Introduction

“Be careful, Grandma. The stones are slick from the rain.”

Maggie Walking Hawk Taylor brushed wind-blown strands of short black hair out of her eyes and guided her sick grandmother toward the entry to the ancient pueblo. Though a fine mist continued to fall, golden shafts of light slanted down through the rain clouds, making oblong pools of bright gold on the cracked and weathered canyon walls that surrounded them. The sage-covered bottomlands glimmered and sparkled. The blocks of red sandstone that formed the walls of the pueblo shone a deep dark crimson, the color of old blood.

Slumber Walking Hawk puffed as she hobbled along, her purple skirt flapping about her legs.

“There’s a step here, Grandma. Do you see it? It’s that rock, right there.” Maggie pointed.

Slumber stopped, but she looked up instead of down. Her gaze took in the huge semicircular structure. It had originally been five stories tall, but only four remained to tell the thousand-year-old story. Maggie followed her grandmother’s gaze. No matter how many times she came here, she always felt dwarfed by the magnificence of the Anasazi, the ancient people who’d built this structure. The pueblo, a walled town, covered over three acres of land.

Slumber took a breath, and Maggie held her wrinkled arm tightly. Sometimes her grandmother tripped over imaginary rocks—and then swore they’d been there when she’d tripped. No one dared tell her otherwise, either, out of fear of being wrong. Her grandmother was a great Seer. She didn’t always live in this ordinary world.

Slumber used a clawlike hand to point to the spot Maggie had indicated. “There? That’s the step?”

“Yes, Grandma. Hold onto me. I’ll help you.”

Cautiously, Slumber lifted her right foot and placed it on the lip of stone, then allowed Maggie to support her weight while she rose on to the step. A small groan escaped Slumber’s lips, and Maggie’s heart ached. She’s so ill. Why did she insist on coming, today of all days?

“This is going to be a bad day, Grandma. You know I have to meet with those two from the local hiking club. I wish you’d stayed home in bed.”

Maggie had patiently explained how hostile the club president was, not that Kyle Laroque was a bad guy—he wasn’t. Maggie actually liked him. When she’d first met him a year ago, she’d seen a light in his eyes that she’d come to identify only with Indian holy people. It had surprised and fascinated her. But, recently, that light had vanished. The new park plan had affected recreationists the way a match did a fuse. She expected the final grand explosion today. Yet Slumber had insisted upon coming, and she’d been so adamant that Maggie couldn’t say no.

Slumber simply whispered, “I must be here. Saw it … in a dream.”

“All right, Grandma. Let me take you over to the wall. You can sit down and rest while we wait.”

Slumber’s grip tightened on Maggie’s arm, and they started across the plaza, but after only ten paces, Slumber stopped. She wheezed in and out, then took another two steps and stopped, breathing some more.

Maggie tenderly brushed loose strands of gray hair behind her grandmother’s ears. Just looking at her made Maggie hurt. She resembled a knotted twig. Four feet seven inches tall, Slumber was thin enough to blow away if a powerful gust of wind came along. Wispy gray hair clung to her age-spotted scalp, and thick blue veins crawled like knobby worms across her arms and hands. She had the sort of classic “ancient” Indian face that photographers loved to shoot and put on postcards. Cadaverous, and criss-crossed by a thousand wrinkles, it acted like a magnet. People would smile in a kindly way at her wrinkled visage, then glance beneath the thick gray brows that jutted out over Slumber’s eyes and stand transfixed. Maggie had seen it happen. People would just suddenly stop and go quiet. Slumber’s eyes gave no evidence that she had witnessed the passing of ninety-two long, hard years—reservation years, filled with too much hunger, and cold so deep it settled in the bones until a person felt like they’d never get warm. Curiously clear and as black as midnight, Slumber Walking Hawk’s eyes had Power. The Navajo called her, “That Crazy Old Keres Holy Woman,” but her own people knew her as, “She Who Haunts the Dead.”

And, gods help me to stand it, she will be among them soon.

Maggie put an arm around her grandmother’s shoulders and hugged her. Slumber affectionately patted her hand in return.

“I’m all right,” Slumber said.

Two weeks ago, the doctor in Albuquerque had given Slumber a maximum of eight weeks to live. The cancer had spread through her entire body. Maggie had been frightened and empty, uncertain what to say or do. Slumber had merely smiled and returned to the pueblo, going about her daily tasks as she had always done. No matter what she might be feeling inside, to the outside world Slumber kept up the appearance of being hale and hearty.

