The Grey Pilgrim

by J. M. Hayes

  It would have been a great time for Mary to catch up on writing her notes, but she still didn’t have any notebooks. She would have been thoroughly discouraged if she hadn’t been listening to the men’s nightly meetings. Some of the younger people seemed to resent her. Maybe because it was their generation that might get drafted. But they were too young to vote in the council and only two of the older men were still holding out against the Siwani Mahkai. They were beginning to face a good deal of scorn from their fellows. It seemed likely they would soon capitulate and she could begin making a proper record of her stay. After a month and a half in the village, there was an incredible amount of data she needed to record.

  By her fourth morning in the hut, Mary was bored out of her skull. After breakfast she practiced making baskets, a skill that was eluding her. Her baskets tended to look like the ones the little girls sometimes made in imitation of their elders. She had a sound mental image of the technique, but she couldn’t translate it to her fingers. She was considering cheating, looking around the mud wall at the fire which warmed her just long enough to watch her latest spastic effort transform itself from error to ash, when she heard her name called softly from outside the hut. It was the Siwani Mahkai. For a moment she felt almost as shocked as if she were Papago. Men should have nothing to do with women during this time. It was highly improper.

  “Yes?” she answered.

  “Come out, Marie. I must talk with you,” he said.

  She scrambled out into late morning sunshine. The edges between light and shadow seemed as sharp as a cactus spine after three days in the hut. The unexpected visit broke the monotony, but at the same time made her feel uneasy. What momentous event might cause the Siwani Mahkai to break such a powerful taboo?

  “You shouldn’t be here,” she told him, then to cover how foolish she felt at trying to explain the proprieties of his own culture to him, asked, “Is everything all right?”

  He grinned at her embarrassment. “There is no cause for you to be alarmed, Marie. Nor need you concern yourself with my safety in your presence. I am Mahkai. I can handle the danger of a woman in her time. Besides, have you not told me that among your people men are regularly exposed to menstruating women without harm?

  “No, there are simply things occurring which make it necessary for us to speak, however inappropriate the timing. And perhaps, when we have finished, we may make a small journey together.”

  For the first time she noticed the pair of horses nearby, packs and provisions rolled behind their saddles. He seated himself cross-legged in the sand beside the hut and gestured for her to join him. She looked around, half afraid someone would see them together. Women’s huts were built some distance from the village to minimize the chances of a man accidentally coming on one, and she was not due to be fed again until sunset. There was nothing there but the horses and the desert. She sat beside him.

  “This is difficult,” he said, running his fingers through his thin beard, as if he might find the right words in that unlikely spot. “I will explain some things to you. As I do, others will become clear.

  “In the little time you have been with us, most of our people have come to like you. Only some impetuous children and the most timid adults still have doubts about you. Soon you will understand and, I hope, forgive them.

  “You have been an American all your life. The time you have spent with us cannot replace that, but perhaps it is possible to be both American and O’odham.

  “Before I continue, I feel it is important to impress on you the level of trust I have come to feel for you. There is only one way I can see by which I might do that. To an American it would have no significance. To a member of the People it would be clear.

  “Our people call you Marie. As the Siwani Mahkai of our village I know that your secret name is Many Flowers. Have you told anyone else this name?”

  “No,” she assured him. She’d felt so proud of it she’d been tempted, but she understood the concept of its importance and hadn’t wanted to diminish the honor he’d done her.

  “When you leave us, who will you tell?”

  She wasn’t really sure. It depended on whether she went back to Larry or not. The month and a half of separation she’d expected to help clear her mind on that issue had only succeeded in providing it with time for a few dozen changes, back and forth.

