Thinking that was a joke, Regan laughed. Tiffin didn’t. “That’s what I mean.”
“What?”
“You laughed.”
“Well, I thought . . . ”
“No, it’s because talking about spiritual things makes Anglos uncomfortable.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that. I mean . . . ”
“You mean they don’t?”
“Well, talking about personal beliefs makes everyone a little uneasy, doesn’t it? I mean, these are very personal, very subjective . . . ”
“Just the kind of thing an Anglo would say.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean rather than talk of the Spirit, you talk about the Spirit.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Well, tell me what you believe, spiritually.”
Regan’s Anglo buttocks squirmed in his seat. Had the question been, ‘do you have beliefs?’ the answer would have been a quick and unequivocal ‘yes’. And he felt himself to be passionate about them. However, asked what they were, he wasn’t so sure. He was surprised at the tepidity of what came out of his mouth for the next five minutes, and how convoluted his explanation was as his words raced around like sperm trying to attach themselves to meaning in hopes of giving birth to one, viable thought.
A cathedral-sized silence echoed in the tiny cab when the words ran out at the conclusion of their fruitless search.
Tiffin’s response, after a pithy silence, was a question. “Do you know the Sermon on the Mount?” he asked, enigmatically.
“Well, I’ve read it.”
“But do you remember it?”
“Verbatim? Of course not.”
“Then how can you know its meaning?” It was a rhetorical question. “It’s pretty much the core of Christianity, isn’t it?” Before Regan had the chance to form a reply, Tiffin continued: “Mima says words are just noise ‘til they’re burned on the heart and just lie there dead ‘til they’re walked out in leather.
“Mind if I tell you one of our stories?”
The fact that Tiffin obviously considered himself as much Indian as Irish had a jarring effect. Regan had always regarded him more as a misplaced Irishman. He surely looked it. But it was a prejudice formed by the fact that the family’s Irish heritage was the story he knew thus far. He was now about to learn the other side. “Sure, go ahead.”
“It’s one Mima Sol told us when we were kids.
“Changing Woman's twin sons, Monster Slayer and Born-for-Water, were born to rid the earth of Monsters who were killing all the people. When the boys were grown, a matter of 12 days, they told their mother that they wanted to visit their father.
“Changing Woman tried to discourage them, not properly identifying their father, and when that failed, telling them how dangerous the trip to see him would be, how fearsome the guardians at his house, and that he himself was without mercy.
“But they also got advice from others, such as the Arrow People, and especially Wind's Child who had been placed at their ear folds to advise them at all times.
“They overcame many hazards on their trip to their father's house and were magically given a white shell prayer plume that would protect them when they were in the Sun's house.
“They also received advice from Father Sky, Hornworm, as well as Water Sprinkler and Spider Man, which guided them along the top of a rainbow to the house of their father, the Sun.
“In the Sun's house, they underwent many trials to prove they were indeed his sons. The white shell prayer plume helped them survive these tests. In the end, the Sun accepted them as his own, clothed Monster Slayer in turquoise and Born-for-Water in white shell. Then he opened doors in each of the cardinal directions, doors of turquoise, white shell, abalone, and jet, offering his sons a different gift at each one: jewels, livestock and game, plants and beautiful flowers, rain and rainbows.
“But Wind's Child at their ear folds advised them to respond to each offer the same way. “ ‘We did not come for that, my father. We came for the pair of zigzag lightning bolts that lie up here, and flint shoes, flint clubs, flint leggings, flint garnets, flint headgear, flint wrist guards; these we came for. To slay the monsters who are destroying the people.’ ”
“Their father reminded them that, as his sons, they were brothers to the very monsters they wished to kill. He then placed agate in them, making them immune to injury, and gave them the garments and weapons they had asked for. Monster Slayer got dark flint and Born-for-Water blue flint garments.
“The Sun gave them prayer-sticks and instructed them that Born for Water was to sit watching the prayer-sticks while Monster Slayer went out to kill the monsters. If these prayer-sticks began to burn, this would signal that his brother was in danger and that he should go to him to help.
