The Family at Serpiente

by Raymond Tolman

  They finally got around to the announcement that the crew from Serpiente had been waiting for; “We would like to announce this year’s winner of the Southwestern Historical Societies award for outstanding achievement in historical detective work. These fine people have managed to write a new chapter in New Mexico history with their work in discovering the Estancia Cave and unearthing what had until now been unknown history of the aboriginal people known as the Estancia Indians who preceded the earliest known American Indians who lived in New Mexico. Not since the discoveries of Frank C. Hibbens has as much been discovered about ancient people who lived in North America before and during the last Ice Age.”

  The Master of Ceremonies continued, “This work has provided more than just historical documentation about this important and poorly understood era in our history, it has opened up whole new doors for archeologist, anthropologist, biologist and many other fields of academic endeavor. We are grateful for their contributions.” June accepted the award for the crew and then with only a few short words she sat down. In her lap she cradled the prestigious Historical Society Award in the form of a plaque suitable for any wall. But also, there was also a check for $10,000 dollars, and she knew that there would be much more money earned after publication of her book on ‘Early Estancia Man.’

  “This year we would like to propose a new challenge for all our participants.” The announcer paused for a moment then added, “We also would like to offer our usual cash award or scholarship that has been put up, compliments of our generous benefactor who will remain anonymous. The first place award this year has grown to twenty five thousand dollars paid to the person or persons who best complete a research project illustrating and enlightening an underappreciated southwestern incident or person.” The amount of the award brought forth a round of applause from the group who were all eager to participate in the challenge.

  “The rules are; one, it must highlight a person who made an impact on the history and culture of the southwest who has received little or no recognition in the current history books. We would enjoy seeing contributions in the field of biographical history.”

  “Two, the researchers must document the activities of this person by reenacting or documenting their exploits or experiences and demonstrate why they should receive recognition.”

  “Three, they must present their research in publishable form that can be used at our discretion.” The speaker stopped at this point and looked out in the audience. “You realize,” she continued, “The University of New Mexico is begging for new books to publish. There is real money that can be made with publishable research, far more than the formal reward given by the Southwestern Historical Society. Fourth, you should be able to compare and contrast the conditions then and now and lastly, it has to be unique.”

  Corey and Hidalgo now knew all they needed to know and desperately wanted to escape the formal dinner. As soon as the speaker was through making the announcement for this year’s contest, they excused themselves and left. They almost ran to the parking lot, untying the ties that had been so carefully tied around their necks by June and Ken. But they experienced a feeling of satisfaction while waiting for Ken and us women to slowly make our way out. The game was on.

  Unfinished Business

  We had unfinished business to take care of. I spent several days painting an oil painting of the apparition in the form of a pictograph that Hidalgo had encountered at Chinle Wash on the San Juan River. Hidalgo remembered every detail which I patiently painted onto the canvas fabric under his direction. It had appeared to Hidalgo as a coyote looking animal with thin grey fur. It was almost cartoonish, like the coyote in the roadrunner cartoons, but scary. Standing there on its rear paws, somewhat in a boxing position, the face appeared alien in shape; distinctly canine but with huge oversize eyes that glowed red. Its ears were very long and sharp with black tips. It was the first time in his life that Hidalgo’s mind appeared to play a trick on him. On that river trip, the following day when he and Corey had hiked back to reinvestigate it, all traces of the apparition had disappeared.

  Hidalgo was still profoundly bothered by it. He had been mulling the apparition over in his mind for months now, but he was at a loss as to what it was but helping recreate the apparition was therapeutic to him, even soothing. He had control over the image, not the other way around.

  After the paint was dry, we took several photographs of it followed by day trips journeying to Albuquerque, visiting museums, the university and public libraries in an attempt to discover what the image was of. But to no avail, after looking through hundreds of books and asking as many people as we could, we could not find a single match or anyone who had seen anything like it. They had given up, thinking that the only other option was to go to Shiprock and ask some of Hidalgo’s old friends. They dreaded that trip because Navajos don’t like to talk about such things as skin walkers. Besides, once they broached the subject, news of it would spread out across the reservation like an epidemic. Gossip traveled like fire on the reservation and the idea of skin walkers could cause more damage than the actual animals. But first, they would have to return to Serpiente for a few days. Stopping at the Blake’s on Isleta Boulevard for hamburgers on the way back, Corey got into a conversation with one of the young Hispanic girls who took their order. After a few moments of conversation, while waiting for the food to be cooked, he returned to the Jeep. Pulling the picture of the painting out of the glove compartment and returning to the order counter, he showed it to the young lady. This strange action brought me and Hidalgo out of the car to investigate what Corey was up to. The young lady instantly recognized what it was.

