WOVEN GRASS

Chapter XIX

THE GODS OF GHOST RIVER

“Men are not prisoners of fate, but only prisoners of their own minds.”

- Franklin D. Roosevelt, Address at the White House Conference on Children in a Democracy

••••

Dim, soft amber light filters between low hanging clouds. The air radiates heat, sticky particulates cling to my skin. The shockwave hits me, buffeting my body, in surprise I stumble to keep my footing, my teeth rattling within my skull. Birds take to the sky and strange animals bolt from the southeast. Some akin to a shorthaired llama, yet the majority are unlike anything I’ve experienced, as though a cross between a tiny horse and a capybara. Galloping towards me, the most grotesque of beasts, like something from a nightmare, it stands on four cloven hooves, its head paddle-like with a long snout and thick protruding canines, its sloped back at the height of my chest. The monster pushes past me, my disorientation a distraction it cannot afford.

A thick black cloud consumes the horizon, reaching into the dusky sky, a deep rumbling roar penetrates my mind. A flash… branches of lightning illuminate the darkening air. Two kites dance in the sky… kites? No, my brain tries to make sense of it, one a luminous white veil, organic, conjuring visions of undulating jellyfish shimmering on a television screen, tentacles stretched against the current, floating on warm tides.

Instead, this figure is formed of thick petals, similar to the pre-potted dahlias mom used to buy in the spring for our modest midcentury porch. It drifts unnaturally against the great smoky cloud threatening to swallow the land. Another crackling flash, backlit by the radiance, an inky shadow glides around the huge bright being, its sway a familiar, uncanny rhythm…

“Navan’yu?”

Tortured animals shriek in the distance, drowning within the bellow of the impending cataclysm. A tidal wave of molten ash hits me, scouring my lungs, scorching my flesh, crushing my bones.

••••

Circular lines carved in the rock, a swirling geometric pattern intact within ancient sandstone. Here, I stand returned to O’Su’ktah’Hu’hii, morning fog billowing from the basin of the canyon, the bite of that cool, moist air grating against the bare skin around my shoulders. In the dim light, a figure lays in the center of the sculpted sacred grooves. I’m unable to discern what it is, an eerie feeling, the form is human, unidentifiable but human. Blood percolates outward, filling the channel of desert rock with a sanguine hue, the fluid spreading as though flowing from an unending font of bloodshed. The timeworn edifice stands still, the conduit brimming with carmine liquid.

I wait… apprehension eats at the inside of my stomach. Dazzling light rises from the body, forming a billowing veil that hauntingly ascends from the ground. From deep within it, a sphere of unending darkness, swallowing all light it meets, dawns in indescribable beauty. The weight of the universe, an infinite chasm, yet a point in which all things revolve, suspended stability, the void and the fabric that draws us together. A floral corolla of light twists in perpetual unfurling motion around the indescribable thing, stretching out to the world as though blooming with the intentionality of life.

I’m overcome with the feeling of… love, intricate fractals of complexity which human language has yet to find words to describe. Cathartic fury burns within my chest. I’m enveloped by the blinding brightness until all is lost to the radiance.

••••

“Fuck, what time is it?”

Itchiness, musty carpet smell, I lean up, clutching my head, that dull ache comparable to that of a hangover, my fingers clasping the red shell fossil. I rolled onto the floor sometime in the night, half my body tensed and sore from sleeping in some stupid position. Surrendering myself to a dissatisfying stretch, acutely aware this fixes none of the blunt numb hurt. Blindly, I search for my flip phone on the end table.

[1:42]

“Shit shit shit!” I overslept, my shift starts in less than twenty minutes and I have to get across town.

Tearing across the living room, I search my discount plastic footlocker for my work uniform. My utter confusion clouds my mind, Bobbi usually wakes me up when he heads off to the morning shift, in nearly six months he’s never once forgotten to do it on his way out. Could this be a lesson in self-reliance? I doubt it, it’s not like him, Bobbi lacks that kind of disrespect to change things up without at least a conversion. Wrestling into my unpleasant itchy work shirt and a new pair of black wide-legged pants, no time to brush the morning breath out of my mouth. Sockless, I snatch up my boots, keys, phone, and fossil, bolting from the apartment.

