Читать книгу Rider on Fire & When You Call My Name - Sharon Sala - Страница 10

The small squirrel was just ready to scold—its little mouth partially opened as it clutched the acorn close to its chest. In the right light, one could almost believe the tail had just twitched.

Franklin Blue Cat called it The Sassy One. It was one of his latest carvings and in three months would be featured, along with thirty other pieces of his work, in a prestigious art gallery in Santa Fe. He hoped he lived long enough to see it.

Franklin often thought how strange the turns his life had taken. Had anyone told him that one day he would become known the world over for his simple carvings, he would have called them crazy. He would also have called them crazy for telling him that, at the age of sixty, he would be alone and dying of cancer. He’d always imagined himself going into old age surrounded by children and grandchildren with a loving wife at his side.

He set aside the squirrel. As he did, the pain he’d been living with for some months took a sharp upward spike, making Franklin reel where he stood. He waited until the worst of it passed, then stumbled to his bedroom and collapsed on his bed.

He considered giving Adam Two Eagles a call. Adam’s father had been the clan healer. Everyone had assumed that Adam would follow in his father’s footsteps. Only, Adam had rebelled. Instead, he had taken the white man’s way and left the Kiamichi Mountains to go to college, graduated from Oklahoma State University with an MBA, and from there gone straight into the army to eventually become one of their elite—an army ranger.

Then, during the ensuing years, something had happened to Adam that caused him to quit the military, and brought him home. He’d come back to eastern Oklahoma, to his Kiowa roots, and stepped into his father’s footsteps as if he’d never been away.

Adam never talked about what had changed him, but Franklin knew it had been bad. He saw the shadows in Adam’s eyes when he thought no one was looking. However, Franklin knew something that Adam did not. Franklin knew it would pass. He’d lived long enough to know life was in a constant state of flux.

As Franklin drifted to sleep, he dreamed, all the way back to his younger days and the woman who’d stolen his heart.

Leila of the laughing eyes and long dark hair. He couldn’t remember when he hadn’t loved her. They’d made love every chance they could get—with passion, but without caution.

Sleep took him to the day he had learned that Leila’s family was moving. She’d been twenty-two to his thirty—old enough to stay behind. He’d begged her to stay, but there had been a look on her face he’d never seen before, and instead of accepting his offer of marriage, she’d been unable to meet his gaze.

His heartbeat accelerated as he relived the panic. In his mind, he could see her face through the back window of the car as her father drove away.

She was crying—his Leila of the laughing eyes was sobbing as she waved goodbye. He could see her mouth moving.

Franklin shifted on the bed. This was new. He didn’t remember her calling out. In real life, she’d done nothing but cry as they drove away. It was the way he’d remembered it for all these years. So why had the dream been different? What was it she was trying to say?

He swung his legs to the side of the bed and then stood, giving himself time to decide if he had the strength to move. Finally, he walked out of his bedroom, then through the kitchen to the back porch. The night air was sultry and still.

He stood for a few moments, absorbing the impact of the dream, waiting for understanding. At first, he felt nothing. His mind was blank, but he knew what to do. It was the same thing he always did as he began a new piece of work. All he had to do was look at the block of wood until he saw whatever it was that was waiting to come out. Only then did he begin carving.

Following his instincts, he closed his eyes, took a slow breath, then waited for the words Leila had been trying to say.

It was quiet on the mountain. Almost too quiet. Even the night birds were silent, and the coyotes seemed to have gone to ground. There was nothing to distract Franklin from watching his dream, letting it replay in his head. He stood motionless for so long that dew settled on his bare feet, while an owl, feeling no threat, passed silently behind him on its way out to hunt.

And then understanding came, and with it, shock. Franklin turned abruptly and looked back at his house, almost expecting Leila to be on the porch, but there was no one there.

He turned again, this time looking to the trees beyond his home. He’d been born on this land. His parents had died in this house, and soon so would he. But there was something he knew now that he had not known yesterday.

Leila had taken something of his when she’d left him.

His child.

Right in the middle of his revelation, exhaustion hit.

Damn this cancer.

His legs began to shake and his hands began to tremble. He walked back to the house, stumbling slightly as he stepped up on the porch, then dragged himself into the house.

