Homespun Christmas

by Aimée Thurlo

  “How about a muffin?” she asked, reaching into the small woven picnic basket she’d brought along.

  “Sure, but don’t fill up. Once we get to the trading post Aunt Emma and Uncle Rudy run, you’ll want to taste their naniscaadas. You’ve never tried handmade tortillas like these. Pour honey on them, fold them over, and you’ll think you’ve tasted heaven. We’ll have coffee there, too, and take our time visiting. That’ll give me a chance to learn about Maxine Redhorse.”

  “Sounds good,” she said, handing him an oatmeal applesauce muffin.

  “I think you’re going to like my aunt and uncle,” he said, eyeing the muffin. “Dad didn’t get along with them, mostly because he was a Modernist and they’re Traditionalists. Those are two very different paths.” He took a bite of the muffin, nodding his head to show his approval.

  “And you walk a path different from all of them,” she said.

  “True, but I don’t challenge Uncle Rudy like Dad did,” he said. “One word of caution—don’t mention Dad by name. Traditionalists believe that’s one way to call the chindi.”

  “I’ll be careful. Any other advice?”

  “Yeah. Listening is more important than talking when you’re trying to establish trust—and never interrupt a long pause in the conversation. There’s no such thing as awkward silence among the Diné.”

  “All right. I’ll remember,” she said.

  As the miles stretched out, she leaned back in her seat. Though she wasn’t looking at Josh, she was aware of everything about him, from the aura of roughness his black leather jacket gave him, to the way he squared his strong shoulders when he drove. For a moment she wondered what it would be like to rest her head against him and have him drape his arm over her protectively.

  Realizing those thoughts would get her nowhere, she pushed them out of her mind and forced herself to focus on something else. “Do you ever think of how far we’ve come? Independence is starting to show signs of life and new businesses have started cropping up.”

  “You’re gaining ground, and that’s something, but it’s too soon to celebrate. You may still have a fight ahead of you.”

  “True, but I want to celebrate the little wins along the way,” she said.

  Myka knew he was worried, but for the first time in months, she wasn’t. Thinking about the future no longer filled her with fear. What she felt now was hope and the excitement that came from high expectations. The best was yet to come.

  * * *

  JOSHUA GREETED HIS UNCLE, who was standing on the wooden porch of the trading post, with a friendly smile and a nod of greeting. According to custom, they didn’t shake hands.

  “Is this a bad time, Uncle?” Joshua asked, noting that his uncle was wearing the white sash of a hataalii.

  “Not at all. Come in.”

  As they stepped inside the store, Joshua glanced around. The building dated back to the 1950s, when it was constructed to replace one of the earliest trading posts on the Navajo Nation. As he went farther into the room, he detected the aroma of freshly ground coffee, fry bread and spicy burritos.

  At the Turquoise Bear Trading Post, the old ways and the new coexisted naturally. The store carried farm and ranch supplies, Spam, powdered milk and bags of flour along with microwave pizza, CFL light bulbs and rental movies on DVD. In the corner, up on a shelf, was a TV set broadcasting a network news program, thanks to a relay tower on the nearby mountain. Reception was pretty good through the rabbit ears, Joshua noticed absently, looking up at the screen.

  The tall man led them around the old oak-and-glass counter filled with Navajo jewelry to a spot beside a very modern ceramic heater. “I had to do a Sing earlier, but my healing work is done for today.” He waved Joshua and Myka to chairs beside a small table. “Sit and make yourselves comfortable.”

  Moments later, Joshua’s aunt joined them, bringing a tray that held freshly brewed coffee, naniscaadas and honey.

  They ate slowly, enjoying the food and coffee, and after they were finished, Joshua’s aunt spoke.

  “Nephew, tell us what brings you here today.”

  Joshua told them about HMI and their need for high-quality wool, then he waited.

  Myka followed his lead and remained silent.

