Now only Santiago is singing.
The Cahuilla cowboy speaks again beside us. A gift for Edie so that she can know the manner in which her child is being surrendered to the earth by her husband’s steady, sad hands. “He sings the moon song now,” the cowhand says. “Because the child is a girl.”
Tears slide down Edie’s cheeks. I can scarcely see myself. I didn’t know a heart could hurt this badly. However is Edie able to stand?
She does it for her child. She does it because this moment will never come again. There will be weeks and months and years to crumble, but right now she stands for her daughter who is being honored by a tribe of people and even distant cowhands who did not have the joy of seeing her beautiful face.
Soft and sad grows Santiago’s voice. His cries are clear, rising toward the sky as dusk hearkens in. The language of this moon song is as foreign as it is sweet. The Cahuilla men and women gathered around sway in a rhythmic shifting of skirts and dusty pants, as though they, too, are speaking this language with him. I’m bracing Edie now, so severely she’s trembling. She’s not yet healed, and no mother should have to labor forth a babe only to labor harder still at a graveside. And yet Edie Del Sol has not once lowered her chin or closed her eyes. She watches the two whom she calls family.
Tanned throat bent skyward, Santiago’s guttural song fades into silence. The dancers cease their swaying. Not even a rattle is moved. In the quiet, blue jays call to us from the trees, offering up their own harmony of loss and life.
A new song begins. This one not in Cahuilla but English.
It’s a hymn the church congregation sang often when there were enough residents to gather for Sunday service at the schoolhouse. “Lead, Kindly Light.”
Santiago’s voice is no longer strong and clear; the melody dims as faint as starlight. In his voice linger tears, pronouncing his broken heart, but on his tongue dwell words of peace and of longing for a home that cannot be found on this earth.
The night is dark; and I am far from home.
Edie’s shoulders shake with grief. Broken for this dear soul, I pull her close, holding tight as her husband sings to a God who is different than his people worship, and yet they stand reverent for the man who was raised in their midst, and who walks as much in their ways as he does in our own.
Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see.
Lead, kindly light. That is the promise springing from a father’s broken heart—one of trust in a dark, dark hour.
The man with four names sings to his God as he lowers his daughter with only one into the earth. Little Bit Del Sol, her cross reads. The humble name was chosen by Edie and carved into the wood by John the night before. It took nearly until dawn, so often John swiped at his eyes. That cross now pierces the spring ground that is soft and fertile. The piercing spreads to my chest, and it is so hard to breathe, I hardly know how to hold Bethany close to my skirt. But I squeeze her tight, thanking God that she is safe and well.
Beside me, Edie swipes an edge of the blanket across her eyes. This spirited lass is a child no longer. She is a woman who has known a loss greater than I have ever known, and in this moment, I do not feel worthy to stand beside her. I am not worthy to stand beside a woman I helped bind with linen strips around her chest to stem a flow of milk that has nowhere to be needed. But God has gifted us one another in friendship, and I vow to walk with her every step at her side that she allows me to. I cannot hold her pain, nor can I sift it away. But I can be a hand to hold, and a voice in the darkness as nights come in. And as I glimpse my friend’s agonized face, I am thankful beyond measure that her husband sings of the light. How deeply she needs it this hour.
Beyond us, the mine is silent—the work of disassembling the stamp mill ceased for this day. Some of the newcomers have even gathered at the edge of the work yard, watching what is happening below. They’ve pulled off their hats, standing as sentinels, a respect that people say doesn’t exist in the West between the white and those who lived here a thousand years before. Yet it exists this day, and I am only sorry it has taken the loss of an infant’s life to spark such unity. I pray it is a legacy that will linger on.
They say there is no gold in these hills.
But as a father lays dirt over a wooden box, there suddenly is. She’s the most precious thing that this stretch of mountain has ever had the honor to hold.
