A Man Without Love

by Beverly Bird

  Catherine nodded slowly. “Well, they’re pretty determined in their beliefs. The current feeling is that we’re all beating our heads against the wall for nothing. There’s no organic root to this Mystery Disease at all. It’s the work of a wolfman.”

  His mouth twisted into something that was almost a smile. “I warned you about that, too.”

  “They’re going to have a big sing—a ceremony—to offer everyone some sort of mystical communal protection against the witch. I don’t think it’s going to stop any of them from being stricken, but it’ll be good for their morale.”

  She was startled to see that he was truly aghast. “You can’t possibly support such an idea.”

  “It has some psychological value. You don’t know what they’re doing to themselves—”

  “I know what they’re going to do,” he interrupted harshly. “They’re going to breed twenty-six new cases through person-to-person contact, if they all gather together.”

  Catherine felt herself getting angry, though she had no idea why she should. He had a point.

  “I thought you felt that the source was environmental,” she remarked stiffly.

  He had the grace to look momentarily nonplussed. “Theories are abundant at the moment. Until we learn more, theories are all they are and we can’t take chances. Nonsense like this is risky. These pagan rites should be strictly prohibited.”

  Prohibited? “I’m not sure we have the right or responsibility to prohibit something that’s essentially their religion. You know, that’s the problem around here, why so many people with possibly serious illnesses are being treated with weeds and dead birds. As long as our doctors disregard their beliefs and their fears, they’ll never use us, they’ll never cooperate. And an explanation or cure for this thing will never be found.”

  Richard stood slowly. “Are you trying to tell me you actually believe what the Navajo are saying? That it’s a wolfman?”

  “They believe it, Richard. They believe it, and that’s all that matters.”

  “And you’d entertain such hocus-pocus? Are you going to go to this thing?”

  Catherine hesitated. “Yes.” Yes, she thought, and Jericho be damned.

  She wanted to see what happened there. She wanted to understand and know what she was up against. Otherwise she would spend the rest of her externship groping around in the dark, an ignorant outsider.

  Chapter 6

  Shadow provided her with a hand-drawn map showing the location of the sing. Catherine was startled when she handed her the keys to a Jeep, as well.

  “Whose is it?” she asked. “Won’t they need it?”

  “Not until Monday. It’s Eddie Begay’s—the boy who’s trying to fix your car. He’ll be at the sing all weekend. He’ll go with his parents.”

  “I...oh.” Catherine was dazed. For a people who were so intent upon shutting her out, a few were certainly hospitable enough. She thought of her Camaro back in Boston and couldn’t honestly say she’d lend it to someone she’d never laid eyes on.

  “Of course, you could always come now, with me,” Shadow mentioned. “I’m not sure how much protection you’ll get out of this if you just show up on the last day.”

  “None,” Jericho said flatly. He was sifting corn pollen from one of the jars into tiny doeskin sacks. “Doesn’t matter. The chants don’t help people who don’t believe.”

  “The Holy People aid anyone who seeks their help,” Shadow argued.

  “She doesn’t want help. She’s collecting souvenirs to take back to the big city.”

  Catherine flinched. Is that what he thought? He gathered up the little pouches and made for the door.

  “I don’t understand him,” Shadow muttered. “I really thought he was warming up to you.”

  So did I, Catherine thought. But she sensed instinctively that that was why he was being hostile again. Somehow, for some absurd reason, she threatened him as much as he unnerved her.

  “You really should come with me,” Shadow tried again.

  Catherine hugged herself and shook her head. “No. I don’t want to leave the clinic deserted for three days. That’s not what the service hired me for.”

  Shadow shrugged. “It doesn’t bother Kolkline, and the service never checks. But suit yourself. I’m just glad you’ve decided to come at all.”

  She followed her brother out. Silence, thick and heavy, filled the clinic in her wake.

  Catherine sighed. She was alone again.

