Why the Star Stands Still (Gives Light Series) (11 page)

He stopped short of turning off the light.  "What?"

I must have been looking at him for longer than I'd realized.  I smiled.  I shook my head.

I was just thinking, that's all.  About when we were kids; about when we first met.  Moody kid, that Rafael.  He'd glared at me from across the bonfire, like I'd done something to mortally offend him.  All I could think at the time was:  What's his problem?  Weird.

I never could have guessed I was going to marry that moody kid.

Rafael's eyes trained on mine.  I could see them by the lamplight, tempestuous depths, as dark as the blue slate before dawn.

He was the same as when I'd first met him.  His jaw square; his nose flat.  Hair long and lank and badly knotted.  Kindness behind his smoldering eyes.  Everything I loved about him was unchanging.  Unchanging in spite of the new lines on his face, on his forehead and around his cheeks.  A beautiful, unchanging boy in a changing body.

Rafael let out a soft sound--a breath of air, something between a huff and a sigh.  He turned off the lamp.  He lay back in bed, his head against his pillow.

He snatched me around the waist, impatiently, and pulled me against him.  He wrapped his arms around me, my head tucked beneath his chin.

I am old and stupid and in love.

6

Iron Rose

Every July, Nettlebush plays host to a roaring, raging monsoon the likes of which Poseidon would envy.

Right before the monsoon you've got a flurry of activity pouring out of every corner of the reservation.  The farmers sprint around like headless chickens as they herd their livestock indoors and get the last of their seeds harrowed in the ground.  The hunters race out to the badlands and chase after the jackrabbits and the mule deer, both of which go scarce when the rain comes out.  The fishermen mostly just hang around each other's homes and weave nets from pawpaw and milkweed.  The catfish they're after won't bother coming out until the monsoon has passed.

The monsoon was due a little early this summer.  I could tell by the swirling gray clouds, seismic in the sky; the way the pine trees bowed and swayed in the breeze, spilling their needles to the ground; the way the air felt on my face, thick and wet.

And, of course, by the presence of the reservation's shaman, who walked around warning everyone about their upcoming demise.

I don't know about other tribes, but the Shoshone have always looked to their shamans for guidance from the spiritual world.  Or they did in the old days.  Nowadays we respect our shamans as a remnant from our past, but we don't take them very seriously.  The way they conduct themselves doesn't help matters.

Have you ever seen a picture of Einstein?  The one where he sticks his tongue out at the camera?  His eyes are bulging with insane ingenuity; his hair stands on end like he stuck his hand in an electric socket.  Okay, now take that image and superimpose it over a thirty-three-year-old Plains woman.  You've got yourself a Shaman Immaculata Quick.

I was taking Mickey to Annie's house when Immaculata came walking up the lane toward us, waving her arms and shouting. 

"What's she saying?" Mickey asked, confused.

"Tuupukkan uma!  Takkamah!" Immaculata shouted.

"She's just saying hello," I told Mickey.

Mickey stared after Immaculata, baffled, Immaculata's elkskin fringe swinging about her elbows and knees.  "If I said hello like that," Mickey told me, "I'd get smacked across the face!"

It was increasingly worrisome whenever Mickey talked about her former foster homes.  I led her across the Little Hawks' lawn, my hand on her back.

"You know that's not right," I said quietly.  "Don't you?"

She tilted her head back in order to look up at me.  "What do you mean?"

"No one is allowed to hit you."

"Tons of people used to hit me."

"That doesn't mean they were allowed."

We crossed the threshold into the farm manor, the ceiling fan spinning lazily in the foyer.

"Who cares?" Mickey said.  "Who cares if somebody hits me?"

"I care," I said.  "Rafael cares.  You know that nice drawing he put in your room?  He did it because he cares about you."

Mickey lapsed into a pensive silence, frowning when we made our way to the kitchen.

