by Sarah Dreher
Nothing happened except that she got a few minutes older.
She took a deep breath, cleared her mind, and tried again.
A fly buzzed over her head. A large, green, fat fly. The kind that makes a wet, cracking noise when you step on it. It landed in her hair. She could feel it crawling around, tickling against her scalp. It made her feel like a hunk of rotting meat.
Go away, she thought.
The fly launched itself into the air, circled once, and went away.
Some trick, huh? Hot stuff. I can get a lot of mileage out of a trick like that.
She settled herself down again.
How am I supposed to do this by myself? Last night I had drumming, and smoke, and maybe the tea. And all of a sudden I'm on my own? How fair is that?
But I'm going to be on my own tomorrow, aren't I? Completely on my own. So I'd darn well better be able to do this, or we are in deep trouble. Deep terminal trouble. The kind of trouble after which you never have trouble again, because there isn't any you to have it.
Go over the steps you followed last night.
Imagine yourself crossing the plaza with Siyamtiwa. Step onto the ladder. Climb down, one rung at a time, into the darkness at the bottom. Feel it. Feel the room, the coolness, the vibration of air.
Now see the altar, lit from behind you. Walk around the room, all four directions.
Now to the right.
The opening.
The tunnel.
It pulled her along. The odd markings and symbols sped by. The speed made her dizzy. She held tight to her medicine bag.
Then she was at the mouth of the cave, in sunlight. The canyon walls rose to the sky. Clouds raced overhead, their shadows speeding along the ground. The river mumbled and shook the stones along its bank.
If this is a dream, she thought, it could win an Academy Award for cinematography.
She saw movement in the distance, down the length of the canyon, and went to meet it.
Siyamtiwa came toward her, leading the little gray burro. When it saw her, it left the old woman's side and trotted to her, pushing its nose against her shoulder.
She stroked its neck. It gazed at her with its round, liquid eyes.
She glanced at Siyamtiwa.
The old woman nodded. "Nice Power Animal. Eagle doesn't think so, but eagles don't know everything. Does it please you?"
Stoner rubbed her knuckles against the burro's forehead. "Very much."
Siyamtiwa motioned her forward. "Come. We take a walk."
The donkey plodded along behind them.
"Some people say," Siyamtiwa said as they walked along the river, "this is the place where the People go when they return to the world of the Spirits. I think I will soon come to this place for the last time."
"I'm sorry," Stoner said.
Siyamtiwa took her arm. "This is not a thing to be sorry for. It will be good to rest on the wind."
They walked in silence for a while. A cactus wren chattered among the mesquite. Lizards darted back and forth across the canyon wall, chasing insects. The burro's hooves made ticking sounds against the round river rocks.
"I will tell you about this medicine bundle," Siyamtiwa said. "This thing was here long before the Ya Ya society. It will be here always. And always there will be those who must protect it, and those who must try to find it. That is how it is. Do you understand?"
She understood, not in ways she could explain, but somewhere deep inside where everything that was, was—and magic was an everyday thing.
“When you're gone,” she said, "who will guard the bundle?"
"Rose Lomahongva will be ready soon."
"And who will try to find it?"
Siyamtiwa shrugged. "Hard to tell. Maybe this Jimmy Goodnight who took your doll. Maybe not."
"I hope not," Stoner said. "He seems like a basically good kid, just misguided and not too bright."
"Then I don't think the Spirits will find him worthy."
“Worthy?" She was surprised. "You call Larch Begay worthy?"
"His heart is dark but pure. It flies like the arrow. There is no hesitation in him."
Stoner laughed without humor. "And you think there's no hesitation in me? Grandmother, your Spirits have made a serious error in judgement."
"You got your opinion, I got mine."
"Your opinion could get me and Gwen killed."
"I will tell you something." Siyamtiwa pointed to the canyon walls. "These cliffs are here, and this river is here. This stuff we are walking on, this is about two billion years old. And that little bit of green up there..." She indicated the tree and brush cap at the rim of the canyon. "That's only an inch deep. These walls are a mile deep. If these walls were all the time the earth has been going around, that little green inch is all the time people have been here." She stopped and looked at the sky. "What happens to you tomorrow, it doesn't make so much difference in that inch of green. It is a speck of dust on these rock walls."
