by Sarah Dreher
It was a doll, crudely carved from cottonwood. The hair, an animal's fur, was chestnut brown. The eyes were green.
It gave her an odd feeling.
"It looks a little like me."
Siyamtiwa shrugged.
"All Whites look alike."
“With green eyes?"
"Maybe all Whites look like Shirley MacLaine."
Stoner laughed. "Thank you for the compliment." She held up the doll. "And for this. I'll cherish it."
"It brings luck. Maybe you will need that." The old woman made a low noise deep in her throat, the kind of noise a dog makes when it thinks it hears something but doesn't want to make a fool of itself by barking at nothing. She glanced at Stoner. "This sound makes bad things go away. Don't want bad things on your doll. You visit the new trader?"
"Yes."
"The old one, how does it go with her?"
"Much better. She left the hospital.”
"Good. That's a bad place. Take stuff from you. No harmony in that place."
"She's better," Stoner pointed out. "They must have helped her."
"Maybe something else helped her. Maybe something came along."
"Something?"
Siyamtiwa ignored her question. "You have Power?"
"Psychic power? I'm afraid not."
"Hosteen Coyote thinks you have Power. That's why he watches you in the night."
Stoner had to laugh. "Then I'm afraid he has his signals crossed. Whatever he's involved in, it doesn't have anything to do with me."
"So," said Siyamtiwa.
She scraped up a handful of pebbles and toyed with them. "I have to ask another question."
“Well," said Siyamtiwa, "that's how it is with you."
"How did you know that? About the coyote watching me?"
"I know how he thinks." Suddenly she grabbed Stoner's wrist. "You are too innocent, Green-eyes," she hissed. "There are things here you should fear."
"But I'm only..."
"Already you have been lost on the desert."
"I was following tracks..."
"Left by this coyote," Siyamtiwa finished for her. "Is this how you do in strange places? To wander off? To tell no one where you are going?"
"How did you...?"
Siyamtiwa shook her arm roughly. "Is this your way?"
“Of course not. I'm usually very careful."
The old woman took her by the shoulders and looked deep into her eyes. "You listen to me, pahana. Something is going to happen here. You got to be ready."
"Sure," Stoner said.
Siyamtiwa let her go. "Now I would like water."
"I'll get you some," Stoner said, and scrambled to her feet. "If you can help me find the trading post."
"You have eyes. Use them."
She looked over the old woman's head. The road was only a few steps away. She could read the lettering on the trading post sign.
She knew it hadn't been there when she sat down.
Siyamtiwa gave her a push. "Go."
"I'll be back," she said, and trotted toward the road.
At the kitchen door, Stoner glanced back. Siyamtiwa stood watching her, solid as a tree trunk and still as stone.
Either cross-cultural differences are greater than I realized, she thought, or something very strange is going on here.
The hair at the back of her neck rose like a dog's.
* * *
Grandmother Eagle slid down a sunbeam and came to rest on the ground beside the old woman. “What are you up to, Ancient?"
"Medicine. "
Eagle spread her wings and fluttered them in annoyance. "You make medicine with a white girl? Age has stolen your senses."
Siyamtiwa shrugged. "I think she will be okay,"
“Whites bring nothing but trouble," Kwahu said. "That's how it's always been."
Siyamtiwa glanced at her. "Your Navajos bring trouble too. It's always been like that."
"Hopis are fools," Eagle grumped.
"Navajos are thieves."
"You think you make the sun rise with your dances."
"Steal our horses, steal our land, steal our water—.”
"The Anglos steal your land," Eagle interrupted. "Steal your traditions, steal the minds of your children. All the time you sit on your mesas and wait for the Lost White Brother to come and save you."
Siyamtiwa shrugged. "You think like a Navajo, old Kwahu. You don't understand symbolism."
"Dreamer,"Eagle said, and scratched the dust. "Mask-painter."
"Silver-pounder, rug weaver."
Eagle kicked pebbles.
"Is good to fight," Siyamtiwa said. " It warms the bones."
"Listen to me, Grandmother. That girl…” She gestured with her beak... "that Green-eyes is not the Lost White Brother. That Green-eyes will not bring Harmony."
