Relics

by K. T. Tomb

  “Thank God for small miracles,” he whispered when he looked over at her.

  She was still strikingly attractive when she was asleep. It reminded him of the early years of their relationship when she was so beautiful and pleasant to be with. She was excited by his artistic skills and loved going camping. She loved nature; she loved to feel the breeze in the open spaces and the feeling of living free. He marveled at the fact that someone who hated change so much had made such a drastic one.

  She had become the darling of the accounting firm in Tulsa and had moved rapidly into a supervisory position. Her new position demanded more of her time and energy and she began to give it more and more as well. It slowly ate away at the fragile person inside of her, helping her to find strength and belonging. As she poured more energy into her work, she moved further up the ladder of success and was asked to relocate to the main office in St. Louis, where she would take on an even more substantial role in the firm. Being much more transient in his way of thinking, as well as his means of earning income, Parke had encouraged the move; something he had begun to regret almost the moment they arrived in the gateway city.

  He contemplated the changes to their lives, their relationship and, most of all, the bitterness that seemed to cover them just like the darkness over the canyon during the night. The impossibly blue sky, the mountains, the different shades of red in the landscape and the feelings of isolation, even while being surrounded by a moderate amount of traffic, mostly semis, as they traveled along I-40 seemed to soothe him and his thoughts wandered up the long canyons and into the mountains.

  Each mesa top drew his eyes as he wondered if the thrilling ride of his dream had taken place on any one of them. In such a state of bliss, Flagstaff, Winslow and Holbrook all passed by before he was interrupted by a comment from the passenger’s seat.

  “We are now in the middle of fucking nowhere,” she announced. “Who lives here?”

  He tried to ignore her comments as they cut into the peace that he’d been having.

  “I mean, would you seriously ever consider living in a place like this?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  He regretted the answer, but was too late to stop it.

  “Seriously? You would live out here with absolutely nothing to do and nowhere to go? Oh yeah, I forgot, you love nature. You’re just a painter.”

  The stab at him hurt. Rather than allow it to lead them into another confrontation, however, he decided it was better to diffuse it all.

  “I’m sorry that I yelled at you and slammed the door earlier.”

  The absence of a reply made him turn and look to see if she had heard. When he looked at her, she forced half of a smile to her face and then turned her face toward the window.

  She used to love wide open places. What had happened to her? What had changed her so drastically? Would she ever be able to break free of whatever had claimed her soul and had her entire being in chains?

  “You used to love nature too.”

  He broke the silence, still hoping the old Melissa might have a chance to break free and return to him.

  “That’s before I discovered the real world, Parke!” she snapped. “It’s about time you discovered it too.”

  Being turned away once more, he remained silent all of the way into Gallup, New Mexico, where they stopped to get something to eat. As they sat through their silent lunch, he studied the mountains to the northwest. Something about those mountains was drawing him to them, though he wasn’t completely certain what it was.

  He made another decision when they were back in the car and on their way. A decision that, once again, drew the wrath of Melissa as he turned the car onto US Highway 491 and started north. The sound cursing that he received died away as she turned away to sulk once more; something she did often whenever he decided to stand up for himself and refuse to allow her to bully him into doing things her way.

  The draw of the mountains, known as the Chuskas, had his heart pounding in a rather strange and completely inexplicable way. The further north and nearer to Chuska Peak he drove, the stronger the pull. The combination of emotions from the dream that he had the night before were vivid once more and he was suddenly able to recall the features of the beautiful woman’s face. “Naomi,” he said without realizing that the name had left his mouth.

  “What?” Melissa snapped.

  “Nothing,” he replied, hoping that she wouldn’t press further.

  Why had he spoken the name? At the eastern base of Chuska Peak, he could see a small town beginning to form along the highway in front of them. As he traveled along, a sign letting him know that they had arrived in Tohatchi went by; quite obviously, they had reached the lands of the Navajo Nation, though the sign which had announced it earlier had little effect on his consciousness. He attempted to pronounce the name as he slowed upon entering the town, well aware of the 4x4 Navajo Police vehicle waiting for someone who was in a much bigger hurry than him to pass through the quiet town.

  Off to his left, he noticed a sign above a gray, cinder block building that read, “Tohatchi Trading Post.” Something stirred inside of him, calling him toward the rugged-looking building. He turned the wheel toward the pothole-rich, hard-packed space that served as a parking lot out in front of the store.

  “Why are we stopping?”

  “I’ll just be a minute.”

  The urge to stop and enter the store had completely taken over.

  “This is Indian territory, idiot. We’re probably not safe here.”

  “Then stay in the car.”

  He unhooked the seatbelt and reached for the door handle. Melissa didn’t budge.

  “Why do you insist…”

  Closing the door behind him cut off whatever rant she had begun. He focused on the front door of the building and the pull the trading post had on him. When he entered, it appeared pretty much the same as any ‘Trading Post/Souvenir Shop’ in the Southwest. Genuine Navajo rugs were for sale, though these appeared to be much better crafted than many that he’d seen and the price listed on them told him that they were indeed “the real thing.” He browsed for a few moments among the goods offered and then made his way toward the glass counter where jewelry and such was displayed.

