Unole rose from where she curled in the old quilt on her bed and admitted her aunt, not for soup but for her blunt sensibility.
Elogi laid a tray on the small dresser. She tightened her shawl around her shoulders, her hazel eyes glinting yellow with concern. She took a seat beside Unole on the bed and cradled her hands. “You won’t speak to your father. Why, Little Windflower?”
The softness of Elogi’s hands and the scent of her rose perfume reminded Unole of her mother. If only she were alive to hear her fears. Elogi shared the same golden eyes as her sister; the resemblance was close enough and Unole’s need great enough, her anguish spilled. The dam she’d spent months constructing, but never tested, now failed. “I wish I could share my burden with him, but it’s better if he doesn’t know. He can’t undo my mistake and will only worry.”
“He is already worried.” Elogi searched her face. “Do you claim to know all of his medicines?”
Unole looked down, unable to deny the question.
Elogi stroked Unole’s braid for some time before speaking. “He will love you, no matter what mistake you made, and do his best to help you.”
Unole lifted her head to see her father standing silently in the doorway. She jumped to her feet and fell into his open arms.
“My Little Windflower made a bargain with death.” His ragged breath puffed against her ear.
“How did you find out?” she asked into his shoulder, unable to face the fear shaking through his arms.
“Do you think you are the only one who can talk with the wind?”
She responded with a quizzical look, but what she saw in his eyes surprised her more. Normally as unflappable and penetrating as an owl’s, they were now crinkled and bloodshot like she’d seen on all-night gamblers stumbling from the casino into the morning light. What had she put him through?
“I learned from your mother, though she was better, gifted like you. In my crude way, I stared down the wind until it told the promise you made to escape death.” With trembling fingers, he touched the side of her face, and tears seeped from her eyes. “You are correct; I cannot undo that deal—too dark. But now I better understand what Great Coyote said to me. He has the power to absolve you, as well as Keir, and will act through Waapake.”
She rubbed the dampness from her eyes. “Does Great Coyote want Keir to use your bad medicine?”
“No. Only for him to use it with care, to do good.”
Hope restored, a new purpose shot through her. “Where is Keir now? Is he still here or did he go home? I have to see him.”
“He came twice today asking for you. I knocked to tell you, but you didn’t answer.” Elogi replied. “He said he’d try again in the morning.”
Her father’s eyes glittered with understanding, and he stepped back to the doorway. “Eat and rest now so tomorrow you can tell him the cost of bad medicine. He must hear your words for his heart to understand.”
***
With the first light of day, the cobwebs of sleep vanished from Unole’s mind. She rose and quickly bathed but took care dressing.
She selected items which once belonged to her mother, in the delicate pastels she’d favored. The dove gray silk blouse swished over Unole’s shoulders. A scarf would entertain her friend, the wind, and keep him close to help her with a special favor. Around her neck, she wrapped her mother’s silk scarf, still blushing with ballerina pink and rose perfume. Unole fixed her hair in a loose ponytail rather than a braid and tied it with her mother’s sky-blue ribbon—more playthings for the wind. In the dresser mirror, within her own eyes she saw her mother’s and Elogi’s eyes, conveying their love.
Unole missed her mother every day. She should have been with her now—if Unole hadn’t cheated death. Today, she needed her mother’s spirit. That meant looking across the bridge between life and death again, no matter how much it frightened her. Resolved to move forward with what she must do, she tried to tie the scarf, but the silk stuck to perspiration on her neck.
In the kitchen, she perched on a chair and gripped the table’s edge as she focused on long, steadying breaths.
When the knock she awaited finally came, she sprang to the back door and greeted Keir. “Morning. I’m sorry about yesterday. I didn’t—”
“It’s fine,” he said, stepping past as she moved aside. “That is serious magic. Scares me, too.”
“I’d like to take a walk to the stream. Thought you’d like to see where I hear your windsong. Before we go, do you want breakfast or coffee?”
“No, I’m good. Awenasa and her grandmother spoiled me already.” He patted his dress shirt above where it tucked into his wool trousers. The gold chain of his old-fashioned watch draped from belt to pocket. Along with an ordinary red buffalo plaid jacket and well-worn hiking boots, he carried off the odd combination with a style that seemed effortless. As a teen, she swooned over him—never imagined he might be hers some day. If only it could last.
