Nightway (2 page)

“Does he have a lot of sheep?” the boy asked. A Navaho’s worth was generally measured by the number of sheep he owned.

With the exception of those who lived outside the Reservation, land is not owned by an individual; rather, there is an “inherited use-ownership” which is possessed by the family as a whole. The man who is head of the household has control over it, but he may not give away or remove it from his family. Essentially, he holds it in trust for the real “owners”—his wife and children. Every member of the family inherits the right to graze livestock within a fairly well-defined area, the size of which is determined by the amount of land required to support the stock. The hogan that White Sage lived in was built on land that “belonged” to her mother’s family. Less than two miles away was the hogan of her uncle, Crooked Leg.

“He has many, many cattle,” she answered, which was more impressive, because cattle needed more land on which to feed. “And he has many, many people working for him—like that man Rawlins who has been here with him.”

“We should have sheep,” the boy announced firmly. “I am old enough to look after them. Crooked Leg lets me watch his sheep when we go there.”

“You cannot watch sheep when you are in school,” she reasoned.

The blue of his eyes that had been so sparkling and clear before darkened with resentment and suppressed rebellion. “I don’t need to go to school. You can teach me, and he can teach me all that I need to know.”

These words seemed strange coming from her son’s lips. He had always been so eager and quick to learn, so curious about everything, more inquisitive than the coyote. She paused to study him closely.

“Why don’t you want to go to school?”

He was slow in answering. “Because they say I’m not one of The People.” Navahos referred to themselves as
dine’é
, “The People.” Navaho was derived from the name the Tewa Pueblo Indians gave them, Apaches of Navahu, which means “enemies from the planted fields.”

“Who says that?”

“Everybody.” He shrugged aside a specific answer. “It’s because my hair isn’t straight like theirs, and my eyes are blue, not brown.”

As Mary White Sage hesitated, a sound alien to any that belonged to the land entered the range of her hearing. She turned to gaze at the dust cloud fast approaching their dwelling. Her large eyes became soft and luminous as she recognized the pickup truck.

“He comes,” she told her son.

The bag of seed corn was thrust into her hands. His vaguely sullen expression was replaced by one of boundless joy. He raced with the fleetness of the antelope to be at the hogan before the truck stopped. No more planting would be done while he was here, so White Sage carried the corn and planting stick as she followed her son. Although she didn’t run, her steps were no less eager than his, her petticoats swishing with each long, graceful stride.

When the truck stopped, the boy was there, ready to leap into the arms of the tall man who stepped from the cab, and swept him into the air. The ritual of their greeting was always the same. The boy laughed with delight when he was lifted above the man’s head, then brought down to be held in the hook of one powerful arm.

“How can a man’s son grow in just two days?” The man playfully rubbed the top of the boy’s head, rumpling black hair that was determined to escape the yellow headband that tried to straighten the front into bangs.

“I am like the corn. I’m always growing. I knew you would come today.”

Held at eye level, it was easy for the boy to see why his mother called his father Laughing Eyes. A thousand tiny lines crinkled the corners of his eyes, making them appear to laugh—eyes that were a lighter shade of blue, as his skin was a shade of brown lighter than the boy’s copper hue. Where the sun didn’t strike it, it was white.

“I brought you something.” The man reached inside the right pocket of his white shirt and pulled out a pack of chewing gum, the boy’s favorite treat. J. B. Faulkner gave the pack to the eager fingers reaching for it and set the boy on the ground.

The pack was ripped open and the first stick of gum was unwrapped and he jammed into his mouth. Before it was chewed soft, the second stick was being uncovered. The whole pack of gum inevitably wound up in the boy’s mouth to be chewed all at once.

“It would last longer if you chewed one stick at a time,” his father pointed out with wry indulgence, but the One-Who-Must-Walk-Two-Paths couldn’t reply because his mouth was full of gum.

White Sage watched the greeting between father and son, slowing her pace to give them these few moments
alone. Her gaze ran proudly over the man who was her husband, a tall, broad-shouldered figure in his white shirt and brown corded pants. A tan high-crowned Stetson hat covered most of his brown hair.

