WINDWALKER (THE PROPHECY SERIES) (8 page)

Layla’s vision adjusted to the dark as the light slowly faded. The canyon wall went on forever. It was so high it would have been easy to believe it was where the world ended.

The cave to which she was headed was an even darker shape against the night until she saw a glimmer of light.

The fire was alive.

The armload of wood she was carrying was awkward and heavy, but she lengthened her stride, guided by the light in the darkness and the man silhouetted before it.

She blinked, and when she looked again he was gone. She heard the sound of footsteps then he was before her; taking the burden she’d been carrying. She relinquished the limbs gladly, but winced as a stray limb caught against the back of her healing arm.

He heard her gasp.

“You are hurt?”

“It’s nothing, and it’s getting cold.”

“You go. I am behind you.”

She jogged toward the cave and the brightly burning fire. Once inside, she pulled her backpack closer to the fire and took off her shirt to inspect the healing wound on her arm. It stung from the new scratch, but nothing had burst open. She dug out the medicine she’d brought with her, spreading ointment down the length of the new scar. Keeping it supple would aid the healing, and there was too much at stake for her to get sick from infection.

Niyol was almost to the cave when he saw her kneel and take off her shirt. He stumbled, caught by the beauty of her body in the firelight and stopped to watch from the shadows, remembering she was his. By the time he came into the cave, she had put her shirt back on. He dumped the wood near the fire then walked up behind her. He ran a hand beneath her hair as he turned her to face him.

“You are hurt?”

“Just a slight scratch. It’s okay.”

He felt guilt, a human trait he did not enjoy.

“I am sorry you were given no time for proper healing.”

She slid her arms around his waist, willing herself not to weep.

“Time is my enemy,” she said softly. “The time will come when it will take you away from me.”

Pain rolled through him so fast her image blurred before his eyes. In sudden panic, he pulled her into his arms.

“Being human also hurts.”

Layla stifled a sob.

Somewhere beyond the cave a coyote yipped, and another answered nearby. They’d seen the fire. They’d sensed the human element in their midst. But like the dog in her grandfather’s village that had seen Niyol coming and run, the coyotes also sensed a being not of this world, giving him and the fire a wide berth.

Later, after they’d shared more jerky and water, Layla slipped out to go to the bathroom, feeling her way along the canyon wall until she was satisfied she’d gone far enough.

Squatting to relieve herself in such a place, and in this way, reminded her of her life back in Oklahoma when she had hunted the woods with her father. As a child she had been afraid of the dark, and yet she loved Jackson Birdsong so much that when he took his dogs out to hunt at night, she begged to go with him.

With no brothers or sisters, her parents had been her world, and her world grew smaller after her mother’s unexpected death at an early age. She and her father had cried together when it happened, and given no other options, faced life without her.

Halfway back to the cave she saw a streak of light up in the night sky and paused, watching as a shooting star sped across a dark palette awash with heavenly bodies.

Skywalker.

Layla turned. Suddenly Niyol was standing beside her and she hadn’t even heard him approach.

“You mean that’s not a shooting star?”

He shrugged. “It is what you call it, but with a passenger on board.”

Layla looked back up at the sky. “Always?”

He took her hand. “It is cold. Come back to the fire.”

“Which means you’re not going to answer my question, right?”

“Some things are best left unsaid.”

She let him lead her toward their camp, but her thoughts were tumbling one over the other. It was suddenly obvious how ignorant humans were, living in this world without thought for things unseen.

****

George Begay felt the same anguish he’d felt the night his Frances had died. He didn’t believe Layla was dead, but she would never be his granddaughter again. She’d been set up as a sacrifice, and at the same time, a savior. He’d seen the men in his dreams – the men who would come after her. He’d seen fighting and blood and death, but they had not shown him the faces, so he didn’t know her true fate. And so he grieved for what was already lost, as well as what was yet to come.

