Wild Indigo

by Sandi Ault

  At first I thought she was referring to the wolf. Then I wasn’t sure. I frowned, confused. “What are you talking about?”

  “That beautiful boy. The one you spend time with. He’s good to look at. And smart, too. He’s good for you. I’ll bet he’s good in the sack, too.” She cackled loudly at this, her eyes squeezing into tight squints of delight.

  “Kerry? How do you know about Kerry?”

  She slapped the tabletop and twisted her head, laughing hoarsely. “Maybe I saw you with him. Maybe I was flying by and looked in your window. Or maybe I heard some people talking. How did you get that bump on your head?” She turned back to the hearth to fill her own cup.

  While her back was turned, I quickly sniffed my tea to make sure it wasn’t the same thing I’d had the first time I’d come here.

  “It’s not a cura, Mirasol. It’s just some Indian tea. It grows on the mountain. Do not be afraid.” She turned then to face me, smiling again.

  I shook my head. There was no fooling Esperanza. She could see out of the back of her skull. “What bump on my head?” I instinctively placed my hand on my scalp and found a knot beneath my thick mane of hair where the owl struck me. She couldn’t have seen that small knob through my tresses. “How did you know I had a bump on my head?”

  “I’m a bruja, Mirasol. That’s why people come to me, because they need healing. I can see what ails them and I give them a cura.” She seemed irritated with me that I would question her talents. “You know, that beautiful boy of yours has more brains than you do, Mirasol. Maybe I should work with him instead of you. At least he knew what to do when you got that smack on your cabeza.”

  I clamped my lips shut, trying to control my face. It was only feeding Esperanza’s ego for me to show my incredulity. She had a diverse bag of mysterious tricks. On previous occasions, she’d disappeared, practically in front of my eyes, and I now knew that she did this partly to impress me. I took a drink of my tea.

  “I see you’ve taken up with my good friend Mrs. Santana,” she said. “This is good. She is a good teacher for you.”

  My mind was reeling. How did she know about Momma Anna? What else did she know about me?

  “It’s too bad about her son. I felt very sorry about that. I don’t know much about that, of course; you know I can’t see into everyone’s secrets. But I can tell you this: it’s not what it seems. And I think there’s another one dead, but maybe he doesn’t know it yet. One of their brujos. I think he was the first one of them that died over this.”

  “Over what? What are you talking about, Esperanza?”

  “I’m talking about what you think was done by los búfalos.”

  “You mean the stampede? I saw it happen.”

  “You only think you saw it.”

  “I saw the man die, Esperanza. He was gored and then trampled by a herd of bison. I couldn’t do anything to save him. I nearly got killed myself.”

  “You are the only one who was in any danger from those beasts. That other one? He was already dead. Now you have a different kind of beast to worry about.”

  I had enough experience with Tecolote to take this last thing seriously. In our previous situation, she had warned me about what she called “the black thing” that was stalking me. And she had turned out to be right: a person with a dark purpose had indeed been looking for an opportunity to silence me and end my search for my friend’s killer. Though her visions were hard to read literally, hindsight had taught me that they were true enough to be trusted.

  I felt my pulse escalate. “Am I in danger?”

  She raised a bony finger and pointed it at me, its knobbly knuckle causing it to hook and curve before it settled on a path generally in my direction. “You were trying to decide that yourself just last night, no? Whether to follow your own nature or leave things alone?”

  I remembered my conversation with Kerry about the messages of the stars versus the owl. I looked hard at Esperanza, whose black eyes were fixed on me like two tiny headlights. “What are you saying?”

  She lowered the finger and twisted her chin up and her ear down, looking sideways at me, as if to study me from a different perspective. “It is your nature I am talking about, Mirasol. You’re always going to be seeking the truth. That is usually dangerous, wouldn’t you agree?”

  I didn’t answer. I was considering now what Roy had said about me always finding trouble.

