One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 16, page 8

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Pí‘oro Kılímo grabbed a couple lengths of rope off a nail in the stable wall and reached for Fírí’s duffel bag.

“Give me that,” he whispered.

She shook her head as she took the roan horse’s bridle in her hand. “I’ll carry it ahead of me for now. Let’s get out of here.”

Pí‘oro shoved the rope in a saddlebag. He doubted she could ride with that bulky bag in her lap, but they didn’t have time to argue. He led the Zhíno-laden horse, a gray mare, out of the stable and through the back gate. Much to his surprise, Fírí successfully led the roan out of the yard right behind him.

“Put your left foot in that . . .” he began as he closed the gate.

Fírí deftly vaulted herself up into the saddle, her duffel already balanced on the horse’s back. Grinning widely, she whispered, “Come on, old man. Let’s go!”

Not quite the city girl I took her for.

Pushing through the lingering pain in his legs, back, and arms, Pí‘oro heaved himself on top of the gray, careful not to kick Zhíno, who was laid over the horse’s rump.

“That way?” Fírí pointed at the main trail northward.

“For now.” Pí‘oro tapped his horse’s ribs and she started walking.

Fírí flicked her reins and kicked the roan’s sides. The horse jumped forward into a gallop. Without a glance over his shoulder, Pí‘oro nudged his gray to chase.

As the sun peeked over the horizon, they tore up the sandy trail. The wind whipped their faces, cool and fresh.

Pí‘oro held back a whoop of joy because of the police, but the urge stayed strong in his chest. They were free. The adventure had just begun.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 16, page 7

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Séara Nulıpésha slapped her alarm clock several times before she realized that the repetitive shrill sound was actually her telephone ringing and not the clock. Her face still firmly implanted in her pillow, she reached for the telephone. Her hand found the receiver and she brought it to her, rolling her head slightly so she could mumble distinctly.

“Hello?”

“Nulıpésha, this is Senior Lawman Vomıvé.”

Séara’s heart started pounding heavy. Had he read her report? Was he about to discharge her? She rolled onto her back, fully awake. “Yes, sir.”

“Tamé Vékídıpaíro hasn’t towed the autos from the Kılímo house yet. Those vehicles are evidence. He’s not answering his telephone, either. Go get him.”

What was this about Tamé? Séara shook her head in confusion.

“Have you read my report from last night?”

Vomıvé snorted. “I don’t have time to be reading reports. Look. I don’t care if you have to drag that Nazhoro out of bed by force, but just get him.”

Vomıvé slammed down his receiver, leaving a ringing in Séara’s ear. She reached over to the nightstand and set her receiver in its cradle. Yawning profusely, she kicked away her sheet and blanket and stood.

She wasn’t fired. She had to work today.

Through the ten-centimeter gap in the curtains, she could see sunlight dusting the tops of the cottonwoods across the street, golden leaves rustling in the breeze.

After turning off her alarm clock, Séara trudged down the hall to the bathroom. If the vehicles had spent the night alongside the highway without trouble, they could wait a few minutes more.

Vomıvé knew that Séara’d had as little sleep as all the other lawpersons in Tuhanı, but he had called her, woken her up before her alarm rang. That’s just the way he thought. Give the menial tasks to Nulıpésha. It’s all that she can handle.

Well, if she wasn’t fired yet, she’d show him what she could handle. She’d be the best darned lawperson around. She’d help catch the guy who murdered the Enforcer. She’d do whatever it took to get that promotion to the equestrian squad.

She quickly washed her hands and ran back to her bedroom. Hurriedly, she pulled off her oversized t-shirt and changed into her black uniform. She strapped on her belt as she headed for the front door.

Vomıvé was insane to expect promptness from Tamé, but if Séara had to beat down the repairperson’s door and get him out of bed at gunpoint, she’d do it. For as long as she had a duty to the people of Tuhanı and Pívo County, she would fulfill that obligation to the best of her ability.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 16, page 6

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Fírí Parızada lugged her duffel bag of shoes and cash across the front room to the kitchen. She’d worked hard to embezzle this money; she wasn’t about to leave it behind--especially if the police weren’t going to catch her with it.

The old man, Pí‘oro, had already carried Zhíno out to the stable. It was weird how their assurances of a changed Zhíno matched her dream-that-wasn’t-quite-a-dream. The old couple couldn’t possibly know about that. Maybe there was some truth to this magic, after all. Fírí didn’t have time to argue the point, anyway. She had to get out of there.

Vata stood at the large wooden table, preparing sandwiches. Oranges, bottles of water, and other, hidden items were already packed in leather saddlebags sitting open. The sandwiches looked to be all ham and cheese.

“I’m a vegetarian,” Fírí huffed. Why don’t people ever ask? Koro-brain hicks.

The old woman didn’t look up. “Then pick off the meat, dear.”

Ire rose in Fírí’s chest, but she held her tongue. The sun was almost up and the police would surely arrive any minute.

Vata wrapped the final sandwich in clear plastic and set the stack of five or six into a saddlebag, flipping the bag’s lid shut.

The back door opened and in snuck Pí‘oro.

“The horses are ready. Zhíno’s secured,” he whispered. His eyes focused on Fírí’s duffel. “What’s that?”

“My belongings. If you can take Zhíno, I can take this.”

She wasn’t about to tell them about the cash. Just because she trusted them to get her across the desert, it didn’t mean she had to trust them about anything else.

Pí‘oro grunted and turned to pick up the saddlebags off the table.

“Goodbye, darling.” A bag in each hand, the old man bent over to kiss his wife.

“Go in His name, dearest,” Vata softly replied.

Out the door, Pí‘oro and Fírí scurried. The farmyard, which had seemed so spooky at night, was now mundane in its simplicity. Faded-wood shacks, water basins, food troughs, a chainlink fence for the enclosure, and a wild variety of animals, from housecats to gazelles. The varied animals barely looked at the two humans as they trotted across the soft ground.

The cool air soaked through Fírí’s lungs, invigorating her. She was on the move again. It was good to be alive.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 16, page 5

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Zhíno Zhudıro watched the swirling colors draw near and recede in the blackness. There was not much else for him to do.

Had he successfully communicated with Fírí? It had seemed like they’d had a conversation, but perhaps he had merely imagined it. She’d been her normal obstinate, Viti-tiwn self, that was for sure. Hopefully she was sincere in accepting his apology.

The purple light that was Pí‘oro approached Zhíno. The light seemed stronger--zippier--than before, as if the old man was energized and excited about something. Zhíno considered diving into the violet storm to attempt a conversation. If something exciting was happening, Zhíno wanted to know about it. This black void grew duller by the minute.

