Overlooked (Gives Light Series Book 6)

by Christo, Rose

  “We used to use the Falls for religious ceremonies,” I told Sky. We walked together, him stuffing his fingers in the sleeves of my jacket for warmth. “Kotto’enna—that’s how you say waterfall. It really means ‘bubbling water.’ “

  Sky took his fingers out of my sleeves and repeated the word in sign language. Or I thought that was what he was doing: He tapped his hand against his mouth and mimicked roving waves. For the next few minutes we traded words back and forth. I taught him how to say Horse, which was Bungu, and Buffalo, Bozheena. He made the sign for Blue Corn by flicking his hand and twisting his fingers around his ears. “Ha’niibe,” I repeated in Shoshone. His eyes lightened with recognition. My gut twisted unpleasantly, but I didn’t immediately remember why.

  Your grandmother was talking about blue corn, Sky said. He didn’t have to sign it, although I probably wouldn’t have understood him if he had. He touched my elbow and I knew what he was thinking. That was always the way between us.

  “You don’t have to worry about that,” I told Sky, wetting my dried lips. “Grandma and Mary and me have a weird relationship.”

  Weird how? Sky asked, his expression cautious.

  My face was hot, and I knew it had nothing to do with the wind. I muttered, “Grandma only invites us here to get a good spring crop.”

  Sky didn’t understand.

  “Grandma’s traditional,” I said. My mouth barely moved. “In traditional way, when you wanted a good harvest, you had to get a Napaka’s blessing. So—so, uh, she thinks having gay folks in her house is fertilizing her grain garden.”

  Sky’s mouth spasmed with shocked laughter. When he saw how flustered I was he hastened to touch my elbow again. I think that’s nice, he told me, his face very sincere.

  “You would,” I groaned. “You don’t even get it, do you? Why she asked me about blue corn?”

  Sky shook his head.

  “Every winter,” I said, “Tommo—that’s the Winter Spirit—he kidnaps the Corn Maiden and doesn’t release her until summer. Tommo is barren. Corn Maiden can’t give birth to maize while she’s stuck with him. To bring back blue corn, the Napaka—”

  I couldn’t believe I had to explain any of this. Imagine having to explain the ABC’s to a sixteen-year-old.

  Oh, Sky said, eyes widening.

  I wanted to die on the spot. Good things like that never happen to me, though. “My grandma thinks I brought you to Idaho to have sex with you.”

  Sky nervously whistled the first few verses to Heavy Fog. I shook my head and dropped it in my hands and walked in distressed circles. Sky whistled the chorus to Rabbit Guts. Sky grabbed my arm and stopped me from walking into the American Falls.

  Did you, though? Sky asked, his eyebrows quirking stoically.

  “No!” I said, indignant. “I wouldn’t—I don’t—no!”

  Why not? Sky had the nerve to ask.

  I seized his hand with a grunt of impatience. I tore off down the prairie, Sky running to keep up with me. I was seventeen years old. I thought about sex every five seconds. That didn’t mean I had to be gross about it, for crying out loud. My freaking uncle raised me better than that.

  After slowing down we came up on one of the taller waterfalls, but I can’t remember its name just now, so don’t ask me. Next to the peak stood a reddish stone house that better resembled a crumbling English abbey: The siding was worn thin, and the roof rafters were exposed. Dozens of tourists had gathered outside the house’s boarded up entrance. Some chick who definitely didn’t look Native stood next to an old signpost, lecturing the audience on trade routes. The sky had gone lavender-gray, pregnant with fat, opalescent snow clouds. The falling snow formed a solid white sheet on the soil, hard and compact, sturdy against the whistling wind. Sky pulled up the fur hood on my down coat. He tucked his head into it. I couldn’t help noticing he looked bothered again; or maybe pensive was the better word. I hoped to Christ he didn’t believe I’d dragged him a thousand miles from home just to proposition him. He had to know me better than that, right? He saw me looking at me and he smiled at me, all kindness, all kaleidoscopic light. His smile did nothing to quell my anxiety.

  Who is this man, anyway? Sky asked. He read Pocatello’s name off the faded signpost.

  “Middle Road Maker,” I said. “Or Buffalo Robe. Or Uriewici. The guy had a lot of names. He was chief of the Northern band during the Civil War. Come on, Mr. Red Clay’s mentioned him like, twenty times this term.”