"Harmony!" Siyamtiwa threw back her head and laughed. "I have looked for Harmony for more years than the grains of pollen on the Corn Mother. This is another matter. I think maybe a Ya Ya matter."
Eagle paced in a circle. "This is how you spend your last days, talking Ya Ya foolishness? The Ya Ya are gone, old woman."
"That is legend. I'm not so sure. Coyote seeks out this Green-eyes. Maybe he knows something. This Coyote is not what he seems."
"If you are right," Kwahu said, "this girl can't fight your battle. She has no Power."
"I think maybe you are wrong. And maybe Coyote knows this. If it is true, she will be in it whether I want it or not."
"I don't approve," said Eagle.
Siyamtiwa smiled. “When did you ever approve? All my life, I have known eagle disapproval. When I reach the Other World, I will probably be greeted by your disapproval.”
"It would give me the greatest pleasure," Eagle said.
Siyamtiwa waved her away. "Then give me peace in this world, mouse-eater. There are things I must think about."
* * *
She let the screen door slam behind her. "Stell!"
Stell started and looked up from her account book. "Jesus, I'd forgotten what the pitter-patter of little feet can do to your nerves."
"I met an old Indian woman out on the desert. She needs water."
Stell pushed her chair back and stood up. "Dying?"
"No, but I don't know why not. She's about a hundred and fifty years old. Siyamtiwa. Do you know her?"
"Can't say as I do. Might have met her, though. They don't give out their names freely." She took a glass from the cupboard, rejected it as too small, and found a quart Mason jar beneath the sink.
"She knew about the coyote," Stoner said. "Don't you think that's strange?"
"These people know things we don't. Guess it's because they look at life differently." She ran cold water in the sink. "The first couple of weeks here, I ran myself ragged trying to figure stuff out. Take my advice, go with the flow, as my son would say."
Stoner held out the doll. "She gave me this."
Stell turned it over and over in her hands. "Looks like you."
"I thought so, too." She took the doll back and leaned against the sink. “We had the oddest conversation. About sorcerers—powaqa, she called them. She said the coyote was half-man, and that he knew my heart."
Stell shook her head. "This reservation's buzzing with superstition these days. Must be the Missionary influence."
"Do you believe it?"
"I wouldn't say yes or no," Stell said. "But it wouldn't stand up in an Anglo court of law." She laughed. "You take a superior attitude toward things like that, next thing you know you're awake in the middle of the night with your bed levitating six feet off the floor."
Stoner took a jar of water. "Is it okay with you if we go into Beale?"
"You don't need my permission."
“We need your car."
"Take it." Stell waved her away. “We're not going anywhere we can't take the horses. If you don't mind doing some errands, there's a list of last-minute forgots on the table." She reached down a can of tomatoes. "Take these to t
he old lady. But don't make a show of it. It embarrasses them. Just put it on the ground and leave it behind, like you overlooked it. She'll understand your intentions."
"Thanks. Where's Gwen?"
"Last I saw, down by the barn with Ted. He said he was going to teach her to split wood. You better intervene before he turns her into a workaholic like himself. They're handy, but not much fun to live with."
She followed the sound of chopping.
Gwen stood, back turned to her, in front of a large block of wood. She lifted an uncut log, balanced it on end, stepped back, and brought the axe down with a crack. The split halves flew. Tom Drooley unfolded his legs, retrieved the sticks with a dignified air, and dropped them at Gwen's feet. She reached for another log.
"Hey!" Stoner called. "If you ever decide to quit teaching and get a real job, the two of you can work in a lumber camp."
Gwen turned. "Darn," she said, wiping the perspiration from her face on her shirt sleeve. "Just when we've hit our stride."
Stoner picked up a freshly-cut log and sniffed it. The sharp, resinous odor burned her nose. "Smells great. What is it?"
"Mesquite. Hard as nails. If you don't hit it just right, you can shatter every bone in your arms." She swung the axe at the chopping block, setting the blade deep into the wood. "Do you have any idea what the Yuppies back home would pay for that stack?"
