“I won’t let it!” Łizhin growls as she fights with all her might to bring us down safely. When we are close enough, the herald gives one great flap of her massive wings and lands hard, digging her claws into the side of the mountain. I tilt dangerously, almost slipping from her back. The squall pulls greedily at my clothes and hair, but once Łizhin has a hold on solid land, it dies down.
Not just dies down, but totally disappears. The air around us becomes completely still and eerily silent. The heavy mist remains, and it’s hard to see much besides the distinctive big black rocky mountaintops. But at least the weather doesn’t seem to be trying to kill us anymore.
Points for us.
“Well, that was unexpected,” Łizhin says, ruffling her plumage, “and not a good sign.” She ducks her head under her wing and straightens a few crooked feathers. “But nothing broken. No worse for wear.”
“Is it always like this on Dibé Nitsaa?”
“No,” Łizhin says, and I catch the worry in her voice. “This strange weather must be related to Black Jet Girl’s disappearance. Without her here to keep the mountain in balance, things have become perilous.”
“Great,” I mutter.
Łizhin gives me a reassuring look. “Courage!” she says. “You were born for this, and your hero quest is only just beginning. You must be steady.” The herald points up the mountain with her beak. “I have done my best to get close to Black Jet Girl’s home—now you will have to climb the rest of the way.”
I squint through the fog, hoping to spot something that resembles our house back in Albuquerque, or Rock Crystal Boy’s hogan back on Sisnaajiní, but I can’t see anything. I’m about to say so when something catches my eye. I scramble up the mountain a little ways to get a closer look and Łizhin hops behind me. Sure enough, there’s a door built into the side of the peak. It’s made of a single piece of smooth black jet that seems to absorb the afternoon light. And I’m not positive from here, but it looks like the mist covering everything is coming from a chimney above the door.
It’s creepy, and I get that feeling again, like there’s something on this mountain that would eat me if it could. I shudder, rubbing my arms before tucking my hands inside my sleeves.
Łizhin glances up at me knowingly. “That shiver you feel? It’s your monster-sensing instincts, Nizhoni. They’re warning you that danger is near.”
“Do they ever do anything besides that?” I ask. “I mean, Mac has, like, sprinkler powers, and Davery knows everything ever, like a human Google. I think knowing when monsters are near but not being able to do much about it is sort of crummy.”
“Don’t undervalue good instincts,” Łizhin says. “Trusting your gut will keep you safe when others tread recklessly. It’s a beginning.”
“Yeah, you said that already.” I don’t mean to sound rude, but I’m starting to get scared. Łizhin wants me to go up the mountain alone, and I don’t know if I can do it.
“So I did,” she says patiently, ignoring my impoliteness. “Now it’s up to you.” She lifts her head suddenly, eyes searching the area around us. I follow her gaze, but I don’t see anything except rocks and mist. “I must go,” she says tensely. “My presence here may attract more monsters. You’ll have a better chance of defeating them without me.”
I really doubt that. Having a giant talking bird by my side seems like the distinct kind of advantage I’d like. “But how am I supposed to find Black Jet Girl and fight the monsters, too?”
Łizhin plucks a single feather from her wing. “Take this.”
I accept the huge black plume and it immediately shrinks down to normal bird size, small enough to fit in my hand.
“When you are in need, use this and it will become what you require most.”
“It’s a weapon?”
“It is ingenuity.”
“Ingenuity? Pretty sure that’s one of the vocabulary words I missed on our test last month.”
“No more talk,” Łizhin says, her voice sharp. “I can feel the monsters searching the mountain for me. They don’t know to look for you, and I think your powers may keep you hidden from them, at least for now. But you must hurry. I’ll be back at sunset. If you haven’t found Black Jet Girl by then, I fear it will be too late.”
“Too late?” I squeak. “Too late for who? Me?! You can’t just leave me!”
But leave me she does. Without another word, Łizhin leaps into the air. Immediately, the wind comes howling back, even more vicious, more ravenous. The mist closes in, hiding her from view.
As the hungry gusts nip at me, I quickly tuck Łizhin’s plume into my pocket to keep it safe. With nothing else to do, I decide I’ve got to tackle what I came for. Time to find Black Jet Girl and kill some monsters…with a feather.
Yeah, great plan, Nizhoni. What could possibly go wrong?
Dilemma: When facing a door made of solid black jet and possibly leading into a dark scary cave where a nonhuman Navajo mountain guardian lives, should one knock? Normally I would, but all things considered, including the fact that my monster instincts are screaming at me something serious now, I decide to go on in.
I push the door open a crack and whisper-shout, “Hellloooo!” in case Black Jet Girl made it back unexpectedly and she’s in the shower or something. And then I remember she’s Navajo, so I whisper-shout, “Yá’át’ééhhhh!” to cover my bases.
No answer, so I slip inside.
And immediately wish I hadn’t.
Black Jet Girl’s house is clean, and maybe, at another time, it might be cozy. It’s not a cave but an octagonal room, just like Rock Crystal Boy’s hogan. In the middle is a pit where a nice bright fire is crackling. But on the other side of the fire are, well…
…two of the ugliest buzzards I’ve ever seen.
Once, when Mac and I were small and Dad was taking us trick-or-treating in the neighborhood, we came upon this one house—a big old creaky-looking thing with a heavy wooden eave and a wide front porch with deep shadows filling the corners. On that porch, perched on the edge of a bench, was someone in the spookiest costume ever. A birdman creature, with hunched shoulders, strands of black hair combed over a balding head, and a long, curved, mean-looking beak. It sat in front of a plastic pumpkin bucket brimming with the best candy—all full-size chocolate bars, none of the random gross cinnamon candy or (heaven forbid!) pennies or dental floss like at some of the other houses. But the trick was, if you wanted the good candy, you had to brave the creeptastic birdman. I was willing to try, but Mac was too scared. He took one look and started wailing and screaming about how the monster was going to get us, and Dad made us turn around and leave before I could make my move and potentially score a Hershey bar. I complained, telling my dad it wasn’t fair and that Mac was a big baby—which, technically, he was, since he was only five at the time. But secretly I was glad I hadn’t had to get too close to the horrible thing.
That Halloween birdman had nothing on the buzzard creatures on the other side of the firepit in Black Jet Girl’s house.
There are two of them, both hunchbacked and squatting in the firelight. Their hair is black wire, sticking up in patches from their otherwise bald pates. Between their long pointed beaks, they are playing tug-of-war with something that smells like rotten meat. I gag, covering my mouth with my hand.