Spirit Dances (19 page)

The troupe, who were not especially loud, got much quieter as I was carried out. The drum stopped, and I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, the weight of their gazes. I thought probably they should be offered some sort of explanation as
to what one used-up shaman was doing lying center stage shortly after their dance performance.

Melinda, however, was going to have to offer that explanation, because I didn’t have a clue. All I knew was that the rubber dance mat was unexpectedly comfortable, and that the stage lights from the wings were warm enough to make my bones start melting. In fact, despite my ventilated jeans, I thought I’d start sweating pretty soon, which would have been a more dismaying prospect if I wasn’t distantly aware of the already-pungent scent of dancers. I’d fit right in, smelling up the place.

Three people hit drums at the same time, abrupt enough that despite my weariness, I flinched. Footsteps ran across the stage, quick light sounds that changed to more solid thumps as whoever it was reached the nonpadded wings, paused, then came rushing back to spring across the mat. The next drumbeat came from four instruments, low rumble of quick beats which moved clockwise around me until the dancers and the drumming alike came to a sharp stop. I had a dizzifying vision as if from above, of the four musicians slotting into place on a power wheel, one taking up a position in each cardinal direction. And then I knew why Melinda had put me onstage, and what the troupe themselves instinctively understood.

They were offering me a spirit dance.

The part of me that wasn’t beaten down and wasted—I was sure there had to be a part like that buried in there somewhere—thought I should probably sit up and watch, to properly appreciate what was going on around me. The rest of me, however, was completely content to lie huddled in the middle of the stage, listening to drums and footsteps falling into patterns around me.

At first it was just the drummers, sound pulsing in almost visible waves, for all that my eyes were closed. Then some one else joined in, using heavy steps to make a counter-rhythm, one-two-
three.
Within a minute the stage vibrated with the weight of feet matching that pattern, and the high-pitched drums were a fourth beat thrown into the air to make certain the cadence didn’t become too comfortable. The sounds sent goose bumps down my spine, then crept
in along the big nerves and nudged my exhausted, fragile power.

It didn’t so much nudge back as go
splaaaaah!
like a dog rolling over to have its tummy rubbed. Dignity wasn’t one of my strong suits, and it was all I could do not to roll over and go
splaaaaah!
myself. Instead I just sank a little farther into the mats, letting drumbeats and dance steps wash over me. The stage lights pounding down were magnificent, their warmth lifting me out of myself to drift on the dance Littlefoot’s troupe was offering.

I actually did rise out of myself, the world becoming half-visible through the Sight, like my closed eyes were partially obscuring my vision. That didn’t normally happen—usually I could See very clearly whether my physical eyes were open or not—but I appreciated it. Full-blown Sight would’ve been overwhelming, and I’d kind of had enough of overwhelming for one day.

Watching the dancers, though, was worth the effort. They weren’t doing one of their choreographed pieces. They moved in toward me, backed away, dropped in and out, clapped or stomped their feet, and as a whole appeared to dance as the spirit moved them. Their auras flowed together and separated again, always achieving lighter shades when they touched one another, though not once did they reach the blinding white of the ghost dance’s final eruption. That dance had been impassioned; this one was gentle.

I was profoundly grateful for the quieter approach. More would have flattened me, not that I could get much flatter either figuratively or literally. Every time the energy they danced up roiled forward to touch me—and it did, even if they didn’t themselves—my own magic sighed a little more deeply, as if it was being massaged back into wakefulness.

Admittedly, wakefulness wasn’t a place I had any raging
desire to be. Conked out on the dance floor mat sounded pretty good, really. I snorted a near-silent laugh into my forearm, and a remarkably good mimic of the noise echoed within the constraints of my skull. My eyebrows flicked upward, and Raven glided out of the stage lights to flit around me, finally coming to a stop by way of multitudinous hops. He gave another snorting laugh, this time sounding a bit more ravenlike, and cocked his head to give me a good hard look with one bright black eye.

I said, “Up here,” because while I retained enough connection to my body to laugh, mostly my consciousness was detached and basking in the light and energy above me.

Raven twisted his head to peer up at me, then cawed in delight and leaped back into the air. He was unusually solid, all gleaming blue-black feathers and massive ruffed throat instead of the outlined white light form I often saw. He winged his way around me, going
ek! ek! ek!
with approval, like floating around outside my own body was an excellent place to be. Probably from his avian perspective, it was. He probably considered humans to be depressingly limited, what with being stuck to the earth all the time. I was starting to get behind that train of thought myself when he stuck his entire head in my belly and said “
Quaaarrk!
” in unmistakable dismay.

