GREEN CHILI

Chapter VII

THE GODS OF GHOST RIVER

“If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton,

you may as well make it dance.”

- George Bernard Shaw, Immaturity

I jolt to consciousness…. liquid smacks unceremoniously onto my face. Must’ve dozed off in the shower, a stream, now chilly with time, splashes against my cheek. The bones sore in my head, as my neck rests balanced on the edge of the degrading porcelain tub. Lost once again to dream. Coughing, sputtering, I pull myself upright.

Thunk! Thunk!

“Dude, you alright in there? It’s been nearly an hour and a half,” Bobbi’s muffled voice rings over the running water.

“Yeah. I’m okay, just moving slowly.”

“Some of your clothes are clean and dry. I can leave them inside if you are still showering.”

“Sure, just be quick.”

The door squeaks open very briefly, then shuts. With the caution and secretiveness of a nuclear submarine, I slide on my tummy to the rim of the tub, pulling back the curtain enough to reveal a single eye, peering out upon the empty bathroom, a human periscope. Such stealth, an unreasonable amount of pride fills me, the way a toddler feels about completing any small insignificant task. My clean clothes are folded neatly in a little pile on the floor, excluding the navy basketball shorts, which still exist in the heap I left them in. There’s no signs of life, affirmation I can leave my watery prison.

Shutting off the tap, I slither out of the tub onto the fluffy caramel colored towel, and roll myself into it. My avatar, an overstuffed human burrito! The blisters and tears on my hands and feet look a little less angry, to which, I redress them with fresh white gauze. A passable person once again, that’s the real challenge, something lost to the weird desert gremlin I became. Pulling the clothes back onto me, in the mirror obscured by a sheen of steam, I get glimpses of my injuries, mostly unchanged… maybe that patch of nearly angelic skin is a quarter of an inch wider, it could just be a trick of the light. Nonetheless, I feel better, the evil of the last three days washed away from me. Damn it! Bobbi was half right about the shorts, correct waist size, but they sit too short on my spindly legs, coming to just above my knee. Ugh, I look so fucking stupid. I miss my lucky beanie, it too was lost to Ghost River, I wore it the frigid night I should’ve met my end, my beloved comfort hat, just another one of Nico’s lengthening list of victims.

Popping open the door, I glance down the hallway, the dazzling gleam of the evening sun dances against the kitchen’s cheap masonite countertops. I wander down the corridor towards the delicious aromas of chicken, tortilla, and green chili, easier on my feet this time. The oak table still set, as it always was, but this time garnished with a clay pot centerpiece, fired with rainbow matte glaze and etched in geometric patterns to reveal earthen hue. The end of the kitchen against the west wall holds a large almost floor-to-ceiling window, looking out to the street. Inspecting the road through the glass, I shiver, the owl-man, could it be lurking, waiting to have another chance to tear me to shreds?

Starve It.

Maybe the shadow demon is right, don’t feed it, put my focus somewhere else, maybe, there’s safety in that… if the beast can even be trusted, or worse she’s a figment of my ego, or my imagination trying to make sense of the chaos my life’s been propelled into. And what if the being is real? Her intentions could be diabolical, awaiting the perfect moment to devour my soul, building me up, keeping my physical self alive just long enough to take me.

Clinking ceramic breaks me from my worries. Illuminated by the setting sun, Bobbi pours the delicious contents of his slow cooker into mismatched, but sparkling bowls… my stomach rumbles, the hunger quickening.

“Thanks for the help, and letting me stay for dinner. I’m honestly so fucking hungry.”

Seeing the predatory way I’m eyeing one of the dishes, he diligently hands me the bowl, “You can eat now, you know.”

I nod in agreement, “I appreciate it, but I think I can wait until everyone’s here.” I pause for a second, getting my bearings. “So, why live here, a whole town away from where you work?”

“I’ve got the best view in the world.”

