Yellow Lies

by Susan Slater

  “Your people have always been carvers?”

  “Yes, and no. In the beginning people collected rocks, bone, branches—things that already looked like a particular animal; a carver just enhanced this image. It wasn’t until later that they produced images.”

  “Was this a problem with the church, with Catholicism? I mean, was it thought that you worshipped ‘graven images,’ that sort of thing?”

  “At first missionaries thought they were idols until they realized that we honor the spirit. A fetish cannot be more than the animal it represents.”

  “Are fetishes only used in hunting?”

  “They are also used in healing—illness, being out of balance with nature, drought, sometimes infertility ...” Was it his imagination or did Julie’s cheeks flush pink? Strange this pretty woman didn’t have children. Maybe he could do something. He pushed back from the table and went to a chest at the back of the shed. Here he kept a surplus of carvings, the ones ready to be offered for sale or ones dear enough to keep.

  “Fetishes don’t have to be only animals.” The carving he placed beside the tape recorder was four inches tall. It was a maiden who seemed to be emerging from an ear of corn. The meticulously sculpted shucks and tassels completed her shawl and curled about her black hair, embedded pieces of obsidian. Sal had outlined the kernels that made up her body in coral and turquoise, tiny inlaid pieces of stone that set off each small square in sharp contrast to the amber base.

  “It’s exquisite.” Julie studied it, then walked to the door and held it to the light. “This is a beautiful piece of art.”

  “Corn is our life. The corn maiden gives life. I want you to have it.”

  “No, I couldn’t.” Julie seemed genuinely shocked. “It’s too expensive.” She walked back to the bench and placed the fetish in front of him.

  “She suits you. She’s been waiting for her new owner.”

  He watched as Julie once again picked up the statue. The maiden seemed to fascinate her. But isn’t this what he wanted? He wanted this woman to have something of his—something that was his best work. “Take her. She will be good for you.”

  “How can I thank you? I’ll cherish her.” Once again, Julie held the statue to the light. “Look, there’s an insect of some sort, preserved next to the stalk. All you can see is a dark outline. What do you think it is?”

  Sal took the figurine that she held out but didn’t have to look at the insect very long.

  “Looks like our Jumping Sumac beetle.”

  “To think it lived thousands of years ago, maybe, millions. Amber is fascinating, don’t you think?”

  Sal nodded. Yes, amber was fascinating. He gave the maiden back, aware that Julie’s fingers had brushed his hand.

  “Am I interrupting?” Hannah hadn’t waited for an answer but moved quickly into the shed.

  Sal sat up straighter. This wasn’t good. How long had she been listening? He was going to be in trouble for this.

  “We’re just finishing. Look, isn’t she beautiful? And there’s a beetle caught inside. There.” Julie held the maiden toward Hannah who had taken a step backward as if threatened.

  “Lovely, but if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.” She gave a short, harsh laugh, “I’ve been out here too long. I’m getting jaded. But how nice of Mr. Zuni to give you a piece of his best work.”

  Not even Salvador, but Mr. Zuni. If the two of them hadn’t been blocking the door, he would have bolted.

  “Would it be possible to talk again tomorrow?” Julie was putting the recorder back into a carrying case.

  “Probably.” Sal wasn’t committing to anything right at the moment.

  “Good. I’ll check with you after breakfast.”

  And then with a dazzling smile and one more “thank you,” Julie left. At first the silence was overpowering, oppressive. Waiting for doom was putting a lot of pressure on him, Sal thought. Should he speak first? But, he didn’t have to.

  “You can’t put an insect in every piece.” Hannah’s voice was a hiss of anger, barely above a whisper. “How do you think I can explain perfect amber—every piece with some little tidbit from the past, little iridescent wings, the veins in a leaf—all perfect. It causes suspicion.”

  Hannah was pacing. Sal waited. This wasn’t really the problem. He felt certain of that. He’d seen this before.

  “And giving one of your best pieces to that reporter.”