I'd promised Annie I'd help her cook today.  When I found her, though, she was sitting bent over the kitchen table, fanning her face.

"Are you okay?" I asked, and rubbed her back.

"Oh, I'm fine," Annie said, and placed a hand on her pregnant stomach.  She flashed a quick smile Mickey's way.  "I thought I might get back into the military after this one, but I'm starting to doubt that very much."

"Annie," I said, "what about your isolation tent?"

It's Shoshone tradition for an expectant mother to isolate herself from male company during the last leg of her pregnancy.  During that time, she withdraws into a tent just outside her regular home.  Only women can come and visit her, and she can't have a man with her during delivery.  I don't really know why this custom is the way it is, except that traditionally, women always had the most power in a Shoshone society.  Distributing food, spoils, and clothes, deciding the next migration route, sending warriors off to battle, even playing sports--they were all women's endeavors.  In fact, one of the oldest known chiefs of the tribe was a woman.  Her name was Cunning Eyes.

"I can't very well sleep in a tent when there's a monsoon just around the corner, now can I?" Annie pointed out.  "I'll have to make do with the attic.  At least Holly and Daisy will be with me."

I didn't bother keeping a straight face.  "I'm sure Holly's going to be a
lot
of help."

"Oh, Skylar."

" 'Go back in, little baby.  This world is far too cruel.  Crawl back whence you came...' "

"That's a frighteningly accurate impression of her, but enough of that.  Get me the pinyon nuts, please."

Mickey and I spent a large portion of the morning flitting back and forth across the kitchen at Annie's behest.  At least Annie was off her feet for a while.  For the most part we prepared simple dishes for the older folks, many of whom couldn't provide for themselves during the lengthy monsoon.

"Don't worry about delivering them," Annie said.  "I'll have Nicholas do it.  It's about time he learns how to treat his elders."

I kissed the top of her head before Mickey and I left for the day.

"Why does anyone have babies?" Mickey said.  "They cry all the time, and they make you fat."

"Only for a little while," I assured her.  "And Shoshone babies don't cry."

"Sure they don't," Mickey dismissed.  "I'll believe that one...never."

We followed the easternmost path out to the lake.  We were on our way to visit Dad and Racine.

"You know," I said.

"I know what?"

I smiled and showed her my tongue.  "Never mind."

It just struck me that Mr. Red Clay was right about her.  In more than a few ways, her crabby demeanor was akin to Rafael's.

I could easily love her for it.

Racine answered her door when I knocked.  I couldn't help but notice how exhausted she looked.

"Is everything okay?" I asked, alarmed.

Racine looked left and right like a fox on the run.  She hurried outside the house and snapped the door shut behind her.

"Your father's been having nightmares," she said to me.

I could feel myself frowning before I was aware of it.  "Do you want me to talk to him?"

"I don't know," Racine said.  She rubbed her face with her hands.  "I tried that.  I don't know what to do.  That dad of yours just doesn't like talking, does he?"

"No," I said, with a remorseful smile.  "He never did."

I met up with Dad at dinner that night, but for all intents and purposes, he was the same affable, melancholy Dad as ever.  If his fingers shook when he picked up a plate of cornbread, or if he flinched whenever Cyrus At Dawn pat him on the back...well, nobody brought it to his attention.  If you're Shoshone, and you see something unpleasant, you look the other way.

He decided to retire early, the bonfire still billowing brightly.  I put my hand on his shoulder--slowly; I didn't want to startle him.

"Shinny," I said.  "Want to teach Michaela after the monsoon?"

"Yes," he said, with one of his fleeting, distant smiles.  "I'd like that."

The monsoon, once it hit, was debilitating.  The winds whistled and roared and pushed so hard on the trees, they threatened to topple over.  Rain rolled over Nettlebush in cold, howling, blasting sheets of ice water.  The sky was dark, pitch black--so black that I wondered, momentarily, whether the moon had eclipsed the sun.  It hadn't.  The clouds had.

