The Witch's Tongue

by James D. Doss

  THE WITCH’S TONGUE

  ALSO BY JAMES D. DOSS

  The Shaman Sings

  The Shaman Laughs

  The Shaman’s Bones

  The Shaman’s Game

  The Night Visitor

  Grandmother Spider

  White Shell Woman

  Dead Soul

  JAMES D. DOSS

  THE WITCH’S TONGUE

  For

  Bob and Betty Eickleberry

  Los Alamos, New Mexico

  Julia Martin

  Richland, Washington

  Helen Randal

  The Book Sleuth, Colorado Springs

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I wish to offer my thanks to these kindly folk:

  Glen Raby, Chimney Rock Area Manager USDA Forest Service, Pagosa Springs District

  Administrative Sergeant Leon Mares Southern Ute Tribal Detention Center, Ignacio, Colorado

  Dick Hutson and Bob Newell Los Alamos, New Mexico

  Tom Elder

  Arroyo Seco, New Mexico

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE: REGARDING THE WITCH’S BODY PARTS

  CHAPTER TWO: THE PLAYERS

  CHAPTER THREE: THE SHAMAN SLEEPS

  CHAPTER FOUR: IN THE SHAMAN’S DEN

  CHAPTER FIVE: THE SEARCH

  CHAPTER SIX: THE MOONBEAM CLIMBER

  CHAPTER SEVEN: CONTRIVED ENTERTAINMENT

  CHAPTER EIGHT: BAD MEDICINE

  CHAPTER NINE: THE FULL TREATMENT

  CHAPTER TEN: THE VISITATION

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: THE FOREMAN

  CHAPTER TWELVE: THE HARD-LUCK KID

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: SUNDOWN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: SERIOUS BUSINESS

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: DUTY CALLS

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: THE CONUNDRUM

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: THE LADY

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: THE BETTY LOU PRESCRIPTION

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: SHIRLEY

  CHAPTER TWENTY: THE POLITICIAN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: THE NAVAJO TENANT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: LUNCH WITH OSCAR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: THE WARNING

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: THE OPPORTUNITY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: HAUNTED

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: THE WAGES OF SIN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: THE SHAMAN’S REMEDY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: BERTIE AND JANE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: THE MUSEUM

  CHAPTER THIRTY: AN INTERNAL MATTER

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: NEWMAN’S PARTNER

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: THE GENTLEMAN’S PROPOSITION

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: THE UNEXPECTED

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: THE DATE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: THE FILE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: A SMALL SURPRISE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: A MODEST RECOMMENDATION

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: THE BROADCAST

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE: DREAMING WOMAN

  CHAPTER FORTY: A GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE: CAÑON DEL ESPIRITU

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO: THE CAMEL’S BACK

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE: THE CALL

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR: ENCOUNTER IN IGNACIO

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE: IN THE SIDE POCKET

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX: SUSPICION

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN: SATISFACTION

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT: THE CLIENT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE: THE APOLOGY

  CHAPTER FIFTY: SNYDER MEMORIAL HOSPITAL

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE: THE RETURN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO: THE EXCHANGE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE: MCTEAGUE’S TRIUMPH

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR: EPIPHANY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE: THE EXHIBITION

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX: GRANITE CREEK PD

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN: ALMOST TRUE CONFESSION

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT: THE LADYSMITH

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE: THE SACRAMENT

  CHAPTER SIXTY: AMAZING GRACE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE: A DONE DEAL

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO: METAMORPHOSIS

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE: THE BOX

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR: MONTHS LATER

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE: DUE RECOGNITION

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX: THE SHAMAN’S NEW FRIEND

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN: AN OLD, SWEET SONG

  THE WITCH’S TONGUE

  PROLOGUE

  Nearly thirteen thousand summers have passed since that splendid morning when the first human footprints appeared between these towering canyon walls. But in all the years since that singular event, not one good thing has happened here. This being the case, hardly anyone visits this remote and dreadful place—though the rare exception is worthy of mention.

