Stone Butterfly

by James D. Doss

  In the Cavern

  After pausing a dozen times to huff and puff like a worn-out old workhorse, Daisy Perika finally arrived at the narrow bench that separated the talus slope from the sheer cliff that rose up to the crest of Three Sisters Mesa. Standing near the dead ponderosa, whose lightning-splintered branch still smoldered with resinous smoke, she gazed hopefully at the little hole-in-the-wall. As if someone who should not hear might be lurking nearby, she spoke in a hissing whisper: “Sarah—it’s me. Daisy.”

  An unsavory serving of silence fed the old woman’s fears.

  Pegging at the stony earth with her walking stick, Daisy approached the dark slot, raised her voice in a quaking plea. “Sarah—you in there?”

  Still no response.

  Daisy unhitched the hemp bag from her shoulder, rummaged around in it until she found the box of wooden matches. The aged woman bent her already bowed back, stepped into the darkness, struck a sulfurous tip on the gritty wall. She held the miniature torch in front of her face; the flickering flame was mirrored in the shaman’s eyes. On the sandstone walls, pale yellow light-wraiths danced with sinister shadows. Whatever other presences might reside in this place, Provo Frank’s orphaned daughter was not among them. And there was no sign of the blanket Daisy had given Sarah, or the girl’s backpack—or for that matter, the cat. When the match burned down to scorch her fingertips, Daisy dropped it, struck a fresh one, held it knee-high to inspect the floor of the small cavern. There were a few girl-sized footprints in the sand, and a small plastic bag filled with something that looked like candy. The Ute woman bent her aching knees, snatched up the candy bag, held the match flame close to the label. Gummy bears. My goodness, what will they think of next? She absentmindedly dropped the sticky, sugary food into her coat pocket. Maybe she had enough of sleeping in caves and decided to go back to my house, where it’s warm and dry. Daisy nibbled at her lower lip. But there’s only one way down from here, and out of the canyon. If Sarah had left before I set out to find her, she’d have already been at the house this morning. And if she left any later than that, I would’ve met her on my way into the canyon. And I didn’t see her tracks in the wet sand. So she’s still somewhere in Spirit Canyon. Somewhere covered a lot of space. You could hide a herd of buffalo in this place.

  When Daisy emerged from the darkness, the cloud-filtered daylight made her squint. As she stood under a gaunt, outstretched ponderosa limb, the Ute elder saw a black something in the sky above the canyon. It was circling, rising and falling in a capricious thermal. It’s too big to be a raven. She lifted a hand to shade her eyes. What is it—an eagle, or a hawk? If I could see the tips of the wings, I’d know. As the self-propelled aviator suddenly swooped lower, she realized that it was neither. That stinky buzzard probably figures I’m the next best thing to dead meat.

  But when she dropped her gaze to look down the talus slope, Daisy caught her breath. Far below, at the very bottom of the jumble of angular boulders, was the soul-chilling residue of last night’s nightmare. Daisy’s legs wobbled; she leaned against the lightning-scarred ponderosa, closed her eyes, relived the terrible vision as if it were happening at this very moment. As before, she saw Sarah emerge from the cave, scream at the white man who was holding Mr. Zig-Zag close to his chest.

  But on this occasion, there was more detail.

  The man dropped the cat, grabbed the skinny Ute-Papago girl. He said something the dreamer could not hear, then laughed.

  Sarah bit him on the wrist.

  The matukach cursed, slapped her. Hard.

  The girl shrieked, kicked him on the shin.

  The furious man tossed the girl aside like a spoiled child discarding a broken toy.

  The shaman watched the frail body tumble down the rocky slope; cringed as little bones cracked and snapped.

