Читать книгу White Wolf - Lindsay McKenna - Страница 8

She felt his presence. Erin lifted her chin, surveyed her flock of forty sheep, which foraged restlessly across the red sand desert, then narrowed her eyes on the horizon. The megalith known by the Navajo people as Rainbow Butte stood like a magnificent tower rising up out of the surrounding landscape of the high plateau. He is coming. Her heart pounded briefly to underscore that knowing.

She smiled a little as she felt Maiisoh rub against her dark red cotton skirt, brushing the heavy material against her knee-high buffalo-skin boots. Looking down, she petted the white wolf’s massive head. He, too, was looking toward Rainbow Butte.

“So you sense his coming, my friend?”

Maiisoh whined and sat down, leaning his weight against her right leg.

Erin continued to pat his head. “Is this someone you have been visiting at night, Maiisoh?”

The wolf lifted his muzzle, his huge yellow eyes staring up at her thoughtfully.

Laughter rolling from her lips, Erin said, “You sly old wolf. If you didn’t enter people’s dreams they wouldn’t keep coming here.” Her smile turned slowly into a line of sadness as she continued to watch her flock. “The Great Spirit knows what is best,” she added with a sigh.

Maiisoh began to thump his big, brushy tail, dirty with red clay and tangled with sagebrush brambles. He had been chasing a jackrabbit, and the old, wise one had led him on a merry chase with no meal at the end of it. Instead, Maiisoh had found himself in huge clumps of sagebrush, muzzle buried in a hole where the old jackrabbit lived. It was an early morning ceremony performed every day by Maiisoh and that old rabbit.

“Oh,” Erin said wryly, “and of course, you know best, too. I can see by the pleased look on your face, Maiisoh.” Yet a stirring of great sadness overwhelmed her and her fingers tightened briefly on the herder’s staff that she always carried. Father Sun was just brimming the horizon and she silently offered prayers of welcome to him and to all her relations, thanking the Great Spirit for the beauty of yet another day being offered to her.

Maiisoh suddenly rose off his haunches and leaped away from her. Being a good guard, he didn’t run through the herd, but around it, loping easily toward the east and following a desert track that many vehicles had followed. The rain two days ago had turned the red clay of the desert into slick, slimy goo that no car or truck could traverse—at least, not out here to the middle of the Navajo Reservation. Until it dried, foot and horse traffic were the only kind that could make it to where she lived.

Bothered, but not knowing why, Erin continued to lead her sheep in the direction her white wolf had gone. She watched him work his way around a small hill that wore a crown of dark green Navajo tea brush and sage. Someone was coming. Who? Would he make it to where she lived? Only the Great Spirit knew those answers, and as Erin ambled down the damp red clay already beginning to dry beneath the rays of Father Sun, she hoped in one small compartment of her heart that whoever the visitor was, he would grow weary, give up and turn back.

The bleating of the sheep soothed her worry. Soon she would begin to weave her next rug from the wool she gathered from them in midsummer. Right now, their coats were heavy, growing thick in preparation for winter, which would start in mid-November on the res.

Winter… She loved winter because it meant she would be cut off from everyone—and everything. It was the time of year when she sat cross-legged at her frame and began to weave the strong, soft strands of wool into another magnificent rug. Each rug told the story of the year that had gone before. Erin didn’t try and weave as the Navajo women wove; her symbols were Eastern Cherokee, and she wove colorful picture stories across her rugs. They were never shown to anyone; she kept them carefully rolled up and tucked away in a huge old cedar trunk. But the rugs were a living, breathing testament of the last ten years of living in the hermitlike world she preferred. Each rug detailed what had happened to her that had been important to her growth.

As she slowly placed her booted feet upon the ground, she felt the energy of the land, the throbbing quiver reminding her that Mother Earth was very much alive beneath her. It was a soothing feeling, one that opened her heart like a flower, one that calmed her fractious state and made her feel loved and nurtured.

He is coming.

Halting, Erin looked toward the butte in the distance. The only way into her area was a road around the bottom of that spire. Since it had been raining heavily for the past two days, the track was still muddy. Whoever was coming had chosen a very poor time to try and find her. He was doomed to failure, she told herself, her fingers wrapping more strongly around the aged saguaro cactus staff.

