The Obsidian Mirror, page 2
Sierra nodded, noting that he had called her “Ma’am” and not “Miss.” Men had shifted to calling her “Ma’am” a few years ago, and it never failed to annoy her. He was wearing Silicon Valley’s standard bright-young-engineer-going-to-work uniform: jeans, running shoes and polo shirt emblazoned with the graphics from his company’s latest product introduction. What made him distinctive was the fact that he was standing on her normally man-free doorstep, and that he had a largish coyote at the end of a stout rope.
“I found your dog a couple of blocks away and thought I’d better bring him back to you.”
“I don’t have a dog,” Sierra said ungraciously. “And anyway, that’s a coyote. I’m surprised he hasn’t bitten your fingers off.” Amazingly, the coyote was sitting quite peacefully by the man’s side. It looked at her with bright eyes and wagged its tail. The wag looked a bit stiff, as though it had been practicing in a mirror.
“Arf,” said the coyote. It didn’t bark. It said, “Arf.” The man didn’t seem to notice this oddity.
“Look, lady, I don’t know what your deal is, but it has a tag with your name on it,” the man said. As he bent to pull the tag forward, Sierra saw that the coyote—was it a dog?—wore a beaded collar, woven with geometric patterns of red, black, yellow and blue that reminded her of Southwestern Indian work. She cautiously bent to inspect the engraving on the silver tag:
“Chaco”
Sierra Carter
111 E. Belinda St., Sunnyvale, CA
408-555-7171
Stunned, she didn’t resist as the man thrust the rope into her hand.
“OK, I gotta go to work now. You shouldn’t let your dog run loose like that. You’re welcome,” he added bitterly. He turned and strode away.
Sierra looked at the animal, which stared back with interest. It was a coyote, no doubt about it—she had seen many of them when she went hiking in the hills. It was the size of a border collie, but with a wild, sharp, un-doggie face. Its fur was thick, buff and gray with long, dark guard hairs and a slight ruff around the neck. It was slender, with pricked ears and those amazing bright amber eyes, so different from the warm brown eyes of most dogs.
The coyote stood up and walked calmly through Sierra’s open front door. Sierra followed it and shut the door behind her. Part of her mind was screaming that she had just allowed a large and probably dangerous animal into her house, while another part was explaining in a reasonable tone of voice that the coyote was clearly not vicious, it had a collar on—a very nice collar—and seemed well behaved.
Upon which, her brain screamed, “Why does it have a tag with my name on it?”
No reasonable answer immediately occurred to her, so Sierra walked into the kitchen and rummaged in a cupboard to find a suitable water bowl, reasoning that if the coyote had been running around Sunnyvale, it was probably looking for food or water. The coyote followed close behind, which did not relieve her misgivings. As she looked for a bowl, it sat on its furry haunches and watched her attentively. She found a heavy stainless steel mixing bowl, filled it with water and set it on the floor, near the sliding door that led into her back yard. She stepped back and eyed the animal. The coyote rose and walked over to the bowl, claws clicking on her tiled floor. It bent to lap up the water once or twice, then lifted its head and stared at her again, drops of water falling from its muzzle.
Maybe it was a dog. It didn’t look like a dog, but it was acting like one. Perhaps it was some kind of exotic new breed. People in Silicon Valley went in for that kind of thing, she knew, having seen her share of briards, Bedlington terriers and catahoolie hounds in the area. Sierra went to her home office and sat in front of her computer. The coyote followed her, pacing calmly behind.
“Let’s see what Google can find on coyotes,” she said aloud to the animal. She wished it would stop staring at her with those strange eyes, eyes that followed her every move.
Several minutes into her search, she hadn’t learned anything new about coyotes. The photographs confirmed that the beast sitting next to her was, beyond any shadow of doubt, a coyote. She did find a site dedicated to coyotes with an interesting question from one of the site’s visitors:
“My sister was driving near her home in Utah, and she found what she thought was a dog that had been hit by a car. She put it in the back seat and took it to a vet. The vet said it was a coyote, not a dog, but he fixed it up and she took it home. It seems very gentle and friendly, but I’m worried. Is it dangerous to keep a coyote as a pet?”
