Blackening song

by Thurlo, Aimée

  Ella viewed the changes on the reservation with mixed feelings. Progress was often a two-edged sword. This brand-new community had risen up in an area where her ancestors had left only moccasin prints. A mile from here the new community college would be built. It saddened her to see miniature cities cluttering up what had once been beautiful open country.

  She wished she felt more sure that the tribe was moving

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  in the right direction. The changes facing the People had left many trapped in an in-between world that lacked the firm foundation the old ways had given them. For instance, murder had been extremely rare among them a decade ago, but now power and greed strengthened their hold with each passing day. What her father had viewed as progress could yet become the tribe's death warrant.

  A large gathering of cars encircled the site of the ceremony. Fortunately, the customary cloud of choking dust that usually enveloped such an event had not yet materialized. The rain had indeed been a gift of the gods this time. The amplified ramblings of a local politician filled the air, and the aroma of barbecued ribs, wafting through her open window, made her mouth water. Ella parked in a field, at the end of a long row of vehicles. A country-western band was setting up on a low wooden stage. A large half circle of people, mostly Navajos, stood facing a wide speaker's platform.

  Ella approached the obviously restless but silent crowd. It was past lunchtime, and she knew most of the people had come for the food and entertainment rather than the speeches and political strutting associated with these events. The men and women, many with children at their sides, were clad in traditional Navajo or western wear.

  Ella moved on the fringes of the gathering, wondering what to do next. People who knew her nodded slightly in acknowledgment. The uneasiness in their eyes told Ella some were probably grateful for the irritating speech that allowed them to avoid speaking with her.

  Ella noted that the last folding chair to the right on the speaker's platform was unoccupied, and deduced hopefully that the other six dignitaries seated there had spoken already. Maybe she had timed her arrival properly after all.

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  The politician, a tribal council member whose name she'd forgotten, ended his speech in English, then began again in Navajo. Ella crossed her fingers, hoping it had been brief, because the Navajo version was usually at least twice as long in duration. She had to concentrate to get the gist of his message. It was something about the children and the future of the Dineh, and the preservation of the Way.

  Ella realized how long it had been since she'd spoken her native tongue, except to her relatives on the phone. Her Navajo was embarrassingly rusty.

  As she studied the crowd, Ella saw one of her older cousins, Anna Goodluck. Anna was pregnant again. Ella had lost count of how many children she and her husband, Ronald, had. Ronald, an electrician, worked at the big power plant just off the Rez. Anna caught Ella's eye and motioned her over with a wave.

  "I heard you were back," Anna whispered, ignoring a frown from Ronald, who was holding an infant in his arms. "I'm sorry about your father." She gave Ella a big hug and a smile.

  "Thanks, cousin. It's good to see a friendly face. I see you haven't changed." Ella glanced down at Anna's swollen belly, then winked.

  "We needed another daughter. With four boys and only one girl... we Goodluck women are outnumbered." Anna nudged her husband with her elbow, and Ronald tried unsuccessfully not to smile while pretending to listen to the speech.

  "I wish you all the ..." Ella mumbled, remembering the words she'd used to tease her cousin after she'd married Ronald.

  "I know, good luck." Anna laughed. "And when are you going to get lucky and find the man of your night-

  mares . . . uh, dreams?'' Anna responded, looking to make sure Ronald had heard. This time he managed to not smile.

  "Aren't they all taken?" Ella suggested, looking around as if taking the measure of the men in the crowd. Ella envied Anna her husband and children, wondering if putting her career above everything else was really right for her after all. She was so alone when she was by herself, with only her thoughts for company.

  "There's an eligible one, I hear," Anna gestured toward Wilson Joe, who stood near the bandstand. "Go say hi. I'll talk to you later, when we eat."

  Wilson was looking at Ella. Like many of the Navajo men, he was wearing a new white straw cowboy hat and a colorful western shirt. His new snakeskin boots were buffed to a shine. He looked prosperous; Ella wondered what Clifford would have thought of that. If you looked too well heeled, Navajos, particularly traditionalists, soon began to wonder what you'd been up to. Then again, maybe she was being too cynical. He could just be trying to impress someone. She joined him.

  "If I'd known you wanted to come, I would have offered to give you a ride," Wilson said.

  "To be honest, I didn't know I was coming until an hour ago. My mother suggested it."

  He nodded slowly. "There's a lot you can learn here if you listen to the right people."

  "We'll see," she answered, painfully aware that except for a few relatives and former classmates, most would avoid her. Knowing that fear of the accusations against her brother, and respect for the trouble her family was experiencing, lay at the root of it didn't make it any easier to accept.

  The last speech ended, and the grateful crowd ap-

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  plauded loudly. Most were already heading for the serving tables, where women stood by large kettles of hot mutton stew and pots laden with barbecued beef. Golden fry bread was heaped in small mountains on metal trays, and more was being prepared in enormous pans of oil kept hot on portable stoves. The aroma enveloped Ella, and fond memories came to mind.

