The Elementals

by Morgan Llywelyn

  “Now tell me,” he said as he gave the damp cloth back to her. “Just what were you talking about out there?”

  She sat down on the edge of a cot and looked up at him. “The people Cloud-Being-Born has gathered here are a very special group, George. No one told me that, it’s just something I’ve observed for myself since I’ve been here. Each of us has a gift. No two have the same gift. Two Fingers is a healer, for example. I sing. Sandy is a Navajo and, though you’d never guess it to look at him, an exceptional artist. Mary is a water diviner. Don’t smile; she can really find water anywhere. Each of us can do something. Cloud-Being-Born organizes us into various groups to achieve various results. You saw a Healing Dance just now. When we planted the vegetables we did a different Dance. And it worked. They came up.”

  “Vegetables do that. They come up.”

  “Do they? Are you so sure? The average temperature here is a lot hotter than it used to be just a few years ago. That’s changed the growth habits of every plant. Just look at the trees, they’re dying. But our vegetables are thriving.”

  “You give them a lot of tender loving care.”

  “We give them more than that, George. There’s no way they should be alive under that sun out there. Nothing else is, even the mesquite trees are dying.”

  “Yeah. Well.” George scratched his head, trying to think of some explanation his scientific mind could accept.

  “Do you know of anyone else who can do what we’re doing here?” Kate challenged.

  “No,” he said ruefully. “The radical change in the planetary climate was one of our biggest worries, for a while, because of crop failure on an international scale. We were predicting worldwide famine. But before that actually became a problem, it was overcome by even bigger problems. I doubt if anyone out there is obsessing about worldwide famine anymore.

  “You know, Kate, it’s like an old dog I read about someplace years ago. His owner said he died of everything at once. That’s what’s happening to this planet. It’s dying of everything at once.

  “No single factor is killing the planet, you understand. The ecology is being overwhelmed by dozens of assaults. The hole in the ozone layer is just one example. We didn’t worry a helluva lot about that one, for a while. It was just a problem to the Australians, who had to start closing down their beaches during the hottest part of the day because too many people were getting skin cancers.

  “But the problem didn’t stay in Australia. Like the cancers themselves, it spread. Everything seemed to be connected to everything else in ways we hadn’t fully perceived.

  “Take Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan. Those countries needed a crop to boost their economies. So they diverted their major watercourses to irrigate fields and grow cotton on huge cotton plantations. They didn’t realize they’d created a disaster until their climate was changed and drought set in. To combat the drought, they diverted rivers from Siberia, which in turn destroyed another ecosystem. Climatic change was spreading.

  “That’s symptomatic of what happened all over the globe. Famine in Ethiopia, rain forests destroyed in Brazil … in every case, someone was raping the land for the sake of jobs and profits and the balance of payments. All perfectly justifiable. We have to have jobs. And a man’s entitled to a profit. And God knows we have to redress the balance of payments!

  “But what we didn’t seriously take into account was the amount of damage we were doing to the planet. Of course, along the way we’ve destroyed ourselves, because we’ve made the atmosphere unbreathable. But I suppose on the cosmic scale the destruction of earth’s air-breathers is pretty small potatoes compared to the murder of a planet.”

  “Is that what’s happening?” Kate asked. She shivered in spite of the heat. “The murder of this planet?”

  “You might call it that. Oh, it isn’t going to be blown up in an atomic explosion the way people feared fifty years ago. It’ll still be here, circling the sun. But there won’t be any life on it. Perhaps there’ll only be water. The polar ice caps are melting as they’ve never melted before. If that doesn’t stop—and we have no reason to think it will—then the continents as we know them will be inundated.

  “Eventually the earth will cool again—far too late to do us any good, needless to say. Then the ice will come back. A great glittering ball of ice. Sterile. Dead.”

  “Everything that is, is alive,” Kate said.

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “It’s a saying Cloud-Being-Born uses a lot.”

  “Meaning ice too? Well, maybe, according to his way of thinking. But as far as I’m concerned, a world covered in ice is totally damned dead.” George’s pent-up anger resonated in his voice.

  Looking at him, Kate saw that his fists were clenched. “Did you know all this when you came here?” she asked him.

  “Of course.”

  “Did you ever think of killing yourself?”

  “Sure. Lots of people preferred suicide to sitting around waiting for the end. But somehow I couldn’t do it.”

  “So you came to a reservation instead.”

  “Yeah. Home to die. Metaphorically speaking. It’s what I get for being romantic about my Indian heritage. Funny thing about Indians, Kate. People did tend to romanticize them, same as they did the Irish. I’ve got Indian and Irish in me, so I guess that makes me doubly romantic, eh?” He essayed a halfhearted grin, trying to lighten the mood.

  Kate replied seriously. “There’s nothing wrong with being romantic. Maybe the Indians and the Irish still knew that when the rest of us forgot. Human beings have a real need to put a shine on things, to give them glow and glory.

  “Why do you think I was so successful as a call girl? I’m no great beauty. But I could give my clients romance. I could give them soft music and low lights and intelligent conversation. I could even give them buckskin and beads and a real live Indian princess, if that’s what they wanted. And they did. They loved it. The men who came to me were starved for some sort of romance.

