CANYON DEL MUERTO
The Navajo nation is larger than 10 of the 50 states in America and covers over 27,000 square miles. Its terrain is immensely varied, but in Canyon de Chelly it is unique. This defensive natural wonder has been home to Native populations for thousands of years. The Navajo were latecomers to the region, arriving according to anthropologists in the 1300s.
Numerous houses of stone and large cliff dwellings dot the region. This was one of the last stands of the Navajo against Kit Carson and his men. Many Navajo died here at the hands of the U.S. Army. For Rachael’s grandfather, it was the most sacred of places. His father and his father’s father were both buried in the crevices of the canyon walls.
Rachael’s grandfather had given her a directive, which was to make Charles understand the Diné roots so he might better understand their spiritual base.
Canyon de Chelly is one of the wonders of the world with straight-dropping, 500-foot cliffs of orange, red, and gold that change color as the sun touches their walls. The floor is fertile with the small Tsaile Creek providing nourishment for its sparse human population for thousands of years. Access is by truck or horse, and those lucky enough to visit must be accompanied by a Navajo guide.
Rachael knew its walls well, having spent her summers as a child wandering the floor with her grandmother’s sheep. The Anasazi—a Navajo word for ancient enemy—lived for over 500 years here before her family arrived. The numerous large caves and overhangs were perfect for building rock homes for the inhabitants. The Navajo do not believe in disturbing the dead, even those of a long-gone culture. Their aversion to bothering any of these sites has left many prehistoric ruins nearly pristine, just as if they were there yesterday. The Anasazi abandoned the area probably after outstripping their resources and undergoing a drought. Their descendants are the Pueblo people. The Diné have lived in the canyon for nearly 400 years. The walls of the canyon have petroglyph drawings made by the Anasazi, Hopi, and the early Diné inhabitants.
One cave in particular had special meaning to the Navajo. Its hidden entrance is located in the Canyon del Muerto, which translates literally into the Canyon of the Dead. This cave has been a sacred place since 1805 when a group of 100 women, children, and elderly Navajos were massacred by a band of Spanish marauders. The hidden spot high on the canyon wall was discovered by the garrison who discharged their weapons into the cave until they had disposed of their enemies. The bodies remained untouched for nearly a hundred years until 1903 when a half-Navajo, Sam Day, rediscovered the cave and brought it to the attention of local anthropologists. The cave held the remains of the Navajo and their clothing that became the earliest documented examples of Navajo textiles. For those whose ancestors were slaughtered there, it also became a reminder of what had happened to their people at the hands of outsiders.
The Sherman family sheep hogan was located near the cave. It was a special place for both Rachael and her grandfather. The small hogan was made of stones from the surrounding canyon, many recycled from previous buildings of early inhabitants, the Anasazi. Hastiin Sherman’s father, who built the remote structure, constructed the roof from juniper logs that were hauled by wagon 70 years ago from the Chuska Mountains. The metal roof had been added one summer when Rachael was a teenager. She fondly remembered the symphony of sounds bouncing off the canyon walls as the hogan roof expanded and contracted in the early morning and evening. The pinging metal was nature’s alarm clock signaling the temperature changes of the canyon floor.
Charles Bloom understood the importance of what Rachael was sharing with an outsider. He would never be Diné, but her family was allowing him to experience their cultural heritage, something few bilagaana knew about. Rachael explained to Charles the importance of the cave and what had happened. She also went into detail about her own experiences spending summers herding sheep and becoming one with nature. The gods of the Diné’s ancestors overlooked all who entered this sacred place. Because her grandfather had welcomed him to their world, he must have something important in store for Charles.
The spirituality of Canyon del Muerto infiltrated Bloom’s soul. He felt different, as if he were being baptized into a new religion. Rachael’s openness with her own life also added a new dimension to their relationship.
Hastiin Sherman decided Bloom needed help in his quest to find the truth about his grandson’s death. The old medicine man had to equip Bloom in case he had to battle the bad coyote spirit, the Ma’ii ni.
A specific sand painting from the Male Shootingway was chosen: Holy Man and Holy Boy, which are trapped by supernaturals. This was the most intricate of the Navajo sand paintings in the old medicine man’s arsenal of treatments.
