The Land of Burned Out Fires

by Vella Munn

  “Boy—friend? What is that?”

  You don’t know? Impossible. “I broke up with my boyfriend a couple of months ago,” Kayla explained, although she really wanted to get the heck out of here. “I know what it feels like not hearing his voice on the phone anymore, not having someone to do stuff with. But you'll find someone else.” Why hadn't she paid closer attention when her health teacher talked about mental illness? If Morning Song had emotional problems, who knows what might set her off. Could she become violent? “Do you want to talk about him?” she finished lamely as she judged the distance between them. Why hadn’t she brought along her cell phone?

  “Him?”

  “Your—boyfriend.”

  Morning Song gave her another uncomprehending look. Her eyes were so dark, beautiful and old at the same time. “I do not know what that is.”

  “Fine. I'm sorry I brought it up.” It was beyond hot, and yet Morning Song didn't seem to notice. Kayla licked her lips and tried not to think about her rapidly heating water bottle. “Your accent—what is it?”

  “Accent?”

  This was getting them nowhere. “Are you from another country? Somewhere in Europe maybe.”

  “Another—no! I am Modoc.”

  Modoc? What was—wait a minute. That's what the Indians who once lived here were called. “I didn't know there were any—I mean, I read that all the Modocs had been sent away a long time ago. A reservation I think. Does it still exist?

  “No! Never! This is our land!” Morning Song clutched her fists around her doll.

  “Oops. Look, forget I said anything.”

  “The soldiers cannot make us leave.” Her nearly black eyes burned with intensity.

  “What soldiers?” Mom, Dad, you know what you told me about speaking to strangers? I’m sure you didn’t have this in mind.

  Morning Song must not have heard her. “When the Chief of the Sky Spirits grew weary of his home in the Above World,” she said in a sing-song tone, “he carved a hole in the sky with a stone and pushed the snow and ice down below until he made a great mound that reached up from the earth almost to the sky.”

  Smiling faintly, Morning Song glanced upward. “Then Sky Spirit took his walking stick. He stepped from a cloud onto the mound and walked down to the mountain he had made. He put his finger to the ground here and there, here and there. Wherever his finger touched, a tree grew. The snow melted where his footsteps had been, and water ran down in rivers.”

  “Oh,” Kayla muttered. She tried to close her mouth but couldn’t.

  “You do not know this?”

  “Uh, no.” You're making it up, aren’t you?

  “Perhaps not because you are not Modoc. But it is time for you to learn.”

  “Time? Learn?”

  Morning Song nodded. “You must. Sky Spirit made the animals and fish as well. Then he brought his family here, so they could live on earth with him. Sky Spirit made this for us.” She indicated their surroundings. “It is our land. Our breath.”

  “Uh, I never knew that.” She started to shake.

  “But—wait. Yes, I understand now.”

  “You—do?”

  “You are not one of us. My need for you blinded me to the truth.” Morning Song had been standing near the boulder. Now she came closer to Kayla, forcing Kayla to lock her knees to keep from turning and running. The two of them were nearly the same size. Morning Song carried no hatchet or chainsaw. “But it is in you to understand.”

  “It—is?” What is happening here? If this is some weird dream–

  “Yes.” Shifting her doll to one hand, Morning Song touched the base of Kayla's throat. “The stone will make that possible.”

  Nothing, not even a so-called conversation she'd once tried to have with a two year old, came close to this. Intrigued and bewildered, Kayla placed her hand where Morning Song just had. She felt the necklace her brother had given her. How had the girl known?

  “Sacred Stone guides the way to the truth,” Morning Song said.

  If you say so. “I—I...” Darn it, she had to stop stuttering and shaking. “I'm sorry, but none of this makes sense. I don't understand how you can go barefoot on these hot rocks, why you're dressed the way you are or why you're carrying that doll.” Why you and I are having this conversation.

