by AULT, SANDI
I thought of Sica Gallegos, her legs crippled from the beating she had received from Cassie Morgan. And I thought of the broken spirit of Tom Leaves His Robe, who had sought Morgan’s support when he was being abused, only to suffer worse for having done so. I suddenly felt sick to my stomach, and I turned my face up and let the cold snow fall on my cheeks and my chin.
“How are you coming with your mountain lion?” Diane asked.
I shook my head. “No sign of her so far. Or the cubs.” I felt a wave of sadness move through me. A gust of wind rippled through the plaza, and all at once the farolitos in their carefully made circles flickered and their flames died, the brown paper bags wet with snow collapsing with the force of the gale onto the candles and snuffing out their light.
18
The Church
The next morning, I drove to the pueblo before sunup, as Momma Anna had requested. Tanoah Pueblo was observing old ways for the week of the Solstice through the Epiphany on the sixth of January, and members of the tribe were discouraged from driving during these times. So Momma Anna had requested that I bring my Jeep to help transport the bultos, the large carved and painted figures of the Holy Family, to their home for the holidays with Sica Blue Cloud Gallegos and her family. It was of no apparent concern to her that a motorized vehicle would be used for this chore, so long as a member of the tribe did not drive it.
When she got in the passenger seat, Momma Anna pulled her blanket from her head and turned to look at Mountain, who wagged his tail ecstatically to see her. “You maybe move that wolf one side,” she said to me. “He take up the whole back now.”
“As long as we put the bultos in the very back, Mountain will stay up close to the front, and it won’t bother him. I put things back there all the time.”
My medicine teacher turned to pat the wolf and gave him a little smile. “You ride with Joseph,” she told him. “You maybe get be a saint, too,” she chuckled. “Saint wolf.”
I laughed out loud at this idea.
At the old mission church inside the perimeter wall of the historic part of Tanoah Pueblo, I parked my Jeep in front of the gates to the churchyard, which also had its own low adobe wall around it. Momma Anna pulled her blanket over her head as she was getting out of the Jeep, and—because I had learned from past experience to do so—I pulled a blanket over my shoulders and my long blonde locks as well, leaving my hat in the driver’s seat of the car. Inside the door of the small, dark church, Momma Anna stopped to touch the holy water with the tips of her fingers and press them to her forehead, where she made the sign of the Christian cross. I looked around me at the narrow nave with its dark cottonwood pews, the garishly painted images of the stations of the cross on the wall, a carved image of the Virgin Mary in a large nicho behind the altar. In a long box of sand, candles were burning already, indicating that members of the Tanoah tribe had come to pray even before morning mass.
A small figure hurried to us down the center aisle. She was dressed in a black habit with a short black veil. “Mrs. Santana,” she said. “It is so good to see you! Good morning, good morning, and God bless you.”
Momma Anna turned and opened a palm to include me in the conversation. “This my daughter, Jamaica,” she said.
The sister smiled and reached out a stubby palm. “Good morning. How do you do? I’m Sister Florinda Maez. I oversee things here at Nuestra Señora de la Purísima Concepción.”
I took her hand and smiled in return. “Jamaica Wild. Forgive me, my Spanish is limited. Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception?”
She nodded, still smiling. “Very good. That is the official name for this Catholic mission here at Tanoah Pueblo. I divide my time between here and San Lorenzo de Picurís, at Tanoah’s sister pueblo.”
“It’s good to meet you,” I said. “There’s no priest here, then?”
“No. There is a priest part-time at Taos Pueblo, where they have a larger congregation. He consecrates the sacrament for us and hears confession once a month, and of course performs marriages and other ceremonies. But we have a strong lay community here who help to perform the other duties of the church.”
Momma Anna had moved away from our conversation immediately after the introductions, and she was kneeling at the altar. She rose now and turned to Sister Florinda. “We take Holy Family to their good place.”
“Yes,” Sister Florinda said. “They are all ready out here in the vestibule. The wise men, the shepherds, Joseph, and of course, Our Lady.”
“But isn’t that Mary in the nicho behind the altar?” I asked, pointing at the large bulto.
