Burning Sky

by R. S. Scott

  “It is. Now the woman I love is gone. Jess is gone! She won’t even talk to me!” I raise my voice.

  Tracy sits silently, head bowed. “I’m sorry.”

  “What exactly am I supposed to say about something like that? You took the place of Jess in my arms and thought that somehow it’s OK to do that?”

  She sits silently.

  “And now here we are. You’re sitting here making deals with the feds. They’ve got you doing their work.” I walk around the room. “You lied to me, manipulated me. I’m curious what’s next? What are you going to do next? Or are you just lying about all this? Pretending to be pregnant but with an underlining motive that none of us are privy to yet. Because you can see ‘the future’?” I take my seat yet again.

  “It’s not like that,” Tracy says.

  “Next week, we’ll know by next week. Then we’ll go from there.” I get up.

  “It’s yours, you know it’s yours.” She looks up. “We’re having a baby. I’m finally going to be a mother. You hear that, Steve? A mother, I’m going to be a mommy.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” I ask.

  “It is everything! It means everything!” Tracy’s voice gets louder.

  “Tracy, you and your lying manipulative ways got you here, and you’re trying to involve me in it while knowing that Jess would not approve! I love Jess! How the hell am I going to explain this to her?”

  “I don’t care about that anymore. I care about our son.”

  “Don’t hide behind that. Don’t hide behind your son, don’t do that!”

  “What do you expect me to do? I didn’t intend to get pregnant, OK? I didn’t want this. But here we are,” Tracy says.

  “Yeah, here we are. Here we fucking are!”

  “Don’t do that, you knew it was me, you knew!”

  “You knew too, didn’t you? You are more cunning than I’ve thought you were.” I approach the door.

  “Please don’t go like this, not like this.” She wipes away tears. “Not like this.”

  I stop. I turn, “Tracy, I’m a police officer. I’m the law, the fucking law! And you do this to me? What is wrong with you?” My voice echoes around the room.

  “Well, what else was I supposed to do? You won’t even talk to me!”

  “What?”

  “You won’t even talk to me, what was I supposed to do?”

  “Supposed to do with what?”

  “I’m,” she wipes away tears, “I’m.”

  “You’re what, Tracy? Spit it out!” She sits silently as moments go by.

  She wipes away more tears. “I’m crazy about you. I always have been. I’ve loved you since I met you. It hurts me so bad that you don’t see that. I’m sorry.” She buries her face into her folded arms on the table.

  I stand stymied and bewildered. “Well, you have a shitty way of showing that!” I sit yet again listening to my own echo. “Sorry.” I sit silently, unsure what to say.

  “You’re so kind and so nice, I want that so desperately,” Tracy says.

  “I’m not kind. I’m a dyslexic, OCD asshole,” I say. “I have issues.”

  “You know what I mean, you have a good heart, a kind heart.”

  “Jess is gone from me. That’s where I’m at. My thoughts are over there. And you’re just…” I wave my hand, searching for an appropriate word.

  “Tracy the whore?” she says.

  “No. Just. Look, I’m sorry for calling you a whore. I’m sorry for all the stupid shit I just spewed, but I can’t do this right now. I can’t deal with this right now.” We share a long awkward silence. I offer her some tissue.

  “You have to go,” Tracy says.

  “Yes, I have to go. Abel wants us off this Rez by evening. I do have to go.”

  “I know. We’re three stories under the ground in this bomb shelter, so we over here, on this side, can stay.” She smiles a trembling smile.

  “I have to go. I can’t do this right now.” I get up to leave.

  She storms up and tackles me. I hold her intently. “Next week, I’ll be back next week.” I hold her intently, passionately. “I promise.”

  “I know you will.” She holds me tightly.

  “In the meantime, you behave. Leave Pastor alone, leave Taylor alone, leave Holden alone and don’t kill anybody,” I tell her.

  “I promise.” She lets me go and looks deep into my eyes and into my soul. An intent-filled, vulnerable woman stands before me, peering past my walled fortress of distrust. “You need to go. They’re coming.”