  Morning Song stroked the doll's hair, hair that looked as if it was made from some kind of animal, maybe a horse's tail. It had been fashioned from straw or weeds with rope tied around the neck and waist and each ankle to give it form. Kayla didn't know how the arms had been attached, or what had been used to paint the eyes, nose, and mouth. Despite its crudeness, there was something appealing about it. Obviously it meant a great deal to Morning Song.

  “Did you make it?” she asked.

  “A gift to my son.”

  “Your—son? You have a child?”

  Morning Song sagged. For a moment she looked as if she might faint. Then she straightened and blinked at the fresh tears now spilling from her eyes. “Yes.”

  “That's...” Morning Song was her age, if not younger. A child? “Uh, where is he?”

  Closing her eyes, the girl swayed. “Stolen.”

  “Stolen?” Kayla repeated, stunned. All thoughts of getting the heck out of here evaporated. Instead, it was as if Morning Song had touched her again. Tears burned her own eyes. “What happened?”

  “Ranchers.” Morning Song opened her eyes.

  “Ranchers took your child?” You have to be wrong. Something like that couldn’t happen. Could it? “Did you call the police? Surely they'll do something.”

  “Po—lice?”

  Something about the way Morning Song said the word, as if she'd never heard it before, brought Kayla up short. Maybe the ranchers hadn't snatched the baby but had had him given to them by social workers or someone? She hated thinking of that, but so far Morning Song hadn't presented herself as mentally stable. Maybe the baby was a figment of this pathetic girl’s imagination.

  “I don't know what to say. I don't understand what happened—or why.”

  “Not yet. But you will,” Morning Song had said, just before she touched the stone necklace.

  About to ask how she'd known it was under her blouse, Kayla thought better of it. This conversation had gone on long enough, and the sense that Morning Song was trying to spin some kind of spell or something around her was scaring her.

  “Sometime, maybe. I'm sure it’s fascinating. But not today.” She took a backward step. “I've got to return to work, and I'm sure you have things to do.”

  “No.”

  No what? “I'm not being paid a whole lot.” Her heart raced. Why had she come here? “But more than I did flipping hamburgers. Believe me, there are hundreds of girls who'd like to take my place. I don't dare do anything to mess it up.” She started backing away again.

  “You cannot leave!”

  “What?”

  “I need you. Only you can return my son to me.”

  You can’t be serious! “Look, Morning Song, I appreciate your, uh, confidence in me, but I'm going to be a high school junior. I have no idea what's going on, what needs to be done, who to talk to. This is for the authorities to—“

  “Quail Spirit came to me in a dream,” Morning Song interrupted. “I was walking and walking, seeing nothing, hearing my son's cries and feeling my empty arms. Not knowing what to do. Then Quail Spirit guided me to a cliff where I saw you.”

  Not bothering to respond to this latest nonsense, Kayla managed to get her legs to start backpedaling again. If this unbelievably strange girl tried to grab her, she'd take off running, and to heck with what that'd do to the boots. Would anyone believe what had just happened?

  “Please, you cannot leave!"

  “I told you, my—career.” Don't stop walking. And don't take your eyes off this nutcase.

  To Kayla's relief, Morning Song didn't follow her. Getting the heck out of here would be easier if she hadn't seen those big, dark, sad eyes and felt her pain. Still, she
concentrated on taking one step at a time, occasionally glancing over her shoulder at the motionless girl. Who should she tell about this? What about Morning Song’s family? They’d know what to do.

  Finally she’d gone far enough that she no longer felt threatened. Not looking into the girl’s eyes and seeing her pain helped. If only she’d stop staring, go away. If only she hadn’t touched the stone necklace.

  “I didn't mean to be rude,” Kayla muttered to keep from thinking about that. “But I don't understand. That stuff about Sky Spirit and—“

  What was that?

  Her heart pounding, Kayla whirled toward what had just caught her attention. The distant figures might be employees of the historic landmark, but what were they doing on horseback? Mesmerized, she continued to watch as they rode closer. Dust kicked up by the horses' hooves made it difficult to see much until they'd closed maybe half the distance. Then she understood. There were five of them. Shirtless. With rifles in their arms and bows and arrows slung to their backs. Black haired.