"Can you take a break? There's someone I want you to meet, and I thought we could go into Beale."
"Am I decent?"
There were wood chips in her hair. Her sleeves were turned back. Dust coated her boots and the bottoms of her jeans. "You look terrific. "
"Flatterer. How do I really look?"
"Your hair needs combing."
As they walked toward the bunkhouse, Gwen spotted the can of tomatoes and jar of water. "Is that lunch, I hope not?"
"It's a gift for Siyamtiwa."
"Siyamti-who?"
"Siyamtiwa. An old Hopi woman. It means Something Disappearing over Flowers."
Gwen ran a comb through her hair and picked up her shoulder bag. "Do you have the feeling you're in the middle of a John Ford epic?"
"No. A Stephen King epic. Complete with werewolves."
"This place is weird," Gwen said. She whistled for Tom Drooley. The big dog crawled, one leg at a time, into the bed of the pick-up and curled up on an old blanket.
"Think it's all right to take him?" Stoner asked.
"Ted says he goes to town all the time. He'll just hang out in back. He won't do anything."
"I believe that," Stoner said. She swung up behind the steering wheel and turned the key in the ignition. "Let's ride."
* * *
"I know this is where I left her." The desert was empty. The ground was scuffed and broken.
"You certainly made a mess," Gwen said.
"She must be around here somewhere."
"Maybe she got tired of waiting."
"Even at that, she couldn't have gone far." She turned in all directions. "I hope nothing's happened."
"Maybe she went looking for shade, or hitched a ride."
"You don't understand. This woman is old."
“Well, she managed to get here, didn't she? I'll bet she can handle herself on the desert better than you can."
Stoner decided not to respond to that one. Her morning experiences hadn't been anything to brag about.
She slid to the bottom of the hill and looked around. Nothing. No body, no tracks, no litter. Only a little gray spider that couldn't be in its right mind, spinning a web between two rocks.
“Want to wait?" Gwen asked.
She shook her head. She had the feeling Siyamtiwa wouldn't come.
"Tell you what," Gwen said. “We'll tuck the water and tomatoes into a cranny, and maybe she'll find them." She handed Stoner the can and jar. "Careful with this. If you spill it, we could change the whole ecology."
Stoner laughed.
"I'm serious," Gwen said. "There are seeds out here that lie in the sand for hundreds of years, waiting for the exact combination of rainfall and temperature to burst into life. Maybe you'd like to make the desert bloom, but I don't want the responsibility."
* * *
Now what?
Eagle launched herself from her perch high on Big Tewa Peak as the trading post truck pulled out of the driveway.
Crazy Whites, she groused. Always moving. Afraid Masau will get them if they sit still. She circled high and watched as the truck turned south onto the blacktop.
Midday, and the sun hot as embers.
Crazy, crazy, crazy.
GO HOME! she shrieked. Sit in the shade. Count your money. Stare at your ghost boxes. Think up new ways to kill each other. But leave me in peace, for the love of Taiowa.
No doubt about it, she had always hated the Two-legs, especially the White ones. Old Man had called her a racist for that, but look where all his open-mindedness had gotten him. A tolerant dead eagle's just as dead as an intolerant one.
She could still see, in her fading ancestral memory, how it had been in the old days. The unbroken sweeps of land stretching from the dawn place to the evening place. The buffalo grass and pinyon forests, spruce and mesquite and creosote and cactus. Still canyons and quick rivers. The late afternoon parade of the Cloud People bringing rain. Long, cold, silent winters under the soft snow. The easy hunting, the clear kill. And the Dineh, her Dineh that the Whites called Navajo, with their sheep and dogs, their summer homes in the cool green canyons, the fragrant smoke of winter fires rising from their hogans. And everywhere Harmony, everywhere hozro.
Looking back, she could even spare a kind thought for the Hopi, those broad-nosed fanatics. She had enjoyed the many-days ceremonies, the mystery plays that told the Creation stories, the Kachina dancers with the brightly painted masks, the bells and rattles, the offerings of the Corn Mother. More than once she had made a tasty dinner of Rodent People who came to eat the lines of meal and pollen marking the trails the Kachinas would follow. Yes, even the Hopi had their good points.
