《The Gods of Ghost River》 Chapter I - WANING SOLSTICE To all the gentle people adrift in this harsh world. Dedicated to Aarron Komoczi Rest in Peace (October 19th 1990 to October 16th 2009) CYCLE ONE: BODY WANING SOLSTICE Chapter I THE GODS OF GHOST RIVER ¡°We can''t stop here, this is bat country!¡± - Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas ???? Boundless starlight, the night aglow with infinite tiny pinpoints, a sense of eternity, that feeling of all things in one. Overwhelmed, the corners of my mind ready to fray at the seams. Electricity, a flash of blinding tendrils, a thunderclap, a storm brews in the emptiness, the badlands. Great looming shape backlit by the impending tempest, silver discs in the sky, violent eyes. It grows, tall and menacing with the fortitude of a mountain peak. I fall into obscurity. Bottomless. Grasping into the nothing, hoping to peel back the fabric of the tangible world. But, I fall. Those eyes staring back at me. They know me. I don¡¯t want them to know me¡­ ???? Cold sweat, I¡¯m dazed, feverish, but not sick. Strange thoughts coming to consume me, a hunger from some diabolical place I can¡¯t quite put my finger on. Restlessness takes me, my whole body in motion, but I¡¯m still, immobile for hours. Slowly being devoured by my own ruminations, my mind races, my heartbeat the pace of a hunted animal. Trapped, unable to untangle my body from this paralysis, alone in my little room, a prison made of my tiny twin sized bed with budget black linens. ??? My little brother, Darion, picks up a stone, a small yellow one. Rays reflecting in the summer sun, it shines. Maybe just all of seven years old, his shaggy midnight hair covers his sparkling eyes. He giggles, and tosses the prized pebble to me, his soaked hand-me-down jeans adorned with well-earned holes. ¡°Best one I¡¯ve found all day!¡± ¡°Yeah, it¡¯s a good one,¡± I feel genuinely proud of his feat, like the patron of an explorer discovering a lost continent. It¡¯s beautiful, cream and tan snaking across its polished surface. I roll the oblong earth over my slender hands and pocket it. Ankle deep in the creek, I¡¯m unsteady, my scrawny body getting buffeted by the current. Darion seems to be holding stronger than me, even with my extra two years. ??? How long have I been like this? Memories consuming me¡­ and sometimes, frightening reflections seared into my mind¡¯s eye. Has it always been this way? At least as long as I can remember¡­ in recent years it seems to be getting worse. Broken¡­ it¡¯s painful to swallow the sense of my own self-induced uselessness. Stalking the inner most passages of my psyche, a great gnawing fear, somehow, if I were to leave this cell of my own making, I¡¯ll lose myself to something immense, dark, with piercing eyes. The drone of a text message breaks my non-consensual meditation. Usually adept at ignoring the summons glowing insistently on the screen of my cheap flip phone, this time I¡¯m pulled to it. Fine, I guess I can spare twenty-five cents to view the string of notifications. Haven¡¯t called home in who knows how long¡­ sometimes mom rings, the worry thinly veiled by resignation, acceptance that there¡¯s not much she can do at this point. ¡­Eyes of mercury¡­I don¡¯t want them to know me¡­ I roll to my side, greeted by posters of ¡°TwiZted JaKo and the Lanterns¡±, ¡°Socially Toxic¡±, and ¡°Death the Rabbit¡±. Demonic figures, mouths silenced by zippers, spindly writing, unnerving for some, but I find the music strangely comforting. My auditory guardians, I can just about tolerate going out into the real world with my headphones blasting, blocking out my apprehension. The phone buzzes¡­ incessant whirring¡­ ¡°FINE! DAMNIT.¡± Flailing, my lanky limbs fly everywhere, like a stupid marionette. Big mistake. Mortified, I¡¯ve got to be more careful, can¡¯t let anyone see this shit-show. Control, weight in my feet, a menacing scowl on my face, towering above everyone, feeling untouchable¡­but good. Picking up the stupid vibrating phone, my eyes adjust to the unnatural glow of the screen, peering at the string of text messages. [hey] [hey] [RILEY!] [Hey fuknutz whatcha doing tonight? Hitting u up Im in town] ??? A little river rock smacks into the small of my back. Shuddering, I tear up, and try to breathe through the pain. Turning, a handsome boy with an infectious grin and hazel eyes beams at me, his skateboarding shoes look two sizes too big for his feet. I can¡¯t show weakness, or more stones will be pelted my way. So, I meet his gaze and smile. ??? Nico, we go way back, maybe my oldest friend, save my brother. Getting into all kinds of mischief when we played together as kids. He¡¯s wild, built, amped up, and always doing something ridiculous. Never thinking, Nico is just a moving projectile, with the trajectory of a racecar headed for a concrete wall. I¡¯m his polar opposite, always listening, silent, boney, and generally disappointed with the world. That¡¯s how I like it. [Asshat i no ur there] Stunned by the words on the screen, I struggle¡­ wanting to avoid Nico at all costs. He¡¯s going to rope me into some kind of bullshit situation¡­ I just know it. But, a calling deep within, a string tethered to the fabric of my being drags me to action, my fingers flitting across the buttons as if they don¡¯t belong to me, my agency be damned. [Yo I heard you. Ya I can hang] Why? Why do I do this? Engage with his bullshit. [Hahaaa knew it! U couldnt ignore me forever Picking u up in 30 Pack a bag homie] My stomach drops. Pack a bag? Fucking kidding me, asshole? I don¡¯t want to go anywhere! Again¡­ being pushed into something I would otherwise have no intention of doing, but here I am, committed. Why? Because, that¡¯s what friends do, old friends¡­ best friends. On-brand for Nico to yank me out of my sanctuary of solitude. Ugh. That strange pull hits me again, energy pulsing through my ligaments, something in my gut screams, if I don¡¯t go, catastrophe awaits. Anxiety takes the reins, paralysis my enemy, as though there¡¯s an unseen predator reaching out to ingest me. Pack now! Leave now! Trying to rationalize the reaction, I backtrack¡­ cabin fever, that¡¯s it, I¡¯ve not been out in a week. Maybe, this¡¯ll do me some good. Glowering, I sigh then reach under my big-box store metal bed frame and grab my ebony duffle bag. Changing from my ripped sweats into my favorite pair of pants¡­ well sort of pants, baggy black shorts that cut just above my protruding ankles, intimidating metal fasteners, and d-rings perfect for clipping chains to them¡­ a rare symbol of that crumb of vanity that I still hold onto. Yet, the thought of adding a little bit of bling to the clothing bothers me. With no silence in which to disappear, that constant clinking wouldn¡¯t go nearly as unnoticed as I¡¯d hope¡­ but they make my frame look a little bigger, hair-raising¡­ I go through life, greeted by perplexed stares, or better yet the occasional averted gaze. Makes me feel untouchable¡­ but good. Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. From a tub on the floor, I pack my sparse selection of necessities, a few pairs of boxers to a t-shirt with a vicious golden inked rat stamped onto the threads. Here¡¯s hoping it¡¯ll be enough for the next few days. Toiletries, charger, a stainless steel water bottle, that gnawing thought that I¡¯ve left something behind¡­ my beanie... I love my beanie, chunky knit, the same deep hue as the nu metal shorts. Pausing, nearly forgetting something of utmost importance, my clove cigs, so deliciously potent. Pocketing the sky blue carton with a canyon on it and a brassy pill box I store my spent butts in, I¡¯m itching to get my hands on just one. Some smooth courage to get me through this surprise shitstorm¡­ I mean¡­ adventure with Nico. Fumbling, I look for my lighter. Where¡¯d it go? Anxiety boils into anger. Where did it go? Ouch. I step on it. Brushing strands of long straight black hair out of my eyes and affixing them behind my ears, I pick up the silver box¡­. maybe this won¡¯t be so bad. Sliding on my steel-toed leather boots, finally, I¡¯m at home in my skin, with the comfort of weight in my feet. Navigating the strange hall of the¡­ house? I guess weird hostel is more accurate. Once, this was a Colonial home from the twenties. A few bedrooms, a study, even a conservatory, and a sizable basement, but the owners lost their taste for preserving history with the addictive temptations of capitalism beckoning at their door. Now, the basement alone accommodates around eight tiny bedrooms, not including whatever they did with the upstairs. All of the dorms are divided with flimsy sheetrock ¡°walls¡±, none of it to code, or legal. The cellar dwellers are resigned to a single bathroom with a very cold shower, mildew in the corners, and a solitary barely functional toilet. At least the sink seems to work okay¡­ on warm days at least. Trade off is privacy, no roommates to speak of, a very reasonable rent of two hundred and fifty dollars a month cash, and no questions asked. Opening the door to the external stairs from the basement, yet another great way to keep the riff raff out of the main levels of the property. Blistering sunlight, to my surprise, it¡¯s only midday. My internal clock screwed up, my head assumed it was the dead of night. Squinting, I pluck a sweet cigarette from its box, lighting it. Out early, hopefully I can get a couple of drags in before he arrives, or better yet, finish this cancer stick. Nico¡¯s never on time¡­ he averages thirty minutes late to everything, at least that¡¯s the standard. When I manage to scrape myself out of bed, I¡¯m usually pretty punctual. Committed. At least somebody ought to be, between the two of us. Taking a deep puff off of my long overdue reward, I hear an unwelcome rumble. Turning down the quiet suburban street to see an ugly box-shaped car, one of those dumb topless all-terrain recreational things with tires too large for its frame and useless roll bars. I¡¯ll be damned, Nico¡¯s actually early. His dumb ass painted the stupid vehicle neon green. Annoyed, I put out my cigarette on the sidewalk and slide it behind my ear, saving it for later. ¡°Hey, get in!¡± he snickers. Nico¡¯s spider braids bounce off the top of his head, they too are an awful shade of neon green. He beams at me, his very symmetrical features brimming with warmth, creating extra crinkles around his full cheeks¡­ But for all of his good looks, his drab skin is a little mottled, more damaged than it should be at his age. Hunching a little, I roll my eyes with enough punch that I hope he registers my disdain. Tossing my duffle into the back, I put on my ceremonial scowl and climb into his idiot machine. ¡°I need a favor, homie.¡± ¡°Fine!¡± I grumble, deeply concerned about the antics Nico has planned. ??? Flashing lights at my front door. Confusion. Why¡¯re they here? It¡¯s so late. Mom turns and looks at me, her face pale, beckoning me to the stoop. An officer grimaces at my tan skin. ¡°Son, where were you between¡­¡± ??? Snapping out of it, last time he ¡°needed a favor¡± he pressured me to make up some cover for him. Forget what he did¡­ rob a liquor store¡­ maybe a gas station? Some stupid shit Nico would do on a whim, but that was a few years ago. Hopefully his current task is less ¡°Nico-ey¡±. He¡¯s in good spirits, cackling with innate delight, as he turns up the rap metal to a thunderous thud. The sound system extremely clear, the glowing paint job fresh and pristine, he must¡¯ve come into some money. Slumping in my seat in my usual aloof, grumpy way, hoping he doesn¡¯t expect me to talk¡­ ¡°Yo, so, there¡¯s this bitch who¡¯s been texting me, right, and¡­¡± Nico starts rambling. The breeze blowing through my long hair soothes me as I actively tune him out. Quaint mid-century houses with manicured lawns roll past, making me miss home. Yearning for the nostalgic company of my brother, my heart pangs with loss... He¡¯s fine; just haven¡¯t seen him in awhile. I¡¯m a waste, a deflated shadow of what I should be, I can¡¯t bear to have him see me like this. ??? Picking up the worn drill, I¡¯m a god of creation, adding a new screw into the pieces of cheap composite wood. With this sick jump, we, the Yates brothers, will be kings of the cul-de-sac! People will come for miles to try it out, our dirt bikes are at the ready, my plan is flawless. ??? Excitement tingles through me, the freeway approaches as we curl onto a road facing pristine mountain peaks, westward. My happiest memories with the family always started here, on this artery pumping cars across the state. ¡°And she¡¯s all like whoa¡­ when she finds out about the other one¡­.¡± Exasperation hits, Nico¡¯s such an asshole, didn¡¯t even bother to ask me how I¡¯m doing, just obsessed with his ludicrous conquests. Hyper focusing out the windshield, I attempt to keep a semblance of my composure, as ponderosas and lodge pole pines¡¯ emerald spines cut past me in an untamed blur. Covertly ignoring his usual torrent of bullshit, I just nod along when there¡¯s natural pauses in his rant. ¡°Dat bitch be crazy, she¡¯s into bondage¡­ like waaay too much, man¡­. She gave me this scar and this one.¡± ¡°So all three of these bitches come over and¡­¡± Ugh¡­ how many people has Nico been fucking?! Anxiety prickling in the tips of my fingers, this isn¡¯t what I signed up for, makes me want to bail out the window at full speed, the skin torn from my limbs preferable to whatever this shit is. One hopes he¡¯s just talking out his ass, if there¡¯s one thing Nico¡¯s notorious for, it¡¯s bragging¡­ all¡­ of¡­ the¡­ time. Obnoxiously, it¡¯s probably all true; he¡¯s surprisingly, a terrible liar. For the love of all things holy, please, shut the fuck up. With purpose, Nico makes people feel uncomfortable, a method in which to assert his will on others, show them, in his mind, who¡¯s Alpha dog. Habitually, I find myself disassociating¡­ ??? Darion launches himself off of the makeshift jump. His big box store bicycle making a little bunny hop. ¡°Dude, that was SICK!¡± I yell to him, encouraging his progress. He shakes his head in agreement, ¡°That¡¯s why I¡¯ll be a professional dirt biker and you wont!¡± Another boy with straight brown hair makes his debut jump, with a surprisingly good amount of air and a flawless landing. ¡°Bobbi, you¡¯re full of surprises,¡± my brother giggles. Bobbi smiles and nods, but remains silent. Humble, he doesn¡¯t show off, just lives in the moment. Nothing more, nothing less. ??? ¡°How about you? Seein¡¯ anyone lately?¡± Snapping out of my indulgent nostalgic trance, I stare blankly. The first generous thing he¡¯s done all trip¡­ Surprised, I¡¯m not sure how to respond. ¡°Ummm. Eh, no. Been too busy¡­ Lots of stuff going on¡­¡± I mutter, confrontation leaking through my tone. By being ¡°too busy¡± what I mean is that I¡¯ve been nearly catatonic in my room for a month. Being depressed is a full-time job, takes all the energy I have. ¡°Homie, where we¡¯re going, there¡¯ll be plenty of bitches for you,¡± he grabs my scrawny shoulder with an intense grip, shaking it savagely. I guess this move¡¯s meant to be affectionate, but all it does is hurt. ¡°OUCH! Knock it off!¡± ¡°Don¡¯t worry Ghost Man, this''ll be the trip of your life,¡± Nico says with a shit eating grin, his spider braids flopping with the motion of the vehicle. Looking out the open top of the car, the landscape unrecognizable, Nico¡¯s orgy story was at least three hours long. Why did it have to be that¡­ involved? Tall mountain peaks fading in the distance, the wilderness arid and dry, only low-lying brush colonizes the harsh ground. Ominous mesas of colorful sand stand brooding under an enormous sky. Heat permeates the capillaries of my face, I missed the alpine views, he fucking stole that too, all of this loss of conscious time, for what? Nico¡¯s stupid attention whoring¡­Bitter, I avoid looking at him, instead drawing my attention to my spindly hands. Tanning rapidly, as a creature of the indoors, I forgot how paleness grew unnaturally upon me. Just a few hours of sun and I¡¯m nearly as dark as mom. Sighing, I should probably go see her when I¡¯m back in town¡­ I owe her that much. We turn north off of the freeway towards hills of soft flaxen sediment. Juniper and oak scrub adorn the mounds like a green crown of thorns. The road grows lonely, a car passing us maybe once every fifteen minutes. Nearly as lonely as my little room, my sanctum of solitude, home. Nico¡¯s still rambling on about something, possibly rapping along to his thumping music, but I¡¯ve successfully tuned him out. Infecting every fiber of my being, I let the scenery permeate my mind, the roar of the wind, the songs of grasshoppers calling to the high desert in summer¡­ THWACK! Out of nowhere, a small beetle smacks into my face, breaking my flow. Dead on impact, its moist guts splatter all over my cheek. ¡°UGH!¡± Nico turns, laughing uncontrollably, ¡°Damn bro! That shit¡¯s nasty!¡± Disgusted, I scrape the entomological gore from my face. Part of my heart pangs for the tiny creature that met its maker on my ugly mug. Sucked into a violent vortex of air, the insect probably never even conceived of this foreign thing we call a car, before hurdling to its untimely end. Soaking the goop off of my face with the metal water bottle, luckily the mess is fresh, and slides off of my cheek with ease. All washed away, now all that remains is the memory and my now saturated, less than white, tank top. ¡°Only you my man, getting pelted with bugs and shit!¡± Nico snorts. I want to disintegrate into my seat¡­ Turning again onto an even quieter stretch of highway, a shallow winding river follows us along the side of the road, rich in teal and aqua, it churns slowly. To either side of the pavement, doughy white bluffs guard our little valley. Vegetation stripped bare, the land desolate and strange, an alien world trapped in the rain shadow of the mountains long left out of sight. Uneasiness fills me, a primal place, I feel¡­ wrong being here, an interloper. Unable to shake or place it, something isn¡¯t right, it¡¯s waiting... watching. ??? A shape against the bleeding sun, fingers extend, composed of woven grass. ??? BOOM! I nearly leap from my seat! ¡°Oh man, you¡¯re jumpy,¡± Nico cracks up, his laughter ringing with an irritating nasal quality. He switched the song to something with extra pumped up bass, rattling the car¡¯s boxy frame. Letting out a puff of air, somewhere between a gasp and a defeated sigh, I join Nico, rapping along to the music. I don¡¯t know the song well, but it¡¯s slow enough that I can mumble along okay. It¡¯s energizing, maybe, it¡¯s why Nico¡¯s constantly going a million miles a minute. Or maybe, he¡¯s manic or just flat out crazy¡­ could be both? In spite of it all, I stand by him, loyalty matters. Besides, who else would be willing to call and hangout? It isn¡¯t like I¡¯ve got loads of friends lining up to spend time with me. ¡°Have some shiz to take care of,¡± Nico breaks his rhythm, ¡°Shouldn¡¯t take long. And then we can road trip to Las Ricas, get into some real trouble!¡± Nodding, I guess that¡¯s what he meant by going somewhere with ¡°plenty of bitches.¡± He¡¯s taking me to party in Las Ricas. Not my idea of a good time, but I¡¯ll take it. The peculiar terrain gives way to a wide valley lined by red plateaus, the neon green car juxtaposes oddly against the silhouettes of archaic stone. Monumental and terrifying, the land has a mind its own, staring down upon us puny, frail things. Hundreds of thousands of years from now, this¡¯ll still be here, long after our bodies are no more than ash in the ground. We turn on to an under-maintained sienna dirt road, bouncing rhythmically with the sediment, heading towards the largest and most jagged pillars of rock. Two ancient guardians, the scarlet mesas stand watch, surveying this serene place. ??? ¡°This trip to see Nana is taking too long,¡± Darion whines, pushing aggressively against his booster seat. ¡°You are going to pop our tires with your prickly attitude, mister. Then it will really take a long time!¡± Mom jests. My nose pressed against the tempered glass, my new CD player blasting hard rock into my ears. Out of the window, towers of crimson earth. If this were a book, dragons would live here, immortal and angry. ??? A memory flutters into my mind¡¯s eye, I¡¯ve been here before, an age ago, couldn¡¯t have been any older than seven. Packer¡¯s Gate¡­ when mom took my brother and I to see the family on the rez, we passed this place. Recollecting the overwhelming intimidation exuded by these looming canyons¡­ enormous, bigger than anything I¡¯d seen before. Now, I feel just as small, but the beauty of this place calms me. Slow going, large rocks lining the unconstructed road launch the vehicle into the air, gravity slamming us back into the ground. For once, I¡¯m grateful for Nico¡¯s idiot machine¡­ most cars would¡¯ve been long decimated by the impacts. Yet, on we trudge, this violent pummeling no more than a mild inconvenience. Twilight hits Packer¡¯s Gate as the midsummer sun dips behind the towering pinnacles. To the East, stars wink into existence in the growing ultramarine heavens as the final colors of the endless sky dance against a few wispy clouds. Nico parks in the lengthening shadows of the great standing stones, far from civilization. Solstice¡­ I¡¯m at peace with my thoughts as the shortest night begins. Chapter II - PACKER’S GATE PACKER¡¯S GATE Chapter II THE GODS OF GHOST RIVER ¡°''Violence is a very horrible thing. That''s what you''re learning now. Your body is learning it.¡± - Anthony Burgess, A Clockwork Orange ??? Wood paneled walls, slathered in yellowing lacquer, that musty old smell of carpet and dust mites. I¡¯m so small, huddled behind the pink and mint couch, picking at the fraying ends. So noisy, Mom yelling, it¡¯s usually quiet, but not this night. A man¡­ dad? Yes, dad. His face distorted and blurry, a picture lost to time. Muddled arguing, I can¡¯t make out the words. I strain to focus, but meaning is hard to decipher. ¡°You¡¯re telling me¡­ How can you say that¡­ your son¡­ How could you do this¡­ is this why¡­ Darion,¡± the faceless man¡¯s voice wavering in the still house. There¡¯s anger there, but also something else¡­ grief, resignation. ¡°¡­ This is why I never went back¡­ It wasn¡¯t my choice¡­ I know you think I¡¯m crazy¡­ Do you think I would have said yes if I had a choice... He¡¯s all I¡¯ll have left...¡± Mom trembles with upset and¡­ desperation. My ears perk at the name Darion, my baby brother, tucked away asleep in his crib. Big brothers protect their little ones, maybe I should check on him, but I don¡¯t want to wake him. Bad brothers wake up their baby brothers. So I sit, glued to the floor, more of the loud reverberating through the room. The storm door swings open and slams shut, Mom sobs over the ugly tiled mustard kitchen counter. At the time I didn¡¯t know it, but I¡¯d never see my father again¡­ ??? Stillness surrounds me, an arm of a galaxy of stars cuts the desert night sky in half, billions of eyes staring back at me. Nana told me once these luminous pinpoints are spirits of the ancestors, watching, no, leering back at the world of the living. I don¡¯t believe a word of it, but somehow I feel self conscious, unworthy in my own skin. Attempting to shrink into the darkness, the soft glow of the summer moon keeps me illuminated. I give up, time to finish my cigarette, retrieving it from behind my ear. Setting it alight, it burns rich tangerine, the drag is exquisite, my unease melting along with the jitters and prickling in my fingertips. The junipers quake as wind sweeps the valley, then silence. An eerie feeling hits, I¡¯m being surveyed, not the stars, not the ancestors. A primal ping of adrenaline hits me, like a rabbit stalked by something ravenous. The gloom of the titanic sandstone pillars of Packer¡¯s Gate close around me as the lizard eye moon dips towards the horizon. For such a wide valley, the walls of the mesas feel claustrophobic. Maybe it¡¯s the shadows, fluttering like ominous phantoms in the darkness. I lean against the rusty sandstone, puffing on my little vice, keeping the anxiety at bay. CLOPIC! CLIP! CLUMP! THUNK! A falling stone from atop of the great rock formations draws my attention. I look. I see it. A monstrous shape in the blackness above me, silhouetted against the galactic sky. Disturbing wide luminous orbs, silver disks akin to the setting moonlight. Violent eyes. It glares at me through the dimness. I rub the weariness from my face, I sometimes see things, stuff that was never there, I don¡¯t trust my own perception. Looking back at the top of the butte, there¡¯s nothing. It¡¯s gone¡­ my exhaustion is starting to cloud my mind. Peace shatters with the roar of Nico¡¯s car engine turning over. The illusion of the solitary night, shattered. Annoyed by his disregard for the quiet, I feel my fists clench, my nails biting into my palms, coming close to drawing blood. To my people, this is a holy place, Nico just show some damn respect! I take a deep breath as my irritation begins to fade. He can¡¯t help it, Nico is Nico and there¡¯s comfort in that. ¡°Bro, plugging in my phone. Still haven¡¯t heard from my man, Dizzy.¡± I sigh, my phone is nearly dead too, the cold doing a number on my battery. Who would think a place so hot and desolate could have such frigid temperatures in summer. Minutes pass, the thundering idiot machine eventually turns off, with a begrudging grunt. Shivering into a vicious tremor, my slight build struggles against the conditions, my dumbass should¡¯ve brought a hoodie. At least I have my beanie warming my skull, but the crisp night is getting to me. Even this cigarette isn¡¯t cheering me up like it should. I peer at the sea-foam glimmer of the cell screen, two fifty-seven in the morning, when is Dizzy going to fucking show up? Rummmbbbbllll. Headlights dance against pebbles of the winding dirt road. Relief, Dizzy is here! Maybe sleep and a warm bed are on the horizon. Roooouuuummmm. Wreeeerrrummmm. Rooooumm. The little decked-out import hatchback bumps along the rocky path like it was born to take the rough. It¡¯s a deep hue, impossible to discern precisely what color in the dim light, but there¡¯s a warm violet glow from its undercarriage. It¡¯s a decade old but cared for with diligence and love, a personal project easily costing hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars. A low rhythmic thumping emanates from its cabin as the vehicle prances across the desert, not too loud, just a mechanical purr. ??? I stand in the corner. The party blaring around me, I just want to disappear. I¡¯m acutely aware that I stick out, tall like a lighthouse on an empty shoreline. Hiding behind a curtain or blending into the wall isn¡¯t an option. A brunette with delicate features spots me, and wanders over. I clutch my beer bottle just a little too hard. Blind panic. I¡¯ve got to come up with something to say. ¡°Fun party huh?!¡± she smiles at me. ¡°Yeah¡­ I guess.¡± ¡°You party with Nico often?¡± she says warmly but forcefully. ¡°I thought I would come over and save you. You seem shy.¡± ¡°Not really.¡± She rolls her eyes, ¡°You don¡¯t have to be a dick about it,¡± and leaves me to myself. I feel so lost, she was cute, but I¡¯ve no idea what she wanted from me. That scares me more than anything. Contending with the ambiguous agendas of people I don¡¯t know. My anxiety starts to take a stranglehold. ¡°Hey!¡± I turn to see a figure more than a head shorter than me with a generous expression, ¡°Parties are hard huh? Especially when you do not know most of the people here. I can do it on the surface, but inside I am just a mess, you know?¡± ¡°I know the feeling.¡± ¡°Do not worry about it, none of this bullshit will matter in a few years anyways. My name is Dizzy by the way. You must be this Ghost Man Nico is always talking about!¡± ¡°I actually prefer Riley, but Nico always introduces me to people that way. I guess it¡¯s all the awkward hovering I do,¡± I laugh for the first time all night. ??? I met Dizzy once, seemed nice enough, social, but not aggressively so. Intelligent, knows when to stop, with a bit of a creative spark, which manifests as a passion for import cars. If I knew the first thing about mechanics, I could easily get into a hobby like that, but I spent my youth doing other things, mostly with my brother. Dizzy is one of those people that passes through your life, yet you automatically click. The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Watching the automotive art in motion, he parks behind the neon green box of stupid. Opening the door with a pleasant click, Dizzy exits the car, illuminated by the headlights. He¡¯s well dressed in a slim dark grey suit, although missing the jacket, the sleeves rolled up to his powerful elbows. To add some pop, a skinny tie adorns his collar, also violet to match the undercarriage of his precious car. Thick black gauged plugs in his ears, and his hair is styled to perfection. Either he has incredible skills with a pair of scissors or he¡¯s found a fantastic barber. Damn, I can¡¯t imagine being able to afford that kind of work¡­ I kind of just let my hair do its thing, brush it once a day, and hope for the best. I¡¯m hyper-focusing again, but really I can¡¯t contain my relief, the night is nearly over. Rest awaits, hoping upon hope Nico has booked us a place with warm beds, or he¡¯ll let me sleep on the way to Las Ricas. ¡°Got the stuff?¡± Spider braids bouncing as Nico bounds towards Dizzy with the enthusiasm of a Labrador puppy. ¡°Hey yo, Nico,¡± Dizzy approaches him and gives him a homie hug. ¡°Ghost Man!¡± Dizzy greets me, but I grunt and give a tough guy nod. Dizzy stands shorter than Nico but carries himself with a stable confidence that I envy. He¡¯s also noticeably better looking than my old friend, a fact, I¡¯m confident, Nico is annoyed by. Moving with the solidity and grace of a dancer, he strides over to the irritating box shaped car. Makes me reminisce about breaking with my brother, bringing me nearly to tears. That was before I grew nearly a foot in a single summer. Just a couple of years ago, but I still don¡¯t feel at home in my body enough to move the way I used to. I observe a strange weighty change to the cadence of Nico¡¯s steps as he trails behind Dizzy. Weird, that¡¯s new, seems out of place, contrasting with his usually animate energy. ¡°Thank you for meeting me here,¡± Dizzy states with an air of assurance, ¡°I know it is not the most convenient place, but it is a good midpoint for my supplier.¡± ¡°No problem,¡± Nico grins holding up what looks like a large roll of cash. I stand with feet planted, I don¡¯t want to intrude into whatever business they¡¯re doing. Best to know as little about it as possible. Habitually, I put out the remains of my cigarette, placing the spent butt into an old pillbox, not wanting to leave litter on the ground. Wandering away from the parked vehicle, I lean against the oppressive sandstone wall. Staring southward over the valley, studying small bats flitting between the sagebrush. Chirping with the precision of a guided missile, I watch one scoop up a large moth and disappear into the darkness. Being a bat seems like an enjoyable life, pure freedom in their outstretched wings, taking the nocturnal world by storm. For the first time in a long while, I feel, what one might describe as, happy. It seems like a vague and insignificant feeling, a warm glow in my chest. But I don¡¯t want to dismiss it, hell, I get so few of these moments as is, it¡¯s special to me. Imagining whipping between the trees in the warm moonlit sky makes my heart beat just a fraction faster. It¡¯s like my mind is switching back on again, as if I was asleep and just now, I¡¯m waking up from a long drawn out dream. ¡°WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?¡± Dizzy¡¯s voice breaks through the night, wavering with panic I¡¯ve never heard from him before. A click. POP! POP! POP! My mind reels with confusion as I turn from my spot. Nico stands alone, gun drawn, as smoke wisps in nasty little tendrils from the barrel. I move closer and see the form of something in a heap on the ground next to him, someone, Dizzy¡­ oh no, not Dizzy! Blood pooling around his fresh corpse, I¡¯m frozen in terror, staring in disbelief, he¡¯s nothing more than a sack of ruined meat, a shell, he¡¯s gone. I can¡¯t feel my fingers and toes, shock, time slows, until an abrupt rush of adrenaline and cortisol smashes into my body. Gasping, my eyes fix on Nico, his face is contorted into a twisted sneer. A chilling memory, his young fingers pressing against the abdomen of an iridescent blue wasp squirming in terror, ripping its legs and wings asunder, the same ghoulish expression. His eyes meet mine. His smile broadens. I¡¯m next¡­ How had I not seen it before, a lifetime of his cruelty, to just about everyone I knew, my brother too, even¡­ me. A monster stands before me, but a familiar one, one I¡¯ve normalized, accepted as just a part of my life. My lizard brain takes hold, with a purpose and dexterity I never knew I possessed, I leap into the night, ducking between the junipers. POP! POP! POP! He can¡¯t get a clear shot. I¡¯m sprinting, scrambling over rocks and brush, my heart pounding in the base of my throat. POP! POP! POP! POP! More shots fired as one whistles past my ear, barreling north, struggling to find cover that isn¡¯t spindly indigenous plants, or anything large enough to obscure my frame. Zigzagging, I try to keep my trajectory as random as possible. A break, the ground bends unexpectedly downward, I¡¯m no longer in line of sight. My feet strike against the unforgiving sun-baked earth, let¡¯s hope my luck holds. Nico pauses, the silence ringing in my ears, another clink clink noise echoes against Packer¡¯s Gate as he reloads, then stillness. In the distance, I hear his engine turn over, and his idiot machine roar to life. He¡¯s coming for me¡­ Primal dread, all I can do is run and maybe, find a place to hide. The brush tears at my skin, I¡¯ll be fortunate if I can escape with my life and both of my eyes intact. Long legs help sweep me along, although, my height makes me a bigger target. I feel the lights of the car probe through the trees, I¡¯m not in sight yet but within seconds he¡¯ll find me. Panic grips me. The will to survive welling from a place foreign to me, a muscle unused, I forgot it was even there. POP! POP! Two more shots whiz past me. Like a panther in the night, the once comically neon green vehicle prowls with homicidal agility over the harsh terrain. I guess being a lefty finally paid off for Nico, driving with one hand on the wheel, the other holding onto his handgun, pointing it wildly out of the car window. No wonder he hasn¡¯t hit me yet, dipshit couldn¡¯t hit a barn door bumping through the night like a fucking moron. It¡¯s a miracle the recoil alone didn¡¯t send the pistol spinning off into the desert. Confidence surges through me, my mind races, I can make it out, as long as Nico keeps being Nico, I¡¯ll prevail, and disappear into the night. Boulders around me are getting larger, scattered impassibly across the topography, some ten feet high or more. I¡¯m surefooted as I scramble over the stones, he¡¯ll be forced to pursue me on foot. My stomach drops. In my fervor to flee, I nearly run myself off a ledge. Thirty feet below, a jet-black river beats with animalistic savagery. Blood rushing in my ears obscures the crashing rapids, stones falling from the tips of my boots roll unceremoniously into the turbulent water. The last speckles of light of the setting moon dance on the froth and spray. POP! RRRRRIP! Fire in my left side, maybe ribs or shoulder? Disorientation, I can¡¯t pinpoint where it¡¯s coming from, it¡¯s just white hot. My body shudders with impact and flames. I don¡¯t have time to turn. Am I shot? I collapse. Roll forward, fluid draining from me. It¡¯s warm. Plummeting... off the edge. I see a silhouette above. Physics strange. Stoopid bouncing braiiids shaaape. CRASH, hitting water. BURNING. Leaking. Am I¡­ dying? Water, water everywhere. Frigid. Ripping. Grabbing. Tearing. Blistering. Sleepy¡­ Sinking. Darkness. ???? Endless black nothingness, is this death? No gravity, I float. My body curled, my arms extended loosely to what I assume is up. Straining to see, mysterious things rim lit in the gloom, outlines of amorphous viscous shapes slip into view and vanish. I gaze at my hands, they too appear as a silhouette, but against what light? A ringing call shudders through the empty space, almost liquid, the vibrations trembling though the nothingness with a thickness heavier than water. The remaining odd structures dematerialize, as if they were frightened or pulled by this unearthly siren cry. Immobile, sensory deprivation takes a hold of me. All that is¡­ is void. Am I the void? Blind, but my mind pulses, I search for my limbs, to my surprise they are there. I dig a finger into my left forearm, pressure¡­ pain. Huh¡­ Strange shadows build in the endless, little rings of backlit illumination dance against shifting forms like ink in a fishbowl. Ebony threads coiling together, strings, sinew, muscle, flesh knitting, unifying. A form rising in the darkness, snarling jaws, inhuman, ancient, seething. Unnatural?... No, nature raw. Feral features, hound¡¯s face, an unruly tangle of mane lining its tall, articulate, but muscular neck, wings of leather and night. Soul of the storm, thunder her breath¡­ orbs of silver, violent eyes... beholding me, deep within me, cutting into my consciousness. Night¡¯s Verse Thread Complete Heart Beat She speaks, lips unmoving. Androgynous sound, the timbre deep and reverberating, extending into a ghastly wrathful hiss, as though a cyclone could assemble words. Why is my brain jumping to female, there¡¯s nothing about the entity that suggests anything of the sort, almost some innate feeling compels me to it. Heart Beats Line¡¯s Flow Heart Slows Anxiety, paralysis, I need to escape! ¡°Wake up stupid!¡± Heart Slows ¡°I can¡¯t be here!¡± Strand¡¯s End Heart Beats Sweet Release ¡°No don¡¯t leave me! Don¡¯t let me go. Please! I¡¯m begging you!¡± Arise Broken One Silence Beckoning Tissue disintegrates into inky wisps in fluid. Her lurid eyes hover alone in the blackness. Time Narrows Survival Spent Shadow Flesh Sentry Assent ¡°FUCK YOU! DON¡¯T LET ME GO!¡± NAVAN¡¯YU She dematerializes¡­ I¡¯m alone. ???? Swirling, rushing, ripping, tearing. Freezing¡­ Burning. Disoriented, don¡¯t know what¡¯s up or down, I open my eyes. Water, stinging and pulling on the lids. My left side, white hot, but I¡¯m so cold. I shake uncontrollably. Find ¡°up¡±. Letting what remaining air in my lungs guide me, higher I go, a dirigible corpse floating in the desert night. Surface tension gives way, my head breaks through the river. I gasp, grateful for the fresh night air. I can¡¯t move my left side. No sensation. I¡¯m alive, but paralyzed? No? In bad shape, but not dead¡­ yet¡­ Numb in the glacial water. The canyon walls are closing in. No shore for me to swim to, the depths of the cascade appear bottomless. Moving my right side, I flounder along, but exhaustion is taking me. I barely believe I still can keep my eyes open. A rushing current sweeps me from the simple goal of touching the edge of the sandstone wall. Just within reach, pressure pounds against me. I¡¯m pushed into a boulder, scraping skin off of my frame. Bashing my body from side to side, I might as well be in the mouth of a huge beast, I¡¯m being chewed alive by earth and water. Things can¡¯t get any worse¡­ ¡­ They¡¯re worse. A wet pop within me, needle jabbing pain, the flames in my side are not my only sensation. I CAN¡¯T BREATHE. I struggle. I PANIC. The rapids quicken. I¡¯m sucked under, icy liquid filling my mouth. I CAN¡¯T COUGH. Tossed to the surface like a rag doll, I stiffen against the torrent of water, trying to keep my head afloat. I CAN¡¯T BREATHE! I CAN¡¯T COUGH! I¡¯m losing this great game of existence. I can¡¯t hold on anymore. Sinking, my vision spots, I¡¯m fading¡­ ¡­ Fire in my body. I break the surface, talons of shadow grip my torso. Painfully, I¡¯m lifted higher and higher into the dark summer night. Above the phantom cliff faces of the massive canyon, the river drifts below me, morphing into a surreal distant pattern. Driving, pumping air, black wings of obscurity, a great form pulls me into the sky. The stars¡­ the ancestors, I lose consciousness¡­ Ghost River Grants Evanescent Night Foresight Broken One Chapter III - VIOLENT EYES VIOLENT EYES Chapter III THE GODS OF GHOST RIVER ¡°When the Fox hears the Rabbit scream he comes a-runnin¡¯, but not to help.¡± - Thomas Harris, The Silence of the Lambs ¡°AAAARAGGGHHHH,¡± I gasp. My lungs fill! Surprise, I can breathe? My eyelids stick together, warm reds percolating through the membrane. It must be daybreak, but exhaustion grips me, I''ve no will to fight it, slipping back into sweet unconsciousness¡­ Fluttering open, daylight pierces my vision, the searing orb unrelenting against the hardened earth. Midday? How long was I asleep? Little beads of sweat drip between my fingertips, I feel like I¡¯m roasting. Dazed, I roll to my side hoping to escape the harsh rays. OOOf. Wrong side! On my left, a dull horrible ache shudders through my body, like a runner¡¯s cramp, but worse. I pull myself up, muscles trembling. Why can¡¯t anything work right? Everything hurts, the minor motions becoming insurmountable obstacles. Sitting upright, the world materializes. Bright blond stones stand rigid, a natural henge ominously looming over my weakened form. I miss the welcoming shade of these pillars, which died with the sun coming to its zenith. The burning, that dreadful sensation in my shoulder is conspicuously missing. Was last night some kind of horrible nightmare? Did I pass out in the desert and imagine it all? Eyes alone in the darkness. I look down, my once white tank top has a horrible crusty stain, nauseatingly large. My left side is dark brown and spattered with little bits of bleeding pink. The front of my baggy black shorts have a faint beige discoloration that runs a deep swath down my leg, like some kind of hellish road. It isn¡¯t all in my mind. I was gushing blood. I was dying! BURNING. Leaking. I take a deep shuddering breath, I seem to be alive now? Tracing my fingers along the enormous blotch in my once alabaster fabric, I find an opening, the exit of the bullet. Shot in the back, Nico fucking shot me in the back! Probing the hole in my shirt, searching for the gunshot wound, I brush healthy smooth skin. I blink, jabbing my finger deeper. OW! Met with inexplicable resistance, there¡¯s no perforation, just tissue and muscle as it should be. WHERE IS MY GODDAMNED WOUND?!!! Panic grips me, none of this makes sense, the observable world isn¡¯t adding up. I feel blank, like cloth bleached, leaving no trace of stain, the debris of my last twenty-four hours stripped from me. Unable to place it, something at my core is wrong, an impending sense that just beyond my perception, a presence is pulling unseen strings. My stomach tightens. OUCH! A little too hard. My innards are bruised. Wobbling to my feet, I touch the ground gingerly, the heat building against the rough rock. My sense of survival kicking in, it becomes apparent I need to move, if I linger I¡¯ll run out of water or worse, cook to death. Find shade. Stay hydrated. My eyes slowly adjust to the blinding brightness, the land stretching out below me, standing high above a plateau of uplifted spires and ancient soil. Ribbons of color and texture swirl, their alignment parallel to each other. Salty liquid stings my cheeks, the flowing hues beautiful enough to bring tears to my eyes. Six or seven hundred feet above the valley, my perch, a massive mountain of cream sandstone, bending into the ground like a piece of draped cloth. Queasiness wells up in the pit of my stomach. I retch, but nothing comes up. I¡¯m empty, I haven¡¯t eaten in hours, between the sick and the heat, I¡¯ve got a daunting task ahead of me. Surveying my surroundings, I look for landmarks. Something, anything, that can help me. The basin beneath is made up of hills of soft sediments, stacked like layers of a cake; purple, grey, and maroon banding through them. It looks familiar, but I struggle to place it. Either way, a road and maybe civilization will most likely be down rather than up. I breathe deeply, as the day wears on I¡¯ll seek cover where I can, and hopefully climb down the stone cliff face I find myself on. Turning away from the valley, I gaze at my strange peak, gnarled grooves and impassible ridges rise disturbingly above me. Looking closer, I notice something out of place down the length of the rock. Dark shadows reflecting off of deep creases in the great sandstone mountain, between three hundred to a thousand feet from me. I pause, taking a moment to register my observation, maybe these are box canyons? My ticket off of this rock and maybe the ticket to some welcome shade. Tremors running through me, I gently traverse the harsh terrain to the nearest fractured shadow, the cramping pain in my side rises and falls. Exhausted, I carefully place each step, I don¡¯t have confidence that my feet will find sturdy ground. I scramble over sediments hewn by the elements, bashing my shins on the occasional slab. Just one step at a time, I finally make it, the precipice of a huge box canyon. I¡¯m finally right about something! The canyon is at least two hundred feet deep. I gulp, that throb in my stomach feels worse, this is real now, I need a route down. Peering into the gloom, I spy a crack, a ledge along the wall, it¡¯s narrow, but looks doable, especially if I brace against the stone face as I go. I could kill for a cigarette right now. ¡°Shut up and stay focused,¡± I mumble to myself, shaking the craving away. I prepare for descent, my fingers tracing the minute fractures in the rock. The grains of the surface reflect a dazzling diversity of color, it¡¯s surprising that from a distance it appears a dull blond, a whole universe hidden in these microscopic deposits. My mind wanders, I need to keep my attention on the task. A painful exhale shudders through me, okay, here goes. Wedging my fingers in the tiny pocket of earth, my grip seems to hold. My foot inches out onto the ledge. Stable, okay. Next foot. Next arm. Rinse, repeat. Rinse, repeat. Inches at a time, I go. I don¡¯t look down, just to my tiny path. On the tips of my toes, I warily traverse the wall. Time fades. Rinse, repeat. The rock seems friendly, not letting me go, not letting me slip. Rinse, repeat. Suddenly, I realize my path is gone, the soles of my boots are on solid ground. In a state of relief blended with fatigue, I crumple onto the dirt of the canyon floor and cry¡­ tears of disbelief. The world¡¯s worst fucking day and I¡¯m still alive, it¡¯s almost too much to bear. I lay here and sob, solitary, stone, oak scrubland, and shade, my only companions. ???? The shadows draw closer, verdant trees shudder, their bark cracking. Darkness closes in, a set of eyes, not human, a sideways slit pupil, amphibian, maybe, emerging from the plant. Four more pairs of beady black pinpoints break the surface, until the spindly trunk is made of orbs. Hysteria sets in, struggling to my feet, tearing through the gorge, as thousands, no, millions of eyes consume the ground and the hundreds of feet of rock wall. Gloom, there¡¯s no stone, just shadow and prying eyes. They shift from a plethora of variation, a tree of life, to a single monstrous hue, stormy silver, fixed upon me. Awaken ???? My lids snap open, how long was I asleep? Keeping still, I carefully inspect the oaks for eyes, the sandstone too, but all that¡¯s there is that dull blond tone, the sediment as it is and always has been. A strange murmur rings through the canyon. I go quiet, perfectly motionless, pressing my body as flat as I can into the sandy soil. