Goddess Girl Prophecy

by C C Daniels

  In response, a broad grin spread across his face. He slung the pack over a shoulder and walked backward a few steps before turning around. He walked away slowly shaking his head. It was my turn to watch him. Was it possible that his shoulders could become even broader in just a day? It sure seemed like it. If fish can quadruple in size, why not Ute braves?

  Speaking of…I turned to the two men wrestling with poles and leather ties. “Hey, Uncle Jun, Honaw.”

  They each grunted a hello.

  Ella greeted me too. “Hi, girl.” She nuzzled my pockets.

  “Sorry, no sugar there today.”

  Kanaan’s warmth lasted until Uncle Jun’s frustration vibrated into my head. It wasn't thoughts, just an overall aura.

  “Let me go change and I’ll come back to help,” I said.

  “You just get MawMaw, you, and your horse ready. We’ll get this,” Uncle Jun grunted.

  I went inside. MawMaw had laid out our skins and moccasins on the kitchen table. I was happy to see that she was still in PhD mode.

  “Oh, thank goodness.” She took me by the hands and looked me over.

  “I’m fine,” I reassured her. “I’m sorry I worried you.”

  She released me and took a deep breath nodding as she exhaled her relief. “Well, I’m sorry too.”

  I creased my brow hoping to get something out of her. “Sorry for what?”

  She waved my question away. “Right now, we have to get ready for the parade, the elders, and the powwow.”

  I put my jacket on the hook and tried to see something in MawMaw’s head or sense an emotion. She gave up nothing except determination to the task at hand. I ran my hands over MawMaw’s favorite doeskin dress draped over the table. I always loved that dress, had snuggled with it against my face when I was a kid.

  MawMaw had made it herself—with Mary’s hands-on tutelage—and I loved seeing the process through her eagle hen peepers. It was one of the few sets of flash images that didn't give me debilitating headaches, or completely blinded me. After a few moments of touching it, the images always faded, leaving me with just the auras of the makers.

  Tanned and worn to a buttery golden, the pelt was as soft as any of the finest Asian silk. Fringe, cut from the same pelt and carefully hand-knotted, ringed the hem. Quill embroidery embellished the shoulder and the V-neck.

  MawMaw unbuttoned and removed the beaded bodice and was inspecting it for damage or loose stitches. Her moccasins had an identical beading pattern on the top of the feet. When I noticed my mom’s doeskin draped over a chair, my breath caught.

  “You’re no longer decent in your child skins,” MawMaw explained. “I’m certain your mother would want you to have it.”

  I went right to it, wanting visions of my mother despite the risk. Caressing the soft garment—this one handcrafted entirely by Mary—I wasn't disappointed. The nostalgic images of Mom being fitted by Mary made me smile.

  From Mom’s point of view, Mary showed her a secret pocket, cleverly sewn into the legging waistband. The tiny pocket held a small vial that contained a silver needle with a strand of extra thread already in the eye. From the matching moccasins to the decorated belt pouch, the skins were the best of the best.

  The garment didn't give me head-splitting pain, but the way Dad looked at Mom when she wore it brought emotional heartache. Not the vibe I wanted, I let go of it. Decorated with traditional Ute yellow beads, it had been perfect against Mom's dark skin. I was sure that my pale complexion wouldn’t do it justice.

  But MawMaw was right. I had outgrown mine and finding an Indian seamstress to whip up a dress overnight would be impossible. Even Mary couldn't pull that off. And I wanted it to be her. She would create an authentic set of skins—dress, leggings and moccasins to match—and do it in the authentic way.

  Outsiders find rubbing the skin with the animal’s brains barbaric, but it’s what makes the hide soft, pliable, and water resistant. It was the ancient way of tanning hide that provided warm clothes and protective shelter. It was the technique that allowed the Nuutsiu to survive the harsh Rocky Mountain environment.

  To me, using an animal’s remains in its entirety to help you survive honored the creature and was the only justification for killing it. That I could touch things made by Mary without worry was a bonus.

