Gardening in the Desert, The Art of Tiny Moments Part 3
Part Three
Sunki makes him sit outsid while she works in the home. If he pokes his head inside he’s hit with the broom and what he’s pretty sure are insults to his birth and character, possibly even his lineage.
It’s hot outside, but even though he can’t see he can shuffle around the house to follow the shade. Hania comes by frequently and helps him get to the well where he can pull up water. If he goes slow and counts his steps he can get there and back without tripping.
It’s a small victory, but he can’t help but to fist pump every time.
The village children hover around him like curious bugs, their voices buzzing as they hover just out of range for a couple of days. He keeps singing and whistling, filling the space around him with something he understands.
Then one of the kids gets bold.
He hears them long before they get close. He keeps still as tiny fingers touch his face and skim the new skin wrinkling around his useless eyes. It doesn’t hurt much now, just twinges deep in the tissue if he presses too hard, but these little fingers are gentle. The touch is followed by hushed voices full of wonder and questions, and it hurts, the idea of being on display, a blind freak that can’t even take a leak without someone leading the way and pointing him in the right direction.
Humiliating doesn’t even begin to cover it, and he can’t even see to find a hole to crawl into until he dies.
The kids lose interest in him after a while. The adults stay away except for Hania and Sunki. He can hear the others skirt around him, whispering, probably pointing. Once in a while he’ll hear someone shout, but he doesn’t know if it’s at him or not.
One day Sunki sets him outside with a bowl of corn mash and a hard string of words that sounds something like shut up and eat, don’t make me tell you again and someone joins him.
One of the kids approaches, soft little footfalls like drops of rain in the dirt. He keeps eating, his ears following the sound, and hopes like hell today isn’t the day they start throwing rocks.
Someone on prayer answering duty must be feeling kind, because the kid comes up to him and sits down on his right. The kid says nothing, just sits there, so he eats until the bowl is empty, sets it aside, and starts in on a song.
The kid scoots closer every now and then and follows him on his visits to the well. Always within reach but never actually touching, not until that afternoon. He’s on his fourth or fifth rendition of a song about some girl named Susie Q when a tiny hand grasps his twitching fingers. There are still words fumbling out of his mouth and losing the beat, but his hands still.
The kid goes away when the day starts cooling down and Sunki comes to get him. He wants to call him or her back, but that would be all kinds of pathetic, wouldn’t it?
The kid comes back the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. Staying throughout while he sings, makes his trips to the well, and gets sick of corn mash with corn flat bread that sticks to his teeth and on the back of his tongue.
And his mouth feels fucking horrendous. Swishing with water and scraping at his teeth only do so much. He feels sorry for the kid sitting so close because his breath has got to be rank.
Still, it’s incredibly nice and he might just cry if his eyes still worked.
Time slips away from him. Hania visits more and more infrequently, and seems frustrated when he is there. The man tries to teach him the language during his visits. Some words stick, but the lyrics in his head keep pushing them out even when he hangs on. If words were water, then the few Hania teaches him are only drops in the river of what is coming out of him.
Then someone new comes to the village.
He can hear the people buzzing around and talking. The kid is jittery and leaves after a couple of hours, little feet beating it into the distance without warning.
He hears two pairs of feet approaching and Hania’s voice shooting rapid fire sentences. They stop in front of him. He only has a bowl in his hands and clutches it wishing for gunmetal.
There’s a shuffling sound and a shadow falls over him. He tilts his head up and angles his right ear toward them.
“Damn son,” a rough voice says in English. “Looks like you got into a spot of trouble.”
“Who are you?” he asks, voice cracking over the words with relief and giddy happiness because fucking finally, someone understands him! English still exists.
“Name’s Sam Colt. You?”
The name sends a trill of familiarity through his jumbled head, but then it’s gone and he’s left clutching at wind.
“I don’t know mine,” he says and extends his hand. A calloused one grasps his and gives him a firm shake.
“Why don’t we see if we can change that?”
#
A week into their stay, Dean made a supply trip into town by himself. It took Sam two hours to convince him to go, finally threatening to turn the Impala pink before Dean would budge.
