Chapter Fourteen: Shifting

Juliana

 

 

The end of the road meets the base of a steep sagebrush, chamisa, and prickly pear cactus covered hillside. Somehow, the plants manage to survive in the harsh, dry conditions of the high desert. Their persistence is admirable. Mine, not so much. The trailer hitch, or some other unseen part of the rickety trailer, bottoms out for the umpteenth time and I park the truck. My chin drops to my chest in resignation. There’s no bloody way this rig is going to make it one more yard, and neither am I. I’m wilting and I haven’t found any horses.

The hawk glides over the truck hood, sweeps skyward, and disappears over the crest of the hill. I grab my backpack and hop out. The sky is broken with clouds, but there’s still no rain. I grab my hoodie off the seat, but throw it back in when I realize it’s damp from the water I spilled.

Heaving my bag over my shoulders, I swing the door closed and turn for the hill. The hawk is nowhere to be seen, but if I’m in for a step, I may as well leap.

Expectations are like nagging parents. They keep riding your back until you can’t take any more. My expectations soar and dive alternately as I trek up the slope with nothing but dust and surprised moths for company. The evening is dragging. Gray light highlights uninspired clouds. I want the twilight pastels of a perfect summer evening sunset. I should have known that wasn’t going to happen on this abysmal errand. Night will soon arrive and I’ll lose any chance of seeing the horses. The thought makes me pick up my pace. I’m hopeful for a decent view from the top of the hill and the Bull’s Horn should be visible to the north. If Chris and his dad are on the other side, I’m going to kiss one strange-eyed little hawk. If I have to hike all the way to the Bull’s Horn tonight, I’m going to dig a hole, bury my expectations in it, and call it quits. I might even leave Vivi’s ridiculous trailer out here in the middle of nowhere from spite. And who knows? I may be able to meet up with Jared before the show is over.

From the top, I see the horses standing near the bottom of the hill in a shallow valley. The area is sheltered to the north by a cluster of stunted trees and open to the south. The horses stand around like a group of castoffs. Some appear tired with lowered heads while others are antsy. I’m too far away to call out and announce my arrival. White Wolf is too far away to see the expression on his face and I don’t see Chris. I pick my path carefully as I descend and make good time. The distance seems to lengthen with the awareness of how late it’s getting. At last, a horse alerts to my presence. The animal raises its head, ears rotating toward me like satellite dishes. I’m about to yell, “Hello” when I see the white hair and oval face of Sherman White Wolf Abeyta. His black eyes pierce my soul and it takes most of my willpower not to cower and run.

A look can do that?

He shuffles around the side of a bay colored horse and waves in greeting. A familiar looking dog at his side whines once, but stops immediately when White Wolf nudges it with his knee.

“You made it,” he says with a curt nod. “Will you join our camp? Chris could use some company other than me and the animals.”

Unable to explain how a person flips from scary all-knowing, all-seeing shaman to roguish crazy great uncle in mere seconds, I raise my energetic protection and make my way to the campfire with White Wolf and Fetch.

“The horse trailer is over the hill,” I say.

“Is that so?” he asks. “Who do you think got you here?”

Confusion tumbles around in my head at White Wolf’s questions. I’m about to ask him what he means, but I see Chris and let it go.

“What happened?” I hurry over to my friend.

His left leg is stretched out in front of him. His pants are torn at the thigh and what’s left of the fabric is stained with blood. A lot of blood.

“It was an arrow. I’m not bleeding. You can rid yourself of the face you’re making,” he says.

I check myself, and sure enough, I’m grimacing like I’ve eaten a rotten apple with the worm inside.

“What do you mean an arrow?”

“He says you’re his best student. You sure this is the right girl, Chris?” White Wolf asks.

Chris’s jaw hardens. I glance between them and find myself staring at the elder shaman as he cracks a grin, or perhaps his down-turned mouth isn’t quite so frowny now.

