Daisy was suddenly feeling very alone. Lonely enough to wish the old Navajo would talk some more. Even about crazy things. So she primed the pump. “Alvah, how do you come to know these stories—about the Old Ones who lived here?”
As if he had been unaware of her presence, the old man turned slowly. He stared blankly at the Ute woman. “What did you say?”
“How do you know all these things?”
His face was without expression. “What things?”
She glared at him. Either the Navajo was weak in the head or he was playing a prank on her. Either way, Alvah Yazzi was a very annoying man.
His lower lip trembled. “Have I been…talking?”
“No,” she snapped. “You never said a word.”
He slid off the tailgate.
“Nice visiting with you, Alvah.” She watched the elderly Navajo walk stiffly back to his antique Chevrolet pickup. He moved around the vehicle, rapping his knuckles on the hood, kicking at a tire. He paused at the plywood shell to rub his palm across a dusty window. His lips were moving, but Daisy was too far away to make out his words. “Pitiful old man is talking to himself,” she muttered. “I hope I never get like that.”
THE DREAM
Daisy Perika seated herself inside Charlie Moon’s pickup. April’s Navajo stepfather had not been particularly good company. But at least he’s a man.
Her stomach growled. She searched the glove compartment and found a cellophane-wrapped package of yellow crackers that had some kind of peanut butter paste smashed between them. Daisy ate them all. This made her thirsty. She found a plastic bottle of Pepsi behind the seat, and drank it. Following this snack, she rested her head on a rolled-up shawl and entertained fantasies about a fine meal. Big, steaming bowl of red chili with lots of hamburger and fat pinto beans. A grilled cheese sandwich. Tall glass of iced tea. For dessert, banana cream pie.
Soon, the aged woman was asleep. Dreaming her strange dream.
The Ute shaman floats. Like a golden aspen leaf on still water. She looks beneath the surface, and sees them—those violent men with blood dripping from their pierced tongues.
The solemn priests of the Cloud Wolf Clan spend their seasons watching White Shell Woman float serenely across the heavens. When the signs are right, they lift up their arms and cry out to her, pleading for favors. They ask for the power to banish sickness. And foreknowledge of those perilous times when the husband of the moon will fall into darkness—or when White Shell Woman herself is swallowed by the shadow-snake. These mystics also seek visions of those secret things beyond the misty boundaries of Middle World.
From time to time, the pale mother of the Twin War Gods will consider these requests. Most favorable of all are those occasions when White Shell Woman ascends far to the north—so that she may stand between her towering sons. When this happens, she is likely to grant any request made by the guardians of the Temple of the Moon. As one such rendezvous approaches, the rulers in the great city to the south send their strongest runner with a message to the priests. They are instructed thus: Ask for this one favor—an end to the terrible drought that is sucking away the lifeblood of our empire.
The priests launch a determined effort, intended to please their goddess. A great jubilee is organized. They don fine robes of pale yellow cotton fringed with iridescent rainbows of macaw feathers. Tiny bells of burnished copper hang from their earlobes, tinkling as they dance and chant in the principle kiva of the great white temple. Special songs are composed for a choir of children brought in from the southern metropolis for the occasion. There are feasts of roasted venison and boiled corn seasoned with dried serviceberry.
Sadly, these magnificent and joyful displays provoke no response from their goddess. The chief priest discards his ceremonial robe to read the entrails of a badger. The signs are unmistakable—it was a blunder to hold great celebrations. The Goddess of the Moon does not wish to be merry. She is melancholy, because she is far from her family. Perhaps this sadness can be used to advantage…perhaps she can be induced to shed tears that will fall to water the earth. The priests’ faces and arms are blackened with soot from charred spruce. They fast until wasted flesh hangs limp on their bones. They offer up mournful chants, telling awful tales of pestilence, disease…and horrible death from starvation. It is all very dismal.
