First Man said: “I do not believe this thing. We are very poor. Why should we be visited by a Holy Being? I cannot believe what you tell me.”
—Sandoval, Hastin Tlo’tsi hee
CHIMNEY ROCK ARCHAEOLOGICAL SITE
AS CHARLIE MOON gripped her arm, Daisy Perika grunted her way out of the pickup. Once her feet were firmly planted on the earth, the tribal elder leaned on an oak walking stick and glared up at the dark face shaded by the brim of a black Stetson. “I don’t know why we had to come to this place.”
A glint of amusement sparkled in Charlie Moon’s eye. “Because the forest service opened up the archaeological site early.” He patted his aunt’s stooped shoulder. “Especially for us Indians.”
“Hmmpf. I can see the top of Chimney Rock from where I live.”
“But you can’t see this.” Moon waved his arm in an expansive gesture. “Pit houses all over the mesa.” He pointed to the northeast. “And up there on the Crag, there’s a great view of the stone towers.”
She kicked at a bluetail lizard that skittered safely out of range. “It’s a bunch of foolishness. Nothing up here but rocks and sand. And old ghosts.”
“These haunts must be starved for news,” he said. “Been waiting a thousand years for some talkative old lady to come and tell ’em the latest gossip.” Aunt Daisy claimed she often chatted with ghosts who wandered out of Cañon del Espíritu.
Her dark eyes snapped at his teasing. “If the spirits want to come to my place to exchange a few words, that’s one thing. But those who stay away from the living want to be left alone. Just like I do.”
Her nephew, who could think of no useful reply, was saved when Daisy Perika saw someone she knew. “Look. Over there.” She pointed her chin at two people emerging from an ancient pickup.
Charlie Moon turned to look. The 1957 Chevrolet had been brush-painted a pale shade of blue that matched the sky. The bed was covered with a homemade plywood camper shell. April Tavishuts was brushing something off her black skirt. April’s stepfather—a rail-thin old man—slammed the door on the driver’s side. He muttered something unintelligible, spat on the ground. Moon was surprised to see Alvah Yazzi at the ruins. The Navajo elder’s attitude about avoiding such places was—if possible—more strongly held than Aunt Daisy’s.
As if her nephew could not see past the end of his nose, Daisy said: “It’s that Tavishuts girl you sat with in church last Sunday.” And her stepfather. Alvah Yazzi had married April’s Ute mother just over a year ago. A shrewish woman with a tongue sharp as a sliver of broken glass, she had not been that good a catch. But if Alvah’s burden had been heavy, he had not been destined to carry it long. A few weeks after the marriage, his bride had died in an automobile accident west of Bayfield. The woman had not been wearing her seat belt. Her husband had. The Navajo had walked away from the overturned sedan with nothing more than scratches. Alvah was a prudent man. And though the Navajo was two decades older than April’s mother, he carried his years well. Daisy Perika found herself smiling. He’s closer to my age than his dead wife’s. And now he needs looking after. She waved at the pair.
April had already seen the towering form of Charlie Moon and his aged aunt. The young woman was approaching, her Navajo stepfather following several paces behind with short, hesitant steps. Appropriate greetings and pleasantries were exchanged. Obligatory observations were made about the weather. All were in agreement that rain was needed. April looked up at Moon. Last Sunday, they hadn’t exchanged more than a dozen words. “Since you took up ranching, I don’t see you very much. Except at church.”
“I keep fairly busy.” Moon looked longingly to the north. Toward the Columbine.
April took a calculated risk. “I hear you got yourself a pretty girlfriend.”
Charlie Moon didn’t know what to say to this. He squinted at the sky.
Daisy seized the opportunity. “He’s been nuzzling up to a yella-haired matukach woman.” The old woman rolled her eyes. “She lives in California. Prob’ly rubs elbows with them movie stars.”
April looked shyly at his polished boots. “California’s a long way off.”
Moon’s reply was touched by melancholy. “That it is.”
“You must get lonesome.”
That I do.
There was a brief silence while April Tavishuts and Charlie Moon both wished she’d kept her mouth shut.
“April’s got herself a job,” Alvah Yazzi snapped.
Moon was relieved at this change of subject. “What kind of job?”
The young woman shrugged modestly. “Nothing much.”
Her Navajo stepfather snorted. “You said that right.”
April shot the old man a warning glance, then turned to face Moon. “I’m a graduate student in the department of anthropology and archaeology at Rocky Mountain Polytechnic. Professor Axton is department chairman.” She glanced toward the Crag. “We’re conducting a survey here at the site.”
Alvah spat the words through thin lips. “I’ve told her—don’t disturb the places where the Old Ones lived.”
Daisy nodded her approval of this sage advice, but held her tongue. Maybe that Navajo is smarter than he looks.
April Tavishuts looked her stepfather straight in the eye. “I’m not going to disturb anything. We’ll be taking measurements—and making photographs. That’s all.”
“Bullshit,” Alvah said. This was always an effective conversation stopper.
An uneasy silence was relieved by the approach of a tall, tanned white woman in her middle fifties. She moved with easy familiarity along a winding pathway that meandered among the pit-house ruins. Outfitted in khaki slacks and a spotless, white two-pocket shirt, she exhibited perfect posture and an almost military bearing. The newcomer directed her gaze at the young Ute woman. “Excuse me, April, but the tour is scheduled to begin in”—she paused to glance at a wristwatch—“about seven minutes.”