  Waving to Morning Song. And Morning Song was waving back.

  Kayla ran.

  Chapter Three

  One look at Ms. Blush's tight mouth was all Kayla needed to know she was in trouble. Not only was she sweaty, and her long hair had to look like an old broom, but dust and dirt covered the white boots. She was afraid to look at the soles. She was still out of breath, and her right ankle throbbed from when she'd twisted it on a rock. She wanted to tell the others what had happened, and yet she didn't. What if she admitted how unnerved she'd been, only to find out that the “Indians” were extras from some movie company she didn't know about?

  Could Morning Song be part of the same movie? And if not, what was she?

  “It's a good thing we're through photographing that outfit, isn't it Kayla,” Ms. Blush said icily. “I'm trying to understand why you did what you did. Never mind.” She held up a hand to stop Kayla from saying anything. “Young lady, I trust you won't do something like that again.”

  “No ma-am, I won't.” Believe me, I won't.

  Ms. Blush hustled her into the small travel trailer that served as a dressing room. Although she had to use bottled water because there was no natural water source out here, Ms. Blush cleaned Kayla's face and restored her hair to its former condition—almost. Kayla wanted to tell the high-energy woman that she was capable of washing her own face, but Ms. Blush's sighs and muttering kept her silent. Kayla had already learned to let the woman apply her makeup. When she'd first heard that Ms. Blush was a professional makeup artist, she'd excitedly told her friends she'd be wearing more than she could get away with at home. That was before she'd discovered how long the applying took and how stiff it made her face feel. Apparently the camera didn’t pick up subtle touches because Ms. Blush really had to pack it on with the result that Kayla barely recognized herself. Once she was satisfied with her efforts, Ms. Blush told her to change into a bright yellow knit top with rhinestones and a pair of faded and torn jeans.

  “The perfect combination,” Ms. Blush announced. “Urban and rural.”

  Kayla could hardly put her mind to looking at herself in the mirror. Where was Morning Song? Was anyone taking care of her?

  “I didn't mean to make things difficult for you,” Kayla finally felt brave enough to tell Ms. Blush. “But when I saw that girl watching us, I—”

  “What girl?”

  “The one...”

  “What girl?” Ms. Blush demanded.

  “The one—you didn't see her?”

  “I saw you walk off and stand by yourself for a while. Then you ran back.”

  Kayla shivered. Her heart pounded, and she couldn’t speak or close her mouth.

  “Are you all right?” Ms. Blush asked. For the first time, she sounded concerned. “You look pale.”

  “I’m–fine. Fine.”

  ****

  Ms. Blush's words stayed with Kayla throughout the afternoon. No matter how many times she ordered herself to stop thinking and do the job she'd thought she'd kill for, she couldn't concentrate on the photographer's orders. A couple of times, the other models had to steer her to where she was supposed to stand and once nineteen year old Joel Tiptee asked if she’d been out in the sun too long.

  No, not the sun, Kayla admitted as the session wound up. Along with the others, she piled into the van for the ride back to the RV park where they were staying, but although everyone else chattered about how they were looking forward to showers followed by dinner and relaxing, she kept her eyes on the passing landscape.

  Ms. Blush had seen her but not Morning Song?

  Impossible.

  Scary.

  You’re real. I know you are. I still–I can still feel where you touched the stone my brother gave me. I cried when you did. If you’re–if you need some kind of counseling, I hope you’re getting it. And what’s with those Indians on horseback?

  Two compact motor homes had been brought to the RV park. One was for Rory and the male models while Ms. Blush, Kayla, and the other two girls were jammed into the other. The inside had been fitted with two separate bunk beds, but although the motor home had a small bathroom, everyone went to the communal restrooms at the park for showers. After taking hers, Kayla changed into shorts and a shirt bearing the logo of a college her brother had briefly attended. The shirt was about fifteen sizes too big, but she got a kick out of wearing it. She didn’t take off her necklace.

