yet. It was hard enough to “share” with her counselor.

  She knew she should feel grateful—she was grateful—but a part of her was still pissed off because her being here was just more people deciding on how she was supposed to live her life. Yeah, sure, she was trying to change, but she kind of wanted to do it on her own terms. That was when a little voice in the back of her head would pipe up: “Yeah, because that’s worked so well before.”

  Sometimes the voice was enough to get her back on track.

  Sometimes it was only when she started to go too far down that road, with the urge to sneak into Candice’s room where the knives and other sharp objects were locked up, that she’d go someplace nobody was and do sit-ups and push-ups until she was trembling with exhaustion. But at least it worked and nobody got hurt.

  Afterward, she’d sit on her bed and stare out the window at the brick wall of the building next door. She’d think about how all these people got together to help her. People she hardly knew. Hell, people she’d screwed over.

  Apparently, the cop whose pickup she’d stolen had gotten together with Aggie, and Leah and Marisa—those women who showed up at Aggie’s place right before all hell broke loose—to set it up. Steve was involved too. Or at least she’d been told that he’d paid for the flight and was her sponsor in the program. Whatever. She didn’t know where he got that kind of money. Maybe his famous cousin left him a shitload of dough that he kept stashed away somewhere in the mountains. He sure as hell didn’t spend it on himself.

  She couldn’t believe she’d ever actually thought he was Jackson Cole.

  One minute, she’d been in solitary, the next, she was released into the custody of that cop and Leah’s friend Marisa, who’d returned from Newford to bring Leah some of her clothes and stuff. The three of them, along with Aggie, testified on her behalf to a juvie judge in Santo VV. Somehow, they convinced the judge to release her into this rehab program for screwed up kids run by a woman called the Grasso Street Angel.

  The cop actually drove them all the way to the Vegas airport.

  Sadie had never imagined that she’d ever get on a plane. It was so far from living in a crap house in the barrio and nowhere near as cool as she’d expected. As the plane started down the runway, she had to do some serious deep breathing when all she really wanted was to have a knife in her hand and do a little cutting to release the pressure.

  The counselors were trying to help her with that. They’d even gotten her reading a book called Scars by a Canadian writer named Cheryl Rainfield. So far, it was a pretty good story. The writer’s sliced up arms were on the cover. Sadie would stare at the cover. Who’d think that someone as messed up as herself could ever become a writer?

  Today Angel called over to tell them that a friend of hers, an artist named Jilly, was going to pick them up and bring them to this drop-in center called the Katharine Mully Memorial Arts Court to show them around. Sadie tried to look interested, but all she could think was: great, the messed up loser kids in the program get to meet other loser kids and do fingerpainting or some other therapeutic art.

  Sadie was told that the Arts Court was right downtown. She figured she could probably disappear pretty easy in a city this size, but if she did take off and then get caught, she’d be tossed right back in the slammer where she’d either find herself back in solitary or have those 66Hers putas in her face again. That got old fast.

  She hated to think it, because she didn’t want to jinx it, but the program was okay so far. Nobody was ever really in her face here and the food was heaven compared to the crap they served in jail.

  So when Candice came in the bedroom to tell them their ride was here, Sadie was determined to try something different. Maybe she’d make some loser art, maybe she wouldn’t, but anything was better than the crap that had been going down back home. Whatever came up, she’d try to follow Aggie’s “do better things to become a better person” master plan.

  It was worth a shot.

  82

  Thomas

  Thomas pulled over to the shoulder at the top of a rise on Zahra Road. In his side mirror he could see the highway wind its way as it returned to the rez. He got out of the pickup and stood there with one hand on the door frame, shading his eyes with the other.

  It was hard to believe this was actually happening, how everything had just fallen into place.

  Reuben had given him this old truck and two weeks’ pay, and gave Santana his part-time job at the trading post. He’d also given Thomas the name and address of a friend in LA who had a job for him in construction if he wanted it.

  When Thomas had tried to protest, Reuben just waved a hand. “When you’re out there in the world,” he said, “pay it forward.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Just be careful out there. Come back in one piece or your mama’ll have a piece of my hide.”

  “What makes you think I’m coming back?”

  “We always come back. This red dust is in our blood.”

  Mom had been pissed. She’d tried not to show it, but Thomas had lived his whole life with her. He didn’t bother trying to explain himself because he knew she didn’t want to hear it. So he’d just told her that he loved her.

