by Mark Reps
“Na’ii’ees, that’s the Apache name for the Sunrise Ceremony. It’s a unique and special ceremony. It is for girls only.”
“Why girls only?”
Zeb’s question brought softness to the tired, serious look on Song Bird’s face.
“It’s a ceremony only for girls because it celebrates the first flowing of their womanhood.”
“Flowing of their womanhood?” asked Zeb.
“Menstruation.”
Zeb’s cheeks reddened with embarrassment.
“During the Na’ii’ees, mountain spirits, called g’ans by my people, appear. The g’ans inspire numerous sacred ceremonies, dances and songs. Their power helps us to perform ancient, traditional reenactments of the original ways with the proper virtue. One of the most important parts of the sacred rite is when the girls become imbued with the physical and spiritual power of White Painted Woman.”
“Who is White Painted Woman?” asked the sheriff.
“White Painted Woman is like Eve in the Christian religion. She is the First Woman, the mother of the First People. We call her Esdzanadehe or Changing Woman. Her story is one of beauty and power. In modern times, educated people call the story an allegory. But all those who carry real Apache blood in their veins believe it as the literal truth. Our religion, like Christianity, also tells the story of the great flood. When the waters arose to cover the earth, the Changing Woman was the sole human survivor, having escaped the holocaust by stowing away inside an abalone shell.”
“An abalone shell?” asked Zeb.
“Yes,” said Song Bird. “Like the one found inside my granddaughter’s chest.”
Song Bird’s forthrightness created a sense of heaviness in the room.
“If this is too difficult, we can talk later,” said Zeb.
“No, it’s okay. Let me continue. When the heavens ceased their downpour, she found herself among the highest mountaintops. There, as the water receded, she was impregnated by the sun and gave birth to a baby boy. This first son was called the Killer of Enemies. Soon after she was once again impregnated, this time by Rain. Her second child was called Son of Water.”
“Whether the story is myth or truth, the first and second sons must be powerful representations to the Apache,” mused Zeb.
“They are because they represent the safety of all the People. Both were born with a specific intent. Killer of Enemies and Son of Water, by the rite of their births, must kill the Owl Man Giant who has brought all this great terror. When they accomplish their mission, White Painted Woman, the Changing Woman, is waiting and expresses a cry of triumph and delight. This cry of victory is remembered through all time. During the Sunrise Ceremony, this joyous refrain will be echoed by the godmother.”
“The godmother?”
“The godmother is the stand-in for the White Painted Woman. She is a mentor chosen by the family of the girl and will assist the soon-to-be woman in preparation for the Sunrise Ceremony as well as becoming her lifelong role model. The godmother is blessed and guided by spirits to establish a puberty rite for the girl. It is her responsibility to instruct the women of the tribe in the ritual and rites of womanhood.”
“What happens to White Painted Woman?”
“You ask good questions, Zeb. Maybe one day we’ll make you an honorary Apache...Apache woman, that is.”
Surprised by Song Bird’s ability to become lighthearted, Zeb managed an awkward grin.
“She becomes old, as we all do. However, when she gets old, she walks east toward the sun until she meets her younger self. When the old woman meets with the young woman, they merge, and White Painted Woman becomes young again. She lives from generation to generation with this rebirth,” said Song Bird.
“Where does the young girl fit into this ceremony?”
“She learns about being a woman,” said Song Bird. “Through ceremony and mentoring she gains a greater understanding of the physical manifestations of womanhood such as menstruation. But she also becomes aware of the physical endurance, inner strength and power of sexuality that lives inside women. Of course, all of this comes only after rigorous physical training for the ceremony which helps her endure the four long days and nights of almost continual running, dancing and praying.”
“Running and dancing for four days?” asked Zeb. “I doubt I could have done that in my prime. Pardon me for saying so, but it seems almost brutal.”
