But no more.
With Kachina off grazing—with Wind tickling my skin—with the low guttural cry of a lone raven soaring circles over my head—I bow in reverence toward the mountain, and rededicate myself to my legacy.
To the destiny I was born to claim.
No matter what may become of me—I won’t go down easily.
The Richters will pay for the heinous acts that they’ve wrought on this town—on my loved ones—on the Lower, Upper, and Middleworlds, which are mine to keep balanced.
Then I lift my face to the heavens, drop to my knees, and cave in to my grief. Letting loose the deluge of tears I’ve held back for too long—allowing myself to fully experience the deep-seated pain of losing my grandmother, my mentor, my friend, a woman I truly loved and deeply admired.
I cry until my vision grows so blurry it’s impossible to see even a few feet before me.
I cry until my body grows exhausted and empty.
I cry until I’m suddenly silenced, suddenly strengthened, by an unexpected infusion of the purest, most buoyant stream of joy, beauty, and love flowing through me.
My ancestors are here.
I’m not alone.
Never was.
Although they don’t materialize before me, their presence is made known in the glorious chorus that fills up the sky.
Instinctively, I sway from side to side, gripped by a celestial melody I’m sure only I can hear. But when Kachina snorts and whinnies, when she tips her nose and perks her ears, I know she hears it just as clearly as I do.
It’s a symphony of leaves chimed by Wind, accompanied by Raven’s sweet song. And, if I’m not mistaken, I can even detect the low vibrato of Paloma’s treasured drum.
A sacred instrument, she referred to as a Spirit Horse. Its music akin to a heartbeat, its tempo said to open the portals that lead to the otherworlds.
There is nothing to fear, she told me then, just as she’s telling me now.
This symphony of nature is a message from my abuela. Of that, I am sure. A sort of opus from the natural world, telling me it’s time to rid myself of doubt. Time to trust in the wisdom of my ancestral bloodline. And I’m not one bit surprised Paloma chose to communicate in this way.
With that glorious chorus swirling within me, I leap onto Kachina’s back and race toward home. Only to find a large white box tied with a ribbon as bright and crimson as freshly drawn blood, waiting for me on the stoop.
Dace! He must’ve left a present to distract me from the dream.
I rush toward it, drop to my knees, and go about removing the ribbon and tipping the lid. Only to release a deluge of bright red squares of packing confetti that spill at my feet.
I plunge my hands in, fingers digging deep. Until they butt up against something silky and cold, unyielding and stiff, that I ease free of the box and hold up before me.
A raven.
A dead raven, to be exact.
Its unseeing eyes marred with precisely placed globs of purple paint intended to mimic those of the raven who guides me.
His neck snapped cleanly in half.
His head crudely twisted so that it points the wrong way.
With a square of creamy white paper crammed in his beak.
I take a cursory look all around, checking for signs of Cade’s presence, but other than the coyote tracks left in the finely milled gravel lining the walkway, it seems he’s long gone.
Grasping the paper with the tips of my fingers, I look past the masked coyote with blazing red eyes embossed on the front, and unfold the card to find an invite to the Rabbit Hole’s Masquerade Ball.