Ride the Lucky

by Kendric Neal

  He arrived at the other side finally and sat down on the box to mop his brow. He leaned down and took a sip of water from the edge of the river, unsure how safe it was but too thirsty to care.

  He followed the trail across the meadow, lit by the intense glow of the setting sun. He climbed the first hill, passing a group of sheep who eyed him warily. The path descended into briars and thick undergrowth in the vee before he emerged and began climbing to the top of the second hill.

  He saw the structure through the trees, the smoke of a chimney further marking its location. As he finally crested the hill, exhausted and sweating, he saw a dirt road and an ancient, battered minivan parked alongside a ramshackle structure.

  “Could have told me there was a road,” he mumbled.

  He knocked on the door which rattled in its frame and didn't have a working latch. A dog inside began yapping frantically in a way that sounded strained and fearful. When no other response came, Neely pounded again and yelled “Hello!” A cat appeared and wound through his legs, followed quickly by six more who all seemed starved for food, attention or anything else he might have to offer. “HELLO!! Mrs. Lomasi! This is Neely Thomas, I would like to speak with you, please!”

  The dog's frantic yapping and the cats' constant swirl around his feet were unnerving him and he had to hold the door in place to knock on it, as it kept popping open. He didn't want to see what was on the other side, he didn't want to be there at all, but he wasn't going to go away until he talked to her. He cursed himself for not getting there before dark, it made it all that much creepier, but that was part of the plan, wasn't it? This was how it was going to end from the moment she took his hands in hers and hissed that word to him. He couldn't fight something like this, his rational world didn't allow it. He couldn't bend, he could only break, his universe was built on reason and when that went, the whole assemblage went with it.

  He was surprised when the door finally opened. He realized he hadn't really looked at her at the funeral, he was replaying a dim memory and his imagination filled in the rest. She wasn't powerful, she wasn't a wise and all-seeing and all-knowing shaman, she was just a little old woman with weathered skin and stringy gray hair. She looked inconsequential, small and dirty, like she should be living in a cave, not an unfinished structure with beat-up sheathing that still had faded Home Depot logos on it.

  He noted the light behind her was flickering—the interior lit by a kerosene lamp, the floor bare dirt—Jesus, this place doesn't even have electricity? Something moved behind her, the dog he presumed, or maybe one of the cats, or maybe something worse.

  “I'm Neely Thomas,” he said and she showed no interest, no sign of recognition. He realized he'd never had someone do that to him in his life, look at him with truly no expression. It was always at least confusion, annoyance, anger, or what the hell do you want?, but never just plain nothing.

  “Do you remember me?” She still didn't answer and showed no sign she'd even heard. “Mrs. Lomasi, I killed your boy. I killed Jack—”

  “I know who you are.”

  “You spoke to me at the funeral…”

  She turned and went back inside without word. Neely didn't know if he was meant to follow but did. Inside, he could barely see. The lamp provided little light and the sun was almost down. “What do you want?”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “Lucky.”

  “Pardon?”

  “That's what I said to you.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Were you?”

  “Lucky? Yes, I sure as hell was.”

  “That tree didn't hit you, it hit Jack.”

  “I swerved.”

  “Into Jack.”

  “I clipped his bumper. I didn't mean to, it was an accident, but it was my fault.”

  “You tell them that?”

  “I told them what happened.” At that she smiled. Well, if you could call it a smile. She only had one tooth, and a dead one at that. It looked like a leer. “I'm sorry about what happened. I've had nightmares about it since.”

  “You should.”

  “I didn't mean him to die in my place.”

  “You said you killed him.”

  “I did say that. I feel responsible.”

  “Why did you say that?”

  “Because my eyes weren't on the road. I have a problem. I have a gambling addiction. I was looking at my phone screen.”

  “You saw the tree.”

  “I saw it hit the road.”

  “You swerved away.”

  “I did.”

  “You swerved into Jack.”

  “I did.”

  “Jack died.”

  “He did.”

  “You lived.”

  “I did.”

  “So what do you want?”

