Charlie Moon—unconsciously governed by his ingrained policeman’s instinct—stayed near the rear of the group where he could see everyone. As the gathering was led to a sandstone shelf near the north edge of the mesa, the more senior of the tour guides paused and waited for silence. Amanda Silk pointed to a bowl-shaped depression in the stone at her feet. “This is the Stone Basin—the only one at Chimney Rock. There are several at the Chaco Canyon ruins. Like this one, the Chaco basins are all near a Great Kiva. But we don’t know what purpose they served.” She looked expectantly at the group of dark faces. “Any of you care to comment?”
This invitation was met by a stony silence. The guide sighed. A typical group of tourists would have had all sorts of suggestions. It was a place for sacrificial blood to be spilled. One imaginative visitor had suggested that the depression had been filled with water and used as a mystical mirror for peering into dark places. A slack-jawed youth from St. Louis had snickered to his peers that maybe it was a toilet for coyotes. Not that his language had been so polite. But these Indians were a quiet lot. No speculation from their lips. Amanda wondered whether one of the elderly Native Americans present might actually know something useful about the basin—but did not intend to discuss such mysteries with a white woman.
At an encouraging look from her mentor, April Tavishuts found her voice and addressed the gathering of Indian tourists. “When we get up to the Crag, there’s a wonderful view of Companion and Chimney Rocks. And you’ll see the ruins of the Great Pueblo. It was constructed between A.D. 1076 and 1093.” Uneasy with this first experience in public speaking, her voice quavered. She cleared her throat and began again. “The structure appears to be perfectly rectangular. But actually, the stone walls are not quite parallel. If you project lines along the walls, they converge right here—at the Stone Basin.” April waited for some expression of appreciation for this curious little gem of information. She got none from the Indian spectators.
Dr. Silk made a slight nod to her subordinate.
“Okay,” April said quickly, “let’s go up to the Crag.”
Charlie Moon, who was enjoying the slow pace of the day, moved along behind the small crowd. As he walked, he thought a rancher’s thoughts. Maybe some rain would fall on the Columbine’s vast acreage within the next few days. What would beef cattle be selling for this time next year. Would the two hundred acres along the river produce enough hay to see him through the winter. Was there any way to raise enough cash to buy that magnificent Hereford bull from the senator’s ranch next door. Sure. Rob a bank.
THE TALE
Daisy Perika and Alvah Yazzi sat on the rusted tailgate of Charlie Moon’s F150. It was blissfully peaceful. Butter-colored butterflies fluttered by. A mountain bluebird fussed among the branches of a juniper, cocking an inquisitive head at the biped intruders.
The elders of their respective tribes were content to merely sit and look. There was much that was pleasing to the eye, and restful to the weary soul. Below the pleated skirt of the mesa was a broad valley, where a copper-hued stream slithered along like a glittering serpent, shifting ripples imitating the facets of reptilian scales. On the near side of the creek stretched a thousand acres of tender new grasses, born emerald green. In this vast pasture were sleek, white-faced cows—frisky calves cutting frolicky bovine capers.
The Ute woman and Navajo man enjoyed those things below. But up there, the faceless twins relentlessly drew their gaze. Crowned with swirling wisps of downy cloud-feathers, the sandstone monoliths looked down upon the mortals. And waited.
Daisy’s eyes fairly ached from what they had seen. She closed them for a brief rest. Then made a sideways appraisal of her male companion—starting at the forked end. Alvah’s feet were shod in canvas sandals. The thin man wore faded denim jeans, a checkered cotton shirt under his Albuquerque Dukes jacket. A massive silver-veined turquoise nugget was suspended from his neck on a leather cord. A sweat-stained red bandanna was fixed tightly around his head; long steel-gray braids hung between his shoulder blades.
