Three Sisters

by James D. Doss

  Knowing ahead of time that she would soon “cross that River” had one compensation: A person could look forward to some prefuneral shopping. But what she looked forward to at the moment was a good night’s sleep. And so off to her bedroom she went.

  On the way, she stepped on a spider. No, this was not an accident. The deed was done on purpose, and with some relish.

  To quote Chief Washakie: “Young men sometimes do foolish things.”

  What does this Shoshone proverb have to do with an aged Ute woman? Merely this: From time to time, even old women do foolish things. By way of illustration, consider Daisy’s recent encounters with eight-legged creatures. It is one thing to smack a careless spider that falls onto your face—one can hardly be held responsible for a reflex action. However, it is quite another matter to commit deliberate, premeditated arachnicide. Of the first degree. And not even bother to draw the circle, mumble the appropriate lie about how a Navajo was responsible, et cetera. Such behavior reeks of arrogance.

  It may be that what followed so closely on the heels of her callous crime was the revenge of the Spider People. Or perhaps it was the cheeseburger.

  The Wee Hours

  After Sundown, many senior citizens sleep away the dark hours, and are thereby refreshed. Not Daisy Perika. Seven days a week, and all around the clock, she has what could rightly be called “an interesting life.” For one hair-raising example, take tonight.

  Miss Daisy was precisely where she wanted to be—on her bed by the window, bathed in the silver radiance of a full moon, adrift on a sea of deep, restful sleep, immersed in a blissful self-told tale wherein things were definitely going her way. Any card-carrying member of the Pessimists’ Club will tell you that such a happy state cannot last for long.

  Her dream was interrupted.

  Daisy felt something. Something close-by. In the bed with her—snuggled up against her side!

  Was it Sarah, who’d had a nightmare and come to climb in bed beside Auntie?

  No, the teenage girl was larger than whatever this was.

  It’s just a bad dream. I’ve got to make myself wake up so it’ll go away.

  Hardly daring to breathe, the sleeper opened her eyes.

  Nice try.

  The thing was still there, a quivering coldness pressed against her ribs. Yes, quivering. Or was it purring?

  Must be that damn cat. Along with a flood of relief, Daisy enjoyed a surge of righteous anger. I’ll grab that old fleabag by the tail and swing him around a few times and pitch him against the wall so hard he’ll—But wait a minute.

  It occurred to her that there was another, more alarming possibility. Maybe I forgot to latch the back door. It might be a raccoon that got cold and come inside looking for a warm spot. Or worse, a skunk. Or worse still, a rabid pack rat. But wait another minute.

  Her unwelcome bedmate could not be any of those varmints. Raccoons, skunks, and rabid pack rats are warm, furry mammals. The intruder in bed beside her was cold and clammy as a piece of dead meat. Also hard and lumpy as a bag of brass doorknobs. And now that she thought about it, the whatever-it-was was not exactly quivering—it was shivering.

  Discretion was called for. Maybe if I just lay real still, it’ll go away. Taut as a banjo string, the plucky woman avoided the least movement. Counted off thirty-six of the clock’s clickety-tickety tocks. Prayed for this nightmare to end. It did not.

  But, as she waited, the shivering gradually subsided. And every few heartbeats, the tribal elder fancied that she could hear the creature breathe. What in the world has gotten into bed with me? Additional scary possibilities were blooming in Daisy’s fertile imagination when—

  Her companion began to snore. But not at all like a skunk or pack rat snores. Like a man snores. The evidence was in, there could be only one conclusion: Some drunk has wandered into my house, crawled into bed with me. Well, that flat did it. I’ll strangle him with my bare hands!

  Daisy raised herself on an elbow, jerked back the covers—stared in astonishment at what she saw in the moon’s vaporous glow. Her companion, curled into a fetal position, was outfitted in a tattered black hat, a faded green cotton shirt, beaded buckskin breeches, and moccasins. And though he was about the size of a five-year-old boy, this was not a child. The intruder was the Little Man, who lived in the badger hole. So what’s he doing here in my house—in bed with me? A fair question.

