“Where’d you get that bell?” a woman’s voice echoed all around him.

“Little Joe says hi.”

“Hah! I was sure that old lard ass was dead by now.” She hummed, as if not fully accepting the prospect of Little Joe being alive. “What the hell do you want?”

“I’m here because of Francis.”

“Who?”

“Francis Builds A Fire.”

“Oh? What happened?”

“He’s been arrested.”

A moment’s pause for a decision to be made. “Follow me,” she said.

There was a snap, and a red glow stick illuminated the stone walls. She held it low to light the cave around their feet, keeping her face shrouded in shadow. She wore what looked like a poncho, buckskin pants, and moccasins. Long hair, pink in the light, hung to her waist.

He followed close behind her, trying to step where she stepped. They descended deeper into the cave, and at some point, he thought he could hear the splash of water.

Their descent leveled off, and they stopped in a pocket of humid air. Water bubbled down a piece of rock worn smooth by time. In the light of the glow stick in her hand, it looked like blood.

He saw her face for the first time: old and lined by wrinkles; small, dark, intense eyes inspected him too. She pulled back her wild hair, leaned over, and drank deeply, then wiped her mouth and grinned at him with crooked, broken teeth.

“This water has been traveling these mountains for a thousand years. Drink and kill your thirst.”

Like her, he put his lips to the stone. It was cold and pure. He washed out his throat, burned by the cognac and cigars, and took deep swallows until he panted for breath.

The woman observed and nodded seriously.

His legs grew tired and began to ache as they climbed and climbed, turning right then left until he was lost for any sense of direction.

“Here.”

They halted in an alcove and she pulled back an animal hide that camouflaged a hole in the rock. He followed her inside.

Candles burned throughout the cavern. Computer equipment at random places beeped, whirled, and blinked with LEDs of various colors.

The house was split into three levels as the natural formation of the rock required. The upper part, where they now stood, was a kitchen with a long counter where a slab of rock pushed out of the wall. A microwave and toaster sat next to a portable gas range on one end. On the other end was a large stone bowl for a sink. A pipe jutting out of the stone above poured a constant stream of water into its basin. On the level below the kitchen, computers and monitors occupied a long, wooden table—cables jumbled everywhere. The lowest level, padded with heavy, hide rugs, had a long sofa and a cast iron stove containing a fire that crackled softly. A small pot atop the stove simmered, its vapor exhaling the sharp fragrance of pine needles.

A massive window spanned the breadth of the cavern and reached from its ceiling to the floor. It was night now. The snow had stopped. The bejeweled sky twinkled, and far below in the valley the glittering lights of a town grid stretched out until they vanished into the countryside.

“Come,” said the woman.

She led him down the rock stairs to the sofa.

He stood next to the window and gazed at the magnificent view. The slab of glass was thick and prismed, and the stars and city lights diffracted within its density.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, reaching out to touch it. He jerked his hand away—it was freezing cold.

“Quartz crystal,” said the woman. “A natural feature.”

“It’s Ronan,” he said of the lights, peering deep, searching for his apartment, finding it.

“The Salish call it Ocket, the place where water is born from the earth.”

“Are you White Owl?”

“You have found me.” She tossed her head to fling a long braid of hair over her shoulder.

She seemed older than anyone he had ever known, yet her posture, her method, possessed a refined vigor.

“So, Mr. White Man, can I have my bell?”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the rusty bell.

She snatched it and twisted off the top to reveal a small compartment stuffed with a piece of orange fabric. She made a happy sound with her breath.

“At least I thank you for this. I’m afraid Little Joe is far too out of shape to bring it to me up here.” She unwrapped a jagged electrical device the size of her thumb which she secured into a pocket beneath her poncho.

“I’m Dr. Alan Smith.” He held out his hand, but she didn’t take it.

“A medicine man then?”

“Psychologist.”

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

“The worst kind of medicine man. Sit.” She pointed at the sofa.

“Your house is really interesting. This window is…”

“Were you expecting a teepee?” She laughed.

“Ah, no. I guess I don’t know what I was expecting. Does Francis live here?”

White Owl took two mugs from a shelf near the stove and filled them from the steaming pot.

“Sit. Drink this. It will warm you.” She sat down next to him. “These tunnels, some are natural, some were dug out during the gold rush days by men who were sick with a greedy fever. But there’s no gold in these rocks, at least not where they were looking. They found only toil and sorrow, and eventually death.”

Alan sipped the drink, wincing at the bitterness of it. “Francis?” he asked.

“Yes, the boy. Tell me his story,” said White Owl.

“Yesterday, he was arrested for allegedly assaulting a girl at the high school. I was appointed his counselor.”

“That would explain why he hasn’t been underfoot lately.”

“Haven’t you been worried about him? You should have called someone.”

“Builds A Fire comes and goes on his own clock. Though I am impressed, the White man works his justice very quickly.”

“The girl is the daughter of a very powerful man.”

“What do you think? Is he crazy?”

“I don’t use that term. It’s not what I do.”

“Isn’t that your job? To draw the line between the sane and the insane?”

“Honestly, I haven’t had time to fully evaluate him. I was hoping you could help.”

“I’m in no position to help him.”

“Are you serious? You’re his guardian.”

“No. Not me.”

“But he lives here?”

“He shows up from time to time.”

“Then who is his legal guardian, for Christ’s sake?” Alan felt the urge to shout.

“As far as I know, there is no one to protect him,” said White Owl. “Not since the Viking left.

“He’s an orphan?”

“Yes, his parents are dead, sadly.”

“Who’s the Viking?”

“He bears an artifact. An orb of immense power.”

Alan rubbed his face with his hands. The woman was obviously a lunatic. The earthen tea was working. He felt warm.

