The elderly gentleman had character carved into his face, arroyos and washes of years trailing above and below his mouth, around his eyes, and down his neck. His black cowboy hat sported a silver band set with turquoise in the front, and he had a buttoned-up broadcloth shirt tucked into his jeans. He had a giant chunk of turquoise floating at the base of his throat, because he’d apparently missed the memo that said bolo ties were out of style and quite likely had never been in style at all. His belt buckle was an enormous silver job worked in fine detail, though I couldn’t say what the design was, since I didn’t take time to examine it carefully. I was too distracted by his aura, which had the telltale white light of a magic user in it.
“That’s Frank Chischilly,” Coyote said. “He’s a hataałii.”
<Did he say hot tamale?> Oberon asked as I shook hands with Frank.
No, he said hataałii. In the Navajo language, it kinda sorta means a medicine man.
<Who needs medicine?>
Excellent question.
“I’m honored to meet you, sir,” I said.
“Likewise,” he replied. To Granuaile, he didn’t offer his hand but rather tipped his hat and said, “Miss.” His voice was scratchy and warm, like a wool blanket.
“What brings you out here, Mr. Chischilly?” Granuaile asked before I could.
“Well, he has to be here,” Coyote explained.
“Oh,” Granuaile said, nodding, then added, “Sorry, but why does he have to be here? I’m not too clear on what that thing was you called him. Are you a tribal official, Mr. Chischilly?”
“Nope,” he said, a faint trace of a smile on his chapped lips. “I’m here to do the Blessing Way ceremony, once we get a hogan built up there.”
“Cool!” Granuaile said, a huge grin lighting her face, and then it disappeared, replaced by uncertainty as Frank’s vague amusement vanished. “Oh. I mean … I didn’t mean to assume. I would love to watch, but I’m not sure if that’s allowed. I actually don’t know what the Blessing Way ceremony is, so forgive me if I just sort of stepped on your toes there, I feel really stupid if that makes you feel any better, and—”
Chischilly raised a hand to stop her stream of apologies and gave a shrug. “Hey, it’s okay with me if it’s okay with Mr. Benally.”
Before I could ask who Mr. Benally was, Coyote said, “It’s okay with me.”
Interesting. Granuaile and I pivoted on our heels to face Coyote with our eyebrows raised, and Oberon said, <Hey, if everyone around here is going to use a fake name, then I should have one too!>
“Thank you, Mr. Benally,” I said, emphasizing the name.
<I want to be introduced to these people as Snugglepumpkin. You have to say it seriously too, Atticus; you can’t laugh.>
Sophie Betsuie chose that moment to ask, “Is this your dog? What’s his name?”
“Snugglepumpkin,” I said.
Sophie snorted in disbelief but recovered rapidly, wiping a nascent grin off her face. “Oh. That’s really his name?”
<Tell her yes! Play it straight.>
But why?
<Just do it!>
I nodded somberly. “That’s his name.”
“Oh. Well, that’s … simply … adorable.” Sophie put her hands flat on her thighs and bent her knees a bit as she looked at Oberon. Her voice took on that saccharine-sweet tone people use when they talk to something they think is cute. “Yes, you’re adorable, aren’t you? Are you a good boy, Snugglepumpkin?”
Oberon wagged his tail and came over within petting distance.
“Oh, yes, you are a good boy, yes, you are.” She stopped making sense and instead made high-pitched squeals of delight as she scratched Oberon’s giant head; the rest of us stood and watched as a woman with an advanced degree completely lost her mind.
Okay, explain to me what you’re doing, I said.
<I’m testing a hypothesis, and so far it’s working. It states that any human female who can be classified as a “dog person,” when confronted with a friendly-looking dog of any breed bearing a ridiculously cute name, will begin to make sounds at least two octaves above her normal register within thirty seconds of meeting said dog. She went there in less than ten seconds.> He sounded particularly smug about that last part.
Oberon, you shouldn’t have done this.
<I am Snugglepumpkin. Hear me roar.>
When she snaps out of it she’s going to be embarrassed, and we just met her.
<Bacon is the Way and the Truth! But I’m beginning to have my doubts. These noises she’s making are kind of annoying.>
Bark once and she’ll stop out of surprise.
Oberon barked.
“Oh! You’re getting excited, aren’t you, Snugglepumpkin? I’d better stop, then.”
<Hey, good call, Atticus.>
“So how long you think it’s gonna take you to get that road graded for us up to the top of the mesa?” Coyote said, redirecting us back to business. “I wanna start buildin’ that hogan as soon as possible.”
“Should be good to go by tomorrow morning,” I replied.
Sophie frowned. “I beg your pardon? You’re going to have a functional road built to the top of that mesa by tomorrow morning?”
This was also news to Darren Yazzie, whose workers would presumably be accomplishing all this. “Wait, how are we gonna do that? We don’t have the right equipment out here.”
Whoops. Coyote had already clued me in that these people weren’t aware of his true nature — or mine — but I’d answered him without adjusting for “normal” ears. I covered brilliantly: “Uh—”
“I think we’re talkin’ ’bout two differ’nt things,” Coyote interrupted, a sly smile on his face and a glint in his eye that told me he was enjoying my mistake. “Don’t mind Mr. Collins here. He’s just a geologist. Completely worthless when it comes to buildin’ shit. He can ’splain the fuck outuva rock though, heh heh.”
I shot Coyote a glare while Granuaile coughed to hide a laugh. Darren and Sophie confined themselves to smiles, but Frank Chischilly chuckled hoarsely.
<I think he got your goat, Atticus! And I’ve been meaning to ask you about that expression. When people get your goat, what do they do with it? Do they eat it or hold it for ransom or what?>
See, this is why I enjoy Oberon’s constant commentary. Much of the time it’s a bit distracting and funny enough that I might laugh inappropriately in the face of people who can’t hear what he says. But in this case, it saved me. If he hadn’t been around to point out that I looked irritated, I might have said something stupid and escalated things with Coyote. Instead, I excused myself by saying, “It was nice to meet you all, and I hope to speak with you later. I have some work to do right now though.” I turned and strode up the incline to the base of the mesa, Oberon and Granuaile following in my wake.
Typically you never get your goat back, I explained to Oberon. So you’re left with two choices. Either you let it go and get another metaphorical goat, or you try to get their goat in a sort of eye-for-an-eye revenge thing. Most people get another goat.
<Wow. Sounds like a sweet deal for the metaphorical goatherders! Those guys must be livin’ large.>
“That was an interesting encounter,” Granuaile observed, once we were safely out of earshot. I grunted sourly, and my apprentice laughed. “You’re going to build that road tonight out of spite, aren’t you?”
I grinned, amused that she could read me so easily. “If I can get the elemental to cooperate, I will. Then I want to see our so-called Mr. Benally explain it to Sophie and Darren, because I’m supposed to be a geologist who can’t build shit.”