Zhíno zoomed toward Pí‘oro’s purple light, but the swirl receded. What the plagues? Is the old man avoiding me?

He accelerated, but the light dwindled away, leaving Zhíno alone in a featureless, colorless, everythingless void.

Plague of Ríhíví. Now what?

Nothing. He was surrounded by absolute nothing. The seconds and minutes dragged into eternity.

The colored lights had been boring at the time, but now they seemed as thrilling as galloping with the buffalo had been. If only he hadn’t given part of his lifeforce to Pí‘oro, he could still be cavorting through the worlds with the animal spirits.

Not now, though.

Now, he was utterly alone.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 16, page 4

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Detective Sétıpímo Marıdaré drank half his cup of coffee and clunked it down on his kitchen table. A few drops of the dark liquid splashed over the rim onto his sheets of notepaper. Sétıpímo absentmindedly blotted the drops with the heel of his hand.

The Enforcer had been shot at close range, which seemed to indicate he had been surprised, which would preclude the two rifles as murder weapons. Which left the handgun. The fingerprints on the semiautomatic belonged to one Zhíno Zhudıro of Narakamíníkı, who lived at the same address as Fírí Parızada, who owned the Sonla auto.

Pí‘oro’s story, as related by Lieutenant Nıgédazo, was checking out.

Sétıpímo lifted his breakfast plate and pulled papers out from underneath. He found his notes from his Nıgédazo interview and scanned them with one chubby finger.

Except for the broken legs.

The detective stabbed the last of a sausage link with his fork and stuffed it in his mouth.

Why on Rívorí would Pí‘oro lie about the foreign kid’s broken legs? And why, for that matter, would the kid claim his legs had been healed via miracle?

He swigged the remainder of his coffee, washing down the sausage.

Since Bhanar Narak had no twin, Nıgédazo had to be mistaken about his legs being broken. There was no other logical explanation. True, rumors had floated around the town for years about Vata’s supposed healing powers, but just because she was a devout worshipper of Névazhíno and helped people often, it didn’t mean there was any truth to the stories. Magical healings like that just didn’t happen. Narak’s claim of a miracle must be caused by stress and panic.

“Or the fact that he’s a foreigner and therefore can’t speak Sarıman worth gooseshit.” Which left the kid’s words open to Nigédazo’s mistranslation.

Sétıpímo had yet to talk directly to Narak, but he had seen him on television news reports before--far more often than he’d have liked.

The pseudo-emperor was probably innocent, but the detective certainly wanted to talk to him this morning. See if he’d calmed down and had a chance to rethink his miracle claim, or if he’d even made the claim at all.

Sétıpímo set his empty plate on a stack of file folders so he could spread out his notes. He pulled his tobacco can from his pocket and pinched a wad.

If Zhudıro had shot the Enforcer, he was probably the man stealing the auto from Tamé’s parking lot. But why would he need to steal an auto when he already had one? Why would he and Parızada have separated?

The detective shoved the wad of tobacco in his mouth and started chewing.

And why the plagues did they shoot at Narak?

Sétıpímo had a lot of answers, but he had even more questions piling up every minute. Zhudıro had to have been worried about something. Sétıpímo was missing a big piece to this puzzle.

It was a pity the Sonla’s trunk release lever was broken. They hadn’t been able to force the lid up, either. Perhaps an important clue lay inside.

Hopefully Tamé had gotten the autos to the precinct headquarters already. Knowing Tamé, however, it was more likely the towtruck driver was still in bed, sleeping off a hangover.

Sétıpímo spat into his spittoon with a dull clang. The sun was almost up. It was time for everyone else to arise, as well.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 16, page 3

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Umo Amuéné stared at the northeasterly horizon as he leaned against the side of his automobile. The sky in that direction had passed indigo and sapphire and was turning grayish azure, with the first hints of apricot. The sun would be up soon.

In all likelihood, the police had the smuggled weapons in their possession. Zhudıro couldn’t be clever enough to hide them successfully and it seemed terribly unlikely that he’d be able to take them with him once he left his auto behind. And yet Gogzhuè had not mentioned any report of their finding. Therefore, the police were keeping quiet about the guns for some reason.

Lango paced back and forth alongside the auto, hemmed in by desert scrub brush and small boulders. He had cracked his knuckles till they wouldn’t crack anymore, but that didn’t stop him from pushing and stretching his fingers in the same manner.

“And the way they serve their tea? It’s uncivilized. No sugar? Hot? How can they stand--”

“Lango,” Umo drawled, “shut up.” Umo’s eyes never left the impending sunrise.

His partner thankfully stopped talking.

If the police had the weapons in the constabulary building, Umo and Lango would need to wait till the full-scale search began, so the police’s attention would be elsewhere. If Zhudıro was actually competent at hiding the weapons, Umo and Lango would need to wait till more autos populated the streets, so they wouldn’t be as conspicuous driving around town. And so they waited.

A gust of wind stirred the bushes, tugging at the folds of Umo’s jumpsuit and tousling his hair. He gently combed it back into place with one hand. Lango stopped pacing and used both hands to check his own hair, which was too highly gelled to have moved in the first place.

Gogzhuè had reported that the only person in police custody was a man named Bhanar Narak. It seemed so unlikely, and yet that was a unique name. There were no Naraks but the imperial family. There was no Bhanar Narak but the emperor himself. How in Pétíso’s hells had His Imperial Majesty gotten mixed up in this?

Emperor Bhanar was being held at the constable’s local office. Umo had to break him out. If he and Lango had to steal the weapons from there, they could surely help the emperor escape at the same time. Lango wouldn’t like it, but he’d follow orders.

The short and slimy man had resumed pacing, which led to a resumption of talking. “When Rívorí and all the worlds are united under Èmmwımwènhı’s law, only then will we have civilization. Only then will we have peace. Only then will we have common decency, morality, and obedience. Why can’t they see it? They need Èmmwımwènhı. They need Gogzhuè.”

Umo closed his eyes and pulled a handgun from a hidden pocket of his jumpsuit’s tunic. He pointed it at his pacing partner.

“Lango?”

The small man gulped and instantly quieted.

“Thank you.” Umo returned the gun to its holster.

Where was I? Umo opened his eyes and stared at the orange-tinged horizon. Rescuing the emperor. But would that help His Majesty? A fugitive’s life is not the life for an emperor. No, as much as it chafed him, Umo had to let His Majesty stay in jail.

How could he assist Emperor Bhanar, then? Pay his bail. Hire an attorney. Assure he’s proven innocent and released as quickly as possible.

Umo rubbed his jaw.

It would sure be nice to know what His Majesty was arrested for. Surely the police didn’t think he had anything to do with the Enforcer’s murder.

