White Shell Woman

by James D. Doss

  Again the hand slapped. Thump. Thump. Thump.

  She broke the double-barreled instrument to make sure it was loaded. It was.

  Thump. Thump.

  The Ute elder cocked both hammers. Click-clack. Click-clack.

  Thump. Thump. Thump. Now the rhythm was faster. As if the unseen presence was losing patience.

  Her old hands trembled. But Daisy Perika was always game for a fight. “Who’s there?”

  She thought she heard a voice. It must be the little man. He preferred to go abroad only when the sky was dark—this one was not a creature of the Light. This is why Father Raes Delfino had warned her against communion with the dwarf. But old habits, especially bad ones, are hard to break. And so—when the need arose—the shaman trudged into the Canyon of the Spirits to visit the reclusive creature. She would take a gift of food or tobacco, perhaps a trinket of some sort. And in return, the dwarf would share his secret knowledge with the Ute elder. Only rarely did he venture far from his badger hole in Cañon del Espíritu. But his recent visit to St. Ignatius Catholic Church in Ignacio in Sabbath daylight had proved that the little man was unpredictable. Daisy was at that age where surprises—especially in the middle of the night—are highly unwelcome.

  “Pitukupf,” she muttered, “is that you?”

  There were windows open on opposite sides of her bedroom. The spoken reply came through both of them.

  Her voice crackled with fear. “Why’re you here—what do you want?”

  The disembodied Voice told her.

  BREAKFAST LOST

  Charlie Moon dismounted the rusty Ford pickup with a cardboard box tucked under his arm. He had no shortage of work to do at the Columbine, and Aunt Daisy’s place was a long way off the beaten track. But she was getting old and feeble. So whenever he was in the neighborhood, the rancher-lawman felt an obligation to check on his elderly relative. This was especially so since the brutal murder of April Tavishuts near Chimney Rock, which was not far from Daisy’s home. It was just possible that some lunatic was running loose in the canyon country.

  Whether or not this was so, the lonely old soul was always so glad to see him. Even if she hated to admit it. Daisy’s face appeared at the window, but jerked away at his glance.

  Every year she gets a little more peculiar. Moon took long strides toward the rickety pine porch attached to his aunt’s trailer home. The unpainted steps creaked under his weight. He waited. She knows I’m out here—why hasn’t she opened the door? Moon rapped his knuckles against the aluminum frame.

  No response.

  This was getting tiresome. “Aunt Daisy—I know you’re in there. Open up!”

  The knob turned, the door opened barely enough to let some of the cool darkness slip out. One eye peeked through the crack. Blinking as if sleepy. “What are you doing here?” It had the tone of an accusation.

  “Picked you up some stuff at the market.” He held the box so she could see the contents. Dozen extra-large eggs. Gallon of milk. Loaf of rye bread. Can of coffee. Slab of bacon. Two pounds of pork sausage.

  She uttered a piggish grunt. “Leave it on the porch.”

  The harried man forced a hopeful smile. “Thought maybe you’d offer me a cup of coffee.”

  “Don’t have none made,” she snapped.

  Moon fixed her visible eye with a look that would have ruffled an ordinary woman. It was wasted on Daisy Perika.

  “I’m not dressed,” she said. “Just got out of bed.” She punctuated this pair of brazen lies with a forced yawn.

  Something odd is going on here. “I’ll wait,” he said.

  “I’m going back to bed,” she said pitifully. “My head aches and I need some sleep.” With this, she closed the door. As he attempted to look through the small kitchen window, she pulled the curtains.

  Her nephew stared at the door for a long moment. Wondering what to do. Having few options, he placed the box on the porch. And left.

  Daisy Perika held her ear close to the open window until the rumbles and rattles of her nephew’s pickup had faded into the distance. Then—being a prudent woman—she waited awhile longer. Eventually satisfied that he was far away, she pulled on a light coat and stepped onto the porch to fetch the box of groceries. The late-morning air was crisp and sweet. “Nice day for a walk,” she said as she carried the groceries into her kitchen. “Just a walk, that’s all. Good for my old legs.” As if saying this out loud would make the deception all the more effective.

