by Siena West
“I’ll do that. And I hope you’ll let me camp here tonight. I’m a self-contained unit in my faithful bus, and I won’t trouble you. Just show me where to park, someplace where I won’t be in your way.”
“Tim, would you show Mr. Cimelli past the fire circle to a suitable spot? And please come have breakfast with us in the morning before you leave.” Elena’s emphasis on the last part was unconscious.
“Thank you, Ma’am,” the preacher said, taking her hands and triggering the ugly sensations once more. “You’re the spirit of female kindness. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Soon, the night lapsed into silence. The campfire group came straggling back in twos and threes, and the dance crew on the porch packed up their CDs. Despite the dark sky spattered with stars and the smell of night air and pine, so comforting most of the time, Elena was uneasy. The preacher man had raised her suspicions. He was a peculiar combination of unreconstructed hippie, entrepreneur, and itinerant amateur archaeologist. He may have lied about being at the O Bar Ranch field school. Why would he do that? She wondered. Most troubling, he seemed too intrigued by ancient artifacts. Perhaps it was only his crackpot design scheme driving his interest in pottery, but she was not sure.
As she thought about these possibilities, Elena found she was no longer sleepy. Restless, she paced about the cabin for a while, straightening things and cleaning up the mess on the porch. At last, she surrendered and walked down the track past the barns and corrals. Horses shuffled in their stalls, and the sweet scents of hay and manure filled the air. She noted with approval that the campfire was out, cold and black. As they had been taught, the kids had doused it with a bucket of water and shoveled dirt on it. No chance of the fire smoldering back to life and starting a brush fire.
Elena hugged herself because the warm night had cooled. A faint glow in the trees marked the place where the preacher had parked his van. He was playing soft music. A stringed instrument—guitar, sitar?—it was impossible to tell. A drift of sandalwood incense traveled on the night breeze.
Trouble. He’s nothing but trouble.
January, a.d. 1376, East-Central Arizona
Witchcraft Sickness
Snow Falling had been sick for days. Listless and pallid, he lay on a pile of woven mats and blankets. When the fever raged, he tossed and turned, his bones aching. Then he would shake with chills, and no number of blankets and tanned deer hides could warm him.
His wife, Butterfly Resting, kept the fire constant against the winter cold, sending her little sons to bring in wood. When he shook with chills or raged with fever, he slipped into near-unconsciousness, battling horrible, frightening dreams. Snow Falling babbled and muttered without making much sense. Worse than the fever and chills was the pain in his chest, a pain that never abated and cut like a knife when he coughed.
On the sixth day, Snow Falling’s wife sent for a doctor. She packed a flat, woven basket with cornhusks filled with cornmeal and ground shell. Butterfly Resting sent her sister, Yellow Moth, to the doctor’s house with the gift.
“Red Bear,” Yellow Moth pleaded, “my sister’s husband is ill. You have the power to heal him. Please come.”
Red Bear gathered his medicines and tools. When he arrived at the sick man’s house and pushed aside the hide that covered the doorway, the heat was shocking after the snow-cold outdoors. The youngsters crowded into a corner of the room, their eyes wide with fear. Although they were only children, with children’s concerns, they knew something was wrong with their father. He muttered and yelled when the fever raged. Because of that, they were afraid of him. When Red Bear entered, the children pushed even farther back into the corner. They were in awe of the man’s power.
Snow Falling was in one of his more lucid states, neither burning nor freezing. The doctor asked Butterfly Resting for a clean bowl filled with water. Into this, he sprinkled crushed, dried herbs to make medicine water. Taking four colored stones from his medicine pouch, he dropped them one by one into the water. There was one color and one stone for each direction—white quartz for north, turquoise for west, red hematite for south, and yellow chert for east. As each stone fell, he prayed to the totem animal of that direction for clear vision.
Next, he drew forth a quartz crystal and a green stone knife shaped like a willow leaf. The faceted crystal glowed with opalescent colors. “If you will sit up, Snow Falling,” Red Bear said, “I will try to see what is making you so ill.” The doctor’s voice was soft and kind but commanding. He laid the knife on the pallet next to the sick man.