Umo had to pin the blame definitively on Zhudıro. It was all his fault, anyway, so it shouldn’t be too hard. He just hoped the constabulary was open to reason.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 16, page 2

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Vata Kılímí ran the bathroom sink faucet, splashing cold water on her face with both hands. It was quarter till five o’clock, earlier than she typically arose. She usually had more than an hour’s sleep, as well, but Pí‘oro’s emotions had awoken her. He had said he would sleep in the front room, since the guest bed wasn’t large enough for both of them, but apparently he had woken up.

She dried her face and hands with a fluffy pink towel.

Pí‘oro’s emotions had changed abruptly from agitation to excitement. Something was happening that Vata couldn’t sleep through. He still had antagonism bubbling inside him, but it was deeper within than before.

She exited the bathroom, turning off the lights, and shuffled down the dark hallway. Vata smiled contentedly. The carpet was smooth and clean under her slippers.

What had excited Pí‘oro? The only things he got excited about these days were panelball games on the television and horseback riding. Vata pursed her lips. And being the center of attention while he complains about anything and everything. The house was too quiet for that, though.

As she crossed the front room toward the kitchen, she heard soft voices and movement from ahead.

“Dear?” she quietly called, announcing her presence.

Pí‘oro’s bulk filled the doorway, silhouetted by dim light coming from outside the windows. The sky was beginning to lighten, although true dawn was still most of an hour away.

“Good morning, darling,” greeted Pí‘oro with a chipper whisper.

Before Vata could ask a question, her husband held up his index finger and continued in a low voice, “I know you said to stay here, but I can’t. The police will get in here no matter what Ríko promised you. They still have this kitchen to examine and my body to collect.” He snorted a laugh. “And I can’t let Fírí die by herself in the desert, can I?”

You’re helping Fírí? For once, Pí‘oro seemed genuinely desirous of helping others, rather than grumpily doing what he knew was right.

Without Pí‘oro, though, Vata didn’t know if she’d be able to handle the chaos that would erupt. He was her ally, her support, her rock.

He was probably correct about the police, though. Ríko would have to let the lawmen inside if they pushed him. If they did a thorough search, perhaps they’d even find the chapel. No one could hide in there. Nothing incriminating could be left in there.

“What about Zhíno?” Vata asked.

“We’ll take him with us.”

“What?” hissed Fírí.

Pí‘oro turned toward the blonde girl, who was out of sight over by the refrigerator.

“I can’t abandon him--not after what we’ve been through.” His voice caught, as if he were going to say something further, but thought better of it.

He’s keeping Névazhíno and the afterlife from her.

Once Vata had made the decision to aid Zhíno, she couldn’t throw him to the police now, when he was in his most vulnerable state. It was odd, however, that Pí‘oro had joined the young man’s cause so fervently. He always backed Vata’s decisions, but that didn’t usually mean carrying them a step or four further. Pí‘oro’s experience in the afterlife with Névazhíno had obviously altered him, but it seemed as if he was altered in only one manner, that being his loyalty to Zhíno. It was almost as if part of Zhíno’s spirit had intertwined with Pí‘oro’s, as if the essence of the young man was somehow controlling part of her husband. But that’s crazy.

Vata stepped close behind her husband, so she could see Fírí. To them both, she said, “Yes, you should take Zhíno with you.”

Fírí opened her mouth to speak, but just shook her head slightly, large eyes wide.

“Please, dear.” Vata held out a calming hand toward the girl. “Zhíno may have attacked you, threatened you, killed a Colonial Enforcer, and shot at that poor foreign kid, but that’s all in the past. He has since seen the Love of the Universe. Névazhíno changes people.”

Pí‘oro nodded and softly growled, “Zhíno is a new man. Trust us.”

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 16, page 1

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Chapter 16: Light on the Horizon



Pí‘oro Kılímo studied Fírí as she mulled over his comments regarding Zhíno and the police. The left half of her face was bathed in pale light from the floodlights outside. Her lips puckered in a tight frown that also half-closed her eyes. Apparently, her brain was working at less than optimum. Pí‘oro’s whole body felt the same way, even though his brief rest had eased his pain somewhat. What time is it, anyway?

Abruptly, Fírí tilted her head to the side. Her straight, chin-length hair swung loosely back and forth.

“Where’s the back door?” she hissed.

Pí‘oro gestured toward the kitchen. “Back through there.”

The blonde girl started to push herself to her feet, her eyes looking the way he’d pointed.

“Wait,” he whispered. “Do you know where you’re going?”

The desert outside their back door was kilometer after kilometer of wilderness. A novice could easily get lost and die within a few days. Perhaps the daily afternoon thunderstorms at this time of year would keep her hydrated, but there were plenty of other ways for her to kill herself.

Fírí finished standing. “No. I just need to get out of here.”

Vata had assured Pí‘oro that their home was the safest place for him to hide, but he didn’t really believe it. Her friendship with the judge couldn’t keep out the police forever. He wasn’t going to let those incompetent Koro-heads try arresting him again for crimes he didn’t commit. If they were still few in number outside, now was the time for him to leave.

“I’ll go with you. I know this land. I know where we can hide. If necessary, I know how to put some distance behind us.” We’ll have to take Zhíno, too. Fírí wouldn’t like it, but Pí‘oro couldn’t abandon his soul-brother. Vata, however, should be able to handle herself. The police would question her, but she had done nothing wrong--except for the sacrifices, but they didn’t know about those.

The blonde girl stood stock still, staring at him, for several seconds. “Can we take your horse?”

Pí‘oro smiled. Adventure awaited them. “We have two.”

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 15, page 7

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Fírí Parızada woke up. What’s that noise? A repetitive rasp filled the darkness. Where am I? This wasn’t her home. It didn’t smell right. Too much old-person scent.

She sat up, straining her eyes in the darkness.

The last thing she remembered was watching television in the living room after an argument with Zhíno. And before that, jumping off a cliff. . . ?

She rubbed her eyes with one hand. The other held a can of pepper spray. Think. This isn’t home. Where are you?

The rattling rasp sounded like heavy breathing--snoring, almost. Zhíno didn’t snore like that. Much too quiet to be him.

Her memories opened further back. She was in Sarıma, at an old lady’s house, in a bedroom, on the floor. But what about the television and Zhíno and the cliff? It must’ve been a dream, but it still felt so fresh and real to her that she had a hard time shaking it.

The snorer in the bed sounded like an old person, now that she thought about it. Weak, congested, loose, and flabby. It was probably Vata.

Fírí quietly stood and crept around the bed toward the door. The house was silent. No helicopter flew nearby. Perhaps the police had moved on, searching ever outward. If they weren’t around, now would be a good time to leave.

