I put my head in my hands. Why was I being so stupid? I shook my head and muttered to my sister, “You know I’m scared of that horse.”
“I do know that. But I don’t know who else to ask, Tess. There’s no one else I trust.” Gaby put her hands on my shoulders. “But I shouldn’t have asked. It wasn’t right of me.”
I never could understand it, but my sister loved her stupid horse.
“Just one thing more.” Gaby tried to smile, but mostly sadness showed. “Run for me. It’s the running I miss. I loved crossing that finish line first. But even more I miss running with you—flying over the red rock, slogging up sand dunes. I miss it—running wild with my sister.”
“I miss it too.”
“I don’t want to leave feeling like you—”
“I’ll take care of Blue.”
Gaby opened her mouth to say something, but stopped.
“You heard right. But you stay safe, big sister. That’s your part of the bargain.” I sort of smiled. “And I’ll take good care of your damn horse.”
“This is a different finish line, Tess. I’ll cross it. And I’ll come home.”
chapter seven
protection ceremony
Gaby and I hardly saw each other the rest of that day. Mom kept us both busy with an endless litany of stuff that had to be done exactly right for the ceremony. More relatives and friends kept arriving and bustling around our place like bees buzzing around a hive. People I didn’t even know drove up, unloaded gifts of food, asked what else was needed. Time! I wanted to shout. Time with my sister! Instead I smiled and mumbled something sort of polite.
All these people around, asking the same questions: When does she leave? Where are they sending her? Do you feel proud? I needed to get away from the endless chatter. I needed space. Instead I was handed job after job to do. Then it was dark, no time to even eat supper. No time to think. I was so tired, I fell into bed, closed my eyes, and was gone.
—
The next morning I slept past dawn. Missed greeting the sun. I hoped the Holy Ones wouldn’t hold it against me. The protection ceremony would begin at dusk. I’d been to a lot of ceremonies and sings but never a protection ceremony for soldiers. My sister a soldier? She hated guns.
Shimá was busy cooking. Several big pots of stew bubbled on the kerosene stoves set on makeshift tables in the kitchen. Dad stayed outside, splitting logs for the all-night fire. That’s what I wanted to be doing. Hold on tight to an ax handle, swing it up, and whack!—split that sucker. An entire night’s supply of wood had to be split and stacked exactly according to the medicine man’s instructions. Hastiin Dághaatsoh would arrive sometime late in the afternoon to check that everything had been prepared correctly. I’ve always liked Hastiin Dághaatsoh, and I especially liked that his name meant “Mr. Big Mustache.”
I felt like I was walking around in someone else’s skin. Or someone else was inside mine. I usually liked being part of all the relatives bringing food, cooking, talking, sharing gossip. Usually my job was raking the sand around the hogan until it was smooth and spotless. After the sun dipped below the horizon, the medicine man would enter the hogan, followed by Gaby, our grandparents and parents, and then the other relatives.
It’s hard to stay awake all night during a ceremony, to sit up straight, to not doze off. But being there was beautiful—a long night of listening to chanting, being part of a sacred mystery. I usually felt wrapped in a safe cocoon, breathing in the smells of earth, wood, and fire. Aunts and uncles, some I didn’t even know, would sit cross-legged with their backs to the hogan’s earthen wall, no one speaking. We’d all face the center, where the medicine man sat, the place of honor. Sometimes a sudden pop from the cedar fire would startle me. Dad was usually at ceremonies too. Even as a white person, a Bilagáana, Dad was welcome. Someone would whisper about Dad’s Vietnam combat medals, and someone else would mention Dad’s generosity. Everyone brought gifts of groceries to a ceremony. Dad brought the most. Elders always commented, and then Mom would sit up extra straight.
Once everyone was settled, the medicine man would hold up a cedar bough with the needles burning and wave an eagle feather, wafting the smoke in each of the four sacred directions. He would begin the prayers. All night we would mostly listen, sometimes speaking out loud our worries and prayers. At dawn, as people left the hogan, everyone would receive a gift of food. A morning feast would be ready—huge pots of lamb stew, piles of fry bread, charcoal-grilled mutton, and all the food brought by relatives. Laughter and talking would spill out like the warmth of the morning sun spilling over the canyons.
