The Windhorse & the Wayward Souls

A Dustbowl Xia Story

I

The wind ripples through a sea of tall grass somewhere south of Chicago.

It’s April, 1930, and the grasshoppers play their fiddles while Wall Street burns. But that crisis is still a world away, something for East Coast folks to think about. Nobody’s jumping out their windows, here. Not yet.

A gas station sign beckons like a lighthouse beacon, promising food and fuel for weary travelers. One such soul approaches presently, a classy number dressed in black and chrome, trailing a skirt of dust behind her. The Bentley lurches as she draws near, sputters like a teapot that’s been left on the stove. Her gears grind as she turns into the station and pulls up to the pump. On the driver’s side, she’s peppered with bullet holes.

Her door creaks and her suspension squeaks as the driver steps out and stretches his legs. Tailored dress pants lead up his slender frame to a pair of bright, red suspenders. The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up, ready for business, and his jet black hair is pulled back in a braid.

“Hey,” the attendant greets him, reluctantly, from the doorway. The driver is used to this kind of suspicion from white folks. They watch too many westerns. He walks over with a casual swing in his step, leaning over to dig in his pockets. When he gets to the screen door, he jingles a few coins in his fist and asks, “How much will this get me?”

“Not much.” Finally, the young man opens the door and gets to work. He brushes his hands off on stained overalls and adjusts a cabbie hat against the glare. He takes his customer’s change and saunters off to the pump. “Want me to wash yer winders?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

When he gets around the Bentley’s far side and sees the bullet holes, he looks up like a startled squirrel and regards the stranger with new eyes.

He washes her windows like he means it.

The stranger stretches his suspenders and takes a moment to mingle with the sun and the breeze. He notices a small downtown peaking through the trees up the road, but he doesn’t need to stop just yet. Maybe when there are a few more mile between him and the Windy City.

“Hey, mister?” the attendant begs his attention as he hangs up the pump. “You’re not gonna get too far on that much gas.”

“It’s alright,” the driver assures him. “She’ll run on a thimble of gas, long as I’m headed the right direction.”

II

Two miles later, he’s pulled over at the edge of the woods with his Bentley up on a rusty jack. The fuel gauge rests on “E” like a dame on a barstool, pretty as you please.

The driver crawls out from under his ride, ears perked and scanning the trees. Someone’s crying. A tiny someone. The driver spins around, dives through the passenger window, plucks the keys from the ignition, and gallops off into the dark wood.

The source of the sound is a little girl in a pastel dress, lying like an Easter egg in the roots of a tree. She chokes back her sobs and looks at the stranger askance, but doesn’t get up or cry out. He approaches her slowly with his hands held up, tries not to show too many teeth.

“You alright? I heard you from the road,” he gestures over his shoulder. “Thought maybe I could help. Do you need some help?”

Her big, caramel-colored eyes stare out from a mop of loose, dark curls, but the rest of her is frozen stiff. Maybe she’s seen a western or two. Gonna have to establish rapport.

“You fall from up there?” he asks. She glances up into the canopy and stifles a sniffle. “Why, that don’t look like nothin’.” He prances up to the tree, plants one foot on the trunk, and leaps to the lowest branch. Much undignified scrambling later, he’s huffing and puffing in its bough, about six feet off the ground. “Yeah, this don’t look like nothin’.”

He launches himself into the air and crashes into the undergrowth a few feet away from the girl. The wind rushes out of him with theatrical force. At length, he rolls onto his back, closer to the girl. Together, they stare at the sky.

“Oofda! That hurt more than expected,” he confesses. “Did you fall from higher up that that?” She nods in the affirmative. “You did?! Good golly! You’re one tough cookie.”

He eases himself onto his side and she does the same. “My name is Ahote.”

“Violet,” she chirps.

“Next time I get in a fight, Violet, I want you covering my six.” He hoists himself into a crouch and pats some dust off his clothes. “You think you can get up, Violet?”

She kicks her little legs up and rolls to her feet, but winces when her weight hits her left foot and then thumps back down on her rump. New tears well up in those candied eyes.

“How about I carry you? Wadaya think of that?” She nods, accepting his generosity like a princess. He puts her on his shoulders. “Wait… how far is it?” She points away from the road, generally toward the town. “Okay, that’s not too far, but you’re gonna owe me a piggyback ride when we get there.”

III

Violet’s mom really keeps her shit together, for a woman who just watched her injured daughter ride a middle-aged Indian out of the wilderness.

She opens the back door of her little house with a hawk’s eyes and an owl’s expression. “Who — “

Her question’s cut off by a quick, plaintive yelp from Violet. Ahote had gone to swing her down and accidentally brushed her injured ankle. It only lasts a moment, but that’s more than enough for Mama Bear. She charges into the yard.