  Because Daisy knew what she would find, the descent along the narrow path proved considerably more difficult than the arduous climb. As she took one step at a time, foreboding thoughts nibbled at her mind like rats gnawing in the walls of an old house. How did that deputy know where Sarah was hiding? Maybe he was watching my house and saw her go into Spirit Canyon and followed her up to the cave. He must’ve wanted to arrest her and take her back to Utah. I don’t think he had intended to kill her—that was practically an accident. But he must’ve been feeling awfully guilty about what he’d done and wanted to get away as fast as he could—that’s why he was driving so fast and missed the bridge. And now he’s dead too—drowned in the Piedra. Barely recovering from a stumble that almost made her tumble, Daisy’s thoughts shifted to Sarah Frank’s death. Poor little thing must have suffered a lot, rolling down that rocky slope, her bones breaking like dry sticks. Oh, God—I hope I get to her before that scabby buzzard does! But even without the depredations of the scavenger, it would be terrible enough. During her time on this earth, the tribal elder had seen dozens of corpses, and knew that this experience would be among the worst.

  When Daisy finally arrived, she was furious to discover that the circling vulture and a pair of his famished mates had arrived ahead of her. “Paga-nukwi!” she shouted, “Go away!”

  Unfazed by these rude commands, the feathered scavengers continued to feed.

  Shedding the thin veneer of her civilized ways, the Ute woman let out a barbarous whoop and attacked—flailing at the startled diners with her walking stick.

  The vultures withdrew—though only a few awkward hop-steps away, where they strutted about indignantly, flapping dusty wings, croaking throaty protests at the wild-eyed biped.

  Knowing she must now face the corpse close at hand, Daisy steeled herself. What I’ll do is tell myself over and over: “This isn’t Sarah—this is just the left-behinds.” Clenching her teeth as she approached the corpse, Daisy rehearsed the comforting words. This isn’t Sarah…this isn’t Sarah…

  But the tough old woman was stunned by what she saw on the stones: pink flesh ripped to shreds, a tangle of broken limbs, the sickening silvery shine of exposed bones, a slack-jawed skull staring from empty sockets…. Daisy held her breath; this unspeakable horror bore not the slightest resemblance to the little girl with the enormous brown eyes. Indeed, if it were not for the human skull and the torn clothing, this might be mistaken for the mangled carcass of some wild animal.

  She heard herself whispering: “This isn’t Sarah…this isn’t Sarah…”

  But Daisy’s world had been turned upside down. Head spinning, knees quaking, she leaned on her oak staff until the earth stopped moving under her feet. When it did, the backsliding Catholic crossed herself. Oh, God—help me to understand.

  Understanding was granted. Other, more precious gifts were also forthcoming.

  For the first time in many days, Daisy closed her eyes and prayed—addressing her petition to my Lord Jesus Christ. For an indeterminate time, she was at peace.

  Alas, the sweetest moments pass most swiftly.

  And though a few questions remained unanswered, mulling over these lesser mysteries could wait until those cold, gray days of Dead Leaves Falling, when she would sit near the fire with a mug of steaming coffee, and muse about hidden things. At the moment, there were important decisions to make.

  A part of Daisy was eager to hurry home, telephone Charlie Moon, and tell him what she had discovered in Cañón del Espíritu. Her nephew always knew exactly what to do. That would be the sensible course of action. But with some problems, the “sensible” path was not the best one to take. In this instance, it might be better simply to wait, and at least for a season—let the dead lie quietly.

  The tribal elder seated herself by the grisly remains.

  It was terribly difficult work, but this woman had the Old People’s blood coursing through her veins. For her ancestors, life had been a hard business. Something bad happens, you deal with it, then look forward to the next sunrise. By the time the sun was behind the mesa, she had covered the broken body with slabs of sandstone. The barely perceptible mound was camouflaged with bits of dry st
icks, even transplanted tufts of grass.

  When she had completed her labors, Daisy Perika was confident that the buzzards would never feast on what was left of this flesh. Moreover, she had concealed the remains so well that no one would ever find them. She frowned. No one except Charlie Moon—that man could find a pea-sized brown pebble in a bushel of pinto beans. But only if he was looking for it. She would have to make sure her nephew had no reason to start snooping around in Spirit Canyon. When the right day came—if it ever did—she would bring him to the makeshift burial. In the meantime, there were serious matters to think about; plans to be made and carried out. Pushing herself to her feet, she stood by the grave, scanned the canyon walls, listened. Her eyes saw nothing. Her ears heard nothing—except for harsh protests from the deprived buzzards, who circled overhead, croaking their righteous complaints.

