His Father's Eyes

by DAVID B. COE

  In life, Namid had belonged to the K’ya’na-Kwe clan of the A’shiwi or Zuni nation—the water people, as they were known. His clan was extinct now, and had been for centuries. I didn’t know if Namid’s appearance was his way of honoring their memory, or if it was simply the natural, or perhaps magical, manifestation of his tribal heritage. Whatever its origins, Namid always appeared to me as a being made entirely of water. He had the build of a warrior: tall, broad-shouldered, lean, muscular. On this night he was as clear as a woodland stream and as smooth as the ocean at dawn, but one could read his moods in the texture of his liquid form the way a ship’s captain might gauge the weather by watching the sea. His eyes were the single exception: They always glowed, like white flames within his luminous waters. I would never have said as much to him—I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction—but he was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen.

  “Ohanko. It is late. You should be asleep, and I should not be summoned at such an hour.”

  He was also the most infuriating.

  He’d been calling me “Ohanko,” which, as far as I could tell, meant “reckless one,” for so long that I couldn’t remember when he had started. And he had been talking to me as if he were my mother, telling me when to sleep and what to eat, for even longer.

  “I’m sorry I called for you,” I said, “But I can’t sleep yet. I need some answers first.”

  He regarded me for the span of a heartbeat before sinking to the floor and staring up at me, those gleaming eyes seeming to ask why the hell I was still standing. I sat opposite him.

  “You conjured tonight.”

  “Yes, I did. But that’s not—”

  “What spells did you cast?”

  Did I mention that he could be infuriating?

  “I used a seeing spell—”

  “Using the techniques we have discussed?”

  “Yes, and—”

  “Did it work?”

  “Yes, it worked fine.”

  “Good. What else?”

  “I cast a couple of . . . well, I call them fist spells.”

  His watery brow furrowed. “Fist spells,” he repeated, his voice a low rumble, like the rush of distant headwaters.

  “They act like a punch, but I can cast them from a distance.”

  He nodded. “Crude, but effective. What else?”

  “A camouflage spell,” I said. As impatient as I was to discuss other matters, I couldn’t keep a hint of pride from creeping into my voice.

  Namid’s eyebrows—such as they were—went up a fraction of an inch. “That is high magic, Ohanko. Your casting was successful.”

  “Yeah, it worked great. That is, until I tripped over an empty beer bottle.”

  His expression flattened. “Have I not told you that you must tread like the fox, that you must act at all times with great care?”

  “You’ve told me,” I said. “And I try. This time . . .” I shrugged. “What can I say? I screwed up.”

  “You are fortunate that your carelessness did not carry a greater cost.”

  I’m a grown man—thirty-three years old. My mom has been dead for close to twenty years, and my dad has been crazy for almost as long. In many ways, Namid was the closest thing to a parent that I had, and his scoldings still stung like cold rain. But at that moment, his disapproval was the least of my concerns.

  “So you weren’t aware of all this,” I said. “You didn’t see me cast the spell, or knock over the bottle. You weren’t there for what happened next.”

  Namid had a way of going still; it almost seemed like he turned from water to ice, and most of the time I thought it was very cool. Not now. Seeing his face harden, his body tense, I shivered, as from a winter wind.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “I’m not sure exactly what happened. I was trying to sneak up on a guy, and when I kicked over the bottle he raised his weapon and fired at me. Three times. I couldn’t have been more than ten feet from him, and though he couldn’t see me, he aimed right at my chest. I . . .” I took a breath. “I should be dead.”

  “Why are you not?”

  “I don’t know. But in the instant that his finger moved, I was almost sure I felt a spell. I—I thought that maybe you had intervened.”

  “You know that I cannot.”

  “You did, not that long ago.”

  “The circumstances were different. Cahors was our . . . screwup.” The phrase sounded odd coming from him. “I cannot keep you safe in the normal course of your life. My responsibilities lie elsewhere.”

  I would have liked to ask him about that, too. Another time.

  “Maybe I imagined it, then.”

  “Is it possible that you cast without intending, without even knowing that you did it?”

  I grinned. “I’m not sure how to answer that.”

  “I am not sure how you could, either,” the myste said, his tone wry. “But you understand the point I am making.”

  “Yes. But I don’t think that’s what happened. I was scrambling to cast a different sort of spell. I should have cast a warding, but it all happened so fast.” I shook my head. “Maybe he missed, plain and simple, though I don’t see how he could have. Is it possible that another of your kind has taken an interest in me?”

  “Another of my kind?”

  “Another runemyste.”

  “I have told you, Ohanko: It is against the laws that govern my kind to interfere in your world. Another of my kind would be bound by the same prohibitions that bind me. And where you are concerned, another runemyste would not chafe at those prohibitions nearly as much as I do.”

  I made no effort to mask my surprise; he wasn’t usually prone to such kindnesses. “Thank you, Namid. That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  His translucent hand flicked out in annoyance. “I mean simply that others have not invested so much time and energy in your training. They would not be inconvenienced by your death the way I would.”

  That was more like the Namid I had come to know over the years.

  “Still, I’m touched.”