  * * *

  She closed the clinic relatively early on Sunday and went outside to the Jeep. She had memorized the map by now. Jericho had chosen a site just outside the village of Toadlena, accessible to nearly everyone in this region of the reservation. She had a choice. She could either drive all the way out to U.S. Route 666 and loop back on another dirt road to get there, a distance of some thirty miles, or she could simply go south across the desert, a direct ride of perhaps ten.

  When in Rome, she thought.

  Still, she felt foolish as she guided the Jeep across the terrain, and more than a little shaky without the guidelines she was so accustomed to—most notably a road that led where she was going. The vehicle bounced and lurched, and she realized she might not even be heading south any longer. For all she knew, she had looped around in a big circle. The rabbitbrush and the greasewood were not trustworthy landmarks. There was simply too much of both.

  She panicked when she passed a rocky chasm that looked familiar, but then she noticed something dark on the far horizon. She pointed the Jeep that way, and as she drew closer she saw that it was a gathering of people.

  She parked and got out. Pickup trucks and a scattering of cars formed a long line along a wash. Dusk was gathering fast, but she could see still other vehicles drawn up close to some leaping orange campfires. There were even horse-drawn wagons, she realized, and she felt the same strange, disassociated feeling she had experienced when Shadow had first taken her to the clinic.

  In many ways, it seemed as if she had stepped back two hundred years. The horses snorted and stomped as they munched at the gnarly grass. People moved in and out of the shadows cast by the fires, rugged male silhouettes in cowboy hats and jeans, younger women in jeans and others in the long, traditional skirts. The smell of roasting mutton filled the air, as well as the sweet, mouthwatering aroma of some sort of cake. It was an intriguing scene, but she felt immediately like an outsider.

  Suddenly, she wished she hadn’t come. No one had looked up when she had arrived, so she was sure they wouldn’t notice if she left either. She eased the door of the Jeep open again, then she hesitated at the sound of Shadow’s voice.

  “You made it!”

  Catherine looked back to see her hurrying toward her. She wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or relieved.

  “Come on, I’ll show you where we’re sitting.”

  Shadow took her arm and began dragging her into the throng. Suddenly, Catherine was struck by the utter lack of solemnity. Children raced about, barefoot in the dirt and grass, and the adults were laughing and talking animatedly. She had suspected that there would be festivities after the rite was over—the water-truck driver had told her as much. But there was still one last night to go and such frivolity now surprised her.

  “Not what you expected?” Shadow asked.

  “I thought it would be...I don’t know, more like the Catholic masses I went to as a child. Grave and ceremonial.”

  “That part’ll come in due time,” she assured her. “Uncle Ernie said we should do an Enemy Way to counteract the wolfman’s spell, but those rites have to take place at night. We’re waiting for full dark.” She guided her past campfires and through shrieking, giggling knots of children. “Wolfmen masquerade as ordinary people during the day,” she explained, “so it’s difficult to fight them directly. We cast magic upon them instead. With the help of the Holy People, an Enemy Way can turn their own evil back upon them. In the old days, this same sing was used against mortal enemies—the Utes, the Mexi
cans and the white men who invaded our land. In those cases, the Enemy Way turned their own power back against them.”

  “Now that makes me feel more comfortable,” Catherine muttered dryly.

  Shadow looked at her, startled, then she laughed. “As long as you’re not the wolfman, you’re safe. These days a full half of us have some Anglo or Spanish blood.”

  Suddenly, the gathering did indeed quiet down. Catherine looked and saw a sliver of moon inching up on the horizon. The children were called back to their families’ fires, and a hushed, tense expectancy replaced the laughter and the shouting.

  She sat beside Shadow at one of the fires, looking circumspectly at the others gathered there. Of all the people in this camp, she recognized only Ellen. That startled her. Was she a guest of Shadow’s or Jericho’s? Why wasn’t she with her own family?

  There was no time to wonder about it, even if she could think of one good reason why she should care.

