The

Dwelling

Nina Shongopovi lay on a blanket in the middle of her dark dwelling, waiting to die. She was over one hundred years old, shriveled and numb, yet highly aware. She knew her time had come.

Alone, she waited for the moment, not hurrying forward and not resisting either. Her dolls watched over her from their perch on a door laid across two saw horses. Piles of corn had been placed in front of each doll by her clan’s priest two days ago. A shrike feather stuck up from the center of each offering.

Outside, the sun hovered directly overhead in a pale blue sky. Heat rose in waves from the desert, yet five more hours must expire before the highest temperature of the day. The dwelling baked in the wash, a misnomer since no water ran except during the short but violent monsoon. A lizard whip-tailed into a crevice. A fly buzzed. Marks of a sidewinder etched the sand.

No snake would be out in the open now.

No human would risk being outside without bottled water.

Dry air would suck every drop of available moisture. There was no wind. A faded strip of cloth hung from the figurehead on the rusted hood of an old abandoned vehicle. Standing on concrete blocks, its wheels and interior parts had long since been vandalized.

In the distance, a cloud of dust appeared. An automobile was approaching fast.

A young woman approached the dwelling in a Land Rover and stopped by the cavity that was a door. She cut her engine and stepped out of the air conditioning into the heat. She wore jeans and a T-shirt with the letters HOPI NATION on the front and, on the back, HOPELESS. Her hair was braided on either side of her head. Her clothing showed signs of sweat stains. She carried a water bottle in one hand and a transistor radio in the other. With the back of the hand that held the radio, she pushed back her sunglasses so they rested back off her brow.

She had to duck through the entrance to the dwelling and let her eyes adjust.

In a whisper, she asked, “Are you all right, great-grandmother?”

The old woman on the floor groaned and worked her mouth as if to speak.

The young woman held up the old one’s head and wet her mouth with water from the bottle.

“Thank you, Hola. I was thinking of you and your mother just now.”

“I see the priest has come. How much longer do you have?”

“I’m drifting slowly. I’ll depart before nightfall, most likely. It’s high time.”

“I’ll stay with you. Are you comfortable? Do you want more water? Or food? Do you want to talk?”

To each question, the old woman shook her head no. When the young woman squeezed her hand, it felt cold and brittle.

The young woman sat holding her great-grandmother’s hand through the late afternoon. She thought it felt like being in an oven. She measured out the hours in sips from her water bottle. She watched a beetle crawl along the wall. A shaft of sunlight from the open window crawled down the wall.

The old woman spoke quietly, and the young woman bent over to hear.

“We came from the third world deep underground. It was hard where we were. It was harder when we reached the fourth world high above. We wandered in circles and spirals looking for our new home. We looked for the corn and squash. The sun showed us the way. The darkness was bewildering except for the figures in the sky.”

“Tell me about the sky, great-grandmother.”

“Wheels. The sky spoke in wheels of stars. Gods walking the heavens as we walked the earth. The sky was a black desert. Ghosts haunted the land.”

“Yet we thrived and grew.”

“And the wind blew. The rain came, not always in time. Death stalked us, and many perished. Worship did not avail us. Priests lied. We kept moving.”

“The Kachina dolls on the old door. Do they help?”

“The old priest set them up. He poured the corn and planted the feathers.” She chortled. “So much for nothing. I knew I was being called. He was following the old forms. There was nothing he could do to console me.”

“What can I do to help your spirits?”

“For the spirit of my body, nothing. Does that surprise you? You are too young to consider Death in its mystery. For the spirit of my soul, you can bury my body and burn my dwelling to the ground. Otherwise, it will want to menace anyone in the area, including you. You were always my favorite. Yet, unassuaged, my soul spirit will seek vengeance.”

“Why will it do that?”

“It will want to be comforted for all the hundred years of my pain and the pain of all our ancestors who came up from the third world.”

Though it was the hottest time of day, a chill of fear ran up and down the young woman’s spine. She thought a chilly wind had run through the dwelling, but when she looked, the feathers showed no sign of being troubled.

“Do you see anything yet of the others?” the young woman asked.

“They stand just beyond my vision. I know they are there. So are the sky figures though it is still daylight. So are the ghosts of our ancestors, in rank and file, an enormous crowd extending in every direction.”

The young woman gripped her relative’s hand and felt the pressure of a responding grip. The old woman seemed to be pulling herself upright to a sitting position. She had abnormal strength. Her eyes were wide open as darkness fell like a shade. Her hand ran up and down the young woman’s arm, assuring herself that the figure she was conversing with was real.

“What are you thinking, great-grandmother?”

“I think it’s time for harvest. I’m the corn. The corn goddess has come. It is time for me to go.”

