Another Like Me

by Albert Norton, Jr.

  He paused as long as he could, while still holding the floor, for more Diné to gather. “And the same for Peter and Robin, here. They’ve been kind enough to let me homestead with them. But they’re not Apache. Never have been. Except, like I was saying as you all were walking up, they actually are Apache. Indians. The real kind. In case you have a taste for irony. But none of us are enemy of the Diné. This young lady, Millie, is sort of adopted by us,” Jack paused, looking at her. “At least until she and Peter get married.” Millie blushed and looked at her feet.

  Jack realized as he delivered himself of this little speech that the Diné would have no prepared way of dealing with their visit, and he might as well continue to frame the issues for them, as long as he did it with the appropriate aura of humility. At this point, there were more than twenty Diné present in addition to the Road Patrol. Perhaps thirty, total, and more strolling up to this spot in the middle of Indian Route 7. The sun was in steep decline at an angle behind Jack. Hills of rock and sand that were common to Chinle cast long shadows.

  Jack stepped up onto the tire of his car and turned and sat on the hood of his SUV, with his heels on the front tire. This put him a foot or so higher while still having a posture that was not presumptuous. In this way, he could continue to hold the floor and sway the coming exchange.

  “So we’re not here to represent the Diné, and we’re not here to represent the Apache. And we’re not a third group. We’re just people, just like you. And as far as we know, we, and you, and the Apache are all the people on Earth. And we’re fully aware of the conflict. Of the concerns you have. There’s more about it that you should know, and we’ll share everything we know with you.”

  “The Apache know you’re here?” Wallace asked.

  “Yes. Glad you asked. They know we’re here, but they haven’t authorized us to speak for them. We speak for ourselves, except we speak for all people, in the sense that we would like to see peace.”

  “This might be a good speech to give the Apache.”

  “I agree, Dexter. And we have, to some of them, and we’ll continue to do so if we have the chance. Can we talk about the fight?”

  “The murder,” Hashkeh said.

  Jack quickly responded. “Hashkeh. Please. I know you all feel strongly about it. But listen to all the facts. One of the Apache is dead, too.”

  There was a mild murmur from the crowd. “Will you hear me out on this?” Jack paused for effect. “Will you?” This time he got a few nods of assent.

  “A boy. A young boy,” he said.

  Some of the Diné projected skepticism by their body movement or their stance. Many, however, stood stock still. Jack thought they might at least recognize that there was more to the story, and that whether the Road Patrolmen were in the right or not, there would be some sense of righteous indignation on the part of the Apache.

  “Shot with an arrow. In the same conflict. At the same time.”

  “You are Apache,” one of them said.

  “No, listen. A few weeks ago, I had no idea there was such a thing as an Apache, or a Diné for that matter. Then I found Peter here, and Robin. And they’re certainly not Apache.”

  He looked over at them. “Well, not what you mean by Apache.”

  “You’re not from the canyon,” the same person said. “Or Navajoland.”

  “No, I’m from New York City. You think that makes me an Apache? If you think that way, every person alive is automatically your sworn enemy. Is that the Diné way?”

  There was a softening among the crowd. Several hands went to foreheads, to shade the eyes so that they could look more directly at Jack despite the setting of the sun behind him.

  Wallace spoke again. “Okay, Jack. But why are you telling us this? What’s your mission? If you’re here to tell us we should not continue to defend ourselves, that’s just not going to happen.”

  “We’re peaceful people,” Alma added. “We’re not out for vengeance.”

  “Alma, Dexter.” Jack jumped down from the hood of the car, which caused the Diné crowd to shift back a little to give him room.

  He raised his voice further. “Diné. Navajo. People of the canyon. You say you want to walk in beauty, like the real Navajo. Please, please, listen to me.” Again Jack paused for effect. “Everyone will say they’re not out for vengeance. The Apache would say that, too. And everyone says that they’re entitled to defend themselves. You must understand. The Apache will say that, too.”

  Wallace said, “We’ll use caution with one another. And they must, too.”

