Race to the Sun: Chapters 16–24

“Very good initiative, Nizhoni!”

“Does he have scales underneath his skin?” Mac asks eagerly. “Tentacles?”
“All of those and more, should he wish it,” Mr. Yazzie says somberly.

Mac gnaws on the side of his thumb and says, “That’s bad.”
Understatement of the year.

His voice rings through the snowy valley, and the last word of each sentence comes back to us in reverberating echoes.

“There are four—one for each of the cardinal directions: east, south, west, and north. They were set in place by the Diyin Dine’é and equipped with a guardian and a herald to care for the land. They surround the ancestral home of the Diné people, and each represents a powerful part of Navajo history and culture.”

A figure materializes, slowly separating itself from the white fields of snow.

"You're talking to a frozen lizard?” he says ominously. “And you think I’m weird because I’m made of crystals. Who’s the real weirdo here?”

I understand what he wants, and I lift Mr. Yazzie gently from his impromptu bed and place him in the boy’s outstretched palm.

I recognize it as a hogan, a traditional Navajo dwelling. It looks surprisingly snug and cozy, and a stream of blue smoke wafts merrily from the pipe protruding from the center of the domed roof.

“Thank you for the compliment. I do adhere to a rigorous skin care regime. But I assure you, I am much older than I look. I’ve been the guardian of this mountain since the beginning of this world. What matters, though, is that we’re related.”

“It is said that, when the Holy People made this mountain to mark the easternmost edge of Dinétah,” RC explains, “they adorned it with white shells to make it shine in the sunlight and mark its beauty.”

The snow is deep around the hogan, and we have to slog our way through.

“It does look daunting,” Mr. Yazzie admits, "but it can be done. The mountain seems huge, but I know we will find the perfect shell. With a little patience,” he says, hopping off my shoulder to land on the white mound, “and positive thinking.”

He tightens the straps on his backpack and looks at the foreboding pile.

"Let me go!” he shouts. “The audacity!”

“I am the herald of Dibé Nitsaa, the Mountain of the Folding Darkness, the northernmost sacred mountain and the home of the Jet Guardians and the Black Bird Heralds.”

"What can we do to help?”
“Not you, cheii, but your ward.”

“You must come and defend the mountain,” Lizhin says adamantly.

“If Dibé Nitsaa falls, there will be no Dinétah, and no Dinétah means no Spider Woman, which means no map, which means no path to the Sun,” Mr. Yazzie says solemnly.

She takes a step back, lifts her beak, and begins to sing. Her song is beautiful, a trilling, twisting melody that fills the winter air.

We all listen, rapt. When she finishes, Mac claps politely.

The bluebird lands first. The plumage on its back and wings is the brilliant hue of a perfect summer sky, and its belly is a grayish white.

“I would be honored to take you to my mountain so you can meet my guardian and request your boon.”

"What if there’s a test?” he asks morosely as he climbs on Dólii’s back.

I clamber onto Lizhin’s back, digging my hands into her thick layer of feathers.

Rocky black peaks jut up through the clouds like sharp claws, and when we get lower, everything is shrouded in a dark gray fog so thick and heavy I can't see through it.

The currents grow stronger, buffeting us violently, and for a minute, I think I’m going to fall off.

"The wind is trying to throw us against the rocks!” I shout over the howl of the gale.

The squall pulls greedily at my clothes and hair, but once Lizhin has a hold on solid land, it dies down.

Immediately, the wind comes howling back, even more vicious, more ravenous.

“I don’t see anybody, brother,” its companion bleats, sounding annoyed.

“Somebody has lied to her. She’s confused.”
“Misled.”
“Duped!”

“Discomfited!”
"Stop it!” I shout. “Besides, I don’t even think ‘discomfited’ means what you think it does.”

“Discombobulated! Discombobulated!” they screech.

“Look into our eyes,” one of the creatures croons at me, his voice a singsong.

“So look closer,” the first one warbles, shuffling forward, eyeballs popping out even farther.

The great black claw rocks are towering spires set into the side of the mountain like spikes in a crown.

With a pang, I think about my dad, praying with all my might that he’s out of that trunk and getting food and water.

Black Jet Girl smiles, her smooth black skin shining in the waning afternoon light.

“Your feather came in handy.”
“You had the ingenuity to use it,” the bird says with sparkling eyes.