“Give her here,” she barks with carefully contained malice. Ahote does just that. Mama Bear and cub vanish back into the house. Ahote shuffles his feet for a moment, unsure how to proceed, before following them inside.

How he proceeds is through a tiny kitchen, still cluttered with breakfast’s debris, and stops in the doorway to the dining room. Violet’s been deposited on the table while Mama Bear inspects her wounds. Ahote catches the woman glancing toward a shotgun on the wall, right by the front door, before she throws a suspicious eye over her shoulder. “You responsible for any of this?” the eye demands.

“Of course not!” he replies, honestly offended. “My car broke down on the highway over there. I heard someone crying in the woods and thought I should help.”

“You still can. There’s peroxide and cotton balls in the cupboard.” Ahote wanders back into the kitchen and opens the first cupboard he sees. “No, the other one,” she hollers through the wall. “No, the other other one. The one next to that one. No, my fault, it was the first one.” Somehow, he finds the supplies and brings them into the dining room.

Mama Bear doesn’t look a thing like her cub. Where the girl’s complexion is all honey and cream, her mother is chiseled from ivory. Where the girl’s hair is chocolate, her mother’s is red like autumn leaves. Ahote chews on her accent for a bit — parts Irish and French, all Southern — and decides she must have grown up in Louisiana.

Sensing by their suddenly lowered voices that mother wants to interrogate daughter, Ahote meanders across the entryway to the other side of the house. A sitting room with a smattering of heirloom furniture leads to a bedroom in the back corner, where the whole family must sleep. He pointedly ignores the shotgun by the door. Building rapport.

The space may be modest, but the construction seems new. Not new enough for indoor plumbing, but there’s no creak in the floorboards and no sag in the rafters. It reminds Ahote of a Dutch-style, New England barn. The yard is wild, but he’d passed a well-kept garden on the way in, smelled asparagus and strawberries.

“There you go, pip. Nothing to cry about, is there?” The growl’s gone from Mama Bear’s voice, but Ahote’s sure it hasn’t gone far. “Sit right there and I’ll make us some tea. Any for you, Mr…”

“His name’s Ahote.” Violet offers with cheer. Her new friend returns to the dining room with a nod and a smile.

“Does Ahote have a last name?”

“Only the one the government gave me, and I prefer not to use it.”

“Well,” Mama Bear busies herself with a teapot. “I’m Viona Rodgers. Got my last name from my husband, Jax. Would you like any tea, Ahote?”

“I’d love some, thank you.”

Viona takes the teapot outside. Must be a well out front. Violet motions for Ahote to take a seat at the table and, when he does, she dabs his imaginary wounds with a dry cotton ball.

“You said your car broke down?” Viona returns and lights the stove, sets the pot to boil.

“Yeah. Corroded fuel line. Damnedest thi — um, darndest — “

“It’s okay,” Viona assures him. “We swear, around here.”

“Damn straight!” agrees her daughter.

“Alright, then. Damndest thing: the whole fuel line just fell apart. Looks like a string of used chewing gum.”

“Eww!” squeals Violet.

“I know! And it tasted like gasoline!” Ahote adds.

She sticks out her tongue and mimes choking herself.

Her mother leans in the doorway, arms crossed. “Ya know, we’ve got an inspection pit in the garage. And my truck’s good for a tow, if you’d like to use it.”

“That’d be right neighborly, Mrs. Rodgers.”

“Call my Vi.”

“I wouldn’t want to be a bother.”

“Nonsense. We’ve got a spare room in the attic. I rent it out all the time, when Jax is off working. He’s a field hand, has to go where the work is. This is a busy season, but nobody wants to pay a black man what he’s worth. Every year, seems like he has to go further afield. I’d be happy to put you up until your car’s fixed.”

“Mighty hospitable,” Ahote says, thinking it over, “but I can’t afford to pay. I spent my savings on my car and it just leaked the last of my petty cash across a mile of highway.”

“I’m sure you can make yourself useful around the house,” Vi replies, gesturing in every direction. “Besides, it’s the neighborly thing to do.”

“Speaking of your neighbors…” he muses while Violet measures his pulse and hits his kneecaps with an invisible hammer, “What might they say about this arrangement. A man like me… no offense, but I can’t be too careful around other men’s wives.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Because you’re an Indian?”

“Hopi, but yes.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We moved up here to get away from all that. Louisiana’s no place for an interracial couple, I’m sure you can imagine.” Ahote pats himself on the back.

“And great-grandma was a Cherokee!” Violet brags.

