An electrifying noise vibrated the walls; and the kitchen vanished; and Grandfather’s shed faded in.
She tiptoed to the shed window and peeked in but the dilapidated building was deserted except for a hooting owl perched on a rickety chair, an eagle walking about the room like it was pigeon-toed, and a table saw roaring at high speed. The table saw was wishful thinking. Impoverished Grandfather could not purchase what he considered a high-tech saw, nor did his shed ever have electricity.
She kicked in the door of the shed and chased out the birds with a broom used to sweep sawdust from the floor. The table saw followed, running on its four legs.
A ratty table held a jar of nails, hammer, and enough dirt to build a child’s play pueblo. A few stray hand-tools hung from the wall, a wrench, saw, a screwdriver. Two-by-fours were scattered about. Remnants from his latest masterpiece, leftovers when he made her dream catcher, littered the floor.
She waved the broom around her head, knocking tools down from the wall and creating havoc for spiders that spun webs from the ceiling. Jars filled with nails and screws, Grandfather’s filing system, fell from shelves shattering glass everywhere. One jagged piece struck her in the heart but the pain still wasn’t enough so she took the broom and beat the table until her arms hurt so badly she couldn’t lift them.
Still, the splintery table stood magic-like, hard as steel and just as unfeeling.
She dropped the broom to the floor, nothing but toothpicks now. Her arms hung from their sockets, nothing but a rag doll. The last time she felt this excruciating pain was when the train pulled into Boston and he left her all alone, so alone, like now.
The whistle of a train blared from the walls and fog filled up the shed with smoke.
When the fog cleared, a door slid open and Grandfather exited the train. He tapped his high-top tennis shoe, all decked out in a black tuxedo with tails and top hat to boot, with an ostrich feather sticking out of a red hat band and eagle feathers woven through his braids.
Chapter Twenty
A light in the shed glowed brighter, until a chandelier shone on her head, illuminating her. She no longer wore sweats but a black, flowing ball gown.
At one end of the shed, a transparent orchestra tuned their violins and cellos. They all wore Kachina masks, leather skirts and moccasins that brushed their knees. One musician floated in the air, banging on piano keys, though no piano existed.
Grandfather bowed at the waist. “I believe we never danced at your wedding,” he said, taking her hand and leading her to the dance floor covered with sawdust.
“As I recall, you waltzed with a wine bottle and toasted your friends,” she said, giving him a curtsy.
“Ah, the rosé has always been the maid of honor,” he said, smacking his lips.
He reached out and pulled the glass piece from her chest. He wore gold silk armed with diamond cuff links. He glared at the bloody shard of glass in his hand. “Did you save a piece of your heart, so it can grow whole again?”
“Oh, Governor,” she said, flinging herself into his arms, those silk arms that felt so strong.
He ran his hand down her hair and stroked her like a wounded animal.
“You were right when you told me you would die soon,” she said, hiccupping.
“It’s a heavy burden, knowing everything; I have a Pdh in life,” he said.
“You mean PhD. Will you take me with you, when you leave?”
“It is not your time yet. You have barely even lived. Why would you want to miss the rest of your life, Child?”
“I don’t know,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.
“Always remember that you did not hurry my death. My coming to Boston with you did not kill me. Now, let’s have some music,” he roared.
The notes of a haunting waltz echoed from instruments of ghost Kachinas.
He placed an arm around her waist and swirled his other hand from behind his back, taking her hand in his.
They twirled around the room, circling a ten-foot wedding cake.
Around and around they turned in that dusty shed with nails vibrating from the floor.
“This is why I have come to see you. I did not ask Masawkatsina to allow me this visit to talk of death. I came to dance with my best girl.”
“I bet all those women corpses are jealous, huh?”
“All my wives and mistresses are fighting over me.”
When the song finished, he bowed and handed her the yellow rose from his button hole.
“I see you picked flowers from the yellow fields of the sun,” she said.
“And I see you take your dancing after me. I was always best at Kachina dances,” he said.
She curtsied back and smiled.
“Again,” he roared.
Music filled the room and he snapped his fingers so that the roof vanished, replaced with what seemed like a million stars overhead.
He spun her around, and the moon’s rays glowed silver on the dance floor.
“I always wanted to dance with you,” he said.
“I thought you could only dance Kachina-style to the drums of the gods,” she said.
“For you, I have taken lessons,” he said, laughing. “See. My time has not been wasted since I rode into Boston, like a big shot, on a train.”
“I always wanted to dance with you, Governor,” she said, smiling.
They danced in that surreal shed, until sawdust came together and her heart was wood once more.
They danced until the effects of peyote wore off.
They danced until she spun past the dresser mirror and the reflection of a woman, clothed in sweats, resting her hand on an invisible shoulder and her other hand clenching the air.
She stopped dancing and opened her clenched fist. A yellow rose with dewy petals, the magic of the old man. She lowered her lips to the flower and once more heard his voice that last day on the train: We could have picked flowers from yellow fields of the sun. I ought to have laughed with you under the stars as we danced by the rays of the moon.
