Burning Sky

by R. S. Scott

  A strange confidence shook my inner being, I could not be convinced I was still a virgin. My soul shuttered remembering her in dim lamp light. I had never been touched before. I was terrified and excited at the same time. I would no longer wonder what her lips felt like, secretly I knew.

  Tony’s father was less understanding. The sun was setting when I approached a purposefully constructed house. There sat a traditional hogan east of the main house with a commotion inside. I could hear raised voices, and angry voices that echoed about. I approached to hear Tony’s father screaming at Tony. Through the window, I saw Tony, sitting on the ground in the dirt. I circled the male hogan and knocked on the door facing east. The voices calmed as I knocked.

  Tony’s father answered the door panting and sweating. “What do you want?”

  “Is Tony around? I think he has my Van Halen tape.”

  “He isn’t here,” he said and started to close the door.

  “Sir, I’d like my music back, please,” I said. “It is dear to me.”

  “It’s not here!” he tried to close the door.

  I halted the door with my right hand and gazed into his tired face, “I want my music back,” I said, opened the door slightly, and glared inside. The newly found confidence had given me an unrelenting swagger. I was more direct than before.

  “Get the hell out of here, Boy! Go home to your mom!” he said and slammed the door in my face.

  Weeks later, Tony moved to Flagstaff, Arizona, the city at the mountain to the west, a sacred mountain the elders called the Laughing Mountain.

  I implored further regarding the Holy Twins and their powerful weapons of war as given to them by their father, the Sun. The mighty weapons of war included the sheer power of lightning, thunder, and other dangerous abilities used to defeat the one mythical creature, the Great Giant. The Navajo creation stories passed down as oral traditions continued as fantastic storytelling. In one epic tale, the Great Giant was a feared entity that preyed upon the lesser humans.

  The Holy Twins received their weapons and continued on the warpath destroying the great giants of varying strength and appearance, from a flying beast to a giant man-like creature. These stories are told in a dramatic fashion and even stated as factual events that took place at a time when Whiteshell Woman spawned them. A philosophy student from Phoenix once commented on how they very much paralleled Greek mythology, despite that Greece was half a world away.

  Other tellers conjured a frightening tale of what they deemed as the real nature of the weapons of war. As our elders tell it, when the Great Giant was slain, his armor was a living entity defeated and left dying beside its fallen master. It pled for its life and was granted brief sanctuary within the bosom of a farmer. The same embodiment of a safe sanctuary was allowed for the giant’s belt and the giant’s mighty hand weapons of war. The tellers claim those very weapons of war use no bullets or edged weapons, but they are deadlier than both could ever be. They tear at man’s soul, gnaw at his sanity and corrupt his mind with selfish endeavors rooted in crippling fear. Fear that held men captive. Fear that came alive and began to utter human words. Fear that talked day and night, growing darker and mightier with each conversation. Until finally a deal was struck, a false deal that would extend their rampage into generations to come. The medicine men feared the worse and fought back with everything they had. One by one, the medicine men fell.

  The remnants of the giant’s great minions then subdued their hosts and cemented their terrible, insatiable appetite for the corruption of man’s soul, thus defiling man’s ambitions. “Are you happy?” asked the man “I’ve kept you safe all this time.” The destruction returns, “Die now, right now, cut your chest open and eat, die now and lay still while they eat you!” The romanticizing of such tales runs rampant, often ending in a grand exorcism at the local church.

  The old ones, the elders that remain, are dying. One by one they are segregated and forgotten, placed in nursing homes when they are deemed too unfit to care for themselves. With their children and grandchildren away in the big city living the American dream, they wither away lonely and hopeless. They wither away heartbroken and desperate, this broke my heart. I wept.

  CHAPTER 4

  I graduated in early May from Arizona State University and was immediately accepted into Navajo Police Academy in Tohei, Arizona. I ran many miles and endured many exams before I could stand in full riot gear before the Police Chief, the Judge, and the elders. With a black helmet and brown uniform, I sat anxiously among my fellow graduates.