  “I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “I may tell my husband. I may tell a close friend. Certainly not anyone else. I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Good,” he exclaimed. “You have some understanding of a name’s power and importance. For myself, there is no longer any living person who knows my true name. My parents knew it. The Mahkai who chose it for me gave it to them when I was very young. When I was grown, I shared it with my wives. But all those people are dead now. My mother was named Two Flowers. One of my wives was called Many Flowers. Those were their true names, not the names the People called them. They are special names. My mother was a Pima. To me, her true name symbolizes the O’odham. You see, the Desert People and the River People are like two flowers which share a single stalk. Over the years, I have come to know there are other blossoms on that stem. For a long time I did not think the Mexicans or the Anglos were actually people. Now I know that they are. It was why, I think, that though I dreamed of the same plant that represented my mother when I long ago named my wife, and again now for your name, each time I have seen that stalk it bears more blooms than it did before. Now I think you do us honor by bringing this special name back among us again.”

  She was deeply touched, but also confused. She understood her secret name’s significance. Why would he break the menstrual taboo to lecture her about it?

  “Not even my sons and daughters know my own true name. It is not that I lack trust in them, but it is an almost sacred thing to an old man, and I have shared it with so few.

  He paused, leaned forward and looked into her eyes. “My true name is Coyote Among Thistles.”

  She was amazed. If he’d told her the Tucson Chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution would be joining them for a picnic lunch she would have been less surprised. To an O’odham, giving your true name unlocks a key to the soul. It was like handing her a loaded revolver and leaving himself defenseless. Well, she amended, not quite defenseless. He was the Siwani Mahkai after all, and he knew her secret name as well. Still, it was incredible he would tell her. It confused her even more. Why do it? What was he planning to say that required him to overwhelm her so? If he had previously only shared it with his wives, could he be hoping she would become the next? She hadn’t been aware of any particular sexual interest from him, but between learning a new culture and her own confused emotions, it was possible she could have missed some clues. They had been spending lots of time together.

  While she was frantically trying to guess what was coming next, he reached into his pouch and pulled out two slips of paper and surprised her again. One was very dog-eared, the other relatively fresh. He handed them to her. They were a pair of J.D.’s business cards, each giving his name, title, office address in the federal building at Broadway and Scott, and business and home telephone numbers. Did all this have something to do with J.D.?

  “Where did you get these? Is he here?”

  “I will answer you in a moment, child, but first, please, tell me what they are. You ask if he is here. Do they signify that someone should be here?”

  She struggled to contain herself. “They are a formal means of identification among our people,” she explained. “The marks on them are words which tell me who their owner is and where to find him, like the marks on your calendar sticks tell you when an event occurred. A person might present one of these when he called on another as a means of introduction, or, if the person he wished to visit was away from home, he might leave one behind to show that he had been there.”

  He nodded. “I have looked at these,” he said, “and to me their marks seem identical. Do they identify the same person then, and
who is he?”

  “Yes. He is J.D. Fitzpatrick.”

  “And you know him?”

  “Yes, I know him.”

  “Among our people, names have meaning. Is it so among yours? Marie I know to be a variation of Maria, whom the Catholic priests claim was the mother of their God. From that I can infer some meaning. From his name I understand nothing. Is there meaning, something which might give me a clue to the man?”

  She shook her head. “Our names have less significance than yours. I am not directly named for the mother of Jesus. I was named in honor of a favorite aunt of my mother’s. My second name, Spencer, means I am married to a man of that patrinominal descent group. It is something like your clans, but less formal and not so extensive.

  “It’s funny, you know, but I just realized that J.D., in a way, is like your people. He keeps his name secret and shares it with few, if any. J.D. is only a sort of nickname. Fitzpatrick is his patrilineal clan name. J.D. has never shared his secret name with me, even so, I think I know him fairly well. Now, please, has he been here? Is he all right?”

  “No, he is not here, and yes, he is well, or was only days ago when he visited a neighboring village. He left one of these with them and they passed it along to me.”

  Suddenly she thought she understood. J.D. was still looking for Jujul and something had brought him to this part of the reservation. She wondered if the search would bring him here, and, if it did, how she would react.

