LJ Idol, Season 10 Week 16: Thunderclap
Whoever it was pounded on the door to his trailer again, and a woman's voice shouted, “I know you're in there, old skinwalker!”
“I'm not a skinwalker!” Victor Chee shouted back. Crap. He couldn't pretend he wasn't home anymore. “And I'm not old! I'm thirty!”
The door thumped, over and over. “Open! Up!”
Victor obeyed, saying immediately, “I told you not to bother me.”
The young, angular woman in the snap button, cowboy-cut shirt and dark jeans pushed her way inside. “You never told me.”
“I told your elders. They should have passed it on.” He followed her into his living room, where she found only a battered couch, a lamp, and a coffee table covered in stones and piles of herbs.
“Is this how a skinwalker lives?” she asked.
“I'm not a skinwalker!”
“I was expecting something different,” she continued. “Something more like a cave. With a big fire in the middle and paintings of buffalo on the walls.”
“This is a normal place to live, because I'm a normal person, not a skinwalker.”
“But you do magic,” she clarified. “Don't deny it. You used a healing spell on Joey Benallie after he fell off that boulder like a stupid idiot. And you have a garden in the middle of the desert.”
“Magic doesn't automatically mean skinwalker.”
“In my book it does.”
“Your book is wrong,” he retorted.
She sat down on his couch. “Let's just say you're not a skinwalker.”
“I'm not.”
“But you can use magic, you just admitted it, so you're the only one who can help.”
“Not interested,” he told her.
“You didn't let me finish!” she snapped. “Ever since the moon went full, something has been raiding this corner of the reservation. Nobody can see what it is, but we can hear a bunch of voices speaking English, and they leave hoof prints.”
Victor sighed.
“Whatever it is,” she continued, “it's breaking stuff and feeling up the women. Walls and doors don't stop it. It's hit every trailer and hogan in the area, and it keeps coming. I'm surprised it hasn't hit you yet.”
“My property is blessed. Nothing not natural is getting on it.”
“Can you do that for everybody?” she asked. “We're really suffering here.”
“No, I can't. It takes a long time and uses a lot of energy.”
“Do something. We're your people.”
Victor grunted. “If I do this for you, do you promise to leave me alone?”
“Whatever you say, man,” she agreed. “Just do something about these white ghosts messing with our shit.”
“Fine,” he said. “Also, who are you?”
Her name was Becky Yazzie, and she lived in one of the houses just over the ridge. She was able to tell him which trailer always got hit first and from which direction they came, but that's all she knew. It was good enough.
He spent the afternoon trying to remember some spells that might help and gathering supplies to go with those spells. He decided on one that was simple, yet powerful. And then, at twilight, he drove over to Ronnie Yazzie's (no relation to Becky) place and waited on the north side.
Hours passed.
From the distance came a rapid-fire string of clops. He shined his flashlight in that direction, and all he saw were dusty clouds. With the toe of his boot, he drew a line in the sand about ten feet wide. When the noise got closer, he declared as loudly as he could, “You shall not pass!”
Something that definitely felt like a hoof struck him in the chest, flattening him out on his back. After a moment, he coughed, “Shit.”
He sat up and made his way onto his feet when he heard the commotion coming from Ronnie's trailer. “Shit!” Victor repeated. He jogged around to the front to see Ronnie standing outside, craning his neck to see what was happening through the windows of his own home.
“You think they'd run out of stuff to break,” Ronnie muttered. “Stupid invisible people.”
“I'll handle this,” Victor offered and headed for the door.
“Hey!” Ronnie exclaimed. “You're that old skinwalker that lives up the hill.”
“I'm not a skinwalker,” Victor told him. “I'm not old either.”
“Hey, if I was a skinwalker,” Ronnie agreed, “I wouldn't be announcing it to the world either.”
Victor gave up. He took the canister of salt he was hauling around and covered the threshold with it. After that, he stepped inside and looked around for the troublemakers. Something was jumping on Ronnie's bed, so Victor walked right up to it, reaching into the pockets of his denim jacket and pulling out a flask in one hand and a baggie of dried basil in the other. He flung two pinches of the basil and a splash of the water in its direction, and said, “Spirits, I call upon you to rid the world of-”
Something interrupted him by shoving him out of the way. It slammed violently against the wall, rocking the trailer. Victor kept his footing and tried again: “Spirits, I call upon you to rid the world of these beings that are causing all this trouble. In the name of the sky, and of the earth.”
