Thunder Moon (Nightcreature 8)

“Who would bother to come all the way back from the Darkening Land with a message for you?”

“E-li-si,” I whispered.

Quatie patted me on the arm. “What did she say?”

“The wolf’s supposed to talk?”

She shrugged. “I’ve never seen one.”

“What do you know about them?”

“Only what my own grandmother told me. A messenger from the Darkening Land is not of this world. Once their message is delivered, they will return to the west. Until you understand what she wants you to know, expect visits from your e-li-si.”

Now that I had a hint of who the messenger was, I had a pretty good idea of the message.

The wolf had first appeared on the night of the Thunder Moon, when magic happened, and she had shown up not far from here. Grandmother and Quatie had been friends. Quatie was obviously ill, fading. She needed help, and Grandmother had come to make sure I gave it to her. She’d led me to Quatie and then disappeared. I doubted I’d see the wolf again.

Which was fine with me. Messenger wolves were spooky, even if they were Grandma in disguise. Too Little Red Riding Hood for my comfort.

“I’ll walk you home,” I said.

“No need, child. I come out here every night for a little exercise before bed.”

I frowned. What if she fell and broke a hip? She could be on the ground for days, weeks, before anyone found her. We might not have wolves, but we had bears. They’d love to come across a crippled little old lady buffet in the forest.

“Don’t you have any relatives who could stay with you?” Despite her protest, I walked with her in the direction of her cabin.

“Why would anyone want to stay with me out here?” She patted my arm again. “And I’m not leaving. The place belonged to my own great-grandmother. My children are in their seventies, their children in their fifties.” She waved an arthritic hand as if to say, And so on. “No one wants to spend time with an old woman who has no indoor plumbing.”

“I do,” I said.

“No, you don’t.”

She appeared almost scared, or maybe just embarrassed. I was the one who should be embarrassed. My great-grandmother had asked me to check on Quatie, and I’d done a shit-poor job. No wonder my e-li-si had come from the Darkening Land in the guise of a wolf. I was lucky she hadn’t ripped me limb from limb. If a spirit wolf even could.

We reached Quatie’s cabin. Though the building lacked certain amenities, like plumbing and a furnace, it possessed a good foundation, a solid roof, and weathered log walls, which had been chinked recently. The place appeared cozy, friendly, warm.

I caught a whiff of tobacco. Had Quatie walked into the woods to smoke? Why, when she lived alone? Perhaps she’d been performing a ritual. Many of the Cherokee spells involved blowing smoke to the four directions.

I didn’t ask what she’d been doing. Some spells were secret, known only to the one who’d invented or inherited them. These were sacred and could be ruined just by talking about them.

The place was the same as I remembered—one room that served as a bedroom, sitting room, and kitchen. What more did Quatie really need? Scattered across every surface were papers scrawled dark with the Cherokee alphabet.

Quatie and my great-grandmother had always conversed in Cherokee and written everything that needed to be written the same. They’d both been terrified that the language would be lost.

“Quatie, could you teach me Cherokee?”

That would kill two birds with one stone; I’d learn the language and I’d be able to keep an eye on her.

“No, Gracie.”

I blinked, stunned. I hadn’t expected her to refuse.

“My eyes are going. I can barely read the books. My hand shakes too much to write anymore, and I’m just too tired and impatient to teach.”

“Oh,” I said, my voice faint with disappointment.

“You know more than you think. From the day you were born, Rose spoke to you in our language. If you let yourself, you will remember.”