Slowly, she turned the doorknob and opened the door a crack. Darkness. Fírí slipped out into the hallway, closing the door behind her, and cautiously snuck down the dark hall in the direction opposite from the chapel. She felt along the wall with her left hand, holding the other out in front of her.

Her hand found a corner. She paused and listened. Silence. She rounded the corner and continued.

The dream haunted her. It felt like she had had an actual conversation with Zhíno, back at their house. It was a memory, not a dream. But that was impossible.

The carpet gave way to tile, and then the wall took another corner, opening into a room. Light filtered through the curtains to her right. Since it was still nighttime, those were probably the floodlights on the front of the house. Thanks to the light, otherwise-invisible furniture loomed around the edges of the room.

Were the police really gone? One way to check: peek out the window.

Fírí left the comfort of the wall and crossed the open room with her hands outstretched towards the shadows of furniture.

Her shin banged into a coffee table.

“Plague of Rékaré,” she cursed through tight lips.

Emanating from extremely close in the darkness, a deep moan culminated in a coughing fit.

Fírí froze, bent halfway over to grab her shin. Is that Zhíno? She backed away from the person and bumped into a television. Something slipped off the top and clattered to the floor behind the set.

Oh, plagues. If it was Zhíno, would it be the apologizing Zhíno from her dream or the murderous Zhíno from the chapel?

Fírí strained her eyes, looking for movement that might be an attack. The dark bulk of a couch occupied the area where the sound originated. Adrenaline raced up her back and flooded her brain, urging her to run while she had the chance.

A deep voice whispered, “Who’s there?” It wasn’t Zhíno.

Fírí sank to the carpeted floor, her legs suddenly lacking strength. Lightheaded, she hesitantly replied, “It’s me, Fírí. Who are you? Where’s Zhíno?”

The man sat up on the couch, groaning. He was huge. It had to be Vata’s husband, the man who carried the foreign kid into the chapel.

“I am Pí‘oro Kılímo,” he whispered, “husband of Vata Kılímí, who I hope did not startle you when you awoke. Zhíno is in our bed, comatose, so Vata had to use the spare room.”

“Why are you whispering?”

“Even though most of the police are gone, the last time I checked, a couple lawmen were still camped out in the driveway. I’m whispering just in case they decided to snoop around.”

Her guess about the police had proven correct. Most were gone. This was Fírí’s moment to escape. If Zhíno was comatose at the moment, all the better. She needed to put some distance between herself and him, just in case her dream was just that, a dream.

It wasn’t just a dream, though. It really happened. Zhíno had somehow conversed with her while she slept. His divine experience had changed him. He was repentant. And now that he was in a coma and unable to help himself, he deserved Fírí’s assistance.

But even repentance didn’t erase all the horrors he perpetrated. She couldn’t afford to be associated with Zhíno any longer.

“Where’s the back door?” she whispered.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 15, page 6

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Umo Amuéné cruised down East Crater Road in his beige Rènzas sedan.

As it turned out, East Main Street changed names to East Crater Road at the edge of town. It only took them a Tara-fucking half-hour of driving in circles to figure that out. Umo had tried to avoid using the same streets when going back and forth, in case anyone happened to be looking out their window in the middle of the night, but he had been forced to use a couple streets much too often for his liking. Even an otherwise-nondescript automobile can start seeming suspicious the fourth time it drives past with no other autos on the road.

“I don’t think Zhudıro ever intended to deliver the weapons,” opined Lango, who was back to clacking his pen.

Umo grunted. “Then why would he be on the same plagued planet as the drop-off location? He’d have to be a bigger Koro-brain than you.”

Lango clicked his pen repeatedly. “Maybe it’s not him. Maybe it’s just a coincidence.”

“A coincidence? Do you truly believe there are two gun-toting paranoid men named Zhíno in all the worlds driving around in the middle of the night with a blonde girlfriend in an old brown Sonla sedan that just happens to be registered to one Fírí Parızada of Mínıhotı, who lives at Zhudıro’s last known residence?” Umo huffed. “You really are a Tara-fucking idiot.”

The clacking of Lango’s pen filled the auto.

Umo sighed. “Look. Zhudıro obviously intended to deliver the guns. The only question on that front is whether he had the chance to hide them between the time everything got plagued and when the police showed up.”

Lango tucked the pen away and began feeling his gelled pompadour. “Right,” he muttered.

Their tour of Tuhanı had not been entirely for naught. They had located the police station. Umo hadn’t stopped, but he and Lango had studied it closely. No autos were in the front parking lot. The back lot was fenced-in and hidden behind the building. There was no telling if Zhudıro’s auto had been transferred there yet. If it wasn’t at the Kılímo residence, they’d soon be back in town.

Up ahead, several autos closely lined both sides of the road. Umo slowed as they approached. The first automobile on either side was a police cruiser. This had to be the place.

The cruiser on the south shoulder was a Colonial Enforcer auto with a broken windshield. The one on the north was a Pívo County Constabulary cruiser with a lawman behind the steering wheel. Umo made sure to not jerk his eyes away like a suspicious person would do. Perhaps he should have removed his sunglasses, however. Too late now.

The second auto on the south side was a brown sedan with a broken rear window and the driver’s window rolled down. Zhudıro’s auto. The police hadn’t had it towed yet. The trunk was closed. Could the police have not looked inside yet? Or had they removed the weapons already?

Past a gravel driveway on the north side of the road, an old blue truck sat at an angle in the ditch. Its windshield was busted, too.

At the end of the long driveway sat a house with very bright floodlights. A second constabulary cruiser sat in front of the garage.

As the scene drifted away behind them, Lango asked, “Now what?”

Umo softly accelerated down a slight hill. “I’ll have to think about it.”

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 15, page 5

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Pí‘oro Kılímo knew the police would want to investigate the kitchen, location of Zhíno’s last gunfight, but he didn’t let that stop him from cleaning it up. When the police came knocking in the morning, they’d be arresting Pí‘oro no matter what. Therefore, he might as well erase some of the evidence of Zhíno’s transgressions. He could claim that Vata went to bed and had nothing to do with it. He could say that, since the police hadn’t said to not disturb the kitchen, he thought it was allowed.

In the dark, he swept up the broken glass and wood splinters, emptying the dustpan in the garbage bin. He had to keep the lights off, lest the two remaining lawmen spot him through the windows. Despite the late hour and the constant pain of his injured body, Pí‘oro wasn’t tired or ready to lie down. They had work to do.

Vata was busying herself in the chapel, burying the dog and taking care of the horse. She’d already vacuumed the hallway and front room. Zhíno lay comatose in their bed. Pí‘oro would have to go check on him in a few minutes, just in case his condition changed.