  “It is a chupacabra, I saw one while growing up in Puerto Rico years ago. Well, I was only eight years old but that is exactly what I saw. It occurred on my family’s farm,” explained the young Sylvia Vagara. She remembered that something was killing all the chickens and small farm animals, particularly the goats. The goats had been tied on a short leash in order to clear weeds from the land. They were found dead with the blood drained out of them. That is why they call the attacker a chupacabra or goat sucker. They seem to relish blood from animals, and of course, what worried many Puerto Ricans was, did they have a taste for human blood?

  “When you shine a light on a chupacabra, their eyes reflect back blood red and they flee. They seem to avoid the light and are never seen at all during the day. They are dangerous yet a mystery to modern science. Most people, including scientist, do not believe they exist but I saw one, well, really it was an accident. My grandparents found several dead animals and everyone went looking in the forest for the culprit. My mother sent me out to see if the pigs were still locked in their pen. I then noticed the creature. It had been hiding behind the family house all along. It ran, very quickly but then it managed to trap itself in a corner of an open pen. It stopped, turned around and looked at me then leaped straight up over the pen wire. I watched it clear the wire in a simple bound and it instantly disappeared into the jungle.”

  I was spellbound by the young lady’s forthright story and asked her, “Do they really drink blood?”

  “Well yes, they seem to kill the animals, then lap up the blood. We would always find puncture wounds on the animals. The chupacabra kills differently than you would expect to find from a dog. Dogs tear up the bodies. The animals killed by the chupacabra have not been torn up, but their blood is always drained.”

  Hidalgo, who was listening to her politely, then said to her, “There is no such thing as a chupacabra, they are nothing but dogs, perros.”

  Sylvia answered him, “They may have been dogs at one time, but they are not dogs now. It was no ordinary animal, I recognized that immediately. It was different from any dog I have ever seen.”

  Their order arrived and the waitress had other customer’s to attend to. Hidalgo and I thanked her; Corey thanked her and shook her hand, leaving a twenty dollar tip in it.

  They drove down Isleta Boulevard toward the ranch house after w
olfing down their hamburgers, discussing what they had learned from the young girl.” All I know is that painting of Penny’s, shows what I saw.” Hidalgo muttered as they drove past the swampland next to the Rio Grande River before getting into Los Lunas. He was having an argument with himself. He had seen what he had seen. He certainly believed the girl had really recognized the creature, but he couldn’t understand why his apparition had been a chupacabra. Something he had never heard of. He had never seen anything like it, and couldn’t understand why a chupacabra, considered by most as a folklore item even in Puerto Rico, would be the image he saw on the canyon walls at Chinle Wash. He had guessed that skin walkers couldn’t or wouldn’t leave the four corners area but what was the connection between chupacabras and skin walkers? But then he thought of the other name for them, namely shape shifters. Perhaps they really could change their shape at will. Confusion would be the best description of what was going on inside of Hidalgo’s mind. Even if there were such an animal, he didn’t understand its significance in his personal apparition. Why him?

  A Return to Zuni

  After June took a photograph of Penny’s painting she announced to everyone at the dinner table that she wanted to return to Zuni and ask the shaman some more questions after showing him the photograph. Over scalloped potatoes and ham the family sat around and discussed the trip. June felt that by confronting the shaman with a photograph he might be willing to share more information but this time she asked Corey if he would like to go with her.

  “It is a long drive over there and I get tired of the driving. I could use some help. Besides, the shaman seemed to know Corey. After all, Corey has spent some time at the pueblo, perhaps the shaman remembered him from the time he did construction work there. I suspect that Corey may be helpful.”

  With that said, early the next morning Corey and June loaded camping supplies into the back of his truck which still had a camper shell on it that June could sleep under. Corey took his standard sleeping gear; a tent, and sleeping bag with pads. He also threw in his river running cooking gear. He and June wanted to be prepared for anything.

  After driving most of the day they pulled over to camp thirty miles east of Zuni at El Morro National Monument. The ruins of Atsinna, a thirteenth century Zuni village built like a small fortress, are perched near the rim of El Morro Mesa. Below, on the sheer bluff, is Inscription Rock, bearing the names and comments of conquistadores, explorers, cowboys and settlers, and many others known only by their signatures. It was an ancient camping spot.

  At the base of the bluff is also a large pool that collects runoff water from the mesa. It became traditional, while stopping to take on water at the pool for visitors to inscribe one’s name, the date, and sometimes comments on the rock. Covering over two centuries of inscriptions, it reminded them of another place; a secret place, known to only a handful of people, discovered by Corey and me deep in the canyons of Serpiente. The one major difference was at Serpiente there were no Spanish inscriptions, just American Indian pictographs along with one strange inscription that appeared to be early Phoenician. The mystery of that inscription was still to be solved.

  The following day they gassed the truck up and had breakfast in Ramah then they traveled on to Zuni. Once there, June wondered around the pueblo rekindling friendships with families she had known for years. Corey did not recognize anyone there but many recognized him. By noon, June had exhausted her supply of friends and they headed the ten miles south to the shaman’s home.