“Violet! What did I tell you about repeating that nonsense?” The girl sits down and folds her hands in her lap. “That was my father’s story,” she tells Ahote. “So it woulda been Violet’s great-great-grandmother, had she existed. Know why it’s always three generations removed? So nobody telling the tale’s any more than one sixteenth indian.”

“Racial animus aside, I don’t wanna cause any trouble.”

The tea kettle hollers for Viona’s attention. “Ain’t no trouble. And if any of the cluckin’ chickens and pompous gasbags in town have a problem, they can blow it out their ass.”

“In that case,” Ahote chuckles, “I’ll take all the help I can get.”

After tea, Ahote hitches the trailer to the truck, winches the Bentley onto the trailer, and tows the whole daisy chain back to the Rodgers’ garage. It’s not much more than a tool shed with a trench in the floor, but it beats the pants off a dusty highway shoulder. Ahote will be relieved to have more than a rusty jack between him and a crushed ribcage.

Vi’s thoughts on his return are more mixed. She regards the Bentley’s bullet holes from her front stoop with eyebrows like crossed swords.

“Regrets?” he asks.

“Not yet, but it’s early in the season,” she replies, approaching warily. “Wanna tell me a story about those holes?”

“Hmm… I bought it at a police auction?”

“Naturally.”

“I’m joking,” he cuts in, “except I’m not joking, because I did buy it at a police auction, but there’s a little more to it. Back in Chicago, I used to run rum for private clients. I wasn’t in with the Outfit, not directly, but there’s a lot of demand for bootleggers up that way, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“I can, but you probably don’t want me to.”

“This car belonged to a friend of mine, a Canadian. He’d bring hooch across the border and I’d make the deliveries. We used to argue over who had the more dangerous job. Guess he won.”

“You bring any of that danger to my house, Ahote, and I’ll — “

“I won’t, Vi. I’m out. Like I said, I was never in with the mob. Neither was my friend, but he had a real ‘Live free or die’ outlook on life. One day, some G-men asked him about it and took the answer seriously.”

“Mmm hmm. So, now you’re traveling the Great Plains in your dead friend’s car, riding on fumes and helping little girls?”

“Can’t say that was the plan, exactly, but it’s where I’m at,” he admits. “Still want me around?

“Depends. How good are you with a hammer?”

“Good as the next aimless drifter.”

“Then we’re sittin’ pretty,” she declares, finally uncrossing her swords.

“And you’re sure your husband’s okay with this?”

“Ish kabibble!” She puts up her dukes, Queensbury style. “Jax knows I can take care of myself.”

And that’s how Ahote ends up in a knife fight with a guy named after a regional beer.

IV

“Get your fuckin’ hands off my fuckin’ wife!”

Jax had come through the door already swinging. He wasn’t a huge man, but years of hard labor had left him thickly muscled and he had an inch or two on Ahote. Plus, the rumrunner had been sitting down at the time.

The first few swings were for showmanship, apparently, but the one that connected sent Ahote rolling backwards over his chair. His blood mixed with spilled milk. Now, he’s back on his feet and hiding behind his hands.

For some reasons, he and Viona try to use their words.

“I haven’t laid a hand on your wife, friend.” Ahote’s tone is calm and assertive, despite the split lip. Viona’s is less so.

“He’s not laid a fuckin’ hand on me, ya gobshite!”

More wild, sledgehammer swings. Ahote retreats around the table. Vi vanishes into the entryway and returns with the shotgun; she trips over Violet as the girl forces her way past mama’s skirt. Her butterscotch eyes nearly fall out of her head when she sees the blood smeared across Ahote’s face and her father’s knuckles.

“Jaysus, girl!” Viona gasps. “Go hide under the bed before ya catch buckshot in yer backside!”

Violet’s scrapes are nearly healed, now, and Mama Bear’s in no hurry to freshen them up. She grabs Violet by her collar and drags the girl away, leaving Ahote to his own devices.

A flash of steel and there’s a switchblade in his hand. “Look, fella. I haven’t started a fight in my whole life, but I’ve ended more than a few. I’m sure we can talk thi — “

Jax grabs a plate off the table, flicking what’s left of Ahote’s meal across the floor. He advances, using it as a shield, and easily slaps away Ahote’s defensive slashes. Once he’s inside the Indian’s guard, it’s all over.

Almost over. The strongman lifts Ahote into the air like a sack of grain and makes to toss him out the front door. Or maybe through the window; Ahote doesn’t wait to find out. Instead, he hooks one arm around Jax’s head and throws his weight the other way. Jax staggers and lets go, rather than turn this into a wrestling match.

Probably a bad choice, because the bootlegger lands on his feet with his knife arm wrapped around Jax’s shoulder and his blade pressed against the bigger man’s throat.

