A Foreboding Felony

by Constance Barker

  “So when I saw you in my dreams, it was real.”

  She smiled. “In a sense, yes. In the sense that a dreamer dreams the truth, I was always in your dreams, just as you were in my thoughts. Even when you didn’t see me. I was trying to help you understand what you saw. I reached out in any way I could.”

  Charli grimaced. “You didn’t do a great job of that, I’m afraid. I saw you and heard you, but the explanations you gave me lacked a lot of context. Some were almost as confusing as the dreams themselves.”

  Torre surprised her by throwing back her head and laughing. “Child, you have the spirit of my own mother. She believed in the power, the value of her dreams, but she had an irreverent streak wider than a ceremonial mesa. And, largely you are right. I didn’t do well at all. It took some time for me to figure out that I couldn’t accomplish what a teacher should. I couldn’t overcome the distance and I lacked the means, the power to provide any context that would give my messages any meaning. I couldn’t even see your dreams clearly, so how could I explain them. And you lacked the power and training to interpret my feeble efforts. It didn’t help that I knew nothing about you as a person.”

  “And now?”

  “Now you are here. We can talk face-to-face. But more important is that you are connecting to the source itself. Being here is what you have needed. Among the ancestors, where you can feel the soil of this place under your feet, feel its breath touch your cheek as its winds caress all your people, this is when you can make any sense of it at all. But it takes time.”

  My people, she thought. The words gave her a warm glow, yet it was a strange concept, having a people, of belonging to something. She had trouble allowing herself to trust that it was real. Yet, she wanted to trust it more than anything; her heart ached to believe she shared something with the tribe, that she had some cultural heritage. “So you drew me here, to you so I could experience it?”

  “Oh my, I’d dearly love to take credit for that,” Torre said, sipping her tea and beaming happily. “I truly would. But the truth is that you were drawn here by your nature. I didn’t have to do a thing for that part to happen. At best, I laid the groundwork for you to question who you are, to tease your intellect and make you want to know what tugged at you. That’s what drew you here.”

  “And now that I’m here I can learn to be a proper dreamer? Is that my destiny? Are the source of my dreams what pulled me here?”

  “Only partly. You know that better than I, Bonita. There is also the attraction of your people, the need to claim your place as a Mescalero Apache.” She winked. “It happens to other of the people who grow up apart, even those who aren’t dreamers. The fact that you are innately curious helped a lot too, of course.”

  “And now, you will teach me about dreaming?”

  “This place will. Being here will.” She toyed with her mug. “After a time, but soon, you should go to Kee’s people as well. Your father’s people are part of you too.”

  “Do you know them?”

  “Not well. We met his parents at the wedding and we all went to the dinner that honored Kee for his accomplishments with the rodeo.”

  “Then do you know Raymond Walks-with-Wolves?”

  She laughed. “That Navajo scoundrel? Of course I do. He and Kee were inseparable and he spent many nights under our roof when the two of them were traveling together. Before his accident.”

  “Small world,” Charli said. “I met him in Ramah and he said I needed to come here, to find you.”

  “Then I’ll temper my scoundrel comment.”

  “He also said I should meet Kee’s parents.”

  “They would love that. Their hearts have an empty space where Bonita was.”

  “Is that part of my learning too?”

  Torre laughed. “Just living is part of your learning. Even being with your young white man is part of it.”

  “Even though he isn’t part of the tribe?”

  “My man became part of the tribe without actually trying to. It absorbed him almost completely.”

  Charli thought about Roger, going off to Las Cruces. “I wonder what he is doing right now?” she asked.

  “I had a dream about that,” Torre said. Then she laughed again. “Just a little dreamer joke.”

  “Not funny,” Charli said, protesting and trying not to choke on her tea.

  Chapter Six

  A Man Under a Horse

  Slowly and deliberately, Charli walked barefoot across the open ground. The dry, hard-packed sand tickled her feet as she moved toward the mountains, lying hazy and soft on the horizon. Somehow she knew that the mountains were in Mexico, across the border, but it was hard to judge distance out here in this desert land. She wasn’t even sure how far it was to the Mexican border, but she knew it should be visible from here. Wherever here was.

  Stopping to look made her realize that her lips and mouth were dry. She licked her lips, but it didn’t help. She wanted water.

  She started walking again, heading in a direction that somehow led her to a spring, an unlikely pool of fresh water in the desert. She knelt down in the sand. As she was wearing shorts, her bare knees crunched the sand. The water tasted metallic, but was refreshing.

  When she stood and looked around to get her bearings, she saw something a short distance away. Something that moved. Curiosity pulled her toward whatever it was. Or perhaps she was compelled by some other force (it was unclear what that might be). Either way, she came to find the body. A man’s body. A dead man’s body lying on the desert floor.

  This wasn’t the first time she’d seen a dead body, or what appeared to be one. She'd seen them before when she was on one of these walks.

  Walks. Even now that seemed a strange term for these excursions. She drifted, almost floated. Although her feet were on the ground, although she felt the terrain, her movements were effortless. This was hardly what she thought of as walking. In this state, she could go on forever.