Momma Anna scowled at me for the question, but Sister Florinda responded kindly. “Our church is named for Nuestra Señora. She is our patron saint. We cannot leave this church unprotected by Her grace and light, and so a santero from Chimayó has carved a second bulto for ceremonies such as this, when Her presence is required beyond the church’s physical walls.”
In the small, dark entry, Momma Anna pointed at a large carving and grunted, “You take.”
I started toward the bulto.
“You come back,” Momma Anna said, “bring those blanket I bring. And wrap him in blanket, make sure he is safe.”
As I picked up the carving, I turned to the nun. “Did this church have anything to do with the San Pedro de Arbués Indian School?”
Both women bristled when I said this. Sister Florinda put a hand on my shoulder, turning me toward the entrance. “That was a long time ago, my dear,” she said, as she pushed open the door.
I brought back the stack of thin blankets when I returned from the Jeep so Momma Anna could wrap the rest of the statues before I took them out. “So this church was involved with the school?” I said.
Florinda Maez gave me a look of resignation. “Yes, this church was involved with the school. The whole diocese supported it, along with the Bureau of Indian Affairs.”
“Do you know what role this particular church may have played?” I pressed.
Momma Anna shoved another bulto into my arms. “Take,” she ordered.
When I returned for the next statue, Sister Florinda had disappeared, presumably back into the dark recesses of the nave. Momma Anna was tenderly wrapping several small figures of shepherds and their sheep into one large blanket. I peered in toward the altar and was surprised when the sister approached me from behind. “Why do you ask so many questions about the Indian school?” she said.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “It has made its way into my life, and I’m trying to discover its meaning.”
“May I give you a little advice, from a poor sister of the cloth?” she said.
“Sure,” I answered, not buying her false humility. I knew a lecture was forthcoming.
“I advise you to leave well enough alone and stay out of the business of the church and the Indians. There is still much healing to be done, but it must be done by the parties involved, and you cannot change that. God knows what He is doing, Miss Wild.”
As I was loading the last figure into my Jeep, I remembered the gift from Tecolote. I reached under the folded-down seat, where I had placed the Howdy Doody doll on the floor so Mountain could not smash or chew on it. I helped Momma Anna into the passenger seat, and then hurried back into the church with the gift.
“Sister?” I called as I came back in the door.
The nun turned and came back up the aisle from the altar. “Yes? What is it?”
“An old curandera from Agua Azuela named Esperanza told me to bring this to you.”
Sister Florinda Maez looked down at the proffered package with alarm. “What is that?”
“It’s a doll, I think.”
“Is this a joke?”
“A joke? No, why? Esperanza asked me to give this to you.”
The sister reached with two hands and sternly straightened the sides of her veil. “I don’t know anyone of that description. I’m afraid I cannot accept the gift. We take vows of poverty, you know, and that is no doubt of some value. Ple
ase return it with my apologies.”
“But—”
“And now, if you will please leave, I have to prepare for morning mass.” She pressed her hand against my shoulder once more, turning me toward the door, and walked behind me, still pushing lightly against my back until I was through the entry doors.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
But Sister Florinda Maez did not answer. Instead, she closed the chapel doors right in front of me, without uttering another word.
When Momma Anna and I arrived at the Gallegos home, the sun was up and the day was already proving to be warmer than its predecessor. Snow had melted and the packed dirt plaza of Tanoah Pueblo had turned to mud. “Rather than both of us tracking dirt into Sica’s house,” I said, “why don’t you go on inside, and I’ll carry the bultos to the door and hand them in to you?”
My medicine teacher nodded, approving this plan. She took the first bundle and headed toward Sica’s doorway while I grabbed another, larger statue and then lowered the hatch. “You stay,” I said to Mountain. “This won’t take long. Stay.”
I approached the Gallegos home right behind Momma Anna, who had plodded slowly around the mud puddles. We got to Sica’s door just as Rule Abeyta was hurrying out of it with something in his hands. He and Anna almost collided, and Rule looked up at us with a start. He dropped a small carved figure, then hurriedly picked it up and tucked it under his blanket. He nodded respectfully to Momma Anna. “I told this old auntie we needed to move the monito,” he said. “This looks bad for Sica.” Rule Abeyta walked briskly past us and on toward the small río that ran through the center of Tanoah Pueblo.