  Jack despaired of making progress with them. They were being hardheaded. With a tone of resignation, he said, for all to hear, “It’s too late. They’re coming.”

  Chapter 27

  In the arid air of Arizona, the shift from sunlight to shadow, and from daytime to night, is sudden and near-complete. In those few minutes of transition, Jack explained the details of the bloody exchange in St. Johns, but from the perspective of the hidden-away zombies. He was careful to say, early and often, that whether the facts as presented were true or not, they certainly represented the perspective of the Apache. He hoped, by these reminders, to avoid interruptions from Diné objections, but also to induce them to understand that the Diné perspective might be no better rooted in fact than that of the Apache.

  As Jack finished his comments, the sun was settling behind the far mesa to the west. What was left was a blue-shadowed presence, as if everything before them was suddenly played out on a different stage entirely—one that was muted and projected in indirect light of blue and black and gray, rather than vivid and direct orange and red and brilliant ochre. The crowd dissipated. Faster, Jack thought, than it had assembled. The canyon people shuffled away in shifts of blue-gray, snatches of dark movement against shadowed tan soils and darker olive and wintergreen vegetation here and there. They wended their way in thoughtful silence toward the pale yellow light of oil lamps which illumined various windows of the hotel.

  Jack and his crew continued to stand in the middle of Indian Route 7. All of the Diné had receded from them, including, to Jack’s disappointment, Alma and Dexter. They were alone.

  “This is not like the Navajo of old, I think,” Jack said. “I mean, just leaving us here like this.”

  Robin said, “Their thoughts are of war, not hospitality. We should be understanding. Anyway, they’re not real Navajo.”

  They all turned and looked west, as if of one mind. Chinle lay before them, spread out across the plain. They had before them the task of finding lodging for the night. Their preference would have been to do so when the sun was high, but time had not permitted. They bundled against the cold and returned to the vehicle.

  The next morning, Jack arose before the sun. He tumbled out of his bed and walked out of his room, and out onto the balcony. He was facing roughly east. They were still under the night sky and the achingly bright stars, but along the Defiance Plateau horizon, there was already a thin line of brighter sky.

  Jack was proud of his skills in finding lodging for them all when so many of the best places were inhospitable, full of ghosts and bones and smells. They all slept in a house of white stuccoed walls, an old but not decrepit habitation. It had but little to commend itself from the outside, but it had been unoccupied at the time of the die-off, and undisturbed since. It had an oversized fireplace that dominated the main room. There were antique beds and furniture in several rooms on two levels. Jack and Peter took separate rooms on the second floor. Robin and Millie staked out the ground floor, sleeping in the same room with the fireplace.

  Jack’s sense of urgency had not left him entirely, but he also knew that the Diné would require some time to process the information he had imparted. He also knew that preparation for any task tends to fill the time available, the more so when the stakes are high or the tasks significant, and this would be especially true for the Diné. There would be another nightfall, and daybreak, before the confrontation. Jack considered that it might be best
to resume discussion with the Diné after they had had time to ruminate over the information in their clumsy consensus-building way. He knew the Apache would assemble in St. Johns the next morning, so the sun would be well up by the time they would arrive. Despite the surge of momentous events, the little team of diplomats was not pressed for time.

  Jack went back inside, re-crossed his room, and entered the dark interior hallway, stopping at a sturdy balustrade that overlooked the main room of the house. The fireplace was below and opposite him, and just as he walked up, orange flames jumped up from the ashes. From the light they emitted, Jack could see Robin seated on the raised hearth, feeding twigs to rejuvenate the fire. A few feet away, he could see Millie stirring from her sleeping bag on the couch.

  “I think I can cook eggs in here,” Robin said, glancing over her shoulder to Jack. She had evidently heard him moving about.

  “You need a grill top or something?”

  “Yes, please. And the pan.”

  “I’ll see what I can scout up. Some coffee would be good, too.” There would be time.

  The girls were young and full of a sense of adventure—the more so given the importance of their undertaking. The imperatives of food and of a sense of mission quickened their activity.