Moon smiled at April. “You going to have a look at the ruins?”
“Me and Dr. Silk are the tour guides.” April said this with a hint of pride.
“Token redskin,” Alvah Yazzi observed with an ugly curl of his lip.
“Nonsense,” the khakied woman said. “April is far more familiar with the site than Professor Axton’s other students. She’s a natural to act as my associate.”
“Leezh bee hahalkaadí asdzáá,” Yazzi muttered.
Moon knew enough Navajo to understand. Shovel-woman.
Pointedly ignoring her stepfather, the young woman introduced the archaeologist to Daisy Perika and Charlie Moon. “Dr. Silk knows more about the Chimney Rock ruins than anyone.”
Daisy responded with a polite nod.
The scientist reached out to shake Moon’s extended hand. “Forget the doctor stuff. I’m just plain Amanda Silk.”
There was nothing plain about the woman. Moon found her hand hard and callused. “You do a lot of work at Chimney Rock?”
She smiled to display a prominent but attractive set of teeth. “Just the dirty work. Salvage archaeology. Cleaning up after the occasional pothunter.”
“Someone has been digging in the pit houses,” April said with a grave expression. “Dr. Silk works for the NAGPRA committee.”
Alvah frowned suspiciously at his stepdaughter. “What’n hell’s that?”
“Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act,” April responded in a patronizing tone. As if he should have known.
Amanda Silk glanced at a nearby pit-house ruin. “The vandals came during the winter months, while the site was closed. I’ve been awarded a contract to survey the area for illegal excavations. Evaluate the damage. Repair whatever harm they’ve done.”
Moon thought there must be lots of places where a pothunter would have a better chance to dig up a salable artifact. And less chance of getting caught in the act. “The diggers do any serious damage?”
Amanda Silk shook her head. “Doesn’t look like the work of professionals. Some teenagers, most likely—hoping to unearth something for their artifact collections.” The archaeologist beamed upon April. “Well, young lady—we must not keep our special guests waiting.”
April looked up hopefully at Charlie Moon. “You want to come along?”
He did. Moon invited his aunt to come with him and have a look at the site.
Her feet hurt, Daisy said. She would wait for his return. Which she hoped would not be too long.
Alvah Yazzi did not receive an invitation from his Ute stepdaughter.
The tour started on the Great Kiva Trail Loop, a path winding along the developed section of Ghost Wolf Mesa. The first group of Indian tourists represented several generations. An aged Paiute leaned heavily on two canes; he was so thin that it seemed a breeze might topple him. On the small end of the age scale, there were a dozen children. These ranged from babes in arms to a sullen teenager who had a Walkman earphone plugged into his ear. While more than half the participants were Utes who lived within a few miles of the stone towers, other tribes were also represented. Among those Moon recognized were an Apache family from Dulce, a Navajo hand-trembler from Teec Nos Pos, his brother who ran sheep at Naschitti. There was a famous potter from San Juan Pueblo, a Hopi elder from Shungopavi. And a Zuni woman pretty enough to turn a man’s head.
Charlie Moon—unconsciously governed by his ingrained policeman’s instinct—stayed near the rear of the group where he could see everyone. As the gathering was led to a sandstone shelf near the north edge of the mesa, the more senior of the tour guides paused and waited for silence. Amanda Silk pointed to a bowl-shaped depression in the stone at her feet. “This is the Stone Basin—the only one at Chimney Rock. There are several at the Chaco Canyon ruins. Like this one, the Chaco basins are all near a Great Kiva. But we don’t know what purpose they served.” She looked expectantly at the group of dark faces. “Any of you care to comment?”
This invitation was met by a stony silence. The guide sighed. A typical group of tourists would have had all sorts of suggestions. It was a place for sacrificial blood to be spilled. One imaginative visitor had suggested that the depression had been filled with water and used as a mystical mirror for peering into dark places. A slack-jawed youth from St. Louis had snickered to his peers that maybe it was a toilet for coyotes. Not that his language had been so polite. But these Indians were a quiet lot. No speculation from their lips. Amanda wondered whether one of the elderly Native Americans present might actually know something useful about the basin—but did not intend to discuss such mysteries with a white woman.
At an encouraging look from her mentor, April Tavishuts found her voice and addressed the gathering of Indian tourists. “When we get up to the Crag, there’s a wonderful view of Companion and Chimney Rocks. And you’ll see the ruins of the Great Pueblo. It was constructed between A.D. 1076 and 1093.” Uneasy with this first experience in public speaking, her voice quavered. She cleared her throat and began again. “The structure appears to be perfectly rectangular. But actually, the stone walls are not quite parallel. If you project lines along the walls, they converge right here—at the Stone Basin.” April waited for some expression of appreciation for this curious little gem of information. She got none from the Indian spectators.
Dr. Silk made a slight nod to her subordinate.
“Okay,” April said quickly, “let’s go up to the Crag.”
Charlie Moon, who was enjoying the slow pace of the day, moved along behind the small crowd. As he walked, he thought a rancher’s thoughts. Maybe some rain would fall on the Columbine’s vast acreage within the next few days. What would beef cattle be selling for this time next year. Would the two hundred acres along the river produce enough hay to see him through the winter. Was there any way to raise enough cash to buy that magnificent Hereford bull from the senator’s ranch next door. Sure. Rob a bank.