  The thought sent a troubling chill through her. What if she did go on forever?

  She shook off the idea. Applying logic wasn’t helpful. It wouldn't do anything more than add to the confusion. She was dreaming, after all. At least she hoped she was. If this was her being awake, she was in real trouble.

  For a distraction, to avoid thinking about the dead man, she turned her attention to the horse. Yes, there was a horse standing there, over the body. It ignored her. A toss of its head and a horse-like snort was the only indication it was aware of her.

  She sighed and bent down to look at the man, to give him a closer look as if she might learn something. (Perhaps her motivation was simple curiosity after all.) He was long and lean, with leathery brown skin and coal-black hair. It struck her that he’d probably been a ruggedly handsome man when he was alive. Maybe he still was if you could think of dead people that way. It was an interesting question: Could you consider dead people attractive or unattractive? Something about that sort of judgement didn’t seem right.

  The horse whinnied and she looked up to see it toss its head again. She raised a hand and touched the horse’s nose. It was a beautiful animal, a palomino. “His death isn’t what it seems,” the horse said.

  “No?”

  “Not at all. Although...” the horse paused to snort, as horses do. “... Even when a person does nothing wrong they can suffer.”

  From the way the horse slurred its words, Charli wondered if perhaps the horse wasn’t a little drunk. But then, she’d never heard a horse speak before, neither a sober or drunk. For all she knew that was how all horses sounded on the rare occasions they spoke. How would you know?

  “Do you know who killed him?” It seemed awkward, if not downright silly to be addressing a horse, but then he had started the conversation, and after all, he seemed to have some idea of what was going on. How many chances did you get to ask a witness directly?

  “No idea,” the horse said. “Most humans look much alike, although they do smell differently. I wasn’t close enough to sme
ll them. Finding out things like that is a human problem.”

  “And what sort of problem concerns a horse?”

  The horse tipped its head. “Let me see... I would think it would be figuring out who will feed him if you leave. Seeing that the Indian is dead, I mean.”

  “I see.”

  He pawed the ground. “A creature must have appropriate priorities.”

  Charli was quite sure that appropriate priorities were an excellent idea. This horse was clearly clever in the way people mean when they said other people were clever.

  “Can you tell me any more about how or why he died?”

  “No. Sorry. I can’t,” he said. “As I said, nothing to do with me, however. I hope you can keep that in mind.”

  “I’ll try,” she assured him.

  “And his death has nothing to do with me, no matter how it seems later.”

  “How will it seem?”

  “That it has something to do with me, with horses. But it doesn't.”

  Then, as the horse didn’t seem have more information to share, or wasn’t willing to share it, Charli turned to walk (drift) back in the direction she’d come from, hoping it would take her somewhere better. As her feet trailed over the rocky ground she was certain this was the right thing to do. She hadn’t intended to come here in the first place, and returning to her source seemed a good idea.

  Then something, a creature, darted out from an outcropping of rock and stopped in front of her. She stared as it sat back on its haunches and yawned. It was a coyote. Under the circumstances, dreaming and all, she thought it natural to wonder if this coyote was Coyote, the Native American spirit.

  She watched politely as the animal finished its large, toothy yawn, and then looked up at her with a curious expression—an expression that showed curiosity, that is. As this sequence of events followed immediately on the heels of her odd encounter with a handsome dead man and a talking horse, Charli totally forgot to worry about the dangers of confronting a wild animal.

  She stared back into the dark eyes that were fixed on her. “Did you want something?” She was happy that her voice was firm. It made her sound rather brave. She felt brave, but then, she was dreaming. And yet, she wasn’t all that sure that an animal couldn’t bite you in a dream. “Yes, doctor, I was bitten by a rabid coyote in a waking dream.” That would be a hoot in the emergency room.

  “Not so much,” he said. “I was just curious to know what you made of all that back there. Care to comment, dreamer?” the coyote asked her. Charli thought he sounded sincere, especially for a coyote, that is. He lacked clarity, however.

  “Make of what?”

  The coyote hung its head. “The dead Indian. The talking horse. What else would I mean?”

  Where to start? she thought. “A talking Coyote perhaps?”

  “I think you know perfectly well I wanted your reaction to the dead guy and the horse he rode in on. I’m pretty sure you found that odd. Oh, sure, I know there are dead Indians all over this part of the country; there are lots of dead Spaniards too, if you go back far enough. And now that I think of it, there are plenty of other dead people...” he seemed to lose track of his thought, then caught himself. “So keep it simple. What did you think of the dead Indian?”

  “I’m not sure I thought much of anything—except how strange it all was,” she said.

  The coyote licked his lips and then panted. “You dream all sorts of strange things.”

  He was right, but it felt unpleasant to have a coyote, a stranger, know as much or more about your dreams than you do. “This hasn’t been at all like my previous dreams about... odd things.”

  “That’s because of your grandmother,” he said. “Until now she’s nudged you in the right direction.”

  “So why is it important what I think?”

  “I’m not sure it is important. For my part, I only ask because I’m truly curious. You need to get used to curiosity. People are going to ask you about him.”