The Dineh knew she was gone. A few talked about hearing a motorcycle that morning, but no one had seen the rider. They already knew a crisis of world proportion was imminent before Layla even returned to the reservation. The council fires were burning; the elders warning what was imminent, and the younger people confused and afraid.

The Dineh knew the history of their people and what had happened at the Bosque Redondo in 1864. The Navajo called it the Long Walk. The U.S. government called it relocating some Indians, and took the Dineh off their lands, forcing them to other land in New Mexico. It was often compared to the Trail of Tears the Cherokee endured when they the government took their lands in the East and sent them halfway across country to Oklahoma territory on foot.

Many of the Navajo escaped the soldiers’ roundup by hiding in the canyons and the high mesas and continued living as they always had. But thousands were taken, and thousands had died. Only that was then, and this was now, and they couldn’t believe something that dire would happen again. The appearance of the Windwalker left families in turmoil, and a tribe divided by fear and the unknown.

But the Navajo wasn’t the only tribe in crisis. It was happening all over North America, from the east coast to the west coast, from the southern border of the continent to the northern most boundaries. They’d all seen the video and the believers were waiting for another sign – the one that would tell them it was time to run.

****

It was a sound, a breeze on her face, an instinct that something wasn’t right.

Layla’s eyes flew open and saw a moving shadow on the floor in front of her, which meant someone was behind her. She rolled out of her bedroll onto her feet; her father’s hunting knife clutched tight in one hand.

Niyol was holding two skinned rabbits already spitted and ready for the fire.

“Most impressive,” he said. “I bring food.”

Layla groaned, holstered the knife, and ran her fingers through her hair in frustration.

“I could have killed you,” she muttered.

“You are not yet that good, but it is of no importance because I cannot die,” he said bluntly, then leaned the spitted rabbits against the stones, angling them toward the fire. “It will take a while for them to cook.”

“I know that, and believe it or not, after a long night’s sleep and nearly scaring me half out of my mind, I need to pee.”

He grinned as she strode past him. He had forgotten that humans were also funny.

****

Two black SUVs drove onto the Navajo reservation just before sunrise with the location of George Begay’s house already set in the GPS.

Emile Harper knew they were there because he’d sent them, but they were flying under radar, and technically had no backing or approval of the United States government. As for the men, it wasn’t their first rodeo. They considered any confrontation the locals might cause to be of no concern, and considered picking up one woman and taking her back to D.C. a simple task.

They were driving eastward and topping a hill just as the sun breeched the horizon. For a fraction of a second the driver was blinded by the day’s first light, but his vision cleared just in time to slam on the brakes. The second car, which was driving in the dust trail of the first, barely missed rear-ending it.

All of a sudden the walkie-talkie in the first car squawked. The driver in the second car was pissed.

“What the fuck, Conroy? Over.”

Conroy was still staring out his windshield as he picked up the radio. There were thousands and thousands of acres on the Navajo reservation, and a good three hundred armed men right in front of them. All he could think was how the hell did they know we’d cross here?

“We’ve got trouble. Over.”

He was trying to figure out how to put a spin on their presence as he headed toward the tribal policemen, who he hoped were in charge. Law was always better than mob rule, and there was a seriously large mob in wait. He couldn’t decide whether to play dumb or pull a pissed-off attitude, but he kept flashing on an old cowboy movie he’d once seen, about a small caravan of covered wagons trapped down in a valley by the hundreds of Indians mounted on horseback, lining both sides of the rims above.

Granted he and his men weren’t in covered wagons, and there were no mountains directly around them, but they were fucking trapped by a wall of Indians in vehicles as far as he could see. Emile Harper had seriously underestimated the Navajo nation.

As the officers started toward him, he heard the doors opening and closing in the SUVS behind him and knew the men were getting out. So they’d been made. Big fucking deal. He would get them out of it. He opted for a happy face and raised his hand in hello.

“Hey guys, what’s going on? Looks like quite a reunion here. Hope we didn’t mess up the group picture.”

