by Mark Reps
“Doreen,” he mouthed. “Your hair is magical.”
As he spoke, a face, half-hidden in Doreen’s hair, flowed mysteriously into the body of a passenger who was clinging to the driver. The gentle whipping movement of her tresses prevented him from getting a clear view of the rider until the wind finally brushed her locks aside. The sheriff was stunned when he saw that the co-rider was a young Indian girl. Smiling and laughing as she rode through the desert carefree and euphoric, she somehow passed on harmonious vibrations to Zeb. He was taken aback with the realization of who the passenger was. The beautiful young passenger was Amanda Song Bird.
The graceful child smiled innocently. She seemed to be waiting for him to catch her eye. When he did, Amanda slowly raised her arm and directed his line of sight to the soaring eagle. As it swooped low, fanning its magnificent wings to slow its airspeed and land, the eagle clasped its sharp, golden talons atop a monument in a graveyard. Zeb watched in awe as it took off as quickly as it landed. In its place, standing in front of the monument, was an apparition robed like the grim reaper. He watched, spellbound, as Doreen’s motorcycle entered the cemetery and roared up to the pallid figure. In a moment of lucid dreaming, Zeb shouted to Doreen to run the apparition over, to kill it. Instead, Doreen parked the Harley only feet away from the evil being. Her passenger, Amanda Song Bird, got off the motorcycle and joined the harbinger of death who suddenly had taken the human personification of Angel Bright. Within the dream his eyesight focused on the girls’ faces. A lapis and gold necklace around Amanda’s neck shimmered in the sun. A beautiful onyx cameo graced Angel’s neck. Zeb shot up in his bed, drenched with sweat and gasping for air.
He told himself he wasn’t superstitious and that he didn’t believe in dreams as omens. His head was flooded with a thousand thoughts that contradicted his long-held convictions.
16
Tired from lack of sleep, strange dreams and a belief system that seemed fractured and riddled with inconsistencies, the sheriff arrived at his office. Eskadi Black Robes was seated by Helen’s desk waiting for him.
With a minimal movement of his head, Zeb directed his guest to the chair in front of his desk.
“What I’ve got is exactly nothing. In fact, things are so quiet on the reservation, it’s almost eerie.”
“It was a long shot, but I was hoping you’d find something that would help me.”
“No such luck, but I did talk with Song Bird last night,” said Eskadi. “He said he would talk with you if you had any more questions. It’s okay if we stop by this morning.”
“Good. We should.”
Zeb looked up at the big circular clock hanging on the wall. It chimed half past the hour. The timing couldn’t be better. He would make a quick run up to Wildhorse Canyon. He could talk with Song Bird more about the case and, while it was still fresh in his mind, ask him about his dream. He would still have no trouble being back for his noon meeting with the detective.
“Let’s get cracking,” said Zeb, picking up his car keys. “I’ll follow you up there.”
The small caravan of two official vehicles, one a BIA truck and the other a Graham County Dodge Dakota pickup, met little traffic on the highway and none on the dirt road leading to Wildhorse Canyon. The serene beauty of the vast emptiness helped Zeb calm the overhanging angst associated with his haunting dream.
As the men pulled into the driveway, Zeb noticed Song Bird sitting beneath an ancient, gnarly mesquite. The tree’s shadows, interwoven with patches of sunlight, made the tribal elder appear almost as one with his natural surroundings. A brightly colored mourning feather, held loosely in his hand, seemed to float on the air. A gust of wind roiled up a little dust, further obscuring the old Indian’s presence.
Song Bird faced in the direction of the rising sun, motionless. He took no notice of his visitors as they got out of the car. His head, tipped slightly toward the earth, appeared to be bowed in prayer. A pair of red-beaked, broad-billed hummingbirds flitted inches above his head, taking off and landing in the branches of an overgrown bird of paradise bush.
