Jeanne Stein - Crossroads

Heat, for instance. The il usion that my body is warm comes only when ambient temperatures near 100—or when I’m feeding or having sex.

I close my eyes, tilt my head back, wait for the first rush of cars out of lot.

For a couple of minutes I take what pleasure I can.

THE GPS STILL HAS RETURN COORDINATES PROGRAMMED, although when I crank over the engine, I get the “reprogramming route” message. I hate the tone of these things — it manages to be mechanical yet condescending at the same time. Al systems have it. Some frustrated engineer’s idea of a joke, I suppose.

The Jeep sloshes through mud and standing puddles as I make my way out of the parking lot. If it’s this bad on a paved surface, I can only imagine what I’m going to hit once I get off road.

I find out soon enough.

Once I’m directed to leave the road and head into private land, things get dicey. Hard dirt is now the consistency of taffy. Sticky fingers pul and suck at the tires, slowing the Jeep to a crawl. At this rate, I won’t make it back to the house until after dark.

When I get tired of fighting a stubborn steering system intent on taking the path of least resistance instead of the direction I need to go, I pul off in the shade of a towering monolith. Waves of heat and gusts of dry desert air scorch the landscape. May as wel wait for Mother Nature’s blow-dryer to turn the muck back into hardpan.

From where I’ve parked the Jeep, I see a faint path that snakes around the base of the massive rock under which I’ve sought shelter. I’m not exactly wearing hiking shoes, but after a day of tedious couch sitting, a walk is a welcome distraction.

I jump down from the Jeep into a puddle of mud, but I’ve stepped in worse. I shake off as much gunk as I can and glance at my watch. I’l give myself fifteen minutes before getting back on the road.

The path is barely worn but maybe because of the rain, now clearly visible. When I pul ed up, I thought I was parked under a single block of towering stone, but I see now it’s not solid at al. The path soon takes me into a honeycomb of caves. It’s dark and cool inside and smel s of freshly turned earth. Filtered light shines in from shafts that al ow a glimpse of sky — like fireplace chimneys with open dampers. It’s weird and wonderful at the same time.

And it’s dry.

I trudge deeper into the catacombs. There is a feeling that I am the first person to have come this way, though I know how unlikely that is. Stil, none of the detritus of civilization litters the ground. No broken bottles or soiled diapers. No fast-food containers or cigarette butts. Frey said the Navajo have a respect for the land. Perhaps they take the trouble to police their sacred lands or perhaps those who come here understand what a special place it is.

I’ve reached a fork in the trail; two paths stretch in opposite directions. It’s darker at this point, but when natural light fades, vampire vision kicks in. I know I’ve already gone past the spelunking time I al otted myself, but curiosity tempts me to go on.

The question is which way?

I pick up a smal, flat rock, scratch one side with a fingernail. Heads I go right, tails left. Flip it into the air, watch it bounce to a halt. The unmarked side seems to gaze back at me impassively.

Left it is.

The air is surprisingly fresh. I calculate I’ve traveled maybe a half mile into the mountain. The wal s of the caves are smooth and warm to the touch. I imagine I hear a pulse beat, faint but distinct. I know I must imagine it because stone has no heart, a mountain no life or spiritual center. Stil, a sound like a distant drumbeat echoes in my head.

I put out a hand, touch the stone, as if seeking an anchor in the void. I look around, testing the air with my tongue, breathing in to detect the scent of any other living creature who might be responsible for the sound.

I pick up nothing. Nothing animal, nothing human.

Not even the briny smel of lichen from a dripping pool somewhere out of sight.

Stil, the beat is there.

Part of me is unnerved by it, part of me drawn to discover the source. I keep one hand on the stone and move forward.

The darkness is complete here, my eyes picking up only the faint glitter of a vein of quartz sparked by my own heightened optic nerves. I trace it with a finger, to mark my path forward.

It goes on and on and final y, I stop and drop my hand.

This is useless. The pulse is neither closer nor farther away. I’l ask Frey when I get back. There’s bound to be a natural explanation.

I turn, looking to the opposite wal.

Drawings, carved into the sandstone. Animals with round bodies and long, pointed antlers. Others smal er, slimmer, with blunted antlers and cloven hooves. Some kind of bird, wings outstretched to catch the wind. And warriors. With mantles of fur and spears with arrowhead tips.

My own heart jumps, my throat swel s. The drawings are so primitive, so beautiful. How long have they been here? How many generations of Navajo come to pay homage to their ancestors in the confines of this sacred place?

A rumble and a gust of cold wind hit simultaneously. The ground under my feet shifts, sending me back against the rocks. I land h darkness fight to regain balance. A section of the cave wal straight ahead is opening. Wind whistles around stone, loose rock is kicked as footsteps rustle forward.

I push myself back against the wal of the cave. Someone is coming. The path is too narrow for them not to see me when they pass. So I do what any good vampire would do. I scurry up the wal of the cave and look down at them from the viewpoint of a lizard.

Then they file under me, three men. Two younger, dressed in long buckskin robes, a third, ancient and wizened moving between them. He is dressed in a robe, too, adorned with embroidered symbols, and in his hand, he carries a slender rod.

Suddenly, the old one stops.

And looks up.

Right at me.

His eyes flash in the darkness of the cave. “You have come to seek my council, Anna Strong,” he says. “Come down. Join me.”

He moves toward the opening in the cave wal, not waiting to see if I fol ow or not. The two others don’t even glance my way.

How did he know where I was? How did he know who I was?

I’m so startled, my slide down from the perch is far less graceful than my scramble up.

AS SOON AS I ENTER THE CHAMBER, THE DRUMBEAT stops. The elder sits cross-legged on a blanket. The two younger men who preceded him have disappeared. The wal s of the chamber look solid and yet the men are gone.

The elder motions for me to sit. I take a place across from him and fold my legs under me. He studies me for a long moment as I do him. His face is bronzed and lined with age.

His body is shriveled yet his back is straight, his posture erect.

His eyes catch and hold my gaze. There is so much wisdom reflected in those great, dark eyes that I can’t look away — I don’t want to.

At last, I find my voice. “You are Sani.”

He nods.

“How did you know you would find me here?”

“You found me, did you not?” There is a hint of humor in the deep rumble of his voice. “You are the visitor.”

“But I was told you wouldn’t see me. That the Navajo fear death above al else. I am the walking dead. I did not believe you would see me.”

“I am here now.” Sani reaches out a hand and touches my cheek. “You have a question.”

His touch sends warmth rushing through me. I want to press that hand against my cheek and hold it there. Instead, I force myself to remain stil, hoping if I do, his gentle fingers wil remain against my skin.