  CHAPTER 16

  The entire day is spent with more reports and more interviews. Jeremy has returned to his station at Tonali Lake. It has become apparent he is now at serious odds with the steadfast Holden. Christopher is on administrative leave. In the face of an apparent shortage of field officers, his deputy has been named as a temporary replacement. Officer Sharon Antone takes the helm at Leupp station. Sharon is taller than Karen and can handle herself with a scoped rifle.

  Karen is again summoned back to Phoenix by the feds. Apparently, they do not believe her report, nor mine.

  The evening sun peers slightly behind snowing clouds as I finish my mutton stew dinner with Pastor. He is weary with anxiety regarding the young child. Even slumbering in the church yields terrible nightmares for young Rebecca. Pastor has set up a bed at the chapel prayer alter where Rebecca has finally slept peacefully. Federal officers continue their hunt. Doubts begin to arise that what they say they seek is not what they actually seek. Night falls heavily as I wander to Old Man Taylor’s house. The day clouds have retreated, leaving a soft white blanket of delicate flakes.

  Old Man Taylor’s house is situated near a small ravine just west of the main highway. A small fortress sits a distance from his home and a dozen sheep peer at my arrival. I wave as sparkling eyes peer from the fortress crevices. Even with the snow, the sheep are sheltered. Next to his house is a horse corral, also sheltered and warm. “Good job, Taylor.”

  The old man wears a scowl worthy of countless sparrings with life’s complicated quarrels and more. His hands browned rough, his hair graying into paleness, and his eyes narrowed. He limps on his right leg, but a moot point with his ragged stroll void of any youthful flexibility. He gazes at me with a tilt. I was not expected but welcomed.

  “Close that door, Son!” Old Man Taylor scowls. “It’s freezing out.” He motions me in. “What say you at this late hour in the day? It’s bedtime, didn’t you get the email?” He smiles.

  “Sir, I brought you some coffee. Not the bitter kind from the city but the local green can stuff. It’s good, I hear.” I hand him a jar of store-bought grounds in a gallon-sized green can.

  “Ah, thank you, Son. Put it over there on the counter. It’s a mess there, but I don’t do much cleaning until my daughter comes by. Sit here.” He offers me a chair.

  We sit at an old kitchen table that had seen better days. The stove to the left is warm and inviting, but the howling of the winter winds is felt just beyond a measure from it. The cemented flooring has cracked into sections of fours, and the walls are faded still hoisting oil paintings from artists of yore.

  “Son, why are you here at this late hour? Tequila?” Old Man Taylor pulls out his flask.

  “No, no tequila, please. Thanks,” I say.

  “What is it then? No one comes like this, at this hour unless you need wisdom or someone died. Which is it?” he asks.

  I adjust my seating. “Wisdom, I guess.”

  “Ask away, my son.” Taylor sits attentively.

  “There is still a lot for me to learn and a lot more knowledge I need to understand, I think. I guess that would be my reasoning as to why I’m here. Although I do not fully understand my process of thought that has brought me here. I struggle now with what I know. With what I have seen and what I now expect based on those things. I know that I am not alone. I know that I’m just a small entity here stumbling onto things I should not have.” I sit gazing at the stov
e. “I am very much confused. I do not know what to ask for, or what to ask.”

  “Son, you are no small entity, know that,” Old Man Taylor says.

  “Well, with respect to what I know now, I feel comprehending it completely, will end me. Comprehending it thoroughly will have me succumb to my own uncontrollable blackness. I’m not sure what to say or if that even makes any sense. I don’t know what to make of what I need to understand. I’m very much confused.”

  “Have you talked to Pastor?” Old Man Taylor asks.

  “Not yet. I’m not even sure what to ask Pastor or where to start, but you are considered an elder. An elder that makes his own tequila. And Pastor has a bit of faith in you, so here I am,” I say.

  “Words are sacred, Son, remember that. Choose them carefully. You only get to speak them once.” He gets up from his chair and sits on the ground by the cast iron stove folding his legs. He glares at me clearly annoyed. Lucy, the goat, awakens and gazes on from her corner.