  I helped MawMaw inspect the beading on Mom’s dress. We used modern invisible thread and needles to shore up any weak spots. When we were done, MawMaw made me try on Mom’s skins. Everything fit fine, except the moccasins. A bit big, Mary’s ingenious design allowed them to tie tighter around my ankles. They would work for the time being.

  MawMaw tried on her set and, as usual, it was a perfect fit. It was amazing that MawMaw never changed. Even her wrinkles seemed to look the same as I remembered when I was a little girl.

  Changing back into my jeans, I pulled on an old knit sweater…one of my first attempts at knitting a garment. It hadn’t turned out quite as I’d hoped, but it was okay enough to wear around the house.

  Grabbing an apple and a few sugar cubes on my way out, I spent the rest of the evening getting Ella ready for the parade. I washed and brushed her to a glossy sheen. Then I braided a portion of her mane. She always knew something was up when I did her mane. I think she felt pretty too, because she pranced and held her head higher.

  “You vain girl,” I scolded her with a laugh. “You are very beautiful, it’s true.”

  She snorted her agreement.

  “So are you.” Kanaan stood in the doorway to the barn, his overnight bag in hand. I blushed.

  Honaw came up behind him and popped him lightly on the back of the head. “That line never works.”

  It worked on me, I thought to Kanaan.

  He smiled.

  Honaw took Kanaan’s bag and ducked back outside. I heard him pitch the bag into their camper. “Kanaan, some help please,” he called from outside.

  Kanaan kicked the dirt. I’d rather help you.

  “Go help the men.”

  He hung his shoulders and went back outside.

  I oiled and polished Ella’s show saddle and took her Navajo show blankets to the clothesline where I beat the dust out of them. Most Ute didn’t use saddles, but my rear end preferred the comfort of a saddle.

  The blankets, though, were authentic. In the old days, Ute traded skins and buffalo pelts to the neighboring Navajo in exchange for blankets and silver jewelry. I was setting out the paints to decorate Ella in the morning when Kanaan came back to the barn. He shook his head in disapproval.

  “Squaws aren’t supposed to paint themselves.”

  “We aren’t supposed to ride either.” I sighed at Kanaan’s traditionalism regarding certain things. It was true. Traditionally only Ute braves rode, and painted themselves and their horses. Unadorned squaws walked behind. But when I was five and preparing for the parade for the first time, I insisted on being painted just like my daddy. My parents indulged me. Then, I rode my first parade sitting safely in front of my father on his painted horse.

  That's when MawMaw painted herself for the first time, all in solidarity with me, she said. Since then, the women in our family always painted. MawMaw chose to walk, though.

  I gave Ella the last treat and patted her neck. “Goodnight, girl. Sleep tight and don’t mess up your hair,” I said. She whinnied as I closed the barn door.

  The travois were ready too. They had made two. “They look great Uncle Jun. MawMaw’s going to love them.”

  When we came inside, the dresses were gone and dinner waited on the table. We ate in near silence. I think everyone was as exhausted as I was from the day’s events, because I didn’t get any thoughts from anyone. I stifled a yawn the best I could.

  “I’ll clean up.” MawMaw patted my hand. “Go get some rest.”

  I didn’t argue.

  The next morning, we rose before dawn. I quickly showered and put on Mom’s doeskin dress. I felt a kinship to the ancients in Ms. Savage’s paper as I pulled on the buttery-soft leggin
gs and tied on the moccasins.

  After tucking my phone and ID into the belt pouch I sat in my room, enjoying the images. Once they passed, I headed downstairs. MawMaw was already dressed too.

  Kanaan and Honaw went home to get ready, tag teaming our security with Uncle Jun. He drank coffee and shook his head at Ella’s excitement in the barn. I laughed while MawMaw clucked her tongue at the horse’s noise.

  “She’ll wake the neighbors, again,” she said.

  “Good,” I insisted. “Then the neighbors can get their lazy butts up in time for the parade.”

  MawMaw got her basket of face paints. First, she tightly braided my hair into two long braids. Then, I sat still with closed eyes, feeling the soft paint bristles on my skin. She drew an inverted golden-yellow triangle on my forehead with the point down to symbolize an arrowhead. Next, on my cheeks, she drew yellow lines pointing to my eyes, to resemble feathers. The final touch was painting the part in my hair, from forehead to the nape of my neck, with Amaya’s borrowed pot of red.