  “Officer Steve Roan Keller.” I arose and saluted. I could feel the evil ones cursing me from beyond the bleachers. I could feel the words grow thick and unpleasant, perverted and dark. Things so secret only a few in a mass of hundreds know its witchery. Words spoken in a subtle tone with deep care, uttered quietly from beyond the ears of the lowly and ordinary, were sent forth. Carefully chosen phrases centuries old yet have not lost any of their meaning. I have now become the enemy of the people. With a badge and a gun, I am now the enforcer of the whitemans’ laws, a representative of dishonor and a subject of its futile ways. Today I start my new life as Officer Steve Roan Keller.

  “Congratulations! I’m so proud of you!” Jessica’s smile warms my soul.

  “Thanks, Babe” I hold her close. “I’m so glad you made it out here. It’s a long way from Phoenix.”

  “Yeah, I almost got lost at Keams Canyon,” she smiles nervously, “Look at you, everyone is staring at you, Officer Steve Roan Keller.”

  “Oh, they know who I am. They’re all looking at you saying ‘We know that moron Keller, but what’s she doing with him, she can do a lot better.’” I chuckle.

  “Let them look,” she pulls me in and I am lost in the moment. An audience watches, I don’t seem to care.

  “Chief, I’m glad to be here, Sir,” I salute the Chief of Police. He says nothing. “Sir?” I extend my hand for a handshake.

  “How old are you, Keller?” He glances up from his paperwork, “And it is your nickname is it not? Your last name?”

  “Twenty-six, Sir! And yes they call me Keller,” I stand rigidly.

  “At ease, Keller, you’re going to strain something if you stand like that,” he says through serious dimmed eyes shrouded by a short buzz cut.

  “Yes, Sir,” I reply.

  “The name is Chief,” he commands.

  “Yes, Chief.”

  “Not like one of them Hollywood types either or a Plains Indian Chief. It’s Chief of Police, understand?”

  “Yes,” I glance at the wall adorned with pictures of men on foreign soils hoisting automatic rifles. A United States Marine desk ornament sits on the Chief’s desk.

  “You will be stationed at Dilcon with Sergeant Karen Thomas, she is the senior officer there. Take her lead. Your immediate attention will be the drama surrounding the death of the former Chief of Police. There are a lot of…issues that need some delicate maneuvering. Especially when it comes to the local spiritual community. You have practitioners and their witchery conduct. I’m sure you’re aware of the skin-walkers and their ranks. For whatever reason they’ve come out of their hiding and are now harassing and killing the elders. Then you have the Christians and their bible-bashing approach. Keep your head straight, don’t get caught in the crossfire and watch your back and everyone else’s. Don’t embarrass me.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “I understand you know Daryl Monroe, the former Chief’s younger brother. Is that correct?” the Chief inquires.

  “Yes, Sir. I’ve known him since I was a kid. His son Wade and his daughter Tracy, too.”

  “Well, they’ve made a considerable mess of things. Great care is needed in matters dealing with their involvement. Of the more traditional, cultural involvement.” He pauses, “These skinwalkers and these other shape-shifting entities, I’m sure you know the nature of their involvement in all things Navajo out here. I’m telling you to steer clear. The last thing we need is more killing, more of
that drama. We’ve already have enough of that. We already have the feds now looking in our direction. So steer clear.”

  “Yes, Sir”, I stand rigidly, almost saluting.

  “I understand your girlfriend is here as well, will she be staying?”

  “No. She’s in the process of selling our house in Phoenix.” I note the Chief’s uneasiness. “Sir?”

  “Look, either marry her and do this right, or leave her alone before she becomes a liability. That halfway allegiance to your union never works out here.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  The Chief smiles, “You’ll find out soon enough, then you will remember this conversation. You will be issued a vehicle and an allowance for the most basic of provisions as well as a scoped field rifle, a shotgun, and a sidearm, which you already have. There is an ammo cache at Dilcon station as well. Keep track of what you have and go to the range as often as you can.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Reports are due at the regular times and always check in with dispatch if you’re going into the dunes, got it?” He stands from his chair and walks toward me.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “It’s Chief, Officer Keller,” he gazes into my left eye as I stand rigidly. “I know your uncle, or one of them. He once hit a horse on the highway and blamed his son for it.”