The answer was worrisome:
“It is not only dangerous, but illegal to keep a wild animal as a pet. Your sister should not have taken the coyote home. Coyotes are wild animals, and they are not safe to keep as pets. I strongly advise your sister to contact the local animal rescue people and have them relocate the coyote away from human habitation. Coyotes who become used to humans are the most dangerous, as they lose their natural fear of humans, and are likely to attack if they are threatened or think the person has food.”
Sierra did not share this observation with the coyote. It sat there, panting gently, eyes never straying from her. She pushed her chair back from the desk, and the animal leaped to its feet, giving her an adrenaline rush. Sweat broke out on her forehead.
Aloud, she said, “What on earth am I going to do with you?”
“Well,” said the coyote, displaying rows of white teeth that seemed sharper than they should be. “You could start by giving me breakfast.”
Chapter 2
Sierra opened her eyes. She was confused. Surely, she shouldn’t be staring at the ceiling? She was looking up at the ceiling without bending her neck backwards, so that meant…she was lying down. With her head in someone’s warm lap. A person’s face swam into her field of vision, upside down and out of focus, and she pulled her head hastily out of the lap and scrambled to her knees.
The lap belonged to a slender yet well-muscled young man who looked as though he might be Latino, with ruddy brown skin and black hair falling into his face. He wore a bright, beaded necklace. His mouth seemed too wide for his rather long face, and his full lips turned up at the corners, making him look as though he were smiling when he was not. Although his features were all slightly odd, like a character sketch where the artist exaggerates for effect, they melded together into an offbeat beauty. He did not have the dark eyes of a Latino, though; his eyes were a bright, feral amber.
He looked at Sierra with concern, frowning slightly. “Are you all right?” he asked. “How do you feel?”
Sierra stared at him, feeling as though she had wandered into some alternate universe. Apparently, she had fainted—a first for her. And just before she had fainted, what had she been doing? Oh, yes. She had been talking to a coyote…
Sierra scrambled hastily to her feet. She stared at the young man kneeling on the floor. He unfolded his long legs and rose to his feet with an effortless grace that would have taken her breath away under more normal circumstances. The events of the morning came rushing back, rudely dispelling the fog of confusion, and her heart raced.
“What the hell are you doing in my house?” she demanded, trying to sound menacing, though she could feel the sweat of fear beading on her upper lip.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” he said. And he really did look sorry.
A sense of suffocating panic seized her and she had trouble thinking. Only one explanation for what was happening occurred to her; she had cracked from the strain of losing her job. She was crazy. A crazy woman who heard animals talk. She glanced around for the coyote, but there was no sign of it. With an effort, she took three deep breaths and calmed the pounding of her heart.
“What are you doing here? In my house? Who are you?” she asked. She was proud of her ability to craft such a complex question, given that she was now a raving lunatic.
He wrinkled his brow.
“I’m Chaco,” he said simply, and gave her a charming smile. His wide mouth became even wider, showing strong, white teeth. The smile warmed his strange golden eyes, and he seemed to radiate good will.
Chaco? Wasn’t that the name on the coyote’s collar? Sierra took several more deep breaths. “Chaco,” she began carefully. “Chaco, I’d like to know why you are trespassing in my house. Did you have anything to do with that…coyote? The one that was just here?” Her eyes dared around again, searching for the animal.
“That’s me,” he said cheerfully. “It’s a nickname. My real name is Coyotl.” He pronounced it with a distinctive tongue-click at the “tl”. “Do you have anything to eat? I’m starving. I rooted through some trashcans on the way here, but there wasn’t anything good. Maybe a stale bagel or two, but that’s it.”
Sierra felt she really did not have time to be insane. She had to find a job. She did not need any coyotes, talking or otherwise, and she did not need this young man, who was not only illegally intruding in her house, but was also apparently completely around the bend in his own right. “Get out! Now. I don’t know what you think you’re up to, but get the hell out. And take your coyote with you!”