I turned to Momma Anna and tried to think how to ask what the “monito” was, but I knew better than to phrase it as a question. Before I could find a way to pose the query, Eloy Gallegos spoke from the doorway, “Hurry up, you two. Get inside. It’s cold out there, and Auntie Sica wants us to close the door.”
19
Over the Edge
I took Mountain with me and again rode the Coldfire/BLM land boundary in my Jeep to check on the traps that Charlie Dorn and I had set on the previous day. I prayed we would catch the cougar family so we could ensure the mother would live. Without her to hunt for them, the cubs would die. The day was warming nicely, but a strong wind was stirring out of the southwest as the sun rose higher in the sky and the cool air dissipated. When I got to the lookout I’d used previously, I scoped the traps once more with field glasses and found them still empty, the meat lures intact. I hoped the warmth of the day would permit the smell of the meat to spread and perhaps entice the cats to the cages.
Again, I scanned the horizon with my field glasses. On an impulse, I decided to drive my Jeep toward Pueblo Peña as far as the terrain would permit and then hike in the rest of the way. I knew from my chase after the ATV that there was a long finger of land I could take to the south for a half mile, and so I struck out driving in that direction.
We left the Jeep on the finger mesa and started hiking, the wolf and I both wearing our packs. Mountain was delighted to be out in open country after so much time spent confined in the Jeep. As we moved to the southwest, a series of fierce gusts whipped across the high desert, pushing against us. At first, I watched for sign of the cougars, even though I felt sure the cats would be in a cave on the other side of the little spring. Eventually, I admitted to myself that I wanted to see the cemetery that Lorena Coldfire had spoken of visiting each year on the Day of the Dead. There was something about the abandoned boarding school that still haunted me, even after Cassie Morgan’s remains had been carried off to the morgue.
Outside the wall, behind the school, I saw a pair of tilted stones that might once have been grave markers. On further examination, I could see the outline of several small raised mounds of earth in a row, the telltale signs of graves. I stopped to give Mountain water from the tube of my CamelBak and then took a drink myself. I studied the ground and tried to discern the scope of the school cemetery. A section of downed barbwire in withered ricegrass hinted at a forgotten fence line. Using that as one perimeter, and the back wall of the schoolyard as another perpendicular one, I walked out from the adobe wall and searched for the farthest limits of the graveyard. These were not readily apparent, but the more I examined the area, the more the land revealed to me. I made out five distinct rows where the ground had been groomed in some way, probably by the digging of graves. I walked the length of the row that had been the least disturbed by the ravages of wind, the one next to the schoolyard wall. I counted twenty-three berms, some more obvious than others. Twenty-three! Five rows of twenty-three, possibly even more, a design for twenty-five? Five rows! Over one hundred children had died at the San Pedro de Arbués Indian School!
Against a clump of cactus, a hint of something red fluttered in the wind. I went to examine it and found a petal from a fabric flower stuck in the spines of the cactus. This, no doubt, was left over from the loving vigil that Lorena Coldfire made on the Day of the Dead, when she came to bring food and offerings to these forgotten children.
I decided to look for the ancient stone staircase that Scout Coldfire had spoken about, with the two shrines on the ledge below. Mountain had found a shady spot next to the adobe wall and had parked himself out of the wind. I called to him, and he joined me, and we headed toward the canyon rim near Pueblo Peña.
Following Scout’s directions, I located a series of large boulders at the lip of the canyon. These marked the meager path leading down, and—as instructed—I worked my way carefully around the big stones, on a packed-earth ledge not twelve inches wide that slanted at a precarious pitch. This short, steep trail led to a silty shelf under the cliff lip. Mountain followed me with an unaccustomed trepidation, carefully placing his paws almost in single file, unsure whether he wanted to proceed, but drawn by the code that said we always traveled together. We cautiously descended to the ledge. Above us, the lip of the canyon jutted out more than two feet, creating a concave bowl in the cliff face beneath it. I stepped carefully to the edge of the narrow terrace and looked down as a gust of raw wind sandblasted my skin.
