Stone Butterfly (23 page)

On her way home, the Ute shaman had the queerest sensation that she was being watched by a pair of hollow eyes. She was not entirely surprised. It was common for spirits of the recently dead to show an intense interest in the living. Quite often, these confused souls did not realize they had been separated from their flesh. On several occasions, such phantoms had approached Daisy with questions—like what day it was, or for directions to some familiar place. Most of these displaced entities ached for a few words of comfort. More disturbing, it sometimes happened that the shadow would follow a living person home, to linger there for days, weeks—even months. This had happened to the Ute elder more often than she liked to remember. When she was a younger woman, Daisy had managed to endure these occasional invasions of her privacy. But as the years passed, she had become more solitary and also more picky about with whom she would share those precious few days she had left in Middle World. Ghosts do not make good houseguests. Very few were invisible to the shaman's eyes, and many of them had voices. Loud, demanding voices. Raspy, gossipy voices. Thin, whining, complaining voices. And those who were able generally felt compelled to talk, oftentimes in some ancient tongue she did not understand. Some spoke only rarely, others chattered from sunset 'til dawn—during those twilight hours when flesh and blood must have its rest. The notion of a spirit pacing about her home, rattling dishes, switching lights on and off, jabbering for hours on end was not a prospect she greeted with hearty enthusiasm. On the contrary, it rankled. And it was not merely a matter of being an annoyance, a ghost could be downright dangerous. Daisy recalled the sad case of a Hopi woman who had been paralyzed from the hips down by the vengeful spirit of a niece who was displeased with the meager burial offerings left by her poverty-stricken relative.

As she trod along, Daisy attempted to ignore the sense that she was being watched.
Stalked.
She resorted to denial:
Maybe it's just my imagination.

A familiar raven landed on a juniper snag, caw-cawed a warning to the shaman. Daisy turned quickly, saw the diaphanous apparition not twenty paces behind her!

With a terrible intensity, it stared back.

Suddenly, without the least warning, Daisy's body stiffened. Her arms shot straight out, giving her the appearance of a short, stubby telephone pole. The tribal elder's eyes rolled in the sockets, presented white orbs—her head tilted back, so that the ghastly eyeballs stared straight up. Her throat began to make a noise that resembled gargling. Spittle dripped from the corner of her mouth, dribbled down her cheek.

This might have been enough to frighten all the creatures who watched, which included the raven, of course—plus a pair of chipmunks, a tuft-eared squirrel clinging to a cottonwood limb, a red fox concealed behind a dwarf oak, a masked badger scowling from its den, a blue-striped “racer” lizard, a venomous little scorpion that was capable of glowing when illuminated by ultraviolet light, an off-key quartet of fat Mormon crickets, plus various and sundry other insects whose considerable number precludes the listing of every one.

But Daisy was not done. Her performance had barely begun.

She hobbled (she could not run) around a prickly huckleberry bush, mumbling (she was past shouting): “Oh-oh-oh! I'd give my last greenback dollar for a one-eyed pinto pony. Wa-hoo! Tippecanoe and Tyler too! Oh, somebody please take me home and feed me vinegar tea and grasshopper stew!” She paused for a breath of air. “Ahhh…ahhh…I'm a poor old woman who don't have a roof to keep out the rain! Oh-oh-oh! What I'd give for a hollow log to sleep in…and a dry cow pie for a pillow!”

After six more passes around the huckleberry bush, the aged woman was about ready to pass out. She paused, took a terribly long time to get her wind back.

When she had partially recovered, Daisy turned, took a quick look at the path to the fresh grave.
I don't see nothing. Maybe it worked.
In her considerable experience, spirits of the newly dead were already in a nervous state, and fearful of encountering any kind of trouble. No matter how much the inexperienced haunt might want to follow a person home, they tended to avoid the company of lunatics. Especially homeless lunatics who slept in hollow logs.

Hoping to spend the evening without any ghostly company, Daisy set her face toward hearth and home. But as she waded the stream, even above its gurgling and warbling the shaman thought she heard a mournful wailing. She stopped in the middle of the muddy torrent, braced herself on the oak staff, cocked her ear to listen.

It seemed there was a second call, but a blustery gust of the canyon's breath swept it away with a scattering of last autumn's dead leaves, prickly tumbleweeds, and miscellaneous other flotsam and jetsam.

