White Shell Woman

by James D. Doss

  “You spot another rabbit?”

  The hound whined, pawed at the earth.

  This is a sure-enough strange dog. “What’s the matter—”

  Before all the words were out of his mouth, the hound leaped into the excavation and started to dig furiously.

  “No,” Moon yelled, “get outta there.”

  The dog, dirt spraying out between his hind legs, ignored this command.

  Moon grabbed Sidewinder by the scruff of his neck and pulled him from the excavation. As the animal was withdrawn, his front paws continued to flail vainly at empty air. The Ute held the dog’s face close to his own. “When I say NO, you better know I mean it.”

  Sidewinder whined and looked sideways at the hole.

  “You are a stubborn creature.” Moon carried the hound back to the pickup and locked him in the cab. The malefactor securely imprisoned, he returned to the excavation. “Well, that animal sure made a mess.” I wonder what possessed him. Now, there was a silly word. Nothing possessed him. Sidewinder was just a regular dog. Nothing but drives and instincts. With about enough working brains to fill an acorn hull.

  Moon knelt by the hole in the ground. He was wondering how he would explain this canine vandalism when he noticed something. On the bottom of the excavation, Sidewinder’s furious digging had uncovered a slab of smooth, black stone. Looked like basalt. But this is a solid sandstone mesa. There can’t be any basalt up here. Not unless someone brings it…

  There was no two ways about it. What he had in mind was illegal. Seriously illegal. He did it anyway.

  Moon scraped away rocks and sand from the basalt slab. He got a grip on one edge, lifted the black stone. Under it was more sand. He removed a thick-bladed knife from a sheath on his belt and scraped away at the soil. About two inches down, the blade encountered something. Moon laid the knife aside and proceeded to remove the soil with his hands. He touched something hard and smooth. It was a bluish-tinted circular disk. Baked clay. Very carefully, he removed more sand. The lid sat on a ceramic pot.

  Moon paused to consider his discovery. It was bad enough to dig here at all. It was a serious offense to remove an Anasazi artifact from its original burial site. If he was going by the book, he should notify the U.S. Forest Service authorities in Pagosa. They would notify the NAGPRA committee. On the other hand, this might be important evidence in an ongoing murder investigation. And despite all the jurisdictional squabbles—and the fact that this property was administered by the U.S. Department of Agriculture—Chimney Rock Archaeological Site was within the boundaries of the Southern Ute Reservation. And he was a duly appointed official of the tribe—gathering evidence in the murder of tribal member April Tavishuts.

  A man who feels a strong urge to break the law will think of a multitude of good reasons to do it.

  Charlie Moon felt a strong urge to examine the artifact that someone was willing to kill to possess. So he resumed his work, gently removing sand from around the almost spherical vessel. When he lifted the object from its resting place, the Ute was in for a surprise. This was not Anasazi ware. The pot—like the lid—was made of a light blue clay. The delicately applied lines and swirls were bright red. These were clearly not Anasazi geometric designs. Circling the outside of the vessel were nine blood-red anatomically correct male figures, their hands raised as if in rapt supplication. The tenth man, taller than his comrades, was notable for more than his size. The only object on the pottery painted white, this human form had the head of a wolf.

  Moon weighed the pot in his hands. Twenty-five, maybe thirty pounds. So the ceramic wasn’t the Anasazi treasure, just a container. The good stuff was in it. All the more reason to notify the authorities. But what’ll I tell them? That I moved a basalt slab and dug up a pot? No. That wouldn’t do.

  Best thing would be to put it back.

  But it wouldn’t hurt to have a quick peek. And so the Ute removed the lid. Looked inside. Stared at it. Where on earth did you come from?

  As the truth slowly dawned, he realized that this was an improper question.

  19

  Then he chanted. And the first chant he used was this:

  Ponder well what you think of me.

  I am he who killed the monsters.

  —Sandoval, Hastin Tlo’tsi hee

  THE INVITATION

  DAISY PERIKA HAD heard the painful creaking of Charlie Moon’s pickup shortly before it topped the crest of the nearest ridge. The Ute elder realized that her hearing was not so keen as it used to be. Only three or four years ago, she would have heard him coming a mile away. She busied herself at the stove. He would want some coffee.

