When first arrived they had immediately begun repairs to washed out dams and ditches left by those who came before. But the boy’s people were too few, and the repairs too late. Those first builders lived openly, on the flats above the canyon, just next to their fields. In those better times hunger had not yet forced the wild bands to go scavenging. Now, even should the rains come, there was little chance the dams would catch enough to revive the crops. There now seemed little hope for more than a token harvest. Winter winds would soon howl through the canyons, pushing the specter of starvation before them.
These were the things the boy was thinking there in the shelter of the cliff; awaiting dawn on the day he was to start his new rooms.
As the sun began fingering its way under the rim a quiet call from the old man interrupted the boy’s thoughts; the voice from the doorway summoned him to help with his sister.
Coming into the light the girl closed her eyes in pleasure and reached with thin and trembling arms toward the warmth. Her tattered rabbit fur cloak was drawn close about her shoulders, and she luxuriated in the healing rays.
His sister had not taken a single step since the accident and of late required even more dedicated care and attention. Despite her discomfort she remained pleasant and generally of a good humor. When pain did not cloud her mind, she had visions and saw things others couldn’t. After a time, even the elders came to inquire after her health, fetched her potions they said might help, then slyly and in roundabout ways, sought her council. There were those among them who believed she could foresee the future and brought little gifts of food, thinking hope more important than the growing hunger in their bellies.
The cliff swallows twittered in mud nests, flitting this way and that, diving in long graceful swoops to the canyon depths––only to rise again on the lifting currents. The girl’s face brightened at the sight of them. She nodded knowingly to her brother and murmured, “That is how I will fly one day,” and smiled as she watched the little creatures soar upon the breeze.
3
The Tecolote
When he took the call from tribal, Charlie Yazzie had other things on his mind; it took him nearly a minute to grasp the full gist of the message. Navajo Police dispatcher Mildred Dahozy was the last person he wanted to talk to, especially today. The woman had been a longtime friend of his grandmother’s and a known talker when she cornered someone she thought obligated to listen. Charlie knew he was in for a long siege, and one with little hope getting a word in edgewise. Mildred inquired after the health of everyone in his family, including his Aunt Annie Eagletree, who she had been on the outs with for more than fifteen years, and still never referred to by name.
Finally, the Greasewood Clan woman got around to giving him a communication from Billy Red Clay. The message itself, took only a few seconds, saying: “Call me ASAP – Billy.” It took Mildred several minutes more, however, to close out her own ideas regarding what the message might reference. She pondered aloud what Billy might actually have intended, and what Charlie should do about it––none of which, as it turned out, bore any resemblance to what the message actually involved or required of him.
Charlie looked at the clock above the office door and frowned––thirty minutes left in a slow Friday afternoon. Earlier, his wife Sue was adamant he should get home on time for a change. She told him she had a leg of lamb in the oven old man Paul T’Sosi had dropped by, fresh killed only hours before. She invited the old singer to stay for supper as was polite, Paul, she said, was at that moment out weeding her garden, which he insisted was payment in advance for the supper. That he had supplied the main course himself, he thought beside the point. The old man was a great favorite of the Yazzie’s and both knew he held their son Joseph Wiley in high regard. Paul was often heard to say he thought the boy might have powers, and was like a grandson to him.
Charlie’s mouth watered at the thought of the lamb. Sue’s cooking skills had improved over the last year and lamb was on her good list. He thought he would at least like to have his dinner before calling Billy Red Clay. The policeman didn’t often require his help, and when he did it was generally not a trivial matter. That bothered him. The Legal Services investigator sat drumming his fingers on the edge of the desk as he watched the clock. Finally, he gave in and dialed the switchboard to have the operator patch him through tribal to Billy Red Clay’s unit.
Billy’s first words were an apology. “I’m sorry as hell about this Charlie…I know you’re going home in a few minutes...” The policeman’s radio crackled in and out and the two chewed up the final twenty minutes of Charlie’s Friday afternoon trying to understand one another. Between periods of static Billy did his best to cover all that had taken place at Professor Custer’s salvage site, and several times made it clear that both Harley Ponyboy, and Dr. Custer, had requested Charlie contact them as soon as possible.
