Wild Indigo
Page 9
Two children raced around the side of the tumbledown dwelling and stopped short when they saw the car. One of them was the boy I’d been looking for. I called to him. “Hi there, son. Remember me?”
Both boys looked at me suspiciously. But the younger child, the one I’d spoken to before, stepped tentatively forward.
“Remember?” I coaxed. “You came to get me the other day?”
The older boy reached for his playmate but too late. The youngster started toward the automobile, dropping the stick he’d been carrying in their play. “I know who you are,” he said, smiling nervously.
I pulled the blanket away from my hair, realizing this was probably not helping. “I guess I must look a little strange, don’t I?”
He nodded his head. I got out of the vehicle, struggled out of the blanket, closed the car door behind me, and stood looking down at the little man.
He looked at Mountain, who was hanging his head out the window, having moved up to sit in the driver’s seat of Diane’s car.
“That dog looks like a wolf.”
“Yes, that’s a wolf cub. He’s still just a puppy, about nine months old.”
“No way. A real wolf?”
“Yes, a real wolf. You want to pet him?”
“No!”
“Okay. That’s okay. What’s your name?” I asked.
“Don’t tell her, Sam!” the older child called, still staying back near the house.
I held up my hands, as if to show I meant no harm. “It’s okay, I don’t blame you,” I said, looking right into the older boy’s eyes. “I don’t blame you for being cautious.” I held his gaze until I felt his resolve melt a little.
Finally he spoke directly to me: “How did you get that?” He raised his hand in the general direction of my face.
“Wild animals!” I grinned.
“Wow,” he responded, but he stayed his ground.
“Wow,” Sam echoed. Their black pupils shone as large as quarters, and they stared at me with naive fascination, uninhibited by shame or propriety.
I lowered my hands slowly, and then I squatted down. I looked at little Sam, then back at the older boy again. “Let’s take this slow, okay?”
Sam nodded at me and began to squeeze at his fingers, not sure what to do next.
“My name’s Jamaica,” I said. “I work for the BLM. We talked before when you came to tell me about the buffalo on Saturday.”
“I know who you are,” Sam said.
His friend stepped a little nearer. “Don’t tell her anything, Sam,” he warned. “Remember, you’re not supposed to talk to anyone.”
I looked again at the elder boy. “You’re right,” I said to him. “It’s good not to talk to strangers. But Sam and I are not strangers. He’s talked with me before. And he knows who I am, that I work for the BLM. He came to get me at Momma Anna’s—”
Sam interrupted, “Did that wolf do that?”
“No, no, he’s my friend. He would never hurt me. He’s very gentle, he loves me. No, this was…an accident.”
“I don’t remember your face like that,” he said and reached out and traced one of the raised red lines with small brown fingers. I tried not to wince.
“It just happened yesterday,” I said, “but it will heal.”
He pulled his hand away. “I don’t know. My friend Anthony got cut by his brother with a knife. It goes like this”—he made a long diagonal line across his own face—“and it didn’t never heal.”
“Well, I’m hoping this will. So you do remember talking to me before. And you remember what we talked about?”
“I’m not supposed to talk to anyone.”
“Wait! It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything.”
Then the older boy came to stand beside Sam. He placed a protective arm around him. “All my brother and me were doing on Saturday was practicing for the footraces,” he said.
“And what’s your name?” I asked him.
“Rolando.”
“I’m Jamaica.”
Rolando extended a cautious hand and shook mine. “You still look kinda good, even with that,” he said.
I smiled. “Thanks.” I turned to the smaller boy. “So your name is Sam?”
“Sam Dreams Eagle. I think you look pretty, too. I don’t mind that.” He gestured at my face.
I smiled again. “So how did you know you could find me at Momma Anna’s?”
“I see you there a lot. I have a friend who lives behind there. He always talks about you, says you are pretty.” Both boys giggled.
“And why did you come to me about the buffalo? Why not go to someone in the tribe?”