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. Silence. I hold my breath. Eerie stillness. Wind breaks, and the scrub oak rattles in the pit of the gorge. Alone, but it¡¯s time for me to leave. I pull myself up and quietly walk through the grove of brush, just a ghost in the greenery. My ears adjust to the quiet, not nearly as quiet as I thought, insects sing with clear rhythmic tones, desert birds converse with fervor akin to a bustling metropolis. A magpie barks what could easily be a torrent of swearing, whistles, and then disappears. My fellow denizens make themselves scarce; as much as I can hear them, many I can¡¯t see. I¡¯m a stranger here, an unwelcome prowler, treading were people are not supposed to tread. At least there are no car alarms or the shattering of glass. Pressing forward, the oaks grow taller, opening the path. The tiny forest gives way to intense boundless blue sky, piles of strange soil sit in mounds in front of me. Their bands of sediment are vertical, soft and powdery to the touch, yellow ocher striped with crimson. These hills jut steeply into the sky, blocking my way. All I can do now is climb. My black boots slide ineffectively against the ground, two steps forward and then I backslide a step, natural powder caking around my feet. Exposed; the heat beats against my shoulders. I miss my shade. I miss my bed. I miss my little room. I want a fucking cigarette. Fuck Nico! A brave scrub jay flaps over to me, electric blue, it hops energetically to my side, analyzing my progress with curiosity. I feel that warmth in my chest again, strangely reassured, I nod at my little ally. It pops by me with ease, up, up, the incline. Yet, it waits for me at the top of the hill, cocking its head to one side. An involuntary smile breaks across my lips, I guess I¡¯ve at least made a better friend than Nico. I reach the crest of the hill, less frustrated than I started, mostly amused by the cerulean bird marking my progress. It¡¯s late afternoon and the shadows lengthen between the layers of rock that lay before me. To my surprise, from my new vantage point, I recognize my surroundings. Another picture flashes into my mind¡¯s eye, a far off memory, the tricolored mounds of ancient soil in the bottom of the valley are called Vermillion Hills. Which means¡­ I¡¯m close to a city! White settlers here some two hundred years ago weren¡¯t particularly clever or creative. They named their sad little town the City of Vermillion¡­ For the landmark. But, my people have a much better name for this place. Thousands of years before the idea of the New World sparked the imaginations of kings, tyrants, and genocidal beasts, we called it O¡¯chohca, ¡°the place of blood and bone¡± in the old tongue. Standing in disbelief, I remembered all of this, burned into my brain in a place I hadn¡¯t accessed in years. I struck gold, my mind¡¯s payout, information. I turn to my avian buddy, its big eyes twinkling. With zeal, it flutters to another patch of scrub, against a daunting fin of pink rock. This spire rises out of the vegetation below me, a solid wave of earth frozen in time. Awkwardly, I half sit, half crouch, sliding down the soft side of my tiger-striped mound. Easier coming down, but less graceful. As silly as I must look, my new friend doesn¡¯t judge me, it just seems to be enjoying the ride, watching me intently like the character in a very entertaining film. A drama, with a few servings of well placed comedy. I scramble up the hard sandstone bluff with less effort than the last layer I descended from. Upon seeing my success, the wide-eyed bird lets out a shrill screech of delight, bobs its head from its newfound perch, and ascends into the sky, heading back to its home in the box canyon. Solitary again, a little emptier upon losing my companion, but there¡¯s more work ahead of me. My scrub jay can¡¯t leave its busy life behind; this is the way of things. Slab upon slab of brilliantly pigmented stone, I climb up and slide down. Weariness sets in with each ascent, only to be relieved by the decline on the other side. Shadows of these pinnacles of sediment grow long and ominous with the waning sky, like the fingers of inky spirits reaching, grasping, hoping to snare me. I¡¯m not letting these dark thoughts entangle me, just one foot after the other, one step at a time. Twilight draws closer, pink light of the falling sun igniting the painted caps of the Vermillion Hills on fire. After hours of hard work clambering over ridge upon ridge, stone shearing off the skin on my hands, I see something. A dark bend between the fractured earth, it can¡¯t be a river, the deepest part of the valley is still below me. Can it be? A road, only a hundred yards away! I quiver with excitement, salvation is at hand, hope! Pulling my tired muscles to action with the last of my strength, I stumble down the remaining rusty boulders. My legs don¡¯t feel like my own, they¡¯re auto piloting me to my destination. ¡°Almost there,¡± I speak a rhythmic mantra to myself. I¡¯m gaining, quickly, pavement is my new best friend, I want to lie on it and fall asleep forever. Relief swells over me, just one more boulder, just one more thorny bush and I¡¯m there. The walk isn¡¯t over but I can amble by, I¡¯ll follow this to civilization and if I¡¯m lucky, someone can give me a lift. Lights blister my eyes as a car rounds the corner. Thumb out, this is my chance! An elegant white SUV with camping gear strapped to its roof breezes by with the distinct sound of the locks clicking. My stomach drops, first person I¡¯ve seen in over twelve hours and I can¡¯t catch a break. Looking down at my form, I¡¯m suddenly self-conscious. I look terrifying, a tall stringy longhaired man covered in blood and dirt, visage of a serial killer. No sane person would pick up my miserable hide. Stumbling along, I follow the long departed car down the road, maybe, west? The sun¡¯s final glow ahead of me, yes, it must be west. A rumble pierces through the twilight. Another car? Holding up my fatigued arm, I make a half-assed thumbs up, as a spry hatch-back zips past me, not acknowledging my presence. Onward I trudge, dusk closing in, the sky changing from magenta to indigo, stars sparkling with radiant light. On I go, lonely, no sense of time, down this river of asphalt and tar. ¡°Almost there. Almost there. Almost there,¡± my mantra returning to me. Each footstep a monumental feat, it could be hours or minutes. The rhythm of my steel toe boots my guide, for the first time in my life I wish they weren¡¯t nearly as heavy. Exhaustion is creeping back into the sinews of my muscles, eating up the last of my strength. Chatter of desert insects muffles the material world, becoming accustomed to the gloom, the glinting summer stars cast rays against the ancient natural pillars flanking my path. The night is alive, a warm breeze tickles the hairs on the back of my neck, it could easily be the breath of the earth itself, heaving a great sigh. Without the gnawing sense of debility this might be a pleasant hike. RWWWARRBBBUURBRBRB! A noise cuts through the desert night. In the distance behind me, dazzling lights flicker as a car skitters towards me. It¡¯s gaining distance quickly, the engine thumping with intense vigor. Another chance! I¡¯m out, with my thumb at the ready, my hopes aren¡¯t high, but I¡¯ll take what I can get. Glaring into the once desolate blackness, illumination obscures my vision. RURBRURBRURB! I can¡¯t believe it! It¡¯s slowing! ¡°Hey! Hey!¡± I yell, running to this glorious thing, waving my arms wildly. Two vivid pinpoints of light stop about ten feet in front of me, the silhouette of the machine tall and boxy, suspended on large tires. I peer at the shape of the vehicle, through the harsh brightness, registering something familiar. Neon green. FUCK. ¡°No no no nO NO NO NO NO,¡± I scream, tearing into the darkness as Nico steps out of his hateful car, gun at the ready. Why why why? I dart into the juniper scrub. My nightmare on repeat, why can¡¯t I be rid of Nico and his insatiable blood lust. Tracing the rusting stone lining the road, I need a place to hide, but the rock face is tall and unyielding. ¡°Hey fuck nutz, I¡¯m comin'' for you,¡± Nico chortles with uncomfortable warmth. The sandstone wall opens into a fracture, about a yard wide, but not visible from the road. Like smoke, I slip through the gap, impressed with my own ingenuity. Forced between two towering sedimentary layers, I find myself in a natural channel, soft soil long eroded between the folds. I follow my new road, heart palpitating. ¡°Fucker, you think you¡¯re so smart,¡± Nico sneers, ¡°I see your footprints, dumbass.¡± Light probes the entrance as I sprint down the dry arroyo. Twisting back and forth, the rocks tower above me. Harbingers of what is to come, my only witnesses. Frenzied, I claw against the sandstone, no traction, I can¡¯t climb its steep sides. Running my only option, my boots sink ineffectively against soft grains, slowing my progress. I turn a corner, the passage widening into a basin, long devoid of nourishing water, once rusty minerals now reflecting luminous blue in the shining moonlight. Dead end, my dead end. I¡¯m just a ghost, a strange mirror of the people that passed through me. Gone, I will fade, no memory of my minuscule existence, just a phantom of what once was. Click¡­. I turn, to see Nico beaming, his smile so large his teeth echoing the moon¡¯s glow, like some demented ghoulish clown. He raises his flashlight and gun towards my face, blinding me, finger pressing against the trigger. I close my eyes¡­ CRASH! POP! POP! Wind and noise rush past me. But I¡¯m not burning. Growling, shrieking, thunderous clamoring rips around me. I open my eyes. Nico is flat on his stomach on the powdery ground, his face shoved into the arid sand. His terrorizing aura lost, with his gun tossed away, far out of reach, the torch rolled against the tiny canyon, filling the space with an eerie gleam. Leering over him, an enormous shadow of fur, teeth, and wings. Silver eyes. Violent eyes. Snarling, a horrible sickle-shaped thumb penetrating deep into his back. Staring in disbelief, a daemon out of the most frightening of fairy tales, this can¡¯t be real, I¡¯m losing my mind. But, his calf is in the beast¡¯s jaws, muscle laid bare, blood pooling from its lips. It¡¯s that raw brand of real you feel numb to. I¡¯m frozen, a deer in headlights. Struggling against the weight of the animal, Nico emits an unearthly sound. I can only liken it to cries conjured in the darkest corners of my consciousness, as Nana told stories of the Old Ones, their ghastly forms haunting the waking dreams of my childhood. The creature responds in kind with a deep roar that drags into a terrible high-pitched scream, taunting his suffering. I want to run, but the wraith blocks my escape. Removing its talon, it grasps his slack body in its frightful black maw, its neck extending up, up into the night, only to slam Nico¡¯s body into the side of the illuminated rock face. CRUNCH! Bones breaking, he tumbles unceremoniously to the ground with a thud, Nico gurgles and grunts using the last of his strength to crawl away from his specter, to no avail. The monster rolls what is left of my once friend over. Staring, bright and piercing eyes effusing a mercury aura, its otherworldly jaws agape. ¡°NO¡­¡± he stammers. Silence. A lifetime in seconds, they glare, eyes locked on each other. After a moment of pause, the fiend releases him from its grasp, lifting its long shaggy collar, cocking its head to one side, twitching erratically, peering at him like a dog appraising a new bone. The dark beast¡¯s disk-like orbs, with hues of a summer thunderstorm, widen. Its houndish lips curl revealing long pointed mammalian teeth. Descending with ferocious speed, the entity presses its snout against Nico¡¯s face, its giant muscular wings pinning him to the ground. Screaming, he fights against its grip. The shadowy brute emits a guttural din, mouth strangely unbound from the dimensions of its skull. Unhinged, it extends its maw further than the length of his torso. Building to a shrill cry underlain by a deafening rumble, outlandish and haunting, it emanates from the bowels of its lungs, as vivid ashen light pours from the thing¡¯s throat. The piercing roar is terribly painful. Frantic, I grip my ears, hoping to stave off the excruciation, the pressure threatening to burst my eardrums. Nico convulses against the torrent of sound, blood welling from his eyes and mouth. His tissue losing consistency¡­ Covering my head, I turn away. I can¡¯t look at it, my panic coming to a boiling point. Hyperventilating, my heart pounding in my chest, my vision growing spotty. Sickening stillness takes the darkening valley. Squinting between my fingers, I see all that remains of Nico, a mound of unidentifiable gore, wet droplets shining in the azure moonlight. That demonic shape stands against the gibbous moon, just a tall silhouette, motionless. It takes a single heavy step towards me, its eyes wide. I feel my body give way, fading, falling to the ground. Shadow Flesh Guardian Eyes Follow The Lines Broken One Chapter IV - GHOST RIVER GHOST RIVER Chapter IV THE GODS OF GHOST RIVER ¡°This creed of the desert seemed inexpressible in words, and indeed in thought.¡± - T.E. Lawrence, Seven Pillars of Wisdom ???? My face pressed into the ground, sand scraping my cheek. I lift myself up¡­ Mist swirls, there is no color, grey, white, and a tinge of black. Eyes adjusting, light-toned rocks appear and disappear between the fog, phantoms of water vapor moving eerily through the strange terrain. Dawn is closing in, but I¡¯ve no sense of time. No feeling in my fingers or toes, no sensations, just sight. A mournful cry breaks the stillness. Distant, chilling, incomprehensible, too organic to be machine, too raw to be animal. Wandering, I wind through pillars of natural stone, compelled by something just beyond my comprehension. Frigid water trickles at my feet, a mountain stream, dissonant, yet another incongruence within the barren desert. Ravening thirst I must quench, desperation, I¡¯m deeply dehydrated. Cupping my hands, I scoop up the liquid, in my palms ripples dance in the muted ambience. I drink, the flavor is clear with a slight mineral aftertaste. Strangely satiated, grateful for this little bit of solace, finally a slice of relief, maybe hope. As if awakened from a dream, awareness returns to my skin, the moisture in the air biting. Another sorrowful yowl breaks the silence. My blood runs cold, that sound. Am I in danger? But I¡¯m drawn to the noise, like a moth to a flame, continuing up the watery path, the cold cutting into my feet. Guardian pinnacles of earth give way to stark sandstone peaks. Silhouetted on a titanic boulder straight ahead of me, something strange gathers. Strands of matter, threads of ebony, tissue and sinew, weaving the formless into form. A mound of materialization, muscular shoulders lead to enormous leathery wings, sickle-shaped talons piercing the arid ground. A neck, long, with unkempt fur arises, luminous orbs, tiny rings of gunmetal the pupils, an outlandish amalgamation of canine features. Its visage imbibes that of the jackal, fox, wolf or none of the above, it¡¯s as though the being is just an approximation of things that exist in the tangible world. The glow of daybreak permeates through the feathery tips of the creature¡¯s mane as it lets out a deafening howl with the rising sun. I stagger backwards, nearly toppling over. Fibers weft, the vision in the blackness, the fiend in the night, it is she. One being. One curse. Fear courses through me, I must be dead and¡­ and this is hell. The bullet slicing through my back, I died before I hit the water... Or just maybe, this horror, this illusion finds causation in the final wasting moments of the expiration of my mind. That concluding pulse as the oxygen leaves my cells, alone in my dingy basement hostel. Pounding my fists into my head, I scream. A genuine look of surprise crosses the bestial face. Eyes widening, the inky demon murmurs softly. Soothing, a sensation washes over me, a moment of clarity, calm. Pausing, I take a shallow breath, pushing through ache of my fresh bruises. ¡°I¡¯m dead¡­ right?¡± Bowing slightly, the shaggy fur of her neck flows with the follow-through of her shaking head. A gesture that suggests a tangible answer¡­ an answer of no. ¡°What the fuck happened? What the fuck are you? What the fuck is going¡­¡± A thunderous roar smashes into me, her ivory teeth bared savagely. Shadow Flesh I stare blankly at this¡­ response, paralyzed. The mist of daybreak dissolves, evaporating with the brightening sky. Naked, I feel exposed, nowhere to hide, that animal side of myself creeping forth. Run you fool, run. But part of me is mesmerized, that human addiction, honed in on an impending disaster, the fixation that appears when one observes cars colliding in slow motion. Calm Stillness Reverence The Old Ones¡¯ Rest The shadowy creature leaps from her perch, slowly traversing the rock with unnatural fluidity, closer and closer. Her form leers over me, easily as tall as the of largest of grizzly bears standing on their hind feet, but her limbs are planted, the idea of this being stretching to its full height turns my blood to sand. The pulsations of cells pushing through the narrow walls of the capillaries in my face grow pointed and sharp. She tips her head to one side, awaiting a reply¡­ a reply left wanting, I can¡¯t discern meaning from her words. She stares, black canine lips curling. She blinks with irritation, a true first. Sheltered Storm Passes Broken One With the countenance of a bat-like grim reaper, she circles around me, her gaze unbroken. Keeping her within my line of sight, a facet of myself fears she¡¯ll rip me apart. Alive, I still have skin in the game, that great game of survival. Letting out a deep ratting exhale, somewhere between exasperation and fury, she launches herself into the sky. Powerful arms guiding enormous ebony wings, riding the air current, gathering distance, soaring into the rising sun, her silhouette enveloped by light. ???? Awake. Cobalt heavens greet me, a realm of color. My dream felt so clear, it could be real. Rubbing my eyes, I pull myself up. To my surprise, I¡¯m in the identical location to my sleeping vision, trapped in the same groove in space and time, blond rocky pillars exactly as they were in my dreamscape. Disoriented, I study the waking world, the sun just a hair higher in the sky, saturation fitting my expectations of materiality. Am I still asleep? Was I conscious? I look down, clothing returned, my shirt still crusty with dried blood, the entrance and exit of the bullet torn through the material. My hands are raw, throbbing, flesh sheared to pieces by a day of clinging to stone. I breathe deeply, the aching cramp in my side visibly improved. I must be hallucinating intermittently; it¡¯s the only thing that makes any sort of sense. That creeping thought, could Nico have spiked my water bottle? Sounds on brand for him. Tissue denaturing. Ebony fur. Violent eyes. I clutch my head. Nico¡¯s eyes wide. Haunting sound. Meat and sinew raw. Blood pooling. I feel numb. What if it¡¯s all true, all of it? Reality is sliding away, a whole nightmare world of monsters stalking the darkness, but by all accounts it¡¯s at very least, half true. Nico is a one-man horror show, a murderer, abandoning me to die alone in the desert. Somehow it¡¯s easier to accept that my mind is dissolving into trauma induced madness. Those silver orbs of chaos, pure malice, imbedded in her houndish features, a thought too frightening to accept. Pushing it down deep within me, I try to swallow my distress. Okay, what do I know with certainty? Start from there, break it down into small logical chunks. My ruined shirt proves that Nico shot me. But the absent injury, therein lays the incongruity, that jarring missing piece of the puzzle. Could it be Dizzy¡¯s blood? Somehow, he was wearing my clothes when he died? Possible, but unlikely, I can¡¯t rule it out. Burning. Leaking. Am I dying? No matter what happened, I¡¯m in the wilderness, by myself, no gear or resources¡­ lost. A feeling gnaws at me, heavy like a stone in my gut, Nico is dead, I can¡¯t shake it; somehow I know it to be true. But, why? Did I kill him¡­? Who knows what I¡¯d do if I where in the midst of an involuntary psychedelic trip, but conscious me isn¡¯t a murderer. I¡¯m in full control, weight in my feet, standing steady to keep the anxiety at bay. I don¡¯t even carry a gun, just a knife, and only sometimes. I frantically search my pockets to be greeted by¡­ nothing. See, no utility knife, no wallet, and no phone. Just a runner at heart, so vulnerable, unbearably soft, I slip away from confrontation. I don¡¯t antagonize, standing stoic, silent. I¡¯m a stone on the ground while the world carries on around me¡­ without me. Did she destroy him? Violent eyes, snarling maw¡­ Is this beast something I cooked up to keep my mind from fracturing like an eggshell? That mental paralysis eating me alive¡­ Shadow Flesh. Ink in water¡­ If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. A breeze on the morning air sends a chill down my spine. It¡¯s a welcome relief from the sweltering day before. A healthy reminder of where I am, an anchor holding me to materiality, keeping my mind from spinning. I lift myself up, the sand grains tumbling from my tank top. My ravenous hunger and thirst washed away by some unseen force, strangely whole, maybe, I¡¯m even comfortable? Looking out upon the vast landscape, recognition adds to my tether to the tangible. The famous landmark, O¡¯chohca, stretches out to the west, ribbons of rock visible from across the basin. From my vantage point, I¡¯m standing upon a great sandstone mountain above the valley. A distant black thread snakes through the bluff to the west, could this be the road from my memories? Vivid ashen light pours from the thing¡¯s throat¡­ Shuddering at what I truly hope isn¡¯t my recollection. I pull my wandering thoughts aggressively back to my task, I might only be a mile or two away from where I lost consciousness the second time. That is, if I can even trust my brain¡­ Pushing these thoughts from my mind, all of this is irrelevant, I need to find people or a town¡­ the City of Vermillion. If I just cut straight west, I¡¯ll hit civilization eventually. In all of this devising, scorching sun climbs higher, unforgiving, the frying pan is heating up. I need to move. My gut sinks, same shit, different day, why do I always end up high above where I need to be, with no easy way down. Box canyons¡­ right! I hate it, but it¡¯s the only way. Removing the greasy unwashed hair from my eyes, I pull thick strands behind my ears. I need to see without obstruction, tumbling into the abyss doesn¡¯t seem like a great way to die. Shaking the powdery sediment from my boots, I start forward, tiptoeing through that shallow trickle of water, once a phantasmal stream in my dream, larger than this now tiny string of puddles. Carved by wind and rain, crags in the rock loom over me. Branching into a series of small two-story canyons, I pick the artery furthest to my right. I can only trust my gut, so far I¡¯m alive¡­ so far so good. I delve into the miniature chasm, a labyrinth, maybe there¡¯s a Minotaur awaiting me at the end¡­ Or something worse, with raven fur, the pure essence of rage so palpable, it gave itself form¡­ a body. Soul of the storm. Wandering through the gaps in the rock, the path grows unnervingly narrow, only to widen as I find myself contorting my slightly wide shoulders through the opening. I find myself tracing the tips of my fingers along layers of ancient sand that sweeps before me. The fossil of a small shelled creature tumbles from the wall. I pick up the being from another time, reminded of splashing in the creek with my bother, searching for mineral treasures, all those summers ago. My fingers dance across the invertebrate, sienna and scallop-like, but with features suggesting something foreign to the world I know today. An ancestor spirit telling stories of prehistoric deserts touching a long vanished coastline, written in these grainy walls, long before cities, long before man, and maybe even, long before dinosaurs. I pocket this find, maybe a sign that somebody is watching over me. A gust whistles through the crag, the wind feels like it¡¯s taunting me, laughing at my foolish moment of nostalgia. That little twinge that puts unbearable pressure on the furrows of my already collapsing mind. The path meanders, and fractures, keeping to the right, I¡¯m still moving slowly down in elevation, crawling towards my incremental goal. The warmth of the day doesn¡¯t touch me, sheltered in this river of stone, weight in my heavy boots, grounded, identity lost. I¡¯m this place and this place is me. Dizzy¡¯s ruined body. Bats and moths. Walls shorten as the depth of this once domineering path becomes level with the ground. My passage opens to a cliff edge, the dauntingly magnificent landscape crystallizes into my vision, below me, an immense box canyon creates a curving horseshoe in the desert. It stretches deep, its fair walls mocking my progress. There are overhangs, but no clear path to descend¡­ this will take some rock climbing. I sigh, my heart dropping. I don¡¯t want to even estimate its depth, the end result will be my death, no matter the height, if I misstep. I can do this! For the first time in days, I¡¯m not fighting exhaustion, my mind alert, my muscles tremble with manic energy. The idea of a cigarette doesn¡¯t seem nearly as satisfying as it did yesterday. I tear two strips of cloth from the bottom of my ruined shirt and wrap them around my damaged palms, every tool I have helps. Moving carefully towards the edge of the ravine, I¡¯m light on my feet, my roots as a dancer returning. I traverse the sides, analyzing every ledge, every crack, and every fissure. About a hundred and thirty feet from the southern tip of the box canyon, there seems to be a sturdy continuous overhang that extends just enough to place my boots on it. It¡¯s a good starting place. If I get stuck or my path ends, I can traverse back and try again. ¡°Here goes,¡± I mutter to myself. I place my foot onto the cliff edge, grasping the wall with my battered hands. It holds. I inch my boots down the path. Still holding. Good. Again. I''m aloft. Good. Again. I''m traversing the block with ease. Descending, twenty, thirty, fifty feet. I glance at the valley, so deep and distant, it has a pale blue hue. My stomach sinks, vertigo hits me like a train smashing into a wall. Yesterday, dissociation was my friend, today reality is punching me in the face. Fuck heights. I cling desperately to the protrusions in the rock, grasping the threads of my thoughts, trying to stave off a full-blown panic attack. Panting, tears streaming down my face, I focus on my breath. One, two, three, exhale. One, two, three, inhale. One, two, three¡­ Keep it even. Find composure. Don¡¯t hyperventilate. Sensation creeps back into my fingertips. It¡¯s working! Calm washes over me, and my freak out fades as quickly as it appeared. Forwards sixty feet, seventy feet, eighty feet. Moving quickly and assuredly now. Piece of cake, I¡¯m taking this at just the right pace. My confidence is soaring; by the end of this I will be the best human at traversing box canyons. My path is narrowing, only the balls of my feet anchored to this ribbon of stone. I¡¯m not worried, the path continues, wrapping around the edge of the cliff, uninterrupted. It looks like it widens! Yes! CRACK! Pebbles skitter. My esophagus is in knots. I¡¯m on my back. Floating. Falling. Plummeting. Well fuck. Time dilates. I¡¯m weightless¡­ cloudless sky and the canyon wall. At least I won¡¯t witness the ground as my brain splatters out of my ears. Surrender... I tried. Shooting towards me, onyx smoke, a column of darkness, an inconsistency juxtaposed against the radiance of the summer day. Just another coping mechanism, my mind getting one final delirious moment, the last flickers of consciousness scrambling to comprehend its own demise. Out of the shadow, two points of silver light, no¡­too large to be points, materialize. The haze is alive, gnashing ivory teeth emerge from gloom, followed by great leathery wings. Pulled by instinct, I extend my arm, reaching for the shape, even as its maw widens, threatening to swallow me whole. Blackness¡­ ¡­ Wind roaring, ripping past my face. My cheek pressed against soft fur, a slow deep heartbeat, an unfamiliar cadence reverbs against my ear. Swaying helplessly back and forth on my stomach, my nerves are reluctant to respond. My senses dulled, all I can do is flex the tips of my fingers and toes, met with that feeling of tiny pinpricks of electricity firing into my extremities. But my vision remains blurry, a fog of amorphous shape and color. My guts drop, the sensation of an elevator in motion. Velocity. The movement below me flows with the natural roll of a tidal wave. I push my arms to action, to no avail. MOVE DAMN IT! Utilizing all of my will to force myself upwards, I veer, there¡¯s give. Sitting up abruptly, I pull muscles in my abdomen, nearly losing my balance, that nauseating dip hitting the pit of my diaphragm as I careen backwards. Struggling to keep a hold, I clutch a fistful of mane. GRRRREIIIIIIIH! SKKKKHRREEEEIIIIIHHH!!! A thunderous cry leading into an unearthly shriek lurches the sight back into me. Clear sky, and the boundless wilderness soar below me, vast and uncaring. My hand death-grips strands of pitch-black hair, peppered with small silver and blue grey filaments, leading to an elongated neck. Oh no, oh no, no, no¡­ It is she. The one place I don¡¯t want to be, trapped on the back of this monstrous bestial creature, is there no escape, stuck in this limbo between the desert and this hallucinatory demon. Back and forth forever, with no end in sight, bound to this¡­ Ouch, fuck! I¡¯m tossed about violently, her shoulder blades cut into my thighs, her arms rotating with ferocity through her sockets, breaking my spiraling thoughts. A single enormous hateful eye swivels towards me as she tilts her head back. Narrowed as it glares, the tissue in the snout taught and bulging, her fangs clearly bared just out of view. I attempt to make my body smaller, trying to dip my head out the range of her unbound stare. So stupid, why am I even bothering, she¡¯s just going to throw me off and I¡¯ll splat like that damn bug that pelted me in the face. Minutes pass¡­ nothing¡­ what is she waiting for¡­ What does she want from me? I gulp, fighting with myself on what my next course of action should be. Jumping is out, all I can conceivably do is stay? Can I make it less irate? Well, maybe. So stupid, but I got nothing else. Gathering all the strength I can muster, I look into the great stormy orb. The further I descend into her steely eye, the more alien it feels, a constellation of exploding colorless nebulas, an instant in time I can¡¯t describe, somehow intact in a single frame, the pupil a ring of colorless singularity. Nothing like the mammalian features the entity chooses to wear, or really, any animal I can think of. An involuntary spasm shivers through me, as I sheepishly nod in the thing¡¯s direction. A low rumble reverberates through her neck and chest. Had the specter been smaller, this might have been a purr, but it reads more like an eerie rattle. She turns from me, drawing her attention to an invisible path. She doesn¡¯t seem to care about my presence, one way or another. Her priorities lie elsewhere, over these sandstone cliffs through the webs of unforgiving canyons. Somehow her visage fits within the energy of this place, she is as much a part of it as the rock and scrub. That unnerving feeling of a million invisible specters watching, so deeply integral to the essence of these arid lands. Could beings like her lurk in all of these spaces, just out of sight, forgotten to the bustling world that long left the wilds behind? The demon is absolutely real¡­ I don¡¯t think I could imagine this much crisp detail, this much sensation, this much force, this much¡­ agony. Releasing that twisted clutch of mane, I push myself forward to avoid getting bruised by her shoulder blades. Stable at last, I thread my fingers around new fibers, careful not to tug, I don¡¯t want to make her furious. Shuddering, the thought of Nico¡¯s spine cracking against the rigid sandstone, her jaws destroying his frail flesh... And that light, that haunting, piercing sound. I know what happens when her rage ignites. Exhaling through my stress¡­ I shake it off, there is nothing to be done, just find my inner peace, and hope I¡¯m not her next kill. ¡°I¡¯m grateful,¡± what the actual fuck Riley? I¡¯m genuinely shocked at the words that spill out of my mouth. Pointy ears twitch. To my surprise, the violence of her flight lessens. I suck in a little more air, waiting for a shift, that return to agitation, but nothing¡­ a state of near tranquility takes her body. Layers of the arid land dance below me as we sweep between the sandstone crags of the desolate cream hued mountain. From here, it looks less like peaks, more akin to a huge continuous blond stone ridge lifted by the geologic forces of an immense plateau. We ascend over the mesa, greeted by verdant prairie sage. A small group of elk browse, one lifts his immense head, half grown antlers coated in velvet catch the sun. A harem of does follow in earnest, their busy grazing interrupted by beating wings. I¡¯m strangely mesmerized by these immense animals, somehow they¡¯re familiar, like greeting long lost friends. Upon seeing the beast, they prance east to avoid our trajectory, yet, she doesn¡¯t deviate from her course; their existence is immaterial to her. The plains plunge frighteningly into a huge crimson valley, nearly two thousand feet down from the rolling edge of the plateau. My heart sinks, my stomach once again in my throat, that feeling of death, the death I earned this morning, the universe waiting to collect on my mortality with another devastating fall. Her ears flick. She notices my dread; she smells the scent of it on me. She glances back, that same petrifying eye lingering on the sad excuse of a person I am. She huffs, the way a hound does when it itches to get a finer taste of a delectable aroma. A peculiar tide of warmth smashes into me, the same sensation deep in my chest, the intensity turned up. Unbalanced, I try to wrap my head around what just happened, did I just get walloped with euphoria? Exhaling, the execution is brutal, chemicals in the mind aren¡¯t supposed to transition with such ferocity¡­ but I appreciate the thought. I examine the valley, the distance growing less disorientating, that biological glow lingers, what the ancestors might have called good medicine. We coast into the basin, her wings fixed, the invisible currents of air guiding us, the thermals lose strength as we descend until we are only a few stories above the ground. The juniper branches so close, I can nearly reach out and touch them. Flight is a powerful experience; I¡¯m insignificant, but also colossal at the same time. Within and without. The once rusting ground peppered with desert shrubs abruptly spills into a vast gorge. It¡¯s hair-raisingly deep, that same fair rock as the immense ridge guarding O¡¯chohca makes up its sheer walls. Wings folding, the shadowy demon dives into the pit, accelerating, but with my anxiety quelled, all that is left is the thrill. A treacherous olive river snakes through the canyon, bending dramatically from side to side, the bleached rock sliced open with this natural saw, millions of years of the water¡¯s relentless grinding, the end result breathtaking to behold. Ghost River Grants. It occurs to me, this watery path must be Ghost River, another sight I¡¯d hoped to leave well in the past. But something in the lizard part of my brain tries to engage with the entity again, the words falling out of my mouth before I comprehend what I¡¯m doing. ¡°You dragged me out,¡± I shout manically at the beast. Shit¡­ this is how it ends, she¡¯ll just dislodge me from her back and let the river consume my miserable hide. That single eerie orb pivots into view, as a wary grunt emanates from her black lips. Okay, not being propelled to my death, that¡¯s a good sign¡­ But maybe less talking from me would be a good idea. I run my fingers through the soft mane, a gesture that I hope conveys my appreciation. She turns away from me, only to drop another few hundred feet. I could get used to this, wind ripping past me, calm enveloping me. I stretch out my arms opening up my fingertips, wisps of wind flowing between the digits, imagining her wings are my own, it¡¯s complete freedom, my sadness falls away, a lost and distant thing. Accelerating, my heart pounds in my ears, as we bank left and right between the goosenecks of the ravine. Light breaks the shade of the canyon wall, the fractured gorge shrinking in the distance, an abrupt end to the structure I¡¯d grown to assume was eternal. The pastel tinges of the desert reflecting off of distant buildings, the City of Vermillion, on the left, it has to be. Early afternoon sun pierces brilliantly through the sky, her shadowy wings glowing with translucent orange as the gleam catches them. Too small to be a major stop on any map, but too big to be considered little, is an apt way to describe the town itself¡­ a blot on the crisp western horizon, part industrial town, part mild agricultural municipality, and part oversized truck stop. Maybe a population of ten thousand or slightly more, but who can really tell. At a distance, only the downtown appears to have two story buildings, the rest is flat and uniform. The enormous bat-like creature stays southwest of Vermillion, resigning herself to stay unnoticed. With the grace of a swan, she lands on the bank of Ghost River, a comfortable span from the first disappointing houses. Still at last, I scramble to safely dismount the slanting spine of the demon. Instead, I manage to tumble with the coordination of a drunk person, headfirst off of her shoulders onto the ground. THUD! ¡°Damn it,¡± I wobble to my feet, unsure if the unearthly being snorted at my expense in response to my clumsiness. Maybe, it¡¯s just my anxious thoughts laughing at me. My body is surprisingly sore, muscles I didn¡¯t know existed in my slight frame are making their presence aggressively known. Turning to the beast, she sits on short legs, her lengthy winged arms propping up her muscular chest, a pillar of black, unkempt fur, and bitterness. For all of my height, I likely only stand to the base of her towering neck. She leers, her face inscrutable. As before, I reach out to stroke the ruff around her neck, one last expression of respect¡­ and maybe, thanks. The visage of form disintegrates though my fingers, ebony mist, strange particles carried by the arid current off into the distance, embers of the sun glinting off of their surface, until there¡¯s nothing left. I¡¯m alone again¡­ Alone again. Chapter V - THE NAUTILUS THE NAUTILUS Chapter V THE GODS OF GHOST RIVER ¡°If only, if only, the moon speaks no reply; Reflecting the sun and all that¡¯s gone by.¡± - Louis Sachar, Holes Alone again¡­ Alone again. Lonely, I stare at the vacant space where the wraith stood, a numbness I hoped to stave off crystallizing into my flesh and bone. The material becoming immaterial, in the void left behind, the demonic form seems more and more a figment of my imagination. The only tethers that lend credence to strange being¡¯s existence is the sprawl of Vermillion standing before me and that lingering warm glow permeating my chest. ???? The world turning so quickly, I try to keep up, keep pace, keep in stride. But it¡¯s pulling away from me, something¡¯s pulling me down, an invisible weight pushing me to sleep. Do I dare stop or slow down? No, my body grows sluggish, I fear if I stop, even for just a second, I¡¯ll slip into a coma, and never wake up¡­ ???? Intrusive thoughts, foreign to me, maybe a part of my psyche I drove down and hid away. But, I¡¯ve always allowed myself to be still¡­ could this be my mind ushering me to keep up my momentum? I¡¯ve seen more than a lifetime¡¯s worth of bad in a matter of hours¡­ I¡¯m alive and I¡¯m not going to question the ins and outs of my brain¡¯s motivating forces. If it works, it works. Something at the edge of my perception tugs me, electrical signals zinging through my limbs, calling me forward. I search my pockets, for anything of use. There¡¯s nothing¡­ except for the little mahogany hued fossil... a comforting symbol of my survival. Nico¡¯s idiot machine now holds most of my earthly possessions, as for the phone and wallet, I¡¯m pretty sure Ghost River ate them. Peering down at my ripped and bloodied tank top, there¡¯s no way I could borrow someone¡¯s cell, let alone talk to anyone with murder plastered all over me. Pulling the splotchy fabric over my head, I wad it into the smallest ball I can possibly shape, I need to dispose of this grotesque thing. My disgusting lone souvenir to the world¡¯s shittiest three days. The afternoon sun beats against me, but I¡¯m close to people, shade is a guarantee somewhere, and running water. Striding towards the industrial end of Vermillion, a small cement plant stands visible in the distance, as well as a myriad of run down business parks, thirty to forty years out of date. I roll by one constructed of ugly mustard brick, stained with desert rust. A single vehicle sits secluded in the lot, no security cameras to be seen. Not a surprise, the isolation of this town is in its spirit, surveillance seems like overkill, an overused crutch the big cities have become accustomed to, and maybe eventually enslaved by. A single brown industrial dumpster slumps behind the building, I haven¡¯t seen a soul yet, but cautiously I survey the area just in case. No one. I inconspicuously shove the shirt into the dumpster, my long arms making it over the lip, no problem. It¡¯s a grueling day, people won¡¯t think twice about a man walking around shirtless in these conditions. Still, I feel exposed, unshielded, I don¡¯t want people to notice me. Wandering aimlessly down a grid of streets, I look for a place I might grab some water without being turned away. It seems like a mostly white folks kind of town, between looking homeless, and my native ancestry, that¡¯s two strikes on the patience of most people I may encounter. Coming to the heart of Vermillion where the downtown peaks higher than the houses and businesses, a green sign greets me at the intersection of a road cut with four lanes, reading ¡°Main Street¡±. I roll my eyes, the most generic name, fitting for a place like this. I spot a red and white logo across the pavement, a familiar striped spiral shell. A ¡°Nautilus¡± gas station, there¡¯s got to be running water, a bathroom, someplace I can wipe the desert off of my face. Crossing the mostly empty road, I hurry against the light. Maybe, there¡¯s a phone I can borrow, or perhaps a payphone¡­. If they even exist anymore. A single rusty powder-blue pickup truck passes behind me, slowing to a crawl for half a second, then speeding up, leaving me to finish my journey. The gas station looks like the newest edifice I¡¯ve seen so far, possibly only a year or two old, it¡¯s cherry tomato red paint sparkles in the scouring sunlight, that luster only new things have. Eager for air-conditioning, I push against the glass door, which swings with so little effort that I throw it open with an awful slam. Peew-doo! A mocking door-opening sound accompanies my unnecessary roughness, so much for being discreet, everyone in the store will know I¡¯m here. A short attendant in a scarlet uniform with neck-length brown hair busily tends to something over the counter, unflinching from their task. I pause. Nothing¡­ Phew, I can proceed with impunity. The room is surprisingly large, part grocery store, part auto parts outlet, and part gift shop. My eyes dart about, looking for¡­ SHIRTS! A cornucopia of them hung in a methodical arrangement, so perfect, almost compulsive, color coded by the order of the rainbow, on a single shiny circular rack. Drawing myself closer, I pull out a dark grey tee and look at the print on it. ¡°City of Vermillion Est 1877¡±, it reads with the hills printed in faded ink, meh, I return it. Pulling out a maroon one, I gape at the dumb words printed on the t-shirt, ¡°I Found My Favorite Mounds in Vermillion¡± with a questionably raunchy illustration of the landmark. Hurriedly, I shove the shirt back into the display, blushing slightly¡­ yick, that¡¯s classy¡­ whatever. Where we¡¯re going, I bet there¡¯ll be plenty of bitches for you. Vivid ashen light pours from the thing¡¯s throat. Nico¡­ a mound of unidentifiable gore. An intense wave of nausea hits me, I fidget with a new hanger, hoping the excruciating sensation subsides before I lose my stomach contents all over the display. Pulling out a black one, my discomfort subsides. Peering at it, the logo looks like a bison skull with strange markings printed on it, in white the lettering states, ¡°Keep the Homeland Native.¡± Ah yes, finally a keeper. ¡°Hey, I¡¯m sorry man, but the owner¡¯s pretty strict on the ¡®No Shirt No Shoes¡¯ thing,¡± a soft voice proclaims behind me. Nearly dropping the clothing in my hands to the floor in surprise, the timber sounds strangely familiar to me, a case of strong d¨¦j¨¤ vu. ¡°You¡¯ll have to put on a shirt and come¡­¡± I turn to face the speaker. ¡°HOLY SHIT! Riley? Is that you?¡± Looking down, the husky attendant from behind the counter stares back at me, a face so nostalgic, a ghost from my past. His features are unmistakable with his pointy, but full cheeks, an enormous broad-toothed grin, and deep umber eyes. A childhood buddy, aged seven years since I last saw him, but only standing about five foot four with unusually shiny bone-straight espresso hair. Shit, super models would kill for hair like that. ¡°Bobbi?¡± the shock clearly painted on my face, ¡°What¡¯re you doing here?¡± ¡°Dude, you got tall!¡± ¡°Couldn¡¯t say the same for you,¡± smirking, while attempting make myself smaller. ¡°You look like Hell!¡± concern crossing his rosy complexion, ¡°Do you need water? Pick a t-shirt, it¡¯s on me¡­¡± he nods at the onyx shirt in my hand, ¡°What in the name of the old ones happened to you?¡± ¡°It¡¯s a long story,¡± I state exasperatedly, panic and overwhelm taking hold, his quick draw questions and cascade of kindness hitting me like bullets. ¡°No it¡¯s okay, really, take it,¡± Bobbi points at the shirt. Bobbi wanders over to the soda machine and pours me water into that discount kind of cup with the misty opaque plastic. With zeal, he ushers me to join him, a new project to attend to, hopefully more captivating than repeatedly organizing souvenirs and junk food. Shrugging in defeat, I pull the fresh new t-shirt over my head. The fabric is nicely made, a soft cotton blend, something unfamiliar to my skin. Thinking back, I can¡¯t remember the last new shirt I¡¯ve owned. Bobbi pulls up a stool to the side of his counter, ¡°Sit down for a bit, and drink this, it¡¯ll help.¡± Padding up next to him, I take a seat, the vinyl cushion is slightly tacky with a squish factor at the same time, similar to the seats of an old school diner. The convenience store¡¯s aquatic logo is printed brightly on its shiny veneer, honestly beats sitting on the hard ground. Eying my water cup, it looks more appetizing than it did a minute ago. The thirst awakening somewhere deep inside of me, I snap it up and gulp it down like some kind of ravenous beast. