Thunderbird Falls. C.E. Murphy
I’d done detail work, fixing up chips in peoples’ paint, so to speak. My coworker Bruce got a hairline fracture on his ankle and the doctors had been astounded at how quickly he healed. Not quite overnight, but within a few days he was running again, without discomfort. I took a perverse pleasure in smoothing over hangnails and papercuts when I shook hands. One of the books I’d read said those who needed healing had to believe the healing could be done. I’d discovered that for small physical injuries, being unaware that healing was taking place was just about as good.
But none of it was earth-shattering, world-saving stuff, and the truth was, most of it made no long-term difference to the people I’d helped.
My shoulders inched farther toward my ears. “Look, I promise I’ll do better, okay? Go away.”
“I can’t do that, Joanne. I’m committing myself to teaching you, and unlike you, I take that responsibility seriously.”
Anger flared in my belly, sending blood up to stain my cheeks and make my ears hot. “It’s not that I don’t take it seriously. I just never asked for this in the first place—”
“But you accepted it.” There was a note of smugness in her voice, almost as unlikable as my whining. “Do you accept me as your teacher, Joanne Walker?”
I scowled at the pond. Coyote wanted me to have a teacher. “Did Coyote send you?”
“I beg your pardon?” Genuine surprise filled her voice. “You called out for help twice today. Traditionally it takes three cries, but I thought you might not want to wait. You expected someone as powerful as Coyote to send you a teacher?”
My shoulders couldn’t hunch any farther, so I tightened my arms around my ribs. “It seemed likely. Anyway, I didn’t know I was yelling for help.”
Judy pursed her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said after a moment. “If you’re on casual terms with Coyote, maybe I misinterpreted your need for help.” She got to her feet as smoothly as she’d sat, bowing her head toward me. “I hope I’ll see you again, Joanne.” She began to fade, again not like Coyote, but as if she were a ghost.
I gritted my teeth and dug my fingers into my ribs. “Wait.”
The fade stopped and she lifted her head again, one eyebrow raised in question. I clenched my jaw a couple of times before asking, “Who are you? I mean, how do I know you’re qualified to teach me? Do you even exist outside here?” I swept the fingers of one hand in a circle, more meaning to encompass the astral realm than my garden.
Judy gave me a very brief, wry smile. “You mean, would I answer if you dropped me an e-mail message? Not usually. I’m terrible about checking it. As for qualified…” She spread her hands and lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “I’ve practiced magic for most of my existence. We could try a handful of lessons and you could decide if I’m the teacher for you.”
“Most of your existence?” I thought that was a weird word to choose, and it showed in my voice. Judy’s smile went less wry and more open.
“You, of all people, should know that life is too limited a term for those who walk in other realms.”
I remembered, quite vividly, a sour-faced shaman who was irritated at her untimely death because she was young in the practice of shamanism, and others who had been tolerant of her because they had far more experience, even though some of them looked much younger in years. I rubbed my hand over my eyes. “Yeah. I guess so. All right.” I pressed my lips together and looked at her again. “All right, fine. We’ll see how it goes for, like, three lessons, okay? And then I get to reevaluate.” The crystal wall I’d built had dimmed during our conversation, a physical sign that I was relenting mentally.
Judy smiled and ducked her head in another semibow. “Wonderful. We’ll meet here tomorrow at six to begin.”
“Six? In the morning?”
“The mind is clearer and less burdened after dreaming.”
I groaned. “Okay. Six. God.”
Judy grinned, took one step backward, and disappeared.
“Out of sight, out of mind,” I muttered. I wished I thought I’d accomplished ridding myself of her, but it was painfully clear that she’d opted to leave on her own. I curled a lip grouchily and cast out my consciousness, calling for Coyote.
There was no answer.
I opened my eyes again, watching the clock mark away seconds in clicks that hadn’t seemed loud when I went under. I had fifteen seconds of lunch break left, and a sour lump of doughnut in my belly.
The second hand swept to the top. I got to my feet and walked out of the office, saying, “Hey,” unbidden when Thor accidentally met my eyes. He jerked his head in a nod, a startled, “Hey,” following me up the stairs.
Another “Hey,” caught my attention as I headed for the front doors, Billy swinging around a corner to grin beefily down at me. “Joanie. There you are. Snakes are good juju. Thought you’d like to know.”
I stared at him for a couple of seconds, then shook myself. “Could’ve fooled me. What do you mean?”
“Looked ’em up on the Net, but I really should’ve known it before. I mean, think about it. The Hippocratic symbol—”
“—a staff with the snakes twined around it. Duh.”
Billy grinned. “Yep. Duh. So, yeah, basically, good vibes. They’re symbols of healing and renewal and change.”
I thought of Judy, shifting from snake to woman in my garden, and tried to smile. “Great. Good. I could use some.”
Billy’s eyebrows drew down. “You okay, Joanie? You look like you lost your best friend.”
Memory hit me in the sternum, so real and immediate that my breath stopped. I lifted my hand, pressing the heel against my breastbone, trying to clear the tightness. My heart pounded in fast, thick pulses that brought the doughnut back up to the gagging point, making me swallow heavily. Color burned my cheeks, and I resented my fair skin all over again.
“Joanie? Are you okay?” Billy caught my shoulders, concern wrinkling his forehead. My vision was cloudy, a haze settling down between us. For a few seconds all I could do was remember.
I was fifteen and my father and I had been living in North Carolina for over a year, by far the longest time I’d ever lived in one place in my life. I’d never been anywhere long enough to make good friends; that pretty, petite Sara Buchanan had chosen me as a best friend was a source of regular amazement and pleasure to me. But in memory, her eyebrows were drawn down over angry hazel eyes, and the golden-brown skin that I envied so much was suffused with furious red.
She’d said she didn’t like him. I was already terrified by what I’d done in trying to fit in, trying to make a boy like me. I hadn’t meant for things to go as far as they did, and I only wanted someone to tell me it’d be okay. She’d said she didn’t like him, and when I’d whispered that, confused and frightened, she’d barked derisive laughter at me. I lied! God, what was I supposed to say, yeah, I like him? How obvious is that? God, Joanne, don’t you know anything?
“No.” I whispered it now, just like I’d done then. No, I didn’t know anything. I’d grown up solitary enough, with my father rather than girls for company, that I’d honestly had no idea that her hair-tossing denial had been a front.
Tiny black spots of panic swam at the corners of my vision, etching around the memory of Sara until she stood out, full of vibrant color, against an inky background. There was fear in my stomach, more potent than what I’d felt with the boy. The First Boy; even in memory I didn’t let myself think his name. Panic edged through me, so I could feel the flow of blood fluttering through my heart, little missed murmurs that I couldn’t catch my breath to banish. Like the tide coming in, sound thrummed against my eardrums, blocking out Sara’s words, although I could see them in the shape of her mouth.
I’m