  Namid frowned, but I could tell that my questions had piqued his curiosity. Or maybe it was more than that. Maybe he was scared.

  “If it was someone else,” I said, “a weremyste or a runemyste who’s less bound than you are by arbitrary rules, it’s all right. He or she saved my life. It’s like I have a guardian angel.”

  This deepened the myste’s scowl. “There are no guardian angels, Ohanko. There are sorcerers and mystes, and they rarely act out of altruism.”

  “So you believe that someone wants me alive for a specific reason?”

  “I do not know what to believe. I will have to think on this at greater length.” He started to fade from view. “Tread like the fox, Ohanko. Do not screw up anymore.”

  I chuckled. “Thanks, ghost.”

  I heard another rumble, like the whisper of approaching thunder. A moment later he was gone.

  I stood, stretched my back, and crossed to the answering machine, which was a relic from a time when devices like this used tiny little cassette tapes. I had several messages, most of them from prospective clients. One was from Billie Castle, who was, for lack of a better term, my girlfriend.

  “Hey, Fearsson, it’s me.” I couldn’t help the dumb grin that spread across my face every time I heard her voice. “I know you’re working, and I know we have plans for Friday, but I was wondering if you had time for lunch tomorrow. Nothing fancy—I was thinking the burrito place on Main, near the mall. Call me in the morning.”

  I made a note to call her, and jotted down numbers and names from the other messages. Then I dragged myself back to my room and fell into bed, too tired even to bother pulling down the shades.

  I woke with the sun, went for a run and showered, and then called Billie to confirm our plans. After grabbing a bite to eat, I got in the Z-ster and drove out to Wofford, west of the city, where my dad lives in an old trailer.

  I go out to see h
im most Tuesdays. I bring him groceries and other supplies. Sometimes I cook for him. Sometimes I do no more than sit with him and listen to him ramble on and on about God knows what. Every once in a while—maybe one week in five, if I’m lucky—I catch him on a good day and we sit for hours talking about baseball and stuff in the news and police work; he was a cop, too, until his mind quit on him and he lost his job.

  Today was Thursday, but I hadn’t liked the way he looked or sounded a couple of days ago, and I wanted to check in on him again. It was a slow drive out of the city—there weren’t any quick drives left in Phoenix—but by nine o’clock I was on US 60, following a lonely stretch of road past sun-baked telephone poles and dry, windswept desert. Reaching the rutted dirt road to my father’s place, I turned and steered the Z-ster past the stunted sage, a plume of pale red dust billowing behind me.

  I could tell before I reached him that Dad was no better off today than he had been the last time I saw him. He sat slumped in the lawn chair outside his trailer, beneath the plastic tarp I had set up for him a couple of years before. He had his eyes trained on the horizon, and his old Leica binoculars rested in his lap. He wore dirty jeans and a threadbare white T-shirt; they might have been the same clothes he’d been wearing on Tuesday. His sneakers were untied; he didn’t have on socks.

  The same way I could judge Namid’s moods by how roiled his waters were, I could tell what state my father was in by the care with which he dressed. When he didn’t change his clothes or bother with socks or shoelaces, it meant he was out of it, and had been for a while. I hoped he’d been eating. Hell, I hoped he had slept in his bed rather than in that old chair.

  I parked and got out, squinting against the glare and the dust.

  “Hey, Dad,” I called, raising a hand.

  He didn’t respond, or even turn my way. I could see that he was muttering to himself. Every few seconds he seemed to wince, as if he were in pain. He hadn’t shaved since the last time I saw him; his slack cheeks were grizzled, making him appear even more haggard than usual. His white hair, unkempt and probably in a need of a washing, stirred in the desert wind.

  I walked to where he sat and kissed his forehead. He stank of sweat, and his breath was rank. His gaze found mine for a second or two but then slid back to the horizon and the mountain ranges that fell away in layers until they were lost in the brown haze hanging over the city.

  “How are you doing, Dad?”

  He didn’t take his eyes off the desert, but he shook his head. “Not so good,” he said, his voice strained, the words clipped.

  As interactions with my dad went, this was better than it could have been; at least he had responded to my question, which meant that he was communicative and aware of my presence. Sometimes I didn’t even get that much from him.

  I pulled out a second lawn chair and placed it beside his. Sitting, I leaned forward, peering into his eyes. Like mine, they were a soft, smoky gray, and today they appeared glazed, sunken.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked him. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”

  “It Tuesday already?”

  “No, it’s Thursday. But I was worried about you when I left the other day, so I thought I’d come back.”

  He answered with a slow nod, his gaze following the flight of a hawk.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s this burning,” he said, whispering the words. “It’s . . . The burning. I can’t make it stop.”

  I laid the back of my hand against his forehead, checking for fever. His skin felt cool and dry.

  “What burning?”

  “They’re burning me, like brands, searing my skin, marking me as theirs.” He shook his head. “I don’t know why, but look at me. Look!” He held out his arms, the undersides bared to the sky, his hands trembling. “Look!” he said again. A tear slipped from his eye and wound a crooked course down his lined face. “So many burns!”