  “The woman you’re searching for is...difficult,” Rudy said at last. “When she came back home I did an Enemy Way Sing for her.” For Myka’s benefit, he added, “That’s a ceremony to rid a person of the evil they come into contact with during war.”

  He took a deep breath, then continued. “It helped her, but she still struggles. That’s why she’s chosen to live a solitary life. Of course that’s not unusual for a Navajo. Great distances often separate us.”

  “What we have to offer would be a blessing to her and us,” Myka said.

  “It’s good that you think of it that way,” Rudy said with an approving nod. “That’s the essence of harmony, when both sides are in balance.”

  “Do you think it’s safe for us to pay her a visit?” Joshua asked.

  “That depends. If you drive up and wait in the truck until she asks you to approach, you’ll be fine. If you go up there like the bilagáanas, the white people,” he said, “and knock on her door, you’ll probably not get the welcome you want.”

  Myka bit back a smile at what she would classify as the understatement of the year. She’d heard about Maxine’s shotgun-style greeting.

  “We’ll stay in the truck,” Myka said. “We don’t want to offend anyone.”

  Rudy smiled at her. “Respect will get you far here.”

  “She’s been in a better mood ever since she adopted that horse, a mustang from the Bureau of Land Management. She’s training it, and working with the animal makes her happy,” Emma said. “The horse, too, has found its purpose.”

  “Can you give me directions to her place? This is what I’ve got,” Joshua said. He showed his uncle the hand-drawn map he’d made based on information from a friend of his father’s.

  “The rain last summer washed out part of the road, so you’ll need to turn here and go through this canyon,” Rudy said, and gave him more precise directions. “It’s actually a few miles shorter this way, too.”

  Soon Joshua had what he needed. “Thank you, uncle.”

  “Walk in beauty, nephew,” the man said.

  “Ask about her native blue dye, too,” Emma told Myka. “Blue has always been difficult, but she’s found a way to create a particularly beautiful shade.”

  “Thank you. I’ll do that,” Myka said.

  As they set out, Myka felt a touch of excitement. “We use mostly commercial dyes, so that sounds really interesting.”

  “Remember that out here knowledge isn’t shared easily. It’s considered a living thing, something to be protected. Lead the conversation, but don’t force it. You’ll get farther that way.”

  “What an incredible place the Rez is. It’s like entering a different country—with its own rules and customs.”

  “A lot of our young people can’t wait to get away from here. It’s hard to make a living off the land, and not everyone has the motivation to farm or raise livestock. Those who are able to move away generally leave.”

  “Like your dad?”

  “He left the Rez at eighteen, but I was never really sure why.”

  “Maybe he had dreams, too, and those led him away,” she said, and in a thoughtful voice, added, “it takes a special kind of courage to leave everything that’s familiar to you and reach out to the unknown.”

  “A quiet strength, the hardest of all for a teenage son to see or appreciate,” he said, his words all but drowned out by the rumble of the engine.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  AS THEY TURNED off the main highway, the path ahead became nothing more than two ruts lined with bone-jarring holes th
at forced Myka to hold on to the armrest.

  “How much longer do we have to drive on this washer board track?” she asked, then clenched her teeth as another pothole bounced her hard from side to side.

  “The house should be up ahead, two miles.”

  They continued traveling at a slow, steady rate, then at long last, she saw a huge, fenced-in pasture extending up and over a low rise, then down into a low area along a shallow creek. Sheep were everywhere. “That’s the largest herd of Churros I’ve ever seen! And look at that wire fence. It must be eight feet high.”

  “Helps keep most of the predators out,” he said, turning toward the house and driving down the fence line. A moment later he parked the truck in full view of the main house, a cinder block home with a gray scratch coat of mortar instead of paint. Beyond, adjacent to the fence, was a large red barn.

  He leaned back, prepared to wait. “She’s got it better than most. Out here you see lots of single wide mobile homes or three-room houses with sheep pens nearby, but usually no overhead cover.”

  “Even with such a tall fence, it must be hard to keep out the coyotes.”