“Did you send a hawk to guide me here?” I ask. My bearings can’t quite find direction with these two. If I could get a hold of one crumb of sense, it would be really helpful to the ruling percentage of sanity.

“That is one way to put it,” Chris says.

They exchange a look that doesn’t escape me. I’m out of the loop. Way out. Satisfaction and mirth emit out of the old man.

“What’s going on here?” I try again. “Did you make me bring the horse trailer all the way out here?”

“Force you?” Chris says with slightly raised brows. His look flattens and he gives me his characteristically normal serious look. “No. We needed assistance. I suggested you would be able to handle the job.”

“To help you move horses out of the desert?” I ask.

He stares at the hobbled animals standing around the makeshift camp. “Juliana, you are proving yourself and the level of your abilities.”

“What are you talking about? Why are you just sitting there? And, why don’t we get out of here? Like right now?”

“There’s the girl I recognize,” White Wolf says. “Show your spit and let him have it.”

“Recognize me? What?” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop myself.

I should not speak to an elder with that tone of voice and the three of us know it. I clam up and wait for retribution. He doesn’t cast darts at me. Instead, he smiles and walks to a nearby horse. White Wolf reaches inside a saddlebag on his horse, Mika.

“My leg is mended, but not fully. I cannot ride for long periods of time.”

“How bad is it?” I ask as my mind begins to work on a treatment.

Inside my backpack is every first aid item I could think to bring with me. I take a seat and unzip my bag. Being this close to Chris’s dried blood, I have to close my eyes and will my stomach to stay put.

“Your Shadow forced my skin to heal,” Chris says with disapproval.

“Nathaniel did this?” I ask. “When?”

“Right after I was shot.”

“But it still hurts?”

“He did only enough to save himself,” Chris says bitterly.

“I don’t believe it. What actually happened?”

White Wolf places a pot of water on the coals. His dog stays close to his heels with every step.

“Great Spirit comes, and my son, says, ‘Phffft on you. I will bleed before opening my eyes and receive a great blessing.’”

“Enough, Wolf,” Chris warns.

“He is still young. I have a hard time remembering the smugness of youth.”

I think I actually hear Chris snort with contempt.

“Can I look at your leg?” I ask.

“It is what it is. When I am ready to ride again, we will take the horses to the trailer. How long did it take you to walk over the hill?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t have a watch. I can’t wear them. They always break.”

“Indian time needs no watch,” Wolf says.

“He can’t wear one, either,” Chris says.

“I choose to follow the sun,” White Wolf says.

Chris looks to me with his normal unreadable seriousness. “Take a guess, Juliana,” he says.

“Maybe forty minutes,” I say.

“That’s what I thought,” Chris says.

“I have a poultice and a salve to pull out infection and speed up cell growth. I have some pain relieving tea as well. Do you want to try some?”

“He will try it, or I will shame him into admitting the real reason you’re here.”

“He lies to entertain himself,” Chris says.

“No lies come out of me,” White Wolf removes a medicine bag from his pocket. He changes the subject and adds, “Chris says you see the spirit world.”

I remove my bag of herbal remedies, salves, and capsules from my pack and say, “Mmh-hmm.”

“And you dream walk.”

“I have.” This line of conversation makes me uncomfortable.

“And you speak to my animals.”

“Not really,” I say.

“I already know,” White Wolf says as he keeps his eyes on the pot of water over the fire. “There’s no use in lying around here. This water is for you.”

“Thank you,” I say as I sort the contents of my herbal emergency kit.

White Wolf turns to me and his eyes seem to lighten. They’re no longer the black penetrating orbs, but rich brown, endless and seeking. He squats near my side and I lean away. Not because he’s a large man or even because he needs room, but from the instinct to shield myself from a stranger. Back to the freaky all-seeing shaman again, I think.

He stares at me for a second longer, then turns to Chris’s leg. White Wolf focuses on Chris, praying and sprinkling the sacred corn pollen over his son.

