Authors: Alyson Noel
Fated (19 page)
I hold tight to my pouch, seeking comfort in the hard, curved edge of Raven’s beak, but my resolve is wearing so thin, stepping over the line before it’s time seems like a small price to pay for a reward that’s so great.
I stumble to my feet, my gait so stiff and uncertain, I kick the rattle, causing the small beads to spin and loop crazily, as I move toward the exit, eager to be free. Free of the darkness and cold—free of the vision quest—my training as a Seeker—eager to say good-bye to it all—when someone tugs hard on my arm, pulling me backward, and I turn to find Valentina standing behind me.
I recognize her from the spirit animal she’s brought along with her—a dark-eyed raccoon with its head lowered, back raised. Its sharp teeth bared as it paces back and forth, careful to never veer too close to the line marking the cave.
Valentina is young. Pretty. Reminding me of what Paloma must’ve looked like at that age, with her long dark hair, flashing brown eyes, and bare feet. She grips my arm hard, pulling me to her. Murmuring a long string of words I can’t comprehend, though the message is clear—I’m not to go any farther. I’m to stay right where I am, next to her.
If she’d brought some food and drink, heck, even a small blanket, something to warm me—I might reconsider. But as she came empty-handed, she’s soon overpowered by more immediate needs.
I yank free of her grip and make for the exit, focusing on the thick, white border, the freedom that looms just beyond. Telling myself there’s no shame in failing—nothing wrong with rejecting this world. Their practices are barbaric, too primitive to work in this new, modern time.
Just one step away from all that I crave, when another voice drifts from behind me and says, “Daire—my sweet baby girl, won’t you do this for me?”
It’s Django.
The Django from the black-and-white picture I keep in my wallet.
And just like Valentina, he’s brought his spirit animal with him—a huge, menacing black bear that growls loudly, angrily, as it paces behind me.
One step … just one more step and I can move past all of this. I don’t have to end up like him—don’t have to face a premature death. Now that I know what I’m up against, I’ll find a way to outsmart them—but for now, I just need some relief …
Sorry, Django.
Sorry, Valentina.
I really did try. But I’m refusing this life.
One more step, a rather large one at that, and freedom is mine.
My toe aiming for the line’s other side, when the boy appears before me—head shaking sadly, arm raised in warning—as Valentina lets out a bloodcurdling cry—and Django remains right behind me, his voice low and serious, urging me to reconsider, to
look,
to
think,
to stop seeing with my eyes, my stomach, my immediate needs, and start seeing with my heart—to distinguish the mirage from the truth.
I stare into the boy’s eyes—his brilliant blue eyes—seeing my bedraggled reflection transform to something brilliant—incandescent.
The promise of the me I can be.
Will be.
But only if I see this thing through.
I press my foot downward, sick of being ruled by hallucinations and dreams. Ready to cross the line, wipe that hopeful look from his eyes, when my pouch begins to thump so hard against my chest I can’t help but flinch.
Can’t help but stumble backward, away from the boy, away from Valentina who lets out a terrible cry, as Django rushes forward and I land in his arms. His dark gaze burning on mine—filling me with all the fatherly love and devotion I’d missed all these years. The moment holding, growing, filling me with the most beautiful, expansive burst of hope—only to be broken by a wicked rush of hot air and a horrible howling wind bearing a hail of black feathers that rain all around—the herald for a giant, purple-eyed raven that swoops down from above.
I fight.
Scream.
Try like hell to free myself.
But it’s no use. Django’s too strong. And when Valentina joins in and grabs hold of my feet, the fight becomes hopeless.
The two of them working together, working against me—allowing Raven’s beak to pierce through my skin and snap all my bones. Plucking out my entrails, my organs, my heart—before systematically ripping me apart.