  Auntie had seemed amused, but maybe she was like her sister Lucy. Maybe she lived past, present and future all at the same time, and already knew how e
verything was going to turn out.

  He didn’t try to explain his reasons for leaving to William and Naya, either. But he told them he loved them, the same as he’d told Mom, and assured them that he’d come back.

  “You shouldn’t make promises like that,” Santana said, following him out to the truck as he got ready to leave. “Not unless you’re sure you can keep them.”

  “I can’t tell them why I’m going. I don’t want to put ideas in their head. Right now they’re happy living here.”

  “I guess.” She stood back and looked at the truck. “This thing’s pretty much a piece of junk.”

  Thomas shrugged. “It’s just the body that needs work. Reuben says it’s mechanically sound.” He grinned. “Plus it was free.”

  “Can’t argue with that.”

  He reached out and touched her shoulder. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “Hey, I’ve got a job now. I might even join up with the dog boys.”

  Thomas raised an eyebrow.

  “They look like they have a lot of fun,” she said.

  “Except they’re soldiers.”

  “Yeah, but they get to wear dog skins—and don’t tell me you never wished you could go running with them up in the canyons.”

  “If I was going to wear a cousin skin, I’d want something that flies.”

  Santana smiled. “Yeah, that’d be sweet.”

  “You know, when school’s finished and I get settled, you can come stay with me if you still want to get away from here.”

  Her eyes filled. “There you go, making promises again.”

  “You know I’d never turn my back on—”

  He didn’t get a chance to finish. Santana hugged him, squeezing him so hard it took his breath away. “I’m going to miss you,” she whispered. Then she ran back to the house.

  Thomas stood there for a long time after the screen door closed. Auntie sat in her chair on the porch, a pair of crows on the railing beside her. He couldn’t read the look in her eyes. He wanted to comfort his sister, but he didn’t see how he could. In the end, he was still leaving her behind. But it was hard.

  Finally, he lifted a hand to Auntie and got in the truck, driving away before he could change his mind.

  And now here he was, looking back once more, wondering all over again if he was doing the right thing. He wouldn’t know until he actually left. And as Reuben had said to him—one of the last things he’d told Thomas before they said goodbye—“You can always change your mind at any time and come back.”

  As he turned to get back in the pickup, a raven landed on the roof of the cab. The big bird cocked its head and studied him. Thomas sighed.

  “So which one are you?” he asked. “Si’tala or Consuela?”

  The raven didn’t answer.

  “I’ll tell you right now, I’m not going on any road trips with either one of you.”

  The raven just continued to look at him. Maybe it wasn’t one of the raven women. Maybe it was just an ordinary bird, but nothing seemed ordinary around here anymore.

  The ma’inawo no longer hid from him and Thomas wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. It was disconcerting to have birds share gossip with him from their perches in the cacti and trees he walked by. He would see faces appear in the prickly pears and saguaros, passing along messages he didn’t understand. Lizards whispered to him, lolling in the sun, and spiders, too, dangling from long silken threads. A dog sprawled out on the floor of the trading post would keep up a running commentary of everyone who came in.

  He heard their voices in his mind—a questionable “gift” of his being a shaman, even an untrained one such as he was.

  Even more disconcertingly, he caught himself studying his surroundings all the time, looking for some telltale hint that everything around him was a prop, just images painted on wood. If he thought about it for too long, the dirt started to feel spongy underfoot and the air would shimmer like heat waves for drawn out moments.

  “You know,” Thomas told the raven, “the Corn Eyes Clan only ever have crows for spirit guides. Yellowrock Canyon crows. We’ve never had much of a soft spot for ravens, even less so these days. So go follow somebody else.”

  The raven lifted a wing and began to preen its feathers. Like it couldn’t care less.

  “Just so we’re clear,” Thomas said.

  He gave a last look down the highway before getting back in the pickup. The raven took off when he started the engine, following him down Zahra Road as he drove. He considered stopping in to say goodbye to Steve as he came up on the mouth of Painted Cloud Canyon, but only lifted a hand in passing to the red rocks as he went by.

  He leaned forward, looking skyward. The raven was still up there, keeping pace.

  Damn bird.