Chaco looked slightly hurt.
“Well, okay, I’ll just put something together myself. Go on. I know my way around a garb—uh, kitchen.”
Sierra studied him.
“No,” she said evenly, “I mean you have to leave. Now!”
Chaco got up from the floor, dusted the knees of his tight jeans, and sauntered down the hallway toward her kitchen. He had clearly elevated sauntering to an art form.
“Sorry,” Chaco said over his shoulder. “No can do. We’ve got business.”
Several movies played themselves out behind Sierra’s eyes as she watched his progress into her kitchen. The scenes ranged from “Psycho” to “Cape Fear.” As Chaco disappeared into the kitchen, she sidled into the living room and picked up the phone. There was no dial tone, and she went cold all over. She crept quietly into her front hall. Chaco was standing in the kitchen doorway, arms folded, looking at her with a serene expression and those wild eyes.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, amiably. “Why don’t you come and sit down? We need to talk.”
“Did you cut my phone line?” asked Sierra, voice quavering slightly. He didn’t look particularly menacing, but what kind of person cuts your phone line and sneaks into your house? The answer to that question had to be seriously bad news.
“Nope,” Chaco said cheerily. “Just put it on hold for a while. While we talk, I mean. It’ll be good as new when we’ve had our little discussion. Why don’t you come and sit down?”
“Right,” Sierra said brightly. “I just need to get the newspaper. Be there in a moment.” If I can get to the door, I can jump in the car before he can stop me.
She turned her back resolutely on Chaco and started toward the door. Behind her, she heard rapid scrabbling. Before she could turn to see what was making the noise, the coyote bounded ahead of her and sat, blocking the door. It panted a little, long tongue lolling. Sierra turned furiously, to tell Chaco to call off his coyote, but Chaco was gone. Sierra, one eye nervously on the animal, walked to the kitchen and cautiously peered around. No Chaco. She returned to her front door, and reached for the handle, making tentative shooing motions with her hand. She intended to make the coyote move away from the door, and then to run like hell for her car in the driveway. But the coyote didn’t move. It just sat there, staring at her.
Sierra turned the handle and pulled it toward her, hard. But the coyote, instead of scrambling out of the way, seemed to Sierra’s horrified eyes to be melting. But if he was melting, he was massing into something larger, instead of getting smaller. The sharp muzzle softened and shrank back into a hairless face; the body stretched out grotesquely and rearranged itself. Sierra found herself staring into the same wild amber eyes, but they were the eyes of the dark young man. He blocked the door firmly and made an apologetic gesture as Sierra abruptly plumped to the floor again, her trembling knees unable to support her.
“Sorry,” he said, in a kindly tone of voice. “We really do need to talk.”
He held out one brown hand to her, and Sierra, whose brain appeared to have taken a leave of absence, put her hand in his. His hand was strong and warm as he pulled her to her feet. Without letting go, he urged her toward the kitchen. Sierra’s brain was still replaying the scene in her mind: coyote became man. This would imply, given the coyote-free state of the kitchen, that man became coyote. Then her rational mind called a halt to the proceedings and she started all over, seeking for a shred of sense in the chaos.
In a state of numbed confusion, Sierra followed Chaco into the kitchen. He gestured toward one of the chairs at the kitchen table, but she hovered uncertainly.
“You want coffee?” she asked, striving for normalcy. Chaco’s eyes brightened, and if he had not been a young man at the moment, he might have wagged his tail.
“That’d be great,” he said. Sierra began preparing the brew.
“So you’re Chaco?” she said, scooping the beans into the grinder just as if she weren’t entertaining a figment of her imagination.
“Yup.”
“And Chaco is you? I mean, you are the coyote? And the coyote–that’s you, too?”
Best to be absolutely clear about the matter. She buttered the toast that she had put in the toaster earlier—this was during what she now thought of as her pre-Chaco existence—and put it on a plate, which she set down in front of him.
“Yup.”
