Child of a Rainless Year

by Lindskold, Jane

  I gripped the lion between my knees, feeling myself balancing upon his broad back with perfect ease. I shaped a brush out of air and desire, and used Colette as a palette. With the red of her lips I drew roses and poppies along the roadside. From the folds of her skirt I pulled the colors I needed to adorn a drought-seared tree with the clusters of purple blossoms, transforming it into a lilac bush alive with spring glory. A jeweled ring upon her finger gave me sapphire blue, but there was nothing I could use for yellow or green.

  Then with a joyful laugh I realized I was trying too hard. The shining black of Colette’s hair, like the shine of a raven’s wing, held every color in its iridescence. Here was green, here yellow, here a hint of shining indigo. I chose my hues with abandon rather than care, painted as I had wished to paint, painted as I had denied myself since those years when fear rather than delight was what I associated with my art.

  All around us my brush brought forth a jungle garden that Rousseau might have rejoiced to paint. Shooting Star had ceased running to graze on the verdure, and the great cats were lazing or yawning or climbing up trees to chase the violently colored birds and sleek brown monkeys. I set the unpredictable rainbow across the sky as my signature, and returned my attention to Colette.

  She sat as she had sat, bolt upright in her carriage, her hands upon the reins, but those hands were still, and the reins slid limp to puddle at her feet. She was transformed, and for the first time I saw a likeness between us.

  At my soft word, the lion knelt. I dismounted. Then I dipped my hands into a pond, holding them up dripping, keeping the liquid within motionless, so that it would give back a reflection.

  “Will you look in the mirror now, Mother?” I asked. “Will you see yourself free of illusions? I can even take you home—but to the Phineas House of my day, my time. I have a life of my own, now. There is no returning me to the mirror and drawing forth another.”

  Colette moved her head stiffly, side to side, viewing the jungle that surrounded her. Vines surged up, embracing the carriage, bringing forth blossoms like giant morning glories, adorned in dewdrops that gave back sparks of shattered light.

  “I see that,” she said. “You are no longer my Mira.”

  “Look in the mirror,” I urged. “Accept what is … it isn’t bad at all.”

  Colette bent her head, unable to a resist a mirror, though I could tell she dreaded what she would see. She gazed at her reflection, seeing a Colette whose hair was pale, whose lips were pastel pink—not bloodred, and not nearly as full as she had always drawn them. She saw a Colette whose skin was unadorned with shading and shaping, so that the lines of her features were recognizable as the same—though I’ll admit slimmer—than my own.

  Colette drew in her breath in indignation.

  “This isn’t me.”

  “Colette, it is. It’s you. You know it. You may have viewed this face as the blank canvas on which you did your art, but it’s not. It’s the reality. The other is the illusion. Look at me if you won’t believe it. I’m your reflection. Your mirror.”

  She looked up from the water then, and deep into my eyes. I’d never realized that she, too, had those heat-haze eyes, grey with just a hint of blue. The cosmetics with which she had adorned them had brought out the blue, as well as giving them a far more exotic shape and dimension.

  “No …” she hissed. “That’s not me.”

  With a sudden jerking motion, Colette reached into the rainbow I had left as my signature on the sky, grasping as if she could take the color back into herself.

  The rainbow wriggled in protest, opening a mouth like a viper’s, complete with curving fangs that dropped venom that caught the light, splitting into an infinitude of other rainbows. But the rainbow did not pierce her with those fangs. Instead its mouth stretched wider and wider, sucking Colette up and in, absorbing her into its colors as she had once absorbed its colors into herself. I watched until I could no longer sort Colette from the colored droplets of mist. I watched for a long time after, then I turned away.

  I don’t know where Colette went after the rainbow swallowed her, whether she dissolved into the rainbow, or was carried across some bridge to a realm of the gods where she might be appreciated in the fashion she felt she should be. I don’t remember how I got home again either.

  All I remember is staggering back to my bedroom to the sound of rain beating against the roof. When I woke the next morning, I rose and went to look outside. The ground was still wet. A bay mare was browsing on the side lawn, and the wildcats had returned to the window frames.

  30

  There is something in the air of New Mexico that makes the blood red, the heart beat high and the eyes look upward. Folks don’t come here to die—they come to live and they get what they come for.

  —Marian Russell,

  Land of Enchantment: Memoirs of Marian Russell

  Along the Santa Fe Trail

  INSIDE THE LINES

  You don’t adjust to something like that all at once, at least I certainly didn’t. I told Mikey and Domingo my story, and they listened without asking questions or scolding me for my impulsiveness. Mikey did a few things that involved teleidoscopes and phone calls. After that, perhaps seeing something in my eyes that I did not, Mikey packed his bags and went home. He left several phone numbers and an e-mail address. I won’t need a kaleidoscope to find him again.