  Behind Jack, Peter shuffled out of his room. “I’ll get water and the pan from the car,” he said.

  In short order, the smell of eggs and venison wafted through the house. It was a smell redolent of Jack’s breakfast with Robin and Peter the morning after he had first discovered that there were others like him. They ate huddled near the cook-fire as the sun came fully up. They noted that it would be another cloudless day.

  After this, Jack suggested they reconnoiter at the canyon. It felt a little like being a tourist—somewhat frivolous, given the events, but, on the other hand, the information might prove beneficial. It would be good to have knowledge of the lay of the land. Chinle itself was quite spread out. It seemed a barren tabletop with occasional buildings popping up among the undersized trees. Only the main highway through town and Indian Route 7, toward the canyon, had an appreciable accumulation of commercial buildings. In just a few minutes, they would know what they could feasibly know of all that was manmade. The canyon, though, was intricate and mysterious. Only Jack had seen any part of it, and what he had seen was a quite limited portion of the whole.

  They drove east toward the canyon. Jack slowed as he approached the area next to the hotel where they had stopped the previous evening. The last thing he wanted was to arouse further suspicion. He stopped in the middle of the street. So far, they had seen no motorcyclists or any of the large SUVs the Diné favored, but now they saw several parked in the hotel parking lot. Jack could smell wood smoke in the air, but it couldn’t be from the house they had overnighted in, as that was too far away. He spotted smoke coming from the flue projecting through the roof of the restaurant. Many of the Diné were no doubt breakfasting there, perhaps holding a town hall meeting of sorts.

  “Let’s hold up here a minute just so we don’t spook them,” Jack said to his traveling companions. He opened his door, got out, and closed it behind him, and ostentatiously leaned back against it as if pausing here in the middle of the street were his sole purpose in life.

  In just a few moments, Rafael and Davey rounded the corner of the restaurant, from its hotel-side door. Then Rollo and Baum emerged from the street-side door closer to Jack. They made their way to Jack purposefully, but not aggressively. Jack wondered what to make of being approached by Road Patrolmen like this. Perhaps most of the Diné were watching from behind the tinted windows of the restaurant. Or it could be that the Road Patrolmen were the only ones inside. Jack felt sure that it was best not to go boldly walking up to the restaurant himself, but if Alma or someone other than the militaristic Road Patrolmen had come out, it would have signaled less hostility.

  “Amigo,” Rafael said to Jack, but it seemed to Jack’s ear a tinny, listless greeting.

  “Amigo,” Jack said. Then, “Amigos,” to the rest of the Road Patrolmen as they walked up.

  “We’re meeting,” Rafael said. “We have nothing to tell you.”

  “We’re not here to hurry you,” Jack responded. “But we want to be available to you, too.”

  Rafael just retained his toothy smile. Jack had hoped for an invitation to the meeting but knew that it was a long shot. Baum darted his inexpressive eyes to Rafael, and then back to Jack.

  “Like we said,” Jack continued, “we’re on a mission of peace. Maybe you want information. Maybe you want us to take a message to the Apache. We’re available to you.”

  “We’re just getting started in here,” Rollo said, jabbing his thumb toward the restaurant.

  “Completely understand,” Jack said. “May we go into the canyon? Drive up around it?”

  Rafael smiled bigger, pleased on behalf of the Diné that they were being asked. “Of course, friend, you go to the canyon.”

  A good call, Jack thought, to stop here and ask. “Muchas gracias.”

  The Road Patrolmen returned to the restaurant, and Jack jumped back in the vehicle, cranking it up as he did so. “Did you get all that?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I notice he didn’t say that the canyon was as much ours as theirs,” Peter said.

  “Oh, they’re proprietary about it, no doubt about it. But we earned a few credibility points by asking for permission, I think.”

  “What’s so great about this canyon?” Millie asked.