He looked the same as he had the first time she saw him. It had been the night of the Enemy Way ceremonial when The Girl’s Dance, the only part of the ceremony those foreign to The People were permitted to attend and participate in. The whites called it the Squaw Dance, few ever realizing that it was a War Dance. Those girls of marriageable age danced and sought partners from the audience of men. It had been the first that White Sage had taken part in. She had been dressed in her finest, even wearing her mother’s heavy squash blossom necklace of silver and turquoise.

At some point in the dance, she had noticed him sitting cross-legged and became aware that he was watching her and none of the other girls. Something had prompted her to ask him to be her next partner, and he had accepted. She didn’t remember how many times they had circled the scalp pole until others began to notice. She became worried that perhaps he didn’t know that he had to pay her before she could stop dancing with him. Usually the ignorance of the foreigners was regarded with amusement, but White Sage hadn’t wanted The People laughing at this man with the smiling eyes. So she had whispered it to him in her best school English.

“But I don’t want to stop dancing with you,” he had said. When she looked into his eyes, she had seen that he wanted to mate with her. She had felt the faint stirrings of a similar desire, even though she was non-sunlight-struck, a virgin. Finally, he had paid her ten times what anyone else had and returned to the circle of men so she could choose someone else.

But he found out the name of her clan and where her
parents lived. He visited her several times, always bringing presents for her and her family. J. B. Faulkner was one of the few whites The People respected. White Sage learned he owned a big ranch south of the Reservation and often hired members of The People to work for him. A month after their first meeting, he went to her maternal uncle and arranged their marriage in a ceremony of The People.

On their wedding night, White Sage discovered his strange habit of sleeping without clothes. The People always slept in the same clothes they wore during the daytime, although White Sage recalled the white teacher explaining that white people wore a different kind of clothing to bed. But Laughing Eyes didn’t wear any, and he insisted that she should do the same. Gradually, she had become used to this peculiar trait of his.

But all that was in the past. Now he was here, smiling at her. She went eagerly to meet him and be gathered into his strong arms. His embrace crushed her while he bent his head to press his cheek hard against hers.

“I’ve missed you.” The gruffness of the voice whispering in her ear reminded White Sage of the wind rasping through the cedars. “I think I live only to be with you.” She could feel the hunger in his hands moving over her and knew the nighttime would not come soon enough to suit him. With an effort, he lifted his head and smoothed a hand over her cheek. “I worry about you when I’m away. Have you been all right?”

“Yes,” she assured him and glanced at the young boy, now devouring the last stick of gum. There was a lump the size of a wren’s egg in his cheek. “This one helps me all the time.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” The intensity of feeling left his voice and his tight embrace relaxed somewhat as he gazed at their son. “Because I brought him something
besides a pack of gum. You’d better look in the back end of the truck, boy.”

With his jaw working vigorously to chew the massive wad of gum, the young boy raced to the lowered tailgate of the truck. His deep blue eyes rounded in surprise. “A saddle!” Hoisting himself onto the bed of the truck, he hurried to the front, where he lifted a handsome, leather-tooled saddle to show his mother. Its weight and bulk were unwieldy, almost more than he could handle, but he didn’t ask for help.

The present had to be immediately tried out, which meant catching the horse in the corral and putting the new saddle on it. After the stirrups were adjusted to the right length, The-One-Who-Must-Walk-Two-Paths had to take a short ride. He rode the horse in a large circle in front of the hogan so White Sage and J. B. Faulkner could watch him.

“I wish Chad rode that well,” J. B. murmured, then appeared to immediately regret mentioning his other family.

“He has been riding since he was smaller than a yucca stalk.” White Sage referred to their son, avoiding his name, since to speak it too often would wear it out. It was common among The People to have several names. Besides his secret name, he had a nickname of the Blue-Eyed-One, and the school had given him the name Jimmy White Sage. “Today he told me we should have sheep for him to watch. He doesn’t want to go back to school because they say he isn’t one of The People.”