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. Galactic sky¡­ Thunderous roaring. Brooding in silence, the exhaustion creeps back into me, fatigue staved off by being continuously on the go. The rhythmic humming of the coolers lulling me into a trance, brand name energy drinks and soda crystallizing into a kaleidoscope of fractured hues. Buzzing transitions into crashing rapids¡­ Ghost River, liquid filling my mouth, my lungs, weightlessness, endless¡­ glaring florescent lights, a ringing in my ears as I zone out¡­ ¡°What happened?¡± he points to my cut up hands, still bandaged in strips of my destroyed tank top. I¡¯m acutely aware that my face is covered in scabs by the worry written on his face. That¡¯s not good. Maybe, I really do look like I clawed my way out of the underworld. ¡°I¡¯m okay¡­ Promise. It looks worse than it is,¡± I pause and wonder if I should tell him anything about my past seventy-two hours. Muscle, sinew, and flesh, weaving into form. ¡°Bullshit!¡± Bobbi calls my bluff, ¡°My mom is a PA at the Ghost River Reservation Clinic. She¡¯s coming over for dinner tonight. I¡¯ll make sure she takes a look at you.¡± ¡°Wait, your mom¡¯s here?¡± ¡°Yeah, when we moved out of the old neighborhood it was cuz she took a job out here. We¡¯ve been in Vermillion ever since.¡± ??? Darion grabs his reflective dirt bike and takes another pass at my rickety jump. Tearing down the street with unwise speed. I keep a close eye on his progress, in a way only older siblings do. I¡¯m blind to the rest of the world. My brother¡¯s approach is seamless, I don¡¯t notice a shape closing in. Inches from the ramp, his scream pierces my brain. He¡¯s in a heap on the ground, a branch tangled in his spokes. Nico, with his two sizes too big shoes, is on the other end of the stick. Blood is gushing from his nose. Bobbi hurries over, removing his sock and placing it under Darion¡¯s wound. ¡°Don¡¯t be a little bitch,¡± Nico snarls, ¡°He¡¯ll be fine!¡± ¡°Why would you do that?¡± Bobbi barks at him. ¡°I didn¡¯t do anything, it was an accident. Jeez, don¡¯t put this on me!¡± ¡°Are you kidding me?¡± the shade of purple in Bobbi¡¯s face revealing levels of anger new to me, ¡°You can¡¯t seriously think we buy that!¡± My little brother whimpers in pain. Guilt burns into my body, I wasn¡¯t paying attention. Maybe this was all my fault. I should¡¯ve seen Nico farting around with the tree limb. Nico is high energy, but I can¡¯t see him doing this on purpose. ¡°Bobbi, it was an accident. I¡¯m to blame, I wasn¡¯t looking where Darion was going. Let¡¯s get him home and cleaned up.¡± The look of pure rage Bobbi gives me is palpable, I turn away to avoid his gaze. ¡°Fine, let¡¯s get him inside,¡± Bobbi¡¯s glare fixes upon Nico. ??? My failing, a memory I¡¯d forgotten¡­ Nico, playing the role he¡¯d always played, while I stood blind to it. No wonder Bobbi felt such disdain for me, in that moment I chose a side, the side of Darion¡¯s tormentor. That¡¯s not what good big brothers do, not by a long shot. Maybe, had I listened, not turned away from Bobbi¡¯s heavy eyes so long ago, none of this would¡¯ve have come to pass. Even in his cheerful presence, I dodge his event-horizon stare, worried it¡¯ll pull me somewhere into that darkness of my laundry list of mistakes. I sit mute, no words call fill the void between us. When he left for the rez, I more or less abandoned him. I could¡¯ve picked up a phone and at least called him once or twice. But no, to me, he was an accessory, not a friend¡­ like Nico saw me. How I miscalculated, a fatal misstep, one that took at least one life. I stare down at my grimy less-than-black boots in my self-contained shame. Follow The Lines. ¡°Hey, you¡¯ve got nothing to feel ashamed of,¡± putting his hand on my back, his deep eyes are steady and trusting, just a little bit soul piercing. How¡­ just a seamless transition from my thoughts to an accurate response, an echo. My face is too readable, it must be. ¡°¡­ The body of one of two missing hikers in Vermillion Hills State Park, was recovered this morning in Hughie Box Canyon. The body of twenty-two year old Cody McKinnon, of Santa Ana, was discovered by a ranger patrol in the early hours of the morning. Preliminary findings suggest cause of death by blunt force trauma from an apparent fall, pending a formal autopsy¡­ Search continues for Ashley Hanes who is still considered a missing person¡­¡± The flat-screen mounted to the wall interjects our conversation, adding to my hesitance to come up with something to say. ¡°Got lost in the desert, like those two poor fucks?¡± Bobbi adds, gesturing towards the news. I nod. ¡°It¡¯s wild country. Out there, people disappear all of the time, statistically anomalous, is what some folks say.¡± ¡°But why?¡± I suppress that chilling image of the bat-like beast burned into my brain, replaying like a broken record. Just out-of-towners, prolly just don¡¯t have the survival instincts to keep themselves from doing stupid shit¡­ thinking the whole world belongs to them, no respect for the old places.¡± ¡°Or the old things¡­¡± I mutter to myself under my breath. ¡°But, hey¡­ Locals don¡¯t vanish, most folks have been here since at least pioneer days. Or even earlier,¡± he explains. Peew-doo! A man with bushy blonde hair and a bit of a beer gut saunters into the store. ¡°Hello sir, let me know if there is anything I can help you with,¡± Bobbi puts on his customer service voice. The man makes eye contact, twitches in acknowledgment and proceeds to inspect the savory snack aisle. ¡°Yeah, still the Wild West out here huh?¡± I respond, a little delayed by the man¡¯s entrance. Making a half-hearted nod at me, Bobbi looks to the man pushing towards the counter with his vinegar kettle chips. He scans the bag efficiently and asks, ¡°Is that all for you sir?¡± The stranger¡¯s untamed mustache bristles as he gestures at the cigarettes, ¡°I¡¯d like uhh numba seben an a numba elleben.¡± I wait quietly as Bobby bags the man¡¯s small vices. Oddly, the craving for tobacco has left me, but I still miss those little pleasures. The things that somehow make the grind of simply getting out of bed in the morning just a hair more tolerable. ¡°Have a good day,¡± Bobbi calls as the man leaves. I stare at the door for a minute or so to make sure no one else is coming in. Quiet at last, I return my attention to my old friend. ¡°Sort of, it¡¯s kind of stuck in the eighties too. If you like stupid big hair and leather jackets, then this is the place for you¡± Bobbi laughs warmly, ¡°Do you have any money or way to reach anyone? Your mom or Darion?¡± ¡°I lost my phone and my wallet,¡± A twinge of regret hits me, loneliness, ¡°Is there a shelter somewhere in town I could go to and clean up?¡± ¡°There is one,¡± He gives me a concerned look, ¡°But, it¡¯s a mission. They aren¡¯t particularly friendly to people like us. You can stay with me instead, it would be safer and hey at least I won¡¯t be trying to convert you.¡± I dip my head in acknowledgment, looking at my very tan skin. In the city, I get lost in the shuffle, I could be anyone or anything I want to be. But out here, people are still living a hundred years in the past. To them, I¡¯m some heathen that needs fixing. It makes my blood boil. ¡°I don¡¯t want to be a bother.¡± ¡°Seriously, you¡¯re fine. It¡¯s no big deal. You can borrow my phone and call home. I¡¯m sure they¡¯d want to hear from you.¡± I don¡¯t look up, I can¡¯t stand the grief I¡¯m feeling. The idea of Darion seeing his big brother fucking up this hard breaks my heart. ¡°¡­ Or not, you don¡¯t have to call them. Stick around as long as you need to.¡± Peew-doo! A tall figure in a wine-colored motorcycle helmet pushes through the door. They¡¯re dressed head to toe in designer leather, down to the gloves. ¡°Oh hey, it¡¯s the boss,¡± Bobbi exclaims, ¡°Wassup Red Feather!¡± Long dark hair spills out of the helmet. It¡¯s a woman in her late thirties with hawk-like features. She examines her store, a predator surveying her territory, her serious expression lessening when her attention fixes upon Bobbi. ¡°Keeping it together, White Fox?¡± ¡°No shit,¡± Bobbi gestures to the immaculately clean store. She beams with pride, pulling her helmet to her side, ¡°You can call it, I¡¯ve got it covered for the rest of the night. Who¡¯s your friend?¡± I put on my most forced smile, turning into more of a grimace, attempting to course correct, I give a painfully awkward wave. ¡°Oh yeah, this is Riley. He and I go way back. He¡¯s had a bit of a rough time in the desert, so I invited him to stay with me until he recovers. I put money in the register for the shirt.¡± ¡°Well hi there! I wish we were meeting under better circumstances,¡± she eyes me probingly, the gears in her head turning, making up her mind if I¡¯m ¡°good people¡±. The muscles in her face loosen slightly as she decides I¡¯m harmless, ¡°You can call me Aria! If you¡¯re looking for a job, I need some extra help. Poor Bobbi has been working his shifts alone for a bit and could do with some company.¡± ¡°Sure, I¡¯ll think about it.¡± She shoos us away from the counter, ¡°Get out of here, go enjoy your dinner!¡± ¡°Oh you know we will!¡± Bobbi bounces for the door dragging me behind him, ¡°I have green chili tortilla soup in the crock pot for tonight!¡± Peew-doo! The familiar chime declares our exit. Heat hits me like a wall of flames, it seemed easier to be outside just an hour or two ago, I must be reverting back to my dependence on creature comforts. Bobbi strides over to a silver sedan, maybe five years old, it¡¯s arguably the most generic car anyone could pick. Deep down, he doesn¡¯t want to stick out. Maybe tensions between the Ghost River Reservation and the town¡¯s folk of Vermillion are little more strained than I thought? ¡°My place is on the other end of town. It isn¡¯t too far though.¡± I open the passenger side door, and scrunch into the vehicle. My knees are uncomfortably close to my face; the phantom presence of a much shorter person¡¯s habits lay imprinted in the seat position. ¡°The bar is on the front¡­ yeah there. I think mom was the last one riding with me.¡± Relief as the cushions slide backward, my legs no longer feeling like sardines in a can, the car chugs to life, as we pull out of the newest parking lot on the street. The historic buildings of Main Street slide past me, most are in excellent repair, fresh paint, clean stone, and brick. A quaint hand spun taffy and ice cream parlor in a royal blue building speed by, had things been different, this might have been a fun place to visit. Taking a deep oxygen-permeating sigh, I wish a lot of things were different. Circling around me, her gaze unbroken. My sense of reality is failing me, the shapeless monster seems more tangible than this boring sedan. Maybe, just maybe, a hot meal and some rest will help me make sense of it. Or maybe, just maybe, my nightmares are real and this world is imaginary. Chapter VI - PEELING PAINT PEELING PAINT Chapter VI THE GODS OF GHOST RIVER ¡°There is something at work in my soul, which I do not understand.¡± - Mary Shelly, Frankenstein

Turning the rust colored fossil in my hand, its smooth sides setting it apart from the grains that make up the myriad of stones of the seemingly endless waste, a way to satiate my nervousness, something to fidget. I¡¯m safe now, everything will be okay. Intellectually, I know it to be true, but somehow it seems unconvincing, a lurking feeling of that canyon composed of eyes still upon me. We approach what I assume is Bobbi¡¯s door, the apartment building in line with Vermillion¡¯s real estate trends, well managed, but likely at least thirty years old. Dull greyish-brown acrylic paint on the exterior wall peels, not from neglect, but from the harsh wear and tear of the high desert. Bobbi¡¯s keys jingle against a tarnished brass lock, a key ring with an adorable cartoon hamster dangling at its end, prances with animate delight. Unabashedly himself, Bobbi always marched to the beat of his own drum, it takes bravery that often feels so lost to me. ¡°Welcome home,¡± Bobbi swings open the metal door, ¡°Put your boots there, keeps the sand and dirt out,¡± he laughs a little to himself, ¡°Feels like a constant battle keeping all the crud away.¡± ???? Ambient light, the last fractures of the sun¡¯s rays stretching between the fingers of high rocks, it¡¯ll be dark soon. The Old Town isn¡¯t far, I¡¯ve walked these lonely roads many times, familiar, competent, just part of my routine. Marta even calls me scrappy, I like it when she calls me that, she knows me just about better than anybody. As a pair, we¡¯re a force to be reckoned with. But, alone, something feels different, a foreboding tickling the tip of my spine, some people¡¯s hair stands on end, but I feel it at the base of my neck where the bone protrudes, a sixth sense, maybe passed from the ancestors. At least, that¡¯s what Mi Ma says. Mi Ma says a lot of weird stuff, but you kinda just flow with it. I¡¯m extra alert, my trailer key held as a shiv, primed for whatever might await. ???? Strange thoughts from a foreign place, who¡¯s Mi Ma? As I ponder this, the wafting aroma of green chili and chicken hits me, nostalgia, it smells like the best of my childhood, a sweet reminder of easier times. The question of Mi Ma drifts from my mind as I bow my head and unlace my boots, my feet tingling with pain as pressure relieves itself, the leather clinging tightly. Three days in hell, my shoes remained adhered, they may as well have been an extension of my body. I unwrap the footwear, revealing socks, sickeningly peach with dried plasma, almost crispy to the touch. Taking a defeated seat in his entryway, I resign myself to the daunting task of gently attempting to pry the gruesome things from my toes. Rolling the top of my right sock down to the ankle, I meet resistance, I tug, but there¡¯s no give. Frustration takes control, enough is enough, I yank the ruined fabric, awareness slices into me, an acute ripping sensation. Involuntarily, I yelp, the sock finally free of my foot, but covered in torn skin. Open blisters and wounds sting as tears well up in my eyes. Gritting my teeth, I draw blood from the inside of my cheek, a hiss of distress escaping my mouth. Bobbi watches me intently, disbelief flickers across his expression as the damage becomes apparent, the saturation leaves his face. Hurrying from the room, his departure joined by a choir of cabinets opening and closing, soon accompanied by a symphony of clinking glass emanating from some unseen place. He¡¯s searching for something. ¡°Hey, hey, I got something for you,¡± Bobbi rushes back into the room with gauze, paper towels, and a bottle of clear liquid, ¡°Ouch, that fucking sucks. This¡¯ll hurt, but it¡¯ll help in the long run.¡± ¡°Thankssss,¡± I wheeze, taking the medical offerings from him. Dabbing my feet in the freshly saturated paper product, a stabbing sensation hits my injuries, as I manage to exhale a veiled, ¡°motherfucker¡­¡± ¡°Man, what happened to you? This seems so much worse than just getting ¡®Lost in the Desert¡¯ for a day. I mean dang boy! I¡¯m glad mom is coming by, cuz holy shit, she will definitely need to stitch you back together.¡± I wrestle with the question, again, should I tell him anything, about Nico, the murder, or the demon in the night? No. No way, I¡¯d sound insane. I endeavor to silence myself with busyness, treating and wrapping both of my feet in gauze, I feel slightly better, but not great. Hobbling to my feet using Bobbi¡¯s textured wall as a support, I notice a small narrow kitchen sits around the corner to my left. But, the crown jewel of his apartment is a small oak table, able to seat six if you squeeze two people onto the ends, set like a show home, always ready for hosting. Through the gloom behind the table is a simple living room with a single TV, a battered futon with earthy brown cushions leans against the far wall, a hand-me-down from a bygone post war age. Despite the modest space, like the Nautilus, Bobbi¡¯s home is immaculately tidy, not a spec of dust or clutter. Had previous tenants been as attentive, the apartment would likely have aged better. ¡°Why don¡¯t you go get cleaned up. I¡¯ve got some extra basketball shorts that should fit you and since the shirt is pretty much new, that should be fine. Bathroom is around the corner on the right. There¡¯s soap and there should be a spare towel under the sink.¡± Bobbi hurries past me, down the hall towards the bathroom. I limp after him, for once thanking my stride for getting me to my destination with expediency. He turns unexpectedly as we reach the open door to the bathroom, at my new vantage point across the hall nestles a small bedroom. A boombox leans against the wall, it seems to play CD¡¯s, but it¡¯s built to resemble a time decades passed, tacked to the walls posters of standup comedians. Pinned directly above his bed is the most important of these, the image of a balding white man holding an array of goofy, but artistically crafted puppets. His mattress sits on the floor with no frame, simplicity itself, the navy blue sheets neatly made, almost with as much care as a hotel suite, had the sheets not been so well used. I squint, taking in more of the room, a worn stuffed arctic fox with matted fur sits against his pillows, an heirloom that just might share his age. The animal¡¯s plush fabric isn¡¯t quite white anymore. A beautiful folded wool blanket is set at the foot of his bed with colorful indigenous geometric patterns, yes, another reminder of home. Bobbi keeps a shabby oak desk in the corner, likely yet another hand-me-down, a terracotta lamp guards the flat top with stationary arranged to spatial perfection, revealing that need for order that he seems to compulsively crave. Matching the desk, a small oak dresser stands opposite to his modest sleeping space. Resolutely, a sculpture of a vintage video game character wearing an army green jumpsuit rules the top of the wardrobe. She clutches a comically large flame-thrower, her furrowed brow shows she really means business, about to kick some alien ass¡­ violent eyes. I study her fierce expression as Bobbi rummages around in the middle drawer. ¡°Aha! Here we are,¡± he calls proudly, giving me a pair of navy blue gym shorts. Ugh, color, I wish they¡¯d be black, but under these circumstances, beggars can¡¯t be choosers. I run my hands over the nylon, refamiliarizing myself with the sensation of synthetic material, the bandages of the corpse of my cotton tank feeling more comfortable than the zinging bite of the new fibers. Bobbi strides over to me, handing me a fresh set of gauze, and the rubbing alcohol, that expression of concern molded into a permanent fixture of his face. ¡°You will prolly need to redress that after your shower,¡± he points to my feet and hands, unpaid extras that just got off of the set for a horror movie involving a mummy. ¡°Yeah, thanks.¡± ¡°Leave the dirty clothes in front of the bathroom door and I can start washing them. I don¡¯t have any extra PJ¡¯s but mom might have something in her car. She always has donations and stuff like that for the clinic.¡± ¡°Look at you being a regular housewife,¡± I go in for a play punch, wince at the raw burning flesh that was once my hands, and drop it. ¡°It¡¯s called being an adult dumbass, you should try it sometime!¡± he laughs at my expense, my failed attempt at toxic masculinity falling as hard as I did into Ghost River. With a cackle of delight akin to my corvid companion in the gorge, Bobbi bounces off to check on his stew¡¯s progress. Seeking stability, I lean my head against the doorframe of the bathroom and shuffle inside. Three points of contact, that¡¯s what climbers say right, to keep one from tumbling? The washroom is tiny, but squeaky clean, you could build computer chips in here. But, my skull hovers, maybe, only a few inches below the popcorn ceiling¡­ with certainty this was not built to code. Intentionally, I avoid the single light hanging in the center of the room, don¡¯t need anything else broken, not today. Cracked porcelain adorns the basin of the budget two-in-one shower tub, had Bobbi had the means, he likely would have refinished it, with or without his land lord¡¯s approval. A light oak cabinet holds the off-putting vintage ochre sink up, tones of sick. Yet once again, it¡¯s spotless. Searching the cabinet for this spare towel Bobbi prophesized, I find a dull brown one, the same color as his worn couch, but the terrycloth is fluffy and well cared for. Hunching over the tasteless basin, I have to lean my entire frame over it to gaze into the cheap single pane mirror. I avoid looking at my ugly mug in the eerie amber glow of the halogen light, a cell of my own making in a dingy asylum. Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. My glance meets the lurid golden brown shade of my eyes, sunken, dark circles, dried plasma, deep blackened yellowing bruises, an unrecognizable visage stares back at me, a shadow of the self that once was. A stranger in my own body, I¡¯m nearly as much of a shell as Dizzy¡¯s corpse, lying alone and forgotten in the cold desert night. Hesitating, it¡¯s time to see what the damage really is, a piece of me hoping there¡¯s a trace of a bullet hole or at least a graze. Stripping down to my boxers, my bruised arms sore to the touch, dehydrated gore crusts my stomach, my waist, and eventually runs down my leg. I must have lost a lot of blood? I look up to the site of the wound, it¡¯s so jarring, I turn away in a moment of blind panic. Hyperventilating, I return my stare, mystified by the sight, there¡¯s no puncture, no injury, nothing, not a scratch, not a gouge, not a trace. On the tissue on my left shoulder, above the heart, where the bleeding logically came from, lies a bizarre five inch patch of extremely perfect, smooth skin with a healthy sheen to it. Even compared to the small patches of undamaged parts of my dermis, the site is far less blotchy, almost as if it belonged to another human. Worse than any laceration I could envision, another divergence in reality, a stark contrast against the scabs, contusions, and cuts that make up the vast majority of my physique. Just as I thought I¡¯d grasped a tangible thread of my experience in the desert, it all comes unraveling. Am I unraveling? The bloody trail running down my side, evidence of the gunshot, the only evidence of my attempted murder. My heart sinks, and I¡¯m about to wash all of it away too. There¡¯s no way to document it, the strings of my fraying mind unwind, spooling onto the dingy tile. No one would ever believe me, honestly, why should they? Defeated, I push away from the mirror, lowering myself to the ground, three points of contact, that¡¯s all I¡¯ll ever get from now on. Sitting in the quiet of the flickering halogen, I pull off the last of my soiled clothes. Bobbi saw the gore on my abdomen, he must¡¯ve, and yet he¡¯s still helping me. Or maybe, he was so excited to see a familiar face, he missed it¡­ unlikely. If he turns me in, it could be for the best, if I¡¯m indeed losing my grip, prison might be the best place for me. Free food, no rent, no job, no monster made of shadow and hound¡­ hopefully. Pulling the fossil once again from the pocket of my less than black baggy shorts, I trace the grooves of the shell with my fingertips, at least this one little object is real, without a doubt. I place my prehistoric talisman on the counter, and open the bathroom door a crack, pushing the filthy garments through the gap, hopefully covertly enough to preserve what little privacy I have. The disappointing navy shorts lay in a heap on the floor. Nothing to do now but scrub the grime from me. Phantoms of water vapor. Turning to the shower, the curtain matches Bobbi¡¯s keychain, a chubby cartoon hamster printed on it, the rodent greeting me with round cheeks and overly adorable eyes. I brace against the wall and I lean in, grasping the age-stained tap, a burst of cold water pummels me in the face, I lose my footing. Staggering against the discolored tile, I catch myself before I biff it. I survive getting shot, falling off a cliff, bleeding to death, heatstroke, and drowning, only to die from hitting my head in the tub? Ironic¡­ maybe a little poetic? I chuckle to myself, maybe, not such a bad end¡­ better than Nico¡¯s end... Nico flails against the torrent of sound. His flesh changing¡­ I gulp, swallowing the torrential sensation of sick. Nico is dead, somehow his death is my fault, I just know it¡­ Muscle laid bare. Blood pooling from its lips. Push it down, use the task to distract from those violent images, I don¡¯t have the energy to deal with this, not right now. Unwrapping the gauze on my feet and prying the shirt fragments from my hands, I throw the discolored bandages out onto the floor, then, quickly close the simpering shower curtain behind me. An industrial sized container of generic body wash nearly takes up a corner of the tub. Its companion, a much smaller golden bottle sits in the adjacent spot. Picking it up, I study the tiny luminous label, Slice of Heaven: Shampoo for Dazzling Shine, eureka, the secret to Bobbi¡¯s hair care! I grab a handful of the body wash, which turns ruddy grey as soon at it touches my grimy skin. Ash, umber, and clumpy garnet join the grotesque river rolling off of me, I keep scrubbing, more unending carnage appears, at this rate I¡¯ll never be unsullied again. I doubt even ¡°Dazzling Shine¡± will do anything for my equally damaged hair. Taking a dollop full of the golden mixture, I lather it into my dark locks, heinous fluid¡­ blood¡­ drips from the roots¡­ but how? I pause. It isn¡¯t my own, it¡¯s Nico¡¯s... I want to barf¡­ but, there¡¯s nothing left in me. I¡¯m so cold. Shuddering, I collapse against the old porcelain, drawing my knees to my nose, the now warm water is my cocoon. Languid, I fade into obscurity. ???? Desert insects sing the joyous songs of night, a swath of stars cut into the inky sky, cosmic dust glittering, ancestral eyes. A lonely road, a familiar street¡­ Bobbi¡¯s home. Its peeling dull ashen paint unmistakable even in the harsh glow of the single amber streetlight, flickering, audibly zinging with manic electrical jolts. Standing solitary, fixed in the center of the pavement, luminosity bouncing off the asphalt, confusion, I¡¯ve no memory of leaving the apartment. That uncomfortable feeling, I¡¯m being observed. I peer into the gloom, something lurks, a form balled low in the shadows, obscured by the lamplight. ¡°Show yourself!¡± my patience spent, I stand tall, anger trembling through me, ¡°I am sick of this shit. If you¡¯re going to kill me, just go ahead and fucking kill me.¡± Cracking, fracturing, unnatural sounds, a figure rises from the blackness, shifting, snapping like unseen ice. Unfurling its towering body, the entity stands most of the height of the pole, enveloped by shadow. ¡°Lo¡¯otaku niih¡¯lo o¡¯nhokah¡­ U¡¯tee i¡¯ O¡¯chohca.¡± The old tongue, crackling, it speaks the old language, its voice of the elements, not that of a person. It steps into the luminous cone, bathed in synthetic golden rays, a towering human shape, but its head is wide and amorphous. Feathers push unnaturally through the tissue of its collarbone, bursting through the skin. Zygodactl fingers stretch from its wrists, armed with hooked raptorial talons. Brilliant canary orbs open, awful deep sinking pupils, an abyss threatening to swallow you whole, owl¡¯s eyes¡­ ¡°U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho.¡± Dropping one shoulder, the being hurtles towards me with furious speed, claws bared. Hooks dig into the sides of my throat as it slams me against the apartment¡¯s deteriorating exterior wall, dragging my limp frame up the wood paneling to meet its gaze. Splinters tearing through my back, I struggle against its grip. Staring at the grotesque avian man-thing, there¡¯s no mouth, just layers of wide radial feathers surrounding its gaping orbits, two chalky triangles line what I assume is its face. Frenzied screams emanate from its eyes united by deafening drum beats. Suspended, the weight of my body pulls excruciatingly on my neck and jaw, its hooked nails leading to human palms with penetrative feather filaments splitting through the dermis. ¡°Ti¡¯is cho.¡± Searing pain, it rips open my abdomen with its free hand, spilling my intestines. The presence releases its clutch on my throat, dropping me several feet to the ground. Shock, I scoop up my innards, struggling to sit upright. Frantic, do I try to shove the mass of organs back inside of my broken torso? Hollering in agony, sweat beads from my brow, those sickening sun-touched eyes pushing towards me, the ornithic entity stretching its keen-edged fingers¡­ A chilling shriek breaks the melody of mid-summer crickets. Pulling away from me, the wide-eyed demon freezes, looking to the sky... distress visible in the taught sinews of its muscles. Another haunting sound¡­ its orbs dart from side to side. From out of the night it rises, violent eyes, shadow and form as one, striding towards the owl creature on long limbs. The anthropomorphic monster twists itself into a submissive crouch, and carefully slinks away, quivering. Back to the darkness behind the streetlight¡­ to a world out of sight¡­ it vanishes. The familiar silhouette of the bat-like specter looms over me, her once lush fur now drips with the consistency of pitch, oozing to the ground. Lie Weaver Noxious odor, it makes my stomach churn¡­ stomach, I look down at my damaged body, but I¡¯m whole¡­ the discomfort evaporating. I grip my belly, could all of last few minutes be just an illusion? Lie Weaver. She, the amorphous beast, glowers into the now vacant dark where the owlish being disappeared to, standing stoic, a guardian in the blackness. The storm has passed¡­ U¡¯nkah Ti¡¯is Cho We Pay In Blood Tui¡¯li¡¯roh Thief Of Mind Voracious Eater Of Will Foul Parasite Pull The Feast From Its Throat Starve It She turns slowly to me, those awful moonlit eyes bore into my soul, the oily viscosity of her being reconstituting into animalistic textures. The soft embers of that warm sensation percolate into my chest, a moment of clarity¡­ an ally¡­ maybe, even a friend. Her stare unbroken, lingering, just a single moment taken by stillness. Awaken Broken One ???? Chapter VII - GREEN CHILI GREEN CHILI Chapter VII THE GODS OF GHOST RIVER ¡°If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance.¡± - George Bernard Shaw, Immaturity I jolt to consciousness¡­. liquid smacks unceremoniously onto my face. Must¡¯ve dozed off in the shower, a stream, now chilly with time, splashes against my cheek. The bones sore in my head, as my neck rests balanced on the edge of the degrading porcelain tub. Lost once again to dream. Coughing, sputtering, I pull myself upright. Thunk! Thunk! ¡°Dude, you alright in there? It¡¯s been nearly an hour and a half,¡± Bobbi¡¯s muffled voice rings over the running water. ¡°Yeah. I¡¯m okay, just moving slowly.¡± ¡°Some of your clothes are clean and dry. I can leave them inside if you are still showering.¡± ¡°Sure, just be quick.¡± The door squeaks open very briefly, then shuts. With the caution and secretiveness of a nuclear submarine, I slide on my tummy to the rim of the tub, pulling back the curtain enough to reveal a single eye, peering out upon the empty bathroom, a human periscope. Such stealth, an unreasonable amount of pride fills me, the way a toddler feels about completing any small insignificant task. My clean clothes are folded neatly in a little pile on the floor, excluding the navy basketball shorts, which still exist in the heap I left them in. There¡¯s no signs of life, affirmation I can leave my watery prison. Shutting off the tap, I slither out of the tub onto the fluffy caramel colored towel, and roll myself into it. My avatar, an overstuffed human burrito! The blisters and tears on my hands and feet look a little less angry, to which, I redress them with fresh white gauze. A passable person once again, that¡¯s the real challenge, something lost to the weird desert gremlin I became. Pulling the clothes back onto me, in the mirror obscured by a sheen of steam, I get glimpses of my injuries, mostly unchanged¡­ maybe that patch of nearly angelic skin is a quarter of an inch wider, it could just be a trick of the light. Nonetheless, I feel better, the evil of the last three days washed away from me. Damn it! Bobbi was half right about the shorts, correct waist size, but they sit too short on my spindly legs, coming to just above my knee. Ugh, I look so fucking stupid. I miss my lucky beanie, it too was lost to Ghost River, I wore it the frigid night I should¡¯ve met my end, my beloved comfort hat, just another one of Nico¡¯s lengthening list of victims. Popping open the door, I glance down the hallway, the dazzling gleam of the evening sun dances against the kitchen¡¯s cheap masonite countertops. I wander down the corridor towards the delicious aromas of chicken, tortilla, and green chili, easier on my feet this time. The oak table still set, as it always was, but this time garnished with a clay pot centerpiece, fired with rainbow matte glaze and etched in geometric patterns to reveal earthen hue. The end of the kitchen against the west wall holds a large almost floor-to-ceiling window, looking out to the street. Inspecting the road through the glass, I shiver, the owl-man, could it be lurking, waiting to have another chance to tear me to shreds? Starve It. Maybe the shadow demon is right, don¡¯t feed it, put my focus somewhere else, maybe, there¡¯s safety in that¡­ if the beast can even be trusted, or worse she¡¯s a figment of my ego, or my imagination trying to make sense of the chaos my life¡¯s been propelled into. And what if the being is real? Her intentions could be diabolical, awaiting the perfect moment to devour my soul, building me up, keeping my physical self alive just long enough to take me. Clinking ceramic breaks me from my worries. Illuminated by the setting sun, Bobbi pours the delicious contents of his slow cooker into mismatched, but sparkling bowls¡­ my stomach rumbles, the hunger quickening. ¡°Thanks for the help, and letting me stay for dinner. I¡¯m honestly so fucking hungry.¡± Seeing the predatory way I¡¯m eyeing one of the dishes, he diligently hands me the bowl, ¡°You can eat now, you know.¡± I nod in agreement, ¡°I appreciate it, but I think I can wait until everyone¡¯s here.¡± I pause for a second, getting my bearings. ¡°So, why live here, a whole town away from where you work?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve got the best view in the world.¡± I look with visible confusion out of the window in the kitchen. Peeling ashy grey-brown paint, potholes, and an aging streetlight doesn¡¯t seem like much of a view? Bobbi laughs, pointing across the living room past the sliding glass doors and the small concrete porch, ¡°No dumbass, out there!¡± I turn and, in my astonishment, shout, ¡°Oh fuck!¡± O¡¯chohca, those Vermillion Hills, ignited with the death of the sun, blazing electric orange, peach, and maroon. In my discomfort, I completely missed it, my pain an all-consuming focus, until this moment. I set my bowl down on the table and wander to the glass door, the pane glides open as I step into the surprisingly cool evening air. ¡°That¡¯s really something.¡± ¡°I know right,¡± Bobbi concurs as he closes the door behind me. ¡°I dunno what it is, but this is the only place that really feels like home. Kind of one of those things you just can¡¯t shake. Maybe, it¡¯s cuz we are actually from here originally,¡± he nods at me. ¡°But sometimes it feels deeper than that. Sometimes it¡¯s so powerful, it scares me.¡± His eyes aren¡¯t on me, staring into the flaming abyss. I study Bobbi¡¯s cryptic expression discerning something between confusion, dread, and a strange sense of peaceful resignation. Maybe this place haunts more than just me, it¡¯s the essence of it, something so ancient, brutal, and indescribable¡­ maybe, Bobbi feels it too. Thump! Thump! Thump! The sound of the front door knocker is just audible through the patio glass. ¡°Ah! She¡¯s here!¡± Bobbi zips back inside, leaving me to linger, the land darkening around me. Muffled hellos, and maybe even a mild squeal emanate from inside. It¡¯s time for me to join them. I slip through the glass door, to see a stocky woman in teal scrubs, Bobbi¡¯s height with her espresso brown hair pulled into a tight bun. Her face worn from work and worry, but her forearms are built, wouldn¡¯t want a right hook from her, instant knockout for sure. The strength of her will, tempered by the same warm smile her son shares, her eyes glistening behind well established crow¡¯s feet. Traditional jewelry of the Aolu¡¯yi, our people, adorns her ears and neck, chunky turquoise and tarnished silver. ¡°Well, I almost did not believe it when my Bobbi told me you were here. And so tall! How did that happen? But just as stringy as ever. We will need to get some meat on those bones,¡± she glows the way only a mother does. ¡°Hi, Mrs. White Fox, it¡¯s so nice to¡­¡± ¡°Call me Marta, you of all people should remember that.¡± Heat flows to my cheeks, I¡¯m blushing, hopefully she can¡¯t read it under my blackened bruises, my new natural camouflage. She ushers me to sit at the old oak table, as Bobbi wanders into the kitchen to retrieve the remaining bowls. ¡°So I heard you had a rough time in the desert, or so my son tells me. What are the nature of your injuries? From what I can see, you look pretty bruised up. What is your pain level? From zero to ten, ten being ¡®my body is literally on fire.¡¯¡± I pause to think for a minute, ¡°Maybe a four¡­ or a five? It¡¯s kind of a steady ever-present ache. The five¡¯s for my feet, the pain is still a bit noticeable.¡± ¡°May I?¡± She examines my digits and toes, ¡°I would think it wise for you to redress your hands and feet often and stay off of them for a couple of days until they heal.¡± ¡°Most importantly, I want to check for internal bleeding, considering how many contusions you have, lets hope there is nothing nasty hiding in there. Any abdominal or chest pain?¡± she ambles to the door, pulling a stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff from her medical bag, stashed secretly in the corner of the entryway. ¡°Maybe a little bit ago, but not now. Just kind of that regular bruising pain.¡± I lie through omission, having my guts ripped open, even if it was just a dream, definitely constitutes as severe ¡°abdominal pain¡±. Putting the cuff around my arm and her stethoscope into her ears, she takes my blood pressure, I hate that sensation, the vessels fighting the bind of the medical armband. My heart straining¡­ the blood leaking from my body¡­ something I¡¯d rather let dissolve from my memory. ¡°Blood pressure is looking good. Alright, shirt off for this next part. I know it is not your favorite, so thanks for being patient with me.¡± She remembers I don¡¯t like to be touched, ever since I was little, mind of an elephant that one. I pull off my new bison shirt, a part of me sad to see it go, even for just a moment, my sense of security. Bobbi lurks in the corner, immersed in the growing gloom of the kitchen, his expression not veiling the distress about his rapidly cooling soup. He switches the crock-pot to warm and takes our bowls to the back, in hopes of salvaging our hot meal. ¡°Ooof, that looks like that hurts something awful,¡± she stares at my black, purple, and yellow torso, gawking, perplexed by the perfect tissue surrounding the left half, ¡°I guess you just landed on one side? But boy, that is strange.¡± Hope! It isn¡¯t all in my head. My absent wound looks bizarre to her too! Putting the stethoscope back into her ears, she proceeds with the examination, starting with my paranormal pectoral, ¡°Okay Riley, take a deep breath for me. That is right. And again. Right, just one more. Very good. Well, excellent news, your lungs sound great, and no chest pain, right?¡± This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. She spreads her fingers onto tiny sections of my chest and back, one at a time, drumming against her pointer finger, a series of rhythmic thumps echoes back, hollow, ¡°Okay, the organs up here seem to be fine, doesn¡¯t appear to be any abnormal fluid retention. So we should be good unless something changes. You¡¯ll let Bobbi and I know if anything changes, right? Alright, so on to the less pleasant part, I am going to be pushing on your abdomen, let me know if there is pain or pressure, or really just anything strange, you know? I am going to need you to lay down for this one, I don¡¯t think this will feel very good, I am so sorry.¡± Wandering to the dilapidated couch sitting lonely in the living room, I take an uncomfortable seat. Eh, I have been prone for a good chunk of the last three days, I hope this goes quickly, I¡¯m ready to put it all behind me. Flat on my back, she applies pressure just under the ribs and proceeds to do the same percussive motion in repetition. Almost like my body is some kind of grid and her pointer finger is rudimentary sonar. Sound, the tool to search unseen places. A few minutes pass, slower than I would wish, a predictable pattern of wincing emerges with every moment she hits a particularly tender spot. ¡°All finished. It seems like it looks worse than it is, although, clearly it does not feel great. Still, if anything changes, please see me immediately. Also, since you are a card carrying tribal member, follow up with me in a week... it is free for you. I have a slot open at eleven thirty on Monday.¡± I¡¯ve no idea what day it is, my sense of time left me when the bullet punctured my back, but I nod in agreement anyways, ¡°Mrs¡­ Marta, I lost my wallet in the river, I don¡¯t have my tribal card¡­¡± ¡°No worries, it prolly needs to be renewed anyways¡­ and I¡¯ll make sure to get him there,¡± Bobbi chimes in. From out of her pocket, she produces one of those reflex hammer¡­ things, ¡°Oh yeah, this is the last check.¡± Uh, not my favorite, but it¡¯s nearly over. Knees bouncing everywhere, like a marionette with the strings being held by some unseen force, one more moment of complete loss of control. ¡°Okay, for real this time, you are all finished. I bet you are ready for some dinner.¡± Color returning to his face, Bobbi leaps into action, returning to his warming stew with zeal, he can¡¯t contain his relief. That soup is his baby, his creation, the untamed excitement he exudes in sharing his modest work of art, overwhelming. My stomach growls angrily, I guess it is time to cash in the indigestion that will surely rear its ugly head as punishment for my starvation. ¡°Can I help?¡± ¡°No, no, just give it a rest, it''s been a shitty few days for you,¡± Bobbi grins, pouring the soup into a daisy yellow bowl, placing a small dollop of sour cream in the center of the dish and, for garnish, sprinkling a bit of sage on top. ¡°Bobbi! Language!¡± I sit opposite to him and the kitchen, while Marta scoops up two bowls. Setting one at my place and another across from me, where she settles in. Bobbi, close behind her, takes the seat to my right. ¡°Dig in!¡± he says, looking in my direction. Obediently, I take a small spoonful, the only way to do this is at a snail¡¯s pace. The broth sits savory on my taste buds, with a hint of sapid sage biting through flavorful peppers. ¡°So mom, how¡¯s work? Clinic treating you well?¡± Marta sets her spoon to rest, her brow furrowing, ¡°It is good and bad news, we finally got the insulin in stock, after fighting with the company for months over price. Dr. Navakkakin bargained the cost down to something the tribal commission was willing to pay. I¡¯m really glad we have some leverage here, because I cannot imagine what it would be like to pay for it out of pocket.¡± The color in her face seems to have lessened, no more rosy cheeks, or warm smile. Deep worry¡­ In a way, she¡¯s a mother to her patients, her community, maybe, it¡¯s too much weight to carry on one¡¯s shoulders. ¡°The problem now is distribution. I mean a lot of the old folks¡­ the patients who really need it, live miles out of town. Many, without access to a car. I mean Cheryl, Dr. Navakkakin, can deliver some of it to the East side of the rez, but besides her it is just me, and some of those really remote places are easily a thirty mile round trip, and even longer if you hit every stop¡­ could double that in millage with all those weird twisty paths. Neither of us have the time with the patient load.¡± ¡°Hey, what if Riley and I get the North and West sides? I mean he needs a job right, we can get him running delivery part time. He can take my car and pick me up after work. I can handle the other spots on my day off.¡± ¡°That is very kind, Bobbi. You already have so much on your plate though¡­¡± ¡°No, I got this, and it should only be a monthly or bi-monthly thing right? It should be very doable.¡± Marta¡¯s demeanor brightens, ¡°Well once Riley is well and gets his proper ID renewed, we can set up the paperwork for you two. If you are onboard, that is.¡± ¡°Yeah, that should be fine.¡± I answer with a partial slurp. She beams at us, ¡°I am glad you guys have a good heart between the two of you.¡± In that moment, I notice the glimmer of the pendant on her necklace, stamped silver, round luminous eyes, a long neck, a silhouette. But it looks so like her¡­ that strange specter haunting the corridors of my mind. My breath accelerates, racing beyond my mastery, my fingertips grow numb, as rushing anxiety starts to grip my consciousness. I drop¡­ the spoon. Her eyes dart to me, alerted by the clink of the metal against ceramic, ¡°Dear, are you alright? Hey, hey, can you say something?¡± Floating. Falling. Plummeting. ¡°Riley, stay with me, I think you are having a panic attack. Eyes on me, okay!¡± Marta calls to me, her voice muffled as if by a current of water. My gaze meets hers for only a few seconds before darting back to the silver emblem of my terror. She notices my dread; she smells the scent of it on me. In that moment, mamma White Fox registers the focus of my fright. She slips off the heavy pendant, held together on a string of thick turquoise. Placing the metallic form of the shadowy beast under the palm of her hand, hidden, out of sight, out of mind. ¡°Riley it is okay, she is put away. She cannot see you. See? Okay deep breaths, three, two, one, breath in. Three, two, one¡­ out. Good! Keep going. Again.¡± I feel the warmth return to my cheeks, three, two, one¡­ one, two, three¡­ Again. Funny how that seems to work, breathing through the embarrassment, what the fuck was that, Riley? You¡¯re overreacting, you look so stupid¡­ or worse, crazy. Trembling, I gather myself together, ¡°Mrs. White Fox¡­ Marta¡­ What¡¯s that thing¡­?¡± ¡°Do you want me to tell you about it, or will it be too much?¡± ¡°I dunno.¡± ¡°It might help, talking about it, that is¡­ you can hold it, if you feel up to it.¡± I nod in agreement as she slides the silver pendant to me, deliberately keeping it covered. Wrapping my hands around it, it seems a little more harmless, just cold metal in my hands. I¡¯m careful to avoid its line of sight¡­ for now. ¡°I am sure this one is more familiar to you than you think. She is the Mistwalker, Soul of the Storm, the Shadow that Lurks in Split Canyon. In the old tongue, we call her Navan¡¯yu, the literal translation of mist-walker. The true great spirit of this land, the protector and guardian of the ancient places.¡± The great black fiend spoke the name Navan¡¯yu to me, all of those nights ago, but Mistwalker¡­ I remember that from the stories Nana used to tell. The same tales my mom would whisk Darion and I away from, if she was within earshot. So strange, how had I forgotten? ¡°You¡¯ve seen her, huh?¡± Bobbi turns to me, those deep brown eyes digging into me uncomfortably. I nod, consumed by silence. ¡°You are not the only one, Navan¡¯yu seems to be a heavy theme in your family¡­ But your mother would know a lot more about that than I would,¡± Marta adds. Staring blankly at her¡­ my mom? She never said a word, always careful to not mention the old ways, what had she secreted away? Hell, she barely brings up Ut¡¯ktah¡¯Hu, the formless ones, let alone this nightmare beast¡­ great spirit, whatever. Why? Why was she keeping all of this from me? ¡°Is it real?