I muttered, “It wasn’t my
idea,
” and he pulled his head out of my stomach to glower and batter me with his wings. It always hurt when he did that, but it seemed like he was putting more oomph into it this time. I smacked back at him with childish displeasure. “Knock it off! Talk to Rattlesnake, if you want to bitch somebody out! He—”

Well. Technically Rattler was at fault for the reduced state of power that Raven evidently found so distressing. On the other hand, I would be a thin red smear across a Seattle
street had Rattler not done what he did. “He saved my life,” I finished, considerably more graciously than I’d started. “It just about wiped us out. Well, me, anyway. He’s probably okay. I mean, it’s hard to hurt spirit animals, right?”

Raven, who very rarely spoke—because ravens could talk in the real world, Rattler had said—gave me a distinctly concerned look and
quark
ed again. I said, “Okay, okay,” and drifted back down toward my body. Not really into it, but closer to its general vicinity than I’d been. Raven winged down beside me and strode around self-importantly while I whispered,
Rattler?
in the recesses of my mind.

Like Raven, he came out of the light, slithering between dancers’ feet as he materialized into something that looked very much like a real-world rattlesnake. There was a thread there, a commonality, it seemed. The more out-of-body I was, the more real my spirit animals were. If I was solidly within myself, they manifested as quick sketches of light and power. I wondered if they saw me similarly when I wasn’t inhabiting my flesh.

Rattler crawled over my hip and settled into the warm divot between it and my ribs, then lifted his head to have a look at Raven. They weren’t usually in it together: I tended to need one or the other, not both. The once I’d needed both had been in the Lower World, where we’d all been busy enough with our separate tasks to not have any kind of territory wars. Not that I had any idea if spirit animals had territory wars, though it seemed unlikely. The whole point was they each offered a shaman very different skill sets, so in theory there was no toe-treading or reason to argue.

I still had the distinct impression they were arguing. Raven went
klokklokKLOK!
and hopped around, wings and chest puffed with disapproval, while Rattler stuck his long
forked tongue out repeatedly, which somehow came across as a two-year-old’s behavior instead of a snake’s. It wasn’t good form to tell outsiders what your spirit animals were, but I suddenly wished the dancers could see my two guides in their private little battle. I wanted to see how they would interpret it, and how it would affect their dance.

Because it wasn’t, at the moment. It affected me: even if they were arguing, and over what I had no idea, their dual presence made me feel better in much the same way the dance did. They were part of my energy, maybe even part of my soul at this point. Whatever snapping, biting, hissing disagreement was between them, having them both beside me gave the fragile core of magic within me a boost of strength and confidence.

That
affected the dancers. Someone among them—maybe many of them—was profoundly sensitive to energy levels. The stronger I felt, the quicker the drumbeats became, and the more involved the dancers. They were still light-years from the ghost dance, but there was more strength to what they offered, as if they knew I was better able to accept it now. I took a breath deep enough that I felt it even in my semi-disembodied state, and sank a little farther into the dance mats. Rattler slid over my ribs, dislodged by my breathing, and turned his attention from Raven to stick his tongue in my ear, a scolding if I’d ever received one.

Raven took it as triumph, fluffed out all his feathers until he was twice his normal size and sat with a smug
klok!
that reverberated in the small bones of my ears.

One drummer hit a note that echoed the tone and pitch of Raven’s call perfectly, and the theater ripped down the middle, folded away and left me in the midst of a harsh white desert.

I had been here before.

Past experience didn’t make sipping at searing air any easier. It didn’t make the unrelenting brilliance of the too-close sun any easier to bear, either. I still didn’t want to look at myself for fear I’d see the very bones outlined in my flesh, light so intense it could only burn me away. Tears, precious liquid, drained from my mostly-closed eyes because the light was simply more than could be borne. They ran across my nose and dropped to gleaming white earth, sizzling into nothingness within an instant. I was very nearly as physically miserable as I’d ever been, and that included having gotten hit by a semi less than an hour earlier.

On the other hand, I wasn’t dangling upside-down from the only tree in Creation. I could feel its roots under my ribs and thigh, and if I dared open my eyes that much, I knew I’d see its bleached-out spirally bones reaching for the nearby sun and providing no shade at all. I didn’t want to look that hard. For the moment, I didn’t have a headache so bad it seemed likely to split my skull in half, and wisdom seemed the better part of valor. Instead I peeked through my lashes at the close horizon, and conceded that overall, magic-drained or not, I was in
much
better condition than I’d been the first time I came to this place.