"Thank you, "Stoner said dryly. "But I've never found much comfort in my insignificance."
Siyamtiwa nodded. "I forget a lot how it was to be young. Tell me what you want from this thing."
She thought it over carefully. "I want to get Gwen back. I want to stop the Ya Ya sickness for all the women. I want to keep Begay from the medicine bundle."
"And for yourself alone?”
She hesitated. "I want my part of the pattern to be correct."
The old woman smiled. "My friend Kwahu will be annoyed. She doesn't like to lose an argument." She pressed her hand onto Stoner's arm. "Tomorrow, when you go to meet the powaqa, remember your medicine bag and your little horse. Remember this place and how you got here. Use what you know..." She touched Stoner's heart. "... in here." And the top of her head. "And through the kopavi. Maybe things will be okay."
"I wish you could come with me."
"I'll be there, but you won't see me. I'll help you if I can, but I got other stuff to do."
Stoner shrugged. “Well, that's how it is with you."
"I think maybe you're getting too clever for me. Maybe the Spirits should have sent me someone not so clever."
"I still can't believe I was sent," Stoner said.
“Why not?
"It was a coincidence. We happened to come here on vacation because this is where Stell is. If her cousin hadn't gotten sick…"
Siyamtiwa shook her head. "Every minute of your life had to be just so for this to be. And the pahanas. Even the grandmother of your friend, who made you want to go away. Maybe even your parents, and your grandparents. One little thing different, you not here. When you get home, ask your Computer God what were the chances you would be on this spot at this time. Ask him the chances you would not be on this spot at this time. Then tell me you believe in coincidence."
Stoner smiled. "You always win."
"I'm one of the People," Siyamtiwa said. "I got the advantage."
The donkey made little snuffling noises behind her. Stoner turned to rub its soft velvet nose. When she turned back, Siyamtiwa was gone.
“Well," Stoner said, "what do we do now, little friend?"
The burro tossed its head and started off at a fast walk. Stoner followed. It led her down a narrow, sun-filled box canyon. At the end hung a pale blue waterfall, fine as mist. Water dripped from the surrounding rocks into a clear pool. The burro bent its head and drank, inviting her to do the same. She cupped her hands and scooped up the icy water. It tasted of purity and clean air. She splashed it on her face and arms, and felt her skin drink thirstily.
A shadow slipped down the canyon side and told her it was time to leave. The donkey sensed it, too, and walked ahead, leading. At the entrance to the cave, she turned and embraced the little animal, then stepped into the darkness.
* * *
She stretched, got up lazily, and strolled out into the plaza. From Siyamtiwa's doorway came the sound of drums and rattles, and a high, strong chanting. In the west, the sun touched the peaks of the San Francisco M
ountains. She leaned on the village wall and watched it go down.
Somewhere out there. Gwen is somewhere out there, and tomorrow I must go to find her.
Tomorrow I go out to face a powaqa, armed with a bag of cornmeal, a burro's hair, a hawk's feather, a necklace of seeds and beads, and a couple of magic tricks.
I'd feel a lot more comfortable if I had a gun.
The wind toyed with her hair and reminded her of Gwen's fingers.
The drum beat faster. The dried gourd rattles clattered like a hailstorm. She wondered how Siyamtiwa could beat the drum and shake the rattles and dance and chant, all at the same time. Either she was doing some serious levitating, or she looked like a one-man band at a country fair.
The thought made her smile. She leaned back against her arms and looked up into the sky. An eagle circled overhead. She wondered if it were Siyamtiwa's Kwahu.
She supposed the eagle was the old woman's Power Animal. Well, some of us get eagles, and some of us have to settle for donkeys.
Some of us soar and some of us plod.
I am a plodder.
Hey, not to be embarrassed. History is full of good, old, relentless plodders. Like...
...like inventors. I'll bet the really good inventors are plodders.
And scientists.
And Ants.