¡± ¡°Well, you tell me, you have had the honor of meeting her! I have never seen the Mistwalker,¡± She chortles, ¡°You have got me beat on that count.¡± ¡°Have you seen any of the old ones?¡± I grip the amulet just a little too tightly, careful to keep its silver corners hidden by my raw flesh. ¡°Now and again, they are pretty shy. Sometimes, I will catch a glimpse of one on an abandoned country road, in the fading light of the setting sun, or on a cliff edge staring down at me. But like a flash, they vanish.¡± Grimacing at what little soup I¡¯ve consumed, I¡¯m full enough for now, all of this is too much to deal with, my appetite be damned. I need time, time to sleep it off. Even with all of the huge helpings of patience she and Bobbi are handing me, I still feel, somehow, wrong. That crumbling inside of my skull, reality twisting into strange shapes, I need to push it all away or fall apart. ¡°Is it too much for now? You wanna to call it a night?¡± Bobbi interjects. ¡°Yeah, I think so.¡± ¡°That seems like a good idea, rest up, you definitely earned it! I can take my meal to go. But, before I leave, I have some things for you. Bobbi, can you wrap this up for me?¡± ¡°Sure!¡± Bobbi scoops up her bowl and hurries back to the kitchen. That odd peppiness he embodies lingering even when his well-drawn plans are dashed. I watch as Marta leaves through the front door, my visage colored by apprehension and exhaustion. What¡¯s she getting? Maybe those donations for the clinic Bobbi mentioned? I guess I¡¯ll just have to find out, my hand death grips the silver charm, I¡¯m done with surprises. The specter¡­ great spirit, I don¡¯t want her to see me, but there¡¯s a gnawing feeling, that if I let go, she can watch my every move, orbs piercing through the night, nowhere to run, no space to call my own. Navan¡¯yu is everywhere and all things, and this hunk of metal, just a conduit for her violent eyes. SLAM! Marta bursts through the door, her brawny arms laden with two large black trash bags, in each hand, clear zip-top sacks with what appear to be toiletries. Tiptoeing into the living room she dumps the contents onto the old carpet, mountains of clothes, of similar sizes, variable only in their style and color, a cornucopia of cotton and synthetic fabric. ¡°Do not worry, dear, they have been washed and sterilized! Now, let us see what we can find that will work for you. I also have unopened packages of socks and underwear somewhere in the mess, do take those as well.¡± I pad over to the mound of clothes. Twitching with emotion, overwhelmed by this level of kindness, overcome, I take a defeated seat on the floor. Got to make this more manageable, start with the dark tops and pants, hopefully some will be in my size. Picking through them, I find my shirts of choice, tank tops both in black and white, gathering them up, adding them to my stash. Jet-hued acid washed jeans sized too big¡­ yep taking those! Monochromatic plaid pajama bottoms, yes those too. Pulling out a long tailored charcoal-grey coat, I take a moment to admire it. Looks expensive, something a more fashion-conscious person than myself would wear on the East Coast, either way, I¡¯m giving it a shot. Slipping it on, to my surprise, it fits! ¡°Some good picks, huh? We get a lot of these for the clinic from the wealthy folks down in Douglas, some of whom have only worn these items once or twice. I am glad I grabbed the right bags for your size.¡± ¡°Yeah, these are great! Seriously. Thank you!¡± a brightness emerging from my voice, unfamiliar to me, reawakening something I thought long dead, or maybe just slumbering, that warm glow creeping back into my chest. My hoard of clothes including all things down to new socks, are more numerous than any I have ever owned, I¡¯m a king guarding fibrous treasures. But¡­ there¡¯s one thing missing¡­ a simple onyx beanie to replace the one swallowed by the wilderness. ¡°Well, my work seems to be finished,¡± Marta says amassing the clothes back into the ebony bags, ¡°Do not forget your toiletries, I dropped them on the table.¡± I gesture obediently, unsure of what to say. Climbing back to her feet, she turns to me with that satisfied smirk, the pride of a job well done, ¡°Promise me you will take good care of yourself. And call me if you need anything... And make sure you come to your appointment.¡± I smile, but this time it isn¡¯t forced, brimming with joy, I feel¡­ at home. ¡°Love you, mom,¡± Bobbi gives her a gentle hug, carefully maneuvering around the satchels of donations, ¡°I¡¯ll make sure he gets to his appointment. Promise to text me when you get home safe.¡± Leaving his embrace, she saunters out the door, into the cold desert night, ¡°Bye, do not do anything too foolish¡­ sleep well, do not let the old ones bite!¡± Marta is only half joking, they seem to be biting me hard enough to take hefty chunks out of my miserable hide. Maybe, I¡¯ll get through this after all, possibly, I¡¯m not nearly as alone as I thought. With the door shutting, the dingy apartment grows still, the shadows longer than before, ideal little corners for spirits to hide in. ¡°Get yourself ready for bed, I¡¯ll clean up out here and pull out some extra stuff. Couch is yours,¡± he waves me to the old stained futon. Beats sleeping on obtuse rocks in the frigid desert, I¡¯ve no room to complain. ¡°Thanks, this all¡­ really means a lot to me.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t mention it. You¡¯d do the same, if I where in your shoes.¡± As I wander to the bathroom, I ponder those words, would I really do the same for him? I haven¡¯t had a lot to give anyone in a very long time, my life devoid of bounty¡­ If I could, maybe? But, not with the same generosity, or warmth the White Fox family seems to epitomize. That isn¡¯t me, I¡¯d rather hide from the world than welcome it inside. Redressing the bandages on my hands, the rituals of the evening return to me quickly, back to autopilot, the same automatic responses that governed much of my daily life before the world shifted into a strange dimension of blood and monsters. Order feels good, teeth cleaned, although my gums bleed from the corners, the consequence of the days of neglect. I check my bruised-up face, appearing lighter than just a few hours ago. Could I be healing that quickly? No, it must be the wash, my power-nap in the shower, and¡­ dinner. Yeah, that makes sense. The shadow of tiny little dark hairs peppering my face becoming noticeable¡­ Fuck it, I¡¯ll shave tomorrow, been through enough already, no one gives a shit if I look scruffy. Changed into my new plaid bottoms and a very baggy shirt with a logo for ¡°Treazonouz Mouthz¡±, I haven¡¯t listened to them in a minute, but now I feel an urge to. Maybe a well-earned indulgence, a moment to soak in something new, or old, relearning forgotten nostalgia, letting it wash over my brain. At home in my unfamiliar nightclothes, I retrieve the ancient sienna shell from the bathroom counter, carrying it back to the couch. Stepping into the living room, Bobbi¡¯s heirloom blanket lays neatly folded on the futon, accompanied by one of his numerous pillows. My heavy gait guides me to slumber, deep down, sleeping on something soft feels like the best gift I could ever receive, my back tender from the harsh slickrock. Ouch! Raising my foot, something glimmers on the carpeted floor, reflecting the dazzling warmth of the canned kitchen lights. I stoop down, fighting the tense muscles in my sacrum, the pendent, grotesque, with those shining horrible eyes. Shuddering involuntarily, I pick up the hefty necklace, turquoise chattering as I lift the string. This¡¯ll have to go back to Marta, but what to do with it tonight? My eyes dart around the living room as I look for a place to stash it. Ah yes, the TV stand will do nicely. I set it down, turning it over so those orbs can¡¯t peer into the gloom, bunching a new tank top over it, just to be safe. It¡¯s alright, Riley, she can¡¯t see you now. Tonight will be peaceful¡­ No spirits, snarling jaws, or oily shadows. Leaving the emblem to its shirt cave, I curl up under the warm blanket, pulling it over my face. Limp and exhausted, I let the galactic sea of stars take me... And hope that I can be roused from the dream again. Chapter VIII - THE DEVOURER THE DEVOURER Chapter VIII THE GODS OF GHOST RIVER ¡°I felt myself being invaded through and through, I crumpled, disintegrated, and only emptiness remained.¡± - Stanislaw Lem, Solaris ???? Lit ambient against the gibbous moon, shapes of the desert flow in a current of motion. Sickeningly sweet, the flavor of summer permeates through my nostrils into my sinus, passing to the tip of my tongue¡­ Something¡¯s wrong, sensations unfamiliar to me, electrical signals slightly out of place, the chemicals in my head potent and visceral. I catch a glimpse of my fingers rim lit in the glow against a steering wheel, muscular hands, hair thicker than my own peppering along their backs. Not my hands¡­ this body, a wrong body¡­ I¡¯m a stranger in someplace¡­ someone. A quiet highway. Excitement¡­ flooding through me. I could go on to Las Ricas, 50k of cash in my pocket and 100k in product hidden in the frame of my car, ya, I could go far in that town. Ya¡­ Soon, but I want to drive some of these back roads a lil¡¯ bit longer, in case there¡¯s one or two loose ends. I look packed for camping. Nothing to tie me to nothing. Then, partying and bitches. And more bitches for me too¡­ Nice! Bitches? Las Ricas?... Nico? Am I in his head¡­ his frame. Subjected to the disgusting terrain of his thoughts, ownership of my own mind ripped from me, spinning out of control¡­ simply a passenger? No word on my killings. Good. Dizzy¡¯s car ditched, his body torched. Ghost Man, that fucking sad piece of shit, is very dead. If the gunshot didn¡¯t kill him, the river sure did. I cackle to myself. Everything solved. Fuckers¡¯re outta the way. A wave of anger, his disdain for me hurts worse than the burning bullet he punched through my back. I flick a cigarette out the window of my open top. The summer night is bomb. What a fucking thing to be alive. My car is so damn hot, this¡¯ll get me bitches for sure. Can¡¯t let this dick go to waste. Rage grips me, ¡°I¡¯M DONE! FUCK YOU!¡± I wait, but to no reaction, not even a muscle spasm pulls the fixed sneer on his smug face. Sighing, no air escapes my¡­ his lips, I¡¯m my own silenced voice in someone else¡¯s brain. His fucking spider braids are irritating, itching the forehead that isn¡¯t my own. None of it¡¯s mine, a claustrophobic prison of flesh and bone. Aside from the pain of the last few days, this might be the most torturous experience of my sad little life. Nothing feels okay, the foreign heart in my chest beats with the wrong tempo, half a step faster than it should, endorphins coursing through me, overstimulation, but I¡¯m not even given the dignity to shift away from it. I fucking hate nature. Boring as shit. But, this night is killer, what a fucking view. Might be nice to come back. But I prolly won¡¯t. I need to feed the thirst. Give it a lil¡¯ time, this shit¡¯ll get boring too. Graphic sexual imagery flashes into my¡­ his mind¡¯s eye? I try with all of my might to claw my way out of¡­ his skull, my fingers digging through the thin eggshell of bone, my snout piercing through to the crisp arid night, heaving a deep breath, greedily accepting the clean wild air into my wanting lungs¡­ to no avail. His abhorrent ruminations, fixated on carnage and possession¡­ humiliation, and worse. Fantasies... Or memories? It doesn¡¯t even fucking matter, the cognition too outlandish to even hold a resemblance to my own desires. Nauseous, I pray for an end as anxiety encircles me in vicious coils, strangling the last of my free will¡­ Dizzy¡­ Dizzy dead, thrown away, just disposable trash, to Nico¡­ how everyone is to Nico. He¡¯s empty, all that¡¯s there is a manic Id, a shell of a man, all yawning hunger, desperate for sensation, devoid of anything else. Will I forever be a prisoner, with Nico as my sadistic meat jailer? An eternity, relinquished to his chaos, I don¡¯t even have the grace to kill myself, I¡¯m helpless, less than a ghost. A bunch of red eyes in the dark. Holy fuck! My headlights illuminate deer in the road. Three does, one buck. Scattering all over the place. ¡°YA BITCH, YOU BETTER RUN,¡± I hoot, throwing an empty energy drink at them. Bet it would be fun to run ¡®em down. But, they¡¯d prolly fucking reek, like Dizzy. Dizzy started to smell, and lighting him up, his smell didn¡¯t get much better. Murder would be way more fun without the smell, such bullshit. It doesn¡¯t smell good like sex, if murder smelled like sex, life would be complete. If I could bang my head against a wall, I would, until the grey matter spilled from my cranium. With all of my will, I attempt to regain control¡­ move his pinky finger, I visualize it twitching, imagining the zing of nerves firing, the electricity stimulating muscle and ligament¡­ Nothing¡­ This is so fucked. The road winds. Sharp-eyed. Deer strike would fuck up my car for sure. Ain¡¯t gunna have that shiz. Through the lenses of Nico¡¯s hazel eyes, the road looks familiar. An eerie gleam emanates from the desert rocks. I¡¯ve been here before¡­ I walked it. Oh¡­ This is the night, the night he found me in the darkness. When I meet my dead end. Navan¡¯yu... violent eyes. Nico dies tonight, and I¡¯m Nico. Blind panic. I want out. No more than an animal trying to chew off its own foot to escape the trap that binds it. But, I¡¯m only a mind. I can¡¯t bite or claw myself away from anything. Ugh fuck, I¡¯m hungry. Maybe, I¡¯ll snack on something on my way to Las Ricas. Naw, better not go into town. Damn, that¡¯d be fucking stupid. ¡°NICO, MOTHERFUCKER! TURN AROUND!¡± I yell into his head. My hatred for him masked by my own alarm, self-preservation kicking in. Silence. He can¡¯t hear me. Not a tick or a flinch. Despair, there¡¯s nothing I can do, can¡¯t even close his eyes or turn away from the formless horror awaiting down this lonely road. My beautiful machine turns a corner. There¡¯s a shape up ahead. A white tank top, blood, black baggy shorts, greasy long black hair. Well, I¡¯ll be damned. He¡¯s alive? How da fuuuck? Annoying as fuck! Little bitch couldn¡¯t just stay dead! He¡¯s waving his stupid arms. Dumbass. BUT¡­ I FUCKING SHOT HIM?! Anger turns to that urge. Feed the thirst¡­ Some bullshit about lemonade... how did that shiz go? Throw his corpse off a cliff, that¡¯ll be dope, no one¡¯ll ever find him. Food for coyotes. I cruise, slowing, reaching for the holster against my seat. At least I¡¯m not the only one baffled by my missing wound, but in this moment though, it¡¯s the least insane thing I¡¯m facing. ¡°Hey! Hey!¡± I hear myself yell. Ew, my voice sounds more grating than it does in my head, snarly and rough, my discomfort seeing myself from the outside gripping me. Watching in dread, the golem of my past pauses, freezes, eyes wide, jaw slack¡­ as my fleshy cage with his loathsome grin exits the idiot machine, that all too familiar gun in hand. ¡°No no no nO NO NO NO NO,¡± my outside self bolts into the darkness, those stupid gangly legs going everywhere. Man, the least I could do is die with some grace, this is embarrassing. Fucking dumbass¡­ this is hilarious. I pull the flashlight from my pocket, clicking it on. Footprints in the sand. Just¡­ too¡­ easy. ¡°Hey fuknutz, I¡¯m comin¡¯ for you.¡± My stomach churns, like the anticipation on the precipice of a rollercoaster, awaiting the drop on the other side. She¡¯s somewhere. Is she close, was she here the whole time? I¡¯m unable to move Nico¡¯s eyes, but I can pull my attention to the periphery of them. My focus doesn¡¯t have to be his, as a passenger. Maybe, I can spot her and try to shut my mind down. Then, I can have some semblance of peace, no confusion, just clarity. The mechanical light blocks out the encroaching darkness, only the path ahead visible. ¡°Fucker, you think you¡¯re so smart. I see your footprints, dumbass,¡± I slide through the gap. I¡¯m a hunter. Riley¡¯s my¡­ bitch. ¡°Shut up, Nico! I am trying to focus,¡± I get a glimpse of the twinkling sky as Nico is forced to direct the beam to the ground, no looming shapes, besides the mineral guardians of the stone layers. The vague shadow of myself up ahead, maybe a hundred feet, dead end coming, silhouetted in the growing gloom. My second self stops in his tracks. This is going to be rough. Panting, I¡¯m getting close. Fucker¡¯s gunna die tonight. I¡¯m going to shoot him in the face this round¡­ Ya, no getting up from that. Seals the deal. Make a nice brain splat painting on the rocks, some real quality art. ¡°You fucking goblin Nico, who thinks shit like that?¡± it doesn¡¯t matter, no words register. Catching up to my outside self, Nico barely breaks a sweat, the only giveaway to his physical strain, the frenzied thumping of his chest. The cold metal presses against his fingers. I¡¯m freefalling, heart in my throat, but this isn¡¯t mine, it¡¯s his mania. I watch the mirror of me close my eyes, defeated, this was supposed to be my last moment, the barrel of the gun eclipsing my face. Ugh! Wind knocked out of me. I can¡¯t breathe. Something hits me, it feels like a truck. Confusion. Truck? I spin, tossed into the air, my cool steel leaves my fingers. I¡¯m thrown. Raging, roaring in my ears. Something big leans on my back, crushing me. A bear? DA FUCK, BEARS DON¡¯T LIVE HERE! Navan¡¯yu¡­ Something pierces, my back... numb. My body¡¯s asleep. Oh fuck, it¡¯s pushing through me. But no feeling as the thing leaves my front, and touches the ground. Adrenaline courses. No more thirst. Sharp pain! Icy numb pangs¡­ my leg ¡­ I can¡¯t move it. Where? Is it missing? Chaos. Fucking Ghost Man, just dumb as shit, da fuck¡¯s he doin¡¯? His face twisted. Motherfucker deserves worse than I was gunna serve him. I sit in his head¡­ silent. Overwhelmed by the experience of his body breaking. Fucked up sounds comin¡¯ out my mouth. A huge black head leans into me. Long muzzle, silver eyes, snarling jaws, sticky drool, it muffles my pain with an insane sound. Not bear¡­ demon. I¡¯m gettin¡¯ mauled by a fucking demon? WHAT DA ACTUAL FUCK?! No, not a demon, but might as well be. Beads of sweat, his, pour past my¡­ his nose. The torment is real, but somehow, my mind doesn¡¯t seem to fully register it. I¡¯ve no skin in this game, it isn¡¯t my death, it¡¯s my escape, an exit from this shitty meat prison. Up into the night. Cold numbness, in my stomach¡­ my guts. Jaws wrapped around me. Gravity crazy, weightless. Hot breath. Acceleration. Pause, sharp feeling, stubbing a toe, but my whole body. I fall. I hit. No legs. They¡¯re there, but not. No feeling. Disturbing. Metallic taste, bubbles in my mouth. I crawl. Just arms, it¡¯s all I got. Shit¡­ am I dying? The last push, that last big tumble. Let me curl into a ball and vanish, it¡¯s unjustifiable, cruel, after everything I¡¯ve been through. A rabbit inspired to run, but with no footing to leap into a sprint. My once sentinel, now all wrath, violence incarnate. I once thought Nico was a monster, but this¡­ this thing is far worse. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. Floppy. Vision blurry. The dark turns me. Fuzzy glowing orbs. Something big and wet presses into my face. ¡°No¡­¡± I murmur. Nothing¡­ Loud, deep sound, vibrating, hurt. Vision clears. Involuntary screaming. Biting noise. My mind reawakens. I see a little boy, skinny with long black hair, I¡¯m pelting him with small rocks in a creek. Each stone I throw, I feel it leave my hand. Dull pain hits me in the back, his pain... I don¡¯t understand. Some hot chick, tan, mocha hair. Green eyes, reflected in my phone screen. Her temper rising, her hands shaking. I know what she¡¯s reading, my many texts to other bitches. ¡°What the fuck is all this?¡± she glares at me, ¡°You liar!¡± That Bitch should know her place. She¡¯s mine. No one fucks with me. No choice, no turning back, I come towards her, calm. She doesn¡¯t move or flinch. I wrap my hands around her throat. A tidal wave of panic hits me. It isn¡¯t mine. I remember being amped... the thirst. But no, it¡¯s her. Pain, struggling, gasping, clawing. My¡­ her confusion, rises with her torment. It¡¯s so awful, I wanna let go, make it stop. Now I¡¯m hurting. Such bullshit, it¡¯s the past! I feel a crunch as my grip crushes something. I slip into darkness. Swallowing the tears, I¡¯ve no ability to cry, I think I knew her¡­ only in passing. Yeah, Sofia? Maybe? She ran away though¡­ Maybe not¡­ Another person consumed by Nico¡¯s veracious appetites. Remorse spasms through me. I, of all people, should¡¯ve recognized what he was. Paralyzed, I did nothing, maybe had I just done something, maybe... none of this would¡¯ve happened. Grim thoughts¡­ I¡­ don¡¯t deserve to live, letting this predator run unchained, unbound by consequence. Dizzy turns to me, the tips of his short faux hawk lit by the lights of his car. Fucker and his perfect face and his perfect life. Gunna enjoy poppin¡¯ a cap in his ass. I cock my gun, the thrill of it coursing through me¡­ the thirst. ¡°WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?¡± ¡°POP! POP! POP!¡± I feel three impacts hit me, my neck. My chest. My stomach. I¡­ he looks back at myself. Anger, shock¡­ disappointment? Hot, zinging sensation. The cold creeping in. No time to think. I crumple. Broken. Blank¡­ ¡­ FUCK THIS! I rage at the sound. Memories end. Blinding light. The monster¡¯s face. All teeth. The sound from its mouth gettin¡¯ louder and louder. Pin-points of torture, like millions of needles, pulling at me. No, it¡­ s¡­ bullshirt! Gods kn¡­eelll beffffar me, ¡®u fu¡­c...rs n¡¯t t¡¯ke m¡­e dowm! ¡®m al thin¡­z¡­ ¡®mmortal! Hysteria, I¡¯m being ripped apart, straining against the mercury effulgence, my¡­ his skin and muscle writhing, a shrouded force lifting the molecular structure of his frame somewhere unseen¡­ Rendering it asunder¡­ Attempting to gasp, alleviate the sensation, but I¡¯m powerless, still trapped in his clusterfuck of a mind. Her roar growing more and more jagged, my sanity slipping into the night¡­ this fiend, the savagery¡­ a brutality no living thing should endure. Tiny drops, with the radiance of sunlight, billions of them leaving his frail body, demented fireflies, released to the pitch black of the cold desert. The remaining flesh, wrong, bubbling, oozing, something now far removed from the concept of meat. Empty Mind Loose Your Bind Devourer Of All Things Wither Into My Wings Draw Your Last Breath Navan¡¯yu Be Your Death ???? CRASH! My eyes open, bright light burns into my pupils. By impulse, I abruptly pull my hand over my face, shielding me from the day, my palm clammy with perspiration. ¡°Oh shit, dude! Didn¡¯t mean to wake you up.¡± That ring, the all too familiar lyricism of Bobbi¡¯s voice, wait I¡¯m¡­ where am I? Bobbi¡¯s apartment? Raising myself up against the tattered futon cover, little crusty stains and blemishes imbedded in the fabric scrape against my fingertips. I look to my old friend, the remains of a gaudy Talavera-style ceramic cup lay in a heap on the floor by the kitchen table. Mortified, he busily tidies up the shards, hoping I didn¡¯t register the mess. ¡°Ugh¡­ it¡¯s fine. What happened?¡± ¡°Thought you were having a seizure, or something. You were making¡­ these horrible sounds¡­ terrifying really. I kind of freaked out, tried to get over to you, and well, I kind dropped the cup. I¡¯m not losing you on my watch, I¡¯d be a bad friend¡­ ,¡± Bobbi pauses, collecting his thoughts, ¡°Must¡¯ve been a pretty graphic nightmare¡­ One of those visions the old ones put on us¡­ Cuz it isn¡¯t like our fragile minds can deal with that shit, ya know.¡± Ready for his day to start, Bobbi already dressed in his corporate red work uniform, and yet, as I stare blankly at him, I wonder¡­ How? How does he do this? Possession of an empathy so deep, it delves into the fibers of my mind itself, accessing the imperceptible. I could excuse it to some kind of extreme perception, but somehow it doesn¡¯t fit. Could similar things have happened to him? ¡°Just the normal ¡®left to die in the desert¡¯ stuff¡­ I guess,¡± I smile. Bobbi glares at me, he doesn¡¯t buy it, hastily, he disposes of the bits of his broken mug. Not as broken as Nico¡­ obliterated, not even a shard of himself left to be meaningful. I shudder, wrapping my arms around my knees, touching the black and white plaid of my donated pajama bottoms. I must¡¯ve kicked off the elegantly weft wool blanket in the night, geometric patterns spilling onto the floor. The soft morning sun, slowly rising East over the Vermillion Hills. ¡°What time is it?¡± ¡°About six-fifteen,¡± Bobbi looks at his flip phone, ¡°I¡¯m going to get some breakfast going but, I¡¯m out of here at eight. Won¡¯t be back until tonight. There¡¯s some food in the freezer. Have at it while I¡¯m gone.¡± ¡°Do you want help? With the¡­¡± ¡°No no man! Your main job is to just sit and heal right now. Give it a week though, I will put you to work for sure,¡± he winks at me. My back hurts as I pull through my tensed muscles, a byproduct of my terrible dream and couch surfing. Yeah, just a dream, that¡¯s all it is, my consciousness a door off its hinges that I¡¯m attempting to patch with a roll of duct tape. Eh, at least I haven¡¯t tried to consume my own fingers yet¡­ small achievements, a nugget of sanity remains. On my feet, the view beyond the glass looks inviting, I reach for the sliding door as I hear the distinctive tone of an egg cracking somewhere in the kitchen. The concrete of the porch sits frigid through my new wool socks, the Vermillion Hills are grey and colorless, backlit against the new daylight. Squinting, I see subtle variations in the rich patterns of the ancient sediment, a crispness that informs me that all of this isn¡¯t a hallucination. Magnificent, the landscape is drawing me in, pulling me somewhere mysterious. If this were a mousetrap, then the view would be the delicious aged cheddar that would lead me to my doom. My stomach gurgles uncomfortably¡­ I guess I¡¯m hungry. Turning to see what Bobbi is cooking up, a dark shape far off in the corner of the patio catches my eye, a stack of something. No memory of it being here the previous evening, I peer at the unexpected¡­ objects? The bottom is lined with black knit cloth, next, a familiar onyx imitation leather wallet¡­ a silver flip phone¡­ and an innocuous stone figurine. I lift the things to my face and nearly drop them, these¡­ these are mine. My beanie, tattered and crusty with sand, a minute amount of crunch to it, consistent with something wet that baked in the hot sun for a day or two. Opening the wallet, it still holds my ID, my tribal card intact, and maybe fifty bucks inside. Looks worse for wear, but everything is readable. WHAT THE HELL? I look to the phone, the screen cracked, water sloshing inside the device. The hat and the cell are useless, but relief swells within me, at least I can start my life again with the wallet back, proof in a conventional way, that I exist. Still doesn¡¯t explain the appearance of it. Bobbi could¡¯ve¡­ or Marta... I¡­ I stare off into the ominous shadows of the hills¡­ she¡­ she¡¯s there, somewhere, an uninvited voyeur, out of sight, waiting. Navan¡¯yu¡­ ¡°I know you¡¯re there,¡± I mutter to myself maliciously. A chill runs though the air, a quick gust that settles, leaving the dawn in stillness. Picking up the little carving, it glistens, tawny striated jasper, tooled into the shape of a fuzzy moth. Its enticing wide eyes and folded wings expertly sculpted into the stone. I run my fingers along the grooves, the pleasant sensation of the lines and polished rock, gliding against the ridges of my hands. Turning the base of the figure, I observe that it¡¯s imbued with a tiny petroglyph, a single spiral. The pressure, a dam threatening to break, my temper rises, overwhelm fracturing my smooth exterior. ¡°GO AWAY!¡± my voice cracks as I huck the tiny figurine off into the desert, ¡°I JUST WANT PEACE. WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT WITH ME? PISS OFF, YOU HEAR ME? LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE! I NEVER WANTED THIS. I NEVER WANTED¡­ YOU!¡± Noiselessness, no response, just me, the wilderness, and my frenzied shouting. Clomp clomp clomp! Bobbi¡¯s hurried footsteps coming to the door, sliding the glass ajar, he pokes his head into the fresh morning air, his round bright demeanor twisted with concern, ¡°Ummm, is everything¡­ alright? Having one of those cathartic moments or something?¡± I quickly cover my distress, ¡°No, I¡¯m just mad at myself¡­ I¡­ I found my wallet and junk, I guess they were in those big bottom pockets of my shorts¡­ I forgot to check there.¡± ¡°Uh huh. Welp, breakfast is pretty much ready, you might as well come inside,¡± his eyebrows raised¡­ a little too high, he¡¯s unconvinced, but he¡¯ll let it slide¡­ for now. I tread after him, on the balls of my feet, giving O¡¯chohca one last over-the-shoulder stink eye. Done with all of this, finished, I just want things to be normal again. I¡¯m not sure if they even could be? One can hope. As I traverse the living room, a feeling of weightlessness hits me, my frame untethered by the heaviness that, since as long as I could remember, trailed my steps. It¡¯s probably nothing, my mind is on other things, food awaits. The savory aromas of lime juice, cilantro, and salsa greet my nostrils. Huevos Rancheros, my stomach growls violently, yet another memory longing to surface from the depths of my childhood. With normalcy, so returns my appetite, awakened from its several day slumber. I watch greedily as Bobbi plates his creation with care. He¡¯s too fucking slow. I need to eat now! Bobbi carries over the hot plate, little tendrils of steam rising, brandishing clean silverware. I sink into to my regular seat at the old oak table, disguising my savage hunger. ¡°Eat up, you look like you need it.¡± Slightly stung by his astute observation, I thought I was being so covert, ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m not going to lie, it smells great.¡± With little grace or concern, I skewer a whole egg sunny-side-up dripping with tangy salsa, cramming it into my mouth. It takes all of my self-control to keep me from shoving my face into the ceramic, like an animal. Glancing up with a little bit of a side eye, Bobbi eats his breakfast daintily, cutting every piece into equally manageable parts. Scooping up frijoles negros with the precision of a well-oiled machine, he doesn¡¯t spill, not a single drop. A small, satisfied smile crosses his face, the look of an artist appraising the quality of his creation, finding it meets his seal of approval. In his food, he makes something exceptional, his own peculiar love language for which, on most days, he enjoys in solitude. But, today is special, sharing this treat adds a new complexity to the reward. Self-conscious, I slow down. The clarity of what this offering really means makes me tailor the pace to truly savor the flavor. Bobbi doesn¡¯t look up, but the broadening line at the edge of his pleased expression is a tell. ¡°So¡­ please don¡¯t be mad,¡± Bobby mutters, ¡°My mom kind of¡­ called your mom last night¡­ told her where you are and that you¡¯re safe.¡± I stare, disappointment inexorably carved into my face, ¡°She should¡¯ve asked me first.¡± ¡°We kind of talked about it last night before dinner¡­ we thought it would be best if we reached out¡­ so you wouldn¡¯t have to.¡± ¡°I guess¡­ when you put it that way. It kind of makes it better¡­ but no more¡­ you talk to me first, okay¡­¡± we sit in silence, but the food is untarnished by the mood. Finishing the meal, every scrap of tortilla housed in the void that is my stomach, I turn to my old friend, ¡°Thanks for that, I got cleanup. It¡¯s the least I can do.¡± Lifting up from his plate, Bobbi looks at me with a sense of relief, ¡°Thanks, and it seems like my time is nearly up, so I appreciate the help!¡± Striding over to the TV stand, he picks up an object and throws it to me at the table. To my surprise, it lands softly in my hands, a remote. ¡°Have fun with it while you rest up,¡± he exclaims as he laces up his cheap sneakers. ¡°Yeah, I¡¯ll try. Have a good day at work...¡± ¡°Doubt it,¡± he beams picking up his hamster keys, slipping out of the door. Privacy at last! Time to do so some well overdue grooming. I switch on the TV, giving off a high-pitched whine, as I stride into the bathroom with my new bag of toiletries. The white noise of the people droning onscreen, a gift familiar and soothing. ¡°Weather today looks like¡­.¡± Staring into the shabby mirror, the bags under my eyes are greatly reduced, along with the deep colors of the contusions on my face. But the five o¡¯clock shadow is taking hold, funny, it took days for my facial hair to get to this length, while many men can sprout theirs in just twelve hours. The byproduct of my native heritage, painfully slow growth. Honestly, I doubt Bobbi could cultivate anything more than a wispy mustache, I guess I can count my blessings that I¡¯m not in that boat. Sighing, I pull out a cheap orange and white razor from Marta¡¯s toiletry bag, no shaving cream to be found. I¡¯ll have to make do with the tiny travel-sized lotion supplied to me. ¡°Throughout the week¡­ scattered thunderstorms in the late afternoon¡± As I carefully strip off bits of stubble, I hear the TV in the other room, garbled words here and there but, not much connecting the thoughts together. Just the rise and fall of sound, which I follow obediently with each stroke. ¡°Now for the news at nine!¡± A blasting jingle announces the transition from the weather report, but my mind is elsewhere, the metre of my self-care all-consuming. ¡°In local news, Deerhorn County officials have found an abandoned vehicle on Split Canyon Road with tens of thousands of dollars worth of cocaine and cash hidden in the frame. The Bureau of Drug Control has been called in to investigate this strange scene in earnest...¡± I stop dead in my tracks, my face stinging. Fuck, I cut myself. Quickly, I make my way into the living room, blood oozing from my cheek. ¡°No signs of foul play¡­¡± I ogle at the screen as Nico¡¯s green idiot machine flickers onto the TV, gloved men and women in deep blue uniforms peering into its metal interior, swabbing it, checking every inch. His hateful car, I¡¯ll never escape it. Growling. Crashing. Thunderous roaring. ¡°¡­ The vehicle is registered to one Nicol¨¢s Ram¨®n Hern¨¢ndez¡­ of Douglas¡­ Anyone with information is encouraged to call the tip line with the Deerhorn County Police Department¡­¡± Oh no, my duffle... My DNA is all over the seats, my hair, the shattered pieces of my youth, they¡¯ll find me for sure, my life is over¡­ Crimson, my plasma spills to the dingy carpet. U¡¯nkah Ti¡¯is Cho We Pay In Blood Chapter IX - NANA NANA Chapter IX THE GODS OF GHOST RIVER ¡°Two possibilities exist: either we are alone in the Universe or we are not. Both are equally terrifying.¡± - Arthur C. Clarke Solitude, that ever-present state of being that seems to stick to my soul with unbridled persistence. Being acclimated to the feeling, I would assume that I¡¯d welcome it, but the glow in my chest has since abandoned me, that emptiness slowly leeching back into the corners of my mind. Yet the flow of things continues, ever driving, ceaseless, time slipping through the rough contours of my healing fingers, finer than wisps of smoke. Or so it is and has been since my abrupt arrival at The Nautilus. Days bleed into one another, but the rhythm of Bobbi¡¯s schedule, from a warm meal, to disappearing off to work, then home again for another warm meal, is the heartbeat of my life now. Within two days, the heavy indigo bruises disappeared, the bitterly painful tears on my hands and feet closing with unnatural rapidness. My body gaining the same strange, unearthly flush as that perfect skin on my left shoulder. Placid nights, no apparitions or wrathful bat-like spirits to haunt my dreams, even my memories of Nico¡¯s final minutes grow devoid of Navan¡¯yu. I see him convulse, but against darkness, a sense of something that should be there, but I can¡¯t put my finger on it. It¡¯s as though my mind has been hit with a mental blotter, smearing the ink of those moments. I¡¯m queasy with the acute sense of missing elements of my conscious recollection. But, I dare not tell Bobbi¡­ at least not yet. My uneasiness tempered by the sheer exhaustion that grips me. All week, I sleep long into the day after stuffing my face with Bobbi¡¯s excellent breakfasts, only waking in the late afternoons. If it weren¡¯t for the silver pendant locked under a pile of clothing, I¡¯d likely have forgotten about the beast altogether¡­ the charm is something to anchor my cognition to. In the passing days, the panic over the discovery of Nico¡¯s car on Split Canyon Road has all but worn off. Had local police or the BDC found anything tying me to it, they would¡¯ve put a warrant out for me or at least announced publicly that I¡¯m wanted for questioning. I¡¯m just a ghost, Nico¡¯s shadow, without personhood of my own, a state of being that¡¯s likely shielded me, for now¡­ Until this morning¡­ With a particularly intense stare, Bobbi breaks his natural rhythm over a plate of blue corn pancakes, ¡°So I assume,¡± he gulps down a mouth full, ¡°that it was Nico who abandoned you in the desert¡­ Right?¡± I shift uncomfortably in my seat, the darkness in his eyes growing deeper¡­ haunting, an intensity almost inhuman. I¡¯ve never seen it before, but Bobbi, sweet, gentle Bobbi, has a dangerous side, a heaviness that lies within him, a gravity-well of energy, most of the time a fixed point of stability. But today, he pulls me towards him, my essence threatening to be held by the mass of his gaze. He¡¯s not an idiot, Nico¡¯s name¡¯s been plastered all over the local news throughout the week, it¡¯s foolish of me to assume he¡¯s not been keeping up with it. ¡°This kind of shit isn¡¯t out of character for that motherfucker. I dunno why you still run with him. I ain¡¯t no snitch, but if you¡¯re in real trouble, you¡®re going to have to tell me at some point.¡± I nod obediently. ¡°It doesn¡¯t have to be now.¡± ¡°Bobbi¡­ am I going crazy?¡± ¡°If you were, you probably wouldn¡¯t be worrying about it,¡± he places his fork on the plate, ¡°Know this, all of it will come out eventually, even if it¡¯s just to me. In the meantime, I wouldn¡¯t be surprised if they just drop it, just another low-life taken by the desert.¡± Relief swells within me, Bobbi puts up with nothing, but he¡¯s good people. Whatever the outcome, whatever happens to me, he¡¯ll be in my corner. Not in a complacent way, probably closer to a tough love kind of way, letting the consequences of my actions unfold, but I won¡¯t face them alone. ¡°Thanks.¡± With that, Bobbi swallows what is left of his pancakes. Mine are left half-devoured, a snack cached away for later, I cover my plate in plastic and place it carefully in the fridge. ¡°So your appointment, you think you are ready for it?¡± ¡°Not really, but since it¡¯s¡­ today? I guess I don¡¯t really have any time to mentally prepare,¡± I pause, ¡°I need to pick up some cigs on the way back. Is that alright?¡± The craving slowly creeping back into me, building over the last few days, growing into an untenable feeling. Today, somehow it¡¯s worse, I need to satiate it. Strange that it disappeared, only to return with such vigor. Stress will do that. Maybe, my body was able to shut it off during my healing? So many questions with indiscernible answers, all of them lurking somewhere beyond my grasp. ¡°Should be fine. The rez Nautilus is also owned by Red Feather, I can get you a discount,¡± he smiles, but tempered with a tinge of disappointment, ¡°We should head out, dishes can wait. The Ghost River Reservation is a bit of a drive.¡± I stand in the doorway, struggling to put on my boots. They need maintenance, still caked in dirt from my adventure a week ago, bits of the once black leather scuffed and frayed. I hope it¡¯s fixable, but today is not the day to let my damaged sense of vanity take hold. No, other priorities push into my head. A fevered excitement about what this exam might tell me, maybe I hit my head really hard? It would give me something concrete to hold onto, an answer to my hallucinatory dreams and my sense of lost information. ¡°You have your tribal card?¡± Bobbi calls from the living room. ¡°Yeah, right here!¡± ¡°Good, also don¡¯t forget this. He pulls Marta¡¯s Navan¡¯yu pendant from the shirt cave I made for it all of those days ago, ¡°She¡¯ll be wanting this back.¡± It boggles my mind, he is annoyingly quick, doesn¡¯t miss a thing, ¡°That¡¯s right¡­¡± He hands the specter to me. My stomach drops, my fingers tracing the artistically stamped sliver, those round mother-of-pearl orbs staring back at me. Ugh, part of me still doesn¡¯t want to look at it, but that morbid curiosity slowly worms its way to my attention. Following Bobbi out the door, the morning air a little heavy with moisture, but it won¡¯t last. In less than an hour, it¡¯ll be unbearably hot. His vehicle dappled with morning dew, greeting us with a warm shimmer. Popping open the door, I slide in, the chattering necklace still in hand. ¡°I forgot to properly introduce you to my car,¡± Bobbi giggles, patting the dashboard,¡± this is Carl!¡± ¡°Carl the Car?¡± ¡°Ya, Carl is a dependable dude, never underestimate dependability.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll keep that in mind,¡± the comforting sound of the engine turning over is music to my ears. First time out in awhile, I¡¯m keen to see something more than the inside of Bobbi¡¯s apartment, even with the spectacular view. He tunes into a radio station, the ambient rhythms of post-psychedelic melodies permeate the space. Not my scene, but beats country or mariachi, the two dominant genres of Deerhorn County. I keep running the tips of my fingers over the shape of the medallion, trying to get a fix on what the Mistwalker looked like. Fuzzy recollection attempting to be known, I struggle to place the strange formless shape in my memory. Since a week ago, that gnawing heaviness that left me a near catatonic wreck alone my room is slinking back in, like some kind of unwelcome parasite. I can¡¯t shake it or let it go. Maybe it isn¡¯t just the lurking uneasiness of the depression taking hold once again. Despite the fear, the pain, at least I felt something... An urge to be alive again, a drug more powerful than anything else I¡¯ve experienced. Why can¡¯t I recall things? Picking through the days, I try to remember if there was a time that my mind was clear. I gaze at the malevolent visage of the Navan¡¯yu pendant staring back up at me. Looking out the window, the Vermillion Hills speeding by in maroon stripes, almost a blur of banded color. Peering into the midmorning light, I search for dark silhouettes. Nothing out there, just the piles of sediment and distant blonde box canyons. The thing that defended me from my death might be gone for good. It¡¯s kind of a lonely thought, an empty desert, no shadow at my back. I realize, in my contemplation, I¡¯ve been fidgeting with the silver necklace. An expanse of barren sandstone lines the edge of the opening valley, I readjust myself in the coarse upholstered seat of Carl to get a better look. My neck aches, stiff and sore from the couch slumbering I¡¯ve become accustomed to. The morning sunlight a hair higher through the windshield, a jade green sign greets us as we turn right. ¡°Welcome to the Ghost River Reservation ¨C You Are Now on Tribal Land.¡± ¡°Nearly there,¡± Bobbi almost chirps like a songbird. An upcoming sign announces the drop in speed limit, a grueling twenty miles per-hour, but the road looks freshly paved. You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. ¡°New Town is pretty swanky,¡± Bobbi explains,¡± The Tribal Council had a big boost in revenue with the casino traffic, and honestly we wouldn¡¯t have the health center without it. I just kind of wish it got out to some of the folks in Old Town or even the outskirts. But hey, at least it¡¯s something. Mom started out here when the health center opened, so she is kind a fixture of New Town. She isn¡¯t the only one who came back to the rez when it all opened too.¡± Our little path climbs treacherous red rocks, up onto a low plateau. We turn back and forth between the pinnacles, until the ridgeline opens up. To the south, a distant single snowcapped peak stands, a forlorn sentinel. A small reminder where the high desert came from, the crust of the earth pushed violently upward, only to be cast into perpetual rain shadow. A small cliff face is its edifice, plunging into the valley below. Stretched out beneath the plateau are the distant shapes of Old Town, maybe a few miles off. To the west, scattered lays the sprawl of new build, all styled to look like adobe, one has modern geometric structures contrasted with cream stucco. ¡°Oh, that¡¯s the cultural building, it has a museum and indigenous language center. Brings in some tourism dollars, too¡­ Your Nana had a hand in its creation!¡± Bobbi continues excitedly, this is his show and tell moment. To the east, along the mesa, stands a gaudy over-exaggeration of an adobe village accompanied by an oh-so familiar Nautilus gas station. The enormous lights of the mega complex glimmering extravagantly, ¡®Ghost River Resort & Casino¡¯. In its driveway, a bronze geometric eagle stands aloof, perched upon an aesthetically pleasing rock. Sculpted to promote the exoticism of the hotel, but not in the traditional Aolu¡¯yi way, as to not scare off the white folks. Glancing at the pendant, I imagine the response if a statue of Navan¡¯yu stood in its place. The wealthy and their designer super cars barely able to take the road up the plateau, I envision her bulging eyes and raging expression driving terror into their privileged little hearts. Pedal to the metal, they floor it, leaving the badlands to themselves. The corners of my mouth twitch into a smirk at the thought. Listing to the right, we leave the Casino in the rear view mirror, one turn past the cultural building. Down the road arises a campus roughly the size of a large high school. The two-story facade is the same as the other buildings in New Town, it¡¯s tan with ornamental wooden beams adorned with a sign that reads, ¡°Deerhorn County Tribal Health¡±. Slipping past the Emergency Room entrance, a mostly empty parking lot sits nearly abandoned. ¡°We technically have one of the best trauma centers in seven counties. Folks get airlifted in from outdoor accidents. That¡¯s kind of our bread and butter, pays the bills. Mom¡¯s working in general care, she and Dr. Navakkakin almost exclusively run the family medicine unit, since it¡¯s only for the Ghost River Reservation. Everyone else here are specialists working in emergency care,¡± he rattles on, parking Carl in his choice of closest spot. I keep my head down and amble out of the car, hesitating¡­ it¡¯s zero hour, time to find out if I¡¯m losing my mind. We push forward as automatic glass doors open into the atrium of the hospital. Unlike the elegant adobe buildings constructed for the eyes of tourists, the interior is extremely utilitarian. A couple of traditional geometric rugs hang on the walls, but that¡¯s about it, just a sea of beige. A portly man with his dark hair tied in a low ponytail greets us at a bland masonite check-in desk. ¡°Your name¡­ and date of birth,¡± he drones. ¡°Riley Yates¡­ October seventeenth, nineteen eighty-six. I have an appointment, with Marta White Fox.¡± The man behind the desk looks up at me, the burnout reading heavy in his expression, ¡°Tribal card?