  Consider Jacob Gourd Rattle.

  Cloaked in twilight shadows, the solitary man holds a pointed stick in his hand. With the terrible intensity of a fanatic, the meticulous draftsman draws a coffin-sized rectangle in the sand. Satisfied with the length and breadth of his plan, he considers its depth.

  The customary six feet is what he had in mind, but the soil is packed with stones and there will be tangles of roots to cut. The laborer balances rocks and roots against the weight of tradition. The scales hesitate, then tilt to accommodate his predisposition.

  Four feet will be enough.

  THE TRIBAL ELDER

  DAISY PERIKA is a crusty old recluse, much preferring her lonely wilderness home to a more comfortable house in Ignacio. Because the dirt road to her small dwelling is treacherous even in dry weather, the Ute elder’s flesh-and-blood visitors are few and far between. For the determined hiker, her dwelling is a three-hour walk from the paved road. For the motorized pilgrim blessed with fortitude and four-wheel drive, the journey can be completed in twenty-nine spine-jarring minutes. By the light of the waning moon, the amber-eyed owl wings her way from here to there in scarcely any time at all.

  Whether locomoting by foot or wheel or wing, the traveler eventually encounters a collection of sandstone mesas rising above the arid prairie grasslands. Each of these isolated plateaus is separated from its neighbor by a deep, sinuous canyon. Three Sisters Mesa is bordered on the west by the narrow, meandering Cañon del Serpiente and on its sunrise side by Cañon del Espiritu. This latter chasm is, according to Daisy Perika, a place where the spirits congregate.

  Perilously near the yawning mouth of Spirit Canyon, almost concealed among a cluster of juniper and piñon, is her modest house trailer. Resembling an oversized metal mailbox, the Ute woman’s home stands confidently on stubby legs of cinder blocks. Scorched by decades of blistering sun, pelted by wind-driven sleet and sand, its once-glistening surface is now spotted and blotched by a sooty oxide pox. Now and then, a rivet pops. Beneath the thin aluminum skin, brittle steel bones fracture and crack. At sunrise and sunset, corroded joints expand and contract, making awful creaks and squeaks. When they work at all, electrical things sizzle and sputter. On her cookstove, blue circles of propane flame flicker and flutter. In the deep trough of night, the ghost in the thing utters painful groans and quaking shudders. The shaman’s home should have collapsed long ago, and died a quiet death. But like its stubborn occupant, the structure remains. Moreover, it is a place where things tend to happen. Special things. And from time to time, distinguished visitors come to call. On this very day, for example.

  In the small kitchen, seated at the table, see the kindly man of God—the tight-lipped woman.

  THE PRIEST

  HAVING COMPLETED his prayer, Father Raes Delfino opened his eyes, saw the Ute elder’s prune-skin face staring at him. Daisy seems upset. Perhaps she has already guessed what I am about to tell her. He had known the peculiar woman far too long to underestimate her powers. He hesitated, then got on with it. “I came to see you today—because I wanted
you to be the first to know.”

  Daisy Perika held her breath, waited to hear the bad news. He don’t look healthy.

  The Catholic priest smiled at this meddling gossip, this wicked prankster, this seesawing backslider, this troublesome woman who persisted in her conversations with the dwarf-spirit—this most beloved member of his flock. “Just this morning, I posted a letter to the bishop. I am asking his permission to retire.”

  Oh, God—I knew it. He’s dying! She laid one trembling hand over the other. “When?”

  “It is not for me to say.” The cleric stirred his coffee. “But I expect it will take at least six months—perhaps a year—for the ecclesiastical wheels to grind their grist.”

  He must have a cancer. “You’re sick.”

  “Oh no, I am quite well.” He chuckled. Far better than I have ever been.

  “Then why…” The old woman’s words trailed off down the path to nowhere.

  He reached across the table, took her hand in his. “Because, dear lady—it is time.”