  As they stood in a long food line, Wilson was greeted warmly, but few of the people they met were willing to say more than a few words to Ella. Her sense of alienation grew. "I'm still one of them, yet they can't see that," Ella muttered in despair.

  "You're not one of us anymore," Wilson Joe said quietly.

  "How can you say that?" She whirled and faced Wilson angrily. "You studied off the reservation longer than I did. From Mom's letters, I know that you only recently returned to live here."

  "If you can't understand why these people feel uncomfortable around you, and you have no patience with that," he said harshly, "then you're not one of us, despite what you think." He regarded her coldly.

  She exhaled softly, conceding his point. "That's exactly what my brother would have said," she observed ruefully.

  "I know."

  "You were always closer to Clifford than I was."

  "It was easier for me to be his friend, since I wasn't uncomfortable around him."

  His comment struck a nerve, and she stepped out of the food line, moving away from the crowd. Wilson followed, and she turned back to him. "You think I was?"

  "Don't forget how long I've known you and your family," he answered gently. "I realize you love your brother,

  but you've always been a little in awe of him, maybe even a bit frightened. At first you avoided any ceremonies he took part in. Eventually you stayed away from anything to do with our traditions. Those who didn't know you very well thought you were doing that because you'd become a Christian like your father. But that wasn't true at all."

  "My beliefs, or lack of them, are my business. They shouldn't concern anyone else."

  "No, but your behavior prior to your leaving is all they have to remember you by. You haven't even been back here since your brother's wedding." He shook his head slowly. "You need them to trust you, but that won't happen, at least not right away. Do you realize how much of a stranger you've allowed yourself to become? You haven't lived on the reservation since you were eighteen."

  "I know all that. Yet I hoped our people would help me, though they won't help the bureau. I have to break this case fast. I'm afraid for my family," she said honestly.

  "Your brother is in a great deal of trouble," Wil
son conceded.

  "Why did he disappear? He's making himself look guilty, and believe me, the circumstantial evidence against him is impressive. He's got to face this squarely, or he's going to be in so deep no jury will ever believe him."

  After a brief pause, Wilson said, "The danger to his life is real. The ones who killed your father also want your brother dead."

  "Wait a minute. He and my dad were on opposite sides of every argument. Why would they have the same enemies?"

  Wilson pursed his lips and regarded her thoughtfully, as if trying to make up his mind. Finally he spoke again. "I don't think either of us is in the mood for food right now.

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  Let's take a walk/' He led Ella away from the gathering, uphill through a rugged stretch of sagebrush and buffalo grass.

  "Where are we going?"

  "To the site where your father wanted to build his new church. The trouble starts there."

  "His insistence on building a church so close to the community college led to some anonymous threats. Do you know who was behind those?" she asked, watching Wilson out of the corners of her eyes.

  "No, but I guarantee Clifford had nothing to do with them. It's not his style to do things behind anyone's back."

  "You're right. Clifford has never been shy about voicing his opinions." She smiled ruefully.

  They reached the top of the long, gently sloping hill. Wilson gestured down into the canyon. "Your brother spoke out publicly against the Anglo church and was trying to find legal means to stop its construction." A small, leveled section partway up the reverse slope contained the ruins of a building at least a century old.

  "Do you know about this place?" Wilson asked.

  "Clifford said something about it once, but I don't recall what. I know he didn't like to come around here."

  Wilson glanced back at the gathering, a half mile or more behind them, then turned again to look at the ruins below. "Let's go a little closer," he said, with a trace of reluctance.

  Ella could tell, from the lines of tension around his eyes and the rigid cast of his shoulders, that he was apprehensive. Maybe he was worried about losing visual contact with the others. That could lead to gossip that might damage his standing as a professor. She discarded the thought almost immediately. Wilson wasn't like that.

  'Tell me about the ruins," she said softly.

  "About one hundred years ago, a Christian church was built there. During the first service, lightning struck the steeple. Several people died, trapped by the rubble or burned to death."

  "So the site was abandoned, considered to be contaminated by the dead. That explains why nobody ever really talks about this place, and why Clifford would have been uneasy here."

  He nodded. "It was a long time ago, but people moved away, and most avoided coming around again. It's only recently that construction started coming closer to it. Then your father decided that the new church should be built right here. To him, it was a way of showing everyone how his chosen religion could triumph over paganism."

  She shook her head. "Now I know why this church became such an issue. Dad never told me his plans. I should have asked what the problem was, but I didn't take the time. Clifford, of course, would have opposed him with everything he had."

  "Our Way clearly teaches that any place tainted by death is dangerous to the living."

  "Why didn't they do a Blessing Way, a purifying rite, over the spot?" Ella kicked one of the loose bricks that were scattered everywhere. The fact that no one had scavenged any salvageable building materials attested to the strength of the cloud of fear that surrounded the place.

  "It's not that simple. There are other problems that would also have to be dealt with."

  "Like what?" She leaned back against one of the many boulders that littered the sides of the canyon. The coolness of the rock, and the solid feel of it pressed against her back,

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  helped push away the fear that seeped through her. This was why she'd left. Here, rules shaped by logic and nature sometimes twisted, forming a different reality.

