The Grey Pilgrim

by J. M. Hayes

  Mary declined Bill and Edith Burns’ offer to spend the night. It might have been the sensible thing to do so she could start out fresh, but the O’odham, though they didn’t say so, seemed anxious to leave and Mary felt the same way. She thanked Bill and Edith for helping her make contact and gave them the packages she’d brought by way of thanks, a new straw hat for Bill and a silk scarf for Edith. She wrote a quick note to Larry, telling him she’d arrived, was OK, and would be in touch as soon as she got established and the next party from her village went somewhere to trade. She tried to find out when that might be from the leader of the group but he couldn’t provide a specific answer, just when the need arose. She thought about sending along a note to J.D., then decided it wasn’t wise. Instead, she just asked Larry to tell him hello, and that, when she came out, she could be a lot more help with his Papago problem, if it hadn’t solved itself by then.

  Aside from her natural pleasure at beginning her field work, she realized this was a good time for her to get away. There had never been a man in her life but Larry, and even if his occasional digressions into the arms of other women were humiliating, she hadn’t considered paying him back in kind—at least not until J.D. The marshal was really getting to her, and it was obvious he felt something as well. What they’d been headed for had begun to seem almost inevitable, and Larry had been unwittingly encouraging them every step of the way.

  She needed time to think. To get her head on straight, or, if straight wasn’t where it was going to end up, be sure she was satisfied with its new direction. She didn’t want to see J.D. again until she was sure how much she wanted him, and how much she was willing to sacrifice in the process. Maybe it would have been best for her to go into the field with Larry for a few months. Then, his good qualities could have their daily, uninterrupted chance to win a reconfirmation of her feelings for him. It might work, at least until she saw J.D. again.

  Oh, fuck it, she told herself. She slung her pack on her shoulders. She wasn’t going to solve in one afternoon what she hadn’t been able to solve for weeks. The further she got from the people involved, especially J.D., the more rational she could be about how she felt and what was important.

  Mary was a little surprised that the Indians hadn’t brought any horses, but Bill Burns had told her the first group that came trading herded their cattle in on foot, so she’d come prepared. She fell into line and the little group hiked up out of the valley where the ranch buildings lay clustered in a grove of mesquite and cotton-wood, out into a wilderness of desert broom and creosote and cactus. Abbreviated peaks of volcanic stone rose intermittently, sentinels to warn the desert of this miniature invasion. Broken clouds produced a fitful November sun that gave the day only a sort of half-hearted warmth. It didn’t matter, she was sweating from exertion before they went a hundred yards.

  Within half an hour they had twisted and turned so much she wouldn’t have had any idea where she was if it weren’t for the peaks of the Baboquivari Range playing hide and seek with the clouds rolling lethargically in from the west. She wasn’t sure she could find her way back to the ranch. It gave her a little twinge of panic, realizing she was trusting her life to people she didn’t know, whose ways and thoughts were alien. But it passed. In fact, she reassured herself, she did know them, and she could hardly have chosen a gentler people. She would be safer in the middle of the desert in the company of these strangers than in some parts of civilized Tucson, even with her husband.

  They moved quietly, in an unhurried fashion that devoured the miles. The O’odham didn’t talk among themselves and Mary took her cue from them, matching their pace and keeping her mouth shut except to breathe. They were working her hard, especially since she hadn’t slept much in the last few days, but she was determined to keep up and not be a burden at such an early stage. She was making her first impression, and she very badly wanted it to be a favorable one. It could make a big difference in how quickly they began to accept her and how soon she could start collecting the information she needed.

  They flushed a covey of quail once, and several times rabbits broke from cover beside their line of march. Birds watched them pass from the safety of the scrub brush or a perch among the spines of a cactus. Occasionally they passed a giant saguaro, arms raised in surprise at encountering anything as unlikely as an anthropologist in this endless landscape.

  It was the season for occasional, gentle, weeping rains, and it could become quite cold, especially at night, but Mary was prepared for whatever they encountered. What she wasn’t prepared for was continuing their forced march straight through the day and beyond. When twilight gave way to full dark and they kept moving, Mary started to worry. There was a limit to how long she could last.

  It was after midnight when they finally stopped at the mouth of a rugged little canyon that wandered down from a low range she hadn’t even noticed until then. She hadn’t noticed much of anything for the last few hours. It had taken all her will just to keep lifting each foot in turn and putting it back down again without putting the rest of her down beside it for a brief nap on the desert floor.

  The Desert People started a fire using safety matches instead of twirled sticks or even flint and steel. Mary was too tired to be disappointed. They dug out utensils and food and Mary thought she should be helping or at least taking notes, but she must have drifted off because the next thing she remembered was a dark, leathery face above her, gently shaking her awake and offering a plate of beans, fry bread, and some jerked beef. The woman apologized for disturbing her guest, but insisted it was important that Mary eat a good meal because she must have strength for the trail in the morning. Mary wasn’t hungry and started to tell her so, but she was too weary to think of the right words in O’odham. She just took the plate because it was easier and ate a little to be polite until the plate was empty and they filled it for her again and she ate that too. Then she rolled over and went back to sleep while they sat and talked quietly around the fire. When they woke her in the morning to offer her breakfast, she discovered someone had covered her with one of their blankets.

