The Bone Man

by Vicki Stiefel

  “Really? So you believe money defines a person?”

  His chin jutted. “No. But you do.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t, Joe. People are people. I try not to judge and to take them for who they are.” I shrugged. “That’s about the best I can do.”

  “So who am I?” he spat.

  I was really too tired for this. “I don’t know—”

  “Gorman!” barked a stern woman in a pressed pair of jeans.

  I looked from her to the boy, who hadn’t moved an inch.

  “He was helping me with this map,” I said.

  She sniggered, smooshed her hands into her too-tight pockets. “Sure he was.”

  “Isn’t that okay?” I said.

  She walked toward me. Swaggered would be a better word.

  “You look like you been through a blender, lady,” she said.

  I shrugged. “I sort of have.”

  “Gorman, two demerits.” She flicked her red nail–polished index finger. “And go sit over there.”

  The kid gave me a black look and moved out.

  “That’s sort of harsh,” I said.

  “Yeah?” She smiled. “He knows he’s not supposed to talk to Anglos.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You deaf, too?” She sauntered toward the boy, again wagging that finger, and talking in what I presumed was Navajo.

  I stood there for a moment, frozen to the linoleum floor. I felt foolish, like I’d just been chastised for breathing. But I was also annoyed with her narrow mind, which was obviously tainting the boy’s. I went back to looking at the map and had trouble focusing on it. Boy, that exchange bugged me.

  “Hey,” came the chipper voice.

  The pretty girl was back, and her eyes were welcoming.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Kai. It means willow tree, which I find sort of funny, since, well . . .” She gestured to her full breasts.

  “It’s a lovely name. Mine’s Tally. That boy over there, Joe, said he was your brother. He was told not to talk to me because I’m an Anglo.”

  She didn’t bother to look. “I know just who you mean. It’s a clan thing. He’s not my biological brother. And, yeah, he’s really into the Diné point of view.” She flushed. “He’s a pretty angry kid. So’s—”

  “—the woman?” She looked over her shoulder, and her long ponytail swished across her shoulders. “That woman is my biological half-sister. She hates everybody. Don’t let them bother you.”

  “No. Thank you.” Kai was lovely and petite, and her smile welcomed the world. Life was complicated, for sure. “So what did you bring to show me?”

  “Oh! Yes. Here.” She laid a pad and pen and another map of Chaco on the counter. “You can take these with you. And I’ll give you directions into the canyon.”

  She talked, and I began to write while two pairs of hostile eyes burned into my back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “That’s it!” Kai said, dotting the final i.

  “Great.” My smile was at half mast. Time to go meet the beast. The question was, did I use Navajo or park law enforcement? “One more question, Kai. Do you have any books or articles here on fetishes? I know they’re mostly the province of the Zuni, but you’re so near Chaco that I thought you might.”

  She smiled. “I think we do. Are you looking for something specific?”

  “A carving called the blood fetish.”

  She flushed and bit her lip. “That sounds bad. I don’t like it.”

  “You’ve heard of it?”

  A student waved, and Kai said, “Excuse me,” and walked off.

  I followed and waited as she showed the student a program on one of the computers.

  “Kai?” I said.

  She turned back to me. “Why do you ask about the blood fetish?”

  “I saw it written once. And a man I met spoke of it.”

  “It’s probably nothing but a rumor,” she said. “But it’s an old one. And not necessarily a good one.”

  “You’re the first person I’ve met who’s even heard of the thing. Or at least admits to it. It’s as if I’ve been imagining the words, the object.”

  She undid her long ponytail and refastened it. Her sparkling brown eyes grew serious. “I’m sure I’m not the first person who knew of the blood fetish,” she said. “Not if you’ve been asking Indians. But most folks won’t talk about stuff like that.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  She shrugged.

  I hooked my arm through hers and walked her to where others couldn’t see us. I leaned close, and I told her all that had happened. The only thing I didn’t say was about the deputy’s murder. Grants was way too close to home. The last thing I wanted was this gentle girl involved.