After he finished with Billy Red Clay, Charlie called Sue to let her know he would be home on time, and to have her tell Paul T’Sosi he might want to stay over that night––there could be work for him out at the dig in the morning. On the short drive home reassessing the report in his mind took nearly as long as the original conversation. And in the final analysis left just as much to conjecture.
Charlie was glad to have the old singer accompany him. Paul had been helping out at the professor’s office in Farmington, mostly just labeling specimens for shipment, but in his younger days he had worked on several major excavations. Those excavations included portions of the Aztec Ruins along the Animas River, and not so far from the professor’s current project. The man was well acquainted with basic excavating procedure and liked nothing better than joining the regular crew from time to time. Paul’s health had suffered these last months however, leaving him unable to do as much as he would have liked. Charlie knew Paul would enjoy a trip to the dig and getting his hands dirty. The old man especially liked overseeing the work of his son-in-law Thomas Begay, and was never shy about speaking his mind when he saw something amiss in Thomas’s efforts.
Charlie knew for certain Harley Ponyboy would be spending a restless night. Both Harley and Thomas were sticklers for cleansing rituals should they think something evil had a bead on them. Harley came from a very traditional clan, one that saw little need of him attending government school. The boy’s deep-seated belief in all manner of magic, witches and other Yeenaaldiooshii remained unaffected by what little white schooling he had been subjected to. Charlie, on the other hand, had come away from university with a growing skepticism of many of the old ways, and especially struggled to hold his tongue in talk regarding the supernatural. He knew those beliefs ran deep in his people, and attempting to change that thinking was generally unproductive.
That night when supper was finished, Sue received several compliments on the meal and felt pleased. Later, when a sleepy but protesting, Joseph Wiley was trundled off to bed the men were left alone with their coffee. While Charlie was not clear on many of the details, he attempted to sound Paul out on the Danny Hat affair. The old man listened attentively and only occasionally did he ask a question. From what he was hearing Paul figured he would be performing at least one cleansing ceremony the next day. His son-in-law, Thomas Begay, while not quite as traditional as Harley Ponyboy, was not one to let a virtually free healing opportunity pass. Who knew what good might come of such a thing, especially when one considered Thomas’s occasional departures from the Beauty Way. Harley would get the standard discount allotted to close friends and distant family. Thomas, on the other hand, was generally charged little or nothing as Paul had given up on collecting from his son-in-law. In Thomas’s mind his marriage to the singer’s daughter assured him of the same free spiritual insurance as any other member of the family. He was well aware Paul wouldn’t allow any threat to go unchallenged when it came to home and family.
To be fair, Thomas did perform those small favors involving those things the old singer was no longer capable of doing for himself, including driving him ar
ound to consult with those in need of his services. In the beginning Paul had not been a great fan of his new son-in-law, but when Thomas quit drinking and became self-supporting to the point of adding to the family economy, a truce was called and the two gradually came to tolerate one another. Thomas’s natural charm coupled with the Dinés’ cultural affinity for family eventually won the old man over.
Charlie and Paul T’Sosi agreed to leave for the dig at first light with the general thought in mind of a quick trip. Charlie was aware these little excursions often turned out to take a good bit longer than planned. Sue also knew this to be true, and followed their preparations and promise of a quick return with a jaundiced eye. She cuddled her young son at the breakfast table, feeding him cereal, and thinking unkind thoughts of the warrior-like bond still apparent among Navajo men who came together in a like cause. Many shades of the old ways still thrive on the Dinétah, even among those who professed otherwise.
~~~~~~
Charlie Yazzie followed as the old singer slowly made his way up from the roadstead, stopping only briefly at the professor’s horse trailer to appraise Harley’s mule. The animal had recovered from his previous day’s trials and was busily engaged in deciphering the twists and turns of the knot that held him.
Paul arched his eyebrows at Jake, his tone implying some hidden flaw, “So, this is Harley’s new mule?”