Ahote spares a second to catch his breath before growling in Jax’s ear, “You’ve been talking to that goddamned preacher, haven’t you?”

V

It’s three days before that monkey knife fight and several weeks after Easter. Following a moment of spiritual awakening, Ahote had allowed a simple fuel line replacement to balloon into a boot-to-bonnet overhaul. He’d been getting to know the locals, doing good deeds, and he’d grown rather fond of his little attic room above Vi and Violet’s house.

Then, he’d had lunch with a banker-turned-farmer and now, for some god-forsaken reason, he’d gone to a holy man for advice.

“How do you do it?” Ahote asks the man with the salt-and-pepper beard who sits next to him in the otherwise empty pews.

“Could you narrow it down a titch?” the preacher replies with a reassuring half-smile. Not too mirthful, just enough to lighten the mood. Friendly, but professional. Just a hint of suspicion behind the eyes, but no white person could hide it, not well.

“How do you know you’re giving people the right advice? How do you know you’re not steering them wrong?”

“I usually consult the manual,” he tells Ahote, lifting a bible from its resting place.

“Alright,” Ahote draws the word out like a measuring tape, “but what if you didn’t have that book?”

“This book’s for everyone, son. You have heard the good news, haven’t you?”

Ahote can tell this is gonna get racial. “I was raised by nuns, so yes, but you’re missing my point. Let’s pretend I’m a rabbi or something and we’re having conversation over dinner.”

“It’ll have to be at your place, cuz I don’t keep kosher,” he quips with exactly the same smile.

Deeeep breath, “Yes, fine. I’ve invited you over for dinner and we’re having a conversation. I ask you, one public servant to another, ‘How can we really know that we’re giving people the right advice?’”

Finally, he thinks about his answer. “Well, son, I guess it’s like anything else: It comes from experience. When you minister to a community, you become a part of people’s lives. You observe the consequences of your advice, whether they follow it or not, and you develop a better sense for these things.”

“So, when you were just starting out, a freshly minted priest, did you have these kinds of doubts?”

“I don’t think a man can trust in God without first doubting himself.”

“What if I don’t have the luxury of staying in one place that long? All I have is the present moment, just me and the person seeking wisdom. And how is it fair to give out rookie wisdom when we’re inexperienced, anyway?! These are people’s lives!”

“Are you running from something, son?”

“No, it’s nothing like that.”

“What’s it like?” Same smile, but now the suspicion is rising up like an angry proletariat, torches flaring.

“You wouldn’t believe me. Thanks, father. I’d better be go — “

“Sit. Stay.” He puts a hand on Ahote’s shoulder. “Try me.”

“Trust me, you don’t wanna hear it.”

“It’s my job, son. As long as it doesn’t involve scalping anyone,” he chuckles.

Fine, Ahote thinks. Have it your way. “I travel the ley lines to align my energy with the universe. I turn my life over to fate, follow the Dao, so to speak. It’s like walking a labyrinth, but I do it in a car. And the car becomes my soul.”

He’s looking at Ahote like he just watched a puppet show in a foreign language, like he knew he should be offended, but didn’t know why.

“Yeah,” the shaman sighs, “I knew that was gonna be too much information. Look, here’s what happened: I was having lunch the other day and I got to talking with farmer Larson. Did you know he was a banker until last year? Lost his shirt in the Crash, then moved out here because his wife’s family owns a farm, but he doesn’t know jack about working the soil! ‘What business do I have running a farm?’ he asked me. And I realized, I feel the same way about being a road shaman — “

“A what now? Is that some kinda Indian thing?” The preacher’s brain is slowly catching up to the conversation and his face isn’t a fan.

“Yes and no,” Ahote tries to brush it off. “It’s all very syncretic, the kind of thing you hear about on the road, from other travelers. Oral tradition.”

“So, what advice did you give him?”

“Oh, I told him to focus on the present moment, accept his life for what it is, and meditate on uselessness.”

“Uselessness?!” Hand to god, he actually slaps his knee as he laughs. “Son, that’s a terrible thing to tell a farmer! Just terrible. We’ll be lucky to keep a gun outta his mouth come winter.”

Ahote hangs his head. “No, that was the good advice. That was solid. His story just made me reflect on my own situation. I’m just starting to sort out my own life. What business do I have being a sage?”

“I think you’re the one who needs to meditate on uselessness!”

This time, Ahote does rise to his feet. “All due respect, padre, but do you laugh at everyone who comes in here, seeking advice, or do you save it all up for the dark-skinned folks?”

That sobers him up a little. “Look at it from my perspective, Mr Ahote. You just walked into my church and told me you’ve been spreading pagan nonsense among my flock. Laughter’s the best response you coulda hoped for.”

