Running Barefoot

by Amy Harmon

  Samuel immediately launched into Navajo, telling his grandmother what I’d said and what he’d told me. She nodded her head as he spoke, agreeing with his explanation, smiling a little at me as he must have told her what I’d said about music.

  That night, Samuel slept outside in his truck bed and I slept in a bedroll in the hogan, with Samuel’s grandmother lying silently beside me. That night I dreamed that I sat at the loom, weaving a rug patterned with ears of corn in red, yellow, blue, and white. A mockingbird sat at my shoulder and told me to choose my destiny. Every time I would reach for the yellow corn the mockingbird would peck my hand and chirp “not for you! Not for you!” in a squawky parrot voice.

  We spent the following day on horseback, herding sheep down the canyon to grassier climes. Winter set in early in the higher elevations, and in another month the sheep would stay pastured near Grandma Yazzie’s hogan. We’d gotten up before the sun, and I did my best to look pretty, even without much to work with. I knew my days with Samuel were numbered, and I wanted to make them count. I hadn’t examined my feelings for him beyond the pleasure of having him back. I knew my avoidance of any deep contemplation on the subject was self deception, but I just couldn’t make myself consider what came next. It’d been a long time since I’d spent any real time in the saddle, and I knew I’d be feeling it the next day. I’d never herded sheep before, and I knew Grandma Yazzie didn’t necessarily need my help so I hung back, waiting for direction, and mostly just enjoying the quiet companionship of Samuel and his grandmother.

  The chill of the morning eventually gave way to sunshine and blue skies, with an underlying reminder of fall in the smell of the wind. When we reached the valley where the sheep would spend several hours, we climbed off our horses, hobbled them by tying their back legs together, and enjoyed a little jerky and some fry bread left over from the night before. We then settled in for some quiet time while the sheep grazed.

  I had started to doze a little, listening to Samuel talk to his grandmother, not understanding anything of course, not feeling the need to. I felt Samuel brush at my arm, and opened one eye blearily in question.

  “You had a tick crawling on you. Grandma says they’ve been bad this year.”

  The thought of a tick burrowing its way into my arm was as effective as a cold-bucket of water on my sleepiness. I sat up, brushing down my arms and legs and running my fingers through my hair.

  “You know why a wood tick is flat don’t you?” Samuel sat where he’d been resting against a large rock. He didn’t seem all that concerned with the idea of a wood ticks crawling around.

  “I don’t think I ever looked at one long enough to know they were flat,” I admitted, still brushing off my jean clad legs.

  “Another Navajo story . . . Grandma tells it better than I do….but the legend is that Coyote, the trickster, was out walking one day when he met this old woman. The old woman tells him there is a giant nearby and he should turn around and leave. Coyote says he’s not afraid of anything, especially not a giant, and he keeps walking. He picks up a sharp stick though, just in case, thinking he might need it if he comes across the giant. Eventually, he comes to the mouth of this huge cave, and curious as most coyote’s are, he walks in to explore. After walking a little ways, he sees a woman lying on the floor of the cave. He asks her what’s wrong. She says she is so weak she cannot stand. Coyote asks her if she is sick. She says she is starving to death from being trapped inside the belly of the giant with nothing to eat. Coyote says “what giant?” The woman laughs and says he is inside the giant’s belly, too. The cave that he had walked into was the giant’s mouth. “It is easy to walk in,” the woman says, “but no one ever gets out.”

  “Not knowing what else he can do, Coyote keeps walking and exploring. Then he comes upon many more people, all weak and starving to death. Coyote says to them, “If this is the belly of a giant, then the walls are made of muscle and fat, and we can cut into the walls and eat this meat.” So Coyote uses his sharp stick and his teeth and cuts meat from the walls of the giant’s belly. He feeds all the people, and they are happy. They say, “thank you for feeding us, but we still can’t get out.” Coyote says to them, “If this is the giant’s belly, his heart can’t be too far away. I will find his heart and stab him and kill him.” One of the people say, “See that big pumping volcano over there? That is the giant’s heart.”