Snow Falling was wearing nothing but his thong. He was so weak from sickness and fever it was difficult to sit, and dizziness made his vision blur. His skin shone with sweat in the firelight. Snow Falling had not eaten for days, and his weight loss was visible. Butterfly Resting rushed to support him and hold him upright. Snow Falling had to lean against her strong chest.
Red Bear picked up the crystal and waved it back and forth, peering intently into it. Sometimes he held it at arm’s length, and sometimes he brought it close to his patient, pointing it at various parts of the man’s body. This went on for an unbearable time. When the man slumped from the strain of sitting upright, the doctor touched the crystal to Snow Falling’s chest. It was the exact spot where the pain was worst.
“Lie down again,” he commanded. Red Bear took up the green knife and scarified his patient’s chest at the same place where he had pressed the crystal. Snow Falling groaned as drops of scarlet beaded up where the knife cut into his skin. Butterfly Resting and the children gasped, frightened of the flowing blood.
“A sorcerer—powaka—has shot an arrow dipped in poison into you,” Red Bear proclaimed as he sipped from the medicine water. “The wound will allow the poison to drain from your body.”
Then, he bent down and placed his lips against the wound, exhaling into it. Snow Falling shivered violently as an icy chill spread through his body. Red Bear repeated the movement and inhaled against the wound with fierce, short breaths. He turned away after each inhalation and breathed out into the air. The sixth time he inhaled, Red Bear lifted his patient’s left hand and spat something into it.
It was a horrible, headless, black insect. In his sickness, Snow Falling wondered if it was a fever hallucination. Shaped like an arrow head, the thing was covered with a nasty, viscous material. Its ugly legs, much like those of a centipede, waved in his palm. When they saw it, the women screamed, and the children sobbed.
“What is it?” auntie Yellow Moth cried.
“This is the sorcerer’s arrow. He shot it into Snow Falling’s chest. It burrowed down and ate its way to his heart. If I had not seen it and sucked it out, it would have killed him.”
Red Bear took the insect and rushed out of the house. He carried it outside the village to exorcise the baleful spirit that dwelled in the thing. They never learned what he did. When he returned to Snow Falling’s house, the doctor made everyone, even the children, drink the medicine water, the adults drinking first.
“If any others dwell in this house,” Red Bear instructed, “let them drink of the water when they return.” He drew from his pouch more herbs, which he chewed and spat into another bowl of clean water.
“Drink this several times each day for four days, Snow Falling,” Red Bear commanded. “You will receive much benefit.”
And so he did. From that moment on, the pain in Snow Falling’s chest ended. As he drank the medicine over four days, the fever and chills receded. Soon he was well enough to drink a little corn meal mixed with water and then a bowl of meat broth.
Later, Butterfly Resting brought Red Bear a finely woven basket filled with the sweet, boiled morsels of cornmeal eaten at weddings and on feast days. She also gave him a new rabbit-skin blanket edged with stone beads and little shells from the far-away ocean. Gratitude and relief filled her. It would not have been easy for a widow and her children to make a living alone, even with the help of family and community.
Soon
Snow Falling was back at work, preparing for the late-winter ceremonies, cutting wood, and weaving in his kiva. His chest bore a scar that would always remind him of Red Bear’s curing ceremony. They never spoke of the curing again, but everyone knew sorcerer’s sickness had afflicted their village. Red Bear had used his power to cure Snow Falling, but the doctor feared there would be more chaos and evil deeds to come.
Chapter 10
Anthropological Fieldwork
María Elena Vargas, granddaughter many times descended from highborn Andalusian forebears, was a believer in hard work. As a child, her petite grandmother, whose lined face belied a character as strong as hand-forged nails, would reassure Elena in the face of an impending hardship. They would get by, abuelita said, no matter what—aunque tenga que vender tamales en la calle—even if she had to sell tamales in the street.
