She Returns from War

THIRTEEN



"Welcome to our home."

Victoria leaned out from behind Ata'halne, her arms clamped around his waist. Naalnish nodded toward a small group of structures rising out of the desert floor. They were conical shapes built of sticks and mud. As they rode closer, she could see that each hut had a large, colorful blanket covering its entrance. A few women sat in a small circle, talking and laughing in the same strange language Naalnish and Ata'halne spoke. They raised their voices in greeting when they caught sight of them. The two men raised their hands in return.

Victoria could feel eyes staring at her with great interest, but she avoided their gaze. She shifted her leg to feel the pressure of the revolver against it. Her two escorts had not demanded she remove her weapons, which gave her a small measure of comfort.

They had ridden for no more than a few hours. The sun had continued its journey into the fathomless blue sky and now hung near its peak, raining down its relentless heat in earnest. Victoria's shirt stuck to her back again, and she knew she would need to have it washed when she returned to town. The aching in her body had become a constant companion, one she had learned to ignore.

Ata'halne guided their horse up to a larger building. Unlike the other huts, this one had a small extension protruding from its side. Had it been of any notable size, Victoria might have likened it to a hallway leading into a sitting room, but the "hallway" was scarcely taller than a man.

The two men dismounted. Ata'halne turned to help her down, but she slid off the horse's back with little trouble. Naalnish led them up to the building's entrance. A woven blanket covered the opening, its pattern full of squares and triangles in white and black and red. Victoria had never seen a blanket like it, even among the British aristocracy. How these primitive people could produce such work was beyond her.

"The singer is inside," Naalnish said. "He is the one that can help you. He may not help you, and if he does not, you must leave at once. You will bring evil to us all if you do not."

Victoria nodded. "Even if he chooses not to, I thank you for your help."

The Indian looked uncomfortable. He gave a quick nod and pulled the blanket aside. Victoria stepped through the doorway into the darkness beyond. Smoke swirled around her, burning her eyes and throat. She tried to hold in the coughs that rose up in her chest but failed. Covering her mouth with her hand, she took a painful breath.

Naalnish placed a hand on her shoulder, encouraging her to go farther in. She took a few more steps and entered a small, circular room. Sunlight streamed in through holes in the walls and roof, forming smoky rays that cut across the shadows. The remains of a fire smoldered in a circular pit. Sitting on the far side of it was the dim figure of a man. She watched him for a moment, unsure if his eyes were open or not. Naalnish slipped into the room behind her, taking a seat to the man's right. He motioned for her to sit opposite them. She nodded and eased herself into the packed earth.

Victoria sat in the darkness watching the two Indians. She wondered why Ata'halne did not follow them inside, but did not think it would be polite to ask. Naalnish was looking at the elderly man, who hadn't moved since they first entered. After a few moments of silence, Naalnish spoke softly in the Indian tongue. The singer turned his head to listen.

"I have told him your name," Naalnish said to her, "and why you have come."

The old man's eyes glittered in the dim light. He spoke in a voice of dry leaves and wind, but it filled the small room with authority.

"He feels shame for the actions of this woman who has injured you," Naalnish said. "He says no Dine should behave in such ways."

"Oh, he shouldn't feel sorry for that," Victoria said. "Tell him it is not his fault."

Naalnish relayed her words to the singer, who replied without taking his eyes off her. "He says this woman should have known better than to act as she did. We do not wish for any fight with your people."

Victoria hesitated, not sure how to respond. "Not everyone is a good person," she finally said. "Perhaps this woman is just given to hurting others."

"It is true," the old man said through Naalnish. "But you did not come here to speak of good and evil in men. You came for help, and I will give it."

A smile spread across Victoria's face. "Thank you, sir."

The singer held up his hand. "Before I start, you must promise to only speak of this when you need. When you speak of this evil, it hears. Naalnish put himself in danger by speaking of it to you. Those who walk the Witchery Way silence talk of them, and their ears are sharp. What is more, after learning these things, you may want this power for yourself. It is believed that one who knows much of the Witchery Way must walk that path."

"You know much," Victoria said, "and you are not an evil man."

"Are you certain?" The light caught the old man's eye in a queer gleam, and a chill skittered up Victoria's spine.

A grin deepened his wrinkles. "Yes, you are right. I know more than I could tell you in a hundred nights, and yet I know little of the Holy People and all their ways. I know also of the Witchery Way, and it has not corrupted me. I will tell you enough so you may fight this woman that seeks to do evil to you.

"The Witchery Way is a very old path given to us by First Man and First Woman. We do not know why they created it, but we endure its evils as we enjoy their blessings. Those who walk this path we call ant'iihnii."

"What does that mean?"

"It means 'witch people'."

"Are all witches women, then?" Victoria asked. "Can men ever follow this path?"

