As George got behind the wheel, he sighed with relief. Jimmy looked at him.
“I’m just glad we aren’t going to the cemetery,” he said.
Jimmy nodded. He doubted there was much he could learn in a predominantly white graveyard. He needed instruction from spirit guides, and these would best be found among trees or natural bodies of water.
Following Rak’s instructions, George drove them into the park, its curving roads made more obscure by early-morning fog, which drifted through ravines and glades like amorphous spirits. Dawn came and went with the park enshrouded. Jimmy directed George to stop near a picnic area where metal barbecues stood like small sentinels. The two men got out of the car. It was chilly, and George was glad he had a jacket.
Jimmy built a small fire out of twigs and lit it with souvenir matches from the Chinese Theater. He placed the medallion reading
CHIN EATER
in the flames. He then asked George to leave him, and the old man walked back to the car, glad to get out of the cold.
Jimmy stripped to the waist, the chill air damp on his skin. It made him shiver but also reminded him of home. He was thankful this early-morning climate was so evocative of his
village. He shook and teased his long silver hair until it was an unruly mop, tangled and wild. The fire was almost out by then, and he reached in among the embers, covering his fingers with fine, white ash. He smeared the ash over his cheeks and forehead. He took from his pocket the otter tongue, holding it in his left hand. With his right he reached into the ashes and removed the medallion, wincing slightly at its heat. He gripped it tightly and hummed an old song, rocking gently as he closed his eyes.
* * *
George woke as the sun heated up the interior of the Lincoln. The fog had burned off, and the morning was bright. It would truly be a scorcher of a day.
He looked out the window and saw Jimmy standing before the barbecue, arms outstretched as he rocked back and forth. George glanced at his watch. It was just before nine. Jimmy had been standing out there for close to four hours. His friend looked unsteady, and George knew that the cold had probably gotten into his bad hip. He thought of going to Jimmy but decided to wait as he had been told. The radio was playing an old Temptations song, “What You See Is What You Get,” and he turned it off with some regret. It wouldn’t do to drain the battery out here in the park and he doubted Jimmy’s gods had jumper cables.
* * *
Jimmy rocked and sang, calling on all animal spirits and all ancestors to help him in any way they could. He called on any indigenous spirits to lend him aid and wisdom. He called on Raven and his uncle Will. He even called on the Otter, who lived on both land and water. Otters were notoriously wicked, for all their clownlike manner. The Tlingit regarded them as spirit-people that often lured the living to a horrid, living-dead existence. But otters were not always evil and were wise to the ways of all
kushtaka
.
He sang and he prayed, his legs becoming shaky and weak.
There was a small peep, barely audible, and Jimmy opened his eyes.
Sitting on the grill of the barbecue was a hummingbird. Its body was bright green, and there was an iridescent patch of blue on its throat and breast. It cocked its head, looking at him, then flew away.
Should he follow it? Or was it merely a herald for something else to come? He waited a moment for a clearer sign.
There was a sharp pain in the back of his neck, and he turned to find the small bird
hovering near him, the buzz of its rapidly moving wings like playing cards in the spokes of a child’s bicycle. It moved from side to side, then flew off into the park. Jimmy ran after it, wishing now he had attended more of those aerobics classes at Golden Summer. He was out of breath within seconds but continued to follow the bird.
The little bird would hover when Jimmy got too far behind, then speed on, a blur of gemlike brilliance.
Jimmy followed the small bird, his breath coming in great, hitching gasps. Had he not gone through purification this morning, he fully believed he might be having a heart attack at that moment. Pain in his hip joint blossomed for one instant like a flower of flame, then receded as he went over the hill. He saw the bird sitting on a chain-link fence, a red rectangle of metal reading
NO TRESPASSING
in large white letters. The bird watched him, then slipped easily through one of the gaps and waited in a small tree on the other side of the fence. Jimmy could see low, dun-colored structures beyond the trees. He went to the fence and tested it with his fingers. The metal was still damp from the early-morning fog. Climbing the fence would be difficult, and he wasn’t sure with his hip he’d be able to get back over it. The hummingbird chirped at him, an impatient, harsh sound for such a small creature.