Maggie led her grandmother to a low wall, next to one of the “Don’t Sit on The Walls!” signs, and gently eased her down.

Slumber gestured to the sign and grinned. “You’re a big park ranger so it doesn’t matter, eh?”

“I make these decisions on a case-by-case basis,” Maggie replied in her best bureaucratese. “When I’m on duty, the elderly get special treatment.”

The roar of a Jeep sounded at the parking lot and Maggie lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the rain. Damn, they’re here. “Grandma,” she said, “I have to go meet these people. Will you be all right?”

“Yes, you know I will. Go on,” Slumber said, and waved a transparent old hand, smiling. “I just want to sit for a while and listen.”

Maggie stroked her grandmother’s hair again and turned away.

*   *   *

Slumber watched her granddaughter trot toward the trail that led down to the parking lot and sighed. I’m almost done in. My soul’s hanging by a spiderweb, floating somewhere high above my body.

That pleased Slumber. She needed to escape. The pain was getting too bad. Every square inch of her old body hurt. Oh, the doctor had given her all kinds of pills to take, but she’d tucked them into a paper bag and tossed them in the trash. When the time came, Slumber Walking Hawk would stand up, greet whichever ancestor came to get her, and climb into the skyworld with a clear mind and an open heart.

She straightened her ankle-length purple cotton dress around her. The color looked startling against the fine red stones that formed the wall.

Two people came through the front entry with Magpie. Both had their brows furrowed, as if ready for a fight, and they spoke in dark tones. That tall man, though, he had some Power. Slumber could see it wavering about him like a faint blue glow. With the right teacher he could really be something. Too bad most Whites couldn’t spot it.

Slumber gazed southward across the rugged canyon. A wavering veil of rain was sweeping northward. The damp earth smelled like perfume. She inhaled and held the blessing breath in her lungs while she silently thanked the Shiwana for the shower. The Shiwana were the spirits of the dead who’d climbed into the heavens and become cloud beings. The Hopi called them Katchinas, the Zuni called them Koko, the Tewa knew them as the Okhua, but most Whites used the word katchina, because of the dolls the Navajo made and sold in all the grocery and gun stores.

The storm edged toward the ruins, and Slumber tipped her face up, letting the first big drops splat on her forehead. A soft patter fell on the ancient walls, and on the tan dust of the plaza. Rain was life itself in the desert. As wind gusted through the ruins, Slumber’s short gray hair whipped about, slapping her deeply wrinkled cheeks and forehead, tangling with her stubby eyelashes. Slumber turned her head away and let the wind gust by.

The sweet lilting notes of a wooden flute drifted through the ruins. Slumber cocked her head and looked around. Did anyone else hear? She looked straight at the tall blond-haired man. He had stopped talking—his mouth was still open. But he shook his head slightly, as though denying what his soul heard because his ears hadn’t, and he went back to waving his hands. Slumber let her eyes trace the half-moon shape of the ruins, searching for the musician.

Magpie led the two people to the center of the plaza and stopped to talk, saying, “I understand your point, Kyle. I just don’t agree. The regional tribes have been using this canyon for religious rituals for centuries. Our proposed plan only gives that fact official recognition. We—”

“You’re planning on closing the park for a month, Maggie!” Kyle propped his hands on his bony hips. He wore khaki shorts and a white T-shirt. Sunglasses shielded his eyes. His blond hair ruffled in the wind.

Slumber squinted at his legs. Roadrunner skinny and hairy as a bear. If she had legs like that, she’d keep them covered up so nobody’d gawk.

“Just who funded that plan of yours?” the woman hiker demanded to know. “Taxpayers! People like me who’ve been coming to this park in June for twenty years! It’s White re-creationists you’re trying to keep out! That’s racism!”

“Easy, Marisa. That’s out of line,” Kyle admonished.

Magpie bowed her head and seemed to be collecting her thoughts. Tall and thin, with rich brown eyes and short black hair, she wore an olive uniform. Her pants were perfect, the crease like a knife edge. A black leather belt tooled in basket-weave snugged her hips. The badge over her left breast gleamed. A government patch adorned her left shoulder. Slumber couldn’t read it from here, but she knew it for a park patch, telling the tourists that her granddaughter worked here, just in case they wanted to complain about something, or ask directions, maybe quiz her one more time on what “Anasazi” meant.

Slumber smiled. She’d heard that question at least a hundred times: “Is it Ancient Ones or Ancient Enemy?” She always gave the same answer, “You got me. If you ever find out, let me know.” Her own people, the Keres, claimed to be the descendants of the people who’d lived in this canyon a thousand years ago, but they’d never heard the word “Anasazi” until the Whites starting using it.