Eskadi positioned himself on the bumper of his truck. With a silent hand signal, he beckoned the sheriff to join him. Zeb sat down next to him, turning up the collar of his light jacket as protection against the cool morning breeze. Eskadi, in his short-sleeved shirt, seemed unaffected by the temperature as he stared off to the east. Leaning against the warmed grill of the truck, the men remained still and quiet so as not to disturb the holy man. A quarter of an hour passed before Song Bird nimbly arose from the ground and came over to greet the men.
“Hon Dah,” said Song Bird.
Eskadi returned the traditional greeting.
“Good morning, Zeb,” said Song Bird.
“Good morning, Song Bird.”
“Come inside,” said Song Bird.
The two men followed the old man through a low door on the southern side of the house. He motioned them to have a seat around the hand-hewn kitchen table. With its four slatted chairs, it took up the front half of the house. On the table a variety of dried herbs and roots garnished a well-traveled mortar and pestle set. Behind the kitchen was a homey looking living room with a bed in the far corner. Next to a well-used fireplace was a ragged overstuffed chair that carried a perfect indentation of the Medicine Man’s buttocks. A homemade shelf above the chair held a display of photographs. Overhead, a single dusty light bulb was the only source of artificial light. An aromatic blend of sage and pine wafting throughout the house gently stung Zeb’s eyes.
Song Bird grabbed the pot of freshly brewed coffee from the stove and offered some to his guests. Eskadi politely declined, but Zeb gladly accepted.
“Most people shy away from my coffee,” said Song Bird.
The sheriff watched as the old man poured what looked like black mud with interspersed flecks of green leaves into his cup. The dense, oily aroma of the coffee oddly complemented the lighter wafts of pine and sage.
“Most people don’t care for real Apache coffee. Even some of our tribal leaders won’t drink it,” he said with a slight nod in Eskadi’s direction. “I say it’s only the spoiled, big city Apaches who prefer the white man’s skinny water. They have forgotten how to drink the real thing.”
The twinkle in Song Bird’s eye and his good humor were encouraging signs. Perhaps the Medicine Man’s heart really was beginning to mend. If so, he would be imminently approachable this morning.
Song Bird’s response to the hurt and sorrow of his granddaughter’s death was the antithesis of what Jake’s had been. While Jake hid from the world and drowned his sorrows in hard liquor, Song Bird was working hard to restore a bit of normalcy to his life.
Zeb, Eskadi and Song Bird chatted about the oncoming winter and the increased activity of the animals as they prepared for the cold season. Zeb waited a respectful amount of time before bringing up the real reasons for his visit. He knew his timing fooled no one.
“Song Bird...”
The sheriff looked up to see the Medicine Man already peering deeply into his eyes. The deep crevices in the old Apache’s face and the worldliness in his dark pupils revealed the life of a man who had survived dozens of battles and seen hundreds of changes of season.
“I know this isn’t the best of times for you to answer some questions, but there are some things I need to know. I know it will be hard...”
Song Bird stopped the sheriff in mid-sentence by merely raising an eyebrow.
“Go ahead, Zeb. I want to help, and I am ready to speak. My pain is large, but the circle of life must continue. My prayers are for a new life to replace the one that has been lost. Ask me anything you want.”
Zeb took a slug of Song Bird’s so-called Apache coffee and nearly retched.
“You don’t like my special blend?”
“It takes some getting used to.”
“Like many things we face in this life,” said Song Bird.
Realizing that, even in the midst of tragedy, humor and dignity were n
ot lost on the old man made Zeb comfortable as he began his questioning.
“Every man has enemies…” began Zeb.
“Even the Gods have those who would fight against them,” added Song Bird.
“But Eskadi tells me you believe that you have none. How can that be?”
“I think I may have outlived them all,” said Song Bird. “After all, I am a very old man. Ancient in the eyes of young people. One young boy, when he heard I was a man of religion, asked me if I had met God and what he was like.”
The wry smile on the old Indian’s face hinted at a double meaning that was lost on the sheriff.
“After we talked yesterday I got to thinking that a man who has lived as long as I have may have picked up an enemy or two along the way without being aware of who they are. I have seen many men turn away from their fellow men and become evil. I have seen good men do bad things for no apparent reason. I can personally vouch that no man leads a perfect life.”