“He then took them to the sky opening, just over Mt. Taylor, and told them where to find Big God. Wind's Child then took word over to Hesperus Peak, to Yellow Wind, to spread the word that they were returning. The Sun placed Monster Slayer at the tip of a zigzag lightning and Born-for-Water at the tip of straight lightning, and shot them to the center of Hot Spring, the home of Yé'iitsoh, the monster.
“There they waited for Yé'iitsoh to come for water, as he did everyday when the sun was highest. When Yé'iitsoh arrived, he approached warily from each direction, a little closer each time, inspecting the vicinity of the spring. He saw no one as the twins were concealed by a dark cloud.
“After the fourth time, he came all the way to the spring and began to drink. When almost all of the water was gone, when Yé'iitsoh was drinking for the fourth time, Wind's Child told the twins to step out and make themselves known.
“They stepped into plain sight where Yé'iitsoh saw them. Then they exchanged taunts. Yé'iitsoh threw flint clubs at them, missing each time because Wind's Child was whispering warnings in their ears. The spinning club he threw cut a path through the trees and stones, like a tornado, making the land barren.
“Yé'iitsoh had no more weapons. At that point a big storm began, and Yé'iitsoh was wrapped in zigzag lightning that stripped off his flint armor. Wind's Child told the twins that this was their time now and to shoot into the sole of Yé'iitsoh's foot.
“Monster Slayer used one of his zigzag lightning arrows to do this. He then shot a straight lightning into Yé'iitsoh's hip, which brought Yé'iitsoh to his knees, but he arose. Monster Slayer then shot a zigzag lightning into the small of Yé'iitsoh's back.
“He fell to his knees, but rose yet again.
“Then Monster Slayer shot a straight lightning arrow into the back of Yé'iitsoh's head. This time Yé'iitsoh fell. At some distance away, from a place called Open-Mouth Bear, blood came pouring out. Yé'iitsoh had hidden his heart, nerves, and breath there. The two streams of blood, one from the body and the other from the distant place, moved toward each other.
“Wind's Child warned them that should these streams meet, Yé'iitsoh would come to life again. Monster Slayer immediately drew a zigzag line with his club between the streams while giving his call, "ha ha." Born for Water drew a straight line between the streams with his club while giving his call, "ha ha ha."
“These calls were captured by the crows, who repeat them still.
“The blood stopped flowing. The earth trembled and sounds of ground thunder, and fire, and smoke filled the sky. The blood turned to the lava that is seen around Mt. Taylor today.
“Monster Slayer removed the scalp of Yé'iitsoh, and the two were overcome by the vapors from the body. They helped each other stagger over to a juniper, where they recovered by chewing some of the sprigs.
“When they returned home, after an absence of only four days, they needed to convince their mother, Changing Woman, that they had actually been successful in killing Yé'iitsoh, so they showed her his scalp. She then danced outside with Yé'iitsoh's scalp between her teeth.”
Having finished his story, Tiffin dug the stub of a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and, cupping his Zippo against the i
nrushing wind, lit it expertly. “See what I mean?”
Doubt creased Regan’s forehead. “I’m not sure I do, frankly.”
Tiffin took a deep drag and spat out a sprig of tobacco that stuck to his tongue. “Mima Sol told us that story just one time, and I remember it just the way she told it, because I listened with my heart, which is the Indian way, and not just with my ears, which is the Anglo way. And that’s the way I’ll tell it to my grandkids someday. And, if they listen the right way, they’ll remember it the same and pass it along. When they do, they’ll be passin’ me along, too, and my dad, and his dad, and Mima Sol, and all the way back. That’s one thing.
“The other is that, while to you that story may just seem like an imaginative way to explain a volcano, it was real to the Jicarilla. Just as real as plate tectonics and magma and faults in the earth’s crust probably are to you.
“That’s the way everything is for the Jicarilla; every object, every kind of rock, or bird, or fish . . . even the wind, and rain, and fire, and dust, and pollen . . . everything has a story behind it. Nothing is here by accident. It all has a reason for being. So, everything has equal value and meaning. You, me, a buffalo, or a blade of grass.