But tonight’s ceremony was different. Tonight’s ceremony was for a soldier going into combat. For my sister.
I didn’t want any part of it.
—
Gaby stayed busy visiting with relatives, so I returned to the house. It was a relief to be in the kitchen. No one expected me to talk. Mom saw me walk in and raised her eyebrows, her way of asking for help. I walked over to a huge mound of white dough. Mom nodded as if to say thanks. I began patting pieces of dough into balls for making fry bread. Grandpa strolled into the kitchen. He sniffed one bubbling pot and then another.
“Smells mighty fine in here. Maybe you want some professional sampling.”
Mom looked up from the mound of peeled potatoes and smiled at her dad. “Sampling is not what’s needed. What we need is mutton for grilling.”
“That’s exactly why I’m here, getting my knife.” Grandpa reached to the highest shelf of the cupboard, took his long steel knife from its leather sheath, and tested the edge. No one ever touched that knife except Grandpa.
He looked at me. “Want to come along, Tess?”
Usually the thought of butchering sent me scooting far away, but today everything felt different. “Sure.”
I followed him outside. Grandpa sat in a spot of shade under a tall old cottonwood. He began sharpening his knife.
“You doing all right today?” Gramps asked without interrupting the long careful strokes of the knife along the sharpening stone. “Kind of hard to take in all that’s happening.”
“Maybe.”
Grandpa kept right on talking. “The night my brother left for war, I hid. I didn’t come out until the next day. Even my dog couldn’t find me.”
“You didn’t say good-bye?”
“I was mad.”
“Didn’t even go to his ceremony?”
“I wanted no part of his leaving.”
I thought about what Gramps had just confessed. “Were you sorry you weren’t there?”
“Sorry? Yes. Later on. But at the time, hiding was what I needed to do. Now that I think about it, a lot of years later…” Gramps sort of chuckled. “You could say I was scared. Up one side and down the other. Scared.”
Grandpa pushed back his wide-brimmed hat. “I even thought that maybe I wasn’t a real Indian. Maybe not a real brother.” He put the knife in its sheath and then stood up. “We learn more from our mistakes than from what we do right. Nothing wrong with that.”
Grandpa walked over to the sheep corral and pointed to the small ewe with the marked ear.
“That’s the one your grandma chose. Bring her to me, Tess.”
I climbed over the fence, dug my fingers into the sheep’s thick wool until I had a good strong grip, and tugged her over to the gate.
Grandpa picked up the sheep and gently set her down in the truck bed. He tied her legs together with baling twine. “Good. Let’s go.”
I sat alongside the young ewe, cradled her head in one arm, and talked to her while rubbing the smooth spot between her eyes. The ewe stopped struggling.
Grandpa drove slowly over the bumps to an area a short way north of the hogan but far enough from all the buzzing activity. He spread out a small tarp under a cottonwood, slipped his knife under one edge, and set a small white pail next to the knife. He nodded to me and said, “Help me bring the sheep here.”
I climbed out of the truck, and together we lifted the sh
eep and carried her to the tarp. She stayed calm, didn’t fight us at all.
I sat down next to the ewe and placed her head on Grandpa’s lap. This ewe was a pretty little thing, with a sweet triangular face and floppy ears that hung past her eyes. She didn’t move. She lay there quietly.
“Is it hard?”
“To kill an animal, Tess? Is that what you mean?’
“Seems like it would be hard.”
“All life is sacred, Tess. We give, we take. All part of the journey. It’s OK not to like this part.”
Grandpa stroked the ewe’s neck. “Sometimes what needs doing is hard. Hurts.”
He rubbed the top of her head, and his fingers moved down the length of her throat. He kept talking to the sheep, almost singing, as he massaged her neck, working the wool away from the place where a big vein ran just beneath the skin. The sheep didn’t bleat, didn’t struggle.
