The Entropy of Bones Page 16

  And when I hit Samovar . . . it was like hitting rocks . . . It all began coming back to me.

  “Thank the asshole Narayana that he trained you the way he did. Because you sought the entropy of his bones you were able to do what bullets, knives, and all assorted other manner of weaponry couldn’t.”

  You said before they only look human. Is that what you meant? The rice and mango were gone before I realized how much I ate. My belly began reminding me.

  “Yup. It’s like entropy couldn’t just create. It had to create offensives to all of creation. Beautiful, powerful human-looking things totally devoid of souls committed to returning the planet to the void.”

  Shouldn’t creation have some sort of response? Some kind of ‘Fuck off, Entropy?’

  “Yup. That’s what I’m trying to be,” he said, getting up and offering me a superfluous hand. I took it anyway. When we were eye level he spoke again. “And that’s what you get to be by your nature.”

  Liminal, I said, beginning to understand.

  “Liminal,” he affirmed.

  He got me going north, past Napa, through Mendocino County, all the way up to Ukiah. After speaking to the CD player gently, he got it to release the Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings EP that had been stuck in the machine since before Narayana left, so we had music going up. The only other CD I had was Sonny Rollins’s Saxophone Colossus, a Christmas gift from Mom. But A.C. was into it and I didn’t mind.

  He kept quiet for a while but the wind got choppier. It started hitting the side of the car. His face was calm but the rest of his body tapped, swayed, and bopped. After a while I had enough.

  Something on your mind you need to share?

  “Sorry. Should’ve done this first. Tear the bandage off.” As soon as he spoke, the winds began to calm down. “We’re going to Pinoleville.”

  Never been. He kept quiet. What’s up there?

  “First Nations spot.” A.C. pulled out one of his old-school six-shooters. It smelled of blood and iron. “My great-great-great-grandfather was a buffalo soldier. You know them?”

  Black cowboys, yeah. I’ve heard the song.

  “Black soldiers in the Indian wars,” he said, cracking open the six-shooter to reveal blood red bullets. “My ancestor was a member of the Ninth Calvary. He was a crack shot, damn good tracker, and not the type to ever back down from a fight ever if the stories are to be believed.”

  Sounds righteous.

  “He was a moron.” A.C. surveyed the passing trees as he said it. “He was the first former slave to ever shoot a Native in a time of war.”

  Which means?

  “The guns he used were cursed.” He turned to look at me. His eyes were soft with regret. “So was his blood. The whole family line, me included, was cursed to bad luck and violent death because he couldn’t see the similarity between himself and the Apache.”

  Were? I asked. You were cursed or you are cursed?

  “Once I started getting into all of this, the wind and you liminals, I searched out the guns and made an arrangement with the spirits of the Apache and all the other tribes. I carry the burden of my ancestor’s shame in these six-shooters and not in my blood. In return, I promise I am the last of my line.”

  Ok. Not to be a dick about it, but why the fuck are we going to an Indian reservation, given your family history?

  “I make that deal with the spirits five years from now. In this time, my blood is still cursed. It’s got to be dealt with.”

  Time travel, Indian curses, and magical bullets. Oh my . . . I can’t help but laugh. Luckily he does as well.

  A.C. directs me to a small one-story building that looks more like a broken-down mini mall than a Native American place of power. About twenty cars were parked in the lot; half of them were jeeps made fifteen years before I was born. All had bumper stickers about Native Pride and the nature of the first residents of California. There must have been an open space in the middle of the center because I heard clear drumming and chanting from somewhere inside. The sun was well on its way to setting behind the building, giving the center an ominous feel. The entire day A.C. had been the model of going with the flow, living up to his connection with the wind in both form and function. But now, his resistance, fear even, was palpable. To his credit, he didn’t rock the car with his wind.

  “Fucking entropy weapons,” he grumbled as he took the short sword from behind him and threw it in the backseat. “No sense in carrying in more than I have to.”

  Narayana told me they were a pain, I said, getting out on my side.

  “He didn’t lie about that. But, um, you’re not coming in.” A.C. tried to sound firm.

