White Shell Woman

by James D. Doss

  He was obligated to ask. “What signs?” It’ll be pains in her chest.

  “Toenails,” she muttered.

  He wondered whether he’d heard her correctly.

  The aged woman looked down, wiggled her toes. “I generally have to clip ’em at least once a month. So they won’t poke holes in my stockings.”

  Charlie Moon wondered where this was going.

  So that gaunt Rider on the Pale Horse would not hear the grim news and come a-galloping her way, Daisy whispered. “My toenails…they’ve stopped growing.”

  He stared at her feet. “That’s bad?”

  She gave him the pitying look reserved for the terminally ignorant.

  Moon, who had never really understood his aunt, thought she wanted reassurance. “It’s probably just some kind of dietary problem. A little more calcium, you’ll be right as rain.”

  This uncalled-for optimism earned him a venomous stare.

  He understood his error, and added in a conciliatory tone: “Or maybe you are about to fall off the saddle.”

  Pleased to have browbeaten her nephew into submission, Daisy treated herself to a deeply melancholy sigh. “It won’t be long now. Some dark night, that snow-white owl will swoop down. He’ll perch on that old piñon snag by my bedroom window…and call my name.”

  He looked at the pot on the stove. “You got any more coffee?”

  ST. IGNATIUS CATHOLIC CHURCH

  Daisy Perika was mildly annoyed that Charlie Moon was not sitting beside her. Her nephew had been lured away by April Tavishuts, who was sitting across the aisle. Moon was smiling at something the young woman had whispered in his ear. Daisy scowled. Hah. I bet you’d wipe that silly grin off your face if your yella-haired matukach sweetheart was to walk into church right now. But the old woman was pleased that her nephew was paying some attention to a nice Ute girl. As far as Daisy knew, April didn’t have herself a man. Or anything you could call a real family. Her father had died during the flu epidemic. And not long after marrying a Navajo last year, April’s mother had left Middle World. Daisy said a brief prayer for the unfortunate soul. But Misfortune visits those who are foolish. She should’ve known better than to get into bed with one of them Navajos. But I guess she must’ve been awfully lonely. Daisy Perika closed her eyes. And wished that someone would come and sit beside her.

  As he delivered his carefully crafted sermon on those twin sins of Pride and Envy, Father Raes Delfino tried not to notice the elderly woman in a pew near the rear of the church. But her form—hunched forward in an odd, froggish manner—tugged at his gaze as the gravity of a black hole bends a beam of rainbow light. The Ute elder was an enigma to the scholarly little Jesuit. He had no doubt that Daisy Perika’s faith was firmly anchored in Christ. But like other traditional Utes, she was the creature of a complex culture shaped in darkest prehistory. He knew from several unsettling experiences that Daisy was haunted by it. As he was.

  Daisy was, in fact, dozing. This was primarily because she was old and tired to the marrow. Only partly because in the back of the church she could not quite make out the priest’s words. The syllables fluttered softly about her ears like little yucca moths. Lulling her sweetly to sleep.

  But presently, something disturbed her nap. An urgent tugging at her sleeve.

  Believing another member of the flock was awakening her for Holy Communion, she cleared her throat and whispered hoarsely: “’S all right—I was just resting my eyes.”

  Daisy glanced across her shoulder. There was no one there.

  Almost.

  Another tugging at her sleeve. Must be a child. She looked down. And almost swallowed her tongue. I must be dreaming. She closed her eyes ever so tightly. Counted toward ten. At seven, she cracked the lid on one eye. The little man was still beside her. Right here in church, like a regular Sunday-go-to-meeting Christian. This was outrageous. “What are you doing here?” she rasped.

  He scratched his belly and yawned.

  She tried to speak without moving her lips. “Go ’way—before somebody sees you!”

  No response from the dwarf.

  Daisy stared in horror at the priest. Though he had not missed a beat in his sermon, Father Raes seemed to be looking in her direction—as if she were the chief of all sinners. But the Ute shaman remembered—to her enormous relief—that only a Ute could see the pitukupf. Well, that wasn’t necessarily always the case. There were occasional exceptions. That matukach chief of police up in Granite Creek had seen the dwarf. But Scott Parris—Charlie Moon’s best friend—was a very special white man. With gifts not unlike her own. Father Raes was of another sort entirely. She was certain the priest could not see the tiny fellow who sat by her side. And so she stared boldly at the man of the cloth.