  By the time he knocked on her door, a pot of brackish brew was bubbling over a blue ring of propane flame.

  Moon removed his hat before ducking through the six-foot door. “Good morning.”

  She was very pleased to see her nephew, but old habits die a hard death—so she snapped at him: “You’re too late for any breakfast.”

  He made another attempt. “It’s a really fine day out there.”

  Daisy responded with a doubtful grunt.

  Accustomed to this sort of welcome, Charlie Moon took his customary seat, managing to fold his long legs under the small kitchen table.

  Daisy poured the scalding coffee. Most of it went in his cup. She brought a crockery sugar bowl to the table, slammed it down. “So what brings you out here?”

  He winked at her. “Woke up this morning feeling fine. Thought I’d do something nice for myself. But what? And then it come to me—I’ll go visit my favorite aunt.”

  The old woman fought off a smile. “I’m your only aunt.”

  “That’s what makes you so special.” He dumped five teaspoons of sugar into the oily black liquid and stirred. “You still want to visit the Columbine?”

  Daisy’s heart fluttered with excitement. “Ahh—what would I do up there?” She hoped he had no idea.

  “I thought you wanted to put some of your stuff in the guest cabin—so it’d always be ready whenever you want to come see me. But if you’d rather go someplace else, we could—”

  “No, never mind. I know how proud you are of that big ranch—always wantin’ to show it off.” She directed a pained expression at her youthful relative. “You sure it’s not too much trouble for you to have an old woman in the way for a day or two?”

  He paused, as if thinking it over. “You will be an awful nuisance.” Moon flashed her an ivory smile. “But I’m feeling big-hearted today.”

  Daisy Perika waved a sooty-black skillet at him. “Don’t get smart with me, you big jughead—or I’ll make you a round hat out of this flat frying pan.”

  THE JOURNEY NORTH

  Daisy Perika stretched her neck to peer over the F150 dashboard. Far ahead, a row of sawtoothed peaks ripped through the clouds. “We almost there?”

  Moon swerved to miss a bounding jackrabbit. “Another half hour to the turnoff.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “There’s some Fig Newtons in the glove compartment.”

  She helped herself to the stale cookies. Then: “I need to pee.”

  “I stopped for gas in Granite Creek. Why didn’t you—”

  “Because I wasn’t ready.”

  He slowed the pickup. “I’ll pull off the road by some bushes.”

  “Don’t bother.” She exhaled a practiced martyr’s sigh. “I’ll just have to hold it.”

  Moon thought it best to change the subject. But what would the old woman want to talk about? Something gloomy, of course. He recalled his aunt’s dismal prediction that she was not long for this world. “So. How’re your toenails growing?”

  What a peculiar thing to say. Daisy turned to stare at him. “What?”

  She’s already forgot about it. “Never mind.”

  A ten-mile silence ensued. Moon wondered whether he should tell his aunt about the object he and the dog had unearthed at Chimney Rock. The tribal elder knew all of the old Anasazi legends. He knew what it was—but
Daisy might even have some idea what it was supposed to be. After some consideration, he decided he couldn’t trust his aunt to keep his secret. No, I’ll have to handle this thing by myself.

  A boisterous west wind pushed its muscular shoulder against the pickup.

  The old woman’s head gradually fell back against the seat. Her mouth gaped open. She began to snore.

  A roaring gust flung a bushel of sand and grit at the windshield. Daisy’s head jerked up; she raised a hand as if to shield her face. “What was that?”

  “Texas sleet.”

  As Daisy watched the sand grind away the surface of the glass, she wondered whether she should tell her nephew what she had learned from the pitukupf. Not that Charlie Moon would have the least interest in what the little man had to say. Her nephew did not even believe in the existence of the dwarf. But the shaman had a nagging feeling that she should tell him anyway. She took a deep breath. “Before you was almost killed at Chimney Rock, I had a talk with someone.”

  “Anybody I know?”