“That thing you do. The wariness you feel when I look at you,” he says as he rises back onto his knobby legs. “People will see you the same way one day. You get used to it.”

“I will not,” I defend.

He has a crinkling laugh that puts me at ease somewhat, even if I don’t like his observations.

“She is sensitive, but not like other women. Not even like her grandmother,” he says to Chris.

“I know she is.”

“Back up a minute,” I say. “How do you know I heard your horse speak?”

“You’re not the only one she talks to,” he says and moves off toward the animal in question. “And I was with Mika when you were in my barn,” he adds as if I should already know the obvious.

“He was with the hawk today, too,” Chris says.

“With? How?” I ask, more confused than ever.

“Come on, Juliana. You are smarter than you’re acting right now.”

I think about it for a silent moment. The sun is well below the horizon and the late summer evening lingers at the very knife edge of night.

“I can’t think about this right now. I need to get back to town so I can be with Jared.”

“You are taking the journey of someone who is weak-minded. Why did you come all the way out here?” Chris asks as he stares at the summit of the hill, a dark line against a midnight blue sky.

I ignore his question and say, “You have to slip this beneath your bandage.” I hold up the herbal powder for his wound. “It works great. I should know.” I mentally map all the places on my body I’ve used the same herbal mixture. It’s pretty much my entire body.

“What is in it?” he asks as he eyes the bag of pale green powder.

“You don’t have to look so skeptical.”

The uncertainty deepens the lines around his mouth.

“I drank your tea once and didn’t question you. It made me sick.”

“All the more reason to be wary,” he says.

I sigh and start over. Obviously, this isn’t going to be the quick turnaround I was hoping for. “If it meets your approval, I would like to use this.” I hold up my jar of herbs so Chris can see it better. “It’s powdered white oak bark, yarrow, comfrey, goldenseal, and slippery elm. The poultice has to stay wet. I suggest letting me redo your bandages with the poultice underneath.”

“I will play along with your game and you will play along with mine,” he says. “Why are you out here?”

I glare at Chris and set my jaw. Ignoring his question again, I ask, “How was your dad with Mika in the barn? I didn’t see him until he was floating down river. And the hawk? It brought me to you. How’s that possible?”

I reach for the steaming pot of water holding two of the homemade tea bags.

“No tea. My thoughts must stay clear.”

I frown at Chris and pull my hand back.

He says, “You’re not the only stubborn one.”

“It will ease your pain,” I argue.

“So will the poultice.”

I pull my hand back. “You’re right. The poultice will help, but the tea infusion will relax you, lessen the aches, and speed up your healing from the inside.”

“You have learned much from your grandmother. Now, you will learn there is more than one way.”

“Fine,” I say with a huff and stash the tea bags away.

“Pain has purpose. It is unwise to mask it at every given opportunity,” he remarks.

“I was only trying to help. Don’t take it if you don’t want it.” My defenses are rising with his brash attitude.

“I will drink it, Juliana. If you will leave it with me. I will use it at home, where I can rest and be well.”

“He is like the back end of a donkey,” White Wolf says as he shambles over. “He is not nice to look at. Makes noises that are unpleasant. But he works hard and is steady and dependable.”

“Wolf, you are the only jackass in a hundred-mile radius,” Chris says as he finishes removing the strips of cloth tied around his thigh. White Wolf’s dog, Fetch, moves in for a sniff. Chris shoos him back and the dog returns to standing behind White Wolf.

“I am nice looking, though,” the old man says with a wink.

White Wolf holds up a yellow leather pouch and says, “We drink this. Then we move the herd to your truck.”

He unties the slipknot on the leather cord and dumps the contents into the water.

“Umm…” I start.

“I travel with animals who allow me to join them,” White Wolf says as he reaches over and breaks a stem off a sage bush. He blows on the stem with a strong puff of air and stirs the pot of water. He casts the makeshift stirrer back into the brush.

