Wild Indigo

by Sandi Ault

  “It’s not that root thing you thought it was. We drew some blood. He’s been given atropine, a near-deadly dose. The only thing we can do is wait.”

  “Atropine? What’s atropine?”

  “It’s a highly poisonous crystalline alkaloid—comes from the belladonna plant, and some other plants. It prevents the response of various body structures to certain types of nerve stimulation. It can be used in very small amounts to relieve spasms, or to lessen secretions, even to dilate the eye. But your wolf here has received a big dose of it, and it’s keeping his heart from performing like it should. Stuff’s concentrated in his bloodstream, no use pumping the stomach. I don’t think he ingested it by mouth. Like I said, all we can do is wait. But I think it’s only fair to tell you, it doesn’t look good. He might pull through, but there’s a good chance that even if he does, his heart—or even his brain—has been damaged. He may not even regain consciousness. Best thing is that he made it through the night, he’s still fighting. Like I said, all we can do is wait and see.”

  I got in the car and drove on down the highway. Inside my chest, I felt like a powerful fist was grabbing my own heart and squeezing out all the life. A fearsome, dark loneliness—like a patient and familiar enemy—edged in around the corners of my life, ready to strike again now that my four-legged sentry was not there to defend me, to love me, to stand beside me.

  I drove through the canyon of the Rio Grande, along the river. As I traveled, memories of Mountain rose to greet me. I passed a place where we had crossed to the other side last May. We’d had an unusually dry winter, which meant almost no snowpack melt that spring. The mammoth stones in the riverbed rose above the water and we could step from one to another. Right in the center of that wet highway, like a clown, Mountain stopped and perched all four of his massive paws on one rock no larger than a basketball. His big body couldn’t balance on so small a center, and finally he teetered and fell into the water. I laughed at him, and he rose out of the river and began galloping around the reeds and shallows, splashing great waves of water on me and everything around him. He grew so excited with the shock of the cold water that he sped up and began circling in and out of the trout pools along one bank until he finally fell into enough depth and current that he was forced to swim. I laughed and laughed at him, and he made sure to repay me as soon as he got out by forcefully shaking every ounce of liquid out of his coat and onto my dry clothes, rubbing against my legs, and wagging his wet tail into my body.

  As the canyon narrowed, I saw a tiny trail we had taken once on a hike. I was searching for petroglyphs that day, and we found many of them for me to photograph. But near the summit of that climb, we were rewarded with a much greater prize: the nest of a pair of golden eagles spread across a flat of rock near our route to the top. We stayed a distance, but as I was climbing through a crevice of two large stones nearby, I found a perfect tail feather—a good omen indeed. It was unlawful to take it, so I made a small cairn of stones and planted the plume in the center—a shrine to the beauty of the place. Mountain and I lingered on a high ledge watching for the eagles. They came, after fishing in the river, with trout dripping from their beaks. On the stone floor near their nest, they ripped the fish apart and then took turns feeding a pair of fledgling young. Using a zoom lens, I photographed them. But the best treasure I gained that day was a beautiful black-and-white photograph of the wolf that I took from the top of the canyon, his mane rippling in the wind, a big smile on his face, the Rio Grande winding for miles like a silver ribbon below him. I called the picture Mountain on the Mountain.

  Suddenly, I felt a wave of guilt that I hadn’t been able to protect him and care for him as I’d pledged to do. I’d failed him—such a beautiful, magnificent, innocent animal.

  I reached the tiny village of Agua Azuela, parked the CJ, hiked behind the ancient adobe church, and started up a winding goat path on the south-facing slope. I sought the only healer who perhaps could help in this instance.

  Tecolote was waiting on the portal as I came around a bend in the trail. She waved at me. “Come! Come, Mirasol! I made you tea!”

  At her crude plank table, I sipped the warm liquid without concern about whether or not I would experience any strange visions or out-of-body episodes. It wasn’t courage, but rather surrender to a sense of overwhelming fatigue and sadness.