And it’s not long before the other spirit animals join in as well. Valentina’s raccoon, Esperanto’s bat, Maria’s horse, Diego’s monkey, Mayra’s wildcat, Gabriella’s squirrel, Piann’s red fox, along with a huge, raging jaguar I suspect belongs to my grandfather, Alejandro. Even Paloma’s blue-eyed white wolf is here—and they’ve brought the rest of my ancestors with them. Several generations of Santoses forming a circle around me, watching in dull fascination as I’m torn into pieces.
No matter how much I plead—no matter how much I beg, cry, and demand for it to stop—my cries fall on deaf ears. The boy’s disappeared, and those who remain, willfully choose to ignore me.
And it’s not long before I’m gone. My body reduced to small shredded crumbs that litter the floor. My life force fading, dissipating—as a river of blood seeps into the ground, blending with the dirt—becoming one with the mountain.
My energy mixing with the earth’s until whatever’s left of me—my soul, my spirit, my essence—is rewarded with the mountain’s sacred song:
I am constant and strong
Eternal—everlasting
A provider of shelter and solace
Strength and perspective
Look to me when you’re lost—and I’ll give you direction
The words continuing to swirl all about me, though it’s too late to do any good.
I am nothing more than a small wisp of energy.
To the eyes of the world, I am already dead.
A soft, insistent tickle brushes my nose—tapping lightly against the tip, forcing me to chase it down over my lips, well past my chin, until I grasp it at the base of my neck, pop an eye open, and peer into a hard slant of light at the single black feather—a raven’s feather—I hold in my hand.
Knowing instinctively it came from my Raven—the one who ripped me to shreds—I spring to my feet, my gaze darting, heart racing, as memories of my horrible dismemberment blaze in my head.
I went through a war.
Fought a battle I was sure I had lost.
Yet the only thing out of place, the only thing that wasn’t here from the start, is this single black feather—carried by the wind that raged in this cave.
My leg’s fully healed—my cast nowhere to be seen.
While the grainy white border is left untouched, intact, and my small black bag is propped neatly in the corner just as I left it. And the place near the center, where the spirit animals plucked out my heart and tore off my limbs, remains undisturbed.
No blood.
No shredded bits of tissue and flesh.
Not even so much as a bone scrap.
No sign of anything out of the ordinary, and yet there’s no doubt in my mind that it happened. All of it. I’m absolutely certain of it.
I’m reborn.
Renewed.
Having fused my energy with the energy of the earth, I’ve been resurrected with a surge of power the likes of which I’ve never known—never could’ve imagined.
My fellow Seekers—my fellow Santoses—my family—allowed me to be ripped apart so I could be rebuilt. And because of it, I am now bigger, better, and stronger than I ever thought possible.
I have earned their approval, their trust.
I have earned the right to carry their name.
And with the mountain’s song still fresh in my mind, I know it has accepted me as well. My time in this cave has come to an end. It is time to move on.
I riffle through my bag, find a stub of chalk, and add the name
Santos
right beside
Daire.
And then, in the space above that, I add
Django Santos,
taking a moment to include a sketch of Bear—the spirit animal he never had a chance to acknowledge as his.
My father may have failed to heed his calling, but his spirit lives on, and he helped me heed mine. I couldn’t have survived it without him.
I run a hand over my hair, surprised to find that my braid is more or less intact, but since I’ve been here for days, I’m pretty sure my scalp’s a greasy mess. And with no immediate way to remedy that, I cover my hair with the red bandanna Paloma packed. Knotting it tightly at the back of my head, wondering if that was its intended purpose when she saw fit to add it.
Then, after tossing my bag over my shoulder and stuffing the raven feather into my pouch, knowing it’s another talisman, a gift from the wind I should never be without—I head for the grainy white border. Having no way of knowing if the boy really did stand just outside of it or if the scene only played in my head—but dropping the thought just as quickly. All that really matters is that I got what I came for—I survived my vision quest. The rest is just details.
I pause for a moment, long enough to take one last look at the cave, knowing I’ll never come here again—then I step out of the dark and into the light, ready to face whatever comes next.