And this time, I wasn’t surprised at all when a coyote trotted out of the desert whiteness to greet me.

He was, once again, possibly the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen. Coyotes in general were tawny, good for blending into shrub-infested yellow deserts. This one might blend into a precious metals mine if he tried hard enough. Every strand of fur glittered like they’d been hand-painted in gold and copper and bronze. His eyes were black, not
coyote-gold, and stars lay within them, shining pinpoints from all edges of the sky.

He moved like a dream, not convincingly bound to the earth, and brought slightly cooler air with him, the difference between coughing on each breath and being able to swallow it down. When
he
breathed, the air expanded, shimmering like a heat mirage and expanding the pocket of cooler air. I wanted very much for him to lie down next to me so I could pull enough air into my lungs, but I had to settle for him sitting, paws tidily aligned a few centimeters from my nose.

It helped. After a minute or three I pushed up on an elbow, then into a sitting position, and croaked, “Hey, big guy.”

This archetype of the Trickster, this primal chaos force of the universe, this prophet and world-maker whom I called Big Coyote, closed his starry eyes in a slow greeting blink, then bashed his head against mine hard enough to give me starry eyes, too.

I had the brief thought that, though I’d never say so out loud, I was becoming rather more fond of spirit animals who actually spoke to me, like Rattler, than of ones who used brute physical force to get their points across. Then the expected ache from Big Coyote’s head-butt kicked in, and I didn’t think very much at all, just remembered.

Remembered the past thirty-six hours, specifically. Starting with pulling the trigger to bring Patty Raleigh down, and speeding through every moment thereafter both linearly and statically, so I was caught up in a barrage of everything happening
now.
I saw every action I’d taken illuminated by the close white sun, no shadows to hide in, no excuses to be made. Blood misted from Raleigh’s shoulder, the most appalling violence I’d ever done to a human being. Morrison
shifted, caught up in my magic. Naomi Allison collapsed, too far gone for me to rescue. Rita Wagner asked for help and Tia Carley didn’t, but they both offered possible redemption for my failures with Raleigh and Allison alike. The ghost dance killer’s trail bled hunter-moon orange and faded away. I walked away from Patricia Raleigh’s sleeping form with no regrets. Bare skin shredded as I bounced across the pavement, pain exploding through my bones. Emotion sluiced through me, exhaustive, pulling in a dozen directions at once as Big Coyote sat over me like a curious god, examining each choice I’d made in the last couple days.

I suddenly felt like a grad student defending her thesis. I wasn’t absolutely certain I
needed
to defend myself, but there was a distinct on-the-spot sensation about the whole thing. Warily, I said, “I’d do it again.”

Memory went still, and Big Coyote cocked his head at me, one ear flicked:
which part?

“All of it.” I rubbed my eyes, knocking some of the mental imagery away. When I dropped my hand again, Big Coyote was predominant, his hard white desert a little duller and easier to look at. “Not shapeshifting Morrison, not if I could help it, but that was an honest mistake and as long as we get him back safe I’m not going to beat myself up over it. I’m tired of that crap. The rest of it, though, you know what? You want to hang me out to dry? Fine. You’ve got the tree right there.”

I gestured without looking, trusting that the hanging tree was indeed still there. Big Coyote’s wiry gold eyebrow spot shot upward, and he
did
look at the hanging tree. Thumped his tail once against the ground, then bared his teeth in a wide coyote smile. Very white clean teeth, like he was a rock star who’d had them bleached, not like he was the Platonic ideal of a predator/scavenger. Though I supposed a
Platonic coyote would, in fact, have flawlessly white teeth, since all other coyotes would have to try—and fail—to live up to its perfect image.

By the time I’d run through that entire mental machination, Big Coyote’s threatening smile had sort of faltered. Apparently I wasn’t supposed to get caught up in the details of impossible perfection when he was trying to intimidate me. Another one for the handbook.

“I am doing my best,” I said in a low, level voice. “I’ve got two worlds I’m trying to balance here. You—
somebody
—put me on this path. Shaman and warrior. They’re conflicting interests, big guy. If you don’t like how I’m handling it, take away the cosmic powers.”

Big Coyote’s ears flattened, and I sighed, understanding him perfectly. No wonder half the spirit creatures I’d encountered didn’t speak aloud. They didn’t have to.