Page 35 of Spirit Dances (The Walker Papers #7)

T ruly astonishing pain erupted in my left hip and thigh bone.

In my whole left side, in fact, though it radiated from the hip joint.

The world went white with agony and gravity briefly lost its hold on me.

That was bad, because eventually it was going to demand its due, and I already hurt more than I could remember ever hurting in the past. I’d been impaled repeatedly, but somehow in comparison that seemed localized, whereas pain was now ricocheting down through my feet and up along my ribs into my arm.

I thought there must be streamers of red flowing from my toes and fingertips.

Not blood, just a visible arc of pain, like a manga comic book character might show.

Rattler hissed, Apologies, Sssiobhán Walkingssstick, and my world went away in new and exciting ways.

Everything twisted: the earth, my bones, my memories. The latter enveloped me, a comforting cushion to take me far from the deep wrenching dreadfulness that was now.

Then, I was a kid barely big enough to see out the window of my father’s big old boat of a Cadillac.

Vast trees with leaves so rich in shade they shimmered blue-green reached over the road, making a canopy for us to drive through.

Later I would associate stretches of road like that with Anne Shirley’s White Way of Delight, but then I was too small, and only enamored of the colors and how sunlight filtered through them.

My father was talking, something I didn’t remember him doing all that often, and since time had rearranged to give me the opportunity, I paid attention.

“…almost home. Your grandmother will be glad to see you. Do you remember her, Joanie?”

I shook my head. Grandmothers were an abstract concept, just like mothers were: mine had deposited me with Dad when I was six months old, and I hadn’t seen her again until I was twenty-six.

I’d spent the intervening years resenting her for dumping me with a father who had no apparent interest in me, though this was a revelatory and completely unremembered moment.

Joanne Walker of the present day had no memory at all of a grandmother, nor of visiting North Carolina until I was a teen.

Now that he said it, though, I recognized the roads and trees my small self was being driven down: we were, in fact, almost to Qualla Boundary, the Cherokee land trust where I’d gone to high school.

“Well, she remembers you. Thinks I’m terrible for keeping you away. Am I terrible, Joanie?”

“Nuh- uh! ” I leaned out of my seat belt to stretch way across the car’s bench seat and pat Dad’s thigh. “Drandma’s wrong! ”

Dad grinned at me, flash of white teeth in a warm brown face, and time slid forward a ways, landing me in a kitchen I recognized from my teen years.

The woman in it, though, was completely unfamiliar.

She wore bell-bottom jeans over rough bare feet, and a square-cut cotton tunic with an embroidered slash at the collar.

It reminded me of commercially-made shirts intended to look handmade, except it somehow seemed authentic, like she, or someone, actually had made it.

She was tall and strong-featured, with a beaky nose like my own.

Her black hair was barely threaded with white, and her brown eyes were extremely serious.

So serious, in fact, that they couldn’t be taken seriously, especially when I’d just watched her plate up a bunch of cookies and knew she was holding them behind her back. “Which hand?”

I pronounced, “Bof!” with a three-year-old’s utter confidence.

The woman—presumably my grandmother, though she didn’t really look old enough to be a grandmother—laughed and turned around, revealing she was indeed holding the cookie plate in both hands.

I nabbed two and stuffed both of them into my mouth, giving myself strained chipmunk cheeks.

My father, somewhere behind me, said, “Joanne,” in a mildly chiding tone, but it was too late: spitting them out would be infinitely more disgusting than slowly mashing my way through them. I mumbled, “Sowwy,” and “Thank you” when I’d cleared my mouth enough to do so, and amends were made.

Grandmother said, “You’re welcome,” and gave me two more cookies, which I gnashed into happily.

The now-me, the adult, saw the whole thing as a distraction from Grandmother’s gentle, “You should settle here, Joe,” addressed to my father in an obviously trying-not-to-be-pushy manner. “I’d love to have her near.”

Dad stepped in for a couple cookies himself, nodding as he did so. “I’ve been thinking about it. The mountains are a good place to grow up.”

“And there’s…” Again, the adult-me heard a significant pause there: Grandmother had no intention of finishing the sentence, but every confidence Dad knew what she meant.

