AS HOWARD AND LOVECRAFT sat hunched over on their low stools, sipping bitter black coffee, Imanito sat with legs crossed on the floor of the hogan and began his tale. As he spoke, he reached for a series of small containers at his side; he dipped his hands into these and began trickling colored sand onto the flat part of the earthen floor by the fire. He was speaking some of the lore of the Old Ones, recounting the meanings behind various Kachina figures, reading their stories in a series of small sand sketches as he went on. Soon the square contours of the painting took shape, and then the outlines were elaborated with a key of designs in contrasting colors. Red, white, blue, green, yellow. Lovecraft and Howard were both amazed at how concisely the old man could draw with the sand that trickled from the crease in his palm. If they had been told that it was magic, they would not have hesitated to dismiss it as some trick, but Imanito went on matter-of-factly, the complex lines and shapes appearing under his palm so quickly it seemed he was following patterns already there on the floor. But the floor was bare.
Now Imanito told the great myth of the Emergence, the origin of the Southwest Indian peoples, and part of the story was a long litany of names: Navajo, Zuni, Lipan, Jicarilla, Laguna, Tiwa, Keresan, and Hopi; part a cataloging of living communities like Walpi, Sichomovi, and Oraibi, which had come down from ancient times.
“Long ago when the world was still new the old ones and the old creatures lived under the earth. Everything was dark because there was no light there. Even above the earth, there was no light.
“It was the time of four worlds. This world, where we live, and the three cave worlds below, one on top of the other. The old ones and the old creatures multiplied so fast that they filled the lower cave world and overcrowded it. It became so crowded that they jostled each other when they tried to move, and the cave was filled with their filth and their shit. The people complained and groaned, and said it was not good to live that way, but no one knew what to do about it.
“Then the Two Brothers came forth from among the people, and they broke holes in the roofs of the cave and climbed down into the lowest cave world where other people were living. The Two Brothers planted many plants, one after the other, until finally one of them grew tall and strong and jointed like the plant we know as a cane plant. It grew so high it went through the hole in the roof of the cave. It was strong enough for the people and creatures to climb, and the joints were like the rungs of a ladder, and that is how they got to the second cave world.
“When some of the people had climbed out, they realized it was dark and there was no way to tell how large it was, and so they were afraid it would be too small. They shook the ladder and made the slow ones fall back down.
“It took a long time, but the second cave world also grew full and as crowded as the first, and so once again they used the cane ladder to go through the ceiling into another world. And once again they shook down the ones who took too long.
“The third world was as dark as the second world, but it was larger, and in this one the Two Brothers discovered fire. That changed everything, because now the people could light torches and carry them around. They could travel, and they could build their houses and kivas, but the easiness of life with fire also made the people change.
“It was while the people and creatures lived in the third cave world that the times of evil came. Women grew crazed and behaved like men, dancing and neglecting their babies, and men behaved like women, taking care of the babies. Still, there was no day, only the blackest night lit by the people’s torches.
“To get away from their troubles, the people climbed up into the fourth world, which is the one we live in now. But at that time, this world, too, was in total darkness. In the light of their torches, the people found tracks. They were the tracks of Death, the Corpse Demon, the one we call Masawu. They followed the tracks to the east, but the world was wet, and the tracks led out into the black waters.
“The people tried to make light in order to illuminate this world. They had the help of the five beings who had come up with them, and one after the other, they tried. It was the five beings that made the lights that became the sun, the moon, and the stars.
“And now that they had light, the people could see the tracks of Masawu and follow them to new lands in the east. Masawu was the only one who awaited us in this world when it was the world of water. When the waters dried, it left the earth damp and fertile, and it was Death that taught people how to plant and grow things.
“Now let me tell you the important thing, the thing that you came here to listen to. When the world dried, it became hard like stone, and many strange tracks were left in it. From men, and animals, and the strange creatures that no man knows anymore. These tracks could be seen stretching westward from where the people came out of the cave worlds into this one, and among them were certain tracks that had been left there by the Old Ones who had been in the world of water.
“Long, slithery tracks that looked like giant things had been dragged. These Old Ones were the beings that had dwelled in the dark world of water before the coming of men, and when the world dried, they had to escape into the deepest and darkest waters or be trapped in the drying stone. Most of the Old Ones escaped away from the land, but a few of them were too slow, like the slow people from the lower cave worlds, and they were trapped in the stone caves that formed when the waters bubbled out and went to the oceans.
“There is an Old One still trapped nearby. It has been calling for a long, long time, and the Corpse Demon, Masawu, told the ancestors of the Hopi to look out for the three who would answer that call. We were to tell them this story so that they would know if their duty was to men or to the Old Ones, because if the Old Ones return to the dry land, then they will bring the black waters with them once again, and this world will end in water and not in flames, as it should.