  "Six months ago, we started to find slaughtered—not butchered—livestock in this area. Lately, people in nearby communities have been reporting instances of animals being born deformed/'

  "Do you really believe this place is cursed?"

  Wilson hesitated. "I know that evil comes in many guises. It can be an intangible force that can only be recognized by the results it produces. Bad things have happened here. That's an indisputable fact. By insisting on building his church here, your father was challenging forces he didn't understand."

  "He understood them, all right—he just didn't believe they had power over him," Ella explained.

  "And now he's gone."

  Wilson moved away from the circle of debris. He had helped her, and in deference to his obvious reluctance to linger, Ella followed. The tip of her boot struck something hard, and she stumbled. She managed to break her fall with her shoulder, but as her hand slammed into the rocky soil, something sliced into her palm.

  With a cry, she jerked her hand away. "Son of a gun, that hurts!" Ella rose to her feet slowly and looked at her palm. Blood flowed from a long cut. She kicked at the sand, trying to figure out what had cut her. "What the heck is down there?"

  A metallic something caught the sunlight, shimmering brightly. She tried to pry it loose with her boot, but it resisted. "It's stuck fast."

  "Are you okay?" Wilson asked, his gaze on her hand.

  "Yeah, the cut's not very deep; it just smarts, that's all."

  "Let me see what's buried there, then." Wilson quickly dug free a belt buckle. As he started to pull it out, they saw it was attached to the tattered remains of a leather belt.

  "Not everyone is afraid of this place." Venturing a silent guess on how a man's belt might have been lost in that remote area, Ella smiled.

  Wilson used his handkerchief to wipe the surface of the buckle clean. "The leather's been damaged, but the buckle's in good shape." He glanced at the inscription on it, then dropped the belt as if it were scalding hot. Disgust was etched clearly on his face.

  Ella, who'd been tying a handkerchief around her hand, stopped and stared at him. "What's wrong?"

  "That's a prize rodeo buckle. It's got Ernie Billey's name on it."

  She searched her memory for the name. It sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn't quite place it. "Let's take it back with us. Maybe we can find him."

  Wilson shook his head. "I hope we never even come close to finding him. That man's been dead for ten years. His grave is halfway across the reservation. This was buried with him; he wore it all the time—when he was alive."

  "Someone dug him up?" She glanced around her quickly. "But where's the rest of him?"

  "Like I said, I don't want to know!" His eyes narrowed as he glanced around them. "This is the work of skinwalk-ers. They rob graves."

  Ella retrieved the belt and started to roll it up.

  Wilson stared at her. "What are you doing? You shouldn't touch that."

  "It's evidence."

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  "It proves nothing. Besides, you can't take that among all those people! You'll create a panic. Have you forgotten everything you were ever taught? You'd be endangering yourself and others."

  She considered what he said. Finding the belt indicated that grave-robbing had taken place, but that was it. There was no way of telling how long the belt had lain there, or who'd brought it. Wilson had wiped it clean when he'd pulled it from the ground. "What would you like to do with it?"

  "Take it farther down and bury it."

  "Why not put it back right here?"

  "Disturb this ground again? No way." Wilson used his handkerchief to take the belt from her, then, holding it at arm's length, he headed around the bend of the canyon.

  A hot, dry wind from a halfhearted whirlwind passed by and blasted them with heat.

  "S-s-sul" Wilson muttered.

&
nbsp; She recognized the expression. It was the equivalent of "scat." Dust devils were said to be animated by evil spirits. What a time for one to appear!

  Wilson's presence helped her push back some of her uneasiness. Old, shadowy fears, sprung from rituals she'd never truly understood, were now resurfacing, demanding she face them squarely. She wished she could find someone with a sensible explanation for what was going on. She thought of a new tack to take. "My brother is much better equipped to deal with the type of trouble we're facing. I wish he wasn't in hiding."

  "He would be very surprised to hear you say that you want him around, but he would be pleased."

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  "I love my brother, but I will never be completely comfortable around him," she admitted slowly.

  "Why? You know he would never harm anyone, particularly you."

  She paused, measuring her words carefully, wanting Wilson to understand. "The things he does make me feel ... off balance." Her hands grew clammy as her mind drifted to the past. "When we were kids, he could make people overlook objects that were right in front of them, or make them see illusions. He could never manage it with me. I knew it was some kind of magician's trick, but I could never figure out how he did it. He always scared me."

  "He's a very special hataalii. He uses all his abilities to heal, and to restore harmony."

  She glanced around her. "I have to admit Clifford belongs here; he's part of everything, the tribe, the desert. I've always felt like a guest, one who has nothing special to offer and can never quite figure out a way to fit in."

  "You've kept yourself separate—you still do—but you're not alone." He captured her gaze and held it. "You have a place here. What you have to do is find it."

  The strength behind his steady gaze bathed her with new confidence. Without stopping to think of the consequences, she asked the question that had been in her mind since her arrival. "Are you truly my friend, or am I one more obligation you're fulfilling for the sake of my brother?"