Daisy supposed that April had done a good thing bringing her stepfather to this place amongst the Anasazi ghosts. Alvah Yazzi hated being here. He would complain about it all winter. And having something to grouch about would make him happy. Daisy thanked God that she had not become a grumpy old woman who made her nephew miserable. She was startled when the Navajo spoke.
“So how’ve you been?”
The Ute woman shrugged.
“Me too,” he said in a voice that crackled with age. Alvah Yazzi stuffed a brier pipe with tobacco from a yellowed cotton pouch. He struck a phosphorus match across his belt buckle. After the curly-leaf was ignited, he took a long draw and fell into his customary silence.
Daisy Perika assumed that the Navajo had said his piece for the afternoon. She didn’t mind. Being with a man who knew how to keep his mouth shut was fine with her.
But once again, his voice pierced the silence. “Must get lonesome for you. Living out there by the Canyon of the Spirits.”
So you know where my home is. “It’s not so bad. I see my nephew more often now than when he lived over by Ignacio.”
He nodded to express his appreciation of this blessing.
She continued. “Charlie Moon drives down from his ranch every Sunday morning, takes me to church. After mass, we go to a restaurant.”
“That’s good.”
“He’s a nice young man.” She would never have admitted this in front of her nephew. “But today,” she grumped, “I haven’t had my lunch yet. We passed right by that Mexican restaurant at Arboles.” The thought of cheese and onion enchiladas made her mouth water. “Charlie said we’d get some eats later. He was in a big hurry to bring me up here.” Like a half-starved old woman with a brain in her head would want to hobble around and look at ugly piles of rock. Where dead people used to live.
Alvah squinted into the sun. “Down at Window Rock, we hear some big talk about Cháala Tl’éhonaa’éi.”
“About what?”
“Charlie Moon.” He took a pull on the pipe.
She snorted. Just like an uppity Navajo. Can’t talk plain American. Got to throw his jibber-jabber around. “Oh, you mean Charlie Muá-tagó-ci.” But it pleased the Ute elder to realize that even these Navajo people had heard about her nephew.
Alvah exhaled a cloud of gray smoke, and coughed. “There was lots of talk about him being a very clever policeman.”
“He did pretty good for himself.” Daisy said this with a proud tilt of her chin. “And now Charlie’s got himself a big ranch to run.”
“April tells me you make medicines.”
Pleased at his interest in her work, the Ute shaman explained about how from time to time she did gather special plants. Lechuguilla. Thorn apple. Toad flax. Deer’s ears. Some were available within walking distance of her home, others required an automobile trip. A few she purchased mail order. But, she explained, you had to know just how to prepare the roots or leaves or blossoms. Mess up and somebody could get very sick. Maybe even die. The preparation and dispensing of medicines was not to be taken lightly.
“You ever use Hisiiyaanii oil?”
“Sure. For treating cold sores. And skin cancer.”
The Navajo puffed on his pipe, but seemed to be getting little pleasure from it. “April—she says you can cure most anything.”
The Ute pharmacist modestly admitted that this was true. If someone needed a special medication for bleeding, or eye-popping headaches, or stomach cramps that bent you double—she could mix up just the thing. For a price.
The pipe was spent. Alvah Yazzi tapped the bowl on the edge of the tailgate, emptying the warm ashes onto the sand. He looked to the sky, where a hawk circled with sinister grace. “They say you talk to that Ute dwarf.”
Daisy put on a puzzled expression. “Dwarf?”
“The one who lives in Cañon del Espíritu. In a badger hole.”
“Hmmpf,” she said. April’s been telling this Navajo snoop too
much.
“And they say you talk to spirits.” He turned to stare at her. “Is this true?”
She looked straight ahead, saying nothing.
“I know an old man down by Lukachukai—they say he talks to the chíindii. I don’t know if it is true. But my people consider this a very dangerous thing to do.”
You got no business telling me what’s dangerous. “Us Utes do what we please. If one of the spirits was to drop by and visit my place—and was inclined to talk to me…I might talk back. If I wanted to.”
