“I should never have opened it,” he murmured without opening his eyes.
But he had opened it, and that was when he wished he could restart his week. Inside had been the outfit of a Navajo warrior. His fingers unconsciously touched the soft leather as they had that day, running his fingers along it. Each stitch was perfect, the beads sewn with loving care to form symbols of his people. The moccasins fit perfectly when he slipped them on. Under the clothing, he’d discovered a bone-handled knife in a leather sheath and the handcrafted bow along with a quiver filled with arrows.
The last thing in the box was an envelope with his name written on the front in uneven letters. He immediately recognized his grandfather’s handwriting. Emotion struck him hard when he picked up the envelope and pulled out the letter. The words poured through his exhausted mind as if they were burned into it.
Grandson, if you are reading this, then my time on this Earth has passed. Since your mother left you with me, I have seen the desire in your eyes to follow the winds, but I know better than any how deceiving they can be if you do not listen carefully. Now is the time. Use your ears. Listen to what they are saying. Inside this box is a connection to the old world. My last gift to you is the opportunity to find the happiness you are searching for.
“I don’t hear anything, Grandfather,” he had whispered.
Anger surged through him. All of his life he’d been fed stories about his people and the myths telling where they came from—stories of the birds, the plants, the land, the sky. Niyol expected him to believe them the same way he did, but it was impossible.
He had left, just like his mother. In the outside world, he’d found the success and wealth missing on the reservation. Now he lived in a world where myths were stories for the big screen; a way for some corporation to make money.
As the anger faded as quickly as it rose, Aditsan felt the weight of his injuries, and acknowledged that he would probably die here alone. Every bone and muscle in his body hurt. The deep cut to his side was seeping fresh blood, and each breath was a struggle.
“Grandfather, help me,” he murmured.
A light breeze caressed his face and he turned toward it. A smile lifted the corner of his lips when the sound of the birds mixed with those of the wind and water. A sense of peace washed through him and he slowly slid along the wall behind him to the ground.
I am with you, Grandson.
The gentle voice of his grandfather soothed his tired mind. His body relaxed and he gave in to his exhaustion. He wanted to escape the pain wracking him, if only for a short while. Another sound, this time from him, slipped into the wind and was carried away.
Chapter 3
Angeni paused and listened. The wind teased her senses, as if playing with her. Curious, she watched as it swirled around, forming a small dust devil.
“What are you trying to tell me?” she demanded.
The wind danced around her, causing her to twist around to keep up with it. Impatient, she wiggled her fingers. The whirlwind moved unevenly before enveloping her. Her long, black hair rose upward. The wind playfully braided it with bits of desert flowers tucked within the strands.
“Well, if you have something to share, tell me,” she instructed.
Grandfather, help me.
The low, raw plea caught her by surprise. She lifted a transparent arm. The wind filtered between her fingers before slipping away, but not before the anguish contained within the words reverberated through her.
She followed the wind, moving effortlessly across the sky. Her world was the spirit realm. Those like her made up the world that the people of Earth knew. They were the stars, the moon, the sun, the wind, the earth that grew the things the people needed. Her skill was in healing. She soothed the ravaged Earth after the others of her kind moved through.
Her gentle touch came after the fires of her brothers scorched the earth, the floods caused by her sisters’ tears, and the damaging winds from her father when he was angry at the way the people below treated the gift he and her mother had given them. They lived by the laws of nature: building, destroying, and healing, but never interfering with the day-to-day lives of those who walked the Earth. That was forbidden.
Yet… the sound of the soulful plea wrapped itself around her gentle heart. The pain in the human’s voice resonated through her. Curious about why the wind had decided to bring her this particular voice, she followed it across the world and along the narrow canyons. She followed the river created by one of her sisters to the end of the canyons carved by the flowing tears until she came to the beginning where the water still fell into the pool created by her father’s fist when he’d pounded the ground.
In the shade of the painted cliff lay a warrior. His side was soaked in blood. She absently noted it was the same color as her mother used to create the red canyon walls. Beside him lay a weapon designed to hunt the animals that were created to feed them.
Help him, the wind whispered to her.
“It is forbidden,” she replied, startled at the unusual request.
The mournful cry of the wind rose and made her look up. Her mother’s veil was sweeping across the sky, mixing the brilliant blue with hues of pink, red, and yellow. Soon, her father would chase the brightness of Mother Sun to the other side of the world.
Her focus moved back to the warrior lying on the ground. He released a soft moan and his breathing sounded labored. Perhaps she could help him. A little help couldn’t hurt—or be noticeable.
Angeni’s feet didn’t make a sound as she stepped along the ground. She knelt beside the warrior, reached out, and gently brushed a hand across his brow. His skin was cold to her touch. A shiver ran through his body and he moaned again in pain.
“Hush, warrior. I will help ease the pain,” she murmured in a soft voice.
She was shocked when the warrior’s eyelashes slowly rose and he stared back at her. It was as if he heard her! That was impossible. She started to pull her hand away from his brow when it was captured.
“Please… help me,” he whispered.
She stared into his dark brown eyes in stunned silence. Her fingers curled around his hand. She lifted her other hand and brushed her fingers along his cheek. The raw flesh healed under her tender touch.
“I will help you,” she promised.
A shudder ran through him and his eyelashes lowered until they lay like twin crescents on his high cheekbones. She carefully laid his hand across his stomach. Her eyes studied the sky and she fervently hoped that her father would be too busy tonight to realize what she was doing.
Her brothers and sisters would look down on her and wonder if she had lost her mind, but they would keep her secret. They knew her heart was too tender to ignore a cry for help. She returned her attention to the warrior as she thought of the people of this world. He would need warmth to keep the cold of the night at bay and to help protect him.
Angeni rose to her feet. She gathered the dry, broken branches littered around the area and built a fire ring. At her soft request, one of her brothers sent a small spark to light the wood. Next, she called to the wind to weave her soft blankets made from the cotton plants.
Soon, the warrior lay on a thick pallet formed by the wind. Angeni hummed softly as she removed his clothing. The song she sang healed the dark bruises and sealed the deep cuts. Her hands paused over his ribs. Three of them were cracked and a sharp edge had punctured his left lung.