  “Like I said, I know a few things,” Kai said. “That Zuni guy. That Aric. He knows. I’d bet on it. Zunis carved it in the first place. Long, long time ago. I’ll show you something.”

  She led me across the library to a stack near a corner of the library. “How do you know Aric?”

  She shrugged. “The blood fetish is not one of those for-sale fetish carvings,” she said. “Not like the ones they do for tourists and collectors. No way. It’s got some hoodoo in it.”

  “ ‘Hoodoo?’ ”

  “Yeah, magic. I don’t want to talk about it. It’s bad stuff. Talking makes it worse.”

  “What did you want to show me?”

  She didn’t look happy. “I shouldn’t.”

  “Hey, Kai!” Joe hollered.

  He’d appeared out of nowhere, along with Kai’s sister. Both wore angry frowns.

  Joe snorted. “Why’re you talkin’ to this Anglo? She’s trouble.”

  Kai rolled her eyes. “Oh, yeah, right. All Anglos are . . . to you and sis. You’re idiots! Now get out of this library, unless you’re gonna study, which it’s obvious you’re not.”

  “Screw you,” Joe said.

  “I’ll screw you, all right,” Kai said, cheeks flushed, hands on hips. “Now get out, or I’ll tell Ma what you’ve been up to with that one.” She flicked a finger at her sister.

  They melted into the darkness of the stacks.

  “He sure is angry,” I said.

  Kai nodded. “It didn’t used to be like that. Pretty sad, if you ask me.”

  She turned toward the farthest stack. “This whole row is weaving and pots and carving and stuff. You’ll find some things here.” She pointed to a lower row. “But this is really where the important articles are kept. See how old these books are? At least a century or two, some of them. They’ve got magic.”

  Her words cloaked us in mystery. The air became charged with portent, and I sensed that Kai was far more than a sweet young librarian. There was something here, and if I were lucky, I would find it. Kai knew exactly what it was, this magic. But maybe all books held magic for Kai.

  “You’re right, all books do,” she said, as if answering my thoughts. “Look carefully, okay? Be respectful. And you may find what you’re looking for. It’s not up to me. We don’t just show anybody these.”

  I laid my hand on her shoulder. “Thank you. Now forget what I’m looking for, do you hear me?”

  Kai seemed to grow taller, older, wiser. “I cannot. It’s done.”

  I took her hands in mine. “Then stay safe, Kai. Please.”

  She nodded, solemn and silent. Finally, she said, “You, too. Remember, respectful. I can give you twenty minutes with these. That’s it. Or someone will sense . . . Just be fast, okay?”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “Good.” Then a student called, and she was Kai again, the young girl with few cares and fewer years on her shoulders. She gave me a wave and a “good luck,” and off she went.

  Aloneness wrapped around me again. I might have been the only person in the world. The corner I stood in was dark and quiet, as if time itself were muffled. I bit my cheek. I believed I was about to open books no Anglo had seen for many years.

  I
took a deep, life-affirming breath.

  The higher shelf held such familiar books as Oscar Branson’s Fetishes and Carvings of the Southwest, Kent Mc-Manis’s series on Zuni Fetishes, Hal Zina Bennett’s Zuni Fetishes, a Facsimile edition of Frank Hamilton Cushing’s Zuni Fetishes, Rodee and Ostler’s The Fetish Carvers of Zuni, Zuni Fetishism by Ruth Kirk, and others, many of which I had in my personal library.

  I skimmed through the Cushing book, the original of which was written in the late 1800s. He’d spent years in Zuni and was the first Anglo to document their fetishes, many examples of which were in the Smithsonian. I’d read the Cushing book several times, so I did a quick look-through for a blood fetish, or anything resembling that. No mention, which was what I’d expected.

  I slipped the book back on its shelf. The other books on Zuni fetishes were modern, and I knew them well enough that I didn’t need to review them.

  The books that mattered, according to Kai, were on the bottom shelf, and so I sat on the floor. I pulled the first book from the shelf. It was old, published in 1896, and it talked about American Indian rites and magic. I looked through it, checked my watch, replaced it and pulled out book two.