  “Yes,” I say and sit upon on the concrete floor by the stove. The cement is cold. “Sorry, Taylor, it’s been a long day. Some history I think is what I need. But I’m not sure.”

  He opens the front door of the Franklin stove then reaches into his pocket as a burst of heat fills the room. He produces a metallic dust material and throws it into the fire. Sparkles ring out up the stovepipe into the ceiling. He closes the small cast iron door.

  The Elder leans back against the wall with eyes closed, clutching a leather-cased pillow. “Long ago, at the time of my grandfather’s father’s world, we fought the Hopi from the north and the Mexicans that came from the south. They did not come to trade. They came to kill and take the women and children, sometimes not caring the difference. We fought along the Apaches in their battles and ate with them elk and deer. In those times, wars were fought differently. There were few guns and bullets. We did not need them. Only the hunters and strong ones carried weapons and defended our camps from wild animals, dangerous ones. Some warriors used bows and other hunting weapons, but we had no use for things that harm the flesh as the flesh would heal with time. We fought with the unseen and the destruction of their minds. We fought armed with their fears and their darkness as our ally.

  “We fought with the deadly vermin and dangerous creatures that showered the darkness dismissed as pests of the night that dogs had the courage to bark at. We fought their minds and confronted them with their fears of death and life’s ending moments filled with uncontrolled pain and misery. So came your great-grandfather. He was a small man with a gray mustache. He walked with a limp and had terrible breath. When he spoke from a distance, everyone knew it was him. He was a lonely man that hunted elk for his adopted family. He used a gun after trading several horses for it from the white man’s camp at Canyon Diablo.”

  “Taylor, I thought my great grandfather made bows for elk hunting? The big bow,” I say and part my arms mimicking a large bow.

  “Son, do not interrupt,” Taylor says and momentarily opens his eyes, clearly annoyed.

  “Sorry. Please continue.” I lower my arms.

  “He was recruited to fight in the wars at that time for the men were dying of the white man’s sicknesses, the spots, the heating of the body. There were few men left and many women abound, so he was given two wives at the request of the elders at that time. He was always easily frightened and fragile of the mind. He was not resilient. He was easily startled into tears and ran from any conflict. A warrior he was not, a responsible man he was not. When he was taken into the fight was when he was given the two wives, to balance his fears, his happiness, and his motives. To help his emotions cope with battle, separating life and death, learning to exist in both worlds, steps to becoming a warrior.”

  “Wait, so he didn’t choose these women? They were given to him? Did he love them like a husband loves his wife?”

  “Son, such matters as love were not considered then. Our eternal ending was what mattered, our survival from our enemies that met us in battle mattered more. There were not enough men to fight.”

  “So, he got recruited as a soldier and got two wives. Were they pretty?” I ask.

  Taylor again opens his eyes and glares at me.

  “Sorry. Please continue,” I say.

  “His wives gave themselves to him, but he only would touch one of them, he feared the other, but she persisted. The teachings to be a warrior were started too late, as he was a frightened adult and not a young boy. His mind was already set on the things of the world. He thrived on whiskey and card games at the white man’s settlements. He enjoyed their women there, too.”

  “The steps to becoming a warrior didn’t work on him?” I inquire.

  “No, he was very much confused, like you are now.”

  “So I could never be a warrior as defined by those standards?” I ask.

  “No, you’re too old and have strayed too far away from even your own clan teachings. You live like a white man,” Old Man Taylor says.

  “I did graduate from their schools and dated a white woman.” We share a silent moment. “I guess I want to come back. I know I can’t be a warrior. I’m too old and too stupid, but at least I can follow in whatever path they paved. I’ll adapt, I can adapt.”

  “Warriors lived in two separate worlds and could be peaceful in either,” Old Man Taylor says. “The way of life and the way of the death. To kill in battle and to join life with your wife, different and never to be confused, ever. You live in combat, you kill your enemy to protect those you love, then you come home and dote and love your wife with equaled passion. Emotional and mental stability in keeping both apart and separate, dedication to its balance and respecting its impact and its way. The way of the warrior.”

