Red Rock (Continued)
by Terri Windling
Eventually Creek comes looking for me, and he's not angry now. "Come on," he says, pulling me up, away from Delma and the fire. He's smiling behind that red rasta hair, all foxy and whispering, "I've got it, Pip! A sack fuckin' full of those big buttons and some dried stuff, too. I stashed it all in the back of the truck."
"So then we can go," I say.
I want to go, get away from here, the fire, the drums, all these sharp black eyes. I don't much like what we're doing to these people. Creek shakes his head.
"What's your hurry? I'm telling you, they'll never even miss the stuff — Leroy's got like a ton of it in there. Or if they do, they won't say nothin' to us." He grins and winks at me. "They'll pray for us instead."
And now I'm feeling even worse. I wait out on the splintered steps while Creek goes back into the house, fills up his cup with tea again. He's giggling now, he's flying, from the theft or the tea or maybe both. He takes my arm when he comes back out. "We'll grow our own peyote," he says, making plans. "They're just fuckin' cactus, yeah? Put the friggin' things in dirt, I bet they'll start to grow again. Stay fresh. Multiply. And then we're in business, gal!" He lets out a wild whoop, Injun style. "Oh come on, Pippa," he says, "come on, relax. It's like a great night, yeah? Come on, I'll show you my secret place. I built a fort back in those trees. Let's go see if the thing's still standing."
A fort? I want to get out of here but he's heading off into the trees. I must have been a jerk to think that Creek and I were just the same. I thought he had to be like me — why else would he be on the street? A fort, I'm thinking now, a fucking fort. Just like some normal kid. A family and a goddamn fort. He's not like me at all.
I follow him and I'm following a stranger through the scrub and pine. The night is dark, and so is the narrow, twisted trail we're following. I hear water somewhere nearby, and singing, and that low drum beat. Ahead, I hear the noise of someone else coming down the path. "Shit," says Creek. He stops, his hand clenched tight around my scar–crossed wrist. I stop beside him, looking where he looks. "Oh shit," he says.
Ahead of us are two people — and they're staring at us, too. One has long red rasta hair, a flattened nose and slanted eyes. The other one is smaller, paler; ripped leather jacket; hair shaved off. Creek makes a strange sound in his throat — a whimpering sound, like a child would make. And then he jerks me hard around, walking fast, back the way we'd come. I look behind me. There is no one following us; there is no one there at all. But I know what I saw, and I know that Creek saw it too and he's flipping out.
"Creek, slow down, you're hurting me."
He stops. "Goddamn fuckin' hell," he swears. And then he gives a shaky grin. "It's just the peyote, right, Pippa? Shit, this stuff is strong after all. You'd never believe what I thought I just saw."
"What did you see?" I ask him even though I already know what it was.
He pushes the hair back from his face. "Shit, that was weird. Really fuckin' weird. It was us coming down the path. Just like those stories my Gramma used to tell — the Irish one, from the Old Country. She said if you went out walking at night and you met yourself coming down the path that it meant that you were going to die soon. Shit, I nearly pissed my pants! Just a story though. Just some old wives' tale. And peyote, making me see things out there. You're right, Pip, let's get out of here. But I've got to drink some coffee first, eat something, get grounded out. You coming?" And he starts walking fast, and I hustle to keep up with him.
"I'll wait down by the fire, alright? I'm cold. I'll meet you back at the truck."
"Suit yourself, I don't give a shit." Yeah, he's playing Clint Eastwood again. It doesn't matter, I know what I know. I know that he's scared — it's there in his eyes, on his face, in the bruise from his hand on my wrist. Although he will never admit it, at least not to me. Maybe not to himself.
But me, I saw it too and I'm not scared. That's what I'm thinking about as I leave him and walk to the warmth of the fire. I'm feeling something, but it's not fear. I don't have a name for this feeling inside. I sit close to the yellow flames, my heart beating fast like the beat of those drums. Beside me, Delma sits silent and self–contained — at peace with the night, at peace with herself and with the whole wide world. I can see it as I look at her — as though she is clear river water and I'm looking straight to the bottom.
"Delma," I say, "does the Medicine work if you've only had, like, one little sip?"
Her sharp eyes rest on me for just one moment, and then she looks away. "Depends."
"On what?"
She shrugs. "Maybe," she says, "on how open you are. Could be you need lots of Medicine, could be just a little bit." She rises, picks up a long stick and pokes at the burning wood with it. "I grew up with Medicine, so my heart has always been open to it. That's what it does, we say: it opens the heart — that's how it lets healing in. When I began to bleed and became a woman, that's when I first heard it sing."
"Heard what sing?"
"The Medicine. The cactus, when it grows way out in the desert — I heard it singing to me. That's how I came to be a person who finds and gathers Medicine. It's hard to find, almost impossible, unless you hear it sing. Then it calls to you. It says, 'Look! I'm over here. I'm a gift from Creator.'"
She looks at me. I hear Creek calling my name.
"I guess we're going now."
"And you don't want to go," she says, nodding, as if she understands. I must be like clear river water too and she can see deep down. No, I don't want to go. I want to stay and sleep under the pines; I want to grow soft, open–hearted, like her. But I have never said no to Creek. So many times I have wanted to, but I've always been scared of losing the one thing, the only thing I have. I've always been scared. But now, tonight, Creek is the one who's afraid, not me. Doesn't matter what those old tales say. That wasn't us we saw in the woods. Those two, they only looked like us on the outside — not if you looked deep down. That boy, he was his mother's son, not Creek, the hustler from L.A. That girl, she was a Red Rock woman. Soft as pine needles and strong as the stone. She wouldn't have left that fire, that drum, that good place and those good people, just because Creek was calling her now. Not like I am doing.
"For fuck's sake, where were you?" Creek is complaining as I climb into the truck. "Nevermind, we're out of here, right now."
He guns the engine and pops the clutch, tires sliding on needles and dirt. I watch as the glow of the tipi fades through the cottonwoods, and then it is gone. Creek's cursing as he floors the truck too fast over the dark dirt track; he's turned his fear to anger now, he's racing it down this washed-out road. When we reach asphalt he brakes abruptly. "I'm losing it." He's shivering. "Fuckin' peyote's gone bad on me. I think you'd better drive."
I take the wheel, and soon Creek's snoring loudly, head pillowed on his arm, rasta hair covering his face. I'm tired myself, and I turn on the radio so I will stay awake. It's the Navajo station. They're playing songs in a language I don't understand, but I like the sound and I keep it on as I follow winding mountain roads. The hours pass, and my tiredness passes with them. Creek is fast asleep. We're on a long straight highway now, leaving those Red Rock cliffs behind. The Navajo station breaks up, fades, and I turn the radio off.
The sun is rising over the distant mountains in the rear–view mirror when I pull the truck off the highway, stop, and pull the emergency brake. Creek sleeps. He's always trusted me. Just you and me, that's what he says. I climb down from the truck and take the jar and the sack full of Medicine. Here the land is flat and dry; there's nothing at all for miles around but cactus and scrub and a dry desert wind. I walk into the distance heading east, facing the rising sun. I stop in a circle of tall green cactus, long green arms raised to the sky. I plant those small green pincushions beneath their tall cousins, in good desert earth. I open the top of the jar and scatter dried peyote across the ground, giving it back to the sun and the soil. Giving it back to Delma.
Back in the truck, Creek is still snoring. He looks very tired, and very young. I take his leather jacket off and tuck it around his own shoulders. Then I walk out to the highway. Cars whip past as I stick out my thumb. The sun is rising, warming me as I stand there in my thin t–shirt.
Behind me, I can hear those cactus singing to the desert sky.
