“Yes. Of course. I love your stories.”
Cloudblower checked the horizon again and folded her arms tightly across her chest. The red paintings of wolf, coyote, eagle, and raven swayed. The birds appeared to be flying.
“I know a woman. When she was a child, she had a very wicked father. He hurt her, Catkin. She does not remember what I am about to tell you, but I swear it is true. When she’d seen two summers, he started lying with her, forcing things inside her. When she cried, he used to make her play a game he called ‘beetle,’ where he forced her to lie on her back, then push up with her arms and legs until she’d arched her back as far as she could. She had to stay that way for hands of time. When she couldn’t, he beat her in the head with a fire-hardened digging stick. By the time she’d seen four summers, she fell asleep every time he came into their chamber. Just”—Cloudblower shook her head—“fell on the floor
sound asleep. She would wake up bleeding, and imagine that some monster had harmed her while she slept. She envisioned hideous creatures with deep growling voices and sharp claws.”
Horrors stirred in Catkin’s souls. She could see a small, helpless little girl reaching out to a man who should have been protecting her, caring for her, and instead, he …
Cloudblower shuddered.
Catkin said, “Elder, if the girl cannot remember these things, how do you know about them?”
“There is a—a boy—a man. He comes by here often, to see the woman. He worries about her. We talk.”
The man I heard you speaking with here on the rim? The man in the plaza the night Whiproot died ?
“He lived in her village when she was little?”
Cloudblower nodded. “Yes.”
“What else did he tell you?”
“Oh, many things,” she exhaled the words. “He told me that the girl said something to the old women in the village, something they understood, even if the girl didn’t. She was barely two at the time. All four of those old women were murdered, Catkin. They were horribly mutilated.” She hesitated as if expecting Catkin to remember hearing about the event. It did strike a memory chord, but Catkin couldn’t quite recall the context of the stories. She frowned, and Cloudblower continued, “In the girl’s fifth winter, her mother finally discovered the truth, and her father ran away before he could be punished for incest.”
“Did anyone ever tell her what he’d done to her?”
“Gods, no, Catkin. Do you think her mother wished for her daughter to be Outcast from the clan at the age of five summers? You know the incest laws. Everyone involved is tainted with the evil and has to be punished. It does not matter whose fault it was. The little girl would have died.”
“Did you ever perform a Healing on the woman, Elder?”
Cloudblower squeezed her eyes closed. “I never had the chance. I …”
A tiny sliver of gold rose over the eastern horizon. Cloudblower walked back to stand behind the Sun Pillar. As she lifted her hands to frame the image tears traced silver lines down her cheeks.
“Father Sun rose in a different place,” she said and let out a relieved breath. “He does not need our strength to journey across the sky today. We can return and join in the celebration.”
Strands of graying-black hair worked loose from her braid and fluttered in the wind. She gave Catkin a pleading look. “Please do not mention these things, Catkin. I love this woman. I think it might harm her to hear my words repeated.”
“I would never repeat anything you tell me, Elder.”
Cloudblower steepled her fingers over her mouth. “Thank you, warrior. I had not planned on burdening you—”
“It is not a burden to ease someone else’s hurt, Elder. It is a privilege.”
Cloudblower touched her shoulder and softly said, “If we hurry, we can be back in time for the morning Dances.”
L
AVENDER THUNDERHEADS WALKED ACROSS THE DUSK sky on willowy iridescent legs of rain. Hail tipped her head back and inhaled the sweet scents of damp earth and dry grass. Thunderbirds rumbled in the distance, bringing the storm closer.
She groaned softly as she bent over and picked up a branch to prod her pinyon pine fire. A hand of time ago, Hail had boiled juniper needles in Magpie’s big chili pot, poured equal amounts into five plastic bowls, and instructed each of them to take a ritual bath—which meant they had to dip a cloth in the water and wash every part of their skin and hair.
Behind her, in the red tent, Magpie, Sylvia, and Washais whispered. Dusty and Dr. Robertson had already been purified and returned to Dr. Robertson’s trailer to dress.
Hail couldn’t see the bottom of the fire too well, but the flames looked high enough. She used her stick to lift the pile of Dusty’s and Dr. Robertson’s clothes and dropped it onto the fire. Thick greasy smoke rose as the flames licked up around the edges and gradually worked their way to the center.
She leaned on the stick while she gazed out at the site.
Evil rode the air with silvered wings, flashing around, studying the camp and the people, waiting its chance to slip inside them and make a nest in their souls.
The Haze boy had been very quiet, as though afraid to breathe.
Hail had to purify everyone who’d been there when the pot was opened, then she had to figure out what to do with the pot itself.
When the fire had burned through the clothes, Hail threw another pine log onto the flames, and said, “All right, Magpie, you can come out.”
The three women emerged carrying their plastic bowls, and
bundles of clothes. Blankets covered their naked bodies, and the tang of juniper surrounded them. Washais had unbraided her hair, leaving it long and free. It fell over her pale blue blanket in a shining rippled wealth. Magpie and Sylvia stood in matching ivory blankets.