  Domingo found Phineas House’s neighborhood wasn’t zoned for a horse any longer, so we placed Shooting Star in a local stable. I’ll probably keep her, though I can’t ride. I can always learn, and if I’m no good at it, well, that mare deserves a retirement. The carriage and Colette’s teleidoscope seem gone for good.

  I went down to the Plaza and found Paula Angel. We went to a bar that doesn’t exist and drank beer. She listened as I told her what had happened to Colette. Then she said something strange.

  “I thought something big had happened. Everything feels different. It’s like there’s been more than that rainstorm. Something was hanging over the city. Now it’s gone. Can’t you tell?”

  I didn’t try to pretend I didn’t understand. “Somehow I broke whatever made Phineas House divert liminality. It doesn’t work in the fashion Aldo Pincas intended anymore. It’s still an unpredictable place—any house with that many thresholds is going to be—but the hold Aldo Pincas established is gone—for good if I have my way.”

  “And you will, amiga,” Paula said. “One thing that you have in common with Colette. You’re both stubborn as mules.”

  “I have a lot more than that in common with Colette,” I said, but I didn’t clarify. I was still coming to terms with the peculiar circumstances of my … you can’t really call it birth, since I was never born, and creation doesn’t fit either, since Colette didn’t create me, just stole a copy of her favorite thing. Herself.

  Whatever. I was. Even though Colette was now gone I was still here. I’d decided to stay in New Mexico. Despite the changes, the silent women are still active in Phineas House. There’s a lot more there to discover.

  And, lest I fool myself far worse than Colette ever did, I should be honest. Domingo is also one of the reasons I’m staying. He’s done a lot for me these last couple of weeks while I’ve been wandering around in something like shock. He’s the one who suggested to me I write this down, get my thoughts in order, at least for myself. When I told him I wasn’t much of a writer, he said it didn’t matter.

  So I started writing, and it came a lot easier when I started thinking of it not as a journal or an account, but as if I was telling Aunt May what had happened, just like I would when I’d come home from school and she’d look up from her housekeeping or the book she’d been reading and make time to listen. She always did.

  Domingo’s good at listening, too, and I find myself wanting to learn that skill, so he can have someone to listen when he needs an ear. Domingo’s been alone a long time. I know what that’s like. When I remember that first kiss, I think we’re both going to be learning wha
t it’s like not to be alone.

  I’m looking forward to it.

  I had to do one thing before I could get settled in this strange new life. I waited almost a year to do it though, and it’s not like I put things on hold while I did. Domingo doesn’t stay in the carriage house anymore, for one, for another I’m teaching a few classes at the local high school: art for kids who are at risk. It feels good. This year when I go to the State Fair, I’ll be looking at my student’s work in the school show. I’m riding Shooting Star in a beginner’s event, too.

  A year to the day that Aunt May and Uncle Stan died, I stole away from Domingo’s side in the bed we share in that front room. I went across the landing to Colette’s suite. It’s still furnished pretty much the same as she left it, but only because Domingo and I are still working out the details of how we’d like the suite to look when we take it over. Every time we think we’ve made up our mind, we find something new in some room or box or chest. I think Phineas House is playing with us. I really don’t mind.

  I sat at the vanity and opened the drawer where the kaleidoscopes are kept and pulled out Saturn’s leaden one, the one meant to reveal secrets and hidden objects. I concentrated, thinking back to this day a year ago, hoping for a revelation. Even in my new happiness, I had remained haunted by the possibility that Phineas House might somehow have engineered Aunt May’s and Uncle Stan’s deaths to get me to Las Vegas. I had to know the truth.

  The mandalas cleared quickly, easily, pulling back to show a clearing vision among a surrounding cloud of pale yellow stars. Then I was among the vision, above it, part of it, through it.

  A familiar sedan drove down a quiet road I knew very well. I’d been there many times before the crash, but only once after. My heart hurt with raw grief as I looked with longing at Uncle Stan at the wheel, Aunt May at his side. She was talking. Her hand rested on his knee.

  All at once a large cottontail rabbit ran out from the underbrush on the side of the road, right out in front of the car. Uncle Stan twisted the wheel in an attempt to avoid the rabbit. He did, but overcompensated. The car went out of control, hitting a tree. Both passengers were flung forward.

  Tears flooded my eyes, blurring the details, even before the vision ended. I didn’t need to see more. An accident. That was all. Just an accident. I wept with renewed sorrow, but with relief as well. They hadn’t died because of me. It had just been one of those things.

  I heard soft footsteps, looked up, tears making rainbows of the light from the hallway. Domingo touched my shoulder, took the kaleidoscope from me and set it safely away. He didn’t ask why I was crying. I think he knew.

  “Come back to bed, Mira, or maybe we could go downstairs. It will be morning soon.”

  We went downstairs where coffee was waiting along with sweet rolls. Holding hands, we rejoiced in the colors of the sunrise.

