Excerpt of Struck by Keith Pyeatt

Barry sat with his eyes closed. One strong hand supported his left hand, another pressed down on his palm. The smells of earth and smoke had been foreign to him when he and Walter climbed down into the kiva, but now the aroma stimulated a comforting sensation that danced inside Barry to the distant sound of drums.

He opened his eyes when Walter removed the hand covering Barry's and examined where lightning had entered Barry's body. The drumbeats in Barry's mind stopped.

"Close your eyes," Walter's soft, low voice instructed. "Relax your mind." He covered Barry's hand with his own again.

Barry tried to do as told, but his mind wouldn't return to the stillness he'd briefly experienced. He tried visualizing limitless space, then a blank sheet of paper, but his attention returned to a series of concerns that looped through his mind, questions about himself, Walter, Carlos, and Martin––even the thin woman with the rosary beads. Those damn black veils had covered her. He'd established a link, maybe helped her peace of mind, but he hadn't done anything for her physically. The veils had still clung to her. She'd still die soon.

Barry opened his eyes and found Walter watching him.

The older man smiled. "It takes practice."

"I guess so. I did feel something, though, for a while. A sense of belonging, I think."

Walter nodded. Then he closed his eyes, apparently drifting to the place where Barry couldn't yet gain entrance. Smoke tickled Barry's throat, but he resisted the urge to cough. He waited as quietly as he could, careful even that his breathing made no noise.

Light from the small fire flickered across Walter's face, deepening shadows and lines, highlighting cheekbones, forehead, and his straight, wide nose. His coarse, gray hair looked yellow in the light as he sat motionless, expressionless. His face might have been molded from clay and straw, like the adobe bricks used to build the pueblo. It might have been as old too.

Barry tried again to clear his mind, but this time his mother's face waited behind his eyelids. Her expression of love, a look that seemed to have permanently imbedded itself in her features, swelled Barry's heart. Every detail was perfect––the laugh lines by her eyes, the tiny scar on her forehead, the way her left eye squinted more than her right when she smiled.

But she's gone.

The realization pierced him as it always did when he forgot for just a moment that he would never speak with her again, hear her voice, or feel her fingers smooth his hair.

The image of her in his mind shifted. Her face paled, and it looked like the skin beneath her eyes had been smeared with soot. She'd looked this way in the Emergency Room. Barry had ridden in the ambulance with her after finding her sprawled on the kitchen floor. Heart attack. She never made it out of the ER. This was his mother's face the last time he saw her alive.

She moved her lips, and their final conversation rolled through Barry's mind.

"I never told you all I should." She reached the hand unencumbered by IV's toward Barry. "I thought there'd be more time."

"There will be," Barry whispered, taking her hand. "Just rest now."

His mother closed her eyes and swallowed. When she looked at him again, he noticed the red rims of her eyelids, how faded her irises had become. He glanced at the nurse standing on the far side of the bed, meaning to ask her to help. The nurse smiled in that way that wasn't really a smile. It felt as if she were willing him strength. And knowledge. She nodded and looked down at Barry's dying mother.

"You're to be a great warrior, Barry." Her voice was strong, but then she coughed. Her next words were spoken softly. "You don't accept it yet, but it's true. I wish I could tell you more. I thought I'd learn what to say to make you––" Again she coughed. The machines beside her blipped and beeped, changing rhythms. The nurse shuffled forward a step but then seemed to rethink herself and stood back.

"Another will help you, Barry. Teach you. Be open. Accept who you are." Her eyes begged. "It's import––"

The next coughing fit did bring the nurse bedside. Barry watched as she held his mother's wrist, checking her pulse. Her eyes remained closed, even after she quieted and the nurse again stepped back. "You were chosen for a reason," she murmured, her voice barely audible. Her hand grew heavy in Barry's.

The fire popped, bringing Barry back to the moment where his hand rested sandwiched between Walter's. Walter extended his hands toward Barry, as if offering his hand back, and released him. "There's a reason the doctor couldn't find where the lightning exited your body," he said. "The energy's still inside you."

Barry nodded, unsurprised.

"The energy was placed in you specifically, for a purpose," Walter continued. "You're changing it as it changes you, but..."

Barry had learned to respect Walter's silences. He waited while the elder stared into the fire.

When Walter turned to Barry again, his dark eyes reflected the flames. "It wants out."