The November air sits still, the desert sky emanating deep stone blue, stripped of even the thinnest of clouds. Baby Cakes turns over with pep that reveals her newly rebuilt engine within her rusty exterior. Whipping through the neighborhood, I drive with an aggression foreign to me. Find my inner drag racer, yeah, and play it cool, can’t afford to get pulled over… my mind registers a lightness to my pockets… no wallet. Well, fuck… too late now. One forty-nine the analogue clock on the dash reads, and it’s two minutes slow.

The highway lays barren, quiet season my friend, I barrel down to the exit to Main Street. Turning into the Nautilus parking lot, my tires squeal impatiently. I park quietly, hoping none of the staff inside heard me.

Peew-doo!

I burst through the door to meet Bobbi’s gaze at the counter, his face pallid as though he just saw a ghost.

“Made it!” I gasp, fumbling my way to the time clock, punching in, and sluggishly padding up to Bobbi.

“Darling, you look like hell,” Mary-Jane saunters up to the counter with her big eighties glam hair and her vintage acid-washed jeans. Her gaunt expression twisted into a roguish smile.

“Just one of those days,” panting, trying to suck enough oxygen into my lungs so I can regain a semblance of my composure. I ring up her cheap light beer as she stares doe-eyed at me with mild concern, “Your usual right?”

“Yeah, three packs of menthols,” she grins, her teeth veneered in tobacco stain, “Such a shame about Al, breaks my heart to not have him around. And poor Aria, when will she be back?”

“I’m not sure…”

“Darling, I just miss her so, that quick wit too, she reminds me of this woman I used to party with back in Fresa, tough as nails, big ‘no one fucks with me’ attitude,” she turns to Bobbi, “Dear, get your boy a comb, that bed-head just simply isn’t fresh. Just such a disservice to that pretty face of his.”

Me, pretty? What fucking alternate timeline did I just fall into? I blink away my disbelief, hoping Bobbi can carry the conversation.

“Will do!” Bobbi looks at me embarrassed, “His whole situation is kind of my fault, so I’ll get him cleaned up.”

“Be sure you do!” Mary-Jane eyes him probingly before drawing her attention to me, “Honey, take it easy on yourself.”

“I gotcha,” it dawns on me, that my whole vibe mirrors that of a greasy raccoon caught with a face full of garbage, “Catch you later!”

Mary-Jane nods approvingly and struts away from the counter, her tossed bleached blond hair a testament of a bygone era, hairspray, and sleepless nights. Beer and cigarettes in tow, she without doubt will return sometime in the last thirty minutes before close for her nightly jack and coke. The new hires peer at her from between restocking and floor mopping, captivated, as though looking at a rare jungle cat.

“What the hell happened to you, dude?” I question Bobbi, “Where were you this morning?”

“I’m sorry, just been spacey, I totally forgot to wake you up,” Bobbi’s eyes refocus, as though his mind found itself drifting far from home, “I feel really bad about it, there’s a hairbrush in my car, and I’ll cover a toothbrush and some paste.”

“Thanks….You doing alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, just the time change last week got me bad, feeling foggy, I’ll catch up soon.”

“You know, you need anything, you can always ask.”

“No, no, don’t worry about me, it’s all good.”

I shrug in acknowledgment, “Keys?”

The chibi hamster with wide glistening eyes whizzes through the air with unbridled delight as he tosses his key ring to me. Catching them, proud of my quick reflexes, I head for Carl… hoping that maybe this day gets a hair better.