I look with visible confusion out of the window in the kitchen. Peeling ashy grey-brown paint, potholes, and an aging streetlight doesn’t seem like much of a view?

Bobbi laughs, pointing across the living room past the sliding glass doors and the small concrete porch, “No dumbass, out there!”

I turn and, in my astonishment, shout, “Oh fuck!”

O’chohca, those Vermillion Hills, ignited with the death of the sun, blazing electric orange, peach, and maroon. In my discomfort, I completely missed it, my pain an all-consuming focus, until this moment. I set my bowl down on the table and wander to the glass door, the pane glides open as I step into the surprisingly cool evening air.

“That’s really something.”

“I know right,” Bobbi concurs as he closes the door behind me. “I dunno what it is, but this is the only place that really feels like home. Kind of one of those things you just can’t shake. Maybe, it’s cuz we are actually from here originally,” he nods at me. “But sometimes it feels deeper than that. Sometimes it’s so powerful, it scares me.”

His eyes aren’t on me, staring into the flaming abyss. I study Bobbi’s cryptic expression discerning something between confusion, dread, and a strange sense of peaceful resignation. Maybe this place haunts more than just me, it’s the essence of it, something so ancient, brutal, and indescribable… maybe, Bobbi feels it too.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

The sound of the front door knocker is just audible through the patio glass.

“Ah! She’s here!” Bobbi zips back inside, leaving me to linger, the land darkening around me. Muffled hellos, and maybe even a mild squeal emanate from inside. It’s time for me to join them.

I slip through the glass door, to see a stocky woman in teal scrubs, Bobbi’s height with her espresso brown hair pulled into a tight bun. Her face worn from work and worry, but her forearms are built, wouldn’t want a right hook from her, instant knockout for sure. The strength of her will, tempered by the same warm smile her son shares, her eyes glistening behind well established crow’s feet. Traditional jewelry of the Aolu’yi, our people, adorns her ears and neck, chunky turquoise and tarnished silver.

“Well, I almost did not believe it when my Bobbi told me you were here. And so tall! How did that happen? But just as stringy as ever. We will need to get some meat on those bones,” she glows the way only a mother does.

“Hi, Mrs. White Fox, it’s so nice to…”

“Call me Marta, you of all people should remember that.”

Heat flows to my cheeks, I’m blushing, hopefully she can’t read it under my blackened bruises, my new natural camouflage. She ushers me to sit at the old oak table, as Bobbi wanders into the kitchen to retrieve the remaining bowls.

“So I heard you had a rough time in the desert, or so my son tells me. What are the nature of your injuries? From what I can see, you look pretty bruised up. What is your pain level? From zero to ten, ten being ‘my body is literally on fire.’”

I pause to think for a minute, “Maybe a four… or a five? It’s kind of a steady ever-present ache. The five’s for my feet, the pain is still a bit noticeable.”

“May I?” She examines my digits and toes, “I would think it wise for you to redress your hands and feet often and stay off of them for a couple of days until they heal.”

“Most importantly, I want to check for internal bleeding, considering how many contusions you have, lets hope there is nothing nasty hiding in there. Any abdominal or chest pain?” she ambles to the door, pulling a stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff from her medical bag, stashed secretly in the corner of the entryway.

“Maybe a little bit ago, but not now. Just kind of that regular bruising pain.” I lie through omission, having my guts ripped open, even if it was just a dream, definitely constitutes as severe “abdominal pain”.

Putting the cuff around my arm and her stethoscope into her ears, she takes my blood pressure, I hate that sensation, the vessels fighting the bind of the medical armband. My heart straining… the blood leaking from my body… something I’d rather let dissolve from my memory.

“Blood pressure is looking good. Alright, shirt off for this next part. I know it is not your favorite, so thanks for being patient with me.”

