Wild Mystic

by Sandi Ault

  “Well, I appreciate it. I guess I need to buy a new drill anyway, so I can get it.”

  “It’s no trouble. I’ll come back tomorrow and bring what I need. You want me to put some water out for the foxes?”

  “No,” I said, and without notice, I felt tears well up in my eyes. I fought to hold them back, but one escaped and fled down my left cheek. “I’m sorry. This is so not like me,” I said, and I grabbed a square of paper towel off the roll and dabbed at my eyes.

  “What is it?”

  “The foxes are gone.”

  Hank Coronel wrinkled his brow at me. “You mean they moved away?”

  I drew in a long breath. “No, I mean they’re dead. Someone poisoned the water.”

  His face went blank for a moment. “What kind of a sonofabitch does that?” He crossed the room toward me, and before I knew it, he had gathered me into his chest, one hand patting my back. “No wonder you’re so twitchy. I’m sorry about your little fox family.”

  I didn’t move. Coronel hugged me tightly and his patting evolved into a small circular rubbing between my shoulder blades. I felt the warmth of him, and I smelled a faint hint of cologne on his sweater that reminded me of the woods in autumn. I remained as still as I could, part of me wanting to collapse into that warmth and that earthy scent and be consoled, and part of me uncomfortably aware of how awkward this all was. He pulled back slightly, looking down at me from the closeness of his loose, but still-present embrace. “So, is this personal, this poisoning your foxes? Is it a message from someone?”

  “I think so,” I said, and I recapped the story of Lor Talgren and his rabid dog as briefly as I could.

  “Jesus,” Hank said, one arm still around me, as he gestured with the other. “It’s like a third world country here! You sure you don’t want me to stay so you can get some rest?”

  I turned and slid out of the warm shelter of his chest, away from his enveloping arm, and I stepped across the kitchen and threw the square of paper towel in the trash, as if I couldn’t wait any longer to unburden myself of it. “No,” I said. “Mountain and I will be all right.”

  “If I had the manpower, I’d put a detail on you,” he said.

  “Hey, no worries. You know how I am,” I smiled, bravely. “I draw first and ask questions after.”

  As I propped myself up on my pillows in bed later, I read more of Adoria Abasolo’s poetry. A few lines in a poem titled What Is Left Behind intrigued me:

  The waning flower’s petals drop.

  Her radiance fades.

  Another blossom already waits

  To take her place,

  A vigorous bloom of radiant promise

  That burst into the garden

  And without warning,

  Forced the world to change

  25: Freakboy

  The next morning, I headed out early for Tanoah Pueblo. The top of Taos Mountain and the bowl of the ski valley were frosted with fresh snow, and a pink light to the east of Wheeler Peak illuminated a giant blooming cloud with the first blush of sunrise. The tribe’s herd of bison grazed in the pasture close to the highway, their breath steaming around their faces. I drove down Rattlesnake Road toward Momma Anna’s house and saw the small adobe homes huddled in the rural fields outside the main pueblo walls begin to glow in the yellow light of the morning sun. Beyond the thin skeins of gray smoke curling from the chimneys, there was no sign that the residents of Tanoah Pueblo were awake.

  But Momma Anna already had the coffee on and was feeding the ancestors when she invited Mountain and me into her home. To my surprise, Yohe was sitting at the kitchen table kneading a mound of bread dough, indicating she’d been there a while. “You’re just the person I wanted to see,” I said. “Well, actually, both of you.”

  I started to remove my jacket, but Yohe said, “Keep that. You go stir fire out there.” She tipped her head toward the back door, indicating the direction of the horno, the outdoor adobe oven where Momma Anna, like all the Pueblo women, baked bread, cookies, pies, and other delights. I went to the back of the house and took the poker to the ash-covered logs in the base of the big oven, shoving the wood to expose the red glow of fire within the thick coat of ash. I picked up the rubber dish draining mat that Momma Anna kept nearby to fan air across the smoldering embers. Yohe came out with three pans of bread dough lined up along one long, muscular arm, and she placed these, one at a time, on the oven floor above the fire, then used the poker to push them back into the dark recess of the horno. We both worked to secure the heavy door, and then I adjusted the smaller door on the fire box so it was barely drawing in air. I had been taught to bake this way by Momma Anna and the aunties in her clan. The fire only needed to be ablaze for the time the oven was open, to counteract any cooling that might occur. Otherwise, only a small, low flame was required to bake the bread loaves up plump and brown and to make crisp cookies and prune pies.