The old man smiled. "You would know much. If we spoke of other things, I would tell you with a glad heart. Of this, I will only say what you need to hear."

"I understand," Victoria said.

"Good." He shifted his weight. "Now, to choose the wise path, I must know what this woman has done to you."

Victoria recounted both her encounter with the woman on the first night and the subsequent confrontations with her. Wanting to leave nothing out, she even told the old man of her dream in which she flew across the desert and came upon the two pursuers on the mesa. As she spoke, Naalnish grew visibly more agitated. He hesitated to translate her words, and when he did, his words were hushed and hurried. His distress fed her own uneasiness.

When she finished, the singer studied the embers between them for a long time. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, and Victoria could feel her own running down her cheeks. The air in the tiny room was still and thick. It made breathing difficult. Her shirt peeled away from her skin as she shifted her weight, waiting for the old man's reply.

At last, his gaze lifted from the fire. "It is strange," Naalnish translated. "This woman says she can become an animal, and you say you have seen this."

"I did not witness it, exactly," Victoria said. "I only dreamed I did."

"That you say it was a dream is not strange," the Indian said. "Your people have no stories of such things, but I can tell you that your dream was not a dream."

Victoria blinked. "How is that possible? I most certainly did not grow wings and teach myself to fly, nor could I have instantly moved from the top of the mesa back to our camp."

"Your body did not move," he said, nodding, "but you moved across the land all the same."

"I don't understand."

The singer smiled. "As I said, your people have no stories of such things, but my people do. The Dine have long known that the spirit can leave the body, moving over the land and seeing things that the body's eyes may not. You are not Dine, so it is strange for you to do this, but you did."

"So my dream wasn't a dream?" Victoria asked. "What happened to me that night, what I felt and what I saw, was real?"

"Yes," he replied.

Victoria couldn't quite grasp what she was hearing. Surely this old man, wise though he was, had somehow confused the world of dreams with the real world. Maybe his tribe did have stories to explain dreams as something other than they were, but they were just stories. It wasn't possible for the spirit to leave the body prior to a person's death, when it was sent to paradise or damnation for all eternity. To say otherwise was absurd and heretical.

"I see on your face that you do not believe me. Tell me this: in your dream, when you saw the ant'iihnii, how did she see you if you were not there?"

"I'm not sure," Victoria said. "She just seemed to sense me somehow."

"The ant'iihnii knows of the spirit world, and she sees those that walk in it. When you came close, she felt you. When she took the form of the fox, her eyes could see you."

Victoria's stomach grew slightly ill. "What would have happened if I hadn't returned to my body?"

"She would have wounded your spirit," the singer said. "If her spirit was stronger, yours may have been broken. You would have been lost."

"I would have died?"

"Your body, yes. Your spirit may have found a new body, but maybe not."

"What do you mean, found a new body? I might have possessed someone else?"

"Now you ask of the Great Cycle. I would gladly tell you more, but it must wait. We must keep our words on the ant'iihnii."

Victoria looked into Naalnish's eyes. They were round with fear. "Yes, I'm sorry. Please tell me about her."

"Like the Dine, the ant'iihnii do not all walk the same path. I am a singer, and Naalnish is a strong worker. They have their own skills also. We call them all ant'iihnii, but they have other names. The one that hunts you is called..."

"What? What is it called?"

Naalnish looked away. The singer watched him for a moment, then turned to Victoria. "Yee naaldlooshii," he said.

The younger Indian cringed at the words. Speaking in soft tones, the singer placed his hand on Naalnish's shoulder. Victoria's heart filled with sympathy. The things the old man said terrified her, and she had only come to know of them in the past few days. For Naalnish, who surely had heard stories of such creatures since infancy, it was as though his childhood fears were coming to life around him. If she had come across a man in Oxford who claimed to have witnessed Frankenstein's monster with his own eyes, Victoria knew she would feel much the same.

Naalnish nodded at the old man's words and turned back to Victoria. "I am sorry," he said. "It is forbidden for us to speak of such things."

"I understand," Victoria said, offering what comfort she could with her eyes. "I am truly grateful for all your help, and I will pray that this woman will not harm you or your family for it."

"Thank you," he said. He took a deep breath, then continued. "The word he spoke would be 'skin-walker' in your tongue."

"Skin-walker," Victoria said, testing it out. The words sounded ominous, and yet it seemed to fit. "What does a skin-walker do?"

"What you have seen," Naalnish translated. "They take the shape of animals. They do this to hunt, to hide, to play tricks, and to attack people. To take an animal's shape, they must wear the skin of the animal and no other clothing."

"That explains why she was naked in the barn that night," Victoria said, mostly to herself, but Naalnish translated her words anyway.

The singer nodded. "And why she wore nothing in your dream that was not a dream."

"Still," Victoria said, "that doesn't quite explain everything. Why is she able to control the man she travels with, the one Cora calls a vampire? Is that also a power of the skin-walker?"