  Sky crossed his eyes and flashed me a silly smile. I snorted. “Yeah, well,” I said. “Some of us try an’ pay attention in school.”

  “Northern band?” asked a tourist in a black fur coat. She edged closer to us, ignoring the docent.

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. I liked talking to people; I just wasn’t very good at it. “Okay, the Shoshone Nation has four different bands, right? The culture’s the same, it’s just the geography that’s different. Northern Shoshone come from Idaho and Montana. Eastern Shoshone come from Wyoming and Colorado. Them two bands put together are called the Plains Shoshone. Western Shoshone come from Utah and Nevada and live on plateaus. Timbisha Shoshone are sedentary vegetarian weirdos who never left Death Valley. Some of us Eastern guys got kicked all the way down to Arizona, so sometimes you’ll hear people call us Southern Shoshone. But that ain’t a proper term.”

  “What a vast tribe,” said the woman’s husband.

  “Uh-huh. And we had even more bands in the old days. Like, the Eastern guys were divided up into Kutsinduka and Tukudeka—Buffalo Hunters and Sheep Hunters. But some Tukudeka went and joined the Northern Shoshone, so that gets real confusing. Usually you can tell who’s who by listening to the accent when they speak our language. Eastern sounds soft, Northern sounds nasal, Western requires you to stow marbles in your mouth. Timbisha’s grating as shit.”

  “Are you allowed to say that word?” asked the woman’s husband.

  “Sorry,” I said, bashful. “Guttural as shit.”

  The tourists were starting to ignore the docent. When I realized they were listening to me instead I felt embarrassed as all hell. I tried to hide behind Sky. He looked around, confused; maybe because my hiding had the same effect as shoving an elephant behind a dormouse.

  “You can look around,” said the docent, “but please don’t touch anything.”

  Sky took my hand, consoling me. He towed me after him into the run-down house and we looked at the old, crusted furnace, the bare and blackened bathtub, the chandelier fitted for candles, now empty. The chipped paint on the walls was so dingy I couldn’t tell what color it used to be. Sky pointed at a dirty sepia photograph on the mantel. Underneath years of dust I saw a young man with solemn eyes, his hair squared off around his shoulders.

  “That’s not Pocatello,” I said. “That’s his husband.”

  When three of the tourists turned around and walked out I was naive enough to think they just didn’t like the musty smell off the house’s ancient foundation. It was, after all, overpowering.

  Where should we go next? Sky asked, tapping my shoulder with a cheeky smile. We left the house and walked back to the dam, Tendoy’s head buried in his feedbag.

  “Probably back to Grandma’s,” I grumbled. “You look like you’re burnin’ up.”

  He was burning up. I got him back to the house and put Tendoy in the stable. He sat in the sun parlor, and I felt his forehead with my hand, and his skin scalded me. I jumped up in a panic. I didn’t know it at the time, but your vocal cords are what prevent you from getting infections. Sky’s vocal cords didn’t work.

  “Calm down, will ya?” Caleb complained. He went into the kitchenette and made Sky a tea out of dried willow leaves. I spent the rest of the afternoon thanking Caleb profusely. He told me if I didn’t shut up he’d stuff his fist down my throat.

  I hated sitting indoors when a million acres of untamed wilderness were calling for me. I hated it; but I hated being without Sky even more, so I could tolerate it. I pulled our chairs up beside the big w
indow in the sun parlor. Sky tried to share his tea with me, not because I was sick or anything, but because he didn’t know how not to share. I pointed through the window at the sprawling terrain. Two prairie dogs poked their heads out of the snow, peeked around with confusion, then kissed each other on the mouth, their standard greeting. They ducked back under the snow when a gray wolf pup ambled by, but the pup meant no harm. Heck, he wasn’t even old enough to hunt. One of Grandma’s crows flew out of the aviary, nestled himself on the wolf’s back, and groomed the wolf with his beak. Sky looked at me in surprise. “That’s so the pup won’t grow up and kill him,” I said. “Crows are smarter than you think.”

  A couple hours later we watched a deer canter by with red silks hanging from his antlers, something that happens in the wintertime when the new horns are growing in. The buck bent his head and lapped up a drink of snow. I thought about Grandma’s Delgeth warning and jostled Sky. He smiled questioningly.