  Now the real reason for the anger was out—too much attention to someone else.

  “It was your idea that I talk to her.” Sal instantly wished he could grab the words back.

  Hannah whirled toward him, leaned across the table, her face a foot from his. “My idea? Just mine? Don’t you want to be successful in this? Is it all my doing? Am I the one who has to take all the chances? Worry that, in your stupidity, you’ll tell all or give away the shop?” She took a breath. “And since when has talking equated with gift giving? Just a little something that’s worth an easy four or five hundred dollars. What a nice thank-you for a little chat.”

  Anger had given her face color and made her eyes flint sapphire, but spittle bubbled at the corner of her mouth and she was shaking, panting, her warm breath puffed against his face.

  It was his cue remembered from the past, perfected over the years when too-pretty young tourists crowded to see his work, pressed close to him, touched him while Hannah watched from behind the cash register.

  She would wait until they were alone then rant and rave about male posturing. How he had encouraged the flirtations, welcomed them, flaunted them in front of her. The first time she had torn his shirt and broken a nail on his belt buckle. All in a frenzy to couple, regain what she thought of as hers. But he knew the first move was really expected of him.

  He reached up and steadied her arms, then drew her closer sliding his hands up until his fingers laced behind her neck and pulled her lips to his. He let his tongue push into her mouth, just two or three short exploratory darts before he sat back, saw her anger turn into an animal wanting; then, he stood and moved to close the door.

  + + +

  Julie heard the door to the shed slam shut before she had gone a hundred feet. She felt sorry for Sal. She wouldn’t like to be in his place. There was absolutely no doubt that he was getting yelled at and she was, somehow, innocently to blame. She wondered if it would help if she went back and tried to help him, maybe, stick up for him. But what would she say? It was probably best not to interfere.

  Besides, she had looked forward to some time alone to reconstruct her notes from the interview. And, if she were being truthful, to think about Ben. It hadn’t exactly been an auspicious reunion. But what had she expected? Crashing waves, a clash of cymbals? More or less. And one thing she was fairly sure of, she was the only one who heard the sound of anything. He had made no attempt to touch her. No kiss. No hand holding. Nothing. Right after lunch, he goes running off with that police officer, then back to the hospital. If she wasn’t here on business, she’d think of going back to Santa Fe. But her story was here—out here in the sparse forest and mountains and on the reservation. She was already planning to shoot her first show from the boarding house. She could look in any direction and see beauty—the kind that photographed well—pines, and jagged basalt rising out of the desert floor against a backdrop of deep blue. And the serenity—her audience would be able to experience that.

  Besides, she wasn’t ready to give up on the relationship. She almost laughed out loud. There it was, the truth. She was so disappointed in Ben’s reaction because of what she was feeling. But she’d have to go slow. If she had a chance, this was her second one. She’d blown the first one. She’d chosen to leave Chicago when a promising career offer came along. Could she blame him for being a little gun shy? And if she really wanted to be honest, had anything changed? He was in the sticks. She was in New York. He couldn’t break his contract, could she break hers?

  “You wanna feel?”

  Julie came crashing
back to the present. Twenty-something was holding out a toad. She hadn’t even seen him sitting on the back steps.

  “I’ll pass.”

  “ ’Fraida warts?”

  “Maybe.” Julie bent down to inspect the animal and was struck at how dirty the boy’s hands were.

  “Could be prince. You kiss?”

  Julie couldn’t keep from laughing. She could be passing up the chance of a lifetime. Someone must have read him that story and, guessing at his limitations, maybe he believed it. She instantly sobered. She didn’t want to appear to make fun of him.

  “I already have a prince.” Now, there was a lie.

  “Who?”

  “He lives far away.” Another lie, as she thought of Ben. Her prince was right here, for all the good it was doing her.

  “In a castle?”

  “In a big castle.” As long as they were on fairy tales, she could only hope her nose wasn’t growing.

