Ancient Blood

by R. Allen Chappell

  Paul came at last to an uneasy awareness. Now there was pain, not in any particular place or intensity, but all over. His entire body ached, and he could hear nothing above the roar of his own blood coursing through his veins. Eventually, however, his mind began to find order and then cleared enough to allow the processing of a few thoughts, the first of which was where he might be. He guessed a hospital.

  The passing of his wife several years back had made him familiar with the sounds and smells of such a place, and he now decided this was indeed where he was. There was a sense of urgency all about him, but in a calm, directed manner that bespoke healers going about a task they were intimately familiar with. These were not his kind of healers. Their magic was of a different sort and, while it might work well for their kind, he was not so sure it would work for him. It had not worked for his wife—but then, neither had his.

  He had lain quite still for some time. In fact, he was not sure he could move at all. It had grown quiet. His first thought was to try to open just one eye. That would tell him if there was some glimmer of hope. In his experience as a healer, hope itself was a powerful medicine. Even a tiny bit of it often went a long way. He cracked one eyelid slightly, and that went well. There was light, sunlight, he thought, and he felt the ultraviolet warmth of it on his hand at his side. This was all to the good, and he opened both eyes. The first blurry image he saw was his daughter, Lucy Tallwoman, sitting beside his bed and looking directly at him.

  “Ah-hah-lah‘nih,” she said softly, tilting her head slightly and smiling. “You have been in another place for a while now. I was afraid you might not come back from that place.” She reached and took his hand. “The doctor said you was a tough old bird.” She smiled and moved to the side of the bed.

  At first the old man had to think about how to make the words but finally said in a low, raspy voice, “How are those sheep?”

  “It could have been worse. We lost nine head of ewes and a lamb, but two of those ewes were old and didn’t lamb this year anyway. A couple of others are limping around but they will get over it.” She squeezed his hand. “We still have twenty-three ewes, eight goats, and the ram. The cop said he didn’t have to put any down—either they were dead, or they were okay. It was Hastiin Klah. He happened by right after the accident. He was just getting off duty and on his way home.”

  “Well, that was lucky, I think,” Paul said softly.

  Lucy nodded her head. “Thomas and the boys got there just after the ambulance took you away. They said the dog had the sheep off the road and held them until he and Harley could get them back up to the corral. Charlie called the dispatcher, and she left a message at Sue’s house. I came straight here.”

  “Harley Ponyboy? I thought he was with George Custer?”

  Lucy ignored the question, straightened his pillow and gave him a sip of water from the glass on the tray. “Thomas was here until just a few minutes ago. He left to feed the sheep. I had the hay in the truck already.” She said this last to let her father know she had not forgotten to get hay.

  “Oh,” Lucy said, “I had the usual hassle at the front desk about your name on the paperwork. They didn’t want to believe you spell your name T’Sosi instead of T’sosi.” She laughed. “Do you know how many times I have had to explain that to white people who think everyone should spell their name the same as everyone else with that name?” She frowned. “That’s one reason I go by Lucy Tallwoman. Well, that and the rug buyer saying I would sell better with a name white people thought was more Indian.”

  Old Paul T’Sosi sat straight up in bed at this, gaining strength from indignation. “Well, I hope you told her why we spell it that way. Most Navajo names are spelled as they are because that is how some white person first spelled them.” The old man grew more animated and declared, “It’s T’Sosi! These people need to learn the right way to say it. You have to touch your tongue to your teeth and spit the whole thing out at once. The S is just as important as the T. That’s the way your grandfather spelled it, and that’s the way I’m going to spell it too.”

  “I know, Dad, I told them. I said, ‘Just because everyone else on the reservation spells it the other way, don’t mean we have to.’” She smiled and patted his hand.

  “And,” the old man said, “your Navajo name is Tallwoman—Asdzaa Nez in Navajo. Your grandmother gave you that name. She said she had never seen so long a baby and called you A’teed Nez (Tall Girl) and later when you grew up it became Asdzaa Nez. Your Navajo name is what makes you strong.” The old man looked at his daughter. “I named you Lucy, after a little girl in a comic book. She was a bossy little girl, and I thought that suited you.”