  On her way home, the Ute shaman had the queerest sensation that she was being watched by a pair of hollow eyes. She was not entirely surprised. It was common for spirits of the recently dead to show an intense interest in the living. Quite often, these confused souls did not realize they had been separated from their flesh. On several occasions, such phantoms had approached Daisy with questions—like what day it was, or for directions to some familiar place. Most of these displaced entities ached for a few words of comfort. More disturbing, it sometimes happened that the shadow would follow a living person home, to linger there for days, weeks—even months. This had happened to the Ute elder more often than she liked to remember. When she was a younger woman, Daisy had managed to endure these occasional invasions of her privacy. But as the years passed, she had become more solitary and also more picky about with whom she would share those precious few days she had left in Middle World. Ghosts do not make good houseguests. Very few were invisible to the shaman’s eyes, and many of them had voices. Loud, demanding voices. Raspy, gossipy voices. Thin, whining, complaining voices. And those who were able generally felt compelled to talk, oftentimes in some ancient tongue she did not understand. Some spoke only rarely, others chattered from sunset ’til dawn—during those twilight hours when flesh and blood must have its rest. The notion of a spirit pacing about her home, rattling dishes, switching lights on and off, jabbering for hours on end was not a prospect she greeted with hearty enthusiasm. On the contrary, it rankled. And it was not merely a matter of being an annoyance, a ghost could be downright dangerous. Daisy recalled the sad case of a Hopi woman who had been paralyzed from the hips down by the vengeful spirit of a niece who was displeased with the meager burial offerings left by her poverty-stricken relative.

  As she trod along, Daisy attempted to ignore the sense that she was being watched. Stalked. She resorted to denial: Maybe it’s just my imagination.

  A familiar raven landed on a juniper snag, caw-cawed a warning to the shaman. Daisy turned quickly, saw the diaphanous apparition not twenty paces behind her!

  With a terrible intensity, it stared back.

  Suddenly, without the least warning, Daisy’s body stiffened. Her arms shot straight out, giving her the appearance of a short, stubby telephone pole. The tribal elder’s eyes rolled in the sockets, presented white orbs—her head tilted back, so that the ghastly eyeballs stared straight up. Her throat began to make a noise that resembled gargling. Spittle dripped from the corner of her mouth, dribbled down her cheek.

  This might have been enough to frighten all the creatures who watched, which included the raven, of course—plus a pair of chipmunks, a tuft-eared squirrel clinging to a cottonwood limb, a red fox concealed behind a dwarf oak, a masked badger scowling from its den, a blue-striped “racer” lizard, a venomous little scorpion that was capable of glowing when illuminated by ultraviolet light, an off-key quartet of fat Mormon crickets, plus various and sundry other insects whose considerable number precludes the listing of every one.

  But Daisy was not done. Her performance had barely begun.

  She hobbled (she could not run) around a prickly huckleberry bush, mumbling (she was past shouting): “Oh-oh-oh! I’d give my last greenback dollar for a one-eyed pinto pony. Wa-hoo! Tippecanoe and Tyler too! Oh, somebody please take me home and feed me vinegar tea and grasshopper stew!” She paused for a breath of air. “Ahhh…ahhh…I’m a poor old woman who don’t have a roof to keep out the rain! Oh-oh-oh! What I’d give for a hollow log to sleep in…and a dry cow pie for a pillow!”

  After six more passes around the huckleberry bush, the aged woman was about ready to pass out. She paused, took a terribly long time to get her wind back.

  When she had partially recovered, Daisy turned, took a quick look at the path to the fresh grave. I don’t see nothing. Maybe it worked. In her considerable experience, spirits of the newly dead were already in a nervous state, and fearful of encountering any kind of trouble. No matter how much the inexperienced haunt might want to follow a person home, they tended to avoid the company of lunatics. Especially homeless lunatics who slept in hollow logs.

  Hoping to spend the evening without any ghostly company, Daisy set her face toward hearth and home. But as she waded the stream, even above its gurgling and warbling the shaman thought she heard a mournful wailing. She stopped in the middle of the muddy torrent, braced herself on the oak staff, cocked her ear to listen.

  It seemed there was a second call, but a blustery gust of the canyon’s breath swept it away with a scattering of last autumn’s dead leaves, prickly tumbleweeds, and miscellaneous other flotsam and jetsam.