The Ant People, Siyamtiwa had told her during one of the endless succession of stories she had spun through half the day. The Ant People had taken care of the Hopi when Topka, the Second World, was destroyed by ice. The Ant People had sheltered them in their tunnels and starved themselves to feed the Two-legs, pulling their belts tighter and tighter, until their waists were as small as they are today.
Speaking of which, she was so hungry she was ready to chew her shoe soles. Siyamtiwa hadn't been kidding about the stew—it was the last food she had seen for two days, except for endless amounts of sweet bitter tea and two slabs of piki.
She wondered for a moment about the tea.
Siyamtiwa was pretty close-mouth about that tea, except to say it wasn't any phoney-baloney loco weed.
Anyway, she was fairly sure she wasn't getting any mind-altering drugs. Not out here. Out here, life itself was mind-altering.
The eagle still circled. Maybe it was always there, keeping an eye on the old woman. Maybe your Power Animal looked out for you all through your life, only you couldn't see it unless you went through mind-altering experiences like vacationing in Arizona.
Quite a handsome creature, the eagle. Very impressive. Nobody'd mess with you if your Power Animal was an eagle. On the other hand, you couldn't hug it or pet it. Probably couldn't even look it in the eye for very long. And you certainly couldn't lean on it, or take a walk with it, or generally behave in a casual and friendly manner.
Burros had their good points.
Yah-tah-hey, she said silently to the eagle, and hoped it spoke Navajo since she didn't know Hopi for 'Hi'.
It dipped lower and glared at her with a fierce expression.
She spread her hands. No offense. I'm cool, okay?
She could have sworn the eagle answered "okay."
Sure, Dr. Doolittle. Let's talk to the animals. I mean, as long as we're chatting with ghosts and becoming an out-of-body Frequent Flyer, what's talking to animals? Small time stuff. Weird 10l.
Siyamtiwa was working herself up to something of major importance out behind the pueblo. Her drumming and chanting had reached a frenzied pitch.
I ought to give her a hand, Stoner thought with a mixture of laziness and guilt. Then remembered she had been ordered to do nothing but 'prepare' herself. '
Prepare myself. For what? How?
After all, chances are the Great Begay Encounter could end up being nothing more than a very mundane, physically exhausting knock-around.
So what's with all the 'prepare yourself' stuff? Kung Fu for the masses? New Age 'get in a good space'?
Back in the Good Old Days, 'Prepare yourself' meant 'Make your will, Buster.' Ah, the Good Old Days.
Should I concentrate on thinking only pure thoughts? If I do, my unconscious will deluge me with such an outpouring of obscenity as hasn't been seen since The Exorcist.
Should I focus my mind on True and Lofty things? Pray? Write my congressman? "Dear Mr. Kennedy, I have gotten myself into a terrible situation out here. Please use your considerable influence..."
I could take another of those Super-Saver mind-trips to the bottom of the canyon. But if Siyamtiwa wanted me to do that, she'd have said so, no bones about it.
I guess I'm supposed to do whatever I do to get ready for major events. Major events.
The first major event I remember was running away from home. I prepared for that by stealing fifty dollars from my mother's handbag.
Meeting Gwen was a major event. For that, I overdosed on sugar in my coffee.
High school and college graduations. They came with built-in rituals.
When Marylou and I opened the travel agency, we planned to celebrate, but it rained, the paint was still wet on the walls, the carpeting was lost somewhere south of Gardener. We couldn't get the cork out of the champagne bottle, and we both ended up being violently ill with oil-based paint poisoning.
Becoming lovers with Gwen? I didn't do that, she did. And then she got beaten up by two hoods in a dark alley.
Face it. As far as Major Events go, I have a lousy record.
We used to do energy-raising circles at the Cambridge Women's Center. Not practical, there being no one but me, Siyamtiwa and the Enemy within a ten-mile radius.
Aunt Hermione would light candles and burn incense and toss a little oil around. At the very least, gather flowers for an altar.
Flowers. It would take me a week to find a decent altars-worth of flowers out here. You got yer cactus, you got yer mesquite, you got yer creosote—altar-worthy flowers, you ain't got.
What would I do if I were home, and had to pass some time but didn't want to get too nervous?