  They followed the same routine for three days. Though Mary managed to stay awake a few minutes longer each night, long enough to help unload and set up their trail camp, she remained too weary to dig out her notebook and record more than a few cryptic sentences.

  The third day was cold and they walked through an intermittent mist that brought the normally distant horizons almost to within touching distance and soaked their clothing. Mary would have dug out her rain poncho, but none of her companions had one and it embarrassed her to be the only one who kept dry. She left it in her pack and shared the misery.

  That night they stopped at a rock shelter. It was as though the Papago were so in tune with their environment that their march was planned with the expectation of a wet day occurring when it did so that they could finish their march in such a place. She might have gotten mystical about it, but she was too wet and tired and cold.

  They had a much larger fire than usual that night. It wasn’t easy because everything was soaked, but they found some tinder that was dry enough to get things started and piled up wet wood close to the blaze where it could dry before it was added to the flames. They had a fresh stew of some sort. One of the men brought in a small animal and cleaned it and chopped it up into the communal pot. It looked like it might be a large rodent. She knew the Papago occasionally ate rat, so she just didn’t ask. It tasted fine. The fire warmed and dried them and Mary slept again.

  When she woke there was an old man with white hair and a thin white beard kneeling over her. He hadn’t been with them the night before. In fact, Mary suddenly noticed, only a few of her traveling companions, all of them women, remained around the dying embers of the fire. Except for the newcomer, all the men were gone.

  The old man bid her good morning in a polite, formal fashion, and introduced himself. “I am Siwani Mahkai,” he told her. It was his title, Chief Medicine Man, rather than a name, but she knew it
was possible no one in his village ever called him anything else.

  “And you are Marie?” He gave her name a Spanish pronunciation without turning it into Maria. She didn’t correct him. She knew she was mutilating plenty of O’odham words, and no one had been discourteous enough to mention it. Marie was fine with her.

  “You are the woman who would become an elder before her time, a sort of Mahkai to your people?”

  “Yes, Siwani Mahkai,” she agreed. Of all the people in his village, this man would be the most important. His title indicated that he was both their headman and their shaman. It was the later role that made him truly important. Papago society offered no higher niche to which one can aspire than maker of magics. If she got along well with the Siwani Mahkai she was virtually assured of success. If she didn’t, she might as well pack up and go home. Her time in his village would be wasted.

  “We are near our village,” he said. “There is no longer much physical distance to travel, but if you would come to us as a member of our people, and it is my understanding that such is your wish, then there is still a long journey before you.”

  Mary was puzzled, not quite awake enough to comprehend. Whatever game they were playing, it was his. He knew the rules. She would have to learn as they went along. It was what she had come for, though, so she nodded politely, noncommittally, and waited for him to proceed.

  “I am told you already know much about the ways of our people?”

  “I have learned what I could, but there are many gaps in my knowledge,” Mary answered.

  “Are you aware of the things which happen when a woman comes of age among the People?”

  “I know there is a sort of purification ceremony and then a great celebration.”

  He smiled. “You are correct. I have thought on it at some length, and decided, since you wish to become one of us, to live among us as a Person and not a guest, we must initiate you as we would a girl child of our own. We have built a woman’s hut for you. You will go to it for four days. There, you will fast and be taught and purified. We have built the hut here because you are not yet one of us. You carry strong magics of which you are unaware and which could harm our people unless they are removed. When you have been cleansed and you are a Person, we shall take you home. If you do not agree to these things, you may still come as our guest, but there will always remain a distance between yourself and the People, things you will not be allowed to see or participate in. The decision is yours. Will you become one of us?”

  Mary was stunned, but delighted. This would be participant observation at its best. They were giving her a chance to experience some of their ceremonies first hand. The sorts of things a people were normally reluctant to even discuss with an outsider, and they would let her live them. She tried to keep from sounding too eager as she agreed, but some of it must have shown because the old man grinned at her. He had an impressive set of teeth for a man his age who had never seen a dentist.

  “Good,” he said. He turned and gestured for one of the women. She was as old as he, and she hadn’t been part of the group that escorted Mary either. “This is Grey Leaves,” he said. “You must go with her and do as she instructs. She will take you to the women’s hut. It will be she who spends most of the purification time with you, teaching you a woman’s knowledge and preparing you to become O’odham. While you fast and are cleansed, I too will fast, and dream for you your secret name.”

  He rose and turned and walked away without another word. He was a tall, strong man, in spite of his obvious age, but he had a pronounced limp. She wondered whether it was the result of arthritis or an injury.

  “Come with me, child,” the old woman gently commanded. Mary scrambled out of her blankets and started gathering up her pack.