  For once, Tecolote was quiet, not chattering at me like a bat. She was intently focused on her task at hand—rolling some herbs up in tiny pieces of fabric, then tying them with bits of thread. She had at least a hundred finished ones in a pile in the center of the table, all made of solid-colored fabric, some red, some turquoise, and some white.

  The tea was soothing. I felt my body relaxing.

  Some time passed with neither of us speaking. The kettle on Esperanza’s hearth hissed steam. I could hear birds singing outside in the chamisa bushes. It seemed so peaceful here, the sun coming in the open doorway and warming my left side.

  Finally, I let out a heavy sigh.

  “Don’t worry, Mirasol. I am sending you something for Montaña. We will do all that we can, you and me.”

  I sighed again. I tried hard not to cry. “I…”

  “Shhhhh. There is no need to talk about it. He is almost too beautiful to speak of anyway. We will do all that we can.”

  “He…someone poisoned him.”

  Tecolote stopped working and looked at me, tipping her head to one side. “Do you know what I am making here?” She opened her wrinkled palms to encompass the pile of cloth bundles.

  “Prayer ties?” I asked.

  “Sí! Bueno, bueno! You got it right.”

  “For Mountain?”

  “And for you, and that boy, and maybe for the others.”

  “What boy? Kerry? What others?”

  “Shhhhh. Drink your tea, Mirasol.”

  “But why are you making prayer ties? Isn’t that a Plains Indian practice?”

  “Many wise teachers came through here over the years. Do you know the village of Las Trampas?” She pointed a bony finger out the door and toward the east.

  “On the High Road? Near Truchas?”

  “Sí, sí, that one. It is named for some long-haired white men who set traps, caught animals, and sold their hides many years ago.”

  “Fur trappers?”

  “Sí, trappers.”

  “Go on.”

  “Go on? You are giving me orders now?”

  “No, I’m sorry. I mean, please tell me more.”

  “Las trampas, they knew a little bit about healing—not like a curandera, mind you, but they knew a few small things. They had medicines we didn’t have over here, salves and things. They knew how to pull out a bullet and pack the hole it made in the body with herbs that killed the poison. They knew a lot about sewing up wounds—they used horsehair instead of sinew, and this made only tiny holes, which healed nicely and didn’t attract poison and decay. And they knew a few other little things.”

  “But how do you know about all this? That must have been well over a hundred years ago!”

  Esperanza smacked the table hard with her hand. “Have you no manners, Mirasol? You interrupt me when I am telling you a story for your own good!” Her eyes were as wide as an owl’s.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Drink your tea!”

  “I’ve finished it.”

  Tecolote hissed like a snake. She reached over the mound of prayer ties and snatched up my cup. “You are always wagging your tongue, asking foolish questions.” She went to the hearth and spooned some herbs into the mug and added some of the boiling water, then hobbled back to the table. She slammed the cup down in front of me, sloshing a little of the liquid out onto the wood surface. She pointed at the cup. “Now. Your taza sits waiting for you to empty it again. Do not interfere any more until that is no longer the case.” She looked around a little, then snatched up a piece of turquoise fabric. “Now, where was I?”

  “Las trampas,” I prompted.

  “Ah
, sí. They knew a little something about mal ojo y mal puesto.”

  “Evil eye? And…”

  “Sí, the evil eye of witches, and the illnesses they can cause from outside a person. Las trampas had a libro negro, a black book of many spells and remedios. They wrote down the curas in there for many things, especially Indian things. They put in there the teachings from many places where they traveled, things they gathered over many years. They also lived with an old pujacante, a Comanche witch. The people over here let las trampas take beaver and elk and bear and many lions, even los lobos like your beautiful Montaña, for their hides. In return, we asked them questions and learned their secrets. But, you know, más sabe el diablo por viejo que por diablo.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The devil knows more because he is old than because he is the devil.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  She sighed. “How do you say it? Experience is the best teacher?”

  “Oh.”

  “Las trampas had experience of Indian witches.”

