“Got mail,” she announced.
If I had been holding a cup of coffee, I’d have dropped it.
“From Gabriella. For you too.”
From: Gaby
Sent: June 14, 2003, 4:02 AM
To: Shimá Sání
Subject: Surprise!
Yá’át’ééh, Greetings, Hello Shimá Sání.
And Tess, surprise!
I bet you’re staring with your mouth open. Nice joke, right?
Thanks, Shimá Sání. I can’t wait for you to tell me about it.
Remember, just hit “reply,” type your message, then hit “send.”
But before you do, my message to Tess is below.
Hello, Little Sister,
See, I still have my terrific sense of Navajo humor.
Grandma could hardly wait to do this little shocker. She said she’d invite you to tag along when she brought her rug into town.
I know you are probably still upset about my signing up. It’s OK.
I would have been plenty mad if my wise, wonderful older sister shipped off without much notice.
Sometimes we have to leave home to find it.
That’s something Grandma said once when I was helping her find a few missing sheep. She said, “Most sheep stay with the herd. A few stray off, wondering what’s over that next hill. Or maybe looking for home.”
I told her, “Well, they sure are looking the wrong way.”
She said back to me, “Maybe that’s what we all do at first.”
So where’s home for someone like us, half white, half Navajo? I started thinking about what you said that night we had our big fight, about not feeling like a real anything. I remembered how it was when I was your age—junior high—when kids divided into separate herds. That’s when the name-calling got worse. Now, just as you are facing all that, what does your big sister do but up and leave. I’m sorry, Tess.
Being Navajo. What’s that all about? Weaving rugs? I was never into that part of being Navajo. But the sheep and goats—I even like the way they smell. Being on my horse, riding Blue, that’s what I really love. Flying across the mesa. Is that Navajo? White? Or just me?
Someday I’ll be a doctor for Navajo kids. Means a lot of tuition money. Being here, doing this, is one way I can help.
Thanks for listening….Maybe what I’m saying is that your big sister is still wandering over that next hill.
How’s Blue?
I love you, little sister.
Gaby
P.S. Thanks for taking care of Blue. Tell Gramps hello and tell Grandma I’m sorry she’ll be heading down to sheep camp without me. That’s a hard one. Tell Mom and Dad they raised me right, and I love them.
P.P.S. I keep the white shell and turquoise teardrop near me, always.
I rushed through whole sentences and then read every word again. I stared at the computer until Grandma cleared her throat.
“Oh, sorry. I guess it’s your turn.” I scooted out of the way.
Grandma hit “reply” and began to hunt and peck with two fingers.
My grandmother was sending email as naturally as herding sheep, weaving rugs, or flipping fry bread.
“OK, done.” Grandma stood up to get her coffee refilled. “Your turn, Tess.”
I logged into my own account and began typing.
From: Tess
Sent: June 14, 2003, 3:08 PM
To: Gaby
Subject: Good joke!
Dear Gaby,
Some joke. You should have seen the grin on Grandma’s face. Blue’s doing fine. We’re all doing fine except no sister to help with the dishes!
I’ve been thinking I might go with Grandma to sheep camp. I haven’t asked her yet. Maybe I’ll write her an email—ha ha! Grandma could use some help, at least during that first week, with getting things set up.
Today this white kid asked Grandma if she is a real Indian. Maybe that’s another reason I want to go—to figure out what a real Indian is.
Yes, Blue’s going to sheep camp. So stop worrying. Plus Grandma’s old mare, Chaco, and the new pinto, Bandit. The pinto’s small, barely 14 hands, with gorgeous markings and a sweet face, mostly white except for a black mask.
Blue will be strutting like a super dude, with two beautiful mares all to himself. Wait till he discovers there’s a whole herd of ladies in the canyon!
Are any of the other recruits Navajo? Do the white ones call you names like “squaw” or “big chief”? Do you wish you could slug them?
Hey, sister, it’s sort of ironic. You’re an Indian inside the fort. In the movies the Indians are outside preparing to attack.
Here’s a poem. That little kid at the trading post got me thinking.
When I was a child,
I didn’t draw a line between my eyes,
down my nose, over my belly button.