  With some difficulty they found the traces of the turnoff. It looked like no one had been down it in years yet it obviously was the same tiny road that meandered through the trees that she had been down before. More of a wagon trail than a trail for automobiles, the faint tire grooves were overgrown with weeds, in places hiding them completely, but there was only one way through the small pinions and juniper trees. Their anticipation was growing, but as soon as they came into sight of the house they were taken aback.

  The house was not a house but a ruin, not unlike thousands June had seen during her tenure as a working archeologist. With the exception of where a fireplace had once been and where it abutted up against the sandstone bluff, the walls were only two or three feet high. With sheep and mice scat scattered all over the floor it appeared to have not been occupied for several hundred years.

  “Are you sure this is the place,” asked a totally mystified Corey?

  “Sure I am,” answered June, “I just can’t believe my eyes; I have never...”

  Corey finished her sentence with, “Neither could Hidalgo up on Chinle Wash.”

  They looked at each other feeling the hair on the back of their necks beginning to rise. Finally June slowly said, “But it has the exact same layout. Over there is where the old man laid in his bed, close to the hearth, and over there is where we sat and ate sandwiches.”

  Corey walked about a mile up one side of the bluff finding nothing and down the other way about a quarter of a mile before he ran out of bluff, looking to find anywhere a house could be hid, but he soon returned without finding a trace of a house. Undoubtedly, the old ruin had to be the correct place.

  They returned to the pueblo with the obvious questions but no one there had any idea what she was talking about. They knew there was some old ruins there but had never known of anyone living out there other than an occasional sheep herder. The young boy as well as the shaman was as mysterious to the people of Zuni as to June. They returned to Serpiente with more questions than answers.

  Journada de Muerto

  After our river trip down the San Juan the credulous might think that we would want to avoid rivers, but just the opposite occurred. Sometimes a myriad of scenarios present themselves in the engineering of an adventure, but adventures have so many prerequisites and realities all requiring hard labor. Hidalgo, Corey and I had all developed a fascination for exploring rivers, and now we had to juggle the responsibilities of working long days at the ranch and helping June with her historical research in the evenings. After much begging and borrowing, June had accumulated many books relating to New Mexico history. We would take turns reading them to educate ourselves and of course, we hoped to accumulate possible ideas and leads for our research. We knew we had to come up with an idea fast.

  We each had our own personal interest such as our extended families. Corey had relatives in Albuquerque, I had relatives in Texas and East Tennessee, and Hidalgo’s mother and father were living on the Navajo reservation. At times like these my other hobbies such as art and writing have suffered. Not from a lack of interest but rather a lack of time and energy.

  We were intrigued by river running and found ourselves talking about a way to sneak away and actually run a new river. During our breaks we found ourselves devising diabolical plots not unlike those all good river runners immerse themselves into as an ever accumulating pile of river guide books piled up in a cardboard box. I guess it is a trait exhibited by all souls who allow themselves to be immersed in the creative art of river running.

  After June and Corey returned to the ranch, the next few days we talked constantly about such things as skin walkers and chupacabras until the subject finally exhausted itself. Within a few days our lives had moved on. The problem we were dealing with was the historical society’s challenge. It was important to June, therefore it was important to all of us. The previous year we had not set out to win the prestigious award, we literally stumbled into it. This year, we wanted to compete for it which meant we had to spend long days running the ranch and evenings doing academic research.

  We were being pressured to reinvent ourselves again putting our hard learned skills together and working in a whole new direction. The problem was we were still interested in exploring the southwest by running its rivers. Rather than looking at towns and cities that after a while all begin to look alike, we wanted to explore the southwest the way it was before the floods of people who entered the area. Exploring rivers was the closest to the real west we could get; be
sides it was truly an adventure, a challenge, and downright fun. We just wanted to deal with challenges we had control over rather than the supernatural, which we had no control over.

  June decided it was time to explore a personal mystery. “I don’t understand; why do you kids want to explore rivers? What exactly is the allure of running rivers?”

  Hidalgo began an answer with, “It is the lazy person’s way of exploring the country.”

  “Lazy?” I countered, “I never worked so hard in my life, but I have to admit, it is a work that I truly love to do. I love an adventure, and with these guys, somehow even a short trip turns out to be an adventure.”

  Corey says, “Let’s face it, we love an adventure and river trips are always an adventure. Besides we are learning new personal habits, we absolutely depend upon each other, yet we learn self-dependency. If you lose something or forget to pack something, you learn to do without.”

  “That may be true,” replied June, “but we need to run this ranch right now, besides we also need to solve the historical society problem right now. We don’t have time to play. Besides, you kids always seem to get into trouble when you run rivers. Between the skin walkers and the chupracabras, I am worn a little thin.”