“That’s him.” Charlie nodded and smiled. “You know Harley––he likes a challenge.”
The old man sniffed, watched a few seconds longer before saying, “That mule’s going to figure out that knot before lunchtime. It will be interesting to see how hard he is to catch, once he’s had a little taste of freedom.”
Upon being welcomed into the cook tent by Professor Custer the newcomers shook hands all around. Everyone was well acquainted, and despite the circumstances seemed pleased at the opportunity to get together. The Diné arranged themselves around the table, taking their places at the far end, away from the collection of maps and charts the professor had been poring over. The archaeologist took it upon himself to serve coffee from a still warm pot and placed a package of cookies in the center of the table. He was well versed in Navajo social niceties and felt it important to follow them when possible.
Dr. Custer looked first to the old singer, “Paul, I suppose you’ve come to help Harley with his little predicament?” And then gave Thomas a calculating look. “Thomas here, somehow believes himself at risk as well…some sort of evil flying off of Harley and hooking onto him no doubt.”
Thomas smiled, nodded affably, and offered no defense, saying, “Now Doc, a little spiritual support can’t do any harm. It will only take an hour or so and will assure me and Harley of a guaranteed dose of good hozo.”
Paul T’Sosi frowned at Professor Custer and set his jaw. “There’s more to it than that George. It’s not just about Danny Hat; there is also the run-in with the highway workers and the bad feelings that came from that. All these things can affect these boys’ hozo, and cause them to fall out of step with their people.” He looked at the two men in question and his eyes came to rest on Thomas. “These two have always been close––what affects the hozoji of one could rub off on the other.”
Professor Custer wearily shook his head and considered. “Well, it’s Saturday and while I did say we wouldn’t be taking any time off until we get ahead of the road crew... I guess we have to do what we have to do.” He smiled weakly and nodded at the pair. “I suppose an hour or so won’t make much difference.” George knew there would be very little work accomplished until this chindi thing was taken care of, and in the end both men would have to be convinced of the cure.
Harley beamed and clapped the professor on the back. “That’s the spirit Doc. A little religion never hurt no one.”
Paul T’Sosi nodded, satisfied, then rose from his chair and followed the two afflicted parties outside to begin preparations for the ritual. Charlie Yazzie rose from his own chair, lifted an eyebrow at the professor and moved to the tent door. He couldn’t help remembering how his grandfather told him as a child that Ma’iitsoh, the Navajo wolf, would be waiting for him if he disrespected his elders. Such fears still came to him occasionally, in his dreams, but no one knew.
Dr. Custer and Charlie watched from a distance as the other three gathered materials to build a sweat lodge. Thomas and Harley Ponyboy had already found most of what was needed the night before, requisitioning a small tarp from the pile of supplies for the salvage operation. It wasn’t long before the sweat lodge was erected, and a stone fire ring laid just outside the door, water and a dipper was put at hand just inside. Thomas started the fire, watching carefully as Harley pushed the stones closer to the blaze before adding more split cedar to cover the stones. Paul T’Sosi inspected everything with a critical eye and pronounced it workable. When the stones became a shade of gray-hot Thomas used a shovel to fill a bucket, then with a forked stick through the bail, placed the container in the center of the lodge.
It was a small lodge, not tall enough for the three men to stand upright; before entering they stripped themselves of outer clothing. Paul T’Sosi carried a small bundle of green sage, his pollen bag, and a gourd rattle. Thomas laid the shovel handle just under the flap in case things went into overtime and more heated stones were needed. Thomas knew this would be unlikely; his father-in-law would direct the main brunt of the cure to Harley Ponyboy as he was the one most in need, and the one who would be paying in actual cash.
It was already hot outside; Charlie couldn’t imagine what the temperature was inside the lodge. Paul T’Sosi was the last to enter. Professor Custer had earlier gone so far as to suggest to Thomas the old man might be too frail for the cruel heat of the lodge, and then ventured the opinion the singer might be just as effective singing the chants and calling out the exhortations from outside where it was cooler.