  “Fascinating, that’s the shit right there,” I say.

  “The soldiers that fight now in Iraq are not warriors. They are American soldiers who come home depressed and violent because they have combined both worlds and live in soul’s chaos. They come home a mess and stay a mess until a medicine man does his work,” Old Man Taylor says.

  “You’re right, Taylor, you’re right.” I adjust my coat and shift my legs. My back is cold. “Carry on about my grandfather’s father.”

  “When he was thirty-one, he was brought through the night ceremonies. Come morning his wailing could not be consoled, and he ate part of the skin off his left arm. The process could not be halted, so they continued knowing they were destroying his fragile mind. Knowing that there were not enough men to fight. For war and its many evils now came to their midst, they continued. By the fourth night, his wailing stopped, and the darkness entered him. Even his wives could not help him. He descended into cloudiness of soul destruction. He could no longer discern what he could see with his eyes and what his soul could see. He grew mad and dangerous to those who loved him.”

  “On the battlefield, he was a rage-filled opponent. His eyes cried for death, and his hands delivered it. He killed with a fearlessness that walked beside him and a mercilessness that dwelt inside him. The faith and goodness of one’s purest heart to love and nurture turned cold in his hands. He then feared nothing and found no affection in the arms of his wives. The tender touch of his wives returned to them violence, but they endured, for without him, they would die. Without him, they would fall onto preying hands of evil men that abound in war. For war produces much confusion in men’s hearts that killing and bringing death replaces compassion, and they blur becoming one. He was not a warrior who understood compassion and duty and respected its way. He became a container for merciless perversion.

  “With his dark heart, he would ride away for days at a time. His wives and children would worry and live fearfully awaiting his return, knowing they lived only because he hadn’t yet died. Those were terrible times with food so scarce and our enemies hiding in dark places.

  “When your grandfather was ten, the madman returned on foot covered in dried blood. He had slain his horse and eaten its heart and head, leaving the carcass for the
coyotes to eat. The call was put forth for a battle to take place days later, and he could not be found. His family could not be found. They found the older wife and two children hiding in a cornfield covered in ash, shaking with fear and whimpering of a coming death. It took them two days to convince them to return to an elder’s home for safety. When horses were gathered, a scout found tracks and followed them. Along the way he found bodies of children killed violently, then a horse also killed with its heart taken out. Much further was the younger wife, her face was cut off, she could not be recognized, except by her clothes and her long hair. The man had fallen to his death but no signs of a death, just a lifeless carcass rotting in the sun, its arms shielding its eyes and enclosing its legs.”

  “Wait, so he killed his family and took his own life?” I asked.

  “No,” Old Man Taylor says.

  “No?”

  “He killed his family, his little ones, and the one woman that loved him. Then the darkness overcame him.”

  “Wait, I don’t understand that. How can something like that happen?” I ask.

  “Living in the white man’s world will produce questions like that, Son.” Taylor again stokes the fire and tosses another piece of pine onto the flaming embers. We sit again in silence listening to the wood burn.

  I glared at the old man. “It is that very thing I do not comprehend.” We sit for several minutes listening to the crackling of the fire. “I have encountered it, or something like it. Since I was a small boy, I grew up around it, so it was almost normal to me. Now I find it strange and a bit frightening. Back in Phoenix was where we finally lured two monsters, but we could not take Simon down. He’s so strong.”

  The old man sits silently.

  “We were able to get help, though. Tracy Monroe from the Monroe family helped. She was able to stop a very powerful soldier with just words,” I say.

  “It is never a good idea to associate with those that practice darkness, the way of the curse, the rainmakers, the various gods, and slayers. That which they taunt and summon are real. They hunger for our destruction. They hunger for the destruction of men’s souls, all men. Simon’s strength comes from his associations with whoever he brings under him,” Old Man Taylor says.