George laughs, lifts John-John into the air and spins him around. He says something that sends John-John and his father into heartier gales of laughter. I hang back, feeling once more like the outsider I obviously am.
But it gives me a minute to size up George Long Whiskers. He’s the same height as Frey, thicker through the middle. He’s wearing a black leather vest over a long-sleeved white cotton shirt open at the neck but stil warm weather attire for an August afternoon. He appears not to notice. No sweat beads his forehead, no tel tale circles under his arm. He’s got on jeans and scuffed boots and a bright red basebal cap. His hair is not black but light brown, and when he puts John-John back on the ground next to Frey and turns to me, I’m startled to see blue eyes under the brim of that basebal cap.
My reaction makes him grin as he puts out his hand. “Hey, Anna. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Never seen an albino Indian before, huh? Folks around here cal me the white sheep of the family.”
I’m not sure whether to take his hand or not, stil leery of physical contact after Sarah’s reaction. But a glance at Frey, who gives a subtle go-ahead motion with his head, and I return the handshake.
His grip is firm and dry and he doesn’t yank away. He has a wide, warm smile and a face that makes it impossible to guess his age. Sculpted cheekbones, straight nose, complexion touched with color, but not as dark as Sarah’s.
An interesting genetic mix.
And not a long whisker in sight.
He seems to be sizing me up, too. “I like this one, Daniel,”
he says after a second.
“I like her, too,” Frey says.
“Me, too,” John-John pipes up.
“Glad it’s unanimous.” I reach down and muss John-John’s hair.
George goes over to the loom and cuts off a length of yarn with a pocketknife. “Hey, John-John, how about you play with this while your dad and Anna and I talk.”
A piece of yarn? I’m wondering what kind of reaction that suggestion is going to get when I’m surprised by the look of delight on the kid’s face. He grabs it and squats down with his back against the wal of the hogan, ties a knot in the yarn and soon immerses himself into some kind of finger weaving.
Most four-year-olds I know would demand a wide-screen TV and a dinosaur manga cartoon marathon to hold their attention like that.
George leads us over to his vehicle — a converted bus, open on the top and sides, six rows of bench seats under a striped awning. Perfect for sightseeing. He waves Frey and I into the bus and we take seats facing each other. George on one side, Frey and I on the other.
Frey starts the conversation. “Did you talk to Sarah?”
George nods. “She is not happy that you are here. She worries how it wil be for John-John when you leave again.
And she sees Anna’s presence as a threat.”
“I’m a threat?” Bristling with indignation, I lean forward on the seat. “I’m not a threat to anyone. I’m here for one purpose. Once I’ve accomplished that purpose, I’l leave.”
“It’s not that easy, Anna,” he says. His eyes regard me with frank appraisal. “You are vampire. By your nature you are a threat. There are many who would demand you leave our nation now. They wil fight to prevent you from meeting with Sani.”
“Sani?”
“That is the name we cal the shaman. He is a holy man and his identity is a closely guarded secret among the elders. They are sworn to protect him. Sarah is going to talk to them tonight at council. But you should be prepared for disappointment.”
I turn toward Frey. “Shouldn’t I be there when she speaks with them? Plead my case.”
George places a hand between Frey and me, his answer coming as quick as it is adamant. “No. In fact, Sarah wil not make it known that you are here. She wil address the council with the request from a friend who wil come only if permission is granted. Bringing a vampire to a gathering of the
“Goes wrong? What do you think? I’l go berserk and start attacking people?”
Frey tries to temper my rising indignation. “It’s not you specifical y,” he says. “Traditional y the Navajo are morbidly afraid of the dead. They have no concept of life after death nor are deeds done in this life rewarded or punished. Mortal life is al. Death at an early age is viewed with dismay. You are young. You are the walking dead.”
“But that’s the reason I’m here. To see if it can be reversed. Surely that has to carry some weight with the elders.”
Neither George nor Frey answers. I can see by their expressions, they do not expect I’l be granted an audience.
Wel, I’m not going to argue the point now. I’l wait and see what happens. Then I’l start arguing.
John-John skips over to us, the circle of yarn held between his two hands. “Look what I made.”
We climb out of the bus and I squat down so I’m eye level with John-John. “Is that a cat’s cradle?”
He giggles. “Watch.” He lets go of the bottom string and like magic, two patterns form and when he pul s his hands apart, the patterns move away from each other. “The gate is opening.”
I clap my hands. “That is wonderful, John-John. How long did it take you to come up with that?”
“Oh, I can make lots of things. Would you like to see more?”
But George lays a gentle hand on John-John’s shoulder.
“We have to go meet your mother now. You can show Anna more another time.” He looks at Frey. “I have food for you in the bus. And blankets. Wil the two of you be al right here tonight?”
We both nod, Frey more enthusiastical y than I. John-John is reluctant to leave. He shadows Frey to the front of the bus where George hands down a cooler and blankets. Frey leans over and whispers in John-John’s ear. He speaks in Navajo but whatever he tel s the boy, John-John seems appeased by it. He lifts his arms to his father for a hug and climbs up to sit beside George
Frey lifts a hand.
John-John waves. George nods to us both and steers the bus out of the lot.
“What did you say to him?” I ask, John-John’s little hand stil waving to us from the open window as the bus pul s away.
“I told him to be safe going home.”
We carry the food and blankets into the hogan. Frey busies himself setting out sandwiches and chips and settles cross-legged on the rug to eat.
“You look right at home.”
He smiles up at me. “Don’t know about that. But I do feel at peace. Being with John-John makes me realize how much I’ve missed him. I’m glad we made the trip.”
I sit, too, back against the wal of the hogan, legs outstretched. There is a sense of peace. Maybe because it’s so quiet. No city noises. No traffic. Not even a birdcal to shatter the stil ness.
Odd.
I tilt my head, listening.
Frey frowns, puts down his sandwich. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s too quiet. We should be hearing birds or coyotes or
I climb to my feet, take a step outside.
Movement in a clump of brush thirty feet from the hogan. It catches the corner of my eye and as I turn, something sharp pricks the skin of my forearm.
I jump and clap a hand over my arm. I scan the brush, then race toward it. Even with the speed of the vampire, whatever was there is gone. Not even a footprint or the echo of a footfal reaches my ears. I scan the distance. The only thing I see is a crow far off, solitary, silent, floating over the mesa.
Then it, too, is gone.
Frey is suddenly beside me. “What happened? Your arm is bleeding.”
We both look down and as we watch, a bump forms over something embedded just under the skin. Then the