  “Yeah, it is. They might not be able to jump that high, but some can climb or dig under. She probably has some dogs to help discourage attacks.” He shifted in his seat, making himself comfortable. “There they are.” He pointed toward three large mutts who’d come over to the fence to check them out. Just as he spoke, the animals began to bark.

  “So how long does it take before a person invites you in?” she asked.

  “Depends. Things run on Indian time out here.”

  After about ten minutes, Myka began to get restless. The dogs had stopped barking, having disappeared somewhere across the large enclosure. “Do you think this is her way of telling us to leave? Her truck’s parked over by the barn, so she’s probably home and keeping an eye on us, right?”

  “Not necessarily, and it hasn’t really been that long, not by Indian standards. Also, keep in mind that if she’s working in the barn she may not have heard us pull up. She probably ignores the barking dogs except at night.”

  Josh had parked in the sun, and after a while, the truck’s cab began to heat up. He rolled down the window.

  A second later, Myka sat up. “Did you hear that?”

  “What?” he asked, glancing around.

  “That frantic whinnying. When I took riding lessons in high school I learned about horses, and that sound means trouble. Something’s not right.”

  He stepped out of the truck and listened. “Yeah, you’re right. That’s probably what got the dogs’ attention, too.”

  “Your uncle told us not to leave the car, but if she’s in trouble...”

  “Hang on for a bit,” he said. The whinnying stopped, then started again, followed by the sound of barking dogs.

  “Come on, we’ll both go,” Myka said. “If she gets angry, you can blame it on me.”

  Myka took a small baggie from inside her purse, then ran along the wire fence toward the barn.

  About five feet from the entrance, she heard someone yell, “Quiet!” The dogs instantly stopped barking.

  As Myka ran up, she saw the dogs sitting inside the fence, staring at something in the turnout area just beyond the stall. She tried to get a closer look, but a large black horse was running back and forth inside a welded pipe corral, snorting, pacing and pawing the ground. He had a halter on and was dragging a lead rope behind him.

  Myka walked up slowly. “Easy, boy.” As she approached, Myka saw a tall, slender Navajo woman in jeans and a flannel shirt on the ground in the center of the small enclosure. Her black hair hung in a single braid down her back.

  “Hang on!” Myka called to her in a soft voice. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Joshua moving slowly toward the woman, staying outside the enclosure, and trying not to spook the horse more than it already was.

  “Don’t come in while he’s upset. If he runs at you or spins around and kicks, I’ll get trampled,” the woman said.

  “All right. Are you hurt?” Myka asked.

  “I twisted my ankle when I fell, but I’ll be fine.” She reached down, gingerly feeling the side of her scuffed Western-style boot.

  “I’ll call 911,” Joshua said in a quiet voice, his eyes on the horse.

  “Don’t bother. They’ll take an hour to get here and I’m not lying on the cold ground that long. Give me a few more minutes,” she said firmly. “I’ll be fine.”

  Myka slipped between the fence rails into the adjoining turnout area. Standing at one end, she took some apple slices from the baggie she’d brought and placed them on the palm of her hand. “Come on, big guy. You like apples, don’t you?”

  The horse sniffed the air, nostrils flaring, but didn’t approach.

  “If I get the horse to come over to me, Joshua can help you out of there,” Myka said.

  “He won’t come to you,” the woman replied. “He’s ornery.”

  “What’s his name?” Myka asked.

  “Frank—short for Frankenstein. He’s...moody. One second he’s great—the next, nuts.”

  “Wild mustang?” Joshua asked, slipping through the rails and drawing closer while Myka kept the horse’s attention.

  “Not so wild anymore, just unpredictable.”

  Myka placed a second piece of apple on her palm, then reached into the baggie, and began eating one herself. “These are good, Frank,” she said, holding out her hand a little farther.

  Frank came over slowly and took the apple slices. As soon as he did, Joshua went to the woman, lifted her into his arms, and carried her out of the enclosure.

