Tricked (13 page)

Oberon asked.

My guess is an alley-oop. One of them will toss the other up. They’re strong enough to manage it
. They proved it a few seconds later.

Take two Fords from the 1940s and scrape them against each other at an excruciating three miles per hour, then feed that sound through the amps at a Motörhead concert: That’s what the skinwalker sounded like when he landed on the roof directly above me and tried to paralyze us all with fear as he tore at the plastic sheeting. Most everyone flinched, startled by the noise and the direction it came from. I didn’t hesitate once I saw the skinwalker silhouetted against the dark cobalt of the starlit sky; I threw the javelin straight up, hoping it would connect, then reached back to draw Moralltach from its sheath.

The javelin flew true, but the skinwalker was so fast that it was able to jerk back and take it in the shoulder joint instead of the middle of the chest. My boosted strength served me well; the javelin plowed straight through to the other side, no doubt ruining the skinwalker’s shoulder, and the impact bowled him backward off the roof. He shrieked as he fell. He missed the ward of the Blessing Way, unfortunately, but I figured neither of them would view attacking the roof as a good idea anymore.

Gods Below, Oberon, that was horrendous! You just violated the Schwarzenegger Pun Reduction Treaty of 2010
.

Yes, it did. Any pun relating to a weapon’s destructive
capabilities or final disposition of a victim’s body is a Schwarzenegger pun, by definition. That’s negative twenty sausages according to the sanctions outlined in Section Four, Paragraph Two
.

My hound whined.

You can’t argue with this. Your pawprint is on the treaty, and you agreed that Schwarzenegger puns are heinous abominations of language that deserve food-related punishments for purposes of correction and deterrence
.

Commando
in the first place! You started it!>

Who started it is immaterial. You violated the treaty by continuing it
.

That is a ridiculous figure, Oberon. One
.

Three
.

Fine. You may discount five penalty sausages by virtue of your minor victory
.

Oberon lay down and put his paws over his eyes.

His words were more true than he realized, but for far weightier reasons than the loss of meat products. If I was reading things right, skinwalkers were the worst nightmares of the Navajo world, all their other monsters having been dispatched long ago by Monster Slayer, and I am sure there was nothing more horrifying in their minds than being taken by one. It was a nightmare for me too, because there wasn’t anything I could
do magically to defeat these guys, and physically they were far faster and maybe stronger than me. I was unprepared, like a bad Boy Scout. Their magic was as old as mine, if not older, crafted independently and far removed from the European traditions with which I was familiar.

I remembered a bizarre day of my education, when the archdruid taught me how to unbind vampires, beguile dragons, and tame manticores. “You’ll probably never need to use this,” he said, “but if you ever run into one of the beasties, you’ll be glad I took the trouble. Now,
stop
looking at that girl over there and pay attention, gods blast you!”

I had been an unruly and easily distracted apprentice at times. But I was fairly certain there was nothing in Druid lore that would help me deal with this. It would take days or weeks of experimentation to come up with something new and effective, but I didn’t have that luxury. Nor did I have anything to chuck skyward should they try the roof again; I was fresh out of shovels or anything else that could be converted to a projectile weapon. Well, maybe I could fling the discarded shovel blade like a square Frisbee.

Thankfully, the skinwalkers had no intention of attacking again. They had plenty of wounds to lick, not to mention a sharpened stick to yank out of a torso, and they weren’t (yet) hungry enough for my flesh to continue their assault in such a state. They made plenty of spitting and cursing noises as they staggered away, and mildly hopeful expressions bloomed on the faces of the Navajos.

Frank let that feeling settle in and get comfortable before he said anything. “They’ll be back. If not tonight, then tomorrow.” That caused some restless shifting of feet. “An’ if you’re thinkin’ you might call in sick tomorrow, think about it again. This project here can’t
fail. It ain’t just your job at stake, it’s everyone’s. Besides, that man out there woulda wanted us to finish. An’ you know we can finish it right.” The workers all nodded solemnly, Sophie choked back a sob, and Frank led them in a new song.

Granuaile shot a querying glance in my direction.
“That man?”
she whispered.

I replied in the same low tones. “He’s talking about the construction foreman. The one the skinwalkers killed.”

“You mean Dar—”

“Shh!” I held up a hand to stop her. “Some cultures, including Navajos, don’t speak the names of the dead.”

Granuaile checked to see if our murmured conversation was being overheard. “Why not?”

“The reason varies from culture to culture. But with the Navajos, they don’t want to attract the ghost of the man by calling his name. They call the ghosts
ch’įįdii
, and they’re not benevolent. You take all the bile and discord and unrest a person has inside of them, every evil thought and all the impulses they repress during their life, and that’s what escapes upon death to become a
ch’įįdii
.”

“Ew. Those things are just floating around?”

“Well, they disperse if nothing keeps them here. But they have to be in the open to do that. When someone dies inside a hogan, no one will live there anymore, unless it gets blessed and renewed.”

“Oh, because it’s haunted? Things that go bump in the night? Like poltergeists and such?”

“No, nothing like that.
Ch’įįdii
can make you sick with their malevolence. They call it ghost sickness or corpse sickness. Skinwalkers use it, actually, to kill people.”

“How do they do that?”

“You heard Frank tell me he reversed a curse on a skinwalker long ago by shooting a bone bead into it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what they’re really doing by shooting pieces of bone into you is inviting a
ch’įįdii
into your body.
Ch’įįdii
linger around the bodies, see; they’re anchored to them until they have a chance to disperse. So if you’re shot with a piece of a corpse, you’ll get corpse sickness and die. And there are stories about witches sneaking up to hogans and dumping corpse powder down chimneys—that’s ground-up bones mixed with ash. Everyone inside breathes it in, and the family is wiped out. That’s all part of the Witchery Way.”

