by Sandi Ault
As we approached my cabin, we saw an unmarked black Chevy Tahoe with dark-tinted windows parked in the drive. My heart fell in my chest. “Oh, no,” I said, “not again.”
A man walked toward me with a large envelope. “Miss Jamaica Wild?”
“Yes.”
“I have a delivery for you. I’ll need you to sign for it.”
I used my pocket knife as an opener. Inside the thick outer envelope was a smaller one embossed with the seal of the President of the United States. I opened it and unfolded the delicate sheet of parchment-like paper within and stared at the message with disbelief. It read:
Dear Miss Wild,
I am happy to inform you that on the date listed below, you will be honored as the recipient of the National Intelligence Distinguished Service Medal. I will personally be presenting this award to you, however the ceremony will not be made public, and the guest list is restricted to members of the intelligence community and a select few others. You will be receiving more specifics shortly, but I wanted to be the one to tell you about the award and to send you this quick note to thank you personally. Strong women are the pillars of our country and it is my honor to know and to bestow this medal upon one of our nation’s most courageous and dedicated heroes.
Sincerely, and with everlasting appreciation,
President Maria Clarisa Vargas
☽
Tecolote came to me in a dream that night. I heard a knock at the door, and before I could open it, the door flew back, banging against the wall behind it. The curandera stood on my front porch. “Aren’t you going to invite me in? And perhaps you can offer me a cup of tea?”
We sat at my kitchen table over mugs of steaming poléo as if the events of the previous days had never occurred. “I came to wake you up again,” the bruja said. “I am always trying to wake you up. You are not supposed to be the one who is a dreamer. You are a doer. You do things. It is I who am the dreamer now.”
“I don’t want you to be gone, Tecolote. I don’t think I can bear it.”
“Mirasol, this world is changing. It is making itself over. There is no longer a desire for the work I do. Even los indios are finding they cannot keep the old ways in this new world. Esa magia está muriendo—that magic is dying. It is the same for the wild things. Their way of life, the gifts they bring, this now is being squeezed away.”
“But I don’t want…” I was suddenly standing alone outside under the stars, looking over a vast, glistening blue-black landscape of rivers and canyons. Tecolote’s voice was a loud whisper inside my head.
“Hush now, Mirasol. I told you I came to wake you up. You have been in a dream, but it is not you who has been dreaming. When you wake up this time, debes hacer una elección. You must choose.”
“Choose what?”
“You can choose to wake up before the beginning of when esos soñadores—those dreamers—got ahold of you. Perhaps one minute or so before ese hombre federal breaks your door to wake you. If that is your choice, then this all will never have happened.”
“And you will still be here? You’ll still be alive?”
“No, mi querida.”
I felt a cold blast of wind rush past my body, chilling my arms and shoulders, my back, my legs.
“I am dreaming my own dream,” the whispered voice said. “I am like the wind now. You will feel me, but I am no longer the same.”
“What will happen to the poet and her daughter?” A host of stars began flickering all at once, as if the power that fed them was being interrupted and reconnected at a rapid rate.
“The dreamers have ahold of them too,” Esperanza whispered, her voice now so soft I could barely hear it. “La mujer poeta became a dreamer to find what she was seeking. Everyone makes choices. If you go in that dream again, then you will save them; your choice will already be made. But if you choose to go again into the dream, you must choose to do it for you, not for them. That is what I came to tell you. Don’t try to make someone else happy. You are always doing good things for others because you are a doer. Pero this time, think about what you want. Make yourself happy, en esto y en todo—in this, and in everything.”
I did think about this, and the stars stopped pulsing and became brighter. If I woke before all this happened, Kerry would still be in the northwest, gone back to his job there after our loving vacation together. I felt aching loneliness, and I looked down and saw a large hole right through the center of my body, an empty wound, jagged at the edges. I looked through the hole and saw a deep canyon below me, its walls glowing red as I floated above it.
An echoed voice rang out against the cliff walls: “You can choose…”
My mind would not calm and frantically flashed through recent memories. The events involving the dreamers and the poet had returned Kerry to me…but Mountain and I had paid a terrible price.
“I don’t want Mountain to suffer…” I called, hoping Esperanza would hear me.
The curandera’s voice was so faint I could barely make out what she said. “You will think of a way to keep him safe.”
