Return of the Bones: Inspired by a True Native American Indian Story

by Belinda Vasquez Garcia

  She opened the door and lifted her boot to climb up.

  “There is a burlap sack in my bedroom. Fetch it,” he ordered.

  Not even a good morning. How did you sleep? How are you feeling?

  She returned his hateful look with a glacier stare of her own before marching back to the house. When she exited the house, the front door slammed behind her, letting him know that was her last trip to his room.

  “What’s in the bag,” she said, frowning at the burlap sack and shaking it.

  “Put my sack in the back. Drive me to this Boston.” His tone ordered her to shut up and mind her own business. The wind slapped his greasy white braids across her cheek and the odor of a rattlesnake egg shell, mixed with raw honey from his beehives, assaulted her nose. He always combined sweetness with poison. His recent illness did not transform him into the gentle grandfather she hoped would materialize. If anything, he was even more ornery than before and demanded they stop at Pecos to begin their journey.

  “It’s out of our way, Governor. I want to make Oklahoma City before sunset.”

  “I must commune with the ghosts and tell them we are going to bring home the bones.”

  She couldn’t help herself and laughed at the stupidity of it all. They traveled with a ratty camper. His smelly mattress served as a bed. They also brought along an old camping stove, blankets and pillows, a five-gallon water tank, food cooler and folding chairs. She prayed her money would last.

  “I don’t know how you get me into these things,” she mumbled, thinking of her boss’ astonished face when he learned of her cross-country drive to pick up a couple thousand skeletons, after a stop at D.C. to show a certificate of authenticity that proved she and Grandfather were the last of the Pecos. Getting the proof together did not go so smoothly, especially working with the closed-mouthed old coot who sat beside her. At least her boss said her job as a slot supervisor at the San Felipe Hollywood Casino would be waiting for her.

  She knew how to get a rise out of the old man and nudged him with her elbow. “Once we declare our legitimacy as the last Pecos survivors, we should file to open a casino, get some revenge against the white man by robbin’ his pockets for all that blood that drip-dripped down the mountains,” she said.

  “You wish to defile our homeland with gambling invaders?”

  “I actually thought a casino is like a trade fair. You once told me Pecos was the crossroads of the world where they held prosperous trade fairs and Spanish invaders and Plains Indians came to buy and sell, along with the other pueblos. We can even make a casino of tipis like they did to trade their money for fun at the slots.”

  Her attempt to dignify her joke did not amuse him. For the remainder of the drive he sulked like an unhappy camper probably because for the first time in her life she laughed at him instead of with him. Ever since he almost died, he no longer seemed so frightening. Instead, he was pitiful because of his damned old age, but at least he would live to see his dream of the stolen bones reburied at Pecos.

  They arrived at the ruins, her in a better mood than last time. He wobbled, pounding the ground with the ceremonial staff and clinging to her elbow. Their path was difficult to maneuver since she dragged his burlap sack behind her. At least the sucker wasn’t heavy, just cumbersome.

  A rattlesnake slithered across their path and he stopped to let it pass while she muffled her screams with her hand.

  Her vivid memories caused the scar on her forehead to ache. She remembered herself as a skinny seven-year-old girl with an unscarred forehead, darker skinned than now. Spring bloomed but given the Jemez altitude and the sun’s brutality, the earth overheated. Two long braids roped into a bun on her head so the sun kissed her neck; the sun god loved her and did not burn her but caressed her with its warm rays. Even at the age of seven, she had a sensuous nature and heavy lidded eyes. Her friends teased about her bedroom eyes which made her look like she was dreaming. Wide-eyed that day, she balanced her toes at the ledge of a snake den.

  The snakes purred at her, their hissing sounding like an invitation. The eyes of the largest snake hypnotized her.

  Suddenly, something clawed her neck, jerked her back from the den and made her airborne then set her roughly on the ground.

  She spun in a fit of temper, but no one was there.

  Then, as if he projected from thin air, Grandfather stood on the other side of the snake den. He must have walked over from their shack hidden by hills and trees some distance behind him.