I eye the pot and sniff the air, but the scent is unrecognizable. Like Chris, I suppose I need to know what I’m being given before willingly drinking an unknown concoction. The time I was sick from Chris’s ministrations, I was too busy dealing with spiritual possession to ask beforehand.

“I didn’t see you,” I say.

He turns his gaze on me and I instantly know what I’ve said isn’t true. His eyes were in the horse and the hawk. Same stare, same intensity, and same man.

“Are you telling me you’re a shapeshif…?” I can’t say it aloud.

My mind starts to picture all the movies I’ve seen with werewolves in it. Misshapen gross transformations with cracking bones and roiling agony. Or changing into a bird with a magical pinch of sparkly fairy dust. I’ve met Vivi and her friends and I’ve seen real magic. People flying through the air and walls of water moving with only words. I suppose it’s possible a white haired wrinkled old shaman could change into a horse — I guess.

“Shapeshifting is in the spirit realm,” he says and walks away again.

I stare after him for a moment and I’m suddenly aware of the shifting of hooves, blowing of nostrils, and faint creak of saddles and harnesses. He stops next to the horse, Vannah, and reaches into a saddlebag.

“He will be offended if you do not share the tea,” Chris says.

“What is it?” I kneel next to Chris and apply the poultice.

“Ask him,” he says.

White Wolf returns with a ceramic-coated tin mug. With a square of cloth wrapped around the handle of the pot, he drains off his tea into the mug.

He raises his weathered face heavenward and says, “This night comes and we share the gifts of our Great Mother in this beverage.”

He swirls the cup and takes a long drink. He passes the mug to me.

Before I get the nerve to ask him what’s in it, he says, “Fix up my son while I work on preparing the horses to be moved.”

He points with his chin at the cup in my hand. His suggestive nod says, it’s your turn now, and then he moves off toward the horses. The dog is always at his heels. Shadow would be a more appropriate name than Fetch.

I set the bitter-sweet smelling cup aside and focus on the poultice. “Is there sassafras in the tea?”

“Smells like it,” Chris says as he keeps his eyes on my hands. “You did not ask him.”

“Neither did you.”

“He will not harm me as much as he will joke about it.” Chris leans over and retrieves the mug. He swallows twice and sets it back down. “It’s good. I will guess sassafras, licorice, and osha root.”

“Hmmm,” I hum and pour clean water from a new bottle that was inside my backpack over the herbs to form a sticky paste.

In the glow of the fire, the scar tissue looks pink and fragile. Using a tongue depressor from my first aid kit, I gently smear the poultice over his skin. I lay a plastic baggie over the paste to help keep it wet. Chris holds the plastic in place as I rewrap the injury as best I can with bandages from my kit.

“When we get back to town, I’ll bring you more so you can keep up the treatment at home. Change it once or twice a day. It already looks pretty good, considering this happened yesterday.”

“Thank you. And thank the Shadow, too. He saved me some blood. Your ability to heal is admirable.”

“His name is Nathaniel,” I say, and ignore the rest of his comment.

“He is seeking a replacement,” Chris says.

“Did he tell you?” I ask, trying to tamp down my shock. Nathaniel wouldn’t share his thoughts or feelings with someone who doesn’t like him.

“No. He has a strong mind and heart. He thinks of you always. I can put it together on my own.”

“Nathaniel is tired of the job. He wants a different path. That’s all,” I explain as I pack up my bag.

“He is detouring from the path given to him by Creator.” Chris tests out his leg and the new field dressing by flexing and bending his knee.

“A detour doesn’t seem like the end of the world,” I say.

“Creator will set things in order. It is foolish to fight unnecessarily.”

“Depends on the detour. Depends on whose world,” I argue.

Chris moves closer to the fire. He grabs a long flat rock and uses it to push dirt onto the hot coals.

“Why are you here with us this night?” Chris asks again without looking at me.

I refrain from answering, but take his lead and begin to smother the fire with rocks. Chris does his best to shovel dirt around and on top of my rocks.