  “Well, it’s beautiful, for one thing,” Jack said. “Breathtaking, actually. You’ll see. For another thing, if the Diné don’t bolt north from Chinle, or east toward Fort Defiance, they might just go into the canyon and try to hide away. They could, but only for a while. The canyon is vast, and there are lots of ins and outs and side canyons. You could almost get lost if it weren’t for the little stream through the middle of it.”

  They drove just a few hundred yards further east, and Jack pulled into what had been a federal park service welcome center, back in the day. Inside, there was a large and detailed map of the canyon behind glass on one wall. It was near an exterior window, but the light inside was still poor. They found some pamphlet-sized visitor maps. A few yards further on, Jack turned off the road just past some horse stables, from which the horses had long since been freed. He followed the track straight to where it entered the streambed, just like on his last trip to the canyon. They were silent as Jack maneuvered the vehicle upstream. All were straining to see from their respective windows. They passed Cottonwood Canyon and Tunnel Canyon, smaller canyons that emptied into the main canyon from the left. After about ten minutes, they rounded the sharp needle of rock that jutted into the canyon just past Antelope Point. After doubling back and then bending again to the right, they pulled into the mile-square junction area. Canyon del Muerto began its meander off to their left, and Canyon de Chelly to their right.

  Jack pulled into the open area where he’d picnicked with the Diné so that they could get out and walk around and begin to get a sense of the enormity of the natural stone architecture that surrounded them. And also to experience the quiet and the serenity the place afforded. Jack wondered if the sense of serenity would hold through the next few days.

  “Is that the only way in?” Millie asked, pointing back the way they’d come.

  “By car, yes. Or as far as I know. But by foot, no. Apparently, there are lots of foot trails in and out, but you have to know where they are.”

  “One false step . . .” Millie said, looking up at 600-foot sheer walls.

  “I wonder if the Diné people know the foot trails,” Peter said, thinking strategically.

  Jack said, “For what it’s worth, I think the Diné talk about moving to the canyon is somewhat romanticized and idealized. I wouldn’t be surprised if they don’t stay in their warm hotel and restaurant for longer than they think they will. But I would guess some of them have explored more in depth. We shouldn’t assume they don’t know the
trails at all.”

  Millie asked, “How far back do they go?”

  “The one on the right, Canyon de Chelly, goes almost to the New Mexico border. Thirty miles or so. As the crow flies,” Jack answered.

  They were all quiet a few moments longer, in wonder at the magnitude of what they were witnessing.

  “Let’s go a little way in,” Jack said. They piled back into the vehicle and rode first up the canyon “of death,” Canyon del Muerto. In some places, there were sheer walls from the watercourse at their base to a horizon far above that shadowed most of the canyon floor. In other places, the side of the canyon gave way to vertical folds in the rock that could be ascended, at least part of the way, or to horizontal folds that one could step up onto from the floor, but at some point further up they would be too steep to be passable. The floor of the canyon might look relatively flat from above, but it had actually been carved at various elevations all along its length. The walls were irregular—sometimes one mounted atop another and often turned at awkward angles or curves. High buttes would give way to an isthmus of thin stone connecting to the outside wall. Giant walls turned this way and that, mazelike. Spires, promontories, cascades of rock. The variety of rock formations was dizzying. And confusing. The width of the canyon was a half mile or more, in places, so that one could be at one side of the canyon, looking across to the opposite side, and find it difficult to discern which way the canyon actually proceeded were it not for the ever-present watercourse that ran through it. All along the streambed, and sometimes in other places on the canyon floor, there were cottonwood trees and invasive tamarisk and Russian olive trees. In the flatter areas in the canyon bottom, there were grasses of different kinds, an occasional creosote bush, and bursage, brittlebush, snakeweed, and rabbitbrush. There was an abundance of scrubby juniper trees in the gravelly soil, especially on the gentler slopes of the canyon above the floor. Some pinion pine, especially closer to the top. As the sun rose higher, it emblazoned the ochre, sienna, and putty-colored stone, giving it an orange or yellow or purple hue, framed by the azure purity of blue above and the indirect blue cast of the shadow below.