The ghost, or whatever it was, screamed and fell silent.
After a few minutes, when he was sure it was safe, Victor opened the door and called out over to Ronnie.
“Well?” Ronnie asked. “Did you kill it?”
“It's gone from this world,” Victor replied.
Ronnie spit on the ground before entering his trailer. “Good riddance.”
In the distance, coming from the direction of Marty Tsosie's house, came a shriek.
Victor shot outside, making sure to grab the salt. “There's more than one?”
Ronnie laughed. “There's an army of them, brother. You sure you're up to this, old skinwalker?”
Victor grunted and ran toward Marty Tsosie's place. He found Marty inside, leaning against a wall, buttoning up her flannel shirt.
“Where is it?” he asked.
“In the kitchen,” she told him, “where all the noise is coming from. Duh!”
“Wait outside.”
She obeyed.
He laid down a barrier of salt at the entrance to the kitchen while the presence flung open and slammed shut all of the cabinet doors, some of which were starting to fall off their hinges. He then tossed some water and basil at it and announced, “Spirits, I call upon you to rid the world of these beings that are causing all this trouble. In the name of the sky, and of the earth.”
It roared and went quiet.
Marty peeked her head inside. “Is it gone?”
Victor breathed. Magic use was exhausting. “Do you know how many of these there are?”
Marty shrugged. “Beats me. They're invisible, so you can't count them.”
“Right,” he sighed. “Do you at least have an idea where I could find more?”
With her lip and not her finger, she pointed southeast. “There's that whole bunch of houses down the road that way. I bet you that's where they are.”
“Thanks.”
“Say, aren't you the old skinwalker who lives up the hill?” she inquired.
He groaned, “I'm not a skinwalker. I don't even look old!”
“Sure you're not.”
Because they were far away, and because he was saving his energy, Victor chose to take his pickup to the cluster of houses down the road. He found and cleared out a disturbance as soon as he got there, following up by doing it three more times.
He stood in the middle of the street and listened carefully for the sound of a phantom pillager. Satisfied that there were no more, he spun on the heel of his cowboy boot and walked to his pickup, stopping when he rebounded off of something unseen and solid. It could have been a brick wall, or it could have been a horse's flank. He couldn't tell because he couldn't see it.
He backed away and fingered the baggie in his pocket. He still had plenty of basil and water, but there was no way he could create a ring of salt around the thing to contain it.
Then it spoke. But it was speaking in English, so Victor couldn't understand it. All he could do was shrug.
There was a loud crack, and a small patch of the road to the left of his feet exploded into dust.
Instinctively, Victor stepped away, saying, “Did you just fire a gun at me?”
There was another crack, and the place where his foot had just been blew up.
It spoke again, louder and angrier this time.
Victor offered, “Let me use a language we can both understand.” He held up both of his fists and extended the middle finger of each one.
There was one more crack, and this time it brought a powerful, sharp pain in Victor's chest, throwing him back onto the road. He went still.
Victor coughed. He washed his clothes in holy water, meaning that no spectral bullet was getting through. It hurt like hell, though. He stood back up, dusted himself off, spread his arms wide, and danced, humming and chanting nonsense syllables to keep time.
The ghost horse got restless, snorting and stamping its feet. The force jabbered forcefully, then desperately. The ghost gun opened fire, over and over again, but Victor was able to withstand each shot with more ease.
And finally, a bolt of lightning shot out of the sky and struck the area where the phantom gunshots were coming from. The thunderclap rippled the air so much it almost knocked Victor off his feet, but he felt like he'd spent enough time on his back this evening. Instead, he kept dancing as another bolt struck, and another.
Finally there was silence.
He collapsed to his knees, utterly exhausted. He heard footsteps approach, but he didn't lift his head to see who it was. The boots that came to rest right in front of him spoke in Becky Yazzie's voice. “Nice moves there, old skinwalker.”