He corralled the last of the shards and dust and swept it carefully into the dustpan. In the hunched position, his back screamed with agony, overpowering the pain of his twisted right knee.

And besides, he thought, it’s our kitchen; we’ll have to use it. He paused, frowning. But the police are going to probably arrest me before breakfast.

He straightened his back with an involuntary groan. Unless I leave.

Slippered feet scuffed the front room carpet.

“Dear?” his wife whispered. “Are you almost finished?”

Even through the whisper, Pí‘oro could sense weariness in her voice. He turned toward her, but could barely distinguish her small form in the darkness.

“Getting there. The floor is clean.” He rubbed his aching neck with his sore right hand. “Maybe you should go to bed.” He added, “In the spare room.”

Vata shuffled across the linoleum towards Pí‘oro. Her outstretched hand bumped into his chest and then searched over his body to find his own left hand. She held it loosely with both of hers.

“Tell me about the afterlife, dear.”

Why does she keep pressing me on that? Pí‘oro held back a sigh. His wife was so devout, it would shatter her world to discover the teachings had been completely wrong. Pí‘oro had never believed any of that doctrinal gooseshit anyway, so it hardly made a difference to him. Vata, though. . . He didn’t want to hurt her.

“Dear?”

He couldn’t lie to her, though. He had to change the subject.

“I need to leave before the police return, or else they’ll arrest me.”

Softly, Vata replied, “Don’t worry about that, dear. This house is the safest place for you to be. I called Judge Ríko earlier tonight. He won’t approve any search warrants. They can’t come in here.”

She stroked his hand, irritating the injured skin with scattered tingles.

“Now, dear. Don’t be afraid to tell me about the afterlife. Please, I want to know.”

Pí‘oro grimaced from the pain she inflicted on his hand, but didn’t pull it away.

“I’m sorry, darling, but. . .” He put his right hand over hers, all four hands together. “It wasn’t quite like we were taught. Maybe I was dreaming and it wasn’t really the afterlife. I don’t know. It felt real, though.”

Vata’s hands trembled in his grasp.

“What did you see?” Her voice was so thin, Pí‘oro could barely hear it.

Pí‘oro shook his head slowly. “Maybe I was supposed to go searching for Pétíso’s great hall. Maybe the gods were waiting just around the corner of the hill or down in the forest. Maybe I was supposed to climb to the top of the mountain. I don’t know.” He squeezed Vata’s hands. “I was there so short a time. I don’t know.”

Despite the doubt he pressed into his voice, Pí‘oro knew in his heart that the gods weren’t anywhere on that mountainside. They had better things to do than judge all of humanity. Pétíso was probably coaching the divine panelball team, or something. Human beings just did not matter much to the gods. To Them, humans are no better than the rest of the plagued animals.

“It’s all right, dear.” Vata pulled a hand free and stroked Pí‘oro’s cheek. “I understand your frustration. The afterlife shall remain a mystery for each of us to solve, in turn. May it be many years before either of us visit there.”

“Gods willing,” Pí‘oro replied rotely. His face cracked a grin. “‘Visit there again,’ you mean.”

Vata’s teeth glimmered in the darkness. She sank into his arms and sighed, “Oh, Pí‘oro.”

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 15, page 4

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Emperor Bhanar of the House of Narakamíníkı forced open his sticky eyelids. He lay on a buffed concrete floor, close to a metal drain about six inches in diameter. The room was silent except for an electronic buzzing. His shoulder hurt.

“Where am I?” he mumbled as he sat up.

When he turned his head and saw the thick steel bars, he remembered: jail.

Why was he on the floor? Had he fainted? He remembered the guard walking out, leaving Bhanar standing alone in the cell, and then . . . nothing. He must’ve fainted. If he had been tired, he would’ve laid down on the cot.

Bhanar stood, rolling his sore shoulder to stretch it.

“But if I fainted, why didn’t anyone come to see if I was all right?” Would they have let him die?

What the plagues was wrong with the worlds, that he could be imprisoned for a crime he didn’t commit, and then possibly die in custody because the police didn’t care enough to check on inmates who collapse? And with Pí‘oro dead and Zhíno still out on the loose! There was no justice in the worlds.

“Plague of Rívorí,” he spat and began to pace in the small cell, tugging up his pants. He could only go three steps in any direction before he had to turn.

“Rívorí, indeed,” he muttered. “There’s a good reason they named this planet after that goddess. Devastation, prisons, death: it has it all--even volcanoes!”

How did someone like Zhíno escape the police? How did the police decide that Bhanar was a suspect? Because they though he was lying. Because Zhíanoso healed his legs. They obviously didn’t believe in miracles.

“But that Enforcer saw my legs!” he snarled at the ceiling. “He saw they were broken.”

Didn’t the police trust their own eyes, anymore? Are they that incompetent here in Sarıma? If this was how his “subjects” acted, maybe he didn’t want to be emperor of this land, after all.

He banged the soft part of his fist against the metal bars. It didn’t move or make a sound.

His father probably would’ve bought his way out of this situation. He’d just wave around a little money or just the promise of some money, and the police would do anything he asked of them. Bhanar was different, though. Even if he had access to money like that--which he didn’t, yet--he couldn’t bring himself to bribing policemen. What the plagues kind of person does that? A criminal, that’s who!

“So the Tara-fucking criminals go free while the honest citizens rot away in some plagued jail cell in the middle of nowhere.”

Bhanar kicked the metal cot. It clanged, but didn’t budge. A sharp pain shot from the top of his foot. The Pétíso-damned cot was bolted down.

Through gritted teeth, he hissed, “Korutuzho-brained Nazhoro’s plague of Rívorí.”

He hopped in a circle and sat down on the cot, grabbing his foot.

Why’d that Voro-fucker Zhíno have to shoot at him, anyway? What the plagues was wrong with that guy?

Bhanar squeezed his throbbing foot with both hands. Thankfully, his leather trainer had kept him from cutting himself on the metal.

Zhíno’s motives hardly mattered. Bhanar was going to get that Zhéporé-spawn, once he got out of jail. He was going to bring Zhíno to justice. That’s what an emperor’s supposed to do, right? Fight for justice and right the wrongs? “Pétíso may damn it, but that’s what this emperor is going to do.”

First, though, he had to get out of jail. He’d have to convince a detective or somebody that he really was innocent. And how to do that? Tell the truth! Ask for a lie-detector test.

It seemed like most of the police around here were heartless bastards, so who knew if he’d get a fair inquiry? That cute girl, Nulıpésha, was all right, though. Surely she could put in a good word for him. If only he ever saw her again.

Bhanar dropped his foot to the floor and rested his head in his hands.