  “Sir?” I ask.

  “Interesting guy, your uncle.”

  “Yes, Sir. I mean Chief. Yes, Chief!”

  “Relax, Keller. Get what you need from the armory, and make sure you sign for it. Dismissed.”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  “One more thing. How is your Navajo?”

  “I can speak it, write it, strong Tonali Lake dialect, just like my father.”

  “Great, you’ll need that. Dismissed.”

  Sergeant Karen Thomas stands just a hair over five-foot-five wearing boots. She carries herself with the honor of a proud long-horned ram after it had fended off a lion with a saguaro cactus arm. She’s in her early thirties with messy shoulder length hair, which she ties in a ponytail. The years on the reservation show on her face. The long lines and a scowl warn of a growing intolerance for lunacy.

  “What’s your clan, Boy?” A very direct Navajo woman glares into my good eye.

  “Um, Redhouse, related to Redbrow as well as Manygoats,” I mutter.

  “I’m Bitterwater from Gallup area. We’re related I suppose.”

  “It would seem so. You married?”

  “Separated. You might have to kick his ass so be ready for it,” she shows me her skinny wedding band.

  I smile, “OK.”

  “A couple of things, the antenna on the roof is more a suggestion, drive up Saddle Butte if you want to get a signal. Old Man Taylor likes to come by occasionally to chat. He lives west of here a couple of miles. His kids are gone, so we’re his company. Sometimes he brings tequila with him. Don’t drink any. The armory is over there. Keys are always in that safe. I’ll get the paperwork,” she storms off with the authority of a hurricane.

  Damn, intense woman, I think. I entered the armory and picked out a rifle and a shotgun, as well as ammunition for them.

  Karen storms back as powerfully as she left. She slaps a spreadsheet before me.

  “Serial numbers go here. Model numbers go there. Fax it to this number after, sight in that scope before you take it out on the field. Cold bore is off by a couple of clicks to the left. Some idiot zeroed it with a warm barrel,” she explains.

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Don’t call me that,” she barks.

  “Yes, Sir,” I offer instead.

  “Are you fucking serious?”

  “Just a joke, easy.”

  She glares at me. “The numbers to Dilcon School, NTUA, the Ranger’s office, the clinic, and the church are over there. Memorize them,” she says as she points at a cork bulletin board.

  “The church?”

  “Yes, Pastor has helped us with a few cases, but try not to be too big of an ass to him.”

  “I will not be a big ass to him,” I assure her.

  “No cussing around him, he hates that.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.

  “Good. The ugly brown SUV outside is yours. Keep a log of your miles. Maintenance on it is every month in Winslow. Call Toyei when you get a moment. Dispatch will need to know who you are. Questions? Now is the time.”

  “Where is the shooting range?”

  “Outside of Winslow. Contact info for the gunsmith is also in the contact list. He can hook you up with a nice semi-auto or a more traditional 1911-style pistol if you’d like. Also, don’t piss him off.” She storms off again like a tornado whirring across Kansas.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” I salute.

  She stops and turns, “Don’t be an ass. We meet up here tomorrow morning. Go home and sleep it off.”

  “What’s going on tomorrow?”

  “The Nelson house, the neighbor to the south reports of some incest going on. Child protective services was out there yesterday. We’re going in tomorrow for cleanup,” she explains. “We’ll hit the Wilson house first with their complaint.”

  “OK.”

  “See you tomorrow,” she says.

  “Thanks, Karen. Ah, Karen?”

  She turns.

  “My name is Steve, so don’t call me ‘Boy’ or ‘Son’ or ‘Kid’ or any of the other nicknames you give out. I hate that.”