THE TALE
Daisy Perika and Alvah Yazzi sat on the rusted tailgate of Charlie Moon’s F150. It was blissfully peaceful. Butter-colored butterflies fluttered by. A mountain bluebird fussed among the branches of a juniper, cocking an inquisitive head at the biped intruders.
The elders of their respective tribes were content to merely sit and look. There was much that was pleasing to the eye, and restful to the weary soul. Below the pleated skirt of the mesa was a broad valley, where a copper-hued stream slithered along like a glittering serpent, shifting ripples imitating the facets of reptilian scales. On the near side of the creek stretched a thousand acres of tender new grasses, born emerald green. In this vast pasture were sleek, white-faced cows—frisky calves cutting frolicky bovine capers.
The Ute woman and Navajo man enjoyed those things below. But up there, the faceless twins relentlessly drew their gaze. Crowned with swirling wisps of downy cloud-feathers, the sandstone monoliths looked down upon the mortals. And waited.
Daisy’s eyes fairly ached from what they had seen. She closed them for a brief rest. Then made a sideways appraisal of her male companion—starting at the forked end. Alvah’s feet were shod in canvas sandals. The thin man wore faded denim jeans, a checkered cotton shirt under his Albuquerque Dukes jacket. A massive silver-veined turquoise nugget was suspended from his neck on a leather cord. A sweat-stained red bandanna was fixed tightly around his head; long steel-gray braids hung between his shoulder blades.
Daisy supposed that April had done a good thing bringing her stepfather to this place amongst the Anasazi ghosts. Alvah Yazzi hated being here. He would complain about it all winter. And having something to grouch about would make him happy. Daisy thanked God that she had not become a grumpy old woman who made her nephew miserable. She was startled when the Navajo spoke.
“So how’ve you been?”
The Ute woman shrugged.
“Me too,” he said in a voice that crackled with age. Alvah Yazzi stuffed a brier pipe with tobacco from a yellowed cotton pouch. He struck a phosphorus match across his belt buckle. After the curly-leaf was ignited, he took a long draw and fell into his customary silence.
Daisy Perika assumed that the Navajo had said his piece for the afternoon. She didn’t mind. Being with a man who knew how to keep his mouth shut was fine with her.
But once again, his voice pierced the silence. “Must get lonesome for you. Living out there by the Canyon of the Spirits.”
So you know where my home is. “It’s not so bad. I see my nephew more often now than when he lived over by Ignacio.”
He nodded to express his appreciation of this blessing.
She continued. “Charlie Moon drives down from his ranch every Sunday morning, takes me to church. After mass, we go to a restaurant.”
“That’s good.”
“He’s a nice young man.” She would never have admitted this in front of her nephew. “But today,” she grumped, “I haven’t had my lunch yet. We passed right by that Mexican restaurant at Arboles.” The thought of cheese and onion enchiladas made her mouth water. “Charlie said we’d get some eats later. He was in a big hurry to bring me up here.” Like a half-starved old woman with a brain in her head would want to hobble around and look at ugly piles of rock. Where dead people used to live.
Alvah squinted into the sun. “Down at Window Rock, we hear some big talk about Cháala Tl’éhonaa’éi.”
“About what?”
“Charlie Moon.” He took a pull on the pipe.
She snorted. Just like an uppity Navajo. Can’t talk plain American. Got to throw his jibber-jabber around. “Oh, you mean Charlie Muá-tagó-ci.” But it pleased the Ute elder to realize that even these Navajo people had heard about her nephew.
Alvah exhaled a cloud of gray smoke, and coughed. “There was lots of talk about him being a very clever policeman.”
“He did pretty good for himself.” Daisy said this with a proud tilt of her chin. “And now Charlie’s got himself a big ranch to run.”
“April tells me you make medicines.”
Pleased at his interest in her work, the Ute shaman explained about how from time to time she did gather special plants. Lechuguilla. Thorn apple. Toad flax. Deer’s ears. Some were available within walking distance of her home, others required an automobile trip. A few she purchased mail order. But, she explained, you had to know just how to prepare the roots or leaves or blossoms. Mess up and somebody could get very sick. Maybe even die. The preparation and dispensing of medicines was not to be taken lightly.
“You ever use Hisiiyaanii oil?”
“Sure. For treating cold sores. And skin cancer.”
The Navajo puffed on his pipe, but seemed to be getting little pleasure from it. “April—she says you can cure most anything.”
The Ute pharmacist modestly admitted that this was true. If someone needed a special medication for bleeding, or eye-popping headaches, or stomach cramps that bent you double—she could mix up just the thing. For a price.
The pipe was spent. Alvah Yazzi tapped the bowl on the edge of the tailgate, emptying the warm ashes onto the sand. He looked to the sky, where a hawk circled with sinister grace. “They say you talk to that Ute dwarf.”
Daisy put on a puzzled expression. “Dwarf?”
“The one who lives in Cañon del Espíritu. In a badger hole.”
“Hmmpf,” she said. April’s been telling this Navajo snoop too much.
“And they say you talk to spirits.” He turned to stare at her. “Is this true?”
She looked straight ahead, saying nothing.
“I know an old man down by Lukachukai—they say he talks to the chíindii. I don’t know if it is true. But my people consider this a very dangerous thing to do.”
You got no business telling me what’s dangerous. “Us Utes do what we please. If one of the spirits was to drop by and visit my place—and was inclined to talk to me…I might talk back. If I wanted to.”