“No water?” I ask thinking about how dangerously dry it is. “We have a small amount for drinking. It is the main reason we have to get the horses out of here tonight. They have had nothing for too many hours.”

The bottle of water I used to wet the poultice is three quarters full. I empty it over the heart of the campfire. The visions are imprinted in my brain. Fire and horses. Terror, fear, panic. I don’t know if the overwhelming rush of feelings in the visions are my own, the animals, or someone else’s, but I won’t be responsible for any wildfires.

Steam rises as the coals hiss and sizzle. “It’s better than nothing,” I say with a shrug. “I can’t leave hot coals out here.”

“I understand,” Chris says as he continues to bury the campfire with sandy dirt.

“You know I’ve been having visions, right?” I bite my lip. I’m not sure I’m ready to tell him. I use the side of my boot to scrape more loose dirt into the fire ring and nudge one of the rocks deeper into the pit.

“Go on.”

We both feel it coming. I’m about to vomit my reason for showing up with a huge truck and trailer. I hold back a second longer as a thought comes to me.

“How do I know your dad didn’t use mind control or something to get me out here?”

Chris tilts his head and narrows an eye. He’s making the face that says he’s trying hard to be patient with me.

“How do you know you’re not being controlled right now?” he asks.

“I’m not,” I say feeling one-hundred percent in control of my own thoughts and emotions. Then realizing anyone would probably say that if they were being questioned, I add, “All right, forget that. I saw the hawk watching me in my vision. Can your dad enter my head?”

“He could. He wouldn’t without your permission.”

“Can I give him my permission without knowing it?”

“No, Jules. You saw the hawk because you’re seeing the future.”

“But I saw a fire,” I say and the images come roaring back to me again. It’s so disturbing I can hardly speak about it. This is the reason I keep neglecting to answer Chris’s question about why I’m here.

Before Chris has a chance to respond, the fire rebels against my prodding and burying by exploding beneath my boot. At least my brain thinks it explodes. I gasp and duck as a rock cracks somewhere in the center of the heat.

It doesn’t take but a second for reality to register and I realize a rock split from the heat and moisture. It happens all the time. That being said, I don’t always inhale my spit when I gasp, but that also happens.

My body rejects the innocent error by trying to cough up my lungs. Choking and coughing simultaneously is about as comfortable as falling on a cactus face first. I raise my empty water bottle, seeking any relief and tilt the last two drops into my mouth.

Chris hands me the tin mug containing his Dad’s herbal infusion. I take a greedy swallow to help sooth my spasming throat. It helps enormously, so I drink more until the dregs fill my mouth. I spit the woody pulp on the ground and try to take a regular breath.

Chris takes the mug from my hand.

“Thanks,” I gargle out with my sore throat.

Chris flicks his wrist and empties the last of the tea dregs over the fire.

“I had to come here,” I say with finality. I don’t care if this isn’t the meaningful introspective answer he wants from me. “It was more than because your dad was inside the hawk. I couldn’t not come. That’s the simple answer.”

Chris responds with a blank look.

White Wolf calls over to us. “Load’em up. Adventure waits for no one.”

There’s a small bark from Fetch and we hear White Wolf say, “Shut your corn hole, dog.”

“How does he shape shift? How is it possible?” I ask as we turn toward the sound of White Wolf and eight horses.

“He shifts his consciousness. Like when you travel in sleep and leave your body. Do you believe that is real for you?”

“I know it is. I’m not sure I would have believed it totally, except Nathaniel has confirmed it to me over and over.”

“Wolf is doing something similar. He travels inside a host. Before you protest from here to Sunday, the animal is a willing participant or it would not happen.”

“Seriously?” I ask, dumbstruck.

“Like, totally,” Chris says back in the most uncharacteristic and absurd imitation of my tone of voice that a laugh bursts out of me.

“Was he born with the ability or can shapeshifting be learned?” I ask as we approach the herd of horses.

Chris hobbles along next to me, moving slower, but not wincing with pain.

“Both,” he says.