Magpie Speaks
R. Allen Chappell
Dedication
This book is dedicated to those Diné who still follow the Beauty Way, and while their numbers are less each year, they remain the well from which the people draw strength and feed the Hozo that binds them together.
Acknowledgments
Again, many sincere thanks to those Navajo friends and classmates who provided “grist for the mill.” Their insight into Navajo thought and reservation life helped fuel a lifelong interest in their culture, one I had once only observed from the other side of the fence.
Editing by John Baker
Copyright © 2016 R. Allen Chappell
All rights reserved
First edition
31616
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form, including electronic media, without express permission of the author or his agent.
Table of Contents
Magpie
The Drunk
The Surprise
The Plan
The Journey
Coyote & Magpie
The Kicker
The Mistake
The Law
Magpie Woman
The Shaman
Salvation
Redemption
Magpie Sings
Glossary
Magpie
In that far-off time of hunger and depredation, it seemed only right that he, being an old man and no longer as useful as he once had been, should draw away from the others and plan his entrance to the nether world. The very young were already gone and the few older children left to the clans grew weak and even they were being silently judged; only the very strongest would meet the challenges ahead. Before the old man should leave his people for good, however, there was a thing he must do, something he wouldn’t have had the courage for in better days; one last thing to attend before committing himself to that nothingness that lies beyond. He trembled at the thought of it. These hard and desperate times clutched at him like fingers from the grave.
~~~~~~
The harsh cry of a magpie shattered the stillness like a gunshot––Paul T’Sosi woke with a start and for just a moment was unable to disengage himself from the dream. The same dream that had troubled him for weeks, in the beginning only occasionally, but now nearly every time he nodded off, which was often as he was old himself and took his ease where he found it.
Magpie sat atop a scrub oak and in the haughty manner of its kind cocked a sparkling eye at the old singer and gurgled deep in its throat. He well knew that magpies can speak should they take a notion, and often see well beyond the world of man. With a flip of its tail, the bird flew down to the sheep and landed on the back of a ram, causing Paul to lean away from the shaggy-bark cedar and peer down at the trickster. He could not shake the notion the bird was trying to tell him something and wondered what it might be to make the creature so bold.
Aa’a’ii picked at the ram’s lanolin-rich wool and preened its feathers with an oily beak. The old man allowed his eye to follow the bird for a long minute hoping for some glimmer of understanding, but eventually lost interest and turned his attention to the sheep. He missed nothing; each ewe and lamb was accounted for as natural as breathing, the herdsman’s instinct… not everyone had it. As the old man watched and pondered the way of these things he let his hand fall to the dog beside him, old like himself but still of good use when it came to the sheep. That’s about all the two of us are good for now, he thought, just the sheep. The dog roused himself, came to attention, twitched, and readied himself to launch with no spoken word to guide him, the lift of a finger or push of the chin enough to send him bounding away to correct some laggard or tighten the flock. The dog, like the man, made allowance for disparities of age.
The dream had begun to wear on the old Diné, pecking away at the edge of his mind even when awake. Paul knew he was the old man in the dream and was certain now it was a message. He was, after all, Hataalii, a singer, and had come to expect these premonitions from time to time––still he couldn’t make heads or tails of this one.
The sun was on the downhill slide, and finally he motioned for the dog to start the gather that would take them close to sunset. His daughter and her husband probably wouldn’t be back from their shopping, and it would be left for him to watch for the school bus. It wasn’t that Thomas Begay’s children couldn’t manage for themselves. But those two young ones expected him to be there, and he took a certain satisfaction in that.
Secretly, of course, it was the children who were charged with watching out for the old man, making sure he didn’t forget to take something for his lunch, and found his way home with the sheep at the end of day. They now considered him their acheii or grandfather and had acquired that particularly close attachment for the elderly so often seen in Navajo children. The old still are given their due among the Diné.
The breeze carried the sharp edge of change––a sure harbinger of autumn in that country and to Paul’s way of thinking the finest time of year in Dinéta. The thought of it caused him to sigh… did the dream mean this would be his last?
As he closed the gate the old man, weary now, looked across the corrals and was pleased to see the girl and her brother already trudging up the rutted track. A little distance behind them, first one, then another pickup turned off the highway and trailed along behind.
When Thomas Begay pulled his truck alongside his children he stopped and motioned for them to jump in back with the boxes of groceries. They wedged themselves between two water barrels filled at the free pump in Shiprock, laughed as they dangled their legs off the back of the truck, and listened to the water slapping around inside the steel barrels. They knew that water would have to last at least a week. Over the years the government had thrown up earthen dams to form water-tanks for range stock, but household water still had to be hauled. It was just a part of life in the Diné Bikeyah. Wells could be drilled, but that was expensive and the water, if found, was often not good.