Because of that pride and belief in hard work, Elena was sure she would be able to fulfill her commitment to Sander Jorgensen. Elena’s conversations with the FBI agent opened her eyes to uncomfortable possibilities about pot hunting and cartel activities. Few archaeologists worked with the FBI on the intractable problem of antiquities theft. Instead of carping about pot hunting with her colleagues, she had an opportunity to solve the problem.
* * *
Sorting out the grocery receipts over her third cup of coffee, Elena mused about their mountain community and looter activities. No legitimate dealers in Native American arts and crafts—and she hoped with all her heart Tinker Reidhead was one—would have connections to pot hunters. The Apache cultural resources officers wouldn’t have much information. With only one officer for each reservation—White Mountain and San Carlos—and a handful of pararchaeologists, it was hard to check on those huge areas. They would be unlikely to share what they knew about vandalism, in any case, because it was white people’s fault that looting had become a problem. White people made Indian antiquities so valuable that looters risked stealing them, destroying ruins and desecrating burials.
Then, inspiration struck. She would talk to Kevin Bradfield. The retired ethnologist, who taught for years at the University of Arizona, had worked among the Western Apache for his entire professional life. He was friends with many people living in the rim country, Apache and Anglo alike. If anyone was likely to have knowledge about pot hunters, it would be Bradfield. The man was a legend. He had always fancied himself a cowboy and had a well-tuned eye for women. Now married (for the third time) to a rich woman who owned a ranch along the Mogollon Rim, he was spending his time hand-braiding western horse tack.
Elena had met Bradfield once or twice when in Whiteriver on field-school business, but she wasn’t well acquainted with him. Partial to the sound of his own voice, he seized any chance to share his expertise, especially if his audience was female. There could be no better informant for Elena’s purpose.
Jorgensen had not asked Elena to investigate as part of her consultant duties, but that didn’t occur to her. Along with pride and belief in hard work, the Vargas heritage was replete with large doses of stubbornness and certainty in the rightness of one’s own ideas. Elena Vargas did what she wanted. This time, she would be in jeopardy.
* * *
Bradfield lived in a sprawling, ancient ranch house set amid meadows dotted with pines and junipers. Bradfield had added new rooms to the house. The original building was the core of the house and served as the living and dining area. A modern kitchen was new, and Mrs. Bradfield’s money showed in its granite countertops and La Cornue range. Mrs. Bradfield herself was not at home.
Bradfield ushered Elena into the living room below a new, grand porch added to the original part of the house. The room’s ceiling beams were dark with age. Every bookcase shelf and wall displayed an astonishing, priceless collection of Apache artifacts. Elena saw cradleboards, burden baskets, a beaded T-necklace, even a complete girl’s puberty ceremonial dress, its soft buckskin and beading glowing in the morning light.
A stone fireplace covered most of one wall. Colorful Navajo rugs lay on the polished hardwood floor, which was also new. Paintings by well-known western cowboy artists hung opposite the fireplace. Elena was sure at least one was an original.
Over coffee, they chatted about the State university system. Arizona State University and Northern Arizona University both had new presidents. Budget shortfalls and cost cutting loomed large in the conversation. Bradfield was also interested in colleagues at the University of Arizona who had fallen ill or passed away and the faculty hired to replace them. The anthropologist had taught for a while in New Mexico, and that opened an avenue to chat about their shared experiences. Bradfield’s eyes kept straying to her chest during the conversation.
“So what can I do for you, Elena—if I may call you that?” he said at last. “You were obscure on the phone.”
She smiled. “It’s not a pleasant topic. We’ve had an epidemic of pot hunting.” She told him about the vandalized ruins they’d found on survey.
“Most of the looted sites are on Forest land, but the pot raiders also vandalized a cliff dwelling on the reservation. The vandalism to the cliff ruin is recent. The thieves are savvy—they know where to find the burials and leave the rest alone.” She paused, unsure of what to say next. Sander Jorgensen had said nothing about keeping the FBI investigation under wraps, so she plunged ahead.