  But there were important things to do before she could take her stroll. Daisy unpacked the groceries. And fired up the propane stove.

  Charlie Moon had returned on foot. His tall frame was hidden by a bushy juniper; he watched from a long ridge called Cougar’s Tail. He peered through the fragrant branches, watching the old woman retrieve the box of groceries. A smile creased his face. Looks like you took a short nap.

  While he waited, a raven came to sit on the blackened crown of a ponderosa corpse slain by fire from heaven. The black bird ruffled her feathers, cocked her head suspiciously at the hidden man.

  Moon watched the trailer. So what’re you up to?

  The smell of frying pork issued forth from her kitchen window. This aroma was not alone. It was accompanied by the happy scent of freshly brewed coffee. Together, these drifted upward along the ridge called Cougar’s Tail.

  Charlie Moon sniffed. She’s making breakfast. But not for me.

  The minutes passed like a parade of snails. Moreover, Moon’s imaginary gastropods were weakened by malnutrition.

  The Ute elder prepared the meal with care. But she did not eat a bite.

  Moon watched his aunt leave her trailer home. Daisy had a denim pouch looped over her shoulder, the sturdy oak walking stick in her hand. It looked as though she would head into Cañon del Espíritu. “Going to see the pitukupf, are you?”

  The dwarf—according to the elderly shaman—lived far up the canyon in an abandoned badger hole. And despite the impassioned protests of Father Raes Delfino about such unChristian activities, Daisy had a habit of ignoring the Catholic priest. Moon suspected that his aunt still made regular pilgrimages to consult with the mythical creature. From what he’d heard, she left gifts at the mouth of the badger hole. In return for such favors, the “little man” told her things. Useful things. Anyhow, that was the way it was supposed to work.

  But Daisy Perika did not head west into Spirit Canyon. Instead, she turned her face to the south. And began to trudge up a rocky path toward the summit of Cougar’s Tail Ridge.

  Moon’s mouth went dry. Had the old woman seen him return from his parked pickup? Was she coming all the way up here just to raise hell with him for violating her sacred privacy—and then send him packing like the skulking varmint he was? Unable to think of anything better to do, he remained perfectly still behind the juniper.

  Not ten yards away—and breathing hard from the steep ascent—the old woman paused to lean on her walking stick. She looked up toward Three Sisters Mesa, that towering wedge of sandstone between Snake and Spirit Canyons. Then she turned, putting the mesa at her back. To stare, it seemed, directly at the bushy tree that shielded her spying nephew. Moon—already a slender man—willed himself skinny as a snake. To further enhance the hoped-for invisibility, he closed his eyes. And felt safer in the dark.

  The Ute elder did not see him. And she could not possibly have seen Moon’s truck, which was concealed a quarter mile away in a grassy arroyo. Satisfied that there was no one around to spy on her, the old woman headed back down the side of Cougar’s Tail Ridge.

  Immensely relieved, Moon watched her slow descent. She turned to the west. The old shaman was heading into the gaping mouth of Cañon del Espíritu. He whispered: “So—you are going to see the dwarf.” His first thought was that he should grant this queer old woman her privacy. Aunt Daisy’s business with the little man was her own. And it wasn’t as if the pitukupf was anything more than a two-foot-tall figment of tribal imagination, destined to die with the dozen or
so traditional Utes who still believed in such curious things. It was not as if there might be something to see in the Canyon of the Spirits. But Curiosity crooked her finger at the tribal investigator. He accepted the invitation.

  Charlie Moon kept a good sixty paces behind his aunt, and was ready to move behind a bush or boulder whenever she paused to look over her shoulder. As she often did. But the old woman’s bones were brittle, her joints stiff. These impairments caused her to turn slowly, giving him ample time to slip from her view. And so he proceeded up the steep-walled Canyon of the Spirits, following the elderly pilgrim. Even at midday, the deep crevasse was filled with bone-chilling shadows. There were long stretches on the south side of the canyon that had never felt the pleasant warmth of direct sunlight.

