Shaman Winter (31 page)

“Unfortunately, the evil sorcerers also grabbed Coyote's tail, and so they, too, came to live on the earth.

“‘You will always be our brothers,' Man and Woman said. ‘We will honor you by telling many stories about you.'

“Coyote and Raven continued to help Man and Woman. They taught them to hunt and fish and gather grains and nuts. They taught them to respect life, from the smallest to the greatest.

“But the evil sorcerers who had snuck up from the underworld didn't like the stories about Coyote and Raven. ‘We want the people to desire more than they will ever need,' the sorcerers said. ‘Let us turn Coyote and Raven against each other. This way we can take their place.'

“So they devised a contest. The idea was to return to the center of the earth to retrieve the dreams that Man and Woman had left there. It seems that in their haste to climb Coyote's tail, they had left their dreams behind.

“‘No problem,' Raven said, and he flew down the hole he had pecked in the turtle's shell and brought up all the dreams he could carry in his beak. During his return there was a loud explosion in the river of fire. The dreams fell to the ground, and when he gathered them up, they were all jumbled. That's why our dreams often are mixed up.

“‘I can go down for the dreams he left behind,' Coyote said, and wrapped his long tail around a tree and climbed down. He picked up the remaining dreams and was climbing up when the sorcerers cut his tail. That's why coyotes now have shorter tails. He fell and dropped the dreams, so what he brought up was also very jumbled.

“Man and Woman, who were an old grandfather and grandmother by now, gathered the dreams as best they could and gave a dream to each nation. But the dreams were all mixed up, and it took a great deal of preparation and fasting for each person to have a true vision of the original dream.

“‘This is not easy,' Man and Woman said to Coyote and Raven. ‘We expected our dreams would be easy to understand.' They chased off Coyote and Raven. Never again would the two live in the human houses. Raven and Coyote each thought he was the king of the tricksters, so they went on arguing and pulling tricks on each other to this day.”

Don Eliseo paused.

“Interesting,” Sonny said. “You should publish your stories.”

The old man laughed. “A trickster has special powers. In the story they not only help Man and Woman come to earth, they return for the dreams they left behind. But a trickster is also very proud. He thinks he's numero uno. The sorcerers use that pride to create conflict.”

“So Coyote and Raven, the old tricksters, represent our nature,” Sonny said. “They're two sides of the same coin.”

“Yes,” don Eliseo replied. He stood slowly and went to the bed. “Bueno. I better get some sleep. Rest well, hijo.” He leaned and pressed his forehead to Sonny's.

“Gracias,” Sonny said, thanking the old man for his blessing.

“What would I do without him?” he said to Rita when they heard don Eliseo shut the front door behind him.

“He loves you like a son,” Rita said.

“And you?”

“I love you like my lover, mi alma.”

“Come here,” he said, and drew her to him. “Did I ever tell you how much I love you?”

“You sure it's not just my cooking?” She smiled and pressed close, her body fitting his.

“Your cooking, your body, everything,” he whispered, nibbling on her ear.

“Last night you could have been killed, and you still want to make love.”

“I came back for you, Rosa.”

“Rita.”

“Rosa, Rita, I want you.”

“And I want you.”

“Escaping death gave me the ganas.”

“I dig ganas.”

“Tengo ganas.”

“Yo también.”

He kissed her, a deep satisfying kiss. She responded.

“Take off your robe.”

“First we bathe you, amorcito. I like my man to smell like piñon, like sage, like the wind that whispers across the mesa.”

“And I don't?”

“You smell raunchy,” she teased, “like you've been riding a horse on the dusty llano.” She disappeared into the kitchen, returned with a cup of fresh coffee and a washbasin full of hot water.

She pulled the sheets back. Chica looked up. “Sorry, Chica, but we need a little privacy for this.” Rita lifted Chica up and put her in her basket on the floor; then she dipped a washcloth in the basin and began to bathe Sonny.

“Your fever's gone,” she said as she scrubbed.

“I have fever for you,” he said, lying back and enjoying the coffee and her sensuous touch.

