Shadow Man (14 page)

Daisy Perika trudged along the twisting, rocky path that snaked miles into
Cañón del Espíritu.
Well aware of the possible consequences if she stubbed her toe on a root and fell, the tribal elder kept her gaze fixed on the ground.
I could crack a hip bone, and not be able to get back up again.
She had forgotten about the pendant telephone suspended from her neck.
I could die out here and nobody would know till somebody happened by and found my bones with all the meat gnawed off by the foxes and coyotes. If I should give up the ghost before I get back home, I hope Charlie Moon remembers where to put what’s left of my remains, and which dress I want to be buried in.
The image of her grinning skull, the chewed bones outfitted in the purple dress with the silver threads in the collar, sent a rattling shudder through Daisy’s bent frame. This morbid portrait was counterbalanced by the happy realization of how her friends—especially Louise-Marie LaForte—would be horrified. The old woman snickered at the image of gaped mouths, eyes like fried eggs. Now that would be a funeral to remember.

After this most recent birthday, death was continually on her mind. But as she hobbled along with her walking stick, Daisy had time to consider other matters. Such as blessings. The longtime resident of the little trailer home at the mouth of Spirit Canyon appreciated how fine the sun felt on the dark blue shawl draped over her shoulders, how wonderfully spicy the sage-scented air smelled. She also thought about the Catholic priest who had retired from the church at Ignacio. When he wasn’t traveling all over creation to places like Italy and Mexico, Father Raes Delfino stayed in one of the cabins at Charlie’s Columbine Ranch. Daisy was grateful to her nephew for providing this home for her favorite priest, but it would not have occurred to the cantankerous woman to tell him so.

The farther she got into the canyon, the higher the sandstone walls towered, the longer the shadows were. With each step she took, Daisy recalled Father Raes’s stern warnings that she should have no communion with the
pitukupf.
Though hardly any of the
matukach
believed in the existence of the dwarf who had attached himself to the tribe a thousand years or more ago, the Catholic priest did not doubt the existence of such creatures. He had told her tales of far stranger things he had encountered while working among those naked tribes in the South American jungles. Like frog-gods and leopard-people and huge snakes that ate human babies. She shook her head at such rubbish. South America must be full of superstitious folk, and some of it had rubbed off on the priest. The dwarf, of course, had nothing to do with superstition—even though only a few privileged Utes had encountered the
pitukupf.
And as far as she knew, Scott Parris was the only white person who had ever laid eyes on the little man, but Daisy wondered whether Father Raes might have also seen him at least once. It was certainly possible—the dwarf had appeared in church one Sunday morning, sitting right beside her in the pew! Such disgraceful impudence—a less-merciful God would have scorched the little heathen with a bolt of lightning.

Daisy paused, used a sleeve to wipe sweat off her forehead.
I wish it would cool off some. But who cares what I wish for?

There was a sudden rumble of thunder over the Three Sisters.

A moment later, a fragrant breeze sighed along the canyon floor.

Ahh…that feels good.
She looked up at the blue ribbon of heaven winding along above the canyon.
Thank you, God.
Thus restored, the aged supplicant resumed her steady pace.

Though far away in a foreign land, Father Raes seemed determined to occupy her thoughts. She had solemnly promised the priest that she would not seek out the dwarf, but that did not rule out chance encounters. After all, should she stay inside her home, hoping to keep herself away from the
pitukupf
? It was too silly to think about. And if she happened to take a walk in the canyon, would any reasonable priest expect her to avoid that abandoned badger hole where the
pitukupf
lived? Certainly not. She had as much right to be here as any other creature, including the troublesome little man.
It’s not like I came up here today to see him.

The thunder made a sound like two tons of freshly dug potatoes falling out of a wagon.