Adding her melancholy sigh to the breeze, and with the sense of one recrossing the cold, deep Jordan, the weary woman waded her way toward the homeward bank. But as soon as she stepped onto dry land, the sense of being
followed
overwhelmed her—it was apparent that this particular spirit had not been deceived by her impromptu performance. Though disappointed, Daisy was not defeated by the realization that
It
apparently intended to follow her right into her parlor. If the tough old woman had had a motto engraved on her mantelpiece, it would have been something in the vein of
NEVER GIVE UP
or
GO DOWN FIGHTING
. Furthermore, she was not without resources. The shaman knew that when a person's home became infested by a troublesome ghost, there were certain remedies available. After shaking the water off her feet, she began to tick off the top three methods of evicting unwanted ghostly guests.

A few cloves of garlic hung in every room might do the trick.
But that stinks up a house something awful. I'd probably have to give up my home before the spirit did.

She could call Father Raes Delfino, and request an exorcism.
But for three years, I've been mad at that priest for retiring from St. Ignatius and moving to that little cabin on Charlie Moon's ranch. And if you're mad at someone, you can't ask him for favor.

That left number three. It was possible to lure a ghost out of your house. The most effective method was to get hold of something the haunt treasured, and hide it in somebody else's home. If the earthly possession was something the spirit simply couldn't do without, like a favorite pocket watch or a diamond engagement ring—the disembodied presence would feel compelled to follow it, and the formerly haunted person would return home to a ghost-free house. All you needed was something special that had belonged to the dead person. Having arrived at her door, Daisy leaned her walking stick against the wall and frowned.
But I don't have nothing like that. And I don't have any chance of getting it. Not unless I go back and take the stones off and
—She was distracted from this gruesome thought by a thin, feline whine.

Mr. Zig-Zag was sitting at her feet. Seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was bloody, missing several tufts of fur, and curiously decorated with clinging cockleburs, the creature licked fastidiously at a front paw, then looked up expectantly at the human being—the species from whence all blessings came—as if to say: “Where's the food?”

“Well, well—would you look at that!” She exchanged thoughtful stares with the cat.
I wonder how long it'll be before Little Bo Peep comes looking for her lost kitty.

European nursery rhymes were not Daisy's strong suit.

Exhausted by the ordeal in
Cañón del Espíritu
and
despairing
over the memory of the grisly discovery she had concealed in a makeshift grave, Daisy Perika headed into her parlor, collapsed on the couch into a weary heap.

Mr. Zig-Zag had also had a difficult day. After a thorough search for an ideal spot to recline, the bedraggled cat finally decided to stretch out beside the Ute woman.

“Go away,” she mumbled.

Mr. Zig-Zag yawned in her face.

Daisy was simply too tired to take a swat at the cheeky creature.

After nodding off into a fitful nap that was knotted with a tangled string of troublesome images, Daisy awakened to blink at the animal whose peaceful sleep was an affront to her. She nudged the furry creature. “Hey you—wake up!”

The cat did as bid, blinked at this wrinkled creature who had disturbed his
siesta.

Daisy turned on the scowl. “You don't fool me for a minute, Fuzz-Face.” She knew that a cat who'd had free eats and shelter would not be satisfied—not until the moocher had taken over title to the property, including mineral rights—and subjugated the former owner to the position of Adoring Attendant, hurrying to satisfy his every whim. In several case histories with which she was familiar, this role reversal had been accomplished with such ingenious smoothness that the human victim was completely oblivious to the crime. Aware of his deceitful plans, she eyed the cunning creature with a knowing curl of the lip.
Within a day or two, Mr. Rag-Bag will pick out his favorite chair, decide when he wants to be fed, and when he wants me to tuck his little carcass into bed.
But the crusty old woman had no intention of becoming a feline's fawning servant; Daisy Perika had another plan in mind. The tribal elder was dead certain that before the night was over,
someone
would come calling. Someone who was wandering around in the outer darkness, searching for her stray pet. Having no human company to converse with, Daisy spoke to the animal on her couch. “With you here, Sarah's bound to show up.”

The creature focused ambivalent amber eyes on the human being.

“And when she comes looking for you—what do you think I'll do?” Daisy knew. She would see to it that the cat departed. And where the cat went, Sarah would be sure to follow. Like in “Mary Had a Little Cat,” or something like that. But where should they go—and how could Daisy manage the delicate transfer? That was the problem.

While she waited for the unfortunate girl's appearance, Daisy did not intend to spend the evening in idleness.
What I need is some work to do. That'll help me think.
After an examination of the cat's split ear, the medicine woman gathered some of the instruments of her trade, which were a mix of the ordinary and arcane variety. She used a cotton swab soaked with wood alcohol to clean splotches of blackened blood off the animal's shoulder and head, then added a few precious dabs of Navajo Hisiiyháaníí oil to his wounds. “Looks like you met up with Mr. Teeth,” she muttered, “and he put the bite on you.”