  “You and I grew up in an age that glorified what it called ‘reality.’ Ugliness was the fashion, everything else was sentimental crap. Garbage was art and noise was music. People’s souls were starving, George, long before worldwide famine could kill them.

  “No wonder our world turned so ugly. We made it that way. Maybe we all deserved to die.”

  “But you didn’t kill yourself either,” George reminded her. “You came here.”

  “Yes. I know now that Cloud-Being-Born called me here.”

  “You really believe that?”

  She looked at him with enviable composure. “I know it,” she said.

  “Why?”

  Instead of answering, Kate said, “Perhaps you should ask yourself why he called you here, George.”

  25

  During the days that followed, George felt more and more a part of the community. Sharing their isolated existence, he was able to forget for hours, sometimes for half a day, the lurking catastrophe.

  The Indians did not discuss it among themselves. Their only acknowledgment was to comment on the heat.

  It was impossible to ignore the relentlessly increasing heat.

  But they focused on other things, on the rituals of survival. Working together, they tended the vegetables and carried water from the well and milked the goats and made the repairs necessary to keep the dilapidated buildings from falling down. The men and women worked together. There was little division of labor according to gender. Everyone turned their hand at whatever needed to be done, according to their abilities. Mary Ox-and-a-Burro was the best carpenter on the reservation. Bert Brigham was the best cook.

  George, somewhat to his surprise, discovered an unsuspected talent with needle and thread and was soon responsible for mending clothing in addition to his other chores.

  Heat, sweat, dust, shabby things getting shabbier.

  How strange it is, George thought, that a woman like Kate who sold her body to buy herself a better lifestyle is willing to settle for
this. Indian fatalism, perhaps? He was not sure.

  The influence Cloud-Being-Born exerted on the others was an ongoing source of fascination to George. The old man did not seem to do much of anything but sit around the store. Yet everyone deferred to him. On the rare occasions when he spoke, people held their breaths to listen.

  Not that he said much. Mostly he just sat, dozing or ruminating, it was hard to tell which. Of all of them, Cloud-Being-Born was the only one who gave the impression of just … waiting.

  George made several unsuccessful efforts to engage the old man in conversation. Finally Harry said, “I’d leave the old man alone, if I were you. When he has something important to say, he says it. Otherwise, he don’t waste time in palaver.”

  Harry was beginning to get on George’s nerves. There was the same arrogant I’m-in-charge-here-and-don’t-you-forget-it air about him that T. J. Dosterschill had possessed. The irritant lay not so much in what they said, as in the way they said it. Both spoke as if contradiction was unthinkable.

  “I’ll talk to him if I want to,” George replied. Only after the words were spoken did he realize he sounded like a sullen little boy talking back to his mother.

  Harry shrugged. “Suit yourself. But it won’t get you anywhere. Remember, I told you not to bother.”

  “Who put you in charge?”

  Harry grinned. “Me? I ain’t in charge, old hoss.”

  “Then what’s your specific role here?”

  “‘Specific role,’” Harry mimicked, still grinning. “My my, what fawncy language we do speak.”

  George snapped, “Cut the crap. You’re no more an ignorant reservation Indian than I am.”

  “Mighty perceptive of you, old hoss. Point of fact, I used to be a supervisor for Con Ed, back East. Had practically the whole Long Island grid at one time.”

  “What tribe are you?”

  “Mohawk. My dad was one of those structural steel workers who went up on the skyscrapers and walked around on exposed beams with nothing to lean against but the wind. That was phased out, though, by the time I came along. I had to find some other line of work.”

  “Until Cloud-Being-Born summoned you.”

  “Yeah. Now, he is a reservation Indian. But he sure as hell ain’t ignorant, he’s the smartest person here. Mescalero Apache, he is. He and my father had something in common. The Mescaleros used to say they ‘lived in the sky.’ All their rituals revolved around solar and lunar alignments, things like that. Very complicated people.”

  “I thought they were from the mountains in New Mexico,” George said.

  “Most of them. Cloud-Being-Born’s people wound up here for some reason, on the flattest piece of desert for miles around. But at least he has a great view of the sky at night,” Henry added. “When the rest of us are asleep, did you know he just sits on the porch steps and stares up at the stars? Don’t even seem to sleep. Just sits there, staring up. Damndest thing you ever saw, old man like that.”

  Cloud-Being-Born and I have something in common too, George thought to himself. We’re both displaced mountain men. The Mescaleros came from the White Mountains of New Mexico; my father came from the White Mountains of New Hampshire.

  And here we are. In this godforsaken desert.

  Here we are.

  As he lay on his cot that night, with the door of his shack open in a vain effort to fight the heat, George could not sleep. He thought about the old Indian staring at the stars.

  Then his thoughts slid sideways and circled around Kate. He folded his arms behind his head and thought about her until he could not stand it anymore, then got up and slipped on his cut-off Levi’s and slipped out of the shack.

  There were no lights on in the barracks. The community had a few kerosene lanterns and there were boxes of candles in the store, but generally daylight was the only illumination they sought.

