Jeanne Stein - Crossroads

A thousand years — ten thousand — years ago, this land was as I see it now. A taste of eternitt l timelessness.

Of eternal life.

A tug of melancholy. This may be where I belong.

Here. With other ageless things.

Strands of early morning mist rise from the desert floor and twine around and through stone arches on their way to the clouds.

I fol ow with my eyes, watch as wisps break free, travel straight and sure to the heavens.

I wish my way were that clear.

A sound reaches us — haunting, melodic, rising and fal ing like feathers on the wind.

“Do you hear that, Frey?”

He just smiles and steers in the direction of the music.

The Jeep traverses around a series of low, flat outcroppings and there, ahead of us, a house rises as if born of the earth. A smal, single story house made from logs the same color as the dirt and rocks with a roof of caramel-colored tile. A porch spans the front, facing due east, and on the porch steps sits a girl, a flute at her lips. The melody from the flute and the golden rays of a rising sun reflect off her like a halo, giving the scene a surreal quality.

Frey stops a few yards away and turns off the engine. The dust cloud that had been fol owing us gusts away as if fanned by an invisible hand.

Frey makes no move to get out or greet the girl, neither does she acknowledge our presence. She continues to play, the sweet song poetic in its simplicity.

Her skin glows in the sun. Her black hair hangs shiny and straight over her shoulders, framing brows drawn in concentration. Her ful — lipped mouth is pursed over the flute, an expression of pure joy on her face. It’s impossible to tel her age, she has a face that seems at once youthful and mature. But my impression is that she’s young.

I sneak a look over at Frey. How old was she when she got pregnant, you dog?

She is dressed in a long-sleeved ful cotton shirt, a velvet skirt that covers her ankles, a pair of leather moccasins on her feet. She wears no jewelry but a belt that looks as if it is made of carved black onyx, smal rectangles linked together by silver, cinches her waist.

The setting, the way she’s dressed, the ethereal quality of the music, al seem to belong to another time. If it was a hogan instead of a house, I’d imagine her a Navajo princess paying tribute to the sun god with her playing. The idea makes gooseflesh race up my arms.

When she finishes the song, when she lowers the flute, only then does Frey open his door and jump out.

The girl flashes a huge grin, whoops, and runs to meet him. She wraps her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. She peppers his face with kisses. She’s laughing and talking al at the same time, her bunched-up skirt showing a lot of leg.

I turn away in embarrassment. So much for the image of the stoic Native American. And so much for Frey’s apprehension that she would not be happy to see him. If she were any happier, I’d have to cover my eyes.

Frey is laughing, too, though turning his face this way and that, as if trying to avoid those persistent lips. He is also making an attempt to set her back on her feet. An attempt she resists by tightening her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist.

The banging of a screen door behind us mamakee jump. I turn to see another woman standing on the porch steps.

“Mary Yel ow Bird! What the hel do you think you’re doing?”

Her sharp voice brings the joyful reunion to an abrupt end.

The girl sighs and releases her hold on Frey, jumping down and turning with a sweep of her long skirt.

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I was just saying hel o.”

“I could see what you were saying,” the newcomer snaps.

“Get inside. Give John-John his breakfast.”

The girl stomps by with a scowl and disappears into the house. Frey and the woman on the steps stare at each other.

She has the same coloring as the other, the same sculpted facial lines, is a few inches tal er, a few pounds heavier, several years older. Her hair is drawn back in a bun, a tricky configuration adorned with ribbons and beads. She is dressed in jeans and a Western shirt, a bandanna tied around her neck.

She crosses her arms over her chest and taps one booted foot. Rings of turquoise and silver adorn two fingers of both hands, flashing as they catch the sunlight. She is wearing earrings of turquoise, too, long strands that almost touch the col ar of her shirt.

Her expression is in startling contrast to the exuberant greeting of the other.

This woman is not so happy to see Frey.

This must be Frey’s ex.

THE STANDOFF GOES ON. IT’S OBVIOUS NEITHER Frey nor the woman is wil ing to be the first to break the silence. I feel like an intruder. An invisible one, maybe, since she hasn’t paid me the slightest bit of attention, but an intruder nonetheless.

Should I say something? I find myself shifting impatiently from one foot to the other. I try to distract myself by perusing the surroundings. The yard around the house is bare dirt, the only greenery a couple of scraggly desert junipers on each side of the porch. There’s a carport on the south side, a tarp strung between four poles sheltering a battered GMC truck. I can see one pole of a clothesline in the back of the house and hear sheets flapping in the breeze. Stil farther back, a corral with an open, rough-hewn wooden shed. Three horses nibble at something in a long feeder that spans the back of the lean-to. I also hear the hum of a generator. Since I see no overhead electrical wires, I assume that’s how they get their power. Frey did say his ex liked her creature comforts.

But how much comfort can a generator provide? It’s just after daybreak and the temperature is rising faster than the sun.

Which is another reason to break this stupid stalemate. I take a step toward the woman.

“Yá’át’ééh.”

She blinks and looks at me as if I’d just sprung ful y formed from the earth.

“Yá’át’ééh,” I repeat. It’s the only Native American greeting I know. I heard it in the movie Midnight Run . The way she’s eyeing me makes me think maybe it doesn’t mean hel o.

Maybe it real y means fuck you and the horse you rode in on.

Martin Brest’s idea of a joke.

Final y the lock on that tight jaw breaks, and she relaxes enough to smile. She comes down the porch steps, extending her hand.

“I’m sorry. I doto be rude. I’m Sarah. We don’t get many visitors out here.” She shoots Frey a pointed look.

“Especial y unannounced.”

Her hand is warm and rough. When she feels how cold mine is, she tries to hide her reaction, but I see it. She draws back just an inch, her breath catches. She wants to pul her hand free but composes herself not to. I let go first. Step away to increase her comfort zone.

I look over at Frey. I wish we stil had the psychic connection because I could swear with that one moment of contact, Sarah recognized me for what I am.

Her next words confirm my suspicion.

She rounds on Frey. “You bring a vampire here? To your son’s home? Are you crazy?”

Frey’s face pales. “Anna is a friend. She means no harm.”

“Vampires always mean harm. It is their nature. They are predators like the wolf or the snake or—”

“The panther?”

The freeze descends once again. Was this what caused the breakup? Sarah found out what Frey was? I always thought Native Americans accepted that there were humans whose spirit transcended the normal. Maybe accepting and being bound to one of those spirits, though, are two entirely different things.

She must have found out the truth about Frey being a shape-shifter after becoming pregnant.