  You gonna stop me? I tried not to laugh at him.

  “I’m going to ask you. First and foremost, not a good idea to leave that sword alone. It has a tendency to find things to stab. But also, this is my mess, my drama. I’d rather not have you suffer for my crimes.”

  Sure you can handle this? I asked, nodding slowly.

  “Hell no!” he said. “That’s why I want you out here. We might have to make a quick getaway.”

  A.C. moved deliberately toward the center. Not slowly, but cautiously. I heard him swearing under his breath as he opened the door. I lay out on the roof of the car waiting for him, wondering if it was my lot in life to wait on weird dudes with bizarre powers. At the same time I was resisting the slowly building urge to play with A.C.’s sword. It wanted to be touched, and hungered for blood. It almost spoke to me, tempting me with the devastation we could wreak if only I would carry it. I looked in the backseat, expecting to see the damn thing had grown a mouth. But no, it sat sheathed and inanimate, but at the same time calling out for me.

  Fucking entropy weapons, I parroted. I gained distance from the car, wanting A.C. to come back and take up his charge, then realizing what a weight it must be to carry three such weapons constantly. There was more behind that smile than he let on. I promised myself I would ask more about him, about where he came from, but then the drumming stopped.

  Crashes, shouting, and a gunshot got me primed for action. The sword was near screaming in my ears, begging me to use it. I ran from it, toward the double-paned front doors. Halfway there, A.C.’s wind blew the doors open and me off my feet. He came running out half a second later.

  “Go! Go! Go!” he barked, pointing toward the car as he ran. He couldn’t see the five Native American dudes just at the door, chasing with rifles. I’d seen Indians around like this before at the range or in the pit fights. Northern California prideful Indians not willing to take any more shit from any more white people, or anyone else for that matter. Pissed-off Indians who had prison bodies, wilderness skills, and damn good aim. He’d never make the car in time. I went after the Native guys. A sharp “No!” came from him as I ran past him.

  I didn’t bother standing. Instead I spun my legs around and scrambled on all fours toward them. Not the angle they were used to shooting at. They made the mistake of letting me get close. I stood with Ashes Ascent—exhale, right knee into the opponent’s left calf muscle while squatting, continue standing, right forearm into driving into the left side of the neck with a twist—and took the breath and balls from the biggest one. The smallest of them backed out the door trying to gain range to shoot, a pockmark-faced guy dropped his rifle and pulled his knife while the other two thought they could take me barehanded. They were good. Smart, quick to react, slow to panic. Still I had them in the doorway so they couldn’t flank me. I chose not to worry about the gunman until I had to.

  I Phoenix Palmed the knife man’s defense guard—progressive strike from finger tip nerve shot, first knuckle cluster strike, third knuckle bone breaking shot—and used my right foot to Salamander Whip—fake low kick to full hip twist, hard high kick to the head of one of the barehanded guys. I sidestepped the flying elbow of the third man in order to obscure the range of the gunman I hadn’t tracked. The hobbled Indian wasn’t down either, just limping and scared for his friend with the knife. The man wa
s holding his chest like he was suffering from a heart attack. The hobbled one grabbed his smaller blade from his shit kicker and threw it with blinding speed. I saw the set-up. He wanted me to dodge right, backing directly into his buddy’s knee to the belly. He couldn’t imagine I would be fast enough to catch the blade, break his buddy’s nose with the butt of it, and then flip both the dude and the blade around in half a second.

  Enough, I said, resting the blade lengthwise on my hostage’s eyelid, securing him by the scruff of his neck.

  “You sure you’re fighting for the right side?” an old voice far more used to shouting than speaking asked me from farther inside the building. It was an old Native woman with a shotgun held at her waist, I learned as I turned my hostage to face her. She wore a complex necklace over an elaborately patterned green shirt and a pair of loose jeans.

  “Leave her out of this!” A.C.’s voice shook the entire building, acting more as a force of nature than anything used for communication. I turned again to see him with a foot on the neck of the gunman I couldn’t keep track of and one gun pointed past me toward the old woman.