  Without turning her head, Daisy Perika spoke from the corner of her mouth. “Take off your hat.” Still unnerved by his unexpected appearance, she had spoken in English.

  The pitukupf did not respond.

  She repeated the command in the Ute tongue.

  The dwarf ignored her.

  Daisy snatched the floppy green hat from his head, slammed it down on the pew between them.

  The little man aimed an outraged look at the shaman. And muttered something best not heard by an old woman’s ears. Especially not in church.

  In the choppy Ute dialect, Daisy tersely inquired what the pitukupf was doing here. He knew very well that his sort had no business in God’s house. He belonged in Cañon del Espíritu. Under the ground. In his badger hole.

  Apparently unmoved, the pitukupf said not a word. But he did reach out to touch the Ute elder’s wrist. And point upward with a crooked little finger.

  Following his gesture, the shaman tilted her head. She was astonished to see flames, the church roof melting away like wax. And far above—in a sky that was unnaturally dark for late on a Sunday morning—Daisy Perika saw something like stars. Falling from the heavens.

  At the door, Farther Raes had already exchanged pleasantries with April Tavishuts and Charlie Moon, who were waiting a few paces ahead of the old woman. The priest took Daisy Perika’s wrinkled hand in his. The tribal elder had a peculiar look in her eye. “And how are you this morning?”

  She responded with a shrug, punctuated with a grunt.

  “During the sermon,” he said with a wry grin, “you seemed somewhat distracted.”

  Confident that the matukach priest could not have seen her diminutive visitor, the shaman returned the crooked smile in kind. “Well, if I told you what I saw, you wouldn’t believe me.” Or maybe you would. But Father Raes strongly disapproved of her association with the pitukupf. He had told her so on several occasions.

  “Try me.”

  To Daisy, a half-truth was quite as good as the whole thing. “While you was talking, I had this vision. It was very strange.” She squinted up at a pale turquoise heaven. “There was something like little specks of fire, and they was falling down from the sky like”—she wriggled her fingers to illustrate the poetry of motion—“like…like…” The aged woman seemed unable to find the word.

  The kindly priest tried to help. “You saw something falling—like rain?”

  She shook her head. “It was like…mañana.”

  He did not respond to this nonsensical statement. Poor old soul must still be half asleep.

  Daisy Perika waved her hand impatiently. “You know—that food that fell from heaven.”

  The Jesuit scholar smiled. “I believe you mean manna.”

  She nodded. “That’s what I said—that stuff God fed to Moses. And them Philippines.”

  “Philistines,” he said automatically.

  She stared at the priest as if he’d lost his mind. “So you’re sayin’ it was the Philistines that Moses led outta slavery in Egypt?”

  “Well, of course not. I was merely—”

  The Ute elder cackled a raspy laugh. Right in his face.

  It was hardly the first time Father Raes had been taken in by the sly old creature. This tr
oublesome woman delighted in teasing him. But he could play the game as well. “How fascinating that you’ve had this revelation. And such a remarkable coincidence.” The cleric clasped his hands and raised his gaze to the heavens. “On this very morning, I also had a strange vision.”

  Daisy’s dark eyes were still sparkling with the flame of her small victory.

  Father Raes wondered what the vision should be. “During my sermon, I noticed that you were talking. Though at first, I could not see with whom you were conversing.” This much was true enough. “And then—for just a moment—I thought I saw someone sitting beside you.” He was about to suggest that it must have been her guardian angel when he noticed an expression of alarm pass over Daisy’s face. The priest—who suspected that the elder still occasionally talked to the dwarf—seized the opportunity. “Someone small it was—a most peculiar-looking little creature.” His brow furrowed in feigned puzzlement. “I only saw it for a moment, and then—whatever it was—it was gone.” He flicked his fingers. “Poof!” Father Raes smiled. “Now what do you think of that?”

  Daisy Perika met the priest’s penetrating gaze with the most brazen expression she could muster. “I think it must be something you ate.” But her old legs were trembling as she hurried away.

  For once, the long-suffering priest had the last laugh.

  3

  First Man said: “I do not believe this thing. We are very poor. Why should we be visited by a Holy Being? I cannot believe what you tell me.”