¡± ¡°Yeah, right here,¡± I hand the trashed piece of plastic to him. To my surprise, he scans it without a hitch. ¡°Your information looks correct, but the card needs replacing. Can you step over here for a moment? We can get that ID photo taken and a new card will be ready for you when you finish your appointment.¡± I shrug, and follow the receptionist down the hall to a wall with a sky blue background. Cerulean, a reminder of what awaits for me just outside of these prefab barriers. ¡°Don¡¯t smile for this, drivers license rules.¡± ¡°Sure, not really in a smiley mood anyways,¡± I mumble to myself. ¡°One, two¡­ three.¡± The flash dazzles me for half a second. Ah, bureaucracy at work, but at least the Casino dollars pay for it, no co-pay for me, at least not for family medicine. ¡°Good, all set, follow the hall down to the end and turn right. There¡¯s a waiting room and you can fill out your forms there,¡± he turns away from me and barks, ¡°Bobbi, you¡¯ll have to stay here.¡± ¡°It¡¯s okay Jason, I know the drill,¡± Bobbi gives me the cheesiest grin he can muster, followed by a double thumbs up. I pull a face in response to his goofiness. Seeing my reaction, he settles himself into a vinyl seat in the lobby, scooping up a magazine, called ¡°Suburban Garden & Home.¡± As I head down the hall, I take a quick glance back to see a single eye peering over the glossy paper, likely making another asinine smile behind his equally out of place shield. I chuckle to myself, somehow, it¡¯s a welcome change to hanging with Nico, a lot more laughter to be had. Thinking back, I can¡¯t remember a time I really felt any semblance of joy around him. Just emptiness and anxiety¡­ maybe a sign of what was to come¡­ A warning I heeded too late. The waiting room matches the vibe of the rest of the building, everything overwhelmingly taupe. Only color to be seen is the Aolu¡¯yi earrings adorning the receptionist, at least six in each ear, all with predominately turquoise beadwork stitched into thick studs. ¡°Uhhh, hi¡­ I¡¯m here for an eleven thirty appointment with Marta White Fox.¡± She eyes me probingly, ¡°Oh, you must be Riley. Don¡¯t worry, you are all checked in, I just need you to fill out these forms.¡± I nod and pick up the clipboard, at least four pages of paperwork. Mostly the usual questions about familial medical history, as well as my own, drug allergies, nothing about seeing spirits in the night. Why would there be? Just me and my fucked up brain, I guess. Studying the questionnaire, I¡¯m struck how little I really know about my family. I mean, dad split very soon after Darion was born, and I was only, maybe two at the time? I can¡¯t remember his face, let alone any aliments he may have had. It isn¡¯t like mom ever talks about him either. Sitting, my frustration getting the better of me, I feel like any answer I give is a lie, somehow even an ¡°I don¡¯t know¡± seems disingenuous. Really, I only have mom and Nana¡¯s records, but I can¡¯t even remember much of that, both seemed pretty healthy, no history of heart disease or cancer. My memories of Nana, so far removed from the cold and clinical sterility of the modern world. ??? Darion fidgets on the floor, old splintering grey wood nips into my calves, but I don¡¯t mind. Nana¡¯s house smells like spices, fry bread, and juniper berries. All of the good things! She sits on a worn chair, mint paint peeling from air devoid of moisture, her silver hair tied in traditional Aolu¡¯yi double buns. Her gnarled hands peeling poblanos, shucking the seeds into a small fuchsia plastic trash can. ¡°NANA, ANOTHER STORY,¡± Darion blubbers, the way five year olds have a habit of doing. Nana doesn¡¯t look up from her task, the sting of the capsaicin on her fingers not even phasing her. She pauses just long enough to drop a stem covered in white seeds into the can, ¡°Do you want to hear one about good little spirits or one about what happens to bad little boys who are impatient?¡± Darion sits completely still, holding his breath, so as to not be noisy, until he turns purple and gives up with a flailing wiggle, ¡°How about one about good little boys! Riley and me are good boys, we aren¡¯t mean to nobody. We take care of mom and do all of our chores, I always clean up my stuff. I¡¯m so good!¡± ¡°You sure? You don¡¯t think He Who Weaves Lies might find your heart impure and bend you to do dark things? Or Elk Woman might lead you to your untimely end?¡± ¡°NO! No mean old dumb owl would be able to do that! We are too good and too tough,¡± Darion shouts, flexing his string bean muscles like a super hero. ¡°Okay, okay, you have convinced me, although this one isn¡¯t about a little boy, it is about a little girl!¡± Nana sets down her finished green pepper on a platter and clasps her hands together, ¡°There once was a little Aolu¡¯yi girl, she, like you two, was very, very good. Respected her elders and did all of her chores. One day, she had to go gather herbs and spices for her mother, who was so busy. But to find them, she had to go far away to Tuul¡¯aku¡¯yoo, The Old One¡¯s Rest, to find these delights. The journey was long, and took a whole day round trip. Back then, cars were rare in Old Town, so a lot of her people had to walk to get what they required. Her brothers packed cornbread and her water skin, made sure she had everything she needed. ¡°Whooooh, I can¡¯t believe there weren¡¯t cars here, must have been a very long time ago,¡± Darion says, rubbing his nose, his little fingers threatening to pick it. ¡°Not as long ago as you might think, the world was a much bigger place back then. There wasn¡¯t even the highway through here yet. Didn¡¯t come until ten years later! So the little girl thanked her brothers and set out, she knew the path, but it was the first time she went all by herself. It was her sixth year you see, this time she was strong enough and big enough to do it all by herself. She took the dirt path, but once she got there, she would leave it behind and go into the wilds to find the ingredients for her satchel. It was late in the afternoon when she saw the great canyons of Tuul¡¯aku¡¯yoo. Her brothers told her to be careful, to leave something nice for the spirits, or they will get angry about what you take. In her sack, she carried little turquoise jingle beads, a favorite amongst the old ones. The little girl was proud of these gifts, the spirits would be happy with them without a doubt. Through the day, she found all kinds of tasty treats, herbs, rare berries, and delicious mushrooms in the shade of the canyons. As twilight set in, she realized she couldn¡¯t find her path back. At first, she was brave and confident, but as the darkness took this ancient place, she started to understand that she was lost. She sat in the closing blackness and wrapped herself in her wool shawl, hoping no hungry creatures took notice, and silently started to cry. Darion stares, wide eyed, ¡°Nana, does she live? Or do the hungry animals eat her!¡± ¡°Darion, I am getting to the best part!¡± Nana chuckles, ¡°Just as she was giving up, out of the night came a great specter, tall, with fingers, body, and robe made of colorful woven grass; hues of orange, green, yellow, and blue. She strode over to the lost girl. ¡®Dear child of Nhokah, why are you so lost?¡¯ the spirit¡¯s great slit eyes narrowed in the gloom. Between sobs, she said, ¡®I came to find spices and herbs for my family, so we can fill our bellies. I thought I knew the way, but I got lost.¡¯ ¡®It is wise to know when you have been out done, little one.¡¯ ¡®I have cornbread and jingle beads, if you want them,¡¯ the little girl said sheepishly. ¡®Well, that is a kind gesture,¡¯ the old one seated herself next to the good little girl. The little girl slipped into dreams of the great desert as the grass spirit watched over her. Come daybreak, the old one was still there, her form grew clear in the morning light. ¡®Sometimes, we need to stop and listen to the quiet to see the path,¡¯ the ghostly shape explained, ¡®only then do we find our way, little one.¡¯ The little girl listened to the silent land, and just when she was about to give up, she heard a strangely soft sound, music, almost a whisper. ¡®I hear it! How can I ever thank you!... What do I call you?¡¯ ¡®I am the one many call Prairie Mother, but I have many names.¡¯ In all of her six years, the little girl never felt so sure of where she needed to go. She followed the sound through the canyons, leaving her new friend behind. The music of the desert grew louder and louder, until her toes met the dirt path once more. ¡°So, who was she?¡± I ask Nana. ¡°Can you two keep a really big secret?¡± she asks mischievously. Darion and I nod excitedly. ¡°That little girl is me, children.¡± ??? Chapter X - THE LINES THE LINES Chapter X THE GODS OF GHOST RIVER ¡°The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.¡± - Edward Abbey, A Voice Crying in the Wilderness Whirrr¡­ TAP. TAP. TAP. TAP TAP¡­ POP! POP! POP! Energy builds in the filaments of my tendons, that supercharged space that propels the flight response, nearly as mechanized as the tube of machine and radiation that incases me. Although, all I can see as the tapping circulates around my head is Dizzy¡¯s form flex against the recoil of bullets. A false memory, I never saw him hit the ground, except through the eyes of his killer, likely another vision implanted by my deranged psyche. ¡°Riley, please try to stay calm,¡± Marta¡¯s voice echoes through an intercom, ¡°We¡¯re nearly finished.¡± I try to keep my breathing shallow, holding onto the stillness my mind reels from. Subconsciously, my frame consumes itself with minor internal tremors as the CT scanner rolls to a slow. Shit, did it get anything usable? In this moment, there¡¯s nothing I dread more than having to do round two. The tack of the textured plastic table clings to me as I¡¯m wheeled gently from the tiny tunnel of madness, trying to suppress the shakes. ¡°Riley!¡± donning deep plum scrubs, Marta saunters from a room behind glass, lifting me from my anxiety, ¡°We got what we needed. You feeling up for the walk back?¡± ¡°Yeah, should be.¡± She gives me that same considering stare her son surely mastered from her, discerning it would be best to let me lead the way, despite my wavering. At a steady pace, we pass numerous exam rooms, some with the doors closed, some open a crack, all of them bustling with the chatter of patients. Surprising, considering how quiet the clinic was just before my scan. ¡°Everyone wants to book their appointments for Monday,¡± Marta laughs as a couple of nursing staff briskly push past, ¡°They notice all the weird stuff during the weekend and then call in. Technically, we have a few nurse practitioners who see patients on the weekends, but most folks want to see Dr. Navakkakin or me.¡± She finds my old exam room, the last to be occupied, ¡°Also, awesome news, I was able to get Dr. Navakkakin to talk you through your results. Honestly seemed best, given I know you personally and all of that.¡± I wince as Marta beams at me. Familiarity is the medicine I crave, as far as I know Dr. Navakkakin is yet another giant unknown and I¡¯ve had enough of the unknown to last at least two lifetimes. Hiding my ire, I signal my appreciation as White Fox - Physician¡¯s Assistant, bounds out of the room, her title, like the world¡¯s strangest comic book character. I somehow can¡¯t unseat the idea of her flying around the rez with a deep purple cape dispensing pamphlets on the risks of heart disease. ¡°WAIT!¡± I call suddenly. ¡°What is it, hun?¡± Marta pokes her head back into the room, her expression so similar to her son¡¯s for a fraction of a second. ¡°I forgot to give this back,¡± I shuffle over to my pile of clothes, still donning the cotton hospital gown. Pulling the necklace from the pocket of my new-ish jeans, I hold out Navan¡¯yu¡¯s silver visage of terror, contrasting starkly against the wall of ungodly beige. ¡°Thanks for remembering it. We¡¯ll talk more about her next time I am by for dinner!¡± she smiles, accepting her lost item. Her time spent, she leaves me somewhere between in peace and in pieces. Answers, I¡¯m here for answers¡­ push it all out of my mind until there¡¯s something corporeal. Only thing to do now is find comfort in patience, letting things fall into place, as they should. ???? Cold fresh air, light no longer filtered through the amber membrane, a world ablaze with color, my heart beating steady in my abdomen. I¡¯m swallowed by triangular blackness and pain¡­ too soon, it¡¯s too soon. Awaken. Sensations first, bustling warmth, driving hunger. Belly full, driving hunger. And so on it goes. My eyes open, my siblings so alike to me stare, disgust, mistrust. My legs, they¡¯re funny, I flop about. They¡¯d never have let me live, I come to terms with this as I tumble, that sharp crack the last of my recollection. ???? THUTHUNK! A knock at the door breaks my spinning head, allowing me to grasp these aberrant thoughts. A woman in her mid thirties in a pristine white lab coat emerges and nods at me, narrow black-rimmed designer glasses frame her striking cheekbones. Her umber hair tied in a loose bun, and a rose gold ring dangles on a chain around her neck, perhaps a wedding ring? Her tag reads, ¡°Dr. Cheryl Navakkakin, M.D. Family Medicine¡±. This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it ¡°So, you must be Riley,¡± she peers at me over her glasses with the aggression of a devoted librarian, taking a quick moment to glance at her clipboard. ¡°Uhhh¡­ yeah,¡± making my best effort to suppress the urge to shrink away. ¡°I have heard a little something about your situation, but I want you to tell me from your own mouth. Any detail you can give will be most helpful. Particularly about any pervasive symptoms, any spots that had acute injuries or blunt force trauma?¡± She glares at me with an intensity familiar to something lost to my recollection. ¡°Some of it¡¯s a little fuzzy¡­¡± I trail off as I notice her fierce brows narrowing, ¡°But I¡¯ll do my best. If I forget anything, can I write it down and come back later?¡± ¡°Sure.¡± She taps her pen against the clipboard impatiently awaiting my response. If bedside manner was some kind of requirement for graduating med school, it may not have been her strongest subject. Or possibly, extreme overwork day in and day out in this horribly bland office turned her hard. ¡°How long were you in the wilderness?¡± ¡°I¡¯m not really sure¡­ maybe, between two or three days¡­ I think I¡¯m seeing things¡­ you know, stuff that isn¡¯t there.¡± The brass coated pen flits across the paperwork, in perfect pace as I speak, ¡°What kind of things?¡± ¡°Dark shapes, kind of violent imagery that pops into my head and disappears¡­¡± ¡°Do you remember hitting your head or bruising anything?¡± ¡°No, as far as I know, I don¡¯t think I hit my head.¡± ¡°Okay, that seems consistent with the CT images,¡± Dr. Navakkakin peers over her paperwork, ¡°Would you like to see them?¡± ¡°Not really.¡± ¡°Okay, I will relay the results to the best of my ability. It is all good news from a neurology perspective, no apparent lesions or shadows, no physical damage that we can see. Your brain looks healthy, but our technology has limitations. There¡¯s always the probability our scan missed something small. This is where your recollection of your symptoms becomes paramount. The other possibility is that we are dealing with an emerging psychological issue, which we will need to monitor,¡± she pauses to readjust her glasses, ¡°Have you heard of the concept of ¡®Intrusive Thoughts¡¯?¡± I shake my head. ¡°In a nutshell, ¡®Intrusive Thoughts¡¯ are a phenomena most people experience, flashes of disturbing impulses, or disturbing visuals in your mind¡¯s eye, that then quickly dissipate. Good news, your experience doesn¡¯t seem to fit outside of the ¡®norm¡¯ as most folks can mentally sort that it is just their mind being ¡®buggy¡¯ and move on. Where ¡®Intrusive Thoughts¡¯ get tricky is for patients with anxiety conditions or OCD, they have difficulty dismissing them and often fixate on the disturbing nature of those thoughts. Are you following?¡± ¡°I think so¡­¡± my mind drifts to the absent, sponged out sections of my memory, ¡®Intrusive Thoughts¡¯ wouldn¡¯t account for that. ¡°I am not a psychiatrist, and I am not qualified to give you a diagnosis. Therefore, I am referring you to a specialist based in Providence, that¡¯s about an hour outside of Vermillion. Riley, you may not have head trauma, but what you went though is without a doubt a psychological trauma. I cannot urge you enough to follow up with him,¡± her eye-contact lingering a second or two beyond my comfort, before proceeding to scribble something onto a notepad obscured by her clipboard, ¡°We will send your information over to him this afternoon and you will be able to schedule an appointment tomorrow.¡± ¡°Okay¡­¡± ¡°Follow up with me if anything changes,¡± Dr. Navakkakin instructs, handing me the piece of paper, leading me out of the room. ¡°Thanks. How do I¡­?¡± ¡°Through there to the waiting room, and then follow the hall to the lobby,¡± she interrupts. ??? Flexing and contracting my fingertips, I observe the terrain of the skin on my hands, almost hexagonal around cavernous pores. A distraction from the referral to the psychiatrist tucked away in my pocket, paired with my new tribal card, still warm from the printer. The soft scent of summer sage wafts though Carl¡¯s glinting window, yet another veil to obscure the results of my appointment. ¡°So how did it go?¡± Bobbi looks at me with piqued interest. ¡°Good news, my brain looks healthy!¡± ¡°Well that¡¯s a relief, huh.¡± ¡°Yeah, hey can we make a stop in Old Town?¡± I push the topic elsewhere, hoping to throw him off of the stench of my lie through omission. ¡°Sure thing!¡± In that moment, looking to the road ahead, I see it. An encounter, something beyond my years of comprehension¡­ a silver thread snaking along our path. The gleaming string aglow before us, no, a part of us. A trail we¡¯ve yet to tread, but visible seconds preceding our convergence upon it. No, not a part of us¡­ a part of me, erupting from the core of my chest, projecting a road I never knew I¡¯d travel, yet is laid out for me, the quantum expression of fate, burned into the fabric of the tangible universe. Follow The Lines. ??? Palm reading always struck me as bogus, just another creative way to part people from their well-earned cash, along with the other spiritual forms of fraud, lives controlled by the stars and pictures on a deck of cards. But in disbelief, I find myself compelled by this stream of light. In the approaching distance, Old Town rises from the base of the valley, peppered with adobe homes the hue of butternut squash. Coming to a stop against the warm stucco, I remain mute, car door half-cracked, attempting to grasp the odd luminous artery laid before me. As a warm breeze stirred by the convection of the summer sun tussles strands of my raven hair, an urge takes me. Seizing upon a moment to deviate from the course set ahead by the strange phenomenon, I leap zealously from the car in erratic skipping motions. Which, to my chagrin, I continuously fall into the path of the silver thread. Self-conscious, I turn to my old friend to see him giving his best impression of a disdainful teen girl when the most awkward of situations drop. I overplayed my hand... Saving face, I pull the goofiest grin I can muster, unwillingly drawing the muscles from that permanent scowl I hide behind. ¡°All that radiation get to your head or something? Or are you just excited to be here?¡± Bobbi jeers. ¡°Shut up.¡± ¡°Dumbass,¡± he takes a light punch to my shoulder, payment for his unanswered questions. Old Town sits in a strange sort of stasis, preserved as though a hundred years ago, emaciated mutts scuttle between the buildings and dry rotted timber. Most of the structures house small galleries for the on-rez artists and their studios. But, the majority of its denizens live across the valley in modern trailer communities, removed from the romanticism of traditional Aolu¡¯yi ways. The sun-cracked adobe feels naked without the presence of Nana, a spirit as akin as any other to this place, in the wastes of the painted desert. ¡°So what did you want to see?¡± Bobbi calls between the slowing, syrupy constancy of my thoughts, ¡°Riley¡­ Riley?!¡± That line of mercury beckons me down a course as mysterious as it is dangerous, but obediently I follow, bound to a destiny beyond my mastery. Like the flow of a river, it leads me crisscrossing through the many textures of the village, past the wet eager nose of a lean sandy hound, thirsting for affection. Through a gate of desiccated ashen wooden posts, south, away from Old Town into the shadow of the great singular peak standing dark and brooding on the horizon. ¡°Riley, can you just slow down?¡± the wheezing cry of Bobbi reverberates in the back of my skull. My legs carry me with purpose, the string of light protruding from my chest reabsorbing into my being with each step. The graveyard emerging in the distance, the last resting place of the ancestors, generations upon generations of experience laid to slumber in the thick red clay. The Aolu¡¯yi don¡¯t release their deceased to the sky like folks do to the east, for my people are people of the earth returning their essence to the sediments that bore them before the time of conscious thought. The ember of silver guides me to a ring of stones emblazoned with a wooden etched sign, painted in garish colors. Elenora Se¡¯nya July 6, 1938 to March 11, 2004 May her spirit return to Prairie Mother Nana, amongst the dead, no doubt as I too should¡¯ve been, a burial that sits as surreal in my mind as any distant dream. I¡¯m empty, just a ghost amongst the living, the only breath within me kept stirring by the vague shape blotted in the shadows of my memory. It calls to me across the vast wilderness¡­ She calls to me. Chapter XI - SOUL OF THE STORM SOUL OF THE STORM Chapter XI THE GODS OF GHOST RIVER ¡°Alone we traveled armed with nothing but a shadow.¡± - Of Monsters and Men, Mountain Sound ???? ¡°Damn it, Tam, just let me just give you a ride home when my shift ends,¡± demands Marta, desperation leaking into her voice. ¡°Oh no, no¡­ I¡¯ve done this walk hundreds of times, besides I want to get that view of the sunset,¡± I laugh, but truly it¡¯s that rare magic where sky and earth are one¡­ saffron in the dying light. Staring doe-eyed back up at me is a much younger visage of Marta, petite and leaner than her adult self, yet, still possessing that same muscular upper-body strength of a boxer. Her espresso hair locked in a side ponytail to embellish her ripped jeans and glam rock tee. ¡°Please, I just have a bad feeling, that¡¯s all,¡± Marta pleads. Her ability to wield authority with the subtlety of a surgical tool not nearly as honed as it will be in her maturity. ¡°You¡¯re overreacting, I¡¯ll be fine... jeez.¡± There¡¯s a familiarity to the voice connected to the eyes I peer through, something soothing, rendering my memory back to the comforts of sugary boxed cereal paired with Sunday morning cartoons. Tam¡­ Tamera¡­ Mom? ¡°But, I had this dream, where something came for you in the twilight, down that lonely road¡­ I¡­¡± ¡°Stop, Mi Ma is superstitious enough without you losing your shit too.¡± It¡¯s uncomfortable being immersed in Tamera¡¯s near end of adolescence, the venom seeping from her tone surprises even myself, a side of my mom I¡¯d never seen in all of my years. She treats Marta so dismissively with a haughty arrogance that makes my stomach constrict into small knots. Am I like this?¡­arrogant? No, I know what works for me, it¡¯s gotten me to this moment, to this point¡­. oh¡­ or maybe, I step on the people who care deepest for me¡­ a defect as hereditary as the golden tinge to my eyes. Defeated, White Fox throws up her hands, her silence speaking volumes larger than any words that could pass through her lips. Fuck off Marta, quit trying to control every little thing. I hate this place, it¡¯s such a dump¡­ The Ghost River Reservation is just that, full of ghosts, long dead to the real world just beyond the painted hills. I gotta get out of this place, leave it far behind and never come back. The sting of guilt permeates to the tips of my fingers as I watch Marta gaze glaze-eyed at the convenience store counter, dejection carved into her expression. The temper that seemed so integral to my mood evaporates as instantly as it appeared. Shit, what did I do? ¡°Hey Marta, I¡¯m sorry, truly. I shouldn¡¯t have said that, I know you¡¯re just trying to help. I¡¯ll be extra careful¡­ I promise.¡± Marta nods, the warmth returning to her smile, ¡°Keep it scrappy, sister!¡± ¡°You know I always do!¡± ??? Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. Coral rays draw the western hills of the rez into shadowy indigo pinnacles against the falling summer sun, the first glowing points peering through the eastern sky. They could be planets, brighter than the average star in the growing dusk. I relish these quiet moments to myself, deaf to the world, my tape player rings with a progressive rock song about a crimson vintage racecar. If I had one wish, I would let this moment go on forever¡­ Huh, maybe there¡¯s something I¡¯d miss when I finally adios from this place. You and me both, mom¡­ In Nico¡¯s head everything felt disjoint, becoming absorbed in the sheer wrongness of it all, my anxiety boiling to a flashpoint. This mind tastes familiar, its flavor so similar to my own. I drift between the strands of her thoughts, consuming the essence of them, less an unwelcome presence, but instead an accepted passenger in a cognition as reflective as a mirror. ¡­ Alone, something feels different, a foreboding tickling the tip of my spine, some people¡¯s hair stands on end, but I feel it at the base of my neck where the bone protrudes, a sixth sense, maybe passed from the ancestors. At least, that¡¯s what Mi Ma says. Mi Ma says a lot of weird stuff, but you kinda just flow with it. I¡¯m extra alert, my trailer key held as a shiv, primed for whatever might await. Pausing from the meandering stream of her mind, I listen as the pinpricks of adrenaline tap insistently at the end of her vertebrae. She pulls the headphones from her ears, evening sounds of the desert broken every once in awhile by the frenzied yelps of coyotes. She doesn¡¯t buy it, something else is watching, a dark thing perched beyond a sense of time and space, the deep rasping breath of the anticipation of the cosmos. Singularity ???? ¡°Riley?¡± My eyes flitter open as we pull up to the tattered grey paint of Bobbi¡¯s apartment. I must¡¯ve dozed off, the stress of internalizing the death of Nana sapping my wakefulness. I try to push the past that doesn¡¯t belong to me from my head, these strange visions of the minds of others becoming a troubling new theme in my ruminations. Sliding from the sedan, I tread softly, in the hopes Bobbi will allow me to exist in a state of quiet. In silence, we walk to the door, his hamster keys jingling in hand. Inside, Bobbie adjourns to the safety of the kitchen, opting to finish the task of scrubbing the blue corn pancake residue from the dishes left soaking in the sink¡­ it seems an eon ago, the passage of things dilating, today could¡¯ve easily been four months past¡­ so full, I forgot to stop for cigarettes, fuck¡­ yet another thing to sour my mood. ¡°I¡¯m going for a walk,¡± I bark at Bobbi, as I leave through the sliding glass door. A restlessness takes me, I need to get out, I need to think. Hopping over the patio rail, my boots land on the lifeless earth, too soft to be dirt, but too clumpy to be sand. Nervously, I pick a small scab on my arm until it bleeds, something a nice drag would¡¯ve staved. For a few moments, I lean against the railing, looking out upon the mournful badlands of O¡¯chohca, thunderheads gathering overhead. Striding towards the mounds of sediment, their merlot hue turns to an ashen grey in the growing shadows of the cumulonimbus. My feet my guide, I don¡¯t care where they lead, twisting between the barren wilderness, the darkness of the amassing supercell as intoxicating as it is perilous. A flash, that first crack of lightning beats against the distant box canyons, my anxiety melting from my body. Persistently that sensation, that creeping feeling of purpose, drives me forward, it isn¡¯t until that second crash of zinging cyan electricity across the valley do I see that strange silver line, ebb and flow across the desert, beckoning me¡­ An open gully gives way to an enormous drainage plane, the last buildings of Vermillion long out of sight, only the clay-rich hills encircle me, that mercury thread coming to a finish abruptly in the center of the valley. Diligently I follow the waning path, until my boot touches something uneven against the desert floor. Stooping to pick it up, my fingertips find the polished edges of a blackened marble figure, visage of a badger, its turquoise eyes staring back at with me with vicious intent¡­ Gusts from the current of the accumulating storm yank on strands of my hair as I stare at the fine carving, drawn to it and comforted by it in an incomprehensible way. Fat raindrops splat against the parched ground as I fall to my knees and weep, tears lost to the drizzle. My time with Nana, robbed from me, some of which caused by mom¡¯s reluctance to visit the rez, but most of it born of my responsibility. The depression taking such a stranglehold, I might as well¡¯ve been the walking dead. Deceased to a world that went on without me, and left me abandoned in the wilderness to my own sorrow, grieving to this little stone badger. I don¡¯t want to perish and waste away¡­ I want to¡­ FEEL. The chaos of the last week and a half brought me back¡­ back to life, freed from that vise that now threatens to wither me into obscurity. ¡°I don¡¯t want to fade¡­¡± I mumble to myself. ¡°Don¡¯t let me fade¡­¡± ¡°Don¡¯t let me fade¡­¡± listing back and forth, I sway rhythmically. ¡°Don¡¯t let me fade¡­¡± Shape, form, that prickling sensation at the base of my spine¡­ a looming shadow gathers behind me. ¡°Don¡¯t let me fade¡­¡± I pull myself to my feet as a thunderbolt crackles on the rim of the swirling tempest. To avoid glimpsing the towering aspect, cautiously, I reach my hand back, beyond my sight. In the deepest fibers of my being, there¡¯s a hope to find purchase on something familiar. Strands of soft fur¡­ ¡°Don¡¯t let me fade¡­¡± ¡°Navan¡¯yu¡­¡± Turning, there she stands, a revenant in the darkening storm, serenity taking her houndish features. If it weren¡¯t for her immense black wings and unfathomable mercury eyes, I would find solace in her lofty presence. ¡°Don¡¯t let me fade¡­¡± I plead¡­ to her, maybe. Or maybe, it¡¯s an appeal to the universe itself. The beast¡¯s lips curl around her petrifying array of narrow, bladed fangs. Motion, I watch as the fabric of the material world draws towards her grotesque shape. ¡°DON¡¯T LET ME FADE!!!¡± I shout at the Great Spirit. Blinding brightness slams into me, pouring forth from her shrieking maw. Tremors and convulsions, as I¡¯m barraged by radiance, contorting in place, my feet strangely planted by an intangible force. Sheering agony, the feeling akin to my organs being pulled through my esophagus. I thrash against the current of light, hoping to disentangle myself from the ray, the whiplash straining the muscles in my neck and shoulders. That horrible brassy sound, piercing my eardrums, maybe even my soul. Heft, a great weight of something being dragged out of my throat, relenting as vivid illumination leaves my mouth, the beam making contact with the core of the squall with an earsplitting crack. From the fading brilliance, particles glow, first magenta, then to crimson, onto scarlet, dancing against the rotation of the thunderstorm. Captivating, most formless, but some take brief shape to resemble fleeting moments, enough to swear that the carving in my hand, for a fraction of a second, held its counterpart in the swirling embers. Inorganic fireflies playfully coil and unspool in the updrafts, only to condense and crash back into me. Shock, I¡¯m frozen, my hand clutches the chest over my heart, breathing deeply to evaluate the damage. As I attempt to decipher what happened, that warmth within me returns, percolating through the membranes of my lungs, burning brighter than ever before¡­ life¡­ what it means to be alive, all of the complex flavors of things, from elation to untenable torment. I stare at Navan¡¯yu, her gaze unrelenting, until consumed by the downpour, vanishing within the cloudburst as if just a shadow. Nothing will ever be the same¡­ I know that now. Chapter XII - SEAFOAM & RUST SEAFOAM & RUST Chapter XII GODS OF GHOST RIVER ¡°¡­ that inner glow, as of being taken up by something greater than himself, which language could not express.¡± - Jeff Vandermeer, Acceptance I stare at it, my fingers weft between the tarnished threads of the chain link. Maybe, a sad thing for some, a slow motion bereavement taking the course of decades rather than a sudden end, as is the fate of us¡­ the alive things. A dilapidated muscle car sits abandoned, left to succumb to the elements, rust consuming its once bright veneer, a minty tone obstructed by wear. As of today, this thing of beauty is mine. Confident that, with love, the old machine will roar to life again, bounding forth, resurrected from the dust of its untimely grave. Red Feather graciously lent the use of her garage as the setting of my mechanical rehabilitation. Pulling away from the fence, I check the time on my budget flip phone; she should be here any minute. Derek, a middle aged man with unruly muttonchops and sun-worn skin takes an impatient puff of his menthol cigarette. ¡°I always intended to fix her up,¡± he lectures me, maybe to deflect blame from himself, attempting to affirm that the awful state of the vehicle wasn¡¯t by his neglect. ¡°Yeah, sure.¡± ¡°Well, I¡¯m glad it¡¯s off my hands now,¡± he grunts, interrupted by the flatbed rolling up to the property. The gasp of the air brakes silences the conversation, releasing me from any responsibility of carrying it. ¡°Hey Aria,¡± I call to the cabin of the truck, retreating to someone familiar. ¡°Riley, can you open the gate? Hopefully, if we play our cards right, we¡¯ll make short work of this.¡± ¡°Sure thing.¡± ??? Greasy strands of melted cheese roll off my chin, as I unsuccessfully shove a slice of overladen pizza into my mouth, that extra oiliness a hallmark of Pete¡¯s Pies, Vermillion¡¯s one and only pizzeria. Scooping up the viscous strings, I only pause to catch a can of cheap generic beer Red Feather playfully tosses across the break room. Bobbi snorts with laughter, nearly choking on a wad of mozzarella, sputtering with inane delight. The beer tastes akin to cold piss, but it doesn¡¯t matter, the flavor bettered somehow with the company. A year and some change from being of legal drinking age, somehow this small celebration of camaraderie affirms, for the first time, being a man in this great wide unforgiving world. ¡°So how does it feel to own your first car,¡± Red Feather inquires, steeped with big sister vibes. ¡°Dunno yet, got to rebuild the damn thing first,¡± I beam with pride. Recovering from his cheesy mishap, Bobbi washes it down with a swig of beer, ¡°Oh you¡¯ll get through it no time at all, considering you got all your parts and no overhead.¡± ¡°And I am always happy to help¡­¡± chimes in Red Feather, ¡°You know I used to be a car mechanic before I took over the family business¡­¡± ¡°Yeah, yeah like you don¡¯t tell us that every time a cool pickup pulls up to the gas station,¡± Bobbi playfully interjects. ¡°Well it¡¯s been my passion since before you were born,¡± she laughs. ¡°You so old, your other vehicle is your walker.¡± If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. ¡°Ooooh¡­ oooh,¡± Bobbi jumps onboard, ¡°You so old, you built the first automobile on the assembly line.¡± ¡°Yoooou so old, your idea of a car is a horse!¡± ¡°BITCH I¡¯M THIRTY SEVEN!¡± Aria barks indignantly, ¡°Since I¡¯m starting to feel myself rot from the inside out being around you children, I¡¯m kicking you out for the evening.¡± ¡°Take all the leftovers with you¡­ I won¡¯t tell HR.,¡± she jests. ¡°Thanks Red Feather, you da best,¡± Bobbi grins, ¡°Even if you so old, you were dug out with the oil we pump here at the Nautilus.¡± ¡°You hoodlums get out of my gas station,¡± she cracks up, playfully shaking her fist at the ceiling. Peew-doo! We exit into the fragrant desert evening, a hummingbird moth flits past my face as I struggle to balance the extra large pizza box. Bobbi takes custody of the remaining beer, discretely placing it in the trunk of his silver sedan. ¡°It¡¯s hard to believe it¡¯s been over two months,¡± Bobbi leans against Carl, wistfully contemplating the last feathers of twilight. ¡°Yeah, it feels like it¡¯s been so fast but also an eon in the same moment.¡± Time works differently out here, slowing and speeding up with an inconsistency that is hard to swallow. Soon after my follow up appointment, I was whisked away to work at the Nautilus, a job I would¡¯ve once found monotonous had it not been for the constant shenanigans of Bobbi. Functionally akin to receiving a paycheck to hang with my bud all day, this is the primary flavor of employment at the gas station. The regulars I¡¯m slowly acclimating to as the rhythm of the days carry a uniform cadence, one of my favorites being Old Al, a leathery withered gentleman that is all wrinkle and smile. He¡¯s only seconded by Mary-Jane, for who¡¯s name I¡¯m suspicious is not her given one. Middle aged with teased out big blonde glam hair, she clearly still lives within her heyday of nineteen eighty-eight, adorned head to toe in studded biker leather. Claiming to have toured with top of the charts hair metal groups, she always has some wack story about cocaine parties or her bizarre and sometimes disturbing dealings with celebrities. For some reason, I¡¯m inclined to believe what I¡¯d normally dismiss as tall tales, her earnestness seems genuine, even overlaid with that slight mushy drawl in her speech, likely the result of minor drug-induced brain damage. Bobbi too seems to be a local favorite, everyone appears to know him by name. Even our least socially inclined customers stop and shoot the shit with him. My old friend has an uncanny ability to draw out the deepest moments in people¡¯s lives, even down to the uncomfortable pieces. But he receives the stories of every person he meets with compassion and patience that¡¯s so foreign to me. It¡¯s that rare sort of magic, that I imagine is relegated to some monks, priests, and medicine folk, although, I¡¯ve yet to see it for myself. Rarely though, he¡¯ll spot someone across the counter and that heaviness takes him, he retreats into a shell of his former self, limiting his interactions to scripted responses, his warmth leaving him for a time. It¡¯s in one of these moments, in the shallow muttering under his breath as a young woman with winged eyeliner left his counter, I discern two haunting words, ¡°alizarin thread.¡± ¡°I dunno why man, but I gotta good feeling about the future. Like, shit¡¯s finally coming together, and it will always be better from here on out,¡± Bobbi prophesizes to the emerging stars. ¡°I feel that in my soul,¡± I nod in agreement, ¡°Yeah, everything¡¯s changing¡­ or maybe, it¡¯s just the beer talking.¡± ¡°It¡¯s probably just the beer talking,¡± he agrees. ???? It comes in waves now¡­ sometimes I can barely hold my eyes open, that latent feeling that I might pass out. Just putting box upon box on the shelves, equivalent to lifting heavy weights. What if I just collapse into a heap on the tile floor? But, other times everything¡¯s normal, just lulling back into the sameness of my life. Stop it¡­ I gotta keep my shit together, so many people depend on me. I can¡¯t let them down. Anxiety¡¯s slowly leeching into my mind, somehow I can¡¯t shake that hair-raising thought¡­ ¡°Not again¡­¡± ???? Motor oil splatters onto my nose¡­ damn it¡­ one of those ¡°not my own brain¡± thoughts, but not from the usual suspects. Neither Mom nor the claustrophobic headcanon of Nico. At a loss at identifying the foreign source of the cognition, I resign myself to continuing on the undercarriage of my new muscle car. I¡¯m not particularly good at this mechanic stuff, but I learn okay¡­ performing the more intuitive tasks while Red Feather rebuilds the engine¡­ ¡°Rebuilds¡± is a stretch. She busies herself, tinkering with pieces of sparkling chrome, suggesting this one she¡¯s built from scratch. I usually come in for an hour or two to work with Aria before I join up with Bobbi at the Nautilus for the final six hours of his shift. Leeway he¡¯s granted me since I¡¯d been helping him with clinic deliveries on his day off. With all of the work the two of us have been up to, I haven¡¯t had a full day off in a long while. It¡¯s probably for the better¡­. a day off would leave me vulnerable to the beckoning wilderness, pulled by that silver path, more tether than thread. Navan¡¯yu, her inky frame haunting, silent against the gibbous moon, leering over the mangled corpse of what was once Nico. Push it aside¡­ those months ago I refrained from calling the psychiatrist, his card concealed under a mountain of carefully placed socks, a bad omen I hope stays buried. Man, if Nana were here, I can¡¯t fathom the shame in her grandson etched upon her stoic face, my connection to the spirits so removed from her experience¡­ but scrutinizing my recollection of her numerous stories, Prairie Mother never tore someone to pieces before her eyes. He Who Weaves Lies and Elk Woman, woven into her tales, stand purely as allegory, a nightmare you tell children to instill a realistic dose of darkness into their perception of the world. Allegory is safe, but Tui¡¯li¡¯roh is absolutely real, treacherous¡­ as treacherous as the shadowy Great One herself, twisted into the corners of my mind. Pulling the automotive creeper out from under the rusting boat of a vehicle I now call my own, I sit up just enough to lean softly against the tire well, just a quiet moment to contemplate my mistakes. No¡­ I couldn¡¯t ask Bobbi to drive me all the way to Providence, it¡¯s too much to ask, and hey, once Baby Cakes has her engine in, I can look after myself¡­ huh, seems like a stupid name for my muscle car, I¡¯ll need to come up with something better. Fear, my primary deterrent, not just of imposing upon my old friend, but also of his raw disappointment, a hurt deeper than a gut punch if he found out I lied to him about the appointment¡­ the one I never scheduled. It just about breaks me... After coming so far, I can¡¯t let this shit trip me up, snaring me back into the cavity of dark thoughts, that warm glow in my chest slipping through my fingers until I¡¯m swallowed by the void I¡¯d kept mostly at bay since solstice. That radiance locked in my ribcage is all that matters now. It will show me the path¡­ but to where, I know not¡­ Chapter XIII - STALKERS Stalkers Chapter XIII THE GODS OF GHOST RIVER ¡°Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desire.¡± - William Shakespeare, Macbeth Dirt, dust, that gritty taste in your mouth, those final moments of the blistering summer before autumn bites at the air again. The desert developing its final phase of coarseness, only the insects shrieking under the scalding sun indulge in the rapture of its rays. And thus, I¡¯m resigned to the world of the arthropods, pulled once again into the wastes on yet another clinic delivery with Bobbi. Normally a part of my material rhythm, but today, the heat¡¯s burned a wound in my temper, at a whopping hundred and six degrees, the only medicine I¡¯ve got to tame it is the soft pleasure of my arm riding the waves of wind out Carl¡¯s window. ¡°Fuuuck, this run is way out of the way,¡± I moan. ¡°Yeah, I know, it sucks¡­ right,¡± Bobbi dismisses my whinging, ¡°Package was late for this one, didn¡¯t mean drag you into this shit.¡± ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s life,¡± but, it doesn¡¯t matter, I¡¯m going to sulk about it anyway, knowing full well this isn¡¯t on our clinic list we do together, as Bobbi takes this route on the day I cover for him at the Nautilus. One week until Baby Cakes is released from the shackles of incapacity, just the emissions test and then freedom¡­. freedom to finally be my own man, no longer tied to Bobbi. Traveling south, down the dirt road, closer and closer to the foot of the great dark mountain, Akya¡¯O¡¯, the black place, a place that bridges between the earth and sky. I can¡¯t help but feel the bitterness well within me, Nana will forever be lost to its shadow. She never escaped the rez... fuck, is this what awaits me, bound to this place until I too wither and die? Mom had the right idea, flee, get out of dodge, leave it to the sand and grime. That¡¯s all the Ghost River Reservation is, sand, grime, and... death. Fidgeting with the crimson shell fossil in my pocket, I now carry it with me most days, something compulsive to chase away the anxiety. Only sometimes do I switch it out for the marble badger, which, I¡¯m now convinced was left for me by the Mistwalker herself. ¡°You¡¯ve been hydrating, right?¡± Bobbi calls to me over the grind of gravel on tire. ¡°No!¡± ¡°Well, there¡¯s your damn problem,¡± he reaches into the backseat, to the bright orange cooler, pulling a generic brand plastic water bottle from its depths, ¡°Drink this, and quit being a bitch ass motherfucker.¡± ¡°Fine,¡± I snatch the cold crinkling container from him. Taking a swig alleviates the noxious tension headache I couldn¡¯t discern seconds before, the temperature in my skull drops a few degrees. Damn it Bobbi, why are you always right about everything? Somehow it¡¯s easier to sit in simmering silence than admit that I¡¯m the asshole. Even the unshakeable Bobbi seems rattled today, the searing late day radiation destabilizing his inner equilibrium, that anchor he possesses that seems to be missing within me. Screwing the flimsy cap back onto the bottle I¡­ Bang! Jarring the base of my spine, Carl hits a particularly nasty rut in the ungroomed dirt road, throwing the container from my hands. ¡°Oh Carl, that¡¯s a hard one buddy, I¡¯m so sorry,¡± Bobbi consoles his car, as though that might somehow cure any misalignment dealt to the steering column. Sensing his agitation, I quietly scoop up the water bottle, the seams in the cheap plastic creating an unpleasant sensation against my fingertips, ¡°Hey, what¡¯s going on? You¡¯re not you today.¡± Bobbi sighs, ¡°I¡­ You know this part of the route wasn¡¯t supposed to be on your day¡­ and I didn¡¯t know until we picked up the delivery in New Town. I guess I¡¯m just worried.¡± ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Just bad energy out here, in the western corner of Akya¡¯O¡¯¡­ Didn¡¯t want to expose you to it, you know? I¡¯d be a shit friend if I did.¡± ¡°You ain¡¯t my protector,¡± I punch him playfully in the shoulder, ¡°At this stage, I¡¯ve probably been drenched in bad vibes, what¡¯s a little more going to do to me? And hey, if it bothers you that much, then you can make it up to me by buying me a new beanie.¡± Bobbi¡¯s weak smile signals his resignation, but his uneasiness lingers, sticking with the persistence of discount maple syrup clinging to the inside of the bottle. ??? The nearly undriveable path, strewn with large flat rocks, snakes unforgivably through stunted mesas of soft sediment, obscured in the late day shadows cast by the great lonely mountain. A strange loamy scent fills the air, contrasting with the regular odors of the stark land. Collared lizards and the occasional jack rabbit skitter, alarmed by the foreign timbre of the car roaring against the normally still outcrops. ¡°You smell that, right?