“All right,” Hail said, “no one may ever use those bowls again. They’ve been tainted with the evil. Toss them into the fire.” She tapped a heartstone with her stick.
The white plastic bowls landed in the flames and shriveled up into black knots. An ugly acrid smell rose.
“Sylvia,” Hail said, “you first. Go stand over there, downwind from the fire.”
“Gotcha.” Sylvia walked to stand directly in front of Hail.
“Now you two”—Hail gestured to Washais and Magpie—“stand on either side of me.”
Magpie stood on Hail’s right and Washais on her left.
The coffeepot, filled with water, sat on the ground in front of Hail. She propped her branch and reached down for the battered black handle. “Okay, Sylvia, take off your blanket.”
Sylvia tossed the ivory blanket aside and spread her arms. As skinny as a cottonwood twig, the white skin she kept covered looked corpsish against her deeply tanned face, lower arms, and legs.
“I’m ready, Mrs. Walking Hawk. Cleanse me.”
Hail poured a little water from the coffeepot onto the coals, and a blue haze of smoke billowed up. “You and Washais help out, Magpie.”
“Yes, Aunt. Follow me, Maureen.” Magpie used the blanket around her shoulders like wings to fan the smoke across to Sylvia.
“I see,” Washais said and fanned her blanket in rhythm with Magpie’s.
Sylvia closed her eyes as the cleansing smoke blew over her. “I love this smell. Feels hot though.”
Hail said, “You’ll feel a lot hotter if that corpse powder gets inside you, and starts eating you alive. Turn around, Sylvia.”
“Okay.” Sylvia spun on one foot, military fashion.
Magpie said, “My God. That’s the whitest butt I have ever seen in my life.”
Sylvia grinned over her shoulder. “Blinding, ain’t it?”
When the smoke dwindled, Hail poured a little more water on the fire, and Washais and Magpie blew it across to Sylvia.
Hail said, “Make sure it touches every part of you, Sylvia. Smoke is a cousin to the Thunderbirds who bring us rain and life. The Spirit of the smoke will drive away any evil that lived in that corpse powder.”
“Cool,” Sylvia said, and fluffed her shoulder-length brown hair out so the smoke would penetrate it.
“Good. You’re done, Sylvia. Go put on clean clothes.”
Sylvia picked up her blanket and walked for her tent. “See you soon.”
Hail gestured. “Washais, your turn.”
Washais took up Sylvia’s position, except that she stood solemnly with her head bowed, as though saying a silent prayer.
Hail waited until Washais lifted her head, then she said, “Take off your blanket, child.”
Washais pulled it away from her shoulders and dropped it at her feet. A tall woman, Father Sun had roasted her in the past few days. Her chest had gotten it the worst, though. A scoop of reddish-brown curved down over the tops of her breasts.
Hail poured water on the fire again, and Magpie fanned the billowing smoke across.
Washais lifted her face to the sky, and started singing, a beautiful lilting song that soothed Hail. Magpie smiled broadly. Neither of them understood the strange words, but they both knew it was a blessing song, asking forgiveness, praying for good things for her people.
“Turn around, Washais,” Hail instructed.
Washais turned, and spread her long arms and legs. When she finished the song, she feathered her hair in the smoke, and started speaking in a new language.
“En archay ayne ha logos, kai ha logos ayne pros ton theon …”
Hail looked at Magpie and they both shrugged. You didn’t have to understand words to know when somebody was being reverent. It was the softness of the voice, the posture.
Hail poured more water on the fire, and Magpie fanned smoke over Washais.
When Washais went silent, Hail said, “You’re done, Washais. You can put on clean clothes now.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Walking Hawk.” She picked up her blanket and headed for her tent.
Before she ducked through the flap, Hail asked, “What language was that last prayer, Washais? It was pretty. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that before?”
“New Testament Greek. That’s the opening of the Book of John.” Washais smiled and entered her green tent.
Hail turned to Magpie and lifted a hand. “Give me your blanket, Magpie. I’ll fan you.”
“Thank you, Aunt, but I don’t know why I have to be purified. I was with you when they opened the pot.”
Magpie handed over her blanket, and went to stand across the fire. Short black hair framed her round face. Even her arms, used to the sun, had tanned more deeply since they’d been here.
“I know, child,” Hail said, “but I don’t want to take any chances with you. When you talked to Dusty, you might have breathed in some of the powder on his clothes.”
Magpie gave Hail a soft look, smiled, and closed her eyes. “All right, Aunt, I’m ready.”
Hail poured water onto the fire, laid her stick down, and fanned the smoke over her great-niece.
Magpie gathered the smoke in her hands and rubbed it over her arms, and face, then the rest of her body. Next, she turned around and ran her hands through her short black hair.
“All right, child, you’ll be fine now.”
“Thank you, Aunt.” Magpie picked up her blanket and headed for their red tent. “I’ll be right back.”
“Good. You and me need to figure out how to catch the evil that’s running loose around us.”
