One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 13, page 8

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Pí‘oro Kılímo sank down onto the cushion of meadow plants, his hand gripping his forehead.

The wolf--Zhíno--had to be lying. Névazhíno would never kill him. Pí‘oro worshipped Him.

“No. . .” he murmured.

Zhíno tilted his head and took a couple hesitant steps forward, his ears pricked up and his tail wagging leisurely.

A light breeze wafted the thick scent of blooming flowers up the hill. Far below in the endless lowlands, the dark clouds churned.

Was this really the afterlife? It felt too real to be a dream, and yet why would the afterlife feel any more real? But the wolf told him he was dead, killed by the God of Animals. So this would have to be the afterlife, such as it was. But why was the punk Zhíno here as a wolf? How was Zhíno here as a wolf? None of this made any sense.

Pí‘oro slowly shook his head.

A persistent nagging doubt edged its way into the forefront of Pí‘oro’s consciousness. Had he truly honored Névazhíno? Or had he drawn the god’s ire with the good-natured disrespect he directed toward Vata’s abilities? Would the Love of the Universe really kill him over something as petty as that?

“I can help you,” the wolf said.

Pí‘oro focused on Zhíno’s yellow eyes, open wide and full of dogged sincerity.

“What do you mean?”

Zhíno stepped closer, his tail waving higher.

“I can send you back. I can reunite your spirit with your body, using my lifeforce--the energy that Névazhíno took from you. You can go back to the world you’ve always known.”

The wolf was hiding something, and yet he clearly spoke honestly. Zhíno certainly believed he could bring Pí‘oro back to life. He believed he could undo what Névazhíno had done.

Whether this was a dream or the afterlife, Pí‘oro had nothing to lose.

“Do it.”

Zhíno bounded up the slope to stand in front of the seated Pí‘oro. He stuck out a paw.

Pí‘oro reached out and grasped the wide appendage, Zhíno’s fur coarse and bristly under Pí‘oro’s fingers.

The wolf closed his eyes, breathing much too slow for a dog.

Darkness edged in on them from all sides, and suddenly Pí‘oro fell into himself. The mountain was gone. The wolf was gone. Pí‘oro descended through black nothingness, falling and yet motionless.

Gradually, the plummeting sensation disappeared as Pí‘oro’s consciousness circled ever-tighter upon that which was familiar, that which was his identity, his world, his life, his body. With a final minute jar, Pí‘oro snapped back into reality.

He forced his eyes open.

A bumpy white ceiling stared down at him. Pí‘oro’s eyes searched lower. Vata walked toward him, her head bowed low and one hand on the neck their roan horse.

The horse snorted. Vata looked up and cried out.

Pí‘oro sat up, groaning. His body ached all over. Zhíno had revived him, but had not healed him fully.

Vata rushed to him as fast as her shuffling gait would allow. “Oh, Pí‘oro!” she whispered. “I thought you were dead!”

Pí‘oro fought through the pain to stand up and meet his wife with an expansive hug. “Vata, my love, it’s good to be back.” He inhaled deeply the lilac scent of her shampoo.

His tiny wife pulled away, tears running down her wrinkled cheeks. “Back?”

Pí‘oro’s mouth moved around for a few seconds with no words forming. “I think I may have been dead.”

“Oh, thank Névazhíno!” Vata squeezed his belly tight. “He saved you.”

As Pí‘oro held Vata close, his mind rolled over what had just transpired. It wasn’t Névazhíno who had saved him. It was Zhíno. The once-murderous young man had brought him back to life. The god, however, had killed him. The god had taken his life as if he were a worthless, little solitary ant.

If Pí‘oro hadn’t properly honored Névazhíno beforehand, he certainly wasn’t about to worship Him now. The God of Animals was far crueler than His reputation as an idiot assumed. Névazhíno was a Pétíso-damned bastard, plain and simple.

But Pí‘oro doubted he could ever tell that to Vata. It would devastate her beyond belief.

And so he merely held her tight and murmured, “I love you.”

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