Hastiin Sherman, Rachael, Preston, and Charles all met at grandfather Sherman’s hogan early the next morning and took the old four-wheel drive Ford to the summer sheep hogan in Canyon de Chelly. The landscape was magnificent from the canyon floor. High red cliffs with occasional streaks of cobalt blue intermixed with stark white bluffs. As the Ford drove deeper into the canyon, the cliffs got higher and Anasazi ruins more numerous. It was compelling yet not a single word was spoken during the hour-and-a-half bumpy trip. Charles was starting to understand the Navajo way of introspection. He respected the seriousness of this journey. The air was a crisp 20 degrees at 7 am, but the sun was shining so the temperature felt warmer.
The hogan was in a remote side canyon far removed from any perceivable road. It would have been easy to miss even for a Navajo. The narrow passage of steep cliffs opened up to a small cottonwood-filled pasture with a few stray brown corn plants from years past. The small structure was adjacent to a sheer white cliff stained with zebra-like black lines, insignificant in size next to the giant wall of stone. Once inside the old stone hogan, Hastiin Sherman readied the structure for his patient’s treatment. To make room for her grandfather’s intricate sand painting, Rachael and Preston’s job was to move the hogan’s 1910 heating stove that took up most of the center portion of the eight-sided room to outside the hogan. Once the stove had been removed, a fire was started to heat up the surrounding area. The smell of piñon filled the canyon floor, the cold air keeping the gray smoke low as it slowly drifted into the still canyon air.
Hastiin Sherman uttered his first words of the morning: “Mr. Bloom, what I will perform today is for my late grandson, who I hope you will bring home to me soon. Even though you may not be Diné, your heart is open and I believe can be touched by my medicine. I need you to help my grandson get the proper burial and follow with me to the afterlife.” As he spoke, Sherman pointed to a red northern-facing canyon wall above, the little crypts barely visible on the distant rock face. The medicine man then looked to the heavens and repeated his wishes in English and Diné: “Mother Earth, hold the crypts of my ancestors and they will hold me soon. I ask for your help to bring my Ma’ii Yaah back so he can join me in my final travels.”
Charles had not noticed the multitude of small, round stone crypts that dotted the high walls above. He could barely see the little square openings on each dome. Squinting now, for an instant he imagined he almost saw into them. “Hastiin Sherman, I promise I will not return until I have helped recover your grandson and my friend, to his proper burial ground. I thank you for any help you can give me in this journey.” The ceremony and his newfound alliances on the rez were strengthening Bloom’s resolve. He was no longer alone in his intuition that it was his fate to solve the mystery of Willard’s death.
“Rachael,” Sherman directed, “would you mind getting your Charles, Preston, and me some food for a late lunch. We will be in the hogan for quite some time. Charles will also need his clothes, bedding, and lots of warm blankets. He will be here for four days.”
When the old man said four days Charles suddenly felt panic at the thought of that many days of some unknown Navajo treatment and it sounded like he would be alone. He began realizing how dangerous his mission was, if it was going to require four days of girding himself in a freezing hogan.
Hastiin Sherman’s direction was Rachael’s cue to leave. She understood she was not to come back anytime soon. Her grandfather was on Navajo time and he would stay in the hogan until he had completed his sand painting and vision quest. She gently gave Charles a squeeze of his hand and in his ear whispered, “Charles, keep your mind and heart open and let my grandfather show you the way. You will need to stay as long as it takes for his medicine to work.”
The old man slowly moved into the sheep hogan, bringing with him various colored bags of sand. He made the trip four times, lining each of the bags in a neat row. He gave instructions in Navajo to Preston, who started emptying large bags of brown sand on the hogan floor. Once all but the very perimeter of the hogan was covered in three inches of fine brown sand, Hastiin spoke again.
“Charles, I need you to sit in the middle of the sand painting. I will be working on your piece for many hours, so if you want to go relieve yourself, now is your chance.”