  “No, leave those things,” the woman said. Mary badly wanted take along a notebook at least, but, she reminded herself, their game, their rules. Besides, she had a good memory. She could write it all down as soon as the ceremonies were over. She followed the old woman and the younger ones trailed along behind. They walked a short distance into the desert to a low round, earth covered hut. Mary was impressed that they’d built something so substantial in such a short time. She started to bend down to enter but the old woman stopped her.

  “You must remove your clothing, child.” Mary had thought she was ready for anything, but she wasn’t ready for that. Modesty aside, it was very cold under the low, grey sky. There was a dusting of snow on the peaks behind them and frost clung to the surrounding brush. “It must be done,” the old woman prompted.

  Mary looked around. There were only the other women, waiting patiently with their burdens of pots and baskets. The men had all disappeared. Maybe being a participant observer wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. She started working at the buttons and buckles, feeling like an idiot.

  She half expected Larry and her fellow graduate students to jump out from behind the surrounding brush and start laughing and pointing. Or maybe all the Papago men would suddenly leap out and shout surprise and have a good laugh at the expense of the gullible anthropologist.

  In a couple of minutes she stood there like a desert version of September Morn. She felt so foolish she might have started giggling if the old woman hadn’t taken a pot from one of the others and dumped the icy water it contained over her head. She gave a small cry of surprise as she became one giant goose bump. Any inclination she’d felt to laugh was gone.

  “I wash from you all that is impure,” the old woman chanted. “I wash from you all that is unclean. All that is dangerous to yourself and others, I wash it from you.”

  There were at least a half-dozen pots filled with water. Mary wondered, fleetingly, if it was too late to change careers.

  Mirage Talker

  The sign read, John Parker, Attorney at Law. It hung outside the weathered frame shack that had originally been built to house his father’s church. Sells never had much of a population to draw a congregation from so the building wasn’t oversized in its new capacity. Both sign and building needed fresh paint. The sign had become hard to read, not that it mattered, since not many people here could read at all. Few of them had need of his services either, or could understand or afford them when they did. Parker didn’t care. He was here to create a political following and make an impression, not money. His crazy evangelical father had left him a small inheritance, as well as the building. It wasn’t much, but Sells was a cheap place to live.

  Occasionally he even lured in a client. It was a cool November morning on the way to a warm day. Parker heard the bell on his front door ring and got up to see who’d come in. The bell was cheaper than a receptionist. It was a young, wiry guy with a pinched-in face, rodent-like, Parker thought.

  “Can I help you?” he asked, doubting it. The guy’s denims were worn and dirty and his boots were run down at the heel. No money in this kid’s pockets.

  “I’m looking for John Parker, the attorney.” he said. He spoke pretty good English at least.

  “You’re in luck then.”

  “I need your help,” the rat-faced man said.

  “For?”

  “It’s a long story. I’d rather not tell it out here where somebody might interrupt us.”

  Parker thought the man was seriously overestimating the potential for his office to draw walk-in traffic, but he did have his desk and his law books in the back room. It helped keep up appearances.

  He would have preferred to send the little guy packing. It was hard to imagine how he could profit from whatever time this took, but everyone was a potential voter and he intended to run for tribal council again. And, you just never knew when something useful might walk through that door, or how it would be packaged. Parker mentally consulted the day’s schedule of appointments. It was, as usual, empty. “All right,” he said. “Come on back.”

  The little man looked around the office nervously, then took the chair he was offered. He started talking before Parker could get behind his desk, as if he expected to be
billed by the minute and couldn’t take a chance on wasting any.

  “My name is Pete, but they also call me Mirage Talker,” he said. “I guess I was always going on about the things I would have some day—White Man’s things. My family lived near here. My mother, she kept house for Dr. Saunders who used to work over at the clinic. She took me with her sometimes, when she cleaned his place, so I got to see more of the wonderful stuff the White Men have than most. My father would laugh at the absurdity of owning more than you could carry, but I was fascinated by the marvels I saw there. I wanted lights that burned without flames and the box that made music and voices. I wanted a car to carry them in, and a great house, big enough to hold all the people from my village.

  “As soon as I could, I left home and went to work on a ranch. I’m very good with horses, so I soon learned about money and how it was earned and traded and I began acquiring some of the things I had dreamed about.”

  “So far, you don’t need a lawyer,” Parker observed in an effort to hustle the little man along. He might have all day, but he didn’t want to take it.

  “Maybe I desired those things too much. I learned to save. I didn’t drink, didn’t waste it on short-lived dreams like so many other hands at the ranch. When I had enough to buy a car, I was going to drive it home and show them it wasn’t mirages I had talked about.

  “There was a regular poker game in the bunkhouse on Sunday nights. I watched it for a long time before I let them persuade me to join. At first, I was very careful, but I was also very lucky. I saw that car and my return home becoming grander. I would fill it with presents for everyone in the village. I began risking more of my savings. I lost it all. More. I owed the one they called Big Jack Lang several month’s wages.

  “Three days later I overheard him bragging about how he’d suckered a stupid little Papago out of all his savings at the poker table. I decided I would get it back.