She remembers I don’t like to be touched, ever since I was little, mind of an elephant that one. I pull off my new bison shirt, a part of me sad to see it go, even for just a moment, my sense of security. Bobbi lurks in the corner, immersed in the growing gloom of the kitchen, his expression not veiling the distress about his rapidly cooling soup. He switches the crock-pot to warm and takes our bowls to the back, in hopes of salvaging our hot meal.

“Ooof, that looks like that hurts something awful,” she stares at my black, purple, and yellow torso, gawking, perplexed by the perfect tissue surrounding the left half, “I guess you just landed on one side? But boy, that is strange.”

Hope! It isn’t all in my head. My absent wound looks bizarre to her too! Putting the stethoscope back into her ears, she proceeds with the examination, starting with my paranormal pectoral, “Okay Riley, take a deep breath for me. That is right. And again. Right, just one more. Very good. Well, excellent news, your lungs sound great, and no chest pain, right?”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

She spreads her fingers onto tiny sections of my chest and back, one at a time, drumming against her pointer finger, a series of rhythmic thumps echoes back, hollow, “Okay, the organs up here seem to be fine, doesn’t appear to be any abnormal fluid retention. So we should be good unless something changes. You’ll let Bobbi and I know if anything changes, right? Alright, so on to the less pleasant part, I am going to be pushing on your abdomen, let me know if there is pain or pressure, or really just anything strange, you know? I am going to need you to lay down for this one, I don’t think this will feel very good, I am so sorry.”

Wandering to the dilapidated couch sitting lonely in the living room, I take an uncomfortable seat. Eh, I have been prone for a good chunk of the last three days, I hope this goes quickly, I’m ready to put it all behind me. Flat on my back, she applies pressure just under the ribs and proceeds to do the same percussive motion in repetition. Almost like my body is some kind of grid and her pointer finger is rudimentary sonar. Sound, the tool to search unseen places. A few minutes pass, slower than I would wish, a predictable pattern of wincing emerges with every moment she hits a particularly tender spot.

“All finished. It seems like it looks worse than it is, although, clearly it does not feel great. Still, if anything changes, please see me immediately. Also, since you are a card carrying tribal member, follow up with me in a week... it is free for you. I have a slot open at eleven thirty on Monday.”

I’ve no idea what day it is, my sense of time left me when the bullet punctured my back, but I nod in agreement anyways, “Mrs… Marta, I lost my wallet in the river, I don’t have my tribal card…”

“No worries, it prolly needs to be renewed anyways… and I’ll make sure to get him there,” Bobbi chimes in.

From out of her pocket, she produces one of those reflex hammer… things, “Oh yeah, this is the last check.”

Uh, not my favorite, but it’s nearly over. Knees bouncing everywhere, like a marionette with the strings being held by some unseen force, one more moment of complete loss of control.

“Okay, for real this time, you are all finished. I bet you are ready for some dinner.”

Color returning to his face, Bobbi leaps into action, returning to his warming stew with zeal, he can’t contain his relief. That soup is his baby, his creation, the untamed excitement he exudes in sharing his modest work of art, overwhelming. My stomach growls angrily, I guess it is time to cash in the indigestion that will surely rear its ugly head as punishment for my starvation.

“Can I help?”

“No, no, just give it a rest, it's been a shitty few days for you,” Bobbi grins, pouring the soup into a daisy yellow bowl, placing a small dollop of sour cream in the center of the dish and, for garnish, sprinkling a bit of sage on top.

“Bobbi! Language!”

I sit opposite to him and the kitchen, while Marta scoops up two bowls. Setting one at my place and another across from me, where she settles in. Bobbi, close behind her, takes the seat to my right.

“Dig in!” he says, looking in my direction. Obediently, I take a small spoonful, the only way to do this is at a snail’s pace. The broth sits savory on my taste buds, with a hint of sapid sage biting through flavorful peppers.

“So mom, how’s work? Clinic treating you well?”