I began to feel so tired, too tired to be aware any longer. I wanted nothing more than to sleep. And dream. As I drifted into slumber, I heard Tecolote whisper one more piece of advice: “If you choose to talk to tu amigo la planta de peyote, be sure to ask for something that will make you happy, too. Los indios son buenos soñadores—they are good dreamers. Perhaps they can help you.”
Ouroboros: Intruder
The door of my cabin crashed back against the wall and the silhouette of a man backlit by moonlight filled the opening. I roused instantly from my dream, rolled off my bed and crouched behind it as I grabbed the shotgun propped against the wall.
“Jamaica Wild?” the man shouted.
I cocked the pump-action with a hard pull, the sound a warning. “I’m a federal agent,” I said. “Drop your weapon and put your hands up where I can see them.”
The intruder raised his palms above his head, one of them holding an automatic. "Secret Service,” he said, “don’t shoot! I’ll put it down right here.” He squatted and I heard the thunk of the pistol on the wood floor. He stood again, palms raised. “Ma’am, I’m sorry to startle you. I knocked several times, but there was no answer. If you’ll allow me to, I’ll show you some identification.” He lowered a hand, then raised it holding an ID folder over his shoulder and deftly flipped it open.
“Reach along the wall inside the door and flip that switch,” I said.
In the newly illuminated scene, I saw Mountain poised in a low crouch in front of the man. He emitted a low growl.
The man saw him, too.
I said, “Toss the ID.” I tipped my chin toward the mattress in front of me.
He flipped it onto my down comforter. I grabbed it and held it up, keeping my eyes on the trespasser. “Agent…Harold Coronel,” I read. “What are you doing here?”
“I have orders to escort you to Kirtland Air Force Base. It’s a matter of National Security.”
“This must be some mistake.”
“I assure you, there’s no mistake. Could I ask you to put that gun down and call off your dog?”
“He’s a wolf. And did you have to kick the door halfway off its jamb?”
“This matter is extremely time-sensitive. I couldn’t tell if you were here, or if you were all right. Your dog didn’t even bark.”
I moved around the bed and went to Mountain, feeling exposed in my jammies. “It’s okay, Buddy,” I said to the wolf.
Agent Coronel said, “I’ll make sure your door is all right while you get dressed and do whatever you need to secure the wolf.”
“I’m not leaving him.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to in this instance.”
“Look, he goes with me.”
“There’s no place for an animal in the car.”
“You’ll figure it out,” I said. Still clutching the shotgun, I went into my tiny bathroom with the wolf on my heels—and once Mountain and I were inside
, I closed the door. Taped to the middle of the mirror was a note written in my own handwriting in red permanent marker. It read:
URGENT!!!
Take this note, keep it with you, and do these things whether you understand them or not:
· When you go to the pueblo later this morning, leave Mountain with Momma Anna for a few days—do this for his safety!
· When you talk to the peyote plant, you will have a request to make, but also ask for a way that you and Kerry can be together, and leave extra $$.
· When Roy calls about Lor Talgren, phone Deputy Padilla right away and tell him Talgren has a meth lab in the vat room of his winery (he does, so just do it). You’ll be safe if you do this. You won’t if you don’t.
· Do NOT water the foxes, they will die if you do!
· Treasure every moment you get with Tecolote
A Note to My Readers
I celebrate my love for the WILD West in this series. I love to write, to explore, to adventure, to research, and to discover. I spend all my free time hiking mountains, deserts, and canyons, searching out new sources of wonder and amazement, new places of magic and enchantment to write about. I have traveled all over the globe, but I am most at home right here in the West—in the wild places, on the rivers, the cliff ledges and high mesas, in the ruins of the ancient ones, among the art panels left by the long-ago natives of this land. I love to visit my friends and adopted family at the pueblos. And I am hurrying to write about the west and the wild places as fast as I can, because these are vanishing, as are the cultural riches of my native family, who are slowly and not-so-subtly being modernized by the world that presses in around them.
So, my WILD Mystery Series is a love song to the WILD and to the West and to all the beings of all kinds who inhabit it now but may not for long . . . or may (if we are lucky) inhabit it forever.
I am lucky enough to share my life and my journeys with loving companions: a husband, a wolf, and a wildcat.
If you enjoyed this book, I hope you will tell your friends and family, and that you will look for my other works in publication.
I invite you to visit me in my online home at:
http://www.sandiault.com/