He spoke softly. “She must not feel fear. The knife stays out of sight so it does not frighten her. We thank this sheep for giving us her life. We ask her spirit to give strength to your sister.”
I looked at the ewe’s sweet face. Give my sister strength, protect her. I want to believe you can do that. And I thank you. With all my heart, I thank you.
Grandpa continued stroking the sheep’s neck while extending her head. His touch kept her calm. Unafraid.
“Aaaah, yaaah, yah. Yes, we sing as life comes into this world,” he said softly. “We sing when life travels out.” Grandpa reached for the white pail and placed it under the ewe’s neck. He slipped the knife out from under the tarp and held it over the dark line of the blood vessel. Nearly motionless, he pressed the edge of the knife through the skin. Blood seeped along the thin cut. The ewe didn’t even startle. A red stream flowed from the incision into the white pail. Grandpa kept talking until the ewe stopped breathing. Life gone.
“All life is sacred, Tess. Life given, life taken. Each in its own time.”
Swiftly he removed the sheep’s head, then cut through the skin down the belly, the legs, around the hooves. Fast. Almost bloodless. As if slipping off a woolly coat, he removed her skin in one whole piece and handed it to me. “Lay it on the ground, wool side down.”
Grandpa cut the meat into chunks and placed the pieces on the skin. “First the meat rests. It will dry quickly in the sun, before we bring it to the kitchen.”
Grandpa folded up the tarp and handed it to me. “This goes back in the truck.” He picked up the pail. “I will finish the gutting, take care of the innards, and bury the sheep’s blood so her strength will continue. That is my job.”
When he was finished, Grandpa walked back to where the meat was spread across the skin. “You did well, Tess. All those questions inside you. No matter how far you run or where you hide, the questions follow.” He paused. “But sometimes we need to run.”
Piece by piece, Grandpa turned over each chunk of meat. “And we always need to eat. Which reminds me: I’m hungry enough to eat a sheep.” Grandpa chuckled at his own poor joke. “And sometimes we need to laugh.” Grandpa scratched his head and smiled. “Done. We’re ready for your grandmother’s inspection.”
In the center of the kitchen, Grandma was calling out orders as the tempo of cooking grew faster and faster. Mom was usually the one in charge, either as head nurse at the ER or head cook at home. But not for this ceremony. Shimá was the oldest woman in our family. She had the most authority, the most respect. Shimá was in charge.
“Those tougher pieces, they go in the stew pot. Add some fat. Keep stirring.”
Shimá sorted through the rest of the meat. “Here, Tess, take these ribs. Beautiful.” She handed me a roll of butcher paper. “Wrap them. They go in the refrigerator. After the ceremony we will give them to the medicine man.”
Finished, I walked outside. Dad was stacking the last of the wood. Two of my younger cousins were raking the sand that skirted the hogan. Everything looked tidy. Cars were parked in a neat row along the corral. Where was my sister? What was she thinking? The sun was low on the horizon; the last of this day’s light glowed golden over everything. I returned to the place of the butchering. Sat under the same tree. The odor of blood was still heavy in the air.
Life to death to life. A ceremony for warriors.
Gaby, you hate rifles.
During the ceremony Gaby will glance from face to face looking for me and be disappointed. But Grandpa will know.
All those questions. No matter how far you run or where you hide, the questions follow.
But sometimes we need to run.
I did need to run, to be alone. I stood up, glanced at the house and hogan, and turned the other way. I jogged along the path that zigzagged up the mesa wall behind our place, picked my way over the loose rock and boulders, and scrambled to the top.
I stopped, leaned over, and gulped air. Once my breathing returned to normal, I jogged along the cliff edge until I found a good lookout place. Gaby and I used to sneak up here, careful to stay out of sight because it was forbidden territory. Too many rattlers, too many crumbly edges to fall off. So of course it was our favorite place. One summer Gaby had brought a pack of cigarettes. We smoked, coughed, felt sick, and pretended to love it.
I looked over the ledge. A hundred feet below were my home and family, like a distant world. Maybe I should go back down. No. Right now, this is where I need to be.
