Forbidden Spirits

by Patricia Watters

  "No," Tyler replied. "We all grew up hearing her talk about our grandfather, Adam Hansen, who wasn't an Indian."

  "That's commendable of her but I'd think at least you would have asked her about her Indian heritage, if only because you look like an Indian," Rose said. "Is it because you're not interested, you don't care, or because there's no room in your life for anything but horses?"

  Tyler realized Rose was correct on all counts but one—he was in the process of making room in his life for something besides horses. Her. As for the rest, he said, "I haven't had any interest in my Indian ancestry because it's so far in the past it never seemed relevant."

  "Well, when you decide it's relevant enough to learn why I'm so upset about what you're doing in here, then let me know. Meanwhile, I'm not getting anywhere with you and I'd rather focus my attention on why I'm here at the ranch, which is to weave baskets and pass on stories and legends and traditions to visitors who are honestly interested in all the things you aren't." Pushing out of his arms, she turned and left the cavern.

  Tyler started after her but stopped at the entrance to the cavern, deciding he'd come too far to give up now. He'd only be drilling sporadically, and not for more than a couple more weeks. In the meantime he'd do a little research, and try to make sense of Rose's archaic belief in spirits.

  CHAPTER 8

  Upon returning from town, with a roll of welded wire in the back of his truck for repairing the fence around the vegetable garden, where a small Douglas fir fell and wiped out a corner, Tyler pulled to a halt in the parking area near the living museum and cut the engine. It was after hours, so the museum was closed to visitors, but having caught sight of Rose entering the plankhouse as he pulled in, he decided to make a short detour. He'd been waiting for an opportunity to see her when she wasn't surrounded by visitors.

  Until meeting Rose he'd had little interest in the living museum. He hadn't even been inside the plankhouse since it was completed the month before. In fact, he'd barely noticed it, other than to stand in the vicinity of it a few times and listen while Rose talked to visitors. But while it was being built, he'd noticed Marc and one of the Indians from the reservation working on it as he passed it on the way up to his place, and whenever their mom was available to babysit Lizzy, Kit would be right in there with the men, setting in cedar plank walls or crawling up on the roof to tuck in bark thatch.

  But now he had a reason to go inside. He wanted to kiss Rose again and have her kiss him back because he needed the reassurance that she still cared, even if she'd left the cavern in anger.

  The section of wall that opened to visitors was closed, so he entered through the opened door at the far end, which allowed a splash of sunlight to illuminate the interior. The building was excavated below ground to about three feet, so when he started down the notched wooden ladder, he cast a shadow over the huge room, where Rose was trying to hang a basket on a peg just out of reach.

  Walking over to her, he placed his palm on her shoulder, took the basket from her hand and hung it up then leaned over and kissed her lightly. He released her before she could protest, for whatever reason, then focusing on his alleged reason for being there, he said, while scanning the interior, "I've never been inside this building before. It's actually pretty cool."

  "Cool?" Rose said, with irritation. "It's the culmination of a lot of very hard work on the part of your brother and sister-in-law, along with my cousin, Jimmy Behr. Jimmy's the reason I have this job, since he recommended me to Marc."

  "Okay, so cool isn't a very good description," Tyler said, "but I am impressed with the workmanship, and I'm here to learn more. I already know it's not called a longhouse like in other parts of the world, but a plankhouse because the Indians stripped planks off cedar trees and after a framework was built the planks were held in place with ropes so the houses could be taken apart and transported during seasonal migrations, leaving the frames in place until the people returned and reattached the cedar planks and reconstructed their home."

  Having finished his spiel, he smiled and waited for Rose's response.

  For a few moments she stared at him, as if digesting things, then said, "Where did you learn all that? I know it wasn't from me because whenever you've been standing with visitors the past week I could tell you weren't really listening."

  "You're right," Tyler replied, "I was distracted, so I looked it up on the internet."

  "Is that all you looked up?" Rose asked.

  "For now," Tyler replied. From the look on her face he knew she was disappointed that he hadn't rattled off a spiel about spirits instead, but he wasn't ready to get into all of that yet.

  He looked around the interior of the building, which was a good forty feet long and at least twenty feet wide. From the network of pole rafters supporting the roof hung what looked to be dehydrated road kill. His eyes still on the carcasses above, he said, "There must have been a lot of flies around when people lived in places like this."

  "Not really," Rose replied. "They cured meat by hanging it from the rafters, and since every family living in a plankhouse had their own hearth fire, it would have been smoky up there so there wouldn't have been any flies. Marc got the deer and coyote carcasses from the Fish and Wildlife Department, then he and Kit dehydrated them and sprayed them with acrylic varnish so they'd look authentic and not smell or attract flies."

  So it actually was road kill, Tyler silently mused. He had to hand it to Marc. What hung from the rafters did look like fresh meat.

  Catching the drift of something fragrant, like a natural perfume that Rose might have concocted out of rose petals, he moved closer and drew in a long breath through his nostrils and decided it was roses, which seemed appropriate. "I like the smell in here," he said.

