Understatement of the year.
“Plus, they eat people,” Mr. Yazzie adds.
Davery coughs. “Did you say ‘eat people’?”
“Yes, eat.” He works his jaw like he’s chewing something. “You aren’t familiar with the word?”
“I know the word,” Davery says. “It just seems a bit…excessive.”
“Sounds right to me,” I say, visions of eyeball hors d’oeuvres rolling around in my mind.
A loud horn blows as the train crests the mountain. We’ve been climbing the whole time Mr. Yazzie has been talking, and now we’re moving through puffy white clouds.
The train slows to a gentle roll, and finally it stops, coming to rest in the middle of a meadow between several snowy mountain peaks. The ground is covered in a layer of fresh powder. Mist lingers, making everything look soft and inviting.
“It’s beautiful here,” I say.
“Don’t be fooled,” Mr. Yazzie warns us. “Beautiful things can kill you just as quickly as ugly ones. You must be careful. And trust no one!”
We gather our backpacks and stumble out of the train into the snowy landscape. Our breath puffs in the air, and I zip up my hoodie, already missing the warmth of the Albuquerque spring. Out here it seems to be sunrise, but that doesn’t make sense. We didn’t spend the night on the train.…
Mr. Yazzie hops up on a nearby boulder and clears his throat.
“Welcome to Sisnaajiní!” he proclaims, flinging out his tiny arms. “The Mountain of the Dawn, the easternmost sacred mountain, and the home of the Rock Crystal Guardians and the Gray Dove Heralds.” His voice rings through the snowy valley, and the last word of each sentence comes back to us in reverberating echoes. “Also,” he adds, “the guardians had some very delicious corn cakes last time I visited. Really the best.” Best…best…best…
“So there’s more than one sacred mountain?” I ask.
“Yes,” Mr. Yazzie explains. “There are four—one for each of the cardinal directions: east, south, west, and north. They were set in place by the Diyin Dine’é and equipped with a guardian and a herald to care for the land. They surround the ancestral home of the Diné people, and each represents a powerful part of Navajo history and culture.”
“Four mountains bind you to your home. That’s the second line in the song,” Davery says, looking at the cart lady’s note, which I’d let him keep to puzzle over. He scratches his ear thoughtfully. “It’s starting to make sense.”
“But why are we even here?” Mac asks. “I thought we were going to Spider Rock to see some lady?”
“I arranged for a little detour,” says Mr. Yazzie. “So we can find gifts for Na’ashjéii Asdzáá.”
“Who is that, anyway?” Mac asks.
“Her name means Spider Woman.” He starts to say something, but I cut him off. “And no, she isn’t related to Peter Parker.”
He looks a little disappointed.
“She has a map we need, but we can’t just show up empty-handed and start asking her for stuff,” Davery says. “That would be rude.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Yazzie agrees. “So we will visit the Four Sacred Mountains and gather an item from each place. A perfect white shell from Sisnaajiní, a piece of turquoise from Tsoodził, an abalone shell from Dook’o’oosłiid, and a nugget of black jet from Dibé Nitsaa.”
“All those are mentioned in the song!” Davery says excitedly, pointing at the sheet. “White shell, blue turquoise, abalone, and jet.”
I look over his shoulder. Right under the part about the four kinds of stones, it says, Two to remember, one to forget. The last, take from the progenitor’s debt.
“But what about the next part, about remembering and forgetting?” I ask. “And what the heck is a progenitor, and how are we going to take from his debt? I thought debt was, like, something you owed people.”
“I can’t tell you,” Mr. Yazzie says. “The song was meant for you to understand, not me.”
“A progenitor is like your ancestor,” Davery says. “But I haven’t figured out the rest yet.”
My breath is puffing in tiny frosty clouds in front of my face as I look around at the white mountain peaks that surround us. There are so many things to keep up with and so much to learn. Spiders and rainbows. Talking stones, fields of knives, and of course, the phrase that is bothering me the most: Beware, beware the friendly toad. I hate to think poorly of Mr. Yazzie, but I can’t ignore the words of the song. I vow to trust him for now, but to stay alert.
“I’m really cold,” Mac says, his teeth chattering as he tucks his hands into his long sleeves. “Is anyone else freezing out here?”
“F-f-for n-n-now, let’s f-f-focus on the mountains and getting the f-f-four gifts we need,” Mr. Yazzie says.
“Are you all right, Mr. Yazzie?” Davery asks. “I remember from biology class that horned toads don’t do well in the cold.”
“N-n-now that you m-m-mention it,” he says, “I d-d-do seem to be rather ch-chilly.…”
I scoop up our tiny guide and tuck him into the neck of my hoodie, between my warm shirt and the fleece. I make sure he’s cozy but leave enough room around him so he can still see out.
“Is he okay?” Mac asks.
“Horned toads freeze in cold weather,” Davery says. “It’s a hibernation response. He’ll be fine in a few minutes, once Nizhoni warms him up.”
“Maybe we should look around and try to find somewhere inside,” I suggest.
“Do you really think that’s a good idea?” Mac asks, peering around nervously. “We don’t want to wander off the edge of a cliff or something.”
“We’ll be fine,” I say, starting off toward the closest white peak on the edge of the meadow. “He said there’s a guardian on this mountain, right? We’ll just look for them while we wait for Mr. Yazzie to warm up.”
“I don’t know, Z,” Davery says, looking uneasy. “The guardian may not be friendly. He or she could be the one Mr. Yazzie warned us not to trust. I mean, ‘guardian’ does imply there’s something worth guarding. And this guardian person might not take too kindly to us stomping all over their mountain looking for…What exactly are we looking for?”
“A white shell,” I say, remembering what Mr. Yazzie said.
“Uh, this doesn’t look like the ideal place to find a white shell,” Mac says.
“I hate to agree,” Davery says, “but I agree.”
I stop in my tracks, resting my hands on my hips, and look at my companions. “Maybe you two have forgotten, but we are on a quest here, not a ski vacation. And frankly, neither of you sounds particularly questish. In fact, you sound like you’re already giving up.”
Davery frowns. “I don’t think ‘questish’ is a real word.”
“It doesn’t matter if it’s a real word!” I say, feeling exasperated. “What matters is that we find that shell. Now!” I motion toward the mountain peak.