by R. S. Scott
Copyright © 2019 Roger Scott
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a print or online magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.
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First printing November 2019.
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eBook ISBN: 978-1-54398-727-0
Edited and Designed by The Story Laboratory
Cover design: Laura Duffy Design
Interior design: Krista Anderson
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Editor: Kelly Lydick
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BURNING SKY
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
CHAPTER 1
I was always the little one, the small naïve one who was far too smart for his own good. I was a punk. At the age of sixteen, I still hadn’t reached puberty yet, which seemed to bother everyone except me. I studied calculus alone, walked to school alone, and even ate in the cafeteria alone.
Truth be told I loathed existing within the social construct of the differing opinions, the manipulative lying and the constant need to be heard or liked. I hated the social aspects of being in a group environment. I didn’t talk to anyone unless I needed to, I didn’t converse on benign topics just to talk. I did not have any outer dislike toward anyone, I just found them all to be incredibly annoying.
I was very much into music, and I studied the classics in my music classes. I knew who Mozart, Chopin, and Eddie Van Halen were. At that age, my adventures on the reservation were simple yet complicated. My father was a preacher now, and along with that came a social commitment that garnered negative attention from the clan ranks. Forsaking the clan-old religious practices for the whiteman’s religion was nearly unforgivable. It was forgivable only if the offending party would then revolt from their newly found ways and revert to the traditional ways of being.
The grayed, blurred lines separating Navajo religion from Navajo cultural traditions are nearly non-existent. What had passed for older religious practices are now culturally instilled into the fabric of modern Navajo daily life.
The Navajo man is no longer the great hunter-gatherer tasked to bring home the dead deer for food, no longer the valiant warrior that went off to die in battle in a faraway country. The men on the Rez now seemed lost, fueled by a massive void that burned right through the middle of them. Without traditional teachings to revere and uphold, they muddled about desperately trying to muzzle an internally driven need to be valiant and courageous.
On the one hand, there were the traditionalists, the old ones who believed in governmental assistance, relying heavily upon it. They hung onto local family practices that were only decades old but already had become cultural standards being passed down as such. They speak traditional Navajo as they say it is. Unknowingly, just a slang version of what was once the first Southern Athabascan tongue. As massive a land as the Navajo reservation sprawls, there are many dialects and variations of slang Navajo.
On the other hand, the progressives mainly speak English. They carry smartphones and drive fuel-injected SUVs from Detroit’s best. They are the new guard as they see themselves, struggling with the traditionalists over the future of the peoples. Their battle cry screeches with an underlying motive that the old ones must all die in order to move progressively forward. Not a literal death, a metaphorical one involving a permanent muzzling of the old guard and their influence negated. They see a house divided and readying itself to fall. Even through their progressive boasts, they wallow at the altar of America’s collectivist agenda. The great Indian Reservation was America’s most successful endeavor into paternalism run amok.
It has been understood that it will take five generations to bring back the dynamic, prosperous peoples that once thrived in Northern Arizona. Even among the most secretive clan elder meetings it has been discussed that perhaps such items once frowned upon could be reinstated. An arranged marriage is one, as well as the warrior societies that taught boys to be men, men of courage and men of valor. Men who defended their homes with their lives then loved their wives passionately and deeply. Men who held themselves to a high standard of excellence and ultimate character.
The elder meetings do still continue as the old guard struggles with dilemmas beyond the scope of their shortsighted ambitions. With that comes much misguided traditional conduct with unchecked religious mannerisms. Corruption is the result.
The women now seem just as confused as the men. Without courageous men to respect and adore, they mimic unruly fathers and emasculate their sons who then mature to become career criminals with spines of liquid mush. The young men then girt themselves with paper armor and march forth mimicking the actions and endeavors they perceive to be of an honorable man. Ultimately, they fail to fully comprehend the process of even the simplest deeds that become of a “warrior.”
The elders believe a warrior to be the embodiment of a supremely delicate balancing act that separates the light and the dark. The dark of war, violence, and callous aggression, as each has their place in the dark. The light encompasses love, earnest endeavors, and a dedication to family. The wife by his side is his compass, his lover, and his calm toward the light. Away from her he is at war with his enemies, killing and maiming mercilessly. Away from her he is an uncompromising, unrelenting soldier at war. He then comes home to tend to his children and love his wife passionately, contrasting his merciless warring ways, creating a balance of the light and the dark. A warrior’s duty is to respect their existence and its ways, never returning home with the dark, and never entering a battle with the light. Respecting the extreme contrasts doesn’t allow for a grey area in between. That is the way of the warrior.
I am Steve Roan Keller, so begins my story as a young man on the Navajo Reservation. In recent times, it has all been deemed a grand loss as even the most sacred chants are uttered publicly, smothered in cheap tequila and canned beer. These are confusing, desperate times as the cultural standards unravel. The warrior is no more. In its place is chaos, a cultural chaos.