There were no two ways around it. He was plagued.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 15, page 3

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Vata Kılímí pursed her lips as she held open the secret door for Pí‘oro. A grimace on his face, he carried the limp body of Zhíno up the steps and into the hallway. Pí‘oro radiated pain, and yet he refused to let the young man lie on the altar. Despite the damage to his already injured body, her husband insisted that Zhíno be moved to a proper bed. His stubbornness had returned.

Pí‘oro carefully walked down the hall to the spare bedroom. Vata closed the closet door and shuffled after him.

“I haven’t heard the helicopter in a while,” Pí‘oro whispered. “Do you think the police are still here?”

“They wouldn’t all have left, dear,” she quietly replied. “Surely someone’s still outside.”

Why wasn’t her husband antagonistic toward Zhíno? The young man had stopped Névazhíno from fully healing him, hadn’t he? Instead, Pí‘oro was almost brotherly to Zhíno. Deep in his soul, however, Vata could feel animosity. She just couldn’t tell who it was directed towards. Perhaps the police? Yes. Probably the police.

As her husband stood waiting, Vata opened the bedroom door and stepped inside, switching on the lights. The bed’s sheet and blanket were folded and crumpled, likely just as Bhanar had left them.

I hope the boy’s staying calm. Névazhíno healed him and Névazhíno will guide him through his incarceration to freedom.

Pí‘oro crossed the room and gently lowered Zhíno to the mattress, laying his head atop a pillow. Vata followed.

Why would Pí‘oro show such loyalty to Zhíno? Hadn’t this been the same man who had tried to run him over with a police cruiser? What had changed? They had been simultaneously healed by Névazhíno. Vata didn’t know of any similar incident in her experience or her mother’s lessons. Perhaps the animal god’s love bound them together. It was entirely plausible. And since Névazhíno had performed two miracles with no sacrifice, it made perfect sense that He was unable to wake up Zhíno or fully heal Pí‘oro. The god had limited energy to use in this plane of existence. That’s what the sacrifices were for, after all: to give Him more energy to use.

Vata pulled the blanket and sheet aside as Pí‘oro removed the young man’s shoes.

Pí‘oro had said he’d died and come back. If that were true, why was he so reluctant to discuss the experience? Surely he now held the answers to questions that humankind had been asking for millennia. What did he see in the afterlife? Why in the worlds didn’t he want to tell her, his wife?

The far corner of the blanket was folded under. Vata couldn’t straighten it out from where she was, so she circled the bed.

She gasped.

On the floor between the bed and the wall lay Fírí in the fetal position, asleep.

“What is it?” asked Pí‘oro.

“Fírí,” Vata whispered, pointing to her.

Pí‘oro nodded and returned to tucking Zhíno in. He left the far blanket corner folded under, out of reach.

I had forgotten all about Fírí, Vata thought. Too much happening. Her mouth twitched a smile. At least I was able to help someone tonight. Neither the police nor Zhíno harmed her. In the morning, I’ll have to teach her the glories of Névazhíno.

To Pí‘oro, she whispered, “Dear, we can’t leave Zhíno here. Fírí would nearly die if she woke up and found him so close.”

“What do you want to do?” her husband growled, clearly perturbed.

She didn’t want to injure Pí‘oro by placing any further strain on his aching body, but she didn’t see any other option. Plus, he had yet to complain about his pain.

“Take him to our bed. We don’t have time to go to sleep yet, anyway.”

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 15, page 2

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Umo Amuéné spotted the small blue sign in the distance alongside the two-lane highway. The reflectance from his auto’s headlights made the text almost illegible, but his sunglasses reduced the glare enough for him to read, “Welcome to Tuhanı! Population 1,873,” as it flashed past.

“Is this the town?” asked Lango. His gold necklace chains clinked softly as he twisted them around his index finger.

“Yes,” replied Umo through gritted teeth. Had Lango forgotten the name of their destination already? “Keep a lookout for East Crater Road. It’ll probably be on the right.” They were traveling north, after all.

Gogzhuè had informed them via the automobile telephone that the police’s search had been called off for the night. They hadn’t found Zhudıro. His auto most certainly was in police custody. It didn’t sound like they’d found the guns, which were probably still in Zhudıro’s auto--unless he’d managed to dump them somewhere.

Tuhanı had one stoplight, several blocks ahead of them. Umo thought he could just about see the far end of town, but it was difficult to be sure in the dark.

“Pine. Elm. Varıpío. Fété,” Lango recited the street names.

Hidden by his sunglasses, Umo rolled his eyes.

“Crater,” he interjected. “Tell me if you see Crater.”

The signal light was red, so Umo slowed his Rènzas sedan to a halt and waited. This was Main Street, signed as West and East on opposite sides of the intersection. No Crater Road yet.

Zhudıro was as good as gone. Umo appreciated it. He didn’t want to have to explain to Gogzhuè why he hadn’t killed the little Zhéporé-spawn. Gogzhuè wouldn’t understand concepts like “rule of law” and “killing is wrong.”

Instead, they could now focus on their primary mission: retrieving the guns and explosives.

Since the police had the auto under guard, Umo and Lango would have to approach this effort very carefully. They’d scope out the Kılímo residence and maybe swing by the local police station--wherever Zhudıro’s auto might be. Above all, they did not want to attract attention. Not yet, anyway.

The crosswalk signal for the path across the street they’d driven in on--Division Street--started blinking a red cross.

No other autos drove near the intersection. No pedestrians walked nearby, either. It’s small-town Sarıma at three o’clock in the morning. What do you expect?

The crosswalk signal turned a steady red, Main Street’s signal turned from blue to yellow, then yellow to red, and finally the light in front of Umo’s auto turned blue. He took his foot off the brake and eased through the intersection, continuing their search northward.

Less than a minute later, the town dwindled back to desert. No Crater Road had presented itself.

“Plague of Kínıtíní!” swore Umo.

Lango tittered, but stopped abruptly when Umo glared at him. Lango’s hands dropped to his lap, folded neatly together.

Umo wheeled the auto around and headed back into Tuhanı. Since it was East Crater Road, it should be parallel to East Main Street. It had to be there, somewhere. Lango must’ve just missed it.

“Pay attention this time, you Tara-fucking idiot. It may be the middle of the night, but we can’t drive around forever. Gogzhuè would not be pleased.”

Lango remained silent, except for the clinking of his necklace chains around his fingers.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 15, page 1

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Chapter 15: Vision Verisimilitude



Fírí Parızada ran through a forest, chased by an unknown person or thing. Black, scraggly branches clawed at her face, but she couldn’t slow, lest she was caught. The forest was never-ending. Tree after tree, bush after bush, boulder after boulder.

She came to the top of a cliff and jumped. No time to think about it. No time to hesitate. Her adversary was almost upon her.