  “I want to stop being lucky.”

  “Why?”

  “I can't take it.”

  “You want me to lift it,” she said, laughing.

  “No, I want you to kill me.” He set the box on the table. “That's full of money. That's what your luck did for me. Now I can't get rid of it. I want to, I want to put an end to it and I want you to have the money.”

  “Ulyadalesqi askana. It won't stop. It can't. Speak to the trees, maybe they'll stop it.”

  “You can do good things with that. You can help your people.”

  She laughed. “… my people… where you think you are, mala ovicha pakala. That was long ago. My people… help them with your money.” She picked up a stack of the cash and threw it up in the air. “Like magic!”

  “I need you to help me,” he said, and she only laughed louder. “If you can't lift it, then use this—” he said, taking the gun out of the box and handing it to her. “I can't do it, it doesn't work. Take my life for his. That's what this was about, anyway.”

  She laughed again and sat back in her rocking chair as he continued, “I can't change what happened. If I could, I'd let the tree hit me instead. This is all I have to offer.”

  She laughed and rocked, looking at Neely with the gun and the money like it was the funniest thing she'd ever seen. “I'd change it if I could,” he said.

  “You can't change it, wakichu'a. You killed him. Nagali tancha, the hurt of one is the hurt of all.”

  “I know.”

  “Jack was good man. He went to school, get job, work hard, want family… you told him lies. Danitaka'a, you said you'd do this and you didn't. You said you'd never let him down and you did. Calyuni, danitaka'a, danitaka'a. Wakyza wasn't his name. I gave him that name. You know what that means, white man? Desperate Warrior…”

  She handed Neely a photo, the one the copies were made from, the one of Jack from the shrines.

  “He try to do what you tell him. He go to computer school. They told him 'pay these loans', he couldn't, they double the payments. He couldn't pay those, so they took his check. They took his check, then they wouldn't hire him. He came back, he had nothing, like the others. He ate his tail.” She leaned forward. “Like you…”

  She grabbed fistfuls of cash and threw them at him, laughing. “Udelikgvdidvelqdi!” she said.

  Neely stood and pressed the gun into her hands, which only made her laugh at him again, throwing more cash.

  “Udelikgvdidvelqdi!”

  “I know you did this to me,” Neely said. “You did it and I couldn't take it. You broke me.”

  “You want to die, maiwa aslan'a.”

  “I want it to end.”

  “It never ends. You know what my grandmother called you? Uyoxsvhi'a idanv'ado, the broken hearts. You lost something, now you have pain. That's why you're so mean to animals, mean to the Earth, mean to each other, that's why you're so hungry all the time. Upesdakehvuqanvdo!”

  “Okay. End it then.”

  Neely put the gun in her hands and aimed it at himself, but she only cackled. He angered and wrapped his fingers around her throat, but it only made her laugh more.

  “Toka he'a, iqpomi.” She looke
d demonic in the dim light, the cats agitated now, circling, as the dog yapped frantically, lunging at Neely's feet.

  “JUST DO IT!” he said, and the gun suddenly went off, only the bullet didn't hit Neely.

  She was stronger than she looked, she'd pushed the barrel to point at the ceiling. A sprinkling of dust fell around them.

  “Waquu!” she laughed. “Shall I dig under his skin for bones?!” The gun went off again, firing wild. “Ledahe! Listen, or your tongue will make you deaf! Tsoi!”

  The shot hit the lamp and it tumbled to the floor, igniting the kerosene inside. That her couch was now burning only made her laugh more raucous and insane.

  Neely released her, seeing the room plunged into darkness now except for the licking flames. He tried to put them out with a blanket.

  “Avasnq'la! Throw your magic on it, yawalankh! Avasnq'la!”

  Neely realized he was only making it worse as he fanned the flames, the couch was old and not fire-retardant. The curtains began to burn, the blanket he was using to extinguish it went up like straw.

  “Lucky! Lucky!” she said, laughing.

  Smoke filled the room and he ran outside, coughing as she screamed after him.