  "It's the smell of earth, and wood, and herbs hanging to dry," Rose replied, her gaze moving around the vast interior. "I love the smell in here too. It draws you back to a time before people were addicted to modern technology and they could feel closer to nature. It's a very enlightening experience, breathing in the smells of natural things around you. That's the way it is when I'm at Whispering Springs sitting in the pool while meditating, with the damp, earthy smell of the cavern all around me."

  In an instant, the sight of Rose in the pool came back to Tyler. It happen frequently now, but before long that image morphed into one of having her in his bed, because the aroma of roses was all around her, and he could imagine having it all around him when she was warm and fresh out of the shower and lying in his arms.

  Bracing his hands on her waist, he filled his nostrils with the scent of a woman who was dominating his thoughts, and said, "I'm not talking about the smell inside this plankhouse. I'm talking about what's on you. You smell like your name."

  "That's because I'm wearing essence of rosewater," Rose replied. "I make it by boiling rose petals in water and mixing it with alcohol. But I also make a face cream by mixing rosewater with beeswax and rose essential oil. It's good for the skin."

  Tyler traced a finger over the curve of Rose's cheek, while saying, "I can't argue with that. Your skin feels like the muzzle of a newborn foal."

  Rose rolled her eyes. "You're equating my skin to a horse's nose. You really are very bad at this." Her gaze moved in an arc around his head, and to his surprise, she reached around and moved his horsetail so it draped over his shoulder and ran her fingers through it, while saying, "You have nice hair, but I could make up a rosehip oil that would make it even more luxurious."

  "You're not very good at this either," Tyler replied, while lacing his fingers behind her waist. "Guys don't want luxurious hair."

  "But girls want them to have it," Rose said. "I'd apply rosehip oil to your roots and scalp with a light pressure so it would penetrate better, then I'd massage your scalp with my fingertips so the oil would be distributed throughout your hair. But it wouldn't be just to make your hair shiny and silky. Indians made essential oils for massaging into the skin for their therapeutic properties."

&nb
sp; Tyler tucked his nose beneath Rose's ear and inhaled, then kissed the side of her neck, and said, "That sounds like a good way to start closing our cultural divide, you massaging therapeutic oils into my skin, and me massaging them into yours, and we can go from there." Taking her hand, he tugged her toward the bunk covered in furs.

  "What are you doing?" Rose asked, as he pulled her down onto the bunk with him.

  "Checking out the sleeping accommodations in a plankhouse." Before Rose could protest, he stretched out on the bunk, tugging her along with him, then pulled her into his arms and kissed her soundly.

  At first Rose made no attempt to break free, but after a few moments she moved her lips from his, pushed away from him, and sat up, while saying, "You're making light of everything I've been trying to impress on you."

  Tyler sat up and curved his arm around Rose, who was sitting stiffly on the edge of the bunk, yet remaining where she was, and he said close to her ear, "Actually, I'm not making light of anything. I researched plankhouses and came here to see what one was like inside, and I want you to tell me all about how it was for people to live in a place like this because, like I said before, I want to understand you better."

  "But you still haven't quit drilling rock, have you?" Rose said.

  "Not yet," Tyler replied. He planted another kiss on the side of her neck. "But I will soon."

  "Umm… when?" Rose asked.

  Tyler darted his tongue in her ear, drawing a little gasp from her, and replied, "I don't know." He moved to her neck again.

  "Don't do that," Rose said.

  "You don't like it?"

  "I… don't know. But just because I'm responding to you doesn't mean this should continue."

  "Do you want me to leave?"

  "Yes… well, maybe not," Rose replied, "but if you stay, it will have to be because you honestly want to learn about my culture, which happens to be your culture too, even though you've chosen to disregard your Indian ancestry, other than to spend ten minutes on the internet learning about plankhouses."

  Tyler looked at her soberly. "Is it that important to you for me to learn about someone who died a half a century ago?"

  "It is if you want to build a relationship," Rose said. "Is that really what you want?"

  "I think I answered that when I invited you into the pasture to meet my mares, and nothing's changed," Tyler replied.

  "Yes, something has changed," Rose said, clasping her hands together in her lap. "When I was in the pasture with you and your mares I thought you'd only be chipping into the rock with a hammer and chisel, and when I let you kiss me it was because I didn't think those simple tools could do any damage, and then later I walked into the cavern to find you drilling into the rock with a jackhammer, and you're planning to go back and continue, and as long as you find nothing wrong with what you're doing, we'll remain miles apart in the things that are the most important in any relationship, and that's core beliefs."

  Tyler covered her clasped hands with his, and said, "Like I told you before, I'm not very good at this, but I'm working on it." Bending around he kissed her tightened lips, and when she refused to kiss him back, he said, "Okay I get the picture for now. Meanwhile I've got a garden fence to mend and mares to feed and exercise, but we'll work on this later."

  Once outside, and finding himself at the proverbial fork in the road—follow Rose up a path that took him to a world of animals guides and archaic beliefs in spirits, or remain in his uncomplicated world with his mares—he decided it was time to do something he'd put off most of his life.

