His bed a riverbank, brown and eastward in the Pennsylvania night. His Mexican blue mare a shadow rubbing her neck along the sinew of a sky-gray tree like others recently seen. And a smell that nearly spoke to him, spoke like mist from this curious, long silvery cloud close overhead that had materialized above him at night containing waters of light. His bed a river edge of earth, leaf mold, cold web of boughs. His fireless camp tonight alone at such distances, yet many of them all one.
At a distance now from those farmhouse doorways he had been passing. A distance no different from where he might journey another day, rain or shine. Other farmhouse doorways, maybe Virginia under the same sky, or the territory whose name of New York was heard for a generation and more among his People through the tall and talking knower named the Hermit, Hermit of New York, who had lately described with his own hands steep, cloud-high houses of rock that would be built in the city of Chicago where the East Far Eastern Princess had been and would be built soon in his own harbor home of New York, and some of rock carried from mountains down to the water, and some of rock that could be mixed like adobe out of water, bricks laid so that the walls would give with the wind like sail. So that the name of Hermit must mean him who knows and talks much. Whose voice was now near at last, and with it the territory of New York, the place which the Hermit and his ancestor had left to come to the People in the Southwest so many summers to sojourn near the mountains that could think or dream.
Mountains that had always been there, not like that other mountainous Rock called the Ship, that most men said had sailed down across the People’s desert from the northern ice lands, but with no sail now except in memory, there in the desert where the People had walked and lived and that was theirs long before it was given to them by the white men of the East. Yet, No, some said—and he heard his mother say—that Ship sailed instead from the ocean to the west. Twice she had said it in his hearing, if it was even a ship. Once he had been in the Northern Arizone with the corn-eating people, finding at first power in seeds but then receiving a command to go away, to migrate.
The farmhouse-doorway people here along this river said, "New York," and pointed the finger of an outstretched arm east or north so the hand looked like a pistol. The smell of the low silver cloud this night held the softest, most inaudible voice. Through the forest to the further curve in the river, a farmhouse doorway always was: and coming from it, and from the faces, a current: coming out and through him and back through him and into the doorways: so he would not think about it.
Faces knowing, unknowing; the constant doorway not like the People’s doors. Distant, distant; so now his bed nearer the sky; the near lumen cloud lower than the sky. His bed a riverbank, brown and eastward in the Pennsylvania night. His Mexican blue mare softly stirring. His hunger forgotten for some moments now contemplating as he never stopped doing what his hand held warmly in his buckskin pocket, the dried, strong-warped cut of tongue he had had with him since he had left his people and before: cross-section of northern bison’s tongue, while now in the night of this rich, moist territory sloping always eastward toward that ever-homing white girl who was no more the one reason for his journey than were the pistol and its designs he carried after her and some more and more bodily part of his soul, this collop of northern bison’s tongue compacted such old forces that suddenly he knew himself not just here two arms’ length above a river for the night but also far away in motion across an isthmus thinly hinging the top of this one world to that other world whence mammoth and bison came to this; and the power secretly at rest in the dried, grainy section of tongue in his pocket came out and enclosed the meat like the skin of his own knowing hand, much as the pocket of cured hide held its source, the great deer that he had so trapped with his own advancing eye that he had felt himself to be the human form of that demon-timberwolf, and he killed with his hand that great deer and opened and divided it under the afternoon and all-night eye of the mountain lion that could turn itself into a huge timberwolf, it was said. Watched closely and with understanding by the mountain lion. Not with the haste today and yesterday in the eyes that stood in the doorways here in Pennsylvania. He would stand waiting until food would be handed to him that he never looked at as he ate it. Haste in the eyes of these farmers, these people, like what came from their doorways and passed through him where he stopped, then back through him into the doorways seeming to make them close up tight again, for they did then close, and the thing that had passed out through him and back through him and into these doorways was a current that could injure him if ever he woke up to what it was, a fluctuation he did not need to know of while, at the riverbank at night, his hand upon the bison tongue with all its waiting power took him closer every time to the doubled sight of that isthmus at the top of the Earth, where the two continents could not be looked at at once unless that isthmus could be seen for what it also