Obscura Burning

by van Rooyen, Suzanne

  “Hi, Kyle. I hear you’re having problems with ch’iindi.” He flicks his thick braid of hair over his shoulder.

  I tug my hair over the left side of my face as if it’ll make any difference to my horrific appearance.

  “I’m having problems,” I echo. “Not sure with what, exactly.”

  “You look a bit concerned about all this.” He waves his hand in the air above his head.

  “A bit.” Eloquence deserts me.

  “Don’t worry.” He winks as he invites me into his hogan. Shira stays outside with the dog, leaving me without moral support.

  Inside, it smells of herbs and dog. Strung across the ceiling are clumps of desiccated foliage. Niyol breaks off a handful of what might be greenthread.

  “For tea,” he says. Yup, greenthread.

  I sit only when he does, crossing my legs, occupying a rug woven in geometric shapes of red, black, and brown. It looks a lot like the ones they sell at Garry’s. Glancing around the hogan, I try to match what I’m seeing with my preconceptions of what a medicine man’s home might look like.

  “Not quite what you expected, right?” he says, handing me a cup of aromatic tea. He’s barefoot and his jeans are torn at the knees.

  “I didn’t know what to expect.” An old guy losing the battle to wrinkles, gray-haired and gap-toothed. Feathers and smoke. Not some hunky guy in a faded Beatles T-shirt.

  He smiles again, a flash of white teeth in the dim interior and the knots in my shoulders start to unwind. The tea’s helping too.

  “So, what’s up?” he asks, settling on another rug, frayed at the edges.

  “Shira thinks I have ghost sickness.”

  “And what do you think?”

  This feels like another shrink session.

  “I think I’m going crazy. This professor told me that Obscura’s causing a rift in the multiverse and I’m somehow shifting between alternate realities and then Shira says I’m being haunted by some unfortunate spirit that’s making me sick. I have no idea what’s happening to me.”

  Niyol sips his tea, his eyes never leaving my face.

  “What do you feel?” he asks.

  Guilty as sin, freaked out, terrified… “Tired.”

  The medicine man nods. “I don’t know why Obscura is in our sky, but I believe she’s brought about many changes. The worlds move differently now that she’s here.” Despite his modern attire, he sounds ancient. Timeless. “Perhaps her presence has opened up the passages between the worlds too.”

  “I just want it to stop.” Even if it means having to choose Shira or Danny, one life or another. Living in two worlds at once isn’t working out so great, because I’m not really living in two worlds. I’m lost somewhere in between them.

  “When did this all start?” Niyol asks.

  “The night of the fire.”

  He nods. Everyone knows about the fire in Ghost Town, even medicine men sitting in hogans out in the middle of nowhere.

  “Any idea how you can end it?”

  “Apparently at midnight tomorrow, Obscura will be closest to Earth, and that’s when I’ll have the best chance of putting things right.”

  “You believe you have the power to make things right?” He bends a knee, hugging it to his chest.

  “Sounds arrogant, doesn’t it?”

  “Very,” he says without blinking. “Perhaps the ch’iindi, these meddling spirits, are trying to show you something. Perhaps you’re too blind to see it.” He pauses, takes another sip of tea. “Perhaps the problem is that you do not wish to see what they’re trying to show you.” Again, he sounds older and wiser, more like a shaman.

  “I think I need to know…” It feels like I’ve got rocks instead of internal organs. It makes me feel so heavy, like the ground will crack beneath me and swallow me up any second, “…what really happened that night.”

  “You can’t see with your eyes, Kyle. You need to see from here.” Niyol jabs me in the chest, above my heart.

  “And how do I see with my heart?”

  Niyol laughs, and the sound makes me smile. The guy might be older, but he’s beautiful as only the Navajo can be, with their smooth faces and wide features.

  “Don’t think so literally. Seeing means to be open. You must be open to the spirits; you must welcome them and let them show you what they think you’re missing.”

  “Are you going to give me some peyote for that?”

  “That could be interesting, but sadly no. No mind-altering chemicals are going to make a difference if you don’t want to see for yourself.” He spreads his hands open as if in apology.