“Francis showed me his scars. Who did that to him?”

“He was attacked.”

“Yes, obviously! Who attacked him!”

“Not who, what.” The woman stood abruptly. “Dr. Smith, I thank you for bringing me the bell. It will help immensely in what I must do next. You might want to consider that you are in over your head with Francis. If you value your life, your comfortable existence, I advise you to forget about him here and now.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He jumped to his feet. “Someone abused him very badly. I’m going to find out who did it, and I will get the authorities involved in this.”

“Aren’t they already involved?”

“Listen, White Owl, I don’t know what fucking game you’re playing at.”

“There is no game. Tell me, what is it you need that you can’t already give him?”

“I need someone to testify for him that he is of good character, goes to school, does his homework, has friends. You know, that he’s a normal kid.”

She laughed loud and hard. “He rarely goes to school. He’s terrible at homework. And I doubt he has any friends. He’s not normal at all.”

“They’re going to make him out to be a sexual deviant.”

“Oh yes, the favorite scapegoat of the Western world. I tell you this. Some people have it easy. They slip through life on a magic carpet. Builds A Fire has always had problems, and he always will.”

“Doesn’t he have anybody? Why won’t you help him?” Alan was wondering if he was going to have to beg.

“How are you doing with all this, Dr. Smith?”

“Me? It’s not about me. It’s about Francis.”

She sipped her tea as she inspected him.

“Can I tell you a story? Have you heard the one about Coyote?”

“Coyote?”

“Yes, the trickster.”

“I…” He wanted to mount a protest, but he found himself sitting clumsily and reclining back into the sofa. His extremities were tingling. He needed to think about a lot of things. About Francis. About his job—or lack thereof. There was something he wasn’t seeing.

White Owl towered over him. The fire in the stove cast shadows across her face. The Ronan city lights extended behind her like a field of glittering diamonds.

“Coyote is a greedy animal. He always wants something, and when he gets it, he’s never happy with it. One night, he’s hanging out with his friend Owl. He can’t see too well in the dark, so he asks Owl to trade him eyes because he knows that Owl’s night vision is unparalleled.”

“Excuse me, but…” He wasn’t in the mood for this. He had shit to do.

“Dr. Smith, the point of a story is to listen.” She stared at him intensely, like a creature, like a bird of prey.

“Owl gives him his eyes, and Coyote can suddenly see everything in the night as if it is day. Later, he meets Eagle who is bragging about how he can see so far that he can spot a mouse in the grass from a mile above the earth. Coyote begs to trade eyes with Eagle. He could really use that telephoto vision. Eagle agrees, and Coyote is just blown away. He can even see the ladies swimming in the river, boobs and everything! He really likes this.”

“I see I’ve wasted my time,” Alan murmured. “I need to go.” His legs were numb and heavy.

“Yes, you do. You need to go,” whispered White Owl.

“Next, Coyote meets Dragonfly, and Dragonfly says, ‘Those are some pretty nice eyes you have, Coyote, but I have three-hundred-and-sixty-degree vision. No one can surprise me.’ Coyote, of course, could use this. It would be a great advantage against his enemies, so he trades for Dragonfly’s eyes. Well, he was content for a long time—nobody could attack him! Then one day, Coyote is sitting by the side of the road when he sees a blind man coming, poking along the path in front of him with a stick as blind men do. From a far distance, the blind man shouts, ‘Hey there, Coyote. How are you?’ ‘Fine,’ says Coyote, ‘but how did you know it was me? You are blind.’ The man says: ‘My eyes allow me to see with my ears.’ This is impressive to Coyote, eyes so strong you can see with another part of your body. Coyote says, ‘Let us trade eyes so I can see with my ears.’ So, the man gives him his old, cataract-covered eyes, and he takes Coyote’s dragonfly eyes. However, when Coyote puts them in, he is plunged into the deepest darkness he’s ever known. As dark as the cave you entered to come here, Dr. Smith. For a long time, Coyote is upset because he is always stumbling around, and ever after, no one will trade him their eyes. Because who wants a set of blind eyes? Well, when he is at his most miserable, he wants to kill himself. He is going to jump off the mountain. So, he gropes his way to the highest cliff to meet his moment of doom. But right before he does the deed, he begins to hear. He can hear the mouse deep in the grass, he can hear the snake slithering on its belly, and he can hear all the trees in the forest and the grasses as they bend to the wind. He can hear the void of the precipice he is going to jump off of. And he can finally hear the dead bones of his ancestors as they churn to dust under the earth.”

White Owl fell silent.

Alan tried to find the sense in her story, but it was nonsense. He was only glad he couldn’t hear the bones of the dead.

“White Owl, the day after tomorrow Francis is going to face the American justice system on some very serious charges. I’m trying to keep him out of prison.”

The woman sipped her tea and smiled that slight, enigmatic smile.

She put a hand on his shoulder. “Come.”

They moved slowly through a stone tunnel. At the end of the tunnel was a bedroom with a cot. There was a small desk with a little lamp illuminating schoolbooks and homework. On the wall over the cot hung a poster of the teenage heartthrobs from Eternal Love. At the foot of the cot, a guitar leaned against the stone wall. It was old and blue; its paint chipped and faded where the lacquer had worn away.

White Owl pointed at the instrument. “Could you take this to Builds A Fire? Tell him White Owl wishes him luck on his journey.”

This dismissal was too much for Alan. “What the fuck? You’re giving up on him?” he said sharply.

“You need to go now,” said the old woman. “Go, it’s not safe for you anymore.”

“What? Why? He needs someone to testify.”

White Owl picked up the guitar and handed it to Alan. “You are his witness. You must bear testimony when the time comes. Now go before it’s too late!”