The morning sun bakes everything in its lone spray of warmth and bright solitude. This August Sunday morning was going to be an interesting one. With breakfast inhaled and orange juice gulped down, Tony and I were ready for the next adventure. We were teenagers on the Rez, naughty ones that had once set a field ablaze with a homemade volcano. The afternoon monsoon had put out the blaze, but the sheep then ate the charred newspapers and had gotten sick. Our collective parents weren’t happy, but the uncles commended our efforts after laughing hysterically.
Our adventure today was a terribly planned trip to Winslow, Arizona, in hopes of buying beer. In our feeble little minds, this was the thi
ng to do at our age. It was a grand defiance of Godfathered laws in an attempt to be cool. Tony was older than me by several years, taller by several inches, and carried himself with all the confidence of a drunken bear. As a quiet, introverted teenager, I went along like an idiot, following—by pure accident at times—an amassed blaze of over-confident testosterone walking to oblivion’s gate, then past it.
Tony liked girls now. I didn't yet. To Tony, they were objects of great mystery and a source of an unexplainable sum of curiosity. I found them irate and irrational creatures with long hair that squeaked and spat out profanities. In groups, they roamed God’s green earth like a pack of land-walking dragons with multi-colored flames shooting out of their noses. They scurried about laughing at your misfortunes and using textbooks as high-speed projectiles. I did not like them at all.
“Steve, hurry up!” crowed the Goblin. I had sprained my ankle just days ago, and I sported a terrible limp down the two-lane highway to Winslow. In a brash attempt to get me moving, Tony walked briskly about twenty yards ahead of me with a backpack on his right shoulder. “Hurry up! Quit being such a pussy.”
“I’m not a pussy! Don’t call me that!” I limped along carrying my own backpack.
“I don’t see you hurrying up now, do I?” bellowed the Goblin. He walked on without turning to my direction.
“Slow down!” The limp was enough of a hindrance to stop and sit among the weird grass and prairie dog paths. “Hey!”
The Goblin finally stopped.
“My ankle hurts more than it should. Something’s wrong.” I had taken my shoe and sock off. The dull bluing from the previous day was gone, but it looked fat and a bit painful to the touch. “It’s swollen.”
“We’ve been planning this for weeks, and you want to stop now? Miles from home and nowhere to go?” Tony stood over me with his hands resting on his hips. “It’s a long way home, we’re already out here, and Winslow is over there.” He pointed southward toward the bluish haze. “We have to keep going, so get up!”
I looked down, rubbing my leg. “Maybe we can just wait here and wait for a car to come by.”
“If we don’t make it to town in time, it’s your fault,” he pouted and sat beside me.
“OK.”
We sat in silence listening to the wind blowing. There was a crow in the distance flying in circles.
Tony and I had been friends since our days at the local elementary boarding school that held us both prisoner in hopes of teaching us the English language, and its many strange ways. Speaking in any other tongue to a teacher was forbidden and followed by a steel ruler swatting to the back of the hand where the tendons and other soft tissues were exposed just under thin skin.
Tony was the schoolyard bully who preyed upon the weak and introverted as a large wolf would wander into a chicken pen and swat around the baby chicks for fun. His endeavors in that regard went swimmingly until he unsuccessfully tried to permanently separate three dollars from a small, introverted kid who carried a beige backpack everywhere he went. I didn’t respond well to being bullied or told what to do by those I deemed idiots. I was small and timid, but very hostile in my own right. I was a bully in the making.
After the three dollars had been removed forcibly from my pocket, I laid on the concrete sidewalk with salty blood filling my mouth, scantily aware at what had just happened. The tears flowed out of the sheer violation of my once happy emotional state and the pain in my jaw and mouth. I scanned the immediate area for a weapon, any weapon. If I could have invented one, I would have. Just out of my reach was a small branch that had fallen from the dying tree. Armed with a measure of twisted pine, I went looking for my three dollars. I trembled with fear, and the anxiety one gets after receiving a thrashing in broad daylight with an audience watching. My classmates pointed and laughed at my great misfortune. No one helped as I was beaten into the concrete sidewalk. I was filled with rage and horribly angry, not just at Tony but at everyone else who laughed too. Three dollars was a lot of money back then. I also wanted to get even, I wanted revenge.
Tony was unaware I was coming. I swung the dead pine as hard as I could, hitting the goblin in the right shoulder. I had angered him as he stumbled into an ankle-high brick parameter that paralleled the concrete sidewalk. Tony fell as I raised my weapon for another blow. He raised his arm to deflect, but still the end of the branch made contact with his head, face, and shoulder.
The screaming started as fellow students gathered to watch my onslaught. I raised my weapon up for a third blow to his head when a massive force behind me snatched away my weapon and threw me onto the ground next to Tony. The school field attendant, a large man who always wore a hat, demanded to know why I was pummeling Tony with a measure of pine. I pled my case and got my three dollars back.
