Rush hour had just gotten its claws into the city when the cab pulled to a squeaking halt before the old brick building.

     “You sure this is the place sweetheart?” the driver asked, his tone one of condescending doubt. This was no-mans land; a ghost town within the city, left to rot after a big quake had made the coastline unstable and to dangerous for rebuilding.

     “Yep,” his passenger said as she pushed the door open, “this is it.” Long, jean-clad legs stepped out among the weeds growing up from the cracked sidewalk.

     The driver shook his head dubiously. Even before the quake the area had been low-rent and run down. Now, not even the drug dealers claimed this turf. The building that his feminine fare had exited the cab for housed the likeness of a horned fiend hung from rusty chains above a narrow red door. What the driver did not know was that the vacant appearance of the neighborhood was actually the result of a deliberately and well-maintained illusion.

     With a shrug, the driver dismissed any fleeting thoughts he may have had about the woman’s safety. He accepted the money she held out to him and drove away without a glance in the rearview mirror.

Luna RedCrow, as dark and mysterious as her name implied, hurriedly stepped over a mysterious stain on the sidewalk and pushed her way through the red door of The Diablo.  The smell of stale beer, cigars and copper greeted her.

She wove her way through the crowded room, careful to avoid eye contact with anyone; not all of them accepted her designation. Nor did they accept her humanity.  She couldn’t help but wonder how many of The Others thought of her as the tolerated outsider or who defiantly saw her as meat.

She stepped behind the bar and hung her leather coat on its usual hook.  A silver-plated switchblade appeared from within the jacket and disappeared into the back pocket of her jeans.  The weight of the blade was reassuring though its presence was foreboding.  Luna was no fool; she knew too well what lurked about when the sun went down. 

 The sudden pressure of someone’s scrutiny pressed in against her.  Luna slid her eyes to the left just in time to see Gunnar pull his gaze back to bottle in his hand.  He pried off the cap and slid it to an old man seated at the bar.

With his shaggy hair and perpetual need of a razor Gunnar looked far more vagrant than business owner. But his piercing green eyes lent themselves to something all together different.

Something otherworldly.

The Clackamas Literary Review is a nationally distributed, semi-annual print journal which promotes the work of emerging writers and established writers of fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction. An excerpt from “Tuatha de Diablo” is being featured.

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Neither twinkling of stars nor the brilliance of the moon illuminated the northern Washington sky for neither could penetrate the blanket of clouds overhead.  Kat drew in a deep breath and filled her senses with the earthy flavors of cedar and moss.  And dead things.   She closed her eyes - a pointless effort in the pitch black - but it helped her to focus on what could not be seen.   Her mind stretched out and silently opened the doors to that which had wordlessly beckoned to her.

The nearby river rushed as coyotes heckled and somewhere farther still a cougar screeched – a sound reminiscent of tortured women giving an effect which has sent grown men running for the shelter and comfort of home and rifle.  Small creatures rustled in the trees overhead while larger things crept nearby.  A twig snapped under the weight of something and the nocturnal chatter of the forest fell abruptly silent.

But none of these things frightened Kat. 

The dark was her familiar, as were the things that crept there.  She called the shadows friend and they called her kin and together they lived a symbiotic existence.   She had been born unto a destiny that she neither understood nor did she question; God works in mysterious ways does He not?   It was her relationship with those shadows that propelled Kat down the American highways and cross-roads and thus into the lives of strangers.  Some of her mingling endeavors were joyous while others ended in tragedy but Kat had no more power over the outcome than she had over the waxing or waning of the moon.

The rustling in the darkness grew louder as something approached from out of the night.  Kat’s nose began to pick up the scent of decaying vegetation mingled with a hint of unwashed body – not the fetid stink of the homeless or neglected junkie full of artificial ingredients and chemicals - this was the scent of a wild human; organic and pure.   She smiled.

“Hoakicipapi Granddaughter,” a shadow whispered.

“Hello Grandfather.”  Kat’s smile widened.  “It’s been a long time since you’ve visited me.  I was beginning to believe you’d forgotten about me.”

“As long as you carry the dust of my bones, I am always with you.”  The stooped figure of an elderly man materialized from out of the night.  “You just might not always see me.”

High clouds overhead parted to reveal a half-moon that spread a gentle glow across the landscape.  Kat did not need the light to recognize the silver braids that framed the ancient face of her friend whose skin was the color of the desert rocks and was as worn.  She did not know Grandfathers true name for she had always referred to him as just that - Grandfather - a title of respect.  The two had walked together for two decades, since Kat was a little girl of six.  Their paths had crossed by happenstance, though she knew there was no such thing, and she had never been quite sure who had found who.  

 “Was it you who brought me to this corner of the land?”  Kat inquired.  Are those who wander truly lost?

“Did you not enjoy your journey?”  Grandfather asked.  He frequently answered Kat’s questions with a question of his own; every sentence a lesson wrapped in syllables.

“I thought I wanted to see the ocean.  But the waves were frenzied by the north wind.  So I drove inland instead, not quite knowing why.”

“Isn’t a tree, at times, only a tree?”  Grandfather parlayed.

“Yes.  But sometimes that tree is dying and waiting to fall.”

“And what happens to the forest if the tree falls or if it only dances in the breeze?”

Kat pondered the old mans question.  Everything in life reacted and interacted as one.  “Life goes on,” she concluded.

“Does it?” 

A nearby barking cut off any answer that may have sat on Kat’s tongue.  She startled and turned, but saw nothing there.  When she returned her attention to Grandfather, he had vanished.  Just as suddenly as he had appeared, he had disappeared back into the night.

The clouds returned to cover the moon once again. A strong breeze rose from the valley below to send a draft through the layers of her clothing.  It wouldn’t do Kat well to catch a chill.  It was time to continue her journey.   Her stomach growled in agreement. 

After one last gaze into the darkness Kat turned on her heel and crunched across the gravel to her old VW bus that served as both transportation and home.   Everything she owned was stored inside, which wasn’t much but it was all she needed.  She liked to think of herself as a free-spirit, riding the wind and following where it took her.  That perception was better then thinking of herself as a runaway. 

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