“Fine,” Davery says, “but I have a feeling we’re going to regret this.”
“Stop worrying so much,” I say. “We’ll be fine.”
And that’s when the arrow comes flying through the air to thunk into the ground inches from my toes.
We all stop in our tracks.
“I surrender!” Mac yells, throwing his backpack down in the snow and raising his hands.
Davery and I do the same.
“Who’s there?” comes a boy’s voice. Or at least I think it’s a boy. It sounds like winter wind blowing through pine trees—a soft sound that carries a lot of potential. I shiver when it touches my ears.
“Say your names!” the voice demands.
I look around, but I can’t see who’s talking. “Hello?”
“We come in peace,” Davery says calmly.
“Don’t kill us!” wails Mac.
I swear, I cannot take my brother anywhere.
A figure materializes, slowly separating itself from the white fields of snow. At first I think it’s a statue that I somehow didn’t see before—a statue of a boy, maybe fifteen or sixteen, carved from a diamond. His skin, his clothes—everything is made of white crystal rock. He’s wearing long pants, a loose shirt, a shell necklace and matching earrings, and he has a bandanna tied around his head and knotted to the side. The morning sun illuminates the angles of his face, the crook of his elbow, the bend of his knees, so that he sparkles like the prism Dad hung in the window to catch the light. But he can talk and move—and he’s holding a bow and arrow in his hands, nocked and aimed directly at me!
“Davery!” I yelp, my hands squeezing his arm.
“I see him,” he says.
“What do we do?”
He steps forward, his hands still raised, and says again, sounding more official than before, “We come in peace!”
The crystal boy narrows his eyes, and his hands grasp the bow a little tighter.
“I don’t think that’s working,” I whisper through teeth clenched in a smile.
“Do you have a better idea?”
As a matter of fact, I do. “Mr. Yazzie,” I say to my shoulder, “I know you’re frozen and all, but it would be really good if you woke up about now.”
“Who are you talking to?” the boy asks suspiciously.
“How can you talk if you’re a statue?” Mac asks.
“I am not a statue,” the crystal boy says, sounding like a slightly irritated wind blowing around the inside of a glass bowl. “I am the guardian of this mountain. I belong here. And you do not. More importantly, I’m asking the questions.” He turns clear eyes toward me. “And I believe I asked who you were talking to.”
“Oh, well, see,” I say, trying to sound reasonable and not terrified, “it’s my friend. He’s a horned toad, but he’s very wise, and he brought us here, but then it was so cold that he kind of froze, but I’m sure he’ll wake up—”
The crystal boy gives me a look and I stop.
“You’re talking to a frozen lizard?” he says ominously. “And you think I’m weird because I’m made of crystals. Who’s the real weirdo here?”
“Well, when you put it that way…” I squeak.
For a minute, it looks like he’s going to shoot us with the arrow on principle. Then his face breaks into a grin, and he lowers the bow.
“Why didn’t you say so?” He returns the arrow to his quiver and drapes the bow over one shoulder. He takes a step toward us, and we all take a step back.
He laughs. “I won’t hurt you. For now.” He leans over to peer at the neck of my hoodie. “Yá’át’ééh, shicheii,” he says. “Welcome back to Sisnaajiní!”
The crystal boy holds out a hand. I understand what he wants, and I lift Mr. Yazzie gently from his impromptu bed and place him in the boy’s outstretched palm. The crystal boy blows across the toad’s frozen body.
“Won’t that make him colder?” Mac asks.
“No,” says the crystal boy. “Watch!”
And sure enough, Mr. Yazzie stirs back to life, stretching and yawning like he’s just awakened from a nice nap. He opens his eyes and looks up sleepily at the guardian of the mountain.
“Well, yá’át’ééh, my old friend,” he says. “Don’t suppose you have a place where we could warm up? Seems these old bones can’t take the chill the way they used to.”
“Of course, Grandpa,” the crystal boy says. “And then I’d like you to introduce your friends.”
The crystal boy, who tells us his name is Rock Crystal Boy but we can call him RC, leads us across the snowy field to a small house in the distance. The structure is eight-sided and sort of low and wide. I recognize it as a hogan, a traditional Navajo dwelling. It looks surprisingly snug and cozy, and a stream of blue smoke wafts merrily from the pipe protruding from the center of the domed roof. RC leads us inside, hanging his bow and arrow by the door. We all hurry in, grateful for the fire that’s burning in the wood stove in the middle of the large, open room. There’s a big couch, and a table and chairs, and RC tells us to take a seat. Minutes later, he brings each of us a mug of tea. He pours Mr. Yazzie’s onto a plate for easy drinking.
“Now, if you could introduce yourselves,” RC says.
“I’m Nizhoni,” I say, waving.
Mr. Yazzie makes a strangled noise. “Not that way, child. The proper way. Give him your name and clans.”
“You could have told me that.…” For once, I’m glad Grandma made us learn our clans and the Navajo way to greet people.
“Yá’át’ééh,” I say, using my formal voice. “My name is Nizhoni Begay. My mother’s clan is Towering House. My father’s clan is Bitter Water. My maternal grandfather’s clan is the Mud People clan, and my paternal grandfather’s clan is the Crystal Rock people.”
RC shakes my outstretched hand. “Crystal Rock clan, did you say?”
I nod.
“Then we’re related! You are certainly my granddaughter!”
“But you’re not much older than me,” I say in as polite a tone as possible.
RC laughs. “Thank you for the compliment. I do adhere to a rigorous skin care regime. But I assure you, I am much older than I look. I’ve been the guardian of this mountain since the beginning of this world. What matters, though, is that we’re related.”
“Why does that matter?” Mac asks.
“And who are you?” RC asks.
“I’m her brother.”
“Introduce yourself the right way,” I say, elbowing him.
Mac holds out his hand to RC, stating his name and clans, the same as mine. RC smiles and shakes his hand, and then Davery follows suit. His clans are totally different than ours, and his mom’s side isn’t even Navajo. But as Grandma once explained to me, Navajo people like to know who you are, whether you’re Navajo or not, so Davery saying his maternal clan is African American is just fine.
“You wanted to know why it matters that we’re related?” RC asks Mac once the introductions are done. “Because that means we share k’é.”