Daisy adjusted the strap of a hemp bag that was slung over her shoulder. By the time she returned home, it would be filled with a variety of roots and berries and herbs that the medicine woman used in her trade. The bag just happened to contain a few items the dwarf would appreciate. Like a small package of lemon drops, a can of Canadian Mountie powdered tobacco, a few strips of buffalo jerky. Plus an inexpensive pocketknife.
But that don’t necessarily mean I brought this stuff for the little man. A knife can come in handy for trimming leaves off a bloodberry vine. And I might want to suck on a lemon drop or two, just to wet my whistle. A piece of jerky to chew on wouldn’t hurt either.
Daisy chuckled.
I might even decide to take up dipping snuff.

A blue-black raven soared down from the craggy edge of Three Sisters Mesa, landed directly in front of the old woman, cocked its head. Awked a throaty squawk.

Daisy paused to lean on her oak staff, raised an eyebrow at the creature. “And a good morning to you,
Taqo-ci.
”
What brings Mrs. Darkwing down here to visit with me?

The bird ruffled her feathers, muttered a few garbled comments about this and that.

The Ute elder nodded. “I know just what you mean,” she said, and continued her measured uphill tread.

The raven skip-hopped along beside her.

As they continued on their way, the odd pair exchanged tasty gossip about several ghostly friends they shared, and one or two of flesh and blood. The conversation continued until ordinary topics were exhausted. Daisy found a black splash of shade under a brushy juniper, seated herself in its coolness. As she rested, the Ute woman offered her feathered companion a piece of jerky.

The gift of food was gratefully received.
Taqo-ci
put a foot on the dried buffalo flesh, ripped off stringy shreds with her black beak, gulped down every salty morsel.

After the sun was two diameters higher, the raven mentioned the ghost of an Anasazi woman who wanted to confer with the shaman. It had to do with her remains, which had been buried ages ago in the narrow canyon on the other side of Three Sisters Mesa. Her brittle old bones had been exposed by a spring flood. Surely, the Ute woman could do something about this calamity.

Though wary of Snake Canyon, Daisy agreed to receive the troubled spirit.
I could send Charlie up there to cover those bones.
But she advised the raven that the Anasazi haunt better not show up while she was sleeping.

This condition was agreed to by the intermediary.

By now, Daisy had gotten her second wind. She gripped the walking stick with both hands, heaved herself to her feet.

The human being and the bird continued their journey in silence.

Daisy’s musings returned to the priest who, the way she saw it, had deserted his post. The man was not yet seventy summers old—far too young to retire. A happy thought occurred to her.
Since Father Raes ain’t the reservation priest anymore, he don’t have no authority over me. It’s likely that any promise I made him don’t hold.
She nodded to agree with this conclusion.
Sure. Since he’s not working for the Church, maybe he isn’t even a real priest anymore.
One flawed assumption conjured up another.
I bet the bishop took his white collar away. It would serve him right, leaving us like he did. And we don’t have a regular priest at St. Ignatius yet, just that Father who drives down from Granite Creek once a week. Sooner or later, we’ll probably have us a permanent pastor.
She sighed.
I probably won’t like him, and I sure won’t tell him about the
pitukupf. Daisy scowled at an unsettling thought.
I bet the new priest will go see Father Raes to ask about all the people in the church, and that little Jesuit will spill his guts about me. I can just hear him: “Daisy Perika isn’t a good Christian—no matter how many times I try to set her straight, I’ve got a hunch she sneaks off to talk to that infernal dwarf-spirit—trade him food and stuff for information.”
The imaginary conversation angered her.
Sure. Them priests stick together like a wad of cockleburs. And the new Father will start wagging his finger at me, saying, “Now, Daisy, don’t you have nothing to do with that dwarf. God’s people don’t keep company with such folk.”
The injustice of these imagined plots was enough to give her a surge of heartburn.

She turned to speak to her companion, but the black bird had departed without a word. This was not a great surprise; feathered creatures tend to be short on manners. A deer or raccoon or even a squirrel would not have left without some sort of good-bye.