The children waved at their grandfather as Thomas’s blue Dodge pulled into the yard ahead of Charlie Yazzie’s official tribal unit. Old Paul T’Sosi smiled when he spied two-year-old Joseph Wiley propped up between Charlie and Sue. Paul thought the boy an extraordinary child––certain he would someday make the people proud––all the signs and omens pointed to it… but only if Paul could ward off the evil that threatened the boy. The old singer had made many prayers on the night of his birth, and felt certain it was that intervention that kept the child safe even now. The cord had wrapped around the infant’s neck while yet in the womb. The young doctor himself called it a miracle the boy survived and Paul became even more convinced it was his prayers that had made the difference.
It was a particularly strong curse laid by the Witch of Ganado those many years before and only time would tell if Paul T’Sosi’s efforts might affect a permanent cure. Maybe that is what the dream is about, Paul thought. Does it all go back to Harley Ponyboy? He was the one who had angered the witch.
Edward Bitsinnii had looked Harley right in the eye that spring day, when he declared, “Anytime you come near a pregnant woman she will lose her baby.” He had then spat on the ground and washed his hands in the air.
It was widely known that Harley’s young wife, Anita, still blamed this curse for losing two babies in a row. She was told by doctors not to try again.
~~~~~~
The water barrels were slid down cedar posts from the flatbed truck and “walked” over to their place beside the hogan door. Everyone helped carry in the groceries… and Lucy Tallwoman began telling her father how they had met up with the Yazzies in town. When Sue Yazzie heard of the progress on Lucy’s new blanket, still on the loom, she couldn’t wait to s
ee how it turned out. This would be Lucy Tallwoman’s third Ye’i piece in as many years; they were becoming her trademark, and had made her well known among collectors. Other weavers thought her prices too high, and she became the talk of that part of the Diné Bikeyah on account of it.
In the brush arbor next to the hogan everyone, even the children, gathered round the loom while Lucy Tallwoman explained the meaning of the stunning piece––six crimson Ye’i, or spirit helpers, separated by stylized corn plants set against a soft grey background. These were holy symbols for the Diné, and even the children grew silent at the sight of them. The blanket had been many months in the weaving. Commissioned by a wealthy New York collector, it was scheduled for delivery within the next few days.
Lucy pointed out the ch’ihónít’t, the nearly invisible spirit path woven into the lower edge of the blanket. Each family of weavers passed down a traditional, but often different method of weaving in that intentional flaw. It was sometimes no more than a thin cotton thread, barely visible to the casual observer. Lucy’s mother, however, had taught her to continue the line out to a loose yarn tail, which exited the blanket in the lower right corner. It was a very old way of releasing the weaver’s spirit from a work, allowing her to move on to the next piece and not leave a part of herself trapped in the finished blanket. In this way Lucy felt connected to her mother and those other weavers who had gone before. She thought to herself in Navajo, In this way I am a Navajo woman. Over the years this little wool “tail” had become her signature and was widely recognized among knowledgeable collectors.
Traditional weaving had come a long way from the time when traders bought blankets by weight and Navajo women were reduced to pounding sand into the finished work to make it weigh more and bring more money. Traders soon caught on and would give each blanket a good shake, but the natural lanolin held the bulk of the sand just the same.
It had all begun around 1871 with the hated Indian agent William Arny, a prejudiced man with a missionary mindset, and determined that Indians should see the light. The Navajo called him the “Tarantula” and his single saving grace was initiating a campaign to create a market for Navajo blankets back east. He thought the blankets to be the only viable product the people produced––one that might help defray government expenditures in their support. Arny, of course, was deeply involved in the marketing process and profited accordingly. Those were the dark times after the peoples’ long walk from their incarceration down on the Bosque Redondo, and to this day the stories of that travesty are passed down through the clans and remembered.
“I would like to get this blanket out of the summer hogan before bad weather sets in,” Lucy confided as she and Sue Yazzie put their heads together to examine the piece. She looked around to make sure the children weren’t listening and whispered, “Our old hogan is getting a little cramped now that the kids are here. It’s a good thing they are in school during the day, or I wouldn’t ever get anything done.” She said this last part with a smile and then, “But, still, I don’t know what I would do without them. They are like my own now and are becoming a big help with the sheep.”
Sue nodded and smiled, knowing how much time little Joseph Wiley took from her own day. She turned her attention back to the loom. “Well, it’s truly a beautiful piece of work. I wish I could afford one like it someday, but I doubt that’s going to happen anytime soon.” She smiled ruefully, “I have a smaller one my aunt wove for me when I was little, but it’s nothing like this.”
Lucy nodded, “With what this blanket will bring, Thomas thinks we will have nearly enough put away to build a separate house, just for us. My father won’t leave the old hogan. He says it’s a spiritual place and he needs that.” She reflected for a moment. “I’d like a real house like yours. The electric people say the new lines will pass along the road soon, then it won’t take much for us to have electricity right here, and we’re told phone service won’t be far behind the electricity. Wouldn’t that be something?”
