Spirit Pouch

by Vaterlaus, Stanford

  Digging the new pure-white rock out of my pocket I compare it to the one on my bed.

  “Ah, yes,” I say. “Much better.” I back up a few steps, jump into the air and sink the brown-streaked stone into the waste basket producing a loud hollow rattle as it spins to a lifeless stop next to the feather at the bottom.

  I sit down on the edge of the bed and survey the new collection of spirit pouch contents. Ty said the medicine man would have added one personal item. My eyes rest upon the old beaded necklace. It looks a little small for a necklace, and the beads are dull and cracked from age. It had probably been worn by the tribal medicine man. Immediately images of headdresses made from Eagle feathers, and dark painted faces, and jiggling, bouncing, colored beads worn by chanting men comes to life and dance around a roaring bon-fire in my mind. The necklace appears authentic enough, but I lift it off the sheet and set it gently onto my dresser.

  I open my top drawer, and with my finger I push aside an old ring I had found in Salt Lake City, a wallet sized picture of Chris from seventh grade, and a twenty two caliber bullet left over from our February teacher’s quorum activity.

  An old silver quarter and a wooden neckerchief slide partially hide last year’s Luke-Greenway cross country medal. I raise it from the nest of treasures and read the inscription engraved into the copper. It says, “Second Place.” I can still remember the race, the pain, the struggle to move leaden legs and desperate need to fill my lungs with oxygen. I remember the finish line in the distance and that my will to win had to be greater than my desire for oxygen and rest. It almost was. I took second place, only by two steps behind first place. This year will be different, I think as I drop the copper cross country medal into the spirit pouch. One by one I place each item back into the leather pouch until I hold the empty vial with the cork still in place.

  The tiny glass vial must hold water. Even I can see that water represents baptism by immersion. I take the small vial into the bathroom and fill it with water, then twist the tiny cork stopper back into place. I dry it off and hold it upside down to test for leaks. That should hold for another hundred years, I think.

  “Jared,” Mom calls from the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready.”

  “I slip the glass vial into my pocket and walk to the kitchen.

  * * *

  Elder Teel comes to Mutual and speaks to us about his mission to North Dakota. He tells stories to us about the members of the church that live there. Many have Indian ancestors or are pure Indian. They accept the Book of Mormon easily, but struggle to obey the commandments. We then make an Indian food, called pemmican,

  [12] by pounding together meat, fat, and berries. It tastes strange, but is pretty good.

  I walk home in the dark, contemplating my own future mission. Would my mission be to teach a strange people like the Indians of North Dakota, or to teach the gospel somewhere less threatening like Denver Colorado? I do not know if it is proper to wish for one certain place, so I try not to. I am certain the Lord knows where it will be best for me to serve.

  Through the kitchen window I can see Mom putting some dishes into the cupboard. I push the door open.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi. How was Mutual?”

  “Good, I guess. Elder Teel talked to us about his mission to North Dakota.”

  “That must have been interesting.”

  “Yeah, but I think I like Bolivia better.”

  “Oh?”

  “At least I like the quínoa soup that Brother Matthews brought to Mutual last month better than the pemmican from North Dakota.” I walk down the hall to my room, kicking my shoes off as I push the door open.

  “Jared, don’t forget to do these dishes. It’s your turn, you know. And clean up your room a bit. It was supposed to be done yesterday.”

  I roll onto my bed, vaguely aware of the lumpy leather pouch competing for the same spot as my left hip. Dishes, I think. I hate dishes, especially this late at night. If I’m going to stay up I at least ought to study geometry. But dishes … I wish I could go somewhere where I didn’t have a room to clean or dishes to do!

  I pull the spirit pouch out from under me and produce the vial of water from my pocket. I drop it into the leather bag with the other items and pull the drawstrings tight.