“Take your perspective? It’s a famous Daoist practice and you, a theologian, have never even heard of it! Nobody needs to take your ignorant, goddamned perspective.”

“Son, unless you’re willing to accept Jesus Christ as your lord and savior, I think you’d better leave.”

“I was done here, anyway.”

The preacher waits until Ahote’s crossing the threshold to clarify: “I meant ‘town,’ son. You’d better leave town.”

“I’ll leave when the road calls and not one moment before. See you around.”

VI

“Yes, I’ve been talkin’ to the preacher!” Jax spits as he struggles against Ahote’s hold. “He’s the only one ‘round here who cares ‘bout anybody’s soul, anymore!”

Viona reappears with her shotgun, but isn’t sure where to point it. “What in the name of God’s great balls are you two doing?!”

Maybe he’d been thinking too much about church and nuns, or maybe he was just trying to be the bigger man, but that’s when Ahote decides to turn the other cheek. And Viona’s shotgun probably has something to do with it, too.

In any case, it’s a big mistake. Ahote loosens his hold on Jax, folds his switchblade closed with one hand, and makes it disappear like a magician’s trick. “We’re cool, Vi. I’m — “

The literally bigger man elbows Ahote in the face before he can finish, then whirls around and starts in with the body blows. Ahote staggers into the kitchen like a three o’clock drunk. Vi’s screaming in the background, strangely distant. A meaty fist crosses Ahote’s jaw, sending him on a carnival ride. He crashes into the pantry door, which splinters around him. Canned vegetables rain down on his bone box as he slumps to the floor, defeated.

But Jax is far from done. Eyes red, nostrils flaring, he hauls the Hopi up by those red suspenders and gets back to work on his jaw. The shaman’s head swims. Struggles to swim. Starts to drown.

A muted pop is all Ahote can hear of the gunshot that puts a few holes in his rented room. Jax seems to notice it even less, so focused is he on breaking Ahote’s body.

Cursing, Vi sets the shotgun aside and gets in there. She kicks her husband’s knee out from under him, pulls his head back as he tips over, and punches him flat in the face. “Welcome home, love of my fuckin’ life!” she thunders.

“What the hell, woman? Can’t you see I’m tryin’ to protect you?!” His eyes dart toward the shotgun.

Vi follows his gaze and barks, “Oh, no ya — “

He dives for the weapon. Vi tackles him.

While they wrestle each other across the kitchen, Ahote makes a painful exit. Broken in body and spirit, he commando crawls out the back door. Somehow, he gets his feet under him and stumbles to the garage.

His brand new Bentley is waiting for him, shining like an angel in the lingering sunset. Her bullet holes are long gone, the doors and windows replaced. Her new finish gleams white. Her chrome sparkles.

The road shaman climbs in, cranks the ignition, and opens the throttle. She purrs and leaps from the garage like a ballerina into a spotlight…

And then she completely falls apart.

Lugnuts fly like marbles. Steam bursts from the bonnet. Front tires go their separate ways and the Bentley plunges, nose-first, into the road. Even the steering wheel comes loose in Ahote’s hand.

Looking at the scrap pile now, he wonders how he ever thought these mismatched pieces — salvaged from a dozen makes and models — could possibly work together.

He shoulda listened to Stan Manly.

VII

Ahote walks into the only auto garage in town on the morning after his first night in the Rodgers’ attic, but there’s no mechanic on duty. Instead, he finds a rabbit purring in the middle of the floor.

Now, most rabbits wouldn’t be caught dead purring, but this is no ordinary rabbit. It’s eight feet tall, for starters, and it’s grinning from one towering ear to the other. Its teeth are big and flat, like a human’s, which makes the expression more alien and terrifying.

Also, the rabbit is made of metal and it shits eggs.

As Ahote approaches, the purr decays into a wheeze, then a cough, then a tiny explosion that belches black smoke from its backside. Also emerging from its backside is its apparent inventor, a short and soot-covered man who rolls away from his creation like a loose billiard ball. He eventually comes to his feet and, after searching a bevy of pockets, wipes the grime from his eyes with a cleanish handkerchief.

“Shit!!!” He jumps like a jackrabbit when he finally notices Ahote. “I, um, whoah. Where’s the? Who’s what?” His hair’s as filthy as the rest of him, a jagged helmet of greasy spikes aimed every which way. He’s shaped like an egg, himself. Humpty Dumpty in overalls.

“Sorry,” he sputters, finally stringing words together. “I didn’t see, um… I ain’t ever seen an injun before.”

Ahote tries his best to smile. “But I’m sure you’ve seen a lot of westerns.”