  “No.” Sad to say. “But he lives in Cañon del Espíritu.”

  Oh boy—here it comes.

  “In a badger hole,” she added with a stubborn jut of her chin.

  “Is that a fact.” This would be embarrassing.

  “He told me what all that mischief at Chimney Rock was about.”

  It would be best to humor the old woman. If she got to telling one of her fanciful tales, it’d keep her mind off a full bladder. “Well, I’d like to hear what he had to say.”

  She shot him a suspicious glance. Charlie Moon never liked to hear about the dwarf. Just wants me to talk about anything but needing to pee. But I’m going to have my say. “The trouble started a long, long time ago. With them old Anasazi wizards who did all that strange stuff in that big temple up on the Crag.”

  “Wizards,” he muttered.

  She nodded. “What they wanted was always the same thing—power. Problem was, they got too powerful. They was able to control those spirits that live in stones and trees and the wind. For a while, they could even make the weather do what they wanted it to.”

  “Well,” Moon said. Not knowing what else to say.

  “Then came the awful drought. Lasted for years and years. Those Chaco magicians, they did all kinds of things to make it rain. Mostly, they stuck cactus spines through their tongues for blood sacrifices. Stuff like that.”

  Ouch.

  “They were peculiar people,” she said, and added: “From Mexico.”

  Moon eyed the oil pressure gauge. Down some. Rings must be going bad.

  “Most of their sacrifices were made to White Shell Woman. That’s what they call the moon.”

  He wondered where the money for repairs would come from. It’ll need valves too. Might be cheaper in the long run to put in a whole new engine, with all the trimmings. Or at least a short block.

  Daisy hated to mention the really awful things—talk about such terrible evil could bring bad luck. Like painful boils and stomach ulcers and vomiting. But Charlie Moon needed to hear this. “They tried all kinds of sacrifices to get some rain. But no matter what they did, the rain didn’t come. Then, those priests got desperate. And went too far. They started killing human beings.”

  Moon glanced uncertainly at his aunt. What was she muttering about?

  “They burned people—while they was still alive.”

  Poor old thing must be having nightmares.

  “The reason they did these bad things,” the shaman explained, “was to make White Shell Woman cry—so her tears would fall from the sky and make rain for the corn and beans and stuff.”

  Corn and beans sounded good. With a big chicken-fried steak. Better keep her talking. “Did it work?”

  “Wait till I get to the end of the story,” she said with a testy look, “and you’ll find out.”

  “Take your time.”

  “Finally, White Shell Woman did begin to cry. But not for those Anasazi priests—she was cryin’ for those poor people who was being murdered.”

  “That’s good.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “That’s bad.”

  I bet you’re going to tell me why.

  She was. “It happened like this. When White Shell Woman cried, her tears wasn’t water like those old priests had hoped.” Her old eyes flashed. “When they hit the ground, they was pieces of fire. Like red-hot embers.”

  Moon felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

  “One of them burning tears landed down by Stollsteimer Creek,” she said. “Only they didn’t call it that back then.” Unaware that she now had her nephew’s full attention, the old woman continued as if talking to herself. “Them priests, they waited till it had cooled down. Then, they wrapped it in some cured deerskin and took it up to the temple on the Crag. The priest who was head honcho, he knew what the burning tear meant. It was a sign that White Shell Woman was very angry with them. They had to leave the temple. So they started packing up to go south. Back to Chaco. Then all the way down to Mexico. But after everyone else was gone, the oldest wizard, he stayed behind.”

  Moon found a scratchy voice. “Why’d he do that?”

  She was surprised at this expression of interest, which seemed genuine. “Because he had to hide White Shell Woman’s tear close to the Twin War Gods. Someday, way off in the future—when the time was right—he intended to come back for it. But old men are forgetful.”

  Charlie Moon was staring at the sand-strewn road that stretched out toward home. But he was thinking about White Shell Woman’s white-hot tear that had scorched the earth.