“Kyle,” Magpie said, “the park administration isn’t planning to close the park. They’re asking visitors to voluntarily avoid certain holy places around the summer solstice, that’s all. Many Puebloan peoples come here to perform healing, renewal, and purification rituals. The tribes believe this canyon has spiritual power. I know that may be hard for you to understand, but—”

“No, Maggie.” He shook his head. The dark lenses of his sunglasses flashed. “It’s not hard at all. I feel the spiritual power here. That’s why I come.”

Though her granddaughter’s real name was Magpie, she’d started calling herself Maggie when she’d gotten her first government job, Maggie Walking Hawk Taylor. That was all right with Slumber. So long as it made Magpie happy—and so long as she didn’t expect Slumber to call her that.

“What does ‘voluntary’ mean?” the woman asked. “Will we be punished if we don’t avoid those places?”

“No, of course not, Ms. Fenton. We are just hoping that you will respect the sanctity and privacy of the native peoples.”

Ms. Fenton looked all business. She wore her long graying brown hair in a neat bun. The style accented the flat planes of her round face and made her blue eyes seem huge. Her tan jacket and pants hugged all the right curves. Of course, she probably never had a chance to get fat, not with hiking all the time.

“This is a bad plan, Maggie,” Kyle continued. “Surely you must see that. Those holy places are holy to the people in our club, too, and this is public land.”

Magpie spread her hands in a pleading gesture. “This isn’t an easy issue, Kyle. In the old days, there weren’t so many conflicts. But as the number of tourists has increased, it’s become almost impossible for the tribes to hold ceremonials without forty flashbulbs going off a minute. Do you see what I’m saying?”

“Yes, of course, and that’s wrong, but the solution isn’t to ban Whites, Blacks, Hispanics, and Orientals from those places. There must be another solution, Maggie. Let’s work together to find it.”

Magpie shifted uneasily. “Let me try to explain something about Native American religions—and I’m not sure I can. I don’t think there’s a similar concept in White culture. You see, religious sites aren’t just pieces of land: they’re sacred space. They include the underworlds below, the surface of the land, and the skyworlds above. Some tribes believe there are openings at those places which lead between the worlds. They’re considered very dangerous. The uninitiated have been known to fall through those holes and be eaten by the monsters that inhabit those realms. Because of that—”

“This is getting pretty wild.” Ms. Fenton rolled her eyes. “Monsters? Come on.”

“I’m saying that some tribes have such beliefs,” Magpie continued. “Because of that, knowledge of the religious site is often considered sacred in and of itself, and reserved only for the holy people of the tribe. Talking about those places with outsiders, or having outsiders set foot on them, can so profane the site that it actually loses its sacredness. The Power goes away, Kyle. The openings close up and never reopen. Please try to underst—”

“You expect me to understand,” he cut her off, “but you refuse to see that it’s just as important to me to be here during the solstice! This canyon rings with power at that time. Listen, Maggie, I work an eight-to-five job in Albuquerque. By the time I take my summer vacation, I’m exhausted, mentally, physically, and spiritually. I come out here to touch the sacred, and to find myself. You and—” He waved a hand in Slumber’s general direction, and his gaze accidentally brushed Slumber’s. For several moments, he stood as if frozen. Magpie smiled. Finally, he tugged his eyes away and haltingly continued, “You—you want to deny me the right to worship in a place that my own tax dollars, and the tax dollars of every other American, go to maintain. We pay for the right to come here.”

Slumber braced a hand on the ancient wall and eased to her feet. Her legs shook. That old Flute Player was coming closer, and she wanted to go out and meet him. The music floated around her like butterfly wings, soft and playful.

Slumber hobbled out into the plaza, past a tall young man and a moon-faced young woman. Dressed in beautiful red-and-black knee-length shirts, they knelt prodding a fire to life. They smiled at each other, and laughed gaily, and Slumber chuckled. New love was always filled with dreams. The aroma of burning cedar wafted on the wind.

Slumber took a few more steps and stopped. Most of her tribe knew that she saw into other worlds; that’s why they called her “She Who Haunts the Dead.” Half-seen people walked around her all the time, making pots, weaving cotton, knapping out stone tools. Whether Slumber lived in their long-gone world, or whether they’d stepped into hers, here and now, she didn’t know. Usually they just passed each other. Sometimes very powerful holy people would gasp and stare at Slumber, as if seeing her through a thick mist—a few even tried to speak with her. But that never worked. She couldn’t understand their tongue, and they couldn’t understand hers.