Dean didn’t think Sam would go that far because there were certain things you just didn’t do, and messing with the car was one of them, but he didn’t want to chance it.
Truth be told, getting a little air was probably the best thing. He had no urge to follow any leads on hunts Bobby was passing off to other hunters and he’d called Dad twice only to get voice mail. There was just something…off. Dean couldn’t put his finger on it, and it wasn’t big enough to stop the presses for but it made him feel all itchy and restless in his bones. He couldn’t quite settle down for anything and kept catching little bits of movement out of the corners of his eyes. Nothing was ever there and it was Bobby’s place for cripes sake, nothing would be able to get past all the precautions and salt without making a hell of a dent.
Still. The itch and the flashes made it hard to settle down and enjoy his time with Sam and Bobby.
He was in the grocery store tossing value sized jars of peanut butter into the cart when a stiff cold breeze cut through his clothes and liked to have given him frost bite. He dropped the peanut butter and had his gun in his hand before he could process ghost.
Only it wasn’t a ghost.
He turned around to scan the aisle and found it gone, like it was nothing but an illusion to start with. He was standing in a grassy valley with the wide sky above and not a cloud in sight. Dean spun around and came up with the same view.
“Time’s up, boy.”
The hair on Dean’s neck rose as he turned, gun raised, finger on the trigger.
The man looked the same as he had that night outside the bar in Texoma with his graying hair down loose over his shoulders. The knees of his jeans were dusty from kneeling in the dirt and the satchel he had hanging off one shoulder made him look humpbacked. His eyes- bright green, unnaturally so- stood out from the deep lines and crows feet on his face. The man leaned forward on the walking stick with the weird looking symbols carved into it.
“It hasn’t been ten years,” Dean said.
The man’s lips twitched upwards.
“All contracts have fine print,” the man said. “Ten years have passed in the world the deal was made, and it wasn’t this one.”
“Now hang on, you said I’d get ten years with Sam, you said you’d give him back whole and unharmed. He ain’t either of those anymore.”
“Fine print. It’s a bitch that way,” the man said.
“I can’t just leave him, not like this. Not with the way his mind is.”
“His mind will mend just like the rest of him has. But we have an agreement. I give you Sam and ten years otherworld time. In return you come with me. That time is now.”
The man’s eyes flicked down to the gun. He raised his eyebrow and then Dean was clutching air.
“That won’t work on me. Now come on, don’t try to welch out. It’s time to pay your dues.”
Dean swallowed against the dry knot in his throat. His mind raced, clutching at and discarding plans of action faster than he had in any of his hunts, but the fact of the matter was that he was screwed. Total, completely, one hundred percent fucked. He didn’t even have enough salt in his pockets to get more than ten steps.
He hadn’t even been drunk the night he made the deal. It was his first stint of total sobriety in a while, but he’d been burning out leads faster than they were appearing and the crushing helplessness had enveloped him. He’d gone to the bar and stared at the whiskey swill at the bottom of his glass he never emptied, soaking up the clack of pool balls and glitchy music croaking out of the worn juke box. Sometime later there was a fight he started, for no other reason than to feel something break under his hands, and he took a couple hits to the head.
The man was waiting for him when he woke up. Dean was lying in the dirt bruised all to hell, and the man’s eyes were a faint green glow against the misty night sky that kept moving.
The man had said his peace and offered the deal. Dean hadn’t taken much convincing. He wanted Sam back any way he could have him. Ten years was a hell of a bargain.
They shook on it, Dean blacked out again. He woke up in his motel sprawled over the bed.
“Guess I can’t even say good-bye, huh? Just disappear on him after I promised not to?”
The man held out his hand. Dirt creased the lines of his palm and dirtied his fingernails.
“You’re gonna come with me one way or another. I can drag Sam into this if you really want to.”
The sun beat down on them. Dean knew they were probably only a hundred miles or so from Sioux Falls. It would take a couple more hours for Bobby and San to realize something was wrong. Maybe less if Sam decided he was bored and wanted to ‘pop’ in on Dean without using a car.