Or was he?

He is coming.

A broken sigh tore from her lips. Why did she feel such consternation? Such anxiety? That had not happened before. Oh, she always knew when someone was coming. That was the easy part, for if Maiisoh did not alert her, then that secret part of herself that was connected to the living River of Life energy that glistened and gleamed through and around all things in the colors of the rainbow, would tell her of the approach of her next visitor.

It was a man.

How strange. With a few exceptions, her patients were usually women. Few men had the patience, the perseverance, the utter commitment to find her hogan, to find her. In fact most of her patients over the last ten years had been women. Only two men had made it to her home and asked for help. And they were Navajo, not white men, thank goodness.

She smiled a little as the flock moved energetically along the rutted track vehicles had followed to her hogan. The sheep seemed almost elated and moved quickly—which was unlike them. Sheep foraged slowly. They didn’t go trotting briskly down the road, ignoring sparse yellowed strands of grass here and there.

Mystified, Erin picked up her pace to follow the herd, which suddenly seemed to know exactly where it was going. Of course, Maiisoh had already run down this way, because she could see his huge, wide paw prints embedded in the thick, gooey clay. She hurried to keep up.

The tracks led around a small, round hill and then continued to wind around other hills of varying sizes and shapes. Erin knew that a good two miles away, the road dipped down into a wash where many a vehicle had become stuck—but good—after a rain. Keying her hearing, she thought she heard the faint sounds of a car engine in the distance.

He is coming.

The sheep were trotting now, heading straight for the wash. Erin had to trot herself to keep up with her flock. She never allowed them to range out here alone, for fear of coyotes grabbing one of them. There were wild dogs, too, which were more of a danger. The dogs often came from the reservation. Because the Navajo didn’t have money to feed them, the animals took off looking for food. Other disowned dogs would find them, and the animals would band together. Erin knew from sad experience that a pack of dogs starving to death would easily claim one of her vulnerable sheep and kill it without a thought. Wild, hungry dogs were a greater problem than the coyotes that owned this land.

He is coming.

Erin heard the grinding gears of a car now. Slightly winded, she saw her flock, as if guided by an invisible hand, continue to trot knowingly along the faint track, which had been washed out during the recent rainstorm. With a shake of her head, she acknowledged the invisible powers that surrounded her. Off in the distance, she saw Maiisoh standing on a hill that overlooked the wash far below. His tail was wagging expectantly and she knew Maiisoh saw the man who was trying to find her.

Well, she might as well surrender to the Great Spirit’s demand. Men were not her strong suit, never had been, but if that was what was decreed by the greatest, most loving force in her universe, then she would bow to it and move toward her destiny. That did not mean Erin wasn’t afraid. She was. The Great Spirit knew the fear that rested in her heart. Her deep, dark secret of the past still lay open and continued to ooze grief and loss. She had never tended that wound within herself, hoping to cover it, hoping to forget it with time.

He is coming.

“Great Spirit, guide me with this man who comes looking for help. Give me the words, the wisdom, the vision of my heart to see him clearly, so that a healing can take place within him.”

How many times had she spoken that reverent prayer with all her soul? Erin had lost count, but she meant each word with every cell in her body as she continued down the slight incline. Less than a mile away was the wash. She knew without even seeing it yet that the man who looked for her was stuck there with his vehicle.

He is coming.

“Damn it!” Dain shouted at the dawn sky as he stood in the wash, his clothes damp with perspiration because the fever was attacking him again, his lips curled away from his teeth. He was ankle deep in red mud, his expensive shoes ruined, his tan chino pants permanently stained. The four-wheel-drive truck he’d bought in Gallup was stuck up to its axles in clay. The owner of the car dealership had sworn this vehicle would make it through anything.

“Screw everything,” Dain muttered violently, wiping his stained hands against his pants. He’d tried to dig the slimy red mud from the tires of the vehicle, but with every shovelful he’d felt weakness eating at him. He no longer had that magnificent strength that weight training had given him. His legs trembled. His arms felt like so much jelly.

