Kokopelli’s Thunder

The instrument (of fate) watched the two riders talking quietly. They were passing the stone back and forth – as if a mere trinket. It felt hot; its blood started to boil. Humans are so much trouble, it reflected. So ignorant. So weak. So delicious. It power-stroked and rose to a higher altitude, rolled over on its back and coasted through high clouds upside down. The quiet and the cold soaked into its body, refreshing and recharging. The two figures below rode towards zatu shdishdaoh, the old home of the quetz’al trainers. It was a smaller apartment complex that overlooked the quetz’al pen a long time ago. Now just a few walls and covered with scrub, it watched over this lonely lookout in almost complete isolation. Without shade and no trees, it was only habitable to snakes and scorpions. As they approached the ruins, one of the riders, the darker-skinned one, spurred his horse and ran away from the white man heading south across the top of the mesa. Oh, the waiting had been hard. Now it was almost over. … A panic started to build in his gut. Weatherby had expected a trap; he hadn’t expected betrayal. His mind raced and tried to dissect the last thing the Navajo had said before bolting like a scared rabbit: “Such a thing cannot be sold. Such a thing is beyond sacred. He will not abide it.” Rolling the last phrase over in his mind, he wondered who native had been talking about. Then, he recalled the his companion rubbing the Kokopelli pendant for luck, and he began to construct a scenario: this mystery buyer they were going to meet must have played Alta’s superstitions against him and scared the “beejesus” out of him – and it had worked. The rising panic turned to anger, and he called after the Navajo, “You’ll get yours for this, you superstitious bastard!” A wad of spit and tobacco flew after the fleeing Navajo, along with a string of expletives. He was just on the north side of Tsin Kletzin and started backing his horse away from the ruins while he pulled-out his Winchester and chambered a round. Drawing the rifle to his shoulder, he scanned the ruins. It was really an odd place for an ambush because there were few places to hide, and no more than two or three people could hide behind the few crumbling walls. “And there you are,” he said to himself, taking aim at the small man who had come from behind one of the walls. The man was clearly a native, not only was his skin dark, but he was wearing one of their ridiculous dancing outfits: a cape with a big lump in the back, a feathery head-dress that made it look like wild hair that was aflame, and a long flute. “Very clever,” he complimented the man under his breath. Then he yelled, “I ain’t fallin’ for that Kokopelli crap.” He emphasized his point by firing a shot over the man’s head. “You get on outa here.” Weatherby lowered his aim; the next shot would be fatal. “If I ever see you again, I’ll kill ya where you stand. Go on now!” The man calmly lifted the wooden flute to his mouth, and long low tones started to come out of it. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he screamed. Genuine fear began to swell inside him. “Get outa here.” Weatherby fired another warning shot. Though a crooked thief who would take someone for a ride, he was no murderer but began to think that he really was going to have to shoot this bastard. … At last, the Master called. Fate answered. The wait had been nearly unbearable, but the rush was worth it. It had been so long since he had hunted – at least a couple of decades. Every fiber of his sinewy body was stretched taught with anticipation and thrill. The pale dog and its dark rider were still running south. So much the better for a chase, he thought. The white rider and his dog were pointing a thunder weapon at Master. A surprise. If he had had lips, he might have curled them into a smile. The insolent human with the weapon must be dealt with first. He pounded his wings, filling the air with the sound of his might. Air rushed past him, filling him with energy and feeding his rising adrenaline rush. Master’s call still rang out, filling him with ecstasy. Folding his wings, he dropped vertically, gaining speed with every second. Once he was almost even with the plateau of the South Mesa, he opened his wings, membranes shaking violently and booming out his thunderous war cry. I am Tuhj. And my thunder is the last you will ever know. Cutting sharply, he flew just few feet off the ground, his target only now aware of the danger. In moments the prize would be his. Master would be so pleased.