The Navajo seemed almost to shudder. “But what if you don’t want them coming around. What if you want these chíindii to go away?”
Now that he was seeking her advice, the old shaman felt like boasting. “If I didn’t want ’em around, I’d send ’em packing.”
The old man looked doubtful. “You could do that?”
After the barest hesitation, she replied, “Sure.”
Alvah Yazzi frowned at the stem of the cold pipe. As if it were a snake that might bite him on the lip. “Maybe sometime…” His voice trailed off.
She leaned closer. “What’d you say?”
“Maybe sometime I’ll come and see you.”
“I guess that’d be okay.”
While the sun moved three diameters along its arc, they sat quietly.
Gradually, Alvah’s head slumped. His chin rested on his chest. The pipe slipped from his grasp and fell to the earth.
Daisy sighed. When I was young and pretty, they didn’t go to sleep on me.
With a suddenness that startled her, the Navajo’s head jerked erect. He turned to look at the old woman. As if he’d never seen her before.
She thought Alvah’s face looked peculiar. Almost wild. Like he was still half asleep.
His voice was raspy. “You know what those are?”
“What what are?” she snapped, annoyed at this old man’s strange behavior.
Alvah pointed two knobby fingers at the stone monoliths. “Those are the Twin War Gods.” He paused to allow the significance of this statement to sink in. “My people know all about them.”
“You Navajo are a clever bunch.” The Ute elder adjusted her cotton scarf to conceal a smirk.
“The Twin’s father is the sun,” Alvah whispered. “Their mother is Yolkaí Estsán—White Shell Woman.”
Daisy was familiar with the myths. The tales varied, depending on whether a Zuni, Hopi, Apache, or Navajo was doing the telling. The situation was further complicated by the fact that various clans within these tribes had their particular version of the story. But in most accounts, White Shell Woman—also known as White Bead Girl—was the moon. From where they were sitting on the pickup tailgate, she would rise almost behind her twin sons and look over their shoulders. It was a fairly good story as stories go, Daisy thought. But the Utes had their own tales to tell. So she pitched her two cents into the bucket. “That tall one the matukach named Chimney Rock—my grandmother called it Yucca Flower Spike.” She pronounced the Ute phrase for the Navajo’s benefit. “Now there’s an interesting story about how it got that name. A long time ago, there was this young Ute woman called Stone Calf. She didn’t have a husband, but she had herself an ugly baby that had long black hair all over its body. That was because it was fathered by a black bear and—”
The words from Alvah’s mouth cut her off. “When the world was young, there were terrible monsters. They killed human beings—and fed on their flesh. These beasts were slain by the Twin War Gods so people could live on the earth without being molested.” The Navajo’s dark eyes stared into empty space, as if he could see that which had long since passed away. “There was once a glorious time—and not so long ago—when the Twins received the honor due them. Father Sun and Mother Moon were worshiped. In return, they did many good things for the People.”
Daisy groaned inwardly. Like most old men, this one liked to tell stories she had no particular interest in hearing.
The Navajo’s voice droned on, like a dry wind in the pines. “Long before the horses came, some farmers had moved up there—onto this mesa. There were tall trees here in those times, not just the puny little piñon and juniper you see now. The farmers grew food down in the valley, by the river. Squash. Corn. Beans.”
She felt a hunger pang. Maybe Charlie Moon will take me into Pagosa for some eats.
“These farmers lived in houses that were halfway under the ground. They kept warm in winter. No matter how cold it got—or how hard the winds blew.” Unconsciously, Alvah Yazzi began to button his jacket against the light breeze slipping over the edge of the mesa. “Later on, those desert people who had come up from Mexico—they came to this place to worship…her.” He jutted his chin to indicate where the unseen moon would rise. “They came up here because the sky had stopped giving water. The corn and beans shriveled up in the fields down by the creek. The squash were small—with black spots on them. It was very bad. We thought: If we can make White Shell Woman cry from hearing about our troubles, her tears will water the earth. So we prayed to her.”