¡± I pull a face at Bobbi, but he sits silent, ignoring my question, as though bracing himself for something. One final bend and we come to a shack, nestled in a corner at the base of the mountain, overlooking the valley to the northeast, but it¡¯s too distant to see Old Town from here. Adobe, bits of desiccated log poke through the walls of the building, holes and parts of the roof appear to be patched with sheets of rusting corrugated tin, a couple of cow skulls don the entryway. In the corner, a pen of ginger-haired pigs squeal frantically at the vehicle as numerous chickens of different breeds scuttle about the drive, annoyed by our sudden arrival. Not dissimilar to some places on rez where a lot of old timers live, but something feels off, that prickling sensation returns to the base of my neck. ¡°Riley, do not get out of the car,¡± Bobbi warns, although, his expression drips with the a flavor of a threat, that heaviness grabbing hold of him in the depths of his fathomless eyes, ¡°I¡¯ll take care of this.¡± He leaves the car, pulling a package from the back seat. That¡¯s when I see her, a geriatric woman, there the entire time leering at me from the side of the shack. How the hell did I miss her? It¡¯s as though my perception of her being was clouded, until Bobbi spoke, shaking the effect. Instinctually, I unbuckle and lean back in my seat to obscure her view of me. An older man, adorned in ragged clothes and an equally worn bandana, his peppered hair tied in a loose knot, greets Bobbi at the corrugated door. Avoiding her gaze, I investigate the cow skulls over the entry. It hits me, these aren¡¯t what they seem to be, instead a myriad of smaller pieces collected from numerous creatures combined to create the illusion of a whole unit. Some of which, look uncomfortably like the bones of human fingers. My heart quickens, as the old woman draws herself to her full height, her clothing is odd, a strangely tailored taupe hide robe, removed from any Aolu¡¯yi aesthetic I know of. The material too, covered in bone fragments strung together to act as beads. Out of sight from Bobbi, she shifts over to the car, her pruned ashy face chiseled in an expression I could only liken to that of ravening hunger. Bobbi, Bobbi, damn it Bobbi, get back here¡­ I plead to myself as I instinctually lock the doors. Looking desperately to my old friend, he seems lost in conversation with the figure in the doorway, the man hanging on Bobbi¡¯s words with reverence I don¡¯t fully comprehend. Ten feet from me, the old woman creeps forward, an opaque ebony fluid trickling from her mouth, her colorless eyes fixed upon me. Debating whether it¡¯s time to make a break for it, I return to Bobbi¡¯s demand that I stay¡­ so here I sit, frozen in the seat. Those gnarled fingers crack in unnatural directions against the joint as she reaches towards me. About ready to lose my shit and bolt, I try to slow my rapid breath, compulsively turning the red fossil in my hand, that rabbit part of my brain threatening to take control of my nervous system. ¡°WE¡¯RE LEAVING,¡± Bobbi shouts at the woman, to which she withdraws and takes a step back from Carl. In that moment, she looks, well¡­ normal, weathered but fit, with a plait of white hair in a thick elegant braid tied stylishly, but like the man in the doorway, her clothes look twenty years worn and torn in places. The skulls over the door are once again just regular old desert rubbish. Familiarity¡­ He Who Weaves Lies. When Navan¡¯yu intervened, the hallucination shattered, same as today. The old woman nervously averts her gaze and takes yet another step out of the way as Bobbi passes. Starve It. ¡°You alright?¡± he asks, hurriedly sitting down, starting up the engine and pulling out of the drive. ¡°What are they?¡± ¡°You¡¯ve never seen a Stalker before? The twins up there follow Tui¡¯li¡¯roh, they just leave me alone because he needs his heart meds.¡± ¡°Then why did she go after me, huh?¡± the anger stitched onto my expression. ¡°Well she didn¡¯t really, did she? You stayed in the car.¡± ¡°The fuck does that have to do with anything?¡± ¡°Carl¡¯s been blessed by the medicine folk. You were safe in the car,¡± Bobbi reassures me, ¡°But had you left¡­¡± ¡°Well shit¡­ Why¡¯d the Stalkers have to be real too?¡± I bury my face in my hands, ¡°I thought that was stuff Nana cooked up to scare us kids.¡± ¡°Real too? What else have you been seeing besides Navan¡¯yu, Riley?¡± Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! ¡°How¡­?¡± ¡°Pretty easy to put it together since have a near melt down every time the Mistwalker comes up¡­ I mean¡­¡± ¡°SHE FUCKING KILLED HIM, BOBBI,¡± I burst into uncontrollable guttural sobs, emotions I¡¯d suppressed for months spilling into the car, ¡°NICO¡­ NAVAN¡¯YU FUCKING TORE HIM APART¡­¡± ¡°Damn¡­¡± ¡°That¡¯s a lot¡­¡± the luster of Bobbi¡¯s expression leaving his face. ¡°¡­I definitely owe you that beanie now¡­¡± ???? Coral rays draw the western hills of the rez into shadowy indigo pinnacles against the falling summer sun, the first glowing points peering through the eastern sky. They could be planets, brighter than the average star in the growing dusk. I relish these quiet moments to myself, deaf to the world, my tape player rings with a progressive rock song about a crimson vintage racecar. If I had one wish, I would let this moment go on forever¡­ Huh, maybe there¡¯s something I¡¯d miss when I finally adios from this place. What, again? ¡­ Alone, something feels different, a foreboding tickling the tip of my spine, some people¡¯s hair stands on end, but I feel it at the base of my neck where the bone protrudes, a sixth sense, maybe passed from the ancestors. At least, that¡¯s what Mi Ma says. Mi Ma says a lot of weird stuff, but you kinda just flow with it. I¡¯m extra alert, my trailer key held as a shiv, primed for whatever might await. Like a broken record, skip, skip, skipping, I¡¯m lost again in mom¡¯s memories, but why do I keep returning to this so specific groove in space and time? The stars twinkle in the growing indigo, my eyes adjust to the darkness, southbound, down this long lonely road, home again to Mi Ma¡¯s trailer¡­ Although, Mi Ma talks about selling it and moving back to the ancestral stucco homestead just outside of Old Town. Whatever, she can do what she wants, I¡¯ll be outta here soon enough. Coyotes, that prickling feeling at the base of my neck, I pull off my headphones, the brass key biting at my fingertips. Something¡¯s definitely watching me. Tam¡¯s heart doesn¡¯t skip a beat, she¡¯s dead calm, patiently analyzing the wilderness from the side of the road, headphones in hand. Is this what it¡¯s like to be devoid of anxiety? Shit, where the hell did the anxiousness come from within me? It certainly doesn¡¯t seem to stem from mom. She contains a resilience I can¡¯t comprehend, a hardened survivor. Illumination, headlights round the corner of the butte north of me, I hold my head high and pretend to ignore the incoming car, fully aware of its presence. A defense mechanism, don¡¯t give anyone a reason to think you¡¯re an easy target. The growl of a V8 engine echoes against the slickrock as a hefty vehicle approaches, the timbre becoming softer as it comes up the road. Fuck, it¡¯s decelerating, maybe Marta was right, this was a shit idea. I give it a nonchalant side eye, only to see a van with painted over windows coming to a full stop next to me. A gaunt white man with a mane of tightly woven dreadlocks steps from the driver¡¯s side. In alarm, I leap backwards to give myself a few seconds heads start, only to feel thick arms wrap around my torso from behind. I feel nothing except the burning conviction of a molten rage deep within me, fire that fuels my violence. My arms are pinned, rendering my shiv useless. The lanky guy approaches me, ¡°Calm down and shut up! We aren¡¯t going to hurt a pretty girl like you, we just wanna talk.¡± Letting out a feral roar of defiance, I struggle against the unseen stranger behind me, ¡°STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!¡± He continues his approach, ignoring my words, to which I let out a series of ferocious flailing kicks, nearly dislodging myself from the figure behind me. My boots make contact with the dreadlocked man¡¯s ribcage with a resounding, sickening snap. ¡°YOU STUPID BITCH!!!¡± he yowls in agony. Making another break for it, I try to propel myself from the arms, attempting to slam any feet that might be behind me with the heel of my boot. CRACK! Blackness¡­ Blackness¡­ I wish I could vomit, so fucked, cortisol hitting me in untenable doses. She¡¯s alive, right? I¡¯m here, so I know she¡¯s alive. Yet, somehow I¡¯m conscious in her unconsciousness, stuck in a void of no sensation. ??? ¡°¡­I think I need a hospital man,¡± a voice rasps. ¡­ Iron flavor on my tongue, biting salt, blood, cotton, a rag pushed into my mouth. Vibration through the floor, movement, vision spotty. I try to lean up but meet resistance around my wrists¡­ ankles too. Mom¡­I¡¯m so sorry. Pulling all of my focus through her blurry eyes, I can discern the dirty carpet, a van floor maybe? ¡°We find a place to turn around, deliver her, and then we can get you patched,¡± my vision clears as a deep voice emanates from the driver¡¯s seat. ¡°She did me dirty,¡± the guy with dreads gasps, his head lolling, slumped in his seat, the ambient gleam from the headlights illuminating little beads of sweat, ¡°I think my ribs are broken...¡± Looking to my ankles, they are cuffed, I can¡¯t see my hands, but it seems likely they too are restrained the same way. The saturated fabric in my mouth tastes sour with bad breath stink. Quietly, I try to shift myself to face the back doors, maybe I can roll my way out at a stop. ¡°Better not be up to shit,¡± a wide, possibly indigenous, man with a smooth head and downward pointed nose glares at me from the driver¡¯s side, a face unfamiliar to me, unlike anyone I know on the Ghost River Reservation. ¡°I think it¡¯s really bad, man,¡± the white guy moans transitioning into a rattling shudder, ¡°Just drop me off where I can get help, and continue the job without me.¡± ¡°FINE!¡± the driver makes an aggressive u-turn on the road. ¡°GeeeYAUGHGHH!¡± the gaunt man yelps against the force of the car as I¡¯m flung into the side of the van. ¡°Fine, we¡¯ll go getcha patched, but you¡¯re fucking buying me a beer when it¡¯s over!¡± That throbbing pain in my head is now joined by a bruised sacrum and shoulder. My mind races, do I hold tight and hope there¡¯ll be a chance to escape when the cuffs come off? Her pain is my pain. I don¡¯t know what comes next on her thread in time, unlike Nico, putting me in a strange sense of numb stasis. ¡°The fuck is that?¡± the big man shouts. ¡°What?¡± he wheezes, his breath shallow. ¡°That big ole¡¯ motherfucker!¡± ¡°Damn it, quit talking. It hurts too much!¡± BAM! Slow motion, gravity loses effect, the van spinning around me, somehow I push my way to the front, floating as though in space. Both men scream as the vehicle makes a full spin, bounces, lands on its tires, tilts frighteningly to one side and then snaps back to level. Somehow, I¡¯m unscathed by the crash, landing square between them on the cup holders. The white guy, with his mountain of dreads, shrieks in terror, staring at something outta my view from the passenger¡¯s side door, pausing, then leaping from the van. Broken ribs be dammed, he bolts around the front of the car, into the desert, leaving the door wide. Functionally a debilitated caterpillar, I wriggle out the opening, landing in a heap on the hard ground. Sand grains grind against my teeth, that wafting herbaceous scent, I crawl, rocking my shoulders and head back and forth against the cuffs, following the trail of my captor. Maneuvering between the sparse sagebrush, I don¡¯t stop until I¡¯m about twenty feet from the van. Using all of my core strength to sit up and stare, behind me the wide man sprints northwest into the desert abandoning his companion. A haunting sound, thunderous and deep, yet somehow ethereal too, emanates from the direction the injured guy disappeared to. Turning my head from the van, I discern a great black presence in the valley, catching flickers of its shape in the moonlight. My eyes adjust to the night sky, bestial, an enormous form stands with a severe, sloped back, its elongated neck hunched as it slowly prowls towards something on the ground, great leathery wings folded at its sides. The blood that isn¡¯t my own runs cold, Navan¡¯yu¡­ Nope! Not dealing with whatever that thing is. I hobble on my knees back towards the van, hoping it didn¡¯t spot me in the gloom. Wailing in the distance and wet crunching sounds. That compulsive feeling tingling at the base of my neck, I gaze back¡­ enormous wide piercing silver eyes loom, the man with dreads sits kneeling, wrists snapped and dangling, but raised like some kind of twisted, woeful prayer, as though venerating the monstrosity in the darkness. Yeah, fuck that! I reach the van, the shackles cutting into my ankles. Rolling behind the vehicle, I lean against an enormous dent in its side, evidence that the force of the initial impact was great enough to fling the car across the lane and off the road. Blinding light to my back, a piercing high pitched sound, the only thing I can compare it to is the shrill nail biting whine of a large commercial jet engine, yet it¡¯s too animalistic to be that. No, there¡¯s something baleful about it, like a hound¡¯s howl with a grating brassy sharpness. The valley grows still for a few moments, I hold my breath in the silence, hoping the thing can¡¯t smell me. Sonorous pounding wing beats¡­ then ear-ringing quiet. The big guy, did the fucker escape? I suck in another gulp of air. Guttural shouting breaks the hush, resonating against the sandstone columns, growing frenzied in the gloom. Shaking, I curl into a restrained ball, with the cuffs, I don¡¯t stand a chance, it¡¯s over, I won¡¯t make it until dawn. I¡¯m so sorry Marta, I¡¯m so sorry Mi Ma, I messed up bad. Prairie Mother, please whisk me away like in all of Mi Ma¡¯s stories. Incasing myself in my mind, I hide myself within my memories, my first trip outta the rez, to an aquarium in Douglas. A small two-spot octopus, fascinated by my presence, playfully changes its color and texture, occasionally reaching out a suckered tentacle, attempting to tickle my face through the glass. Douglas, that¡¯s where I¡¯d have gone, had my life not been cut short on this summer night. Regret, so many paths I would¡¯ve trod, so many places I never went. Squeezing my eyes shut, I dream of the possibilities of a world slipping away from me¡­ ¡­ A soft fresh smell, that of ozone and rain. The pressure against my wrists and ankles relieves itself as the cold metal restraints slide off. Opening my lids slowly, I¡¯m enveloped in inky haze, pillowing into little clouds of fluid. Yet it doesn¡¯t leave a trace or vapor. Strange particles conglomerate, first into snout, and then into fearsome mercury orbs. That stirring revelation¡­ I¡¯m looking into the eyes of a god, the secrets that bind the universe together somehow captive in those eyes. Navan¡¯yu, the Mistwalker, a being long relegated in my mind to harvest dances, the blessings of the Winter Solstice, and prayers for darkening storms. Building, into an immense mammalian shape, the beast draws back its lips, risking peeling from the threads of flesh that tethers it to its skull, the rows of gnashing teeth, threatening to take my life. The Invariable Of Our Age Lines Intersect The First Born He Is Mine Reticence, the realization hits¡­ it always began as it ends ¡­ with Tamera. I¡¯m a stranger in my own story¡­ not mine¡­ for it is and forever was¡­ hers. ???? Chapter XIV - FALLING EQUINOX CYCLE TWO: MIND FALLING EQUINOX Chapter XIV THE GODS OF GHOST RIVER ¡°An attempt at visualizing the Fourth Dimension: Take a point, stretch it into a line, curl it into a circle, twist it into a sphere, and punch through the sphere. ¡± - Albert Einstein, Unknown ¡­ A stranger in my own story¡­ Grooves etched in time, the invisible paths we all follow each day and into eternity, my place within them becoming more and more perceptible. Caged by the lines, by purpose that never was my own, set in motion long before Dizzy¡¯s fateful night, long before the sweetest of childhood memories, long before the concept of my own existence was even a whisper. A chilling thought¡­ Clarity¡­ the pieces falling into place, mom¡¯s fear of the rez, driven by a sober awareness of what awaits in the wild places. The Mistwalker stalking the darkness, biding her time to claim her prize¡­ A life for a life, mine in exchange for mom¡¯s. A pact she never consented to, yet found herself bound, as strong as the laws of physics itself. Once lost to my youth, the night of my dad¡¯s departure, I consider the conversation that likely tore my family apart. The truth, something mom could no longer bear alone. Her dread¡­ the impending loss of her first born and the terrible purpose of my little brother, Darion¡­ a replacement if Navan¡¯yu took my life. What was he to think? Best case, the woman he loves is pathologically insane, a danger to her children¡­ or worst case¡­ his boy, destined to be a lamb for slaughter to an unfathomable Great Spirit. Too much weight for one man to bear¡­ he fled¡­ A choice I can empathize with, yet never forgive. The Invariable Of Our Age¡­ Those words of the Mistwalker bother me, in the ambiguity they strike. Invariable could mean so many things, but the most likely describes the fixed nature of that moment in time, fate. A little over a week since the revelation of my dire future, my mind continues to spin. Mopping the floor of the Nautilus, becoming a grotesque act, for what does any of this matter if nothing belongs to me, not even a will of my own? Even as the air gains more bite and the shadows grow longer, the onset of my favorite season, the bitterness within me reigns without measure. The leaves, through the gas station¡¯s glass panes, turn to crisp burnt orange with withering chlorophyll aglow in the harsh angle of autumn light. Even the brush, on my drives to work, paint the desert in vibrant color¡­ that last breath of life before winter¡¯s promise of death takes hold on the land. Defeated, I¡¯m torn between crippling anxiety and the unnatural warmth within my chest, unsure if I can remain in this state for much longer. I¡¯ve faced my own mortality, what do I have to lose if I confront Navan¡¯yu again? Contemplating this, I subconsciously keep an eye on yet another beer-gut endowed truck driver, as he exchanges a pile of change for spicy chips; a luminous thread, much like my own, snakes a path that the man will follow unknowingly without question¡­ without choice. The strange strings of invisible photons create rivers of light that dance before me, as I watch customers ebb and flow through the store. Occasionally, flocks of migrating birds flying southward pursue their own lustrous strands of time. Leaning against the pristine glass counter of the Nautilus, tracking the current, the trajectory of the universe unfolding in this¡­ the most ordinary of moments. Sometimes there¡¯s a growing pit in my gut, maybe someday¡­ the radiance will blind me. Most lines guide the travelers to normal places, the highway, down Main Street, or for the regulars, home. Yet sometimes, these paths, trapped beyond the tangible, carry strange hues, rust or crimson, threads that have a sickening quality¡­. And sometimes, a thread loses its luster, fading to dull silver or grey, meanings which are lost to me, only relegated to speculation. Today it¡¯s Al, preceded by a softening string, wispy and featherlike, his leather tanned expression sunny, carrying his usual bag of hard toffee and a cola. ¡°How¡¯s things, Al?¡± disguising my concern. ¡°Can¡¯t complain, weather¡¯s nice! Gotta game of Hand and Foot with the boys this afternoon,¡± a cracked smile crosses his wizened face. ¡°I¡¯m more of a dominos guy, myself.¡± ¡°Well, then I formally challenge you to a game,¡± Al beams at me. ¡°You¡¯re on! I have a half-day on Fridays. You better be there,¡± I laugh. ¡°Does a bear shit in the woods? You bet your bottom dollar I¡¯ll be here!¡± ¡°See you next week then, or sooner!¡± I wave to him as I watch him leave, his left hip giving his gait an extra tired pull. Bobbi pushes up to the counter eyeing me, ¡°Dominos eh?¡± ¡°Yeah, Darion and I used to play, pretty competitively too¡­ Until, I¡¯d let him win,¡± I wink. ¡°That¡¯s some older brother energy right there. Bet you¡¯re excited to have a real challenger!¡± ¡°You know what? I kind of am! I bet Al will kick my ass.¡± Pondering my imminent defeat at the hands of Al, Bobbi retreats to his task in the corner, his stocky frame perched on an industrial step stool, gripped in an epic battle to clean the nozzles of the soda dispenser. The rhythmic flapping of his synthetic candy apple red work shirt becoming as natural as the hum of the coolers against the current of the A/C unit. ¡°Corporate needs to get on this shit,¡± Bobbi grumbles, ¡°This model has always been impossible to clean. I swear the old machine was a hundred times better, and the fuckers replaced it with some real garbage. Well, no one¡¯s getting sick on my watch, no fucking way.¡± Chuckling to myself¡­ Bobbi, always so professional when customers are about, but as soon as the store is vacant, he becomes a loose tap of cursing. I doubt the cameras in here have sound, but, deep down, if they did I get the feeling Aria would listen in on Bobbi¡¯s grumpy rants with undiluted amusement. She¡¯s good people, good people get it. You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. ¡°I vow on the old ones, if they ever replace this damn hunk of junk, I¡¯m gunna take it outside and take a shotgun to it¡­¡± he pauses, ¡°Then set it on fire¡­ then blow it up.¡± ¡°I¡¯d go in on that,¡± I double over in laughter, ¡°¡­ and so would Red Feather. I mean fuck man, she would probably run that thing down with her motorcycle.¡± Bobbi glances at the clock on the wall, ¡°Hey, you¡¯re out. You¡¯re still covering for me tomorrow morning right? Since I got rez duties.¡± ¡°Yeah, I got you.¡± He nods as I gather my change of clothes and hit the bathroom. The stalls coated in a veneer sharing the same electric shade of scarlet as my work shirt, their acrylic coating flawless. Bobbi insists we repaint the stalls once every six months¡­ honestly, I¡¯ve never seen a gas station as well run as this Nautilus, the porcelain spotless, no lingering pungent odors of mildew. A feeling I¡¯ve held for a long while now, the White Fox family is something special, builders, creators, and maintainers, never letting anything slip¡­ the care they put into their lives extending to the people surrounding them. Slipping into my bison t-shirt, a pair of very long oversized charcoal basketball shorts, and the new beanie gifted by Bobbi, before retreating from the bathroom. Giving my old friend one last wave, he answers with a grunt and mumbles something about his foe, the soda dispenser. Peew-doo! The desert air wafts cool and breezy against the hairs of my neck¡­ wishing to hold onto this moment for an eternity. With tourist season over, Vermillion returns to the sleepy little town it was always meant to be, the roads devoid of traffic in the mid afternoon. Inserting my keys into my thirty something year old rusty muscle car, I contemplate whether I should try to patch the holes eaten through its frame. I really love this thing, a true classic, but I really don¡¯t have the cash to give it the attention it deserves. At the very least, she needs a proper name, but I struggle to come up with one better than Baby Cakes¡­ I don¡¯t dare say that one aloud, Bobbi would never let me live it down. I settle into the cracked leather seats, finding myself in a moment of repose, clarity infecting my brain. An impulse tickling at the back of my neck¡­ I have to confront Navan¡¯yu¡­ nothing to lose¡­ everything to gain. FUCK, I don¡¯t want to¡­ the apprehension sticking in my throat. Without oblation¡­ it seems disrespectful to not offer anything to the great black beast, with my inevitable path bound to hers. No, I can¡¯t risk arriving empty handed, I return to the Nautilus. Peew-doo! ¡°Bobbi, do we still have the sage and sweet grass bundles that Auntie Gee left?¡± ¡°Yeah, under the counter¡­ the bottom left drawer.¡± ??? Everything clicks into place, my invisible thread tugging me to action. Sighing, that warm glow burning ever brighter in my chest, spurred down my inescapable path. Turning the engine over, the ignition purrs to a satisfying rumble, rolling forward off the curb. Heading north down Main Street towards Split Canyon Road, the anxiousness running through the fibers of my nervous system, I¡¯d actively avoided this cursed pavement since Nico¡¯s violent exit. Nausea creeps into my esophagus¡­ gun pointed at my face¡­ Dizzy¡¯s eyes wide, clouded, blood seeping from the corners of his mouth¡­ silver orbs against the gibbous moon. Gulping, I shake it off, I¡¯ll be joining them soon enough, as all us alive things must. Checking the backseat of my loveable rust bucket, where bundles of sweet grass and sage lay, their scent lingering, bouncing against the rough asphalt. Hoping this little gift to the ancient dark one might quell that seething aspect of the entity. Out of the dirty windows, desert brush bursts with fall colors, forest to sienna, sienna to marigold. Fidgeting with the marble badger figurine, plucked from the console of my car, in one hand, I watch as scrubland succumbs to moonscape, the lonely road taking me past the all too familiar fins of blush rock. In day, the sandstone exudes color, casting harsh shadows in the mid-afternoon autumn light. Regret, maybe I should¡¯ve returned sooner, but the fear remains, the sheer terror of what I might find lingering in the wilderness. Law enforcement the least of my problems¡­ what if, like the Mistwalker, the essence of Nico lingers here¡­ his spirit awaiting the perfect moment to exact his revenge? Unlikely¡­ Nana was always the type that would indulge in playfully haunting her grandchildren, yet her essence rings eerily absent from this world. Miles and miles, the road stretches unyielding¡­ isolated, where am I even going? Coked out and menacing, a badger scuttles across the road, sending me into a swerve. Coming to a stop, I bash into the driver¡¯s side door, death gripping the animal¡¯s counterpart in my hand, the seatbelt barely functional as my raven hair wraps around my face. ¡°SHIT! SHIT!¡± whiplash, the strain hitting the sinews of my neck. Disoriented, my senses readjust¡­ in a flurry of arms, I rage exit Baby Cakes, slamming the door behind me, ¡°Watch where you¡¯re going!¡± I yell at the badger. It turns, eyes locked upon me, unleashing a continuous guttural snarl. A definite ¡°right back at you, fucker¡± before retreating down its path. Merely a nuisance to the furry creature, I¡¯m pretty sure it¡¯s convinced itself it could take me in a fight. It¡¯s probably not wrong, somehow, the idea of its little jaws sinking deep into my flesh sounds like game over. Stepping back to the car, I watch cautiously as the beast slinks back into the outcrops, craving the assurance it¡¯s not coming back for round two. Panting with shock, I lean against Baby Cakes, picking strands of hair from face, a well-earned brief respite from the drive. Deciding to move the vehicle from the road, I pull out onto an overlook, keeping a sharp eye on the place my fuzzy nemesis hobbled off to. To the east, blonde sandstone hills, slickrock, and box canyons, garnished with twisted juniper and mountain mahogany. Overlooking the expanse, I¡¯m drawn to the ledge, below me a vast plateau of pale rock, a tenuous climb down, but it¡¯s not high, maybe twenty-five feet, with plenty of handholds. Seems as good a place as any to seek out a Great Spirit, I awkwardly twist a braid of sweet grass into my pocket, pairing it with a chrome lighter. Drawn by the beckoning call of purpose, I navigate the rocks, stronger and more surefooted than in midsummer, contorting my hands around the occasional rabbitbrush. Confident, my boots meet solid ground, my stride assured as I make my way across the stone. Cerulean, the dome of the world stretches limitless over the desert¡­ nearly as limitless as the imagination itself. My heart swells, the warmth locked in my chest burning with consuming brightness. Coming to a stop¡­ here, I stand, surrendering myself to whatever comes next. Herbal scent, thin wisps of smoke extend into the temperate sun-touched air, flame etches the fibers of the sweet grass as I pull the lighter away from the strands, an action so natural, I don¡¯t recollect doing it. Movement against the valley walls, at first maybe just a trick of the light, or possibly, veiny tendrils of motion caused by rising heat. Out of the nothing, reality weeps ashy mist, a stream of ink moving against the smoldering current, drawn in by the sacred aroma, it propels itself towards me with, at times, inconsistent disquieting speed. Holding my offering, the apprehension growing in my stomach¡­ will this be good enough to appease the formless being? Strands of ebony encircle me, spasming, changing direction on a dime, the darkness ensnaring, rolling counterclockwise in a plume. Gathering into a stable mass, a vicious snout assembles itself from the gloom. She rises, emerging from the void, amorphous particles, matter binding together, elongated neck arching, that familiar canine form, silver ablaze in its incomprehensible eyes. Navan¡¯yu¡­ she extends her head to the sky, releasing an unsettling brassy call. Shaking, unable to control my dread, I clutch the sweet grass as a shield, dipping my head with both respect and¡­ surrender¡­ the wheels in motion, there¡¯s no turning back now. The beast mirrors my gesture¡­ I stand, transfixed¡­ out of all the things I prepared myself for, this wasn¡¯t one of them. Ominously leaning over me, the Great Spirit takes a deep inhale, letting out a bassy ratting breath, flame consuming the smudge. She draws the smoke into her nostrils, feeding upon the haze, eyes locked on mine. Glaring, expression unreadable, she raises herself, standing erect against the sky¡¯s steel hue. Unblinking, the Mistwalker disintegrates, wisps of material drawn from her body, lost to the autumn breeze. I hold my place, staring at the space now void of Navan¡¯yu. Unable to move, I meditate upon the encounter, relinquishing myself to the possibility that this could¡¯ve been my oblivion. Texture registers on my palms, I peer, yet with nothing to see, my hands are pushed by something invisible. Rising into the air, my boots lose contact with the ground. Black fur, form, I¡¯m aloft before I can register what¡¯s happened, as the beast takes to the heavens. Up, up, lifted by thermals calling us to the roof of the world. A thousand feet over the canyons, jigsaws of pattern, Ghost River snakes eerily, deep phthalo slicing through the desolation, a deadly sculptor harkening to times before man. Higher we climb, far off minimal fluffy clouds meet our eye level. Cold carves into my skin, becoming numb to the touch, much like my fear upon the back of this creature, torn from the security of the soil. Looping, the sky and earth are one, the g-force pushing against my skull, pulling on the pits of my eye sockets. Navan¡¯yu, unfazed by flight, her streamlined muzzle taught, yet relaxed, great ebony wings carrying us effortlessly. Weightless, freed from her back, I plunge into the abyss. A moment of clarity shines in her leaden gaze as her eyes meet mine. Chilling intent, she dropped me with purpose. Frenzied, I claw against the ripping howling wind. Hovering above me, as I descend with accelerating speed, the beast¡¯s maw opens, effusing silver light, my blood ice¡­ A great beam of mercury erupts from her jaws, whistling past my left shoulder. Turning to face the impending ground, the beam hits the empty sky, colliding with something unseen, far above the water-starved earth. The air splits, molten, pillows of steam rising from the tangerine glow, a jagged fiery wound emerging, torn in the fabric of reality. Collision inevitable, I look away, twisting my body upwards towards Navan¡¯yu, her aspect relenting into a spreading cloud of blackness. Three thick, misty ebony tendrils emerge, coiling around each other into a shape akin to a triple helix, terrible and twister-like, they reach for me. Encroaching scalding heat at my back¡­ enveloped by the fissure. Darkness. Dense scentless smoke fills my nose, my mouth, my eyes, my ears, my lungs, my mind¡­ that burning brightness in my chest spreading, percolating through my extremities¡­ my flesh disintegrating¡­ pinpoints of radiation strewn from my body¡­ scarlet fireflies¡­ scattered into obscurity. Chapter XV - APART APART Chapter XV THE GODS OF GHOST RIVER ¡°The fireflies flew up into the sky, free. I watched them until I could no longer tell them apart from the stars.¡± - Paul Pen, El Brillo de las Luci¨¦rnagas (English Translation) ¡­ All eye¡­ All ear¡­ All glow¡­ twisting lumination¡­ an incalculable spread of vermillion points in the black¡­ a resonance in the name¡­Vermillion¡­ a thought so fleeting, it cannot be caught¡­ tunnel of darkness and mercury¡­ no, a vastness¡­ fractals¡­ bending¡­ entwining¡­ infinite, yet contained¡­ hue within them¡­ for a fraction¡­ then colorless¡­ time consuming itself¡­ a channel between the layers¡­ a passage¡­ pages¡­ distorting in and out¡­ rising and falling¡­ the cosmos breathes¡­ no, the universe¡­ all sound¡­ deafening¡­ the true song of the universe¡­ Screaming¡­ a terrible, torturous, continuous plea¡­ billions of years¡­ since the Eye of Creation¡­ yet, in the stillness, the pain lingers¡­ never ending¡­ the fabric pushed¡­ expanding¡­ outwards¡­ into eternity¡­ an eruption so bright¡­ mind¡­ thought beyond thought¡­ imagining itself¡­ The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. ??? First, the tissue in my face¡­ prickles, the nerves firing¡­ awakening. Shoulder gathers to limb, I pull my arm to my line of sight¡­ hand¡­ not a hand¡­ embers¡­ coral particles¡­ disembodied fireflies¡­ in an assemblage resembling a palm¡­ phalanges¡­ the light dimming, uniting into flesh¡­ warmth ebbing in my chest. Wanderer That familiar, inhuman voice¡­ reverberating deep within¡­ the night¡­ no, void¡­ no¡­ something else¡­ a space, full¡­ sensationless liquid at my feet, miles above my head, the shine of ripples¡­ swells dancing in the great empty. Sight with no clear light-source, as though the edges of matter itself produce their own radiance. I step forward, treading upon the fluid, held aloft, strands of my hair swaying in the material that is neither air nor water. Recognition, I¡¯ve seen this place before¡­ the fall into Ghost River¡­ Line¡¯s Flow ¡°Navan¡¯yu¡­¡± ¡°Navan¡¯yu?¡± Silence¡­ the tinnitus bleating in my ears¡­ ¡°Where¡­¡± ¡°¡­is this?¡± Yoo¡¯O¡¯ A chill runs through me¡­ in the old language¡­ it means "The Waiting Place¡± or ¡°The Resting Place¡±¡­ for in Aolu¡¯yi, there is only a singular word for both¡­ There¡¯s nowhere to go, but onwards¡­ ??? Chapter XVI - PARALLAX PARALLAX Chapter XVI THE GODS OF GHOST RIVER ¡°Thought you were only just a shadow, But you were all light.¡± - Drab Majesty, Cold Souls I have no recollection leaving the fissure¡­ nor comprehension of dimension as I plunge through the great, cold expanse. Just dull sharpness and the sensation of air exiting my lungs, as my back cracks against the slickrock¡­ That frigid bite ignites the nerves in my skin, the disquieting warmth in the pit of my chest gathers, as my eyes adjust to that galactic arm of stars slicing through the deep midnight-blue of the uncaring sky. There is no Riley¡­ he is nobody, no more than a ghost strung together into a tapestry of organic molecules. Yet, there¡¯s ache, the perception of temperature, the rhythm of blood pushing through my arteries, changes in pressure as the rush of desert wind registers upon my ears. Is this enough to make me¡­ Riley? A collection of chemical electrical signals somehow discerning an incessant stream of stimuli¡­ the bar seems low¡­ insignificant compared to the writhing chaos¡­ the true nature of things. I lay paralyzed by the vastness of it all, no sense of time, no motivation to find purchase on the mechanics of my own body. Apart¡­ yes, no longer tied to the continuous beat that the human world pulses to. Or could this be fleeting? My mind, upon the return from Yoo¡¯O, has a strange fullness to it¡­ something inexplicable, awareness of events and circumstances beyond what, me a person, should comprehend. Urgency builds within my gut, the certainty of a presence lingering beyond my line of sight, that strange dark comfort. I cannot bring myself to look at her, recognizing that one glance will release me from my soothing state of incapacity. ¡°Navan¡¯yu?¡± No slight vibrations from the earth, just her canonic stillness. Gathering knowledge from the unknowable¡­ she¡¯s without doubt, there¡­ motionless, waiting¡­ for me. Languishing for a few seconds more, I pull myself from the hard ground to face the great black apparition. That same pillar of bitterness, so familiar to me all those months before, yet there¡¯s more. Not a Great Spirit, something infinite, the cosmos is she, and she is the cosmos, all light, enveloped by all-encompassing shadow. That fierce expression, those orbs trapping the moment the universe was born, The Eye of Creation, a fraction of a second when incomprehensible silver illumination tore through the fathomless nothing, now intact in that haunting mercury gaze. The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. Yet, there¡¯s something disjoint, Navan¡¯yu, the conscious manifestation of the total cosmos, somehow found herself bound to this lonely little world spinning around an average, bland, medium-sized star¡­ there¡¯s no rationale to it. A piece of the account missing¡­ a vacancy¡­ yes, a void as gaping as any super-massive black hole, noticeable only by its sheer absence¡­ ¡°The thing you are¡­ there was once another¡­¡± my voice falters as I comprehend the sheer scale of the Mistwalker¡¯s being, ¡°Two¡­ a dyad.¡± The Great Singularity ¡°It¡¯s damaged¡­. all things¡­ the universe¡­ crumbling¡­ without the other part,¡± I press my fingers into my temples, ¡°You... an element of the whole¡­ need me¡­ to right it¡­ somehow¡­¡± Patience Invariable Lines Intersect Impendence The towering dark beast takes to the twinkling night, leathery wings pounding rhythmically, a drumbeat to the dead wilderness. Now, in my mind, less akin to wings and more sweeping particles bending, unbound by the rules of physics that my sad existence is governed by. An immense strain fills the fibrous tissues of my shoulders¡­ a symptom of a weight no man should bear¡­ ??? Baby Cakes sits abandoned upon the overlook, the purple glow on the horizon signals the coming arrival of the morning sun. Pulling myself up the rock face, I find an empty sickness lingering in my stomach, a manifestation of a feeling not dissimilar to anguish. Balling up against the rusting muscle car, I shake, paralyzed by my aching soul. Guidance lost, my body relinquishes itself to autopilot: stepping into the vehicle, switching on the engine, driving down the empty road, depressing the brake pedal at a quiet stop sign, cruising through Main Street, turning left into the Nautilus, and coming to a stand still in the all too mundane parking lot. An unsympathetic universe decaying into entropy, and somehow I¡¯m elected to remedy it¡­ I wouldn¡¯t pick me¡­ Sinking into my seat, I¡¯m despondent, unable to move or think. The numbness spreading to my extremities, until a chance glimpse out the passenger-side window into the gas station lot returns me to the now. Red Feather¡¯s four-cylinder bike, wine hued, polished and waxed, sits alone¡­ too early for her usual routine, as a proven creature of the night. Curiosity gets the better of me, I leave Baby Cakes and make my way to the door¡­ To my surprise, it¡¯s unlocked¡­ Peew-do! The door chime rings sinister in my ears as I look to the counter. Aria Red Feather rests against the glass top, head buried in her hands, taking shallow breaths followed by unsettling rasping sobs. ¡°Hey, hey, what¡¯s going on?¡± I approach the register, stretching out my hand to comfort her. She lifts her head, manicured eyeliner smeared into a wet ashy paste, ¡°He¡¯s dead¡­ Al¡¯s gone¡­¡± Chapter XVII - TEMPERED ESSENCE TEMPERED ESSENCE Chapter XVII THE GODS OF GHOST RIVER ¡°The word pneuma (breath) shares its origins with the word psyche; they are both considered words for soul.¡± - Clarissa Pinkola Est¨¦s, Women Who Run With Wolves ???? Enduring¡­ assurance in my enormous slashing claws, that could tear through the flesh of the fanged hunters who stalk the dim reaches of the night. Yet, a sickness takes me, not a year into life, that squirming festering pain¡­ ¡­ I awaken in the wet dark, the low thump thump thump, of a warm moist artery, not my own, stirs through my body as my jaws latch into the soft wall of my home¡­ only to be lost to the light¡­ ¡­ my world is aroma, delicious chemicals, both of me, and the many thousands¡­ squabbling¡­. Threatening¡­to steal the sun¡­ ¡­ Driving hunger, I seek nourishment, must eat, must grow. Long fat and strong¡­ fat and strong¡­ Incalculable lifetimes, all too brief¡­ ensnared¡­ on to the next¡­ a cycle unbroken¡­ thrown from one to the next¡­ agony¡­ ¡­ ¡°That dumb fucking machine!¡± It¡¯s at it again... clogging up and spraying soda in chaotic directions¡­ Just another shit day in my mundane existence¡­ placing yet another bag of chips onto the shelves¡­ that gnawing exhaustion creeping back into the fibers of my body¡­ it¡¯s nothing, it has to be¡­ gotta keep moving¡­ can¡¯t stop for nothing¡­ fear¡­ if I stop¡­ somehow¡­ I will be over¡­ ???? Silver threads dance in my mind¡¯s eye, coiling into a stream of thought. Memories, the brand of which that has no ownership to me, spools into a series of confused fragmentary¡­ moments? Flashes of disconnected lifetimes, a tangle of minds and rich experience, I ponder the core of them, seeking a recognizable pattern to follow, to comprehend¡­ ¡°Ooof,¡± I release a gasp of air as a gruff sixty-something year old man in a sallow beige suit cuts through the crowd, buffeting my shoulder, disregarding my presence, as if I don¡¯t exist. Fighting the claustrophobia, I dig my fingernails into the top of my hand to extinguish the anxiety, and check my charcoal suit vest for scuffs and tears. The building¡¯s packed, sucked together into a room two sizes too small for the throng. Al¡¯s memorial, brimming with¡­ what seems to be, the vast majority of Vermillion¡¯s population, a testament to a man who was, indeed loved. Today, I took a page from Dizzy¡¯s book, sporting his look, albeit with no color in my tie and my long hair existing in whatever state it cares to. It¡¯s a way to honor his memory my own way, a memorial for two, a secret I hold secluded in my heart. Dizzy deserved better. ¡°Mom¡¯s got us a seat!¡± Bobbi exclaims through the horde, tugging at my elbow. ¡°Quit pulling my weenus,¡± I banter to him, unsure through the ambient waves of mumbling, he can even register my words. Pulled onto a bench of oak and yellowing lacquer, I slide into a seat beside Bobbi. Drowned in shimmering color from the modern stained glass windows, Red Feather steps solemnly past our row, heading over to take her place in the first of the pews, reserved for the select group of folks with prepared eulogies. Wine, grey, and white Aolu¡¯yi beaded earrings adorn her ears, Aria¡¯s black dress flowing down the aisle in an uncanny sway, almost stripped of her personhood in her sorrow and missing sporty motorcycle leather. Somehow, her state of being is more unsettling than Al¡¯s absence from this world. ¡°There¡¯s my favorite guy!¡± A voice from my past pulls me from the darkness that is Aria Red Feather. The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. Eclipsed by Marta¡¯s frame, is Bobbi¡¯s always on the road father ¡°Johnny Boy¡± White Fox, emerging from the right side of his wife, leaning into the aisle. Grinning through a wispy straight black beard, he performs absurd finger guns at his son. That same goofy expression he shares with Bobbi, etched with playful mania. ¡°Holy shit, son!¡± Bobbi exclaims. ¡°Bobbi, language!¡± Marta barks, ¡°This is a church!¡± ¡°Not my church¡­ not my god,¡± I mutter unheard under my breath, Navan¡¯yu at the forefront of my mind. ¡°When did you get into town?¡± Bobbi bounces in delight, ¡°I thought you had contracts through the New Year?¡± ¡°Naw man,¡± Johnny Boy mirrors his son¡¯s energy, ¡°I¡¯m back! Your Mom and me will be taking a couple of weeks vacation, now there¡¯s a third PA at the clinic. We both been saving up some PTO and we are spending a half a week here and then road tripping to some of the big parks for ten days. I¡¯ll be back beginning of winter for the Sun Eater festival and then be on the road again until late spring.¡± ¡°Dinner tonight! I¡¯m cooking!¡± Bobbi proclaims with the inevitability of an anointed profit. ¡°Deal,¡± Johnny Boy playfully shakes his son¡¯s hand as though sealing a business contract, ¡°Shame that day one had to be these circumstances¡­ Al was a good man. Hell, I always assumed he was immortal.¡± Marta shoots him a look, as her husband shatters the no swearing precedent, and buries her head in her hands in resignation. ¡°Yeah, I did too,¡± I nod in agreement, wondering if Nana knew Al before her passing¡­ she must have, given the crowd, my gauge of his importance raising from local enigma¡­ to local legend. Silence falls over the room as Red Feather takes to the podium, her thread of time pulling her forward, ebbing ceaselessly from burgundy to platinum, as though the breath of her spirit. ??? Blinding, the autumn light pours in from the south, I shield my eyes as Bobbi and I lean against the warm brick of the church, the sun heating the exterior wall to a pleasant temperature. Mourners retreat to their cars, with the odd cluster or two remaining to converse with each other in the parking lot. Soon to return to the regular rhythms of their day-to-day, this their one brief respite to be fully human¡­ and the grief that¡¯s part of the tapestry of our lives. I roll my fingers against each other emulating holding a cigarette, the craving long extinct within me, yet the tactile sensations are what I hold onto, grounding me to the here and now. ¡°I¡¯ve never seen Red Feather look so rough,¡± Bobbi exclaims, ¡°She¡¯s always been sort of the cement to people¡¯s lives out here.¡± ¡°Maybe she¡¯s well over due to show some of the cracks,¡± I shrug, ¡°Like the rest of us mortals.¡± ¡°Look at you being all philosophical!¡± Bobbi laughs, ¡°Didn¡¯t know you had it in you.¡± ¡°It¡¯s been a weird few months, I dunno man.¡± ¡°Well, someone¡¯s ears are burning,¡± he gestures as Aria steps silently across the pavement towards us. ¡°Hey, White Fox,¡± she murmurs, before nodding quietly to me, acknowledging my presence, ¡°I am taking some time from the Nautilus, to get Al¡¯s affairs in order, and¡­ I need some time for myself. She pauses. ¡°Bobbi, I want to promote you to general manager, which is salaried, comes with a pay bump and benefits, if you¡¯re up for it.¡± ¡°Always been up for it!¡± Bobbi struggles to quell his excitement to fit the mood. ¡°Riley, I am looking to promote you to supervisor, which also includes a pay bump, all of which will stay when I return. Before I leave, I am planning to hire three new employees to a total of seven, so the place runs smoothly in my absence. I don¡¯t want it to be understaffed for you two the way it has been. I think we all need a little peace in our lives, it¡¯s too damn short for us to be working ourselves to death.