She jumped into bed and yanked the covers to her chin. It was nearly nine a.m. and she frowned at her still dream catcher she had hung from the ceiling, hoping for a connection to the old man. The dream catcher turned slowly, not fast enough to conjure up a dream, just enough to stir whisperings in Towa. She listened for his voice but he wasn’t there with the other ghosts.
Her heart splintered into toothpicks and she fought the urge to cry herself to sleep so she could rest until Steve came. His plane arrived around 2:00 this afternoon.
Chapter Twenty-One
At the funeral home he lay on his mattress wearing ankle-length moccasins and a Kachina kilt made from the finest white leather that Steve brought from home. A bright red sash draped his bare chest.
He appeared waxy with his dead snake eyes following her while she prepared him for burial. His eyes refused to remain closed; just like him not to want to miss a thing.
She washed his arms, legs and chest with water from a sacred spring, then rubbed his limbs and chest with bright yellow cornmeal. She stuffed his hands with cornmeal and bent his fingers.
“So the gods may know your heart is pure,” she said, placing a white feather plucked from a turkey breast in his fists.
“So the gods may know you are faithful,” she said, adding beside each feather a prayer stick made from willow shoot.
“So the gods may know you are bound to them,” she said, tying his hands together on his stomach with a string.
The lower half of his face she painted sky blue and the top half bright yellow. She glued around his face a circular headdress made from white feathers with yellow and black tips. The feathers represent sun rays and like the sun, he radiated strength to all who knew him. He was Kachina priest, the incarnate of Sun Kachina, who would recognize his kindred spirit and ease him over to the other side.
For now, he lay on a sheet of cotton balls, which would help him float to the sky and join the cloud people. Occasionally, he woul
d return to sprinkle the earth with rain.
She washed his hair with wet yucca leaves, combed his white head and wrapped ornamental ties of turquoise beads around each braid. She dusted him with funeral herbs he brought with him to Boston. It was a Shaman’s way to foresee his own death so, he knew he would never see the bones again but wanted to make this trip with her so that they might…ah, he knew he would leave her. He contrived to spend his last days with her. When he lay in his coma at the Santa Fe hospital, he must have pleaded with Masawkatsina to give him more time so that he might bond close to her.
Even he could not stop the curse that killed every Pecos, which is probably why sorcery drew him in the first place. His stubbornness to find a cure kept him alive for so long, and he had been determined to continue the Pecos line through her, but failed. He would be buried with the bones so they could all be together in the afterlife. He would be with his close relations and other ancestors.
“And with Mama and Daddy. You won’t be alone anymore with just a sassy bitch to keep you company,” she whispered.
She repaired the cornmeal on his chest, which her tears threatened to turn to mush.
Flowing over each shoulder, two braids brushed his stomach.
A wooden cross hung around his neck, “Because we believe in the resurrection of the spirit.”
“So you can have a smoke with Pautiwa and the ancient ones,” she said, balancing his ceremonial pipe between his tied hands.
“So you might soar even higher in death,” she said, straightening his old hat best she could and placing it beneath his armpit.
She bent his knees so he could be buried sitting up with his medicine bundle in his lap.
She kissed his cold lips.
“Even in death, you taste like magic, Governor.”
She tapped the ceremonial staff against the floor, her inheritance, along with the Pecos ruins, skeletons, and other cultural antiquities. Her inheritance consisted of priceless artifacts, yet she felt dirt poor.
Steve flung his arm around her shoulder and she nestled her nose in his chest.
“I wish to God that I had been nicer to him and more patient,” she said.
“He knew you loved him, Holly. You put your life on hold and drove him here.”
“Oh, Steve, my sun has set and will never rise again. I shall nevermore feel his strong rays.”
“We’ll see him again at sacred ceremonies when Sun Kachina climbs from the kiva to join us,” he said.
She vowed to have faith and clung to Steve’s arm, a little too tightly.
“Let’s go get the bones,” she said.
“You’ll feel better then; it’s what he wanted but first, you must smoke your body to drive out the evil spirits. I have brought some incense for just this purpose.”
“He had no evil spirits,” she said, jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow.
She walked with her head down and believed she would never feel better. She wanted to strike out and hit Steve but Grandfather would be angry with her. She made sure by the way he was dressed for burial, that he was the sun and the light through all eternity.
There was no more room for darkness.
She spun on her toes, ran back to Steve and kissed his cheek.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The five-story, red-brick Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology was located on Divinity Avenue so she expected some holy guidance, but so far all she got was lost. She clung to Steve as they climbed the steps to the third floor, looking for her meeting place with Harvard dignitaries.
“I don’t see why archaeologists are invited. They only want to see me because they’re curious about what a living Pecos Indian looks like,” she said
“Don’t worry so much. I won’t let them put you under a magnifying glass.”
“Don’t say anything about Grandfather. Say you decided to come with me instead,” she said, gripping his sleeve.
“Okay, but you’re acting paranoid. I need to use the head,” he said.
“I’ll just browse until you return.”
Dark glasses hid her red eyes and swollen lids. She wandered into the Encounters with the Americas Gallery which displayed native cultures of the Aztecs and Mayans and an Aztec glyph of Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent god of the Aztecs.