  —Sandoval, Hastin Tlo’tsi hee

  CHIMNEY ROCK ARCHAEOLOGICAL SITE

  AS CHARLIE MOON gripped her arm, Daisy Perika grunted her way out of the pickup. Once her feet were firmly planted on the earth, the tribal elder leaned on an oak walking stick and glared up at the dark face shaded by the brim of a black Stetson. “I don’t know why we had to come to this place.”

  A glint of amusement sparkled in Charlie Moon’s eye. “Because the forest service opened up the archaeological site early.” He patted his aunt’s stooped shoulder. “Especially for us Indians.”

  “Hmmpf. I can see the top of Chimney Rock from where I live.”

  “But you can’t see this.” Moon waved his arm in an expansive gesture. “Pit houses all over the mesa.” He pointed to the northeast. “And up there on the Crag, there’s a great view of the stone towers.”

  She kicked at a bluetail lizard that skittered safely out of range. “It’s a bunch of foolishness. Nothing up here but rocks and sand. And old ghosts.”

  “These haunts must be starved for news,” he said. “Been waiting a thousand years for some talkative old lady to come and tell ’em the latest gossip.” Aunt Daisy claimed she often chatted with ghosts who wandered out of Cañon del Espíritu.

  Her dark eyes snapped at his teasing. “If the spirits want to come to my place to exchange a few words, that’s one thing. But those who stay away from the living want to be left alone. Just like I do.”

  Her nephew, who could think of no useful reply, was saved when Daisy Perika saw someone she knew. “Look. Over there.” She pointed her chin at two people emerging from an ancient pickup.

  Charlie Moon turned to look. The 1957 Chevrolet had been brush-painted a pale shade of blue that matched the sky. The bed was covered with a homemade plywood camper shell. April Tavishuts was brushing something off her black skirt. April’s stepfather—a rail-thin old man—slammed the door on the driver’s side. He muttered something unintelligible, spat on the ground. Moon was surprised to see Alvah Yazzi at the ruins. The Navajo elder’s attitude about avoiding such places was—if possible—more strongly held than Aunt Daisy’s.

  As if her nephew could not see past the end of his nose, Daisy said: “It’s that Tavishuts girl you sat with in church last Sunday.” And her stepfather. Alvah Yazzi had married April’s Ute mother just over a year ago. A shrewish woman with a tongue sharp as a sliver of broken glass, she had not been that good a catch. But if Alvah’s burden had been heavy, he had not been destined to carry it long. A few weeks after the marriage, his bride had died in an automobile accident west of Bayfield. The woman had not been wearing her seat belt. Her husband had. The Navajo had walked away from the overturned sedan with nothing more than scratches. Alvah was a prudent man. And though the Navajo was two decades older than April’s mother, he carried his years well. Daisy Perika found herself smiling. He’s closer to my age than his dead wife’s. And now he needs looking after. She waved at the pair.

  April had already seen the towering form of Charlie Moon and his aged aunt. The young woman was approaching, her Navajo stepfather following several paces behind with short, hesitant steps. Appropriate greetings and pleasantries were exchanged. Obligatory observations were made about the weather. All were in agreement that rain was needed. April looked up at Moon. Last Sunday, they hadn’t exchanged more than a dozen words. “Since you took up ranching, I don’t see you very much. Except at church.”

  “I keep fairly busy.” Moon looked longingly to the north. Toward the Columbine.

  April took a calculated risk. “I hear you got yourself a pretty girlfriend.”

  Charlie Moon didn’t know what to say to this. He squinted at the sky.

  Daisy seized the opportunity. “He’s been nuzzling up to a yella-haired matukach woman.” The old woman rolled her eyes. “She lives in California. Prob’ly rubs elbows with them movie stars.”

  April looked shyly at his polished boots. “California’s a long way off.”

  Moon’s reply was touched by melancholy. “That it is.”

  “You must get lonesome.”

  That I do.

  There was a brief silence while April Tavishuts and Charlie Moon both wished she’d kept her mouth shut.

  “April’s got herself a job,” Alvah Yazzi snapped.

  Moon was relieved at this change of subject. “What kind of job?”

  The young woman shrugged modestly. “Nothing much.”