¡± ¡°Sure bet,¡± I nod. ¡°On your shift tomorrow, I¡¯ll have paperwork drawn up and ready for you to look over,¡± she absent-mindedly turns to leave. ¡°Hey, if you need anything sista, we¡¯re always here for you,¡± Bobbi calls in her wake. Red Feather pauses, turns halfway back, stifling a tear, and dips her head in acknowledgement. A pang hits in my chest, as I observe her traverse the parking lot, watching her crack under the weight of it all. She was always so reliable, that wealth of information and wisdom. Working on the muscle car, she gave me purpose, a sense of competence, teaching me about a world of mechanical knowledge I never knew I had the capacity to learn. Now, I¡¯m at a loss to even ease her suffering. Aria, trapped in the chaotic cruelty that is the engine of the universe, the gift Navan¡¯yu bestows upon all of us. Or maybe, she will be forged by tribulation, hardened, and the cracks that won¡¯t heal will fill with precious metals, rendering the soul more whole than ever before. Maybe, that¡¯s what¡¯s happening to me, the pressure transforming me into something that, untouched, I never could be. ¡°Heading to the store to get dinner stuff for the fam. You coming?¡± Bobbi draws himself up against the brick. ¡°I don¡¯t think so¡­ don¡¯t want to take away from you getting quality dad time,¡± I explain. ¡°Hey, you¡¯re always welcome!¡± ¡°Yeah I know, and I could do with some me time, don¡¯t sweat it.¡± ¡°Well, if you¡¯re sure, I won¡¯t drag you along,¡± Bobbi says in playful resignation. ¡°No worries!¡± I give him a satirical salute, as he makes his way back to Carl. Stoic, I observe the bereaved one-by-one leave in their rust buckets, expensive pickups, and outdoorsy vehicles. The sun plunges towards the horizon in the southwest, a rich tapestry of colors painting the sky in rich coral and fiery yellow. The last straggler from the memorial, I stand in silence watching the day end¡­ Fuck, my birthday is nearly two weeks away¡­ time flies when shit keeps happening¡­ Maybe, for the Mistwalker, time isn¡¯t real¡­ something that¡¯s beyond the realm of knowledge she¡¯s allowed me to experience. A built, tall, sandy blond-haired man with a scraggly goatee and a worn beanie rounds the corner, his keys jangling on the ring. A probing expression crosses his face. My best guess is he¡¯s maintenance or the janitor for the church, locking up for the night. ¡°Hey sorry, just processing a lot of things, let me know if I need to move,¡± I answer his question he posed without words. He contemplates the honesty of my answer and responds with a laugh, ¡°Funerals are rough, take the time you need¡­ but if anything looks like shit tomorrow, I¡¯ll know it was you!¡± Smirking, I nod with acknowledgement, ¡°Fair¡¯s fair!¡± He takes a second to examine the setting sun, and adjourns to his red sedan, riding off into the shadows. His headlights cut luminous trails in the dusk, until I find solitude once more. ¡°Navan¡¯yu?¡± I whisper to the night. Silence. ¡°Will I make it through this?¡± Silence. ¡°¡­ Come back stronger on the other side?¡± A chill runs down the length of my spine. I draw in a deep breath, oxygen filling my lungs, energizing my spirit. The autumn night cuts deeper than it should, as I raise my arms to rub some warmth into my shoulders, the air feels heavy, as though fluid. In the starlight, wisps of inky smoke-like matter glide, surrounding me. Slipping past my face, the texture fascinating, unlike solid, liquid, or gas, yet somehow holding elements of all three. Navan¡¯yu dematerialized, yet present, a dutiful shroud of divinity. My protector, my confidante, my salvation¡­ my fate¡­ my god. Chapter XVIII - CEDAR ASH CEDAR ASH Chapter XVIII THE GODS OF GHOST RIVER ¡°May your rivers flow without end... down into a desert of red rock, blue mesas, domes and pinnacles and grottos of endless stone, and down again into a deep vast ancient unknown chasm where bars of sunlight blaze on profiled cliffs... where something strange and more beautiful and more full of wonder than your deepest dreams waits for you-beyond that next turning of the canyon walls.¡± - Edward Abbey, Desert Solitaire¡¯ Change, an enduring thing, the only constant that stands out above all others in the formula of the cosmos, unyielding, becoming the next metamorphosis in our lives. And, so it is for me today, the end of yet another year, now to celebrate a revolution around the sun, one spin cycle older, two decades tossed about on this unforgiving rock. I try to stifle a sneeze, only to unleash a torrent of spit and phlegm¡­ scratch that¡­ ragweed season, the real constant of nature. ¡°Fuck!¡± I try to shake the mess from my hands, ¡°Bobbi, you got a spare paper towel over there?¡± Bobbi tosses the paper towel roll my way, ¡°Dude! Not all over my table!¡± ¡°I thought allergies would be over this late,¡± I whine, wiping up the slime, ¡°It¡¯s halfway through October, man!¡± ¡°Feels like it¡¯s happening later every year,¡± Bobbi rubs his temples and returns to his sizzling skillet, the smell of fry bread, oil, and poblano peppers wafting across the apartment. My phone buzzes¡­ [Happy 20th Birthday my not so little Grump! love you lots. p.s. this is mom] I embrace this moment of familial affection after a long summer of self-induced isolation. Struggling to find the right words to break the silence, my mouth sways between a grimace and a smile. In a moment of inspiration, my fingers flit against the phone keys, and before I can think, I hit send. [Thanx] What the fuck, Riley! Why was that the best I could muster? I retreat into myself, embarrassed, a monumental attempt at human connection turned to a low effort response. Ashamed, no wonder my brother hasn¡¯t texted me in months either, I haven¡¯t even been able to pull myself out of my head long enough to give him a call. And what would I even say? The Mistwalker obliterated Nico and¡­ I pause my train of thought, Darion really dug him, glorified him¡­ even emulated him, despite enduring incessant torment at the hands of Nico. My brother would go apeshit if he knew. There¡¯s no way I could tell him about the Dark God, and her call for me to mend something broken in the universe. A chasm between my brother and I, a wound I dare not open for fear it would never heal. ¡°Breakfast is ready! Happy birthday, dude!¡± Bobbi plops a colorful plate of chile rellenos, cooked Aolu¡¯yi style, onto the table. Just the way Nana used to make them¡­ ¡°Thanks man, I appreciate it!¡± Digging into the meal, my taste buds ignite. Flavor and nostalgia washing over my senses. Almost enough to forget my surroundings, yet from the corner of my eye, I see Bobbi pause over his plate in the kitchen, lingering over it, his skin sallow as though ill. Shaking it off, he wraps his plate in cling wrap and places it in the fridge. ¡°Hey, you aren¡¯t eating with me?¡± I blubber, mouth full of delicious food. Bobbi hesitates, ¡°Stomach¡¯s being weird, don¡¯t wanna be sick at work¡­ You have plans for your special day?¡± ¡°That¡¯s not like you, coming down with something?¡± ¡°It¡¯s that time of the year,¡± he chuckles, ¡°I¡¯ll be alright, just feelin¡¯ a little fucky. I¡¯ll be better by tomorrow. Glad the new kids have taken on those late shifts, means I don¡¯t have to be working my ass off with the head fog.¡± ¡°Management suits you, I mean especially since you aren¡¯t one of those bosses that only delegates and then does jack shit.¡± ¡°Yeah, didn¡¯t know I had it in me,¡± Bobbi beams, ¡°You¡¯re stalling, now answer my question! Birthday plans?¡± ¡°Thought I¡¯d go get lost in the wildness¡­ I¡¯m kidding! Naw bro, I¡¯m going on a hike, put some of my birthday presents Marta and ¡°Johnny Boy¡± gave me to good use. Even thinking about camping, so don¡¯t wait up, since I have the late shift tomorrow,¡± I wave a water bottle with a desert canyon printed on it at him, a souvenir from his parent¡¯s recent trip. ¡°Get up to all of the trouble,¡± he chortles, placing the dirty dishes in the sink to soak, ¡°Want anything from the Nautilus when I get back?¡± ¡°Hmmmm, one of those nasty daiquiri-flavored energy drinks, puts hair on my chest!¡± ¡°Damn, those are heinous,¡± he laughs with the timbre akin to the rumble of an impending storm. ??? A new bag, ebony, adorned with sporty patches of grey fabric, sits against my back. A fresh long-sleeved shirt, white with a frowning smiley face with crossed-out eyes in black print lays against my frame. The charcoal beanie, that gift from Bobbi atop my head. Symbols, all from people closest to me, my chosen tribe, those I carry with me into my new chapter of life. The air bites at my ankles through my baggy shorts, the brume gathering at the pinnacle of the ridgeline. Not ideal weather for a trek in an unfamiliar place, but I¡¯m beckoned here¡­ by her. Miles from Baby Cakes and the long-vanished trailhead, but the cool weighty air combats my exertion, prohibiting the formation of sweat. Winding through the ochre rocks, brightened by the muted light, my line winds forward aglow, the warmth building in my chest. The ashen twigs of scrub, crowned by auburn leaves withering in anticipation of the dark season, snag my clothing as I pass quietly through the gloom. A feeling of rightness, there is no place I¡¯d rather be, the pure joy of being here in this moment, experience the only flavor, my mind settled and separate from the busy problems of the world. I cross the threshold of vegetation to the line on the horizon that marks the cliff edge. There she awaits, the Mistwalker, her great inky wings folded tightly against her sides, her bestial frame perched on the canyon ledge. Her back to me, the deep black of her fur dampening what little luminosity shines through the fog. Clambering to her side, I take a seat, my legs dangling from the verge, the sinking clouds preventing me from determining the depth of the chasm. Descend Navan¡¯yu speaks, without a glance towards me, staring into the great white nothing. ¡°Where? I can¡¯t go where I can¡¯t see¡­¡± The old one turns to me, her eyes less wide and bulging than ever before, the chaos within her quelled somehow. Drawing in her breath she exhales, the vapor thick in the air clearing, the midday sun peering through the veil, violent and coral-hued against the mist. The pool of clarity expands outwards, spherical, for thousands of feet in all six directions. Below, the specter of Ghost River, twisting through the gorge of blond and rust, a reminder of my first terrible night¡­ the night it all started. Navan¡¯yu raises herself from the cold ground, meandering Southwest along the drop, that aberrant fluid motion of her steps betraying the deception of the flesh she wears like a cloak. There¡¯s an unspoken expectation underlying her action, that I obediently follow her path, without question. I pull myself to my feet, complying with her implied instruction, my boots piloting me along the damp slickrock. If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. Floating. Falling. Plummeting. My breath quickens, the depth of the chasm lengthens, memories of freefall eating into my psyche. Encroaching scalding heat at my back¡­ I pace my respiration to match the rhythm of the Mistwalker¡¯s steps, quenching the sensation of my stomach lodged in my throat. She disregards my panic, keeping a steady gait I can follow with ease. A mile or two down the course, the void in the fog moves with us, clearing the way forward. To be a being who can manipulate the fabric of matter itself, what satisfaction it must be to hold that dominion over the tangible. Freedom is an ideal many strive for but never achieve, yet Navan¡¯yu stands before me, possibly the only consciousness to know true liberation. She halts, her elongated neck swiveling to me, those silver eyes, swirling with pandemonium. Standing as though upon the edge of a dream, I stare into the abyss of a box canyon that feeds into the plunging gorge sliced open by Ghost River. Today Guidance Then You Must Walk The Path Alone ¡°How?¡± Follow The Lines Queasiness fills my gullet as I stare into the depths, my expression pleading with her, ¡°I don¡¯t think I can¡­¡± You The Invariable Of Our Age All Threads Of Time Flow Through You You Are And Always Will Be A Fixed Moment Lines Intersect Embrace What You Are ¡°I don¡¯t know how¡­¡± All Ways Are Arduous We Learn Through Pain We Pay In Blood Without a twitch, without warning, the beast lunges at me, the might of her enormous skull and muscular neck forces the air from my lungs, throwing me from the cliff. Over the edge, her body disintegrates into a haze of jet particles. Find Strength Falling into the void, once again¡­ What strength? I have none of my own¡­ just my survivability¡­ I survive because of her¡­ Navan¡¯yu¡­ She¡­ is my strength. I try something insane, stretch my fingers out against the rushing air, searching through gaseous molecules, hoping to peel back the fibers of reality, to gain a purchase on something through the folds, a texture¡­ a mane of fur. Weft through my grip, the ebony hairs of her hide appear as the Dark God emerges from the nothing. Her sooty wings unfurl, decelerating our tumble through the arid sky. Aloft again, elation hits me with the impact of a freight train, a modest drop of her power shared. Assurance, I will have the instruments at my disposal to mend what is broken. Our faith in each other affirmed, we soar above the stratus cloud line. The desert enveloped in a blanket of fog. Above us, a skyline consumed by a veil of cirrus vapor saturates the land in dazzling luminosity. A thunderstorm builds in the distance, its wall clouds bleeding deep indigo into the mid-afternoon. Looking to the thunderhead, I yearn to ride the current, one with the flow of mayhem, no longer a prisoner to my fear. The black beast huffs, turning to the tempest, accelerating, her wing beats heavy and deliberate. Cyan, lightning crackles and loops back into the cumulonimbus. Certainty in my counterpart, that the universe unfolds before us unimpeded. We, as guardian and architect of this land, fly headlong into the squall. Deep into the downdraft, my skin grows numb, ice crystals clinging to my clothing, the moisture in the air freezing. Ears drawn to her skull, the Mistwalker¡¯s eyes dart about scornfully, searching the air through the leaden gloom¡­ from out of the storm, a pearl-sized hailstone pegs me in the shoulder. ¡°Ow, shit!¡± I yelp. Fury ignites her expression as an earth shattering sound erupts from her jaws. Scrambling to protect my eardrums, I nearly lose grip of her mane, pushing one side of my head into her back and covering the other with my arm. The hail ceases, as though repelled by her call, but sickle sharp pain pierces my cranium, I pull away from her, ringing in my skull, blood dripping from my ears, my howl of agony barely audible through the roar of the tempest. We break through the wall of the mesocyclone, cold sweat beading from my forehead, my breath shallow, my fingers tearing from the straining grip around her threads of fur. Her neck twists unnaturally against her cervical spine, her concerned expression visible on her canine features. ¡°Help me,¡± I whimper; nausea taking hold, the world spinning. A muffled sound emerges through my damaged ears, almost an animalistic whine, yet I feel a low vibration akin to a purr emanating deep from within her form. A horrible dull ache, the sensation of the damaged flesh in my body knitting together, repairing itself, the throbbing dullness in the my head almost worse than the injury itself. An answer to what happened to my wound all those months before, she must have restored the tissue sliced open by the bullet, a process I¡¯m now grateful I was unconscious for. Lifting myself to meet her gaze, I plead to the Mistwalker, ¡°I¡¯m begging you, please, show some care. I¡¯m alive¡­ I¡¯m more fragile than whatever state of being you are.¡± Apprehension crosses her bestial face, a flicker of understanding that she broke a part of me. The warmth in my chest burns brighter, the only gift she can give to ease the discomfort. That glow embraces me, washing away the terror of the last minutes, uplifting me, akin to the updraft raising Navan¡¯yu and I to the summit of the anvil. Within the cylindrical wall of the cloud, there¡¯s an eerie stillness in between the breaking thunder and the cracks of lightning. Aberrant is the calm, turbulence and wind sheer should be at the heart of any super-cell. It is she, modifying our surroundings, manipulating the conditions of nature, an extension of her will. The storm her domain, and I, a frail passenger, who couldn¡¯t experience it without her divine succor. Light penetrates through the top of the thunderhead as we breach the surface. Descend ¡°Descend?¡± The gravitational force hits the back of my throat as she dives from the roof of the storm. Wings folded, she allows the pull of the earth to guide our fall. A sense of serenity quells the exhilaration, time itself slowing to a crawl, condensation from my nose ascending into the sky. The land cleared of fog, consumed to fuel the storm. In the bright, late afternoon, the Mistwalker levels out, following the cliff edge of Ghost River, stretching into mighty and boundless desert. A familiar sight, she makes a hard turn to the south into the box canyon, the scene of her most recent act of violence. The beast decelerates, the sandstone the hue of peach and cream, she sails through the canyon¡¯s twists and turns. Cedar turned to charcoal speckles the base of the rocks, evidence of wildfire within the last decade. Trees of this wilderness grow slowly, taking time to reclaim what was once burned. Unfurling her ebony wings, Navan¡¯yu lands softly on the hardened rock. She lowers herself to the earth so I may disembark without humiliating myself. The canyon ends in a crescent natural wall with a high smooth face. Blackened trees with branches like desiccated fingers form an immense halo, roughly thirty-foot in diameter, around a patch of bare apricot slickrock. Within the stone, deep channels form an unbroken circle, branching into spiraling patterns, the way of the ancestor people of the Aolu¡¯yi. A shiver runs down my spine, that overwhelming feeling of being watched¡­ it must just be Navan¡¯yu, with her impulse towards unwanted prying, the energy of this ground strongly mirrors her essence. I touch a dead cedar branch, which disintegrates into an ashy powder. A Sacred Place Nana used to tell stories about holy spaces like this, yes, O¡¯Su¡¯ktah¡¯Hu¡¯hii ¡°the places where the spirits dance¡±, where ceremonies in old times happened. You Shall Return When Day and Night Return To Coequal The Mistwalker turns wistfully to the heavens, the horizon darkening, the day coming to a close, a few wispy clouds turning to violet. In the dying light, stars pepper the east, growing brighter by the minute until a galactic arm of illumination encircles the night. A comet streaks across the twilight, she stares longingly into the great cold expanse, yearning for something inexplicable, lost to time and space. ¡°Stay with me awhile, why don¡¯t you,¡± I offer, sitting a distance from her. The great midnight beast shifts slightly, yet remains anchored to her position. The cosmos spins above us, its mind contemplating itself¡­ we share this moment, separate¡­ lorn, but not alone. Chapter XIX - WOVEN GRASS WOVEN GRASS Chapter XIX THE GODS OF GHOST RIVER ¡°Men are not prisoners of fate, but only prisoners of their own minds.¡± - Franklin D. Roosevelt, Address at the White House Conference on Children in a Democracy ???? Dim, soft amber light filters between low hanging clouds. The air radiates heat, sticky particulates cling to my skin. The shockwave hits me, buffeting my body, in surprise I stumble to keep my footing, my teeth rattling within my skull. Birds take to the sky and strange animals bolt from the southeast. Some akin to a shorthaired llama, yet the majority are unlike anything I¡¯ve experienced, as though a cross between a tiny horse and a capybara. Galloping towards me, the most grotesque of beasts, like something from a nightmare, it stands on four cloven hooves, its head paddle-like with a long snout and thick protruding canines, its sloped back at the height of my chest. The monster pushes past me, my disorientation a distraction it cannot afford. A thick black cloud consumes the horizon, reaching into the dusky sky, a deep rumbling roar penetrates my mind. A flash¡­ branches of lightning illuminate the darkening air. Two kites dance in the sky¡­ kites? No, my brain tries to make sense of it, one a luminous white veil, organic, conjuring visions of undulating jellyfish shimmering on a television screen, tentacles stretched against the current, floating on warm tides. Instead, this figure is formed of thick petals, similar to the pre-potted dahlias mom used to buy in the spring for our modest midcentury porch. It drifts unnaturally against the great smoky cloud threatening to swallow the land. Another crackling flash, backlit by the radiance, an inky shadow glides around the huge bright being, its sway a familiar, uncanny rhythm¡­ ¡°Navan¡¯yu?¡± Tortured animals shriek in the distance, drowning within the bellow of the impending cataclysm. A tidal wave of molten ash hits me, scouring my lungs, scorching my flesh, crushing my bones. ???? Circular lines carved in the rock, a swirling geometric pattern intact within ancient sandstone. Here, I stand returned to O¡¯Su¡¯ktah¡¯Hu¡¯hii, morning fog billowing from the basin of the canyon, the bite of that cool, moist air grating against the bare skin around my shoulders. In the dim light, a figure lays in the center of the sculpted sacred grooves. I¡¯m unable to discern what it is, an eerie feeling, the form is human, unidentifiable but human. Blood percolates outward, filling the channel of desert rock with a sanguine hue, the fluid spreading as though flowing from an unending font of bloodshed. The timeworn edifice stands still, the conduit brimming with carmine liquid. I wait¡­ apprehension eats at the inside of my stomach. Dazzling light rises from the body, forming a billowing veil that hauntingly ascends from the ground. From deep within it, a sphere of unending darkness, swallowing all light it meets, dawns in indescribable beauty. The weight of the universe, an infinite chasm, yet a point in which all things revolve, suspended stability, the void and the fabric that draws us together. A floral corolla of light twists in perpetual unfurling motion around the indescribable thing, stretching out to the world as though blooming with the intentionality of life. I¡¯m overcome with the feeling of¡­ love, intricate fractals of complexity which human language has yet to find words to describe. Cathartic fury burns within my chest. I¡¯m enveloped by the blinding brightness until all is lost to the radiance. ???? ¡°Fuck, what time is it?¡± Itchiness, musty carpet smell, I lean up, clutching my head, that dull ache comparable to that of a hangover, my fingers clasping the red shell fossil. I rolled onto the floor sometime in the night, half my body tensed and sore from sleeping in some stupid position. Surrendering myself to a dissatisfying stretch, acutely aware this fixes none of the blunt numb hurt. Blindly, I search for my flip phone on the end table. [1:42] ¡°Shit shit shit!¡± I overslept, my shift starts in less than twenty minutes and I have to get across town. Tearing across the living room, I search my discount plastic footlocker for my work uniform. My utter confusion clouds my mind, Bobbi usually wakes me up when he heads off to the morning shift, in nearly six months he¡¯s never once forgotten to do it on his way out. Could this be a lesson in self-reliance? I doubt it, it¡¯s not like him, Bobbi lacks that kind of disrespect to change things up without at least a conversion. Wrestling into my unpleasant itchy work shirt and a new pair of black wide-legged pants, no time to brush the morning breath out of my mouth. Sockless, I snatch up my boots, keys, phone, and fossil, bolting from the apartment. The November air sits still, the desert sky emanating deep stone blue, stripped of even the thinnest of clouds. Baby Cakes turns over with pep that reveals her newly rebuilt engine within her rusty exterior. Whipping through the neighborhood, I drive with an aggression foreign to me. Find my inner drag racer, yeah, and play it cool, can¡¯t afford to get pulled over¡­ my mind registers a lightness to my pockets¡­ no wallet. Well, fuck¡­ too late now. One forty-nine the analogue clock on the dash reads, and it¡¯s two minutes slow. The highway lays barren, quiet season my friend, I barrel down to the exit to Main Street. Turning into the Nautilus parking lot, my tires squeal impatiently. I park quietly, hoping none of the staff inside heard me. Peew-doo! I burst through the door to meet Bobbi¡¯s gaze at the counter, his face pallid as though he just saw a ghost. ¡°Made it!¡± I gasp, fumbling my way to the time clock, punching in, and sluggishly padding up to Bobbi. ¡°Darling, you look like hell,¡± Mary-Jane saunters up to the counter with her big eighties glam hair and her vintage acid-washed jeans. Her gaunt expression twisted into a roguish smile. ¡°Just one of those days,¡± panting, trying to suck enough oxygen into my lungs so I can regain a semblance of my composure. I ring up her cheap light beer as she stares doe-eyed at me with mild concern, ¡°Your usual right?¡± ¡°Yeah, three packs of menthols,¡± she grins, her teeth veneered in tobacco stain, ¡°Such a shame about Al, breaks my heart to not have him around. And poor Aria, when will she be back?¡± ¡°I¡¯m not sure¡­¡± ¡°Darling, I just miss her so, that quick wit too, she reminds me of this woman I used to party with back in Fresa, tough as nails, big ¡®no one fucks with me¡¯ attitude,¡± she turns to Bobbi, ¡°Dear, get your boy a comb, that bed-head just simply isn¡¯t fresh. Just such a disservice to that pretty face of his.¡± Me, pretty? What fucking alternate timeline did I just fall into? I blink away my disbelief, hoping Bobbi can carry the conversation. ¡°Will do!¡± Bobbi looks at me embarrassed, ¡°His whole situation is kind of my fault, so I¡¯ll get him cleaned up.¡± ¡°Be sure you do!¡± Mary-Jane eyes him probingly before drawing her attention to me, ¡°Honey, take it easy on yourself.¡± ¡°I gotcha,¡± it dawns on me, that my whole vibe mirrors that of a greasy raccoon caught with a face full of garbage, ¡°Catch you later!¡± Mary-Jane nods approvingly and struts away from the counter, her tossed bleached blond hair a testament of a bygone era, hairspray, and sleepless nights. Beer and cigarettes in tow, she without doubt will return sometime in the last thirty minutes before close for her nightly jack and coke. The new hires peer at her from between restocking and floor mopping, captivated, as though looking at a rare jungle cat. ¡°What the hell happened to you, dude?¡± I question Bobbi, ¡°Where were you this morning?¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry, just been spacey, I totally forgot to wake you up,¡± Bobbi¡¯s eyes refocus, as though his mind found itself drifting far from home, ¡°I feel really bad about it, there¡¯s a hairbrush in my car, and I¡¯ll cover a toothbrush and some paste.¡± ¡°Thanks¡­.You doing alright?¡± ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m fine, just the time change last week got me bad, feeling foggy, I¡¯ll catch up soon.¡± ¡°You know, you need anything, you can always ask.¡± ¡°No, no, don¡¯t worry about me, it¡¯s all good.¡± I shrug in acknowledgment, ¡°Keys?¡± The chibi hamster with wide glistening eyes whizzes through the air with unbridled delight as he tosses his key ring to me. Catching them, proud of my quick reflexes, I head for Carl¡­ hoping that maybe this day gets a hair better. ??? The bathroom stalls shine with that Bobbian sensibility of cleanliness, he may have forgotten about me this morning, but he certainly tended to his duties here with his usual fervor. I spit out that travel toothpaste, the aftertaste unpleasant, strangely chalky but better than nothing. Checking my look in the mirror, all things considered, with my hair brushed, my appearance is well rested, the bags under my eyes minimal. Squishing my cheeks to form a stupid face, color returns to my features, along with stifled laughter. I snort, trying to push it all down, time to be professional, you are a boss, well second boss¡­ third boss? Whatever, I have teen minions to order around, better look like the adult in the room. I head for the bathroom door, my sockless feet crunching against minute particulates of shoe grit. To my surprise, Bobbi bursts through the door, shoving me playfully towards the sink. ¡°What the hey?¡± I exclaim. ¡°Wanted to talk about Red Feather shiz out of earshot from the employees,¡± that all too familiar heaviness returning to my old friend¡¯s expression. ¡°Okay, sure? What¡¯s going on?¡± ¡°She¡¯s planning to return for the Sun Eater Festival and from there things should be back to normal,¡± Bobbi shifts uncomfortably. ¡°Man, feels like everyone is coming back for Sun Eater,¡± I pause, registering the source of Bobbi¡¯s discomfort. The festival is an Aolu¡¯yi thing, outsiders strictly forbidden, best not to mention it in full earshot. Stopping to reflect upon it, this will be my first Sun Eater Festival, with mom¡¯s fear of returning to the rez, she always made sure we stayed away during the solstices and equinoxes. I¡¯m just as much a stranger to it as the two teenagers behind the door. ¡°I know right, it¡¯s kind of nice, feels like everyone will be together for once,¡± Bobbi coughs and clears his throat, ¡°Except for Ms. Tamera and Darion of course.¡± ¡°Yeah,¡± I catch a twinge of regret in the pit of my stomach. The two of us retreat from the Men¡¯s room, to be greeted by the wide grin of one of the new hires, Taylor, laden with a flat of instant ramen in her arms. She¡¯s white but with that desert tan all of the residences of Vermillion seem to have, with sandy hair almost the same tone of her complexion. She has broad cheeks and nose to match, her expression bright, betraying maybe a glint of mania in those aqua eyes. ¡°Riley! Riley! Riley!¡± she calls to me with not a breath in between for me to answer, ¡°Who¡¯s that leathery old bitch with the dumb hair? She talks to you guys like she¡¯s family.¡± ¡°I¡­¡± I stutter, shocked by the aggressiveness of her statement. ¡°She¡¯s weird, I don¡¯t like her,¡± she energetically restocks the grocery shelf next to the boxed mac and cheese, ¡°But I like you, you¡¯re pretty cool for being, you know, a rez guy.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think it¡¯s very professional to refer to customers as¡­¡± I stumble as she interrupts me. ¡°Oh you¡¯re no fun! Come on Riley, I thought you were cool,¡± she rolls her eyes. ¡°Yeah, sure, but it¡¯s alright to tone it down a bit,¡± I pause, ¡°Maybe keep those as in your head thoughts, alright?¡± ¡°Fine,¡± she playfully throws a cup of instant noodles at my head. Rattled, I return to the front counter, to Bobbi adding new tins of chewing tobacco to the display, chuckling under his breath. ¡°How are you so patient with them?¡± I speak in a hushed tone. Bobbi laughs and quietly responds, ¡°Dude, she¡¯s like sixteen, that brain is so uncooked it¡¯s functionally mush, she¡¯ll grow out of it, just give it time.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a gift I just don¡¯t have,¡± glowering, I study the teenage terror tossing around boxes of ramen. ¡°I dunno man,¡± Bobbi pokes fun at me, ¡°Just do what you always do, embrace that ¡®Riley Stoicism¡¯, ¡®Oh I¡¯m too troubled and badass for everyone so I am going to just sulk in the corner and disapprove of everybody¡¯.¡± ¡°Dude, I¡¯m not like that,¡± I playfully side check him¡­ Oh shit, am I actually like that? My thoughts swim, anxiety prickling at my fingertips. Bobbi eyes the new hire across the room mopping the floor. A tall white boy of about eighteen, lanky but filled out, with lightly spiked, pallid brown hair. His expression cruel, his jaw clenched, as if he¡¯s constantly grinding his teeth. With a knowing look, White Fox dips to a whisper, ¡°I¡¯m not going to lie, that Drew kid scares the shit out of me. He doesn¡¯t say anything weird or do anything bad, but I dunno, he kinda gives me the heebie-jeebies.¡± ¡°Heebie-jeebies?¡± stepping backward I can¡¯t contain my laughter, ¡°What are you going on about, you sound like one of those Saturday morning cartoons.¡± ¡°Shut up,¡± Bobbi swallows his shame, ¡°Go look busy, restock some cigarettes or something.¡± ¡°Sure thing, boss,¡± I joke as I head to the back to grab more cartons from the stockroom. Unlocking the door and squeezing between the steel shelves, I pick up an assortment of cartons, some lights, menthols, slims, and even my old vice, a carton of cloves. Pausing, summer feels like an age ago, so much changed, not just my understanding of the world but also a change in my mind. An acceptance in the smallness of myself, and yet somehow Navan¡¯yu chose to be my shadow. The warm glow returns to my chest, a reminder of her enduring presence in my life. In a state of blissful calm, I leave stockroom, centered, self-assured. ¡°So I heard you were a city kid?¡± Taylor blares at me, lurking just beyond the threshold of the door. ¡°Fuuuu!¡± I stop myself at a mid ¡®fucking hell¡¯ and scramble to keep a hold of the cartons, ¡°Fuuunndamentally, yes¡­¡± ¡°So why you back here in this bullshit town? This place sucks, you¡¯re either dumb or stupid to move here.¡± ¡°It¡¯s complicated,¡± I push memories of Nico¡¯s mangled corpse from my mind. How long was she waiting at the door for me? My stomach tightens with the creepiness of it all. ¡°Can¡¯t be that complicated,¡± she follows me up to the counter, ¡°So, what¡¯re you doing in the city? Since you¡¯re like native and all. Didn¡¯t think natives went off rez.¡±Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. ¡°Well kind of, I¡¯m half, and Bobbi and I grew up tog¡­¡± ¡°Oh, so whicha parents was native and which one was normal?¡± I stare at her blankly, stunned, unable to find the words to respond. ¡°Uhhh¡­¡± Struggling to regain my cool, I release a heavy sigh. She¡¯s young, she doesn¡¯t know better, ¡°My dad wasn¡¯t Aolu¡¯yi, but I don¡¯t know much about him, he left when I was pretty young.¡± ¡°Oh, so you¡¯re a momma¡¯s boy,¡± she snickers and bounds off to keep restocking the grocery aisle. Retreating to the safety of the counter, I join Bobbi in dazed silence, adding my own tobacco products to the shelves. Bobbi grins at my own expense, ¡°Had enough, eh?¡± ¡°Please, just put me out of my misery,¡± shaking my head, I whine in defeat, ¡°just pick up anything and beat me over the head with it.¡± ¡°Oh, where would be the fun in that? Way better to watch your soul get crushed slowly by a juvenile.¡± ¡°You forgot to add delinquent to the end of that,¡± I crack up. ¡°Dude, I nearly forgot, I¡¯ve got something for you,¡± Bobbi explains, breaking down his box and then walking it out the back room to the dumpster. Waiting patiently, I¡¯m hoping upon hope that Taylor leaves me alone while I¡¯m left to myself. Keeping busy, I crouch, trying to be less visible. Every once in awhile, I peer from behind the counter, once catching the severe stare of Drew, returning from emptying the outdoor trashcans. I look away quickly, praying for my ally¡¯s swift return. Bobbi steps back up to the front, a plastic bag full of soda cups in one arm and a thick envelope in the other. ¡°Pulled this out of the mailbox this morning,¡± he smiles, handing my parcel to me. ¡°What? I never get legit mail,¡± I examine the envelope, feeling the middle for objects other than paper. The package is made of a brown craft envelope, sized to hold standard paper. My fingers trace the contours, determining there¡¯s nothing but a packet of documents within. [Riley Quiet Badger Se¡¯nya Yates 3407 Hill View St Vermillion, UI 84079] [Ghost River Cultural & Language Center 1016 Plateau Rd Ghost River Tribal Land, UI 84078] Se¡¯nya, Nana¡¯s surname, a name that should¡¯ve been mine by birthright, had mom not rejected it when she fled her home for the safety of Douglas. Quiet Badger, a name new to me¡­ a name I never knew I had. How many things have been kept from me out of fear and caution? Possibly an immeasurable amount of lost information, never to be returned to me. Reading the return address once again, I gape at it, Ghost River Cultural & Language Center¡­ Nana? To my knowledge, Nana left nothing for me when she passed. I stow the package behind the counter, best to read it when Bobbi and the hooligans leave for the night. Keeping my mind occupied with tasks, I observe the stream of customers floating in and out of the store, their lines the usual bands of light, sometimes imbued with subtle color. I¡¯m aware of the sky turning from purple to eventually black. Bobbi, the first to leave, promptly ends his shift at six, giving me a wave and that knowing grin before returning to Carl. From the darkness of the parking lot, I hear the reverb of a long rattling cough, a moment of silence, and then the turn over of his engine. ¡°What¡¯s it like having Daddy Issues?¡± Taylor leers at me from over the counter, breaking my flow. ¡°Don¡¯t know, haven¡¯t really thought about it,¡± I force my expression to the most temperate one I can muster, ¡°Go check the soda machine and see if it needs a refill.¡± ¡°Boss Fox already did that right before he left, and yelled at it a bit too,¡± she bleats, ¡°I¡¯m not getting involved in his personal war!¡± I don¡¯t bother suppressing my laughter, Boss Fox? Makes Bobbi sound like a hero in a kid¡¯s video game, ¡°Fine, take your fifteen minute then, since you¡¯ve had your lunch break.¡± ¡°Okie dokie,¡± she scampers up to the fountain machine and fills a large cup with orange soda. Taylor pulls up one of the Nautilus brand vinyl stools behind the counter, too close to me, barring my exit. My personal space violated, an invasion somehow worse than Navan¡¯yu¡¯s millions of eyes consuming the canyon walls. Subtly, I lean away, trying to escape my own personal hell, pretending that organizing the scratch cards requires my undivided attention. ¡°Do you rave?¡± Taylor questions me. ¡°Not really my scene¡­¡± I turn to face her, backing up against the counter searching for a way out. She eyes me suspiciously and reaches out to touch my hair, ¡°How can you be cool and not rave in this town?¡± ¡°I guess I¡¯m just not cool enough¡±, dodging her hand, I hop into a sitting position on the countertop, giving me a little more personal space from the teenage terror. Oblivious to my body language, she nudges the stool closer and reaches out for a second time, ¡°You have such good hair, I¡¯m so jealous of you.¡± I take a nosedive off of the countertop into the customer-facing aisle in an effort to get out of the way of her nasty little fingers. Knocking over the ¡°Take A Penny, Leave A Penny¡± I slam against the ground, showering myself in change, a mortifying clinking metallic rain. Fuming and bruised, I rush to the back room to search for a handheld dustpan, the worry of if I damaged the counter rattling in my brain. Returning to the front, Drew, with the precision of a machine, returns the loose change to the container, his scowl greatly pronounced. ¡°Thanks Drew!¡± I call to him in an encouraging tone. He snorts as though annoyed with me, and continues picking up change. Peew-doo! A heavyset Aolu¡¯yi man walks through the door, his face uncannily familiar. I wrack my brain trying to place him. ¡°Jason!¡± Taylor shrieks in delight as she tears across the room to give him a likely unwelcome hug, ¡°We doing the stuff and things later?¡± Oh yeah, he was that guy from the clinic all those months ago, bored out of his mind. Helped me get my new ID. ¡°We¡¯re on,¡± Jason acknowledges her and turns to Drew, ¡°How¡¯s my homeboy?¡± Drew picks up the last of the pennies and gives the closest thing to a warm expression I¡¯ve seen him make. Albeit, his smile resembles a malicious sneer, rather than anything with any real warmth, ¡°Thought you¡¯d never show.¡± ¡°I always show for my favorite¡­ homies,¡± Jason clears his throat as though he changed course mid-sentence. Standing in the corridor with my sad little dustpan in hand, Jason eyes me, his gaze scrutinizing, sizing me up, ¡°Brother, don¡¯t I know you from somewhere?¡± Pointing to my nametag, ¡°Yeah, you renewed my tribal card a bit ago?¡± ¡°Oh, that¡¯s right¡­ Elenora¡¯s long lost grandson right? From Douglas, yeah?¡± ¡°Sure, yeah,¡± I give a half-hearted wave to break the tension. Jason stares at me, eyeing me up and down, as though something within his mind suddenly clicked. His muscles grow tense, his jaw clenching, ¡°I¡¯ll see you guys later,¡± he says to the two kids and gives me a tough guy nod as he exits the Nautilus. In confusion, I¡¯m frozen in place, watching him disappear into the gloom of the parking lot and pumps. Grappling with his intended purpose, I circle around the question lodged within the pit of my gut. Why did he leave the gas station empty handed? ??? The gas station closed, Mary-Jane¡¯s return for her nightly vices long past, I sit in the cabin of Baby Cakes, listening to the purr of her muscle engine. Using the ambient light from the cold glow of the Nautilus¡¯s spinning sign, I run my finger along the perforated edge of the craft package, tearing it open to reveal what¡¯s inside. [Send to Riley Quiet Badger Se¡¯nya Yates upon his return to the Ghost River Reservation] Paper instructions left to someone, presumably the sender. I shuffle through the small stack of papers, most of which appear to be law documents referring to a property trust under Elenora Se¡¯nya¡¯s estate, to be left to my brother and I upon our twenty first birthdays. Presumably referring to Nana¡¯s adobe home in Old Town. I consider if Darion has a packet similar to this awaiting him, if he ever came to the rez, possibly a precaution in case our mom threw all paperwork from Nana away. I start to squeeze the packet back into the envelope when I notice it, a piece of blue-lined notebook paper, pushed out of the bottom of the pile. Curiosity gets the better of me, I pull out the folded note and read it, the breath caught in my throat, the red fossil circling against my fingertips. ??? New Town, the crisp late-autumn breeze along the ridgeline of the plateau bites through my hoodie. Getting out here early, I¡¯ll have plenty of time to check in on Nana¡¯s business before I start my shift in the afternoon. Pulling into the parking space of the ¡®Ghost River Cultural & Language Center¡¯, I look out from my vantage point. Below, the usually sleepy energy of this place stands broken, the hospital bustles with activity, no less than four ambulances pull up to the emergency trauma wing. Part of me feels a sense of guilt trying to decode the evolving situation, but the other half aches to bear witness to the calamity unfolding in the parking lot below me. It¡¯s too far to make out specifics anyway, yet the siren of a fifth emergency vehicle signals that whatever¡¯s happened, it¡¯s going to be a bad day for a lot of people. Adjourning to the cultural center, I¡¯m surprised how large the interior of the building is, a decent sized atrium, with a sprawling welcome desk at the front, a small gift shop to the side filled with wares from local artists. Branching out from the entrance, signage points to a contemporary art gallery, a historical exhibit, a special delineation for the language center, as well as the research and archival department. The counter lays empty, with a red button that reads, ¡®Uka¡¯yahi¡¯u! We¡¯re hard at work, please ring for service¡¯. I push it nervously, the sound of wooden chimes ring somewhere within the bowels of the building. A door from the research department swings open and closed followed by the quick steps of a petite young woman. Decked out in an outdoorsy army green shirt, her long straight dark auburn hair flies about in static wisps. ¡°Hey there, a ticket for you? Tribal members have free admission¡­¡± she eyes me through her rectangular glasses, her hue so pale, I wouldn¡¯t be surprised she¡¯d developed a vitamin D deficiency from years indoors. ¡°Oh, no I¡¯m Riley Yates, I got a note telling me to come here,¡± I wave the piece of notebook paper at her, ¡°she said in this, something about a legacy she left for me?¡± ¡°Wait¡­ You¡¯re Elenora¡¯s grandson?¡± her countenance shifts to excitement, ¡°So you got that package I sent out! Thank goodness, I was dreading what would happen if it didn¡¯t get to you.¡± ¡°Well I made it, where should I go?¡± ¡°Right this way,¡± she leads me down the hall, her ears full of gunmetal studs and a ring through the cartilage of her left ear. ¡°So, how did you get involved here? You seem a little¡­¡± ¡°Out of place?¡± she laughs, opening the door to the archive. ¡°Well, yeah.¡± ¡°It¡¯s kind of a funny story, I used to come to Nana¡¯s shop in Old Town with my folks when I was a kid. She took a shine to me¡­ I think she missed you and your brother a lot, and I kind of, in her mind, became a surrogate grandkid,¡± she sighs, a twinge of emotion crossing her face, ¡°Long and short of it, I started volunteering my time in high school, drove out every weekend from Providence to help organize her notes and records so we could get this place up and running, before¡­ you know. Now she¡¯s gone, someone¡¯s got to be here to run it, I put a deferment on my degree and everything. But at least I¡¯ll have the meat of my thesis all together by the time I return.¡± ¡°I feel bad about how things went down before she passed,¡± I don¡¯t bother disguising my grief, ¡°It feels like I¡¯m a stranger in my own story.¡± ¡°You¡¯re here now! That¡¯s what matters, Elen would be glowing that you finally made it home,¡± the young woman navigates through a room full of file cabinets and shelves with archival boxes. I like this one, I reflect, I can see why Nana liked her too, ¡°Seems like a lot to manage, how do you stay open?¡± ¡°Casino money mostly, but we also get a few grants too. Aolu¡¯yi aren¡¯t the only tribe represented in the archive, a lot of smaller ones in Deerhorn County store their records and sacred objects here, since we have both climate controls and fire suppression. We rely on a small army of volunteers too, a lot of kids from the community help on the weekend. But, well, Monday mornings in the off season, I am stuck here with only my thoughts and my work.¡± ¡°If I find the time, maybe I can pop in and help.¡± ¡°I¡¯d like that,¡± she smiles and unlocks a door leading into a small room. It¡¯s windowless, covered walls constructed with cinderblocks, as though built into the rocks at the top of the plateau. The cool air drifts stale, dust particulates dancing in the illumination of the fluorescent lights. A metal bookshelf lined with composition notebooks labeled with masking tape fills the largest wall. An assortment of books of various colors and textures sit on a few wooden shelves scattered about the room, a metal table and a pair of chairs sits at the center, equipped with a luminous reading light, specially manufactured so one doesn¡¯t strain their eyes when reading for hours. Upon the tabletop is a pencil holder full of writing implements. ¡°The composition books are all Elenora¡¯s translations, archives of the Aolu¡¯yi language from the spoken word. I¡¯ve digitized maybe about a quarter of them,¡± she points to another shelf with thick black leather-bound notebooks, ¡°These are really cool, theses are Aolu¡¯yi spoken word legends and stories, that Se¡¯nya transcribed and translated. ¡°Any involving Navan¡¯yu?¡± making an effort to sound casual as I inquire. A shocked expression crosses her face, ¡°Elenora thought you might have a special interest in the Mistwalker. Let me see, I remember something really fascinating in her notes.