We? The truck bed was a hard place to sit. Daisy shifted uneasily, but found no comfort.
Alvah Yazzi’s voice took on a bitter tone that disturbed the Ute elder. “We prayed and prayed. But White Shell Woman shed no tears upon our land.”
“Droughts can be very bad,” the Ute woman said. “I remember one back when my second husband was growing pinto beans down by the Piedra. It got so dry that parts of the riverbed turned to dust. My man said it was so dry even the fish had ticks. He was a big joker. Kept me laughing all the time.” She smiled at her Navajo companion.
Alvah continued with a stony face, “We knew that sacrifices were necessary. We had the farmers bring fine cooking pots—and throw them over the cliff, onto the rocks.”
The practical Ute woman considered this an exceedingly wasteful practice.
“They broke many pots. Still, our crops withered.” He pointed to the distant Crag. “The chief priest lived up there in the big white temple. To make the Moon Goddess weep, he pierced his tongue. His blood dripped onto the sandstone altar.”
Daisy’s tongue responded with a sympathetic ache.
“Still, there was no rain. So slaves were sacrificed. They were bound with rawhide and thrown into the fire.” The old man directed a peculiar look at his companion. “The Old Ones—they prefer to kill with flames.”
This had gone far enough. “Look,” she said, “I don’t like this story. It’s no good dredging up all these bad thoughts. Why don’t we talk about something cheerful.” Like lunch.
It was as if the Navajo had not heard her protest. “The bonfire was fueled by the bodies of slaves for many days.” He turned his gaze to the arid sky. “Even this did not make White Shell Woman weep.”
Daisy craned her neck in an attempt to see the tour group. What’s keeping Charlie Moon?
“When they ran out of slaves, they started sacrificing the farmers who lived in the round houses.”
“I figured they’d get around to that.” She said this with cutting sarcasm.
“Men, women—even children—they put them all into the fire.”
“You shouldn’t tell such awful tales.” It could bring on sickness.
“But the skies were hard,” he said with a toothy grimace. “Like copper.”
This Alvah Yazzi was a strange one. Even for a Navajo.
“So the chief priest, he knew things was finished here. He decided to leave the great white temple up there on the sandstone shelf. He had the temple kivas burned—and the other rooms. Then he ordered all the farmers’ round houses burned. It didn’t matter much, most of the people were already gone. Many had been thrown into the fire. Others had slipped away at night.”
Daisy wished she could slip away.
“Before his job was finished, the chief priest had one thing left to do. He had something that belonged to White Shell Woman—something that must be left behind, where her sons could watch over it.”
Dai
sy had heard at least a dozen tales of the treasure hidden by the Anasazi wizard. She yawned.
The Navajo paused, his lips curving into an unpleasant smile. “When the precious object was hidden, he threw himself over the cliff.”
Daisy nodded her approval. “Well, I’m glad to hear it.” Relieved that the dreadful tale was finally at an end, she bent forward to stretch her stiff back.
The old man sat on the tailgate, shaking his head. “Someday White Shell Woman will come back.” He pointed at the stone towers. “She’ll stand up there—between her sons. When she does, the Twins will become flesh again. And when they walk, the earth will tremble.”
“Well, when they do,” she muttered, “I hope I’m a long ways off.”
“When they live again,” he said, “they will slay monsters.”
Best to humor him. “I’ve got nothing against killing monsters.”
“But before this happens, there will be dark signs and terrible omens.”
Being curious about such matters, Daisy perked up. “What kind of omens?”
Alvah raised his hands, as if in supplication before a dark altar. “Bones burned to ashes—that will be the sign.”
She nodded as if this made perfect sense.
The man at her side was rubbing his eyes.
Daisy squinted at the sun. “It’s getting late.” And it was. The cosmic clock was ticking away their allotted time.
Her companion seemed drained of words.
White Shell Woman Page 3