Marta sets her spoon to rest, her brow furrowing, “It is good and bad news, we finally got the insulin in stock, after fighting with the company for months over price. Dr. Navakkakin bargained the cost down to something the tribal commission was willing to pay. I’m really glad we have some leverage here, because I cannot imagine what it would be like to pay for it out of pocket.”

The color in her face seems to have lessened, no more rosy cheeks, or warm smile. Deep worry… In a way, she’s a mother to her patients, her community, maybe, it’s too much weight to carry on one’s shoulders.

“The problem now is distribution. I mean a lot of the old folks… the patients who really need it, live miles out of town. Many, without access to a car. I mean Cheryl, Dr. Navakkakin, can deliver some of it to the East side of the rez, but besides her it is just me, and some of those really remote places are easily a thirty mile round trip, and even longer if you hit every stop… could double that in millage with all those weird twisty paths. Neither of us have the time with the patient load.”

“Hey, what if Riley and I get the North and West sides? I mean he needs a job right, we can get him running delivery part time. He can take my car and pick me up after work. I can handle the other spots on my day off.”

“That is very kind, Bobbi. You already have so much on your plate though…”

“No, I got this, and it should only be a monthly or bi-monthly thing right? It should be very doable.”

Marta’s demeanor brightens, “Well once Riley is well and gets his proper ID renewed, we can set up the paperwork for you two. If you are onboard, that is.”

“Yeah, that should be fine.” I answer with a partial slurp.

She beams at us, “I am glad you guys have a good heart between the two of you.”

In that moment, I notice the glimmer of the pendant on her necklace, stamped silver, round luminous eyes, a long neck, a silhouette. But it looks so like her… that strange specter haunting the corridors of my mind. My breath accelerates, racing beyond my mastery, my fingertips grow numb, as rushing anxiety starts to grip my consciousness. I drop… the spoon.

Her eyes dart to me, alerted by the clink of the metal against ceramic, “Dear, are you alright? Hey, hey, can you say something?”

Floating. Falling. Plummeting.

“Riley, stay with me, I think you are having a panic attack. Eyes on me, okay!” Marta calls to me, her voice muffled as if by a current of water.

My gaze meets hers for only a few seconds before darting back to the silver emblem of my terror.

She notices my dread; she smells the scent of it on me.

In that moment, mamma White Fox registers the focus of my fright. She slips off the heavy pendant, held together on a string of thick turquoise. Placing the metallic form of the shadowy beast under the palm of her hand, hidden, out of sight, out of mind.

“Riley it is okay, she is put away. She cannot see you. See? Okay deep breaths, three, two, one, breath in. Three, two, one… out. Good! Keep going. Again.”

I feel the warmth return to my cheeks, three, two, one… one, two, three… Again. Funny how that seems to work, breathing through the embarrassment, what the fuck was that, Riley? You’re overreacting, you look so stupid… or worse, crazy.

Trembling, I gather myself together, “Mrs. White Fox… Marta… What’s that thing…?”

“Do you want me to tell you about it, or will it be too much?”

“I dunno.”

“It might help, talking about it, that is… you can hold it, if you feel up to it.”

I nod in agreement as she slides the silver pendant to me, deliberately keeping it covered. Wrapping my hands around it, it seems a little more harmless, just cold metal in my hands. I’m careful to avoid its line of sight… for now.

“I am sure this one is more familiar to you than you think. She is the Mistwalker, Soul of the Storm, the Shadow that Lurks in Split Canyon. In the old tongue, we call her Navan’yu, the literal translation of mist-walker. The true great spirit of this land, the protector and guardian of the ancient places.”

The great black fiend spoke the name Navan’yu to me, all of those nights ago, but Mistwalker… I remember that from the stories Nana used to tell. The same tales my mom would whisk Darion and I away from, if she was within earshot. So strange, how had I forgotten?

“You’ve seen her, huh?” Bobbi turns to me, those deep brown eyes digging into me uncomfortably.

I nod, consumed by silence.