  Daisy Perika plodded stolidly along the deer trail. The grade, though gradual, was uphill. Every two dozen paces, she would pause to lean on the walking stick. And wait for her lagging breath to catch up with her. As she rested, the shaman looked and listened with the steely-eyed intensity of a hawk. She sensed a solemn oppressiveness in the stillness. Today the air was heavy with a sour, almost fetid odor. As if it was not meant to be breathed by God’s creatures. Moreover, she had the distinct sense that someone was watching. Maybe even following her. But whenever she turned, the canyon behind her was empty except for clumps of stunted piñon and a scattering of massive boulders that had tumbled off the talus slopes centuries earlier. Far above, on the facing edges of the mesas called Dog Leg and Three Sisters, the emptiness was stark against a pale blue sky. This place was unnaturally still. Haunted by free-roaming shadows, scissored loose from any solid object. She was tempted to turn back. But Daisy Perika had a mission at an appointed place. And so she pressed on. Into darkness deeper still.

  His aunt was within fifty yards of the badger hole when she slowed. Charlie Moon took up a position in a shaded cleft on the south wall, seating himself on a mossy sandstone outcropping. He was certain of two things. First, Aunt Daisy had some business with the dwarf. Second, there’d be serious hell to pay if she spotted him. From what he’d picked up from her mutterings about these strange encounters, Moon thought he knew what to expect. As was the shaman’s common practice, she’d sit herself down under a tree. And fall into a trance. Which meant having a nap. Her “visits” with the dwarf were the stuff of dreams. This could take hours. Which is more time than I’ve got to waste.

  These were his thoughts. But he had not long to wait.

  After taking a long, suspicious look at the shadowy places below, and upward at the sharp outline of a mesa rim cutting into the belly of a turquoise sky, the shaman stuffed the denim pouch into the crotch of a stunted juniper. This done, Daisy immediately headed toward the mouth of Cañon del Espíritu, her walking stick clomping rhythmically at her side. As she retraced her steps, her exit was quite different from her weary climb into the silent canyon. Now she hurried, as if ten invisible demons trotted along behind, plucking at her skirts. Not once did the Ute elder pause. Or look back.

  Charlie Moon had long since ceased to be surprised by his eccentric relative’s behavior. Having evaded discovery thus far, he thought it best to give her a long head start.

  The sun was well past its zenith, a curtain of shadows pulled across the crook of the canyon. Moon wondered why he was waiting. To see the dwarf come out of the badger hole to get whatever the old woman had left for him? Of course not. I’m waiting because…because I feel like waiting. A man doesn’t need a reason for everything he does.

  Time passed. The dwarf did not show his face.

  The shadows were growing long and diffuse. A chilly breeze whipped down the deep crevasse—an obvious hint that human visitors should depart from Cañon del Espíritu before nightfall.

  Enough is enough.

  Moon made his way across the sandy floor of the canyon. And stood before the tree where Daisy had left the denim pouch. He reached out, hesitated. It didn’t feel right. But I am a tribal investigator. And this is tribal land. It’s not like I’m going to take what’s in the bag. I just need to know what’s in there.

  Inside the pouch he found a grease-spotted brown paper bag. Moon had a look inside. And an appreciative sniff. Well. A pint-sized thermos. A massive sandwich wrapped in aluminum foil. And still warm to the touch. He peeled back the foil. Wedged between the thick slices of rye bread were two fried eggs and a huge sausage pattie. That dwarf eats better than I do. A wonder he ain’t got too fat to squeeze into that badger hole. Moon’s mouth watered. I’d sure like to finish this off. But he knew it would be the wrong thing to do. In the Biblical sense, it was like a Christian eating food offered to idols. His stomach, which knew no such dogma, cried out pitifully for sustenance.

  Which led him to examine his theology.

  If Aunt Daisy comes back and the food is still in the bag, the poor old woman will think the dwarf don’t like her cooking. So I’d be doing her a favor. The hungry man’s conscience rebelled against this brazen rationalization. No. I can’t do it. No matter how you look at it, this isn’t my food. It’d be like stealing.

  But the truth smacked him between the eyes like a brick.

  This IS my food. These are the same groceries I brought her this morning. And that ungrateful old woman who wouldn’t even make me a bite of hot breakfast is giving my grub away to a figment of her imagination.