  I’m not sure why I do not set the spirit pouch onto the dresser and go do the dishes. I would never purposely disobey my mother. She works hard to take care of our small family and expects my help. So I know that I will get up and go do the dishes and straighten my room a little. Mom knows it, too, because I hear her bedroom door close. That is when, in my own small way I quietly rebel. Maybe I just need a little humor, something small to laugh about as I scrub the tiny pile of dishes. I drop my head back onto my pillow, close my eyes and, gripping the spirit pouch, I quietly whisper, “I wish I could go somewhere where I didn’t have a room to clean or dishes to do. I wish …” A cool breeze blows across my face and arms. Much too cold for August in Tucson, even for nine o’clock at night.

  Chapter Five

  Dogtown And The Pit

  Maybe the window is open, although I had not noticed it open when I came home from Mutual. But I feel a cold breeze across my face nevertheless. My eyes spring wide open and what I see causes my mouth to drop wide open, also. I think I am in shock. I do not move for what seems to me several minutes.

  Somehow there are stars above me instead of a white textured ceiling with a light. In fact, it is dark. I had not noticed the light going out. My mind tries to ask, “What light?” and it tries to convince me that stars above me are normal, but I know that stars are not normal while lying on my bed in my bedroom. That’s when things seem to get really crazy.

  I roll over, but I am not on my bed. Instead, long, cool strands of grass brush my arms and face. My mind tries to place me camping on a Scout overnight outing in the Catalina Mountains somewhere, and that I have had a dream about Mutual and doing the dishes. But I am not on a sleeping bag, or even on a ground cloth, or in a tent, and there are no other Boy Scouts nearby, and I do not remember going on any outing. None of this makes sense!

  I sit up, and while my mind searches for any recollection or reason for me to be sitting outside under the stars in the grass, I peer into the cold darkness of the night. I feel confused and lost to an extent that I have never felt before, and my mind is not doing its job to sort it all out and make it feel right, and correct, and everything in its proper order and place.

  Where am I? I finally hear myself ask, although I immediately know I have only thought the words. I feel my mind settle as I accept that I am indeed outside under the stars, but I still do not know how I got here.

  My eyes focus on a dim light not far away, and I become aware of other lights, but more distant. A dog barks somewhere in the darkness, then another until it seems like a dozen others have joined the forlorn, howling chorus. Then it is quiet again.

  Somehow I have to get my bearings. I have to find out where I am. Nothing around me seems familiar. I stare again at the dim light closest to me. It appears to come from a small window of a building of some sort. Whoever is inside can tell me where I am!

  I push myself up onto my feet. I have socks on, but no shoes and I can feel every stone, stick, and blade of grass right through my socks to the soles of my feet. I remember kicking my shoes off in my bedroom … but … there is no bedroom. I look quickly around on the ground for my shoes. I feel disappointed that my shoes are nowhere in sight, and neither is my bed, dresser, nor bedroom.

  I close my eyes, shake my head, and when I open my eyes again I am still standing in my socks on the dirt and the grass, with a dim light of a window a short way off in front of me. The only thing that has changed is that I feel a little dizzy from shaking my head.

  I take a step forward, and then another, until I find myself standing on the small porch of a house. I can feel the rough, uneven texture of the wooden planks right through my socks. The light coming through the window is still dim even though I
am up close now, and it seems to flicker like the light from a candle. I’ll just knock on the door, explain that I’m lost, and ask to use their phone. How hard can it be? I never understood why those kids whose pictures appear on milk cartons do not just call home. Do they not know their phone number? Well, I know my phone number, street number, student identification number and probably my social security number, but I am not sure of that one.

  I raise my hand and let it fall upon the door five times. I am surprised to find the surface of the door rather uneven and rough as my knuckles strike the wood, but the blows produce a loud, solid knock that seems to fill the still night air.

  I hear a voice from within, and then see the light in the window waver and become brighter. Soft footsteps approach the door and I hear the scrape of a heavy wooden bar being lifted, followed by the metallic clank of a latch released from the inside. The door creaks open on hinges complaining loudly of dry metal burdened by the weight of solid wood.

