Tears of the Shaman Read online

  Tears of the Shaman

  Rebecca Daniels

  TYVMFE!—

  For the Pleasant Peasant Girls.

  Long may ye reign.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 1

  Mallory Wakefield reluctantly pulled the car to a stop, letting the motor idle restlessly. It was hot, and beads of perspiration drizzled down the small of her back. Squinting against the afternoon sun, she peered dubiously over the steering wheel of the economy rental car to the small cluster of crumbling adobe cubicles.

  Huddled together against the barren landscape, the small lodges looked forlorn and abandoned, as forlorn and abandoned as Mallory felt after the long hours of driving. In the yard, a torn, sagging sofa sat in the dust, pushed against the front wall of the nearest structure and collecting what little shade there was from the blistering sun. Pieces of scrap metal, wire and rubble littered the ground everywhere, and in the distance two deserted, tireless pickup trucks rested, propped up on blocks and rusting beside a small, dry growth of brush.

  Surely this couldn’t be the place, Mallory thought as she glanced down at the directions she’d scribbled from the sergeant at the Navajo Tribal Police Station back in Tuba City. But she’d followed his instructions to the letter. This had to be the place. This had to be the home of Benjamin Graywolf—shaman, medicine man, tracker.

  Warily, Mallory reached for the ignition key and turned the motor off. The abrupt silence was almost startling, causing the anxiety in her stomach to feel very much like fear. As with most people, years of urban living had made her cautious, and she glanced around uneasily. But there was no one around, no sign of life, no sound—nothing except the wind. It gusted about, buffeting the sides of the small car and sending dust swirling in all directions.

  As she had so many times in the last four days, Mallory felt frustrated with the remoteness of the region and with the enormity of the western Navajo reservation. It was like another world to her, another planet, where customs and conventions were rigid and strange, lacking even the most basic of conveniences. If only there had been a telephone—a simple telephone—she could have called Benjamin Graywolf and saved all this time.

  Time. The knot in her stomach twisted tighter, and again she had the feeling that time was running out. If only she could get the police to listen, if only she could get them to understand. Marissa was in trouble—Mallory knew it, she could feel it—and she had to do something before it was too late.

  Emotion gripped her chest, and an overwhelming feeling of dread settled around her. But she did her best to push the feelings aside. She wasn’t going to think about that now—she couldn’t. She knew what she had to do. She had to get out of the car and march up to that door. She had to take matters into her own hands. One way or another she was going to find Marissa, and if that meant she’d personally have to look under every rock, every stone, in the Four Corners area, then that’s what she’d do.

  In one swift, determined motion, Mallory opened the door and stepped from the car. The hot, acrid wind stung her face, drying her sweat-soaked back almost instantly. She lifted her long, honey golden hair from her neck, letting the wind touch her overheated skin. As she started to walk, her cramped, tired muscles reminded her just how long she’d been driving.

  She stepped carefully through the littered yard, dodging debris and stepping around tumbleweeds, making her way toward the worn, weather-beaten door of the small adobe structure. Clenching her hand into a tight fist, she rapped loudly.

  “Hello?” she called after a long moment. She waited, then knocked again—harder this time, causing pain to shoot through her knuckles. “Is anyone home?” She listened again, every muscle in her body alert for any sound. She had no idea what to expect. What did a Navajo shaman look like? She leaned forward, hoping to hear something inside. “Is anyone in there? Hello? Is anyone home?”

  Nothing. No sign of anyone, no sound of anything except her own breath as it entered and exited her lungs, and the incessant wind as it gusted around her. Mallory’s entire body sagged as she released a weary sigh. Now what did she do? Return to Tuba City? Camp out at the state police station in Flagstaff? Go back to Marissa’s tiny apartment in Sedona and quietly go crazy?

  “Damn,” she muttered, taking her fist to the door and pounding it hard. She jumped a little, surprised when the latch suddenly gave way from the force of her blow. “Yoo-hoo,” she called, gently pushing the door open and peering into the darkness inside. “Is someone there?”

  “Entering someone’s hogan uninvited is considered rude even in the biligaana’s world.”

  Mallory bolted around violently, jarred by the sound of the voice behind her. “I—I’m sorry. I—I didn’t—”

  Her trembling voice failed in a strangled gasp at the sight of the man standing behind her. A mixture of fear and excitement rendered her mute.

  He glared down at her, his eyes narrow, and he made no effort to hide his suspicion. “What do you want here?”

  “I—I want—” Mallory cleared her voice loudly, taking a deep breath. He towered over her, and she was suddenly very aware that she was alone with this man, hundreds of miles away from anyone who could help her. He wore no shirt, but his legs were covered by some kind of buckskin leggings. His long black hair fell loose across his powerful chest, his skin was baked bronze and dark. The strength in his arms and chest was obvious, but it was the cold in his eyes that sent a frigid chill running through her despite the sweltering heat of the sun. “I’m...looking for Benjamin Graywolf. I was told this was his house.”

  “What do you want with Graywolf?”

  She blinked, staring up at him. Despite the fact that he scared her to death, she bristled at his curt tone. “Could you tell me if this is the Graywolf house or not?”