  Daisy brushed away the single tear coursing its way down her face. “Where’ll you go—to one of them old priests’ homes?” She snorted. “Sit in a wheelchair with a bib over your shirt while somebody feeds you oatmeal from a tablespoon?”

  This produced a belly laugh. “Gracious me, I hope not.”

  Her tone was accusing. “But you’ll move away from the reservation.” A long way away. And I’ll never see you again in Middle World.

  He gave her a thoughtful look. “If God is willing, I will find a quiet place to rest.” And pray.

  I know what it is! The elder screwed up her courage. “Some people in Ignacio say you’ve been acting funny lately.” She added darkly, “They claim you haven’t been paying attention to church business—that you go around all day mumbling prayers and psalms. And singing to yourself.”

  “God forgive me, it is true.” The holy man put on a repentant expression. “Now you see why I must be replaced by someone younger. A practical no-nonsense priest, who will get things done.”

  Daisy was not fooled by this evasive response. “There’s even some that say you’ve had some kind of a religious experience.” Her tone was distinctly accusing.

  Father Raes arched an eyebrow. “Do they now?”

  She nodded, pierced him with a flinty look. “Some say you saw an angel in the church one night. Others say you saw—” But that could not be repeated. “Is that why you’re bailing out?”

  He frowned. “Now, Daisy—do you really believe I’d let a bit of gossip drive me away?”

  “You know what I mean. Are you retiring because you had a vision?” Daisy Perika encountered astounding apparitions once or twice every month, and the old shaman was not thinking about retiring.

  The priest assumed his severe persona. “We will not discuss such rumors.” Having done his duty, he softened his tone. “But I assure you—I am not retiring from the active priesthood because of anything I have seen.” This was literally true. It was, in fact, what he had heard. But this would never be revealed to another mortal. Especially not to this Ute Catholic, who was a shaman on the side. Or was it the other way around? God have mercy on our souls.

  The subject was thus dismissed. They talked for a while of other matters.

  About Daisy’s nephew, tribal investigator Charlie Moon.

  About God and his Son. And the Holy Spirit.

  Stern admonitions were given. And sweet blessings.

  Promises were made.

  And finally, good-byes.

  ADRIFT

  DAISY PERIKA stood on the wooden porch attached to her trailer home, wrinkled hands gripping the pine rail. The sounds of the priest’s automobile were lost in the winds. Thick mists billowed and rolled out of the wide mouth of Cañon del Espiritu. The old woman felt as if her feet were slipping on the deck of a small ship tossed by a heaving, unseen sea. As the porch began to creak and sway beneath her feet, she craned her neck forward—straining to get a glimpse of that familiar landscape that must be out there still. It was not. For a terrifying moment, she was almost convinced that the pale blue sky, the piñon-crested mesas, the sinuous brown canyons—had never been. But in the pocket her mind, she had kept them, and could perceive them there. As she held on to the rail of the rolling craft, the elderly Catholic meditated on the Captain of her Soul.

  Presently, the sea mists thinned.

  The little porch became steady again.

  The Ute shaman squinted at the massive stone figures waiting patiently on the crest of Three Sisters Mesa. Could those petrified women see through the mists of time and space? And the pitukupf who lived far up Cañon del Espiritu in the abandoned badger hole—could the dwarf reveal when the priest would leave her, and where Father Raes would go? This thought gave the old woman some slight sense of confidence. Everything would work out. One way or another, it always did. Maybe no replacement would be found for the priest. Then the bishop in Pueblo would tell Father Raes he had to stay for a few years more.

  At least until I am gone from Middle World…

  Daisy rubbed a sore hip and sighed. I’ll go inside, heat up the chili stew.

  But not so very far away, where a man had drawn four lines in the sand—a blacker pot had already begin to brew.

  CHAPTER ONE

  REGARDING THE WITCH’S BODY PARTS

  To the typical observer, the trio of mute ones do not resemble human beings. Not in the least.