  A narrow beam of yellow light falls across my eyes and strikes the rough wooden porch behind me. A man fills the opening of the door, silhouetted by flickering yellow room light. His right hand clutches the stock of a long-barreled rifle. I can see no more than this, but I feel certain that allowing me to see the rifle is intentional. People in my neighborhood do not answer the door with a rifle, even at night. Involuntarily I take a step backward. I glance to my left and I know that if that rifle barrel lifts upward toward me, I would dive off the porch like a stuntman from Old Tucson.

  “It’s a boy!” The man announces to someone inside the house. “Are you Tom Pennington’s boy?”

  I can not see his shadowed face, but I know the man was talking to me. His voice is grumbly, but underneath the grumble I hear gentleness and concern.

  “No, I’m …” I am going to say Jet, but then decide that formality might be a better choice. After all, grumpy adults like to be treated with respect. At least that is what Mom said once. “My name is Jared Taggart,” I say.

  “You’re out pretty late, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” It does not seem so late to me, but I know my mother would want me home this time of night, and not wandering around the neighborhood, knocking on some stranger’s door.

  “Where do you live, son?”

  “On Cromwell street, but …”

  “Is that new? I don’t recognize that street name. Well, never mind that. Your pa must have sent you over here for something, son. What is it?”

  “I … I guess I am …” I'm not sure what I am. I want to say confused, or maybe lost. And that I wish that I had a pa, and that I wish that my pa were here right now. But I do not get that far.

  “Who’s at the door at this time of night, dear?” A woman pull the door open just enough more to poke her head out. She stares at me, but not for more than about two seconds. “Oh my, Henry! He’s just a boy.” She swings the door creaking open on it’s hinges and her eyes look me over from head to toe. “A boy with no light, no coat, and no shoes, poor dear. Don’t stand out there.” She pushes the door wide open and steps back. “Henry, bring that boy inside.”

  My eyes follow the woman as she turns and quickly walks back into the house. I think she looks young, and although my mind does not calculate an age, she seems a bit older than my own mother. I know she is compassionate, though, and for a split second my heart aches and I know that I miss my own mother.

  I turn back toward Henry and my gaze settles upon his shadowed face. Henry’s rifle is not as prominent now. He takes a small step backward and with a nod of his head, motions for me to enter.

  The room is dimly lit, and I notice that most of the light is coming from a small oil lamp which sits on a shelf attached to the far wall. A long wooden bench lines the wall beneath the lamp, and three orange coals glow from the stone fireplace. A table covered with a cloth is pushed up against the wall under the single conservative window next to the door.

  Henry points to the bench. “Have a seat, young man,” he says sending the heavy wooden door creaking shut with a decisive push. The door settles into its frame with a drum-like thud and a metallic clank of the latch.

  I have to be dreaming, I think. Like Hansel and Gretel. Next thing I know I will be boiling in a gigantic black pot over the fire! I pinch my arm until it hurts as I walk the few short paces across the room to the bench. I am aware that the floor is wooden and uneven. My stocking feet feel every bump in the knotty wood, and although it is uneven and there are spaces between the planks, the floor is clean and polished to a slippery finish, the highest luster being in the center of the floor where I am sure many shoes and stocking feet have passed, wearing away the roughness.

  I glance at the red mark that I have made on my arm. If I were dreaming, that pinch certainly would have wakened me, I think.

  The meager heat from the coals in the fireplace feels warm and relaxing, beckoning me to sit close by and absorb the radiant heat. Up until now I have not realized just how nippy the night air really is, and just how tired I feel. I just want to close my eyes and relax and make all this craziness go away. But in a dream, a person does not feel warmth from a fire. I will have to give up the dream idea and find another reason why I am not in my bedroom at home.

  Henry follows me over to the bench. “Well, what did your pa send you over here for, son?” I hear his voice soften a little. It sounds gentle, and a little concerned.