  3

  The Cure

  The morning after George Custer’s impromptu arrival, Aida rose early to set the kettle and start breakfast. She liked to get a head start on the children and was prone to let them sleep in. She was afraid she might be spoiling the pair but had little previous experience to go by. Indians are known for indulging their children, and as far as she knew, no real harm seemed to come of it. She put on a pot of oatmeal and was about to check in on George Custer, when she turned to find him standing in the doorway. “How’s the head?” she asked briskly, gathering cups from the cabinet and moving to the table without looking directly at him.

  “Better.” George’s face was not nearly so swollen now, though he still peered at Aida through slitted eyes and with a quizzical half-smile. “What has it been now, Aida—ten years?”

  “More like twelve, I guess—but who’s counting,” she went on setting the table, then paused a moment and noted, “Time passes more quickly for some than others, I suppose.”

  George Custer nodded, then looked suddenly pale and leaned heavily against the doorjamb. He took a moment to collect himself and then said, “I wrote several times from Guatemala. I never heard anything back. The mail’s unreliable at best down there.”

  “I got the letters. I burned them. Didn’t read a one.”

  George only nodded again and looked down. Maybe that had been for the best. She was right to burn those letters. It had been a silly thing for me to do after so long a silence. But it was not like I could just walk down to the post office. I should have just let it lie.

  “I meant to come down and see you as soon as the undergrads had things underway up at the Aneth site.” This was not strictly true, and while the thought had crossed his mind, he’d had no real intention of calling Aida Winters. That bridge had been burned and the years had rendered the break irreparable to his way of thinking. Yet, there remained that niggling little doubt that often assails the most resolute of decisions.

  “I’m sure you had the best of intentions,” she said dryly as she brought two mugs, then hesitated, “You still drink tea I assume?”

  George nodded and moved to the chair opposite Aida. “Yes, we still have that in common, at least.”

  Aida stopped mid-pour and contemplated the man before her, beaten down and rough, as he now appeared. She recalled a good deal they once had in common in the year after her husband’s passing. At the time, she had thought it fortuitous that her ranch harbored eight verified Anasazi sites, ranging from smaller pre-Pueblo to a well-preserved complex of an era commonly referred to as the Golden Age of the Anasazi.

  Nearly every ranch around boasted at least one or two sites, some long plowed under, of course, but still they were there under the furrows. Aida’s ranch was different—from the earliest of the family owners, little digging had been allowed. There were the usual potholes, of course, made mostly by locals sneaking in back in the day when train-car loads of artifacts were being shipped east, even to foreign collectors and museums. It had been an easy way to pick up badly needed dollars for settlers in a harsh land where cash was hard to come by. But for the most part, Aida’s ruins lay nearly pristine in their hidden side canyons.

  George spooned in a half-measure of sugar and stirred his tea, clicking the side of the spoon against the cup before taking a delicate s
lurp. “Did the university ever contact you about excavating the main site?”

  “They did, on your recommendation I believe.” She said this with only a hint of disdain. “I told them no and didn’t hear from them again.”

  “Probably just as well,” George murmured. He paused, and then went on, “There have actually been great strides in the science just these last few years.” He became more animated. “Why, do you know, they can now recover viable DNA that’s traceable to people still living today and to other lines of similar people in other areas?” The old excitement was on him then, and Aida almost smiled at the glimpse of the old George Custer peeking through.

  Aida’s husband had originally contacted the university in regard to surveying the ruins, thinking there might be some future value in knowing exactly where the sites fit in the Anasazi occupation of the area. Several local ranches had sold for prices far beyond their agricultural valuation due mainly to similar archeological sites. He believed they might help the ranch provide a nice little cushion for Aida should something someday happen to him, a belief that proved prophetic as he was taken by a stroke only months later.