Fírí plummeted. In the darkness of the forest, she couldn’t see the bottom, and yet she knew it hurtled ever closer. She was about to die.

Someone grabbed her from behind. Fírí shrieked. She’d been captured!

The assailant swooped her high into the air, far above the forest. Fírí fought to break her attacker’s grasp, but he was too strong.

He gently set her down on a couch. Covered by a thin, stained blanket, the couch springs poked through the cushion and into Fírí’s butt. She shifted a little to the right and found the comfortable spot.

The man who had been chasing her stepped into her vision, directly in front of the television set. It was on a muted commercial, so she didn’t mind.

It was Zhíno.

He jerked up his chin in a greeting and asked, “Are you all right?”

Fírí crossed her legs and tilted her head to the side, piercing her ex-boyfriend with a withering glare. “What does you care? An hour ago, you were trying to kill me!”

“And that was a mistake. I’m truly sorry.”

Zhíno gripped his right elbow with his left hand in his pose of sheepishness. Neither arm was injured.

Was he serious? He acted sincere enough.

“I know now,” he continued, but paused, frowning. “I love you, Fírí. I should always help you.” He shook his head, staring at the coffee table covered in empty bottles and folded magazines. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

What the plagues? Fírí set down the remote control and stood up. Dust and yogurt tickled her nostrils.

“What happened to you?” she demanded. “Did the old hag manage to beat some sense through that thick skull of yours?”

He jabbed a finger at her, snarling, “Shut up and listen, you twin of Vítí. I’m trying to apologize!” He abruptly held up his hands, placating, eyes averted. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. You’re understandably angry.”

“Ahísıhíta-damned right, I’m angry at you.” Fírí stood with arms akimbo, her nose tilted up.

What business did he have, coming in here, interrupting her television watching? He shouldn’t be in the house at all. He should be out of her life forever. She was done with him. Wasn’t she?

Zhíno dropped to his knees, his hands clasped together. “Please give me a second chance, baby. Thanks to the Love of the Universe, I’ve changed. Please believe me.”

“Love of the Universe”? That’s Névazhíno, right? The stupid God of Animals was able to make Zhíno change his ways? Does this mean Vata is actually able to call the god like she pretended? “I’ll believe it when I see it.” She held up her index finger, narrowing her eyes at him. “And the difference had better be as clear as night and day.”

“Thank you, my love,” Zhíno gushed. “It will be. I promise you. It will be.”

Fírí plopped back down on her couch and snatched up the remote control. “Now get out of my way. My show’s back on.”

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 14, page 8

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Lawperson Séara Nulıpésha drank the last of her coffee, letting the final drops take their time to fall from the edge of the ceramic mug onto the tip of her extended tongue. With her legs crossed at the knees, she sat at her desk in the middle of the open office portion of the precinct headquarters.

The office was absolutely quiet, except for the buzz of the fluorescent lights and the slight rattle of the ventilation system. Everyone except for Séara--and the desk lawperson, who was in her own room--was out at the Kılímos’ house, scouring the desert for the murder suspects. While they were out there, doing actual work, Séara was stuck behind a desk, filling out reports like a good little girl.

“Darn it!” she muttered to the empty room of desks, clunking her mug down. Senior Lawman Vomıvé had done it to her again. He’d shut her out from gaining experience, helping the constabulary, and helping society. If he would just let her prove herself, he’d see how good a job she could do.

Séara sighed.

Not after her debacle at the Kılímos’ front door would Vomıvé give her more responsibility. That hadn’t been her best moment, for sure. How in the worlds was she going to get promoted to the equestrian squad with something like that attached to her name? Maybe she should just quit now and avoid further embarrassment.

She looked back down at her report form. She’d filled in about half, describing everything up to the point where she drove to the Kılímos’ house.

She tapped her pen against her teeth, then wrote, “Obtained entry into residence for paramedics. CEs forced entry through back door. CEs arrested suspect Narak and transferred custody to constabulary.”

What about Bhanar? Was he really a suspect in the Enforcer’s murder? He seemed so calm, so above-it-all, so confident, as if he knew he was innocent and was just waiting for the police to figure it out.

The Enforcers had arrested him for hindering a police investigation, but Séara had seen no hindrance coming from the pseudo-emperor. He’d been the most compliant suspect in the history of the worlds.

Her telephone rang. Séara jumped back ten centimeters in her chair. She tsked at herself and picked up the receiver.

“Nulıpésha,” she identified herself. Holding the telephone receiver with her shoulder, she capped her pen and set it atop her report.

“Dispatch,” the man on the other end of the line replied. “Everybody else in the Tuhanı Precinct knows about this, but then I realized that you were at the headquarters instead of the search site. They couldn’t find either suspect in the desert near the house, so we’re going to do a full-scale search at daybreak. We’ll be using everybody we can get, from the whole county. I don’t know what your role will be. You should report to Senior Lawman Vomıvé. But try to get some sleep. Everybody will be busy, come sunrise. The search has been called off for the night.”

Séara soaked in the information. Of course she was the last to know. How else would it be?

“Thank you,” she replied. “Anything else?”

“Nope, that’s about it.”

She set the receiver back in its cradle and leaned back in her chair. The metal and vinyl chair squeaked in protest as her modest weight shifted, but she knew it wouldn’t break. Or, at least, it hadn’t yet.

The other lawpersons would be returning to the headquarters any minute now. She badly wanted to get out of there before they arrived, but first she had to finish her incident report.

What should she say about Mr. Kılímo’s arrest?

She stared up at the water-stained ceiling tiles.

Should she draw Vomıvé’s ire by describing the way he beat the old man, probably causing his death? It’s not as if she was ever on the senior lawman’s good side, so what was the risk in reporting her point of view? What would he do, fire her? She’d welcome it. Her career wasn’t worth enough to hide this. The worlds had to know of Mr. Kılímo’s death.

The ceiling grew blurry. Séara tried to blink the tears away, with little success. She sat upright once more and grabbed a tissue from the box on her desk and wiped her eyes dry, blew her nose, and tossed the wadded-up tissue into the waste bin with the other crumpled balls of sorrow.

Séara grabbed her pen and quickly scrawled her memories of watching Vomıvé and that medic beating Mr. Kılímo in the hallway, then how he screamed and died in their custody. Her stream of consciousness ended a half-page later. She took a deep breath and leaned back, exhaling slowly.

There. It’s written. May Pétíso treat you more fairly than we did, Mr. Kılímo. You certainly deserved better.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 14, page 7

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Zhíno Zhudıro lay trapped in his body. He could no longer fly free with the swallows, stampede with the buffalo, or swim with the orcas. The taste of being a wolf remained on his essence, but it was more a tantalizing torture than a fond memento.