Charles took advantage of his last potty break and got himself prepared for a long day, which he expected to be both mentally and physically challenging. He had no idea what to expect, but hoped no bear claws were involved. Charles’ mind flashed back to an old movie from 1970, “A Man Called Horse” starring Richard Harris. Harris, a white man, was indoctrinated into the Sioux tribe and was hung up by sharp bear claws piercing his chest for days waiting for visions.
Charles was not Navajo and had never attended any kind of Indian ceremonial other than a couple of feast days at Santo Domingo Pueblo, an Indian village near Santa Fe. Pueblo feasts were fun with lots of dancers and smells of cooking bread. This, he felt, would be very different. He was open to new ideas, and was certain he could use help when it came to confronting the mystery of Willard’s death.
Carefully, Hastiin Sherman sat down on the dirt floor and prepared himself for the most intricate sand painting in the Navajo repertoire. For a man in his 90s, it would take all his energy to be able to properly prepare the daunting piece. Young Preston, who had been training with his great-grandfather since he was 10, was used as a go-fer and allowed to fill in simple parts of the evolving piece. Generally these types of curing rituals are attended by many people and are costly to those being treated. A four-day ceremony could run many thousands of dollars to have a great medicine man like Hastiin Sherman treat you. The old medicine man had no intention of charging Charles. He needed Bloom’s help and didn’t have enough time left in his life to do a proper ceremony with lots of participants. This ceremony would be very intense: just Charles, Preston, and Hastiin Sherman would be involved.
The sand painting background was first laid out on the floor using light brown sand against the century-old, hard-packed, chocolate-brown dirt floor. Methodically, an image next came to life under the sure hand of the medicine man. On the north quadrant was Holy Man captured by Thunders while hunting mountain sheep. Holy Man, his black body covered in white lightning bolts, was surrounded by Big Fly and Otter. The southern design depicted Holy Boy, who had been swallowed and was in the belly of Big Fish. Holy Boy held a flint knife in his right hand, which he would use to escape Big Fish, and in his left hand was the medicine to heal wounds.
During the process, which took seven hours to prepare, the old man chanted nonstop in Navajo. It was apparent where Willard and Rachael got their artistic acumen. Hastiin Sherman’s dexterity with the colored sands was no different than any accomplished artist with their paint and brush. He seemed as if he didn’t need to even look at the painting; it just appeared with each new sand lot. Sherman’s eyes seemed more closed than open. No words were spoken to Charles during the entire process. Bloom sat and watched in amazement. Only Preston moved, and that was to stoke the outside fire and fill in areas his great-grandfather had finished. The air was filled with chanting and the occasional raven’s cawing.
When the sand painting was completed enough to satisfy the old medicine man, Sherman looked up to the heavens so the gods would be able to know they could look down at his powerful medicine and bless his patient. Then Sherman turned his attention to Charles, whose eyes were as wide as saucers. Bloom had no idea what to expect but kept Rachael’s words in his mind, be open.
The medicine man took an old Navajo basket that was covered in corn pollen and gently felt its rim. The basket was turned ever so slightly so the spirit break in the basket now faced east. The basket makers know that the break is hard to see in a dark hogan all covered in pollen, so they always end the basket’s rim right at the spirit break so it can be found by those without sight. Hastiin Sherman took little pinches of the precious yellow pollen and applied them to Charles’ head, shoulders, hands, and the soles of his feet. Once just the right amount of powerful pollen had been placed, Hastiin Sherman gently grasped Charles’ hands and started chanting at a much louder volume. The light pressure seemed to give some kind of heat from the medicine man’s hands to his, especially to his wrists and spine, which began to tingle with excitement.
Finally the chanting crescendoed. Then came silence from the medicine man. Hastiin Sherman’s eyes shut with only the tiniest of trembling noticeable in the old man’s hands, his eyelids fluttering back and forth. Bloom’s mind was completely clear and he had no thoughts other than of Willard and Rachael.
As if coming out of a trance, Hastiin Sherman’s grip lessened then he let go of Bloom’s hands and shared, “I have seen your path and it’s filled with much danger. Your journey will not be easy and if you are not of one with Holy Boy you too will have my grandson’s fate. Like Holy Boy you must escape Big Fish’s grasp if you hope to return to the land of the Navajo.”