•••

The bathroom stalls shine with that Bobbian sensibility of cleanliness, he may have forgotten about me this morning, but he certainly tended to his duties here with his usual fervor. I spit out that travel toothpaste, the aftertaste unpleasant, strangely chalky but better than nothing. Checking my look in the mirror, all things considered, with my hair brushed, my appearance is well rested, the bags under my eyes minimal. Squishing my cheeks to form a stupid face, color returns to my features, along with stifled laughter. I snort, trying to push it all down, time to be professional, you are a boss, well second boss… third boss? Whatever, I have teen minions to order around, better look like the adult in the room. I head for the bathroom door, my sockless feet crunching against minute particulates of shoe grit. To my surprise, Bobbi bursts through the door, shoving me playfully towards the sink.

“What the hey?” I exclaim.

“Wanted to talk about Red Feather shiz out of earshot from the employees,” that all too familiar heaviness returning to my old friend’s expression.

“Okay, sure? What’s going on?”

“She’s planning to return for the Sun Eater Festival and from there things should be back to normal,” Bobbi shifts uncomfortably.

“Man, feels like everyone is coming back for Sun Eater,” I pause, registering the source of Bobbi’s discomfort. The festival is an Aolu’yi thing, outsiders strictly forbidden, best not to mention it in full earshot. Stopping to reflect upon it, this will be my first Sun Eater Festival, with mom’s fear of returning to the rez, she always made sure we stayed away during the solstices and equinoxes. I’m just as much a stranger to it as the two teenagers behind the door.

“I know right, it’s kind of nice, feels like everyone will be together for once,” Bobbi coughs and clears his throat, “Except for Ms. Tamera and Darion of course.”

“Yeah,” I catch a twinge of regret in the pit of my stomach.

The two of us retreat from the Men’s room, to be greeted by the wide grin of one of the new hires, Taylor, laden with a flat of instant ramen in her arms. She’s white but with that desert tan all of the residences of Vermillion seem to have, with sandy hair almost the same tone of her complexion. She has broad cheeks and nose to match, her expression bright, betraying maybe a glint of mania in those aqua eyes.

“Riley! Riley! Riley!” she calls to me with not a breath in between for me to answer, “Who’s that leathery old bitch with the dumb hair? She talks to you guys like she’s family.”

“I…” I stutter, shocked by the aggressiveness of her statement.

“She’s weird, I don’t like her,” she energetically restocks the grocery shelf next to the boxed mac and cheese, “But I like you, you’re pretty cool for being, you know, a rez guy.”

“I don’t think it’s very professional to refer to customers as…” I stumble as she interrupts me.

“Oh you’re no fun! Come on Riley, I thought you were cool,” she rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, sure, but it’s alright to tone it down a bit,” I pause, “Maybe keep those as in your head thoughts, alright?”

“Fine,” she playfully throws a cup of instant noodles at my head.

Rattled, I return to the front counter, to Bobbi adding new tins of chewing tobacco to the display, chuckling under his breath.

“How are you so patient with them?” I speak in a hushed tone.

Bobbi laughs and quietly responds, “Dude, she’s like sixteen, that brain is so uncooked it’s functionally mush, she’ll grow out of it, just give it time.”

“That’s a gift I just don’t have,” glowering, I study the teenage terror tossing around boxes of ramen.

“I dunno man,” Bobbi pokes fun at me, “Just do what you always do, embrace that ‘Riley Stoicism’, ‘Oh I’m too troubled and badass for everyone so I am going to just sulk in the corner and disapprove of everybody’.”

“Dude, I’m not like that,” I playfully side check him… Oh shit, am I actually like that? My thoughts swim, anxiety prickling at my fingertips.

Bobbi eyes the new hire across the room mopping the floor. A tall white boy of about eighteen, lanky but filled out, with lightly spiked, pallid brown hair. His expression cruel, his jaw clenched, as if he’s constantly grinding his teeth.

With a knowing look, White Fox dips to a whisper, “I’m not going to lie, that Drew kid scares the shit out of me. He doesn’t say anything weird or do anything bad, but I dunno, he kinda gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

“Heebie-jeebies?” stepping backward I can’t contain my laughter, “What are you going on about, you sound like one of those Saturday morning cartoons.”