Sue was happy for her friend and was well aware what it meant to her. “You have come so far with your weaving.” She laughed as she said, “The trader told Charlie he considers you the best weaver on the reservation.”
Lucy Tallwoman had not heard that, but in her heart knew it was true and smiled at the thought of it. She didn’t think it arrogant to feel this way. Her mother had been a very good weaver and often told her, “There is something extra in certain people that takes them beyond what others can do.” Lucy had already proven this true.
Sue knew most traditional Navajo have an inherent appreciation of art in any form, but fine traditional blankets, or rugs as some Billigaana still insist on calling them, are especially near to their hearts. They take great pride in any they are able to afford or those that pass down through the family––they are never used as a floor covering in a Navajo home. Lucy wove the lighter, more traditional blanket, not only a thing of beauty, but one that would keep a person from the cold should they choose to use it in that way.
The women remained in the brush shelter, going over samples of wool collected from Lucy’s own churro sheep and the crocks of natural dyes she preferred. These materials were hard to come by now, but in her view were essential and one of the secrets of her success. Their soft earth tones mimicked the land itself and were integral to the culture. Some weavers bought their wool already spun and substituted modern aniline dyes, then pretended not to understand why collectors didn’t prefer this more garish work.
Thomas Begay and the other two men moved outside the shelter and stood watching the children. The older two had taken charge of Joseph Wiley and were trundling the toddler off to the sheep pens to see their lambs––gifts from their stepmother.
Navajo children acquire livestock at quite an early age and become responsible for their care, the thought being that having their own stock might increase interest in the herding and general care of the family flock. After accumulating a few animals, these young stockmen might be expected to contribute the occasional one to the family larder, or for some ceremony aimed at the good of the people. While sometimes hard for them, they learned the importance of giving and generosity, and how those family clan members who have must endeavor to help those who don’t. It was hoped they would see how everyone’s hozo benefits from this and allows them to take away a part of that blessing for themselves.
Charlie Yazzie knew that in olden times Navajo children enjoyed nearly the same personal rights as an adult, and were never forced to give up any of their property without their consent. They retained right of ownership over their personal possessions just as an adult would.
Charlie smiled as he watched Caleb and Ida Marie help his son through the corral poles and work their way through the ewes to the lambs. This is the way it is meant to be, he thought, older children watching out for younger ones; everyone responsible for everyone else…learning from each other. This is the Navajo way and how it has always been… how it should always be. Charlie didn’t consider himself a traditionalist in regard to some of the older customs or beliefs, but still maintained strong ties to the culture in other ways. He thought of himself as a forward-thinking Navajo, one who wanted his people to take their place in a more modern Navajo Nation.
Joseph Wiley wasn’t afraid of the sheep, even when the larger of the two rams came right up to him, wrinkled its nose, and bared its teeth, the better to catch his scent. The boy laughed and reached out to touch the ram––who shook his head, pawing the ground a time or two before backing off.
Even Paul T’Sosi smiled at this and was reaffirmed in his belief that this baby was somehow special and worth the effort it took to shield him from evil.
Charlie Yazzie turned from the children and surprised the other two men by announcing, “I had a letter from Professor Custer yesterday. You might remember he last wrote that things were not going so well at the university.”
Paul T’Sosi came immediately to attention. “I don’t remember hearing about that. What h
as happened with the professor?” Paul still hadn’t forgotten being passed over for a position on Custer’s last project which, as it turned out, was a good thing. Harley Ponyboy had instead been given the job, and while he maintained it was not his fault, things had not gone well. Paul didn’t really blame either man. He liked Harley and had, at the time, considered the professor’s poor judgment a fault of his drinking. Harley being caught up in that had been his own failing, in his opinion.
Charlie went on, “Apparently there was some fallout from Dr. Custer’s last project,” he paused and shook his head, “but still, the professor didn’t suspect his job might be in danger. It seems a few faculty members in his department filed complaints and passed along rumors of his drinking in the field. Everyone knew this was coming, of course, and most were only surprised it hadn’t happened sooner.” Charlie frowned. “Everyone knew it… except George Custer himself. In any case, he was offered the choice of retiring, and by virtue of his tenure be eligible for a nice little pension… or he could battle the board of regents, something that might not have ended so well.”
Charlie looked at the other two before going on, “In the letter he says he’s tired of resting on what few laurels he might have left, and is now considering starting his own business, ‘salvage archaeology’ …claims it’s the big thing right now, what with the renewed interest in the gas fields and increasing government mandates against violating prehistoric sites. Charlie paused. “Not only is there some money to be made, but some real and lasting good could come of it, too.”
Thomas Begay cocked an eye. “And what might ‘salvage archaeology’ be exactly?”
“Well, I’m not certain myself at this point, but I’m sure George will be more than happy to fill us in when he gets out here next week. He did say I should mention there might be a job for you and Harley Ponyboy, should you care to join the operation.”
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