  “Throw magic on it!” she said, throwing fistfuls of cash toward the flames. “Ta Wish Vay!”

  He ran without stopping, without looking back anymore. He left the road, he went in the direction he'd come from, but he couldn't see in the dark, he couldn't find the path. He knew he had to get away, though, her spirit was coming for him and in the end he was scared.

  She'd been waiting for him in the dark, and now she had the light of the burning money to guide her. It'd been the plan all along.

  He was deep in the woods before he realized he was lost and should have stuck to the road. He tried doubling back, but couldn't spot the road in the moonlight and didn't see the glow of the house burning anymore. He thought he saw the three hills but there was no fire or light coming from the middle one.

  He was half-relieved in any case, he dreaded taking even one step back. Instead he headed back downhill to the river to follow it to where the road must cross, but the river wasn't where he thought it'd be. He stopped to try to get his bearings only to realize it was useless, without the three hills or the river he had no idea what direction to walk in. He kept going anyway, half to keep warm, half to put as much distance between him and the woman as possible. It was the only thing that kept the hammering in his chest from overwhelming him.

  He leaned against a tree at last and realized he was running down—he hadn't slept in two days and hadn't eaten in almost as long. He'd been running on pure adrenaline and now even that had dribbled away. He sat heavily on the ground and felt the biting cold reach through his clothes.

  What he had left, she'd taken, and he wasn't sure if he even cared. He thought it'd be more dramatic than this, that she'd take his offer and end it for him, but that wasn't her style, was it? Her curse had been slow and insidious, working through him like a cancer rather than something quick and just like a bullet. Neely felt his heart racing as his breathing slowed.

  He was hyperventilating, going into shock. The last 48 hours had been one long, sustained panic attack and now, standing on the other shore, knowing the woman wasn't going to give him any relief after all, he gave up for good. He didn't think of Hope or Jess or Cullen, he should have, but he didn't. He only thought of the peacefulness of giving up. It's okay to throw it all in when you know you've been beaten. There's no shame if you've given it your all.

  CHAPTER 28

  He ran this time. The grinning skeleton reached for him and he ran, turning straight into the massive log bursting through the wall of glass. On top sat the Dark Queen, riding it like a Harpy with snake eyes and serpent tongue, glaring at him, boring through him, her mad laughter all he could hear…

  Jack… fallen warrior, doomed warrior, Desperate Warrior.

  “Jack, you're safe, you're free, you're the lucky one, can you do this for me? Can you lead them to me?”

  Jack waved to him, he waved okay. Not goodbye—just “okay.” “Taken care of, Chief. Least I could do. You did me one, I'll do you one.”

  It was like riding an ejection seat, explosive bolts firing, blasting him straight up out of the wreckage, all the connectors sheared. Jack Wakyza saw him fly overhead. Jack waved to him, not in goodbye or alarm or recognition, but in shared amazement. Neely saw the whole scene play out below, her riding the massive trunk and laying waste to the remains of the semi, bouncing over Jack's car, bouncing over the shrine to—not to Jack, to Neely. Drawings and photos put there, he knew, at his shrine, by Hope and Jess and Cullen.

  The tree gained force, dragging down the illegal loggers, the destroyers, the hevoqitaschami'utsto…

  It bounced a hundred feet in the air, clearing the casino, tumbling down the hill, picking up speed, but that was all—it jumped over the old woman's house, it jumped her ancient minivan, it leaped and bounced, searching out its target.

  It cleared the chain link fence, cleared the drainage canal, it reamed the trees he'd planted last Spring, it took them to school, those tame little apple trees, the decorative Sweet Gums and Gingkos, nice, well-behaved trees that humans planted like pets…

  It flattened his house. It took it down to its foundations.

  It was more powerful than a hurricane and deadly silent like the ages—

  It shattered the granite countertops and flattened the master suite, it blew his big-screen into fragments and disappeared into the night.

  It touched nothing nearby, its task finished, it disappeared into the night sky, evaporating into the matter from which it originated, rejoining the ancient spirits.