  “Coyote crawls up the volcano and stabs his stick into the heart of the giant. The giant yells out. “Is that you, Coyote? Quit cutting me and stabbing me, and I will open up my mouth and let you out.”

  “But Coyote doesn’t just want to just save himself, he needs to save the others, too. Thick lava starts to spill out of the volcano that is the giant’s heart. The giant starts to shake, and Coyote tells the people that the volcano is causing an earthquake and the giant will open his mouth, and the people can run out. As the giant is in his death throes, he roars in pain and the people trapped in his belly run out of his mouth. Coyote has saved them.” Samuel finished his tale and sat looking at me, expectantly.

  “That’s a good story . . . but I’m not sure what it has to do with the wood tick.” I raised my eyebrows in question.

  “Oh yeah,” Samuel smiled back. “See, the wood tick is the last to get out, and he is just crawling out when the giant dies and his jaws close. Coyote has to pull him out between the giant’s teeth, and he gets flattened in the process.”

  “Ahhh, that makes perfect sense.” I laugh out loud. “I like how Native American legends seem to be a mix of the very far-fetched and the very practical.”

  Samuel’s grandmother had been sitting nearby, working with her wool again, and she looked up as I chuckled. She seemed to have followed our conversation, and I concluded that she must understand English better than she could speak it.

  She spoke to me now, though I didn’t understand. Her face was kind and her words soft.

  “Grandma says that just like the stories in my bible, the legends have hidden lessons if you look deep enough. It is the lesson behind the story that is the most important part.” Samuel translated for me as he gazed at his grandmother, his expression matching hers.

  “Like parables?”

  Grandma Yazzie nodded her head, like she understood my question. She spoke to me again, this time in stilted English, and I listened attentively, knowing it was uncomfortable for her, and knowing she tried for my sake.

  “Coyote not know he trapped.” She looked down at the wool she was carding, and didn’t say more.

  I looked at Samuel for further clarification, not really understanding what his grandmother was trying to communicate. Samuel was still for a moment, and then he leveled his gaze on mine, squinting a little against the sun that had infiltrated our limited shade.

  “Coyote was inside the belly of the giant, and he didn’t even know it. He was completely unaware that he was trapped. I think that’s what grandma was trying to say.”

  “You could also argue that Coyote was the only one who wasn’t trapped.” I shrugged, knowing that Samuel’s grandmother’s interpretation of the legend had reminded him of me. My stomach twisted at the knowledge, and I was suddenly eager to turn the tables on him. “Coyote had no trouble getting out – but he knew he couldn’t leave everyone else behind.”

  “Hmm. I should have known you’d see it that way.” Samuel reached out and brushed his fingertips down my cheek. “I feel like I’m back on the bus, trying to keep up. You were always two steps ahead of me.”

  “Would it make you feel better if we arm wrestled?” I poked at him, “I’m sure I wouldn’t stand a chance.” I was relieved to turn the conversation in a different direction.

  Samuel laughed out loud, and his grandmother looked up sharply, her eyes resting lovingly on his grinning countenance. Her gaze slid reluctantly from his face to mine, and her eyes were full of questions.

  19. Crescendo

  There are supposed to be links between math, music, and astronomy – some of the g
reatest composers have been avid star-watchers. The connections between math and music made sense – although there is more to the connection than timing, counting, and notes on a line. In fact, there is something neurological that occurs in the brain when certain types of music are played. That neurological change is said to positively affect our mathematical abilities. I’d been fascinated by what some researchers have called the Mozart Effect, and have used the study to convince more than one mother to keep her struggling child in piano lessons.

  But the only connection I’d ever made between astronomy and music was in the way each made me feel. When I looked up into the firmament, I felt the same reverence that moved in me when I listened to the swell of great music. I’d never had anyone teach me about the stars like Samuel’s grandmother had done for him. What I’d learned in school text books failed to inspire me, as if some vital piece was being omitted. The galaxy was a riddle that everyone pretended to know the answer to, but no one really did. At school, I’d often find myself growing impatient with facts and figures that seemed like paltry suggestions for something that was beyond words and explanations.