  Her Navajo stepfather snorted. “You said that right.”

  April shot the old man a warning glance, then turned to face Moon. “I’m a graduate student in the department of anthropology and archaeology at Rocky Mountain Polytechnic. Professor Axton is department chairman.” She glanced toward the Crag. “We’re conducting a survey here at the site.”

  Alvah spat the words through thin lips. “I’ve told her—don’t disturb the places where the Old Ones lived.”

  Daisy nodded her approval of this sage advice, but held her tongue. Maybe that Navajo is smarter than he looks.

  April Tavishuts looked her stepfather straight in the eye. “I’m not going to disturb anything. We’ll be taking measurements—and making photographs. That’s all.”

  “Bullshit,” Alvah said. This was always an effective conversation stopper.

  An uneasy silence was relieved by the approach of a tall, tanned white woman in her middle fifties. She moved with easy familiarity along a winding pathway that meandered among the pit-house ruins. Outfitted in khaki slacks and a spotless, white two-pocket shirt, she exhibited perfect posture and an almost military bearing. The newcomer directed her gaze at the young Ute woman. “Excuse me, April, but the tour is scheduled to begin in”—she paused to glance at a wristwatch—“about seven minutes.”

  Moon smiled at April. “You going to have a look at the ruins?”

  “Me and Dr. Silk are the tour guides.” April said this with a hint of pride.

  “Token redskin,” Alvah Yazzi observed with an ugly curl of his lip.

  “Nonsense,” the khakied woman said. “April is far more familiar with the site than Professor Axton’s other students. She’s a natural to act as my associate.”

  “Leezh bee hahalkaadí asdzáá,” Yazzi muttered.

  Moon knew enough Navajo to understand. Shovel-woman.

  Pointedly ignoring her stepfather, the young woman introduced the archaeologist to Daisy Perika and Charlie Moon. “Dr. Silk knows more about the Chimney Rock ruins than anyone.”

 
Daisy responded with a polite nod.

  The scientist reached out to shake Moon’s extended hand. “Forget the doctor stuff. I’m just plain Amanda Silk.”

  There was nothing plain about the woman. Moon found her hand hard and callused. “You do a lot of work at Chimney Rock?”

  She smiled to display a prominent but attractive set of teeth. “Just the dirty work. Salvage archaeology. Cleaning up after the occasional pothunter.”

  “Someone has been digging in the pit houses,” April said with a grave expression. “Dr. Silk works for the NAGPRA committee.”

  Alvah frowned suspiciously at his stepdaughter. “What’n hell’s that?”

  “Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act,” April responded in a patronizing tone. As if he should have known.

  Amanda Silk glanced at a nearby pit-house ruin. “The vandals came during the winter months, while the site was closed. I’ve been awarded a contract to survey the area for illegal excavations. Evaluate the damage. Repair whatever harm they’ve done.”

  Moon thought there must be lots of places where a pothunter would have a better chance to dig up a salable artifact. And less chance of getting caught in the act. “The diggers do any serious damage?”

  Amanda Silk shook her head. “Doesn’t look like the work of professionals. Some teenagers, most likely—hoping to unearth something for their artifact collections.” The archaeologist beamed upon April. “Well, young lady—we must not keep our special guests waiting.”

  April looked up hopefully at Charlie Moon. “You want to come along?”

  He did. Moon invited his aunt to come with him and have a look at the site.

  Her feet hurt, Daisy said. She would wait for his return. Which she hoped would not be too long.

  Alvah Yazzi did not receive an invitation from his Ute stepdaughter.

  The tour started on the Great Kiva Trail Loop, a path winding along the developed section of Ghost Wolf Mesa. The first group of Indian tourists represented several generations. An aged Paiute leaned heavily on two canes; he was so thin that it seemed a breeze might topple him. On the small end of the age scale, there were a dozen children. These ranged from babes in arms to a sullen teenager who had a Walkman earphone plugged into his ear. While more than half the participants were Utes who lived within a few miles of the stone towers, other tribes were also represented. Among those Moon recognized were an Apache family from Dulce, a Navajo hand-trembler from Teec Nos Pos, his brother who ran sheep at Naschitti. There was a famous potter from San Juan Pueblo, a Hopi elder from Shungopavi. And a Zuni woman pretty enough to turn a man’s head.