  She glares stoically. “7 am, be here,” she trots off with the authority of an angry Centaur on a Macedonian warpath.

  I dig up the active files with current items that need attention as well as recent reports from the field and read. It’s going to be a long night.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Wilson house is dirty. Filthy. I walk around the house leery as Karen talks to the eldest daughter outside. Weeks prior, officers from Tolani Lake Station discovered a large meth lab in a barn by a sheep corral just east of the Wilson house. All Wilson family members were taken into custody excluding the eldest daughter, who then chose to remain at the house.

  I check out the barn. It’s clean. The sheep corral is empty with a wooden gate that had seen better days. There are two horses at the adjacent corral. I rinse out the dirty trough of murky muck and refill it with clean water from a nearby well outlet.

  I pet the paint horse as it drinks. “Good boy. If you could only speak, huh? I’m sure you have a tale to tell with a meth lab in the same place you get your hay. How’s your brain working? You still see straight?” I hold two fingers up in front of the horse.

  “Don’t talk to the horses,” Karen was behind me.

  “Don’t listen to her, she’s just bitter and raging, not like you,” I say. The horse drinks then snorts at my sleeve.

  “Keller, let’s go.”

  We march back to our patrol vehicle.

  “That was Nora Benally that I just spoke to.”

  “Any chance I can do the interviewing next time?” I ask.

  “No. She used to be a nurse in Albuquerque before she lost her job and had to move back. One son, fifteen, goes to school at Seba. Divorced about three years and seems genuinely freaked out with this place. Apparently, she went to the Nelson house over there for a jump to get her car going, and she saw one of the Nelson brothers…assaulting the other.”

  “Assaulting the other?” I repeat.

  “The oldest brother had tied up the younger brother to a tree and bent him over an old tire.”

  “Damn.”

  “The older brother had beaten the younger one then tied him up to a dead cedar tree, then went to town on him.”

  “Then she comes along trying to get her car going and sees that,” I recap.

  “Yeah, she reported it to Seba School security as her boy goes to school with kids from that house. Jeremy, from Tolani Lake station, went over there and they both denied it, saying they did nothing wrong. But the father was brought into Flagstaff medical center that same week with pneumon
ia. He died there. So, Jeremy is one suspicious guy and starts snooping around.”

  “What happened?”

  “He claims the father was assassinated and stakes out the grave. Also, claims both were high on peyote.” Karen waves her arms about as she talks.

  “The grave?”

  “In the early hours of the third morning, he finds one of the brothers from the Yazzie house there. He confronts the Yazzie, things get heated and ends up killing him. So Jeremy goes back to Leupp as one disturbed maniac jumping at his own shadow.” We climb into our patrol truck and start driving to the Nelson house. “Feds then get a hold of him and put him on meds. He’s better now, I think.”

  “Can we talk to this Jeremy?” I glance through paperwork. “Officer Jeremy Bennett?”

  “Yeah, as soon as we talk to whoever is here,” she says.

  We get to the Nelson house past the gated fence. The air seems thicker than usual here. I have to actually glance at the ground to make sure it was there for me to step on. My vision seems clouded somehow. My senses seem alive and overwhelmed with their new surroundings. I close the door as I hear Karen cycle her pistol. I do the same.

  “What is up with this place? Even the air smells awful.” I note the dead trees over yonder and the sheep corral with its gate wide open. The main house is old—very old as one side of the house is a polished lava stone wall while the other walls are cemented. The roof has aged badly with balding tires holding down asphalt tiles. It is a large house in comparison to other homes on the Rez. The porch and rear balcony area are founded in old seated lava rock, smoothed over to a smooth polished finish. There are no dogs here. It is quiet, save the unusual breeze from the massive butte so close.

  “Yeah, witchdoctors live here, not medicine men. Witchdoctors. These guys are up to no good. Fucking creepy as hell. Watch yourself.” Karen glances behind her as we approach the house.

  Goosebumps form on my shoulders and neck as I feel a firm touch on my shoulder. I turn to find no one behind me.