But the pale woman in the sky is unmoved. She sheds no tears to water the parched earth. The leaders of the Cloud Wolf Clan hold lengthy councils in the temple kivas. They hear a multitude of heated arguments and bold proposals—and finally come to a fearful decision. Intense pain will be inflicted upon their persons. Under the cold gaze of White Shell Woman, eyelids and tongues are pierced with slivers of bone. Priestly blood falls onto the temple plaza, gathering in sticky pools. Moreover, eyes are gouged out.
Still, the west winds bring no rain—only dust. Which the frustrated supplicants grind between their teeth.
The string of failures continues year after year. For a dozen scorching summers, branches of the vast kingdom shrivel and decay. Finally the very roots begin to die.
The hard truth finally becomes plain to even the dullest of the priestly caste—for some unfathomable reason, White Shell Woman has turned her face from those who live only to serve her.
Not by nature a patient people, the rulers and administrators gradually grow weary of the priests, who become the butt of crude jokes. In the Plaza of the Sun, the hunchbacked flute-player bellows derisive, vulgar songs about the follies of these so-called holy men. Worse still, whole communities of farmers rebel against the established authorities. They refuse to send food to the great city until the Cloud Wolf Clan has summoned the rains. Cruel punishments are meted out on the agricultural villages. In response, many lowland farmers scatter to the four winds in search of a green land where their children will not starve.
The desperate priests build great bonfires on the lofty Crag that stands before the Twin War Gods. For every night of a full phase of the moon, they bind seven slaves hand and foot. When darkness comes, these shrieking victims are cast into the roaring flames of a bonfire. At dawn, the priests breakfast on roasted human flesh. Charred bones are piled in great heaps where White Shell Woman can see them as she passes over Middle World. Surely this will be enough. Surely she will weep, so that her tears will water the beans and corn and squash that wilt in the fields.
After such terrible sacrifices, the Moon Goddess does finally respond to their supplications. She weeps. For an entire night, her tears fall from the sky. But this is not nourishing rain that falls from the wet eyes of White Shell Woman. These are drops of searing fire.
The chief priest understands this omen. The Moon Goddess is displeased with their sacrifices. There is nothing more to be done.
Weary of soul, the keepers of the Temple of the Moon prepare to abandon the sacred mesa. But not before concealing the clan’s most singular possession—an object so sacred that it cannot be moved from the protective presence of the Twin War Gods. Those few who have knowledge of the resting place must perish with their secret—even the chief priest. But the old man can see far into the future. He knows that after many winters have come and gone, his ghost will come to look upon the treasure of his beloved. And he is plagued with this nagging worry: Might the spirit of an aged man forget where he has hidden the precious object? Being a cautious soul, the chief priest leaves himself an enigmatic clue. It is easy to understand. Except for those who are too clever to see what is so plain.
Daisy Perika awakened, gasping for breath, relieved to be back in Middle World. What an awful dream. She decided that this bad experience was, in one sense, no different from many others in her life. Men were to blame. Charlie Moon for leaving her alone and hungry while he wandered around the ruins with April Tavishuts. And Alvah Yazzi for exciting her imagination with his mutterings about Anasazi sacrifices.
THE CHILD
It was a perfect time for Native American Day at Chimney Rock. As a trout-shaped cloud passed over the sun, a r
efreshing breeze came from the north to cool the sweaty brow. From the edge of Ghost Wolf Mesa, it seemed that one could see to the very rim of the world. As they approached the narrow land bridge connecting the mesa to the Crag, the Indian tourists followed their appointed leaders. And unlike those hurried, harried guides at Mesa Verde—who have little time to answer questions—Amanda Silk and April Tavishuts encouraged the visitors to make inquiries. Though the older Indians remained silent, there were now occasional questions and comments from the younger set. All queries were answered with a patient politeness, making each of their guests understand that they were important. Moreover, the guides knew everything worth knowing about the Anasazi ruins. Or so it seemed.