  Tecolote went to a nail on the wall beside the door and selected several long filaments of braided sinew. “Tie these on this,” she said, and showed me how to twist one of the strands of sinew around the neck of one of the prayer bundles. She looped another fabric pouch onto the same cord. And another.

  We worked in silence, making long strings, each with a dozen prayer ties. When all the bundles were attached, we had ten ropes. Esperanza wrapped them in a coil like a lariat and handed them to me. “You are going to need something more,” she said, and she went out the door and across the portal to the side of the house. I stepped outside to see where she went, but she was nowhere in sight. A minute later, she reappeared holding up a speckled egg between her thumb and forefinger. She trundled inside, set the egg down carefully on the table, and picked up some of the red cloth and tore off a large piece. She wrapped the egg several times over in the cloth, then went to the hearth and took a metal cup off a hook where it hung by its handle. She pushed the egg inside, then went back to the table, tore off another piece of red cloth, placed it over the top of the mug, and tied it tightly around the rim with a piece of sinew. “This you must not break!” she said, her voice shrill. “Take it.” She held out the cup.

  I spread my fingers and grasped it across the rim. Just as I thought she’d released it, she grabbed the handle and shook the cup up and down, almost causing me to lose my grip on it. I gasped.

  “Good!” she said. “It won’t shake around and break in there.”

  I breathed out hard, my nerves rattled. “What am I supposed to do with these things?”

  Tecolote strode right to me, almost touching my chest. She looked up into my face. I could smell the scent of earth and clean sweat on warm skin, the tea on her breath. Her head was twisted to one side, with the ear nearly parallel to the ground. She stood less than shoulder height to me, and yet I feared having her at such close range. She reached out and plucked the ropes of prayer ties out of my hand. “Abaje la güeja. Bend down!” she barked.

  I lowered my head, and she hung the ties around my neck. “Spend these like gold, Mirasol. You will know when you need to use one.” She grabbed the wrist of my outstretched hand, the one that gripped the egg in the cup. “This huevo fresco is for that lovely lobo, Montaña. Tonight, you will break it into the cup beside where he rests. Leave it overnight, and in the morning, if we are very lucky, there will be an ojo in the cup, too. Then he will be healed.”

  I stood for a moment, then made to leave.

  “Wait!” Esperanza cried. “There is one more thing.” She went to the nicho in the wall, where dozens of candle flames danced before santos and bultos. She removed a sunflower from a pile of offerings. What looked like a piece of bacon encased the base of the long stem on the bloom. Tecolote tapped the wrapper. “This keeps the blossom from drying out.” She handed it to me. “When you get ready to make your journey, take this off and let the flower dry as it will. You keep it with you—this is good medicine for you.”

  “My journey?”

  “Nunca hay caballo ensillado que a alguno no se la ofrece viaje.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s an old vaquero saying. There is never a saddled horse that does not offer a journey to someone.”

  I shook my head, perplexed.

  “Never mind, Mirasol. Just be careful. You will need to be very careful.”

  I went back to my cabin and tried to busy myself with chores. It was unseasonably warm, and a wind blew out of the southwest. I checked the level of water in the cistern to see if more needed to be hauled for my household needs. It had been a dry monsoon season, so I wasn’t even catching any water off the roof to supplement what I was using. I made the bed and washed up the coffeepot and cups. I took a small hand ax and attacked a few splits of wood to make some kindling for starting fires in the woodstove. I straightened up the ends of the woodpile and sharpened the ax. Around the perimeter of the front half of my cabin lay a perfect, half-circle, connect-the-dots arrangement of huge bones—an elk tibia, the femur of a calf, knuckles of cow and antelope—Mountain’s gallery of prized possessions, all arranged at the outside circumference of the circle he could reach while hooked to the porch post, via a large stainless steel eye bolt, by the lead of stout airplane wire and carabiners. I gathered the bones up, one by one, so the coyotes and mountain lions wouldn’t steal them, and I piled them on the porch beside the door.