“We were just practicing for the footraces. That’s all we were doing.” He edged backward.
“Listen, I’m glad you came to get me. It was a good thing you did, Sam Dreams Eagle.” Mountain, tired of being confined, and lacking his usual center-of-attention status, yipped at us and pawed at the window, now covered with drool and nose prints. I stood up. Both boys looked nervous. Rolando began to hop back and forth on his feet. He started backing up. Sam stepped back, too.
I held up my hands. “It’s okay, I’m just going to walk over here by the car and give Mountain a little pat so he’ll calm down.” I moved back to the Suburban and reached through the opening and rubbed the wolf’s head. I kept my eyes on the boys. “Is this where you live?” I pointed to the run-down abode.
Rolando was already pulling at his brother. He whispered something in his ear.
Sam turned and they started running and giggling, then Sam let out a shriek of laughter as Rolando raced away ahead. “Bye!” they both called back to me, and disappeared behind the house and into the field beyond.
When I got back in the car, I saw drool and smears all over both the driver’s-and passenger’s-side windows. Hair and paw prints decorated the bucket seats on both sides of the Suburban.
“Diane’s gonna kill me!” I told Mountain.
He wagged his tail.
“Okay, buddy, I’m sorry to have to do this, but…” I got out and went around to the side door of the car. I lashed Mountain’s leash to the back of the bench seat in the middle of the vehicle, then hooked the leash to his collar, forcing him to remain in the rear of the car.
Mountain yipped at me and strained against his confinement.
“Sorry, big guy,” I said, and closed the side door.
I had to stop at the crossroads where Rattlesnake Road led off the main paved thoroughfare leading to the pueblo, to let a small herd of sheep pass. They were being led by two young boys carrying long aspen sticks. As I waited, I looked around and saw Hunter Contreras loading a bale of hay into the bed of a pickup from a pile of bales in the pasture beside the road. He looked at the Suburban. I no longer wore the blanket around my head and shoulders but hoped that the tinted windows were enough to disguise me. Hunter’s face broke into a broad smile and he started toward the car.
I sighed. Busted. I rolled down the window. “How ya doin’?” I asked him, forcing a smile.
“Get you a new ride?” Contreras asked, extending a large, warm hand right into the vehicle. Then he saw my face and sobered. His hand hung in front of my chest.
I took the big palm and squeezed it. “No, this is my friend’s car. I borrowed it.”
“What happened there?” He nodded at my face.
“I got hurt,” I said. “It’s not that bad really, just fresh. It’ll heal.”
“Looks bad,” he said. “Something claw you?”
“Just an accident,” I said. “It’s nothing.”
He shook his head in quiet disagreement, looking disturbed. Then he collected himself somewhat. “Come to see the family?” he managed. “Most of ’em are still at ceremony.”
“No,” I said. Then I wished I hadn’t been so truthful. I tried to think of an explanation for being there.
He waited, my silence not concerning him so much as the matter of my face, which obviously still bothered him gravely.
Hunter seemed to read my mind and managed to shift gears. “You know, I heard what they are saying about you—about the stampede and all that. I couldn’t believe it.”
I shrugged. “It’s not true. The pen was open when I got there. I was trying to get Santana out.”
Contreras winced at my mention of the dead man’s name.
“I’m sorry,” I hurried to say. “I’m so sorry, I forgot I’m not supposed to…”
“It’s all right,” he said. “You’re not from here. I might break some of your cultural traditions, too,” he went on forcing a small smile onto his broad face. “We are the ones who have to keep our own traditions. We don’t expect others to do it for us.”
“I really am so sorry.”
“Don’t say any more about it,” Contreras said, patting my shoulder. “I really do understand. Listen, maybe I can help you. You know, my brother is the governor of the pueblo. I’ll talk to him. Tell me what happened, and I’ll take the story to him. Sometimes it helps if someone who knows our ways does the talking.”