“I know, Aunt. I have some ideas about that.”
From inside her tent, Washais called, “So do I!”
Sylvia ducked out of her tent dressed in faded blue cutoffs, a red tank top, and hiking boots. “Wow, I feel like a million dollars. I think it worked.”
Hail smiled and used her stick to lift Magpie’s contaminated clothing and dropped them into the flames.
Sylvia came to stand beside her. “Can I do that?”
“Yes.” Hail handed her the stick. “But don’t let the end of the stick touch you anywhere, and after you’ve burned all the clothes throw the stick in on top of the flames.”
“No problemo,”
Sylvia said.
As Sylvia lifted Washais’s old clothing into the fire, Hail hobbled over to one of the lawn chairs and eased down. It felt good to sit. Sweat trickled down her neck and soaked the collar of the blue-flowered yellow dress. Magpie had insisted she take a pain pill about two hours ago, but Hail wasn’t sure she felt better. The pain had lessened, but a groggy, off-balance, sensation had replaced it. For no reason at all, the world would just go out of focus, and Hail would stumble. She’d almost fallen into the fire when she’d been cleansing Dusty. If he hadn’t snatched her sleeve and dragged her back, she’d have been scorched. She didn’t like feeling this way.
Sylvia
tsked
to herself as she lifted her own clothes, a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, into the flames. “That was my favorite buffalo shirt. I guess I’ll have to get back to Wyoming someday to find another one like it.”
“You should get a real buffalo hide to make a shirt out of,” Hail suggested. “It would keep you warm in the winter.”
“I wonder where I’d get one? I’ve never seen them at Wal-Mart.”
Hail chuckled. “I think you ought to call one of the buffalo ranches in New Mexico. Some of them sell hides. I had a cousin who …”
The door to the camp trailer squealed as Dusty and Dr. Robertson came down the steps. Dusty wore a yellow T-shirt, and pink shorts. They’d been white at one time, Hail thought, but he must have washed them with something red. His reflective sunglasses glinted as he walked. Dr. Robertson looked like a flag in his red-and-white-striped shirt, and blue jeans. They were talking in low tones as they approached the camp. Frowns incised their foreheads.
“Hey,” Sylvia called. “I figured you two would be the first back into camp. What took you so long?”
A gust of wind whipped across the site, rattling the tents and trash box. Dr. Robertson pulled down his fedora to fend it off, and Dusty turned his head. Blond hair flipped around his face.
“We were discussing what to do with the pot of powdered people,” Dusty said. “Before the cleansing, we put the cap back on and double-bagged it in Ziplocs, as Elder Walking Hawk instructed, but—”
“But!”
Washais said as she ducked out of her tent. She’d replaited her hair and the braid hung down the front of her tan T-shirt to the waist of her jeans. “Now we have to get rid of it, right?”
“Right,” Magpie said as she joined the group. She’d dressed in a white T-shirt and brown shorts. “The question is, how?”
“I’m not sure,” Hail said in a frail voice and laced her arthritic fingers in her lap. “Maybe we should find another place, far away from here, and bury it again. That would keep wicked people from finding it and using it to hurt others.”
As Dusty sifted through the ice chest, Dr. Robertson and Sylvia unfolded lawn chairs and sat down across the fire.
Washais pulled up a chair next to Hail. “Mrs. Walking Hawk, I have an idea that might sound strange to you, but I would like to take the pot back to Canada with me, for further study—”
“You’re joking, right?” As Dusty turned, sunlight reflected from his glasses. He had a bottle of fruit juice in his hand. He twisted off the cap, and said, “Doesn’t Canada have laws about the disposition of human remains?”
“Yes, of course. There will be a lot of red tape, but this is such a rare opportunity, I think—”
“We can’t, Maureen,” Magpie said. She dropped into a chair beside Sylvia, to Washais’s left. “There are strong traditionalists here who will want to see the pot, and its contents, destroyed—or as my aunt suggests, at least put in a place where it can’t hurt anyone.”
“Well, we can’t destroy it,” Dusty said. “We’d be in violation of every historic preservation law on the books. Not only that, we’d be destroying federal property. So let’s figure out something else to do.”
“Give it to me,” Washais said. “That’s what else we can do. I’ll take the evil far away.”
Wind blew gray hair into Hail’s eyes. She tucked it behind her ear and said, “We have to respect the Power there, Washais. People can die just from touching that pot.”
Washais bowed her head and seemed to be marshaling her arguments. In a soft voice, she said, “I know this is difficult, but the contents of that pot might tell us how that woman lived, how she died, why this terrible thing happened to her. Isn’t that important? Isn’t it more respectful to learn from her? Elder Walking Hawk, I think she’s just another, older Elder, one who can teach us new lessons.”
Dusty said, “I don’t agree.”
“Why not?” Washais turned, and glared.
“If they were just slaves, like I thought in the beginning, I might have sided with you. But you’ve proven your point. These women were murdered, and at least part of this last one was turned into corpse powder. She’s better off covered up. According to traditional beliefs—”