by Gary Paulsen
School was as strange as before, almost bizarre. She was the only Anglo, except for one grade-school child who belonged to one of the teachers, and many of the other kids shunned her for that reason. But about an equal number of them seemed attracted to her for the same reason, and getting settled into classes and school life again amounted to a confused muddle of trying to evaluate whether a new acquaintance was going to be a friend or an enemy.
And always there was Julio, hovering in the background, walking behind her on the way home, making the little sounds, giving her candy and once some wrist jewelry, which he would hand her and move away before somebody saw them together—always there was Julio.
In some ways she liked having Julio interested in her. He was a powerful figure in school and kept other boys from hassling her, kept her life relatively smooth when it could have been otherwise. But no other boy would talk to her with Julio in the vicinity, out of fear and respect, and when school had been going for nearly two weeks and she’d begun to feel a bit like a very exclusive leper, Janet had stopped Julio on the way home one afternoon and braced him.
“Look. You have to give me a break.” She’d caught him completely off guard as he was rounding a corner to follow her.
“What do you mean?” Immediately he took what Janet called The Stance—tall, half-angled away from her, brooding, arrogant, but poised and ready. “What kind of break?”
“I’m not your private girl or something,” she’d said, and was surprised to feel the anger come into her voice. She wasn’t really angry at him, but there it was—rising hotly to the surface. “You’ve got me locked into something I don’t want to be into.”
For a full minute he looked at her in offended silence. Then he turned and walked off, leaving her standing, and she wasn’t certain if he’d understood or not.
At any rate it made little difference, because by the time another week had gone by, it was quite evident that whether Julio allowed her freedom or not, the other boys wouldn’t dare ask her on a date. Julio quit following her, quit making the sounds at her to get her attention so that she could look at him and be ignored, but it made no real change except that now nobody was around her.
Except the girls, of course, but it was difficult for her to be friendly with them to any great depth because their lives were so vastly different from hers.
Not bad, not good, the way her life was not bad, not good to them—just different. And the difference was so profound that she knew she could never change enough to become true friends with any of them, at least not for years.
And her mother was working very hard, too, now that the hot summer was over. The crisp nights and soft days of fall, with splashes of gold in the aspens as they dropped their leaves and the almost unbelievable beauty of high desert and low mountains as they turned their faces to winter had come into their lives so subtly that Janet couldn’t really remember ever having lived anywhere else. Nor wanting to—she was due to visit her father in California for Christmas, and as much as she loved her father, she was wondering if she could get out of it.
There was too much beauty here to leave, and even being basically alone—when her mother was deep into sculpting, nothing else existed—Janet was not unhappy.
The dog followed her always, though she still hadn’t named him, and in a strange way the small animal filled that part of her life that would normally have been lonely or sad.
Even the dream had ceased coming, and she had to force herself to remember when it had last come or just how it went; some of the images in the dream, the doe and the pond, were blurred in her memory, and now and then she smiled when she remembered the significance she’d given the dream.
It was all so silly, she thought now, so little-girlish and silly. The whole thing, the dream and the way it had scared her for no reason and the way she would wake up drenched with perspiration, and the way the dream took her mind, made her part of it all, was all so ridiculous that she now wondered sometimes if perhaps she hadn’t been a little off, a little crazy.
Maybe she was having trouble changing from a girl to a woman, she thought one cool evening halfway through the month of November, when there was a taste of winter in the air—a tease—and she sat alone in the kitchen while the chink-chink of her mother’s hammer and chisel came from the studio room. But then she smiled and thought that all of that was silly, too, just like her strange infatuation with Billy had been, or the hot anger that came when she talked to Julio, or the fact that she was sitting now alone in her kitchen even thinking about all the silly things that had been bothering her. She was on top of things right then; right at that moment, she would think later, she was in complete control of her life and herself.
It had been six weeks since she’d seen Billy. She was settled in school, and she’d quit having the dream. Later she would think of that moment and wonder why it couldn’t have lasted all her life, why it just couldn’t have gone on and on, with her in complete control of everything that mattered to her.
But of course it didn’t, the way nothing can ever be good forever and nothing can ever be bad forever.
Because it was that same evening that she went to bed early, feeling so good about everything. She’d left her window open, the window that looked out on the courtyard, so the cool of the night could come into her room and make the heavy blanket of native wool, which she liked so much, feel comfortable.
She loved to sleep cold, loved it because it made her fresh and alive in the morning, but this particular time she would always wonder about leaving the window open—wonder what had made her do it.
Because with the window closed she might not have heard anything, might not have known what was going on.…
It was long after she’d gone to sleep, long after she was snuggled deep under the blanket and heavily into sleep that the persistent sound started.