  “So what do you recommend?” I drain the last of the tea from my cup.

  Niyol takes a moment to think. “If you were Navajo, we would’ve done this differently. Prepared a full ceremony with hand tremblers and singers, the works.”

  “That takes nine days. I only have until tomorrow.”

  Niyol grins, perhaps a little impressed that I’m not a complete idiot when it comes to their practices.

  “Perhaps the professor has a point,” he says.

  I stretch out my legs, relieving them of pins and needles.

  “When Obscura is at her closest, the passage between realms will be wider and the spirits more inclined to dance with us. You know which spirits are haunting you.”

  “How would I know?”

  “Didn’t a boy die in that fire?” He waves away the question. “You will know who of your dead friends or family were closest to you, which spirits might have the most secrets to tell you. It’s unconventional, but perhaps it’s best to acknowledge them.”

  “How?”

  Communing with ghosts. This reality is spinning way out into the realm of bizarre.

  “Wear something of theirs, something personal, unique. Then, perhaps you should return to where it all started.”

  Niyol’s only confirming what I already suspected, solidifying my intent to return.

  “I can do that.” Going back to Ghost Town… Not something I ever wanted to do. That sinking feeling people always describe? It’s not slow and effortless like sinking into some bottomless ocean pit would be. No, it’s crushing and suffocating.

  “These are strange times, Kyle.”

  “Strange is a euphemism.”

  “Would you sit with me while I sing?”

  “You’re going to sing the spirits to me?” I ask with a lopsided grin.

  “A chant, really. It might help you connect, help you see.” Niyol smiles again. “Whatever’s going on, supernatural or not, you clearly need to unwind.” He places both hands on my shoulders and squeezes the muscles. I yelp and twitch away from the pressure. “See?”

  “A song will get rid of knots?”

  “No, but some arnica oil and a massage might.”

  He might be flirting with me, but it’s too strange. I’m so out of my comfort zone I can’t really tell if Niyol is just being himself or if his fingers lingered just a moment longer than necessary on my shoulder.

  He sits up straight and closes his eyes. It feels only right that mine close too. The chant begins. Niyol’s voice is reedy, the syllables make no sense to my ears, but the rhythm I can feel deep down in the marrow of my bones. In this moment, it’s not hard to believe in the ancient powers of the land and the Diné who hold her dear.

  Where are my ancestors, then? Not rooted in the tumbleweed sprawl of northwest New Mexico, that’s for sure, but dead and burned to a crisp in a funeral boat supposed to transport them to Valhalla. Burned. There’s no escaping the fire in my DNA.

  As the song reverberates around the hogan and inside my skull, I start slipping sideways, slow at first and then in a rush.

  I shift.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Shira’s dead

  Obscura’s fucking with me.

  Instead of the hospital bed, needles, and sad-eyed nurses, I’m passed out diagonally across my bed with a puddle of drool under my chin and dried blood around my nostrils. The pill bottle
beside my alarm clock is still full. According to my watch, it’s Saturday again. 17:47.

  So this is me not overdosing.

  I peel myself off the bed, knock back two pain pills, and ditch my clothes in a filthy pile that reeks of Tex-Mex. Showering helps. I turn the water up, hot as I can stand it and then some. Purification by hot water isn’t nearly as dramatic as fire, but I’m burning all the same.

  Shutting off the warm water, I force myself to stand beneath a torrent of icy cold, and emerge minutes later shivering and feeling more human.

  My dad’s planted at my door, legs spread, arms folded, and face puckered in a scowl.

  “What?” Feels too much like being a child, wearing only a towel and bruises.

  “The sheriff’s sitting at my kitchen table.” Dad’s voice is quiet and deadly.

  I swallow hard, not meeting Dad’s gaze.

  “Want to tell me why?”

  “There was a misunderstanding.”

  “A misunderstanding?” Dad lurches into the room, fists at the ready. I involuntarily back away when I should stand my ground. I’m five years old all over again.

  “I reversed into a car, that’s all.”