She moved on to a display encased behind glass.
Her reflection faded out and Grandfather’s face faded in. He seemed to belong with Quetzalcoatl; his eyes slanted like snake eyes. He wore a shirt printed in the pattern of Ridge-nosed rattlesnake skin. He flicked his tongue at her.
She twisted around to his ghost.
He was dressed in white, glowing buckskin; his hair no longer braided or greasy but lustrous and waved around his head, as if someone held a fan behind him. He was transparent and did not seem out of place here with Aztec relics, a Pecos Indian in cowboy boots. They had their own feathered serpent and claims to Montezuma.
He balanced on snakeskin boots also with the markings of a Ridge-nose. His boots brushed his knees. To top off his head, a ten-gallon cowboy hat, with a turkey feather sticking from the brim, swept the ceiling. Giant snakes. Big birds. Shiny magic.
Be strong as a thunderstorm and elegant as lightning, his voice whispered in her ear, though he did not move, not even his lips.
She held out her hand. Ah. You died too soon. I wanted to ask you so many questions. There was so much left unsaid between us. I wanted to show you Boston and the big Atlantic waters. I longed to show you off, as we rode around the city in a carriage like royalty; you with your magic hat waving at the people and me with my arm around you. We could have pounded the carriage floor with the staff to announce our coming. I wished to have fish and chips with you and tea with our pinkies held out. I wanted to…
Thanks for the train ride, the smokes and the dance.
His ghost slowly faded from view until all that remained was a white feather, ostrich-size, lying on the floor.
She stroked her cheek with the feather, marveling at its softness until she no longer held a feather but the ceremonial staff that scratched her cheek. She almost tripped from the heaviness as she balanced the staff in her arms.
He once asked if he visited after death, would he terrify her. She was not frightened by his ghost but mad because he did not live to see the bones returned to Pecos.
She was an endangered species and her shoes echoed with a solitary hollowness as she walked over to the bathrooms where Steve waited.
“Let’s do this,” she said, gulping at the crowd drifting in.
They made their way over to the gathering, him leading her by the hand. She dug her fingernails into his palm as a sea of people shook her hand.
She stepped up to the podium, stared into space and in an unfeeling voice spoke about family, loss, and blood. She talked about the disappearance of a way of life when Hispanic towns popped up like ant hills and no one needed to trade at Pecos anymore. Then the Americans came, like Walmart, in their covered wagons filled with goods to sell at their desert flea markets, and trade on the Santa Fe Trail usurped their livelihood. Consequently, Pecos became a ghost town due to a dwindling population lost to disease of the white man, Comanche raids, drought and famine.
“The cathedral was destroyed during the Pueblo Revolt and then resurrected after the Spanish reconquest. By the time Harvard sent an archaeologist to scratch in the dirt, seeking my people, our culture, and our history, American settlers who came from the north and the east had stripped the church of its wooden beams and roof. All who wanted monumental pillars, and wood with ornamental carving mined the Pecos church of its architecture.”
“Must you take the bones? Science will suffer,” one archaeologist said.
“I promised my grandfather.”
“But we are more than happy to give you the other items taken from Pecos, as required by NAGPRA. There are hundreds of jewelry pieces, ceramic pots, tools, even a decorated Spanish spur from the Sixteenth Century. However, the Pecos bones are the spec
imens that contributed to the medical community’s work on landmark studies of osteoporosis, skull injuries, and even dental science.”
“I am glad that the bones have not been idle but contributed to the health of mankind, but they are tired now and their work here is done. It is my responsibility, as the last of the Pecos, to take their bones home and rebury them, and my grandfather’s dying wish. If he stood here with me now, he would tell you to dig up your own relatives and study their bones.”
“But…”
“Do you have other bones to dissect?” she said.
“About 20,000 but because of NAGPRA we must repatriate 12,000. You’re taking the largest collection of one society that has ever been exhumed anywhere. There is much we can still learn from the Pecos bones.”
“My people conceive that once a person is buried, he or she must remain in their resting place, else their soul can never find peace. I do not blame the university or the archaeologist; it was the way of the world then and I’m sure Alfred Kidder meant no harm. In many ways, you acted as caretakers for my family; you have kept them together and for this, I thank you.”
She nodded her head at the curator of the museum for him to lead her to the bones.
Chapter Twenty-Three
They followed the curator to a massive storage room. A ceiling light illuminated hundreds of boxes, a few open. Bones stuck out from one box on the floor. Other bones were scattered about. Whole skeletons lay strewn across the floor and on tables in straight lines.
“All of us at the museum can only imagine how you must feel to finally meet the bones of Pecos Pueblo. We’ll give you some privacy,” the curator said and bowed his head.
In some open boxes, skeletons were stuffed like sardines with bony arms and legs entangled. The elbow bone of one stuck into the eye socket of another.
Two skeletons hugged with their skulls cheek-bone-to-cheek-bone.
Other skeletons were broken in half, the hip of one jammed into the ribcage of another skeleton where once a heart beat.
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