  “This is why you came here,” Esperanza said, pushing her cup aside as if she needed more space. She placed both her palms on the table and leaned forward over it. “You are in the dark. They want you in the dark. And we need to let in the light so you don’t get swallowed up. You know, they go into the ground, in the dark down there. Then they eat the peyote so they can fly out the little hole at the top and be free of their bodies, of the darkness. But you, you must go another way to find the light. What about your writing? Are you writing?” Esperanza had a way of raising the pitch of her voice to a shrill batlike squeak when she was getting ready to show power.

  Instinctively, I drew back from her, as if to brace myself. I felt defensive and fearful. “I’m working on a book about the pueblo’s life and ways. That’s what I’m doing with Anna Santana.”

  Esperanza leaned even farther forward, rising a little out of her chair so that her upper body was completely over the table. “You are not an Indian! That’s not who you are. What about Santa Lucia? Do you still carry her with you?”

  I fingered the silver St. Lucy medallion inside my shirt. Esperanza had given it to me last spring and told me she was a white saint, a yellow-haired saint, the patron saint of writers.

  Just then, the bruja’s hand flew out and seized the medallion, pulling me forward by the neck so that the chain bit into my flesh in back and I was forced to throw my hands out on the table to keep from falling face-first into the scarred wood plane between us.

  The light in the room vanished and I was underground, in the dark. A small red glow came from some fiery embers in a pit in the center of the room, and when my eyes adjusted to the blackness, I could see the naked man lying prone in the dirt, his back bloody with a pattern of claw marks. Three peyote buttons nested in the center of a tiny micaceous clay bowl on the ground beside him, along with an olla, a pottery water jar.

  I heard a snakelike rattle and spun around just in time to see the bear coming toward me, his face a man’s face—painted white on one side and black on the other—a red strip of cloth tied across his forehead. The bear’s huge arm suddenly swiped at me and clawed me across the face. I fell backward and hit my head on something hard, something so hard it caused my ears to ring and ring and ring.

  I felt the cool wetness of the cloth on my burning cheek. I opened my eyes and found Tecolote’s face inches from mine, her eyes black moons in a sea of flesh arroyos. “Mirasol,” she said tenderly. “You have been marked by el oso.”

  10

  The Scar

  As Mountain and I came in the door of the BLM, Rosa, the receptionist, looked at me, jumped to her feet, moved to the edge of the counter she was stationed behind, and gasped with horror. “Eeee! Jamaica! What happened to your face?” Her eyes were wide, her mouth gaping.

  That morning I had woken numb and angry, although I had no clarity about why. I laced my smoke-jumper boots, tucked my tan BLM shirt into my brown uniform pants, put on my RPA belt with the pistol holster, extra ammunition clips, collapsible nightstick, knife, and handcuffs. I pulled on my multipocket khaki vest with the shield pinned on it. I looked in the mirror and felt disconnected, as if I weren’t in my own body, almost as if I were looking at someone else. My wavy blonde hair streamed around my face, over my shoulders, and down my back. I squared my hat up even with my eyebrows, then tipped it a little to the left—just the way I liked it, as if I saw nothing out of the ordinary. The four claw marks on my face looked like war paint, bright scarlet, crossing the right cheek on the diagonal from the corner of my eye and ear to the edge of my mouth and the jawline. I had a stran
ge feeling of detachment about my disfigurement.

  Now Rosa’s face was a very different kind of mirror, reflecting a heady mix of revulsion and dismay. She couldn’t stop staring at me.

  For some reason, I felt irritated by her interest—or more likely, by having to explain something I couldn’t. “It was wild animals,” I said, and I continued down the hall toward Roy’s office, leaving Rosa staring after me, her mouth still agape.

  Roy was behind his desk, which was littered with papers. He had his head down studying the incident report I’d filed late Saturday night. I tapped on the door frame, and he looked up over the little cheater glasses he’d been using to read. He ripped them off and stared at me. His mouth fell open, too. Mountain ran around Roy’s desk and wagged his tail. Roy reached out absentmindedly and patted the wolf on the back, but he never took his eyes off my face. Mountain was obviously frustrated by the lack of attention. Normally he was the object of intense adoration when we visited the BLM—or anyplace else, for that matter.