“Stay with me, great-grandmother. Please stay.” The young woman was weeping now, but the old woman paid her no attention. Instead, she kept her gaze on the open doorway.

“Great-grandmother, do you want me to light a candle so you can see?”

“No. I can see better in the dark.”

After a short while, the young woman asked, “What do you see now, great-grandmother?”

“I see a square man with a square head. The head is blood red and dripping. His apron is made from the skins of freshly killed rabbits.”

“Do you know who this figure is?”

“Turn your head so you cannot see the door. The figure is Masaw, and he brings death. If you look upon him, you shall die.”

The young woman clenched her eyes and held her great grandmother’s hand, which now tightened its grip and jerked around violently.

“Great-grandmother, I cannot hold on much longer.”

“Let go, if you can. Please let me go. Masaw is calling. I must follow.”

The women held hands through a tumultuous struggle. Finally, the young woman let go and fell on the floor. She kept her eyes shut and felt a breeze. She lay there waiting for the transition to be over. She might have fallen asleep except for the fear. While she waited, visions passed through her mind. She relived the history of her family. She went through the rituals of her people, one by one.

Exhausted, she sat upright with her eyes still shut tight. She waited for a sign. A light evening breeze stroked her hair. It was like a hot breath. She saw blood-drenched fangs. She imagined the figure called Masaw, who appeared to be walking around her in the dwelling. Then she felt, rather than saw, the figure walk out the door of the dwelling.

The young woman called out, “Great-grandmother, are you still with me?”

The dwelling was silent. In the distance, she heard the barking of a dog or coyote.

She opened her eyes, not knowing what she would discover. It was dark. She took out her cell phone and activated its flashlight. She saw her great grandmother’s body sprawled on the rug. She saw that the bird feathers that had been stuck in the piles of corn by the Kachinas were now gone. The Kachinas were now facing in the opposite direction to where they were facing when she arrived.

She checked her great grandmother’s pulse. There was nothing. With her fingers, she closed the old woman’s eyes. She did not hesitate or give her plan any thought at all.

As quickly as possible, she rolled the rug around her great grandmother’s body. Though the load was heavy, she lugged it carefully to the back of her Land Rover. When it was safely inside, the young woman lifted out the containers of fuel and doused the exterior of the dwelling. The gasoline smelled like a desecration.

Before she applied the match, she thought for a moment about the Kachinas. She made a snap decision to leave them exactly where they were. They had not helped her great-grandmother in her hour of need. They would go up in smoke like the dwelling.

The flames engulfed the dwelling as soon as the match was applied. The young woman stood back, but she had to drive the Land Rover or risk its being set afire. As she drove away, through her rear-view mirror, she saw the dwelling burning like a beacon. The shape of the flames took the form of a spirit flying up to heaven.

She drove for at least a half hour until she came to the place where her clan’s burials were accomplished. There, she had dug a pit for the body already. She took the rug with the body out of the Land Rover and placed it inside the pit. With her shovel, she filled in the earth to cover the grave. She smoothed the raised surface so no one would tell where the burial had taken place. She wondered whether the coyotes would find the body on account of its smell. She shuddered to think about the animals feasting on her great grandmother’s remains.

When the work was done, she took out a box of hand-rolled cigarettes and lighted one. She sat while she smoked and looked up at the stars her great-grandmother had shown her when she was a little girl.

The young woman mused about her ancestors’ hard life. She did not believe in the old myths, though she had learned the old Hopi language and customs. If a woman had been allowed to be a priest, she would have been one of the best—if only she had been a believer, which she was decidedly not.

She looked out over the desert at night. She heard the howls of coyotes. She chain-lit cigarettes until she felt she had paid her great-grandmother the proper respect. Then she stood and stepped on the butt of the last cigarette. She flicked on her cell phone flashlight to take one last look at the burial site. Resolving she would come back sometime in daylight to be sure the grave was intact, she climbed into the Land Rover and drove to Window Rock.

She unlocked her front door when she arrived home and pulled it closed after she had entered. She bolted the door. She felt a strong arm grab her arm. Another arm slapped her face hard.

“Where have you been, you slut? You smell of gasoline.”

Her right hand felt where the smack had landed on her cheek. “It’s none of your business. Go back to sleep.”

He slapped her again so hard, she fell on the floor. He spat on her. “Bitch,” he said. Then he hauled her down the hall to the bedroom and hurled her onto the bed.

“Whatever you gave the others for money, you’re going to give me double.” He ripped off her clothes and raped her. When he was finished, he fell asleep on his side of the bed. She, repulsed, lay down as far away from her husband as she could manage while remaining in bed. She fell asleep.

In the morning, she awakened to more slaps as he demanded that she fix his breakfast.

“Out all night like a cat, you don’t get to sleep all day just so you can do it all again. Unless you want to be beaten with a belt, get out of bed and get on with your chores.”