  “That’s all?” Dad’s usually red face is turning purple. He takes another step toward me and this time I stand my ground, rooted to the floor by sheer willpower.

  “I’m sorry, Dad.”

  “You’ll be sorry, all right.” His gaze flicks up and down my body. Maybe the bruises already painting my torso and face will deter him from adding even more.

  “Get dressed.” He turns and stomps down the stairs. I exhale; didn’t know I’d been holding my breath.

  Minutes later, dressed and hair combed, I trudge downstairs. This isn’t a new scenario, Sheriff Riggs narrowing his eyes at me over a cup of coffee at our kitchen table.

  “Kyle.” The sheriff gestures for me to sit down. That damn Jesus with his self-righteous eyes keeps staring at me from his cross. Repent, sinner. The words echo in my head.

  “I’ve just had a visit from Sal Gonzales,” Riggs starts.

  “Yeah, I reversed into Mya’s car at Garry’s. I’ll pay for the damages.” This is boring, having just been through this at the hospital.

  The sheriff frowns. Did he expect me to deny it?

  “Nicholas Vasquez—”

  I don’t let the sheriff finish. “Vasquez and Benny Gonzales jumped me. They were waiting for me outside Black Paw with two others.”

  “Why?” Riggs scribbles something in his notepad.

  “Because I drove into Mya and didn’t apologize on the spot; because they’re assholes. I don’t know. You figure it out.”

  “Watch your mouth.” Dad cuffs me over the back of the head. It’s a love tap compared to what he usually dishes out.

  “So am I under arrest?” I’d rather be back in the hogan listening to Niyol sing my demons away.

  “Should you be?” Riggs makes another note in his pad.

  I roll my eyes. “No, I didn’t start the fire that killed D… Shira,” I catch myself just in time. “There were four guys beating me up outside Black Paw so if anything, I should be pressing charges against them, and I already said I’d pay for the damages to Mya’s car. So are we done?”

  Sheriff Riggs taps his pen against the notepad. “For now.”

  “Great. Been a pleasure, Sheriff.” I push back from the table and shove past my dad, making eye contact. He grabs my arm, the burned one. His fat fingers close tight around the blister and it takes serious effort not to wince.

  If Dad wants to take a swing at me, he can damn well do it now. He meets the challenge in my gaze, but lets me pass, releasing my arm. I’ll catch it later, when there’s no one else around to see. Maybe this time I’ll hit back.

  * * *

  The sun’s just dipping toward the horizon, promising a magnificent sunset. It’s still so hot. Please God, just let it rain. Not that God, or whoever else is up there, ever listens to my prayers. Or maybe they do and choose not to answer them.

  Having nowhere else to go, my feet take me west toward the hogback. Breathing is easier now, but I still have to take it slow.

  By the time I reach the summit, the sun’s consumed the sky, streaking the cirrus clouds with vermilion and gold. Shiprock looms, casting a ghastly shadow across the flat scrub in the distance. If only Danny were here. This kind of beauty only matters, only exists, if it’s shared.

  My gaze fixes on the sun. So what if I go blind? The world’s going to end anyway. My arms spread wide; the evening breeze washes over me. With the wind comes snatches of conversation torn from the lips of whoever’s down in the arroyo.

  Solar glare stains my vision as I peer over the ridge, down into the creek. The voices are raised in argument. They sound familiar. It takes a few moments for my eyesight to clear. Two people down in the shade, lying on a picnic blanket. Squinting, I can just make out some identifying details. Ice threads my veins. For an instant I think it’s Shira beneath Danny, her hands twisted in his hair, his lips on her face.

  I rub my eyes and look again. It’s Mya, dark skin and blonde hair. Lanky Nicholas kneeling above her, attempting the throes of passion despite her protests. My gaze lingers, just long enough to make sure it isn’t Shira and Danny, just long enough to see Mya’s balled fists trying to dislodge the guy.

  “Stop.” The wind whips the words up the ridge. I skid along the path; it’s none of my business, but there’s some residual emotion for the girl even if it was born in another reality. Mya’s screams are muffled as Nicholas shoves his mouth against hers.