I'd sort M&M's.
But we don't have M&M's. No flowers, no M&M's.
On the other hand, we do have rocks. Big rocks, small rocks, medium-sized rocks, rocks of unknown origin, rocks of indeterminate age, rocks of dubious composition. What we have got in Arizona, folks, is ROCKS!
She sat on the ground and scooped up a handful of pebbles. First, by color. Yellow, grey, tan, ocher, pink. She placed them in neat piles.
Okay, now by size.
And texture. Smooth, grainy, powdery.
"That a game?" Siyamtiwa asked, coming up behind her.
Stoner looked up. "Not really. Sorting them calms me down, but it's better with M&M's."
The old woman squatted beside her and studied the pattern she was forming with the pebbles. "M&M's? You expecting E.T.? Better get Reese's Pieces."
Stoner laughed. "You know the strangest things."
"I get around. Sometimes I go to the Hopi Cultural Center, watch some TV." She placed a stone in the design. "Let tourists take my picture, only a dollar. Listen to White talk. Pick up a lot that way." She placed another stone. "Mary Beale, she likes movies. Goes two, maybe three times a week. Calls it 'research'. Mary Beale very La-De-Dah.”
"I see,” Stoner said uneasily.
"That still make you nervous. Bet you got two-three different lives going on, only you don't know it 'cause you don't want to."
“Well, I have as much as I can handle with this one."
Siyamtiwa studied the pattern and put in another stone. "One time I went to Beale. People push you around, say 'Move along, old woman.' Sometimes they say worse."
"I know how it is," Stoner said.
“Look at that drunk Indian', they say. Whites, they think if you're standing around, you gotta be drunk."
"That's because they usually are," Stoner said.
Siyamtiwa nodded. "Indians not the only ones that don't hold liquor so good, eh?" She looked down at the circle and spokes Stoner had built. "Now you got a medicine wheel. That's good."
; Stoner remembered the turquoise stone she was carrying in her pocket, and dug it out. She placed it in the center of the wheel.
"Hunh," Siyamtiwa said, "you find my stone."
"Your stone?"
"Got my mark on it." She picked it up and traced the gold weblike lines with a cracked thumbnail.
"Gwen found it, " Stoner said. “We didn't know it was yours. Take it."
"Left it for you. You carry it around, makes you think of me when you need to." Siyamtiwa stood up. "You come now. Got something for you to see." She started off across the plaza.
She may be old, Stoner thought as she stumbled to her feet and ran after her, but once she gets started there's no slowing her down.
The hogan stood beyond the walls of the town, to the east. A small, round house, it was built of rough logs and chinked with mud. The roof was thatched. A door, covered by a Two Gray Hills rug, faced the sunrise. There were no windows. A ragged stovepipe protruded from the center of the roof. The wind blew sand in the corners where the logs joined.
"This is some Navajo stuff," Siyamtiwa said. "Use lots of People's different magic, makes us good and strong, eh?"
She drew the blanket aside and motioned her in. The walls were covered with hides bearing painted symbols—bear prints, arrows, coyotes, rain clouds and stalks of corn. There were picture stories of hunts, and raids against cavalry forts, long winters in which many died, the burning of a village. One hide held pictures of masked dancers, brightly colored, shimmering even in the dull light.
Fascinated, Stoner moved closer.
"You like that?" Siyamtiwa asked.
Stoner nodded, transfixed. They were compelling.
"Kachinas," Siyamtiwa said and named them. "Soyokwuti, Ogre Mother. Kotori, Screech Owl. Tunukchina, Careful Walker. Somaikoli, you know him, eh? Ya Ya Spirit. Tawa, that's the sun. Pretty nice, huh?"
"They're a little frightening," Stoner said.
"Supposed to be. Spirits are serious stuff."
Stoner looked around the room. "Did you paint these?"
"Not me. Got from other people. Some from other tribes. Got a little bit of everything around here."
A fire pit in the center of the hogan was lined and encircled with rocks. Bowls of corn meal and herbs marked the four directions. Branches of cedar were scattered about. A bed of corn husks and blankets lay against the wall.