  Hallucinations like this one were a common element of my father’s psychosis. A doctor would have told me not to be too concerned: this would pass, and this state was as normal for him as any other. Hell, doctors had told me exactly that on other occasions when his behavior bordered on the bizarre and unsettling.

  But as relieved as I was by his lack of fever, and the absence of wounds on his arms, I couldn’t help feeling that this particular delusion was taking a greater toll than others I’d seen him endure.

  “Who’s doing this to you? Who’s burning you?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, the words thick with tears, his eyes still fixed on the slack, unmarred skin of his forearms. “They think I matter still. Again. They think I matter, but I don’t.” He swiveled toward me. “You do. You matter. You be careful, boy. They’ll come for you before long. But me . . .” He shook his head again. “I don’t know what they want, or why they think I matter. But they’re here, and I want them to go. I don’t like this.”

  “You do matter.”

  “No!” he said with sudden ferocity. “This isn’t the time for sentimental shit! I. Don’t. Matter. But they don’t know it! They don’t! They don’t! They’re searing me with their brands and their torches. They’re poking and prodding and hurting and pushing just to see how far they can take me, just to . . . Just because.”

  “When was the last time you ate?”

  “I . . .” He closed his eyes, still wincing every few seconds. “A long time,” he said. “I’m hungry.”

  “Good. What can I fix for you?”

  “Ice cream.”

  “Dad—” I stopped myself. The doctors would have told me that when my father was like this, getting calories in him was the most important thing. He was sixty-four. He didn’t have to eat his peas and carrots before he had dessert. “Sure,” I said. “I’ll get you some.”

  No response.

  I stood, stepped into the trailer. Usually, with my father in such a state, I’d expect to find his kitchen an utter disaster. But it wasn’t. It was worse: It remained exactly as I had left it Tuesday afternoon. I would have bet every dollar in my pocket that he hadn’t eaten since the lunch we’d shared then.

  I packed a bowl with mint chocolate chip—his current favorite—and got him a tall glass of ice water as well. Returning to his side, I gave him the water first.

  He took it, glanced up at me, eyed the water again. He took a sip, closed his eyes once more. Then he tipped the glass back and drained it in about six seconds.

  “You want me to get you more?”

  He nodded.

  I handed him the ice cream and went back inside. I was out again in mere moments, and already the bowl was mostly empty. He still flinched again and again; whatever was bothering him hadn’t gone away. But in these few minutes his color had improved and his eyes had grown clearer.

  “They don’t like this,” he said, pointing at the bowl with his spoon, a knowing grin lifting the corners of his mouth. “Not even a little.”

  “Who don’t?”

  “They can’t burn me as easily when I have this in me. And the water. That, too. They like that even less.”

  “Who’s burning you, Dad? Can you tell me now?”

  He sobered and shook his head, his gaze holding mine as he took another mouthful of ice cream.

  He finished that first bowl a few minutes later, and I went back and got him a second. And when he finished that one, I brought him half a sandwich, which he bolted down as well.

  Sometimes, getting some food into my dad brought him around a bit, helped him reconnect with reality. Not this time. He continued that odd wincing, and he went on and on about being prodded and burned. I’d been with him through a lot of different hallucinations, but again I couldn’t shake the feeling that this one was different.

  His skin had lost that sallow quality, though, and once he’d had enough to eat, I managed to convince him to shower, shave, brush his teeth, and put on fresh clothes. By the time I was ready to leave, he was back in his chair, staring at the horizon. I could tell he was hurting
still, but I didn’t know what else to do for him.

  “I have to go for a while. But I’ll come back later, all right?”

  He didn’t so much as glance at me.

  “Dad—”

  “If you’re here, they’ll know where to find you, and then you’ll be in trouble, too.”

  “I’ll take my chances. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  He didn’t argue the point further. I kissed his forehead, got in my car, and headed back into the city to keep my lunch date with Billie. She would have understood if I had asked her for a rain check, but I wanted to see her, and I also wanted to get my payment from Nathan Felder.

  Once I was back on the road and close enough to Phoenix to get a decent signal on my ancient cell phone, I called my dad’s doctor to ask him about what I had seen and heard. He didn’t have much to say, at least not much that was helpful. But he did end our conversation with this gem:

  “The truth is, Jay, your dad is getting older, his condition is worsening, and it will continue to worsen. Trying to define what’s ‘normal’”—I could hear the air quotes—“is almost pointless, because normal for him is always changing; it’s always deteriorating. What you’ve described for me is no worse than what I might expect for any patient with his history. I’m sorry, but that’s the unvarnished truth.”

  And because you’re a sorcerer like your old man, and because you go through the insanity of the phasings month in and month out, full moon after full moon, this is your future as well.

  He didn’t have to say that last; we both knew he was thinking it.

  I thanked him and ended the call.

  The moonrise was still hours away—tonight’s moon would be a waxing gibbous. We were four nights from the full, three from the first night of July’s phasing. And already I felt the moon tugging at my mind, as insistent as a needy child, as unrelenting as the tide.

  In another few days, even before night descended and the moon rose to begin the phasing, it would start to dull my thoughts and influence my mood. Right now it was a distraction and not too much more. But at the mere thought of those nights to come, I shuddered.