Later that day Tony vowed a rematch, a more even fight between us. Like an idiot, I agreed. Away from the schooling authorities, we would settle this like two bullies would. Unbeknownst to Tony was my involvement in the local physical education class with a Navy martial arts instructor. I was learning a dangerous discipline. I was also on the wrestling team. I was quick on my feet and quite limber. I was small, but fearless—and deceptively quick.
The far end of the boarding school laid the last of dormitory wings where traffic was a rarity, and the crows circled in the sky over dead animals. Sadly, the track and field teams were conducting their practices, and we could not have an audience.
Inside the dormitory was an open space, deserted for the time being. Tony brought his fellow bullies along for entertainment as well as reinforcement. I had no such reinforcement, not even the pine I had taken him down with previous. I had a backpack with a hefty dictionary in it. Perhaps I could swing it accurately enough.
Tony then let out what could be misconstrued as a battle cry and charged my position. I leaped out of the way leaving my beige backpack where I had stood. Tony’s feet then tangled on my backpack shoulder straps, which sent him tackling an empty bookcase. I righted myself and stood at the ready for whatever was coming next. I was afraid as terror pierced my innards like a branding iron. With the roar of laughter at the helm, Tony again charged me. I dodged the charge, careful not to get pinned. He swung and missed. I landed a blow to his upper ribcage with a quick left.
We fought like desperate animals. In the end, there was no winner. I had a badly bruised ankle from a missed roundhouse effort that connected perfectly with a steel bed post and swollen knuckles on the right fist from connecting with Tony’s hard jaw and forehead. We were both exhausted and bloodied when the dorm attendant from the adjacent dormitory wing threw both of us onto the ground. Neither of us resisted the intervention. My rib cage ached terribly and as the salty warmth filled my mouth, a slow, steady pain formed in my right jaw. The left eye was getting light sensitive and swollen to the touch. The left elbow had a rather large gash. Elbowing Tony in the teeth was a terrible idea.
Our punishment consisted of multiple laps around the school’s quarter-mile half-track for the rest of the day, supervised by the gym teacher. She sat under a continually adjusted umbrella, grunting out encouragements loathingly. The afternoon sun was further offensive as I hobbled along on my bruised ankle. Tony and I became good friends after our afternoon run. We also were made aware that we were cousins as our parents were summoned regarding our fight. Our fathers shared a nod and said little. Our mothers were irate. We were both suspended from school for three days.
The afternoon sun was baking our collective foreheads when a white Ford pickup stopped in front of us. A Hopi gentleman looked at us and demanded, “Where are your parents? Why are you out here?”
“They’re in Winslow. We’re trying to get there because we got left behind,” Tony lied convincingly.
The Hopi looked at us as if to declare our lunacy and demand monetary payment for bestowing a measure of patience just to inquire. After several more inquiries, we were permitted to sit in the back of the pickup for a lift to Winslow. Tony smiled happil
y. The back of the truck was littered with hay, a spare tire, and aluminum cans. It smelled like cows. When we got to Winslow, we also smelled like cows.
“Right here is good. Thank you, Sir, kind Hopi, Sir.” Tony waved sarcastically as we stood in the parking lot of a bank centrally located in Winslow. The Hopi gentleman again glared at our lunacy and drove off mumbling in Hopi. We stood in a cloud of gray smoke.
“Okay, what now?” I hadn’t the slightest idea as to what would happen next.
“We need a phone. Over there. Come on.” We trotted to a corner convenience store.
“I need some quarters. You have any?” Tony had asked.
I dug up three from my beige backpack.
“Go inside and get us some sodas and a hotdog,” Tony barked while counting the coins I had given him.
I marched in, then re-emerged with two sodas and three hotdogs. I ate ferociously while Tony was still talking away. Across the road was a massive art store and lumberyard with piles of spare wood in the front with a giant Free sign over it. The breeze hadn’t turned into a terrible wind yet, so it was nice as I sat by the phone booth eating my hot dog.
“We have to go to Wade’s house on Cherry, then up to North Park. Come on. Let’s go!” Tony motioned northward.
“Dude, I’m eating,” I muttered while still sitting on the ground, the mustard smeared on my chin. I watched Tony take two bites and his hotdog was gone. “Geez. Like a dog just inhaled it.” I remarked.
“Come on, let’s go,” Tony roared and bits of bread spat out.
We walked several blocks with me hobbling along when Tony blurted out, “You know back in church, what’d they mean by ‘the blood that was shed?’ That saves all and defeats evil. What’s that mean?”
“My Dad is always talking about it and prays a lot at night. He has a lot of bad dreams about things out to get him and stuff, bad things that come to life at night and stuff like that.”
“What kind of stuff like that? Does he sing?” Tony halted our walk as a car crossed our path.