One side Navajo,
one side white.
Now I have lines.
Who drew them?
You won’t be hearing from us for a while. No internet in the canyon. No espresso either.
Take care of yourself, sister.
Stay safe, OK?
I love you.
Tess
I took a quick breath, hit “send.”
I stared for a moment at the screen, then logged off. Grandma sat patiently, coffee cup empty, sort of staring into space.
Then Grandma stood up and already had a look that said, Time to get on with business.
“We need to get groceries. Final supplies for sheep camp.”
“Mind if I come with you?” I blurted out my question.
“To the grocery store?”
“No, not the grocery store. I mean camp. Sheep camp.”
Shimá looked at me, eyebrows furrowed. “Sheep camp?” Shimá kept staring at me. “You sure?”
“I can be in charge of Blue. Stay a week or two, help however I can.”
“It’s a long trail. And steep. Remember? It will take most of a day to herd the sheep down.”
I stared at Grandma’s green sneakers. “Gaby and I sort of talked about it.” I didn’t dare look up. I wasn’t any good at lying. “We both thought it’d be a good idea.”
Shimá nodded. “It’ll be nice to have the company. I don’t think the sheep’ll mind.”
Shimá smiled her teasing smile. I nodded. Nothing more was said.
I hadn’t been down in the canyon since I was eight or nine and had tagged along with Gaby. She was always eager to go along, live in the hogan, and spend a couple of weeks with Grandma. I wondered how this year would be. Just Grandma and me. Maybe I had made a big mistake.
Shopping for groceries took a long time. Grandma double-checked prices for everything. We bought cans of baked beans, lard and flour for fry bread, a few sacks of onions, tinned milk, salt, sugar, black tea, and of course, ground coffee. All of it would get repacked at home and eventually loaded into the pickup truck. Gramps would drive the long way around to where the canyon opened up. From there he could drive up the riverbed all the way to camp as long as the riverbed was dry and we didn’t get rain.
Grandma looked through our grocery bags and nodded. “I need a few things from Frank’s Dry Goods. Want to come?”
“No, thanks.” I didn’t want to admit that everything in that store looked like old-lady stuff to me. “I’ll wait in the truck, guard the beans.”
“Suit yourself. I won’t be long.”
As soon as Grandma walked into Frank’s, I scooted back to the café.
I signed into my email. Hit “new message.”
Subject:
Missing you? Nope, too dorky.
From: Tess
Sent: June 14, 2003, 4:30 PM
To: Gaby
Subject: Sheep Camp
Hey, Gaby,
Sorry about those mean words I said when you were home.
I don’t have another poem. Just thoughts that keep bouncing in my brain.
If only I could take back words,
the ones I wished I’d never said.
Or say
the words I didn’t.
Do you ever feel like that?
Did a Yé’ii ever visit you in a dream? Should I worry about that?
I’m going to sheep camp.
Tess
P.S. Remember, you stay safe. I’ll take care of Blue.
chapter twelve
sheep camp
Grandma led. She rode Chaco. Bandit followed close behind. It was the pinto’s first trip into the canyon and her first time being surrounded by a moving, noisy herd of sheep and goats. Each time a sheep pushed past, Bandit leaped to the side, and my heart jumped up my throat. Loose rocks clattered down the cliff, scaring us both even more. The trail was often not much more than a wide ledge. One side went straight up and the other straight down. I tried not to look, since breakfast still sat like a stone in my stomach and threatened to reappear. Grandma kept talking to the young mare, coaxing her along. Finally Bandit fell into a steady walk, keeping right behind Chaco, her nose practically in the old mare’s tail. Blue and I brought up the rear. I led Blue and kept tight hold of his lead rope. He was not happy about being taken into unfamiliar territory. He kept tossing his head, trying to pull loose. I knew if he succeeded, he’d be out of this canyon in a flash and racing back home.
Grandma turned around, watched as I yanked on Blue’s rope. “Relax, Tess. Talk to Blue. He’s scared. Relax and Blue will do the same.”
I tried to relax, tried thinking about all sorts of stuff: How is my sister doing? Do I have it in me to become a real track star? Will I ever have a boyfriend, and will he be white or Indian? And why did I ever ask to come along to sheep camp?