Magpie said, “Only a century ago, the federal government in this country was banning Native American religions. They said that the First Amendment guarantee of the freedom of religion didn’t apply to Indians. That’s what Wounded Knee was all about. The people were Ghost Dancing and they’d been told it was against the law. The soldiers shot down over a hundred men, women, and little children.”

“I think,” Ms. Fenton pointed out with exaggerated politeness, “there was more to it than that.”

“Yes.” Magpie nodded. “There was. My point is this: in 1978 Congress passed Public Law 95–341, the American Indian Religious Freedom Act. That law recognized past injustices and guaranteed that it would be the policy of the United States from then on to protect and preserve American Indians’ inherent right to believe, express, and exercise their traditional religions—especially if native sacred sites were on public lands. And that is what our new park plan is attempting to do.”

“Does that same law give the federal government the right to ‘create’ Indian sacred sites?” Ms. Fenton asked. “Because that’s what you’re doing every time you dig up some old burial and replant it here in the canyon. How many bodies did you rebury last year? How many more places are you planning on keeping me out of?”

“We reinterred one burial last year. Just one.” Magpie folded her arms over her chest. “The burial was discovered in the process of a highway-widening project, down south near Gila Cliff Dwellings. It was obviously an Anasazi man, buried beneath a slab of rock. His clothing and jewelry were unmistakable. The tribes asked that we take him. We agreed because—”

“Because the more religious sites you have in the park, the more money you need to manage them, and the more land you can close off. Isn’t that right? All of this is a ploy for more taxpayer dollars?”

Magpie threw up her hands. “I knew this was going to be a difficult discussion. Perhaps we should just table this for now, and let our tempers cool down.”

Ms. Fenton sidled closer to Magpie. Her blue eyes gleamed with malice. “If you authorize Indians to practice their religion at this federally funded site, you will be violating the ‘separation of church and state’ clause. My kids can’t pray in school, but Indians can close down sections of the park to perform sacred rituals? Come on! What are you trying to do? Establish one official religion for the national parks in America? Indian religion?”

“No, no, we—”

“I demand equal treatment! I want a section of the park set aside for my private religious usage during the month of June. And I don’t want any ‘outsiders’ around bothering me. I need absolute privacy to perform my rituals—”

“Does that mean,” Magpie said with a weary smile, “that I can’t bring my flash attachment to photograph you while you meditate in the nude?”

Ms. Fenton’s expression tightened, but Kyle actually chuckled.

“Hey,” Kyle said. He held up his hands as if in surrender. “I think Maggie’s right. Why don’t we call it a day? We can talk more when we’ve all had a chance to…”

As Slumber rounded a corner in the gigantic pueblo, their voices faded. She’d had a dream last night that told her to follow this trail today. It wound between walls and around kivas. Slumber stopped when she reached the glass door. Pressing her nose against the pane, she looked inside. Ancient paintings adorned the wall. She’d first seen them many years ago. Slumber had stood with her mouth open, counting the beautiful green and blue diamonds that zigzagged over the white plaster. There’d been people sitting inside, a mother and daughter; they’d laughed and talked while Slumber gaped. No one sat inside today, but Slumber could see half-transparent belongings, willow twig sitting mats, black-and-white pots, rows of baskets. The ghosts must be out tending to chores.

Slumber started to walk away, but saw that something blue and shiny stuck out of the dirt at her feet. She bent over to look at it, prodded it with her finger, then smoothed the sand away. A magnificent turquoise knife emerged, broken in half. Slumber picked up the pieces and straightened to examine the stunning workmanship. No one in this day and age could work turquoise like this, it took a master—

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

Slumber looked up. Like many men she’d seen here in the past, he dressed in ancient clothing, black cloth decorated with white spirals. A turquoise pendant, in the shape of a wolf, hung around his throat. He held a flute in his left hand and seemed to be looking directly at her.

“Are you … are you talking to me?”

He smiled. “Yes, She Who Haunts the Dead.”

Slumber edged closer. Maybe he was real, and her eyesight was just getting sketchy. He was actually beautiful. She’d never said that about a man before. Tall, with long thick black hair, he had eyes the shade of mahogany furniture. A warm light shone in those dark depths.

“How do you know the name my people call me by? Do I know you?”

He extended a hand to her. “Come. We must hurry if we’re going to use the clouds as stepping stones to get to the skyworlds. The storm is blowing away.” He took a step closer. “It is your choice, She Who Haunts the Dead. You may stay for a short time longer, or go now. With me.”