“This is the story. It is finished. And now I must tell you the tale of how to rid the world of monsters like the Old Ones, the ones who had no voices because they lived in water. The ones with names like K’thul’hu.” He recounted the stories of the Monster-ridding cycle and explained that it is not just they, the North American Indians, who told this, but that it originated with the older, more advanced civilizations that built the Mayan and Aztec pyramids, the civilizations that traced their roots to the now sunken Azatlan or Ixtlan, or-as Lovecraft and Howard well knew its myth-Atlantis.
In the sand paintings that accompanied the stories, Howard and Lovecraft recognized angular icons that were vaguely reminiscent of the figure on the Artifact. Though they had not shown it to him, the shaman painted an uncanny representation of the Kachina in its dancelike pose with its cylindrical headdress, which, in the flat painting, was rectangular. Then, next to the Kachina, in a line connected from one of the zigzag lines of scalloping around its neck, Imanito drew the Artifact itself. He explained how it was an unholy power that was supposed to be left behind in the lowermost Black World, but which promised, again and again, to break through to the surface and rule those who had formerly escaped its power.
Lovecraft took this to be his cue, and he finally did what he had been impatiently waiting to do. He produced the Artifact and held it rather proudly in his palm for Imanito to see, for him to confirm that it was, indeed, just like the one he had drawn in sand.
But Imanito averted his eyes. “Put the terrible thing away!” he commanded. “Too look at it is to let its evil enter your spirit.”
Lovecraft quickly put the Artifact back into his watch pocket.
“When it comes time to rid yourself of it, you will find that you can not let go,” said Imanito. He turned to Howard, and said, solemnly,
“You, black-hatted bear man, must help take it from him.”
“Sure,” said Howard. “Whatever you say.”
Imanito now laid out a surface of black sand, and on it, in lighter colors, he began to trace an oddly disorganized pattern of lines and shapes that looked nothing at all like the other sand painting, which was beau
tifully structured and symmetrical. As he created a shape with the sand in one palm, he would connect it to another shape with the sand in the other, and with each shape he pronounced what sounded like the name of a place: “where the earth is chalky, where the water is clear as air, where the upper teeth are large, where the foul breath comes.”
Lovecraft suddenly realized that the old man must be diagramming an underground labyrinth. It was a map he had drawn. He pointed this out to Howard.
“Looks like it could just as well be an animal’s guts,” said Howard. Imanito finished and wiped his palms. “You must remember this map,” he said. “This is where you will enter the lower world.” He moved his finger across the intricate network of joined shapes passing a symbol that looked like a stylized letter H. “And here is where you will lock the gate with the evil thing.”
Howard and Lovecraft both looked closely at the map, but they hardly bothered to memorize it. Imanito solemnly continued, giving them instructions about what dangers to avoid, finally explaining how to place the Artifact in a certain receptacle. “Now I am done,” he said. “All this I can speak but once.”
“And what if we don’t know what the hell you’ve been talkin’ about?” Howard asked rhetorically.
“You will.”
“You’ve provided us with more information than can reasonably be absorbed in such a short span of time,” said Lovecraft. “Why not allow me to make a sketch of these rather elaborate patterns?”
Imanito smiled. He parted his arms, palms up, to indicate the two very different paintings, then he looked up toward the smoke hole in the center of the ceiling and began to chant something the others could not understand. He closed his eyes, leaned forward, and passed his hands back and forth in front of him, smearing the sand so thoroughly that the paintings were irreparably destroyed. And at that moment, outside, the wind began to moan with an ominous force, its sound climbing up and down the register until it was so loud they could hear the sand particles it carried beating against the outside wall of the hogan.
As the sandstorm began to build, they heard whip-cracking bursts of dry heat lightning, and through the smoke hole in the center of the roof, they could see veins of blue-white light jagging across the sky. In moments the air was filled with the smell of brimstone; their hair stood on end, and they heard the wind’s volume grow to the roar of ten thousand voices in the darkness. When Imanito finished sweeping the grains of colored sand and reached over for his pipe, electric sparks crackled between his fingertips and the stem.
“You will remember,” said Imanito. “I know you do not believe this thing I have told you, but you will in time. And when you need the map I have shown you, you will simply return here, to this time, now, to see it once again.”
“Do. I infer correctly that what you mean to say, in this figurative fashion, is that we will attempt to remember the map?” Lovecraft asked.
“No,” said Imanito. “I do not speak figuratively.” Lovecraft shook his head-sadly, Howard thought.
“And now the dawn is coming, and you must go,” said Imanito, and as if on cue, the wind abated outside. There was a scratching sound at the door of the hogan, and when Imanito opened it, his dog entered with a whimper. He dropped what appeared to be a piece of black fabric at Imanito’s feet and curled up in front of the fire.
“The creatures of blackness are near,” said Imanito. He knelt and picked up the material. He rubbed it between thumb and forefinger, as if testing its texture, then handed it to Howard.
It was not fabric. Howard could not determine what kind of material it was. Obviously, it was the cloth that the odd men’s suits were made of, but it was a material with no threads. The texture of the black substance reminded Howard of the fleshy surface of a wet mushroom; it smelled faintly of mold or mildew. Howard gave the black patch to Lovecraft and absently wiped his hand on his pants.