I thought about my grandmother sitting in the coffee shop, sipping a latte and sending an email. Today I suspected she had another surprise waiting for me. She wore a bright-orange backpack she’d bought—on sale—at Frank’s. The pack bulged as if a basketball had been stuffed inside. I didn’t ask. Grandma didn’t explain.
A pile of loose rocks got kicked over the edge by a couple of goats. Blue startled, started pulling back, half-rearing, kicking.
“Ride him, Tess.”
I shook my head. I was keeping my own two feet firmly on this narrow trail.
“A rider on his back will help him settle.”
One glance over the canyon edge and again I shook my head.
“He’ll learn.” Grandma nodded. “You both will.”
Up ahead the herd dogs, Shadow and Tag, kept the sheep moving, running back and forth behind them, nipping at their heels. The air was thick with dust. We were on the south wall of the canyon with no protection from the sun. It was hot.
“This next part is steep,” Grandma cautioned. “Keep close to the inside.”
The canyon wall was sheer rock and fell straight down several hundred feet. There was not a tree or an outcropping to break a fall. My stomach was now in my throat along with my heart, and with every tumble of loose rubble, it inched up higher. Now I remembered why I never liked hiking down into this canyon.
A raven had been following us, flying between the rocky outcrops, sometimes disappearing behind a canyon wall before reappearing. Its call sounded like water bubbling or someone gargling. I glanced at Grandma. She was watching it too.
Another hour slipped by, maybe two. The sun shone white-hot. Even the sheep seemed tired and mostly plodded along. The trail finally widened some, became not as scary. I kept a tight hold on Blue’s lead rope, but now I could let my thoughts wander again: How am I going to do long-distance runs on these rough paths? Where is my sister right now and what is she doing? Suddenly Blue reached to snatch a mouthful of grass. His lead rope jerked. I remembered where I was, gave the rope a hard yank. “No snacking on the trail, Blue.” He scrambled backward a few steps, tossed his head. The rope pulled right out of my hand.
Blue whinnied, ears flattened, and kept backing up, trying to turn around. Another spill of rock tumbled over the edge, clattered down the cliff. I glanced at Grandma. She shouted in Navajo to Blue. I had no idea what she said, but the sound of her voice was clear. Stop. We both looked at the long trail we had just come down. No way was I going all the way back up chasing a dumb horse.
Show him who’s boss. Mean what you say.
“Blue! Stop right there.” I was more mad than scared. Just then Bandit nickered. Blue nickered back. Chaco joined in.
“Don’t ever pull back like that again!” Blue heard me this time. He lowered his head. I grabbed the lead rope dangling from his halter. I looked at Shimá Sání, saw the smile on her face, and I smiled right back. I patted Blue along his neck, spoke softly, trying to sound like my sister. Blue gave me no more trouble the rest of the way down.
—
The trail finally leveled out and widened even more. We had almost reached the canyon floor. It was just a couple more miles to camp on level ground, soft sand, and with cottonwoods that would provide shade. We turned into a smaller canyon and followed the dusty bed of a dried-up arroyo. A ways ahead were wide patches of green. The animals picked up speed and trotted directly to what looked like a grassy meadow. Water trickled into this part of the arroyo from a series of springs. Puddles had formed in shallow muddy basins. I laughed. Baaing and bleating, the sheep and goats pushed and shoved like a bunch of schoolkids in front of an ice-cream stand that was handing out free samples. They drank greedily, their heads as close to the water as possible and their rumps sticking out to keep others from squeezing in. Betty-Boobsy was center front.
Grandma signaled to the dogs to keep circling the herd so they wouldn’t wander. She dismounted and led Chaco to a big cedar with thick wide branches. The shade underneath was dark and cool. She broke off green needles and breathed in the spicy smell.
“For protection,” she reminded me, looking around. “We’re more than halfway.”
The animals drank their fill and began grazing. Grandma signaled to the dogs that it was time to rest. The dogs didn’t need a second call. They flopped down in the shade, tongues hanging out.