  He stood like a barrel with both fists on his hips. He yelled and accused her of following him, after he strictly forbade her to leave the house.

  She screamed back at him for scaring her; “I know nothing about your stupid secret snake den!”

  Her words wobbled in the air because he shook her until her teeth rattled.

  He pinched her neck, marching her to their shabby house, her fists flying out, trying to strike him.

  Thus, on her seventh birthday she sat in her bedroom and cried, not because of some dumb old snakes. If he knew snakes didn’t scare her, he might slap her silly. She cried because he ripped the collar of her new dress when he dragged her away. Old-Woman, who cooked and cleaned for them, sewed the dress for her birthday. She disliked Old-Woman, but the dress was her new favorite in the entire world and deserved a grunt of a thank you when Old-Woman handed her the gift. Old-Woman offered a wrinkled cheek, and she took a step back. Old-Woman held out her hand, and her own hand hung limp at her side.

  Old-Woman’s sewing skill was admirable, but her face was too ugly to look at. Rather, she stared at the sparse hairs on her chin and often referred to her as Bearded-Lady to her friends. All the girls laughed at her imitation of Old-Woman swaying her wide hips in front of Grandfather and waving her butt in his face.

  She refused to address Old-Woman by her given name. It was easy to ignore his sometimes-companion, except on those nights when with her hands cuffed to her ears, she could not drown out moans and grunts coming from the other side of the thin walls.

  The sun now set in the scene from her past and silence echoed from the shack. She lay on her bed in the fetus position and hugged her damaged birthday dress. In the dusk a chair was barely visible in her bedroom. Three crooked shelves hung from the wall. One shoe teetered on the edge of the lower shelf because she had thrown her shoes at the wall in a temper tantrum when he ordered her to bed early, not even fried bread with honey for her seventh birthday.

  The smell of baked bread wafted in from the horno oven outside her window and tortured her. Grandfather should have nicknamed her Hollow-Stomach instead of Hollow-Woman which she hated, such an adult name for a girl. He told her he named her Hollow-Woman because a motherless girl would have to grow up fast.

  Moisture gathered at the corners of her eyes and her lip trembled at a noise. Maybe he forgave her and brought her a birthday gift.

  Something slithered across her bed. She could feel the object’s weight crawl along her ankle and across her knee.

  The last rays of the sun shone through her window and illuminated the head of a snake, its tail rattling on her calf. The snake king that earlier stared at her with such interest had crawled from the snake den to her room. She didn’t know whether to feel scared or honored. Before she could decide, the snake struck her in the center of her forehead right between her eyes.

  Grandfather seemed to leap from the air and materialize in her bedroom. He grabbed the snake before it could strike again. He let out what sounded like a strangled scream and yanked off the snake’s head.

  She lay paralyzed on her bed with her nose pointed up. The headless body of the snake wiggled in her lap, the tail whipping about her head causing her forehead to swell. She tasted vomit on her lips.

  Vaguely aware of Grandfather, the pungent odor of burning herbs teased her nostrils and his warm breath gave her scant comfort. Through a fog, she heard a sucking sound and then spits, followed by the pressure of his thumbs as he worked poison from her head. Her head felt b
ig, then small…big, then small. It seemed he intended to suck the very brains from her skull.

  Her last thought before losing consciousness was that it would serve him right if she died.

  She woke to sunlight and her head resting in his lap. He held a glass of goat milk to her lips and she sipped.

  He watched her closely and gave her a rare smile because she managed to hold the milk down.

  “You shouldn’t have revealed yourself to the snakes, little One. The snakes claimed your father for their own when he sought their poison to end his sadness at losing your mother.”

  The softness of his voice surprised her. She suddenly felt shy. They never really had a grown-up conversation before. Usually he grunted or snapped impatiently at her, or she screamed at him in fits of temper. Their conversations usually ended with him smacking her lightly on the back of the head, or pulling on her braids, and scolding her for being so much like him…too much like him

  “Tell me more about my father, happy things.”