was—a moving, a turning from there to here, a motion, a moving which, if seen, made the mammoth and bison and the hunters with foreign seeds clinging to their leggings, frost in their eyebrows, no longer move but wait like pictures carried by this perhaps-soon-to-be-broken land from the world out behind to the world here before, one sky behind (oh quoia, he hears, or more exactly, oh quay a, or even, oh quay), and one sky before: though the Great Spirit ought to be near either sky, yet some power in the Navajo Prince’s science said No to that: the Great Father was not always near, and then it came to him that that was why he thought "Great Spirit" ‘stead of "Father." Yet if ahead, where the East Far Eastern Princess sought her home, then the Navajo Prince might take strength and faith from his own hunger: not at the door of some farmer who did not even see the true figure of the Indian in front of him (for the Prince did not see that true reflection in the eyes of the farmer) but at some longer step the Navajo Prince envisioned far further ahead than the thing hanging over him tonight was above him, the cloud lumen with some shape in it, wheel yes, but wheels, but one many-wheel, as though a ring had blossomed laddering faint vines up and down its many rounds that now the Prince might spy only if he did not look at this tower-like shape for then it would not be there but it was in the cloud, shape of some memory of withheld storm or force-to-be that he would study if the cloud would come down; and for a moment as his blue Mexican mare’s neck abrading the gray-blue body of this river-tree he might name before he left this territory tonight or tomorrow seemed to take with the briefest sound a split of bark although his horse was not hungry enough to eat bark, whatever bark might be made into as you turn bison spines into jackrabbit traps and bison feet into saddlebag buttons and into such wind handles as only the Prince knew of though he their accidental conceiver did not yet comprehend their workings, he found himself across that ancient isthmus (so brief a hinge between huge world-islands yet also so puzzlingly long), found himself in motion there if he wished to see that way just as the riverbank here in Pennsylvania night he now saw might be what moved and not the river that it thus left behind, so the cloud that almost should not be there above him alone in a sky of broken Moon moved also and with him— and, crushed once again though for the briefest moment by what lay always around him and ahead in the person of the white girl he wastefully in love pursued together though with the other things all unequal he sought too, plus the anguish that if he let himself be in that far isthmus long enough to discover what he was doing there apart from witnessing and rooting forth what he knew from his own living and dead family forked world-dividingly from that point that the Hermit of New York when he’d once heard said was just the old Bering Strait, that’s all, when the Navajo Prince knew it was a place in motion and between—he now also here in the cold eastward night knew that the split-sound he’d just heard wood-like, bark-like, was not his horse again meeting the tree that he must name before leaving, but was of another presence nearby, and that if he slept and dreamed, he might lose his horse stolen into his very dream by night to ensure that he would not recall it in the morning on this bed of eastward riverbank he so nearly rises from
, in impending sleep, that he wakes with a start hearing half in half out both a questioner deep in him saying, "Eastward? which was eastward? the river, the bank, the passion-slave’s Oh quay-a head? and what means ‘broken land’ and what will he someday use this forked force for? to speak dupely and find the sky’s light in the very Earth and weigh it and wind his way into it to speak out of both sides of his tongue?" and, "half-owr" (hearing) that split-sound again and the weight, then, of two steps he felt were a woman’s (but why? was it that she should at this cold moment come back to him? but how?—did she know where he was? had she not only the power to leave him as she had done the night after the strange storm, to go away into the land alone as if never to come back, but also the power to come back to him at any time?)—while he knows that whatever happens here, someone stealing his horse or even picking his pocket of the bison tongue, he must risk being elsewhere on that far-north icebound isthmus he has only heard about and never actually seen: for there he will be able to understand what he knows he has the spirit of inside him already; and he knows this as he knew before he met and heard tell from a Zuhi outcast under a red cliff that his own already storied departure from his Navajo home in pursuit of the East Far Eastern Princess had caused his strange mother to come to life again together with the demon-raw hole in her head that shifted from forehead backward and forth, and that had closed up when she had died but opened when she had, according to the report, come again to life following her son’s sudden departure. And he hears inside him and outside the words Go away, but mixed with other words as if he is mixed with other people, who recall him in honor and remember him as man and child, and the words are here near the riverbank