HOLY BOY AND BIG FISH
Hastiin Sherman had just finished splitting a week’s worth of piñon pine, his great-grandson Preston helping him with the chores—a welcome relief for a man pushing 100. That he could even lift and use an ax was a testament to his virility. He insisted on living alone and knew when his time was up he would die in his ancestral homeland, not in some hospital like his wife. The thought of his spirit being trapped in a hospital in Chinle was not in his plans. He knew his time was short but he still had important things to finish and needed firewood to see him through the rest of the cold spring still ahead.
Preston was staying 15 miles away at his great-aunt’s house. She had a three-bedroom home with electricity and plumbing. No such amenities at Hastiin Sherman’s hogan. Rachael called her aunt’s house to let her grandfather know of her arrival. She failed to mention Charles as she figured it would be better to explain in person.
The little dirt turn-off leading to her grandfather’s hogan had its usual tire out. This was equivalent to saying, “I’m home and come over.” It was rare for the old man to leave anymore and if not for Preston’s great-aunt, he would probably have starved by now. He hadn’t driven his old pickup in over a year and was unable to ride his horse anymore. He refused to move in with any relatives and just waited for a relative to bring groceries. Rachael had stopped at City Market in Shiprock to get some staples for her grandfather, as she knew his routine.
As she pulled up to the little brown wooden structure, a steady thin stream of gray piñon smoke was curling skyward from its center chimney with a welcome smell. The aroma of wild-animal meat cooking took her back to her own childhood when she would come up for the summer to help tend her grandmother’s flock—the predecessors of that same flock she continued to look after back in Toadlena.
She could see her grandfather through the hogan’s one window and he was chanting, unaware of her arrival. She would wait outside in her truck until he noticed their presence. Finally the chanting stopped and she decided it had been long enough for him to regroup and pick up whatever he felt he needed to.
“I’m going to go in first, Charles, see if I can’t butter him up a bit before he sees my bilagaana boyfriend.”
Rachael had used the word boyfriend for the first time in describing him and the thought not only did not bother Charles, it made his heart race and palms sweat.
“I’m glad to hear I’m your boyfriend. I was afraid me being part Cherokee might blow the deal, interracial couple and all….”
“The Cherokee have always been our friends so you’re cool, even if you do have that bad streak of bilagaana running through you.” Rachael’s little joke caused her to start laughing a deep hearty laugh, just the right medicine before confronting her conservative grandfather.
Opening the door of the old truck let a wave of freezing air and snow flurries blow into the vehicle. No spring anytime soon here. Rachael cracked the old wooden hogan door and yelled to her nearly deaf grandfather. “Yatahee Grandfather, it’s your granddaughter.”
The old man slowly worked his way up from the small metal unpainted chair that was across from the wood-burning stove and gave his granddaughter a huge hug. Rachael noticed immediately how weak her grandfather’s grip had become, a sign of his short time left.
Speaking in Navajo, Hastiin Sherman greeted her knowingly. “My granddaughter, you have come for a reason. What is it you seek?”
“Yes, I have brought a friend of mine. He is a good friend and I hope you can like him as much as I do. He was also a friend of my brother’s. You may remember this man. His name is Charles Bloom.”
“I know of Bloom. My grandson told me he liked this man, a good bilagaana, a friend of the Navajo.”
“He’s also part Cherokee, Grandfather, just so you know.”
“I will be nice to your Cherokee/bilagaana. I had a feeling someone important was coming to visit me. I now know it was your good friend Bloom. He is welcome at my home. You know, much warmer in here and I can’t bite anymore since most of my teeth are gone.” The old man smiled, showing his missing teeth.
Rachael returned with Charles. She decided to take a chance and grasp his hand as she entered; no mistaking her intentions with her bilagaana boyfriend.
“Yatahee, Mr. Bloom,” said Hastiin Sherman, speaking in English with a thick Navajo accent. “It’s nice to meet you. I can see my granddaughter likes you. I hope you will treat her with respect and let her follow her path in life as a Navajo.”
