The Gathering (Darkness Rising 1)

"The owner is a young woman who graduated from Emily Carr," Mom said. "Not exactly the kind of art they had in mind, I'm sure."

"Is she Haida?"

Mom shook her head. "I believe she's a member of the Scots tribe."

In other words, Caucasian. That could earn her some ill will among Natives if she used their designs in tattoos, but Mom would say it was no different than a Russian tattooing Celtic knot work. As long as she'd studied the art and understood its meaning, Mom would be fine with it. Grandma would disagree. They'd respect each other's opinions, though, and Mom always said that was the important thing.

Mom continued. "I chose Deena because she specializes in traditional tattooing, which I think would work best for what you want."

I needed a free-form tattoo, not one done with a stencil. It can be a whole lot harder to find someone who can do one, unless you want it looking like a prison tat. There wasn't much risk of that here. The studio looked like a combination doctor's office and art gallery, all clean lines and cool colors.

There was no one in the front room. When Mom opened the door, a woman's voice called, "Just a minute!"

I walked over to a sign that read TRIBAL TATTOOS. In smaller print, it said, IF YOU DON'T KNOW YOUR TRIBAL TATTOO, PLEASE DON'T ASK ME. THE BEST WAY TO HONOR YOUR HERITAGE IS TO LEARN ABOUT IT YOURSELF.

A voice floated over from the next room, "Nothing worse than getting a Cherokee facial tattoo and discovering your grandmother was really Assiniboine."

Mom greeted the young woman, who didn't look a lot older than me. She was about my height, with reddish-brown hair. Freckles dotted her round face. She introduced herself as Deena.

"You get a lot of that?" I asked, pointing at the sign.

"Unfortunately, yes. That's the problem with having a shop in the tourist district. People with some Native blood come in here, wanting to recognize that part of their heritage, which is wonderful; but if you aren't even sure what your heritage is, you've got a long way to go before you ink yourself with it."

"So no Kokopelli for me," I said. "I guess I'll have to go with the unicorn."

Deena laughed. "Yes, your mother tells me she thinks you're Navajo."

"She's not," said a quavering voice from the back room. An old woman appeared. "That girl is not Navajo."

"Aunt Jean," Deena murmured under her breath. "I'm working. Please don't--"

"You're not Navajo." The woman jerked her chin at my mother. "So your daughter isn't Navajo."

I could see my mom struggling not to snap back, "You aren't either." Mom has issues with the whole "respect for elders" part of her culture. She did raise me to show respect--just not the blind sort she'd grown up with.

"My daughter is adopted," she said evenly.

"That's not what I mean. The Dine do not give up their children."

She was right. The U.S. Indian Child Welfare Act overrode state adoption laws, giving tribes the right to overturn legal adoptions if the new parents weren't part of their nation.

"This is my great-aunt Jean," Deena said. "She's a folklorist. Lived with the Navajo for ... how long, Auntie?"

The old woman ignored her and kept staring at me.

"She's the one who got me interested in native traditions." A note of desperation crept into Deena's voice as she hurried on. "I was fascinated by her work, and I'm thrilled that she's come to live with me as her health declines."

She emphasized the last words, and Mom nodded, taking this to mean we were seeing signs of dementia. My great-grandfather has that, so we know what it's like.

"Why didn't the Dine want her?" the old woman asked.

"I was left at a hospital in Portland," I said. "I'm obviously Native, but there's no way of telling what tribe. My grandmother has friends who are Navajo and they said I look Navajo. Doesn't mean I am, but unless my bio parents come forward, no one's ever going to know for sure."

"Your mother didn't want you either?"

Mom stepped in front of me. "I think we should leave now."

Deena leaped in with apo