Chapter 40
Johnny
April
Saturday afternoon traffic is light in Palm Springs as I merge my truck north on Highway 111. To my right, stucco buildings hold shops and offices, while to the opposite side snowcapped mountains rise high from the desert landscape. I love this view because somewhere up there is home. But down here, soaring pines have been traded for towering palm trees. Always an astounding switch on a drive that drops four thousand feet in elevation along a one-hour stretch of mountain road.
GPS says I’ll be to the Cahuilla Heritage Museum in less than fifteen minutes. I’ll hopefully make it in time to find Sonoma and give her a vote of confidence before everything begins. It sounded like she was nervous about speaking in public, and maybe it can help to have a familiar face in the crowd. I roll my eyes at myself. What a dumb thought. Of course she’ll have familiar faces in the crowd. She’ll have friends there, maybe even family.
Maybe I should just settle into the back and not bother her.
My palms are sweating now, and it has nothing to do with the desert heat outside.
By the time I reach the brand-new museum and park, I decide to just go on in, and if I see her beforehand, great. If not, then I’ll wave or say hello when it’s all over.
The parking lot is packed. A great sign. Tables span the front courtyard with refreshments, and most of the attendees look to be of Cahuilla descent. I’m one of the minorities today, and it’s kind of cool that way. There’s a buzz of energy in the air. It’s almost an otherworldly feel. It’s as though the past is calling out again, but this time it’s not of the settlers. It’s of the natives who cherished this land long before it was taken from them.
I approach the courtyard, where several women wear traditional beaded costumes as they sip sodas and balance paper plates. They’ll probably be performing at some point during the event, and I’m looking forward to all of it. I pay admission to an elderly woman whose friendly smile is set deep within golden-brown wrinkles. Her long silver hair is parted down the middle, and silver bracelets jangle on one arm as she hands me a ticket and the change.
“Welcome,” she says with another smile.
“Thanks.” I check the top button of my collared shirt and slide the ticket into the pocket of my khaki pants.
After ducking beneath an archway of brightly colored balloons, I pass around the courtyard fountain and into the entrance to the museum. Inside, a refreshing blast of AC drowns out the desert heat. The hallway smells like brand-new tile work and fresh paint. One of my favorite smells. The museum is filled with visitors, but there’s still enough walking space to navigate down the corridor, where alcoves showcase various exhibits. The first one holds baskets and pottery. Another, weapons—bows, arrows, and even several historical rifles. I’m tempted to check this room out better, but I spot Sonoma instead, speaking with a middle-aged couple near the entrance to the conference room.
She’s wearing a calf-length black skirt and a bright yellow top. The colors match the energy of the event, and the wide, beaded bracelet around her wrist is nearly the same pattern as one of the baskets I just passed by. Seeing her this way, surrounded by so many of Cahuilla descent, I can see the strong ties of her heritage to their own. I don’t realize I’m staring until she waves.
Great. Nice job, Johnny.
I start that way, wishing I’d thought out more of what to say, but winging it works too.
“I’m so glad you made it.” Her eyes are bright.
When she smiles my way, the couple she was speaking with excuse themselves.
Sonoma waves to her friends, then angles
back to me. “I’d shake your hand, but I’m so nervous that I’m trembling.”
I cram both hands into my pockets so she doesn’t feel any pressure. “You’ll do great. You’re the last speaker, right?”
“Yeah, and I think that makes it worse.” The words are light, but when she adjusts her bracelet, her hands really are shaking. “My parents are running late from freeway traffic but are going to be here before it starts. I hope.”
I glance around, wishing the act could get them to appear. Instead, I give her a friendly smile. “They’ll make it. Anything I can do to help? Can I grab you some water?”
“That’d be great. I’ll walk with you, though. That might help settle my nerves.”
We turn together and start on side by side. We’re turning down the main corridor when the sound of drums begins in the courtyard. Sonoma angles toward the large glass doors that showcase the outside happenings. “Oh, the bird singers are beginning. Come on. I want to show you this.”