“Guess I have,” he admits, running a hand through his hair. It does nothing to tame the beast. “Maybe one too many, huh?”

“Maybe. Getting ready for Easter?” Ahote asks, eager to change the subject.

“Sure am,” he brightens. “Hey, check this out!” The gnome disappears behind his contraption, which shudders back to life and hops toward Ahote. Not ‘hop’ like a rabbit, but more like a car with its parking brake on and a drunk behind the wheel. It turns ninety degrees and crosses the floor in front of him, then shits a couple of broken eggs onto the cement.

Somehow, the rabbit seems proud of itself.

“Oh shit,” the mechanic repeats when he pops his head out. “Those will be hardboiled, come Easter.”

“They’d better be,” Ahote laughs. “Still, might be a good idea to lower the muzzle velocity on that thing.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“I mean, they’re Easter eggs, not mortar shells.”

“Got it! Jeez!” The little man’s eyes are wide, white smears of exasperation. “What can I do for you?”

“I need to replace the fuel line on a nineteen-twenty… something Bentley.”

“You don’t know the year?”

“It’s had a lot of modifications.”

“Sounds like my kinda ride,” the mechanic beams, offenses forgotten. “We don’t see a tonna Bentleys out this way, but maybe I could dig something outta the scrapyard. You inna hurry to get outta here?”

“I’m positively made of time,” Ahote assures him, “but there’s another problem…” He pulls out his empty pockets, hoping a moth doesn’t escape.

The little man plops down in a folding chair and puts his feet up on his workbench. “Well, that is a dilly of a pickle.”

“Any chance I can work it off? I’m pretty good with engines.”

“As you can see,” the mechanic gestures around his garage. Except for the maniacal Easter bunny and a puddle of eggs, the floor is conspicuously empty. “I’m not exactly swamped right now, but I tell ya what: If you find a usable fuel line in one of those wrecks, you can keep it… provided you scrap the entire car for me.”

Now it’s Ahote’s turn to run his hand through his hair. “You’ve really got my balls in a vise, mister…”

“Manly. Stan Manly.”

“Really?”

“Why would I lie about that?”

“Is that what people call you? Like, the whole thing?”

“They call me ‘Stanley’ for short.”

“Great. Stanley,” the road shaman can’t say it without shaking his head, “tearing down a whole car’s gonna take me all day. Against the cost of a rubber hose… I could make more money standing in a breadline.”

“Alright. You’re twisting my arm, Mister…”

“Ahote.”

“That an injun name?”

“You know it is.”

“Right. Well, Mr. Ahote, if you scrap a whole car for me today, I’ll let you keep whatever parts you have a use for. How does that sound?”

“Beats the breadline.” They shake on it.

“Tools are out back. Help yourself.”

“Feels more like I’m helping you.”

“I agree!”

The junk heap gives Ahote a new respect for Stan Manly, if you can believe it. The place is like an elephant graveyard. There’s even an elephant in it, or most of one. Ahote spots a pair of driftwood tusks, a leather ear, and a length of ventilation tubing painted pink and blue. They’re not all in the same place, of course. They’re scattered among a mountain range of derelict cars, trucks, tractors, parade floats, what might be a dune buggy, and a thousand other things whose names are known only to God…

There’s a Tin Lizzie all gussied up like an American flag, red stripes down her sides and white stars on her hood. Statues of bald eagles are mounted on her headlamps. What looks like rocket launcher tubes protrude from her windows, probably explaining the burn marks on her canvas top.

Another Model T, a flatbed, has been transformed into a scale model of the Great Pyramid. A Sphynx perches on its hood and stares Ahote down with cold disdain. A beach worth of sand has been glued to the cab, tires, even the windows.

Ironically, there’s no sand at all on the Studebaker. It’s long side has become the canvas for a beatific beach scene: blue skies, sand castles, and cresting waves. The hood is encrusted with seashells, many of them glued together into a fanciful castle with a mote of blue glitter. An enormous conch has been affixed to the grill like the masthead of a ship.

Christmas cars from as far back as 1919 lie enmeshed in thick webs of broken string lights and dessicated wreaths, entombed with the remains of many wooden reindeer and babies-Jesus.

An enormous skunk pelt is draped over some kind of tractor; Ahote considers the scents that might have been concocted to fit that theme and declines to investigate further. He creeps up on a tiger that crouches behind a pile of old tires, but finds a filthy zebra instead. It’s like an old hoarder’s costume closet, but for art cars.

Eventually, Ahote finds a good-as-new Oldsmobile hiding behind a sheet metal mask that kinda looks like the Moloch Machine. Its furnace-mouth hangs open in a silent scream, framing the grill. The headlights have been relocated to form its malevolent eyes.