“But there are evil spirits and witches, Skinwalkers, and monsters who try to nudge things out of balance, to create chaos. That’s why we have ceremonies, and why prayers are living parts of our lives. They are our weapons against those dark forces.”
“You believe all this?”
“It’s what Mima Sol believes. At least, what she was raised to believe.” Tiffin flicked the cigarette butt out the window. “But, like I said, it gets all mixed up with Catholicism, too. Anyway, I figured it might help you get a handle on her a little better.”
“Thanks.”
“What’s that mean, Mima Sol?” Tiffin asked point-blank, he tipped a ‘now watch this’ nod at Regan.
Soledad looked up, her awareness of the moment swimming to the surface of her deep black eyes. “You spoke?”
“You said you think there’s too much blood in your veins. What do you mean?”
There was a long pause during which she stared, unblinking, at her grandson, but seemed to be looking through him. Regan couldn’t help but imagine what a remarkably beautiful woman she must have been in her day. After an uncomfortable time, she spoke. “We have the wars of the world in our blood. The Cross and the kiva, Penitentes, Conquistadores, Apache, Comanche, Navajo . . . and Irish.”
She resumed her spinning and lapsed into a silence that stretched beyond Regan’s breaking point. Mention of Tiffin’s Irish blood opened the door. “Mrs. Conllan. Can you tell me the story of how you and your husband met?” He ignored Tiffin’s shake of the head. “Mrs. Conllan?”
Soledad’s fingers expertly twisted the twine. “The Navajo learned to weave from Spider Woman, on a loom of sky and earth cords, with weaving tools of sunlight, lightning, white shell, and crystal.”
She began another spool. Regan looked from her to Tiffin, who shrugged, and back again. “Mrs. Conllan, can you tell me about Thomas.”
Her fingers stopped so suddenly that Regan was startled. “Thomas?”
“Thomas Conllan, your husband.”
“My Irishman.”
“That’s right, Mrs. Conllan. Your Irishman. How did you meet?”
All at once it seemed the years fell away and, with them, Soledad’s Jicarilla ‘obtuseness’. “You are the young man writing about the family?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You’ve read Tiffin’s journal.”
“Yes.”
“Mm.” She studied him closely, in a way much more characteristic of her Spanish than her Indian heritage. He got the feeling she was deciding whether or not he was worthy. “He nearly died that night, you know.”
“What night, Mrs. Conllan?”
“The night of the fire, in Chama.”
Regan was familiar with Chama’s dubious history of fires. Those of 1886 and ‘89 in which various railroad facilities burned to the ground – not uncommon in an industry whose chief product was sparks. Numerous other conflagrations that had, over time, consumed pretty much all the old town except Foster’s Hotel. Oddly enough that place, which any reasonable person would suspect the most likely to self-immolate, still stood. But there was one fire that nearly wiped Chama off the map.
“You mean the fire of ’25?”
Soledad’s gaze fell to her hands, which at last had become still. “The Lady’s Fire.”
“Ladie’s Fire?”
Chama, New Mexico
Tuesday, July 8th, 1925
The knock at the door was so soft it barely disturbed the silence. Molly Evans turned down the wireless and listened.
“Did you hear that, Casilda?”
The maid, hunched over her embroidery in the dim light of the oil lamp, sat up, brushing her jet black hair back over her shoulders. “What?”
The knocking sounded again, no louder than before. “Ah! I hear!” Casilda got up and disappeared down the hall toward the front door. Molly listened to the muffled sounds of greeting, but there was something furtive about the voices. She put her headphones aside and went to investigate for herself. “Casilda?” she said, halfway down the hall. The figures of Casilda and the visitor were framed dimly against the door glass. “Who is it, dear? Turn on the light.”
“No! Please!” said the stranger, her shadow poised for flight. Her voice trembled with panic.
“Darcy? Is that you?”