  The dwarfish creature shuddered, blinked, fixed pale, yellowish eyes on the shaman. His poisonous expression said it all: How dare she disturb his rest!

  Now the pitukupf was not the only person who had been awakened. And old folks are apt to be a mite grumpy when their slumbers have been disturbed. Especially by a pushy outsider. The aged woman ground her remaining teeth. Ready—nay, eager to commit a violent act, Daisy went with her initial impulse. Strangulation—that was just the ticket. This furious woman—whose Christian mother had named her tiny girl-child after a delicate wildflower—flexed her fingers, anticipated the satisfying feel of his scrawny little neck, the ensuing desperate struggle, her victim’s last gurgling gasps, saliva bubbling from between his lips—But enough of mayhem and violent death.

  There are several reasons why it is not possible to provide a precise and accurate account of what happened next. First, the dwarf speaks an archaic version of the Ute language that even Daisy Perika has trouble understanding. Second, the shaman is reticent to share every detail concerning her dealings with the pitukupf. Third, there is a strict taboo against revealing certain…Forget third. First and second are sufficient.

  A brief summary is called for.

  The upshot of the encounter was that Daisy, who recalled the “Thou Shalt Not Murder” commandment, cooled off somewhat. After which, the little man explained the reason for his visit:

  (A) The juniper fire on his hearth had gone out.

  (B) In the ensuing darkness he could not locate the leather pouch where he kept his flint-and-steel fire starter.

  (C) He had come to borrow some matches. Also a candle or two.

  (D) He would help himself to these items on the way out.

  At the moment, his paramount desire was to go back to sleep, which he could not do with the moonlight blinding him. Imperiously, the cheeky fellow pointed a finger at the window, directing the tribal elder to pull the shade.

  Daisy’s pithy response would be unsuitable for a family audience. It would also shock and scandalize drunken Bulgarian sailors, Denver pimps, Juárez drug pushers, and several senior members of the New Mexico State Legislature.

  The tribal elder’s verbal assault did not faze the pitukupf.

  Either the little man was as thick-skinned as a Yucatán pineapple or he possessed one of those rare, blessed souls that do not take offense. Take your pick. He proposed a deal: If Daisy would give him time for a few winks and provide the means for making a fire on his underground hearth, he promised to depart before first light. Without waiting to see how she would respond to the carrot, he brandished the Big Stick. (Diplomacy was not the dwarf’s long suit.) If she forced him out into the cold, he would burn down her barn and kill all her horses, sheep, and goats.

  Daisy informed him that she possessed neither out-buildings nor livestock.

  This statement seemed to confuse the little man, who was hundreds of years old and could not be expected to remember every detail about his neighbor’s holdings. But no matter. One way or another, he would get even for any act of inhospitality on her part.

  Knowing that this was no idle threat, Daisy told him where she kept a brand-new box of Fire Chief “Strike Anywhere” kitchen matches. He could take no more than a dozen, and she would know if he did. But sleep in her bed? That was unthinkable. No way. She would not even consider such a brazen proposal. Unless her diminutive guest would provide her with something of comparable value in return.

  He suggested a turquoise pendant (shaped like a raven’s gizzard) that would cure nosebleed, diarrhea, and excessive verbosity.

  No, thanks.
The shaman already had a half-dozen such charms. What she needed at the moment was a mere trifle—a minor piece of historical information. Before he could object, she got right to the point: Did the dwarf happen to know who Old Joe Spencer was?

  Well of course he did. Knowing such stuff was his business.

  Good. She proceeded: When the three Spencer sisters were little girls, one day at a big to-do where hundreds of people were present, one of them had gotten sick. What had been the occasion? And what was it that had made the little girl sick?

  The first question was evidently not a challenge to the little know-it-all’s powers. The dwarf immediately mumbled his response. But as far as what had caused the little girl to become ill, the sly fellow either did not know or would not say. He yawned, began to shiver again, complained that the moonlight was making his eyes ache, and pulled the covers over his head. He advised Daisy to be quiet. And, as she slept, not to roll over onto him.