“To someone unaware of the power of Apache tradition, it might seem so. But you must stop and try to understand the symbolic and real power that comes with running in the four directions and becoming aware of the four stages of life. These girls are blessed to be able to pass through the sacred gate of womanhood and receive all the gifts and blessings associated with it. During the ceremony, prayers and heartfelt wishes for prosperity, wellbeing, fruitfulness, and a long and healthy life are bestowed upon them by the tribe. And ultimately, while becoming a woman is the purpose of the tradition, the re-enactment of the creation myth connects the girl to her spiritual heritage and allows her to find her core. We believe the girl-woman’s true nature is found in this innermost of spirits. She finds her own spiritual power, sacredness and goodness. With this ancient knowledge that is new to her, she gains command over her weaknesses and especially the dark forces of her nature.”
“What dark forces can possibly be in a young girl?” asked Zeb.
“The same dark forces that dwell in everyone. The ill omens of moral corruption,” responded Song Bird. “Have you never wrestled with the force inside of you that commands your evil side?”
Zeb saw his reflected image in the wise man’s eyes. Of course he had felt the power of evil rise inside of him. All men wrestle with the feeling in extreme circumstances. He thought of the time in Tucson when he nabbed a killer who had strangled his own mother. Zeb would have killed him if his partner hadn’t stopped him.
“Do you believe the nature of evil is as omnipotent as the power of good?”
“Throughout all time, good and evil are also at continual odds,” replied Song Bird.
Song Bird paused, bringing the hot coffee to his lips, allowing the pensive Zeb some time to mull over this new concept.
“Four days of rigorous physical activity, sexual maturation, prayers, rituals, the four directions,” repeated Zeb. “It’s all a strange, new way of thinking for me. But as foreign as it is, it somehow makes sense.”
“Yes,” said Song Bird.
“But the nature of evil being undeniably present in an innocent child? I’m not sure I buy that. Do you really think there are dark forces in every Apache girl?” asked Zeb.
“My people are one hundred percent certain dark forces reside in everyone. They are present from the time of birth. The Sunrise Ceremony helps the girl who is becoming a woman to rid herself of the evil side of her nature.”
“Like baptism purifies the soul and removes the stain of original sin?” asked Zeb.
“Our cultures are less different than you might think.”
The Medicine Man’s words clarified the killer’s motivation in the sheriff’s mind. He was becoming certain he was dealing with the same person in the deaths of Amanda Song Bird and Angel Bright. Both victims were in the process of using traditional methods, one Mormon, one Apache, to symbolically purge evil from their souls. The killer’s motivation was to see that transition halted.
“Song Bird, there’s something you should know. I don’t want our conversation going any further than it absolutely has to. You know how the rumor mill works. If what I’m about to tell you gets around, there’s a damn good chance someone will take justice into their own hands. Innocent people could get hurt, maybe even killed. Worse yet, if the killer were to get wind of what we know, he might leave the area once and for all and never be found.”
The old Medicine Man remained stoic and resolute as the sheriff told him that the killer of Angeline Bright had placed a Book of Mormon, inscribed with a message to Jake Dablo, in her chest where her heart had been.
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“I’m convinced, and so is Jake, that the killer of Angel Bright and your granddaughter are one and the same person. I also believe the killer is insane.”
“I can tell you that the superstitious sorts on the reservation would agree with you. They are blaming evil spirits and the Gods of the underworld.”
The familiar cadence of his secretary’s knuckles halted the conversation.
“Come in, Helen,” said the sheriff.
“Sorry, Sheriff. I hate to interrupt, but there’s a man on the phone who’s insisting on talking to you.”
“Who is it?” asked Sheriff Hanks.
Helen paused, glancing toward Song Bird whose back was turned to her. The implication was obvious. Could she speak freely in front of the Apache Medicine Man?
“Who is it?” reiterated the sheriff.
“A Mr. Benjamin Jensen. He’s a private investigator from Phoenix. Something about a missing person.”
“I’ll take it,” said the sheriff.