  “He’s still looking for Zigzag, isn’t he?” she asked. “Do you know something about him? Are you trying to decide if J.D. can be trusted? Whether you should talk to him?”

  “Yes,” the old man said. “Yes to all your questions.”

  “J.D. can be trusted,” she told him. “I’ll vouch for him. He talked to me often about Jujul and his band. He’s very sympathetic. All he wants is to arrange a way out of this situation without bloodshed, a chance to talk to Jujul and convince him that the draft registration law is no threat to his people. Will you talk to him? Can you arrange for him to meet Jujul”

  “Child, among my people I am called Jujul. I am the Zigzag for whom your J.D. Fitzpatrick is searching.”

  “Oh fuck!” she said in English.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Ah, I have just used an expression from my language indicating surprise and delight,” she told him.

  “Strange,” he observed. “The BIA man, Larson, used a similar term with some regularity on the morning we ambushed him as he came to attack our village. I can understand his surprise, but not his delight.”

  The Ritual Exchange of Tobacco

  Parker was on the phone when the man entered. The Pima County Sheriff’s Office knew all about Big Jack Lang. He’d stayed with them so often they’d thought about painting his name next to his cell. But about an attack on him, any injuries a Papago might have inflicted, or the theft of his possessions, they were unaware. The big guy wasn’t the kind to bring them his problems, they said. He usually took care of them himself. In other words, they weren’t looking for the kid known as Talker.

  “Be right with you,” Parker told the man. “I’m on long distance.” The Sheriff’s Office didn’t even have a file on the rat-faced Talker. The kid didn’t need Parker.

  The stranger took off a hat with a band of silver conchos, star bright against the midnight felt, and sat on an oak chair with neatly spaced scars that indicated it might once have sported an upholstered seat pad. Now it sported a couple of cigarette burns and part of someone’s initials.

  A fine layer of dust covered every surface not in regular use. It matched the fading, water stained paint on the walls. The secre-tary’s desk was as dusty as any part of the office. Parker obviously wasn’t making enough to pay his help, or to hire someone to clean the place.

  Parker thanked the phone before returning it to its cradle. “Come on in,” he called through his office door.

  The man with the conchos was about average height but whipcord slender. He was also surprisingly fair skinned for a Navajo, if that’s what he was. Parker was guessing that because of the silver he wore around his neck and wrists and the conchos that circled his hat. The costume was right, even if the build and coloring weren’t. Parker gave it a shot anyway.

  “Ya ta hay,” he said. “Are you of the Dine?” he asked, also in Navajo.

  Sasaki looked up, startled.

  “Hi. You Navajo?” Parker repeated, this time in English.

  “Do you speak Navajo, Mr. Parker?” Sasaki inquired.

  “Just what you heard and maybe three of four other phrases,” the lawyer admitted. “Did I butcher it really badly?”

  “No.” He could tell Parker was surprised by his initial lack of comprehension. “I just didn’t expect to hear it spoken in this part of the state.”

  He took the stuffed chair across from the attorney, carefully avoiding the stain that could have been blood or wine or any transmogrification in between. Parker reached into a pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of Chesterfields. Sasaki accepted one, as well as a light from Parker’s Zippo.

  “The ritual exchange of tobacco,” Parker explained. “A modernized version of the peace pipe. May our peoples refrain from making war, at least on each other, or, at least for today. What can I do for you, Mr.—?”

  Sasaki smiled at the witticism, but he was faintly puzzled. John Parker was not what he had expected.

  “Begay,” he said, “Juan Begay.” Juan Begay was the Navajo equivalent of John Smith.

  “Bet you have trouble with hotel clerks,” Parker offered, obviously aware he was being given an alias.

  This time Sasaki didn’t smile. He took a deep drag on the cigarette and leaned back in the chair. “Mostly with the ones who refuse me occupancy,” he replied. “How about you?”

  Touché.