  Adding her melancholy sigh to the breeze, and with the sense of one recrossing the cold, deep Jordan, the weary woman waded her way toward the homeward bank. But as soon as she stepped onto dry land, the sense of being followed overwhelmed her—it was apparent that this particular spirit had not been deceived by her impromptu performance. Though disappointed, Daisy was not defeated by the realization that It apparently intended to follow her right into her parlor. If the tough old woman had had a motto engraved on her mantelpiece, it would have been something in the vein of NEVER GIVE UP or GO DOWN FIGHTING. Furthermore, she was not without resources. The shaman knew that when a person’s home became infested by a troublesome ghost, there were certain remedies available. After shaking the water off her feet, she began to tick off the top three methods of evicting unwanted ghostly guests.

  A few cloves of garlic hung in every room might do the trick. But that stinks up a house something awful. I’d probably have to give up my home before the spirit did.

  She could call Father Raes Delfino, and request an exorcism. But for three years, I’ve been mad at that priest for retiring from St. Ignatius and moving to that little cabin on Charlie Moon’s ranch. And if you’re mad at someone, you can’t ask him for favor.

  That left number three. It was possible to lure a ghost out of your house. The most effective method was to get hold of something the haunt treasured, and hide it in somebody else’s home. If the earthly possession was something the spirit simply couldn’t do without, like a favorite pocket watch or a diamond engagement ring—the disembodied presence would feel compelled to follow it, and the formerly haunted person would return home to a ghost-free house. All you needed was something special that had belonged to the dead person. Having arrived at her door, Daisy leaned her walking stick against the wall and frowned. But I don’t have nothing like that. And I don’t have any chance of getting it. Not unless I go back and take the stones off and—She was distracted from this gruesome thought by a thin, feline whine.

  Mr. Zig-Zag was sitting at her feet. Seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was bloody, missing several tufts of fur, and curiously decorated with clinging cockleburs, the creature licked fastidiously at a front paw, then looked up expectantly at the human being—the species from whence all blessings came—as if to say: “Where’s the food?”

  “Well, well—would you look at that!” She exchanged thoughtful stares with the cat. I wonder how long it’ll be before Little Bo Peep comes looking for her lost kitty.

  European nursery rh
ymes were not Daisy’s strong suit.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The Problem

  Exhausted by the ordeal in Cañón del Espíritu and despairing over the memory of the grisly discovery she had concealed in a makeshift grave, Daisy Perika headed into her parlor, collapsed on the couch into a weary heap.

  Mr. Zig-Zag had also had a difficult day. After a thorough search for an ideal spot to recline, the bedraggled cat finally decided to stretch out beside the Ute woman.

  “Go away,” she mumbled.

  Mr. Zig-Zag yawned in her face.

  Daisy was simply too tired to take a swat at the cheeky creature.

  After nodding off into a fitful nap that was knotted with a tangled string of troublesome images, Daisy awakened to blink at the animal whose peaceful sleep was an affront to her. She nudged the furry creature. “Hey you—wake up!”

  The cat did as bid, blinked at this wrinkled creature who had disturbed his siesta.

  Daisy turned on the scowl. “You don’t fool me for a minute, Fuzz-Face.” She knew that a cat who’d had free eats and shelter would not be satisfied—not until the moocher had taken over title to the property, including mineral rights—and subjugated the former owner to the position of Adoring Attendant, hurrying to satisfy his every whim. In several case histories with which she was familiar, this role reversal had been accomplished with such ingenious smoothness that the human victim was completely oblivious to the crime. Aware of his deceitful plans, she eyed the cunning creature with a knowing curl of the lip. Within a day or two, Mr. Rag-Bag will pick out his favorite chair, decide when he wants to be fed, and when he wants me to tuck his little carcass into bed. But the crusty old woman had no intention of becoming a feline’s fawning servant; Daisy Perika had another plan in mind. The tribal elder was dead certain that before the night was over, someone would come calling. Someone who was wandering around in the outer darkness, searching for her stray pet. Having no human company to converse with, Daisy spoke to the animal on her couch. “With you here, Sarah’s bound to show up.”