  Yohe looked to the east and checked the position of the sun. This was her way of setting a timer so she would be ready to retrieve the loaves when they were done.

  A few minutes later, as we enjoyed plates of venison stew, I told Momma Anna and Yohe why I had come. “I am still looking for the Spanish woman,” I said.

  They looked at one another, then down at their plates.

  “I am worried about this person’s safety,” I said. “She is an important woman to people holding an upcoming ceremony in this country, and I am concerned that she may be in danger. I would not bother you with this if it weren’t an urgent matter.”

  The two women looked up at me, and Yohe spoke. “She maybe go fireplace, that Spanish. That time, some Picuris come. They not have fireplace Picuris, come here in winter.”

  I waited for more, and after a long silence, I spoke: “I wonder if the Spanish woman came with a man or a woman.”

  They ignored my comment.

  Anna got up and started clearing our plates and I thought our chat had ended. But after a moment, Yohe said, “Women, not too many go fireplace. But this time, some women Carry Water Clan hold fireplace, invite women, invite relative from Picuris. Maybe the Spanish come that time.”

  I said, “I wonder if anyone knows what happened to the Spanish woman.”

  Again, the two women looked at one another. Yohe shook her head. “Nobody talk, that. Boy take medicine, so no more fireplace, that what they talk about. Make that Freak-Boy go stay relative, away from here. Unh!”

  Freak-boy? I wondered.

  Momma Anna brought a rag from the sink and began picking up items and wiping under them, then nudged my elbow aside and cleaned in front of me. She seemed to read my thoughts. “Federico Yazza, that boy, his mom call him Rico, but them guys he hang around, they call him Freako, some his friends just say Freak. He belong Glorianna Reyos, Sky Runner clan. She much shame, they send him away.”

  “So, the boy’s from here, not Picuris,” I said.

  Yohe nodded. “Him Tanoah. But now go Picuris, stay with uncle.”

  “I wouldn’t keep pressing like this if it weren’t that a woman is possibly in danger,” I said, “but I have one more thing I am wondering about. I am thinking perhaps there is a shaman or teacher in the Carry Water Clan whom this Spanish woman, Adoria Abasolo, might have come to see. I believe she was bringing tobacco to someone.”

  They both laughed. “Maybe Rico bribe one them old men,” Yohe said, and the giggling continued. “Get Spanish in village, that way.”

  Momma Anna clutched the lower corner of her apron and pulled it in front of her mouth, having a good chuckle at the idea of putting one over on one of the elder men who sat at the gate to Tanoah Pueblo to authorize whoever entered.

  26: The Switch

  As I was leaving Tanoah Pueblo, Roy called me on the Screech Owl. I talked to him via the Jeep’s hands-free system while I drove.

  “Before you get too deep into whatever trouble you got planned for today, I need you to stop by the ranger station in Peñasco and leave your Jeep. The detailer in Santa Fe
will pick it up from there and put the new decals on it. Gomez is off today; you can drive his rig. It’s parked there at the station. It shouldn’t take that long to hose off the doors and stick a couple of BLM emblems on them, but just because this is New Mexico, you might as well plan on them having your Jeep the whole day. You can switch vehicles back out when you get ready to head home.”

  When I got to the ranger station, I moved the things I thought I would need for the day from my Jeep into Gomez’s Blazer and put the backseat down to enlarge the cargo area for the wolf, spreading one of his blankets over the carpeting. I made sure to transfer my rifle and the backpack containing the documents I’d been studying to the car as well. Gomez’s rig had a sheath for a rifle and another for a shotgun on the back of the front passenger seat, so I stowed my Remington there. I clipped my handgun on my belt rather than put it in the glove box like I normally did.