“The worst and scariest part is according to the FBI, there may be a connection to the Sinaloa drug cartel. It’s a scheme to raise cash or launder money. Perhaps you heard about their project.”
Bradfield chuckled. “I’ve gotten a load of carping about the FBI, believe me. Some ranchers are pissed. You are aware how they feel about the gov’mint in these parts. Sure don’t like agents in blue and yellow caps poking into their business.
“And you’re involved in this how, Elena? I’d be worried about getting shot at or much worse. The Sinaloans are nasty people.”
Elena shrugged. The local ranchers might be nicer than the cartel’s murderers and rapists, but they also carried firearms and could shoot a trespassing archaeologist on sight.
“The FBI hired me as a consultant because I’m familiar with the archaeology of the rim region.
“So that’s why I’m here. I wanted to pick your brain about pot hunters and those who might trade information for drugs or cash. You’ve lived here so long and know so many people. No one is better informed, and no one knows more about the Apache.”
Like a pigeon, Bradfield puffed up under her modest praise. “You’re making me sound old,” he protested. He flashed a sly smile and the hint of a wink. He hadn’t forgotten how to flirt, and the old rogue was still handsome. “I’m not as well informed as you might think. I don’t get over to the reservation as often as I’d like, and the entire rim country is changing fast.”
Elena had seen the shiny-bright developments springing up where real ranches once had been. The silly, faux-ranch-style houses sat on three acres surrounded by white fences where horses and cattle would never graze.
“I can tell you one thing,” Bradfield said. “The dyed-in-the-wool pot hunters are old men. In fact, I bet most of them are dead or in nursing homes. And the second and third generations are more knowledgeable about antiquities laws. Not to mention that those old guys dug the hell out of the local sites. There aren’t a lot worth looting now as I’m sure you know.”
“What about on the reservation? Do any Apache people loot archaeological sites?”
Bradfield’s forehead wrinkled, the salt-and-pepper brows tenting. “It isn’t likely. Concepts of death and the dead would constrain the older, conservative Apache. They would be reluctant to dig at a ruin, afraid they’d release bad spirits.”
“And the younger people?”
“The same for them, although a few might be less conservative than their parents. The more activist young people think archaeology is stealing their heritage. They want no digging at all, and digging on the reservation in particular is anathema.�
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Well, I guess that’s that, Elena thought.
“I’ve heard a lot of teenagers belong to gangs.” she said. “The FBI believes gangs could be a channel for the cartel to get involved.”
“It’s unfortunate but true. The kids drop out of school and can’t get a job. Life is so bleak that sometimes the girls commit suicide. The boys join a gang and get into crime. Most do drugs and drink. This goes on until they’re in jail. Or dead.” It was a blunt and bleak assessment.
“Let me give you an example of Apache conservatism,” Bradfield said. “There’s a disease on the reservation that’s killing a lot of cattle. The Apache are attributing it to witchcraft.”
“People still believe in that?”
“That’s what I mean about Apache conservatism. Witchcraft still serves to control people and their actions.” Uh-oh. I’m about to receive a lesson on Western Apache witchcraft from the master, Elena thought.
“Witches are bad-hearted people who cause sickness and death,” Bradfield continued. “They use poison and cast spells to gain wealth, sex, or power.
“The cattle are dying because of a virus or bacteria, but try telling that to an Apache cattleman who’s lost half his herd. They’re looking for someone or something to blame. The Rodeo-Chediski fire deprived the tribe of the timber industry, and this cow disease may cost them their cattle.
“And that’s why no Apache people can be pot hunters.”
It was impressive to see Bradfield’s loyalty to the people he studied for decades, and Elena wished she could share his certainty. She had seen first-hand the ravages that the great recession caused. People would do almost anything to ensure their families survived.
They talked for a while longer of less consequential things, and soon Elena took her leave. Bradfield had provided her with precious little new information, but she thanked him anyway. The old flirt kissed her cheek when she left.