  The rightful owner of the bed settled down onto her pillow, began to recall that singular day, decades ago at the Durango Arts and Crafts Fair. As usual, the pitukupf had hit the nail square on the head—that was definitely where it had happened. But she still did not know what had made little Astrid sick. Her eyes closed, one at a time. Sooner or later it’ll come to me.

  As she yawned, it occurred to Daisy that she was now quite at ease with the strange little creature sleeping by her side. And that wasn’t all. For the first time since her third husband had died, she had a man in her bed. Well, a sort of man. An ugly, odorous, mean-spirited little snip of a man. Even so, it was a comfort. Which, if you think about it, is pathetic. This realization, which might have been deeply depressing to a more sensitive soul, struck the Ute woman as hilarious. Not wanting to awaken her grumpy bedmate, Daisy Perika managed to keep from laughing out loud. But she snickered.

  Fourteen

  Daisy’s Remarkable Breakfast Adventure

  It might have been last night’s greasy cheeseburger, the murder of one too many spiders, or the startling appearance of the dwarf in her bed. Or some combination of the three. Whatever the reason, Daisy Perika did not sleep soundly. On the contrary, the shaman shuffled along through dismal dreams where she waded through icy streams, was plagued by the pitukupf’s malicious schemes—was terrified by Astrid Spencer’s dying screams! On those occasions when she floated up to semiconsciousness, only to feel the chill presence of the dwarf’s knobby little body pressed against her—Daisy wondered what he might do to get revenge if she happened to roll over and smother him. And what would happen if the elfin creature failed to depart before first light, and Sarah Frank came into the bedroom to say “good morning,” noticed the suspicious lump under the covers, and (with eyebrow arched in prim disapproval) asked, “What is that, Aunt Daisy—an ugly little man in bed with you?”

  Well, the strain of it all was almost too much. But, as is so often the case, her worries turned out to be wasted. She did not roll over in her sleep and crush the dwarf. And well before the first hint of dawn, the little man had vanished from her bed. Indeed, she could almost have been convinced that he was one of her bad dreams. Daisy got herself out of bed with the usual grunts and groans, toddled off to the kitchen to check the fire sticks. She was pleased to find the box of 250 Fire Chief matches almost full. At least that little thief didn’t take ’em all.

  The rosy glow of sunrise found Daisy seated at her kitchen table, about to enjoy the day’s first taste of bubbling-hot, black-as-soot coffee. It was a pleasant experience, with the warm mug clasped in her hands, a vaporous mist of steam rising off the perfectly smooth surface, the delicious scent of…

  Hold on. Rewind to “perfectly smooth surface.”

  Look at that. The surface was not. (Not smooth.) What should have been a flat, mirrored pool was blemished by an unsavory something. But what was this splotchy little blot? To better focus upon the minuscule object, which was wriggling in her beverage, Daisy held the cup close to her left eye, squinted. Aha!

  This was truly disgusting—a creature even uglier than the pitukupf.

  The upside-down beastie doing a panicky backstroke in her coffee was a fuzzy spider. Precisely like the one she had stepped on last night. Not a word-class swimmer, this one appeared to be drowning. Well it serves you right for—But her righteous rebuke was interrupted by a sudden chill of realization: The shaman could not see them, but she knew—

  The Spider People were gathered close at hand!

  The evil clan had come to carry out their vengeful plan.

  When I’m not paying attention, they’ll swarm across the floor, crawl up my legs, and bite me all over and I’d swell up like a prize pumpkin and die in terrible pain!

  The situation was serious. Vigilance was called for. Also strategy and tactics.

  Pretending to be causally examining the furniture and appliances, Daisy cast her gaze about the kitchen, searching for some sign of the hidden battalions: a stray scrap of web; a tattering of teensy spider tracks; a scout, peeking from behind a broom. There was nothing sinister to be seen—which only proved how clever the little fiends had planned their invasion and assault. But wait. Daisy had spotted something. Over there, sitting on the countertop, between the red Folgers coffee can and the Quaker Oats box, brazen as a brass monkey and glaring at the rightful occupant as if she had no right to be there—the creature she most despised. A plump, round, deadly black widow—the biggest one she had ever seen. That’ll be their war chief.