With disgust, Dain threw the shovel into the wash. Sweat beaded along his brow. Damp strands of hair were plastered against his skull. Damn this place. Damn Sarah. Damn the Yazzies. Oh, hell, damn his whole, rotten life! He breathed unsteadily through his mouth, falling back against the vehicle. The walls of the wash were made of sand and clay and rose ten feet on either side of him. The stupid wheel ruts led right through the wash. Why the hell didn’t the Navajo build bridges across things like this, as normal human beings would?

Disgust made him snort violently as his gaze ranged across the wash. Suddenly the hair on the back of his neck stood up. Lifting his hand, he ruefully rubbed the area. Tiny, cold shivers ran down his spine—a sensation he’d never experienced before. He wondered if it was another lousy symptom of his brain tumor growing and affecting some new nerve response in his body.

No, this was different. Scowling, Dain began to look around him. This sensation felt like some forewarning of danger. He laughed harshly, the sound muffled by the sand around him. He remembered now—he’d had this sensation as a kid in the orphanage, back when Mr. Gordon was stalking him, the old son of a bitch. Gordon did that to his “favorites.” And God knew, Dain had been on the top of the list when it came to Gordon’s badgering, beating and name-calling. Yeah, Dain knew this sensation, this feeling. It was one of pure, unadulterated danger. Something was stalking him.

Well, old Gordon was dead and gone now, so it couldn’t be him. Pushing away from the truck, Dain carefully lifted his foot out of the sucking red clay. He braced himself against the vehicle to keep from falling flat on his face as he moved around to the front of the truck and looked up.

His heart slammed violently into his ribs, his mouth dropped open and his eyes widened in terror. No! No, it couldn’t be! Dain was positive he was seeing things. He must be! Without thinking, he rubbed his eyes, smearing red clay across his face.

There, up on a red-colored hill above the wash, stood a white animal. From where Dain was standing, it looked like the white wolf from his nightmares. Dain’s heart pounded savagely in his chest, underscoring the terror he felt and tasted. The hill was a good half mile away, and he couldn’t see the animal clearly enough to say whether it might be a white German shepherd, or maybe a husky. Maybe he was just going slowly insane, and this was indeed the white wolf who haunted him nightly.

Dain’s mouth grew dry and his limbs froze. The same old terror, the same fear, washed through him. Somewhere within him, on some deep, unconscious level, he knew it was the white wolf—even if he wanted it to be anything but.

In the forbidding silence of the dawn, he could hear his heart beating. He could feel it thumping wildly in his chest, in response to the white wolf on the hill, watching him. Watching him.

Where did reality begin and nightmares end? As he stood there, he threw out his hand to regain his balance and it struck the hood of the vehicle. The feel of the cold metal beneath his muddy fingers grounded him momentarily. Blinking rapidly, he tried to make the white wolf go away. But it didn’t work. The beast stood like a statue on that bloody red hill, watching him, just watching him. Dain found himself gasping for breath. Was the wolf going to chase him, as he always chased him in the nightmare?

He realized that there was nowhere to run. The only way he could escape the wolf’s lethal jaws was by climbing back into the safety of the truck. And then what? How the hell was he going to get this thing unstuck and make his way back to Many Farms, the closest community and a good twenty miles south across this damnable desert?

A sound in the distance caught his attention. Dain wasn’t sure, but he could’ve sworn he heard a woman’s low, husky laughter wafting toward him in the silence that surrounded him. Where did it come from? Was it in his overactive imagination? He was barely able to tear his attention from the white wolf on the hill, but he did.

Just as the sun’s strong, golden rays flowed silently across the land, caressing the Navajo desert like a lover’s sleek arms, he saw something out of the corner of his eye. Was it magic? A ghost? Or was it real? Dain suddenly felt his knees tremble violently. He felt as if he was caught in a time warp between reality and a nightmare. He forced himself to move his eyes, very slowly, from the white wolf in the distance, toward the sound, which was much closer, almost on top of him.

It had been a woman’s laughter, rich, husky and earthy. The sound had moved through him like the golden sunlight that slowly crept across the desert. Because he was down in the wash, he still remained in the shadows. Dain laughed to himself. He was in the shadows, all right. The shadow of death. What an eloquent testimony! His vehicle was stuck in this dark, shadowed wash—a succinct statement of his life. Normally, he never thought in those symbolic parameters. Maybe because he was muddy, wet and cold, and shaking like a lost, shivering puppy, he was forced to look beyond his normal scope of life. Now that he was completely out of his element, he wasn’t sure of anything.