Dean clenched his jaw and stepped forward. He grasped the man’s hand tight and tried to still the thundering in his veins.
“Good boy,” the man said.
There was a ripping noise, like cloth tearing, and then nothing.
#
Colt is a brisk man that doesn’t mince words. Rough hands, rough voice, nothing is soft, and yet it makes him relax. He gets this, understands it.
“No name, no memory, no eyes. Seems like you’ve had quite a time of it.”
“Seems that way, yeah,” he answers.
“Well, a man needs a name. People around here been calling you Mochni so we’ll go with that.”
“Mochni?” The name rolls off his tongue strange.
“Means Talking Bird,” says Colt, and he can hear the smirk in his voice. “Seems you were quite the noisemaker.”
It’s a name, it’s something. He’ll take it.
Colt makes a rustling noise, fabric on sand, and starts flipping through a book. Mochni hears the drag of his fingers on the pages.
“Hania here is the Hopi medicine man. He says he found you a couple days from here near the river when he was on a vision quest. Says that his visions led him to you.”
Mochni frowns. “Vision quest?”
“Crops are failing on account of the drought. He went seeking a vision of how to help his people and says the Creator gave him you, says you had a mark and everything.”
Colt reaches over and touches the pouch Mochni has been holding since Hania gave it to him.
“This here bag has Indian bead work on the side outlining Kokopelli. He’s their harvest god. I’d say that’s a pretty big coincidence there. Of course, I also know there was a camp of whites upriver about ten miles a couple nights past. Came up on the remains of it the other day.”
Mochni sits up straighter.
“Was there anything there?”
“Signs of a Navajo raiding party and quite a few charred bodies. Looked like a couple on each side got away but I lost the white’s trail when it turned farther into the mountains.”
“I guess that explains how I went blind,” Mochni says.
“Well, it also puts you smack in the middle of a situation I was tracking for months. Does the name Elias Finch ring any bells?”
Mochni shakes his head.
“Who is he?”
“Ain’t a who, he’s a what,” says Colt. “The Indians call it a thunder bird, some whites call it a phoenix. It’s a creature that looks like a man but it can turn into a flying fireball when it’s provoked. I’ve been tracking this one since Oklahoma. There was a series of fires that killed a lot of folks. The last one was in Texas, burnt up a whole family and almost got the rest of that bitty tinder box town. The sheriff and his deputy set out with a posse but they didn’t get far. Seems Finch laid out a trap for them. Most of the posse ended up stranded when their horses spooked or exploded.”
Something itches at the back of his mind, behind the lyrics and the music. He frowns and tugs at it, trying to inch it out from beneath the layers.
“Salt,” he says. “Salt and devils traps.”
There’s a pause.
“That only works on demons. Only iron works on a phoenix that I’m aware. So, you know some monster lore, do you?”
“I think so. Maybe. It sounds familiar.”
Demons. You needed salt, iron, and an exorcism, he thinks.
“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus. Omnis satanica potestas-”
“I guess that answers that question. That’s a bit more helpful. Were you hunting the phoenix, too, or were you just passing through?”
“I don’t know.”
Colt sighs.
“Alrighty then.”
With Colt acting as translator, Mochni asks his questions and Hania can finally answer.
“We came to these mountains many generations ago. We were once a prosperous people living in a vast city. Our crops sustained us and we traded with many tribes, and then the Spaniards came and brought their wasting sicknesses that left our city empty of voices. Today our numbers are small and the long drought has settled over us. Our corn grows dry before the ears have formed and our melons wither on the vine.
“Years of war with the Apache and Navajo have left us weak. Many warriors and young ones were killed or stolen so now the grieving mothers and grandmothers tend to the fields, but their tears do not quench the land, nor do the sacred songs. That is why I left to seek a vision. That vision led me to you, Mochni.”
“That’s really awful, but what am I supposed to do about it?”