He groaned, “I'm not... never mind. Forget it.”
“I'm not a skinwalker!” Victor Chee shouted back. Crap. He couldn't pretend he wasn't home anymore. “And I'm not old! I'm thirty!”
The door thumped, over and over. “Open! Up!”
Victor obeyed, saying immediately, “I told you not to bother me.”
The young, angular woman in the snap button, cowboy-cut shirt and dark jeans pushed her way inside. “You never told me.”
“I told your elders. They should have passed it on.” He followed her into his living room, where she found only a battered couch, a lamp, and a coffee table covered in stones and piles of herbs.
“Is this how a skinwalker lives?” she asked.
“I'm not a skinwalker!”
“I was expecting something different,” she continued. “Something more like a cave. With a big fire in the middle and paintings of buffalo on the walls.”
“This is a normal place to live, because I'm a normal person, not a skinwalker.”
“But you do magic,” she clarified. “Don't deny it. You used a healing spell on Joey Benallie after he fell off that boulder like a stupid idiot. And you have a garden in the middle of the desert.”
“Magic doesn't automatically mean skinwalker.”
“In my book it does.”
“Your book is wrong,” he retorted.
She sat down on his couch. “Let's just say you're not a skinwalker.”
“I'm not.”
“But you can use magic, you just admitted it, so you're the only one who can help.”
“Not interested,” he told her.
“You didn't let me finish!” she snapped. “Ever since the moon went full, something has been raiding this corner of the reservation. Nobody can see what it is, but we can hear a bunch of voices speaking English, and they leave hoof prints.”
Victor sighed.
“Whatever it is,” she continued, “it's breaking stuff and feeling up the women. Walls and doors don't stop it. It's hit every trailer and hogan in the area, and it keeps coming. I'm surprised it hasn't hit you yet.”
“My property is blessed. Nothing not natural is getting on it.”
“Can you do that for everybody?” she asked. “We're really suffering here.”
“No, I can't. It takes a long time and uses a lot of energy.”
“Do something. We're your people.”
Victor grunted. “If I do this for you, do you promise to leave me alone?”
“Whatever you say, man,” she agreed. “Just do something about these white ghosts messing with our shit.”
“Fine,” he said. “Also, who are you?”
Her name was Becky Yazzie, and she lived in one of the houses just over the ridge. She was able to tell him which trailer always got hit first and from which direction they came, but that's all she knew. It was good enough.
He spent the afternoon trying to remember some spells that might help and gathering supplies to go with those spells. He decided on one that was simple, yet powerful. And then, at twilight, he drove over to Ronnie Yazzie's (no relation to Becky) place and waited on the north side.
Hours passed.
From the distance came a rapid-fire string of clops. He shined his flashlight in that direction, and all he saw were dusty clouds. With the toe of his boot, he drew a line in the sand about ten feet wide. When the noise got closer, he declared as loudly as he could, “You shall not pass!”
Something that definitely felt like a hoof struck him in the chest, flattening him out on his back. After a moment, he coughed, “Shit.”
He sat up and made his way onto his feet when he heard the commotion coming from Ronnie's trailer. “Shit!” Victor repeated. He jogged around to the front to see Ronnie standing outside, craning his neck to see what was happening through the windows of his own home.
“You think they'd run out of stuff to break,” Ronnie muttered. “Stupid invisible people.”
“I'll handle this,” Victor offered and headed for the door.
“Hey!” Ronnie exclaimed. “You're that old skinwalker that lives up the hill.”
“I'm not a skinwalker,” Victor told him. “I'm not old either.”
“Hey, if I was a skinwalker,” Ronnie agreed, “I wouldn't be announcing it to the world either.”
Victor gave up. He took the canister of salt he was hauling around and covered the threshold with it. After that, he stepped inside and looked around for the troublemakers. Something was jumping on Ronnie's bed, so Victor walked right up to it, reaching into the pockets of his denim jacket and pulling out a flask in one hand and a baggie of dried basil in the other. He flung two pinches of the basil and a splash of the water in its direction, and said, “Spirits, I call upon you to rid the world of-”
Something interrupted him by shoving him out of the way. It slammed violently against the wall, rocking the trailer. Victor kept his footing and tried again: “Spirits, I call upon you to rid the world of these beings that are causing all this trouble. In the name of the sky, and of the earth.”