The Navajo seemed almost to shudder. “But what if you don’t want them coming around. What if you want these chíindii to go away?”
Now that he was seeking her advice, the old shaman felt like boasting. “If I didn’t want ’em around, I’d send ’em packing.”
The old man looked doubtful. “You could do that?”
After the barest hesitation, she replied, “Sure.”
Alvah Yazzi frowned at the stem of the cold pipe. As if it were a snake that might bite him on the lip. “Maybe sometime…” His voice trailed off.
She leaned closer. “What’d you say?”
“Maybe sometime I’ll come and see you.”
“I guess that’d be okay.”
While the sun moved three diameters along its arc, they sat quietly.
Gradually, Alvah’s head slumped. His chin rested on his chest. The pipe slipped from his grasp and fell to the earth.
Daisy sighed. When I was young and pretty, they didn’t go to sleep on me.
With a suddenness that startled her, the Navajo’s head jerked erect. He turned to look at the old woman. As if he’d never seen her before.
She thought Alvah’s face looked peculiar. Almost wild. Like he was still half asleep.
His voice was raspy. “You know what those are?”
“What what are?” she snapped, annoyed at this old man’s strange behavior.
Alvah pointed two knobby fingers at the stone monoliths. “Those are the Twin War Gods.” He paused to allow the significance of this statement to sink in. “My people know all about them.”
“You Navajo are a clever bunch.” The Ute elder adjusted her cotton scarf to conceal a smirk.
“The Twin’s father is the sun,” Alvah whispered. “Their mother is Yolkaí Estsán—White Shell Woman.”
Daisy was familiar with the myths. The tales varied, depending on whether a Zuni, Hopi, Apache, or Navajo was doing the telling. The situation was further complicated by the fact that various clans within these tribes had their particular version of the story. But in most accounts, White Shell Woman—also known as White Bead Girl—was the moon. From where they were sitting on the pickup tailgate, she would rise almost behind her twin sons and look over their shoulders. It was a fairly good story as stories go, Daisy thought. But the Utes had their own tales to tell. So she pitched her two cents into the bucket. “That tall one the matukach named Chimney Rock—my grandmother called it Yucca Flower Spike.” She pronounced the Ute phrase for the Navajo’s benefit. “Now there’s an interesting story about how it got that name. A long time ago, there was this young Ute woman called Stone Calf. She didn’t have a husband, but she had herself an ugly baby that had long black hair all over its body. That was because it was fathered by a black bear and—”
The words from Alvah’s mouth cut her off. “When the world was young, there were terrible monsters. They killed human beings—and fed on their flesh. These beasts were slain by the Twin War Gods so people could live on the earth without being molested.” The Navajo’s dark eyes stared into empty space, as if he could see that which had long since passed away. “There was once a glorious time—and not so long ago—when the Twins received the honor due them. Father Sun and Mother Moon were worshiped. In return, they did many good things for the People.”
Daisy groaned inwardly. Like most old men, this one liked to tell stories she had no particular interest in hearing.
The Navajo’s voice droned on, like a dry wind in the pines. “Long before the horses came, some farmers had moved up there—onto this mesa. There were tall trees here in those times, not just the puny little piñon and juniper you see now. The farmers grew food down in the valley, by the river. Squash. Corn. Beans.”
She felt a hunger pang. Maybe Charlie Moon will take me into Pagosa for some eats.
“These farmers lived in houses that were halfway under the ground. They kept warm in winter. No matter how cold it got—or how hard the winds blew.” Unconsciously, Alvah Yazzi began to button his jacket against the light breeze slipping over the edge of the mesa. “Later on, those desert people who had come up from Mexico—they came to this place to worship…her.” He jutted his chin to indicate where the unseen moon would rise. “They came up here because the sky had stopped giving water. The corn and beans shriveled up in the fields down by the creek. The squash were small—with black spots on them. It was very bad. We thought: If we can make White Shell Woman cry from hearing about our troubles, her tears will water the earth. So we prayed to her.”
We? The truck bed was a hard place to sit. Daisy shifted uneasily, but found no comfort.
Alvah Yazzi’s voice took on a bitter tone that disturbed the Ute elder. “We prayed and prayed. But White Shell Woman shed no tears upon our land.”
“Droughts can be very bad,” the Ute woman said. “I remember one back when my second husband was growing pinto beans down by the Piedra. It got so dry that parts of the riverbed turned to dust. My man said it was so dry even the fish had ticks. He was a big joker. Kept me laughing all the time.” She smiled at her Navajo companion.
Alvah continued with a stony face, “We knew that sacrifices were necessary. We had the farmers bring fine cooking pots—and throw them over the cliff, onto the rocks.”
The practical Ute woman considered this an exceedingly wasteful practice.
“They broke many pots. Still, our crops withered.” He pointed to the distant Crag. “The chief priest lived up there in the big white temple. To make the Moon Goddess weep, he pierced his tongue. His blood dripped onto the sandstone altar.”
Daisy’s tongue responded with a sympathetic ache.
“Still, there was no rain. So slaves were sacrificed. They were bound with rawhide and thrown into the fire.” The old man directed a peculiar look at his companion. “The Old Ones—they prefer to kill with flames.”
This had gone far enough. “Look,” she said, “I don’t like this story. It’s no good dredging up all these bad thoughts. Why don’t we talk about something cheerful.” Like lunch.