"Yes and no," he replied. "The ant'iihnii are of many paths, as I have said. Some walk more than one. If she can do this thing, she must also walk The Frenzy Way. This way gives ant'iihnii the power of will over others."

Victoria remembered her strange feelings when the skin-walker first questioned her in the barn. "So they can control someone's mind?"

"No," the old man said, shaking his head. "Not control, but pressing on the will like a stone on corn. If your will is strong, you may keep it, but you will still feel the pressing."

"That vampire must be weak-willed, then," Victoria said. "An odd thing to think about such a creature." She shook her head, then moved on to the most important question of the day. "So how do we protect ourselves from this skin-walker? Can she be killed?"

The singer inhaled deeply. "Our stories say it can be done," he said, "but it is not easy. The ant'iihnii protects itself well. When it is in an animal shape, it may be wounded, but it is very quick. When it is human, it has magic to make bowstrings break and guns fail."

Victoria's heart sank. His words were filling the holes in her understanding of their encounters with this skinwalker. Cora didn't seem to know any other way of dealing with a threat besides shooting at it, and that clearly wouldn't work. "So what can we do?"

"She has shown her face to you," he replied. "Skin-walkers will not do this unless they must, for it puts them in danger. If one sees her face and calls her by name, her magic will not work. You have seen her face. If you learn her name, you may do this."

"I don't know that we will," Victoria said dejectedly. "I wouldn't even know where to start looking for her."

"I cannot help you with that. Many Dine were lost in Hweeldi, and those that returned spread like dust in the wind. The skin-walker may travel far in her animal shape, so she could sleep in a place far away.

"Still," he said, "even without her name, you may wound her."

"How?" Victoria's eyes became clear and bright, her spirit eager for the old Indian's words.

The singer reached toward the embers. His gnarled fingers curled around a handful of ashes near the fire's edge. Lifting his hand up, he nodded to her. She cupped her own hands and held them out. The ash filled them, soft and weightless. When she pulled her hands back, a ghostly cloud hung in the air between her and the Navajo men.

"That is ash from the fire of a singer and healer," Naalnish said before the old man could speak. "It is the best weapon you can use against ant'iihnii."

"How do I use it? Do I throw it on her?"

Naalnish translated, and the old man shook his head. "No. You will not get close enough. Put it on your bullets before you shoot them at her. The ash will break her magic and wound her body. In the stories, men would fight skin-walkers in this way, by dipping their arrows into ashes. Shoot at her head or heart. If you do not, your bullets may not kill her."

Victoria tucked the ash into her satchel. "Thank you. I will."

"And now, young one," he said, "you have what you need, and I cannot aid you more. Naalnish will take you back to the white town. May the Holy People watch over you."

"Thank you," Victoria said again. "If there is anything I may do to repay you for your kindness, please ask."

The old man shook his head. "It is enough that I have helped stop the evil of an ant'iihnii, even if she is one of our people."

Victoria thanked him again, then rose to her feet. Her hands instinctively pinched at her sides, looking for a dress to curtsey with. Too late, she remembered she was wearing her denim riding trousers. Blushing, she nodded at the singer - who returned the gesture - and made her way down the hallway and into the desert sun.

Naalnish emerged from the building behind her. "Remember what you have heard."

"I will," Victoria said.

His flinty eyes fixed on her. "Do not speak of it to anyone."

"I need to tell Cora what I learned. She and I will be fighting together."

"Only tell her what you must," he said. "If you speak too much or too openly, it will draw evil attention."

"I understand," Victoria said. She walked over to the two horses, then paused and looked around. "Where is Ata'halne? Will he be joining us for the ride back?"

Naalnish smiled and shook his head. "He is with that woman again, I think."

"A woman?" Victoria asked, surprised. "He has a wife?"

"No," Naalnish replied, "but he wants to change that. He has been speaking a lot with a woman in the village."

Victoria pulled herself up onto the horse's back. "Is she nice?"

"She is quiet," he said, mounting his own horse and nudging it in the direction of Albuquerque. "If they marry, he will not be able to interrupt her."

A smile spread across Victoria's face. "Men in my country value a quiet wife, or so I'm told. I am not married myself, though my parents did their best to change that. I suppose I speak too much for men to fall in love with me."

"Anaba is not like you, then," Naalnish said.

"Anaba? Is that her name?" The Indian nodded. "What does it mean?"

"She Returns From War."

"She Returns From War?" Victoria wrinkled her nose. "That seems like rather a violent name to give a woman. Is she a soldier?"

"No," Naalnish said, his hips swaying with the rhythm of his horse's steps. "Our women do not fight. She received this name when she returned to the village without her husband."

"Her husband?" Victoria asked. "So she has been married before."

"Yes, but her husband was killed by men from your army."