“Yes, Mr. Sherman, I always will. She is very special to me as well.” Charles looked over to Rachael as he said the word special and winked at her. “I knew your grandson Willard very well and was his art dealer in Santa Fe. He was my friend and I hoped you could give me insight about the design you had seen.”
“You know, Mr. Bloom, we Navajo don’t like to talk by first name about those that have gone to the next world. Our ways may seem strange to others, but if this “insight” means to explain, then I will tell you what I can. Would you like some coffee? I just got a pot going.”
Bloom had jumped in so quickly about Willard that he had shown a poor understanding of the Diné way, which is to slowly broach a subject only after ample time has passed and all small talk has been completed. Charles realized his faux pas and felt embarrassed at both his lack of sensitivity and his use of confusing words in his opening conversation with Rachael’s grandfather. He dealt with Native artists in his business and knew better. He was so anxious to quiz her grandfather that he had not used good judgment.
“I would love a strong cup. I hope it’s like your granddaughter’s.” After saying this, Charles realized it sounded like, “Yeah, after we sleep together I like my morning coffee strong.” His face turned even redder at the thought of his potential second faux pas in less than a minute.
Hastiin Sherman’s cowboy coffee was identical to Rachael’s. It was obvious where she had learned to make it. After pouring his guest a cup, Sherman carefully sat down on the military-style cot whose springs had worn out sometime in the early sixties. Skipping all the required small talk, Hastiin Sherman began to relate the events that Charles had come to hear about. “Mr. Bloom, my grandson came and visited me the week before his death. He was very disturbed about a friend of his who had died unexpectedly. He told me he had lost his balance in the big city and didn’t think he could make art no more. He was making lots of the white man’s money but something was wrong with him. He was unhappy and worried.
“I held a Male Shooting Way for him, to help him find his way. I drew the Male Shooting Way sand painting and chanted to clean him of anything sharp that may have entered his life and to help heal him from the death of his friend. During the ceremony I had a vision. A dark design came from the spirits above and I showed it to my grandson so he would know what I had seen. I told him that the Shooting Way was not enough. He needed to break from the dark one who was stalking him. His life was in danger and I told him if he continued on this path this design would swallow him and he would die. I should have tried to stop him from going back to that big, dark city but I didn’t. This will be something I must address in my afterworld when I see my grandson again, which I hope to do soon.”
“Mr. Sherman,” Bloom asked, “do you have any idea who killed your grandson, or why?”
“It was coyote, a bad spirit. He is not of this world, and will try to kill again if he is threatened. It was coyote that caused the design to appear in my vision. The holy people showed me his dark ways. I think that is all I have to say.”
The old man and Charles sat, slowly drinking cowboy coffee and contemplating what would happen next. Finally after what seemed an eternity, Bloom said, “I know you don’t want to think about the past, as I don’t either, but I must get to the bottom of what happened to Willard, I mean your grandson. I have decided I am going to visit the big city and find out what happened to my friend. The design you saw and which was found underneath your grandson after he died is going to be sold at auction as one of his artworks. I think this piece holds the answers to his death, which I believe was a murder. I feel I must track down the bad coyote.”
“No one can tell another human what they must or must not do,” Sherman responded, nodding. “If you are going to follow your heart then I must protect you from this coyote spirit as best I can. He will try everything in his power to stop you, including killing you. I will perform the Holy Boy is Swallowed by Big Fish ceremony in the morning. I have not done this in many years. I must rest now so I can remember and help you. Rachael, take my new friend to the sacred Canyon de Chelly and tell him why we Diné are how we are to outsiders.”
Rachael was shocked her grandfather called Bloom a “friend,” and that he was going to perform the elaborate and one of the most sacred of all the Navajo sand paintings on a non-Navajo. Her grandfather knew something. He must have had another one of his visions and understood her boyfriend had a quest and he was to help him. The Canyon would help solidify his beliefs about what it was to be Navajo.