  His gaze slowly traveled the length of her, then he made a low, caustic-sounding laugh in his throat. “This is the hogan of Benjamin Graywolf.”

  “Oh, right, you’re right. I’m sorry,” she said quickly, grimacing. Of course, how stupid. It was hogan, not house, she knew that. “But this is it? This is his hogan?”

  “It is.”

  “Thank goodness.” She sighed, her excitement building and causing her to forget all about being afraid. “Is he here? Could I see him?”

  “That depends,” he said evasively.

  She blinked, becoming annoyed again. “On what?”

  His eyes narrowed even more, and he lazily lifted one shoulder in an insolent sort of shrug. “On what you want him for.”

  All fear and excitement disappeared, leaving her to deal with the frustration. “Look, I’m really not interested in playing games here. I need to talk with Benjamin Graywolf. It’s very important. I need his help. Now, is he here or isn’t he?”

  “You a cop? FBI?”

  “What?” Mallory choked, clearly surprised. “No.”

  “Who are you? What do you do?”

  Mallory shook her head, exasperated. “My name is Wakefield— Mallory Wakefield. I’m a reporter with the Washington Chronicle, but that’s not why—”

  “Get out of here,” he said abruptly, cutting her off.

  “What?” Mallory snapped, surprised.

  “I said leave,” he repeated. “Get off my property.”

  “Your property?” Mallory was astounded. “You mea
n...you? You’re him? You’re Benjamin Graywolf?”

  “You’re trespassing,” he informed her, taking her purposefully by the upper arm and propelling her toward the rental car. “And I’ve asked you to leave.”

  “Stop that,” Mallory insisted, shrugging to free herself from his hold. “No! Wait, please! If you would just let me explain. Please, I need your help.”

  “I don’t help reporters,” he stated flatly, freeing her with a small thrust toward her car.

  “I’m not here as a reporter,” she insisted, scowling at him. What was the matter with this man. Was he crazy? “For God’s sake, I’m not here for a story.”

  “I don’t talk to reporters,” he told her flatly as he turned and started back toward the hogan. “For any reason.”

  “But if you would just give me a minute, let me explain,” Mallory called after him. “Please. I need your help.” But he had already disappeared inside the hogan, slamming the door closed behind him.

  Mallory stared at the weathered door, a mixture of fury and total bewilderment churning inside her. Sergeant Begay had been so certain this Graywolf could help her. She’d driven all this way, had endured long hours in a miserable little car with no air-conditioning, had tolerated unbearable heat and washed-out roads, and used precious time—for what? To be tossed aside? To be evicted from the property because he didn’t care for reporters?

  Mallory slid behind the wheel of her car and twisted the key in the ignition. Benjamin Graywolf might not like talking to reporters, but he damn well was going to talk to her.

  * * *

  The turquoise chip slipped into the small silver cavity that had been carved for it, creating a tiny eye on the face of the crescent moon. Graywolf straightened up, his muscles protesting the long hours spent hunched over the workbench. Rubbing a hand over his tired, strained eyes, he reached up and switched off the light above his head.

  He glanced down at the meticulously crafted piece of jewelry he’d just completed. A crescent moon. The crescent shape, along with a distinctive arced cluster of stars, had become familiar figures in his work the last few weeks. What did they mean? Why were those designs filling his head? Why was he plagued by the images?

  Graywolf thought of the woman. The sight of her had shaken him. He had immediately thought of the crescent moon and the cluster of stars. For it had been those shapes, along with the image of a biligaana that had filled his visions for weeks now. But not just any biligaana—a biligaana woman, a white man’s woman—a perfect white woman with hair the color of the sun and eyes as blue as the sea.

  Benjamin Graywolf had learned not to ignore his visions. There was a time when he’d scoffed at the traditions and rituals of the shamans, when he’d scorned his legacy and reasoned away his talents. He’d insisted that his succession from a great line of shamans had nothing to do with the occasional flashes of “insight” he would have. His father and grandfather had tried to nurture his visions, to teach him the ways of the shamans, to help him understand and accept his gift, but Graywolf had wanted no part of it. He had called the ways of his fathers superstitious, had thought of them as little more than myths and legends, and had refused to listen.

  Instead, he had left for the white man’s schools, to learn the secrets of the white man’s world. He had wanted to learn how to educate his own people, to free them of the myths and the legends, and of the superstition and fear that he believed perpetuated the endless cycle of poverty and suffering on the reservation.

  But he had been young and foolish back then, and he was older and wiser now. It had been a painful lesson, but Graywolf had learned to accept his visions, to trust them. But trusting a white woman was something he’d never do again. Susan had taught him that.

  Susan. Beautiful Susan. So sweet, so curious, so full of love—or so he’d thought.

  Graywolf closed his eyes, knowing the lesson in betrayal he’d learned from her was one he’d never forget. He had given Susan his heart. He had told her his secrets, shared with her his dreams, and yet she had betrayed him, selling his secrets to the newspapers and making him look like a fool.