The ghost, or whatever it was, screamed and fell silent.
After a few minutes, when he was sure it was safe, Victor opened the door and called out over to Ronnie.
“Well?” Ronnie asked. “Did you kill it?”
“It's gone from this world,” Victor replied.
Ronnie spit on the ground before entering his trailer. “Good riddance.”
In the distance, coming from the direction of Marty Tsosie's house, came a shriek.
Victor shot outside, making sure to grab the salt. “There's more than one?”
Ronnie laughed. “There's an army of them, brother. You sure you're up to this, old skinwalker?”
Victor grunted and ran toward Marty Tsosie's place. He found Marty inside, leaning against a wall, buttoning up her flannel shirt.
“Where is it?” he asked.
“In the kitchen,” she told him, “where all the noise is coming from. Duh!”
“Wait outside.”
She obeyed.
He laid down a barrier of salt at the entrance to the kitchen while the presence flung open and slammed shut all of the cabinet doors, some of which were starting to fall off their hinges. He then tossed some water and basil at it and announced, “Spirits, I call upon you to rid the world of these beings that are causing all this trouble. In the name of the sky, and of the earth.”
It roared and went quiet.
Marty peeked her head inside. “Is it gone?”
Victor breathed. Magic use was exhausting. “Do you know how many of these there are?”
Marty shrugged. “Beats me. They're invisible, so you can't count them.”
“Right,” he sighed. “Do you at least have an idea where I could find more?”
With her lip and not her finger, she pointed southeast. “There's that whole bunch of houses down the road that way. I bet you that's where they are.”
“Thanks.”
“Say, aren't you the old skinwalker who lives up the hill?” she inquired.
He groaned, “I'm not a skinwalker. I don't even look old!”
“Sure you're not.”
Because they were far away, and because he was saving his energy, Victor chose to take his pickup to the cluster of houses down the road. He found and cleared out a disturbance as soon as he got there, following up by doing it three more times.
He stood in the middle of the street and listened carefully for the sound of a phantom pillager. Satisfied that there were no more, he spun on the heel of his cowboy boot and walked to his pickup, stopping when he rebounded off of something unseen and solid. It could have been a brick wall, or it could have been a horse's flank. He couldn't tell because he couldn't see it.
He backed away and fingered the baggie in his pocket. He still had plenty of basil and water, but there was no way he could create a ring of salt around the thing to contain it.
Then it spoke. But it was speaking in English, so Victor couldn't understand it. All he could do was shrug.
There was a loud crack, and a small patch of the road to the left of his feet exploded into dust.
Instinctively, Victor stepped away, saying, “Did you just fire a gun at me?”
There was another crack, and the place where his foot had just been blew up.
It spoke again, louder and angrier this time.
Victor offered, “Let me use a language we can both understand.” He held up both of his fists and extended the middle finger of each one.
There was one more crack, and this time it brought a powerful, sharp pain in Victor's chest, throwing him back onto the road. He went still.
Victor coughed. He washed his clothes in holy water, meaning that no spectral bullet was getting through. It hurt like hell, though. He stood back up, dusted himself off, spread his arms wide, and danced, humming and chanting nonsense syllables to keep time.
The ghost horse got restless, snorting and stamping its feet. The force jabbered forcefully, then desperately. The ghost gun opened fire, over and over again, but Victor was able to withstand each shot with more ease.
And finally, a bolt of lightning shot out of the sky and struck the area where the phantom gunshots were coming from. The thunderclap rippled the air so much it almost knocked Victor off his feet, but he felt like he'd spent enough time on his back this evening. Instead, he kept dancing as another bolt struck, and another.
Finally there was silence.
He collapsed to his knees, utterly exhausted. He heard footsteps approach, but he didn't lift his head to see who it was. The boots that came to rest right in front of him spoke in Becky Yazzie's voice. “Nice moves there, old skinwalker.”
He groaned, “I'm not... never mind. Forget it.”