Charles had no idea what all of this meant, but he understood innately that what Sherman had said was true. He would be in grave danger if he went back to New York City looking for answers. Surprisingly, this revelation made Bloom want to pursue the truth even more. It was something he was meant to do. It was his duty.
The medicine man slowly worked his way to his feet, and then as he sang a low song he shuffled over the painting, his deerskin moccasins mixing all the colors of blue, red, green, black, and white until there was nothing left but a gray hue on the hard-packed dirt floor. Preston and Hastiin Sherman pushed all the sand to the middle around their patient. Bloom felt frozen in space and time. The sand was scooped up with care and distributed outside around a small piñon tree on the east side of the building.
“Charles, I’m ready for lunch and some water. You can get up now. I think Rachael will have something for us. Let us go.” As if by some magical Navajo watch, Rachael drove up at that instant in the yellow Ford, bringing a selection of sandwiches, drinks, and Bloom’s supplies.
“Rachael, my granddaughter, I’m ready for a little food. I’m getting old now and can’t go so long without nourishment. It’s going to be cold soon. We better get back to my hogan. I think the weather is about to change.” Just as Hastiin Sherman finished saying change, the perfectly calm air started to blow, the temperature dropped, and lines of dark clouds appeared on the cliff tops.
“Charles,” Sherman directed, “you must stay in my sheep hogan for four days. You cannot make any heat. No breaking or cutting of anything. You cannot touch hands, as when you shake hands, or you will lose the powers I have given you. Rachael can talk with you when she visits, but the two of you must not be alone. Preston should be around. I know this must seem strange, but it is the way and if you want the power to stay with you it is important to follow what I say. You will need all the power on your upcoming journey. Rachael has brought you plenty of clothing and blankets. You will be safe in my hogan, but it will be cold the next few days. I’m sorry you can’t have heat but it is important to follow our rules. It is for your own protection from the coyote’s jaws.”
The three Navajos drove away. No words were spoken in the truck, but the mood was markedly different than on the ride out. Charles was left alone at the old sheep hogan to let Hastiin Sherman’s medicine percolate. Rachael could see in her grandfather’s demeanor that he was genuinely worried. He had seen something, and it wasn’t good. Her Charles was in real danger. During the slow drive back to Sherman’s hogan, the weather completely changed. Snow flurries came out of nowhere and the temperature dropped 15 degrees. “Rachael,” Sherman advised, “you and Preston need to get back to your aunts before the snow comes. You better have Preston stay with you tonight. I‘m afraid you can’t get back before the winds come.”
Now left alone in the remote backcountry of Canyon de Chelly, Charles tried to soak in what had transpired over the last eight hours. He had been a patient in an ancient Navajo ritual practiced in a foreign language. He had felt things—physical sensations he couldn’t classify in any logical terms. The next four days were to be in near isolation and very, very cold. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do, if anything. Bloom figured this was what being on a deserted island must feel like. He was Tom Hanks without Wilson the soccer ball in “Castaway.” If Rachael for some reason didn’t come back, he could easily die.
The first night was arctic cold. The little hole in the roof for the stovepipe let in frigid air and copious amounts of snow. Finally at around 2 am, Charles decided freezing to death was not part of the ceremonial and took an old box and standing on his tip-toes, plugged the hole with one of his woolen blankets. He slept in little fits of 30 minutes each. His dreams that night were full of images of being eaten by Big Fish and running, always running, and lightening all around.
As the sun broke over the cliff’s walls, Charles heard Rachael’s old truck sputtering onto the canyon floor. The sound was never so reassuring: human life. Rachael brought him cold coffee and a sandwich. Rachael also looked tired, as if she had not slept. It was obvious she was concerned about Charles for her to be at the canyon so early, and especially with nearly a foot of new snow. Preston was sound asleep in the cab and never moved for the next four hours. Rachael spent the day with Charles, parceling out more food and blankets. She explained her grandfather had made it clear that Charles had to spend the next three days alone if he was to get the full benefit of his powers. No human contact. She would be back on day four at noon.
