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"Is running back to her a retreat from me, or yourself?"
Jonah turned. Where there'd been nothing but a stretch of desert and scrub with a backdrop of clay and sandstone mountain rock formations on his last glance, now stood an old man.
Jonah blinked. If not for the colors of his clothing, the man might have been an engraving on the lines of red rock in the distance, the impression of an ancient Indian who'd once walked the desert alone in search of his own visions. The lines shimmered again, giving Jonah the sense that there was even more moving in the backdrop behind the man, but then it smoothed, like a curtain of camouflage falling down, restoring it to still scenery again.
Jonah swayed as the world began to spin around him, as if he'd stepped on a merry-go-round that was speeding up. The mountains were moving around him, behind him, back again, while the clouds raced above like stallions thundering across the sky. As the shaman chanted, a throaty singsong, Jonah stumbled to one knee, steadying himself as the shaman completed what he knew was a time and space distortion, a pocket cut off from everything else.
"The Schism has often cracked along your way." The shaman's voice resonated in his head. "That's why the landscape sometimes changed in ways you didn't expect. Some of what you experienced was of the human world; some of it wasn't. The Dark Ones can't come directly into the Schism, at least not yet, but it's a power center, and there's always a small handful hovering around it at different points when they can escape the notice of the angels. And you attracted more of them to it, of course."
When Jonah blinked and opened his eyes, it was night, full dark. There was a moon in the sky as red as the hills it illuminated, so that they and everything else seemed stained in blood, including a hallucinatory ocean stretching away in front of it, the desert meeting the sea. Then he realized it wasn't the hills, the water or the moon, but his own vision that was tinged with red. His wings split from his back with more violent eagerness than he anticipated, almost taking him off his feet, wrenching the weakened joint so that he grunted.
"Just in the nick of time," the shaman observed. "The spell has worn off, angel. No more will you turn into a human. You must face who you are now."
"I thought I was facing you," Jonah retorted, getting to his feet. The shirt he'd donned was ripped, so he tugged it free, but he bundled it into the pack. It belonged to Anna and he was loath to discard it. Since she'd slept in it at least one night, sometimes he could still smell her scent upon it.
"You view me as an enemy," Sam observed.
"I'm not afraid of you, old man."
"You've never feared an enemy, so your defensiveness is unnecessary." He cocked his head. "Also, I am barely out of diapers compared to one of your age. So you seem confused already. You're not nearly as clever and intimidating as I expected. And here . . ." The shaman stepped forward, plucked at Jonah's right wing where one feather had become dislodged and was stuck up in the layers at an odd angle. "You're looking like a bird that hit someone's windshield and rolled off. I suspect the witch could have warned you the spell would wear off in such an abrupt and physical manner, but what dark pleasure would she have derived from that?"
"You obviously are familiar with Mina." When Jonah put up a hand, pushing the man's touch away, Sam stepped back, faced him. On closer study, he appeared to be a mix of Native American and Asian heritage, perhaps a descendant of the Asian railroad men and the women of the Sioux tribes.
"I am. She has invaded my dreams. A remarkable gift, being able to trace those who come to you in vision and communicate with them, actively. If only she weren't so . . ."
"Shrewish?" Jonah suggested. "Tongue like a viper?"
"I've met gentler vipers. But a gifted child, nonetheless." Sam allowed it with a smile. An impressive array of crow's-feet appeared at the corners of his eyes. He gestured. "Shall we get to it, then?"
"Get to what?"
"Why you're here. Which you know but still refuse to acknowledge, because of the poison that glimmers inside of you, and what lies beyond that poison."
Sam had started walking. There was no choice for Jonah but to stay behind or keep up, so he fell in step next to him.
"That was impressive shooting last night," the shaman noted.
"The bullets were somewhat helpful," Jonah responded.
Sam made a noncommittal noise. "The spiral grooves of a gun chamber allow a bullet to come out spinning, hold its aim, stay in a straight line."
"I know that."
"Yes, you would. It is one of the mysteries to me, that angels have knowledge of all weapons, even those not created by the Mother. But there are messages in all things. The Great Mother is the way of the spiral. And the striations in the metal mark the bullet, such that you can tell exactly what gun it came from. Again, like the Mother, who leaves Her mark on each of us, the impact of change, of ending, of pain. We know Her mark upon us, the promise and hope behind it."
While nothing else changed as they moved, one feature appeared as if they had in fact walked through a clear curtain into another room. A sweat lodge with a fire crackling out front. Steam escaped in a frugal flow from the top of the lodge. Jonah made only brief note of that, however, as he registered something far more unexpected.
His sword, the one knocked out of his hand in the battle that took his wing, was driven into the ground by the fire.
"She may have the temperament of a viper, but she does not lack courage. She risked much to find that blade. Found it and had it brought here. Another impressive spell. Her visions say you will have need of it. These are not my visions, but I do not doubt her word."
Jonah approached the sword, eyeing it. The blade sharp and glittering, the hilt simple, well crafted, two metals wrapped and melded together to form the shape of a pair of intertwined serpents with emerald and blue eyes. A gift from Lucifer years ago. Jonah put his hand out, let it hover over the hilt. He'd used it for decades, until it was something as commonplace to him as having an arm or leg. It wasn't an extension of his body. It was part of it.
Just as he was about to draw it from the ground, Sam stopped him, laying a hand on his wrist. "Come inside. You may want to strip off everything for the lodge. Whatever you wear will get soaked. Do not touch the blade yet."
"Why?"
"It is not time." At Jonah's deprecating look, the shaman shrugged. "Believe me or not. I abuse no man's will. But you came here believing you may find some answers. All I can tell you is how best to seek them."
But as Jonah stripped, he was surprised to see Sam himself take hold of the hilt, pull the blade from the ground and heft it. "You can feel the power singing off of this," Sam noted, his brow furrowed. "It has the power of the giver, his friendship. It has your power, that power that exists before all other power-givers in your life. And then it has the power of the blood it has shed."
"What is it I'm supposed to do here, old man?" Jonah cocked a brow. "And for your species, you are old, so do not lecture me again about our differences."
"I would no more consider doing that than a mother who has grown weary of counseling a grown son who should have better manners." But Sam shrugged before Jonah could retort to that. "I don't know what you will do, what will happen to you in there. That's not for me to say. My vision was that you would come, and I would have this prepared for you, and be ready to complete the task my vision set before me. You will enter the lodge and you will seek your answers. You have not sought answers before now. You have been wandering. A man may wander most of his life, but you know better than most that he finds his answers when he stops, becomes still. Here you can only sit, and wait."
As Jonah felt tension coil in his stomach, Sam nodded. "You believe the blood you have shed will drown you if you let your mind stay at a fixed point. But you must let it drown you. Much hinges on the crossroads you have reached now. You must seek your own visions and the truth in them, or give yourself up as a lost wanderer in the desert, a fate that serves no one, but could destroy many."
