Keane couldn’t imagine a better idea.
Getting to their feet, Keane called for Nascha. “Here, girl.”
In answer, Nascha and her strange partner burst from the shack at a run.
Doli screamed in shock as the white booted terrier blazed past.
“What is it?” Keane said. “You know Nascha. She likes you.”
“That Dog, that is no ordinary dog! She is a Spirit.” Doli’s eyes followed the new terrier as it raced in circles behind Nascha, its blue eyes aflame, trails of sparks exploding through silvery dust.
“I think I see what you mean,” said Keane. “I just thought I was seeing things.” He pointed to one of the larger knots on his head as he looked at the dog’s unnatural eyes. Whether Doli was right or wrong about the dog’s status as Spirit didn’t really matter. He was prepared to believe anything since his grandmother’s spirit had spoken to him. What would have felt like an alien invasion just yesterday—Spirit Dogs and grandmothers talking from beyond the grave—now seemed natural, possible, real.
Doli’s face shimmered with awe for Keane. “You don’t understand. Spirits have not freely shown themselves since we lost our struggle against the white man’s advance so many years ago. The Spirits who could visit themselves upon us are now only gossip. If a Spirit has come to you, it means everything.”
Keane watched the two dogs playing. He smiled at the thought of Nascha and her new friend, the magical dog.
Doli could tell that Keane was missing the point, and though her mind swam with the possibilities and the meaning of what she’d just seen, she decided to let it drop. Still, she did not let the Spirit entirely out of her sight, and made sure to always keep at least half an eye on it.
Keane bent to one knee. “Nascha, here girl.”
Nascha immediately tore over, stopped on a dime before Keane, and kissed his face with her long, wet tongue. Keane pushed her away, laughing. As he did so, he felt the new dog rub up hard against his legs, tail wagging. He saw that Doli had backed up several feet.
“Come on, Megan. She’s great,” Keane said, shrugging his shoulders and pointing at her shyly.
Megan didn’t move.
“What’s your name, girl?” Keane said, rubbing both her ears at the same time and kissing the top of her head. He’d expected to feel something other than fur, but there was nothing unusual here, just a happy dog, eyes aflame or not. “Come on girl, what’s your name?”
The terrier seemed to understand. She backed up a step onto her haunches and barking loudly. Her eyes spat bigger sparks. Keane read the message opening up in his head. Somehow, he had known she was going to speak to him.
“Doli, she says her name is Dezba.” He half hoped she’d be impressed.
She was.
“She communicates the way my grandmother did.”
Part of Doli had already known the truth about this boy’s power. She did not consider her own meeting with his grandmother pure coincidence. Doli’s fear and surprise abating, she bent down to stroke Dezba and Nascha. Her hand frequently rubbed against Keane’s.
“Come on, girls,” Keane said, forcing his broken body into an abbreviated run. “Last one to the car has to sleep alone.”
Keane laughed out loud as Doli flew past.
Several hours later, Keane was fast asleep on a small couch in a smaller living room, Nascha at his feet, Dezba having disappeared into the night the moment they’d arrived. Doli and her aunt had patched Keane up and filled him with a large, steaming cup of healing tea. All things considered, Keane had endured an enormous amount of change for anyone only eighteen years of age. Had he known it was only the beginning, he might not have slept so easily.
The sound of delicate feet coming up behind Keane made his pulse quicken. Twenty-three-year-old Keane’s long black hair hung heavy in two thick braids. Lean, muscular and extremely tanned, it was hard to see the same man who’d so unwillingly traveled to see his grandmother just five years ago. As he turned his neck to watch his wife approach, he observed the unique angles of her young Navajo face were laced with excitement and grim resolve; he beamed at her inquisitively. At that very moment, Keane looked more like Archer than he had in years.
“What brings you to my garden?” Keane said, feigning surprise. The garden growing around them was magnificent in its scope, a fruit-and-vegetable version of the chocolate river room in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, spanning acres in every direction. At Keane’s knees were several squash plants whose large, three-pronged leaves were covered with flat-backed, grayish-brown bugs; it was one of several spots in the garden he’d been praying over for most of the morning
“It is time you left for your journey. It would not be right for you to keep the Governing Council waiting when it is you they’ve asked for without so much as an explanation why,” Doli said, ignoring Keane’s half-hearted attempt at levity. She knelt behind him, hugged him, and kissed his up-turned cheek. “But first, I have news.”
“What is it?” Keane asked, turning further into Doli’s embrace. He put a hand on the ground against his failing balance, leaving the other on Doli’s waist.
“There is news on the television. It is bizarre. News I have not found a way to understand. There was an incident with a Navajo last night. It was on the national wire, AP,” Doli said, a mixture of concern and excitement growing in her voice.
“You were watching TV?” Keane asked incredulously. “Now that is a story.”
Doli snorted disapprovingly but couldn’t suppress her smile.
Keane laughed a little but focused his eyes on Doli’s so she would know he was listening; Doli could be a bit tricky to read, and today he’d yet to figure out what kind of mood she was in. Doli’s aunt still kidded him, saying she’d warned him about bluebirds being tough to live with.
“They have video of him. A Navajo Brave,” Doli said breathlessly, forgetting to inhale.
“A Brave? This Navajo from the news is a Brave?” Keane tried to keep his tone level so he would not offend his wife by revealing his doubt. Though he knew and loved many powerful Navajo, he had never met one who legitimately walked in the spirit of the old ways, the ways common before the white man came.
“If you see his face, you will know. It is the face of the forefathers. I have seen their faces in my dreams many times. Whoever he is, he is a Brave.”
CHAPTER 8
The truck loomed over Archer, swallowing him in its shadow as it outran the sun.
Drums hammered somewhere in the distance.
Alvin could see letters forming into words in his brain: Kill him! As each character turned to sound, it seared his gray matter with a pain that finally erased the need to understand what was happening. Faster! He must die! He’s the reason you can’t find her...
“He’s as good as dead!” Alvin yelled in answer. One fat hand pushed a river of sweat from his eyes. Alvin’s head was bobbing up and down in time with his torso, a volcano of psychotic energy in the throes of eruption.
The odometer had climbed to 70 miles an hour. Impact with the intended target was imminent. Still the cyclist was unaware.
“He can’t live. His blood will engulf us!” Alvin babbled.
Mere seconds behind the cyclist, Alvin stamped his accelerator for all it was worth and lurched onto the shoulder. Alvin would strike his target with the back wheels and claim he’d never seen him in the truck’s blind spot. Pitching further into the deathblow, the truck’s huge back wheels tore up the curb behind Archer, the transition