  Daisy continued. “That old priest knew that things change a lot as time passes—even the land. So he was worried that when he came back a long time later, he might not be able to find the spot where he buried it. That’s why he made that drawing of the Twin War Gods on the sandstone—to help him find it again. And covered it up with lots of dirt. But something went wrong.”

  Moon heard himself say: “Somebody found the petroglyph.”

  Daisy gave her nephew a searching look. Maybe you do understand. “This person understood the drawing—and knew where the old priest had hidden White Shell Woman’s tear.” She pursed her lips and frowned. “The thought of finding a treasure can make almost anyone act silly. It can make a bad person crazy enough to kill a person who interferes with their plans.”

  The wind hurled a parched tumbleweed against the windshield, causing the old woman to gasp. “What was—”

  “Utah rosebush.”

  She attempted to recover from this distraction. “Where was I?”

  “Something about treasure hunters.”

  Well. He is listening. “For all these years, that old Anasazi wizard has been guarding the place where he hid White Shell Woman’s tear. But after the bad person found out where it was buried, Julius Santos was called up to Ghost Wolf Mesa.”

  “Called by who?”

  “You shouldn’t ask.”

  “Sorry.”

  Daisy continued. “Julius was supposed to stop the bad person from digging up what the old wizard had buried. But he didn’t get the job done.” She glanced at her nephew. “So that old Anasazi wizard showed his Twin War Gods drawing to that little Zuni girl—who showed it to you.”

  “Why would he do that?” Why am I having this dumb conversation?

  “So another person—a good person—would understand what the War Gods’ picture meant—and find White Shell Woman’s tear before the bad person laid hands on it.”

  Moon stared through the windshield into the windswept sands. A good person. Like April Tavishuts? It almost made sense. But April hadn’t found anything but trouble. And like Santos, she had ended up on the far side of that deep river. He heard his aunt’s voice droning on.

  “But even with two dead, another person was called to find White Shell Woman’s tear. That person is supposed to hide it in another place.” She aimed a sharp look at her nephew.

  Moon pretended not t
o feel her eyes. But he did. Like a pair of darts stuck in the side of his head.

  The tribal elder drew in a deep breath. “You got anything you want to tell me?”

  “Yeah. We’re almost to the Columbine gate.”

  Sand-laden wind screamed around the cab.

  Daisy frowned at her reflection in the windshield. It frowned back. “If a person should see that old Chaco wizard, he’ll usually look like a reg’lar man. Dark—skin like beef jerky. But when he wants to, he can grow hair white as snow—and walk on four legs.” The mere thought of the albino wolf made the tribal elder shudder.

  It’s my own fault. I shouldn’t have got her started.

  The sun slipped behind a mile-thick bank of dark clouds. A long, dismal shadow ripped over the wide valley.

  Just ahead, Moon caught a glimpse of something in the road. Something trotting along on four legs. He braked the pickup to a crawl. As the beast paused to look toward the headlights, its eyes reflected bright red—twin embers. The pale form stood quite still for a moment, then loped across the road, down the bank into a shallow arroyo. And was gone.

  It was a coyote. Moon gritted the sand between his teeth. Just an old, gray coyote.

  Daisy Perika had not seen the creature. “A long, long time before you was born—I think it was about nineteen and thirty-something—there was some matukach scientists who came to Colorado with Franklin D. Roosevelt’s WPA. They was working up on Ghost Wolf Mesa, digging in those old kivas and pit houses. You want me to tell you what happened?”

  Any way I could stop you?

  “One day—just about sundown—one of ’em let out this awful scream. Then just flopped over on his face. Dead as a doorbell.”

  “Knob,” he mumbled.

  “What?”

  “Doorknob.” He frowned. Or was it “dead as a doornail”?

  Daisy stared blankly at her nephew. First, it’s some nonsense about toenails. Now he’s babbling about doorknobs. Must be his head injury. Thinking it prudent to act as if his behavior was perfectly normal, she groped for a moment, then picked up the thread of her tale about the scientist who had perished at Chimney Rock so long ago. “From what I heard, that white man must’ve gave up the ghost fairly close to where April Tavishuts’s body was found.” And where you got the sense knocked outta your head. “And you know how he died?”