  “You got something I care about under your foot and I got something you care about in my sights, Wind boy. Don’t see a problem here.”

  I do! I snapped.

  “Difference is,” A.C. barked, again speaking with the wind, “I start firing these weapons, you know I’m not missing. You sure your glaucoma isn’t acting up, Spits with Dogs?”

  “Right tool for the job, Wind boy. This shot will paint them all red. You’re not threatening anything I’m not willing to do my own self.”

  As if on cue, they both grunted.

  Can I make a suggestion here? I said slowly.

  “Let’s hear it, cursed girl,” the Indian woman, Spits with Dogs, I guessed at her name.

  This whole situation might better be resolved if everyone lowers their weapons and gives conversation a try. I let the blade off of my hostage’s eyelid and gave him a firm but respectable push away from me. I understand you and yours might have reason to hate this man, but I can swear to you he’s got no plans to hurt anyone here.

  “No use, Chabi,” A.C. barked, this time using his regular throat voice. “I told that miserable hag that when I came in. She’s more interested in a scrap than words.”

  “Like I’d believe anything that came from your lying mouth.” She paused for a second then lowered her shotgun, slightly. “But this one. She speaks the first tongue. Lies sound foul in that speak. What’s the shit-stained warrior here for if not to start more shit?”

  Forgiveness. I look over at A.C. and demanded he lower his pistol with my eyes. For a second I caught the torture in his eyes associated with not pulling the trigger. I imagined the guns speaking to him in the same way the sword was calling to me. But he was quicker about holstering the gun than I would have been.

  Mrs. Spits with Dogs was actually Navajo. Anaba was her first name and she was pretty cool. She belonged to A.I.M. for longer than the American Indian Movement existed, and couldn’t imagine activism without a gun at her side. She also came from long line of medicine women, the first of whom was the one who put the curse on A.C.’s great-great-granddad. Their hostility existed apparently at a cellular level. I liked her. The skin on her face looked like it had a crease for every month she’d been alive. But her hands were steady, her breathing calm. What animosity she had toward A.C. she never extended toward me. Mrs. Spits with Dogs only called me Sad Little Cursed Girl.

  She took us into the center of the community center, her boys trailing tight behind us. Small offices and classrooms lined the hallways until we reached the center courtyard. A large teepee, as tall as the building, covered in deep red and tan hides, took up the whole space.

  “Come on now,” A.C. snapped. “You all aren’t even plains Indians. What the hell are you doing with this damn thing?”

  “I felt the bad wind rising,” Spits with Dogs said with this malicious grin that showed her three cracked teeth. “Figured someone would need to sweat.”

  “I can’t believe that at some point you and I become friends,” A.C. said, taking his jacket and shoes off. Even from outside the teepee I could feel an infernal heat radiating outward from it.

  “I can’t believe it either,” the old woman said, sitting on a bench. Her boys started disrobing as she pointed to them, assigning some to go in with A.C. and others to stand guard. When I went for my shoes, she stopped me. “Not for you, Cursed girl. Gender split sweats. Some of the old ways make sense, even if they are sexist.” When I eye checked her for deception, I saw none.

  There’s no way I’m not keeping my eye on this damn thing while he’s in there, I said, motioning over to the sword and guns A.C. left next to his pile of clothes.

  “You think I’m leaving my grandsons at the mercy of the weapons that shot their ancestors?” she said with equal frankness. Down to his skivvies A.C. looked more like the Little Kid than the hero he played at.

  “Don’t know how long this will last,” A.C. barked over to me as he opened the flap of the teepee. Both the heat and the monotonous drum sound became near intolerable when he did.

  What the hell is going to happen in there? I asked.

  “I’m gonna sweat.” He smiled and was gone. Soon, four of Spits with Dog’s six “boys” were in the teepee. The other two sat outside, similarly stripped down facing outward from opposite ends of the teepee.

  For three hours I sat on the bench in silence, listening to the drumming, hearing occasional mumbles from inside, and eye-checking the weapons and Spits with Dogs; I saw her provide food and water for her sons; she left a bowl of something that smelled spicy and hot next to me. She got respectful and sampled a bit to let me know it hadn’t been poisoned. Still, I didn’t eat it. We were allies, not friends.

