Stealing Fire
Page 24
Auntie Jewel enters carrying Frank’s clothing and Iris’s clothing. The power will remain on their skin beneath their clothes. People stand, prepared to gather the sand. It will be given to the four directions.
Hosteen Hat sings, “This is a thing of beauty, made to last forever.” He will sing again when we emerge into the cool air.
I stand near the center of the painting next to Frank, and Auntie helps him dress. Iris stands looking at Hosteen. We all sing the Beauty Way, the best beginning and closing of every ceremony.
In Beauty, I shall walk.
In Beauty, you shall be my picture.
In Beauty, you shall be my song.
In Beauty, you shall be my medicine,
In Beauty, my holy medicine.
Buffalo-hide rattles shake our prayers upward.
I touch Frank’s arm, tracing a snake with my fingertip. I want to pull back, but I don’t. Under his skin I feel something terrible being worked upon him, a darkness longing to eat his heart. His body tissues seem strong, but a raging spirit-battle boils his innards. I run my fingers over his body, finding no cool place inside him. Fire. I cover myself with holy sand. I scoop sand from Earth Mother’s feet and I rub it onto Iris’s feet, Auntie’s feet, Hosteen’s feet. They each raise their feet, don’t look up, and Auntie continues to help Frank with his clothes.
A slight wind stirs, brushing the edge of the sand painting, but that’s all right, we’re almost done. I look at the floor in time to see a baby bull snake—a common snake, although this one has unusual markings—slither across the picture toward my pouch. I reach down to pick up the pouch, buckle it, and lift it into the safety of my arms. The snake has gone.
A whirlwind, surprising and strong, rises. Because we are inside the hogan, we know it is Wind, an ancient power that overcomes all. It beats our bodies with screeching howls, circling us like coyotes around a bloody carcass. Frank’s body goes rigid, his eyes open wide, and he grabs me. Auntie Jewel reaches to him. Dust rises from the sand painting and meets more dust barging through the door. Colored sands whip us—the painting must be disappearing. Blinded by grit, we hold each other, we plant our feet on the ground. The pouch is pressed against my chest.
Hosteen Hat tells us to press our feet into the earth. He tells us we must not run.
Frank Wright yells. His voice is static, his words fuzzy nonsense. Some evil thing is with us, and its appetite screams to be fed. The last chant of the ceremony, the Beauty Way, maybe we should sing another chorus. Hosteen Hat has already started, but the chant crawls out of my mouth and is buried alive. I squeeze Auntie’s hand and keep my arm around Frank. I can’t see Iris, I can’t hear Iris.
Frank falls backward, and I catch him. His eyes are closed, he does not speak. The wind has died. A quiet of many eons covers us all. Hat instructs those of us inside, except me, to finish the ceremony for Iris. Each does his part, and Iris walks from the tent with Auntie.
I am left alone with Frank and Hosteen Hat.
We lower him to the ground.
Hat runs his third finger along the painted snakes on both of Wright’s legs. Then he holds his hands above his skin and trembles. He takes one fist and pounds it into the earth. “It will be done!”
No movement from Frank. We sit with him and we sing again. I have no idea how long we sit.
I look at him. His eyes are open. They shine. There is a smell of rain coming soon. Female rain. Soft, gracious. Rain, rain, rain, pale blue rain. Then we hear the sudden ping of rain as it caresses the earth.
Frank looks at Hosteen Hat. “Thank you, sir.”
Frank looks at me, baby-new eyes, and says, “We belong to each other.”
And then he yawns. We finish dressing him. He has a hard time walking, so we carry him as if he were a fresh life. I think, in many ways, he is. Peace inside, that is being a newborn. Blessed in the world as in the moment you fly out of your mother’s womb.
I am exhausted. I leave the tent and sit.
Iris lies in my lap. All is well. The world is in balance.
Yes. It will be done.
Harry has been at Elephant Butte all day, waiting to take us back to his place—it is just a few miles away. He knows enough not to make jokes, not to make any sounds at all.
Fifty-five
After Iris and I got back to Santa Fe, we took an entire week to lie in bed, to talk, to sit in the chilly garden, covering ourselves with aged, hand-woven, soft blankets. Blankets woven of stars and flowers and notions. I asked Iris if she felt like painting. I didn’t want her to think that she needed to keep me company. No, she told me, I’m building something else right now. New dreams, still unknown to me. New life. I can’t do it all.
Our mothers, miraculously, left us alone. It must have been quite an effort, but that’s what they did. I was grateful.