  “You come.” He grabbed her hand, and she almost reflexively jerked away. But she didn’t—out of sheer will power and trying not to think of germs or whatever else hands that handled frogs might have on them.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You see.”

  When he stood, he towered above her. He had to be six feet tall—what an odd child. But was child really the correct term? He was an impaired young man. Lack of motor control left him with nervous ticks. Her hand that he held was bobbing up and down; she knew he couldn’t control those spasms. And mentally? It was hard to tell. But she wasn’t frightened. He was so earnest. She didn’t want to disappoint him.

  “Is this a surprise, Twenty-one?”

  “Two.” He mimed shooting a rifle complete with sound.

  “If you’re named after a rifle, why aren’t you called Remington or Browning or Winchester?”

  His face went blank. It hadn’t been a good question, Julie realized as he became agitated. It was beyond him. He really was limited. She patted his hand. “It’s okay. I like .22 for a name.”

  His smile just about pushed his ears back as he tugged on her arm and turned to go up the steps. Whatever it was, it was in the house.

  His room was on the second floor toward the front. When he reached the door, he motioned for her to wait in the hall. He left the door open a crack, and Julie almost gagged on the dank odor that hit her in the face. She wasn’t at all certain that she wanted to see this “surprise.”

  “You come now.” .22 threw open the door and Julie stepped in. At first she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. There was shelving everywhere, floor to ceiling with cutouts around the windows. But it was what was on the shelves—aquariums with elaborate covers and lights, some huge—one hundred gallons, maybe more—and all held some type of amphibian.

  “Friends.” .22 made a sweeping movement to include his collection. “You like?”

  “It’s ... awesome.” It’s also creepy, it stinks in here, and it’s too hot. But, she kept her opinions to herself.

  “You hold?”

  He had swiftly grabbed a large toad from the aquarium nearest them and held it out. Julie started to decline but then decided to be a sport. So what if this was a little fifth grade déjà vu?

  “Oh, no.” She quickly held the toad out away from her body but not before it had peed down her leg.

  “He go pee-pee. He sorry.” .22 quickly put the toad back in its house and turned back looking absolutely stricken.

  “Don’t worry. He didn’t mean to.” She pulled a couple Kleenex from a box on a nightstand and dabbed at her leg. The room, other than the aquariums, was almost bare. A single bed, the nightstand, and a plain wooden rocker—that was it. And the room had to measure six hundred square feet. There was no outside light. All the windows had been shuttered. The light came from fixtures in the aquariums, eerie little florescent tubes gleaming from the underside of metal lids that kept hundreds of frogs and toads from escaping.

  “You hungry?” Not waiting for an answer, .22 snapped the lid off of a fifty-gallon plastic drum marked ‘dried flies,’ reached inside and grabbed up a handful of something brown, popped the whole thing in his mouth and started crunching.

  “Oh, my God ...”

  “Yum. Yum.” He stood facing her, chewing in an exaggerated manner with his mouth open. Julie felt faint. Then .22 convulsed in giggles and fell choking with laughter onto his bed. Julie looked into the dried fly barrel and pulled out a box of cereal—Grape Nuts, to be exact.

  “Trick. I trick you.” .22 shouted between whoops of laughter.

  “You did. That was a very good trick.” I’ll never eat Grape Nuts again, she thought, but the trick took some thought, some planning. And it showed originality. She was certain that somewhere, some instructor of the impaired would feel he had accomplished something.

  “A practical joke. You played a practical joke on me.”

  From his sudden frown, joke and trick were not synonymous. So Julie smiled, crossed the room and patted him on the shoulder then whispered, “I’ll see you at supper. We’re having your favorite—dried flies and peanut butter.” She could still hear his laughter when she reached her room.

  + + +

  Sal didn’t forget his promise to scatter black corn meal that night, to go to the place called Wide River and sever any ties the dead man’s ghost might have with him. So when the last of the sun’s light faded pink into yellow across the horizon, Sal set out.