It was a new sound, a strange sound, but a beautiful sound, and it cut through her sleep the way a warm knife moves through butter, until she was awake, only not really, and the sound was still there but still part of her sleep somehow, and even when she opened her eyes and looked up at the vigas, the sound continued.
Finally she recognized it as a kind of music, a muted flute sound, beautiful and lilting in the darkness of her room—almost sweet, the sound of the flute, sweet and soft and very much alive and rich.
She rubbed her eyes and thought she must be dreaming some new kind of very real dream. But then the door to her room opened and her mother came in wearing her housecoat, and in the moonlight in the room Janet could see the question in her eyes.
“What on earth …?”
“I don’t know.”
Janet sat up. “It’s coming from outside—outside the window.”
Her mother moved to the window and looked out and then stood, stunned, staring outside.
“My God,” she whispered. “It … it can’t be.”
“What?” Janet got out of bed, threw the blanket on the floor, and went to the window, and there she, too, stood frozen as she stared out into the courtyard. Only she couldn’t say anything, couldn’t form any words.
The moon was fall, splashing blue-white across the courtyard so bright it would have been possible to read. It was an almost unreal light, beautiful and as strange as the moonlight in her dream, different because it was alive and real, but somehow the same, too, and the music from the flute was almost something you could see, like a part of the moonlight, like a part of the night, like a part of everything Janet was and ever would be.
In the middle of the courtyard, washed in the moonlight as though dipped in some wonderful silvery liquid, stood Billy Honcho.
He was playing a flute, which he held with a kind of elemental grace, and if the truth were known, it took Janet a full minute to recognize him.
Because the figure who stood in the moonlight in the courtyard was not the Billy Honcho Janet knew; the man who stood tall and graceful sending out music meant for her soul was not some old drunk.
His braids were clean and braided with leather strapping worked into the hair and bits of ermine fluff at the ends, and on his back in a case was a short bow and a few arrows, and he was more than beautiful, more than stunning.
He was something from the past, something real and alive from the past of all men. And as they watched, the flute music ended and the flute came down, and he disappeared like a part of the moonlight. Janet’s mother swore softly, like a prayer, and Janet choked up and felt like crying and soon did, with great tears moving down her cheeks, and she didn’t even feel them.
She wanted to call but no sound came, only the tears.
10
“He’s courting you, and you’ll have to put a stop to it. It’s as simple as that.”
It was the next morning, and they’d been up most of the night, sitting and talking, and now Janet’s mother sipped coffee—from the fourth pot—and talked to Janet at the wooden kitchen table.
Janet stared down at the table. There were some crumbs near the edge, and she carefully scooped them up and put them in the trash and sat down again.
“You’re wrong, Mother.” She shrugged. “And even if you’re right, what’s the difference? Where’s the harm?”
“He’s an old man, and you’re … you’re …”
“A young white girl. That’s what you want to say, isn’t it?”
“Janet, that wasn’t fair.…”
Janet softened. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t mean that—it’s just that I think you’re wrong. He’s just trying to make up with me for—for drinking, for all of it.”
“No. He’s courting you. I’ve read several books on Indians, did it when we decided to move out here. Like I said, the flute and the finery definitely mean courting. It’s an old ritual, the way braves have always courted maidens.” Her eyes washed, and she smiled, remembering. “It was beautiful, wasn’t it? But still, you’ve got to put a stop to it. Right away.”
Janet shook her head. “There’s nothing to stop, Mother. You’re wrong—he isn’t courting me. He’s just …” She ran out of words. “It’s just something true and wonderful he’s doing, and I think it would hurt him to make him stop.”
“If you don’t, it will just be worse later. You’ll see.” She suddenly shook her head. “Lord, listen to me, sounding like an ordinary mother. But it’s the truth. Stop it now, or you’ll have trouble later.”
And it ended there, not with anger, because they had grown too close for anger. It ended because they had been up all night and were tired and needed some sleep and because they had both had their say and knew the other’s position.
They went to bed, though it was day, and slept until late afternoon. When they awakened—almost at the same time—it was becoming dusk, and it was going to be another clear fall night. They ate supper or breakfast, depending on how they wished to call it, and there was a land of quiet peace between them.
“You missed school today.” Janet’s mother helped clear the table before going into her studio to work. “I’ll give you a note for tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow is Saturday—there’s no school. I’ll take a note Monday.”
And they moved into the night, neither talking of the night before but both wondering if Billy would come again.
They did not have long to wait. This night the moon was still full, and just after ten, when they normally would have been going to bed but were now still awake because they’d slept all day, just after the moon had completely risen, Janet was moving through the kitchen where she was baking bread when she heard a solid thump sound somewhere outside.
It was the sound a brick might make when thrown down into dirt, and it seemed to be coming from the courtyard.