  I headed for Picuris Pueblo, taking the turnoff from the county road and following the graded dirt lane about a half-mile. I parked the Blazer well off the side with the right two wheels in a shallow culvert and lowered all the windows halfway so Mountain would have some air. Since it was Quiet Time at Picuris, not only was I forbidden to drive on the reservation, but I wasn’t even supposed to be there at all. I was hoping that I would see someone at the main gate leading into the village so I could ask them to have Paul Deherrera come out to talk to me. Unfortunately, the scarf I normally kept for covering my hair was still in my Jeep, so I pulled my long locks pony-tail-style through the opening in the back of a BLM ball cap that Gomez had left in the car, tucking up my bangs on either side.

  I was in luck. I’d only gone about a hundred yards when I saw a youngster coming down the road on a low-slung, fat-tired bicycle. I could make out more details as he got closer—the black leather jacket and torn jeans, the Mohawk. It was the same teenaged boy who had come to see what all the ruckus was about two days ago during the talking stick incident.

  “I thought that might be you,” the young man said as he came in fast and then braked, twisting his front tire and spitting rocks and grit. “I couldn’t tell at first with your hair up in that hat.”

  I smiled. “What’s your name?”

  “Why?”

  “I just wondered. If we’re going to have a conversation, we ought to know one another’s names. Mine is Jamaica Wild.”

  “I know who you are,” he said. “I asked around about you. Call me Ray.”

  “Okay, Ray.” Not Rico, Freak, or Federico, I thought. It also occurred to me that if he knew this Freakboy—and as small as Picuris Pueblo was, he surely did—he might warn him if I let on that I was I was looking for him. “Hey, I need a favor,” I said. “Could you have Paul Deherrera come out to talk with me? Obviously, I can’t go in the village now; it’s Quiet Time.”

  The young man tipped his chin up. “Why do you need Paul? I can tell you whatever you want to know.”

  “Thanks, but I just need to talk to Paul.”

  “Okay, I’ll see if I can find him. If I can’t, I’ll come back and let you know so you won’t be left waiting.” He spun his back tire as he made a quick turnaround on his bike and returned to the village.

  I lingered for nearly a half hour before Deherrera approached. The sun had climbed up above the trees and was busy creating that signature New Mexico mild winter day that made you forget that the thermometer had read fourteen below zero just four or five hours ago. I was almost too warm in my heavy BLM jacket, but I kept it on because it covered the sidearm on my belt. Paul Deherrera approached in his shirt sleeves with a down vest that was open in front.

  He gave me a smile and a gentle handshake. “I did not expect to see you again so soon.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry to bother you during Quiet Time, but I need your help. I’m…”

  BOOM! A thunderous blast shook the air around us and then echoed across the nearby peaks in cannonades. I turned to look behind me, toward the source of this barrage. A thick column of black smoke surged into the sky from down the road, right where I’d parked the car. “Mountain!” I screamed. “MOUNTAIN!” I tore off running as fast as I could toward the smoldering Blazer. As I ran, I saw a tongue of orange flame emerge from under the hood, then another and another, licking at the sky like great snakes rising out of a nest. “Mountain,” I cried, gasping for air as I forced my legs to run faster toward the smoke and fire.

  As I approached the burning vehicle, I smelled scorching metal and felt a wall of intense heat. I made for the back hatch but to my surprise, it was already open. The car was filled with a thick smog of dark smoke and I couldn’t see inside.

  “Miss Jamaica!” A voice shouted emphatically over and over, barely audible above the cracking and popping. “Miss Jamaica! Miss Jamaica! Over here!”

  I turned in the direction of the shouting and saw the young boy called Ray huddled on the ground a few yards away, his bike down in a heap beyond him. His face bore dark smudges on the cheeks and forehead, his behind was up in the air and he was bent over, as if he were protecting something. I saw Mountain’s head peeking out from under Ray’s chest. “Mountain!” I sobbed as I ran toward the pair.

  “I got him out,” Ray said. “I got your backpack, too, and your rifle.” He pointed at a pile of smudged items on the side of the road. “I saw smoke coming out of your car, and I got what I could. Then, I think the carburetor must have blown.” He stood up, but Mountain remained prone on the ground.