In a boastful “You should have seen the other guy” gesture, the battered cat presented her with a claws-extended paw.

“Oh, sure.” She chuckled. “I guess you got in a lick or two of your own.”

When the first aid was completed, she turned her attention to about two dozen cockleburs that were firmly enmeshed into the black-and-white fur. Removing them was a tedious process. While holding a tuft of hair between finger and thumb, she used a mustache comb to remove the offending seedpod. This act of mercy occupied much of her evening.

When she had removed several dozen burrs, the cat began to whine. Gave her the big-eyed look.

“
Now
what is it?” And then it dawned on her.
It's started already.
“You want me to get you something to eat.” She shook a finger at the beast. “Okay, but don't think I'm gonna make a habit of waiting on you.” Having made her point, she got up, headed for the kitchen. Halfway there, remembered that there was no tuna left in the pantry.
I wonder if cats like Velveeta cheese?

As it turned out, this one did.

While Daisy watched Mr. Zig-Zag consume his supper, the devious old woman began to think. Almost as soon as she would consider a plot, a flaw would appear, and she would drop it to pursue another crooked line of thought. During this process, Daisy stared at empty space, nervously patted a hand on her knee, occasionally nodded to agree with herself on some critical point. After several hundred ticks and tocks of the clock, the experienced tactician concluded that she had come up with just the right plan. The solution went something like this: When you have something you don't want, give it to someone else. And she knew just who
someone else
was. A deserving party. The problem was solved—if only a few circumstances and a couple of knuckle-headed people would cooperate. She set her jaw. If they didn't, she would just grab them by the neck and shake them until they did!

The time for action had come.

She picked up the telephone, punched in the familiar number for Charlie Moon's Columbine Ranch. After four rings, she heard the pleasant voice of Dolly Bushman, who—in Daisy's opinion—had the severe misfortune of being bonded in holy matrimony to the foreman. Pete Bushman was (in Daisy's opinion) a blight and a plague. “It's me,” Daisy said.

“Oh, Mrs. Perika—how are you?”

“I'm all right.” The hostile Indian tried to sound civil. “Is my nephew at home?”

“Oh, no. Charlie's off somewhere with that sheriff from Utah. We don't expect him back 'til Saturday, at least.”

Good.
“Well isn't that just like him—taking off for days at a time without saying a word to his closest relative.”

“You could call him on his cell phone.”

“He generally keeps it turned off. And I don't like to leave messages on that silly machine.”

“Daisy, dear—Charlie told me that if you had any kind of problem, we was to take care of it. If something needs fixing at your place, I'll just send Pete down there and—”

“No, thank you—there's nothing here that needs fixing.”
Well, that's not exactly true. But even if this was something he could help me with, I wouldn't want that hairy-faced old white man in my house. He smells like a fresh cow pie and he's always spitting tobacco juice.
“Is Father Raes holed up in his little cabin, reading the Bible and praying six times every day?”

“He's gone off someplace or other.” Though she was a Baptist, Dolly Bushman's tone let it be known that she did not appreciate the Indian woman's rude way of speaking about the Catholic priest who was—in her view—as holy a man as had ever set foot in Colorado. “I don't know when he'll be back.”

Daisy smiled. “Well, I've got some things I need to bring to the ranch.” This was the literal truth. “Soon's I can get somebody to drive me, I'll show up.”

“Daisy, I'd be glad to send Pete down to get you. Or one of the cowboys—”

“No, don't bother.” The Ute woman breathed her patented martyr's sigh. “I wouldn't want to put you people to any trouble on
my
account.”

“But it wouldn't be no—” Dolly heard a click in her ear.

Having disconnected Dolly Bushman from her thoughts, Daisy Perika was already dialing another number.

Her male cousin answered promptly. “H'lo. Who's this?”

“You're Gorman Sweetwater,” she said with exaggerated patience. “And whenever you forget, just check your driver's license—if you still have one. Your name's printed on it.” She cackled out a passable imitation of the Witch of the West, which was pretty close to what some of the more superstitious folk on the reservation had her pegged for. “And so's your picture, in case you don't remember what you look like, which might be a blessing now that I think of it, so maybe you'd best leave the thing in your wallet.”

“Daisy?”

