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Authors: Francesca Lia Block
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shovel in each hand. He held one out. Together, Cherokee and Coyote began to dig a hole in the dirt in the center of the circle. Dust clouds rose, glowing pink as the sun set, and the pink dust filled Cherokee’s eyes and mouth.
The hooves were much heavier than they looked, heavier, even, than Cherokee remembered them, and the bristles poked out, grazing her bare arms. The hooves smelled bad, ancient, bitter. She dropped them into their grave. Then she and Coyote filled the grave up with earth and patted the earth with their palms. The dust settled, the sun slipped away, darkness eased over everything.
Coyote built a fire on the earth where the hooves were buried. The flames were dancerson a stage, swooning with their own beauty.
Angel Juan was staring into these flames. His horns lay at the edge of the fire and Cherokee remembered her dream of flame horns springing from goat foreheads. She watched Angel Juan stand and pick up the horns. Then Coyote held out his arms and Angel Juan went to him, placing the horns in Coyote’s hands. Coyote set the horns down in the fire and embraced Angel Juan. Like a little boy who has not seen his father in many years. Angel Juan buried his head against Coyote’s chest. All the pride and strength in his slim shoulders seemed to fall away as Coyote held him. When he moved back to sit beside Witch Baby, his forehead was smooth, no longer strained with the weight or the memory of the horns.
Later, after Cherokee, Raphael, Witch Baby and Angel Juan had left, looking like children who have played all day in the sea and eaten sandy fruit in the sun and gone home sleepy and warm and safe; later, when the fire had gone out. Coyote took the horns from the log ashes and brushed them off. Then Coyote Dream Song carried the horns back inside.
When Cherokee and Raphael got back to the canyon house, they set up the tepee on the grass and crept inside it. They lay on their backs, not touching, looking at the leaf shadows flickering on the canvas, and trying to identify the flowers they smelled in the warm air.
“Honey suckle.”
“Orange blossom.”
“Rose.”
“The sea.”
“The sea! That doesn’t count!”
“I smell it like it’s growing in the yard.”
They giggled the way they used to when they were very young. Then they were quiet. Raphael sat up and took Cherokee’s feet in his hands.
“Do they still hurt?” he asked, stroking them tenderly. He moved his hands up over her whole body, as if he were painting her, bringing color into her white skin. As if he were playing her—his guitar. And all the hurt seemed to float out of her like music.
They woke in the morning curled together.
“Remember how when we were really little we used to have the same dreams?” Cherokee whispered.
“It was like going on trips together.”
“It stopped when we started making love.”
“I know.”
“But last night …”
“Orchards of hawks and apricots,” Raphael said, remembering.
“Sheer pink-and-gold cliffs.”
“The sky was wings.”
“The night beasts run beside us, not afraid. Dream-horses carry us …”
“To the sea,” they said together as they heard a car pull into the driveway and their parents’ voices calling their names.
At the end of the summer. The Goat Guys set up their instruments on the redwood stage their families had helped them build behind the canyon house. Thick sticks of incense burned and paper lanterns shone in the trees like huge white cocoons full of electric butterflies. A picnic of salsa, home-baked bread stillsteaming in its crust, hibiscus lemonade and cake decorated with fresh flowers was spread on the lawn. Summer had ripened to its fullest—a fruit ready to drop, leaving the autumn tree glowing faint amber with its memory as the band played on the stage for their families and friends.
Cherokee looked at the rest of The Coat Guys playing their instruments beside her. Even dressed in jeans and T-shirts, Raphael and Angel
The hooves were much heavier than they looked, heavier, even, than Cherokee remembered them, and the bristles poked out, grazing her bare arms. The hooves smelled bad, ancient, bitter. She dropped them into their grave. Then she and Coyote filled the grave up with earth and patted the earth with their palms. The dust settled, the sun slipped away, darkness eased over everything.
Coyote built a fire on the earth where the hooves were buried. The flames were dancerson a stage, swooning with their own beauty.
Angel Juan was staring into these flames. His horns lay at the edge of the fire and Cherokee remembered her dream of flame horns springing from goat foreheads. She watched Angel Juan stand and pick up the horns. Then Coyote held out his arms and Angel Juan went to him, placing the horns in Coyote’s hands. Coyote set the horns down in the fire and embraced Angel Juan. Like a little boy who has not seen his father in many years. Angel Juan buried his head against Coyote’s chest. All the pride and strength in his slim shoulders seemed to fall away as Coyote held him. When he moved back to sit beside Witch Baby, his forehead was smooth, no longer strained with the weight or the memory of the horns.
Later, after Cherokee, Raphael, Witch Baby and Angel Juan had left, looking like children who have played all day in the sea and eaten sandy fruit in the sun and gone home sleepy and warm and safe; later, when the fire had gone out. Coyote took the horns from the log ashes and brushed them off. Then Coyote Dream Song carried the horns back inside.
When Cherokee and Raphael got back to the canyon house, they set up the tepee on the grass and crept inside it. They lay on their backs, not touching, looking at the leaf shadows flickering on the canvas, and trying to identify the flowers they smelled in the warm air.
“Honey suckle.”
“Orange blossom.”
“Rose.”
“The sea.”
“The sea! That doesn’t count!”
“I smell it like it’s growing in the yard.”
They giggled the way they used to when they were very young. Then they were quiet. Raphael sat up and took Cherokee’s feet in his hands.
“Do they still hurt?” he asked, stroking them tenderly. He moved his hands up over her whole body, as if he were painting her, bringing color into her white skin. As if he were playing her—his guitar. And all the hurt seemed to float out of her like music.
They woke in the morning curled together.
“Remember how when we were really little we used to have the same dreams?” Cherokee whispered.
“It was like going on trips together.”
“It stopped when we started making love.”
“I know.”
“But last night …”
“Orchards of hawks and apricots,” Raphael said, remembering.
“Sheer pink-and-gold cliffs.”
“The sky was wings.”
“The night beasts run beside us, not afraid. Dream-horses carry us …”
“To the sea,” they said together as they heard a car pull into the driveway and their parents’ voices calling their names.
At the end of the summer. The Goat Guys set up their instruments on the redwood stage their families had helped them build behind the canyon house. Thick sticks of incense burned and paper lanterns shone in the trees like huge white cocoons full of electric butterflies. A picnic of salsa, home-baked bread stillsteaming in its crust, hibiscus lemonade and cake decorated with fresh flowers was spread on the lawn. Summer had ripened to its fullest—a fruit ready to drop, leaving the autumn tree glowing faint amber with its memory as the band played on the stage for their families and friends.
Cherokee looked at the rest of The Coat Guys playing their instruments beside her. Even dressed in jeans and T-shirts, Raphael and Angel
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