“Which of my ribs do you plan on driving those between?”
She doesn’t answer. Her silence sometimes is enough to make him stop but he persists.
“Are you going to channel a warrior, do a rain dance?”
He is teasing of course, she knows that, but her father made a bit of ceremony as he gave her the arrowheads, telling how he found them in the fields and the series of dreams he had afterwards. Harvey mocks far too often and he shouldn’t mock her father at all.
Suzy picks up one arrowhead, raises it above her head and begins to hum. Almost of its own accord her mouth opens and a very passable, plausible chant erupts, her body follows in a parody of pow-wow dancing. Funnily, in that moment she feels native, her white English Anglican heritage circumstantial.
Harvey laughs; the signal that he is done with his joke, but Suzy continues to wail and dance. Then her eyes became glassy and seem like they are seeing far beyond the objects in the room, even not focusing on Harvey. He glances over his shoulder to see what she is looking at. It occurs to Suzy that her performance is rather good, although it doesn’t feel like pretend.
“Quit kidding around.” He tells her. “Stop it.” A different note is in his voice now, and Suzy reaches the point where she would let it go normally, but a new inflexibility holds her to the game. The joker is on the other foot; she thinks as her vocals reach an eerie crescendo and a breeze comes from her twirling body even though she wears no fringes or feathers. Harvey backs out of the room.
“You’re crazy.” Harvey announces as he leaves the house.
The door shuts behind him but Suzy’s thoughts follow her father’s enigmatic story about the arrowheads. He told of spirit keepers and conduits. She twirls, her arms spread like wings. To possess them is to be chosen by ancient ones. She keens again. Then she grows still.
She will put the box of arrowheads away except for one she will leave out as a reminder. But which one? She takes the box of arrowheads to the bedroom.
She notices a something lying on their bed. She picks the arrowhead up and a tingle bites at her finger. But there is no wound and no blood.
A breeze lifts her hair as a shiver runs down her spine. They are sharp on the edges.