Though my mind and heart are still crossed wires of hope and pain and wondering what God will have for the coming days in my life, I’m honored that she wants to show me anything. I can’t help but be. Not with this woman—one who says that joining me on the search for water would be just the ticket to settle her nerves. She’s unassuming, and gracious. Qualities that, among many others, are hard not to value. I hold the door open so she can pass through and her smile is shy enough that I wonder if she’s having the same internal thoughts that I am.
Probably not. I can really overthink things sometimes.
I pass through the invisible curtain of heat—AC now a memory behind us. But amid the outside swelter lives a world like no other. A world that would have existed a hundred years ago and beyond. Unlike the women who are dressed up as the days of old in their brightly colored skirts and jewelry, the male singers wear jeans and black T-shirts with a printed logo of the tribe’s emblem. Some of them have black bandanas tied around their foreheads, while a few of the older men are wearing cowboy hats. They all shake rattles carved from gourds. The men are bent at the waist, focused. Most of them move their feet with the rhythm of the song. A swaying that pulses out the sound as much as their instruments. It’s as though the courtyard is no longer around them and they sing and dance with memories of old.
Sonoma is at my side, but she has to lean the tiniest bit nearer to speak over the rise of voices. “This is called the moon song. It served an important role in ceremonies. It was also played at funerals if it was a female who passed.” Her eyes lift to mine, and though I’m struck at first by her nearness, my thoughts center instead on the sorrow I see there.
Of the child that was lost long ago in Kenworthy. The Cahuilla infant. Sadly, the first of two for the Del Sols.
I draw in a sigh, nod so that she knows I understand, and lift my focus back to the dancers. What would it have been like to listen to such a lonesome sound, such a pulsing beat as steady as time itself—all because a little girl was lost to the earth?
We listen and watch, and halfway through I remember that bottle of water I’d meant to get Sonoma. I edge closer to the nearest table and fish a bottle from a huge bucket of ice. Returning to her side, she thanks me and uncaps it. The music fades, a softer, second song now building beneath its echo.
I nearly say it then and there—that I wasn’t able to get Sonoma the answers I had hoped from the Cohen family. They’re trying, but time just wasn’t on our side with this one. I could say that to her now, but I don’t. Another time, because it’s not a disappointment that’s going to derail her. Whatever facts she’s spent her life discovering are going to be more than enough today. This woman didn’t need my help, but I’m thankful to have at least gotten the chance to try.
She proves it, too, when a few hours later, in a room of a hundred museum guests, Sonoma walks up to the podium at the front of the conference room, lays down her notes, and describes the purpose and passion behind her genealogy search. And not because of her own lineage but because the process is empowering for any person to hear the stories of those who went before them. To learn their names, their lifetimes. To see their humanity.
I think of all that she and I have discovered in our own ways through the land surrounding Kenworthy. I think of the Cohens and of the Del Sols and of dozens of other families, both settler and native Cahuilla. There is so much story there. More important, there was so much life. And now here we stand, all of us in this room, living our own lives. Our own stories. As Sonoma speaks, I notice, as I’ve come to with her, the loveliness of her mind and spirit. Of all of her. This woman has been a joy to encounter, and I’m growing increasingly thankful that God granted me the chance to know her. I hope it won’t be for only a short while.
Her lecture is brief. Just a half hour, but when she finishes, the crowd offers up a thunderous applause. Her parents, who made it in time, are on their feet, clapping proudly. Their faces shine with love for their daughter. Even though the echo of all those hands—all that energy—drowns out any other sound, I can still hear Sonoma’s closing words echo all the deeper. I think on it again during the drive back up the mountain later that evening after Sonoma and I shared a plate of appetizers in a quiet corner of the courtyard with her parents, and I walked her to her car, where we sent one another off with a wave.
“We search and we ask because it matters. Because history, without understanding the hearts of the people who made it, is just a bunch of dates. Let us change the course of that wind. Let us teach the next generations what it is that truly matters.”