As Song Bird’s voice trailed off, Zeb was certain he observed a curious look in the eye of the Medicine Man. He couldn’t quite place the look as one he had ever seen in Song Bird’s eye. It struck him as uniquely odd in relation to the Medicine Man. It was the light, hazy glaze he had witnessed a thousand times in the eyes of men who were skirting the edge of the truth. Zeb listened intently, his suspicions roused that Song Bird might be hiding some small fact. He just couldn’t be sure what he was hiding or why. Certainly a man like Song Bird could make enemies and never know it. A sly and cunning adversary would be wise to lay in wait for a long time, maybe even years, to seek revenge on such a powerful man as Song Bird. Zeb suspected the Medicine Man knew he had enemies and who they were. For some reason he wasn’t speaking their names.
“Is it possible you have angered someone by your work as a Medicine Man?”
“Apaches honor Medicine Men.”
As Song Bird spoke, the half-truth hidden in his eyes faded quickly.
“Besides, if I did a bad healing, the family would come and tell me so they could get their money back. Apaches are hard business people. They always want to get what they pay for. Let me tell you a story. One time Beualah Trees came to me when the ghost of a White man was bothering her by hanging around her house. For an Indian to be frightened by a White man’s spirit is even worse than being scared by an Indian spirit. Worst of all, the ghost was that of the man who killed the man she was going to marry. It was a big predicament for everyone. It took me a long time. When I chased the ghost away, Beualah gave me enough canned goods to last a whole winter. But when the ghost decided to come back, she not only came and took the canned goods back, she also took my transistor radio and all my new candles. She said the music on the radio and the light from the candles were the only things that could protect her from the White man’s ghost when it got dark outside. What could I do? I gave them to her willingly. But I can tell you this. If my medicine doesn’t work, no one would want a life in return. They would want something material. They wouldn’t want to create a ghost spirit that might come back to visit them.”
“How about your daughter? Is there anyone you can think of who would wish her ill? Anyone who would harm her by hurting her daughter?”
“No one that I know of.”
“Have you asked her?”
“She is in mourning. I won’t disturb her until she has cleansed herself of the anger and confusion that comes with the loss of a child this way.”
“How about your granddaughter’s father?”
“He’d dead and gone. He never existed.”
Song Bird’s curt tone demanded Zeb quit probing in that direction. The sheriff had heard on the Town Talk grapevine that, for some unknown reason, it was a very sore subject with Song Bird. The rumors as to why were many. None of them made sense to Zeb. But he added the dead girl’s father to his short list of suspects.
Each question Zeb asked produced yet another dead end. His eyes scanned the inside of Song Bird’s house, hoping to spot something that would trigger a greater understanding of the Apache way of thinking and a path behind the veil of Apache secrecy. On a shelf next to a picture of his daughter and granddaughter was a lapis and gold necklace. He reached for it when he felt Song Bird’s hand on his shoulder.
“Do not touch it,” he commanded.
Zeb drew back. Song Bird’s eyes looked serious and pained.
“It is one of a set that was to be given by Maya to her daughter. She gave her the first one the day she disappeared. This is the second one, a gift that can never be given.”
“I’ve seen the design somewhere before,” said the sheriff.
Song Bird responded with a contemplative gaze that brought a silence to the small house. The quiet was interrupted by the sound of a dull thud against the glass. Eskadi, sitting near the window, peered out to see what had made the noise.
“Song Bird,” said Eskadi. “Your window just killed a black and white striped woodpecker.”
“It was no accident,” said Song Bird. “The death of a ladder-backed woodpecker is a specific omen.”
The Medicine Man reached over and lightly placed the palm of his hand on the sheriff’s forehead. The action caused a strange sensation to permeate Zeb’s body. He felt light, adrift, like he was floating in a pool of water.
“Tell me about your dream,” said Song Bird.