It was as if the Navajo had not heard her protest. “The bonfire was fueled by the bodies of slaves for many days.” He turned his gaze to the arid sky. “Even this did not make White Shell Woman weep.”
Daisy craned her neck in an attempt to see the tour group. What’s keeping Charlie Moon?
“When they ran out of slaves, they started sacrificing the farmers who lived in the round houses.”
“I figured they’d get around to that.” She said this with cutting sarcasm.
“Men, women—even children—they put them all into the fire.”
“You shouldn’t tell such awful tales.” It could bring on sickness.
“But the skies were hard,” he said with a toothy grimace. “Like copper.”
This Alvah Yazzi was a strange one. Even for a Navajo.
“So the chief priest, he knew things was finished here. He decided to leave the great white temple up there on the sandstone shelf. He had the temple kivas burned—and the other rooms. Then he ordered all the farmers’ round houses burned. It didn’t matter much, most of the people were already gone. Many had been thrown into the fire. Others had slipped away at night.”
Daisy wished she could slip away.
“Before his job was finished, the chief priest had one thing left to do. He had something that belonged to White Shell Woman—something that must be left behind, where her sons could watch over it.”
Daisy had heard at least a dozen tales of the treasure hidden by the Anasazi wizard. She yawned.
The Navajo paused, his lips curving into an unpleasant smile. “When the precious object was hidden, he threw himself over the cliff.”
Daisy nodded her approval. “Well, I’m glad to hear it.” Relieved that the dreadful tale was finally at an end, she bent forward to stretch her stiff back.
The old man sat on the tailgate, shaking his head. “Someday White Shell Woman will come back.” He pointed at the stone towers. “She’ll stand up there—between her sons. When she does, the Twins will become flesh again. And when they walk, the earth will tremble.”
“Well, when they do,” she muttered, “I hope I’m a long ways off.”
“When they live again,” he said, “they will slay monsters.”
Best to humor him. “I’ve got nothing against killing monsters.”
“But before this happens, there will be dark signs and terrible omens.”
Being curious about such matters, Daisy perked up. “What kind of omens?”
Alvah raised his hands, as if in supplication before a dark altar. “Bones burned to ashes—that will be the sign.”
She nodded as if this made perfect sense.
The man at her side was rubbing his eyes.
Daisy squinted at the sun. “It’s getting late.” And it was. The cosmic clock was ticking away their allotted time.
Her companion seemed drained of words.
Daisy was suddenly feeling very alone. Lonely enough to wish the old Navajo would talk some more. Even about crazy things. So she primed the pump. “Alvah, how do you come to know these stories—about the Old Ones who lived here?”
As if he had been unaware of her presence, the old man turned slowly. He stared blankly at the Ute woman. “What did you say?”
“How do you know all these things?”
His face was without expression. “What things?”
She glared at him. Either the Navajo was weak in the head or he was playing a prank on her. Either way, Alvah Yazzi was a very annoying man.
His lower lip trembled. “Have I been…talking?”
“No,” she snapped. “You never said a word.”
He slid off the tailgate.
“Nice visiting with you, Alvah.” She watched the elderly Navajo walk stiffly back to his antique Chevrolet pickup. He moved around the vehicle, rapping his knuckles on the hood, kicking at a tire. He paused at the plywood shell to rub his palm across a dusty window. His lips were moving, but Daisy was too far away to make out his words. “Pitiful old man is talking to himself,” she muttered. “I hope I never get like that.”
THE DREAM
Daisy Perika seated herself inside Charlie Moon’s pickup. April’s Navajo stepfather had not been particularly good company. But at least he’s a man.
Her stomach growled. She searched the glove compartment and found a cellophane-wrapped package of yellow crackers that had some kind of peanut butter paste smashed between them. Daisy ate them all. This made her thirsty. She found a plastic bottle of Pepsi behind the seat, and drank it. Following this snack, she rested her head on a rolled-up shawl and entertained fantasies about a fine meal. Big, steaming bowl of red chili with lots of hamburger and fat pinto beans. A grilled cheese sandwich. Tall glass of iced tea. For dessert, banana cream pie.
Soon, the aged woman was asleep. Dreaming her strange dream.
The Ute shaman floats. Like a golden aspen leaf on still water. She looks beneath the surface, and sees them—those violent men with blood dripping from their pierced tongues.
The solemn priests of the Cloud Wolf Clan spend their seasons watching White Shell Woman float serenely across the heavens. When the signs are right, they lift up their arms and cry out to her, pleading for favors. They ask for the power to banish sickness. And foreknowledge of those perilous times when the husband of the moon will fall into darkness—or when White Shell Woman herself is swallowed by the shadow-snake. These mystics also seek visions of those secret things beyond the misty boundaries of Middle World.
From time to time, the pale mother of the Twin War Gods will consider these requests. Most favorable of all are those occasions when White Shell Woman ascends far to the north—so that she may stand between her towering sons. When this happens, she is likely to grant any request made by the guardians of the Temple of the Moon. As one such rendezvous approaches, the rulers in the great city to the south send their strongest runner with a message to the priests. They are instructed thus: Ask for this one favor—an end to the terrible drought that is sucking away the lifeblood of our empire.