  “My father …” I swallow hard to suppress the ache in my heart. I can feel my chest tense up and my eyes feel watery. I blink my eyes to fight back the tears which seem to be pushing upward from my heart. I cried that day when the letter came telling us that my father had died. My mother always says that there is no shame in crying, but I know that now is not the time. I swallow again. “My father died seven years ago,” I say, sniffing. “He didn’t send me here.”

  I can tell that Henry is about to ask me another question, but the woman returns carrying a plate with two biscuits on it and a glass of milk. “Here you go, Jared.” She hands me the plate and the glass. “Milk will make your bones strong,” she smiles, stepping back and looking me over in the flickering light of the lamp. “And I can see you’re not much more than skin and bones. Well, eat up, and if you’re still hungry I’ll bring more. My … my!”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” I obediently take a big gulp of milk, and half way into my swallow I feel something thick and slimy slide down my throat. My stomach flips once and for a moment I think I might gag.

  “Slow down a little, son. Elizabeth just likes her boys to be well fed and strong. She takes good care of us all.”

  I nod and reach for a biscuit as I eye the milk for more slimy lumps. I spot one clinging to the side of the glass and I hope someone did not just forget to wash my glass. That would be just gross!

  I take a bite of the biscuit and smile. “This is good,” I mumble, taking a second bite, and nodding my head in appreciation.

  Elizabeth smiles her approval and sits down on the end of the bench.

  “So, if your father didn’t send you, then why are you here?” Henry asks.

  “I don’t know, exactly,” I stammer. “I think I’m lost. I am just hoping to use the phone.”

  I expect either Henry or Elizabeth to say, “Oh, sure. It’s just down the hall,” or maybe go into the other room and bring back a cordless phone, or better yet, a cell phone. But no! Instead they both just sit there and give me a blank stare. I am sure the world has not seen such a blank stare since I took my freshman algebra final last year! You would think I have spoken in Hebrew or something.

  Finally Henry answers, “I don’t know what you mean by phone, son. We certainly don’t have one, otherwise we would gladly let your ma borrow it. It must be important, though, for her to send you out at night with no shoes or coat, and no light, to fetch her a phone.”

  I feel my stomach twist into a knot and despite the chill in the air, I can feel sweat on my forehead. I wipe my brow and mutter, “This is bad. This i
s really bad.”

  “Oh, dear, Henry! He’s not feeling well. You must have caught a chill out there with no shoes. I’ll get you a blanket, Jared. Don’t you worry. We’ll help you find your ma first thing in the morning.”

  Henry looks at Elizabeth, then back at me. “We don’t have any spare beds, son, but we have plenty of blankets and you are welcome to sleep right here until morning.”

  “Thank you very much,” I say, feeling genuinely grateful that they are not kicking me back outside. But I need to do something to get home. I certainly do not belong in the home of Henry and Elizabeth. I do not even know their last name. “That’s really generous, but I really should go to …”

  “To where, son? You said that you are lost. Do you know of someplace you can go?”

  “No, not really. The police, maybe?”

  “Who? You mean U.S. Marshal Sears

  [13]? Noooo. I’m sure he’s in bed this time of night. Besides, he’s clear down in Central City. That’s a bit of a walk in the dark, son.”

  “Central City?” I say. I am sure now that one of us has reverted back to ancient Hebrew. “There’s no Central City anywhere around here.” Maybe they mean Circuit City, or maybe even down town Tucson, but certainly there is no Central City, I think.

  “I know, son. It’s about a half mile down the gulch,” Henry agrees with me.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” Elizabeth says with a mother’s concern.

  “Of course not,” Henry answers. “A boy wouldn’t get lost here at night unless he was new here. He’s probably from back east.”

  “Here are some blankets, Jared. It’s not very soft here on the floor, but it’s warm and you can get your rest. You’ll feel better in the morning.”