  A hogan sat at the center of the gathering, and she saw Jericho there. She watched him and something fluttered in the pit of her stomach. He was the same as always...and he wasn’t. His eyes seemed darker, more fierce. His body seemed harder, more tensed. When he began singing, she gave a quiet gasp.

  It was not a song, not as she had expected. It was a rhythmic, almost monotonous cadence in a language she didn’t understand. His voice was deep, strong, powerful. It reached inside her and stroked a place that had never been touched by another human soul.

  He began dancing around the hogan and her eyes followed him, rapt. His feet moved with the same hard, thumping urgency as his voice, and his body swayed slowly and provocatively with the rhythm. Catherine felt her mouth go dry. He chanted in English this time, turning the magic of the wolfman back upon him in an angry song.

  “The dart of the enemy’s ghost, its filth, has turned away from me! Upon him it has turned, far away it has returned! It has changed into water, it has changed into dew, while I should go about in peace....”

  His voice faded out, bringing to mind the quiet he sang of. She heard soft murmurs of relief from some of those gathered.

  Suddenly a horrible scream shrieked out from behind her. Catherine jumped, scrambling halfway to her feet before Shadow caught her arm.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s part of it.”

  Catherine felt her heart sink slowly again as she turned to look. Six men galloped toward them on horseback, coming across the open desert.

  As they drew closer, she saw that one of them carried a pouch on the end of a stick, slightly larger than the ones she had seen Jericho wrapping on Friday. Shadow leaned close to her again.

  “It contains the fur of the wolfman. Someone found a swatch of it snagged in a mesquite bush not far from here.”

  Catherine’s head spun. There is no such thing. Wolfmen do not exist. All her educated intelligence told her that the swatch was undoubtedly from some unfortunate dog who had gotten snarled there. If she could somehow get hold of it and look inside, she knew that was what she would find—just plain, ordinary mongrel hair. But suddenly, she had a hard time believing it.

  More riders came from the other side of the gathering behind the hogan. When the two groups met, they engaged in a mock battle. Her heart started pounding. The night had fallen black and hard now, and it reverberated with the sharp, cracking sounds of their lances coming together. Woven into it all were their war cries, shrill and terrifying, making her blood curdle.

  “If a wolfman’s prey is too strong and well protected, his evil spell almost always bounces back to him,” Shadow explained in an undertone. “Jericho and the warriors are proving to the Holy People that these eastern clans are still strong and worthy of their help.”

  Catherine nodded slowly, feeling herself drawn almost hypnotically into this mysterious and sacred culture not her own.

  When the fighting stopped, Jericho began moving among the people. He carried the pouches he had wrapped, and one by one he opened them, sprinkling the pollen over the various campfires.

  “You are protected,” he said quietly. “You are protected.”

  Women wept, and men nodded reverently. Catherine shivered.

  Finally, he went back to obliterate a sand painting in front of the hogan.

  “The artwork is sacred,” Shadow said. “It should never be left on display after the rite is over.”

  Catherine cleared her throat carefully. “Is it over?”

  Shadow nodded.

  The “warriors” began returning to their kins’ camps, and Catherine felt herself stiffening. Jericho followed them and sat down on the opposite side of the Bedonie fire.

  She watched him warily, knowing he did not want her here, waiting for more of his scorn. But his gaze only moved idly to Ellen as that woman jumped to her feet.

  “There’s meat and roasted potatoes and fry bread,” she told him.

  “I’ll have some of the bread. Thanks.”

  “I brought those beans you like, the ones with the peppers.”

  “That’ll be good.” But he was no longer looking at her. His gaze had finally come around to Catherine.

  “Enjoy yourself?” he asked flatly.

  “Very much.”

  He lifted a brow at her.

  Ellen brought the bread. It was a round, flat pancake, heaped with spicy refried beans, lettuce and chunks of tomato. Catherine’s mouth watered.

  “Would you like some?” Shadow offered.