“I’m coming, little brother, I’m coming,” he said. He reached high up, gripping the fence tightly. He hauled himself up, struggling to put his toes in among the gaps in the fence. The fence swayed slightly under his weight. If he had been a real shaman, he might have turned himself into a small bird and slipped through or flown over, but he was just an old man who had spent too many summers in a Seattle rest home.
The bird chirped again, and he knew that their time together was growing short. Whatever message the bird had for him, he must acquire it soon.
He reached the top of the fence, cursing softly as one of the barbs of chain link punctured his palm. He hoisted himself over and tore his jeans on another barb before dropping to the grass. He nearly tumbled down a small hill but caught himself. His breath was coming in short gasps, but he felt a sense of exhilaration. He was engaged in a quest—he was doing something. He was, for the first time in years, alive.
He made his way down the small slope to an asphalt path and caught the strong odors of wet fur and animal dung.
He was in a zoo.
The bird chirped at him impatiently, then flitted from a pepper tree down a winding path. Jimmy followed it, deep into the interior of the Los Angeles Zoo.
The bird flew in small and graceful swoops and dives, leading him with its emerald brilliance. He passed the monkey cages, and each monkey watched him quietly, as if aware of the gravity of his errand. The zoo was curiously quiet, and no creature marked his passing.
He rounded a turn and saw a maintenance man washing down one of the walkways. He slipped quietly past the man when his back was turned and down the path. Jimmy grinned, then chided himself. If he got too cocky, he was going to blow it. If his uncle were there, he would have boxed his ears and told him to sit perfectly still until he was called.
The little bird flew up into his line of sight and led him to the Reptile House, a low structure shaped somewhat like a snake, with a colorful mosaic at the entrance. Knowing a bird’s instinctive fear of reptiles, Jimmy was surprised his guide was leading him there. Truth to tell, he wasn’t all that fond of snakes himself. That was one of the nice things about Alaska—too damn cold for snakes.
The bird flew up to a height of seven feet and did a small spiral perpendicular to the ground. It repeated this, then flew the spiral in reverse. With that, it flew away.
Jimmy filed the image of three spirals into his mind, then went into the Reptile House.
The interior was dark, lit by educational displays and ambient light. Though all of the various snakes and lizards were behind glass, there was a pervasive feel of humidity and decay, a world of marshes and swamps. Even displays of desert animals did not rob the place of its primordial mood. Jimmy moved back deeper into the gloom, hoping he would know what he was seeking when he found it.
In the very center of the building was a single exhibit, featuring a large tank nearly twelve feet wide and seven feet high. It was obviously an important attraction, for it featured a second tier with benches for viewing at one’s leisure. The tank was fronted by a sheet of clear acrylic, nearly an inch thick. It was partially filled with murky green water surrounded by mud and thick jungle foliage.
In the water, completely submerged, was a white alligator. The animal was easily eight feet long and appeared to be asleep.
Jimmy stared at it, awed and a little frightened.
There were displays above the creature explaining how rare he was, how he came to the zoo on loan from a zoological garden in Baton Rouge. Jimmy glanced at the text and dismissed it as irrelevant.
He knew a sacred animal when he saw one.
As if in answer to his deference, the creature opened one eye. It was the blue of the ocean on a clear spring day and looked like a sapphire surrounded by white sand, a pharaoh’s treasure. The creature gazed at him, unmoving.
Jimmy moved in closer, both relieved and regretful that they were separated by a clear plastic barrier.
He held up his hand, fingers splayed, then clenched his fist and touched his bare chest.
“I greet you, cousin, and would ask if you have a message for me.”
The alligator lay underwater, still unmoving. Tiny fish darted near it like attendants, but it ignored them. It opened its mouth slightly, revealing a row of white and yellow teeth, jagged shards of old ivory.
Suddenly, it began to thrash its tail, the whipping motion stirring up silt, algae, and the remains of fish. The water bubbled and churned, and Jimmy reflexively stepped back.
The water seemed to boil, and all inside was hidden within the roiling bubbles that rose and broke with a furious hiss.