But the Whites ...
White was guns and fences and pony soldiers and fighting. White was pushing and shouting, moving people here, there, always some dying. White was the iron rails with their smoke-breathing wagons, the hard black roads and tin horses, the many-wheels that roared across the land day and night and flattened the Hare People and never stopped. White was the Giant Mushrooms that brought poison rain, the big hogans spewing black smoke. White was machines that clawed and chewed the mountains and moved on, while the land died in their wake.
Life had been good in the old days, as long as you stayed away from Black Mesa where the Two-legs gather eagle feathers for their prayer sticks. You could pass the afternoons on a rocky crag and gossip with the wind. The Eagle people were plentiful, and while she didn't particularly care for neighbors-not like the Hopi living in one another's shadows-it was comforting to know they were there. Now the Eagle People were nearly gone, too, the nesting places destroyed, the food beasts poisoned. At her last laying time, the eggs had been sterile, the shells fragile as tissue. After that, though the mating had gone well, there were no more eggs, and she had wept over the empty nest.
And the Two-legs had changed. The dark wind blew through them. Squabbles, meanness, fights between the old ways and the new ways, between the clans, within the clans, everybody looking sideways at their neighbors.
And now here came the old Grandmother, who was maybe the oldest Indian she had ever seen, maybe older than the oldest, maybe something else altogether. Old Grandmother, talking of battles and making up to the Green-eyed pahana.
It made her tired to think of it.
The truck turned east, toward Beale. Not much trouble for you to make there, Green-eyes.
She swooped low, screamed an insult, and headed back to Big Tewa Peak.
FOUR
No one has ever called Beale; Arizona, the Jewel of the Desert. Founded by Lieutenant Ed Beale during his camel-train survey of the Southwest
in 1857, it straddles the old Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe rail line, and Route 66. The trains don't stop there any more, and old 66 is crumbling to gravel while tourists roar past on Interstate 40. But waxed paper wrappers and old newspapers and squashed beer cans still pile up against the chain link fence that protects the tracks, and that makes it a railroad town.
Outsiders, who are generally from the east and ignorant, claim 1-40 has bypassed Beale. The truth is, Beale is studiously ignoring I-40. The main street still boasts the original black-on-white 66 shields. Every road sign within a twenty-mile radius can be shotgun blasted to Kingdom Come, but no one-no matter how restless, bored, adolescent, or liquored-up-would take aim at those road markers. The original concrete is lovingly patched each spring in a kind of community fertility rite during which men let their beards grow and women dress up in hand-sewn pioneer dresses and everyone eats fried chicken and potato salad under the blistering sun amid swarms of deer flies, and when the day's over everyone wonders secretly why the only ones who seem to enjoy it are the deer flies, but no one dares to say it out loud.
The road runs east to west straight as a ruler. So does the town. At the east end, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints and Saint James Episcopal, Southwest Mission, face off like gunfighters, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Things deteriorate steadily from there. The buildings along the street are dusty stucco, and bear the original names. The Stockman's Savings and Loan has been the Stockman's Savings and Loan for over a hundred years. The gold lettering on the plate glass windows of the Waldorf Cafe is chipped but readable. McMahon's Hardware still sells pitcher pumps and barbed wire, and dry goods by the yard. Nobody remembers when the last Smith owned Smith's Feed, Grain, and Farm Equipment, but it's still Smith's Feed, Grain and Farm Equipment. According the marquee over the Roxy Theater, 3:10 to Yuma is still playing, but the doors are boarded up and the cracked windows of the ticket booth are reinforced with mummified scotch tape.
Beale's more modern attractions include a Western Auto Store (circa 1949), the IGA ('53), Bud's Army /Navy Surplus ('55), and the Golden Opportunity Texaco Service, which still bears the motto "Trust Your Car to the Man Who Wears the Star". During the patriotic craze of '76, the townsfolk gave a passing thought to having Beale declared a National Historic Site and restoring it. But, as someone pointed out, why invite the government to stick its nose in their business, when Beale was already in mint condition?
