"My grandfather danced above the site and sang prayers, trying to force the skinwalker's soul to rest, and when the moon rose, grandfather began to lead his horse home.
"But a burrow owl screeched and rose up out of the ground at his feet. That is an evil portent, for the owl warns against death, and my grandfather did not dare return home. Instead, he stopped at that very spot, and he worried that something had gone wrong.
"He did not sleep all that night. Instead, he danced within a magic circle, and at dawn a girl from the village came for him, running and crying, so weary that she often stumbled. He was in love with her, and hoped to marry her someday, and she felt the same for him.
"She told him that one of the other warriors was dead. He had not carried his portion far from the village, but instead had stopped beside the river to take a rest through the heat of the day, and he must have fallen asleep. The young brave had been carrying the sorcerer's head and right arm, and the brave was found dead—strangled and covered in bite marks from human teeth.
"The skinwalker had survived!
"So my grandfather turned away from the reservation and rode north, and made his home here—far away, where the sorcerer would not look for him."
Something about the story left Bron shivering in fear. It wasn't just the tale of the skinwalker, it was the strangers in town, Bron's worries about the school—a mounting pile of things.
Mike fell silent, then asked in a happy tone, "Who wants chicken?"
He grabbed the bucket from Olivia and began to fill up plates. Olivia just sat with her hands folded. She looked to Mike, "But we don't believe in skinwalkers in this house, do we?"
She said it as if it were an old argument, as if she had trouble with Mike's superstitions.
Mike stopped grabbing food and stared up at her guiltily. "Well, I don't know...." he said. "I've heard a lot of strange stories. Doctor Carnaghan used to work down on the reservation, and he saw one once when he was getting ready to land his bush plane. He said it looked like half-man, half black bear, and it ran on all fours. He clocked it at forty-five miles an hour!"
"But we don't believe such stories, do we?" Olivia urged.
"You know what I believe?" Mike said, not to be cornered. "I believe that the world is stranger than we know, and we should eat this chicken before it gets any colder!"
After dinner, the Hernandez family didn't watch television like normal people do. Olivia got out her guitar and showed Bron her fingering techniques. She played a song that she had composed, using picks on each finger, thumping the guitar like a drum, humming a counter-melody.
It was a song about wind rushing over water, and pine trees creaking in the hills, and a bold elk coming out of the forest at dawn, with its rack held high, as it smelled the world of men for the first time.
At least, that's the picture that formed in Bron's head, and the music was just like that—sounds turning to pictures and colors and emotions all rolled into one.
Olivia wasn't just good, Bron decided within a minute. She was phenomenal—too good to be hiding her gift out here in the woods. He'd thought that she was exaggerating when she said that she'd once given a lesson to Joe Satriani. Now he realized that she had probably told the truth.
Yet if she was one of the best guitarists in the world, Bron wondered, what was she doing hiding up here in the mountains, in the middle of nowhere, wasting her time teaching kids? She should be working in music studios. She could be playing guest leads for major vocal talent. She could be making millions!
As he frowned at these thoughts, he glanced up into Olivia's eyes. She wasn't even watching her hands! She was staring right into Bron's face, as if daring him to ask her,
"Why?"
Yet he knew from her expression that she wouldn't answer.
She played a couple of songs, then Mike began to sing, and she accompanied. Bron suspected that they did this every night.
But on the third song, Olivia asked Bron, "Why don't you get out your guitar? I'll be happy to teach you a few tricks, maybe even a few that Joe Satriani doesn't know."
Bron ducked his head shyly. Olivia was so much better than him. It would be like a concert pianist playing chopsticks with a six year old.
"I've never played in front of other people," he apologized.
"At least you could sing with us," Olivia suggested, but Bron shook his head. His singing was even worse. A knot of alarm coiled in his stomach.
"You don't sing or play in front of others?"
He shook his head. "At my last home, I wasn't allowed to do it in the house."
"No one's that bad," Olivia said.
"Mr. Stillman worked as a trucker," Bron explained. "When he got home, he needed to sleep. Melvina, his wife, had a touch of tinnitus. She didn't want me making noise in the house."
"Music is never 'noise,'" Olivia said. "Even when it isn't played well. There's more going on here than it seems. This Melvina sounds as if she has a cruel streak."
Bron shrugged. "I've known worse."
"You're starting in a school for the performing arts on Monday," Olivia said in exasperation, "and you don't perform?"
"Not in public," Bron said.
Mike teased, "Dude, you got to grow a set on you, and fast!"
Bron fell silent, thoughtful, and got his guitar. He picked one of his favorites, Green Day's "Boulevard of Broken Dreams," and for the first time ever, he dared sing the lyrics in front of others.
It wasn't great. He wasn't used to singing and playing at the same time, and he fumbled in a couple of places. When he finished, he felt queasy.
Mike didn't say anything, simply smiled, but Olivia offered, "Good job, Bron. Tomorrow we'll start practice."
Bron fell silent, thoughtful. "Olivia, can you show me my room now?" he asked. He felt wearier than he'd imagined. It was as if he'd been running on adrenaline all day, and now he just wanted to collapse.
She and Mike took him to a large room at the back of the house. It had once been a woodshed, in the old days when the house was heated by the fireplace, but now it was insulated and boarded in. A single window with no curtains let in the starlight. The bulb, a 40-watt, hardly chased back the shadows. There was a dresser in the room, and a closet, but the whole place smelled of dust.
A back door to the house was at the far end of the room, locked with an ancient-looking deadbolt.
"We'll have to clean up in here tomorrow," Olivia apologized. "We hardly ever use the guest room. We could try opening the window to let in some fresh air, if you like?"
She went to open the window, but Mike stopped her. "Wait until we're gone, and turn out the lights first. There's no screen in that window, and the light will attract moths."
Mike said goodnight, and Bron sat on the bed for a moment. Olivia just stood, staring at him, as if she wanted to speak but didn't dare.
He felt that she was on the verge of opening up, so he asked, "What is it that you're hiding from, Olivia?" She paused in thought. "Is it just those people who chased us?" Bron suggested. "Or are you afraid of the cops, too?"
Olivia smiled sadly. "Not now. Not so close to sleep."
To his surprise, she grabbed him by the shoulders, leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. "My mother kissed me goodnight when I was young," she explained, "every single night. Even the last night that I saw her in the hospital, dying from cancer, she did it. It was comforting. I miss my goodnight kisses."
The closeness, the tenderness that she showed, had an effect on Bron. It was warm and comforting, and he wanted to try it again. She turned out the light, then went to the window and opened it a crack, and he could not help but notice how shapely she was in the starlight. She had a dancer's figure. She probably had to do a lot of dancing if she taught musical theater. He felt creepy being attracted to her.