“Those ladies can sure put on a feast.” She pulled on her coat and led him across the lawn to her favorite trail. While the sun warmed the cold air, the wind played no part; it remained absent, as though waiting to see the outcome of her appeal to Keir.
The narrow path only allowed them to walk single file, which suited Unole since didn’t want to make conversation—the important message she must deliver bound her tongue to only those words.
When they reached the stream and stood side by side, she raised her arm and whirled her fingers in the air, hailing a wind. Soon a slight breeze caressed her skin. When strong enough to toss strands of her hair and Mother’s ribbon, Unole offered a request in Cherokee, “A-yo-hi-S-di U-ne-ga Go-ga A-le A-s-gi-ti-s-di U-ni-si-la-dv.” Once satisfied her song traveled out of the reservation, she said to Keir. “I thought of something that might help you talk with Waapake. It may take several minutes to see if the wind brings it to me.”
“That would be great. Thanks.” With a grin, he scanned the banks and overhanging limbs that conversed with the water’s babbling. “So this is where you heard my voice.” He took her hand. “You’re so talented, I can’t imagine—”
“And I can’t imagine how you travel on mind journeys like my father. I’ve tried and failed many times.”
He turned toward her and touched her scarf. “Ah, silk. So much like you, delicate, soft, and shimmering with grace and beauty, yet one of the strongest fabrics.” Along the river of silk, his fingers traveled to the back of her neck, shivering her with a waterfall of pleasant tingles. He caressed the nape of her neck, while his other arm encircled her waist, pulling her toward him.
She looked into his handsome face and rested her arms along his strong shoulders. Her one hand playfully brushed the silver feather dangling from his ear until the devious wind caught his patchouli cologne and wove it around her. She forgot everything except her desire to taste his lips. She leaned into his intoxicating warmth. Needing more, she slid one hand inside the collar of his jacket.
He dropped his head lower and found her lips, her tongue. His hand strong at her back, he tightened their embrace.
So close, Unole felt his heart beating, their breath mingling. Their souls had already entwined through their windsongs; now their bodies shared the same intimacy. She kissed him back hard, willing the wind to make time stand still.
Keir inched a hand inside the waist of her open coat and stroked her back. With the rustle of his touch through the silk of her blouse, her skin purred. However, too soon the fabric’s sensation reminded Unole of her mother and the real purpose of meeting with him today.
She pulled back, enough to read his eyes so she could be certain he understood what she had to say. “I need you to do something for me.”
“Of course. What is it?” His grin lifted dimples, making his face even more handsome, and her difficult task more challenging.
Against the heaviness of her heart, she struggled to raise the corners of her lips.
He touched the side of her face. “What’s wrong?”
/> “When you use my father’s incantation, you must not do so with anger—it is of extreme importance that you keep your mind at peace, always.”
“I agree and have been trying hard to do that, but sometimes, especially with Adara, it’s—”
“Especially with Adara, you must not hold onto anger while you recite the verse.” The space between them now too tight, she stepped back, desperate to breathe. “If your head is filled with anger and rage, the medicine will become darker, dangerous: bad medicine always comes with a price.”
He tilted his head. “I know all of this and I agree—it is important. Don’t worry.” He took a step closer and touched her arms. Such a gentle gesture, almost meaningless, yet so dismissive of what she was trying to convey: he didn’t understand.
She trembled as the words she must say lodged in her throat.
“Unole, what is it?”
“You must not let the medicine kill Adara. Do not kill her.”
“I’ve never wished the woman dead, regardless of how much I hate her.”
She clutched his hands. “No! You must not hate her. If you do while you recite the medicine, it will kill her, and …” She bit her lip to keep more of her secret from leaking out.
“And what?” He searched her face.
“Something horrible.” She couldn’t tell him. If he knew, he wouldn’t stand up to the witch woman: Keir’s reputation and career would be ruined; Waapake would be killed, and more grief would weigh upon Keir; and neither he nor her would receive Great Coyote’s teaching—judging from her father’s reaction, that might be the worst outcome of all. She looked away and murmured, “A string of pain that many will feel.”