  “I...yes, sure.”

  Her first impulse had been to leave when Jericho came back here, to excuse herself politely and go. Now that the rites were over, the spell they had woven had released her. She felt awkward again, uncomfortable, but Jericho chewed steadily with his gaze hard upon her. If she left now, it would be as good as admitting that his disapproval intimidated her, that she felt like an outcast here. She stood stiffly instead.

  “Personally,” Shadow said, “I like mine with honey, but it’s your choice.” They went to a big vat where the bread was deep-frying and she plucked out two pancakes with a pair of tongs. An old woman with a threadbare blanket around her shoulders was rolling wads of dough in her hands, smacking them flat, then dropping them into the sizzling fat.

  Catherine shuddered at the thought of all that cholesterol, then she shrugged. In for a penny, she thought, in for a pound. “I think I’d like the beans.”

  Shadow showed her where they were, and Catherine heaped them upon the fry bread, adding a dash of taco sauce for good measure. They went back to the campfire again, but Shadow gulped her food and stood again almost immediately.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said suddenly. “I want to find the Two Gray Hills fire and see if Casey Red Shirt knows anything about that Becenti guy.”

  Catherine fought the urge to grab her wrist and detain her. She didn’t want to be left alone here, but Shadow was gone almost before she finished speaking.

  Catherine looked down at her food, grimly ignoring the sharp, hot feeling of Jericho’s eyes upon her.

  “Roll it up,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Roll the bread up,” he said impatiently. “Like a taco.”

  She tried it, and the beans squished out, plopping down on the leg of her jeans. “Damn it.”

  She heard Ellen snort and she looked up again. The nurse was sitting close beside Jericho. One corner of his mouth moved again in that almost-smile, but it wasn’t entirely pleasant this time.

  “Guess you got your souvenir.”

  “Aren’t there any knives and forks around here?” she asked exasperatedly.

  “Sorry, Cat Eyes. This isn’t the Ritz. You’re dining among savages.”

  Suddenly she’d had enough. She stood, clutching the fry bread. She didn’t care if he knew he was intimidating her, didn’t care what he thought, because he clearly didn’t have a high opinion of her to start with. She looked wildly for Shadow, to thank her for inviting her, but she was nowhere to be seen. And Catherine didn
’t relish the thought of wandering around like a lost soul, looking for her.

  “I’m leaving,” she blurted rudely, then she flushed. She looked at the woman at the frying vat again. “Thank you.”

  The woman gave a toothless grin and nodded. Catherine fled, hurling the soggy bread into a big rubber trash can as she passed it.

  She reached the Jeep before she realized that Jericho was behind her. She spun back to him, as angry as she had ever been.

  “Coming to get in one more barb?” she snapped, then her heart skipped a beat.

  There was something about him in the moonlight. It threw shadows over his hard face, accentuating the planes and angles of it. He was so ruggedly attractive and she felt the heat coming off him again, felt his intrusive eyes this time as if they were touching her very soul. There was a certain intensity about him now that made her breath fall short.

  “Why’d you change your mind?” he asked. “Why’d you come here?” He genuinely seemed to want to know; he spoke as though it was very important.

  “Because Richard Moss thought it was a bunch of hogwash,” she blurted.

  His eyes narrowed. “Who?”

  “One of the CDC doctors. He came out on Wednesday.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I think...” What did she think? At times his performance had made her believe there truly was a wolfman. It had certainly made her believe in a sacred spirituality not her own. But now she thought the people were as exposed to the Mystery Disease as they ever were.

  She swallowed carefully. “It doesn’t matter, does it? I wanted to learn more about Navajo beliefs. I wanted to learn if such an event could compromise containment of the disease if it turns out to be communicable.”

  He gave a dark curse, and she flinched.

  “You’ve got to at least believe that’s a possibility!” she protested.

  “What I believe, Lanie McDaniel, is that you damned well ought to go home.”