42 seconds on Bodega Bay

Tom spent the night in his cousin's dinghy, rocking in Bodega Bay. The rough wool blankets smelling of salmon and oysters. Sleep wouldn't come. Big Jose had arrived in town yesterday, and Tom had felt the poison in the air for weeks now. Tomorrow he'd have to deal with it.

They'd grown up together never friends but friendly. Both trained as healers, both carrying power the old ones recognized. But Jose had turned to poisoning, killing for the Mexican governors all for whiskey and tobacco. That was a road you didn't come back from. One you couldn't come back from.

At dawn Tom walked to the roundhouse at Jenner. He had built where the Russian River met the sea. He'd chosen this place because it straddled three worlds; Miwok, Pomo, and the new comers. The hootcha hummed with old power.

Inside, he breathed slowly, centering himself. Unwrapping the abalone beaded necklace from its deerskin pouch, a gift from the little grandmother Tsupu, he slipped it over his head. The shells clicked against his chest as he sat at the far end and waited.

Big Jose entered without ceremony. Tom felt the poison pushing across the space between them, thick and cold. He locked eyes with Jose and breathed out, slow and steady, emptying his lungs completely.

A gust of wind exploded from the roundhouse, knocking down the locals who'd gathered outside to watch. Tom rolled with the force and came up on his feet. Jose stood unshaken spreading his arms wide drawing breath for another attack.

Tom didn't wait. He planted his right foot, then his left, stomping hard enough to rattle his teeth. A low hum rose from his chest. He whispered a word that came to him from the Petaluma hills, from the bones of his ancestors and pushed his hands toward the earth.

The ground answered.

For forty-two seconds Tom held Jose's eyes while the world shook itself apart. He felt the power rolling south from the hills, across the bay, into the city he'd never seen. He couldn't stop it. He didn't try to

Jose's face went white. His power fled him. He stumbled backward, turned, and ran.

Tom stood alone in the roundhouse his chest heaving. Outside the witnesses were picking themselves up staring at him. The abalone shells had gone silent against his skin.

News traveled slow to Bodega Bay. Tom sat alone at the Ocean View House, the week old edition of the Chronicle spread on the bar in front of him.

April 18th, 1906. Three thousand dead. The city burning.

He folded the newspaper. Outside, fishing boats rocked in the bay, including the little dinghy where he'd spent that last sleepless night. He thought about Jose's face, about the power that had moved through him, about whether winning could be called winning when it cost so much.

The reporters would come eventually, asking about the crazy trickster who claimed to cause the great quake.

Let them.