Paul snorted at this, brushed it aside, and wouldn’t hear of it. While it was not uncommon for a person in desperate circumstance to perform the ceremony alone and without benefit of a singer, most thought this risky and left much to go wrong. No, everyone knew it was best to have a trained hataalii for the praying, one who knew the proper sequence of the songs, when to use the sage, and offer the pollen. Only in this way could a cure be guaranteed and the entire effort not be wasted.
The professor and Charlie seated themselves on packing boxes outside the tent and looked on with guarded interest. Though both men had witnessed similar rituals a number of times, they agreed no two of the rites had been performed exactly the same. Charlie thought this might be because the perceived illnesses were so varied. Few Navajo beliefs or customs are set in stone, and procedures often depend on both the affliction, and the singer’s best guess of how strong a cure is needed to overcome it. Some Hataalii become adept at judging these things, and become quite popular, commanding impressive prices for their services. Others, not so talented, may scrape along their entire careers with only a few patients, never really attaining the reputation they once aspired to. Paul T’Sosi had come late to the calling and without the avarice associated with those who sought a more material gain from their services. Paul charged only what he thought his patients could afford and thus was usually required to accept at least part of his fee in produce, sheep, and like goods.
Dr. Custer had known Charlie Yazzie in his earliest days at university, and had watched the boy’s belief in traditional superstition and all manner of witchcraft wane considerably over the years. George had seen this with other Indian students as well. He wondered if hidden doubt and confusion might still shadow Charlie’s hozo––that state of well being that makes a Diné one with his people and allows him to walk in beauty.
Charlie watched, and despite his years of doubt, began to feel a sense of peace and serenity fall over him. He listened, nearly mesmerized, to the chants and rhythmic rattle of the gourd, it was hypnotic, and as the heady essence of sage and piñon wafted from the lodge he wondered if he was coming under some ran
dom reawakening of spirit, something from his childhood perhaps––a feeling he might never again experience or even be able to define.
George Custer eyed his former student and could see the ceremony, simple though it was, had obviously touched him. There were reasons the Diné believed what they did about healing and that anyone who attended might take away a portion of good for themselves. George found the ceremony interesting, but was without the genetic or cultural connection to allow any such effect.
As Paul T’Sosi brought the healing to a close it took Charlie a few moments to regain a sense of time and place. He and the professor stood for a moment each with his own thoughts before moving inside to allow Paul T’Sosi and his two patients some privacy to dress.
Inside the tent, George hesitated to break the lingering effect of the ceremony but was anxious to hear the latest in the Danny Hat affair. “What have you heard from the FBI...about Danny Hat I mean? Have they found what killed him?” The professor had held off bringing the subject up until after the cleansing.
Charlie paused his train of thought and directed a glance out the tent flap where he saw Harley and Thomas reclaiming their clothes from the stack of firewood. He turned to the professor and answered, “No, nothing official…should be only three or four days before the coroner’s report comes back though. The chief medical officer is waiting on results from the lab in Albuquerque.” He looked again toward the tent opening as the flaps fluttered in a fresh breeze. “Billy Red Clay, of course, didn’t stay for the preliminary examination.” Charlie smiled as he continued. “He said dead people don’t really bother him so much anymore, but admits he’s still a little leery and tries to avoid them when possible.” He and the professor both smiled and Charlie held up a quantifying finger. “He did say the medical examiner told him there were no signs of external trauma apparent on the body. Oddly enough the doctor suspected Danny’s heart might have given out, a stroke maybe, brought on by the heat and running. He was badly dehydrated according to the doc.” Once again Charlie eased over to the tent flaps and peered out to make sure no one was near. “I wouldn’t say anything about this to the others George––Danny Hat’s dying without visible cause might spell witchery. Even though Harley and Thomas should now feel well protected in that regard, you just never know.” The Legal Services Investigator paused and looked in the direction of the sweat lodge, which Harley was taking down. “At least now their minds will be eased enough to go on with their work.”
Wolves of Winter: A Navajo Nation Mystery Page 3