  This being the case, it could hardly be expected that they would look anything at all like three Pueblo women who had been petrified (depending on the version of the legend) by either a feat of malicious sorcery or an act of supernatural mercy. To the uninformed eye, the massive monoliths appear to be merely three huge humps of weathered sandstone that were squatting atop the mesa aeons before saber-toothed tigers and majestic mammoths roamed the foothills of those mountains that would eventually be christened “San Juan” by the Spanish invaders. According to the tale the Ute shaman told—and Daisy Perika would not tolerate the least hint of skepticism—after fleeing to the top of the mesa to escape an Apache raiding party, the trio of Pueblo women had prayed for deliverance from their ruthless pursuers. Their bodies had been turned to stone, their spirits set free to enter Upper World. Daisy also asserted that the sandstone women were not quite nine hundred years old and that before the remarkable event, the top of the canyon had been as flat as a billiard table. Local geologists dared not contend the point with the hard-eyed woman.

  Whatever the ages of the sandstone towers, the deep canyons that snaked and twisted and turned and twined along the edges of Three Sisters Mesa were ancient beyond imagining. And being so very old, there were some rather odd things that lingered between their walls. According to Daisy, some were wispy remnants of material bodies. There were others (so she said) that had never occupied a house of flesh. The shaman knew this to be true; she had encountered a score or more of them and often chatted with those who were lonely. Daisy’s knowledge was not limited to the spirits. Because she prepared medicines, the tribal elder knew every plant that grew in this wilderness. She begged their pardon for harvesting flowers, berries, leaves, stems, and roots. She was acquainted with all the animals, too, and greeted each of them by name. Some returned the compliment. But there were a few odd features in these shadowy depths that even Daisy Perika knew little about.

  For example, consider that canyon stretched out closest to the sunset.

  The shaman did not know that ages and ages ago, halfway up the cliffs, a thick basaltic layer had bridged the chasm. Though having little utility except for the occasional lizard or mouse or fuzzy caterpillar who wished to cross over the shady depths, it was nevertheless a wondrous thing to behold. Or would have been, had human beings arrived in time to see it. Alas, the marvelous formation collapsed a hundred millennia before the most recent ice age. In the bottom of the canyon, portions of the fallen bridge have cracked and weathered and washed away in seasonal floods. Even so, some evidenc
e remains. A few black basalt slabs are still half buried in the sandy floor, and there are lofty remnants of the ancient span. Opposed on the sheer cliffs are a pair of dark projections. Well above the Three Sisters side of the canyon, a black basaltic shelf juts out prominently from crumbling sandstone. On the wall across the way, a smaller sibling mimics its mate.

  In the early autumn of 1883, a Scottish prospector on the way to Fort Garland happened by, riding a fat black ginny mule, leading a gray donkey. This European was cursed with a touch of superstition, blessed with a wry sense of humor. While sipping black tea by his campfire, the traveler named the larger protrusion the Witch’s Tongue, and made note of this small bit of vanity in his diary. Across the canyon, the smaller shelf cried out for similar recognition. And so the pliant pilgrim from Portnacroish dubbed it the Witch’s Thumb, and penned this also on the yellowed page.

  The seeker after gold was murdered six months later in Los Ojos by a swarthy prostitute who appropriated the Scotsman’s poke, his Winchester carbine with the silver-inlaid maple stock—even his little writing book. Because she could not read, the sporting woman traded the dead man’s diary to a U.S. Army cartographer for three Havana Provincial cigars. Sadly, the unfortunate prospector’s name has been forgotten.

  The Witch’s Tongue and Thumb have not.

  It may have been due to a few unfortunate references to brujos, or recurring tales of hunters and trappers who had fallen into that twilight crack in the earth, never to surface again—or it may have been a more subtle hint of evil sensed by tribal elders. But the canyon was always known to the Utes as a bad place. So bad that in the midtwentieth century the Tribal Council had (in its collective wisdom) officially pronounced the six-mile-long crevasse off-limits except to members of the tribe. But there were, as there must always be, exceptions to the rule.