might be, and probably as deadly. The more Nastas explored the detail of her face in his memory, the more he realized she’d been wearing the arraignments of the church elders he’d seen while in attendance with Natalia. He could not place the priestess’ face, but he had no doubt she was one of them. And if she was one of them, was she laying claim to his eternal soul? Was she the one who’d coaxed his soul so far afield, letting his blood continue to flow when help was available? Had she kept his hand from staunching the gush? It horrified Nastas to think he might have committed his soul to them when he’d prayed in their church. Why else could she be there but to collect? He resigned himself to keeping an eye open to further signs of their presence.
“Earth Mother…Holy Father…Wakan Tankan, receive my blood into your bosom. I wish to walk here for eternity, not flounder in their unnatural clouds and cold halls.”
The whole time Nastas waged a private war against his body and mind, Musashi continued to move forward at an easy walk toward what he hoped would be salvation. Finally he crested a small, broad hilltop and stopped.
“What is it, Mush?” Nastas said, before lifting his gaze. When his eyes finally took in the valley below, his jaw dropped in disbelief.
CHAPTER 4
“Archer! You’re an identical twin for real then, are’n ya? Begob, there to be two of you and me not even crediting the first one,” said the Irishman to the tall, slim American sitting on the pub stool next to his own. Though they’d just met a few hours earlier, they shared an almost instantaneous connection that gave the two men the look of old friends. If they’d both had less to drink, they might have noticed the beautiful woman several stools down, laughing to herself as she listened to their conversation. The white robes she’d worn in the Arizona desert had been replaced by a simple, periwinkle silk dress that held her tightly on its way past her knees; the outfit was quintessentially alluring.
“You won’t believe it when I tell you his story,” said Archer, leaning toward Alvin confidentially. “His name is Keane—”
“Like a knife blade?” interrupted Alvin.
“That he is. Like a knife blade, Al.”
Alvin made a stabbing motion with his hand, Archer acting out a death-blow.
“You’ve struck onto something, Al. I don’t know how he’s done it, but my dad tells me Keane’s transformed into an Indian. Of all the fucking things, my identical twin brother’s become a Navajo Indian. Can you believe that?”
By his late twenties, Alvin had achieved veteran status in local pubs around Dublin, where he was affectionately known as “Alvo the Great.” During any stint at a variety of oak-paneled bars, Alvo would happily report that he was the best damned lorry driver in all of Dublin, and as far as he knew, the world. And if someone went so far as to buy Alvo a pint, they might hear his carefully crafted philosophy of professional driving: how the right man with the right hands could push the massive power of a lorry in and out of the long, hard streets, as a man might master the sweet curves of the female form. It was the kind of story the locals loved him for, and the tourists remembered long after returning home.
His friends teased Alvin whenever he embarked on an overly sentimental rant. “If all of Ireland is your home,” they would say, “it’s no wonder there’s nary a bit to eat in my fridge.” And his really good friends – those he saw almost every night at the Boar’s Head for sausages and pints – would tease: “Save your hugs for the girls on holiday, Alvo. We love you, but you’re ugly as a pig licking piss off a nettle.” Then they laughed. Alvin laughed with them.
Alvin was the kind of person who felt actual love for the place he lived. He loved the cobbled streets slick with bus oil and the simple address numbers on doors. He loved the way Irish girls walked home at four in the morning, sweetly sideways, or the way Dublin’s air made a pint of Guinness taste warm and smooth.
He loved Dublin in spite of the fact she’d yet to grant his wish and produce a great love for him. Only French Normandy, the town of Rouen, had come close. It was there that Alvin had met, and fallen deeply in love with, Tatiana. Tatiana was a Korean girl who’d been raised in Russia, and whose skin reminded most people of porcelain.
A year ago, Tatiana and Alvin had spent just a weekend together, but Alvin still thought of her every day. “She’s my wife,” he would tell himself, “in my heart, she is,” tears leaping from his narrow eyes. “I’m the dumb shite to be losing her cellular number. She’d be wanting for nothing with me...”
Somehow, Alvin’s phone, his only means to contact Tatiana, was lost on his train trip home to Ireland. He spent days trying to track her down on the internet, but found nothing. There seemed to be no record of her anywhere. He even returned to Rouen and retraced their steps, blubbering to himself as he walked.
Sometimes, when he was really smashed, Alvin would think of how he and Tatiana had cried before the cross honoring Joan of Arc, how they’d made love, how she’d accepted him. And he would cry again, his tears a fifty-fifty solution of joy and pain.
Archer didn’t see Alvin’s face during the split second that it went totally blank, or notice the ghostly pallor that suddenly left the ruddy-cheeked Irishman pale. “Good Christ, what did you say?”
“I said my twins an Indian, Al.”
Alvin got to his feet and stretched his arms to the raftered ceiling, his huge gut almost on Archer’s lap, then sat back down. “Is it the Indians of the Western World you do be meaning? For I don’t know who the Neevoowho are.” His tone was calmer, but still intense.
“They’re a tribe from out west, Arizona.” Archer could see Alvin wasn’t understanding him. “A tribe is like you and your mates. They share common ancestry and common goals, like getting pissed.” Archer laughed even though Alvin seemed to lack appreciation for his quip.
Alvin got to his feet again. He thrust his fat fingers into his pockets, searching around.
“I doubt you’ll find anything in there,” snickered Archer. “At least nothing that’s worth more than a copper penny.”
“Ohone, and me to be stony till coronation day,” said Alvin. “You’ll have to get another round, and make it the wine of the country this time, by Jesus.” He clapped his hand on Archer’s back. “Will you do that, mate?”
Archer motioned to the bartender. “Two Jamesons. To the brim if you please, there’s a good man.” He turned to Alvin. “Sit. You’ve no reason to be upset that I can see.”
Alvin sat back down.
Facing his whiskey, Alvin offered a toast.
Archer lifted his glass.
“Here’s to a friend that will listen to what my heart has to say.”
“Well said.” They clinked their glasses together, Alvin finishing his with one mighty tug, Archer nursing his down in gulps. They both opened their mouths and bellowed loud “Ahhhs.” They laughed uproariously until Alvin burst into drunken tears.
“It’s bloody awful,” he hollered. “They come to murder me every night.”
“Who, Alvin? Who?”
“The Indians.”
Alvin