yet on the lips of a medicine woman speaking out of a cactus while his mother, who has tried to tell how her chronic malady came upon her, is restrained by an old woman and a young woman while the lips windowed by the head-like cactus explain for her that the Prince’s mother went walking in the mountain and saw a hunter withered suddenly to his mere skull and clothes and saw another man who told her to go away for there would be another flash hailstorm and she would be broken by those rocks of ice if not sucked away into the mountain. But these words (interrupted by the small boy’s being taken away from the sick person’s lean-to though he heard more words for a long while after that were carried to him or reached by a wind where they already existed in him) in turn have come, this night in Pennsylvania, from that immemorial isthmus the Prince, who is only a would-be knower, cleaves to a knowledge of that he seems, under the night light of the strange-smelling lumen cloud above him, to have come all this desperate way to find mixed inside himself: and these men, these hunters crossing from one world-territory to the other following the mammoth and the bison feel the brief isthmus breaking up under their strong feet—"strong man," he hears, but asks, Where are the women?, and thereupon finds them tracking the brief but in some way unthinkably long isthmus, children on their backs, things in their dark hands, coming closer and closer to the men, from whom they are indistinguishable, falling back from the men as if drawn to the homes they left—"home," he hears, "Home is where one is," he hears, though the words come back to him from inside him where he has yet to go, if ever in this life, though "home" he hears as well outside him in the eastern night cold, holding still to the isthmus at the top of the two worlds breaking apart as the fur-skinned hunter people flow unconcernedly onto this world hardly looking back but he knows one man, no, one woman, no, a man and a woman near each other, turn away from each other to look back for each other and see only the isthmus dissolving into mist, reshaping all the other animals besides mammoth, bison, sheep birds of the long mountains bearing asleep in their stomachs the egg from which the whole rainbow range of most powerful snakes will uncoil upon and give motion to a heaven of new mountains and within grasses thickened by weathers not yet breathed: until this man and woman pair turn further and see each other and know it was each other they saw shaped and fluctuating and lighting up and glancing off the animal mist of the isthmus’s dissolution into sea.
But the blue mare snorted long, and the Navajo Prince who sometimes now began to think of himself as "prince" felt without looking at her off there by the tree that her neck was tense, and he felt her eyes roll, and the isthmus of the two continents withdrew before a woman’s voice: "Are you a strong man?" It was what his mother had said to him sometime after the hole had opened in her head but before it had begun to shift position. But he must hold if he could to the isthmus, or to the pair standing together on the shore of the disintegrating isthmus, who saw this developing bay of suddenly broken land, this Bering passage of mist-hung water, curve away from them, or so the Navajo Prince now in another age saw from his riverbank in 1894; and now above them all, all of them, he felt a cleft or clefts opening where the heavens dropped a channel of such light as devoured some thing in those fixed in its anchorage: so that, as he looked up—"Good heavens, there’s nothing here, why where’s your camp?"—he could see sun-risen that old hunting couple rejoined into one aim so that, with safe canyons to the south in their single mind they turned as one, turned to the south . . . that is, he could see what he found he had wanted to explore in his own memory maybe set off by studying forces ripe in the bison’s dark tongue both fresh-killed in the North where his mother had secretly, wordlessly hinted he must go away as if from danger, and later dried so that the forces had compacted and withdrew into such intensely sleeping force that he heard in his taste glands their vow to sow this Earth with food that would never make the People hungry again: "Where is your home?" came the words, his mother’s when he had returned from the North convinced that in the narrowest compactions even perhaps in his very mind rested some chance of food, of trees, of health, and even unity between his own old Athabascan ancestors now the Dineh known to outsiders as Navajo, and far away where tiny fires bobbed on the water the Yahgan and the Ona peoples he knew of from an old, old man the Anasazi healer who had not healed anyone in centuries and who had chosen to die precisely when the Navajo Prince needed him yet could sit quiet and remote in thought no matter who came to ask him questions and who was honest in his knowledge, ascribing it to those who had brought it to him, in this case the irritable and thoughtful woman with hands like desert crabs, Mena, who studied (and reputedly sang to) desert javelinas as the Navajo Prince studied bisons’ bodies and who reported with such exactness she would say two different things at once and had told the Anasazi of these peoples from the South where she came from who wore no