  “Yeah,” Parker agreed. “You’re lucky though. You take all that jewelry off and put on a suit and you could at least pass for Oriental. Me, I’ve got my momma’s coloring. I put on my Sunday best and try to pass and they just think I’m a Negro.”

  “Good,” Sasaki said, which didn’t sound particularly polite, but he’d finally gotten past the twisted sense of humor to the anger underneath. “I was told you’re a man with no particular fondness for the Whites. That’s the way it should be with those of us who aren’t White. Especially we Indians, Mr. Parker. That’s why I’m here.”

  “You don’t say,” the lawyer commented. “You hoping I’ll help you overthrow the United States Government, Mr. Begay? Maybe replace it with some multi-tribal federation? Hey, sign me up.”

  He made an exaggerated attempt to peer around his guest into the outer office. “Am I speaking clearly enough for whoever’s out there taking this down? You, J. Edgar, and the rest of the G-Men out here rounding up us traitors?”

  “Very funny,” Sasaki said, looking not the least amused. “You have a delightful wit, but we’ll make more progress if you hold it in check for a little while.

  “I am not with the FBI or any other law enforcement agency. Neither am I here in an effort to solicit your aid in overthrowing the federal government. I’m here as an unofficial representative of an Indian group that would like to see some massive changes in the level of control the BIA exercises over our people. We’re hoping you can help us, Mr. Parker.”

  “OK, kimosabe. I’m listening.”

  “You’ve run for the Papago Tribal Council in the last several elections on an anti-BIA platform, Mr. Parker, and you’ve lost each of them badly.”

  He could see that the comment had scored. Even Parker didn’t find his personal failings amusing.

  “It’s a matter of public record,” the attorney said, coolly.

  “Since Jujul took his band out in more or less open revolt against the government’s attempt to register Papagos for conscription, the tribe’s attitude has shifted, come more in line with your own, hasn’t it? If one of those elections were held today you might make a race of it. You wouldn’t wi
n, not yet, but you wouldn’t be embarrassed.”

  Parker leaned forward on his desk. The conversation was beginning to interest him.

  “I understand you’re representing other members of your people who somewhat less dramatically refused to register. I also understand you’ve contested the warrants against Jujul’s band. Commendable, Mr. Parker, and astute. But, in the final analysis, the longer Jujul remains at large, the longer there are hostilities of some sort between the federal government and his village, the stronger your position becomes. I ask you to consider what’s going to happen when troops are eventually sent in to find him? What’s going to happen when they begin a systematic search of the reservation, interfering in the daily lives of hundreds of peaceful villages in the process?”

  Parker knew the answer. He was going to get elected. The only trouble with this scenario was that it wouldn’t happen.

  “They won’t hold out that long, Mr. Begay. Rumor has it the Feds already know more or less where he is. And, so far, they’re taking a real low-key attitude on this. My guess is they’ll make contact and work out some sort of face-saving deal for everybody before too long. Then I start losing votes again.”

  “Perhaps that needn’t happen,” Sasaki said. “Are you aware that there has been resistance to the conscription law on the Navajo Reservation? Also among the Apache, Hopi, Zuni, and Pueblo? In fact, it has been the rule, not the exception, among Indians across the country.”

  Parker had heard there’d been a little trouble with the Navajo, but not about the rest.

  “The federal government has been quietly suppressing that information, Mr. Parker, suggesting the nation’s press play it down in these troubled times. The news media have been very cooperative. Only a few stories have been published nationally, but they prompted awareness among our widespread Native American brothers that they weren’t alone in feeling the need for legitimate representation within the government before their peoples should be expected to risk their lives in its defense. Jujul and his atavistic return to the warpath represents our best opportunity to draw more attention to our cause. That’s why I’m here. It’s my purpose to provide aid and counsel to Jujul and his people and keep them out there, resisting, as long as possible, so we may raise America’s consciousness and improve our bargaining position with the BIA.”