“That is some seriously evil shit,” Granuaile said. “Are these witches like you’re used to in Europe?”

“No, the Navajo witches are mostly men. And what they’re doing is inverting the wholesome rituals of the Blessing Way—they’ll make their paintings using ash instead of sand, for example. It’s similar to conducting the Black Mass.”

Granuaile frowned. “I’m starting to see why you don’t like witches.”

“Yeah. I keep hearing that there are good ones out there, but I haven’t met any, with the possible exception of Malina’s coven.”

“Have you ever seen a
ch’įįdii
? I mean in the magical spectrum?”

“No, I’ve never had occasion to.”

She looked down at the ground and said quietly, “Guess you’ll have a chance in the morning.”

Most of us managed to get three or four hours’ sleep once the skinwalkers were gone. Frank called a temporary halt to the ceremony and told us to get some rest. My sleep was plagued by troubling dreams of shapeless, smoky demons that never felt the bite of my sword but whose claws and teeth found ample purchase on my skin. They were like congealed darkness, and I could neither bind them in place nor unbind their substance—for how does one control an absence of light?

Once dawn arrived, the Navajos greeted the sun—a tradition that stems from their belief that the gods rise with the sun, and the reason that hogan doors always face east—and we went to see what happened to Darren.

We found him lying on the road, torn from his truck and his body savaged by the skinwalkers. His blood had sunk into the earth, red dust made doubly red. Down the hill, north of the road, Darren’s truck was a mess of crumpled metal and shattered glass.

Sophie Betsuie lost her composure and returned to the hogan, crying. She was beating herself up with a club made out of the words
if only
, and I knew what it felt like. If only I hadn’t done this. If only someone else hadn’t done that. I hoped she would learn sooner, rather than later, that you can’t unchoose anyone’s choices,
least of all your own. All you can do with your past is try to grow out of it.

Darren’s crew gave the body a wide berth as they walked down to their trucks, some of them already talking on cell phones, calling the police and perhaps family members.

“Can you see it?” Granuaile asked, one hand absently petting Oberon. “The
ch’įįdii
?”

“Let me check.” I flipped on my faerie specs and looked at the space above Darren’s body. What I saw made me shudder. It reminded me uncomfortably of my dreams.

“Atticus, what is it? Can you see it?”

“Yeah. Sit down, I’ll bind your sight to mine.”

She sat cross-legged on the ground next to Oberon, and I concentrated on her aura until I could isolate the threads of her consciousness. Choosing the ones that represented her sight, I bound them to mine, and she breathed in sharply as her vision was wrenched from her perspective to mine. Then she scrambled backward, crablike, once she saw the
ch’įįdii
.

“Gah! That thing—it looks evil!” she cried.

“I know,” I said. An inky cloud—funnel-shaped and with a pair of pale, blank eyes that faced us consistently—swirled counterclockwise over Darren’s body. It was unnerving to see such steady regard in the midst of that restless motion.

“But he seemed like such a nice guy,” Granuaile said. “How could that have been inside him?”

“We all have our dark sides.”

“You mean I have something like that inside me? That will float above my body when I die?”

“Not unless you believe it will. That which is immortal in us all must express itself somehow when we die. He believed in
ch’įįdii
, and thus you see it here.”

“That is so fucked up.”

“Eh, let’s not be so quick to judge. It’s not that bad. The way he saw it—the way the Navajos see it—the good parts of him were already in harmony with the universe, see? Much of their spiritual lives are spent trying to achieve that which is
hózh
, or spiritually balanced and beautiful—and isn’t that what we all want, regardless of what we call it? This remnant is nothing but the shadow of his baser nature. Contrast that with some people who send their entire souls to a plane where they are tortured and burned for eternity. You could judge that if you wanted, but it would be nothing compared to how they judged themselves.”

Granuaile sat in silence for a while, digesting this. She’d never confronted anything so concrete in her philosophy classes. Frank Chischilly came over and stood next to her but didn’t say anything. He could see we were studying Darren’s body. When next she spoke, Granuaile’s voice was sad and subdued. “What are we going to do about him?”

“You’re going to sit there,” I replied. “I am going to see if I can help this
ch’įįdii
disperse a bit quicker, send him on to his peace. We cannot wait for it to disperse on its own—I don’t know the half-life of things like this, anyway.”

“What? Hey,” Frank protested, spurred to speech by my intrusion on his territory. “You can see the
ch’įįdii
?”

Granuaile spoke over him. “You’re going to unbind it somehow?”

“Not with any spell. I’m merely going to give it a taste of cold iron.” I took a few steps forward and the
ch’įįdii
shifted, eyeing my approach.

“Hey, Mr. Collins, you’d better not get too close. Don’t touch him,” Frank warned. “If you do, the
ch’įįdii
might take it as an invitation to enter your body.”

“I won’t,” I assured him. Careful not to touch Darren’s body at all, I extended my fist directly toward the
ch’įįdii
. The blank white eyes locked on my arm. Wispy tendrils of soot reached out, wrapping themselves sinuously about my hand and forearm. I felt them; they were damp and freezing and suffused with pollution. I could well believe that something like this, once inside a person, could cause an incurable disease. But those tendrils lost their solidity in the next second, vaporizing as the cold iron in my aura sundered the magic holding it together. It attacked me more fiercely, realizing that I was harming it somehow, but it was silent and spooky and cold. In less than a minute, all that was left of Darren Yazzie’s dark side dispersed into the morning sun.