  “They will?”

  “Don’t they always? And soon. She’ll come to you and want to know what happened and why, and probably even what it means. So I was wondering what you’ll tell them? Coyote’s like to be well informed.”

  “She? Well, I’ll tell her the truth, that I have no idea what happened. Why would anyone expect me to know? It’s hardly fair to ask me about such things.”

  “But you’re a dreamer,” he said. “That's a simple, well, that part is debatable, but it's a fact of life and you’re stuck with it. People will expect you to either know or be able to figure out what it all means. They envy your ability to do it and it frightens them that you can do it. It doesn't matter that you just started learning how these dreams of yours work.”

  “I am learning?”

  Coyote lay down, putting his head between his paws as coyotes and dogs do, and let out a long sigh. “I certainly hope so. Yes, you are. Slowly, perhaps, but learning. Otherwise you wouldn’t have so many questions.”

  “Good point. One thing I’d like to know is why I find myself talking to you.”

  The coyote looked around. “There is that.” He flicked his tail. “Maybe something makes you think I have the answers.”

  “Do you?”

  “Sometimes. I’m afraid I have to take the credit or blame for you thinking that. It was my idea. The Shamen get jealous when I talk to anyone else, someone not in the club. But hey, I’m the big deal spirit, right? I get to choose how I operate. In your case, I can see how me jumping in with my two cents like this keeps things from being totally clear.”

  “Totally clear?” She laughed, partly at his assumption and partly at herself for talking to a coyote, a wild animal. “Common sense tells me that this is all plain nonsense. And talking to you or not, nothing about this is clear, even a little bit. It's a dream anyway, and you aren't even real.”

  Coyote sat up again and cocked his head one way and then the other. “You’re wrong if you think deciding I’m not real and that this is ‘just’ a dream, whatever that means. Anyway, thinking that isn't going to make the dead Indian alive again.”

  She laughed. “That hadn’t even occurred to me. I suppose that’s because I don’t even know who he is.”

  “You’ll know that soon enough. They’ll come and ask you to explain it all.”

  “They?”

  “They. She. Whoever. The ones who need your help. Sorry, I can’t be more specific. I do my best. If that isn't good enough, then I’ll ask you not to ask for my help like you did before.”

  She’d suspected this part, and dreaded it in a way. “So you admit you are the coyote from Ramah? You are Reyes Iron Eyes's familiar?”

  The animal gave a short bark, a yelp that was probably his idea of a laugh. “I’m all coyotes at one time or another, and yet I’m none of them. Look, you’re a dreamer and you’re going to have to get used to this kind of stuff. It goes with the territory.” He wrinkled his nose. “In the meantime, your confusion is stinking up this place. We’ll finish this later.”

  And then he stood, shook himself, and trotted off.

  She craned her neck to watch him go, disappearing into a low ground haze. And as she stared toward the horizon (possibly toward Mexico), the space around her began to shift. Things twisted and changed and the desert that surrounded her began to fade into nothing.

  Chapter Seven

  Dreams and Knowledge

  Charli came awake slowly. She took in her surroundings, letting her consciousness adjust, let it find who and where she was again as she settled back into her body. When she did, she found she was resting comfortably in a narrow and unfamiliar bed. It took a little more time to recall that the bed was in her grandmother's kowa, at the edge of the Mescalero Apache reservation. A few moments later she noticed the woman sitting by her bed, watching her; it was the woman from her dream. Had she slipped into sleep again? Then, her grandmother smiled and touched her face. It was the woman herself, not a vision. The dream had ended.

  She le
t her breathing guide her the rest of the way back to the present, recalling arriving in Mescalero, of Roger leaving. She and her grandmother had talked, then she'd gone to bed. And slept. And dreamt.

  Her grandmother’s eyes glowed. “You called out in your sleep, Bonita. I came to sit with you.”

  “I had a dream....”

  “A Great Dream,” Torre said.

  “No. There wasn’t much about my dream that was great, shiwóyé,” Charli protested. She felt weak and noticed how easily the Apache word for grandmother came to mind. It was almost comforting. “It was more like an awful dream.”

  “Tell me.... Who was in this dream?”

  “A man who had been killed, a horse, and Coyote. The horse and Coyote both spoke to me.”

  Grandmother nodded. “I suspected he was there. Whenever Coyote speaks the dream is important,” the woman said.

  “He didn't make a lot of sense.”

  “The problem is that we don’t always see who the dream is important to and so it is hard for them to make sense at the time. Still the dreams that Coyote visits are Great Dreams. Always. Unfortunately, as you've learned, Great Dreams are not always good dreams. Perhaps they seldom are. As a dreamer you need to learn to accept that.”

  Charli heard the unpleasant truth in those words. “Coyote talked about accepting things too.”

  “He is also a teacher, although some of his teachings are not of good things.”

  That too, was true. The dreams that told her the most, that revealed things, were often the worst of them all. She found them unpleasant and the truths buried in them could be difficult to unpack. “As I'm waking, my conscious mind tries to shove its own meaning into them. So they jumble around and change as I wake.”