Daisy Perika noticed that she was within a few yards of the spot where the
pitukupf
hung his tattered little hat. Tired from the long walk, she unslung the hemp bag from her shoulder, seated herself on the sandy soil, rested her back against a half-dead piñon trunk. Thus situated, she leaned the walking staff in the fork of a brittle branch and carried on the imaginary conversation, defending herself to an imaginary priest.
Look here, Father—if a tired old woman wants to sit herself down to rest—and it turns out she’s within a few steps of the little man’s home—is there anything wrong with that?
In her mind’s eye, the cleric hesitated, then allowed as how that would probably be permissible.
As long as you don’t make any effort to communicate with the creature.
Daisy put an innocent expression on her wrinkled face.
Why would I want to talk to the
pitukupf?
He’s nothing more than a pint-size trickster. Always wanting some food or trinket before he’ll tell me anything, and when he does open his mouth, he generally talks in riddles.
The backslider stole a glance at the crumbling old badger hole, which was partially concealed under a huckleberry bush. She dismissed the phantom priest, began to talk aloud to herself. “This is a good place to gather up some of the stuff I need.” Indeed, right by her side was a fine little specimen of Corydalis. The herbalist took her time, patiently working the bluish gray plant up, root and all. By itself, it was not very effective, but in combination with valerian or skullcap and a couple of secret ingredients, this would be good for treating nervous twitching. A practitioner had to be very careful, of course. It was important to use exactly the right preparation, and you’d never give the medicine to a pregnant woman. She deposited the plant in the hemp bag, removed the plastic Ziploc filled with buffalo jerky, selected the best-looking strip, stuck it between her lips, and began to chew.
That tastes pretty good. And it’s nice and peaceful here.
After she completed her small meal, Daisy closed her eyes.

Within a moment, she was drifting off. Toward that Other place.

It seemed that Daisy Perika had barely dozed off, when she felt someone kick the sole of her shoe.

The sleeper twitched, opened her eyes in a glassy stare. “What—who’s there?”

It was, of course, the little man. Being barely knee-high, he looked the sitting woman straight in the eye.

Though delighted that the
pitukupf
had decided to show himself—sometimes the shaman went for months with neither sight nor sound of him—she scowled at the elfin creature. “What do you mean—kicking at me like that?”

He ignored this question, just as he had the first.

Daisy blinked, managed to focus on the rude little fellow. He did not look well. His skin had a sickly yellowish tint, his eyes squinted and watery. A dirty blanket was draped around his skinny frame, almost concealing the green shirt and buckskin breeches. His splayed feet were bare. Moreover, he shivered and quaked. Unexpectedly, he sneezed.

Oh my, I don’t want to catch no dwarf virus.
The woman pushed her back against the tree.

The pathetic
pitukupf
was eyeing the hemp sack.

Daisy had intended to bargain some information in exchange for the gifts, but now she felt an uncharacteristic surge of pity for the forlorn figure.
Poor little runt lives in a hole in the ground and don’t have no family, or even a TV to watch.
She made a gesture with her hand. “Go ahead. Take what you want.”

He did.

She watched the dwarf stuff packets of jerky and candy under his shirt. He opened the blade on the folding knife, cackled a little laugh as he rubbed the shiny steel blade on his blanket. Daisy began to regret her impetuous generosity. “Go ahead,” she whined, “rob a poor old woman who don’t have hardly any income but her Social Security. You probably don’t care a whit about my troubles.”

The
pitukupf
sneezed again, wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

Nasty little germ bucket, you could at least ask me why I came to see you.

To her amazement, he did ask—in an archaic Ute dialect the tribal elder strained to understand.

Daisy Perika got right down to business. In the current version of the tribal tongue, she told him about the pretty young
matukach
woman with yellow hair, how Charlie Moon had been working for her husband—a peculiar man with a forked beard—and how the man’s boat had blown sky-high and now he was dead and on top of all that, Pansy Blinkoe had run away and nobody knew where she was. Could the little man tell her anything?

The
pitukupf
stared at the shaman as if she were a particularly hideous toad, finally took a step forward—pointed the blade of the gift-knife at her throat.