Charlie Moon was already familiar with the site, which was located within the boundaries of the Southern Ute Reservation. The gathering of Indians and their families was more interesting to him than the dusty jumble of long-abandoned ruins. The children were especially fascinating. Offspring of the town Indian families were easy to identify. Noisy and boisterous, ignoring their parents’ urgent pleas to behave, they were much the same as other American children. Those raised by traditional Indian parents were shy and well behaved. A very cute little girl caught the Ute’s eye. For this special occasion, she was outfitted in a new yellow dress and red cowboy boots. And looked to be about five years old. The tiny girl, seemingly oblivious of the other children, walked among the adults. She did slow down, occasionally to glance at a purple flower or pick up a pretty stone. It would be nice to have a daughter just like that one. But it took a couple to produce children. And so Moon began to think about Camilla Willow. She was a remarkably pretty woman—and very smart. Had money too. Maybe Camilla would like to have children someday. Our children. Moon walked along, lost in his happy daydream. What would they be like, these small human beings? Lively and smart, he hoped. Not overly shy. But not like some of these noisy town Indians’ kids, who were yelling and throwing rocks at each other.
Something distracted him from this tangle of thoughts.
Far off to his right, among the juniper and piñon that covered Ghost Wolf Mesa, Charlie Moon thought he saw a flash of color. Bright yellow. Like the little girl’s dress. He made a quick check of the crowd of tourists and did not see the child. But children get tired on walks like this and have to be taken back to the family car where they can have a refreshing nap. Could be one of her parents left with her while I wasn’t looking. Or maybe not.
Not one to ponder such possibilities, Charlie Moon immediately left the trail. A few long strides brought him to the place where he’d seen the flash of color. It was not ten yards from the edge of the cliff. He hurried to the precipice and looked over. The Ute was immensely grateful that there was no sign of a yellow dress—or a yellow anything—on the talus slope below the ledge. Maybe I didn’t see anything. But to be certain, he made his way south along the cliff.
After only a few steps, he thought he heard an echo of something. A child’s voice. But from which direction?
The Ute looked up to see a red-tailed hawk circling lazily over the mesa. Aunt Daisy claimed that angels sometimes came in such feathery disguises. What do you see, Si-gwanáci?
The hawk fell as if upon prey, then slowed. And circled lower.
He walked toward the hawk’s flickering shadow.
The air had fallen deathly still.
Then he heard it again. A small voice. Singing? Moon smiled.
He moved quickly, but quietly. It would not occur to one of such tender years that anyone might be worried. Or looking for her. Don’t want to scare the kid.
And there she was, under the circling silhouette of the hawk. And only a few paces from the edge of the precipice, sitting in the shade of a fragrant juniper. She was singing to herself in a thin voice. “Mary, Mary…she had a little bitty lamb…its feets was white as snow. And ev’ry-where Mary went, her lamb was sure to…” She looked up.
Charlie Moon smiled. And spoke softly. “Hello, young lady.”
Openmouthed, the child gazed boldly up at this man, whose black hat seemed to touch the clouds. “I know who you are.”
So much for scaring her. “Okay. Who am I?”
“You’re the giant—the one that chased Jack down the beanstalk.”
He shook his head. “Afraid not.”
The child—who knew a giant when she saw one—did not alter her opinion.
“Know why I seem so big?”
Her blank expression made it clear that she did not.
“It’s because you’re so little.”
“Why am I little?” she asked.
“Maybe,” he said thoughtfully, “you’re a midget.”
“I’m Peggy.” She picked up a sandstone pebble, stuffed it into her mouth. “If you’re not the giant, then who are you?”
“My name is Charlie. Ahh…I hope you’re not going to swallow that.”
“D’you want it?”
“Yeah.” He kneeled, held out his hand.
She spat it onto his palm. “Charlie what?”
“Charlie Moon.” He examined the little girl with a lawman’s eye. “Are you okay?”
She nodded.
He stared at the moist pebble in his hand. “Getting hungry?”
“A little bit.”
“Well, don’t eat any rocks.”