  In spite of the darkness, however, George felt sure Kate was awake too. He could sense it, as if the air between them was vibrating.

  How to call her outside without looking like a fool? He stood lost in thought for a few moments, then the idea came to him.

  Very softly, he began whistling “My Lagan Love.”

  As he had known she would, Kate came to him.

  She was dressed in a thin cotton shift. Even in the light of a waning moon, he could see her body clearly through the fabric. She was barefoot, her glossy hair lying in a thick plait across one shoulder. She walked toward him without shyness, moving with a straightforward and sinuous grace.

  No wonder the johns thought she was an Indian princess, George thought.

  She is.

  She stopped when she was so close to him he could reach out and put a hand behind her head and pull her mouth to his.

  But he did not.

  Not yet.

  Instead he said something foolish, as people do. “How did you know it was me?”

  She smiled. Even if the night had been pitch-black, he would have heard the smile in her voice. “Oh, George.”

  Suddenly it was George who was shy. “You don’t have any other … I mean, there’s no special man … ?”

  “I know what you mean. And no, there’s no man in my life now,” Kate said calmly. “Have you anyone? Now?”

  George made a gesture that took in the entire world beyond the reservation. “There isn’t anyone,” he said. “Almost literally.”

  “A few.”

  “Yes. A few. But none of them that care for me, or that I care about. That’s an awful feeling at a time like this, Kate. I know we live and die alone in the strictest sense, but when you’re faced with the end of the world, you should at least have someone to put your arms around, someone to cry with.”

  “Are you the kind of man who can cry?”

  He had never given it much thought. But now, trying to be honest, he said, “Yes. yes, I guess I am.” And to his surprise felt the tears just beneath the surface, burning in his throat.

  The end of the world. All those people … all those lovely little things he had taken for granted … the laughter of children running across a schoolyard … the perfume of a strange woman lingering in an elevator … the roar of the crowd at a baseball game …

  She knew. Kate felt the twist of agony in him, and knew. With one step she closed the distance between them and put her arms around him.

  “Don’t,” she whispered, pressing her lips to the exact place at the base of his throat that was aching with the need to cry. “Ah, don’t.” Her lips moved on his skin. Moved slowly away from his throat, down his bare chest, brushing across his stiffened nipples, circling back up, up, seeking his mouth.

  For just one terrible and shaming moment, he wondered if she was healthy. Then he almost laughed aloud. Irrelevant, irrelevant! He gathered her into his arms. She was a strong, solid woman, but he lifted her easily and carried her back to his shack; carried the captive princess home.

  Neither of them was aware of the old man sitting on the steps of the porch in front of the store, watching them in the faint moonlight.

  George had left his door open. He hated taking Kate into that small, stifling room, but it was better than lying her down on the rock-hard earth outside. At least he had a cot with a mattress on it.

  He even had flowers. Since the first day, there had always been flowers in the pitcher on the dresser.

  George did not put them there. But they were always there. Fresh ones every day.

  He laid Kate on the bed and bent over her, wondering what were the appropriate words to say in such a situation. What phrases did you use with the highest-priced call girl in town?

  The unbidden thought made him angry. He did not want to think of her that way. Indeed, it was impossible for him to imagine. She was Kate-Who-Sings-Songs, a lovely, grave Indian woman of grace and dignity. That was the true person. The call girl she had mentioned was an alien. He did not believe in her.

  There was no room for her in what was left of the world.

  If this is going
to be the last time, George thought, let it be be beautiful.

  They were gentle with each other, at first. Their shared hunger made them gentle, eager to prolong the pleasure. Kate had a superb sense of timing, George discovered. Whatever he needed, she kept him waiting until one heartbeat before unbearable, then she gave him more than he could have hoped. Her hands knew what his skin wanted.

  “You’re beautiful,” he whispered to her, knowing the trite old words to be inadequate.

  “So are you,” she whispered back.

  No one had ever called George Clement Burningfeather beautiful. It had never occurred to him that the term might be applied to a man. Yet he recognized it for what it was: a high honor. That clean, simple word, without all the euphemisms and evasions, was an accolade. A salute.

  As her hands explored him he felt the male’s ancient moment of concern, of insufficiency. Then its counterpoint, a sudden sure pride. He took her strongly, knowing himself capable and powerful.

  “Yes!” cried Kate-Who-Sings-Songs.

  Sitting on the splintery steps, looking at the stars, Cloud-Being-Born heard that cry. It was soft and low and muffled by the walls of the shack, yet he heard it. His keen ears would have heard if it had been much softer and much farther away.

  He had been waiting for that sound.

  The old man nodded to himself. Slowly, giving his ancient joints plenty of time, he got to his feet. He cast one more look at the stars.

  Then, done with waiting at last, he went into the store and lay down contentedly on the pile of blankets in the corner that was his only bed.

  Cloud-Being-Born had everything he needed now.

  Before dawn, George and Kate lay pressed together on the narrow cot that smelled of sweat and love, and listened to the beating of their hearts. At last Kate made a move as if to get up, but he held her back.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back to my own bed, before the others wake up.”

  “Don’t you want them to know about this?”

  “It isn’t anyone else’s business.”