“Please keep me informed if you bring in any suspects. I would like to know,” said Song Bird.
“I’ll see that you’re informed right away,” said Zeb. “I don’t think it will take long. I think I’m beginning to understand how this killer works and why he operates the way he does.”
“Be careful,” said Song Bird. “Often things are not as they seem to be.”
Zeb pondered Song Bird’s odd parting statement as the old man ambled out his office door.
The sheriff picked up the phone. “This is Sheriff Zeb Hanks.”
“Thanks for taking my call, Sheriff Hanks,” replied the detective.
“What can I help you with?”
“I’ll be in Safford tomorrow. I was hoping you could make some time in your busy schedule for me.”
Having worked with private investigators when he was a detective in Tucson had taught Zeb cooperating with them was often as much trouble as not. But this wasn’t Tucson, and the politics in Safford weren’t the same as those in the big city.
“What do you need to see me about?” asked the sheriff.
“A missing person,” replied the detective.
“You think they might be found in Graham County.”
“Possibly. You know of a place called Red’s Roadhouse?”
“Yup.”
“Good, that helps. Are you friendly with the powers that be out on the reservation? I mean, if they have a problem they can’t solve on their own, do they ever come to you?” asked Jensen.
“Are you talking about something specifically?” asked the sheriff.
“I don’t know for certain. It’s just something that I dug up that looks a little funny to me. But I’d rather not talk about it on the phone.”
“Be at my office at noon. I’ll make some time for you then.”
“I’ll be there at twelve sharp tomorrow. We’ll talk then. Goodbye.”
Sheriff Hanks glanced at his slightly open office door and called out.
“Helen, do you have any idea what that detective wants?”
“Not really. He didn’t say anything other than it was a missing person’s case. He seemed like sort of a hush hush kind of guy to me.”
“That’s not what I mean, Helen. I mean have you heard about anything that might bring a private detective to town?”
Helen would have the low down on any mischief that might have passed him by.
“The murder of that child up on the reservation, I suppose. I assumed that the Song Bird clan had hired him.”
“Song Bird would have told me if he were going to do that. Anything else out on the reservation that you’ve heard any gossip about?”
“No, not really. Not lately,” replied Helen.
“How about a while ago? Did you hear something then?”
“A couple of things. There were some stories going around that the Catholic Church is buying up a bunch of Apache holy land on Mount Graham to put in a retreat for alcoholic priests.”
“That one’s not true. I checked it out myself.”
“The only other thing is, well, I’m sure it’s nothing. A couple of times a year, going back, oh I suppose fifteen or twenty years, some young person from the tribe who’s moved off the reservation and up to Phoenix or over to Tucson is found dead. An old Apache woman named Mrs. Trudy Feathers, she’s in my sewing circle, was talking about it.”
“That happens all the time. Young Indians move to the big city and get involved with the wrong sort of people and end up dead. Drugs and violence are a lot more common up there than down here.”
“She knows that too. And she didn’t find it at all odd that young people got killed in the big city, what with all the violence and everything that goes on. It’s just that for about five or six years no one was killed. Then, suddenly, it started up again a couple of years ago. And just like in the past, it always happens in June and December, late in the month.”
“Does Mrs. Feathers have any theories on why it happens this way?”
“She says all she knows is that it’s the work of the devil. I agree with her one hundred percent.”
“How about Red’s Roadhouse? He was asking about that, too. Have you heard anything recently about that place?”
“That den of iniquity, just about anything could happen in such an apocalyptic place. I wouldn’t be surprised should Satan himself show up there one day.”
Helen’s adamant manner brought a smile to Zeb’s face. He glanced at the stack of paperwork on his desk and felt the pangs of an instant headache creeping up the back of his neck. It was too early for lunch, and he had skipped breakfast. He diagnosed the discomfort as a hunger pain.
“I’m going over to the Town Talk for a late breakfast. You can reach me there if you need me.”
