Paz parked near the freeway ramp. She kissed him on the cheek, promised postcards, and left. He waited while she thumbed. Long-legged redheads with knockout bodies do not typically have to wait long for rides, and before too many minutes had passed, an eighteen-wheeler hit its brakes with a great sigh, and she climbed into its cab. Whatever else he now was, Paz was still a dad and a cop, and so he wrote down its license number before it drove away.
Jenny settled herself in the passenger seat and smiled at the driver. He was a fortyish man with long hair, a bad shave, and deeply set, bright blue eyes sporting very small pupils. As he cranked up through his gears he asked, “Where’re you going, honey?” He had a Texas accent.
“ Colombia.”
“In Carolina?”
“No, the country. In South America.”
“No lie? Hell, that’s a long way for a little girl to go all by her lonesome.”
She made no comment on that, so he continued the chatter. She answered when it would have been rude not to, and in response to his probings invented a set of plausible lies. They exchanged names: his was Randy Frye. Randy Frye the Good-Time Guy, as he announced. He liked to talk about himself, and he had lots of stories. By West Palm he was confident enough to make the stories a little raunchy; by Yeehaw Junction, he was probing her sexual history (unsuccessfully) and accentuating his remarks with little touches on her shoulder and arm. By Kissimmee, they were such good pals that he laid his big red hand on her inner thigh, pat pat pat, squeeze.
She turned in her seat and looked him in the face. Randy Frye noticed that her eyes, which had been pale blue, were now lambent yellow with vertical pupils. Out of her throat came a sound that should not have had a home in such a throat.
Ararah. Arararararh.
The semi swerved momentarily out of lane, engendering angry honks from a nearly sideswiped van. By the Orlando interchange, Frye had just about managed to forget what he had seen and heard and had invented a story about a cold little bitch, probably a lesbo, wouldn’t fuck her withyour dick…After that, without exchanging more than a dozen or so words, he took her all the way to Corpus Christi.
RUNIYA GLOSSARY
achaurit-lit. “the death,” but also the visible spirits seen accompanying the living
ajampik-the spirit world
aryu’t-spiritual wholeness, the quality of a real human being
assua-Paullinia sp.; a stimulant used in rituals
aysiri-a witch
chaikora-Cannabis sp.; a hypnotic
chinitxi-demons
hninxa-a sacrifice of a female child
iwai’chinix-lit. “calling spirits into life”; a kind of dream “therapy” of the Runiya
jampiri-animal spirit doctor; pl.jampirinan
Jan’ichupitaolik-Jesus Christ, lit. “he is dead and alive at the same time”
layqua-a spirit-catching box
mikur-ka’a-Petiveria sp.; guinea hen leaf, a plant used in medicine and magic
pa’hnixan-a sacrificial victim
pacu-a giant bluegill
pisco-cane liquor
Puxto-the region, the native reserve
Runiya-Moie’s people, lit. “speakers of language”
ry’uulu-mahogany
ryuxit-harmony; the life force
siwix-disharmonious, taboo
t’naicu-amulet
tayit-honorific title
tichiri-a guardian spirit inhabiting the dream world
tucunaré-the peacock bass
uassinai-a plant substance of unknown origin used with other hypnotics in ritual
unancha-a totem or clan symbol
unquayuvmaikat-lit. “the falling-down gift”; epilepsy
wai’ichuranan-the dead people, whites;wai’ichura (singular)
yana-hallucinatory snuff used in ceremonies
About the Author
Michael Gruber has a Ph.D. in marine biology from the University of Miami. He lives in Seattle, Washington, and is currently at work on another novel.
www.michaelgruberbooks.com