“Shut up,” Bobbi swallows his shame, “Go look busy, restock some cigarettes or something.”

“Sure thing, boss,” I joke as I head to the back to grab more cartons from the stockroom.

Unlocking the door and squeezing between the steel shelves, I pick up an assortment of cartons, some lights, menthols, slims, and even my old vice, a carton of cloves. Pausing, summer feels like an age ago, so much changed, not just my understanding of the world but also a change in my mind. An acceptance in the smallness of myself, and yet somehow Navan’yu chose to be my shadow. The warm glow returns to my chest, a reminder of her enduring presence in my life. In a state of blissful calm, I leave stockroom, centered, self-assured.

“So I heard you were a city kid?” Taylor blares at me, lurking just beyond the threshold of the door.

“Fuuuu!” I stop myself at a mid ‘fucking hell’ and scramble to keep a hold of the cartons, “Fuuunndamentally, yes…”

“So why you back here in this bullshit town? This place sucks, you’re either dumb or stupid to move here.”

“It’s complicated,” I push memories of Nico’s mangled corpse from my mind. How long was she waiting at the door for me? My stomach tightens with the creepiness of it all.

“Can’t be that complicated,” she follows me up to the counter, “So, what’re you doing in the city? Since you’re like native and all. Didn’t think natives went off rez.”

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“Well kind of, I’m half, and Bobbi and I grew up tog…”

“Oh, so whicha parents was native and which one was normal?”

I stare at her blankly, stunned, unable to find the words to respond.

“Uhhh…” Struggling to regain my cool, I release a heavy sigh. She’s young, she doesn’t know better, “My dad wasn’t Aolu’yi, but I don’t know much about him, he left when I was pretty young.”

“Oh, so you’re a momma’s boy,” she snickers and bounds off to keep restocking the grocery aisle.

Retreating to the safety of the counter, I join Bobbi in dazed silence, adding my own tobacco products to the shelves. Bobbi grins at my own expense, “Had enough, eh?”

“Please, just put me out of my misery,” shaking my head, I whine in defeat, “just pick up anything and beat me over the head with it.”

“Oh, where would be the fun in that? Way better to watch your soul get crushed slowly by a juvenile.”

“You forgot to add delinquent to the end of that,” I crack up.

“Dude, I nearly forgot, I’ve got something for you,” Bobbi explains, breaking down his box and then walking it out the back room to the dumpster.

Waiting patiently, I’m hoping upon hope that Taylor leaves me alone while I’m left to myself. Keeping busy, I crouch, trying to be less visible. Every once in awhile, I peer from behind the counter, once catching the severe stare of Drew, returning from emptying the outdoor trashcans. I look away quickly, praying for my ally’s swift return. Bobbi steps back up to the front, a plastic bag full of soda cups in one arm and a thick envelope in the other.

“Pulled this out of the mailbox this morning,” he smiles, handing my parcel to me.

“What? I never get legit mail,” I examine the envelope, feeling the middle for objects other than paper.

The package is made of a brown craft envelope, sized to hold standard paper. My fingers trace the contours, determining there’s nothing but a packet of documents within.

[Riley Quiet Badger Se’nya Yates

3407 Hill View St

Vermillion, UI 84079]

[Ghost River Cultural & Language Center

1016 Plateau Rd

Ghost River Tribal Land, UI 84078]

Se’nya, Nana’s surname, a name that should’ve been mine by birthright, had mom not rejected it when she fled her home for the safety of Douglas. Quiet Badger, a name new to me… a name I never knew I had. How many things have been kept from me out of fear and caution? Possibly an immeasurable amount of lost information, never to be returned to me. Reading the return address once again, I gape at it, Ghost River Cultural & Language Center… Nana? To my knowledge, Nana left nothing for me when she passed. I stow the package behind the counter, best to read it when Bobbi and the hooligans leave for the night.