  “Ya-tah-ay,” the heavyset man behind the counter said as he approached.

  The greeting was spoken in the sharp, interrupted way in which the natives said it, rather than the way white people tried to mimic it.

  “Hello,” he replied, taking the large, offered hand. He was too intimidated to even attempt to return the same greeting.

  “If you want a closer look at anything, let me know.”

  His voice had a deep and powerful quality to it and his face beamed. He has a happy spirit, he thought, though never in his life had he ever had such an odd thought cross his mind. His throbbing heart had not settled in the least; in fact, it seemed to have gotten worse inside of the trading post. His eyes looked through the glass at the assortment of handcrafted silver and turquoise jewelry on display. The art was exquisite and the prices on the pieces were well beyond anything in his budget, but he continued to allow his eyes to move over them feeling a mysterious bond to them.

  He was about to turn away from the glass display when his eyes caught sight of a green dagger tucked away on the corner of a shelf. The entire dagger was made out of green stone; blade, hilt and shaft, all from the same piece of stone. At first sight, he thought it was turquoise, but it held a much deeper green tone than did the more aqua-colored turquoise stones set in silver very near it. “What is that?” he asked, extending a finger toward the dagger.

  “That is a stone dagger.” The clerk smiled, pulling it out and placing it on the counter in front of him. “One solid piece of jade.”

  “Jade?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there jade around here?”

  He had always associated jade with the orient. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands. Initially, it was cold like stone, but in
just seconds it suddenly became too hot to touch and he dropped it on the counter.

  “Burned you?”

  The big Navajo chuckled. The rich sound of his voice reinforced the idea that had popped into his mind earlier.

  “It doesn’t do that to everyone.”

  “What the hell is it? Is it possessed?”

  “You mean is it magic or does it have a spirit?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just…”

  Parke couldn’t find the words he wanted.

  “Mysterious,” the smiling man filled in the word for him. “The man who brought it in said it had been in his family for centuries. He said it used to get hot when he touched it when he was younger, but not in a long time.”

  “Why did he sell it?”

  “He started drinking and needed the money.”

  “He sold this for liquor money?”

  “There is more confusion in demons and liquor than nearly any other thing in the world.” His plump, happy face suddenly became very solemn. “I think that’s why it became cold in his hands.”

  “Why?”

  “He lost his way.”

  “But this could be priceless.”

  “Or his granddaddy bought it in the South Pacific during World War II.”

  He wasn’t sure how the South Pacific and World War II had any bearing on the origin and value of the dagger, but since it was only seventy-five dollars, it seemed likely that the owner of the trading post didn’t believe that it was nearly as valuable as the original owner had. Yet still, he had pawned it to him for a bottle. He probably only got twenty-five or thirty bucks for the pawn.

  Without another word, Parke purchased the dagger, which the smiling proprietor slipped into a leather, beaded scabbard that he threw in with the deal. Parke suddenly felt relief as he stepped back out into the gentle breeze which came flowing from Chuska Peak. Rather than the tension and racing heart from before, it had all transformed into a feeling of peace. However, there was also a sense of disappointment that he was getting into the car and leaving. In fact, his heart was genuinely sick as though he was about to be leaving home.

  “What the hell did you buy?”

  His peace was quickly shattered. She has an angry spirit. He fought to hold back the laughter which suddenly wished to free itself from his chest.

  Chapter Three

  When Parke and Melissa stopped to overnight in Santa Fe, he could hardly wait to discover what mystery was hidden within the jade dagger.

  As soon as they were settled in, he had his laptop open on the table with the dagger sitting beside it. His research took him all over the Navajo Nation and into its mythology, but he saw nothing at all to shed light upon the origin of the dagger. The only connection he found to jade was where he expected it to be; in the orient.

  The Bering Strait Land Bridge theory, which was what archeologists considered to be proof that the Native Americans had migrated from the orient, seemed to be the only explanation for the existence of the dagger sitting beside him. If that was the case, then it was thousands of years old. In fact, according to the research he discovered, it could be more than 11,000 years old or seventy years old, if one followed the possibility that it was purchased by a Navajo Code Talker in the South Pacific during World War II.

  He did follow numerous trails of research that spelled out a greater understanding of the Navajo people, who preferred to call themselves by their own name, Diné, rather than by the name given to them by Spanish explorers; a name which meant “people of the knife.” He also learned the geographical extents of Dinetah, which was the area which the Navajo referred to as their original homeland. It extended from somewhere near Santa Fe westward to the San Francisco Peaks near Flagstaff and was bordered on the north by Hesperus Peak near Durango, Colorado and Blanca Peak near Alamosa, Colorado and on the south by Mount Taylor, northeast of Gallup.