It rains so much during the monsoon that for a week or two, everyone in Nettlebush is trapped indoors.  Tent rocks out in the badlands come crashing to the ground; the coyotes who sleep beneath them have to find a new home.  Rainwater floods through the reservation like rapids through a broken dam.  We get the last laugh, though.  Our houses are built on raised, weighted porches.  Even if the rainwater pushes and pulls at the foundation of the house, it's not going to make it into our home.

A few days into the monsoon and Mickey sat on her knees in front of the tall sitting room window, her hands pressed to the glass.  Even with the oil lamps lit, it was too dark to see very far outside, save for the raindrops pounding like bullets on the windows and plashing in the brook like rising butterflies.  Have you ever noticed that?  How raindrops look like butterflies when they hit the ground?  Watch the rain sometime, and you'll see what I mean.  It's seriously cool.

"It can't hurt us," Mickey said slowly.  "Right?"

"Nope," Rafael said.  "The house is tough.  It's been through eight monsoons already."

He sat nonchalantly on the sofa, his hair tucked behind his ear, a book open on his lap.  Rafael loves his imaginary world.  When he's not drawing, he's reading.

Mickey climbed onto the sofa on her knees.  She jostled his shoulder with both of her hands.

"What?" he asked starkly.

"Your ear's pierced.  Can I get mine pierced?"

I could practically envision the cogs turning in his head.  "Rafael..." I warned.

"What?" he tossed at me.  "Zeke didn't say we couldn't pierce her ears."

"He also didn't say we can't cover her in tattoos, but I'm not very eager to try it out, are you?"

"Don't be a smartass, smartass.  Anyway, kids outside the rez get their ears pierced all the time, and nobody says jack to them."

"Jack."

"Jack who?"

Forget it, I thought glumly.  I was outnumbered two to one.

Rafael closed his book and raced up the stairs.  I could trace his route very clearly in my mind; he kept inks and needles and any variety of unpleasant things under our bed.  Sure enough, he descended the staircase minutes later with an old-fashioned wood needle, a carved jewelry box, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol.

"Open," he said, and tossed the jewelry box on the sofa next to Mickey.

Mickey slid the lid open; her eyebrows rose all the way into her hairline.  I didn't need to ask why.  Rafael's earring collection is seriously impressive, considering all of them are handmade.  There's a wolf, a dagger, a rose--I don't even remember all the rest.

"I get to have one?" Mickey asked.

"Whichever one you want," Rafael said.  I could see his face fighting the smile threatening his lips.

Mickey rooted around in the jewelry box; for a while there was only the sound of iron clinking on iron to accompany the storm slapping and clattering against our windows.

"What're these?" she said, and pulled out a pair of charms.

Nostalgia hit me out of left field.  One of the trinkets was made from painted glass, the other from smooth wood.  Both were shaped like pilot whales, both dangling on the ends of willow strings.

"I haven't seen those since we built the house," I said, mystified.  I took the charms from Michaela's hand.

"Damn," Rafael said.  "I still remember when you made me this.  Spring of 2001."  He took the glass charm from my hand and wrapped it around his wrist.

"And the summer of 2006," I returned with a rising smile.  "Same year you asked me to marry you."  I swallowed up the little wooden pilot whale in the palm of my hand.  "I've always said you were very good with woodwork."

"But what are they?" Mickey pressed.  "They look like fish."

"Bite your tongue," I said, and tweaked her chin.

"Hell no," Rafael said at the same time, insistent.  "They're pilot whales.  You don't know what a pilot whale is?"

"Would I ask you if I knew?"

I snickered.  Rafael threw me a quick look.

"Watch it," he said to me.  "They're the most loyal animals on the planet," he said to Mickey.  "They create whole communities out of their families, their extended families.  If one of them gets sick or hurt on the migratory trail, the rest stick with him, even at the risk of never seeing their home again.  They're all about sticking together."