“He isn’t an Indian.” The pronouncement came in a quick, forceful retort, which J. B. tempered with a calmer explanation. “I know children from mixed marriages often consider themselves to be one of The People, but I won’t have him deny that he is half-white. And he’s going to finish school and go on to college. He
is going to have the finest education I can give him. We’ve talked about this.”

She nodded, but she remembered how painful it had been for her at school, where her way of life had been ridiculed and the beliefs of The People scornfully denounced. It had been the same that one time her family had journeyed to Flagstaff, where they had been looked on with contempt. White Sage had been frightened by the things the white men said to her on the street. She had been glad to escape back to the land and all the things that were familiar to her. She was content to make regular visits to the nearby trading post, where she could gossip with other customers. It was run by a Mormon man who had no hair on top of his head; it all grew on his face. His wife was a nice woman with iron-colored hair. White Sage had no desire to venture off the Reservation again. She worried about her son leaving it to get this education, but perhaps Laughing Eyes knew what was best.

“You must talk to him,” she said. “He doesn’t like being different from the others.”

“He is different—and it’s only beginning,” he announced grimly. When he glanced at her, he smiled, but it was not a genuine smile. White Sage saw its falseness and was troubled. “I will talk to him.”

Moving away from her, he signaled to the boy to come to him. The boy reluctantly reined the chestnut horse to the corral, where his father waited. White Sage watched Laughing Eyes take hold of the horse’s bridle so their son could jump to the ground. Then she turned to enter the hogan and begin the preparations for their meal.

J. B. led the horse into the corral and tied the reins to a cross-pole. “What’s this I hear about you wanting to quit school?” he questioned with seeming nonchalance as the boy stretched on tiptoes to loosen the cinch.

“They say we are poor because we don’t have sheep. We are not poor, so we should have sheep to prove that we are not. When you bring them, I will stay home to watch them. I am old enough.” Not once did he meet his father’s inspecting glance.

“Is that the only reason you don’t want to go to school?” He was met with silence. “Do they make fun of you at school because you are different?”

“I am not different. I am the same as they are.” The boy tugged at the saddle skirt to pull the saddle from the horse’s back. J. B. stepped forward to lift it to the ground.

“That isn’t true. You are different.”

“No,” the boy insisted.

“It’s false to pretend you are an Indian. You are neither Indian nor white. You are both. There is nothing wrong with being different.” When the boy still wouldn’t look at him, J. B. picked him up and set him on the top rail of the corral, so he could see his son’s face while he talked. “Be proud of it. You can never be only one or the other. All your life the Indians will expect you to be more Indian than an Indian, and the whites will expect you to be more white than they are.”

Blue eyes frowned into his face, skeptical and wary. “How do I be both?”

“Learn everything you can about The People and learn everything you can about the whites. Take what is best and wisest from each of them and make it yours. Do you understand?”

There was a hesitant nod before he asked, “How will I know what to choose?”

“That’s something you have to decide.” J. B.’s smile was grimly sad. “I can’t help you and your mother can’t help you. You are alone in this. And it will get harder as you grow older.” J. B. was just beginning to realize how hard it would be when the child became a man. His
gaze turned skyward to see a solitary hawk soaring on the air currents. “You have to become like that hawk—alone—dependent on no one but yourself, and flying above it all.”

Tipping his head back, the boy stared at the hawk, its wings spread in effortless flight. There was not a cloud in the sky, the hawk slicing alone across the great expanse of blue.

“This day I am new,” the boy announced in an oddly mature voice. “From now on, I will be called Jim Blue Hawk.” He turned to his father. “Do you like it?”

Pride shimmered liquid-soft in the lighter blue eyes. “Yes, I like it,” J. B. Faulkner replied.

That summer a life began to grow in his mother’s belly. Hawk, as he had come to think of himself, found many things to think about and began looking around himself with new eyes: keen eyes like those of his namesake. When the time came to return to the Reservation school in the fall, he listened to the white teacher, no longer resisting the things that were said which conflicted with what The People believed. Others still mentioned his blue eyes and the waves in his black hair, waves that were more predominant because Hawk had stopped wearing a headband in an effort to straighten the unruly mop. Hawk knew he was different, and because he was different, he was going to be better.