Keeping my mind occupied with tasks, I observe the stream of customers floating in and out of the store, their lines the usual bands of light, sometimes imbued with subtle color. I’m aware of the sky turning from purple to eventually black. Bobbi, the first to leave, promptly ends his shift at six, giving me a wave and that knowing grin before returning to Carl. From the darkness of the parking lot, I hear the reverb of a long rattling cough, a moment of silence, and then the turn over of his engine.

“What’s it like having Daddy Issues?” Taylor leers at me from over the counter, breaking my flow.

“Don’t know, haven’t really thought about it,” I force my expression to the most temperate one I can muster, “Go check the soda machine and see if it needs a refill.”

“Boss Fox already did that right before he left, and yelled at it a bit too,” she bleats, “I’m not getting involved in his personal war!”

I don’t bother suppressing my laughter, Boss Fox? Makes Bobbi sound like a hero in a kid’s video game, “Fine, take your fifteen minute then, since you’ve had your lunch break.”

“Okie dokie,” she scampers up to the fountain machine and fills a large cup with orange soda.

Taylor pulls up one of the Nautilus brand vinyl stools behind the counter, too close to me, barring my exit. My personal space violated, an invasion somehow worse than Navan’yu’s millions of eyes consuming the canyon walls. Subtly, I lean away, trying to escape my own personal hell, pretending that organizing the scratch cards requires my undivided attention.

“Do you rave?” Taylor questions me.

“Not really my scene…” I turn to face her, backing up against the counter searching for a way out.

She eyes me suspiciously and reaches out to touch my hair, “How can you be cool and not rave in this town?”

“I guess I’m just not cool enough”, dodging her hand, I hop into a sitting position on the countertop, giving me a little more personal space from the teenage terror.

Oblivious to my body language, she nudges the stool closer and reaches out for a second time, “You have such good hair, I’m so jealous of you.”

I take a nosedive off of the countertop into the customer-facing aisle in an effort to get out of the way of her nasty little fingers. Knocking over the “Take A Penny, Leave A Penny” I slam against the ground, showering myself in change, a mortifying clinking metallic rain. Fuming and bruised, I rush to the back room to search for a handheld dustpan, the worry of if I damaged the counter rattling in my brain. Returning to the front, Drew, with the precision of a machine, returns the loose change to the container, his scowl greatly pronounced.

“Thanks Drew!” I call to him in an encouraging tone.

He snorts as though annoyed with me, and continues picking up change.

Peew-doo!

A heavyset Aolu’yi man walks through the door, his face uncannily familiar. I wrack my brain trying to place him.

“Jason!” Taylor shrieks in delight as she tears across the room to give him a likely unwelcome hug, “We doing the stuff and things later?”

Oh yeah, he was that guy from the clinic all those months ago, bored out of his mind. Helped me get my new ID.

“We’re on,” Jason acknowledges her and turns to Drew, “How’s my homeboy?”

Drew picks up the last of the pennies and gives the closest thing to a warm expression I’ve seen him make. Albeit, his smile resembles a malicious sneer, rather than anything with any real warmth, “Thought you’d never show.”

“I always show for my favorite… homies,” Jason clears his throat as though he changed course mid-sentence.

Standing in the corridor with my sad little dustpan in hand, Jason eyes me, his gaze scrutinizing, sizing me up, “Brother, don’t I know you from somewhere?”

Pointing to my nametag, “Yeah, you renewed my tribal card a bit ago?”

“Oh, that’s right… Elenora’s long lost grandson right? From Douglas, yeah?”

“Sure, yeah,” I give a half-hearted wave to break the tension.

Jason stares at me, eyeing me up and down, as though something within his mind suddenly clicked. His muscles grow tense, his jaw clenching,

“I’ll see you guys later,” he says to the two kids and gives me a tough guy nod as he exits the Nautilus.

In confusion, I’m frozen in place, watching him disappear into the gloom of the parking lot and pumps. Grappling with his intended purpose, I circle around the question lodged within the pit of my gut. Why did he leave the gas station empty handed?