  When the temperature dropped, Spits with Dogs brought her boys two large warm jackets. She put one for me next to the food. I nodded in appreciation but I didn’t take it. I guess that was the straw for her.

  “Trust me, it don’t have smallpox in it or nothing.”

  I’m not cold.

  “Not your flesh maybe,” she gruffed. “No matter. Should get inside. Gonna rain soon.”

  You seeing clouds I can’t see?

  “I see lots you can’t, Sad Little Cursed Girl.” She said it sad, like she wished she couldn’t.

  Her other boy stayed outside while we moved inside the community center. I didn’t take my eyes off the teepee, but Spits with Dogs was right. Not five minutes after we moved, the salty smell of rain and wet saturated the air. A minute after that rain started slapping the ground like it was owed money. Spits with Dogs had manners enough not to say I told you so with her mouth. Her eyes screamed it, though.

  Why do you call me cursed girl? I asked her finally.

  “Why do I call you it or why are you cursed?”

  Who says I’m cursed?

  “Anyone with eyes to see.” She didn’t take her eyes off the teepee. “It’s the company you keep.”

  I don’t think he’s as bad as you . . .

  “Him and his kind are ten times worse.” And I understood how she got her name. “But I’m not talking about A.C. Something older, meaner, and more twisted marked you ages ago.”

  My mind immediately went to Narayana. An ancient memory long buried under spent rage and regret resurfaced slowly. A beautiful man doing terribly impossible things to a pretty car.

  Where is it? The mark? I asked, feeling like I was asking where a body part was. Can you see it?

  Spits with Dogs turned her gaze on me slowly. She drew a circle with her thumb in the air. Her way of asking me to turn around. I did a 360 and caught that wrinkled face return color to itself.

  “It’s on your back.” She choked up. “It’s big.”

  What does it look like? I ask. Afraid for the first time.

  “I can’t read it. It offends human eyes. I look at it for too long and I get . . .”

  What does it say?
I demand.

  “I . . . can’t . . . read . . . it. It’s a name. The curse is a name.”

  Not two minutes past the witching hour, A.C. stepped out of the teepee. The sweat-smelling rain stopped at the exact same time. Drained, A.C.’s limbs shook and his jaw was slack. But his voice, his voice was strong.

  “Getting fucking sick of paying for my ancestor’s mistakes,” he said, putting his pants back on.

  What did Narayana put on me? I asked, keeping my eye on Spits with Dogs’s trigger finger. She held her shotty until her boys started crawling out of the teepee looking more drawn out than A.C.

  “His mark,” A.C. says with a groan. “I’m not one to defend the asshole but I think he did it to protect you.”

  Explain.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “It’s owed.” Spits with Dogs moved quietly. I didn’t know she was standing next to me. “The whole story. That’s the price of the sweat.” She took my hand in hers and squeezed hard. I understood. She could have asked anything from him as payment for the sweat. But she gave that debt to me.

  Thanks.

  “You won’t thank me later,” she said, letting go of my hand. She turned her back and walked away. “But not here, Bad Wind. Get out of here.”

  Chapter Twelve: Nordeen

  In the car, A.C. exhausted, me finally pissed—like the rain did something to wash the stupid out of my eyes so I could see what a fool I’d been for the entirety of my adolescent and adult life—and I noticed we were going fast. Like really fast. I took my foot off the gas and we were still pushing ninety.

  “I’ve got fuller access to my skills now.” A.C. answered my unasked question. “What? You don’t want to move like the wind?”

  You know what I want.

  “I know what you think you want.” He sighed. “Ok. Narayana Raj goes on the penitent path, the first of his kind, studies to find his liberated form. Only he doesn’t have one. All he is is dust and ash. He is born of entropy and that’s all he can create. But he still tries. Goes out on his own. Somehow, the dumbass runs across one of the only types of folks that can break his kind down, a liminal. You. But you’re young and dumb . . .”