  It was MawMaw’s turn next. I painted wide blue lines around her eyes, indicating that her name meant she was all seeing, and finished with a wide white line across her forehead that spoke to her purity in heart and spirit. Her part, too, got the traditional red streak painted along it.

  There in the kitchen, I got a few broken thoughts from MawMaw. She’s growing up too fast, it’s almost time, and thoughts of the parade filled her head.

  MawMaw inspected my work in her hand mirror. “Good job, Wray. You go feed Ella and get her painted.”

  Ella heard me coming and whinnied her greeting.

  Uncle Jun parked his horse trailer on the curb facing out of the cul-de-sac. A few curious noses peeked out of it. I laughed and patted the noses on my way past.

  After a quick feed, I painted marks identical to mine on Ella’s face. She stamped her feet. “It tickles, doesn’t it,” I said. But she held as still as possible.

  Finished, I put the paints away and reached for her tack. The fancy riding blankets went on first. Next, I hoisted up the shiny show saddle, buckled it, and turned to get Ella’s bridle.

  My hand hovered over her well-worn one, but my eyes went to the new one—the one Mom and Dad had given me on my last birthday. Created by the same maker as the saddle, it would be a more cohesive look. I only hesitated a moment. I was ready.

  Bracing myself for images, I lifted the bridle from the hook. There were a few flashes from the leather tanner, but none of Mom and Dad. I swallowed my disappointment and finished dressing Ella. I led her out of the barn just as Uncle Jun and MawMaw were getting into his truck.

  “We’ll meet you downtown.” I swung myself into the saddle and trotted down the cul-de-sac toward Manitou Avenue.

  Down the block a bit, Mary and her horse joined Ella and me on our slow trot. Mary smiled and nodded at my dress. I thanked her for her talented work, for myself and for Mom. In minutes, with Uncle Jun and MawMaw slowly following us, we traveled the few blocks to Schryver Park, where the parade would start.

  The closer I got, the more I panicked. What started as whispered consciousnesses grew louder with every one of Ella’s steps. Not just thoughts, but the excitement pinging and vibrating on and around everyone threatened to mentally overwhelm me.

  I reminded myself to breathe, gritting my teeth on each deep inhale. Even though the thoughts were happy and fun, they still made my head throb. Consistently deep breaths at regular intervals blocked a portion of the noise out of my mind, but not all of it.

  When we found the tribe’s spot in the parade lineup, I dismounted and led Ella to the small group of Utes. The Manitou High marching band was in front of us. Several of my classmates waved to me. I got a few thoughts from a couple boys and girls. Apparently, they liked my traditional dress. I blushed and looked away.

  The mayor would ride in a convertible behind us. Farther back in the line were the Pikes Peak Range Riders dressed cowboy-style and the Manitou Fire Department with their antique fire truck, highly polished for the event. It was truly a small-town parade.

  Uncle Jun dropped off MawMaw and the travois then got help unloading the horses from some of the Ute who borrowed them for the parade. Then he parked the horse trailer behind a nearby motel.

  Like at Gertie’s the day before, the barrage bombarding my head ebbed and flowed—the volume lowered and rose in waves. During a low point, Kanaan and Honaw arrived.

  Honaw parked their horse trailer next to Uncle Jun’s at the motel. The Lykota boys unloaded three painted-and-decorated horses, two for themselves and one for Amaya, who also bucked tradition and rode.

  Wearing their own family skins and long braids, the boys looked very authentic. I noticed the leather wound into Kanaan’s black braids and how the fringe bounced across the broad chest of his traditional shirt. He smiled at me as he walked up.

  “Wow, you look amazing,” said Kanaan admiring my set of skins.

  A pale white girl wearing her adoptive tribe’s traditional ensemble was such an obvious contradiction. “I feel like yodeling the bear dance,” I joked.

  He laughed and ran one of my braids through his hand. The look he gave me made my heart flutter.

  The apple? I asked him.

  Safe and sound; don’t worry.

  “Children, that’s enough touching.” MawMaw slapped Kanaan’s hand off my hair before turning to an approaching Gertie, a handled basket looped over an arm.

