“The hell you think you’re going?” Wrong question, I thought. Where the hell do I think I am? I had just stood up from a perch on a prone log. A campfire burned in the middle of the night. Around it was the remnants of carved stone and large chunks of rough hewn wood. I had been in raven form before I stood up. The act of standing transformed me from raven bird to raven-cloaked Weaver.

“Sit your black ass down. After your bullshit today, I’m not letting you out of my sight.” The speaker shifted position, filling the silence with soft rattles. I looked to my left and saw Mxtl (the closest this American English speaker can come to pronouncing Snake Dancer’s preferred name) in her beaded regalia sitting on one of the carved stones. It was not lost to me, that her current seat looked like a giant snake’s skull that was collared with large feathers. She didn’t look up at me, but was visually focused on a small handmade rattle in her hand. The shaft looked familiar.

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