  He turned on the radio, punching through the stations until he paused at an oldies station because they were playing “Gimme, Gimme, Gimme,” one of the Diesel Rats’ first hits. It had probably been a lot of fun back in the day, long before his time. In the current musical climate it sounded as corny as the Beatles’ “She Loves You,” but Thomas turned the sound up anyway and sang along, the miles unwinding under his tires.

  * * *

  In the Dreamtime, all things are true,

  Whether or not they are real.

  —Sandra Kasturi,

  from “Speaking Crow”

  Word-of-mouth is crucial for any author to succeed. If you enjoyed this book, please leave a review at your favourite retailer. Even if it’s just a sentence or two. It would make all the difference and would be very much appreciated.

  * * *

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  Afterword

  First, thanks to my readers who’ve waited patiently (I hope) for eight years for a new adult novel from me. Big changes happened in the publishing industry over that time, and my agent wisely advised me to focus on juvenile fiction for a bit while things sorted themselves out.

  I enjoyed writing The Cats of Tanglewood Forest and my three Wildlings novels, but after that I felt a strong pull to return to my first love in this field, adult fantasy. I dove right in, but quickly rediscovered an old lesson: even with a wealth of experience, one has to learn how to write each new book, and The Wind in His Heart was a complex novel to write. It took me over three years to get it to the point where I could put it into my wife MaryAnn’s hands, and as always, I owe her much gratitude for her editorial work, which improved the book significantly.

  Although the novel has a fictional setting in the American Southwest, and several of the characters are from a purely fictional Native American tribe, I’ve done my utmost to treat all of my characters with respect, as fully rounded people with a rich culture. Beyond that, I want to send up a cheer for this particular time when more indigenous writers are coming to the fore in the literary world. I’ve been reading their work and talking about it for years, and once again, I encourage all of my readers to seek out these writers, whose voices can only enrich our cross-cultural understanding and empathy for one another. They deserve our attention and support.

  I’m grateful to our eagle-eyed beta readers—Julie Bartel, Sean Costello, Lynn Harris, Lizz Huerta, River Lark Madison, and Kim (AKD) Welsh—for astute feedback and suggestions. Thanks as well to Alex Bledsoe, Janis Ian, Seanan McGuire, Melissa F. Olson, and Charles Vess for taking the time to read the novel and responding with such glowing comments.

  Thanks also to Mark Lefebvre of Kobo Writing Life for his generous advice and encouragement, and to Rodger Turner, my stalwart pal of over 30 years, who also generously hosts my website on the SF Site.

  I remain grateful to my agent, Russ Galen, who has taken care of us and patiently put up with my indie publishing ventures. Plus he got us a nice audiobook deal with a topnotch company, Recorded Books, and a hardcover contract with PS Publishing whose books I’ve admired for many years. Ru
ss is the best in the biz.

  It may be weird to thank my dog, but our little Johnny Cash has made my past ten years that much richer for his beautiful soul. Johnny’s the one who gets us away from our computers, out into the sunshine, and under the moon and stars.

  Most of you know that I value kindness and loyalty more than just about anything in life, and I’ve been rewarded with a wealth of readers who’ve stuck with me since the beginning, or discovered me midway through my career. Thanks to each of you. Dream large and true, and remember to take care of one another.

  * * *

  —Ottawa, Summer, 2017

  About the Author

  Charles de Lint is a full-time writer and musician who makes his home in Ottawa, Canada. This author of more than seventy adult, young adult, and children’s books has won the World Fantasy, Aurora, Sunburst, and White Pine awards, among others. Modern Library's Top 100 Books of the 20th Century poll, voted on by readers, put eight of de Lint's books among the top 100. De Lint is also a poet, artist, songwriter, performer and folklorist, and he writes a monthly book-review column for The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. For more information, visit his website at www.charlesdelint.com.

  You can also connect with him at:

  https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8185168.Charles_de_Lint

  http://cdelint.tumblr.com/

  Other Books by Charles de Lint

  Discover other titles by Charles de Lint at your favourite retailer.

  SOMEWHERE IN MY MIND THERE IS A PAINTING BOX (novella; Triskell Press, 2016)

  RIDING SHOTGUN (novella; Triskell Press, 2015)

  THE WISHING WELL (novella; Triskell Press, 2015)

  NEWFORD STORIES: CROW GIRLS (collection; Triskell Press, 2015)