He had used almost all of his own lifeforce to return Pí‘oro’s spirit to his body. Just exude the energy from himself, wrap it around Pí‘oro, and bind him back into his mortal shell. It was the least Zhíno could do to help his soul-brother.

Except Zhíno had assumed he’d still be able to continue his journey through the worlds with all the animals. Instead, he was stuck inside his comatose body without the energy or strength to regain the spirit world. Or maybe it was because Névazhíno was no longer present.

Plague of Rékaré, how would I know? I’ve never done anything like this before.

Zhíno relaxed his spirit, the equivalent of a deep breath, and reconsidered his situation.

In the darkness of his disconnected dream state, dim lights glowed in the distance. Had those been there before?

He urged his consciousness toward the lights. One was a sharp yellow and the other a duller purple. Just by merely thinking about them, they drifted closer to Zhíno. He concentrated on the purple light, which seem oddly familiar, and it hurtled toward him.

Startled, Zhíno braced his mind for an impact, turning his thoughts elsewhere, but no collision occurred.

He looked back at the friendly purple light, which was close enough now that he could see the swirling particles and intense core that comprised it. The tiny violet dots would shoot out of the core, dance around in random patterns, then spiral back into the pure purple center.

Zhíno touched it.

Thoughts and emotions slammed through Zhíno’s consciousness. He reeled from the contact but didn’t disengage. Contempt, reluctance, and gratitude flowed through him. He was hit all over with aches and pains from a body that wasn’t his.

The gratitude, though, had a familiar ring to it. It wasn’t so much the nature of the gratitude, but the direction.

It was directed at him, at Zhíno.

He focused on the contempt and realized it was directed at the God of Animals.

This swirling purple light was Pí‘oro. It had to be. Somehow, some way. It was a complete mystery to Zhíno, but that’s the way it was.

He pulled back from the light before he formulated the thought, You’d better be grateful, soul-brother, because now I’m trapped.

Zhíno stared at the swirling violet light. Now that he thought about it, it kind of looked like Pí‘oro, like his attitude. The particles flowed in calm but deliberate motions.

The yellow light, not too far away, sort of had the same attitude as the old lady, Vata. Rough and strong with a genteel layer above. She was clearly more powerful than Pí‘oro, her light almost too bright to look at, even if this was all a dream. A continuous stream of her little yellow particles flew far away from her core, all the way to Pí‘oro’s light, where they dove through the purple swirl, circled tightly, and shot out back toward Vata. Other of her particles flew off into the infinite blackness, their destinations unknown to Zhíno.

Growing bored, Zhíno spread his field of view, searching in all directions. Not too far away floated a dim blue-green light. What’s the name of that color? He zoomed in for a closer look. It doesn’t matter. Blue-green is good enough.

The blue-green light sparked and swirled in hesitant motions, uncertain of what to do, unable to do much, but with great conviction, nonetheless. This was Fírí.

Zhíno dove in, with one question on his mind. Are you all right?

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 14, page 6

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Pí‘oro Kılímo limped down the steps into the chapel, pain shooting up his right leg. His left hip throbbed in response, and it was hardly alone. The only part of his body that didn’t hurt was his left big toe, and that was probably because he lost feeling in it twenty years earlier. Zhíno had brought him back to life, but had sure done a job worthy of no one but Korutuzho.

The young man was lying on the altar, just as Vata had said. Vata must have been preparing a sacrifice to heal his gunshot wound. That would explain Zhíno’s connection with Névazhíno and ability to venture into the afterlife. Weird things happen under Vata’s spells, that’s for Pétíso-damn sure.

Barefoot, Pí‘oro hobbled across the dirt floor to the wide, stone altar. Zhíno breathed with the slow regularity of the comatose, far beyond mere sleep. Pí‘oro circled the altar to look at Zhíno’s left hand, the one that Bhanar had shot.

His wrist and hand were wrapped with a blood-soaked cotton sock and utility tape. A more common elastic bandage wrapped his upper right arm, also dark with blood. If Vata had healed Zhíno, Pí‘oro wouldn’t be able to tell without removing the bandages. Zhíno the wolf had said Névazhíno sacrificed Pí‘oro to heal Zhíno. No other sacrifices were present in the chapel, so the wolf was probably telling the truth. The only way to corroborate his story was to remove the bandages.

Pí‘oro lifted the edge of the sock-and-tape bandage, peeking underneath. Zhíno’s skin was wet with blood, but Pí‘oro couldn’t see a wound. He pulled the bandage further from the arm, carefully ripping the utility tape. Still no wound. He tugged on the bandage again and it fell from Zhíno’s arm. Despite the mess of blood, there was no injury.

The wolf hadn’t lied. The God of Animals had used Pí‘oro’s lifeforce to heal Zhíno. Why would He do that? Pí‘oro rubbed his forehead, his arm aching from the strain. Oh right. Névazhíno’s a malicious Zhéporé-spawn. I keep forgetting.

Vata entered the chapel, breathing hard. “What are you doing?”

Her black bathrobe swished back and forth as she hurried down the steps, exposing her pale legs--still shapely, but lined with purple veins.

“He’s healed,” stated Pí‘oro.

His wife stopped abruptly, her mouth pursed in a frown. “What?”

Her reaction confirmed his suspicion. “Zhíno’s wounds have been healed. Didn’t you do it?”

Pí‘oro knew the answer before Vata shook her head.

“No, dear,” she carefully replied. “I called Him. I felt His presence. I never started the ceremony, though. Névazhíno must have healed him when He healed you, all by Himself.”

Pí‘oro bristled at her incorrect assumption, but held his tongue. He couldn’t send his wife’s passion end-over-end by decrying her god. It would hurt her unfathomably.

Névazhíno had never--in their experience and all the teachings--healed someone without taking another creature’s lifeforce. It’s just the way He worked. The bastard wasn’t about to change His ways now. Névazhíno had used Pí‘oro as the sacrifice to heal Zhíno. That was a fact.

And then Zhíno had somehow revived Pí‘oro. Had he used a portion of his own lifeforce? It might explain why Zhíno was now comatose. It might explain why Pí‘oro hurt all over. It would have taken Zhíno’s full life to bring Pí‘oro completely back, completely healed. Zhíno didn’t sacrifice himself completely, and so Pí‘oro wasn’t healed completely.

Vata approached her husband, a divine smile upon her face and a sparkle in her eyes. “If He has performed two miracles without sacrifices, we are doubly blessed.”

Pí‘oro edged away from Vata. Her unquestioning devotion to Névazhíno was rather unsettling.

Grasping to change the subject, he blurted, “Should we try to wake him up?”

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