  I went down the stack that way, and so I made it to the middle of the shelf when my twenty minutes was up. I’d thought I’d find something. I really had.

  I scrambled through the final three books, handling them with as much care as possible. Nothing. Nothing about a blood fetish.

  Think, think, think. I replayed Kai’s words.

  I was getting nowhere, and my watch said it was time to go.

  Kai hadn’t misled me, so what wasn’t I seeing?

  A mumble of angry voices distracted me. Navajo, yes, but voices I recognized. At least one of them. Who, though?

  Breathe, look, breathe, look.

  I ran my finger down the row of books and found Respect and Indian Magik. Why hadn’t I seen it before? Kai had told me to be respectful.

  I eased the book out of its slot in the row. It didn’t resemble any book I’d ever opened. It was maybe ten by twelve, larger than most. The cover was soft and pliable, with pen-and-ink letters across the front. The cover and binding were some kind of unusual skin. Maybe buffalo. The book was about half an inch thick and sewn together with sinew. I opened to the cover, and the smell of “old” reached my nose. I ran my fingers down the page, feeling the wonderful texture of the ink and handmade paper. I closed the cover to look for the author’s name.

  I almost laughed out loud—The Bone Man. He’d written the book. Oh, boy.

  I couldn’t read the right-hand pages. The language was alien to me. But on the left-hand pages, someone had attached on English translation, slipping the paper into black photo corners. This was the book. The Bone Man’s book.

  I scanned the first page. It talked of secret Zuni ceremonies and a land far away where water was plentiful and the people had originated. But the writing described the mountain, too, Corn Mountain, sacred to the Zuni, and its Zuni name Dowa Yalanne.

  I felt hope, as if the book could give me some answers. I turned a page, skimmed, then another. Then . . .

  The voices again. Arguing. A woman’s—gruff and angry, then another woman . . . It sounded like Kai’s sister.

  I couldn’t tell what they were saying, but I sure didn’t like the tone. I pressed the book to me and walked around a stack. The last thing I wanted was to be in the midst of some confrontation.

  I kept reading. Page after page.

  And then . . .

  The blood fetish, now lost, was once our most sacred and powerful. The fetish is the red of our enemies’ blood, and it glitters in the morning sun. Maybe Old Man Natewa carved it. Or The Bone Man. Or maybe the gods who bring the red rain. It comes from far away, from the sacred place of our ancestors. Hold it, and it makes you young. Wield it, and you will flatten your enemies as if with a scythe. Covet it, and . . .

  “So, hi there, ma’am.”

  I jumped. Down the stack stood an elderly woman. My heart’s thumping gradually slowed. “Hello. You were at the lodge, yes?”

  “We sure were.” She was waving, and her smile was welcoming.

  I waved back. “What a coincidence!” I never much liked coincidences.

  She kept smiling as she walked toward me. “Coincidence? Not really. We Elderhostelers love libraries, and the one here at the high school . . . well, it’s pretty good. It really is. The whole crew’s here, except . . .” She frowned. “Sorry.”

  She’d been referring to the man who’d tried to kill me. The killer had disguised himself as elderly. For all I knew, this woman was his partner, out to finish the job. No, I didn’t like coincidences much. Nor did I enjoy the sense of enveloping paranoia. “Not a problem, ma’am. They’ve got some wonderful books here. So where’d you go this morning? I didn’t see any of your group.”

  “We checked out real early,” she said. “We all thought you left last night.”

  “No, I didn’t. Good seeing you.” I backed away and turned.

  “Hey now, what’s that you’re reading?” Over my shoulder she reached for the manuscript.

  “Um, just an old book that—” She tugged it from my hands.

  “Well, look at this.” She began paging through the manuscript.

  “I haven’t finished reading it yet,” I said.

  “No, well, that’s too darn bad.” She turned and began to walk away.

  I reached for her arm. “Hold it! I was reading that.”

  “Were you, now?” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Well, I want to read it myself. You’ll excuse me.”