“In my vision I spoke with Kokopelli, the humpbacked flute player. He told me to follow the deer trail until I came upon a sacred tree where I would find a good spirit, a kachina. The tree I found was one I have never seen before and I have hunted this land since I was very small. You were beneath this tree. The roots cradled your body and the branches bent down to shelter you. You had Kokopelli’s seeds with you. There is no doubt he sent you to help us.”
Mochni sits back and tries to digest that. Part of him wants to laugh and call it a load of bull shit, but another part that’s been growing more insistent like the lyrics pulls at him and says, listen.
“Should we plant the seeds then?”
Hania’s weathered hand settles on his wrist in a gentle grip.
“You must be still and let the world speak to you, then you will know what to do.”
#
The coyote disappeared beyond a cluster of sage and saguaro just as fast as he’d appeared. Dean and guitar man were left standing in a bowl shaped depression. The mountains in the distance looked like a sleeping woman, another like a giant head bursting out of the sand. He stared at them for the longest time. Sam had said something about this was their punishment.
What had been so bad to earn that? Dean figured he probably didn’t want to know.
On the ground there was a stone with a large spiral drawn on it. Inside, a little coyote, a small humpbacked flute player and a man with a bow were placed inside. The longer he watched he could see they were moving in the spiral at different points and speeds towards the center with the little coyote in the lead.
“It’s not a race,” guitar man said like he could read Dean’s mind.
Dean grunted and toed at the dirt. The vortex-y getting-sucked-into-the-sky feeling was stronger here even without looking up. His stomach churned a bit and he closed his eyes.
“Sam told me about this place. He told me about the sky and the giants but I thought it was stuff getting mixed up in his head.”
It had been so hard to just sit there when Sam had broken out of his silence and gone into rambling tangents that lasted for hours. It scared the crap out of Dean. Seeing Sammy like that- off kilter, cloudy eyed, so damn broken- it took everything Dean had in him to stay still and let him talk. He’d wanted to hit something, to tear it apart, salt its bones and lay it to rest. That didn’t work on little brother’s mind, though.
He kind of understood it now, looking at the sky and the desert, how this place must have warped Sam’s perception of things. This place was wedged just outside of time and so desolate that even the company of another like that Fred chick wouldn’t have taken away the sharp sting of loneliness. Guitar man certainly didn’t.
Dean bowed his head and breathed deep. The feeling eased up somewhat.
“Sam has a long road ahead of him, just like you,” said guitar man. “He started out first, but he needs a guide to help him.”
“Is that what I sold my soul for?”
Maybe it wasn’t a bad trade at all.
“My brother didn’t take your soul, nor will he ever. That is not our way, and they don’t do much for us. They’re too bland.”
Guitar man flashed a toothy smile and Dean glimpsed a flash of shadow in his eyes.
“Look at the spiral, kid. What do you see?”
Dean glanced down. The pieces were still moving minutely. The swirly feeling got worse. The spiral wobbled in his vision and he blinked, tried to look away. Guitar man appeared by his side and grabbed his chin, forcing him to look down.
The sand around the spiral began to shift, little grains moving around in circles, brushing against his feet. He breathed in steady and swallowed. The sand came together and broke apart like water ripples. Images flitted across like pictures on a snowy TV. Then sound filtered in.
John paced around a motel room where the TV glow bounced off sickly yellow walls with mold growing in the corners under the spreading ceiling stains. A cluster of beer bottles sat on the table while Dean clutched a half bottle of Jack between his up-drawn knees, every so often taking in a mouthful that never quite washed down the sour taste of disappointment, gas station burritos and questions sticking to the back of his throat.
Dean lit a cigarette and sucked the acrid smoke, very aware of the way John tensed as the lighter flicked on.
“Go on,” Dean said. John was a hazy shadow through the booze and smoke. There was a voice in his head telling him to shut up, but it was so tiny now it was a gnat on the edge of his thoughts. “You wanna go chase after some fucking hunt, go ahead. I’m still looking for Sam.”
“There are no more leads,” John wiped his hand over his face. “Deano, I’m sorry, but it’s been-”
“Five years, two months and fifteen days, yeah, I’m aware.” Dean took another swig and slammed the bottle down. Liquid sloshed up and over his hand. He swayed up to his feet. “Sam is more important than the demon right now, okay? Mom is- Mom’s gone.”