Outside the storm had abated. The raging winds moved east, over the Sandias and across the eastern llano toward the Texas panhandle.

“So, part of your family tree comes from the llano,” she said as she sponged him.

“Yeah. My dad used to take us to Santa Rosa when he was alive. He knew people there, primos. The Campos brothers, George Gonzáles, the Chávez family. Soon as I get better, I'm going to start looking up my primos.”

“They're probably spread all over the state.”

“Probably.”

“When you called Billy and Rosa's names, don Eliseo knew where you were.”

“He's taken Owl Woman, Caridad de Anaya, and Epifana Aragón. If he had taken Rosa last night, that's four. No more Sonny Baca.”

“And those three correspond in some way to the girls he's kidnapped: Consuelo, Catalina, and Carmen,” Rita said. “But if you were actually in the dream, now you can stop him.”

“Not really. I could face him and frighten him off, but there's another level. Raven has a circle of evil in this world, so he must have one in the world of spirits.”

“And he's safe there?”

“Yes.”

“Everywhere you turn, there's danger.” She sighed.

He heard her sigh, knew she worried. He touched her arm and said, “Gracias.”

“For what?”

“Taking care of me.”

“I love you,” she said, rubbing him vigorously with a towel. His chest, stomach, arms, legs.

“Feels good.”

“Brings the circulation back. Now for the anointing.”

“Ah,” he smiled, “the oil of love.”

She had a special oil, a base of almond oil, which carried the fragrance of pine or piñon, sage, the scent of roses, and a faint sting of menthol.

Sonny loved it. Nothing took out the soreness like her balm and the magic of her fingers.

“Anoint my head,” Sonny whispered.

“Malcriado,” she whispered as she caressed the length of his body, playing with him and arousing him. He closed his eyes and listened to her, her words purring in the soft morning light. “Mi niño, pobre huerfano que no tiene papá, tu eres mi'jito.”

He took a deep breath and whispered back, “Estoy en la gloria.”

“No Gloria, Rita.”

She laughed and slipped out of her robe. For a moment she stood naked in the early morning light that shone through the windows.

“Dios mío.” He reached up, placed his hand on her stomach, caressed her hip. “Te amo.”

“Y yo te amo a tí,” she said, and slipped in beside him, covering them with the sheet and blanket.

“But you're tired. Maybe—”

“No,” she said. “I'm fine.”

He turned to face her, fitting perfectly into her body. “You're sweet and warm. Like pan dulce.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Yes.”

“You want breakfast first?”

“You are my breakfast.”

He pulled her toward him, moving his hands along her curves, the soft mounds and recesses he knew so well.

Something like the breath of life, a deep gratitude for the beauty she brought to him, quickened in him. It flowed like a hot river of love through him, creating a hunger, a need, a yearning in his stomach, his groin.

“You feel good.”

“So do you.”

The sweetness of apricot blossoms touched his nostrils.

“My sinus is clearing up. Feels like spring.”

“Yes.”

“Little green apples.”

“You can eat …”

“Here?”

“Yes,” she said, guiding him. “Nibble, don't bite!”

“You're sensitive?”

“No, feels good.”

Yes, maybe he had pressed too hard. He felt something different in her.

“What is it?”

“A secret.”

“Do you want to stop?” he asked, afraid of asking her to reveal her secret.

She moaned and pulled him tighter to her. “Oh, no …”

She was ready for loving, as ready as he.

“I want you, I'm hungry.”

“Huevos rancheros?”

“Uuuum.” He made a slurping sound.

“I'll fix you some as soon as—” she said, snuggling closer. She closed her eyes, enjoying the way he satisfied her, enjoying his tongue on her skin.

She did taste different, he thought. Not the Rita of summer. Something had changed her. The season. Winter has come to grace her, and I will worship her in this altar, our bed.

“Better,” he said.

“Butter?”

“Yes. I'd like to cover your skin with butter and—”

“I'll get it—” She started to pull away, teasing him.

He drew her back to him. “You stay. I'll eat you without butter, this time.”

She closed her eyes and smiled, her hands like warm doves over his body.