For the first time in the decades she had known him, Daisy felt more than a tingle of fear.
He is going to kill me!
She tried to mouth a protest, to throw her arms up for protection. She was unable to speak—her entire body was paralyzed.

The little man reached out with the tip of the stainless-steel blade, deftly pulled one of her eyelids down. Then the other.

The shaman was plunged into a darkness like none she had ever known.

Down, down, she went. Down and under.

I knew it. I am dying. But where am I going—into Lower World? Oh, God—I should’ve listened to Father Raes….

Her spirit floated in a sea of nothingness, for ages it seemed. Then, somewhere just short of infinity, a tiny speck of greenish light.

She moved toward it.

Daisy was greatly relieved to be in Middle World, and in familiar surroundings. There in the distance was a landmark from her childhood—the V-shaped profile of Gunsight Mesa. Below, along a strip of highway, was a scattering of homes and barns—and a church with a rusty iron cross on the bell tower.
That looks like St. Cuthbert’s at Garcia’s Crossing—the little town where Daddy used to take us when he wanted to buy some sheep.
An instant later, the visionary found herself inside a musty-smelling room. The sandstone floor was dusty, the whitewashed walls were cobwebbed in the corners. The dismal space was illuminated by a narrow, slitlike horizontal opening near the ceiling.

Daisy gradually became aware of a murmuring. There were others there with her—three, she thought. Yes, now she could see a pale-faced young woman with yellow hair, and a middle-aged man and woman.

Yellow Hair was sitting, hands tightly clenched, speaking to the older woman. “Prudence, I feel so lucky to be here with you folks. I didn’t have any idea what’d happen to me—or where I’d end up.”

The grandmotherly woman responded in a lyrical Hispanic accent. “We’re pleased to have your company.” She reached out to pat her husband on the arm. “Sometimes, me and Alonzo get awfully lonesome.”

The thin little man smiled, nodded his agreement.

Prudence sighed. “It seems like we’ve been here for ages, but time has a way of passing. I believe we’ll be leaving fairly soon, for our new home. From what I’ve been told, some of our old friends will be close by—practically next door.”

It was apparent that Daisy’s presence had gone unnoticed by the occupants of the room. She did not recognize the older couple, but the young woman was well known to the uninvited guest. It was that young white girl who had come to the trailer to see Charlie Moon—the wife of that man with the funny two-pointed beard. Pansy Blinkoe. The shaman realized she had misjudged the dwarf.
The
pitukupf
has sent me right to the place where she’s hiding.

The unseen visitor watched every movement, listened to every word. When she had heard enough, Daisy turned toward the window. She gazed through this oblong portal to the outside world, saw the cross on the church steeple.
This house is next door to St. Cuthbert’s Church. If I wanted to, I could find my way back here.

Daisy Perika opened her eyes. The sun had slipped behind the largest of the Three Sisters. The hemp bag was there at her feet, but the
pitukupf
had evidently retreated to his lair. The aged woman’s back and legs ached, her feet and hands felt like lumps of ice. She had no doubt that this was the remnant of the dwarf-induced paralysis. Shivering in twilight’s gray chill, she reached for the oak staff, slowly pushed herself to her feet. As she looped the bag over her shoulder, her skin began to prickle with excitement.
I have to get back home before dark. And the first thing I’ll do—even before I heat up something to eat—is make a telephone phone call to Charlie Moon.

Perched on a dusty ledge on the sandstone cliff, the blue-black raven emitted a low, rattling chuckle.

By the time she opened the door to her warm, cozy home, food was uppermost in Daisy’s mind. And after a satisfying supper of scrambled eggs and buttered bread, the weary woman was drawn to her bed. She switched off the lights, slipped her bones under the covers, pulled the quilt up to her chin.
Tomorrow will be soon enough to call Charlie.
She yawned.
Not that he’ll pay the least attention to
…The thought was terminated with a snore.