  Hope and the kids…the life they'd built. The Old Ones, weathered faces in B&W, sagging with wrinkles, knowledge and futility… with fatal awareness, their modern powwows in the casino rec room, their great-grandchildren and their lost ways, lost language, lost lives…Desperate Warriors, bending under changing times and white mens' promises, who couldn't get hired cuz no one hires Injuns, cuz white guys and Asians are smart but dirty Injuns ain't good for nothin'…

  The ghosts came.

  The boy pinned him with a familiar forearm… the old woman, bald and burned and demonic. She chewed herbs and drooled blood into his mouth…

  He screamed as she pulled back his hair and pressed the knife into Jack's hand.

  He woke wet and stiff, and a deer bounded off, frightened.

  Neely sat up and looked at its graceful escape; it turned briefly to make sure he wasn't following and disappeared into the trees.

  It took him a minute to piece together where he was and how he'd gotten there, as it was jarring to wake from a dream that seemed so final.

  He had no recollection of looking for the road, of getting lost, or sitting down in the woods to die in the cold. Now he was awake in the woods in a grimy suit, with a blood-caked face, in trouble with a dozen different law enforcement agencies and his life all shot to hell.

  It made him want to lie down again, it made him wish he'd just died instead.

  He sighed and stood up shakily, trying to put himself back in space and time. It all came back quickly enough, this was the final unraveling of the mess he'd created, but knowing he deserved it didn't make it any easier.

  He coughed and felt phlegm in his chest, a result of the freezing temperatures most likely. Maybe he'd be lucky after all and die without trying. Lucky.

  His temples throbbed and his joints ached, but he had to move. The sun was out, the birds were singing, and the woods no longer offered him the solace and promise of secrecy.

  The dream came back to him and he examined its pieces, thinking how little it had seemed like a dream at the time. No, it hadn't had that dreamy quality dreams have. It had something stark and knowing, something harsh and well-lit like red-eyed family photos, like people caught mid-sentence or mid-bite. It felt like horror, here and now, the trees and Jack Wakyza and Lomasi Buchanan-Angel, knowi
ng something that was the cold, hard truth…

  He saw something on the ground and reached to pick it up—the photo of Jack Wakyza. It might as well have been Baron Samaha or Marie Laveau, the boy's ghost had now taken up permanent residency in the realm of demons in Neely's mind.

  Neely walked slowly, loosening his stiff joints, and headed downhill, wondering how far he had wandered in his night terrors.

  He spotted the river through gaps in the trees and made his way down to the bank. He cupped some water and sipped it slowly, worried about shocking his system with the cold.

  He saw his reflection and realized he looked worse than imagined. He dunked his head in and washed the worst of the blood and the dirt off. It helped clear a few cobwebs as he set out for the log bridge he'd crossed—when was that? Last night? A century ago? In his dreams?

  After fifteen minutes he still hadn't found it and realized he must have passed it in the night. He didn't want to go back and instead just continued following the river, figuring it would lead to another path.

  In a half-hour, he found a paved road and a bridge and was thankful not to have to attempt the treacherous footing of the log again. He found himself instead in a quiet neighborhood of small trailers and curious eyes. He knew he looked like hell, but it might also have been the suit and white skin.

  Dogs and chickens watched too, and as he passed the back of a small and desolate daycare, the children ran to the fence to watch his haunted figure go by. He suddenly lurched toward them like Frankenstein and they screamed bloody murder and jumped back. When he broke out in a grin, they did the same and flocked to the fence again.

  He took in the faux Indian architecture in the morning light as though seeing it for the first time.

  A white person designed it, somehow he knew that. A white person doing their best to stay true to Native American styles and traditions, to Cherokee and Naccahaw and Seminole symbolism, yet somehow missing the point entirely. Aesthetically acceptable but false as lies. Counterfeit and artificial… the well-intentioned work of a qathaqa. He wanted to go in and sit in the cafe to rest, but he didn't want to be hassled by security. It left him with no idea what to do, as he'd lost his box of money, his accounts were frozen, and the Feds were waiting to haul his ass off to jail.