She did as she was told without complaint. Her worthless husband would spend the day pretending to look for work he’d not find. Tonight, he would come home drunk and abuse her. She was sore from last night’s beating. She was angry, but she was also wise to wait before she reacted.

When her husband had departed, she called the authorities to report her great grandmother’s death. Her report was simple: “My great-grandmother died of old age last night on the reservation. Her dwelling burned to the ground.” She knew the police would not bother to investigate the matter. Chances were, they would not ask for a signed statement. She considered the matter finished.

***

Hal Smith hated his life. He hated his worthless wife even more. He hated himself because he saw no way to get out of the mess he was in. So, he drank. He fought. He beat his wife and complained about everything she did.

Hal had no idea why he had married Hola. They were both Hopi, but that did not make things better. He was always going to be a poor Indian. Nothing was going to change that. Since he had no way of making steady money, he felt his wife should provide for both of them.

He laughed among his friends that he was lucky he and his wife had no children. Why? They could never afford children. Besides, trying to have children was better than conceiving them. He was known for saying, “Having a barren wife is better than winning the lottery—as long as she continues giving me all the sex I crave.”

Social workers despaired of making the situation better for Hola. The police looked the other way because if Hal went to jail, he surely would never find a job and get off the welfare rolls.

The tribal council had no remedy for the perennial ills of Hopi families. The women suffered while the men drank or did drugs whenever they had money. Rituals were empty. The white men were devils. Other Indian tribes, especially Navajos, were sworn enemies.

Sam Waller, a half-breed Navajo, was Hal’s nemesis. When they two met anywhere in the Four Corners region, trouble would follow. The greater the amount of liquor the two men consumed, the greater the trouble.

One evening, Sam and Hal met at the Wasupi Bar in Window Rock. They slugged it out, but that was not enough for either man. They decided to fight to the death with real weapons at a place Hal knew, an old Hopi burial ground.

Hal arrived at the place in his Land Rover. Behind him came Sam in his Ford pick-up truck. Both men carried revolvers. They didn’t know quite what to do when they stood away from their cars.

Hal called out, “Why don’t we go to the top of the rise?”

Sam climbed up faster than Hal and turned with his gun aimed at his opponent’s heart.

“I have the drop on you. So why don’t you give up? We can both go home and sleep off the liquor.”

Hal continued climbing, ignoring Sam’s proposal. He stood uneasily within five feet of Sam. He raised his weapon and fired a wild shot. Sam laughed and pointed at his drunken rival.

“You stupid Hopi. Look, you’re too drunk to hit the broad side of a dwelling. Put your gun away. I won’t dignify you by killing you as you deserve.”

Hal fired wild again. Then he started crying.

Sam held up his free hand. “Are you all right?”

“Damn you!” Hal screamed, the tears running down his face. He fired until he no longer had ammunition. When he cocked and clicked, he threw his gun down and kicked the ground in frustration.

Sam held his side. “You killed me, you bastard!” He leveled his pistol at Hal’s head and fired. Hal fell after half his face hit the desert rise. Sam fell too and rolled down the incline.

***

Hal did not come home the night before. Hola reported him as missing to the sheriff. After checking around, the sheriff found out about the fight between Sam and Hal at the Wasupi Bar.

He called Hola to say, “Your husband and Sam Waller got drunk and fought last night at the Wasupi Bar. They decided to continue their fight at the Hopi burial ground. Do you want to ride out there with me to reconnoiter?”

The sheriff drove Hola to the burial ground. There were the two vehicles and two dead men lying on the hill. The sheriff called for medical assistance, but he knew he was dealing with two corpses. He taped off the area as a crime scene and went through the motions. What use were the formalities? Sam Waller and Hal Smith had clearly killed each other. The case was open and shut in an instant.

Hola drove home in the Land Rover. She felt numb, not from grief or surprise. She was alone suddenly. At least she did not have to fear a beating as she entered her apartment.

That afternoon, she received a call from the morgue requesting instructions for disposing of her husband’s corpse. She drove to sign some papers and take possession of the body. Then she drove the body out to the Hopi burial ground.

She managed to roll Hal’s body out of the Land Rover onto the ground. Beside the body, she dug a hole. She worked hard to pull the body into the hole. Then she filled in the grave. When she had finished, her arms ached from the effort. She took out a cigarette as a reward for a job well done. While she smoked, she assessed what else needed doing. She decided that the area should be brushed so no evidence of a fresh grave could be seen. Chain lighting cigarettes, she brushed over the traces. She climbed to the top of the hill to be sure she had done a good job.

It was evening now. She got a bottle of water from her Land Rover and sat on the ground near the place where she had buried her great-grandmother.