She went to the door and pulled it open, but for a second she couldn’t see anything. Then, over by the wall in the half shadow, she again heard the thump, and as she watched, a pony moved out of the shadow into the moonlight, and she caught her breath.
It was a small pinto pony, compact and covered with black-and-white splotches where the hair changed color—the classic “Indian” pony.
All over it were painted different signs, some that looked like targets, others that seemed to be large handprints, and still other signs that appeared to be large bird wings. Around one eye was painted a circle, and a braided rope went from the pony’s jaw back to his neck.
On his back was a striped, woven riding blanket, and as she watched, he stamped his forefeet into the dirt—causing the thump sound.
Bits of steam came from his nostrils, delicate little puffs in the moonlight, and he snorted when Janet moved suddenly to take her hand off the door handle because it was getting cold.
After a moment she looked around the rest of the courtyard but could see nothing. Billy was gone, had come and left the pony and was gone into the night, and she was turning to talk to her mother, who had come up behind her and let out a startled breath: just as Janet was turning, Billy jumped over the low courtyard wall on a beautiful white horse larger than the pony.
The horse jumped silently, kicking bits of dirt up when it struck, and wheeled in one fluid motion when it landed so that it stood sideways to Janet and her mother, stood side-on with its sides heaving but still without sound.
It had all happened in less than two seconds, the jump and the wheel and the horse standing, and on top of him Billy, a part of the horse, dressed in the same white buckskins he’d worn the night before, cloaked in the same white beauty. He looked down on them in haughty silence.
The pony stamped, and it was the only sound. Neither Janet nor her mother could even breathe; they could not or would not do anything to break the spell that Billy and the two horses cast on the night. Finally, with the two women staring almost open-mouthed, Billy produced the flute from some recess in his buckskins and began to play.
It was not the same haunting melody of the previous night, but a more lively song that was slightly quicker and seemed to roll out of the flute and into the night almost with humor, or with a feeling lighter than air.
At first there was only the music, and if that had been all that happened, it would have been enough. But before the melody was four seconds old, Janet’s mother nudged her from behind and whispered in her ear.
“The horse. Look at the horse!”
Janet let out her breath, realizing now that she’d been holding it all this time, and did as she was told—she studied the horse.
At first it was too subtle to be really noticeable, but after a moment she could see that the horse’s front shoulders were rolling, moving in time to the music, and then his feet followed the movement of his shoulders and lifted from the ground in slight patting motions, and it was clear that the horse was dancing. Not just doing tricks, or moving to some hidden command, but moving with the music, so that soon Billy and the horse were rolling from side to side and around in a half circle as a part of the music from the flute and a part of the night and the moonlight, all mixed together, so that Janet, without knowing she was doing it, reached out with one hand to touch it, feel it, be a part of it.…
It was exquisite. A moment, a piece of time so rare and wonderful that she wanted to freeze it, make it last forever, keep it.
The horse waltzed around with the same rolling motion until the music was finished and the flute vanished back into some hidden place in the buckskins, and then Billy sat straight on his horse and looked directly at Janet and then to the pony and back to Janet. His meaning was unmistakable.
He wanted Janet to come riding with him on the pony, and she moved forward, could no more have refused him than she could have stopped breathing, and for the same reasons, but before she could take a step, her moth
er stepped in front of her.
“No!” And for that second her mother was more than just a woman, was some kind of wild creature protecting its young, and Janet turned in surprise at the sound of her voice, the savagery of it.
“No! She will not go with you—there is—there is too much right now. For her. She’s too young.”
But she became confused—angry but confused—and Billy rode forward on the white horse, glided across the ground like white fog, so that he was sitting over her, and Janet could see the nostrils of the horse right next to her mother’s head, and they were pushing out rolls of steam like smoke, like dream smoke.
“No …” Janet’s mother tried again, but her voice wavered, and then a strange thing happened because something passed between Billy and her mother that could almost be seen.
He said nothing, made no change in his expression as he sat there on the white horse, but something came from his eyes and moved down to Janet’s mother.
“But …”
Her mother fought the thing for a moment, battled with something inside herself that Janet couldn’t understand, and then seemed to sag a little back against the door.
“I’m sorry—I thought all the wrong things, from before, when I was with a man. Her father. I should have known better, that it wasn’t always wrong or that—you will not hurt her.” And here the iron came back in her voice. “Not in any way, do you understand?”
Still he said nothing, but only looked down, and yet there was that thing, that strange feeling or look or smell or mind-touch that passed between them, and when it was done, they knew each other in a way that few people ever know each other, and Janet felt that she’d seen something almost miraculous. Then her mother turned and her voice was a whisper, a soft whush of words.
“You can go if you want to.” She smiled. “He won’t … won’t hurt you. I was wrong about him.”