  After her heart had skipped a few beats, Daisy managed to get hold of herself. The Ute elder put on her stern warrior-woman expression, addressed her adversary thusly: “I ain’t afraid of you.” Making fists of her trembling hands, she drew in a deep breath. “Or your whole Spider People tribe.”

  Apparently unmoved by this bold assertion, Ms. Chief Black Widow stared back. Presumably, with all six eyes.

  Never mind. Daisy Perika’s mouth twisted into a wicked little grin. “Matter of fact, I like spiders.”

  No, this was not a ploy to curry favor with the enemy.

  To demonstrate her point, Daisy raised her cup. Drank deeply thereof. This was a very foolish thing to do. But she was fortunate; and correct in her belief that the spider in her coffee was of the nonpoisonous variety. Even so, the experience was unpleasant—the bothersome creature got caught between her teeth. And though she had an overwhelming urge to spit the horrid thing out, there could be no backing down—not under the hard gaze of the enemy. Steeling herself, the Ute elder ground the corpse between ancient molars, swallowed against a latent gag, licked her lips. “Mmmm—that was tasty.” She raised her chin, addressed the leader of the Spider Clan. “Would you like to come swim in my cup?”

  As was her taciturn way, Black Widow said neither yea nor nay.

  Tickety-tock clicked the kitchen clock.

  For the longest, time, the plump intruder did not blink.

  Tickety-tock.

  For an equally lengthy interval, Daisy stared back.

  Tickety-tock.

  She recalled the tale about how Chief Washakie had dispatched the Crow war party. If I was to kill the chief, maybe the rest of ’em would go away.

  Tickety-tock.

  Or maybe that’d just make the Spider People mad.

  Tickety-tock.

  Who knows how long this standoff might have continued, had not Sarah Frank appeared on the scene. Rubbing her eyes, the pajama-clad girl said, “Good morning, Aunt Daisy.” What’s she staring at?

  Daisy was feeling feisty. And boastful. Wait’ll I tell her what I swallowed on purpose. But before the old woman could make her brag, some serious business must be taken care of. She whispered, “Kill it.”

  “What?”

  Ah, how errors do muddle up our day.

  The intent of Sarah’s abbreviated question was: “What did you say?”

  Daisy’s interpretation was: “Kill what?” She pointed at the awful thing.

  The girl saw it. Without hesitation, she walked over to the
counter, picked up the stray grape, popped it into her mouth, chewed. Sarah turned to smile at the tribal elder, swallowed.

  The aged shaman was stunned. Stupefied. Horrified. Silly girl—she’ll fall down dead!

  But of course our youthful heroine would suffer no ill effect. Indeed, the nutritious snack seemed to perk her up. Impressing Daisy right down to the marrow, the girl smacked her lips, said “Are there any more?”

  Unable to utter a word, the tribal elder shook her head. The whole bunch of ’em are probably in the next county by now.

  From Sarah’s expression, it was apparent that she was mildly disappointed. And on top of that, the heroine did not boast of her accomplishment. The very soul of modesty, she changed the subject. “It won’t be long before Mr. Sweetwater shows up. You want me to make you some oatmeal?”

  This was like meeting a U.S. Marine who didn’t remember where he’d put his Congressional Medal of Honor. Maybe in the drawer with his socks? Still incapable of speech, Daisy shrugged off the offer of food. The eccentric gourmet, who had a spider insider, was feeling a mite nauseous. But the arachnid-eater did accept a second cup of coffee. As Daisy observed the spunky youth, she realized that there was much more to this orphan girl than met the eye. All this time, I’ve been trying to teach her stuff, like how to cure warts and bring the rain—but she could teach me a thing or two. After Daisy had taken a sip or two of brackish brew, in that peculiar way that jarring experiences often do, the staggering sight of Sarah popping a hideous black widow into her mouth shook something loose from the residue of the old woman’s murky memory, which promptly bubbled up to the top. Now I remember what made that little Spencer girl sick at the arts-and-crafts fair—it was something she swallowed. Daisy screwed her face into an intense grimace. Was it food or drink? Or something else entirely. A bug?