clothes part of the year and slept in the cold and rainy beech trees, though she told as well of other peoples who made feather cloaks like sand paintings and split and hacked out and ground mirrors of obsidian rock and sailed as far up as an island called Cuba and studied the heavens as well as the pods of food bushes: and again, "Where is your home?" he heard, looking up now mto the long and quite friendly lumen cloud immediately above containing, he saw, lensed widely into liquid, precisely that part of the bright Moon that was darkly missing from the sky tonight, a cloud he saw he had just plain not admitted to himself had followed him for days to pause each eastward night like a miniature sky or giant trunkless tree, or some threat of cloudburst in these regions so much more watery than his own, for in the moist messages like those columns he had pondered as a child mushrooming out at the top to tell a neighbor mountain what it did not know it knew, he smelt now seared metal fleshing such welcome with as well a hunter’s breakfast-taste of cornmeal cake that the distinctly communal "Oh-quaya" or, so faint was the last sound, "Oh-quay" (not unlike the "Dee Quay" he had been told was the Hermit-Inventor’s (quick) Anglo for Dineh quaya, "the People always") that came to him seemed to be out of this bright break in the lumen cloud opening a Moon-reserve he knew to be at the very least his old neighbor the Anasazi healer’s will though not his body unless his expressed wish not to be reincarnated had been ignored by those self-breathing airs into which he had given his life—"Oh quay," though, was what he heard, and it was the same secretly painful current t
he farmhouse doorways had passed through him showing him he now saw just how far he was along their river, yet, in the outward and returning threat of that current, telling him what he might not catch onto without losing what? some portion of his sleep? some swath of pride that went with him on the way to that East Far Eastern Princess and other inquiries and studies and explorations he bore in mind? some bottomless power in the bison-body he held in the pocket sewn of the great deer’s skin? And yet this loss—of anything, of everything—of the Anasazi’s heart-voice dropping light down through the Navajo Prince so he must turn and face the woman voice that likewise said, Oh quay, but in the question "Are you oh quay?" turn away too from the Bering Strait hunter couple with one aim now bending south seeking not just food, but not each other either—this loss that divided him like one who bleeds from two wounds far apart came at him faster than the fastest attack, suddener than the Pressure Snake that drew the sky into the mountain as the second hunter man had said—his very last words to the Prince’s mother one afternoon before the Prince was born when she had wandered away up into the mountain like a lone visitor—and the loss came at him now in the "Pennsy" night (for he heard in his head and in the knuckle of his left, free hand the land’s name thus shortened) so he knew he was watched by what he watched and by, if not the Anglo girl Margaret doubled like the Moon, doubled as Margaret and the Eastern Princess, doubled as a strong-faced woman who endlessly asked about drying vegetables for storage and about crop-planting season and rainfall, and about irrigation, and about customs of rolling in the snow for strength and birthing babies by hanging on the branch of a pine tree (and many female questions to Tall Salt and other women) and about the use of cedar for houses and dead wood for fires, and must learn to weave and must think through thoroughly the cooking of what she named "less sweet yams," the fruit of the blue yucca, and make very small circle cakes with no middle so the women laughed at them and looked through the hole—this person who was also the soft-cheeked young mother, as he imagined her, singing, "Put on your old gray bonnet with the blue ribbons on it, and we’ll hitch old Dobbin to the shay," this foreigner who toward the end of her stay gave him the name of Prince, Navajo Prince (their private name for him he wasn’t sure he liked, though drawn possibly from the plants he taught her) and kissing him like an animal he had seen in a dream with her lower lip and upper lip separately though together many times one night upon a mesa watched by the eye of a tall, ripe old cactus, while she softened like late light so he realized how tough and strong she had been, watched as he knew he was now, months later, at his poor camp on the bank of the Juniata, not just by the pale-haired woman standing urgent near him but by some pale-faced boy somewhere—in the smoke-bright cleft of the cloud overhead or in the dream-blink of after-image when he looked away, some pale-nosed boy lying—where?—wide-eyed but asleep behind those eyes, who was also a man and yet who was always dividing and dividing in the pound of the Navajo Prince’s ears and temples and eyes, pounding into two, into two boys: but, thinker and studier of things and of force—and of terrain reaching always behind him to mountains that, whether it was dream or thought they sent outward over the land, had changed and plagued and sickened his mother since before he was born, and terrain ahead, east and north . . .
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