As she drank and smoked in alternation, the stars came out in their splendor. The moon rose in the west and arced slowly through the heavens.

Hola said out loud to her deceased great-grandmother, “Well, old woman, this chapter’s over. I’m glad. Hal was never a good man. He beat me even on the night I buried you. He died violently at the hand of his worst enemy. I’m alone again.”

She waited as if she expected a response from the dead woman. Instead, she heard the howls of coyotes. One started the howling, and the others joined her. Then the howling stopped.

A breeze started. It was light at first, barely perceptible to Hola. When her arm hairs stood on end, she knew the wind was picking up. She stood up and flicked her last cigarette on the ground. She stomped it out. By the time she made it to her Land Rover, the wind was strong with gusts that tore at her clothing. She wrenched open the door and climbed inside her vehicle.

Hola turned over the engine, and the lights went on. Ahead she saw a box-like figure with a box-like head. The figure was wearing a bloody garment of rabbit skins. It was walking away. Masaw—for Hola knew who the figure was—disappeared as whirls of sand whipped by the Land Rover. Rain followed in a deluge, and the Land Rover shook from side to side, buffeted by the swirling wind.

Hola assessed the situation and drove her vehicle to the top of the rise. She put on the emergency brake and waited as the storm raged. She checked the time periodically. Her mind reverted to her great grandmother’s burial. She sensed a presence in the passenger seat next to her.

The old woman sat straight up in the seat. As the lightning forked, the woman seemed to have a spectral look. Her head was bobbing up and down.

In the old Hopi language, the spirit said, “You must rise to another world now. This one holds no more for you. Fear not. When Masaw comes, go with him. It is time.”

Hola sat paralyzed with fear of the woman and her message. She answered, “Old woman, I don’t believe in the old Hopi ways. I don’t believe in Masaw. I don’t believe in you.”

The spectral figure said, “You came to my side when I needed you most. You buried my body. You called me from the grave tonight after you buried your worthless husband.”

“Still, great grandmother, I do not believe in you. Go back to your grave. Leave me alone. Please.”

The old woman nodded and began to fade. Then she was gone. At the same time, the storm stopped. Hola heard the dripping of rain from her vehicle. She saw through her headlights a coyote family passing down the incline to a fresh grave whose surface sand had been washed away by the deluge. She waited as the desert drank the water that the storm had offered. In an hour, the thirsty sand had drunk its fill.

Hola took off the brake and drove down the incline to the road leading to Window Rock. She saw the coyote family feasting on the remains of her husband. As she drove, here and there sand had been washed across the road. She encountered no flash flooding. She was back in her apartment within an hour. She opened the refrigerator and retrieved a beer and snapped it open.

She sat at her kitchen table and drank the beer. Fortified, she did not sleep. She fetched out every piece of her husband’s clothing and put them in the Land Rover. She collected everything he had owned and added it to the pile of refuse. She went from room to room to be sure she had gathered everything that was not hers. When she was sure, she drove to the nearest Salvation Army repository and dumped the mass of materials into it.

Hola Smith now felt free of Harold “Hal” Smith. She returned to her apartment and fell fast asleep. It was the best night of rest she had enjoyed since the man who was her future husband had raped her in the desert before he married her in a shotgun wedding arranged by Hola’s deranged father.

In a dream that night, Hola saw the image of Nina Shongopovi, not old and wizened, but in the prime of her youth in a wedding dress. Her future husband was a square man with a square head. It was curious to Hola that the man wore a bloody apron of sewn rabbit skins instead of a bridegroom’s clothing. Nina walked over to Hola and whispered in her ear.

“Hola, you were always my favorite great-granddaughter.” Then Nina’s flesh turned to dust as Masaw came up from behind to embrace her. He smiled at Hola as he held the girl’s skeleton gently in his arms. When Masaw cast Nina’s bones aside and reached for her instead, Hola awakened screaming.

When she calmed down, she smelled smoke and realized her apartment was on fire. She threw on a robe and ran through flames to the front door and into the street. There her neighbors were gathered as firefighters ran their hoses to douse the flames.

The fire marshal sent two female medics to help the young woman who had just emerged from the building.

The young Hopi woman kept saying as she wept and choked on her tears, “I don’t believe! I really don’t believe! Please don’t let me believe!” She shook and trembled as her apartment building burned to the ground.

One medic put her arm around Hola and tried to comfort her. She asked, “Was that your dwelling?”

Hola was startled. She looked at the woman closely. The medic was the image of her great-grandmother as a maiden. How could this be?

“It was my husband’s dwelling, but he’s dead.”

“I see. Then you don’t have to worry about his ghost, do you?”

Hola said, “No. I guess not.” She laughed hysterically. The medic laughed until she disappeared to care for another victim of the fire.