Stars are overhead when I reach home that evening. I climb the steps slowly, tired but contented. On the other side of the door, Rye is scraping to come out. I unlock it, and he bounds onto the porch, more interested in sniffing at my hands than running out into the dark. He scampers around me, tripping over his water bowl before dashing off into the yard. I leave the door open since he’ll be back before bedtime.
Just before entering the cabin, I spot a white envelope leaning against the porch chair. It’s from FedEx. I hit the lights in the living room, which gives enough glow to see that it’s addressed from the Cohen family. With a tear of the envelope, a packet of papers slides out.
Photocopies that I instantly recognize as John Cohen’s original journal.
Suddenly I’m wide awake, and within moments, there’s a century of a fissure running across the sands of time. No, this didn’t come in time for Sonoma’s talk, but there’s a deeper purpose here that has me reading late into the night. Not with the same raw need as I did the letters. This time it’s different. This time, I don’t feel like a man clawing for air. Instead, I read of a man who is in a place much like I am. One of desire and resolution. And for some miraculous reason, we’ve met across a century, in the very same place.
The answer that Sonoma has been seeking is still pieced in riddles, but with the attached promise from Herb Cohen—that he’ll be poring over these pages again himself once recovered from surgery in the coming weeks—I think we may be onto something. With a little more digging, and a little more time, we may find a way to help her.
Part 3
Chapter 41
Juniper
September 1903
Five months have passed. Long enough that Edie rises from bed for hours on end. I know because I have gone to be with her nearly every day since the birth. At first, I laundered her linens while she healed, brought her cups of tea that often sat untouched, and made sure something hot and nourishing was placed into a bowl and into her hands. That, too, often sat abandoned, often while Edie bit back tears from the pain—mind, body, and soul—of having no baby to nurse while the front of her nightgown dampened to her skin. She has been suffering, but while she is far from the edge of peace, she is up again. A Closed sign hung in the window of the mercantile those first few weeks, until Edie craved busyness more than rest.
In her face now lives a determination that is as much Edie as it is a woman who is going to fight the shado
ws of despair. The heart never heals to wholeness after such a loss, and the shadows beneath Edie’s eyes are testament to the depth of pain she still walks in and will walk in the days to come. The truth about then and now is that it will take time. It’s what we all know. It’s what our parents knew and our grandparents knew. It’s what loss needs from us. It takes time. It drives its fists against the very soul, tempting it to give up, forcing the soul to cling to a courage unlike any other.
In the wake of Little Bit’s death, Edie slipped away to a place that no one could reach. She was a shadow of the Edie we all knew. The love and comfort we surrounded her with was scarcely a silhouette of the love she longed for—that of and for her child. There were many days when she did not want anyone near. Days when she did not even speak.
Now, her eyes often brim with tears, yet she has placed one foot in front of the other—slowly, cautiously, achingly. It’s what has made her steps more profound than any of mine have ever been. It’s what has made these months and weeks so very raw for the woman who has wept and shown courage in ways I cannot fathom.
Is there hope in this place? In the world that Edie now finds herself within?
There has to be, but there is no easy way to harness that hope. To even see it at times. Even so, it is there, and God does not come at a woman like her as though He is a tyrant. Instead, it is a gentle coaxing of sunrises and sunsets. Of His promise that He has not forgotten her. I pray for Edie each and every day that the slow spread of healing will continue to grow within her.
Today, I take down clothes from the line behind the mercantile. I come for an hour every day, just before school is let out. At first, Edie pleaded for me not to, but there are so many tasks for her to undertake, and she is the last person who would complain. This young woman who once lacked the patience to unravel a box of rope but who now can watch the sky for hours. The quiet of the outdoors has been what has helped her venture from her bed more and more often. She’s needed moments of sunshine, and the glow of morning. She’s needed cups of strong, healing teas and hours sitting on the lowest boulders where Cahuilla women once ground their acorns and the day shines the brightest.
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