Darcia Velarde was a quiet little Navajo girl. Married less than a year, she and her husband, Archie, had moved to Chama from Espanola when he got a job as brakeman on the D&RGW. They lived in one of the apartments at Foster’s, over the Harvey House Restaurant. Archie had been in the War, and it showed. Local speculation held that his erratic and often odd behavior was the result of a run-in with mustard gas, and that he was probably shell-shocked as well. Whether his demons were acquired on the eastern front or ingested at his mother’s breast, he unleashed them on the hapless Darcia whenever he got drunk; pretty much a nightly occurrence.
Molly reached for the light switch. “Please!” said Darcia, staying her arm in the darkness. “Don’t.”
“Bring her into the living room, Casilda.”
Darcia allowed herself to be led up the hall, but stopped short of the living room door. “Can you turn off the light.”
“And fall over ourselves in the darkness . . . ”
“Please.”
Molly hesitated. She knew what had happened. Darcia had been beaten again and didn’t want them to see the bruises. “I’ll turn off the electric light,” she said by way of compromise. “But we’ll have to leave the oil lamp burning. Okay?”
She sensed more than saw Darcia nod in the shadows that choked the hall.
With the lights acceptable, Casilda and Darcia entered the room.
“Sweet Jesus!” Molly gasped involuntarily, for even the relative darkness could not conceal Darcia’s swollen eye and broken nose. Darcia instantly buried her face in her hands and retreated into the shadows.
“Come here!” said Molly, crossing to her and taking the arm opposite the one Casilda held. “Come in here at once. Casilda, go fetch Doc right away.”
“No!” Darcia cried, they felt her tense to run.
“Why, of course you need the Doctor, child,” Molly scolded. “Don’t be foolish, now.” While she was saying this, they guided her to the rocking chair opposite the one in which Casilda had been sitting. There, in the penumbra of the light, she dissolved in tears.
“I’d rather die,” Darcia said softly. “He’s a hard man.”
Molly could see her point. Whatever opinion folks had of Dunham – and opinions were many and varied – no one would have mentioned gentle bedside manner as one of his leading characteristics. And, right now, Darcia needed tenderness as much as she needed a cold compress.
“I get Margaret?” Casilda suggested.
“How about that, Darcy?�
��
“Margaret?”
“Doc’s nurse. She’s as good as him for something like this. Better. And she won’t say anything you don’t want her to.”
Darcia was reticent; the other women could practically hear her inner struggle. Finally, she nodded. Casilda ran out on her errand before the girl could change her mind.
Chapter Nineteen
“Now, you tell me all about it.” Molly moved the kettle to the middle of the parlor stove that, even in summer, was kept smoldering to take the edge of the cool of night. She stoked the fire and nursed a flame from the ashes while Darcia spoke. It was nothing Molly hadn’t heard before, from the same lips, chapter, verse, chorus, de capo. And she could practically mouth the pathetic refrain:
“He’s not bad, Mrs. Evans. Drink makes him crazy. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Tomorrow he’ll be so sorry. He’ll tell me he loves me.”
Molly almost wanted to strike the idiot girl herself. Instead, she got her mother-of-pearl handled mirror and held it in front of Darcia’s eyes. “Does that look like love to you?”
Darcia turned her head away. Molly grabbed her by the hair and pulled her toward the light. “Open your eyes, Darcy! Now, damn it! Look at yourself!”
Reluctantly, Darcia did as she was told, beholding the wreckage of her face with her one good eye. The emotional sinews that had been holding her together lost all resistance. Her chin sank to her chest and she let go. The cry that swelled from the center of her being began as a sob, then a moan, then a chilling wail articulating in sounds a pain no words could convey. Molly dropped to her knees and embraced the girl whose blood, mucous, and tears stained the shoulder of Molly’s dress.
“You’re staying here tonight,” Molly said, rising in response to the shriek of the teakettle. Darcia was too weak to protest. When she had drunk her tea, she allowed herself to be led upstairs to the little guest bedroom under the dormer. There, Molly stripped her, sponged her gently down with warm, soapy water, dressed her in one of her own nightgowns, and put her to bed.
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