  OUTSIDE THE LINES

  So, Aunt May, you kept a journal for me. I’ve been writing this account for you. You’ll never read it—or maybe you will. Maybe you’ve been reading it all the while, looking over my shoulder as I type these words into my computer. Never mind. What’s important is that I’ve tried to tell you. I’ve found the answers. That all they led to are a whole lot more questions is fine with me.

  You gave me a way to accept such things once long ago, back when you were on your oriental religions kick. Remember that opening verse from the Tao Te Ching? I think I understand at last.

  “The Way that can be known is not the eternal Way.” That’s because every Way we understand opens up a host of new possibilities. We all live in liminal space. I’m just lucky enough to see the lines.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Las Vegas, New Mexico, is a real town. Most of the places mentioned in this book, including the Montezuma Castle, are also real. You can go visit them, though I should probably note that as of this writing, tours of the Castle are only available one day a month. If you arrive on any other day, you will be politely turned away, as this is a working college campus.

  Most of the historical events recounted in this book are also real. Las Vegas did have dual governments for a long time. The Castle did keep burning down and getting rebuilt. You can read more about these events in the various books I cite in my chapter headings. All of these are real books.

  Phineas House, however, does not exist—at least not in this Las Vegas, New Mexico, at this time.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Although it’s almost proverbial that writers work alone, there are always those who contribute to the evolving work, sometimes without even knowing they’re doing so. Child of a Rainless Year benefited greatly from my generous friends.

  Paul Dellinger shared with me his memories of reporting and living, then and now. Lupé Martinez was of great help in acquiring a couple of obscure texts and in confirming some Spanish phrases. Jeff Boyer very kindly let me use the true story of the cow. Gail Gerstner-Miller generously trusted me with books from her collection of rare works about ghosts. In her professional role as librarian, Gail also helped me hunt up a couple of elusive facts.

  When I started telling her about the history of Las Vegas, New Mexico, Bobbi Wolf was the first person to mention liminal space. When my editor, Teresa Nielsen Hayden, made almost the same comment in response to the same stimulus, I decided this was something I’d better investigate. Thanks, too, to Teresa for trusting me, though I gave her the slimmest of proposals. She was also right about which paragraph came first.

  In Las Vegas, New Mexico, I met with universal warmth and interest, even from people who didn’t know I was researching a book. The tour of the Montezuma Castle was made all the more wonderful by our charming crew of international guides. To those of you who are considering visiting Las Vegas, I say, “Do it!”

  My husband, Jim Moore, drove with me to Las Vegas, took pictures for my reference, and listened to me as I exclaimed with delight over seeing things featured in a book he hadn’t yet read. He encouraged me to sit and draw (though I have no talent), didn’t laugh when I developed a fanatical attraction to anything brightly colored, and, when the book was finally written, served as my first reader.

  Yvonne Coats served as a second reader and made several valuable comments.

  By the way, if you want to learn more about my writing or to contact me, try my Web site: www.janelindskold.com.

  TOR BOOKS BY JANE LINDSKOLD

  Brother to Dragons, Companion to Owls

  The Buried Pyramid

  Child of a Rainless Year

  Through Wolf’s Eyes

  Wolf’s Head Wolf’s Heart

  The Dragon of Despair

  Wolf Captured

  Wolf Hunting

  THE SECRET MAGIC

  I watched, mesmerized, as Mother transformed herself from a pale ghost into the beauty who still commanded legions of admirers. Fear throbbed tight and hard within my chest. No longer did I want to be discovered, for I knew that I had stumbled on a mystery greater and more terrible than that of Bluebeard’s murdered wives. I had seen the secret magic of color, and how color made lies truth and truth lies.

  Even at that young age, I knew I could not be forgiven my discovery … .

  “Lindskold conjures the atmosphere of nontourist New Mexico, beautifully evoking Las Vegas’ long, turbulent history while spinning a fantastic yarn about Mira’s odd inheritance. Neither an explosive story nor an edge-of-the-seat-thriller, the novel’s strength lies in the unfolding of Mira’s character.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  “I loved everything about this book.”

  —Charles de Lint, in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction

  Turn the page for a preview of

  BROTHER TO DRAGONS, COMPANION TO OWLS

  BY JANE LINDSKOLD

  I

  “Morning falls on the just and the unjust,” I observe, and the nurse smiles politely and continues brushing my hair.

  Betwixt laughs from where I clutch him in my hands, the other head, Be
tween, snores. He is not a morning dragon.

  “Turn us over, Sarah,” Betwixt coaxes, and I do this carefully, balancing the four stubby legs on my pant leg just above the knee.

  Betwixt growls approvingly, “That’s a good girl. Now, be a love and scratch in front of my left horn, right above the eye ridge.”

  I do this, studying my friend as I do. Betwixt and Between are a two-headed dragon. They are small as dragons go, standing only seven inches at their full height and running only ten inches long from barrel chest to tail tip. They also have blue scales, red eyes, and smell faintly of strawberries.

  The nurse interrupts my thoughts and turns me to face the mirror, “There, now, don’t we look pretty this morning?”