  After dinner on our third day there, Samuel and I climbed a rocky rise near his grandmother’s hogan as the sun set. And as the purple dusk was overcome with black, we watched the stars blink and awaken above us. As the night deepened and the display became more dramatic, I felt that familiar, humble wonder that I always felt when I contemplated the heavens. My limbs were heavy and my belly was full, and I felt more content and relaxed than I could remember feeling in a very long time.

  Samuel’s grandmother had killed a goat in honor of his visit, and she’d spent the last two days cooking and preparing dishes. I was not especially squeamish, but when Samuel had told me that his grandmother used literally everything from the goat, I had been a little doubtful about my ability to take part in the feast being prepared. I’d even watched her make blood cakes, and amazingly enough, in spite of the gruesome name, they weren’t bad. They were heavy and filling and when they were cooking they smelled delicious. Two of Grandma Yazzie’s friends came and helped her with her preparations, and I was struck by how similar they were to the women in my church, laughing and giggling and working side by side. I marveled at the ingenuity and resourcefulness of these people. They even used ash from the juniper trees to leaven and thicken their bread.

  The goat feast had been a lighthearted gathering of Grandma Yazzie’s friends, all who seemed to know and hold affection for Samuel. His mother had come as well, but seemed ill at ease and confrontational towards Grandma Yazzie. In some ways, she looked older than her mother, although she was probably only in her late forties. Deep lines and sunken eyes told a tale of a very sad woman. Samuel seemed glad to see her and embraced her warmly, but shrugged with acceptance when she left not long after she arrived.

  Now, lying beside Samuel on the smooth surface of the sandstone rise, looking up into the endless expanse of the night sky, I asked him about the woman who was his mother.

  “She still lives with my step-dad, although I haven’t seen him since I left that last time my senior year in high school. My shima’s hogan has been neutral ground for my mother and me to see each other over the years.

  “She doesn’t seem to like to Grandma Yazzie very much,” I said truthfully.

  “She can’t ever get a rise out of Grandma. I think she tries to provoke ill-treatment from her to justify her own bad feelings. But my Grandma just loves her and, from what I can see, offers peace whenever she comes around. Sadly, my mother has betrayed herself too many times, and she is turning into a bear.”

  “A bear?” I questioned, confused.

  “Another legend. When I was little, my grandmother told me a story about a woman who was captured by the bear-clan. At night they were bears, but in the day, human. The woman marries the chief of the bear clan and eventually, after living with the bear clan for many years, she starts to grow fur and becomes a bear.”

  “And your mother is becoming like the bear she married?”

  “Ahh, you catch on quick, Josie. Actually, in the legend, the bear is selfless and loving, and dies for his family in the end, but I was always struck by the idea that we become what we surround ourselves by.” Samuel sighed. “Or maybe it’s just easier to blame my step-dad for what my mother has become than to hold her accountable.”

  “I think the legend is truer than you even realize. Have you ever noticed how old married couples start to resemble each other after many years of marriage?” I giggled at the thought of some of the very old couples in Levan, and how they could almost be brother and sister they looked so much alike.

  “So if you marry me, in fifty years my hair will start to curl and my eyes will be a brilliant blue?” Samuel teased softly, not turning towards me, his eyes trained on the stars above us.

  My heart stuttered, and the image of growing old with Samuel suddenly played through my mind in moving pictures. I sat up abruptly, wrapping my arms around my knees, and struggled to think of something, anything, to say that would take the pictures from my head and the longing from my heart.

  If Samuel perceived my discomfort, he didn’t pursue it, and his voice was soft as he moved the conversation to less personal ground, but he stretched his hand out and ran his fingers gently through my curls as he spoke.