  Finally, at about a quarter to noon, I decided to follow the procedure Momma Anna had prescribed for dealing with the nachi.

  I got the package and my medicine pouch out of the car and hiked up the slope behind my house and back down into the draw to La Petaca. The heat of the day coaxed a sweat from my pores, and my skin glistened by the time I got to my destination. Shaded by old, twisted junipers and piñons, all was cool and quiet near the stream except for the singing of water as it traveled over the stones. I found a soft, silty place along the bank, unwrapped the paper from around the prayer stick, and stuck it into the mud. I had to apply force to get it to stay; it wanted to lift up and travel with the current. I pushed until nearly half the shaft was under the ground. Then I opened my medicine pouch and took out some cornmeal. I offered it to the earth and sky, then sprinkled it over the nachi. Then, as Momma Anna had instructed, I kept facing it and backed away, carefully feeling behind me so I wouldn’t run into a low-hanging tree branch. I threaded my way through the trees until I could no longer see the nachi, then turned and jogged up the slope and back down to my cabin.

  29

  High Tech

  I decided to enlist a new ally to gain access to the pueblo that afternoon, so I went to the BLM to use the phone. Then I headed for the Tanoah Falls Casino, just on the outskirts of the rez. When I walked in, the jingle and clang of slot machines set up a din that made my head spin. Bright lights flashed through the dimly lit space, and a wide aisle led toward the back of the building. A few customers, mostly native, sat reverent before their chosen electronic deity, cups of quarters in their hands like offerings. In the rear, a red neon sign in the shape of a buffalo skull hung on the wall. Beneath it, fry bread and Indian tacos were served at a diner-style counter. I spotted my confederate as she handed a check to a man wearing a shirt that read SOUTHWESTERN DAIRY.

  Madonna gave me a subtle wave, then climbed stairs to an office above and behind the café area. She returned with a leather jacket over her arm. “You won’t need that,” I said. “It’s turning into a scorcher.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, and there’s a hot wind along with it. Nothing like it’s been the past few weeks.”

  When we got outside, Madonna waved me around to the back of the building. “I could get in a lot of trouble for this,” she said, aiming the remote at Gilbert Valdez’s car and disarming its alarm system.

  “You’re already in hot water,” I said. “You don’t seem to mind it.”

  By this time we were
sitting in plush leather seats. Madonna turned the key and the motor roared to life. She turned and looked at me, close quarters. “You should talk,” she said. “You’re always in some kind of predicament or another. I saw you on the front page.”

  “Yeah, I guess everybody’s seen it by now.”

  “Not here at the pueblo,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “They mentioned my husband by name. Saying the name of one who recently passed calls to their spirit, keeps them here. So they won’t allow the paper out here until after he’s made his journey.”

  As we drove the back way into the pueblo, I grilled the widow with a host of questions that had been running through my head.

  “What was your husband doing in the days before his death?”

  “He was doing religious training in the kiva.”

  “He was there night and day?”

  “Yes, constantly.”

  “Huh. I thought Jer…I mean, your husband—I don’t know, somehow I thought of him as more of a modern guy—a force for change in the tribe to be more viable in today’s world. It surprises me that he would embrace this kind of training.”

  Madonna suddenly reached over and pushed my head toward my lap. “Get down! There’s George Dancing Elk! If he sees you, we’ll both be in trouble.”

  I sucked in my breath and tried to flatten my upper half over my thighs. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Madonna wave and give a halfhearted smile. “These windows are so dark, I don’t think he even saw that it was me, let alone you.”

  “Can I get up now?”

  “Yes. Go ahead.”

  “Okay, let’s talk about your husband’s friends, associates, anyone he spent time with.”

  “Well, he was training with his uncle, Yellow Hawk Lujan.”

  “I know. Apparently no one knows where he is right now.”

  “I heard he’d gone fasting on the mountain. I guess some of the old ones do that before the journey; I don’t know. I’ve never been to the Indigo Falls.”