“You are not the only one, Navan’yu seems to be a heavy theme in your family… But your mother would know a lot more about that than I would,” Marta adds.

Staring blankly at her… my mom? She never said a word, always careful to not mention the old ways, what had she secreted away? Hell, she barely brings up Ut’ktah’Hu, the formless ones, let alone this nightmare beast… great spirit, whatever. Why? Why was she keeping all of this from me?

“Is it real?”

“Well, you tell me, you have had the honor of meeting her! I have never seen the Mistwalker,” She chortles, “You have got me beat on that count.”

“Have you seen any of the old ones?” I grip the amulet just a little too tightly, careful to keep its silver corners hidden by my raw flesh.

“Now and again, they are pretty shy. Sometimes, I will catch a glimpse of one on an abandoned country road, in the fading light of the setting sun, or on a cliff edge staring down at me. But like a flash, they vanish.”

Grimacing at what little soup I’ve consumed, I’m full enough for now, all of this is too much to deal with, my appetite be damned. I need time, time to sleep it off. Even with all of the huge helpings of patience she and Bobbi are handing me, I still feel, somehow, wrong. That crumbling inside of my skull, reality twisting into strange shapes, I need to push it all away or fall apart.

“Is it too much for now? You wanna to call it a night?” Bobbi interjects.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“That seems like a good idea, rest up, you definitely earned it! I can take my meal to go. But, before I leave, I have some things for you. Bobbi, can you wrap this up for me?”

“Sure!” Bobbi scoops up her bowl and hurries back to the kitchen. That odd peppiness he embodies lingering even when his well-drawn plans are dashed.

I watch as Marta leaves through the front door, my visage colored by apprehension and exhaustion. What’s she getting? Maybe those donations for the clinic Bobbi mentioned? I guess I’ll just have to find out, my hand death grips the silver charm, I’m done with surprises. The specter… great spirit, I don’t want her to see me, but there’s a gnawing feeling, that if I let go, she can watch my every move, orbs piercing through the night, nowhere to run, no space to call my own. Navan’yu is everywhere and all things, and this hunk of metal, just a conduit for her violent eyes.

SLAM!

Marta bursts through the door, her brawny arms laden with two large black trash bags, in each hand, clear zip-top sacks with what appear to be toiletries. Tiptoeing into the living room she dumps the contents onto the old carpet, mountains of clothes, of similar sizes, variable only in their style and color, a cornucopia of cotton and synthetic fabric.

“Do not worry, dear, they have been washed and sterilized! Now, let us see what we can find that will work for you. I also have unopened packages of socks and underwear somewhere in the mess, do take those as well.”

I pad over to the mound of clothes. Twitching with emotion, overwhelmed by this level of kindness, overcome, I take a defeated seat on the floor. Got to make this more manageable, start with the dark tops and pants, hopefully some will be in my size. Picking through them, I find my shirts of choice, tank tops both in black and white, gathering them up, adding them to my stash. Jet-hued acid washed jeans sized too big… yep taking those! Monochromatic plaid pajama bottoms, yes those too. Pulling out a long tailored charcoal-grey coat, I take a moment to admire it. Looks expensive, something a more fashion-conscious person than myself would wear on the East Coast, either way, I’m giving it a shot. Slipping it on, to my surprise, it fits!

“Some good picks, huh? We get a lot of these for the clinic from the wealthy folks down in Douglas, some of whom have only worn these items once or twice. I am glad I grabbed the right bags for your size.”

“Yeah, these are great! Seriously. Thank you!” a brightness emerging from my voice, unfamiliar to me, reawakening something I thought long dead, or maybe just slumbering, that warm glow creeping back into my chest. My hoard of clothes including all things down to new socks, are more numerous than any I have ever owned, I’m a king guarding fibrous treasures. But… there’s one thing missing… a simple onyx beanie to replace the one swallowed by the wilderness.