And God, that was fucking ironic, wasn’t it? John went very still, so unlike the night Sam hurled those same words just before he left. Dean staggered up to John and poked his chest with a finger.
“Mom’s trail is cold, okay? You wanna avenge someone? Avenge the goddamn son you threw out into the dark and left for dead. It’s the least you can fucking do-”
He expected the punch. Dean hit the floor and didn’t move as the world went slishy-sloshy. He grunted and sat up on his elbows. John shouldered his duffel and regarded Dean for a moment. He couldn’t read John’s face, but that was par for the course anymore.
“I’ll be back in three days,” said John.
He left and slammed the door behind him. A few minutes later the truck engine fired up and Dean heard it leave the parking lot.
Dean rolled over and staggered to his feet. He checked out the next afternoon and went east with the Impala.
John didn’t call on the three day mark, but Dean hadn’t expected him to.
Three weeks later Dean made a deal.
The images faded away as the sand settled back. Dean found he was sitting now and blinked as the haze vanished from his head.
“That was a defining moment, wouldn’t you say?”
Dean stood up and brushed his jeans off.
“What’s your fucking point?” he snapped.
“You didn’t tell Sam about this.”
“Why would I? The kid thought we were gonna turn around and hunt him down after what happened to him. I had to beat it into his head that wouldn’t happen. I’m not gonna follow up and tell him Dad gave up so he could go back to chasing after a demon and Mom’s ghost.”
“Maybe so. Still, hell of a choice.”
Dean’s jaw clenched. He could still feel the whiskey-sour knots that ate up his stomach and the cigarettes he chucked the next day. Withdrawal hadn’t been pretty, but Sam showed up at that bar two days after Dean made the deal. That had to have been the best reward for ending his drinking and smoking.
Dean snorted.
“It was the only choice I could make.”
Choosing between Mom and Sam was- Well. Mom was dead. Sam might have been, too, but there was no evidence. Until Dean had a body Sam was still alive somewhere. Always.
“I never did ask Dad why,” he said, eyes unfocused. “He just kept saying that Sammy was… I don’t know. Maybe he’d been looking for the demon for so long that’s all he could think to keep doing. Fuck, but I couldn’t forgive him for that, though. Sam saw it coming. He told Dad to his face the night he left for Stanford. Said Dad put the job ahead of us. He was right. I knew Sam was right, I just. I wanted to believe Dad was better than that.”
“Well, as the saying goes, he is only human.”
Dean grunted. He knew it was true, but the understanding and accepting part were still out of reach.
“Why make me see this again?” he asked.
“Because life is not separate from death,” guitar man said. “It only seems that way.”
Dean glanced over.
“Gotta disagree with you there.”
“I’ve been around since the world was nothing more than the spark of an idea out in the black. I know Death personally and it’s part of a circle that has no breaks. Humans like to separate the ideas of life and death with a gulf. Before and After. There is no divide, only transformation. Like Sam.”
Guitar man stood and looked down at Dean.
“We have talked enough now. You must finish your journey and decide what it is that makes a god. I am interested to hear what your answer will be.”
Guitar man was there one moment, the next he wasn’t. Dean got to his feet and called out, but the only answer was a distant howl. It wasn’t a coyote or a wolf. He’d only heard it once before, on a very short and disastrous hunt down on the Arizona border when he was fifteen. The concussion and blood loss erased most of his memories about that hunt, but the inhuman howling and stench of death stayed with him, just like the jagged scar on his thigh.
Dean crossed his arms as a shiver passed over him. He looked down at the spiral again for a moment before he turned to go back to the tree.
Only they way they’d come was no longer there. The tracks were gone and the land had moved around.
“Fucking great. Is this another stupid riddle? What am I supposed to do?”
A familiar distant yip came from his right and Dean saw the flash of sandy fur in the brush. He looked around again before sighing and turning to follow the coyote.
#
Part Four