And he did, though he stopped any chance she might continue with a wave of one of his absconded-with cookies. “Not now, Ma. Maybe later.”

Acceptance flickered through her dark eyes, and time bounced forward again.

A matter of hours, maybe: certainly not more than days.

Dad held my hand, his voice terribly neutral as we looked at the mangled wreck of a blue 1957 Pontiac Star Chief.

That was what he was telling me, what kind of car it was, and, “I remember when your grand mother bought it. I was five. My father and I used to work on it together. You wouldn’t remember him, Joanie.

He died a long time before you were born.

I think she’d like it if I put this old beast back together, but I can’t, sweetheart.

Not right now.” Then he picked me up and hugged me, and although as an adult I remembered none of the rest of it, I did remember that hug as the only time I ever saw my father cry.

We left Qualla Boundary in the Cadillac a few days later, and I didn’t see the place again for ten years, when I demanded he cast off his wanderlust and settle down in one location long enough for me to go to high school.

Dad had looked at me like he’d never seen me before.

We hadn’t been getting along for a couple years at that point, and I’d always thought that expression was borne of him being uncertain of how he’d ended up with a kid at all, much less one with opinions and demands.

Now, faced with the idea that he’d almost done just that— settled down to raise me in one place and had instead lost his mother to a horrible car crash—put a whole new spin on that expression.

Maybe we could have settled anywhere, but maybe Qualla Boundary was the only place he’d ever thought of as home.

Maybe facing that place again without his family there was a little harder than angry-at-the-world teenage Joanne Walker had ever considered.

There was a lot I hadn’t considered. Things I would have to take a look at, assuming I survived being hit by a semi.

Memory warped away, as if I’d reminded it I didn’t belong then.

Pain flooded back, no longer just setting my left side afire, but blazing through my entire body.

My bones were jerking, reforming, shaping themselves in new dreadful ways, and I heard Rattler’s sibilant apology again.

I wanted to say it was okay, except I wasn’t at all sure it was.

There were afterimages in my mind, shucked snakeskins built from thin strips of light, my own broken form flailing in anti-gravity, a coyote fur lying bedraggled on the ground.

Every one of the images wrenched my whole body, yanking things in and out of alignment, changing the shape of my spine, my bones, my skin.

Coyote, my Coyote, my golden-eyed mentor, appeared in the midst of all the chaos, human form bristling with fear just the way his coyote shape might do. “Joanne? Siobhán? What’s happened?”

I wailed, “You said it’s not supposed to hurt!

” as I writhed again, leaving yet another snakeskin behind.

Everyone was calling me by my real name, the one on my birth certificate, rather than the use-name I’d carried most of my life.

Siobhán Grainne MacNamarra Walkingstick, the Irish-Cherokee disaster bestowed upon me by my mother, who had given no thought to how an American might view Siobhán Grainne.

Even I’d been half convinced my own name was pronounced Seeobawn Grainy until Mother confirmed the correct way of saying it, Shevaun Grania.

But since she hadn’t raised me, Dad had taken one look at the whole mess and dubbed me Joanne.

I’d started using Walker instead of Walkingstick the day I graduated high school, cutting all ties with who I used to be.

Or maybe not quite all. The shamanic heritage I’d boxed off and forgotten about had burst through eventually, and was right now stripping me to my skin, to the muscle, to the very bone, and rebuilding me from the inside out. I’d shapeshifted twice, and it wasn’t supposed to hurt!

“You’re not shifting,” Coyote whispered, though that was manifestly untrue. Even he sounded like he wasn’t sure of what he was saying. “Joanne, what happened ?”

Rattler’s apology hissed through me a third time as my back arched like a chest-burster was about to, well, burst out of my chest. I screamed this time, something I didn’t think I’d been doing, but there was nowhere else for the pain to go.

One more snakeskin fell away, and the white-hot agony drained from my vision so I could see the real world again.

So I was fully aware that the final twist of earth/body/memory was gravity calling me home.

I smashed into asphalt and bounced down the street to the scent of burning rubber.

Metal shrieked somewhere very close and voices rose above it in fear and dismay.

I kept rolling after I’d stopped bouncing, and finally came to a stop as a bruised, huddled mass on the roadway.