I head down the same way I came, and when I reach the bottom, I’m not the least bit surprised to find Kachina saddled and waiting for me.
Though I am surprised to find I don’t rush to get back like I thought I would.
Instead, I take it slow. Take my time. Wanting to linger, to hold onto the experience, the magick of the mountain, for as long as I can. Stopping every now and then to let Kachina graze for a bit and drink from a cool, rushing stream—while I wander through a grove of cottonwood, juniper, and piñon trees, communing with a variety of birds who introduce themselves as purple martins and red-tailed hawks. Eagerly testing the new powers I’ve gained—increasingly amazed at the magick I hold.
When I come across a mesquite tree swarming with bees, instead of avoiding it like I usually would, I stand directly beneath it. Humming the mountain’s song under my breath as I shake the two lowest branches, causing an army of agitated bees to swarm all about me, though not a single one of them so much as stings.
Then later, when I come across a nest of scorpions, I kick off my shoes and step in the middle. Humming the tune the mountain revealed, and not the least bit surprised when the scorpions choose to ignore me.
And though I have no idea how to get back to Paloma’s, Kachina and I now share a bond like never before. We have an innate understanding of each other. We’ve discovered a new way to communicate—and because of it, I’ve no doubt she’ll lead me wherever it is I most need to be.
We continue the journey—Kachina carefully picking her way through the woods, as I remain in deep communion with all that surrounds me. The plants, the streams, the mountains, the wind—all of it brimming with energy—eagerly revealing their secrets.
Paloma was right. Everything really is thrumming, illuminated, alive. And now that I’ve discovered the truth, now that I’m merged with its power and energy, I can’t imagine how I ever existed without it.
I cluck my tongue against the roof of my mouth and press my heel to Kachina’s side. Urging her to go faster, and then faster still, until she’s galloping down the trail with her mane lifting, ears pinned, tail swooshing behind her, as her hooves beat hard against the ground. I close my eyes, let go of the reins, and fold my hands around my buckskin pouch, allowing my body to rise and fall as I part my lips wide and sing the mountainsong at the top of my lungs.
And, as it turns out, even the wind has a song to reveal:
I am cloudy and clear
Stormy and bright
I am the chaos and silence that lives in your mind
I watch over all with unfailing vision
Look to me when you face indecision
With my horse charging beneath me, my vision quest behind me, the elements singing in harmony—I’ve never felt so free, so empowered, so alive. One song fading into the next as my voice continues to rise—until Kachina veers a sharp right, causing her to tilt in a way I didn’t expect.
I lose my balance. Land on the saddle all wrong. Blinking, fumbling, and flailing for the horn, the reins, her mane—searching for something that’ll help me right myself again.
She skids to a stop, rises on her hind legs, and snorts in protest, as her front legs kick before her. And I’m so preoccupied with fighting to stay on her back, it’s a moment before I see what caused her to spook in the first place:
A shiny, black, fully loaded, four-wheel-drive pickup truck crowded with teens.
The girls laugh—a horrible, howling, snickering sound. While the boys all stare—wide-eyed and uncertain, having no idea what to make of me.
I yank hard on the reins—try to maneuver around. Having just cleared the bed of the truck, when the driver jumps out, moves right before me, and lifts his dark glasses onto his forehead.
“You okay?” His icy-blue gaze lands on mine, though just like the dreams, it fails to reflect.
I swallow. Try to steer around him. But it’s no use. He just mimics my moves. Everywhere I go, he appears right before me, frustrating me to the point where I shout, “Go away!” Practically spitting the words, seeing no need for fake courtesies.
“I’ll get out of your way when I’m sure you’re okay,” he says, going for Kachina’s bridle, but she’s on my side, which means she rears her head back and slips from his grasp. “Your horse had quite a scare, and I’m afraid it’s my fault. I probably shouldn’t have parked on the trail like I did. You okay?” He arranges his face into a mask of concern.