It reminds Ahote of one of his own cars, beneath the child-eating biblical reference. He’d lost an Olds to the G-men the night everything went south. He doubts the fuel line will be a perfect fit, but he’s sure he can make it work. More to the point, he’s sure it’ll work if it’s meant to work.

Seeing all these art cars, how each was repurposed and given new life, makes Ahote realize why the Bentley broke down here: You can’t buy another man’s soul at auction and just move in like a hermit crab. A road shaman’s windhorse has to be earned through toil and dedication and good works. In short, you have to build it yourself.

This place was always out here, waiting for him, so he could stop and make the Bentley his own.

In accordance with the prophecy, tearing down the Oldsmobile takes the entire day, but it’s worth it. Ahote removes the Moloch mask, the doors, the bumpers, the tires. He dismantles the engine, tears out the seats, disassembles the dashboard, unmounts the suspension, and — most importantly! — salvages the fuel line.

“You know that’s not gonna fit.” Stanley’s looking at him like he wants to bust him back down to private.

“I’ll make it work.”

“Speaking of which,” the mechanic hops out of his chair and vanishes, once again, into his fiendish Easter contraption, “check it out!” He revs the little engine, drives the pagan idol into the middle of the floor, and lays a couple of eggs as gently as a mother hen. “Abracadabra!”

He picks up the eggs and offers one to Ahote. “You must be starving.” The shaman looks down at the greasy fingerprints adorning the shell and politely declines. Stanley shrugs, taps one egg on his desk, and starts peeling. “That all you want?” he asks, gesturing toward the fuel line with his chin.

“I’ll take the doors, too, but I hope you don’t mind if I leave them here. They’ll need some resurfacing, to say the least.” It had almost seemed like a shame to scrap the mural. A lot of love had obviously gone into it — into the other cars, too — but that was all in the past. Nothing Ahote did today could diminish what they’d already been. That’s the great thing about the past.

“Yeah, fine,” Stanley mumbles around a mouthful of egg.

Ahote continues, “And I’d like to come back tomorrow, same terms. I’ll keep on scrapping your cars, if you’ll pay me in salvage.”

The mechanic mumbles something unintelligible, but Ahote takes it as a yes, judging by the man’s outstretched hand. They shake on it while he swallows.

“Now that I’ve whetted my appetite, care to join me down at the ol’ waterin’ hole?”

“Vi probably has something prepared — “

“Oh, you’re one of Rodger’s Lodgers,” he winks.

“Yeah, why?” Ahote asks, narrowing his eyes.

Stanley feigns innocence. “No reason. I’m sure it’ll keep another hour. Lemme buy you a drink, at least, to seal our deal.”

“Alright. In the name of neighborliness.”

“Great! I bet most of the fellas ain’t never met an injun, neither.”

VIII

Ahote’s sitting in the driver’s seat of what was once a Bentley, what he thought was his windhorse, but is now a pile of parts littering the Rodgers’ lawn. He drops the steering wheel on the seat and reaches for the door, but it falls away from his fingers and clatters to the ground. The road shaman rolls out after it, comes to rest on his back, and stares up at the stars.

Slowly, he becomes aware of the people staring down at him. The fellas from the bar are all there: Rudy and Lester and Tiny and Steve-O and Barbara and Slick Jimmy. Old Lady O’Meyer is there, in her slippers. Her sons are with her, in their matching John Deere caps. The whole Williams clan is there, five children clinging to their mother’s skirt while mother hangs on her husband’s arm.

And the preacher is there, too, with brimstone in his eyes.

“There he is!” hollers the holy man, commanding the obvious. “The idolator you’ve all welcomed into our community! He’s had no intention of fixing this car, nor of leaving our town, not without our souls in his pocket!”

“I dunno, pastor.” It sounds like Slick Jimmy; Ahote can’t quite see through his rapidly swelling eye holes. “Looks like God’s already had his way with ‘im. Maybe we should take him to Doc Baker.”

Ahote always thought it was a confusing name: Doctor Baker. How many professions does one man need?

“It’s a ploy, Jim,” the preacher explains. “He knows he’s been exposed for what he is and now he’s playing on our sympathies. Don’t be fooled!”

“I dunno, either.” That’s definitely one of the O’Meyer boys. “Ahote’s been nothing but neighborly. Last weekend, he did momma’s grocery shopping so me and Bob could go fishin’. Even helped her put everything away.”

“And he helped me repair that storm door that came loose last spring during that one really bad storm we had last spring. Remember that storm?” Mrs. Williams’ mouth tended to run ahead of her brain when she was nervous. Ahote wondered if they’d all come here to run him out of town or just to watch Jax beat the shit out of him.