  I grabbed for her, and she shoved me away, into the stacks. I stumbled, but didn’t fall. I couldn’t let her take that book.

  I ran after her. She began to run, too. She was headed for the exit by the special books. Just as she reached the door, Joe appeared, blocking her path.

  “Where you going, lady?”

  “Get out of my way, kid,” the woman said.

  “White women don’t get to read that book.”

  “Yeah, they do.” She punched the boy in the face.

  Joe fell backward and hit his head on a table. He went down and stayed there.

  “You monster!” I screamed.

  She slammed open the door. “I am, aren’t I? You’d better hurry, or those folks are gonna be dead.”

  I raised the Taser and pressed the button.

  Nothing happened! I pressed again. Same thing.

  And then I was looking at empty space where the woman had once been.

  I ran to Joe, who was shaking his head. “Joe, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

  “Fuck off,” he said.

  “Joe—”

  “Just leave me alone.”

  I ran and got Kai and told her what had happened.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said, and returned in a few minutes with bandages and antiseptic.

  She worked on Joe’s head until he slapped her hand away and walked off in a huff.

  “It looks like he’ll be okay,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah,” she said. “That Joe’s a tough one. His pride’s bruised, that’s all. A woman getting the better of him. Ieeee.”

  “I’m sorry, Kai. I’m so sorry about the manuscript.”

  Her beautiful eyes didn’t hold a speck of anger or recrimination, but rather, empathy. “You know,” she said, “it is just a book.”

  “But an important one.”

  She rested her hand on mine. “Yes. But people are more important. Those people who took the book, they’re not meant to have it. It won’t help them. Not at all. They won’t understand the blood fetish, even if they find it.”

  I searched her face. She believed what she was saying. I wished I could do the same.

  She led me to a different exit.

  “Here,” she said. “You can leave this way. No one will see. The alarm doesn’t work. Let me come with you.”

  “Not a chance,” I said. “You’ve got to be reall
y careful. These people are killers. I don’t want them to know that you even exist.”

  Her eyes clouded. “I guess so.”

  I gripped her arms. “Promise me you’ll leave this alone. I’ll get the book back.”

  “Yes. Okay.”

  “Say it!”

  “I promise.”

  I released her. Exhaustion crept through my body. “Good.”

  With a pink-polished finger, she traced my pink scar. “I wish I could fix you all up.”

  “That’s the last thing I’m worried about right now.” I pressed my hand to her cheek. “Thank you for all your help. Be safe.”

  “Not only will we be safe,” she said, “I will make sure little brother is on watch duty. We’ll be fine. He will let no one hurt me.”

  I clutched the pad and map tightly in my hand. “I’ll find a car or truck. Four-wheel drive, I guess. I’ll make it to the park, then I’ll alert the rangers and go from there. I’ve got to get to those people. Niall and his daughter.”

  She looked at me, so worried. I had to leave right away, before I fell apart. I hugged her and left.

  I trotted down the street well aware that I had to get a ride or hook up with Aric and Hank. The latter was the smart thing to do. So how come I was so reluctant?

  I spotted the town’s one gas station. If anyone had a car to rent in Crownpoint, it would be there. Afternoon. The town was a-bustle. I really wanted to be on my own. Common sense said I should find Aric and Hank. Except nothing about this whole thing made sense.

  I leaned against a telephone pole stapled with fliers proclaiming Indian rodeos, powwows, and job counseling. I was stuck, afraid to move. I caught a whiff of frybread on the air. My mouth watered. Few things tasted better than frybread with honey or sugar on top.

  Maybe food would get my brain going again. I needed time to think, to put stuff together, to understand what was really going on. I looked at Hank’s watch. I was running out of time.

  I was missing something. Whatever. I had to do the best I could do. I walked toward the gas station. A couple of cars sat on the lot. One, an old pickup, looked like a prime rental. I broke into a trot.

  The blast of a horn made me stumble. My heart raced. I turned, ready for who-knew-what. Aric’s Land Rover zoomed toward me. I cringed, but held my stance. Hands waved at me from the open passenger’s and driver’s side windows.