•••

The gas station closed, Mary-Jane’s return for her nightly vices long past, I sit in the cabin of Baby Cakes, listening to the purr of her muscle engine. Using the ambient light from the cold glow of the Nautilus’s spinning sign, I run my finger along the perforated edge of the craft package, tearing it open to reveal what’s inside.

[Send to Riley Quiet Badger Se’nya Yates upon his return to the Ghost River Reservation]

Paper instructions left to someone, presumably the sender. I shuffle through the small stack of papers, most of which appear to be law documents referring to a property trust under Elenora Se’nya’s estate, to be left to my brother and I upon our twenty first birthdays. Presumably referring to Nana’s adobe home in Old Town. I consider if Darion has a packet similar to this awaiting him, if he ever came to the rez, possibly a precaution in case our mom threw all paperwork from Nana away. I start to squeeze the packet back into the envelope when I notice it, a piece of blue-lined notebook paper, pushed out of the bottom of the pile. Curiosity gets the better of me, I pull out the folded note and read it, the breath caught in my throat, the red fossil circling against my fingertips.

•••

New Town, the crisp late-autumn breeze along the ridgeline of the plateau bites through my hoodie. Getting out here early, I’ll have plenty of time to check in on Nana’s business before I start my shift in the afternoon. Pulling into the parking space of the ‘Ghost River Cultural & Language Center’, I look out from my vantage point. Below, the usually sleepy energy of this place stands broken, the hospital bustles with activity, no less than four ambulances pull up to the emergency trauma wing. Part of me feels a sense of guilt trying to decode the evolving situation, but the other half aches to bear witness to the calamity unfolding in the parking lot below me. It’s too far to make out specifics anyway, yet the siren of a fifth emergency vehicle signals that whatever’s happened, it’s going to be a bad day for a lot of people.

Adjourning to the cultural center, I’m surprised how large the interior of the building is, a decent sized atrium, with a sprawling welcome desk at the front, a small gift shop to the side filled with wares from local artists. Branching out from the entrance, signage points to a contemporary art gallery, a historical exhibit, a special delineation for the language center, as well as the research and archival department. The counter lays empty, with a red button that reads, ‘Uka’yahi’u! We’re hard at work, please ring for service’. I push it nervously, the sound of wooden chimes ring somewhere within the bowels of the building. A door from the research department swings open and closed followed by the quick steps of a petite young woman. Decked out in an outdoorsy army green shirt, her long straight dark auburn hair flies about in static wisps.

“Hey there, a ticket for you? Tribal members have free admission…” she eyes me through her rectangular glasses, her hue so pale, I wouldn’t be surprised she’d developed a vitamin D deficiency from years indoors.

“Oh, no I’m Riley Yates, I got a note telling me to come here,” I wave the piece of notebook paper at her, “she said in this, something about a legacy she left for me?”

“Wait… You’re Elenora’s grandson?” her countenance shifts to excitement, “So you got that package I sent out! Thank goodness, I was dreading what would happen if it didn’t get to you.”

“Well I made it, where should I go?”

“Right this way,” she leads me down the hall, her ears full of gunmetal studs and a ring through the cartilage of her left ear.

“So, how did you get involved here? You seem a little…”

“Out of place?” she laughs, opening the door to the archive.

“Well, yeah.”

“It’s kind of a funny story, I used to come to Nana’s shop in Old Town with my folks when I was a kid. She took a shine to me… I think she missed you and your brother a lot, and I kind of, in her mind, became a surrogate grandkid,” she sighs, a twinge of emotion crossing her face, “Long and short of it, I started volunteering my time in high school, drove out every weekend from Providence to help organize her notes and records so we could get this place up and running, before… you know. Now she’s gone, someone’s got to be here to run it, I put a deferment on my degree and everything. But at least I’ll have the meat of my thesis all together by the time I return.”

“I feel bad about how things went down before she passed,” I don’t bother disguising my grief, “It feels like I’m a stranger in my own story.”