“Why?”
“They’re bad for your teeth.” He fumbled in his jacket pocket, offered her a piece of hard candy.
She unwrapped the peppermint, popped it into her mouth.
Moon sat down beside her, leaned against the tree. “I bet your mom and dad are real worried about you.”
“Daddy is in heaven. With the angels.”
They shared a brief silence.
“Then I guess I’d better take you back to your mom.”
“No.”
He closed his eyes and considered his predicament. If I just scoop her up, she’ll probably start squalling like a stuck pig. This had to be handled with some care. “You like to go for walks by yourself?”
She nodded. “Sometimes.”
They sat under the juniper, staring up at an immense sky.
A large black beetle was passing by. It paused to fold its front legs, press its segmented head to the ground.
“What’s it doing?” the child asked.
“Talking to God,” Moon said. That’s what his grandfather had told him.
She reached for the insect.
“No,” Moon said.
“Why?”
“It wouldn’t taste good. Not with peppermint.”
She made a face. “I wouldn’t eat a bug.”
“Why?”
This question evidently stumped her. Sensing he’d gained the upper hand, Moon was pleased with himself. “I’d have thought you’d be afraid to wander away all alone.”
The little girl frowned. “I wasn’t alone. He was with me.”
“Who?”
“The man.” She looked up at the Ute. “He wanted me to come with him.”
He didn’t like the sound of this. “What sort of man?”
The child’s small, round face mirrored her uncertainty.
“Was he tall or short—fat or thin?”
“I guess so.”
“How was he dressed?”
“Feathers.”
Moon raised an eyebrow at this. “Feathers?”
She nodded. “Pretty feathers. Like a big bird.”
Okay. “Was this bird young or old?”
Peggy thought about it. “Old.”
Moon grinned. “Old as me?”
“How old are you?”
“I’ve lost count. What’d he look like?”
“Like a man.”
This was a difficult interrogation. “What kind of man?”
Peggy’s smooth brow furrowed with concentration. “Welllll…two legs. And two arms. And a head.”
“Good. Now let’s say you wanted to draw a picture of him. What would you put in it?”
&nbs
p; She used a juniper twig to draw a stick figure in the sand. A rectangular body supporting a triangular head. Standing on four legs.
Moon was somewhat critical and said so. “That doesn’t look much like a man.”
“It’s a dog,” she said. “Dogs has four legs. And a head. And a tail.” She added a curled-up tail to the sketch.
He sighed. “So the man had a dog?”
“It was on his back. Its mouth was biting his head.”
He could think of no sensible response to this.
She used the stick to make an eye for the four-legged animal. “Then the man pulled the dog over him.”
Moon didn’t get it, and said as much. “I don’t get it.”
“He was really big,” she said helpfully. “And hairy.”
“The man or the dog?”
She squinted at him. Big people could be so silly. “His ears was pointy. And his nose was really long and pointy. Like Pinocchio’s.”
“That’s because the little wooden kid told big lies,” he said. Hoping she’d get the point.
Peggy giggled. “And Pinocchio’s nose grew longer and longer and—”
Her little mind was drifting. “Did this dog have fleas?”
Peggy nodded her head, bobbing a short ponytail. “I guess so.”
“Remember what color he was?”
“His hair was white—like Mary’s little lamb.”
He made a quick U-turn. “What about the man’s hair?”
“I guess it was black.” She squinted into the sun. “Or brownish.”
Moon made a big show of looking around and seeing nothing. “This old man and the white dog, now where’d they go?”
She shrugged under the pale yellow dress. “I don’t know. When you came, he went away. I guess he’s ’fraid of giants.” She gave the tall man an accusing look. “If you’d caught Jack before he chopped down the beanstalk—would you’ve eaten him up and ground up his bones for bread?”
“No,” he said earnestly. “I’m on a strict diet. No bread. No bones.” He licked his lips. “Don’t eat nothing except boneless bananas.”
White Shell Woman Page 4