Dain turned toward the welcoming laughter, which seemed to have originated behind him. His eyes narrowed and his heart thumped violently in his chest. Was he seeing things? It was possible—the doctors had told him he’d hallucinate as the tumor grew larger in his brain. Weakly, he lifted his hand and rubbed his eyes. He had to be seeing things. Or was he? Dropping his hand, he looked again. No, she was still there.

This time he didn’t feel fear, but just the opposite: a powerful surge of hope. On the hill was the white wolf, watching him, making him feel raw fear. To his left stood an incredibly beautiful apparition of a woman. She wore a white deerskin jacket, a red skirt, which fell to her slender ankles, and dark leather boots. Her ebony hair hung to her waist in two thick braids. There was a dark choker around her neck and a dark green sweater beneath her fringed jacket.

In that moment, as Dain absorbed the sight of her standing with that staff in her hand, gazing down at him, the rays of the sun reached her. As the light enveloped her, he gasped. For an instant, he thought he saw a golden radiance flash around her form; scintillating crystals, millions of them surrounded her face and form before disappearing.

Blinking, Dain realized he must be going crazy. He had to be. He remembered that same radiance around the white wolf in his dream. Was this woman real or a figment of his tortured imagination? Suddenly he wished with all the strength left in him that she was real. Staggering along the side of the vehicle, his hand against the cold metal to steady himself, Dain never allowed his gaze to leave the woman. Whether she was real or not, he felt a pulsing, living connection with her.

The golden sunlight embraced her like a familiar lover. Her crimson skirt turned a bright, brilliant red and her fringed jacket glowed an unearthly white. Her once-black hair now danced with brownish-red highlights. And her face! Dain thought for a moment that if he believed in angels, she had the face of one. Her eyes, warm and compassionate, were a light cinnamon color. They were set far apart, almost at an angle, slightly slanted above her broad cheekbones. Her lips were full, promising him that she was a woman of passion.

Everything about her seemed mystical and ethereal in his whirling, dizzied mind and senses. He felt her compassion. Felt it! He’d never felt anything except rage, competition and triumph all his life, but at this moment he felt a soft, gentle sensation winding through him, touching his rapidly beating heart and soothing it, soothing him.

He stood there dumbstruck, watching her, absorbing her tall, aristocratic form through his narrowed eyes and gathered her essence into his wildly beating heart, into his withering soul. Was this Tashunka Mani Tu? She had to be, his brain screamed back at him. Luanne Yazzie had said she was a young woman, probably in her early thirties, though she appeared ageless. Luanne Somers-Yazzie had seen Tashunka on several occasions and was able to describe her. If her description was correct, then this was indeed Tashunka Mani Tu.

As Dain stood there, fighting the weakness that was overwhelming him from his labors during the last hour, he wanted this woman to be the mysterious, magical Tashunka Mani Tu. Turning his head, he looked back at the hill. His heart beat in startled fear. The white wolf had disappeared! Gasping, pain jerked his head back in her direction. Would she be gone, too? Were these things all figments of his overworked imagination? The last of his hope?

To his shattering relief, the woman still stood like a statue, embraced lovingly by the sunlight, watching him in the silence. Gulping, Dain looked around, afraid that the white wolf was coming to get him. He felt like a frightened eight-year-old again, hiding in that old, smelly closet down in the basement, trying to avoid Mr. Gordon, who was stalking him, waiting to prey on him, just like this damn white wolf was doing.

The weakness forced Dain to lean heavily against the vehicle. He swallowed hard, gulped for air and then looked back at the Indian woman, his eyes widening considerably. The white wolf was now sitting at her side! Both of them were watching him.

“I’ll be damned,” he rasped, angrily shoving away from the car. He utilized his rage to force his body to work for him. Taking staggering steps, he made a violent gesture with his arm.

“Hey!” he yelled. “Get down here and help me! I’m stuck!” He breathed hard, listening to his biting words as they echoed harshly through the wash. The woman stood a good quarter mile away from him and he wondered what effect his demand would have on her. If she was real and not an apparition, she would respond. Or would she? Dain wasn’t sure as he stood, legs spread in the clay to balance himself, his hands held stiffly at his sides, muddy fingers curling into fists.

