The scene takes a second to resolve itself in front of me, and then the wolf is flying through the air toward the first of the trapped elks.
Huh, I think. Mark was right. Time doesn’t pass the same in the Dreaming, when I’m in my world.
I move forward, thinking in some vague way that I have to try to protect the elks, though who knows what I’m going to do. At the same time, the coyote that used to be Mark is flowing, there is no other word for it, flowing liquidly toward the same place—
and the elk leader is moving too, all of us converging—
but it’s the leader who gets there first, the big elk who carried me over the river, and he lowers his head as he charges, folds his forelegs so he skids across the sand—he must weigh close to a ton, and when his antlers hit the leaping wolf, they spear it right through.
The elk stands, then violently shakes its head, and the wolf is dashed onto a rock, lying limp and unnatural over it, blood haloing the elk’s antlers. The elk bellows, stamping its foot.
The coyote slides to a halt, panting.
For what feels like a long time, there is silence. The elks are all watching the coyote, fear in their eyes. All apart from the leader, who is looking at it—looking at Mark, I keep having to remind myself—with an expression of prideful resistance, and something like anger. But mixed up with … what? What would you call it?
Submission, I think. A kind of reluctant, angry submission.
Coyote, says the big elk. Then the resistance fades from his eyes, and he lowers his head.
Coyote, say the others. Tension pulses in the brightness of their eyes, and they bend their front legs and bow, half in trepidation, half in tribute—the posture says fear, very clearly. But unless I’m imagining it, it also says reverence.
Tension hangs in the air, like mist.
Coyote, says the first elk, when finally he looks up. Would you change your skin? You are scaring our young.
As the elk says it, I see it’s true—the smaller elk are cowering behind the larger ones.
Mark, Coyote, whatever, nods and then jumps up into the air again, shifting as he does, fur becoming skin, and clothes, until it’s a man standing there; Mark.
Thank you, says the elk.
You are welcome, says Mark. I did not mean to frighten you.
The elk kind of snorts air through its nostrils, like it’s laughing. You are Coyote, it says. Who knows what you mean?
I frown.
Maiden, says the elk. I look around, and then realize it’s addressing me. Why do you walk with First Angry?
First Angry? I say.
Yes. The One Who Caused the Flood, the One Who Created Death, the One Who Scattered the Stars. Coyote. He has many names.
I glance at him. I don’t—
I am helping her to rescue the Child, says Mark. To kill the Crone.
Why? says the lead elk.
Mark gestures to the dead wolves, to the parched ground beyond the thin strip of beach. Because of all this. The drought. The wolves.
The lead elk snorts. Was it not given to Coyote and to Coyote alone to call the rain? he says. It is one of your gifts. Why can you not simply make it rain?
I look at Mark. You can make it rain? I say.
Yes, he says. I mean no. Usually I can. Usually, I am the only one who can. But not now.
Why not?
Because the balance has been upset, he says. The Crone has the Child. Now her power is greater than mine. I have no more say over the rain. When she is dead, then … then I can call a downpour and soak the land. But not before.
Truly? says the elk.
Would I lie? says Mark.
Yes, says the elk. You are Coyote. The Liar. The Player of Tricks.
I am not lying now, says Mark.
Listen, I say loudly. Mark and the elks turn to look at me. Can someone tell me what the hell is going on here? I am not the Maiden, I am Shelby Jane Cooper. You are Mark. But you’re … you’re a coyote, suddenly?
No, says Mark. I am Coyote.
And the difference is …
The difference is that between a lightbulb and the sun.
Oh, yeah, I say, fake unfazed. Totally. Sure. That’s normal.
Coyotes are born and die every day, he says. I am older than this world. I am the son of the sky and the earth. Some say that I made man and woman.
And did you? I say.
He just shrugs.
And outside the library … when the car hit me … that was you?
Yes, he says. I wanted to warn you.
About the lies. “There will be two lies and then there will be the truth,” right?
Yes, he says.
So you being Coyote, and keeping it secret, was that one of the lies?
No, he says.
What about my mother saying that Dad was coming to kill us?
He nods his head.
And this stuff about being Anya Maxwell?
I can’t tell you that. Some things you have to learn for yourself.
If you want me to kill this crone, or whatever she is, and rescue this child, you need to answer my—
I don’t want you to rescue the Child, says Coyote. You want to rescue the Child.
I stare at him. What? I say.
Listen, he says. Close your eyes, and listen to the wind.
What? Why would—
Just do it, he says.
I close my eyes and I hear Mark mutter some words. I concentrate on the wind. It is not loud—it is a low breeze, humming through the canyon, a quiet hushing sound difficult to separate from the running of the water, but very slightly higher pitched, almost like a voice, almost like someone …
and then I hear it, under the wind, so faint, but there. The sound of a child crying, and then it seems to get louder and louder, until it’s vibrating in every cell of my body, resonating in me, like it does in my dreams.
And of course that’s what it is, I realize.
It is the crying from my dreams. The very same crying. The little child, sitting on the floor of the hospital, reaching its arms up to me, wanting to be comforted, wanting to be held …
I feel wetness welling up in my eyes. I open them and take a breath. Stop it, I say to Mark.
He nods, and the crying is gone.
That was the Child, he says. It is dying. We must save it. Yes?
Yes, I say. Yes.
We all look at one another for a moment.
I hid my true face from you, says Mark to the elks. And I am sorry for that. But will you still stand with me? Will you stand with the Maiden?
Yes, say the elks, together.
But I don’t understand, I say. The Child, who is it? I mean, did I have a sister once, or … or what? Why do I know that crying?
It is the Child, says Mark, as if that’s a simple answer that makes any kind of sense. The Dreaming bleeds into your world.
I don’t know what that means, I say.
No, he says. But you will.
The Crone’s castle is still unimaginably far away but the elks offer to carry us. They take a step forward, and begin to bend their backs, for us to mount them. The big leader steps delicately around the corpse of the wolf at his feet, skirting the rock on which its back broke by splashing through the shallows of the river. And at that moment, I see a movement out of the corner of my eye. A liquid movement, a sine wave slipping through the water, fast.
I grab my knife and shout. Look out—
But it’s too late. The snake’s head flicks up out of the river, and its fangs glisten for a moment in the starlight, and then it clamps down on the majestic elk’s leg, mouth snapping shut with a click that I can hear.
No, I say.
Knock.
Mark whips into motion, his hand seizing the snake as he bends, and then he flings it far out into the river, where it hits the water with a splash.
He pushes the elk out of the shallows, toward the rock wall, the path. He is patting its side, whispering to it, eyes narrow with concern. The other elks are doing that panicked bellowing again.
Knock.
I look down at the leader’s leg.
Two drops of crimson welling from the fur. The hide. Whatever it’s called. Suddenly I wish I knew what it was called.
No, I say.
It is all right, says the elk.
No, I say. No, it’s not all—
But his legs are already crumpling. We are many, he says as his eyes begin to dim out of the world. We are Elk.
No, I say. I’m still clutching the knife like a talisman, like something that can keep me safe. Keep us all safe.
Knock.
Save the Child, says the elk. Don’t let us all die. Don’t let—
But he doesn’t say anything else because then his legs buckle and he falls to the ground, foam beginning to fleck the corners of his mouth.
Shelby? Shelby, what are you doing in there? Shelby, I’m coming in.
It’s Mom’s voice, breaking into the Dreaming.
No, I scream. No, not now; but then there is a hand on my shoulder and it’s not a hand in this world and I am—