“You’re here now! That’s what matters, Elen would be glowing that you finally made it home,” the young woman navigates through a room full of file cabinets and shelves with archival boxes.

I like this one, I reflect, I can she why Nana liked her too, “Seems like a lot to manage, how do you stay open?”

“Casino money mostly, but we also get a few grants too. Aolu’yi aren’t the only tribe represented in the archive, a lot of smaller ones in Deerhorn County store their records and sacred objects here, since we have both climate controls and fire suppression. We rely on a small army of volunteers too, a lot of kids from the community help on the weekend. But, well, Monday mornings in the off season, I am stuck here with only my thoughts and my work.”

“If I find the time, maybe I can pop in and help.”

“I’d like that,” she smiles and unlocks a door leading into a small room.

It’s windowless, covered walls constructed with cinderblocks, as though built into the rocks at the top of the plateau. The cool air drifts stale, dust particulates dancing in the illumination of the fluorescent lights. A metal bookshelf lined with composition notebooks labeled with masking tape fills the largest wall. An assortment of books of various colors and textures sit on a few wooden shelves scattered about the room, a metal table and a pair of chairs sits at the center, equipped with a luminous reading light, specially manufactured so one doesn’t strain their eyes when reading for hours. Upon the tabletop is a pencil holder full of writing implements.

“The composition books are all Elenora’s translations, archives of the Aolu’yi language from the spoken word. I’ve digitized maybe about a quarter of them,” she points to another shelf with thick black leather-bound notebooks, “These are really cool, theses are Aolu’yi spoken word legends and stories, that Se’nya transcribed and translated.

“Any involving Navan’yu?” making an effort to sound casual as I inquire.

A shocked expression crosses her face, “Elenora thought you might have a special interest in the Mistwalker. Let me see, I remember something really fascinating in her notes.”

I watch her rummage through the records, until she pulls a notebook marked by the numeral II and nothing else, “Here it is! This is so intriguing, this root word here,” she points to the page, “when modified like this goes from one to two, but this here…”

She points to something else vague in Nana’s snaking handwriting, “…refers to incomplete. A lot of the obscure storytelling revolving around Navan’yu has weird grammar and linguistic modifications, in the same vein as that. It doesn’t make any sense, given she is the Great Spirit, something all encompassing, but somehow missing. All I glean is maybe it is something to do with missing meaning ‘formless’ or eternal…? It is sure a strange way to say it, even with the usual Aolu’yi idiosyncrasies within the language.”

“Can you make a copy of that for me?” I ask.

“Absolutely, I’ll go do that right now, while it is still quiet on the floor,” she takes the notebook to the door.

“Oh and Riley, the letters and notes she left for you are over there,” she pushes a strand of auburn hair from her face and points to a narrow book-self stuffed to the brim with writings and loose paper, “Have at it while I’m gone, and you have free rein to come and go and look through it any time you like.”

“Thanks,” I pause, shifting, embarrassed, didn’t even catch her name, “What do I call you?”

She smirks, “Call me Charley!”

Charley pushes through the door, leaving me to myself. The dead silence of the room leaves my ears ringing, as I shuffle to the shelf and pull an assorted pile of loose paper and notebooks of different styles from it, laying it out on the table. Starting with the thickest, most ornate leather-bound one, embossed with the image of a tree. I open it to read the nostalgic penmanship of Nana’s handwriting.

[My dear boy, I regret that we had so little time together, never doubt that I love you so deeply, a way in which, I have difficulty expressing in simple words on this page. By now you must know, so many things have been kept from you. Do not harbor ill feelings for my daughter, grandson. She has always done what she has felt best for you, and under circumstances no one deserves to face. If you are reading this, then you have, undoubtedly, returned home, to fulfill your purpose or to face your own peril. I cannot stop what has been set in motion, but I can, as your Nana, guide in the best way I can.