“Oh, you're going to make me—”

“I want to.”

“I had fever, remember.”

Her hands like butterflies, hovering over his sex.

“I'll take away the fever.”

He laughed softly. “Oh, you're naughty. I love it. A curandera who goes all the way!”

“Only with you.”

The image of an apple orchard in bloom appeared around her.

“We don't have to—” He would be content to lie with her, explore the beauty of her body, with her wrapped in his arms, warm, safe.

“Te quiero.” Her voice was so soft, her hands guiding him again, the dove's feathers wet, the perfume like the aroma of the earth after a summer rain.

“Te quiero con todo mi corazón.”

She slipped over him. The bed creaked. She pressed on him, her body dissolving into his. Her lips teased him, her tongue like a hummingbird's, gathering nectar from a dark flower.

She whispered words. “Ay, que calientito …”

“Como pan dulce.”

“You're still hungry …”

“No, don't stop.”

Her motion was thrusting now, their bodies moving to the pleasure of touch, smell, sweet breath, the warm kisses, the heart of hers melting into his, his sweat mixing with the oil, releasing a new fragrance, the oil of love.

His hands moved over her.

“I want to.”

“Yes …”

The bed creaked harder, the rhythm increasing in anticipation, he thrusting upward, and she meeting him.

“Cariño!”

“Ay, amor!”

“Please don't stop!”

“I never want to stop!”

A moan sounded, soft at first, then more frantic as it grew into a release, a primal sound coming from deep within her. Time exploded in brilliant colors as she grew taut, breathing hard until she collapsed, and both were consumed in sweat.

“Ahhhh …” He breathed for air.

“I love you, amor. Me haces loca.”

“I love you, morenita. Por siempre.”

Then, wrapped in each other's arms, they slept.

18

He moved his arms and felt the stiffness in his legs. He stretched, feeling like a lion stretching, taking pleasure in the cracking of his spine and joints, feeling his muscles ripple.

“Ah, good,” he groaned. He smiled, felt the bed beside him. Rita was gone, but her fragrance lingered. His nostrils twitched, like a male coyote might smell the air for his female. Ah, even his sense of smell was returning.

“Damn my tired bones!” he shouted. “I'm getting better!”

He looked out the window and gave thanks. “Santo día.”

The storm had powdered the valley with a thin, white blanket. Sandia Crest wore a white scarf. The sun shone brightly on the snow, and Sonny whispered a prayer, the morning blessing for life don Eliseo had taught him. “Bless Rita. Bless this woman that brings love into my life. Bless all of life. Bless my mother, Lorenza, Armando, don Eliseo, don Toto, Concha, Diego and his familia, Howard, all the lowriders, the cholos, los pintos, los enfermos, the trees and plants that sleep. Bring clarity to my soul.”

Lord, I need it, he thought.

In the kitchen he heard voices. He sniffed the air. Posole. Someone was cooking a pot of posole with pig's feet. Tortillas on the comal. Damn, only real women cooked tortillas on the comal these days. The spicy aroma of red chile. His stomach growled.

On the chest of drawers sat the bowl, the Calendar of Dreams. Even from his bed he could make out the symbols that delicately wound their way around the outside of the bowl. Would their meaning be revealed in a dream, in a future meeting with Owl Woman, the grandmother from the south, the woman who would have delivered the dreams to La Nueva México?

El Norte. Once the region had been part of México, and the Indians from the Río Grande valley had traded far to the south, as far as the western coast, as far as la perla del Pacífico, Mazatlán, place of the deer, seashells, abalone, and mother-of-pearl for necklaces. South into the jungles of Chiapas, home of the Maya, where they traded for the brightly colored feathers of macaws, parrots, the quetzal bird. The colorful feathers of the birds that spoke to the sun.

Once there was no border between nations, only trade routes, roads like those at Chaco used for ceremonial purposes.

Once there were only the natives, visiting their vecinos. They needed roads, trade routes. Once it was all sacred land.

This is what the bowl said.

Next to the bowl Rita had hung the Zia medallion. It had saved his life last night. More important, he realized that the medal now belonged to him.