“One thing I’d really like to know,” she said, pouring ground beans into her coffee maker.
“Yeah?” He cocked his head.
“Can I trust you?”
She expected Chaco to quickly affirm this, but he didn’t. He sat at her small kitchen table and regarded her seriously. It seemed like the wrong response. Her heart began to pound again as adrenalin surged through her body and he watched her with those scary eyes.
“Well,” he said slowly. “Yes and no.”
Sierra began to back away.
“I don’t mean that I would try to hurt you, Sierra,” he said earnestly. “I just mean that it’s in my nature.”
“What’s in your nature?”
“It’s in my nature to be untrustworthy. Sort of. I mean, you can always trust me to try to do the right thing, but sometimes I don’t do it the way you think I’m going to. And,” he admitted with a sigh, “Things don’t always turn out the way I mean them to.” He picked up a piece of toast and crunched it.
“What the hell do you mean by that?” Sierra asked wildly, wishing for the first time in her life that she had a gun in the house.
“I mean, you’ve heard of me, right?” asked the young man, peering at her anxiously.
“No. Why would I have heard of Chaco the Coyote?” Sounds like a Saturday morning cartoon, she thought. Now all we need is a roadrunner.
“Oh.” Chaco seemed slightly depressed by this. “I suppose not many people have heard of me these days. I’m an Avatar. You know, Coyotl. The Trickster? The one who brought fire to The People?”
Sierra stared at him.
“But, that’s just a myth. A legend. There’s no such thing.”
Chaco’s lean length blurred suddenly, his form shrinking and changing proportion. His thin brown face was suddenly sharp and furry. A coyote sat on her kitchen chair with toast crumbs on its black lips. It hopped down, shook itself and stretched, forelegs straight, butt in the air, plumy tail arched over its back. It yawned, showing teeth like the ends of knitting needles and a long, pink tongue.
“Whatever,” said the coyote.
“Here’s your coffee,” said Sierra.
It seemed the only sane thing to say at the moment. She set a full mug down on the table, wondering if perhaps she should pour some into a bowl and put it on the floor.
“Milk? Sugar?”
Did coyotes drink café-au-lait? Or did they take it black?
“Black, thanks,” Chaco said, waving his tail lazily in the air. “You got the invitation, I believe?”
Sierra felt as though she should know what he was talking about, but she didn’t.
“What invitation?”
“He sent you the invitation. I know you got it because he told me so,” explained Chaco, speaking as though to a small and dimwitted child.
“Look,” said Sierra, “I didn’t get any invitation. Go through my mail. Go through my garbage. No invitation.”
“Oh, may I?” asked the coyote, brightening.
Then he shook himself back into the shape of a brown young man again.
“I mean, no, thank you. The invitation is unmistakable. Somewhere, I know you have a bright green and blue feather. And this feather makes a noise, kind of a chime. Right?”
Chaco began to sit on his haunches, remembered he was not in coyote form and sat with dignity at the kitchen table.
“Oh,” she said. “Wait here a moment.”
Chaco started up with an alert expression, but she waved him back.
“I won’t try to leave. I promise.”
She went upstairs, found the feather in her carved box and returned to the kitchen. She showed the feather to Chaco.
“Is this what you’re talking about?”
“That’s it,” Chaco said with satisfaction. “So now we have to go see him. He sent me to guide you. It’s not the easiest trip, if you’re human.”
Sierra stared at him blankly.
“I’m not going anywhere. I just got fired. I have to find a job. I have bills to pay. I don’t even know what—or who—you’re talking about.”
Her voice rose sharply.
“I can’t believe I’m talking to a coyote anyway. I have a ton of stuff to do.”
“We really do have to go see him,” said Chaco seriously. “When he sends an invitation, you can’t refuse. He really needs to see you.”
This left Sierra more confused than ever—if that was possible.
“Who he?” she asked ungrammatically.
“Quetzalcoatl,” he replied, again giving the final “tl” that strange tongue-click. “The Big Q.”
Sierra poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down.