Mountain yipped from the back of the car, complaining of being left out of all the activity up front. Contreras tipped his head, trying to see into the rear of the Suburban, but my position in the driver’s seat prevented that.
I took the wolf’s interruption as a cue to leave. I felt uncomfortable sitting there, not knowing how much I should say, who I could really trust. I wasn’t even supposed to be at the pueblo, and I didn’t want to make the situation worse than it already was. “Thanks, Hunter,” I said. “I’d really appreciate that. But I’m late to meet my friend. Can I talk to you another time?”
He looked disappointed. “I guess. But this thing is really heating up.”
“Right,” I said. “But this is my friend’s car, and I borrowed it from her. I’ve got to get it back. She’ll be waiting.”
“Okay,” Contreras said. “Just let me know when you’re ready. You know, you shouldn’t be here until this thing is settled. Better head on out the gate before somebody sees you. And take care of that,” he added, gesturing toward my face. He turned then and hurried away, shaking his head. I saw him draw a tobacco pouch from the pocket of his shirt as he walked quickly past the hay bales he’d been loading. He made a beeline for the cab of his pickup, hoisted his massive frame onto the seat with amazing speed and dexterity, and then he started the engine and drove away, the tailgate still down, the unsecured hay bales bouncing in the back of the bed as the truck jostled over the ruts in the field.
14
The Apparition
Mountain and I struck out on the west rim trail of the Rio Grande Gorge on our usual run. Even though it was nearing the end of the day, the intense sun burned my bare back around the edges of my running bra. I paced myself due to the heat, stopping frequently to give the wolf water from the tube of my CamelBak, and varying my speed when I felt myself overheating. We had a fairly set route that went out about a mile and a half on open ground, at which point we always cut across the high rim of the gorge, and went back along the narrow rim trail another mile to the starting point. As I ran the open part of the path, sweat streamed down my forehead and stung the lacerations on my face.
From the rim of the gorge, which carved through a high mesa above the Taos Valley, I could see a beautiful panorama of mountain ranges as I ran, the high desert floor beneath the mountains, and the small town of Taos nestled against the Sangre de Cristos in a low basin nearly fifteen miles away. Deep below me, in a slender canyon lined with sheer rock, was the Rio Grande. The turquoise sky held only a few puffy white clouds, and the bright sun cast an elongated twenty-foot shadow of my figure before me as I went. I reached my turnaround, where the rim trail narrowed and clung to the edge, occasionally curving through outcroppings of rock and dipping into the gorge a few feet against slick basalt walls, always rising again to the very rim. I stopped to lean against a large boulder for some shade, jacking one foot back against it and breathing hard. I mopped at my forehead with one arm.
The harsh contrast of deep, dark shadow and brilliant, sunlit patches of scorched earth strained my eyes. Here in the long eclipse of this boulder, it was cool and very dark, the air around me almost gray. Beyond the silhouette it cast, there was a fiery, white glare of sun on desert grass and stones in the open ground I’d just crossed. Winded and tired, I began to feel a little disoriented looking from one to the other. I forced myself back onto the loop, moving into the narrow rim trail that would lead me back to my Jeep, ready to complete the course, thinking it would be dark soon if I didn’t keep a good pace. Just as I rolled into a jog again, Mountain darted out ahead of me and then pulled up abruptly right in my path, as if someone had yanked on his brake. I nearly tripped over him. The hair on the back of his neck rose in a ridge, and he pulled his lips back from his teeth and uttered a low growl as he stared at an outcropping of boulders near the canyon rim ahead and slightly above us.
I followed his gaze, but saw nothing in particular. Mountain growled again.
“What’s up, buddy?” I asked.
He quickly darted around behind me and pulled into a tight heel beside me, his neck touching my left thigh. His hair continued to stand all along his back, and he mouthed again, pulling his lips back and baring his teeth. I had never seen him show any aggression before and I didn’t know quite what to do. I reached down and patted him, stroking his neck, but he nudged my hand away.