  I announce my presence with a loud, “Hey,” and jog toward them. Nicholas looks up with loathing in his eyes. Mya scrabbles across the blanket, pulling her shirt over her head.

  “Fuck off, faggot.” Nicholas rocks back on his heels. There’s nothing wrong with the guy’s nose, and yet he’s pressing charges against me.

  Mya won’t make eye contact, but she’s drawn her knees to her chest, hugging them close.

  “Can’t I join your picnic?” There’s a half-empty bottle of tequila lying in the dust.

  “You deaf? I told you to—”

  “I heard. Just wondering if Mya feels the same way.”

  Her gaze shifts in my direction, making the briefest eye contact.

  “I think I can take care of my girl.” Nicholas looms over her like a conquering conquistador.

  “Yeah? Didn’t look like she was enjoying it.” I shrug and put my hands in my pockets. The sky’s the color of a day-old scab now, and the shadows thicken around us.

  “How would you know what a girl likes?”

  “At least I know what no means.”

  “You’ve got a smart mouth, Kyle.”

  “Pity you haven’t got a smart anything.” This won’t end well.

  My body can’t handle another fight, but I want nothing more than to punch the guy bloody. If he’s pressing assault charges, I might as well give him something to whine about.

  Nicholas resorts to Spanish and spits off a string of curses at me. Half of them land meaningless in the sand. He’s losing the fight and knows it.

  “You done?” I ask, the epitome of nonchalance, although my pulse is thundering in my ears as my heart beats double-time.

  Nicholas rushes me, growling like a rabid animal, ignoring Mya’s shrill appeals to stop, again. I dart out of his reach, but he catches my leg, sending me sprawling. The pain in my side is dizzying. In seconds Nicholas is straddling me, fists pounding already bruised flesh. I tuck my arms into my sides, trying to protect my ribs, but now I’m losing.

  The tequila bottle is a stretch away. Gritting my teeth, I expose my injured ribs just long enough to lay a hand on the bottle. Before Nicholas can land another blow, the bottle smashes across his head. Scrambling to my feet, I lean over his body and raise my weapon. It would be so easy to bash his skull in. Part of me wants to see his brains spattered across the sand.

  The bottle drops from my trembling fingers as
Mya rushes forward.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she asks me, crouching beside Nicholas and smoothing hair away from the gash in his temple. I collapse to my knees, holding my injured side as if it helps. Even shallow breaths feel like knives in my lungs.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I wheeze. “The guy almost raped you.”

  She glares at me before turning worried eyes back to Nicholas. “He’s my boyfriend.”

  “That makes it okay, then.” My words are steeped in vitriol.

  The glower on her face contorts her features, ruining her pretty face.

  “He’s just concussed. He’ll be fine,” I say.

  “Why’d you even bother?” She stops fussing over Nicholas.

  “I told you.” Every word is agony. “In another life, you and I are friends. It’s what friends do.”

  She takes a moment and when she speaks again, she almost sounds thankful.

  “You should leave. If anyone asks, I’ll tell them Nick was drunk, fell and hit his head.”

  “Suit yourself.” I get to my feet, dusting off my jeans. “Will you be okay?”

  “Yeah, he just had too much to drink,” she says without making eye contact.

  “I’m sorry about your car.”

  A fleeting smile crosses her face. “Your dad got the bill.”

  “Thanks. You think you’d get Nicholas and Benny to drop the assault charges?”

  Nicholas moans and rolls over.

  “I’ll try,” Mya says. “You should leave now.”

  That’s all the thanks I’m going to get.

  I traipse back up the ridge. The sun’s just an orange memory in the west. In the east, Obscura creeps into the sky, casting blue highlights across the scrub.

  We have a staring contest and inevitably, she wins, leaving me with a million little Obscuras flashing in my peripheral vision.

  “Screw you.” I give the blinking planet the middle finger. I feel better for it.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Danny’s dead

  There are few things more embarrassing than puking into the herb garden of a guy you’ve just been flirting with. The dog doesn’t seem to mind—he’s licking my face even as I spit up more sour mess.