  “Mind if we come in?”

  “What the hell happened to your face?” Roy stood up from his desk and came around to study me up close, the pup following him, hoping for more rubs. Roy went to the door and pushed it shut. “Looks like you been in a damn fight with a big cat.”

  “Close,” I said, moving in front of the desk and lowering myself into one of the two chrome and leather chairs—the one farther from the entry since I don’t like to sit with my back to a door. Mountain took his place beside me and sat down, too.

  The Boss sunk into the chair next to me, a gaze of disbelief on his face as he studied my cheek. “How’d you get that?”

  “Well, it’s hard to explain.” I felt uncomfortable in his unbridled stare.

  “Not the wolf.”

  I snorted. “No.”

  “Was it that thing with the buffalo? I didn’t notice anything the other night.”

  “No.”

  “You’re not getting into it with that forest ranger of yours, are you? I thought he was a—”

  I cut in. “You know better than that. It was…You know what? You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  Roy twisted his mouth to one side, impatient. “Try me.”

  I shook my head no.

  “You gonna need shots or anything?”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “You’ll need to see a doctor anyway or that thing could be a permanent fixture on your mug.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Don’t mess around with it, Jamaica. Better safe than sorry. There’s a dermatologist in Santa Fe who took care of my wife when she got a spot of skin cancer on her nose. You can’t hardly tell where he cut it out.” He picked up his pencil. “I’ll get you his number.” Before he could say more, there was a sharp rap at the door. The Boss vented loudly at it. “Go ’way. I’m in a meeting.” He thumbed his Rolodex.

  But the doorknob twisted and Rosa stuck her head in the narrow opening she made. “It’s kind of important.”

  “What?” Roy barked, still holding the pencil, ready to write.

  “It’s the governor of Tanoah Pueblo, Eliseo Contreras. And War Chief Ruben Rael.” She looked at me then. “They asked to see Jamaica’s supervisor.”

  Roy snapped the pencil in two. “Oh, hell. What now?” Then he looked at me. “You stay right here.” He started toward the door, pointing at Rosa. “Go put them in the conference room. And don’t say a word about Jamaica being here.”

  I sat in Roy’s office and counted to twenty, then to fifty. I could feel the claw marks on my face burning as if hot coals were being held against my skin. My breathing was shallow and my teeth were clamped together. I gripped the arms of the chair so tightly my wrists ached. I tried to imagine why they had asked to see my supervisor, why the governor of the pueblo would come here, especially during a holy time.

  Finally my anxiety gave way to anger and I rose from the chair. I opened the door of Roy’s office. I put the flat of my hand against Mountain’s nose where he lay on the floor. “Stay!” I barked. Then I started for the conference room. In the blind-covered window of the office next to Roy’s, I could see my reflection as I walked past. I looked like a fierce warrior.

  When I opened the door, all three men were standing and the air was charged with anger. I hesitated. They hadn’t seen me. I stepped into the room. Rael was dressed in a black apron over jeans and a black shirt, his hair pulled back at the nape of the neck and tied with cloth. But Eliseo Contreras was observing a much older tradition in his dress. He wore a white burnoose, rarely seen anymore but once a mainstay of Pueblo men’s traditional costume. The wrapped cloth headpiece sat high on his wide, smooth forehead, light against his deep amber skin. Beneath it, his eyes had a dark severity. He was cloaked in a blanket that draped over his shoulders but was open in front. Inside the neck of his shirt, he wore a necklace of bear claws and chunk turquoise. The door slammed behind me and they all turned. Rael’s expression registered first as he drew back when he saw my cheek. Governor Contreras’s reaction was similar.

  I met Roy’s alarmed gaze. “Is this about me?” I asked.

  The Boss answered, “Governor Contreras and War Chief Rael are concerned about the incident with the buffalo. We just need a few minutes to talk, Jamaica. Why don’t you wait in my office?” He narrowed his eyes at me.

  “If I can be of any help…,” I said.