  “He killed himself because your mother died after giving birth to you.”

  He seemed not to notice the shock he gave her. She never put two and two together before that her parents’ deaths was her fault. She doubled over and vomited.

  While he calmly skinned the snake, she wrinkled her nose and moved to the corner of her bed, away from her would-be murderer, the king snake.

  “Do not dread the snakes. Our brothers know you are one of them because we belong to the Snake Clan. I’ve moved my snake den to a place where you will not find them. I am heavy with sadness that I have killed my brother the snake. The Ridge-nosed Rattlesnake is an endangered species, as you and I are,” he said.

  “What’s an endangered species?” she said.

  “The Ridge-nosed snakes are becoming extinct. They are such magnificent creatures to vanish from this land and proud warriors. Too bad their breed is dying out.”

  She opened her eyes wide because it never occurred to her that he might die. He was old, but then he must have been born old, wise, and all-seeing. Everyone they ever came across treated him with utmost respect and a little fear. He was invincible; he could never die. She must not let Grandfather see her fright. He was not as similar to her as he thought. She could never embody a snake; snakes are fearless.

  It was then he told her, “Our Pecos Pueblo is a place so magical, our holy serpent sleeps hidden in a cave nearby, waiting for his worshippers to return. Alas, snakes have no outer ears and just you and I jumping upon the earth and pounding drums cannot make a noise loud enough to wake him. In over a hundred years he has not forged any new arroyos as he snakes across the ground, so I know he has not left his cave. He is lazy, that one.”

  “A monster snake?” she said.

  “Do not fret; the snakes are our elder brothers; stay away from the snakes else they might jealously claim you as their own and snatch you from me.”

  He rubbed a paste on her forehead, which cooled the pain from her snakebite and soothed her. The paste seemed to soak into her brain so she felt bubbly and warm.

  “But you don’t leave the snakes alone, Governor,” she said with a slurred voice, sounding like she lived in a cave.

  “I have frolicked with them so the snakes do as I bid. I have searched all these years for the feathered serpent of Pecos, yet he eludes me, so I chase the rattlers and other snakes in hope that in the breed born this year lives the feathered serpent, but so far all the eggs have hatched small and bald.”

  She stared with wide eyes at the king snake. He searched for a giant snake?

  He lifted his braid from his neck and showed her his own snake scar.

  And so she discovered on her seventh birthday that the feathered serpent from Pecos always marked the Snake Clan as his very own. This discovery was followed by several years spent running after Grandfather, chasing the feathered serpent until her legs outgrew his and she led the chase. Finally, at the age of twelve, she stopped running. Twenty-three years passed since then and the ruins deteriorated even more but the hopeless trails were still visible where she snaked across on wild goose chases.

  He, however, never gave up and Steve drove him to Pecos occasionally; and Grandfather hung his head, dog-like, from the window while they drove around, looking for snake trails.

  “In all these years, have you ever seen even a glimpse of the feathered serpent, Governor?” she now said.

  “You grew up and matured into a weak woman. I longed for a grandson but perhaps one day you will find the cave at Pecos where the feathered serpent of the Aztecs sleeps and the Snake Clan will not become extinct,” he said, leaning the ceremonial staff against the jagged wall of the church ruins. He touched her shoulder but she shrugged him off and stared at the ground—anywhere but at him.

  “Do not fret, because it is not your fault Moctezuma cursed the Pecos Pueblo centuries ago. I blame myself, Granddaughter, because you have no son.”

  “Yes, I know.” She waved her truck keys in his face. A tiny figure of Kokopelli swung from her fingers.

  “Do not mock the old ways,” he said.

  He gifted her with the key chain on her wedding day. Kokopelli, Casanova of the Cliff Dwellers, had a hump on his back filled with male seed. Kokopelli visited the pueblos, playing his flute in warm spring; evening stars would dance to his music. Come morning, crops flourished and life stirred within the wombs of women at the pueblo.