  UNM is not known for its lightning decisions when it comes to archeological allocations. Aida’s husband had already been gone nearly a year when George Custer finally pulled into the yard in his shiny, new university vehicle and stylish clothes. The man fairly reeked of academia and the excitement of distant lands. His charm and glib Irish tongue had a power to it, and Aida was swept away, though she was not ordinarily one to be swayed by such things. Now, looking back, she was inclined to believe it was the void left by her husband’s passing that allowed such vulnerability to the professor’s dashing persona.

  George Custer, for his part, found the widow a refreshing change from the sort of women he had previously known—and there had been many. Aida’s take-charge attitude and forthright demeanor captivated him from the start. And he thought her not bad looking, in a wholesome sort of way. It also had not hurt that George had instantly taken a fatherly interest in the little Ute neighbor girl, Sally Klee, who had recently attached herself to Aida. The girl found her neighbor to be an island of calm and a welcome escape from the chaotic life of her Ute relatives. The notorious Buck clan had been Aida’s neighbors and nemesis all her life, and she was well aware of their treatment of Sally. The child had quickly become fascinated with the professor, a man unlike any she had known. He could speak a smattering of both Ute and Navajo and could tell stories from both cultures, and others from lands far away. Years later, when grown and living with Thomas Begay, Sally Klee would recount for him those tales and fondly recall the professor who had been a brief part of her childhood. Perhaps that was what caused Thomas to suggest Aida’s place as a refuge for the injured archeologist these many years later. When questioned, however, Thomas claimed he had no real recollection of anything that might have prompted the suggestion.

  George Custer had managed to drag out the archeological survey of Aida’s ranch for nearly the entire summer back then, inventing reasons for the additional exploratory excavations he deemed necessary to verify this or that minor supposition.

  In the end, however, a previously applied-for grant involving a much more important project in Guatemala, came to fruition—an opportunity the professor had long coveted. He could delay no longer.

  While Aida was devastated at the news, she tried to understand and hoped they could maintain an ongoing relationship during what she hoped would be a short absence. She was naturally sick at heart but waited hopefully—nearly three long months—for some word from Central America.

  Aida Winters was not a woman easily taken advantage of, nor would she suffer it lightly. By the time a letter did eventually arrive, she had formed a new and hardened resolve in the matter of George Custer. She burned his letter without opening it, an action affording her but little satisfaction. She burned the ensuing few letters as well, some looking as though they had come a portion of the distance by pack mule, which in fact, they had. It was a measure of the woman’s character that she allowed herself no feelings of remorse. Never again, she thought, would she let herself be taken in by a man like George Armstrong Custer.

  “Oatmeal?” she asked, arranging bowls on the table.

  “That would be fine,” George replied. “I like oatmeal.”