What if he could find his Leila—even if she was no longer his? He wanted to see their child—no—he needed to know that a part of him would live on, even after he was gone. Tomorrow, he would call Adam Two Eagles. Adam would know what to do.

* * *

Adam Two Eagles rarely had to stretch to reach anything. At three inches over six feet tall, he usually towered over others. His features were Native American, but less defined than his father’s had been. His mother had been Navajo and the mix of Kiowa and Navajo had blended well, making Adam a very handsome man. His dark hair was thick and long, falling far below his shoulders—a far cry from the buzz cut he’d worn in the military. But that seemed so long ago that it might as well have been from another life.

This morning, he was readying himself for a trip up the Kiamichis. There were some plants he wanted for healing that grew only in the higher elevation. It would mean at least a half day’s hike up and back—nothing he hadn’t done countless times before—only today, he felt unsettled. He kept going from room to room, thinking there was something else he was supposed to do, but nothing occurred to him. Finally, he’d given up and prepared to leave.

If he hadn’t forgotten the bag he liked to carry his herbs and plants in, he would have already been gone when the phone rang. But he was digging through a closet, and ignoring the ring would have been like a doctor ignoring a call for help.

“Hello.”

“Adam! I was beginning to think you were gone.”

Adam smiled as he recognized the voice.

“Good morning, Franklin. You just caught me. How have you been?”

“The same,” Franklin said shortly, unwilling to dwell on his illness. “But that’s not why I called.”

Adam frowned. The seriousness in his old friend’s voice was unfamiliar.

“So, what’s up?” Adam asked.

“It’s complicated,” Franklin said. “Can you come over?”

“Yes, of course. When do you need me?” Adam asked.

There was a moment of hesitation, then Franklin sighed. “Now, I need you to come now.”

“I’m on my way,” Adam said, and hung up.

In less than fifteen minutes, Adam was pulling up to Franklin’s house. He parked, then killed the engine. When he looked up, Franklin had come outside and was waiting for him on the porch. He smiled and then waved Adam up before moving back into the house. Adam bolted up the steps and followed him.

A few minutes were wasted on small talk and the pouring of coffee before Adam urged Franklin to sit down. Franklin did so without arguing. Adam took a seat opposite Franklin’s chair and leaned back, waiting for the older man to begin.

“I had a dream,” Franklin said.

Adam set his coffee aside and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair.

“Tell me.”

Franklin relayed what he’d dreamed, and what he believed that it meant. When he was finished, he leaned back and crossed his arms across his chest.

“So, can you help me?” he asked.

“What do you want me to do?” Adam countered.

Franklin sighed. “I guess I want to know if I’m right, if Leila and I had a child. I want to know this before I die.”

Adam stood, then paced to the window, absently staring at the way sunlight reflected from his windshield onto a wind chime hanging from the porch. He knew what Franklin was asking. He just wasn’t convinced Franklin would get the answer he desired.

“So, will you make medicine for me?” Franklin asked.

Adam turned abruptly and asked, “Will you accept what comes, even if it’s not what you wanted?”

“Yes.”

Adam nodded shortly. “Then, yes, I’ll help you.”

Franklin sighed, then swiped a shaky hand across his face.

“What do you need from me?” he asked.

“Something that is remarkably yours alone.”

Franklin hesitated a moment, then left the room. He returned shortly carrying a carving of an owl in flight.

“This was my first owl. Would this do?”

“Are you willing to sacrifice it?”

Franklin rubbed a hand over the owl one last time, as if imprinting the perfection of the shape and the feathers in his mind, then handed it over.

Adam took it. The wood felt warm where Franklin had been holding it, adding yet another layer of reality to the piece. Then he took out his knife.

“Are you still on blood thinner?” Adam asked.

Franklin nodded.

“Then hair will have to do.”

Franklin sat down. Adam deftly separated a couple of strands of Franklin’s hair from his head and cut them off, wrapped them in his handkerchief and put them in his pocket.

“Is that all you need?” Franklin asked.

Adam nodded. “I will make medicine for you.”

Franklin’s shoulders slumped with relief. “When will we know if it worked?”

“When someone comes.”

“When? Not if, but when? How can you be so sure?”

“I know what I know,” Adam said, and it was all he would say.

For Franklin, it wasn’t enough, but it would have to do. “Then I will wait,” he said.