  “No, we got this under control,” Roy said. “You go on and wait in my office. I’ll be there directly.” He flagged the back of his hand at the door to shoo me away. I hesitated, but couldn’t see a good alternative, so I left.

  It was almost a half hour later when Roy walked in. Mountain had fallen asleep on the floor, and he raised his head just enough to see who it was and then returned to his nap. Roy looked at me and shook his head in frustration.

  “What’d I do?” I said.

  He didn’t say anything, but went instead to his desk, where he slumped into his chair as if he could no longer resist the immense pull of gravity. His face bore a pained expression.

  “Is this about Jerome Santana?”

  He shook his head no.

  “What then?”

  He leaned forward and touched the intercom button on his phone, then picked up the receiver. “Rosa, get me the guy at the BIA, what’s his name? Yeah. And get the area super in Albuquerque, too. Find out if we have an attorney in this part of the state. We’re gonna need one.” He hung up the phone and looked across the desk at me.

  “I’ll get someone to look at your Jeep as soon as I can. I’m pretty sure the BLM will either fix it or replace it, since you were trying to do your job when the damage happened—even if you weren’t supposed to be out at the pueblo right then. You better get what you need and go home, Jamaica. Looks like you’re going to be off the clock for a while.”

  “What the hell is going on, Roy?”

  He set his elbow on the desk, chin on his fist, and looked right in my eyes. “The tribal council is claiming it was you who started the stampede. That you’re responsible for Santana’s death.”

  I leaped from my chair. “What?”

  “Calm down. There’s no way they can make that stick. If they were serious about this claim, they’d have gone to the sheriff or the FBI, not come here to me. My guess is they’re trying to punish you for being out there when you shouldn’t have. Just the same, a charge like this is serious, no matter who they bring it to. I’m going to suspend you with pay pending an investigation, Jamaica. It’s for your own protection.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “But how can they say that? The buffalo were already wandering out of the fence. Someone had opened the gate. It was inevitable the bulls would run.”

  “They say the gate was shut. They’re claiming Santana was just out there praying near the buffalo pen and that you drove up too fast and too close along the fence and incited the stampede.”

  I started pacing. Mountain, who had noticed my distress, fell
on a close heel and began panting nervously, watching my every move as he shadowed me.

  Finally I stopped and faced the Boss. “This is bullshit, Roy. This is fucking bullshit.”

  He shook his head. “Yeah, I know. I know. But it’s some serious bullshit, Jamaica. It’s some real serious bullshit.”

  “I want to change that report,” I said, gesturing toward his desk.

  Roy grabbed the paper protectively. “Now, try not to go off half-cocked, Jamaica…”

  “Give it to me!” I said, holding my hand out. “I’m going to say what I really saw instead of playing it down, putting it between the lines!”

  The Boss held the report to his chest. “Let’s just calm down for a little bit. Let me think about it. We may want to amend this, but let’s talk to a lawyer first, find out what’s best for everybody.”

  “What’s best for everybody? They’re accusing me of causing a man’s death! I think it’s best that I tell the truth.”

  He looked at me and set his jaw. “I’m not going to have you rushing me on this, Jamaica. Now, I told you, go home. I’m going to get right on top of this, get some advice. I think we need to keep our heads cool so we can do the right thing. I wish to hell it hadn’t happened while you were off duty. And while the pueblo was closed.”

  I glared at him. Then I went for the door.

  Roy stood. “Jamaica, stay away from the pueblo.”

  “But the family…”

  “They’ll just have to understand.”

  “They’ll see it as a slight.”

  “And the tribal council will see it as an offense on the part of the federal government against the sovereign nation of Tanoah Pueblo if you don’t do what I say. You’ll just have to make it up to your friends later.”

  “But, Boss—”

  He interrupted with a stern tone. “I’m not asking you a favor, Jamaica. I’m telling you what’s going to happen. You’re suspended with pay pending an investigation. Now, the sooner we start working together instead of fighting each other on this, the better it will be. You got the tribe on the warpath for you; do you really want to fight me, too?”