The Magic Shop

Reservation





The attractive woman entered the shop and was grateful to finally get out of the dry heat. She waved a hand in front of her when she encountered the thick smell of cigarette smoke. The old, wooden walls were adorned with Native American trinkets and keepsakes, and the shelves were laden with pottery and t-shirts. This place looks like a long shot for bones, she thought, but I have to try. This was the last shop on her list.

She passed jewelry made of copper and silver. The stones they inlaid in their trinkets and charms were typically turquoise, or amber, like the color of her hair. She nearly tried on a bracelet but was determined to stay focused; she had no time for such luxuries. She made her way to the back corner of the shop, where a pile of cattle skulls caught her attention.

“Shirts on sale,” an old woman said in a deep, heavily accented voice. She was clearly Native American and sat behind the only register in the shop, weaving something along a large plank that ran along most of the wall. “Hand-made rugs, too,” she added.

The attractive woman tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and acknowledged the Native American with a nod as she continued to the back corner of the shop. She picked up one of the skulls and examined it. There were curious markings on the horns and down the bridge of the nose, but she wouldn’t fall for the local tribe’s attempt at pushing their mystique. This wasn’t what she was looking for.

Not quite.

The woman cleared her throat. “Excuse me, please,” she said, walking back to the register, “but, uh, may I see your other items?”

The old woman’s eyes narrowed. “These not good enough?” She waved a hand across the store. “These are all. No more items.”

“I don’t think you understand,” the young woman said extracting a folded piece of paper from her white blouse. With her other hand she removed a piece licorice from her suit coat pocket and took a bite. She managed to unfold the paper with one hand while she continued to work on her treat. “Is…” She stole a glance at the paper, “Is Alo here? May I speak with him?”

“What do you know of Alo?”

“I know Alo has other,” she thought a moment as to how best word it, “items for sale—special things for the right buyers.”

“There is no Alo here,” the old woman said. “There—”

The young woman heard a creaking behind her, and she whirled around as a portion of the ceiling opened up and folded to one side. A rope ladder fell from the hole, followed by a deep voice.

“I am Alo,” he said. “They told me you were coming. Come. There is much to discuss.”

The young woman followed Alo without looking back. She hiked up her suit pants as she stepped up the ladder and ascended to the top. As she climbed up, she took Alo’s outstretched hand and he lifted her into the attic.

Incense burned somewhere in the circular room. She smelled it. Unique items hung on the walls and decorated the shelves; all backed by a beautiful orange light. She knew instinctively that each of these rooms were unique in their own way, yet they all had a magic energy necessary to contain and stabilize so many special items in one place. The warm ambiance this room created fit the setting well. Here she was at a Hopi Indian reservation, not too far from Four Corners, the magical place in the heart of the desert where the corners of Utah, Colorado, New Mexico, and Arizona touched; and she was relying on the extra magic.

“I believe I have what you are looking for,” said Alo as he returned the trap door to its rightful place with a thud. He wandered off to another part of the room and sat on a circular bench that followed the shape of the room. The woman was reminded of some saunas she had used many years ago, or maybe a wooden locker room.

She looked around at the curious items on display; tribal uniforms, spears and axes, various skins, and medicine bags, but no animal bones. It was always interesting to her what the guardians reclaimed and kept in their collections.

“Here we are,” Alo said, resurfacing a moment later. “Please handle this with care.” He handed her an ancient bow and a single arrow. The arrowhead was made entirely of turquoise, and the feathers were as fiery orange as the color of the glow in the room. The bow itself was made of what looked like an orange bamboo—flexible, but extremely strong. She had never seen its equal.

“This is amazing, but I’m afraid it’s not exactly what I am looking for.”

“But they told me that you were—”

“I am looking for an animal skull with healing properties,” she said. “Not a bow and arrow, no matter how magnificent they may be. Do you have such a skull?”

“No. These animals are our brothers, and we look to them for guidance. It is rare that they will give themselves to us for our own purposes, especially the animal you speak of.”

“You know the animal?”

“Yes, the Phoenix. We know it well here in Arizona.”

“Do you know of no one with this skull?” she asked. “My husband—he’s dying.”

I have only known of one in all of my many years.”

“Where is it now?’

“I sold it recently for a good piece of coin.” Alo rubbed his fingers along the feathers of the arrow. “to an old friend in Las Vegas. He needed it as badly as you. I don’t think you will have much luck with him.”

She nearly gasped. “In Vegas?” she tried to keep her composure. “You said that you had only seen one skull. How did you happen upon it?”

“I killed it,” Alo said thoughtfully, “with this.” He held up the bow and arrow. “This is the only weapon known to man that can slay a Phoenix.”

“How did you find it; the bird, I mean?”

“No more questions.” He eyed her suspiciously now. “What did you say your name was?”

“Anabell,” she said, taking a deep breath, “Anabell Fith. I’m the daughter-in-law of the friend you mentioned, and if what you tell me is true, your telephone call was correct. I’ll need that bow and arrow.”