“Well, my work seems to be finished,” Marta says amassing the clothes back into the ebony bags, “Do not forget your toiletries, I dropped them on the table.”

I gesture obediently, unsure of what to say.

Climbing back to her feet, she turns to me with that satisfied smirk, the pride of a job well done, “Promise me you will take good care of yourself. And call me if you need anything... And make sure you come to your appointment.”

I smile, but this time it isn’t forced, brimming with joy, I feel… at home.

“Love you, mom,” Bobbi gives her a gentle hug, carefully maneuvering around the satchels of donations, “I’ll make sure he gets to his appointment. Promise to text me when you get home safe.”

Leaving his embrace, she saunters out the door, into the cold desert night, “Bye, do not do anything too foolish… sleep well, do not let the old ones bite!”

Marta is only half joking, they seem to be biting me hard enough to take hefty chunks out of my miserable hide. Maybe, I’ll get through this after all, possibly, I’m not nearly as alone as I thought. With the door shutting, the dingy apartment grows still, the shadows longer than before, ideal little corners for spirits to hide in.

“Get yourself ready for bed, I’ll clean up out here and pull out some extra stuff. Couch is yours,” he waves me to the old stained futon.

Beats sleeping on obtuse rocks in the frigid desert, I’ve no room to complain.

“Thanks, this all… really means a lot to me.”

“Don’t mention it. You’d do the same, if I where in your shoes.”

As I wander to the bathroom, I ponder those words, would I really do the same for him? I haven’t had a lot to give anyone in a very long time, my life devoid of bounty… If I could, maybe? But, not with the same generosity, or warmth the White Fox family seems to epitomize. That isn’t me, I’d rather hide from the world than welcome it inside.

Redressing the bandages on my hands, the rituals of the evening return to me quickly, back to autopilot, the same automatic responses that governed much of my daily life before the world shifted into a strange dimension of blood and monsters. Order feels good, teeth cleaned, although my gums bleed from the corners, the consequence of the days of neglect. I check my bruised-up face, appearing lighter than just a few hours ago. Could I be healing that quickly? No, it must be the wash, my power-nap in the shower, and… dinner. Yeah, that makes sense. The shadow of tiny little dark hairs peppering my face becoming noticeable… Fuck it, I’ll shave tomorrow, been through enough already, no one gives a shit if I look scruffy. Changed into my new plaid bottoms and a very baggy shirt with a logo for “Treazonouz Mouthz”, I haven’t listened to them in a minute, but now I feel an urge to. Maybe a well-earned indulgence, a moment to soak in something new, or old, relearning forgotten nostalgia, letting it wash over my brain. At home in my unfamiliar nightclothes, I retrieve the ancient sienna shell from the bathroom counter, carrying it back to the couch.

Stepping into the living room, Bobbi’s heirloom blanket lays neatly folded on the futon, accompanied by one of his numerous pillows. My heavy gait guides me to slumber, deep down, sleeping on something soft feels like the best gift I could ever receive, my back tender from the harsh slickrock.

Ouch!

Raising my foot, something glimmers on the carpeted floor, reflecting the dazzling warmth of the canned kitchen lights. I stoop down, fighting the tense muscles in my sacrum, the pendent, grotesque, with those shining horrible eyes. Shuddering involuntarily, I pick up the hefty necklace, turquoise chattering as I lift the string. This’ll have to go back to Marta, but what to do with it tonight? My eyes dart around the living room as I look for a place to stash it. Ah yes, the TV stand will do nicely. I set it down, turning it over so those orbs can’t peer into the gloom, bunching a new tank top over it, just to be safe. It’s alright, Riley, she can’t see you now. Tonight will be peaceful… No spirits, snarling jaws, or oily shadows. Leaving the emblem to its shirt cave, I curl up under the warm blanket, pulling it over my face. Limp and exhausted, I let the galactic sea of stars take me... And hope that I can be roused from the dream again.