“No, there’s all kinds of evil, just like there’s all kinds of good. What I need to know is where the source is. We’re not dealing with the Christian hell here or rakshasas from the Vedic planes. Where is the evil coming from? This plane or somewhere else?”
“Oh, I see what you mean now. The spirits come from First World.”
“That’s Black World, right?” I asked. I knew some of the basics of the Navajo faith, but I was by no means an expert. Their creation story follows the Emergence pattern, where people emerge into this world after climbing through several subterranean levels, evolving as they go. According to what little I knew, our plane is Fourth World, which is sometimes called Glittering World or White World. Granuaile appeared lost but didn’t interrupt to ask.
“Yep, that’s Black World,” Frank said.
“How’d they get all the way up here?” I wondered.
“Answer to that depends on who you ask. You want my guess?”
“Absolutely.”
“I think they been here all along, since the world was first bein’ made. We know that monsters an’ spirits from the lower worlds came here to Fourth World in the beginning. But Changing Woman sent her sons, Monster Slayer and Child-Born-of-Water, to kill ’em all. I think they got most of the monsters — they left old age, hunger, cold, and poverty behind on purpose.”
“Ah, but they didn’t take care of all the spirits, right?”
“Right. Those spirits from First World, they were spirits of the air, but mostly ornery insects — angry beetles, ants, locusts, dragonflies, and the like. They got kicked out of all the other worlds for fightin’ all the time, always wantin’ to dominate someone else. Most of ’em got turned into real bugs, but some didn’t and remained spirits. And the way I figure it is, when a soul turns as black as Black World, these old spirits find them a comfortin’ touch of home, and if they’re called to move in, they will. That’s what a skinwalker is: a mean asshole with a meaner spirit squatting inside.”
<I’ve run into some of those at the dog park,> Oberon said. <They’re usually attached to Chihuahuas.>
“Hmm. All right, I’ve never dealt with anything like this before, but I’ll see what I can do.”
The hataałii didn’t say anything, merely nodded and turned his attention back to the fire. Granuaile and I exited and rejoined Oberon outside. We walked off a short distance and spoke in low tones so that no one could hear, save perhaps Oberon.
“You have a way of warding against skinwalkers, sensei?” Granuaile asked.
I shook my head. “Not specifically. I’ve never been down to First World or run into a skinwalker before. It’s been centuries since I’ve had to deal with any sort of Native American magic. I’ve been hiding in cities to stay away from the Fae, and all the shamans or holy men are hiding out on the reservations.”
“When was the last time you dealt with any?”
“Well, there was this rain god of the Maya who gave me a bit of trouble.”
“The Maya! Do you know what happened to them?”
“Not for certain, but they might have left this plane. They had a priest who could do it. But this is a completely different belief system,” I said, waving back at the hogan, “and so the rules of the magic are different as well. If I wanted to work up something to ward specifically against a skinwalker, I’d have to confront it first and see the pattern of it in the magical spectrum. General wards against magic from another plane may or may not work. And that’s the problem with wards, Granuaile.” I figured I might as well embrace the teachable moment. “You can’t ward against everything, and sometimes the bad guys will win through or around it despite your best efforts. So you know what happens in that case?”
“The bad guys win?”
“What, automatically? Getting past your wards means you’re instant toast?”
“Well, no, I’d fight first.”
“Exactly. You fight. The problem is you don’t know how.”
Granuaile huffed, her pride wounded. “I’ve taken some kickboxing lessons.”
I grinned at her. “Ah, you have? Bring it.” I set myself in a defensive stance.
My apprentice scowled at the idea. “You’ll use magic.”
“I promise I won’t. Not even a little—”
She didn’t lack for initiative. She pivoted and shot a kick at my gut before I finished the sentence. I pivoted as well and her toes grazed my belly, no more. I knew she was the athletic sort, but I hadn’t seen her exert herself until now. She was fast. Lunging in, I socked her in the stomach before she could recover and she staggered back, wheezing. I didn’t press my advantage, and she didn’t seem eager to continue.
“You know a bit more than kickboxing, don’t you?” she said.
I nodded. “Considerably more. We could do the whole Pai Mei thing if you want, but I’d rather not hurt you and I don’t have the flowing white beard to pull it off respectably.”
<If I grow out the hair underneath my chin until I look like Pai Mei, will you brush it to keep it silky yet intimidating?>
It will drag on the ground and get dirty every time you go to smell something or eat. It will be a mess.
<Oh. Good point.>
Thank you. Hound 4, Druid 3.
<Awww!>
“That’s all right, sensei, I’ll take your word for it,” Granuaile said, clutching her stomach. “Do I have to carry water up the mesa or something? Wax my car? Paint the rocks?”
“No,” I said, smiling at the movie tropes. “I don’t think I need to break your will. But we do need to train your muscles and get you accustomed to fighting with weapons.”
“I’m going to need a sword, then?”
“We will train with swords, yes, but I don’t think that will be your best weapon. Your size and reach will put you at a constant disadvantage in a sword fight. I think a staff would be better for you, and we will see what you can do with a throwing knife.”
“How will a staff and some throwing knives help against some brute who bull-rushes me with his shield up? Or a smart guy with a gun?”
“An excellent question. Every weapon has its drawbacks. We’ll prepare you for all kinds of antagonists.”
“What about automatic weapons? Can you pull a Neo and dodge bullets?”
<Told you Neo was a badass.>
“Nope. I cheat if I have the time. I dissolve the firing mechanism with a spell of unbinding.”
“And what if you don’t have the time?” That was an even better question — a dawning ray of paranoia that should be encouraged. “What about snipers?” she added, and I almost burst with pride. I settled for clenching my fist and drawing it down close to my body.
“Yesss! I ask myself that question every day and everywhere I go. Well done. And the answer is, you look around.” I pointed up at the buttes above us to the north and south. “I can’t stand where they’re placing this hogan, because we’re in the ideal spot to get picked off. You have to see the snipers before they see you, take cover, and then unbind their toys into hunks of useless metal.”
“But if you don’t see them in time, or if they have one of those fancy plastic guns, you can’t do anything.”
“Right. Except duck. Druids aren’t invincible, or else there would be more of us around.”
Granuaile turned to consider the hogan, which was lined in the red glow of the setting sun.
“So how do you create a ward, anyway?”
“You can think of it like a Boolean search on the Internet. You begin by defining your boundary—‘all life is okay in here’—and then you layer on the exclusions. ‘And not frakkin’ Cylons and not douche bags and not Imperial Stormtroopers.’ ”
“That’s it?”