“Remarkable,” said Lovecraft. “One would never guess from the appearance. ”
Suddenly a shrill scream came from behind the partition. Howard instantly leaped up and yanked the blankets away, expecting something dire and horrible, but it was just Glory, sitting up, wide-eyed and covered in sweat.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It was just a bad dream.”
“At least you’ve awakened at an opportune time,” said Lovecraft.
“We are making preparations to leave.”
Howard helped Glory to her feet.
THEY WERE SPEECHLESS when they saw the car. The wind had sandblasted it so thoroughly that there was hardly a sign of the dried blood and gore and scraps of fur that had made the Chevy appear to be not so much a black horse as Imanito’s father had said, but the huge, skinned carcass of one. Only a few spots in the leeward side of the car still showed a few dark stains and threads of animal hair. The other side had been buffeted so violently that patches of paint had eroded away, revealing the raw metal. underneath. Small areas of the glass were pockmarked with tiny craters.
“I suppose we shan’t need to be washing the automobile,” said Lovecraft. “But I hazard the guess that perhaps the windshield will need replacing instead.”
Glory walked up to the Chevy and ran the tips of her fingers along the rear fender. “It’s amazing,” she said. “I’m glad we were inside. ”
Now Imanito came out of the hogan carrying what looked like a dead black snake in one hand and a pair of crescent wrenches in the other. “Let us repair your car,” he said to Howard.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Howard. “The guts of my iron horse! How in the hell did you know what kinda hose to get?”
“I’m a medicine man. Magic.” Imanito laughed and Howard joined him. They preoccupied themselves at the front of the car, replacing the damaged water hose, and afterward, Imanito re-dressed the wound on Howard’s arm with a foul-smelling herbal salve.
In the last layer of the dressing, he placed what looked like a poker chip. When Howard looked puzzled, Imanito merely waved his hand as if to assure him that it had some sort of healing property. Howard rolled his eyes and humored him.
“Remember these words sung by the man who was helped by the eagle people,” Imanito told the travelers as they got into the car. When Howard pulled away, the old shaman chanted a few lines from a version of the Bird Nester’s song:
I rise up
to the black mirage that flies
in the center of the sky, and in the shadow
of his black wings
I come.
“I shall await you on the island of birds, pale fish man,” he said quietly. The old Indian and his dog stood silhouetted in the red dawn light of the vermilion desert, and soon they were lost in a fog of dust.
AS THE MORNING drew on and the temperature in the car grew to a comfortable level of nearly oppressive heat, Lovecraft halfheartedly attempted to dismiss the old shaman’s intimations of death. He held forth about savage superstitions and parlor tricks; he brought up Harry Houdini’s campaign to expose spiritualists and charlatans who performed such deceptions, then drifted off into a digression about ghost-writing a story for him set in the pyramids of the Giza plateau. “I find myself unable to take seriously anyone, even a man who appears to be a reputable noble savage like Imanito, who believes in the existence of Atlantis,” Lovecraft said finally. “I must confess I was impressed at first by his seeming keen knowledge about us, but upon reflection I am inclined to think the way Houdini thinks about such deceptions.” But much to his surprise, he could get no corroboration from Howard, whom he knew to have similar sentiments. At least they’d had occasion in the past to argue rationally about the existence of lost continents like Atlantis and Mu. But now his friend seemed too seriously disturbed by recent events to support his criticisms of Imanito. Lovecraft was much relieved when Howard finally made light of things.
“I have a joke for you,” said Howard. “What does Santa Claus say in the Southwest desert?”
“What?”
“Nava-ho ho ho!”
&n
bsp; “Shouldn’t that be ‘Nava-ho ho Hopi’ in order to be more inclusive?” Lovecraft said.
“Well, ain’t you suddenly an Injun expert. I have another joke for you, then,” said Howard. “What leaks out of a Southwest desert Injun after he’s drunk too much?”
“What?” Lovecraft asked.
“Nava-Ho-pee,” said Howard, bursting into giggles at his own wit.
Lovecraft gave a high-pitched titter of approval.
“I have a joke, too,” Glory said after a few moments.
“What is it?” asked Howard.
“What do you call a Texan who makes a damned fool of himself?”
“What?”
“A Tex-anus.” Glory and Lovecraft laughed this time, and Howard glowered at them from under his thick brows.
Soon Lovecraft had dozed off while scribbling in his journal, and in the moments of uncomfortable privacy it offered, Howard tried awkwardly to break the silence.
“What do you suppose he meant about you?” Howard asked. ” ‘A mother who ain’t a mother; who wants to visit a mother.’ That’s a pretty riddle, ain’t it? And right on the button as far as I reckon, at least the first half of it. But then that thing about your dyin’ in cold air-that seemed pretty peculiar.”
“I am visiting a mother,” Glory replied. “My sister lives in Vegas, and she has a little boy. I’ve wanted to see them for a long time.”
“You believe the old Injun?”
Shadows Bend Page 13