He grasped her shoulders. “What will happen? Tell me.”
Refusing to meet his gaze, she pleaded, “I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
She grimaced and squirmed in his tight grasp. I can’t tell him, can’t put myself first—I love him.
His blue eyes shifted to the color of an incoming storm and pierced her as if he could journey into her mind, invade her thoughts. “Answer me. What is the risk? I have to know.”
The loud caw of a crow interrupted him. Bearing a dreamcatcher in its claws, the white crow she’d summoned flapped straight for them. Caught off guard, Keir loosened his hold.
Unole freed herself and spun to one side. Between gulps for air, she repeated her previous request, this time in English, “Bring me the white crow Dearg and the dreamcatcher.”
Adara’s familiar, under Unole’s command, dropped Waapake’s web into her waiting hands. She said a silent thank you to the wind and another to the spirit of her mother, both standing with her as the request was honored.
Unole held the dreamcatcher out to Keir. “You should be able to use this to speak with Waapake.”
His eyes narrowed, Keir asked, “Dearg? Adara’s familiar, now white? What connection do you have to her?”
When Keir clasped the web, Unole’s spell broke, and the white crow dropped to the ground, writhing.
The sinews of the web were thickened with dreams resembling fanciful coatings of hoarfrost. She clashed her hands together. “Look, Waapake’s dreams remain. It should work.”
“Nope. Won’t work,” Dearg sputtered. His wings flopped wildly like trout the fishermen pulled from that very stream. He teetered onto a branch hanging low over the water, then used a passing gust to straighten his misshapen feathers and fill his wings. The bird launched into flight and circled before calling out as he sailed away, “Master just killed the coyote.”
The dreamcatcher tumbled from his shaking hands as Keir slumped to the ground and moaned, “No!” With hands covering his face, now pale as death, he rocked back and forth. “Unole, why shouldn’t I kill Adara?” His voice was icy, each word bitten off with precision.
“Because I was the one who saved her life.” Her heart lurched. She fought against the urge to comfort him; nothing she could do now would ease his burden. Unable to face him, she turned and ran. She’d been too late. She couldn’t blame Keir for hating Adara. Or hating her.
She’d failed. With each footfall she mouthed a prayer to Great Coyote, begging him for a miracle. Doubt crept between her prayers—his messenger, Waapake, had died.
She ran faster and faster, trying to escape that doubt, that horrible news. Tears welled in her eyes. The wind tried to dry them, offering her comfort, but the salt remaining stung and blinded her. At last she could run no longer. She dropped to her knees, the rocks and dry grasses scraping her bare skin. She grimaced against the pain and rubbed her stinging eyes.
She gulped clean, cool air, yet another gift the wind provided, one she didn’t deserve. She thought of her father’s teachings and realized her shame did nobody any good. Her vision and heart cleared. Brushing debris from her skin, she rose to her feet.
I am ready to be brave—no, more than brave. Mother, I look forward to reuniting with you.
Chapter Eighteen: Welcome Home
As the final rays of sunlight smeared like blood above the western hills, he pulled onto Rowe’s driveway. Bolstered by adrenaline and caffeine, Keir had driven almost non-stop from the reservation. However, during the trip and now, even more, after he’d arrived in the Hollow, he questioned whether returning was the right choice—if he should have stayed to find Unole.
Why had she run from him? Her erratic behavior confused and frightened him. Along at least a dozen forest trails, he’d searched and called her name before alerting her elogi and Chuquilatague of her disappearance. Keir told them what happened between Unole and the white crow. Assuring him they would find her, the shaman urged Keir to go back and set things straight, attend to his grief, bury Waapake.
He vaulted from the car, though his legs wobbled and his eyes blurred as he stumbled to the front porch. When he lifted the striker to knock, the door opened.
Rowe stood in the doorway, motionless and silent, his face unreadable.
Anticipating what he feared most, Keir clenched a fist. If only the present stillness could hold off the future: that Waapake’s death wasn’t certain, that Keir might forgive his best friend, and that the confusion with Unole would untangle.
