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Authors: Alyson Noël
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we gather our belongings and find our way back. The elders maintaining a wide berth around me now that my truth is revealed.
They fear me.
No doubt they should.
Still, it’s nothing compared to the fear I feel toward myself.
TEN
DAIRE
After a busy day of performing healings and determining the spirit animals of newborns (always my favorite), I head for Kachina’s stall in search of some fresh air and
the clarity that often comes from a nice long ride. Needing to slip away for a bit before my house fills with friends and I’ll be forced to make good on Lita’s request that I start
accepting their offers to help.
Kachina bobs her head up and down and whinnies in greeting, as Cat crouches and glares from the corner of the stall. Though he doesn’t scram the second he sees me as he usually does, and I
consider that progress.
I toss a bridle onto Kachina and lead her from the yard. Allowing my horse to wander aimlessly as my mind does the same.
Usually I try hard to guide it, stay focused, on track. But today my fatigue overrules me, and it’s not long before I’m immersed in the memory of the day we lowered my
abuela
’s body into the earth. The ripe scent of freshly churned soil—the plaintive call of the lone raven soaring overhead—so immediate, so accessible, it’s as
though I’m transported in time.
It’s been six full months since she passed.
Six full months since Cade Richter’s last heinous act.
Still, the pain of losing her is so raw, so real, it’s like a festering wound that refuses to heal.
I can’t imagine ever not feeling this way.
Can’t imagine how I’ll ever learn to live with the big, gaping void that remains in her place.
As always, Kachina displays an uncanny ability to tune in to my moods, if not my needs, when she leads me straight to the small, humble graveyard that rests off the side of the road.
The first time I came here, I instantly pegged it as shabby, random, and tragically run-down. But once I took the time to settle in and appreciate the abundance of handmade crosses and
markers—the fat handfuls of blooms lovingly gathered in honor of loved ones; the helium-heavy balloons tethered to rocks, commemorating those who’ve passed on—I was quick to
change my tune.
It’s a place of love, honor, and reverence.
It’s a place I’ve come to think of as sacred.
And it’s been far too long since my last visit.
I slide off Kachina’s back and give her a light slap on the rear. Urging her to wander and graze, as my feet instinctively carry me to the simple, rectangular plaques marking the place
where the bodies of my father and grandmother rest.
Paloma once warned me to never mistake the gravesite as the soul’s final resting place. Assuring me that communion is possible anywhere. Still, at this particular moment, this is the place
I most need to be. And I’m grateful for my horse having realized the truth that eluded me.
The patchy, parched grass pricks at my knees as I drop to the ground and take a good look around. Relieved to confirm that the magick wrought by the elders has stuck, and any attempt by the
Richters to desecrate the place has been successfully thwarted. The grounds remain as untouched as the day Paloma brought me here to reveal the tragic truth of my father’s brief life.
The son of a powerful Seeker and revered Jaguar shaman, Django was destined to wield formidable power. But he turned his back on his destiny and ran off to L.A. at sixteen, only to fall madly in
love with my mom, then die just a few months later in a motorcycle crash Paloma claims was no accident.
It was the work of the Richters.
Only they acted just a few days too late.
The seed was already planted.
Jennika was pregnant with me.
Yet, despite my vow to not repeat Django’s mistakes—to live up to my legacy and accept the destiny I was born to claim—sometimes I fear that I’m failing.
Missing the signs.
Falling remarkably short.
Though I’m not here to
They fear me.
No doubt they should.
Still, it’s nothing compared to the fear I feel toward myself.
TEN
DAIRE
After a busy day of performing healings and determining the spirit animals of newborns (always my favorite), I head for Kachina’s stall in search of some fresh air and
the clarity that often comes from a nice long ride. Needing to slip away for a bit before my house fills with friends and I’ll be forced to make good on Lita’s request that I start
accepting their offers to help.
Kachina bobs her head up and down and whinnies in greeting, as Cat crouches and glares from the corner of the stall. Though he doesn’t scram the second he sees me as he usually does, and I
consider that progress.
I toss a bridle onto Kachina and lead her from the yard. Allowing my horse to wander aimlessly as my mind does the same.
Usually I try hard to guide it, stay focused, on track. But today my fatigue overrules me, and it’s not long before I’m immersed in the memory of the day we lowered my
abuela
’s body into the earth. The ripe scent of freshly churned soil—the plaintive call of the lone raven soaring overhead—so immediate, so accessible, it’s as
though I’m transported in time.
It’s been six full months since she passed.
Six full months since Cade Richter’s last heinous act.
Still, the pain of losing her is so raw, so real, it’s like a festering wound that refuses to heal.
I can’t imagine ever not feeling this way.
Can’t imagine how I’ll ever learn to live with the big, gaping void that remains in her place.
As always, Kachina displays an uncanny ability to tune in to my moods, if not my needs, when she leads me straight to the small, humble graveyard that rests off the side of the road.
The first time I came here, I instantly pegged it as shabby, random, and tragically run-down. But once I took the time to settle in and appreciate the abundance of handmade crosses and
markers—the fat handfuls of blooms lovingly gathered in honor of loved ones; the helium-heavy balloons tethered to rocks, commemorating those who’ve passed on—I was quick to
change my tune.
It’s a place of love, honor, and reverence.
It’s a place I’ve come to think of as sacred.
And it’s been far too long since my last visit.
I slide off Kachina’s back and give her a light slap on the rear. Urging her to wander and graze, as my feet instinctively carry me to the simple, rectangular plaques marking the place
where the bodies of my father and grandmother rest.
Paloma once warned me to never mistake the gravesite as the soul’s final resting place. Assuring me that communion is possible anywhere. Still, at this particular moment, this is the place
I most need to be. And I’m grateful for my horse having realized the truth that eluded me.
The patchy, parched grass pricks at my knees as I drop to the ground and take a good look around. Relieved to confirm that the magick wrought by the elders has stuck, and any attempt by the
Richters to desecrate the place has been successfully thwarted. The grounds remain as untouched as the day Paloma brought me here to reveal the tragic truth of my father’s brief life.
The son of a powerful Seeker and revered Jaguar shaman, Django was destined to wield formidable power. But he turned his back on his destiny and ran off to L.A. at sixteen, only to fall madly in
love with my mom, then die just a few months later in a motorcycle crash Paloma claims was no accident.
It was the work of the Richters.
Only they acted just a few days too late.
The seed was already planted.
Jennika was pregnant with me.
Yet, despite my vow to not repeat Django’s mistakes—to live up to my legacy and accept the destiny I was born to claim—sometimes I fear that I’m failing.
Missing the signs.
Falling remarkably short.
Though I’m not here to
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