The acrylic of the tank exploded outward, a great wave of slimy water rushing at Jimmy, almost knocking him over. A part of him marveled that the water felt cool, even refreshing. He managed to stay upright, grabbing onto a support for a railing that ran along the upper tier. Small fish and frogs washed past his legs, and a large brown rat tried to grasp his pant leg. Jimmy kicked it away, then worried for a moment that perhaps the rat had been appointed his spirit guide. He was wondering how he might make amends to the rat when the waters receded.
The alligator crawled over the fractured front of the tank on short, squat legs. It regarded Jimmy for a moment, then stood up on its hind legs. Now its great head was level with his own, and he couldn’t help but notice the large teeth on either side of its massive jaws.
The white alligator walked toward him, surprisingly graceful for an animal not designed for such locomotion. Jimmy thought of alligators he had seen in a Disney cartoon at Golden Summer and tried to chase the thought from his mind. It was disrespectful, perhaps even blasphemous. The thought returned like one of the little fish from the ruined tank, darting around his consciousness with bright and improper colors.
The alligator was wearing a necklace around its neck, one of quartz, coal, and garnet. In the center of the necklace was a large fang, fully six inches long, wrapped with colored threads and ringed with feathers in teal, emerald, ruby, and copper.
Jimmy lowered his head, even though part of him was afraid the alligator would take it off at the shoulders with one savage bite. He looked up again, not wanting to appear too afraid or servile. The thing approached him, its impossible skin mottled in several shades of white and a dusting of yellow ochre.
It reached him, regarding him with eyes of azure. Eyes that did not blink.
“Hello, Jimmy Kalmaku,” said the alligator.
“Hello,” Jimmy said. “I am afraid I do not know your name.”
“I am called Dabo Muu,” he said, “or Old Man Mose. Don’t much matter what you call me, I’m not one to put on airs.”
“I followed a hummingbird here.” Jimmy wondered if he was in the car dreaming. Hell, for all he knew, he was catatonic in Golden Summer with an IV needle in his arm.
Nice try, Kalmaku
, he thought.
You know where you are
.
Dabo Muu nodded, his eyes glinting like cold gems.
“Raven sent you to me,” Dabo Muu said at last, his bright eyes unblinking.
“I didn’t know Raven would get other gods mixed up in this.”
Had Dabo Muu the proper skeleton and musculature, he might have shrugged. Instead, he hissed quietly through clenched jaws. The air made a slight whistling sound.
“Your Faceless One is gonna mess everybody up, turn all my bright and warm places into ice and snow. Can’t have that. I’m old, and I hate the cold.”
Jimmy nodded.
Dabo Muu shook himself, bright droplets of water flying from him like diamond chips.
“Someone coming. Probably the fool that thinks I want half-dead fish for breakfast. Wish they’d give me a good hot-blooded hen. Need to taste some warm meat and floss my old teeth with the feathers!” He hissed, a sort of laugh.
“Why do you let them keep you here?” Jimmy asked.
“To help you, you young fool,” Dabo Muu replied.
Jimmy bowed slightly, realizing he had been impertinent.
“Raise your head, Raven-boy, I ain’t got time for ceremony.”
Jimmy looked up.
“Go find a newspaper. Look for stories on a murderer named ‘The Taxidermist.’ ”
Jimmy nodded, surprised that a god was being up front for once. He was used to veiled hints and clues. But who was he to judge? His uncle had told him that the gods’ ways were not the ways of men.
“Stand still,” Dabo Muu commanded.
Jimmy did as he was told though such an order made him nervous. He had heard of gods seeking fingers in tribute, perhaps even a limb or an eye.
Dabo Muu turned slightly, then lashed out with one front paw. His talon burned into Jimmy’s chest, and Jimmy fought hard not to cry out. His eyes filled with tears, and the room shimmered around him, as if preparing to wink out of existence.
The alligator stepped back from him. It surveyed its work and nodded. “Power flows with the blood. It all comes down to blood, boy.”
Jimmy looked down. Carved into his chest was a clockwise spiral, in its center a crescent moon. The work was amazingly precise for its source. Blood ran freely down his chest but he could already see that the wounds were closing.
“Hey!” A voice came from behind him. “What are you doing in here? The zoo doesn’t open for another hour.”