  “Good morning, Gertie.”

  In her basket were her delicious pigs-in-a-pancake roll-ups. An early morning feeding for parade participants was her contribution to Founders Day every year.

  “Would you like one?” She smiled at me.

  “Of course,” I said.

  She used a napkin to pick one out, then handed off the basket to let the others pass it around.

  While handing me the roll-up with one hand, Gertie slyly dropped a delicate ring into my palm with the other.

  Instantly the noise in my head was gone.

  “Oh, my God,” I whispered.

  “It’s better, isn’t it?”

  I nodded enthusiastically.

  She closed my fingers on it, darting a glance around to see if anyone saw. They hadn't. She smiled and turned back to the basket that had been swiftly emptied.

  “Hey now, I see they are all gone.” She looped the basket back over her arm. “Good. I have to get back to my kitchen and get ready for the after-parade crowd.”

  A multitude of voices thanked her—out loud. I didn't hear a peep from their minds. It was sweet heaven. I hugged her firmly and whispered my thanks. She winked at me and quickly left the park.

  I put the man-sized ring on my thumb and studied it. It was a single piece of thin blue stone that had been carved into a band. Most important, no images at all were attached to it, and while I still sensed the auras around me, I didn’t hear any voices in my head.

  Chapter 24

  The elders arrived.

  They approached us from the west and made quite a spectacle. The riders, all with painted faces and in full chief regalia, rode tall. I knew that their regal headdresses contained eagle and hawk feathers that dated back to before the Spanish arrived in the area.

  Decorated and brushed to a gleam, their horses stepped high, yet trotted slowly, as if showing off on a red carpet. The elders talked and laughed among themselves as they rode.

  I easily imagined a similar scene from centuries past, where chiefs from all native tribes—calmed by the refreshing mineral waters of Manitou—rode in peace to their respective camps.

  The oldest elder, Sawaich, greeted MawMaw first. She was presumed older than he and so, she was his elder. He gave her a big hug while avoiding smudging face paints.

  “It’s so nice to see you, Osyka. Our visits are too few and far between,” he said, still holding her at arm’s length. “Stunning as ever.”

  MawMaw giggled and slapped his chest playfully. “You should come to the Front Range more often.”
/>
  He let out a big howl of a laugh. “We promised the United States government that we wouldn’t set foot here.”

  MawMaw scowled at that, which made him laugh even harder.

  I always wondered about those two. It was clear they had some sort of a relationship at some point. MawMaw never talked about it, though.

  They must have felt me staring, because Sawaich smiled a wonderful happy grin at me. The smile reached his kind eyes. I loved the deep quotation mark creases there and the parentheses around his mouth. MawMaw always said that the right wrinkles in the right places were the best badges of honor. Sawaich’s wrinkles were placed right where they should be to show that he had smiled often during his long life.

  He let go of MawMaw, and careful not to smear my face paint, gave me a great big hug.

  “Maiku, my dear.” He said hello in the native tongue. Then, he leaned back to look at my face. With a thumb under my chin, he had me turn my head left and then right. He grunted a sort of pleased surprise that showed in his eyes.

  He and MawMaw shared a glance that I didn’t understand. Then, he gave one of my braids a playful tug. “Look at you. You’re glowing like a goddess,” he said. MawMaw nodded and the two old people shared another look.

  Miquin greeted me next, again with a big hug.

  Another elder, Allohak, simply nodded a greeting to us. He stood back a bit holding the horses’ reins. With the striking wolf-gray eyes of the Lykota family, his biological relationship to Kanaan and Honaw—no matter how distant—was obvious.

  His lighter skin, though, was a clue that Allohak wasn’t pure-blooded Ute. I think because of that, I had always felt a sort of connection with him. He nodded almost imperceptibly at me. I did the same back.

  Kanaan and Honaw were next in the line of Ute to greet the elders.

  When I reined Ella out of the way, the too-big-for-me ring almost slid off my thumb. No way would I risk losing it, so I put it in Mary’s secret pocket sewn into my leggings—careful not to prick myself on the mending needle still tucked inside.