  ***

  Tyler stood on the doorstep of his grandmother's house, not completely comfortable with what he was about to do, but anxious to know how she'd respond, so he brushed his uneasiness aside and knocked. When she answered the door, she didn't look surprised to see him, which she affirmed by saying, "Come on in. I thought you might be stopping by about now."

  Tyler looked at her, puzzled. "You did? Why?"

  "Call it grandmother's intuition."

  While still mulling that over, Tyler removed his boots, as was expected, padded inside in his socks, and sat at the kitchen table. His grandmother went to the stove, and after pouring a mug of coffee and setting it in front of him, and pouring another for herself, she sat across the table from him and waited for the reason he was there. It wasn't as if he never saw her, but she and Howard frequently walked up to his place to watch him work his mares, and he visited with them there.

  He took a long sip of coffee and let it settle in, mainly to give himself time to organize his thoughts in a logical way before starting into a subject that his grandmother never talked about. When the silence became awkward, and still his grandmother waited, he said, "Dad always told us we had Indian blood in us, and to ask you about it if we were curious, but I guess I never was, and all the time I was growing up you never talked about your Indian background and I'm wondering why."

  After an extended period of silence, his grandmother replied, "You have to understand how it was back then and even as late as the 1970s. The Bureau of Indian Affairs founded Indian boarding schools based on a policy of assimilation where children were taken from their families and immersed in European-American culture, which meant cutting the boys' long hair, making children wear white-man's clothing, replacing traditional Indian names with European-American ones, and forbidding them to speak their native language, even to each other."

  "Then you know nothing about your Nez Perce background?" Tyler asked.

  "Only what I pieced together over the years when I was growing up, which wasn't much," Maureen replied. "My mother had some white blood in her and she could pass easily as white, and that's the way she wanted it for herself and her children. She wanted us fully assimilated. Other families gave the impression of accepting assimilation then behind closed doors held onto their way of life, passing on tribal traditions and legends and religious beliefs to their children, but my mother didn't want us caught between two worlds, so we were raised in my father's world, and that was that."

  "What about spirits?" Tyler asked. "Did your mother ever talk about them?"

  Maureen looked at him with curiosity, then her expression changed to awareness, and he suspected she'd figured out what was behind his sudden interest in his Indian background.

  She took another sip of coffee, and after a few moments, she said, "That's an area, looking back, where I could connect my mother with her Indian roots. There would be times, maybe when my father would be working with a particularly difficult horse, when my mother would say to me, 'The spirits are working against him.' She also never gave up her knowledge of medicinal herbs that she'd learned from her mother, though she didn't talk about that either. But when I was sick, she'd prepare something for me to drink, and when I'd ask what it was she'd say it was a mixture of herbs that worked better than what the druggist prepared."

  "Does it bother you being part Indian?" Tyler asked.

  "Heaven's no," Maureen replied. "We are what we are. But you have a purpose behind all these questions. Are you looking for a reason to finally embrace your Indian heritage?"

  "I don't know," Tyler replied, in all honesty.

  "It's different for you than your siblings," Maureen said. "There's little trace of Indian blood in any of them except for the color of their hair and eyes, but with you there's no question. You look like my grandfather. I began to notice the resemblance as you got older. I have one photo of him, which I always intended to pass on to you when the time was right, and I think that time is now. Give me a few minutes to find it."

  She left the room, and as the minutes ticked by while she looked for the photo, Tyler was becoming increasingly anxious as to where this was leading, and if he should talk to his grandmother about what his true purpose was, which was to learn what it would take to keep Rose in his life, even when he didn't buy into a belief in spirits or even feel a connection with his Indian roots. Maybe that's what bothered him most, that he didn't feel connected to something that
was of profound importance to Rose.

  His grandmother returned with the photo and handed it to him, and for a moment, all Tyler could do was stare at a man who had died long before he was born and see his own face. The man's hair was parted in the middle and brought forward in two long braids that fell over his shoulders, and he was wearing full Indian dress, complete with feathers.

  "Is this the way he dressed?" he asked.

  Maureen chuckled. "No, that was for a powwow. Normally he dressed like everyone around here. He was quite the horseman, and ranchers hired him to gentle their horses. He was able to because he embraced the horse as a brother in spirit, the way you do with your mares."

  "You must have spent some time with him then," Tyler said.

  "I did when I was very young," Maureen replied. "Maybe a little of what he talked about sank in because I do have some memories of him talking about animal guides. Your life animal guide would be the horse because you've been drawn to them since you were a little boy, and they've been an integral part of your life ever since."

  "So what all does that mean, having a horse as a life animal guide?" Tyler asked.

  Maureen shrugged. "I don't know. You'll have to ask an Indian elder."

  "What about animal messengers? Do you know anything about them?" Tyler asked.

  "A little," Maureen replied. "My grandmother mentioned them once, when I found a praying mantis on a limb outside my room and it stayed there for several days. She told me the praying mantis comes when we can no longer hear the small voice inside us and need peace, quiet, and calm in our lives. When I asked how a bug could do that, my mother called my grandmother down and told her she didn't want her filling my head with things like that because we were attending my father's church and she didn't want me confused, and that was the last I heard."

  "What's your opinion about the so-called spirits at Whispering Springs?" Tyler asked.