  “D’you think I’m a man-eating antelope?” I asked.

  Sky gave me a bug-eyed look. So probably not.

  “White man in my house,” Grandma murmured, tromping into the room. “White man steal my warbonnet, white man steal my teeth…”

  “Grandma,” I said moodily. “Stop.”

  “My teeth are not my own!”

  Is she okay? Sky asked, disoriented.

  Grandma stopped her ranting and resumed her blank visage. She stared through Sky like she didn’t see him. She must’ve, though, ‘cause she said to me:

  “What’s his ceremonial name?”

  “Uh,” I said. I repeated the question in English. Sky shook his head, at a loss.

  “Then he is not an Indian,” Grandma said, and went into the aviary.

  Sky frowned, not with his mouth, but with his eyes. He couldn’t have known what Grandma had said. All the same, when someone doesn’t like you, you tend to know it. I nudged Sky’s knee with mine, wishing he would smile again. Mary strolled into the room, yawning, scratching her back.

  “I just met the hottest chick,” Mary announced. “Got some boobie action in there.”

  “Mary,” I said. “Do you know anything about naming ceremonies?”

  “What, you mean the Nihya?” Mary said.

  The Nihya was how modern Shoshone folks got their ceremonial names. I’d had mine done when I was two or three. In my family I was known for having a freakishly strong memory, but the most I could remember about my naming ceremony was water rattles. I thought it served the same purpose as pauwaus and regalia. We walked around day-to-day wearing taipo’o clothes, calling each other by taipo’o names, but there was a little part of us they could never colonize. America was always going to be Indian Country, no matter how many disguises it wore.

  “Sky doesn’t got a ceremonial name,” I told Mary.

  “Oh, shit,” Mary said. “Really?”

  Mary told us to wait. She galloped up the staircase at a record, breakneck speed. She returned to us with a handful of necklaces, sacred corn beads in navy blue and blood red and black.

  “Where’d you get those?” I asked, suspicious.

  “Ask no questions and I’ll tell no lies. Go get the peyote rattle.”

  I went into the entry hall and found Grandma’s peyote rattle on the eastern shelf. It didn’t look much like a rattle proper, just a feathered stick with a little drum on the end. I brought it back to Mary, but she didn’t take it from me. She surprised me when she started singing a peyote song.

  I’m gonna be honest with you: Neither Mary nor I could sing for shit. Our mom had been a damn good singer, but then she’d also been the black sheep of the family. Mary’s voice was reedy and nasal; I wanted to cover my ears. Sky showed no signs of unease. He smiled kindly, because he was crazy enough to smile at attempted murderers and even forgive the real ones.

  “Dombina so’winna,” Mary sang. “Kaiva so’winna.”

  She put the corn bead necklaces around Sky’s neck. She made me shake the peyote rattle every time she removed one. Sometimes she rearranged the beads on the strings, or sometimes she double-looped the necklaces. I had no idea what she was doing. Poor Sky looked as hapless as that deer we’d rescued on the highway, but there’s one thing I have to say in Mary’s favor: She was gentle. She handled the necklaces like Sky weighed the same as a feather, with all the consistency of fresh glass. She never touched the scars on his throat, not with her long and skinny fingers, not with her sharp and painted nails; not even by accident. I noticed Sky’s eyes lingering on those nails. I wondered whether their proximity evoked unwanted memories. Sky looked at Mary like he was going to understand her, this girl who wanted to take his only parent away, this girl who only existed because his mom’s murderer existed. And how did he see this girl? As Dad’s daughter? As my sister? I should have known that the answer was neither. When Sky looked at you, he didn’t let his memories color his judgment. He looked at you and he saw you for the very first time. It was like being reborn.

  “Nuuttuhai,” Mary said. “How’s that for a ceremonial name?”

  I looked at her. “You’re asking me?”

  “No, I’m asking the rocking chair.”

  I looked at Sky. “Nuuttuhai means Sweet-Talker.”

  Sky broke into a bashful grin. Sky rolled his shoulders in a compliant shrug. I felt a surge of affection for Mary I can’t really explain. Apparently Mary was just as aware of Sky’s voice as I was.

  “How did you know to do all that?” I asked Mary. “The singing and stuff?”