The priests launch a determined effort, intended to please their goddess. A great jubilee is organized. They don fine robes of pale yellow cotton fringed with iridescent rainbows of macaw feathers. Tiny bells of burnished copper hang from their earlobes, tinkling as they dance and chant in the principle kiva of the great white temple. Special songs are composed for a choir of children brought in from the southern metropolis for the occasion. There are feasts of roasted venison and boiled corn seasoned with dried serviceberry.
Sadly, these magnificent and joyful displays provoke no response from their goddess. The chief priest discards his ceremonial robe to read the entrails of a badger. The signs are unmistakable—it was a blunder to hold great celebrations. The Goddess of the Moon does not wish to be merry. She is melancholy, because she is far from her family. Perhaps this sadness can be used to advantage…perhaps she can be induced to shed tears that will fall to water the earth. The priests’ faces and arms are blackened with soot from charred spruce. They fast until wasted flesh hangs limp on their bones. They offer up mournful chants, telling awful tales of pestilence, disease…and horrible death from starvation. It is all very dismal.
But the pale woman in the sky is unmoved. She sheds no tears to water the parched earth. The leaders of the Cloud Wolf Clan hold lengthy councils in the temple kivas. They hear a multitude of heated arguments and bold proposals—and finally come to a fearful decision. Intense pain will be inflicted upon their persons. Under the cold gaze of White Shell Woman, eyelids and tongues are pierced with slivers of bone. Priestly blood falls onto the temple plaza, gathering in sticky pools. Moreover, eyes are gouged out.
Still, the west winds bring no rain—only dust. Which the frustrated supplicants grind between their teeth.
The string of failures continues year after year. For a dozen scorching summers, branches of the vast kingdom shrivel and decay. Finally the very roots begin to die.
The hard truth finally becomes plain to even the dullest of the priestly caste—for some unfathomable reason, White Shell Woman has turned her face from those who live only to serve her.
Not by nature a patient people, the rulers and administrators gradually grow weary of the priests, who become the butt of crude jokes. In the Plaza of the Sun, the hunchbacked flute-player bellows derisive, vulgar songs about the follies of these so-called holy men. Worse still, whole communities of farmers rebel against the established authorities. They refuse to send food to the great city until the Cloud Wolf Clan has summoned the rains. Cruel punishments are meted out on the agricultural villages. In response, many lowland farmers scatter to the four winds in search of a green land where their children will not starve.
The desperate priests build great bonfires on the lofty Crag that stands before the Twin War Gods. For every night of a full phase of the moon, they bind seven slaves hand and foot. When darkness comes, these shrieking victims are cast into the roaring flames of a bonfire. At dawn, the priests breakfast on roasted human flesh. Charred bones are piled in great heaps where White Shell Woman can see them as she passes over Middle World. Surely this will be enough. Surely she will weep, so that her tears will water the beans and corn and squash that wilt in the fields.
After such terrible sacrifices, the Moon Goddess does finally respond to their supplications. She weeps. For an entire night, her tears fall from the sky. But this is not nourishing rain that falls from the wet eyes of White Shell Woman. These are drops of searing fire.
The chief priest understands this omen. The Moon Goddess is displeased with their sacrifices. There is nothing more to be done.
Weary of soul, the keepers of the Temple of the Moon prepare to abandon the sacred mesa. But not before concealing the clan’s most singular possession—an object so sacred that it cannot be moved from the protective presence of the Twin War Gods. Those few who have knowledge of the resting place must perish with their secret—even the chief priest. But the old man can see far into the future. He knows that after many winters have come and gone, his ghost will come to look upon the treasure of his beloved. And he is plagued with this nagging worry: Might the spirit of an aged man forget where he has hidden the precious object? Being a cautious soul, the chief priest leaves himself an enigmatic clue. It is easy to understand. Except for those who are too clever to see what is so plain.
Daisy Perika awakened, gasping for breath, relieved to be back in Middle World. What an awful dream. She decided that this bad experience was, in one sense, no different from many others in her life. Men were to blame. Charlie Moon for leaving her alone and hungry while he wandered around the ruins with April Tavishuts. And Alvah Yazzi for exciting her imagination with his mutterings about Anasazi sacrifices.
THE CHILD
It was a perfect time for Native American Day at Chimney Rock. As a trout-shaped cloud passed over the sun, a refreshing breeze came from the north to cool the sweaty brow. From the edge of Ghost Wolf Mesa, it seemed that one could see to the very rim of the world. As they approached the narrow land bridge connecting the mesa to the Crag, the Indian tourists followed their appointed leaders. And unlike those hurried, harried guides at Mesa Verde—who have little time to answer questions—Amanda Silk and April Tavishuts encouraged the visitors to make inquiries. Though the older Indians remained silent, there were now occasional questions and comments from the younger set. All queries were answered with a patient politeness, making each of their guests understand that they were important. Moreover, the guides knew everything worth knowing about the Anasazi ruins. Or so it seemed.
Charlie Moon was already familiar with the site, which was located within the boundaries of the Southern Ute Reservation. The gathering of Indians and their families was more interesting to him than the dusty jumble of long-abandoned ruins. The children were especially fascinating. Offspring of the town Indian families were easy to identify. Noisy and boisterous, ignoring their parents’ urgent pleas to behave, they were much the same as other American children. Those raised by traditional Indian parents were shy and well behaved. A very cute little girl caught the Ute’s eye. For this special occasion, she was outfitted in a new yellow dress and red cowboy boots. And looked to be about five years old. The tiny girl, seemingly oblivious of the other children, walked among the adults. She did slow down, occasionally to glance at a purple flower or pick up a pretty stone. It would be nice to have a daughter just like that one. But it took a couple to produce children. And so Moon began to think about Camilla Willow. She was a remarkably pretty woman—and very smart. Had money too. Maybe Camilla would like to have children someday. Our children. Moon walked along, lost in his happy daydream. What would they be like, these small human beings? Lively and smart, he hoped. Not overly shy. But not like some of these noisy town Indians’ kids, who were yelling and throwing rocks at each other.
