Whirlwind by Charles Grant

hand that held it didn’t move.
    The old man returned to the circle, sat, and after shifting once, didn’t move.
    The only sound was the fire.
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    A lone man waiting in the middle of nowhere.
    He stood in the center of a scattering of bones—coyote, mountain lion, horse, bull, ram, snake.
    And from where he stood, he could see smoke rising above Sangre Viento Mesa, rising in separate trails until, a hundred feet above, it gathered itself into a single dark column that seemed to make its way to the moon.
    In the center of the smoke-made basket the moonlight glowed emerald.
    The man smiled, but there was no humor.
    He spread his arms as if to entice the smoke toward him.
    It didn’t move.
    He was patient.
    It had moved before; it would move again.
    And after tonight, when the old fools had finished, he would make it move on his own.
    All he had to do was believe.
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    Donna rolled over in her sleep, moaning so loudly it woke her up. She blinked rapidly to dispel the nightmare, and when she was sure it was done, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up, pushing hair away from her eyes, mouth open to catch the cool air that puckered her skin and made her shiver.
    The house was quiet.
    The neighborhood, such as it was, was quiet.
    Moonlight slipped between the cracks the curtains left over the room’s two windows, slants of it that trapped sparkling particles of dust.
    She yawned and stood, yawned again as she scratched at her side and under her breasts. The nightmare was gone, scattered, but she knew she had had one, knew it was probably the same one she had had over the past two weeks:
    She walked in the desert, wearing only a long T-shirt, bare feet feeling the night cold of the desert floor. A steady wind blew into her face. A full moon so large it seemed about to collide with the Earth, and too many stars to count.
    Despite the wind’s direction, she could hear something moving close behind her, but whenever she looked back, the night was empty except for her shadow.
    It hissed at her.
    It scraped toward her.
    When she couldn’t take it any longer, she woke up, knowing that if she didn’t, she was going to die.
    She didn’t believe in omens, but she couldn’t help but wonder.
    Now she padded sleepily into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and wondered if it was too late, or too early, to have a beer. Not that it mattered. If she had one now, she’d be in the bathroom before dawn, cursing herself and wondering how she’d make it through the day with so little sleep.
    She let the door swing shut with a righteous nod, yawned, and moved to the back door.
    Her yard was small, ending, like all the other yards scattered along the side road, in a stone-block wall painted the color of the earth. Poplars along the back blocked her view of the other houses even though they were too far away to see even in daylight, unless she was right at the wall.
    Suddenly she felt much too alone.
    There was no one out there.
    She was cut off, and helpless.
    The panic rose, and she was helpless to stop it. Running from the room did her no good because she could see nothing from the living room window either—the rosebushes she had spent so much time training to be a hedge fragmented her view of the road, erasing sight of the field across the way.
    Trapped; she was trapped.
    A small cry followed her to the door. She flung it open and ran onto the stoop, stopping before she flung herself off the steps. Cold concrete made her gasp; cold wind plastered the T-shirt to her chest and stomach.
    I am, she decided, moving back into town first thing in the morning.
    It was the same vow she made after every nightmare, and it made her smile.
    Oh boy, tough broad, she thought sarcastically;think you’re so tough, and a lousy dream makes you a puddle.
    She stepped back over the threshold, laughing aloud, but not loud enough that she didn’t hear the hissing.
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    The smoke rose and