I shook my head in confusion. “C’mon, Mountain,” I urged, and began jogging in place. “Let’s go. Gonna be dark soon.”
But he didn’t hear me. He postured aggressively in the direction of the outcrop and refused to move from his turf.
I looked once more, still not seeing what had upset him. I decided to walk ahead and show the wolf there was nothing to fear. I took a few steps and felt the hair on my forearms tingle. A faint, cool breeze suddenly wafted over the rim of the gorge, where there was nothing but shadow now, the sun too low to illuminate that deep crevice. I shivered, the sweat still standing on my upper back and shoulders. I stopped and looked back at Mountain. He whimpered at me.
“Look, I don’t see whatever it is you’re afraid of,” I said. “I’m gonna go check it out.” I wagged my arm at him. “C’mon. Go with me.”
He lowered his head, his hair still standing on end. He remained planted.
I turned then to walk ahead and saw a glimpse of movement, as if something large had just darted from one of the boulders across the open narrow section of trail to behind the stone on the opposite side. I caught only a trace of shadow, no image, but my impression was that of something weightless, dark, like a bat or a gigantic moth, some creature of flight.
“It’s probably nothing,” I said aloud, but not so much to reassure Mountain as myself. “Anybody there?” I called. I took a few steps forward. “Who’s up there?”
As if on cue, another breeze stirred, this one making a low wailing sound in the sage scrub along the rim of the gorge. I smelled rocks cooling, exuding the day’s heat. I tasted metal in my mouth from overexertion. Again, I shivered.
Mountain growled, this time viciously, a serious warning. I froze, now trusting his instincts as my senses opened wider.
The sun’s rays, low against the western horizon, made a penumbra around the giant boulders ahead, and the ground between them and me lay in darkness. I looked around, noticing the pink glow of the high mountains north of Taos. Pink time. Sunset. It would be dark in minutes and this rim trail would become a dangerous precipice to walk or run without light.
I retreated a few steps to stand beside Mountain and take his collar in my left hand. He stood, unmoving, in the same low crouch he had held for what seemed like an eternity now. I considered whether to go back—or skirt the rim and head for open, high ground. In my
mind, I searched the contents of my CamelBak pack for a weapon, and remembered I had a good-sized pocketknife in there. I reached to unhook the waist strap.
And then I saw him.
He stepped onto the trail for only a moment, the sun behind him, illuminating the fine hairs of his fur robe. His face was encased in the mouth of an enormous brown bear, the teeth bared and the large black nose extending out beyond the man’s forehead as if the bear had swallowed the man and they had become one. The immense arms and claws of the pelt hung against the man’s bare chest. His face was in shadow, but I saw brilliant red claw marks on both cheeks and two black eyes peering angrily at me. Around his neck, he wore a long necklace of giant bear claws, at least a dozen of them. In his left hand, he held a lance, and he wore nothing else but a loincloth with sprigs of cedar tucked in the waist.
In the next instant, I saw only a shadow where he had stood, and the deepening gray cast of cool, retreating light filtering between the boulders.
Mountain lunged from beside me and pulled out of my grasp. He bolted for the space where the Indian had stood, but found nothing. He sniffed persistently around the large stones, looking for a sign, his back still a ridge of punklike spikes of hair. I realized as I watched him that I had been standing for some time with my mouth open. I closed it and walked toward the gap, joining Mountain in his search. There was no evidence that anyone had been there, no footprints in the dusty trail, nothing.
Just as I was about to give up, I spotted red markings on one of the boulders. I stepped back and to one side to take in the full image. An ancient-looking red pictograph appeared to have been painted into the stone with blood. It depicted an anthropomorphic figure, nearly life-size. Part man and part bear, the figure wore a necklace of claws and held a raised staff.
I’ve seen this same image before, I thought. Where was it?