“He is a good man,” she would say when she paused in her singing. “A strong warrior. He works with those who need help most, but today he needs your help.”
Tommy’s wounds were extensive and the only reason he wasn’t feeling the pain of them at those points when he did regain consciousness was because of something Bettina had done as soon as she had come to help him, manipulating pressure points so that the pain was diverted before it could reach the nerve bundles in his mind. After one of Aunt Nancy’s prayers to the manitou, he opened his eyes to look up at her.
“Who are you talking to, Aunt?” he asked.
She took comfort in the clearness of his gaze.
“The grandfathers,” she told him. “I’m asking them to look in on you.”
He regarded her for a long moment, then smiled.
“So that’s why I keep hearing this drumming,” he murmured before he drifted away again.
Los cadejos watched the doings of the humans with great interest, small dark gazes following every movement with all the single-minded curiosity of ordinary dogs. They were most interested in Miki, smelling in her the blood kinship she bore to the Glasduine. Miki hadn’t spoken to anyone since she’d arrived except to tell Hunter she was fine when he’d asked after her. All she had done was sit cross-legged in the dirt, as close to the creature as the little dogs would let her, smoking cigarettes and staring at the monster her brother had become.
But one by one los cadejos had to turn their attention to the Glasduine. As they had warned Bettina, the creature continued to grow more powerful. It didn’t yet strain their abilities, but as time progressed it required more and more of their concentration to keep it contained.
16
“What can I do now?” Hunter asked.
They’d spent the last half-hour working on the red clay, finally getting it into a consistency that satisfied Ellie. Hunter had gone to refill the water bottle. When he returned, Ellie was in the exact same position she’d been in before he’d left, hands palm-down on the clay, fingers spread out, a small frown furrowing her brow as she looked off into some distance that only she could see. She blinked when he spoke and gave him a brief smile.
“Nothing,” she said. “I need to be alone.”
Hunter nodded and began to turn away, pausing when she added, “That sounded harsher than I meant it. It’s just that I have to concentrate.”
“It’s okay. I understand. There’s a lot riding on this.”
Thanks for reminding me, Ellie thought, but she only gave him another quick smile then returned her attention to the task at hand. She knew he hadn’t said that to add to the pressure she was feeling, but it hadn’t helped.
She watched him go, walking over to where Miki sat. When he put a hand on Miki’s shoulder, she looked up and Ellie felt her heart would break. She’d never seen Miki looking so disconsolate. The worst of it was, no matter what the outcome of what they were trying to do today, Miki had still lost her brother. And she’d still lost her friend.
Oh, Donal, Ellie thought. How could you do this to us? How could you have become such a stranger? Or had they ever really known him at all?
It was so depressing. She knew she shouldn’t be dwelling on it because it would only make her task that much harder—how do you create positive art when you feel like shit?—but it was impossible not to.
Donal’s gloomy moodiness had driven her as crazy as it had everybody else, but she’d always believed that it was more a schtick than something based in reality, as though he’d decided that the way to set himself apart from all the other artists struggling to make a name for themselves was to become the Eey-ore of the art world, gloomy, but almost good-humored about it. Half the time he’d actually pulled it off. They’d even been able to joke about it. But now… now she didn’t know anymore. Now it seemed that under the act had been a real darkness, a streak of cruelty and meanness that she still found difficult to reconcile with the Donal she’d always known. But she knew Miki wouldn’t lie about something like that.
Her gaze drifted from where Hunter was comforting Miki to the creature itself, guarded by Bettina’s brightly colored, fierce little dogs. Was Donal still somewhere inside that Glasduine, or had his spirit already traveled on?
Stop it, she told herself. Just stop it right now. Concentrate on what you’re supposed to be doing.
It was easier said than done, but she made the effort once more, laying her hands on the clay, feeling its texture, cool and damp, the smoothness pocked with tiny pieces of grit. A tabula rasa waiting for her to pull shape and sense out of its raw state. She searched for the spirit of the clay, listening for it, feeling for it, and considered her options.
At first she turned to her memories of the sketches of the original mask she’d done the other day, the changes she’d envisioned, the decorative leaf-work she’d planned to enhance the feel of the forest in it. Twinings of ivy, clusters of nuts, a bark-like texture in place. But that no longer worked for her. Anything to do with such forests just reminded her of Kellygnow and Donal, and started the spiral down to depression once more. She needed something entirely new.
Her gaze lifted to the giant cacti that grew here and there along the sides of the canyon and stood guard on the top edges, like Indian scouts. She would begin with them, she decided.
She rolled the clay out on the flat stone Hunter had found for her, working it until she had a flat circle perhaps a half-inch thick on the stone. Regarding it for a long moment, she wet it down, then went over to the side of the canyon, climbing up the loose stone and dirt to where the closest of the saguaro was growing. She ran her fingers along the smooth surface in between the spines that grew along the edges of its ribs. The top of this giant which reared some twenty feet above her was different from all the others she’d seen, sporting a gnarled, fan-shaped comblike shape that was almost five feet wide. It looked awkward and strange and startlingly beautiful, all at the same time.
These cacti already made her smile because of the way their arms appeared to be waving hello to her, wherever she looked. They gave off an inherent sense of calm and well-being, like kings and queens of the desert. The crown of this one only enhanced its regal air. That was what she’d aim for, she decided, half-sliding, half-stepping back down the uneven surface of the slope. She’d make the mask to mimic this stately crown with its spiraling, almost Pre-Raphaelite pattern of rib spines. She couldn’t think of anything that reminded her less of the forests north of Newford, of dark-haired Gentry wolves and Donal.
With the decision made, she was able to work quickly, concentrating on the overall impression, forgoing unnecessary detail. She wasn’t making a true representation here. She was creating a feeling, an impression, a connection to all the good things that the saguaro seemed to stand for: the warmth, sunshine, growth and growing, their royal heights and whimsical arms. But most of all, their great spirit.
By the time she had something that satisfied her, she was surprised to find that hours had gone by. She sat up straight, stretching out her back, and looked around. Bettina had returned, obviously successful in her hunt, for Tommy appeared to be sleeping peacefully, his head still resting on his aunt’s lap. Bettina sat close by them, her hands resting on Tommy’s chest as though in benediction. Her wolf sat a few yards away, eyes closed, resting.