  “I’ll be at Camp Pendleton in San Diego for the next couple of years, Josie. I accepted an assignment at the base with the sniper division. I will be an instructor, training and working with marines who are expert riflemen. I won’t have to live on base, and I won’t be considered active for deployment with my unit. I’ve been accepted to law school at San Diego State, and I can attend classes in the afternoon and evenings.”

  He had it all planned out. I guess he’d figured out what he’d wanted. When we’d stood in the kitchen the morning after our run, he’d claimed he hadn’t decided what came next. It seemed he now knew. I was proud of him and frustrated all at the same time.

  “How do you do it, Samuel?” I asked, and I was surprised at the confrontational edge to my voice, “How do you come here and see your grandma, see her growing older, knowing one day she’ll be gone, not knowing if this time might be the last time you see her, and then leave again?”

  “Do you think my Shima needs me to stay, Josie?” Samuel sat up beside me, and the fingers that had been gently twined in my hair now slid to my chin, turning my face to his. “Do you really think she wants me to stay?”

  I tried to jerk my face from his hand, but he leaned into me and answered his own question. “I accomplish nothing by staying here. My grandmother knows I love her, and she expects me to keep moving forward. Do you remember how, when I was born, my grandmother buried my umbilical cord in her hogan so that I would know I always have a home?”

  I nodded a brief yes.

  “This place is in my heart, but it can’t be my home, not now, maybe not ever. Do you remember how Grandma knew that wasn’t right, so she dug up the cord and put it on the gun rack?”

  Again, I nodded.

  “There are many kinds of warriors, Josie. I’ve been one kind, and you know the saying goes, once a Marine always a Marine, but now I need to be a different kind of warrior for the Navajo people. I want to get my law degree so I can help native people retain their lands, and not just the Navajo people. Our government doesn’t need acres and acres of land. Do you know that the United States Government OWNS more than half of the land out west? As much as 60% of the land in some states. The government goes in and takes the land in the name of the people, but what it is doing is taking the land from the people. The founding fathers, as well as a few of the great chiefs, would be rolling in their graves if they knew about the land grab that has happened by our own government.”

  Samuel breathed out in frustration, dropping his hand from my face and running it through his hair. “Don’t even get me started, Josie.” He paused and then confronted me again. “So you think I should live here with my grandma i
n her hogan? Is that what you’re saying, Josie? Live here and herd sheep? Do you think my grandma would think I loved her more if I did?”

  I felt like the lowest of life forms, and I shook my head miserably. “No, Samuel, I don’t. I’m sorry. I’m not really sure what I meant.”

  The silence around us was broken only by the occasional distant laughter floating up from the hogan below and an orchestra of happy crickets united in their evening song. Several long moments passed before Samuel supplied gently, “Maybe we aren’t really talking about me, Josie.”

  Samuel waited patiently for an answer, but after significant time passed without a response, he silently rose to his feet. He reached his hand down, and I took it, letting him pull me up beside him.

  “We’ve got an early morning tomorrow, Josie. Let’s go back and see if they’ve saved us any goat gut ice cream.”

  “Ugh!” I cried out, totally falling for it.

  “Just kidding, sweetheart. Goat eyeballs are actually quite tasty, though. They’re considered a delicacy among my people.”

  “Samuel!”

  His laughter eased the churning in my heart, and I followed him down the steep path back to the dim light of Grandma Yazzie’s hogan.

  There were no tears when Samuel and his grandmother said their goodbye’s the next morning. The sun was just peeking her way over the eastern mountains as they spoke in low tones, their cheeks pressed together, Samuel’s forehead resting on her shoulder, his back bowed to accommodate their embrace. I turned from them, embarrassed to find my own eyes were moist when theirs were not. I guess I just didn’t like goodbyes.

  I felt a gentle touch on my sleeve, and turned to see Grandma Yazzie standing close beside me. Her eyes searched mine, noting, I’m sure, the wet that was threatening to overcome them. She reached up and patted my cheek with her warm, rough palm. When she spoke, her English was almost perfect.