No human contact was all Charles could hear in his mind. He had been attached to his Blackberry so long that it felt odd. He could empathize with how Barack Obama must have felt when he lost his phone after moving into the White House. At the time he thought it was so odd. Why wouldn’t he be happy not to have the added distraction of the phone? But now he understood. It was the isolation. No human contact with those you wanted to touch. No way to escape the loneliness. He knew he was no president, but he did relate to the president’s emotional mindset. Charles was learning what Rachael’s grandfather’s treatment was about. Self-awareness and understanding of the interconnectedness all humans have, even with presidents.
During the next three days, time started to bend. It was about introspective thought, hunger, and contemplation of the future, including death. Art, nature, and humanity blended together. The ancient crypts of the Sherman and Yellowhorse clans’ voices became relevant. The hundred chindi from the sacred Massacre Cave were heard. The wind and snow were their voices telling of life’s journey and end. Charles, for the first time in life, thought of his own mortality and path in life. What had he done to make the world better and his own life enriched? He was a salesman basically, but he also affected lives in many positive ways. The art he enjoyed and shared with others, the artists he helped support, and how Willard Yellowhorse had in an oddly circuitous route brought him his first and maybe only deep love, Rachael. Charles was a handsome man at six-one, but most of his life had been spent as a loner with his gallery dominating his thoughts.
Without his art career, Charles would not be in this cave or in love with Rachael, and maybe that romance would grow into more, a new generation of Blooms and Yellowhorses combined.
The last day was peaceful for Charles Bloom. He had no sense of time. He ate and slept only when his body’s rhythms dictated to do so. He rarely moved and when he did it was purposeful. No wasted energy. He was in balance for the first time in his life and now understood the true definition of tranquility. He almost didn’t hear the hum of the glass-pack muffler on the old Ford truck as Rachael pulled up with Preston on the fourth day of his Navajo treatment.
“Hi, Charles,” Rachael greeted him. “I see the bad coyote hasn’t gotten you. I’m happy to see I will still have a friend tonight. It’s supposed to be cold again, and my feet miss yours.”
Bloom was surprised at Rachael’s forwardness, especially with Preston so near. He was also excited by her voice. He replied, “You won’t want me too close, I can assure you, until I get a nice, warm shower. I think I’ve lost a pound or two. The Navajo Diet Method works almost as well as my No Painting Sales Art Dealer Diet I’ve used in the past.”
Charles, Preston, and Rachael spent the next hour replacing the stove in the hogan and reattaching all the parts and closing any cracks in the ceiling. The ride back to Hastiin Sherman’s home was one of laughter and joy; it was as if Charles had been away for years, not just four days, and now he was more Navajo than white in Rachael’s eyes.
Arriving at Hastiin Sherman’s hogan, the old man was nowhere in sight. Rachael ushered Charles into the hogan and told him her grandfather wanted to see his patient. The old medicine man looked as if he had aged greatly in the four days Charles had been in treatment. The elaborate ceremony had used up most of his remaining life juices. His earth time was short.
“How are you feeling, Charles?” Sherman asked.
“I actually feel very good. The best I can remember.”
“Yes, that is how you should feel. You walk in beauty. You didn’t light a fire, or break or cut anything while you were in the hogan?”
“No, none of those things. I did plug the hole in the roof. It was quite cold. I hope that was OK?”
“Sure, if you hadn’t you might have frozen, so you pass the don’t freeze to death part of my test,” the old man said, smiling to himself at his bilagaana humor. “Charles, I have something for you. It will help in your journey.” The old man shuffled over to his worn-out antique pine bureau, bent down to the last drawer, and carefully pulled out a brown deerskin purse fringed on both ends. As he did so he began to softly chant. Charles assumed the item the medicine man was retrieving must be very powerful.
Inside the worn fringed purse were three smaller leather pouches, all tied with sinew and each dyed a different color. The pouch painted ochre, Sherman set over to the side. Then in one of the other hidden compartments of the purse he carefully removed a six-inch-long flint blade, which was covered in a separate tan animal-skin hide.
“Charles, this blade is like the one Holy Boy used to free himself from Big Fish. You will need its presence if you try to fight the evil coyote spirit. Keep it close at all times. This small bag is medicine if Big Fish hurts you. My medicine will heal you. I wish you luck. May the holy people look after you.” And that was that.