“Let the horses drink, then tie them under that clump of cottonwoods. See the two posts there? Keep Blue near the mares. It will help him stay calm. They’re not in season yet. Once we get settled in camp, we’ll have to keep Blue separated from the mares. Bandit’s too young for foaling. Even if she wants to.” Grandma’s eyes were twinkling as she looked at me. “Even if she wants a little action.”
“Grandma!”
Grandma smiled at my surprise. “Here in the canyon we tell it like it is—as you young people say.” She smiled again and her eyes were laughing.
Grandma sat down on a long flat rock, watched as I tied the horses. She raised her eyebrows and thumped the bulge in her backpack.
“Delicious, for us.” She chuckled at her secret joke and lifted out a round watermelon.
“Half for you. Half for me.”
Suddenly I felt like I hadn’t eaten for a week.
After a few minutes of slurping and swallowing, sweet red juice dripped off both our faces. Watermelon had never tasted so good.
Grandma handed me a water bottle. “Drink plenty.” She spoke in Navajo. I looked at her, puzzled.
“In the canyon, no more English. Only Navajo. Don’t worry, not much talking. Here we don’t need many words.”
“But Shimá, I’ve hardly spoken a word of Navajo all year.”
“Your ears haven’t forgotten and your mouth will remember.”
“I’ve forgotten a lot since living in Flagstaff. How about some Navajo, some English?”
“Good, we meet on the bridge, half and half.” She took a bite of melon, then looked at a boulder a few yards away. She spit a seed. Bull’s-eye! “Your turn.”
I slid a seed between my lips, aimed, spit. The seed fell a few inches from my feet. “Darn. I used to be a champion seed spitter. Better than Gaby. It made her so mad!”
“Practice,” Grandma answered. “Everything takes practice.”
&nb
sp; Grandma tossed her rinds to Shadow, the older dog. Shadow caught it midair and then growled at Tag. I tossed mine to Tag. The dogs eyed each other, all the time growling and showing their teeth while chewing. After a few fast gulps, the rinds were gone.
Shimá slipped her knife back into its sheath and into her pack. “Time to go.”
Something heavy landed on a branch overhead. We looked up. That same big raven perched right above us.
“He follows for a reason. Pay attention.”
Pay attention to what? I wanted to ask.
“Ride Blue. The rest of the trail is easy but still a long ways.”
“Ride? Still no thanks.”
“Hop on Bandit behind me.”
“I’m OK. I like walking.” I wasn’t about to ride like a little kid.
“Suit yourself.”
She clicked for Bandit to giddyup. I untied Blue. He was antsy, eager to get moving. So was I.
chapter thirteen
hoghan, hogan
The hogan sat tucked underneath an alcove on the canyon’s south side. The rocky overhang provided shade during the hottest part of the day. The southern exposure provided warmth during the evenings. Opposite the hogan, across the wide, shallow wash and beyond another fifty yards or so, the north wall of the canyon rose straight up nearly a thousand feet.
Snug and simple, the hogan was beautiful. Grandma’s father had built the eight-sided log structure years ago. Shimá had grown up in this canyon with her parents and seven siblings.
I followed my grandmother to the hogan’s single low door. She paused, and then pushed aside the heavy blankets hung over the opening. Inside the hogan the air was cool and smelled of earth, wood, and smoke from woodstove fires. At first I couldn’t see a thing. After a few moments, I could make out a couple of chairs, a rickety table, and a kerosene cookstove. Blankets wrapped in plastic hung from overhead beams. Wooden shelving went from floor to ceiling on each side. One shelf was stacked with tin plates and cups, pots and pans, iron skillets, and a dented coffeepot—the outside black, a plug of wood stuck in the lid where a knob had once been. Other shelves held assortments of canned goods and storage tins, each clearly labeled—sugar, salt, flour, and coffee. There was a row of plastic gallon jugs marked “Water,” and outside, next to the doorway, red cans for gasoline. There was even a shelf of books. Darn, I wished I’d thought to bring a stack of comics. In the middle of the hogan was a squat iron stove for cooking and heating. Its black metal chimney snaked up to the smoke hole in the center of the roof.
Soldier Sister, Fly Home Page 6