Adam nodded, then picked up his coffee cup and leaned back in his chair and took a sip.

Franklin picked up his cup as well, but he didn’t drink. He tightened his fingers around the mug, letting the warmth of the crockery settle within him as he watched his old friend’s son.

Adam was looking out the window, his eyes narrowing sharply as he squinted against the light. Franklin thought that Adam looked a lot like his father. Same strong face—same far-seeing expression in his eyes, but he was taller and more muscular. And he’d been beyond the Kiamichis. He’d lived a warrior’s life for the United States government.

Franklin set his coffee cup aside, folded his hands in his lap and closed his eyes.

It was good that Adam Two Eagles had come home.

* * *

Within an hour after arriving back at his home, Adam began the preparations. He drank some water before going out to ready the sweat lodge. On the way down the hillside, he got work gloves from the toolshed and a small hatchet from a shelf.

A sense of peace came over him as he worked, gathering wood and patching a small hole in the lodge. Tonight he would begin the ceremony. If Franklin and Leila had made a baby together, the Old Ones would find it.

He hurried back to the house, gathering everything he needed, then walked back to the small lodge above the creek bank.

He undressed with care, shedding his clothes a layer at a time. By the time he’d dropped his last garment, a slight breeze had come up, lifting his hair away from his face and cooling the sweat beading on his body. The first star of the evening was just visible when he looked up at the sky. He checked the fire. Ideally, there would be someone outside the lodge continuing to feed the fire, but not tonight. Tonight the fire that he’d already built would serve the purpose.

He lifted the flap and crawled in. Within seconds, he was covered in sweat. He sat down cross-legged, letting his arms and hands rest on his knees. With a slow, even rhythm he breathed in and breathed out. Then he closed his eyes and began to chant. The words were almost as old as the land on which he sat.

The hours passed and the moon that had been hanging high in the sky was more than halfway through its slow descent to the horizon. Morning was but an hour or so away.

Inside the sweat lodge, all the words had been said. All the prayers had been prayed.

Adam was ready.

He crawled out of the lodge. When he stood, the muscles in his legs tried to cramp, but he walked them out as he then moved behind the lodge and laid another stick of wood on the fire.

With the sweat drying swiftly on his skin and his mind and body free from impurities, he reached into his pack and took out the carving, as well as the hairs he’d cut from Franklin’s head.

Some might have called it a prayer, others might have said it was a chant, but the words Adam spoke were a call to the Old Ones. The rhythm of the syllables rolled off Adam’s tongue like a song. The log he’d laid on the fire popped, sending a shower of sparks up into the air. Adam felt the prick of heat from one as it landed on his skin, but he didn’t flinch.

Still wrapped in the cloak of darkness, he lifted his arms to the heavens and began to dance. Dust and ashes rose up from the ground, coating his feet and legs as he moved in and out of the shadows around the fire. He danced and he sang until his heartbeat matched the rhythm of his feet.

The wind rose, whistling through the trees in a thin, constant wail, sucking the hair from the back of his neck and then swirling it about his face.

They were coming.

He tossed the owl and the hairs into the fire, and then lifted his hands above his head. As he did, there was what he could only describe as an absence of air. He could still breathe, but he was unable to move.

The great warriors manifested themselves within the smoke, using it to coat the shapes of what they’d once been. They came mounted on spirit horses with eyes of fire. The horses stomped and reared, inhaling showers of sparks that had been following the column of smoke and exhaling what appeared to be stars.

One warrior wore a war bonnet so long that it dragged beneath the ghost horse’s feet. Another was wrapped in the skin of a bear, with the mark of the claw painted on his chest. The third horse had a black handprint on its flank, while matching handprints of white were on the old warrior’s cheeks. The last one rode naked on a horse of pure white. The wrinkles in his face were as many as the rivers of the earth. His gray hair so long that it appeared tangled in the horse’s mane and tail, making it difficult to tell where man ended and horse began.

They spoke in unison, with the sounds getting lost in the whirlwind that brought them, and yet Adam knew what they’d said.

They would help.

As he watched, one by one, they reached into the fire and took a piece of Franklin’s essence to help them with their search. Then, as suddenly as they’d appeared, they were gone.

Adam dropped to his knees, then passed out.