“All right, Sheriff. Bring me one of Doreen’s special blueberry muffins, would you?” asked Helen.
“Of course. I wouldn’t want to deny you and your sweet tooth,” said Zeb with a wink.
“Couldn’t be you’re headed in that direction to pick up a little sugar yourself, could it, Sheriff?” asked Helen.
Zeb paused. He was either wearing his heart on his sleeve or rumors were already spreading about him and Doreen. No matter, keeping a secret from Helen was not part of the equation.
“One blueberry muffin comin’ up,” he said, heading out the door.
14
At the cafe, the proprietor greeted the sheriff with her usual sass.
“I wasn’t expectin’ the likes of a handsome feller like yerself ‘til at least lunch time, Sheriff. What’s the matter, you miss lil’ ol’ Doe already?”
Of course he did, but he had no idea how to express it. He had quietly had his eye on her for most of five years and many times considered moving forward with the courting process. But like any man inexperienced and unlearned in the ways of women, he waited for her to make the first move.
“I miss you a little bit every day,” he mumbled under his breath.
The sheriff could scarcely believe his ears upon hearing his own utterance. Those simple and true words, miss you every day, were said with real meaning, just the way a man should talk to a woman like Doreen. Such tender, straightforward words from the mouth of Zeb Hanks set the usually brassy Doreen spinning for a loop.
“You all right, hon’? You runnin’ a fever? Maybe you was tick bit?”
Doreen placed her wrist against the sheriff’s forehead and then tested against her own.
“You sure don’t feel like your engine’s about to boil over.”
Zeb, already discombobulated by his hunger headache, was more than a little flustered. At a loss for words, he fiddled nervously with the spoon in front of him. Doreen smiled and poured some sugar in his coffee, brushing her hand against his in the process.
“Must be hunger workin’ in at ya, then? What can I get for you, big man? The usual?” asked Doreen.
“Yah, well, why don’t you cook me up a couple of eggs, poached medium, with white toast and a big side
of western style potatoes?”
“Did I hear you say western spuds?” asked a wide-eyed Doreen. “Puttin’ a little spice in your life, huh big fella?”
“Giving it some serious consideration,” replied Zeb.
“Careful where you’re drawin’ a bead, big shooter. You ain’t got no idea what sorta trouble you’re aimin’ your six-shooter at.”
The swelling in his heart rose faster than the flame rising under the fry pan that was cooking up one Western Special.
Doreen brought him the food, refilled his coffee cup and took a seat next to him. Gently massaging his neck, she offered him comfort.
“It’s about that murder out on the San Carlos, ain’t it? The murder of that poor little girl?” asked Doreen. “That’s drivin’ ya’ loco, ain’t it?”
The coffee and neck rub erased what was left of his headache, and the food quelled his nausea.
“It’s a real bad deal, you know,” said Zeb. “That’s not the kind of thing that should ever happen anywhere, much less right here in the heart of Graham County.”
Doreen felt the broad shoulder muscles of the big man beginning to loosen.
“You got any suspects?” she asked.
“Not yet, but we’re working on it.”
Doreen whispered secretively, even though the few people in the Town Talk were seated nowhere near them.
“Is the scuttlebutt I been hearin’ on the grapevine true?”
“I suppose that depends on what you’ve been hearing,” said Zeb.
“Don’t tell me the latest gossip hasn’t fallen on your ears, Zeb Hanks. I mean, the whole town’s a yakkin’ over it.”
“Talking about what?”
“Folks are sayin’ it was them space aliens that cut that poor little girl all to pieces. There’s talk they opened her up and did experiments on her. Just like you read about in them magazines they sell over at Links Grocery. I don’t rightly believe everything I read in them rags, but you never know. And there have been all those UFO sightings down by Lordsburg.”
“People have a tendency to let their imaginations run freely, Doreen.”
“Sure they do. Who’s sayin’ they don’t?”