  “Oh, God. Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay,” Ray said. “I tried to put that dog blanket over him but he was too afraid so I just threw myself on top of him right when that explosion happened.”

  I knelt to examine Mountain, and he licked my face, but his ears were down and he was trembling. “Oh, Mountain,” I cried. “Are you all right?”

  The wolf gave the slightest wag of his tail.

  I turned to look at the Pueblo boy more closely. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?” Behind him, the Blazer was living up to its name as flames had fully involved the engine now. “Let’s get back,” I said. “Hurry, before the gas tank goes.”

  As we moved away from the noise and the smoke of the burning vehicle, I heard the faint sound of sirens coming from far away down the county road.

  ☽

  The big blowup had drawn an assemblage of firefighting vehicles and personnel, including six members of the Peñasco Volunteer Fire Department, two technicians from the Peñasco ranger station, and a little later, six hotshots from the Type 1 Carson National Forest Team who had been working mitigation between Rinconada and Pilar during the winter off-months.

  One of the firefighters from Peñasco was also an EMT, and he immediately pulled me aside for a rudimentary examination. I was more concerned about Mountain, who had been in the smoking vehicle and close by when whatever exploded in the engine blasted smoke and flames. “I’m okay,” I told the EMT. “I wasn’t even close when the fire started. But that Pueblo boy was right here, and he saved my wolf. You should check him to make sure he’s all right.” I turned around to point to Ray, but he was nowhere in sight.

  The firefighter looked around, too. “I don’t see him. There’s a lot going on, he might be somewhere nearby. If you see him, bring him to me, and I’ll check him out. I’m just looking at your wolf, and he seemed like he followed you over here okay, no limping or anything. But he does look scared. Just to be sure, you might want to have your vet check him out.” He turned to look down the road as a car approached. “Oh, there’s Chief Salas coming now.”

  The chief of the volunteer fire department pulled up in a tricked-out red Humvee which had been outfitted as a fire attack vehicle with a winch on the front plus a pump motor and 300-gallon tank. He stopped and looked over the scene. The crew had hosed the blackened Blazer with water from the two tanker trucks until it stopped emitting steam. The hotshots had already cleared weeds and dry grass on both sides of the road, creating a narrow circular track of dirt which would serve as a fi
re break to prevent any sparks which might have flown into the surrounding fields from turning a one-car fire into a major wildland event. The chief got out of his truck and walked over to a group of the attending crew and began talking with them. After a few minutes, they turned to look at me, and one man pointed in my direction.

  The EMT and I had been standing in the shade of one of the tankers, but now he put his stethoscope and other items back in the medical bag and left to put it back in the truck.

  The chief approached me. “I’m José Salas. I’m the fire chief. You the one whose car blew up?”

  “I’m afraid so,” I said. “Actually, it’s the BLM’s, but I was driving it. I picked that rig up at the ranger station just a little while ago. I only drove it a few miles, from the station to where I parked it there. I turned off the engine and walked down the road since it’s Quiet Time in the pueblo, and I’d been gone about a half-hour when we heard a big bang and saw smoke churning into the sky.”

  “They’re gonna pry the hood up as soon as it’s cool enough,” he said. “Since you’re BLM, I guess the ranger called for a fire investigator from Santa Fe. They’ll be here any time now to determine the cause.”

  “Do I wait here, or can I go and maybe leave my phone number so the inspector can contact me?”

  “I think you better stay here. Shouldn’t be too long now.”

  “I’ll stand by, then. So, I was checking out your Humvee. That’s the first one I’ve seen outfitted like that.”

  “Yeah, you know our district covers about 90-square miles of rough mountainous terrain. We gotta use some innovative ideas to provide fire protection. One of our guys got us a grant, and we purchased that and equipped it so we can reach some of the more difficult areas.”

  “Not too many Hummers on the road these days. They were all the rage when they first came out.”

  “Well, that extra-wide base and the heavy frame makes it perfect for what we need it to do. Plus you can pack a lot of gear in the rack on top. Military still uses them for the same reason.”