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"Don't worry." He broke into a jog.
She followed him with her eyes until he vanished into the motel room.
Then her gaze dropped to the motionless form at her feet. Poor, crazed
Burnfingers Begay. Was he really as mad as he'd claimed? Or was he normal and
the rest of the universe slightly unbalanced? She'd met Wanderers before, but
never one who'd ranged quite so far or contentedly as he. That huge body had
been home to an equally massive spirit. Had it fled, or did it linger still?
Burnfingers was a stubborn man.
She knelt and leaned forward until her lips were only a few inches from
Burnfingers's ear, and began to sing in a tremulous whisper. Across the
street, the Doberman patrolling the back lot of a hardware store began to
howl. He was not an animal easily spooked, but now he railed at the moon until
his throat threatened to crack.
His cry was picked up by every dog in town, from poodles to stray mutts to the
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coyotes fighting over garbage they'd dragged up to their ravines, a mournful
canine chorus accompanying the extraordinary sweet sound Mouse poured into a
dead man's head. Its rhythm was subtle and serene, familiar yet unique.
A moment passed; two. The rhythm was echoed by the sudden movement of
Burnfingers Begay's chest, then by a twitching of one hand, and at last by the
opening of both eyes as he slowly sat erect. Letting out a long wheeze, he put
both hands to his temples and rubbed hard. She sat down on the bottom step of
the motor home and regarded him silently, the wind playing with the silken
edges of her dress.
"Thank you."
"It was not all me," she explained. "There had to be something left to hear
me. It works but rarely. You claim to have no soul. You are lying."
He sounded embarrassed. "I didn't say I never had one. I just said I
didn't have one at the time. It floats around, like excess baggage." He
struggled to his feet, feeling the back of his head. "A mule kicked me. What
were they?" He described his attackers as best he could.
"Some local evil, or perhaps from a nearby reality line. They tried to fool
you by imitating humanity, at which Evil is always poor. They came looking for
a way to divert me from my course. It was only luck that enabled me to escape,
but they may have achieved their purpose anyway. They took Frank
Sonderberg's wife and children, didn't they?"
Burnfingers glanced reflexively at the motel, nodded.
"I feared so. When he returns we will try to find them. He will not go on
without them. I did not think he would."
She didn't ask if he was coming with them. She was correct in her assumptions,
of course, but he would have appreciated the request nonetheless.
"I did not know Evil could be subtle, but I ought to. Native Americans know
more about subtle evils than most people -- though whatever put me on the
ground was anything but subtle."
Frank rejoined them, slowing precipitously when he saw Burnfingers
Begay standing in the moonlight caressing his neck. Frank's shirt hung over
his belt, the buttons were unfastened, and he'd forgotten to zip his fly. He
glanced quickly at Mouse, then back at Burnfingers.
"I thought you were dead."
"Was," said the Indian ruefully. "Colder than Spider Rock. Do not look so
shocked, Frank, friend. I have been dead before. It is different each time and
always an educational experience, though on the whole I would have to say
I prefer the alternative. Strange how darkness can be enlightening."
"But how, who ...?" His gaze drifted back to Mouse. Burnfingers nodded
solemnly.
"The little lady has some prickly tunes in her harmonic arsenal. I have been
sung to sleep before, but never awake. I should not be so surprised. She is a
special Mouse."
Frank hesitated the briefest of instants before pushing past him. "I'm going
after my family. Who's coming with me?"
"I must," said Mouse, "but I would help anyway."
Frank paused in the doorway to look back at Burnfingers. "You?"
"Of course I am coming, Frank. What can they do but kill me again?"
"Yeah. Only maybe this time they'll cut off your ears so you won't be able to
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