“And he gave me some really great advice about letting go of my old life and living in the present, you know? He really listened and I could tell he cared.” Farmer Larsen pushes his way to the front of the crowd. “No offense, pastor, but he ain’t no satanist. He’s a good man and he obviously needs our help.”

They move as one, forcing the preacher aside and engulfing Ahote, dozens of well-worn hands lifting him up to a sitting position. Someone dabs his face-pulp with a cloth. “Oh yeah, he’s gonna need stitches. Thomas, go fetch the doctor.” One of the Williams children vanishes in a thunder of tiny footsteps.

Dimly, the road shaman hears Vi approach on a wave of Irish curses. He hopes she’s in better shape than he is, knows she is. She can take care of herself.

Maybe they all pick him up and carry him inside, or maybe his soul leaves his body.

Either way, Ahote fades to black.

IX

“I’ll be damned.” Stanley is standing in the Rodgers’ garage a week or three after the Unpleasantness, as the locals are calling it, inspecting the Bentley’s new engine. He digs around in his pockets and hands Ahote a dollar bill. “I hope you’re pullin’ a fast one on me, cuz otherwise that there’s a goddamned miracle.”

“I told you I’d make it fit… this time,” Ahote grins. He neatly folds his winnings and gives them a kiss before making them disappear. “And that’s not all. Look here: that fan belt’s from Jimmy’s old tractor and the spark plugs are from Lester’s Chevy. He said they’re broken, but they work just fine for me. I have no idea where the Williams children got this distributor cap, but it fits like a glove. And those doors are still the ones from your old Olds.”

“I recognize the finish,” Manly remarks, admiring his own handiwork. The Bentley looks like a whole new car, cream-colored and spotless. He slaps Ahote on the back. “You’re a miracle-worker, son!”

That’s the preacher’s cue to appear, like the Devil hearing his name. He’s carrying a gas can with a ribbon tied around its neck. “Stanley,” he gasps. “I expect bold, theological claims from this one, but you?”

“Come to make sure I actually leave?” Ahote asks, only partially in jest.

“It’s probably full a’ holy water, Ahote. Look out!” Mr. Manly jests, jumping in front of the shaman.

“It’s a peace offering.” The preacher sets it down on the cement and nudges it over with his foot.

Stanley gets down on all fours and gives it a sniff. “Checks out,” he reports. “Want it in the trunk?” Ahote nods and the mechanic gets to work.

“You still owe me an apology.” Ahote’s face has returned to its human proportions, more or less, and most of the stitches have been removed, but his jaw still aches after a meal and he’s not sure his left eye will ever be the same.

“I was wrong about your intentions, I’ll admit, and Jax shouldn’t have done what he did.” Ahote notes the continued lack of apology. The preacher never breaks eye contact or betrays any kind of nervousness. If he really thinks he did anything wrong, Ahote will eat his clerical collar. “You’ve done this town a lot of good and, for that, I thank you.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” Ahote points out pointedly, “but you’re welcome.”

Stanley slams the trunk and rejoins them for a few seconds of tension before he spots the Rodgers approaching. “Here’s somebody who doesn’t owe you an apology, Ahote!”

Violet comes running around the corner ahead of her parents. Jax’s face is pretty messed up, too. Vi really kicked his ass. When Doc Baker came around, that night, they’d put him through a double shift. He’d made them work the bill off together, doing chores in the old man’s yard like penitent teens.

“I owed him a lot more than an apology,” Jax corrects the mechanic.

“He says, about a thousand apologies later.” Ahote laughs and the two of them clap elbows. “Padre came by to make sure I leave.”

“To see him off,” the preacher corrects, almost under his breath.

“But you’re always welcome back.” Vi embraces him, unexpectedly, and it takes Ahote a moment to remember what to do with his arms.

Violet gets in on the action, too. “Yeah, come back next Easter, so you can hide the eggs again,” she commands him. “You pick all the best hiding places.”

“Yes,” Vi agrees, releasing him reluctantly, “but no more eggs in trees.”

“I make no guarantees,” Ahote winks at the little girl. Her ankle’s all better, now, and Mama Bear’s been chasing her out of trees for weeks. “Alright, everyone. I’m burning daylight.”

The Bentley squeaks as Ahote gets behind the wheel. He feels the new leather under his fingers, flashes the onlookers a smile, then reaches gingerly for the key. The spark plugs spark, the fuel line fuels, and Sweetness roars to life.

“The road is calling.” He waves on his way out, watches his new friends, and also the preacher, fall into his rearview mirror.

Gravel’s crunching under his tires, wind’s whistling in his ears. He does a quick pass through town, waving goodbye to all his friends, glad for the time he spent here and eager to find out what comes next.

Dustbowl Xia