—
Night settled in. The air cooled. Light drained from the sky. No moon would appear until much later. This high-desert world was quiet. Sometimes I could almost hear—or was it feel?—the low murmur of chanting below. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them a long time later, the whole sky was shimmering with stars. The Milky Way spilled across the darkness from horizon to horizon. The universe had never felt so immense. And I so small.
Red sparks from the fire inside the hogan swirled upward, sputtered, blinked out. I breathed in the sweet smell of cedar smoke and sat up.
Gabriella was in that hogan. My heart ached. I wanted to understand. Sometimes life was so strange.
My sister is a soldier. She will carry a rifle. A sheep was sacrificed for her to give her strength, to keep her safe.
I’ll do anything to keep my sister safe, even slaughter a sheep.
Even take care of Blue.
chapter eight
sing to the yé’ii
I lay down, wrapped my jacket around me, and was surprised that the next time I stirred, I could hear the chatter and chirping of birds. The sky was beginning to brighten. Already dawn was beginning.
I stood up, brushed the sand off, and scrambled down off the mesa. I waited outside the hogan so Gaby would see me as soon as she stepped out. I wanted her to understand.
Aunts and uncles appeared. Finally my sister. She looked pale and tired. But she stood tall and looked straight ahead as she walked.
“Gabriella?”
“Tess, I missed you. Are you all right?”
I nodded, but before I could say anything, a clump of younger cousins swarmed around her, talking all at once, asking questions. I watched as they escorted my sister to the house.
After I helped serve breakfast, there was nothing more I needed to do. I slipped up to my room. I opened the bottom drawer of my dresser and took out a teardrop pendant made of white shell and turquoise, framed in silver. I whispered a few words to the spirits or whoever might be listening and wrapped the pendant inside a sheet of parchment on which I’d written a sort of poem:
Red rock walls
hold turquoise sky.
Canyons change,
walls fall,
what stays?
I ask the Holy Ones:
hold you safe,
fly you home.
I slid the pendant and an Archie comic into the side pocket of Gaby’s duffel. She had everything packed and ready to go.
My sister leaves today. She leaves today, and she will have this white shell and turquoise for protection.
I glanced at the clock an
d hurried outside.
“Hey, nice to see you, stranger. Where’ve you been?” Gaby called from the corral.
A thousand things I wanted to say. I walked over to my sister with my hands stuffed in my jeans pockets and didn’t say any of them.
Gaby stood by the horse corral, talking to Blue, rubbing between his ears. For a minute she just stood there and stared at her horse, but then she turned and looked at me. “Got a minute? Right now. It’s almost time for me to leave.”
“I’m sorry.”
“About what, Tess?”
“About your ceremony.” I kicked at the ground. “About not being there.”
We walked side by side to the barn. Gaby hung up Blue’s halter, looked around at everything, her eyes holding on, then letting go.
“I’ll be honest. It felt sad not to have you there. But it’s OK. It really is. Gramps and I talked about it some. I think I understand.” Gaby took a deep breath. “Hey, little sister, thanks again for taking care of Blue.”
I shrugged. “Sorry I can’t go with you down to Phoenix. There’s only room for three in the pickup, and I know Mom wants to ride along with you and Dad.”
“I was hoping that we could have that ride together. Like old times.”
“I asked Dad, and he said no way. No riding in the back of the pickup on the big highway. I thought it was kind of funny.”
“Funny? What do you mean?”
“He said it was way too dangerous.”
“What’s so funny about that?”
“You’re going off to war. Isn’t that sort of dangerous?”
I’d kept a really serious face, but then we both broke out laughing. So silly, but laughing together felt so good.
Gaby rumpled my hair like she did when I was little. “Listen, Tess, the next time I have leave, it’ll be a longer one. We’ll run at dawn. Me on Blue, you on foot. Like we talked about. All the way to Elephant Feet and back. If you can run that far.”
“Hah. No problem. And what’s my prize when I win?”
“Chocolate malts for both of us.”
Soldier Sister, Fly Home Page 4