Below, on the sheer side of the canyon wall, I found the pecked-out hand- and footholds leading down the stone face to the bottom, a nerve-wracking way down at best. I imagined the ancient ones who had made these, the daring and determination that were required to dangle off the face of a sheer cliff wall and chip away at it with stone tools. Above, these amazing people had built a stone city on the high rim of a canyon, a place from which they could see and be seen for miles around. And below, in this wide rent in the earth, lay the life-giving river. As I stood looking down into the canyon, I thought of when Momma Anna had told me about the hole in the top of everything, how the People came up through the hole in the Indigo Falls, how the Creator breathed life into a baby through the hole in the top of her head, how the spirits traveled in and out of all things material through the hole in the top. And I saw this canyon as perhaps the ancients did, as a hole or crack in the land from which the Earth’s spirit came forth. Perhaps the spirits of the ancient ones still traveled up and down this primitive stone stairway, up and down the hand-and footholds from the source to the place where they could see all the way to the horizon.
As I returned to the present from my glimpse into the past, Mountain stood watching me, unsure what we were going to do next. It was obvious to him that we’d reached the end of the trail. “Hang on, buddy,” I said. “I want to look at these.” I pointed at two short stacks of stones a few feet apart under the narrow rock overhang. These were certainly the two little shrines that Coldfire spoke of. I knelt in the dust and looked closely at the cairns. Bits of leather thong and withered feathers peeked between the stones, the remnants of offerings of beauty and honor. One tiny turquoise bead nestled in a recess of one of the stacked stones. I remembered Sica’s story of the two little Apache boys and felt certain that these cairns marked their secretly made graves. Who had been coming here and leaving offerings
?
Mountain came to see what was drawing my attention and then suddenly stopped, eyeing the ground in front of him. A slender snake seemed to be sunning in the dirt at the edge of the shelf, but the reptile didn’t move.
“Hold on, Mountain,” I said, rising to my feet. “You stay.” I approached slowly, only to find that it was not a snake at all, but rather a piece of nylon rope. I picked it up and shook off the dust. It was new-looking, knotted and burned at each end to prevent fraying, a strand perhaps three feet in length, at best.
As I held up my find to examine it, a sprinkling of grit and gravel pattered on my hat brim. Then more, a frantic tap dance of tiny bits of sand and granules, a storm of mineral debris. I looked up just as an avalanche of rock and red soil rushed toward me. Pebbles, sand, and sediment bombarded my neck and back. A large rock struck the top of my head, producing a shooting pain down my spine, then another—a jarring smack on my shoulder, and another—a whack on the hip. And more like that, lambasting my back, hammering at the tops of my buttocks, my arms, my legs. Shards of the cliff edge pounded down on me, and then basketball-sized boulders began to fall. I threw myself under the slim stone protrusion, and hard into Mountain, who was now cowering against the cliff wall. The backs of my legs took a beating as showers of shale and chunks of rock and sandstone pummeled the parts of my body exposed beyond the overhang. One great stone the size of a beach ball struck the shelf next to my heel after it shredded the back of my jeans and stripped the skin from my calf.
When the slide subsided, I stood frozen in place by fear and pain, still stunned from the blow to my head. Mountain, trapped between my body and the indent in the cliff wall, had escaped harm, but he, too, seemed to be in shock, as he didn’t try to escape the confinement of my body’s weight pressing on him. My shoulder, back, and legs felt as if someone had skinned them and salted the wounds. My head throbbed from the blow it had taken before I’d ducked under the rim. Even my jaw hurt, as if the impact of the rock against my skull had compressed everything from the crown down. As I pulled myself off him, Mountain stepped warily over the rubble of the slide. I looked down at the back of my right leg and saw the source of the unbearable stinging that struggled to compete with the pain in my head. A rash of long, red streaks and shredded flesh speckled with grit covered the surface of the leg. The heel of my boot leather had been sliced away, exposing a circle of green sock that had somehow managed to remain intact over the back of my foot.
