God.
CHAPTER 3
After an ugly night of disoriented travel, Nastas looked grim and older than his twenty-three years, slumped over his horse’s back, his grievous injuries a sharp contradiction to the morning warmth caressing the landscape after last evening’s tumult. Musashi moved carefully so as not to upset Nastas from his back. He was tired but glowed with purpose and strength, unscathed during the rescue of the girl. He knew Nastas needed immediate help and was frustrated that he didn’t recognize the terrain. A mile earlier, he’d caught a whiff of a cooking fire and started in its general direction. The scent was getting stronger. He quickened his pace.
The river had nearly claimed Nastas for herself. A deep gash through the meat of his left bicep still oozed new blood, and thick strands of his long, black hair dragged crosshatched through it like a paintbrush. His brown leather pants were torn and streaked with mud; his naked chest, hairless and tanned to a bottomless red, was bruised and covered with small cuts. In spite of his desire to focus all his efforts on not falling off Musashi, the perilous events of the previous night replayed themselves over and over again.
He could see himself riding into the dusk on the thirtieth day of a solitary journey that had taken him in a 250-mile loop around his hometown of Window Rock. He’d been within miles of his hogan, its worn but comfy mattress beckoning, when he felt an overwhelming urge to visit Black Rock. The desire was so sudden and so palpable, he’d felt the nervousness of a rabbit beneath a circling hawk. Nastas had only been there once before, as a boy, and then the power of the holy place so overwhelmed him, he had lacked the courage to touch Tsa-Zhin. Now its summons felt like providence, impossible to resist. Musashi, also dreaming of an easy meal of oats and fresh hay, had to be put to heel several times before he steered away from home. Six hours later, Black Rock finally at hand, the weary duo were abruptly treated to a storm which seemed to rage out of nowhere.
Soaked in seconds, Nastas laughed to himself when he thought of finding shelter. Then he’d heard it, clear as day above the slashing rain: a girl’s scream for help. Musashi heard it, too, and spun in the direction of the cry without Nastas’ touch. Off he’d galloped as fast as he could, almost plunging into the flash flood’s deepening current before Musashi could be reined in. They saw the red truck bob past, and the girl who must have screamed for his help struggling in the passenger seat. Nastas said to Musashi, “If this is the purpose Black Rock had in mind when it called to me, and we are to die in this river, I am sorry if you must share my fate.” Musashi leapt from the riverbank as though he’d understood Nastas’ words and had been bothered by his need to make a speech.
Having expected to go under immediately, Nastas was encouraged to find Musashi swimming like a duck with four feet. When a branch reached up from the glut of choking debris and cut his bicep to the bone, he cried out. Implausibly, they were abreast of the truck. Nastas could see the girl from his angle but she couldn’t see him. Musashi bellowed loudly as the lightening gave way and darkness engulfed them; he surged forward, his head dipping under. Nastas grabbed for Musashi’s mane. When he did, he felt the girl. With all of his might he pulled, the sky and water lighting up so that he could see her face bursting from the water as he hauled her upwards onto his lap. He felt her clinging to him, terrified. She was alive! Remarkably, she was looking at him, appraising him, then she was limp on his thighs, unconscious.
One more blast of lightning revealed a boy framed in the truck’s broken window. He had the look of someone who’d already resolved to die. The boy extended a shaky hand toward Nastas as he struggled to maintain his grip on what appeared to be the head of a broken Navajo idol. It was a thing shockingly familiar to Nastas. Satisfied that at least someone would know his fate and that Becka had been rescued, the boy tilted his head in acknowledgment and was gone. The truck disappeared under a wave. “She will have to protect him,” Nastas whispered, thinking of the great Spirit of the idol. “There is nothing I can do.”
Nastas was amazed that Musashi was somehow still swimming when everything around them gradually drowned. Reaching a high bank, Musashi tore himself from the water, his body quivering. He kept walking, slowly gaining distance from the river. Dense, pounding rain filled with the gold of thunder whipped around Nastas’ face. He fought to keep the girl from falling, her dead weight seemingly always unbalanced. Exhausted and in terrible pain, he was sure he could hear himself begging Musashi to relent, to let them rest. Passing near an enormous cactus, Nastas felt the transition from muddy earth to hard road. Musashi quickened his pace. Several cars heading in the opposite direction passed them by, their passenger’s heads whipping around in disbelief, their headlights no more than dying candles as they sped off. A green sign appeared as the rain abated to a mist: FLAGSTAFF 120 MILES.
Almost half an hour had passed since the first driver made a call to 911. Soon the sight of blue-lit police cars roared around a bend towards Musashi and his charges. Red and white lights followed, an ambulance not far behind.
Musashi slowed to a stop, satisfied at last with his efforts.
Nastas looked down as if noticing the blonde, bloodied body of the girl stretched across his lap for the first time. She struggled to lift her head, and reached a hand of obviously broken fingers toward the coming crew of rescuers. “Help me,” she said weakly.
The first officers from their vehicles clamored around the enormous granite horse, staring in shock at its cargo. “What the hell happened?” one of them asked. Another officer ran over, a brawny Arizona Trooper. “I’m gonna take her. You just hold steady,” he said to Nastas, who did not respond. Nor did Nastas react when several paramedics came to the officer’s assistance. They gently pulled the girl into their arms and laid her on a backboard. “She’s hurt pretty bad,” another officer said, leaning in to look. “Seems like someone did a number on her.” He looked accusingly at Nastas. Just then a camera flashed as a young news anchor deftly maneuvered close to the action. The spotlight on her cameraman’s equipment blazed to life. A paramedic looked up at Nastas and offered him a hand. “Can you get off on your own? Let us have a look at that arm,” he said.
In shock, unsure of what was wanted of him, Nastas scrutinized the circling crowd for answers. A minute passed this way as tension grew across all fronts, Nastas seemingly oblivious to the helpful paramedic and his own injuries but fixated on what the paramedics were doing to the girl. A strange woman dressed entirely in a priestess’ white robes caught his eye when she beckoned to him with an open palm. Nastas couldn’t imagine a good reason for a priestess being there, unless she’d come because she knew he was going to die. He ignored her invitation to approach and at the same time wondered why she’d begun to look so familiar. The police and paramedics working around her paid her no mind.
Musashi, who until now had been glad for their rescue, suddenly sensed danger. Nervously he turned in a tight circle as he panned the gaping faces for its source. Musashi focused on the same woman in white robes that had drawn Nastas’ attention. Her knowing smirk made Musashi’s tail twitch out of control. She waved her arm gracefully; without warning, something sounding like a gunshot ripped the air. Everyone jumped or ducked with the exception of the woman in white.
The jarring noise shook Nastas back to reality. He wasn’t surprised when Musashi’s back and shoulders, injected with tension, sprang upwards. Nastas pressed himself to Musashi’s mane as the horse reared as high as his huge frame would take him. His two front hooves flailed several times, inches from the video camera’s lens, before crashing to the pavement. Every muscle fired simultaneously as Musashi exploded into a gallop and burst through the circle of officers. His speed piqued as he leapt a guardrail and sped into the desert like a comet falling out of the sky.
Nastas kept himself in the traditional Navajo fashion, his midnight colored hair long to his waist and parted in the center. One side was braided, woven thick with old buffalo rawhide, from the end of which hung a small medicine bag. The other