  Myka watched him, realizing how strong he was and wishing she could be in his arms like that. With a tiny sigh, she focused and went to meet them.

  Although Joshua would have carried her all the way back to the house, the woman refused. “Just let me lean on your shoulder. I’ll hobble back.”

  “You’ll need to see a doctor to make sure you haven’t broken anything,” Myka said.

  She shook her head. “I handle things differently. There’s a hataalii at the trading post near here. He knows the Plant People—the plants that grow on the Rez,” she added for Myka’s benefit. “He makes a herbal salve for sprains and swollen joints that works wonders. I’ll call him as soon as I’m inside.”

  “He’s my uncle,” Joshua said.

  She looked up at Joshua. “I’m Maxine Redhorse. Did your uncle send you?”

  “No, we came on another matter. I’m Joshua Nez and this is Myka Solis.”

  “I’m really glad we came by when we did,” Myka said, helping Maxine along by giving her another arm to hold on to.

  “So am I,” Maxine said. “I would have crawled back to the house, but it’s a ways.”

  Myka heard the pride in her voice and understood. When all else failed, sometimes that was the only thing that kept you going.

  Once they were inside the house, Myka helped Maxine into a weary-looking sofa placed beneath the window.

  Maxine shifted, sitting sideways with both her legs up. “Would you be willing to get me some of that salve from your uncle?” she asked Josh. “I’ll pay you for your time. There’s money in that desk drawer.”

  “I’ll go, and there’s no need to pay me,” Joshua said. “Will he know what you need?”

  “Ask him for the yellow salve. It’s made of rabbitbrush, asters and some other ingredients.” She gestured with her chin toward the drawer. “Take thirty for the hataalii, and some to cover your gas.”

  “While he’s gone, why don’t I help you slip your boot off and get some ice?” Myka said.

  “I’ll take the boot off myself, but you can get me some ice from the freezer and wrap it up in the dishcloth by the sink.”

  Myka returned moments later
with the makeshift ice pack. By then, Joshua was gone.

  As Maxine held it against her ankle, Myka walked to the display case hung on the wall. “Wow, so many medals and commendations!”

  “Most are campaign ribbons for Iraq, then Afghanistan. I’d stuck all of those in a drawer, but the seniors at the local VFW made me that case and I didn’t want to disappoint them.” Maxine remained quiet for a moment, then added. “They display their medals because they’ve had time to move on. My memories are still too fresh.”

  Myka said slowly, “The pain from a wound that has yet to heal can be nearly overpowering.”

  “Yeah, it can. Did you serve overseas?”

  “I’m not a vet,” Myka said. “I’m a widow.”

  “Did your husband serve?”

  “No. He was in an industrial accident,” she said.

  Maxine nodded, but respecting her privacy, didn’t ask any further questions. “So tell me, Myka, what brought you and Joshua here today?”

  Rather than give the sales pitch she’d rehearsed, Myka told her about Independence and HMI. “Things are finally turning around for us, but we need more quality wool if we’re going to meet the demand. You were recommended to us,” she said.

  “Once a year my aunt and I shear the sheep and wash the wool. We don’t process it any farther than that—it’s not carded or anything.”

  “What were you planning to do with it?”

  “Sell it, eventually, but I don’t have much to do with people these days, and I’d need the right contacts. Since it’s all properly stored, I’m in no rush. Reach into that first drawer,” she said, pointing. “There’s an envelope with a sample of my wool. Take a look.”

  Myka did, studying the color, fiber diameter and staple length. “It’s very good quality. Can I see the rest?”

  “There’s a storeroom inside the barn, first door on your left. If you want to open one of the bags, go ahead, but when you’re done, make sure you reseal it properly.”

  Myka went outside, and following Maxine’s directions, found the storage room. The wool had been placed in vacuum-sealed bags stacked ceiling high atop a layer of wooden pallets. There was enough wool there to keep HMI going until next shearing season.