Tears welled in Slumber’s eyes as understanding dawned. She hadn’t expected to be frightened, but she was. A little. Instinctively, she turned to gaze at Magpie. Longing wrung her heart. She would miss her granddaughter. Magpie had been very good to her. Slumber’s knees started shaking.

“You may stay if you wish,” the man gently reminded. “You do not have to come today. I just thought you might wish to.”

Taking a deep breath, Slumber turned back to look at him. “It’s my time. I’ve been itching to get away from the sickness.”

He extended his hand a little further and smiled. “When you put your hand in mine, the pain will go away.”

Slumber wet her wrinkled lips, stepped toward him, and reached out …

*   *   *

Maggie hugged herself as Marisa Fenton stomped across the plaza, then headed for her Jeep. Her tan jacket fluttered in the wind.

Kyle Laroque propped his hands on his hips. His white sleeves were splotched with rain. “She’s not as bad as you think. She’s just feeling stepped on.”

“So am I.”

“I apologize, Maggie. I never intended for this to turn into a shouting match. I hope we’re still friends.”

Maggie shrugged. “Kyle, I know the canyon is a sacred place to you. And maybe to some of the others in your group. I—I’ll talk to the park administrator and the regional tribes. There must be a solution to this problem. A middle road we can all take.”

“Thank you, Maggie,” he said sincerely. “That’s all we ask. I…”

A curious, alarmed expression creased his tanned face. He tilted his head, as if listening.

“What’s the matter, Kyle?”

A swallow went down his throat. “Maggie, I … did you hear that voice?” He turned halfway around, peering toward the rear of the pueblo. “It was a man’s voice, deep, beautiful.”

Maggie suddenly noticed that her grandmother no longer sat on the wall where she’d left her, and panic ran like fire through her veins. She shouted, “Grandma? Grandma, where are you?”

She broke into a run, dashing across the plaza with Kyle close behind. They peered into one empty room after another, then headed for the trail that led … her steps faltered.

“Oh…”

Slumber Walking Hawk lay curled on her side on the damp ground, one arm extended in front of her as if reaching for something. Wisps of gray hair had fallen over her wrinkled face, but Maggie could see her grandmother’s serene expression.

She forced her numb legs forward and knelt. A broken turquoise knife lay clutched in her grandmother’s hand and, beside it, what looked like an ancient deerbone stiletto. Maggie tenderly took Slumber’s wrist to feel for a pulse.

Her throat ached. “Oh, Grandma.” She eased down to the wet ground.

Kyle knelt beside her. “Is she—”

“Yes.”

He bowed his head. “I’m sorry, Maggie.”

“She was dying, Kyle. She knew it. And though she never said so, I think she’s been in a lot of pain. It’s just that I—I loved her so much.” Maggie gazed at him through blurry eyes. “I wish she could have stayed for a little longer.”

He fumbled with his sunglasses, pulling them off so he could really look at her. He had soft brown eyes. That glow had returned, the one that made her go still inside, as if she gazed through a door that led between the worlds. “The man … the voice I heard?”

Maggie frowned. “Yes?”

Folding the glasses, he tucked them into his shirt pocket, and seemed to be struggling with how to say something. Beads of rain shimmered on his blond hair. “The man said, ‘You may stay if you wish. You do not have to come today. I just thought you might wish to.’”

She stared at him.

Kyle looked embarrassed, as if he wished he hadn’t told her.

All of Maggie’s life she’d heard people tell stories about her grandmother and ghosts, but her grandmother had never talked to Maggie about them. Was that why Slumber had insisted on coming? Had a ghost told her she’d be free if she accompanied Maggie to this place today? Free from her sick body. Free from the pain. Free …

Maggie used her sleeve to wipe away her tears. “I’m sure she wanted to go. I don’t blame her.”

“Why don’t you stay here with her? I’ll run back to the Visitor’s Center and get help.”

Maggie nodded, but as he trotted down the trail, Maggie called, “Kyle?”

He turned. Wind ruffled his blond hair.

“Thank you. For telling me about the voice you heard.”

He shrugged. “It’s just the place, Maggie. It talks to me.” He lifted a hand to her, then trotted away.

Maggie’s gaze followed him until he vanished from sight. Then she squeezed her grandmother’s frail old hand. Wind fluttered gray locks around Slumber’s peaceful old face.

“I guess the Shiwana just see the colors of people’s souls, huh, Grandma?”