Zeb was stunned by the mystical nature of the event. He rose from the chair, perplexed and feeling fiery hot where Song Bird had touched him. He raised his own hand to the spot but was stopped short by the Medicine Man’s hand. Fear rushed through his body, but the calm look in the Medicine Man’s eyes reassured him. He sat back down in the chair and slowly began to unfold the details of his dream.
“I saw your granddaughter riding on the back of Doreen Nightingale’s motorcycle. Doreen is the woman who runs the café in town. I don’t think she knew your granddaughter or your granddaughter knew her. They were flying down the highway, somewhere out in the desert, up near Morenci. Both of them were laughing and smiling. I remember clearly how Doreen’s hair flying in the breeze hid your granddaughter’s face. In my dream, I kept looking at her, curious as to who she was. Then, just before her face was made clear, an eagle swooped down and flew beside them, like he was playing with them or coming to greet them, maybe even guiding them. The dream made me feel very happy and peaceful until I woke up. Then I was afraid.”
Additional segments of the dream came flooding back to him in intricate detail as he continued to recount it to Song Bird.
“The glint of the sun passing through the motorcycle’s windshield caused Doreen and your granddaughter to squint, making their eyes tiny. Overhead, I could see pure white clouds moving in formation. As they moved from east to west, they became dark and ominous until lightening began shooting out from them. In the middle of the storm, I saw four men on horses pulling a chariot, like in an old biblical movie. Just below the clouds, the mountain peaks looked freshly painted in purple and bluish-pink. Below the peaks, the forest was dark green and heavily wooded with fir trees. Layers of scrub brush and saguaro cactus stirred slightly in the breeze. The landscape seemed to go on forever. Everything was so vivid. I remember seeing red lizards and rattlesnakes crawling in the sunlight along the rocks and sand. It was as if I’d never seen how much life there is in the desert before.”
The rising sense of exhilaration that accompanied the sheriff’s explanation was quickly replaced by an overwhelming sense of fatigue as he finished his story. Blinking several times, he felt that if he shut his eyes, he would instantly fall asleep.
“And the necklace,” asked Song Bird, “was it in your dream, too?”
“Yes, I don’t know why I forgot to mention it. Your granddaughter’s necklace was hanging around her neck. When she was greeted by Jake’s granddaughter, Angel was wearing a cameo necklace. They were hanging down across the girls’ chests, directly over their…”
Zeb paused. His throat constricted as he spoke one final word.
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br /> “…hearts.”
Song Bird arose from his place in the big chair and offered it to Zeb. Walking outside, Song Bird knelt near the fallen woodpecker. He carefully placed the small bird in the palm of his hand. Stroking its soft underbelly as he held it near his mouth, the Medicine Man whispered an incantation. Song Bird then carried it near the base of the ancient mesquite tree where he set it on the ground, covering it with leaves and grass.
Through the window, Eskadi and Zeb watched as Song Bird bowed to each of the four directions in prayer. At the end of the invocation, he reached into a small pouch and removed an offering of tobacco. An air of lightness surrounded him as he returned to his house and took a seat at the kitchen table.
“Your dream tells me my granddaughter is free. With the help of the Great Spirit and his watchers, she has quickly and joyously found her way to the spirit world. Your dream is powerful. It removes the sadness from my heart. I know, too, my daughter will be of better spirit when she hears of this.”
Zeb was at a loss to understand how Song Bird had seen so clearly into his dream’s meaning, yet happy to have played the part of an unwitting go-between. His body began to tingle. Brushing against the insight of the Medicine Man, he felt an indefinable, subtle shift in his perception. It was like he was witnessing the world through someone else’s eyes.
“On the way to the spirit world, my granddaughter encountered the woman on the motorcycle, Doreen Nightingale. Do you know her well?”
“Yes, I know her,” said Zeb.
“I would like very much to meet this woman. Would she come and talk to me, here?”
“I’ll see,” replied Zeb. “I think she will. I’ll ask her.”
“Tell her I would like her to come and see me. I want to thank her for what she has done,” said Song Bird.