  This was the gravest sort of inequity. The sort of wrong that must be made right.

  In the interest of justice, Charlie Moon took a man-sized bite from the sandwich. Delicious. He unscrewed the cap from the thermos. The brew was steaming hot, black as tar, and heavily sugared. So me and the little man like our coffee the same way. He took another long drink. Some home fries would go good with this. But a man must be satisfied with such blessings as he has.

  Moon’s chief blessing at this time was that he was not being seriously molested. By the owner of a pair of dark, hungry eyes that stared viciously at him from amidst the cold shadows.

  Unaware of his good fortune, the Ute finished off the sandwich. He folded the aluminum foil, capped the vacuum bottle, placed these items in the denim bag—which he pressed carefully back into the crotch of the juniper.

  Thus filled with a quite satisfactory breakfast, he sighed.

  The winds sighed with him.

  Then suddenly grew in strength.

  A roaring gust funneled furiously down the canyon. Moon grabbed at his black Stetson, closed his eyes against the sting of windblown sands. After a brief but violent thrashing, all was deathly silent again. The Ute seated his hat, wiped at his eyes.

  And left the way he had come, without a worry.

  Charlie Moon was now satisfied that his aged aunt was merely behaving in her normal fashion. Not up to any serious mischief.

  THE CALL

  Daisy Perika squinted through her reading spectacles at the tiny print in the instruction manual. As she read, she followed the directions faithfully. The Ute elder opened the black canvas case, made certain the telephone power cable was plugged into the battery connector. She rotated the antenna up to a vertical position. Finally, she reached forward with one fingertip hovering hesitantly over the infernal instrument. Cringing with apprehension, the Ute elder pushed the “PWR” button. She jumped when the thing beeped rudely, then leaned forward to eye the small panel glowing with hellish blue-green light. A jiggling bar graph indicated signal strength. The gadget seemed happy enough. Ready to get up and go to town.

  Well. That wasn’t so hard.

  Proud of her triumph over modern technology, Daisy pressed a series of numbers, watching them line up like little black soldiers along the liquid-crystal display. It’s just like a regular telephone. She pressed the receiver onto her ear. Waited. Nothing happened.

  “Damned piece of junk,” she muttered. The machine did not respond to this insult. And so she sat and glared at the offending device. As if by doing so she might intimidate it into doing its rightful duty.

  It was resistant to all
her powers.

  Her stomach was beginning to flutter. Might as well try to use a brick to call someone. Sadly, she returned to the manual. Oh.

  Daisy Perika pressed the Send button. She heard the familiar dial tone, the sonnet of musical beeps as the Ignacio number was dialed. Thank God.

  “Hello?” The voice was a familiar one.

  Daisy grinned wickedly, displaying most of her remaining teeth. “Louise-Marie?”

  “Yes.”

  The Ute woman took a deep breath. I’ve got you on the phone. Now if I can just get you to do it. She hoped that some opportunity would present itself.

  The French-Canadian woman was unnerved by the silence on the line. “Who’s this?”

  “Me.”

  “Daisy?”

  “Sure.”

  “Where are you calling from?”

  “My home.”

  The matukach woman’s voice betrayed her surprise at this good news. “You finally got a telephone out there?”

  “Don’t have no phone,” the shaman said slyly. “It’s all done”—she paused dramatically, lowering her voice to a secretive whisper—“by calling on the hidden powers that make thunder and lightning.”

  Louise-Marie LaForte, who had great respect for the Ute elder’s conjuring powers, could think of no response. And so she said nothing.

  “Of course I got a phone,” the shaman snapped.

  Her friend was both relieved and disappointed to hear this news. “It must’ve cost a small fortune to have ’em string the line way out there.”

  “This phone’s the kind where you don’t need no wires connected to your house. Charlie Moon bought it for me.”

  “Your nephew is such a nice boy. I hear he owns a big ranch now.”

  “The biggest and best in the state,” Daisy said. “And he’s always badgering me to come and live with him. I think he’s lonesome up there. All by himself except for them dumb cowboys.”