Witch Clan: Matriarchs, John Stormm [great reads txt] 📗

move in spite of his fears. He was not going to get caught up in this strange dance. Then he looked down and away from Johnny's eyes. His clothing was covered with spiders. He shook, leapt, whirled and danced in terrified abandon. There was no stopping him as he crashed through the wooden slat fence and down the street. It was a little over a mile to the cantina, but the spiders would be shaken loose by then.

It was well after the bars closed down when he got home that night. He was more than a little drunk. His clothing was unbuttoned and one of his shoes were missing. He looked about the house and violently shook his clothing out whenever he thought he might have seen something moving in the dark. The little bastard had gotten him good this time. The creep had turned his house into a friggin zoo for vermin and had run him off. He was going to lay low for a while and then... pay back. He’d give that kid a dose so large that he’d never come back again. There’s only one man in this house.

The Good Red Road

Coyote sat alone on the mesa, staring long into the west from his perch on top of the world. The unicorn colt was nowhere to be seen. Emma looked about, noting his absence.

"He danced," Coyote replied to her unvoiced question. "He danced a wild medicine, so very different from here, and he counted coup on his enemy in a way that even Crazy Horse would have envied him. He even made Iktome dance, and that fat, old Spider is known for his fine dancing. It‘s what makes him so attractive to the ladies."

"I knew he would dance, eventually," she said. "My ancestors on both sides of the ocean have it in their blood and bones, and my grandson as much as the best of them."

"Things are quiet now," Coyote said. "But his enemies are licking their wounds and dreaming of tasting his blood. It will not stay quiet for very long."

"His stepfather is not that enemy," she explained. "He is not strong enough to carry this out on his own. There is a dark, angry face behind him. Do you know of whom I speak?"

"Yes, a mestizo witch, a brujo,” the Trickster replied. "He is a mixed blood witch of Spanish and Mescalero ancestry, with a touch of your Otherworld in his veins. He is the colt's ancient enemy."

"A male witch?" she asked.

"Don't be so surprised," Coyote said. "They are not common, but they can be very powerful and dangerous. Your grandson would have no chance at all without some kind of help. The colt is full of surprises, which is why I love watching him, but he has not yet come into his own. The brujo is wise to see that this does not happen. He has every reason to fear this pony of yours when it is full grown."

"So, this is to be to the death?" she asked.


"Eventually, it will end up so," the animal replied. "The brujo has just learned to respect the power of the little warrior's dance. His medicine ran back to him in fear. Now, he will wait and find the right moment to strike and he will not show mercy. He will not allow his enemy to strike back. His fear and respect has made him doubly dangerous."

"I will come and bring my boy home," she said. "Perhaps then, things will quiet down for my daughter's family, and I can continue raising him in the ways of my people."

"A wise, temporary solution," Coyote acknowledged. "El Brujo will have no need or interest in your weakling kin, if the colt is gone and not reachable there. His power is found in this arid land and not in your moist, eastern woodlands. At best, you will postpone their meeting until your own warrior has reached his full age and power."

“They have to fight?” she asked.

“You’ve seen the smoke signals on that far mountain,--” Coyote nodded to a writhing column of black smoke, “--haven’t you?”

“For a long time now,” she replied.

“That is your enemy, announcing his presence and his intention,” the Trickster explained, “Your unicorn and that dragon are destined to clash. The only real question here is, where and when the battle will take place. The nature of that beast is such that if it can murder the young colt to avoid facing a more formidable foe later, it will do so. It seems that there are a great crowd of spectators watching to see how this turns out. Some wish him well; others do not.”

“What do you wish?” she asked.

“I wish him well,” the Trickster said. “He makes me laugh, and will give me many stories to tell around the fire, and the people will feed me well for them. Iktome and Raven like him too, but that means nothing. It is not our battle. We have lived to see many proud braves in the Ghost Dance. We will live to see his contribution as well. I only hope he joins it in the kind of joy he brought Iktome. He is such a spirited boy. I would cut off my own paws to see him and Crazy Horse dance at the same fire.”

“I gather the two of them would raise some eyebrows,” she said.

“In so many ways,” Coyote said, with a smile that shone in his luminous eyes. “But now, I need something from you. Do this for me, and I will do what I can for our little, yellow haired friend.”

“What would you like?” she asked, cautiously. “If it is within my power to do, I will deny you no good thing.”

“I will have to insist,” he said, solemnly, “that you teach him more of the Good Red Road.”

“I hear you well, friend,” she said. “But, I myself have been taught so little of it to teach him. I didn’t grow up with my people on a reservation. I grew up in my mother’s house and learned her ways. She loved and respected my father, and I learned as much as he taught me. He made my first knife for me.” She showed the Trickster her witch blade.

“I am concerned,” Coyote said, “that he watches our people portrayed in these western movies and would lose his respect for his own people. He does not look redskin, with his cornflower eyes and yellow hair, but it is in his blood along with your other clans, and must not be denied. When the time comes, I will send him teachers, but he will not respect them if the whites poison his mind about our people. He must not close himself off from his full heritage. We own a small piece of this boy too.”

“I give you my word as a witch of the blood,” she said, raising her blade to her palm.

“Don’t cut yourself needlessly,” Coyote said quickly. “We are already in each other’s blood. There is no need to mingle more than that. I accept your word as given. Do your best. I could ask no more than this.”

“He is my best,” she said. “And at this very moment, it is only your mercy that protects him, and not my own. Let me bring my boy home alive and we will never forget you. Ever.”

“Such iron words,” Coyote said, his amber eyes growing large and hypnotically luminous. “Don’t you think this coffee smells good?”

“Yes,” she said as the huge amber eyes transformed to pale blue as Willard gently wafted the steam from her cup towards her face.

“And if you don’t get up and drink it, sleepy head,” he said with a chuckle, “it’s gonna get cold on you.” Emma smiled, stretched and sat up to accept her coffee. Willard sat on the side of the bed with her.

“You, ah, check up on him in your dreams?” he asked. “Isn’t that what you do sometimes?”

“As best as I can,” she admitted. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, sometimes you talk in your sleep,” he said. “And I catch a few things of what’s going on, and I want to know how our grandson is doing. I know he’s different. Remember the automatic candles from our wedding?”

“I’ll bet the good pastor is still trying to figure that out,” she said, smiling. “Our boy has a knack for having deadly enemies, and equally strange friends. He’ll be finished with school in a couple weeks, and I hope to be there to collect him when he’s ready.”

“Then you should write a letter to say you’re coming for a little visit,” he said. “Take some pictures of our new granddaughter. Spend a week or so, and get our boy home so I can teach him a good trade with a hammer and nails. He’s wasted far too much time in the land of frivolous movie stars and palm trees. Palm trees just don’t make good lumber. Y’know what I mean? Here‘s the tickets to get you there and back.” He slapped a pair of Greyhound envelopes down on her bedspread