Victoria's back stiffened at his tacit accusation. "You mean the United States Army. I can assure you that Her Majesty's soldiers had nothing to do with it."

"This is so," Naalnish agreed. "I am sorry."

"Quite all right," Victoria said. "Please continue."

"Her husband died three years ago," Naalnish said. "When she returned to the village and told us her story, we gave to her the name Anaba."

"Why did the army kill her husband?"

Naalnish shrugged. "This is not known. I believe it was for no other reason than he was Dine. The white man's soldiers do not fear to kill our people without cause. It is not often, but it is so."

"I'm sorry," Victoria said. "Men can be such monsters."

"Yes."

The pair rode in silence for a few moments before another question came to her. "You and the singer both said the word 'Dine'. What does this word mean?"

"It is our name for ourselves," Naalnish replied. "You call us Navajo, but we have always been Dine. It means 'The People'."

"Practical enough," Victoria said.

The Indian looked to their left and raised his hand. "There is Ata'halne now."

Victoria followed his gaze to a figure standing outside a hut some way off. The figure raised his hand in reply, and Victoria waved at him. The blanket behind Ata'halne moved aside as a woman emerged. She wore a smaller blanket around her shoulders, and silver medallions flashed about her waist. Thick hair framed her face and flowed over her shoulders in a waterfall of shimmering sable. The woman raised her hand toward them as well. Victoria smiled as she waved back.

Then nearly fell off her horse.

Victoria gripped the saddle horn with her free hand, trying to steady herself. The blood drained from her face. Once she had waved long enough to be polite, she turned her head away. Fear twisted inside her, even in the light of the noonday sun. It was all she could do to keep herself from spurring her horse into a gallop.

Naalnish looked at her. "What is wrong?"

"This Anaba," Victoria said, "how much do you know about her?"

"Not much," Naalnish replied. "She is not a young woman like you, but she is not old. She has no mother, but I do not know how her mother died. She has no children."

"And that was her? With Ata'halne?"

"Yes."

"Naalnish," Victoria said, "I believe the woman that has been hunting us is this Anaba."

"This is not possible," he said. "We have no people of that kind in our village."

Victoria couldn't help stealing a glance over her shoulder. The woman had turned away from them, but Victoria knew she hadn't been mistaken. The woman's face had haunted her in dreams and the waking world; she knew it all too well. "But what if she is?" Victoria asked. "What if this woman has been living with you all this time?"

Naalnish shook his head. "No," he said. "She is quiet and sad, but she is not..."

"A witch?" Naalnish refused to look at her. "I am not lying. That woman back there is the one who kidnapped me."

"No," he said again, but his voice was weaker. His eyes did not leave the horizon. "Anaba is the daughter of the singer. She would not choose... that path."

"Are you certain of that?" His silence was reply enough. "I think I can find my way from here if you want to go back and speak to the singer."

Naalnish dropped his gaze. "I do not want you to get lost."

"No need to worry," Victoria said more confidently than she felt. Her mind was exploding from the implications. Cora needed to know, and Naalnish needed to warn his village. Now that the skin-walker, this Anaba, knew that they were on to her, she might become more aggressive and unpredictable. Victoria didn't want any harm to come to Naalnish, the singer, or any of the other innocent people in their village.

What if she was wrong, though? The poor widow could simply be that, a woman whose husband had been heartlessly killed by the U.S. Army. Maybe Victoria had been mistaken. Maybe she was just afraid, seeing the witch in every Indian woman's face. She had been so certain when she first saw Ata'halne's friend, but now she wasn't as confident. If Naalnish accused Anaba of being a witch, they might shun her or kill her. Victoria knew history well enough to understand that such accusations were seldom taken lightly, and they almost always resulted in death or some other form of punishment. By speaking her mind, she may have well just condemned an innocent woman to be burned at the stake, or whatever form of execution the Navajo used for their own witches.

Naalnish turned his horse around.

"Naalnish," she said. He looked over his shoulder. "Don't hurt her if she isn't a witch."

"We can show her no kindness."

"But only if she is a witch," she said. "Promise me you won't if she isn't."

"The singer will decide," he replied, then turned away.

Victoria watched him recede into the distance. Her hands twitched, eager to spur her horse after him, to ensure that the woman would be safe from any unjust punishment. She wouldn't be able to live with herself if Anaba died because of a guess made through a fog of heat and fear.

The skin-walker and her vampire pet had to be stopped, though. If they weren't, more innocent people would die. Pride firmly swallowed, she would ride back to Ben's Print Shop, tell Cora what she'd learned from Naalnish and the Navajo singer, and ask her to ride against their enemies that night. They would need new horses, fresh supplies, and the handful of ash she carried in her satchel. God willing, they might bring this all to an end that very night, and then they could be on their way back to England.

Pulling her hat down, she urged her horse forward, in the direction of Albuquerque.