  “Pulled it out of my ass,” Mary said. “Let’s eat! I’m starving!”

  That night Caleb fried okra for dinner. Grandma didn’t eat with us because she was entertaining a friend, an elderly black woman with whom she was suspiciously touchy. Sky’s fever receded a little, but not enough that either one of us felt comfortable going back outside. We holed ourselves up in the basement, soaking in the humid heat from the steam boiler. I didn’t even mind when Mary came with us. That was a first.

  “Okay,” Mary said to Sky. “But which video game’s your favorite?”

  Sky took my pencil and my sketchbook. Mary took the other pencil stub. Sky found a page crowded with unfinished scribbles. He wrote, “The Krion Conquest,” at the bottom.

  “I’ve never even heard of that title,” Mary said. “You’re not one of those weirdos who haunts the super obscure 99¢ bin at GameStop, are you?”

  Sky raised his hand in an oath to the contrary. It wasn’t a convincing one.

  “Video games are stupid,” I said.

  Sky gave me a patient look. Mary pretended she was gonna stuff me in the boiler.

  “I like Ivan Aivazovsky,” I said. “All he paints are oceans. He’s so freaking awesome.”

  Draw an ocean! Sky said, shoving my sketchbook at me.

  It was rare that I drew the ocean. Except for Sky, I seldom drew the things I loved; if I messed them up I’d never forgive myself. I took the pencil from his hand and sketched two lines. I sketched a circle. I felt the saltwater filling the basement, filling the space between my temples with a giddy dizziness.

  Something hard and spongy smacked me across the face. I started. I looked down at my sketchbook. Mary had scribbled a phallus in the margin.

  “You don’t even like those!” I protested.

  “No, but you do! Merry Christmas,” Mary said.

  Grumbling, I went upstairs to get popcorn; both Mary and Sky were in the mood for it. As soon as I climbed up into the alcove I ran into Caleb. He was talking on a handheld phone, which surprised me. I’d never seen a regular phone in person, let alone a handheld one.

  “Ah, damn,” Caleb complained, stuffing it into his jacket. “No signal. Dunno if it’s the snow or the sticks.”

  I dragged my feet awkwardly on the floor. “You okay?”

  “HEY! WHY WOULDN’T I BE?”

  “You’re yelling again,” I informed him, angry.

  Caleb patted his front pockets; but whatever he was looking for, he didn�
��t find it. His face went red with rage. I thought he was kind of like a boil, swelling and swelling until you lanced it and pus exploded everywhere. I shielded myself preemptively.

  “Water ya doing?” Caleb demanded.

  “Water?” I repeated, dumbfounded.

  “You don’t speak English now?” Caleb said.

  I’d forgotten the popcorn. I shuffled past him and into the kitchenette. It was two steps away, and it didn’t have a door. I stared at the engraving of Sacajawea over the crude stove. Caleb noticed.

  “Regular ol’ Indian princess, that Sacajawea,” Caleb said.

  I peeked at him, trying to discern whether he knew we were descended from her. His bloody, ornery face betrayed nothing. His aura was bright blue on one side, pale gray on the other; exactly like his eyes, just flipped in the other direction.

  “How come you’re always hurt?” I asked him.

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “That’s nunnaya business.”

  “You’re my family,” I said.

  “What’s that mean? The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb!”

  “Forget it,” I said, frustrated, confused.

  I found a bag of popped blue corn on a shelf above thyme and sage. I tucked it under my arm. Caleb stopped me before I could head back down the stairs.

  “My kid wants to end visitation with me,” he said.

  My shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry.”

  “People like you an’ me,” Caleb said. “Maybe we’re not meant to make our own families.”

  I raised my head. “Whaddo you mean?”

  He looked at me. He looked at me and the blues and grays of his eyes unwound in threads. The blacks of his pupils pulled me into them, a cosmic abyss. The threads tangled themselves across the darkness like a tree growing in the wrong direction. The blue strings pulsed inside the gray ones, curling closed in ultraviolet knots. The gray strings burst to life in cool evergreen, the ultraviolet knots exploding in white clouds. The limbs of the tree faded slowly, slowly, and the dust from the white clouds spread farther apart, breaking off in clumps of violet. The clumps glowed hot and angry until they were fire-blue spirals, whites at their centers, each revolving around the same axis of nothingness.