  Graywolf thought again of the woman he’d found at his door, and felt the muscles in his stomach tighten. She had been the biligaana from his visions. He glanced back down at the silver crescent he’d just completed. Picking it up slowly with a soft denim cloth, he placed it beside the dozen or so other pieces of silver jewelry he’d created that bore the same moon-shaped design. He was obsessed with the image and it reflected in his work. What did this woman—this reporter—have to do with the crescent, and what were they both doing in his dreams?

  Graywolf still remembered the tabloid headlines—Shaman’s Magic Finds Missing Child and Medicine Man Thwarts Kidnappers. He remembered the reporters, their questions and the flash of cameras. He’d learned the hard way about how reporters could distort your words and color the message. They had made him a caricature, painting him as a dime-store Indian, a mystic in a headdress.

  Turning suddenly, he grabbed his denim jacket from the rusted hook beside the door and trotted off across the yard toward the Jeep. He didn’t want to think about visions now, or crescent moons, or pale-skinned women with haunting blue eyes. With enough firewater, he could block the images in his head. Todilhil, the water of darkness, biligaana’s whiskey—white man’s gift to the Navajo, which like so many gifts from the white man, had become a curse. But Graywolf was grateful for the gift tonight. He didn’t want to think about the woman, about the flawlessness of her beauty or the helplessness in her eyes. He didn’t want to think about her because he didn’t trust white women—or reporters—even when they came to him in his dreams.

  * * *

  The letter n flickered on and off, causing the faded red-and-yellow sign to alternately read Barney’s, and then Bar ey’s. But even without the sign, Mallory wouldn’t have had any trouble finding the place. The roadside tavern sat by itself, situated south of Gray Mountain, just off the reservation on Highway 89, and just where the clerk at the general store in Tuba City had told her it would be. The clerk had also told her the dingy tavern was the place where Benjamin Graywolf went almost nightly to meet with his friends.

  The sun had just begun to sink beneath the horizon when Mallory had pulled into the gravel parking lot. Then the lot had practically been deserted, but that had been almost two hours ago. Now it was lined with a variety of vehicles—all of which looked as though they’d seen better days. Still, despite her careful examination of each patron who’d entered the noisy tavern, she hadn’t yet seen Benjamin Graywolf.

  She studied the run-down establishment with its sagging frame and tarpaper roof. It sat alone and neglected, a tiny oasis of light amid the bleak desert terrain. What was she doing here? she wondered as she watched an old man stumble up the stone steps and stagger along the uneven porch to the door. Was it stupid to just sit and wait? Was she wasting her time?

  The questions plagued her, but she continued to wait. Something kept her there. Instinct, maybe, or maybe just plain stubbornness. She wasn’t sure. She just knew she shouldn’t ignore it. Something told her if she had any chance of finding Marissa, it lay with Benjamin Graywolf. Sergeant Begay had told her he’d had success in finding missing persons, and despite what the police wanted to believe, she knew Marissa was definitely missing.

  Mallory felt her eyes sting with tears. This was supposed to have been such a special time for the two of them. It had been so long since they’d seen each other, and they’d had big plans. But now everything was turning into a nightmare.

  As soon as Mallory’s editor at the Washington Chronicle had given her the assignment to cover this year’s annual Native American Tribal Powwow and Convention, she and Marissa had begun making plans. They hadn’t seen each other since Marissa had moved from Washington the year before to take a teaching job at a school in Sedona. So getting an assignment that actually required her to go to Arizona had been like a gift from the gods for Mallory, and she’d jumped a
t it. While covering the powwow on the Navajo National Fairgrounds, where tribes from all the nearby nations gathered for the week-long conference, would be interesting, what had really excited her had been the chance to spend some time with her sister. She’d quickly arranged to take the two weeks before the powwow as vacation, and she and Marissa had looked forward to spending the time together.

  But four days ago, when Mallory had arrived at the airport in Flagstaff, Marissa hadn’t been there to meet her. Immediately Mallory had sensed something was wrong. She had checked everywhere for her sister—Marissa’s house in Sedona, her school, her friends, even the hospitals. It was as if Marissa Wakefield had disappeared without a trace, and Mallory knew her twin was in trouble.

  Mallory couldn’t remember when it had started—the “intuition,” the special radar, that “twins thing” she shared with Marissa. It had just always been there, something they’d both possessed, like blond hair and blue eyes. For as far back as she could remember they’d intuitively known what the other was feeling —joy, sadness, excitement, even love. When they were younger, the pediatrician who had cared for them in their small hometown of Jackson, California, had sent them to Stanford Medical Center where they had been tested and evaluated. Special communication between identical twins was not unusual, but rarely was it as strong as it was between the Wakefield twins. It didn’t seem to matter where they were, or how far away, the link between them remained.

  When Marissa had failed to show up at the airport and there had been no trace of her at her small house in Sedona, Mallory had known something was wrong. She’d contacted the principal of the school where Marissa taught, and to her alarm she learned that Marissa had failed to show up for school on Monday morning, as well. The principal, sounding worried over the phone, had told Mallory that she had thought Marissa had planned to spend her weekend tutoring students at a Navajo school on the reservation. But after checking, Mallory learned that even though the people at the reservation school had expected Marissa, she had never shown up.