“No, this is Marilyn Monroe, struttin' around the swimmin' pool in a pink bathing suit.”

The seductive picture posed before him, Gorman sighed with the regret of an old man who remembered the carnal pleasures of the mid-twentieth century only too well. “No you ain't. You're Daisy.”

“So how are you doing, you old wart-head?”

“Oh, pretty good. Did I tell you I bought me a new pickup?”

Only about ten times.
“Is that a fact—what make is it?” She mouthed the expected words:
It's a GMC—the onliest pickup a man should—

“It's a GMC—the onliest pickup a man should spend his hard-earned money on.”

“Now that you mention it, I think maybe I heard something about it. Is it a red truck?”

“Well, yeah—only GM calls it something like Carmine Sunset, or Strawberry Dream.” He thought about it. “No, Strawberry Dream is the color of that red ice cream.”

“Well, whatever they call it, it must be real pretty. And didn't I hear it had a fine white camper shell on the back?”

“Genuine fiberglass,” Gorman said with more than a smidgen of pride. “And it's got four-wheel drive and an air bag on the driver's side and the biggest V-8 of any truck in its class—”

“Sounds like something special. Why don't you bring it out here for me to see?”

“Well…I dunno.” There was a clicking sound as he applied a toothpick to an incisor. “It's a longish drive to your place, and gas is awful pricey these days.”

“Tell you what—you drive that shiny new red truck out here tomorrow morning and take me for a ride, and I'll fix you a breakfast like you ain't had since old dogs was fussy puppies. And I'm talking three brown-shell eggs.”

“With some crispy bacon?”

“Six slices. And a big slab of ham and sliced potatoes—all fried in lard.” Sensing his hesitation to commit, the wily old gamester rolled loaded dice. “And I'll buy you a tank of gas.”

Gorman Sweetwater's tone reflected his doubts about such a grand promise from a woman who pinched pennies hard enough to make Honest Abe grimace. “A full tank?”

“Right up to the brim.”

“High octane?”

“Sure. But you show up by nine.” Daisy Perika scowled at her unseen cousin. “And I don't mean Indian Time.”

After the discussion of a few additional details, the deal was done.

Daisy said good-bye and hung up. The wheels were turning. Now she could relax, and she did.

As the clock chimed eleven, she was drifting off toward that gray land where old women become young again, where trees sing and stones speak and shamans fly high over mountain peaks. Not halfway there, she met a thin little girl, who was standing in the shade of a mulberry tree.

Daisy reached out to touch the child, and was awakened by a screechy yowling.

It was, of course, the self-centered cat. Mr. Zig-Zag was pawing at her leg.

She made a face at the pesky creature. “You've been fed. What is it now—you want to watch your favorite show on the TV?” Garfield Eats the Parakeet,
I expect.

Not so. His gaze was fixed on the door.

“Oh, right. You want to go outside.”
At least he's trained not to mess up the floor.
Grateful for this small blessing, Daisy got up, headed for the exit. About to turn the knob, she hesitated.
Maybe that's
not
why he wants out.
She switched off the lights, crept over to the window, opened it barely an inch. As was her lifelong habit, she listened intently to the sounds of night.

In a sagebrush thicket, an invisible cricket.
Clickety-clickit.

A pie-eyed owl on a juniper snag.
Hut-hut-hooooooo
…

And wafted in from
somewhere
on the chilly breeze—“
Mr. Zig-Zag…where aaaarrrre you
…”

The cat heard it, too; he responded with a melancholy yowling.

Daisy waited a hundred heartbeats, heard the unspeakably mournful call again. But much closer now.
I knew it—she's come looking for her pet. It won't be long 'til she'll be pecking at my door. And She'll want to sit up and talk 'til the crack of dawn.

But if the cunning old schemer had her way—and she generally did—this particular night visitor would not tarry for long. No, before the yellow-balloon moon floated over the mountain again, the homeless waif would be far away—in what Daisy Perika assured herself, would be a more suitable habitation. With her cat, of course.

And so she waited for the expected arrival.

While she waited, the shaman thought she saw a flickering shadow on the wall, then it was gone.
No, there it is again.
This tiny mystery was solved when she noticed the small, brown insect fluttering around the ceiling light fixture. She frowned.
I hate moths.

It would never have occurred to Daisy Perika that this
moth
might be a butterfly. Nor was there any reason that she should have entertained such a thought. Butterflies flutter by when the sun is high; at night, they fold their wings and sigh and sleep and dream dreams that cannot be imagined, much less described. Everyone knows this.

So it was most likely a moth.