  Instead of joining the others who were collaborating on hamburgers over the camp firepit, she walked the short distance to the visitors’ center. All the while, although she couldn’t see it, she kept looking toward where she’d spent the day. When she first stepped inside the small, crowded building, she didn’t see anyone, but then a middle-aged man wearing a muted green uniform came out of a back room.

  “We’re getting ready to close.” The man who spoke looked as if he forgot to eat most of the time. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “I’m not sure.” Kayla tried to take in everything, but it was hard, what with a bunch of souvenirs for sale, photographs of caves and massive lava flows on the walls, two crammed bookcases and a large collection of baskets, old cooking utensils, weapons and other stuff behind glass. “I mean, I’m interested in what the Modoc women wore.”

  “Before or after the white influence?”

  “There’s a difference?”

  “Very much.” He ambled toward a bookshelf. “The Modocs, like most Indians, were fascinated by anything new. Not long after the first settlers arrived, they began trading their belongings for things they’d never seen before. Sometimes they stole. By the time of the war, they’d pretty much stopped wearing deerskin.”

  “How come?” Feeling a little dizzy, Kayla watched the bony man thumb through books. “Didn’t they want to stay with tradition?”

  “Why should they? Think of all the work involved in tanning hide and sewing when they could get their hands on something ready-made.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s kind of sad, isn’t it? We’ve been able to get our hands on a few garments, but they’re not in very good shape and so fragile they’re seldom touched.”

  “Sad?”

  “That the Modocs so quickly turned their backs on certain elements of their heritage,” he said as he opened a large book. “Fortunately, although most of the physical artifacts are gone, some of the old legacy still exists thanks to the legends passed down through the generations. These days, the remaining Modocs are working to re-create and capture the past, but a great deal has been lost. And we can never be sure whether historical documentation is accurate because it was written by whites.”

  The man—his nameplate said he was Robert Palmer—sounded sad. Kayla wanted to ask what he considered the most reliable historical documentation, but just then he pointed to a page. Because her eyes were still adjusting to being inside, it was a moment before she clearly saw the drawing of an older, heavy-set Indian woman wearing some kind of close-fitting ca
p and fur shawl. Her skirt was only partly visible, but Kayla thought it was made of deerskin, like Morning Song’s. It looked heavy and was decorated with beads, feathers, and other things. The woman had something that might be another cap or a basket in her hands and was working on it.

  “Not exactly what you were looking for?” Robert asked.

  “I was hoping for more detail.”

  “That’s going to be hard. No photographs were taken of the first Modocs settlers came across. Cameras were pretty crude back then, and quite frankly, no one thought it important. Don’t forget, back then many settlers thought of Indians as not quite human, certainly not as intelligent or important as them.”

  “How could they think that?”

  “Think of the lifestyle and language differences. If you came across someone living in a reed and dirt hut, who made sounds you’d never heard before and either acted like a nosy child or tried to run you off, wouldn’t you come to the same conclusion?”

  “I don’t know. Then there’s nothing...”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Yes. Yes!”

  “Wonderful. It’s so gratifying to meet a young person who doesn’t act as if they could care less. You might find more at the Klamath Falls museum, and there are items in storage here. Those things are selectively shown to teachers, historians, archeologists and the like.”

  Kayla turned her attention back to the drawing. The woman had thick knuckles, probably from hard work. Her face looked gentle, but because she was concentrating on what she was doing, it was difficult to be sure.

  “Is she weaving?”

  “That she is.” Robert looked delighted at her question. “From the size of it, I’d say she’s making a skullcap. The Modocs wore them to protect themselves from the elements, to let other tribes know who they were, or just because they liked a particular design. The shawl is probably bear hide.”

  Morning Song hadn’t worn a shawl, but then it had been too hot for anything except a dress—an ancient dress except it hadn’t looked old. “Today’s Modocs—” Kayla swallowed, then plunged ahead. “They don’t wear deerskin, do they?”