No one laughed, which meant he wasn’t going to be talking his way out of this.

At that point, the tallest officer stepped up.

“Johnston Nantay, Navajo tribal police. I want to see some identification.”

“Look, no hard feelings here. We obviously are somewhere we don’t belong. Our bad. We’ll just turn around and leave the same way we came, okay?”

“No, not okay. Hand over your wallets, all of you.”

Conroy heard a distinct click behind him, like someone had just released the safety on a gun. He pivoted quickly, his hand up in the air.

“No weapons! No weapons!” he yelled.

When he turned around, not only had the officers pulled their weapons, but there were three hundred plus Indians spilling out of their cars, armed to the teeth. If he didn’t defuse this situation and fast, they might go down in a history repeat of Custer’s last stand.

Conroy waved at the men he’d brought with him.

“Drop the guns and hand over your wallets.”

His men shifted nervously.

The sound of several hundred rifles jacking shells into the chambers breeched the sudden silence.

Conroy threw down his wallet and handgun, and turned to face Nantay.

“I’m unarmed, I’m unarmed! Don’t shoot!”

Nantay’s men began gathering up the wallets and weapons while he turned his attention to Conroy.

“I would be interested in hearing what you thought you were going to do here,” Nantay said.

“We have obviously taken a wrong turn,” Conroy said.

Nantay didn’t respond as he began flipping wallets open, and the more he looked, the angrier he got.

“You’re either a very stupid white man, or you think we are,” he said, as he tossed the wallets into an evidence bag and handed them to another officer.

Conroy took a deep breath, but said nothing.

“Handcuff them,” Nantay said.

“Look here, you can’t-“

Nantay finally smiled. “Well, yes we can, because this is our land and you, Mr. Washington, as well as Jackson, Truman, Jefferson, Adams, and all the other presidents you’ve brought with you, are going to jail.”

“We’ve done nothing but take a wrong turn on a hunting trip,” Conroy argued.

But the officers were through talking. They handcuffed the eight-man crew, tossed them in the back of two vans, and headed for the jail as the hundreds of other Navajo climbed back in their vehicles and began dispersing in different directions.

Many rough miles and an hour later, the vans pulled up at the jail. The officers began removing their prisoners, who were complaining loudly of the ride and their rights.

As they started into the building, an older man with long braids walked out, then stopped in their path. The officers yanked their prisoners to a halt as the old man approached, and then began moving from man to man, eyeing each one of them carefully.

“What do you say, George?” Nantay asked.

George Begay nodded. “Yes, these are the ones,” then he walked toward his truck, got in and drove away.

“Who the hell was that?” Conroy asked.

Nantay poked his rifle in Conroy’s back. “That was the man who told us you were coming, now walk forward, Mr. Washington.”

Conroy frowned. “What do you mean, told you we were coming?”

Nantay paused. “The Pony Express has long since disappeared. How did you think we found you?” he said, and hauled them into jail.

****

When Conroy and his men never called in, Emile Harper knew something had gone wrong. These were men who knew if they got caught, they were on their own. However, if they’d been made, then it was all the warning the Birdsong woman would need to hide out, which meant next time she would definitely not be in her grandfather’s house. So much for brute force. Moving on to technology.  

****

Binini Island – West Indies

Thanks to Madame ReeRee, he knew something the U.S. government did not. He knew where Layla Birdsong was hiding, and he thought it a place most fitting. According to ReeRee she
was
still on the Navajo reservation, but not near any settlements. She’d already gone to ground and was holed up by water in a place called the canyon of death. It was ironic that he’d been able to confirm the existence with a voodoo queen and Google, although he found out later that the correct translation was the Canyon del Muerto. The internet was a wonderful invention.

But, just as he was about to celebrate an easy retrieval, further research brought his premature celebration to a halt. Canyon del Muerto wasn’t just a little spot on the map. It was miles and miles and miles of land in a remote part of the reservation. However, anything worth having, was worth fighting for, and he knew just who to call.