After a long moment, Rowe sputtered, “I’m sorry.” With those two definitive words, the dark and twisted future careened onto Keir.
He exhaled through his nose, attempting to release pressure from the building stress. His brain throbbed against his skull. Ribs encroached upon his lungs. Acid spewed from his stomach to his throat. Any attempt by Rowe to shirk blame would shred their friendship to enmity.
Tension clouded the air, as if a thick fog separated them. Rowe’s gaze met his for a milli-second, then darted away like a fly avoiding the approaching swat. That evasiveness—he clearly wasn’t supposed to see—grated against him. His fisted arm tightened.
“I didn’t think she’d—”
The feeble tone of the excuse snapped Keir’s restraint. He coiled his fist to his shoulder and jabbed it out. Fueled by rage, Keir smashed his knuckles against Rowe’s jaw.
He stumbled backward and fell on the rug. With a hand to his jaw, Rowe said, “I deserved that and more.”
Keir paced back and forth outside the door, working off emotions churning his stomach, clinching his muscles. At last he halted and glared at Rowe—who had the good sense to be still—and spat, “I don’t want your apologies. Tell me what happened.”
“I went over to check on Waapake the morning after you left to make sure he had enough food and water. When Adara asked about you, I tried to reassure her you’d come around—didn’t tell her you’d gone to the reservation. As I left, strong winds started to blow from the north. Suspecting Adara was channeling that force, I parked down the road. Soon, a black cloud whisked up and away.”
“Which way did she travel?”
“South.” Rowe levered himself onto a hall bench, inhabited by his Great Uncle Wallace, who reached out to aid him. “I approached the house again and she was
gone, so I let myself in to see Waapake. He was alone and okay. I checked several more times. Nothing different until night, when lights inside told me she’d returned.”
Keir stepped across the threshold, closed the door, and leaned his back against it. His mind buzzed like a hive of swarming hornets. Unole claimed to have saved Adara’s life when she’d retreated from the Hollow nearly dead after fighting Jancie, Rowe, and Logan. During that battle, Jancie’s southern winds clashed against Adara’s from the north in a ferocious electrical storm. Badly beaten, she escaped upon the force of her own gusts. Most believed she’d died. He wondered whether she could have been carried that far and survived the journey to the reservation. Had she gone there again yesterday and spied upon the meeting at Chuquilatague’s?
Rowe’s ringing cell phone interrupted his thoughts.
“Yeah. He’s here. I just told him.” Rowe addressed Keir. “It’s Logan.” Rowe’s brow furrowed as he listened to the high priest. “Thanks. I’ll let him know. Within the hour, I’ll get over to the Council office to man the phones and make calls. Try to head this off.”
“Head what off?” Keir asked blankly, his mind reeling about possible connections to Unole.
“Seems Adara has told the local gossips about her fling with you—her interpretation.”
“Shit. Didn’t the woman get enough vengeance by killing Waapake?” Keir tilted his head back, then lowered it, his gaze pinning Rowe against the seat’s back. “How did you learn he was dead?”
“Jancie and I fought most of last night. She finally knocked it into me that I was responsible for Waapake since I’d given you no real choice but to leave. Early this morning, I unlocked the Tabard’s outside basement door and entered.” Rowe grimaced. “Found him limp in a corner of the cage. I never expected—didn’t know what to do then. I came back here and told Jancie. She gave up arguing and walked out—said we were over.”
Keir slumped alongside on the bench, head in his hands.
***
At Estelle’s after-dinner party given on her behalf, Adara twisted more than necessary to set her tea cup on the side table. However, the overextended reach served well to hike the side slit in her skirt and give the males in attendance, especially the two councilmen, Art Kerry and his handsome adult son Kyle, a good view. She felt their gazes heating the bare skin of her thigh. She trusted Sibby, seated across Estelle’s parlor on the long brocade couch, would report the full effect after the gathering ended. By her actions, Adara wished to negate any possible doubt about the credibility of the forthcoming disclosure. Not that anyone could dispute her influence on men any more than a bitch in heat would keep a person from sleep.
Witch's Windsong (Coon Hollow Coven Tales Book 5) Page 14