Something distracted him from this tangle of thoughts.
Far off to his right, among the juniper and piñon that covered Ghost Wolf Mesa, Charlie Moon thought he saw a flash of color. Bright yellow. Like the little girl’s dress. He made a quick check of the crowd of tourists and did not see the child. But children get tired on walks like this and have to be taken back to the family car where they can have a refreshing nap. Could be one of her parents left with her while I wasn’t looking. Or maybe not.
Not one to ponder such possibilities, Charlie Moon immediately left the trail. A few long strides brought him to the place where he’d seen the flash of color. It was not ten yards from the edge of the cliff. He hurried to the precipice and looked over. The Ute was immensely grateful that there was no sign of a yellow dress—or a yellow anything—on the talus slope below the ledge. Maybe I didn’t see anything. But to be certain, he made his way south along the cliff.
After only a few steps, he thought he heard an echo of something. A child’s voice. But from which direction?
The Ute looked up to see a red-tailed hawk circling lazily over the mesa. Aunt Daisy claimed that angels sometimes came in such feathery disguises. What do you see, Si-gwanáci?
The hawk fell as if upon prey, then slowed. And circled lower.
He walked toward the hawk’s flickering shadow.
The air had fallen deathly still.
Then he heard it again. A small voice. Singing? Moon smiled.
He moved quickly, but quietly. It would not occur to one of such tender years that anyone might be worried. Or looking for her. Don’t want to scare the kid.
And there she was, under the circling silhouette of the hawk. And only a few paces from the edge of the precipice, sitting in the shade of a fragrant juniper. She was singing to herself in a thin voice. “Mary, Mary…she had a little bitty lamb…its feets was white as snow. And ev’ry-where Mary went, her lamb was sure to…” She looked up.
Charlie Moon smiled. And spoke softly. “Hello, young lady.”
Openmouthed, the child gazed boldly up at this man, whose black hat seemed to touch the clouds. “I know who you are.”
So much for scaring her. “Okay. Who am I?”
“You’re the giant—the one that chased Jack down the beanstalk.”
He shook his head. “Afraid not.”
The child—who knew a giant when she saw one—did not alter her opinion.
“Know why I seem so big?”
Her blank expression made it clear that she did not.
“It’s because you’re so little.”
“Why am I little?” she asked.
“Maybe,” he said thoughtfully, “you’re a midget.”
“I’m Peggy.” She picked up a sandstone pebble, stuffed it into her mouth. “If you’re not the giant, then who are you?”
“My name is Charlie. Ahh…I hope you’re not going to swallow that.”
“D’you want it?”
“Yeah.” He kneeled, held out his hand.
She spat it onto his palm. “Charlie what?”
“Charlie Moon.” He examined the little girl with a lawman’s eye. “Are you okay?”
She nodded.
He stared at the moist pebble in his hand. “Getting hungry?”
“A little bit.”
“Well, don’t eat any rocks.”
“Why?”
“They’re bad for your teeth.” He fumbled in his jacket pocket, offered her a piece of hard candy.
She unwrapped the peppermint, popped it into her mouth.
Moon sat down beside her, leaned against the tree. “I bet your mom and dad are real worried about you.”
“Daddy is in heaven. With the angels.”
They shared a brief silence.
“Then I guess I’d better take you back to your mom.”
“No.”
He closed his eyes and considered his predicament. If I just scoop her up, she’ll probably start squalling like a stuck pig. This had to be handled with some care. “You like to go for walks by yourself?”
She nodded. “Sometimes.”
They sat under the juniper, staring up at an immense sky.
A large black beetle was passing by. It paused to fold its front legs, press its segmented head to the ground.
“What’s it doing?” the child asked.
“Talking to God,” Moon said. That’s what his grandfather had told him.
She reached for the insect.
“No,” Moon said.
“Why?”
“It wouldn’t taste good. Not with peppermint.”
She made a face. “I wouldn’t eat a bug.”
“Why?”
This question evidently stumped her. Sensing he’d gained the upper hand, Moon was pleased with himself. “I’d have thought you’d be afraid to wander away all alone.”
The little girl frowned. “I wasn’t alone. He was with me.”
“Who?”
“The man.” She looked up at the Ute. “He wanted me to come with him.”
He didn’t like the sound of this. “What sort of man?”
The child’s small, round face mirrored her uncertainty.
“Was he tall or short—fat or thin?”
“I guess so.”
“How was he dressed?”
“Feathers.”
Moon raised an eyebrow at this. “Feathers?”
She nodded. “Pretty feathers. Like a big bird.”
Okay. “Was this bird young or old?”
Peggy thought about it. “Old.”
Moon grinned. “Old as me?”
“How old are you?”
“I’ve lost count. What’d he look like?”
“Like a man.”
This was a difficult interrogation. “What kind of man?”
Peggy’s smooth brow furrowed with concentration. “Welllll…two legs. And two arms. And a head.”