First know that U’nkah ti’is cho…]

Pausing in confusion, I rub my eyes in case I’m reading something wrong, but there it is in the old language, “We pay in blood.” I continue reading…

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Hysteria prickles behind my ears, I turn the page in a panic…

[… U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho .U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho .U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho…]

I abandon the notebook to ransack the stacks of paper.

[… U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho .U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho…]

Some written on small scraps of lined paper, some on crisp white sheets, some on acid yellowed vellum, yet the scrawl remains the same in severe angular lettering. I am a prisoner of that same terrible phrase. My mouth caught in a silent scream, I throw the pile of paper to the floor, sheets flying across the room like cursed birds fluttering about with malicious intent. Looking up to the wall, the scrawl, I cannot escape it, covers the ceiling and walls…

[…U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho .U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho. U’nkah ti’is cho…]

Curling up into a ball on the floor, I succumb to the closing darkness, until all fades from my mind.

••••

Warm fingers touch my shoulder, I feel the ambient temperature of summer, coaxing me from the ground.

“Child of Nhokah…” a spectral voice whispers in my ear.

Turning to face the speaker, I find nothing, just the golden hour, an expanse of sagebrush and native grass, “Where am I? Who are you?”

“Dear child, you know me.”

“You aren’t Navan’yu… I,” pausing, I sort through my thoughts, “Nana?”

“Foolish boy!” the being snarls from the ether.

“Show yourself!” I challenge the entity.

“Very well…”

Vivid strands of grass weave together into complex patterns, a body born of color, fiber, and herbaceous scent. Prairie Mother stands before me, an abstracted form with an almost geometric quality to it. She watches, eclipsing me in her shadow, waiting for me to speak.

“You’re the one Nana used to talk about,” I stammer, “Where is she?”

“Nothing remains of her, only the precious memories I carry within me…” she speaks with an air of sadness, “As is the way with those who live. Only the reflection of causality of her short life flows on, rippling upwards through time.”

“Why didn’t you help her? Heal her from her illness…”

“Silence…” her exasperation fills the space, “The cycle does not bend that way. Spirits are bound to the true chaos of the universe, it is our untenable burden… one we can never shed.”

“Yet you, child of Nhokah…” she stares at me through those rectangular empty eyes, “…have agency to change your lines, forge your own path.”

“Navan’yu told me…”

“The ancient one speaks in omission,” Prairie Mother bristles, “I tell you this as a kindness to honor your grandmother...”

... My vision blurs, as though being torn away by some greater force from the spirit of the golden grasslands... I claw into the darkness, trying to force my way back to her, her forthcoming words critical to what lies ahead...

... a piercing in my my skull, a sensation as though it's about to split in two…

Dizzy, a heap on the ground, blood pooling…

Gunshots… Nico’s gun… tossed out of reach…

Kneeling over him… Nico, my knuckles ache, bruised and raw, I slam my metal water bottle into his head… fucked up sounds comin’ out my mouth. Nico gurgles, his face and body pulverized by the impacts…

… Nico, a mound of unidentifiable gore….

… a jet-black river beats with animalistic savagery. Ghost River.

Stones fall from the tips of my boots… I… just killed a man… my friend…

They roll unceremoniously into the turbulent water…

I failed to protect Dizzy… blood rushes in my ears, obscuring the crashing rapids…

The last speckles of light of the setting moon dance in the froth and spray… I can’t live with this…

Floating. Falling. Plummeting…

CRASH!

••••

Bolting upright, slips of paper take to the air, fluttering about the dim cinderblock room. I cradle my forehead in my arms, sweat beading down my brow. No writing on the wall, not even an aberrant mark in Nana’s notebook. Picking up the stray notes and letters, I place them carefully on the table. What would Charley think of me… if I left this mess?… I can't bear it... Succumbing to the gnawing thought eating away at me, I dig my fingertips into my temples… all of my fears... realized … I’m crazy! I'm crazy! I’m crazy! I’m CRAZY! I’M CRAZY!