  He’d skipped supper, fasted, leaving his thinking clear. The coming night was muggy and vegetation glistened from rain. The usual rapid cadences of insects were slowed by the drop in temperature. Their melodies lulled him into thinking of his work. Maybe Hannah was right. Maybe he should produce plain amber for awhile empty of enclosures. But it would take the fun out of it. His masterpieces, his challenge, were the myriad of winged creatures frozen for all time. Thin filmy clouds floated over, then away from, the sliver of moon. There wasn’t much light. In addition to his medicine pouch, he carried a flashlight and walking stick. He felt in his pocket for the offering he had made—cut the red willow, notched a face on one end, and tied the feathers before painting. The stick measured from the tip of his middle finger to the palm of his hand. The supernaturals would use the feathers for clothing.

  Sal was walking in the shadow of the sacred mountain to where the river spread out flat and languid, its waters skipping over small rounded rocks worn smooth many years before the Spaniards—maybe many years before his people came here. He would skirt the ruins. The place where his people first lived. He wouldn’t disturb the ancestors.

  He didn’t bring the truck tonight but walked as part of his pilgrimage. And he wasn’t in any hurry. Lightning zig-zagged across the horizon to the west. There would be more rain. He paused listening for the thunder, the rolling of rocks across the sky, but there was none. The rain must be far away, not an immediate threat, anyway. He needed the flashlight now to keep from stumbling on the uneven ground. Cold, damp air settled around him, and the brush was getting thicker. He must be near the river.

  He thought of Hannah, of the afternoon, the luck that brought her to him before the ceremony he had to perform, because tomorrow and for three more days, he would have to abstain. The severity of the need to do this kind of ceremony would make him stick to its restrictions—no sex and only certain foods. A general feeling of taboo, teckwi, would hang over him for four days.

  He slowed his steps. There were no roads out here, no footprints of man or animal after the rain. He felt alone but not lonely. And he knew the difference. The five miles out and back would have a healing effect; he was feeling better already. He splashed into a puddle left by the afternoon rain and fought back a curse. Now his feet were wet, not something he considered pleasant.

  He stopped and removed his socks, stuffing them into his pockets. The running shoes were damp but drier without the bunch of heavy sodden cotton whose cuffs acted like wicks and drew the dampness up his ankles. Two frogs had hopped from the small rock-lined
pool but waited close by, probably hoping he would go away. Children of the U’wanami, the rainmakers or water spirits. He thought their protruding eyes followed him as he picked his way carefully around their neighbor’s watery homes.

  He was in the trees now, crossing a stretch of forested land that would eventually break before an expanse of marsh at the river’s edge. He paused and took a directional sighting off the stars. He should be almost there. Before the trees parted, his nostrils filled with the smell of the river—wet earth, mud and vegetation, faintly acrid, sometimes sweet. He breathed in the dampness of this place of life and felt refreshed. Wide River, the sacred place he sought, would be a scant one hundred yards to his left if he had calculated correctly. He skirted the marsh and kept to the water’s rocky edge. Shallow pools formed beside the river, their quiet waters stagnant, cut off to be fed only by the rains.

  It wasn’t sound that stopped him, but there had been something—even before he saw the flickering lights—something he had seen caused a cold sweat to bead along his hairline. He stood quietly. The lights were directly ahead of him, their source concealed by the brush and young cottonwoods. If he’d thought, he would have realized that he was looking at a bank of candles, not the glow of a supernatural. But he wasn’t thinking clearly.

  He was mesmerized by the shadow of a dancer who leaped and twisted, causing the still air at the river’s edge to swirl the flames of light, making their smoky wicks plume upward in the darkness disturbing the night. He crept closer. The dancer was chanting as he stopped to kneel at the edge of a still pool.

  “Now, indeed, the enemy,

  In a shower of war clubs,

  With a bloody head,

  The enemy,

  Reaching the end of his life,

  Added to the flesh of our earth mother.

  Beast bow priests,

  With their claws,

  Tore from the enemy

  His water-filled covering.

  i’nakwe te’ ‘ona