We and our moms sat outside one evening later, watching a sunset so glorious and bright in its flamboyant colors, that Frieda said she was surprised it wasn’t illegal.
“Yazzie, are you happy?” my wife asked me.
I did not like the sound of that. “Of course I’m happy. I’m whatever word there is that is all the way around the world more than happy. Aren’t you?”
“Very happy.”
That was a relief.
“I was thinking,” she said.
“Yes?”
“It’s been one year now. Do you still love your job for the railroad? Is it your dream?”
“I love the pay. I don’t love the rules. I love riding the train. I don’t love wearing a suit.”
“Can I ask you something without you going all nutty on me?”
“Do I do that?”
“No, but this may be a first.”
“Go ahead.”
“I was thinking. What with all the businessmen moving to the Southwest, and the movie industry—you know them—and the connections Frank Wright has with people who are rich … Would you feel like being a private investigator?”
“You mean like one of those guys in the movies who talks out of the side of his mouth?”
“No. Like you. Taking care of people because it’s the right thing to do.”
She knew my heart and mind as well I as know it. Maybe better, sometimes. “Iris, I’ve been thinking about it, but didn’t want to bring it up. With a baby on the way, it seems like a dumb time to quit a secure job.”
“If you want to do it, then as soon as possible is the best time to start.”
“I like the idea. But let’s talk about it some more later. I also like the sunset. And I like this quiet with you.”
“Me, too.”
“Wait,” I said. “The bill you gave Mr. Wright? I hope the amount was pretty hefty.”
“Yes. I sent him an invoice, and he paid right away. I deposited the check in the bank as soon as it got here.”
“Okay, then. We have some cash put away. That will make our decisions easier.”
“Honey,” Iris said, “the check bounced.”
She put her head back, and I put my head back, and we laughed out loud to the stars. That bad check? For some reason it made us feel as if everything was exactly how it should be.
Taken by Coyote and Healed by Rain
The Red Rock house grows,
Tsĕnitsíhogán laté,
And I am there.
Sĭlatáni yáyegó.
Halfway in,
Énisháe yáyegó,
And I have arrived.
Tsánoháni yáyegó.
At the Blue Water House life grows, too.
Thá’dotlĭzhogán laté.
Now Coyote is at the door.
Kat Maii’ notániyá.
Coyote, He enters me,
Maii’ Níhylínya yá,
At the place inside the fire.
Yúna yá.
He traveled for me, I think.
Hastséayuhi nagáne sĭnisá’.
Then the rain descends, the rain descends.
Sihiwáne, Sihiwáne.
Kat Sananagaí bike hozógo bénasoie.
It is I, I who I walk with.
Nĭslíngo bénasoie.
Acknowledgments
We would like to thank our brother-in-law, Jay S. Mays, Avionics Master Chief (Ret.). His help regarding the military was invaluable. (And thank you for the patience and many phone conversations.)
We also want to thank our neighbors in Navajoland, particularly the Simpsons, for telling us stories about trading post life in the last century. We could listen to you forever and then some.
Tom Doherty Associates Books
by Win Blevins and Meredith Blevins
Moonlight Water
The Darkness Rolling
Tom Doherty Associates Books
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The Rock Child
RavenShadow
So Wild a Dream
Beauty for Ashes
Dancing with the Golden Bear
Heaven Is a Long Way Off
A Long and Winding Road
Dreams Beneath Your Feet
Give Your Heart to the Hawks
Tom Doherty Associates Books
by Meredith Blevins
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About the Authors
Win Blevins, an authority on the Plains Indians and fur-trade era of the West, is, in addition to the Rendezvous novels, the author of Give Your Heart to the Hawks, Charbonneau, The Rock Child, RavenShadow, Stone Song, his prize-winning novel about the life of Crazy Horse, and others. You can sign up for email updates here.
Meredith Blevins has been a creative-arts therapist and an award-winning travel writer, and has published five books. You can sign up for email updates here.
The Blevinses live in the Utah Canyonlands.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Healing Chant
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Healing Chant
Acknowledgments
Tom Doherty Associates Books by Win Blevins and Meredith Blevins
About the Authors
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.
STEALING FIRE
Copyright © 2016 by Win Blevins and Meredith Blevins
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Daniel Cullen
Cover art: landscape by Bigstock@duallogic; eyes by Bigstock@Subbotina Anna
A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
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The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-0-7653-7861-3 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-6296-8 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466862968
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First Edition: June 2016