“Good. Now let’s say you wanted to draw a picture of him. What would you put in it?”
She used a juniper twig to draw a stick figure in the sand. A rectangular body supporting a triangular head. Standing on four legs.
Moon was somewhat critical and said so. “That doesn’t look much like a man.”
“It’s a dog,” she said. “Dogs has four legs. And a head. And a tail.” She added a curled-up tail to the sketch.
He sighed. “So the man had a dog?”
“It was on his back. Its mouth was biting his head.”
He could think of no sensible response to this.
She used the stick to make an eye for the four-legged animal. “Then the man pulled the dog over him.”
Moon didn’t get it, and said as much. “I don’t get it.”
“He was really big,” she said helpfully. “And hairy.”
“The man or the dog?”
She squinted at him. Big people could be so silly. “His ears was pointy. And his nose was really long and pointy. Like Pinocchio’s.”
“That’s because the little wooden kid told big lies,” he said. Hoping she’d get the point.
Peggy giggled. “And Pinocchio’s nose grew longer and longer and—”
Her little mind was drifting. “Did this dog have fleas?”
Peggy nodded her head, bobbing a short ponytail. “I guess so.”
“Remember what color he was?”
“His hair was white—like Mary’s little lamb.”
He made a quick U-turn. “What about the man’s hair?”
“I guess it was black.” She squinted into the sun. “Or brownish.”
Moon made a big show of looking around and seeing nothing. “This old man and the white dog, now where’d they go?”
She shrugged under the pale yellow dress. “I don’t know. When you came, he went away. I guess he’s ’fraid of giants.” She gave the tall man an accusing look. “If you’d caught Jack before he chopped down the beanstalk—would you’ve eaten him up and ground up his bones for bread?”
“No,” he said earnestly. “I’m on a strict diet. No bread. No bones.” He licked his lips. “Don’t eat nothing except boneless bananas.”
She smiled, showing a set of tiny teeth.
Moon smiled back. The child looked to be fine. And it was a hundred-to-one shot she had invented the story as an excuse for wandering away from her mother. But just to be on the safe side, the question had to be asked. “Did this man…uh…touch you or anything?”
The little girl squinted at the giant. “The dog licked my ear.”
“Sounds like a nice dog.”
She nodded.
“Peggy—why do you think the man brought you here?”
She thought about this for a moment. “I think—to show me the picture.”
“What picture?”
She pointed the toe of her red cowboy boot at the sandstone shelf beneath his feet. “That one.”
He leaned to have a closer look. At the edge of some loose dirt, there were two deep scratches in the rock. One L-shaped, the other straight. Moon heard a wail off to the north. “Peggy…where are you…Pegggeee…” He got to his feet, grabbing the tot by her grubby little hand. “Sounds like your mother’s looking for you.”
“You think Mom’ll be mad?”
“Maybe. She’ll want to know why you wandered off.”
“What should I tell her?”
Moon grinned. “I expect you’ll think of something.”
The child was delivered to an extremely grateful mother, who turned out to be the pretty Zuni woman. After hugging her little girl, Nancy Begay scolded her. This done, she thanked Charlie Moon. While the unrepentant child clung to her mother’s leg, the adults exchanged a few words. He learned that the Zuni woman was a prosperous silversmith. The squash-blossom necklace suspended from her neck was her own work. Moon admired the silver flowers, and said so. This earned him a shy smile. It turned out that the lady was also a friend of Daisy Perika. Moon admitted his surprise that his grouchy aunt had any friends at all.
Nancy Begay laughed at this. And did not fail to notice that her daughter’s rescuer was a fine-looking man. And gentle of speech and manner. Though somewhat overly tall.
He noticed that she had a dazzling smile. And was easy on the eyes. The Ute wondered whether he should ask the widow and her child to have lunch with him and his aunt. But Moon reminded himself that such an invitation would have unstated implications. And that he was spoken for. By a pale-skinned woman with hair of spun gold. Who is very far away. But he prudently decided that getting to know this attractive Zuni woman better wouldn’t be quite the right thing to do.
An hour later, Nancy Begay departed from Chimney Rock Archaeological Site with the flock of Indian tourists. She looked back over her shoulder. The tall Ute seemed an uncommonly kind man. He wore no wedding band on his finger. And he had a lonely look about him. But he had shown no interest in her. Nancy reminded herself that she was a widow who didn’t have time for fantasies. What she did have was a daughter to raise. An imaginative, unpredictable child who made up silly stories to excuse her misbehavior.
After watching the Zuni woman depart with her child, Moon returned to the spot where he had found the little girl sitting under the juniper. Walking slowly, in an ever-increasing spiral, he made a thorough search. Except for several of his own footprints—and a few marks made by the child’s tiny boot heel—there were no traces of another presence. Which, he admitted, didn’t prove what the little girl had said she’d seen wasn’t real. A man who was determined to do so could walk from one end of the mesa to the other without getting his feet off the sandstone. The former Ute policeman was well aware that there were more than a few eccentrics wandering around the canyon country. He was thankful that this one—if he existed outside the little girl’s imagination—had done no harm.
Before departing, he knelt to run his finger along the lines incised in stone. Under the loose soil, there might be a lot more. I’ll tell April Tavishuts about it. She can pass it on to that contract archaeologist. Then I’ll find Aunt Daisy. Maybe she’ll be ready for some lunch.