Ever since I had arrived here, the giant pine had been filling with crows. They were curiously silent, watchful. Even Jorn’s appearance had not set them off. The large bird beside me unfurled its lustrous ebony wings. Ignoring Jorn, I told the bird, “He’s supposed to be recovering, writing stories for his paper or something.” The bird cocked its head toward Jorn. I raised my voice. “Not following me around.”
Jorn yelled down to us, as if asking permission to come aboard. “Can I come down?”
I eyed the ladder made of thick logs. “I don’t know. Can you?”
Jorn mumbled to himself, tossed his cane down, hefted his backpack more securely on his shoulders, then turned around and started backing down the ladder. Watching him, I fingered the pipestone carving in my pocket. The turtle, which I had found lying near Jorn on the wet rock in the middle of the Gooseberry River, had a small chip in it. The bullet from Sebastian’s gun had been heading straight for Jorn’s heart. Sebastian was an expert marksman, after all. But it was intercepted by this small object, a turtle carved by Ray Grayfeather.
Maybe the turtle saved Jorn. Maybe Spirit protected him. I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. I was just grateful. But, I didn’t tell Jorn that. I rose and picked up Jorn’s cane. When he reached the bottom and stepped onto the dirt floor, I handed it to him. Jorn shuffled over and plopped down on the stone seat, frightening the bird away.
“You missed our reiki appointment yesterday,” he said.
I joined him on the seat. “So you chased me all the way to New Mexico?”
“Then you left me all alone with Randy and Armadillo.”
“Men make such lousy patients.”
We exchanged looks and broke into grins.
Before I left, Julia reported that Sasha had surfaced in Monaco, claiming she needed a long vacation on the continent. I did not tell Julia about Sasha’s involvement with Sebastian. I imagined the Danilov holiday gatherings were hectic enough without my throwing that little bone of contention into the borscht.
I told Jorn, “I don’t know how she did it, but Sasha outsmarted the Evil Twins.”
“My cactus can outsmart the Twins,” said Jorn.
I laughed. It was July and much warmer than the last time we were in New Mexico. The afternoon sun was beginning to draw shadows on the kiva walls, walls that still held its warmth. Jorn relaxed against them and sighed.
As the day turned soft and pleasant, we sat wrapped in the arms of the holy place that Tum had carved from the earth. It was nice, this nearness of friends, sharing Jorn with the spirit of Tum, as if I were introducing them, at last.
“What did you wish for?” I asked Jorn. “On that day we burned the wishes.”
Jorn didn’t say anything for so long, I turned to him. He actually looked embarrassed.
“Well,” I persisted.
He mumbled something.
I nudged him. “What?”
He let out a sound of resignation. “World peace.”
We stared at each other, and then we were laughing.
Jorn unzipped his pack and brought out a Thermos. He took out two tin cups and poured in a greenish liquid. The aroma of mint tea circled us.
“Drove by David’s on the way to the airport,” Jorn said, handing me a cup. “That tree is gonna make it.”
“You had your doubts,” I said, sipping the warm drink.
“So did you. Admit it.”
I shrugged and closed my eyes.
“Sometimes you are scary, Maya Skye,” Jorn said.
I peeked at him and found him staring at me.
“And that bothers you?” I asked. “All that namaste crap, as you call it?”
Jorn took his time answering. Out of the peaceful day came a breeze, lifted up from the valley below. It swirled down into the kiva. He shifted, lifted his cup. “I can handle it,” he said.
So, Jorn and I weren’t finished with each other yet. That made me happy.
Suddenly, the silence of the crows ended. They sprang from the branches of the tree in a clamor of black wings and laughing cries.
One circled above us several times, cawed, then followed the others.
THE DOWN DOG DIARY has disappeared again.
I gave it to Larry, who is good at making things vanish. Before Larry spirited the diary away, I made a new entry. My first. As the fragrance of apples lifted from the page, I wrote:
Gandhi said, “In a gentle way, you can shake the world.” But we all can’t be Gandhi.
What’s Next for Maya Skye?
Warrior’s Revenge
by Sherry Roberts
Coming Fall 2015
Revenge is a well-timed text message.
WHERE JUSTICE IS AT STAKE, yoga teacher Maya Skye won’t back down from a fight, no matter the size or reach of her adversary. Her search for inner peace is regularly interrupted by mayhem—even murder. When her friend Peter Jorn, a journalist with a guilty secret, begins receiving threatening text messages from a dead man, the healer and crusader in Maya can’t help but become involved.
Soon Maya is navigating a trail of betrayal, revenge, and grief that ultimately will test her own depths of forgiveness as she and Jorn face an opponent not only bent on revenge—but murder.
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Acknowledgments
I would like to thank those who have so generously given me their time, attention, and wisdom while writing this book: Marlys Dooley, Lois West Duffy, Miriam Karmel, Janet Hanafin, Jean Housh, Ann Woodbeck, and our talented leader, Faith Sullivan. You put up with me, you pull me back from the abyss, and sometimes you give me a nudge over the edge. I am so fortunate to have you.
Thank you also to several mentors and guides: Deb Irestone, founder of Shamans Hearth Spiritual Community of Venus Rising, who enlightened me about the shamanic way; Debbie Gawrych, a loyal reader and inspiring friend; Jillian Pransky, my patient yoga teacher; Richard Pinneau, who trained me in reiki; and Juliet Roberts, one of my loving editors.
My thanks to Kathey Amaral, Cathleen Tarawhiti, and Monique Wanner for collaborating on a stunning cover.
To Suzanne Roberts and Sarah Roberts Delacueva, you are the light in my world. I am eternally grateful for your love, energy, and laughter. Also, a special thanks goes to Sarah for editing this book when it was not particularly convenient for her to do so; I appreciate your observations, catches, and suggestions. Thank you to Brian Peterson-Delacueva for taking care of Sarah (especially when she is editing) and always supporting the family. Finally, and most importantly, thank you to Tony Roberts—you take care of me and never stop believing in me. You inspire me to reach higher, go longer, and never give up. Thank you for always having my back and being my best friend.
About the Author
In addition to Down Dog Diary, Sherry Roberts is the author of Book of Mercy, a funny novel about a serious issue: censorship; Maud's House, a story of lost-and-found creativity; and WriteTips, a guide to giving your writing power and improving your business. She has contributed essays and articles to national publications such as USA Today and anthologies such as the Saint Paul Almanac. Her short fiction has been published in newspapers, literary magazines, and O. Henry Literary Festival Short Stories.
She lives in Minnesota, where she feeds the hummingbirds in the summer; walks in the snow in the winter; and writes, edits, and designs books as well as websites and business communications for The Roberts Group.
Visit Sherry's website at www.sherry-roberts.com.
Also by Sherry Roberts
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sp; Book of Mercy
Maud's House
WriteTips
Down Dog Diary Page 20