¡± I watch her rummage through the records, until she pulls a notebook marked by the numeral II and nothing else, ¡°Here it is! This is so intriguing, this root word here,¡± she points to the page, ¡°when modified like this goes from one to two, but this here¡­¡± She points to something else vague in Nana¡¯s snaking handwriting, ¡°¡­refers to incomplete. A lot of the obscure storytelling revolving around Navan¡¯yu has weird grammar and linguistic modifications, in the same vein as that. It doesn¡¯t make any sense, given she is the Great Spirit, something all encompassing, but somehow missing. All I glean is maybe it is something to do with missing meaning ¡®formless¡¯ or eternal¡­? It is sure a strange way to say it, even with the usual Aolu¡¯yi idiosyncrasies within the language.¡± ¡°Can you make a copy of that for me?¡± I ask. ¡°Absolutely, I¡¯ll go do that right now, while it is still quiet on the floor,¡± she takes the notebook to the door. ¡°Oh and Riley, the letters and notes she left for you are over there,¡± she pushes a strand of auburn hair from her face and points to a narrow book-self stuffed to the brim with writings and loose paper, ¡°Have at it while I¡¯m gone, and you have free rein to come and go and look through it any time you like.¡± ¡°Thanks,¡± I pause, shifting, embarrassed, didn¡¯t even catch her name, ¡°What do I call you?¡± She smirks, ¡°Call me Charley!¡± Charley pushes through the door, leaving me to myself. The dead silence of the room leaves my ears ringing, as I shuffle to the shelf and pull an assorted pile of loose paper and notebooks of different styles from it, laying it out on the table. Starting with the thickest, most ornate leather-bound one, embossed with the image of a tree. I open it to read the nostalgic penmanship of Nana¡¯s handwriting. [My dear boy, I regret that we had so little time together, never doubt that I love you so deeply, a way in which, I have difficulty expressing in simple words on this page. By now you must know, so many things have been kept from you. Do not harbor ill feelings for my daughter, grandson. She has always done what she has felt best for you, and under circumstances no one deserves to face. If you are reading this, then you have, undoubtedly, returned home, to fulfill your purpose or to face your own peril. I cannot stop what has been set in motion, but I can, as your Nana, guide in the best way I can. First know that U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho¡­] Pausing in confusion, I rub my eyes in case I¡¯m reading something wrong, but there it is in the old language, ¡°We pay in blood.¡± I continue reading¡­ [¡­ U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho .U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho .U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho¡­] Hysteria prickles behind my ears, I turn the page in a panic¡­ [¡­ U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho .U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho .U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho¡­] I abandon the notebook to ransack the stacks of paper. [¡­ U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho .U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho¡­] Some written on small scraps of lined paper, some on crisp white sheets, some on acid yellowed vellum, yet the scrawl remains the same in severe angular lettering. I am a prisoner of that same terrible phrase. My mouth caught in a silent scream, I throw the pile of paper to the floor, sheets flying across the room like cursed birds fluttering about with malicious intent. Looking up to the wall, the scrawl, I cannot escape it, covers the ceiling and walls¡­ [¡­U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho .U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho. U¡¯nkah ti¡¯is cho¡­] Curling up into a ball on the floor, I succumb to the closing darkness, until all fades from my mind. ???? Warm fingers touch my shoulder, I feel the ambient temperature of summer, coaxing me from the ground. ¡°Child of Nhokah¡­¡± a spectral voice whispers in my ear. Turning to face the speaker, I find nothing, just the golden hour, an expanse of sagebrush and native grass, ¡°Where am I? Who are you?¡± ¡°Dear child, you know me.¡± ¡°You aren¡¯t Navan¡¯yu¡­ I,¡± pausing, I sort through my thoughts, ¡°Nana?¡± ¡°Foolish boy!¡± the being snarls from the ether. ¡°Show yourself!¡± I challenge the entity. ¡°Very well¡­¡± Vivid strands of grass weave together into complex patterns, a body born of color, fiber, and herbaceous scent. Prairie Mother stands before me, an abstracted form with an almost geometric quality to it. She watches, eclipsing me in her shadow, waiting for me to speak. ¡°You¡¯re the one Nana used to talk about,¡± I stammer, ¡°Where is she?¡± ¡°Nothing remains of her, only the precious memories I carry within me¡­¡± she speaks with an air of sadness, ¡°As is the way with those who live. Only the reflection of causality of her short life flows on, rippling upwards through time.¡± ¡°Why didn¡¯t you help her? Heal her from her illness¡­¡± ¡°Silence¡­¡± her exasperation fills the space, ¡°The cycle does not bend that way. Spirits are bound to the true chaos of the universe, it is our untenable burden¡­ one we can never shed.¡± ¡°Yet you, child of Nhokah¡­¡± she stares at me through those rectangular empty eyes, ¡°¡­have agency to change your lines, forge your own path.¡± ¡°Navan¡¯yu told me¡­¡± ¡°The mighty one speaks in omission,¡± Prairie Mother bristles, ¡°I tell you this as a kindness to honor your grandmother...¡± ... My vision blurs, as though being torn away by some greater force from the spirit of the golden grasslands... I claw into the darkness, trying to force my way back to her, her forthcoming words critical to what lies ahead... ... a piercing in my my skull, a sensation as though it''s about to split in two¡­ Dizzy, a heap on the ground, blood pooling¡­ Gunshots¡­ Nico¡¯s gun¡­ tossed out of reach¡­ Kneeling over him¡­ Nico, my knuckles ache, bruised and raw, I slam my metal water bottle into his head¡­ fucked up sounds comin¡¯ out my mouth. Nico gurgles, his face and body pulverized by the impacts¡­ ¡­ Nico, a mound of unidentifiable gore¡­. ¡­ a jet-black river beats with animalistic savagery. Ghost River. Stones fall from the tips of my boots¡­ I¡­ just killed a man¡­ my friend¡­ They roll unceremoniously into the turbulent water¡­ I failed to protect Dizzy¡­ blood rushes in my ears, obscuring the crashing rapids¡­ The last speckles of light of the setting moon dance in the froth and spray¡­ I can¡¯t live with this¡­ Floating. Falling. Plummeting¡­ CRASH! ???? Bolting upright, slips of paper take to the air, fluttering about the dim cinderblock room. I cradle my forehead in my arms, sweat beading down my brow. No writing on the wall, not even an aberrant mark in Nana¡¯s notebook. Picking up the stray notes and letters, I place them carefully on the table. What would Charley think of me¡­ if I left this mess?¡­ I can''t bear it... Succumbing to the gnawing thought eating away at me, I dig my fingertips into my temples¡­ all of my fears... realized ¡­ I¡¯m crazy! I''m crazy! I¡¯m crazy! I¡¯m CRAZY! I¡¯M CRAZY! Chapter XX - SYMMETRY SYMMETRY Chapter XX THE GODS OF GHOST RIVER ¡°¡­we became the stories, we became the places. We were the lights, the deserts, the faraway worlds.¡± - M83, Intro Sick, my gut heavy with guilt and nausea, I pick at the grooves of the oak wood of his dining table, eyeing the silhouette of O¡¯chohca through the half-open blinds, aflame in the sunrise. A pile of photocopied papers takes up a corner, crowned by Nana¡¯s leather-bound notebook, souvenirs of my visit with Charley. The pungent odor of sheets soaked in sweat stain hits my nostrils. Laden with dirty linens, Bobbi hobbles to the double-stacked washer and dryer. Saving face, I pretend not to notice, putting my focus on studying my room-temperature cup of coffee that I¡¯ve allowed to cool to the point of losing all appeal. The bean water¡¯s acidity would likely bring me to vomit, so I swirl it in the cup and watch the brown spiral, a vortice much like my state of mind. How will I tell him? I killed Nico with such brutality¡­ Or is it just one of many things I¡¯ve seen over these many months, none of which I can be sure is real or just my fucked up trauma brain. Or worse still, that I lied to him, threw away the card with my lifeline to getting the help I hunger for. Shame eating me from my core, I struggle with how to verbalize so many things left unspoken. He takes his usual seat at the table, picture of calm, with that quiet, weighted depth that is his natural state. ¡°I owe you an explanation,¡± tripping over my words, I try to catch his gaze. Those dark eyes rise from a single slice of toast he left for after his morning chore, the heaviness of his expression eating into my soul. ¡°Bobbi,¡± I shy away from being pulled in by his visage, hoping he isn¡¯t reading me like the pages of a book bent open against a worn spine, ¡°I fucked up¡­ I¡¯m pretty sure I¡¯ve lost my mind¡­. And¡­ instead of doing the responsible thing like you¡¯d of done¡­ I threw away the card to the psychiatrist I got at the clinic. I don¡¯t know if I didn¡¯t believe I was losing it or if I was too scared to pull on the thread and watch myself unravel¡­¡± His contemplative stare unbroken, he observes me calmly without judgment, only intentionality, it rattles me more than any amount of anger I braced myself for. I wait for him to say something, only to be met with the gravitational pull of those umber orbs. My memories, as though separated from my conscious mind, I recount with every detail: Dizzy¡¯s death on that fateful night that brought me here, Navan¡¯yu, my mother¡¯s forced pact with the Mistwalker, the fissure that pulled me through the fabric of the universe, the two gods, my place in it all, Prairie Mother¡¯s warning, and the revelation that I, may have bashed Nico¡¯s head in. Aware of Bobbi¡¯s familiarity with fragments of the story, I¡¯m sure to lay it all out on the table. Spent, I slump back into my wooden seat, confounded by my forthrightness, I¡¯d rehearsed it in my head so differently, to slowly explain my situation, not throw it all in his face. Bobbi contemplates my words, his brow subtly furrowing, ¡°Remember what I said to you all those months ago?¡± ¡°No, what?¡± I shift uncomfortably. ¡°That you¡¯d tell me it all at some point,¡± a flicker of a smile flashes across his face, ¡°It seems that moment is now.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t get how you¡¯re so chill about this!¡± ¡°Oh, I¡¯m not,¡± Bobbi sets down his piece of toast with a single bite in it, ¡°Here¡¯s the thing, you¡¯re my friend, and I¡¯ll support you through this. But before you turn yourself in and start ranting to anyone who¡¯ll listen about ¡®bat gods¡¯ and ¡®the cosmos disintegrating¡¯, do me a little favor.¡± ¡°Sure, what is it?¡± ¡°We got one more delivery run today, before we turn it over to the new folks,¡± he laments, standing from his chair, pacing. Losing Red Feather for these last few months, the stress at the Nautilus slowly gnawed away at my old friend and I, until it reached an untenable point. I linger on the strength it takes to know when to call it quits. The price, turning over our responsibilities at the clinic to someone new. ¡°Why don¡¯t we make this a thing, it¡¯s all Northside anyways, and after, we¡¯ll retrace your steps. Starting with Packer¡¯s Gate, to the most recent place you saw Navan¡¯yu. It will help me understand and I dunno, maybe it¡¯ll jog your memory. We¡¯ll have a better idea of what¡¯s going on, and¡­ well if you do get locked up, at least we¡¯ll have some quality bro time, before¡­ you know.¡± Trying to suppress a tear, it rolls wet and fat into my cup of coffee. The dam broken, I lose control of my feelings, guttural, I gasp between breaths and pitching cries, ¡°It¡¯s too much, it¡¯s all too fucking much!¡± ¡°Hey,¡± Bobbi¡¯s hand grips my shoulder, ¡°You¡¯re my brother, maybe not by blood but still, you didn¡¯t ask for any of this, let me bear this burden with you. We¡¯re not meant to go it alone. The weight of it all gets better when you let your people carry some of it.¡± I blot the wet from my face with a long sleeve, pushing down a sniffle, and nod in agreement. ¡°Grab your coat,¡± Bobbi shuffles to the door, ¡°It¡¯s cold out there.¡± ??? Packer¡¯s Gate stands eerie, casting elongated shadows in the late autumn midday light, the buttes¡¯ rusty edifice standing as a testament to time and violence. The scrubland less leafy than in summer, all the green that remains belongs to the junipers. Parking at the summit of the stone towers, Carl pulls up to a spot that could have easily once housed Nico¡¯s neon idiot machine. Tire tracks long gone from all those months ago, we disembark from Bobbi¡¯s silver sedan, intent on scouring the site for anything that could¡¯ve been left behind from that summer. I rotate the marble badger in the palm of my hand housed deep in the pocket of my long charcoal-grey coat. The only thing I¡¯ve yet to explain by just chocking it up to hallucinations from my disturbed mind. Bobbi pulls a flashlight from the car, shining it in the spaces obscured by the shade of the great rocks. ¡°Damn boy, talk about trying to find a grain of sand in the desert,¡± Bobbi calls to me, ¡°Do you remember where you were standing when things went down?¡± ¡°I know I smoked a cig against one of the walls of ¡®the gate¡¯, but it was dark, so I¡¯m not quite sure where,¡± the taste of clove returning to my mind¡¯s eye from a memory locked deep within me, ¡°You can look, but I had an old metal pillbox I¡¯d put the spent butts in.¡± ¡°Yay for conscientiousness, but man, talk about bad timing,¡± my old friend complains, ¡°You aren¡¯t making this easier.¡± ¡°Sorry, dude.¡± Kicking up the dirt of the makeshift parking area, I look for a sign, anything that gives me a clue. I try to picture Dizzy on the ground bleeding out, a crimson pool forming around him. Repositioning myself, in relation to Carl, I consider where he would¡¯ve been in space. The toe of my boot penetrates the soft ground to find, nothing. Fucking hopeless, I¡¯m just unhinged and it¡¯s all in my head. In a huff, I head towards Bobbi, kicking up more desert earth. Sediment tinged with a dull red ocher stain crumbles around my heel. Curious, I crouch down and remove more of the topsoil with my bare hands. It cleaves against a solidified crusty layer, deep purple, a continuous blot soaked into the sand. Peeling back more, it cuts deep under my feet in a radial pattern. ¡°What¡¯d you find there?¡± Bobbi stumbles up to me, ¡°Oh, shit!¡± Dried bloodstain, leached into the soil, presumably buried, blooms out from the desert floor. My fingertips ice, I pull back from my dirty task, swallowing down my stress. ¡°Fuck, I only half believed what you said, but here it is, it¡¯s real,¡± Bobbi looks in shock, his mouth hanging open. Staving off the building anxiety, I press my hand into the side of my head. ¡°We have two options, this could be left by me, if I killed Nico¡­ or this could be from Dizzy,¡± I let out a labored breath and pause. ¡°Nico being Nico, if he did this, he¡¯d of fucked up somehow, left stuff behind. Look for casings,¡± Bobbi suggests. ¡°On it!¡± I take on one side of the stain, while Bobbi works his way around the other. Using the edges of the sole of my boot, I slice through the sun-baked earth, searching for the resistance of metal. ¡°Found something!¡± my old friend, juniper twig in hand, scratches at the sandy soil. Striding over to him, enshrined in the shadow of the southern butte of Packer¡¯s Gate, just below the surface, three spent cartridges. Dizzy died here, his car disposed of, his body removed. Of course fucking Nico took all the big things and left casings on site¡­ damn shithead. ¡°Any sign of my metal water bottle?¡± I ask Bobbi. ¡°Nada,¡± he probes the evidence with the stick. ¡°Should we take these with us?¡±If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. ¡°No, but we should take some pics and prolly bury them again. Never know, might be important later,¡± Bobbi instructs. ¡°The bloodstain too,¡± I nod in agreement, rolling the stone badger in my pocket nervously, ¡°Keep looking for my water bottle, but if my first version of events is right¡­ maybe there¡¯s tire-tracks where he came at me in that dumb box of a car.¡± ¡°I can look for more casings too,¡± Bobbi¡¯s expression brightens as he takes a few photos with his flip phone and waves his flashlight as a gesture of excitement. Hoping my recollection¡¯s accurate, I head northbound from Packer¡¯s Gate into the wild scrubland, the best friend anyone could ask for at my heels. We take care to step on patches of slickrock to avoid the towers of blackening biocrust. Microbes that give the desert ground nutrients, keeping life itself alight in the harshest places. The undisturbed colonies coat the baked earth, dark, popcorn-like, at times stacking themselves into crunchy organic towers. ¡°Look, there!¡± Bobbi points to a path of damaged bio soil, two thick rungs cut through, leaving divots of sand yet to be reclaimed by slow growing cyanobacteria. Possible tire marks, the tread within them long gone from the wind and rain. We traverse the land cautiously along the ruts. Following the channel, one foot in front of the other, we scour our new path for things left behind. A divot, its hue rust-orange with exposed sand, contrasts the charcoal tone of the soil crust, the shape within resembling a shoe print. Curiosity gets the better of me, I place my tread into the empty space, my blood runs cold, it matches the outline of my boot¡­ well, shit. ¡°Check this out!¡± Bobbi points off trail at the glint of a bullet casing. The threads of that night weaving together into some kind of fucked up tapestry, the growing pit in my gut signals an emerging fear of what we¡¯ll find at the end of this Nico-made road. What will I have to reckon with at the end of this dreaded path? The acceptance of dark gods and a chaotic universe decaying into oblivion hits worse than the most rational explanation, that I¡¯m a monster, a killer. Bobbi¡¯s flashlight beam glints off a shiny thing imbedded in the flakey bark of a juniper trunk. We traverse the exposed sandstone, taking a closer look at the divot in the small tree. A bullet lodged deep into the wood, the depth reflecting the trajectory of a high velocity round. ¡°Nico, Nico, why were you firing at trees?¡± Bobbi rolls his eyes. ¡°Shit-for-brains aim,¡± I grin, surprised to find my sense of humor to be alive and well. ¡°You know what they say about guys with shit aim?¡± Bobbi jokes. ¡°Tiny fingers!¡± I crack up. ¡°HEY-O!¡± Bobbi doubles over with laughter. He snorts, pulling strands of espresso brown hair from his face, regaining his composure, ¡°You wanna keep going? It¡¯s a lot to take on.¡± ¡°Yeah, I got to see this through,¡± I shoot him a knowing look, ¡°I¡¯ve avoided facing this for too long.¡± Bobbi nods, ¡°I¡¯m with you.¡± We proceed up the machine-made tracks sliced into the desert, walking in contemplative silence. Cold sweat saturating my fingertips as we traverse the uneven terrain, my breath quickening, the boulders growing to towering heights around us. The grooves come to a stop when the stones reach a state of impassability by vehicle, with only a few steps left as spectral outlines in the biocrust. On that night I took the hard way, scrambling over solid rocks in hopes I could outfox Nico. Below me, the ledge, haunting my waking dreams, hangs over Ghost River, the rapids beneath gurgle with the same timbre of Nico¡¯s death throws, the horrendous sound lodged in my brain. A dull stain, etched into the ground, soaked into the sandstone, sits visible from where we stand. BURNING. Leaking¡­ Am I dying? I wretch, my whole body shaking¡­ Bobbi rushes to stabilize me, looking for a place to set me down on the slickrock, ¡°I got you! I got you!¡± Regaining my composure, I push past Bobbi¡¯s steadying grasp, walking through my nightmare. The deep maroon splatter and pooling discoloration, etched deep between the grains. Trembling, control lost from my limbs, I stare at the evidence of my carnage¡­ my blood. ¡°Dude¡­ that¡¯s a lot of blood loss,¡± Bobbi scrutinizes the mark, ¡°How¡¯d you survive that?¡± ¡°I¡­¡± I stammer, ¡°I don¡¯t think I did¡­¡± ??? ¡°I¡¯m not sure we¡¯ll make it to Split Canyon Road before nightfall, if we stop at the Ghost River overlook trail,¡± Bobbi cautions, turning the steering wheel, ¡°It¡¯s up to you dude, if you wanna keep this up.¡± ¡°I need to understand, I need to face this,¡± I shrug, trying to disguise my exhaustion, ¡°Let¡¯s do the overlook. We can skip Split Canyon Road and return anytime since it¡¯s so close.¡± ¡°You da boss,¡± Bobbi turns up the radio, in an attempt to soothe the mood. The sounds of the road and the music blur into white noise as we turn off the highway onto a poorly paved road. In the north, a blonde wall of stone rises as a sentinel over the valley, reflecting the harsh late-season light from the south. I consider allowing the rhythm of the sedan to rock me to sleep, but with each passing minute, the rugged beauty of the high desert pulls me to wakefulness. It occurs to me, this is our first real adventure together since childhood. Bobbi and I work day in and out, we¡¯ve never made time for ourselves. Better late than never, I shy away from considering the wasted moments of our lives, given everything, it¡¯s too much to bear thinking about. Through the maze of switchbacks carved into the canyon walls, we rise higher and higher, the sky clear light-ultramarine and devoid of clouds. My fingertips drag along the grooves of my marble badger, the texture calming, a reminder of who I really am. That dark silhouette against the gibbous moon, mercury eyes of pandemonium staring back at me all those months ago¡­ with the evidence of my ordeal tangible, the many appearances of Navan¡¯yu hold greater consequence, a possibility that the cosmos speaks to me. So many unanswered questions, my mind spins, will I ever get closure? Bobbi bobs his head, humming to the music, holding it together, disguising his stress. What must he be thinking? Maybe reflecting on the tangle of strangeness that has been my last six months. No, I can¡¯t think about it, take it one step at a time, let things unfold as they should. Redirecting my attention, in the great outdoors beyond the tempered glass, the stones tower, borne of striations. Telling a story about a desert far more ancient than our own, a time of lands covered in swirling sand dunes, swallowed by new worlds of sediment, only to be resurrected by the upheaval of mountains to the east. Could Navan¡¯yu have witness such a thing, the ever-shifting planet, forming and reforming, unending, unbound by the constraints living things are governed by? Everything changes¡­ maybe, everything will be alright in the end. Nico¡¯s just another scumbag taken by the wilderness, yeah, I could have a life out here. Help finish what Nana started, recording the history of my people¡­ let alone getting to hang with Charley and Bobbi. My mind drifts into a state between slumber, the world growing fuzzy and comforting. Through the open driver¡¯s side door, a shrill cry of a scrub jay jolts me from my rest. Pocketing the stone trinket in my charcoal grey coat, I see Bobbi¡¯s form in his seat, hunched, his feet planted on the dirty ground, his head buried in his hands, the day taking its pound of flesh from him, as well as I. Pulling myself up, I attempt to comfort my old friend, ¡°We¡¯ll get through this.¡± He turns to me, his cavernous eyes glazed and wet, ¡°I don¡¯t know how to explain how you¡¯re even here¡­ it scares the shit out of me¡­ And¡­ I don¡¯t know what I¡¯d of done with myself if you¡¯d died.¡± ¡°I was gone from your life for so many years though.¡± ¡°Yeah, but I could¡¯ve lived with the idea that you were somewhere else living your life,¡± he shakes his head, ¡°What a fucked up way to go¡­¡± ¡°All we can do now is push forward, learn what we learn, and accept where it takes us,¡± I speak with an unexpected air of resignation. ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± he sniffs deeply, clearing his sinuses, ¡°Here¡¯s to finding the fuck out!¡± ¡°Damn straight!¡± I give him a fist bump. Lifting myself from the seat, I stretch, feeling the sinews in my back loosen from their tight coil, extending into a drawn out yawn. Following Bobbi to the trailhead, I crack my neck to stave my disquiet. The wind sings through the brush, rushing with a unique flavor of chaos. ¡°How far are up the track did you say you found the Mistwalker?¡± he asks me. ¡°About a half a mile to the overlook and prolly a few miles off trail along the canyon edge,¡± I shiver, recollecting my ears breaking against her brassy shriek, piercing pain, the world spinning. ¡°Cool, let¡¯s get as far as we can, but turn back before we lose the light,¡± Bobbi suggests. Diligently, I follow my old friend up the path, Bobbi my armor. Warmth gathers in the depths of my chest, percolating through the membranes of tissue, the knowledge that I won¡¯t go it alone again soothes my weary soul. We walk in near silence except for Bobbi¡¯s occasional wheezing breaths, a sign he¡¯s been neglecting to hike regularly. Losing the supply runs might be a blessing, giving us more time to spend doing things important to us. Our pace brisk, we reach the overlook, wrought iron bars adorning the edges, the gorge plunging to the depths of Ghost River, a sight I¡¯m all too acquainted with. Something tickles the protruding bone on the base of my neck, a warning of the impending presence of something past my sight. Fatigue takes me¡­ my eyes growing heavy, my body slouches¡­ Bobbi¡¯s distant screams of panic¡­ echoing somewhere beyond my mind¡­ ???? ¡°RILEY? FUCK, MAN! YOU OKAY? PLEASE BE OKAY!¡± Eyes refocusing to the late afternoon sun, the overlook glinting with warm rays, exactly where I was when I fell into a state of sleep. My limbs jerk about beyond my control, my line of sight strange, lower, as though hunched. What¡¯s wrong with him¡­ a seizure maybe? The fuck is my phone? ¡°Go get help, I should go get help,¡± words unfamiliar to me spill from my mouth¡­ Bobbi¡¯s words. Bobbi? Oh, is it happening again? I try to lift my leg to slam it into the ground¡­ to no avail¡­ passenger¡­ again an unwilling passenger within someone else. His eyes swivel to a figure standing, still, yet slumped, a waterfall of raven hair covering the being¡¯s face against a lolling head¡­ long deep grey coat¡­ it¡¯s me. Grotesque is my outer-self, limp as though switched off, my body sways with a subtle, unnatural movement. My old friend¡¯s breathing strains as he struggles to find his cheap flip phone in the baggy pockets of his black and royal blue coat. No service! Damn it! Keep it together Bobbi. Try and move him¡­ yeah, get him sitting, get him comfortable in case he starts flailing. If he falls, we¡¯re both fucked! Unable to move, I feel his muscles take action, attempting to lean my frame against the ground. Meeting resistance, Bobbi uses strength I was unaware he had, to combat the rigidity of my form. To no avail, I¡¯m immovable as though solidified to the dead oxidized earth, my flesh shuddering against his grip. In horror, my old friend takes a purposeful step back. I feel the alarm rise within the fibers of his spine. Fuck! I can¡¯t lose you Riley, not again¡­ Too many wasted years! What do I do? What am I supposed to do? I¡¯m supposed to protect him¡­ he depends on me¡­ damn it, I am fucking useless¡­ Keep your shit together Bobbi¡­ Can¡¯t let him down¡­ His skin turns to ice, that familiar creeping sensation of being watched, it burrows through the grey matter of his thoughts into my consciousness. Deeper than empathy, I know this, I¡¯ve experienced it, now we share the verge of the emergence of something terrible, the heart of divinity. Primal fear, something¡¯s there¡­ Don¡¯t move¡­ It¡¯s not real if I don¡¯t look at it. Unable to resist the pull of morbid curiosity, Bobbi turns to face the frightening thing that haunts the darkness within all of us. A dense cloud of ebony smoke hovers, ink in water, a tendril of shadow. Navan¡¯yu disembodied, curls over the canyon edge, worming its way towards our shared vessel, a brassy grumble emanating from within. My old friend¡¯s mind lies blank, broken by the sight of something unexplainable, his ligaments frozen in place. Slowly it approaches, no longer the ¡°she¡± I¡¯ve known, now devolved into something truly unfathomable. The entity stops within inches of his face, as though waiting for him to engage, thirsting for connection. Paralyzed, he stares into the gloom, as mesmerizing as it is terrifying. Violence so inherent to the Mistwalker¡¯s being, it consumes his face in ebony particles, invading his mind, his cognition stretching¡­ drawing him out somewhere beyond thought¡­ ???? ¡­ Amber, dense clouds, rumbling in the distance, the shared psyche of my old friend and I soar above distant ground. Unbound from pain, weariness, or fear, within an immense body, fabricated into petals of luminous tissue, exuding the weight of the universe. It floats with indescribable beauty¡­ Bobbi¡­ yet not¡­ something removed from what he once was¡­ a being of boundless blazing light enshrouding a sphere of pure void¡­ the other¡­ the second half¡­ a god¡­ A memory¡­ a recollection from a moment long past, the tortured cries of animals below, victims of the cycle of renewal, their flesh to be remade into soil and ash. A pang of regret, lives destroyed, yet a necessity for the continuance of all things. What of the experiences soon to be lost to the pyroclastic wave? What of the value of the consciousness of life? The explosive timbre of the great mountain to the southeast bellows, laden with molten debris from the deep within¡­ The Shadow that Envelopes Light, circles. Its inky form dances in the gloom¡­ together, we, the one of the whole and the whole of the one, in infinite symmetry¡­ bear witness to this crucial instant in time on this lonely little world¡­ ???? ¡­ Navan¡¯yu releases her vise on Bobbi¡¯s mind¡­ the Dark God, returned to a state of meat and beast. Her leaden gaze ripping me from his consciousness¡­ Electricity returns to my stiff limbs, pitching me backwards, as though my psyche propelled itself from Bobbi back to into my own body. Heaving, I gulp for air, filling lungs that are once again my own. My eyes refocus¡­ Bobbi stands yards from me, stationary, enthralled by the presence of the Great Spirit, a state of incomprehensible serenity taking his features. Reflexively, his fingers curl around strands of her shaggy midnight mane. ¡°BOBBI¡­¡± I plead, reaching out for him, unable to form the words. The Mistwalker watches me, her orbs narrowing with satisfaction, akin to a predator reveling in a fresh kill. She takes wing, dragging my friend into the late afternoon sky. Astride her back, the pair vanish into the deep blue expanse¡­ two¡­ the whole¡­ the dyad¡­ united¡­ a thought crawls in the back of brain. I¡¯m over¡­ never about me¡­ forever alone¡­ I¡¯m just a ghost¡­ a stranger in my own story¡­ Chapter XXI - NO ONE NO ONE Chapter XXI THE GODS OF GHOST RIVER ¡°Then I noticed that I¡¯m being moved towards the sound, to reach out with my hand, to touch, to help, to give comfort.¡± - Ralph Metzner, The Toad and the Jaguar Cold¡­ a stale, sour taste arising, the growing hours since the dark beast stole my friend, the dread brews within my body without egress. I pace, a half mile to Bobbi¡¯s silver sedan, and then to the overlook¡­ back and forth ... Without his keys, the machine sits unusable, even as a shelter from the frigid jaws of the enclosing night. Debating with myself, should I follow the road homeward to find help, or wait in the hope that he might return? In a state of cognitive paralysis, I bury my naked hands into the depths of my charcoal coat pockets, my shoulders shaking against the descending temperature. My fingertips within the cloth cavity brush the marble badger and then move onto the perceivable contours of my phone, long switched off to preserve battery. I make my way back up the hiking trail to keep my muscles loose and warm. Wading through the dawning truth, my oldest friend¡­ is not what I thought he was¡­ maybe¡­ not even truly human? No¡­ more than human¡­ a bridge between the living and something greater¡­ something akin to¡­ no¡­ an inverse of¡­ mirroring the being I¡¯ve come to know as Navan¡¯yu¡­ Yet, there¡¯s something errant about Bobbi¡­ not like the other spiritfolk, none with the semblance of physicality, save the Mistwalker herself¡­ no, whatever Bobbi is¡­ is alive¡­ not just at times a god made flesh like the Great Spirit. But a person¡­ with a life so like my own¡­ Yet the divinity alight within him so clear, I feel foolish not to have seen it. His untamed compassion too human to be human¡­ My eyes fail to adjust fully to the blackness, making the canopy of stars overhead gleam with dazzling radiance. The arm of a galaxy encircles the skyline, of which I¡¯m nothing but a spec of dust on a forsaken rock spinning around some faraway sun. A vastness that is the domain of the Two¡­ lonely and mighty¡­ inexplicably tethered here, in this instant, in this time, through near impossible circumstances¡­ somehow, I¡¯m here to bear witness. And what of Bobbi? What if he never returns, a casualty, consumed by the forces of nature he both is one with and is divided by? How could I live with myself? Even if I find my way out of this wilderness before the hypothermia gets me¡­ got help and put together a half-baked explanation of the events as they unfolded¡­ no one would believe me. It would be Nico¡¯s death all over again, but this time, I wouldn¡¯t be so lucky. Would my failure to protect my friend be what ends me? I have but one choice¡­ to wait¡­ and pray¡­ Navan¡¯yu releases him. I lean against the wrought iron guardrail, the depths of the canyon to Ghost River imperceptible in the gloom. In my mind, I know it¡¯s foolish to stop moving, to let the chill in, but my legs ache with fatigue, losing the battle to keep pace with my compulsive walking. Sliding to a sitting position, I gaze up at the distant night, contemplating the Mistwalker¡¯s whereabouts at this moment¡­ could she be somewhere in the still desert¡­ hidden¡­ or did she steal him away someplace incompressible¡­ akin to my descent into the fissure¡­ through dimension, through the fabric of space itself? A series of uncontrollable shivers passes through me, my tongue gaining a strange, steely taste against the recesses of my clammy mouth. The stone mammal in my pocket feels cold to the touch, even though my fingers never lost contact with the mineral figurine. Moved to weariness, I feel my body slowly being enclosed in a sensation of blanketing warmth, my eyelids succumb to the weight. Awaken The disturbing timbre of Navan¡¯yu¡¯s words pull me from my empty consciousness, the grey and fuzzy resolution of my thoughts crystallizing in the darkness. Raising my trembling frame from the chilled sandstone and wrought iron, the night aged to the deepest velvet in my rest. The distinct resonance of shuffling¡­ Heavy footsteps from somewhere down the trail, registers in my ears. A figure in the gloom, wisps of condensation their breath¡­ Bobbi? An unmistakable silhouette, he lists, unsteady on his feet, as though drunk. I rush to him, in an effort to provide him stability. My old friend leans against me, a tremor running through his frame. His voice weak and strained, he murmurs, ¡°Take me home¡­¡± In alarm, I fumble with his pockets seeking the keys to Carl, hoping I don¡¯t lose purchase on his near limp frame, ¡°I¡¯ll get you home¡­ keep leaning on me, I got you.¡± ¡°Sorry¡­ being a bother¡­ I,¡± Bobbi mutters incoherently, his words barely audible. ¡°You¡¯re good,¡± I reassure him, securing the hamster key ring, ¡°Keep talking to me, bud. Stay with me.¡± ¡°I¡¯m¡­ tired,¡± he whimpers, stumbling as I manage to catch him. Half carrying and half dragging, I pull Bobbi down the hiking trail in the direction of the silver sedan. Progress slow going, I steady my footing, resting him against my frame and the ground every ten feet or so. One of his off-brand sneakers detaches from his foot, a toe lays visible through the holes in his sock. Setting him down, I retrieve the shoe and endeavor to return it to where it belongs. With some effort, the footwear slides back on. Tying the laces tightly, I collect my thoughts, looking for a new plan. ¡°Hey man, can you walk if I support you?¡± Bobbi answers in an aimless grumble I can¡¯t quite discern. ¡°I¡¯m going to pick you up, see if you can find your footing,¡± I implore him, putting my arm around his chest, straining to bring him to a standing position. Bobbi slurs a muddle of words, of which I catch, ¡°¡­ yeah¡­ trying¡­ Ghost Man¡­¡± Rigidity returns to his frame as he pushes against the ground. ¡°Good, focus on staying up! Don¡¯t worry about the thinking part, I got that,¡± I encourage him, ¡°Just keep walking!¡± Guiding him down the trail, we make it slowly to his car, Bobbi struggling to maintain balance as he leans into me. Maybe a half an hour from when we started, the outline of Carl becomes discernable in the deep black. Unlocking the vehicle, I get my friend situated in the passenger seat. In the sepia glow of the interior lights, his eyes appear hollow¡­ dark circles visible in the indentations of his sockets, a haunted expression. I hide my disquiet, worrying that I might make his state of being worse if I mention something. I sit beside Bobbi, keeping a sharp eye on him as I adjust the seat and turn the engine over. All that I long for¡­ is home¡­ ??? That sickening amber gleam of the lonely streetlight at the end of his block flickers menacingly as I pull up to Bobbi¡¯s apartment, ¡°Moment of truth, you sure you don¡¯t want to visit the emergency room?¡± ¡°No, I just wanna sleep,¡± Bobbi utters under his breath. ¡°Alright, help me get you into the house,¡± I find myself pleading with him, ¡°Just like what we did to get you into the car.¡± ¡°Mhhhm,¡± Bobbi mouths in response. Good enough for me, I pull him to his feet, balancing him against my side, and guide him to the front door, his keys in hand. The apartment stands eerily quiet in its emptiness, as though all the life and warmth was sucked from it in our absence. Bobbi sits on the floor, fumbling with his sneakers, which he eventually removes, laces still tied. ¡°You want me to help with¡­¡± I ask. ¡°I¡¯m alright,¡± he mutters, the acute state of shock that took him seeming to have eroded in part, over the course of our drive. He staggers to his bedroom, shutting the door softly behind him. Boots still on, I pull out my flip phone from my coat pocket and plug it into the wall by the futon. The stone badger finding a new home on the end table, my mind races. Bobbi certainly can¡¯t take his shift in the morning in the state he¡¯s in¡­ no, I¡¯ll have to cover for him. Reaching for the mobile to set an alarm, the time, 5:29 am, blares at me from the sea-glass green screen. No point in sleeping if I¡¯m just going to be up again in thirty minutes. Wired from agitation, I find myself fidgeting with the buttons on my charcoal coat. Walk it off Riley, yeah, that¡¯s what I¡¯ll do¡­ Ignoring the dull ache of my fatigued muscles, I slip out the sliding glass door. Somewhere shrouded by the night, O¡¯chohca¡¯s maroon to mauve colors lay invisible, only the outlines of the great mounds of sediment register in the dimness. Walking silently, the ground soft as powder, I steep in my despondence. I dragged my old friend into this¡­ or was it as fated as the Great Spirit pulling me from Ghost River? Half dead¡­ maybe, truly dead¡­ I lost a hell of a lot of blood. That¡¯s beside the point, what will become of Bobbi? Is he at risk? Is Navan¡¯yu as bound to him as I am bound to her¡­ divinity not as unconstrained as I once thought? Could this be the ¡°untenable burden¡± Prairie Mother spoke of? Beings of unspeakable power victimized by the flow of events¡­ beyond their control. Either way, the Mistwalker used me, convinced my miserable hide that I was important¡­ chosen¡­ to embrace a crucial undertaking on the path ahead¡­ Navan¡¯yu¡¯s aim in seeking me out, I cannot fathom. I¡¯m no one¡­ From my saltiness for the dark one, arises a sense of¡­ anger¡­ at Bobbi? Guilt cuts me deep¡­ Am I this petty? That I¡¯d harbor resentment against my old friend¡­ the actual chosen, something as divine as the Mistwalker herself, for being favored over me? Who knows what horrors Navan¡¯yu subjected him to¡­ not only am I being unfair, but it¡¯s a heartless thing to entertain¡­ No, I must let it go. I must protect Bobbi at all costs. The domed heavens shift to deep purple, signaling the arrival of morning twilight. A restful state of comfort takes me, I¡¯ll live to see another sunrise. In the dim light, I scramble up the side of one of the multitude of the Vermillion Hills, without a care for the dirt permeating my fancy grey coat. Standing at the threshold of night and day, the magenta sky glows, only the planets holding onto their visibility in the sky. A beautiful thing to behold¡­ I stare in wonder, a sensation of gladness to be a part of it all, held in my chest. From the shadowy corner of my eye, I sense a presence beyond my field of vision, somewhere beside me. Reflexively, I snap at it, ¡°Fuck off!¡± The tip of Navan¡¯yu¡¯s black muzzle pulls forward as the form of the great beast turns to leave me to myself. ¡°No¡­ stay,¡± I exhale, changing my mind. Returning to my side, she sits tall on her haunches, drawing herself up to her full height, a familiar pillar of mane, fur, and wing, yet, without her natural state of bitterness. Maybe even a sense of fatigue to her being¡­ as if a God could be weary. She lingers in an eerie state of stillness as small cotton fluffed clouds painted in coral hues arise in the distance, lines of neon color streaking across her ebony fur. I look up at her, unsure of what she wants from me. You The Invariable Of Our Age We Learn Through Pain The Mistwalker answers me in familiar broken phrases, yet her voice is my own, grating and rough. Not the elemental, ethereal, wraith-like quality I¡¯ve come to know since my terrible summer. The uncomfortable utterance of her chosen cadence sets my teeth on edge. She¡¯s mirroring me? To what end? ¡°Yeah, no shit,¡± I feel energy in my voice, my fear of the Mistwalker lost to my temper, ¡°You hurt me over and over¡­ used me! And now you¡¯re going after people I care about. Why? Why do you do it? Why do you keep doing it?¡± Shadow Flesh Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. The Energy The Spark That Feeds The Fire The Cycle Exploding Stars That Which Unmade And Remade All The Mind The Essence Of The Untamed Chaos To Lay Ruin And Bring Forth From The Dust Is The Nature Of The Shadow That Envelopes Light The Great Spirit looks to me, her canine expression sullen, hanging on my response. I eye her critically, trying to discern her intentions. The Want To Mend Remains Still The Path Lies Uncertain Pain, Navan¡¯yu¡¯s facial features twist into a state of¡­ anguish. Emotive in a new way, I study her body language, unsure if it¡¯s a device to ease my troubled mind. Through her animalistic countenance it¡¯s hard to detect her purpose, but her despair reads as genuine. Reaching up to her shoulder, I give her a reassuring pat akin to the encouragement one would give a pet dog. The dark beast turns her head from me in reaction, but her form remains anchored to the chalky earth. All Ways Are Arduous I quiet my soul, bringing my words to a whisper, ¡°I died that night¡­ didn¡¯t I? All those months ago¡­¡± Her skull swivels back to me, those eyes wide, unblinking, her gaze piercing. The Mistwalker sways strangely as though trying to nod, without the ability to comprehend exactly why she¡¯s doing it nor truly how to do so. ¡°How am I alive?¡± Cold Water The Flesh Simple To Repair A chill runs down my spine, ¡°It was you, wasn¡¯t it¡­ who drew me away from Prairie Mother¡­ who showed me those terrible visions¡­ of me caving in Nico¡¯s skull¡­¡± The Lines Of That Night All But One Leads To Your End The Shadow That Envelopes Light Guardian That Protects Against Your Mortality One Lone Thread A Path Untraveled But Realized In Another Time The Death Of The One That Hungers Ceaselessly From Within All Possibilities You Survive In The Face Of Brutal Truth You Take Your Life In All Threads Of Time Navan¡¯yu Shadow Made Flesh Gathers Your Spirit Sequesters It Within Yoo¡¯O¡¯ Returning It For A Greater Purpose Speechless, I digest her words, the fragmented pieces of my past coalescing into a pattern that holds a larger significance, something I can make sense of. Navan¡¯yu, in every outcome, is the only barrier to my death. Maybe, it would¡¯ve been better to have just let me die, the way the lines of probability inevitably guide me. The pit of my gut drops, ¡®Greater Purpose¡¯ what horrendous thing awaits for me down at the end of my path. Am I just a plaything of the old ones, to be strung along until ultimately I meet some equally terrible fate. ¡°Why me?¡± I push back against her words, ¡°There¡¯s billions of people, you could¡¯ve picked literally anyone¡­¡± All Threads Of Eternity Flow Through You A Fixed Moment You Are And Always Will Be Matter And Time Pulled In Concert You Gather Them To A Single Point A Beacon To The Light That Envelopes Shadow The Mighty One Lost To The Cycles Of Mortality ¡°Leave Bobbi out of this!¡± I fume at her, ¡°I¡¯m not some bullshit¡­ snare you get to careless wield to imprison a god!¡± Navan¡¯yu grimaces in surprise, taken aback by my sudden outburst, her ears flattening against her skull. ¡°It¡¯s not fair, and you know it!¡± I lay into the Great Spirit. In the heat of the moment, her mane stands on end, taking on a feral, crazed appearance. The being shudders, as though the molecules within her wish to disintegrate, to become formless rather than face my ire. The dark beast expels air, amassing her nerve, holding together the fleshy sinews of her material frame. Slowly, her fur flattens, her features taking on a dejected expression. Oblivion Eternal End Galaxies Descending To Entropy An Empty Cosmos All Things At Stake One Chance One Moment Or All Is Lost I fall silent, contemplating the weight of her words reflecting back at me in my own voice. Finding a seat on the ground, I draw my knees into a fetal position, covering my head, burying my fingers in my long hair. Navan¡¯yu lays flat on her belly in the dirt at my side, her neck stretching out with uncanny length in front of her. Untenable Things We Must Rise To Meet ¡°There¡¯s nothing else¡­ but forward,¡± I pull my head from my arms, ¡°What must be done?¡± She turns her head, dragging it uncomfortably against the desert ground to meet my stare. The beast speaks, her words dire and hollow, even in my familiar tone. When Day and Night Return To Coequal You Must Lead Kiyteh¡¯aa¡¯sykanhi The Mother of The Vacant The One You Call Friend To The Sacred Place O¡¯Su¡¯ktah¡¯Hu¡¯hii Divest Them Of Nhokah Mortality To Rise Restored Ascendance The Voidmother The Point Stability That Binds The Whole ¡°You¡¯re asking me to destroy the person who matters most,¡± venom infecting my words, ¡°NO! You demand too much, take too much¡­ I¡¯m done! Stay out of my life, and stay the hell away from Bobbi!¡± Climbing to my feet, I leave Navan¡¯yu in the dust atop the mauve sediment of the hill. I glance over my shoulder, she stands sorrowful, her head hanging loosely on her neck. Sitting upon her haunches, particles of her animalistic form slowly disseminate from her body, her blackness silhouetted against the tangerine radiance of the rising sun. Bitterness lodged in my throat, I walk with intentionality, holding a prayer buried within my heart that I¡¯ll never see the Mistwalker again.