She was too far away for him to see her expression, but as his echoing voice enfolded her, Dain saw her sway, as if struck physically by him. For no discernible reason, he felt bad in that moment. Hadn’t his voice been like a verbal fist? He tried to shake off his remorse. Too bad if he hurt her. Old Gordon had used his voice like a sledgehammer against him all the time when Dain was in that orphanage, that prison. Still, as he stood there expectedly, he felt sorry. It was the first time he’d realized his voice could hurt another person, for he saw her sway, catch herself and plant her feet apart just a little bit more. He also saw the white wolf leap from his sitting position beside her into a position of preparedness. Even at this distance, Dain could see the wolf’s hackles standing along his spine, raised upward like porcupine quills.

The sound that came back to him was a low, warning growl from the white wolf. It frightened Dain. His gaze savagely sought out the woman’s serene features. Didn’t she hear him? She must have! So why the hell was she still standing like a statue, staring at him?

Angry, Dain moved almost drunkenly back to the vehicle. He collapsed, his spine against the cold, hard metal that supported him now that his knees refused to. Gripping the door handle, he breathed raggedly, his gaze never leaving her tall, proud form. Did angels come dressed as Indians?

He laughed harshly at himself. He was hallucinating! His belief in angels died when he was eight years old and Old Gordon told him Santa Claus didn’t exist. It was then that Dain had stopped believing in angels, God and everything else—except himself. He’d known even as a child that the only thing that would help him survive was a strong, overpowering belief in himself. He learned that if he trusted in himself, he could do anything and win at it. And this powerful belief—instilled in him by Old Gordon’s attempt to destroy his childhood—had made him the billionaire he was today.

Fat lot of good it did him now, Dain thought, a reckless grin slashing across his mouth. He looked down at his muddy, wet pants, then at his truck half-buried in the wash. Suddenly, laughter tunneled up from deep within his chest. He rarely laughed, and now he wanted to at the ridiculousness of it all. He was stuck! The laughter rolled out, freeing the fear that filled his chest cavity, easing the constricted, suffocating feeling. The unfamiliar sound left his lips and echoed down the wash. Dain himself didn’t believe what he was hearing. He was laughing! Suddenly, he didn’t care any longer. The fury he’d felt a moment ago miraculously disappeared beneath the deep, rolling laughter that spilled out of him like golden sunlight. He hadn’t realized such joy lived within him. He’d never realized it—until now.

Once his laughter had subsided, a rare, careless smile continued to hover around his mouth. For a second, he felt free—and happy—almost joyous. When had he ever felt those emotions? Had this woman cast a spell on him? Was she magical, as Luanne Yazzie had proclaimed when he’d gone to her to ask about the elusive Tashunka Mani Tu?

Disgruntled, Dain gathered his waning energy and forced himself away from the vehicle. His knees felt stronger as he sloshed through the thick mud toward the woman. With each step, he felt strangely empowered, like a cold object that has been warmed by the sun.

Would the wolf charge him? Dain wasn’t at all sure, but something whispered to him that she had full control over that huge, white beast and wouldn’t allow it to attack him. As he drew closer, he could see her face more clearly. The sunlight touched her, making her coppery skin glow with a golden radiance and her expressive brown eyes look almost black. It was her eyes that drew him, mesmerized him. He could swear he saw laughter in them—but he somehow knew she was not laughing at him, but simply relishing some funny cosmic joke known only to herself.

As he approached more closely, he heard her speak firmly in a language unknown to him. Instantly, the white wolf sat down at her side, thumped his tail in a friendly way and looked up adoringly at her. When she placed her long, thin hand upon the wolf’s head, Dain almost felt as if she were reaching out and touching him! It was a ridiculous thought, but then, maybe this place was magical, as Luanne had warned him. She’d said Rainbow Butte had been a sacred place to the Hopi and Navajo people for thousands of years. Many ceremonies, powerful ceremonies honoring Mother Earth and the Navajo Yei and Hopi Kachinas, had taken place here.

Dain didn’t believe in magic, but he couldn’t ignore the powerful thrumming now beating through his chest. His racing heart felt light and an unexpected emotion deluged him as he drew within a hundred feet of the woman. That feeling was hope.