  “I know,” Aida murmured as she busied herself at the stove. She could not help but wonder what twisted fate had brought George Custer once again to her door.

  ~~~~~~

  Charlie held the sheetrock in place while Thomas Begay nailed it to the studs in the nursery wall. Harley Ponyboy was huffing and puffing as he ferried supplies and tools back and forth from the truck and then began mixing a batch of spackling mud. Harley had volunteered to help out on the project, as he had nothing better to do now that activities were suspended at the dig. Charlie felt obligated in a way and paid him a bit, but not as much as Thomas, who was the only one of them who actually knew what he was doing. The work was going quite well in his opinion and everything should be in place by the time the baby came, assuming Sue could hold off three or four more days. Sue and Harley avoided each other as best they could, though Charlie had made light of the supposed curse afflicting Harley Ponyboy.

  “That is how these things always get started,” Charlie stated emphatically. “Someone comes up with a curse to put on another person, and that person obsesses on it until he finds some little thing to support it, and it grows from there. In the meantime, the one who laid the curse is elevated to Witch in everyone’s eyes and his reputation grows! It’s just silliness!” Charlie, who had been eating a piece of burnt toast with jam, shook his finger at no one in particular, brushed a few crumbs from the front of his shirt and looked at his plate. “How much of this toast do we have left now?” He frowned when Sue didn’t answer. “It is all silliness. The only power in those curses is people’s misplaced belief in them.”

  “What about Anita losing her first two babies then?” Sue challenged. “What was that all about?”

  Charlie gave an exasperated sigh. “I don’t know…coincidence, maybe…or an unknown medical condition. It could have been any number of things, but I guarantee you it wasn’t any damned curse,” he said, inadvertently cursing in the process and raising his voice at the same time—things he did not ordinarily do.

  Sue made a face behind his back. “You know I’m not big on this stuff myself.” Sue raised her own voice, “I’m just saying… that’s all. I’m just saying.” Her voice trailed off as she watched Charlie stomp out the back door.

  Two days later, the nursery was finished, but still Sue showed no immediate sign of coming up with a baby for it. She was now past the time the health service doctor had proposed for the new arrival. She became antsier and a bit more cross as the days passed. Finally, she decided to go visit Paul T’Sosi, who was to be discharged from the hospital that very afternoon. She had not been to see the old man as yet, and if she waited till later, it would mean a much longer drive out to Lucy Tallwoman’s place.

  At the hospital, Sue arrived just as visiting hours commenced (the hospital was quite strict in that regard, and many a relative, even those who had traveled long distances, had suffered because of it). Paul was sitting up in bed and, with the prospect of release drawing near, was looking quite chipper. He was a little surprised to see his daughter’s friend Sue—and alone too.

  “Sitsi! It is good to see you, and good of you to come see an old man.” He self-consciously arranged the bed coverings about him and ran a wrinkled hand through his hair. He sounded concerned when he asked, “Should you be out driving that old truck this close to your time?”

  Sue smiled. “Oh, it’s fine. This baby apparently intends to give us plenty of time to get ready, which is a good thing, as it turns out.” She patted the old man’s hand. “And how are you doing? Pretty good, I guess since they are letting you go home today.” Paul did look surprisingly good for someone who had been “run over by a truc
k,” as Charlie had put it (knowing full well it was not actually true). Paul had more or less just been hit by a flying sheep, which had allowed for a much happier outcome. They talked quietly for a while, mostly about the children, Ida Marie Begay and her brother Caleb, who were spending vacation time with Aida Winters up near Cortez.

  “I miss those two little magpies.” Paul laughed and wondered to himself if they were the reason he had been dreaming of Magpie and Coyote. “Our place is pretty quiet without them.”

  “I’ll bet it is.” Sue paused for a moment, not knowing quite how to approach the subject of Harley Ponyboy and his curse. Lucy Tallwoman was supposed to have spoken to her father about it but had obviously forgotten, or perhaps didn’t want to divulge what she had found out, or maybe just decided everyone’s fears were unfounded.

  “Shih-chai.” She used the Dinè word for “father” as a term of respect. “Do you know about Harley Ponyboy and the supposed ‘curse’ that is on him?” She looked down at her belly, which seemed to increase in size hourly. “Charlie says it is silliness and to pay it no mind.”

  The old man nodded but did not look directly at her. “Yes, Charlie Yazzie was away at school for more than most… He may come to think differently in time.” Paul paused and looked down at his own hands. “When it comes to Harley Ponyboy, however… he may be right.” He smiled. “I have known Harley since he was a boy. He has a strong belief in the old ways—too strong maybe. It may cloud his thinking sometimes. His people were old fashioned; from back in the canyons of Tsé Bii’ Ndzisgaii— Monument Valley. They had some strange notions, those people. They hid Harley away and kept him from school most of the time. He sometimes, still thinks like those old people.” Paul grimaced, his eyes mere slits, as he thought back. “Thomas knew that man from Ganado who supposedly put the curse on Harley, and he said both of them were drunk at the time and just talking big. Even Thomas does not believe that person was a witch, only a mean-natured little man.”