  It was well after midnight when he looked up from his computer and realized that Melissa had been asleep for hours. He reached over and slipped the cold, stone dagger out of the scabbard, wondering if there really was some sort of mystical power in it. Once again, it instantly began to get hot. He forced himself to keep a firm grip on it and endured the heat, hoping to discover exactly what power it wielded. After some moments, it began to tremble in his hand, and he expected at any moment a beam of light or some other form of magical power would kick in; but instead, it simply turned cold in his hand once more and he set it back down onto the table.

  “Nothing more than a rather strange souvenir,” he whispered into the darkness.

  Disappointment and sudden exhaustion drew him to the bed and the uncomfortable, too-thick motel pillow that was awaiting him.

  Maybe I’ll go back to the dream, he hoped as he drifted off to sleep.

  The exhilarating dream did not return, which he was rapidly made aware of when the annoying beeping of the alarm brought him out of a deep sleep. He reached over to turn it off, holding back his true desire to throw it across the room instead. To say that he had awakened in a foul mood was hardly strong enough for the darkness that shadowed his heart. He rolled over and attempted to catch a few more minutes of sleep while Melissa shuffled off to take her shower. He had been successful at dozing for several minutes when his short-lived bliss was again interrupted by a sound numerous times more annoying than the alarm clock.

  “This is what you fucking bought? God, Parke, you’re like a fucking child!”

  He looked up at his wife, holding the jade dagger in her hand. He entertained the idea that the dagger’s magic would suddenly kick in and guide itself into her chest.

  “How much did you pay for this piece of shit?”

  “It’s a solid piece of jade,” he mumbled; for some reason he believed that he needed to justify himself, although it had always proven to be a useless exercise.

  “Yeah, right,” she laughed. “You got screwed by some fucking Indian. So, how much did he do you for?”

  “Seventy-five bucks.”

  He waited to see if the dagger would heat up in her hand, but it never did. After a few moments, she tossed it back on the table.

  “It’s your money,” she said.

  Her tone was that of a mother scolding her teenage son.

  Parke tossed the covers aside and headed to the shower. Maybe he was an idiot for buying the stupid knife. Maybe this whole wide-open spaces, freedom, wind-in-your-hair stuff was just his inability to grow up and face the real world. Maybe that was all his painting was; just another escape from reality. He’d worked several jobs in the past and done well. He had a tendency to throw all of himself into his work and was quickly slated for promotions, which he turned down because he knew that once the corporate world got their hooks into him, all of his freedom would amount to nothing. Had all of that been a mistake?

  He skipped breakfast, grumbling that he wasn’t hungry, which was certainly fine with Melissa. The sooner they were back in St. Louis, the happier she’d be. In a foul mood, he pulled out of the motel parking lot and onto the Interstate 25 entryway that would take them north to Interstate 70 and a straight shot back to St. Louis.

  Less than a dozen miles outside of Santa Fe, he felt something vibrating in his waistband. He’d absently stuffed the dagger and scabbard back there as he was gathering up his things and had forgotten about it. He glanced over at Melissa, who was sullenly staring out the window at the passing landscape and then reached back to draw the dagger out. It was shaking violently and he opened the scabbard to draw it out. Its heat was almost too much for him to handle, but for some reason, he couldn’t avoid touching it.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Melissa shouted, turning and seeing him holding the dagger in his hand.

  In the very same instant, a gust of wind slammed into the car. Swirling dust formed into a gray figure which pressed its face against the windshield and screamed at him. Just as suddenly as the figure appeared, he was once again on the back of the painted pony, riding as if he was riding th
e wind itself along the edge of the mesa. He risked a glimpse over his shoulder and saw the face which had only moments before screamed at him. In front of the face, a pistol was being raised and he turned away and tucked his face in closer to the mane of his mount.

  Just like in his dream, there was nowhere for him to take cover and nowhere for him to go, but straight forward. Several times, he felt the buzzing of bullets as they flew past him, some of them barely missing their mark. It would only be a matter of seconds before the pursuer got lucky and he would be tumbling off of the pinto and into the hard earth at the top of the mesa.

  Pressing forward with his nose outstretched and his ears laid back, the paint horse thundered on, while Parke clung to his back and the sliver of hope that they would once again leap from the mesa and escape their pursuer. As the moment of truth arrived and the ledge came toward them, he wondered if it could happen twice. Would it be the same dream or would it end in a nightmare?

  Unable to fully believe in the outcome a second time, he closed his eyes, buried his face in the flowing mane in front of him and let go of the reins. Again, the fatal tumbling never arrived and he and his mount were once again airborne. Again, he glanced over his shoulder and watched his pursuer tumbling down the steep slope below the rim of the mesa. It had happened again, just as it had before.

  He lost himself in the freedom of the wind and the pure joy of being weightless above the canyons. He searched the ground below for some clue concerning the source of his dream. He remembered the vibration, searing heat and powerful pull of the dagger, and wondered if it had actually transported him back into his dream. Just as he was coming to grips with it all, he was once again inside the hogan.

  Just as before, the Navajo woman was hunched forward sobbing. He had returned to her. He had hesitated before, but he was eager to see her face again, so he moved forward quickly, touching her on the back.