I realized she was asking something ritualistic, something important. And if I answered wrong, I might never get her help again. I laughed, the sound broken and croaking, like a raven dying. What the hell? What the hell? What the hell?
“When I was five years old,” I said, “I led my grandmother to two men, the two who killed my father and raped my mother. She took them. I don’t remember how. She kept them in a cave.” I laughed again, the sound now like the cawing of crows on a battlefield crowded with the dead. “I watched Uni lisi, the grandmother of many children—my own grandmother—kill the first man. When she hung the second man over a pit of stones, she gave me a knife. I helped her kill him.”
Aggie drew in a long breath. It sounded like pity and pain, as if she suffered with me. But not for long. She wanted truth? Well, I was tired of hiding it, not saying it aloud to any who asked.
“I’m over a hundred and seventy years old, as close as I can guess. I walked the trail of tears with The People before my grandmother helped me to escape. I’m a skinwalker.”
To give her credit, Aggie didn’t go pale or back away as if she were facing a crazy woman. The silence between us stretched, like drops of sweat from a prisoner’s back, long and thick and gelatinous. “You are not u’tlun’ta. You are not the creature called liver-eater. Spear Finger. You do not kill children and eat their livers or kill the sick and steal their hearts.” She said, her tone growing vehement, “You do not!”
Hearing the certainty in her tone, seeing the belief on her face—belief in me—I closed my eyes. A sound, equal parts fear, pain, and relief, ripped from my throat before it closed up again. Tears tore out of me, the tissues of my throat rending and rough, tasting of my blood as I struggled to breathe past the obstruction blocking my airway. I couldn’t name the emotion that raged through me. Too intense for peace. Too raw for acceptance. Maybe redemption of a different sort from what I’d experienced so far in my life.
I felt as if I’d been crying for days. I hated crying. Hated it. I’d been depressed not that long ago, and this felt a lot like that, a black cloud filling me. But this jag didn’t last long. As quickly as it started, it ended, and I found myself leaning against Aggie’s house, exhausted and empty. “Sorry ’bout that,” I said, my voice a croak.
“Have you eaten?” she asked gently. I shook my head no. “Go to the sweathouse. I’ll be there soon.” I started to push away from the wall and Aggie said, “God does not condemn the children led into deeds by a War Woman. Such actions are not evil.”
I stopped. “But does he condemn the adult who looks back and remembers? And is glad?”
“You were baptized, yes? Poured in the blood of the sacrifice? The redeemer does not condemn his own. He sees only his own blood when he sees you. Not the blood of those you have killed.” She closed the door in my face. I blinked, hearing her words again. He sees only his own blood . . . Broken, as if I hadn’t healed from a beating, I turned toward the sweathouse. And a vision of myself I didn’t know if I could stand.
An instant later she opened the door again. “You need to tell someone you are alive?”
“Ummm.” I wiped my eyes and they ached as if I’d been staring at the sun too long. “I’d love to borrow a phone.”
Aggie opened the door wider. “Make it fast and go back out. Be quiet. Mama is watching Wheel of Fortune reruns.”
Standing in the hallway, I dialed home and didn’t bother to respond to the hello. “Have you heard from Bruiser or Rick?” I asked, Aggie’s old-fashioned landline phone cradled between ear and shoulder as I braided my hip-length hair.
Eli said softly, “Good to know you’re alive. George crashed on your couch about an hour ago. Evan is playing his flute, trying to heal him.”
Bruiser is alive. My fingers twisted in my hair, pulling on my scalp as I breathed out in relief.
“Rick is a no-show here,” he added. “Are you okay?”
“Ducky. Bruiser. Details.”
“Bruised,” he chuckled sourly at his own play on words. “Blood loss. Strange abrasions over his throat and back and one leg. Looks like he lost about twenty pounds. He keeps mumbling your name and stuff about snakes.”
I closed my eyes in relief. And if a rather loud voice was shouting in the back of my head that I had left him to die and shouldn’t be so worried now, I was able to shove it down along with all the other stuff I’d have to deal with someday.
“So tell me how your bike and your gear ended up scattered all over the street.”
“Bruiser’s snake. Or . . . I don’t know what it was, but it kinda looked like a snake. My bike?”