  Her marriage begat a dozen years of sorcery and modern procreation techniques all meant to torture her. She believed all these years he blamed her because the babies she carried slipped from her womb too young to live, frail like herself, miserable like herself. But all this time he held back from her like he always did, even as he shrank with age.

  “You should have explained sooner that it is not my fault I am weak,” she said.

  “I didn’t want to scare you,” he said, and then frightened the bejesus out of her. “You are cursed, Granddaughter, and I fear for your future.”

  “Well I’ve got many years left, I hope.”

  He puffed on a hand-rolled cigarette, blowing smoke in her exasperated face. He yanked open the burlap sack and jerked out a two-foot hand-carved statue of a Franciscan friar with Bible open, upon which sat a baby statue. A halo of hair encircled the monk’s bald scalp.

  “What’s this, Governor?”

  “The idol is St. Anthony of Padua, patron saint of barren women.”

  “You shouldn’t waste what little money you have on miracles,” she said pressing against her empty womb.

  He shoved the statue at her then pulled from his bag of tricks the dream catcher he had made.

  “As you know, a dream catcher sifts dreams and visions. The first morning rays melt the nightmares that have been caught. The small hole in the center allows good dreams to pass through and make sleep pleasant. The webbing is for strength and the feathers are the whisperings of the spirit. I’ve made this dream catcher special for you, Granddaughter.”

  Touched, she reached out her hand but he yanked his gift from her reach.

  “I now make this dream catcher something you have never seen before.”

  He grabbed his ceremonial pipe from his knapsack. The pipe was about a foot long and decorated with glass beads. Striped wool bands covered half the pipe. Silk ribbons of various colors adorned the pipe, intermixed with horsehair.

  He shoved his pipe between his lips, and she flipped open her cigarette lighter, returning his dirty look. Yeah. So what? The hypocrite often yelled at her to quit smoking, but the calm of a cigarette lessened the stresses of her life. Now the burden of one day being the last of a dying species gave her the heebie-jeebies.

  “When another vision came to me of my death,” he said, puffing on his pipe, “I began to make this death gift for you. I finished the dream catcher this morning.”

  He lifted the dream catcher in the air and waved the net around. He blew sacred smoke through the net and sang in their native tongue, Towa.

  “
With this dream catcher I ensnare my people’s history,” he said in a thundering voice, raising his arms to the sky.

  “You have been sleeping and waiting for the stolen ones to join you once again. Now you must help my granddaughter find her family for she is as lost as the missing ones.” He blew on his flageolet fashioned from a bird’s bone so the music of his flute instrument sounded like a canary. With haunting notes, he called forth Pecos spirits who rose from their graves. Mists of cold air steamed from the ground and entered the dream catcher’s net. The feathers of the dream catcher fluttered, and whisperings came from the owl and the eagle feathers. An eerie fog formed and spelled out her name. The letters evaporated into the netting, as if to brand it. The net pushed out as a fist shoved through its center, then retracted with a whoosh and the dream catcher hung silent and still.

  “I made this dream catcher special. If the net spins clockwise then nightmares are trapped and good dreams pass through, but if the net spins counter, nightmares spellbind your sleep.”

  Oh, God, not again. He scared her so much she whimpered and bit her nails.

  “Be silent. You must learn not just the happiness of Pecos but the sadness and terror of your people. Your journey must be spiritual as well as physical, and with the promise of finding your family, perhaps, you will even discover yourself. When you find the bones (Did she imagine a threat in his voice?) your curse of barrenness will lift and the Pecos will flourish once more.”

  “You don’t play fair, Governor,” she said, turning her back to him. She could never describe her emptiness because he was her only family, and they differed in body and soul. Just desolation and death lingered at Pecos, like her empty womb.

  She dug her toe into the ground, ready to sprint, and he grabbed her shoulder, spun her around and pinched her.

  “Here is your family, my final gift to you,” he said.

  She reached out a shaky hand and grabbed one end of the dream catcher and they tugged between them.

  He appeared crazed and his eyes wild.