The Night Visitor (3 page)

The Magician seemed perplexed by this simple instruction.

She shook her head in annoyance. Must be a foreigner. Having the innate good sense to know that if a person couldn't understand English, you had to speak louder, she yelled. “Head east—down the dirt road. Toward the highway.” Eventually, a passing motorist would spot this lunatic. And use their cell phone to call the tribal police. Let Charlie Moon and his bunch sort this out.

The stranger stood like he was planted in her yard, rooted to his tracks. His hand
remained outstretched
, displaying the object that looked like a egg. He stared at her. Expectantly.

She sighed. This jaybird wasn't going away. He seemed determined to test her sense of duty. “What is it? You want some clothes to wear?”

The Magician cocked his head inquisitively, like a puppy trying very hard to understand.

She raised her voice another decibel. “You wait right there. I'll go and get you some of my last husband's old clothes.”
He won't
mind, seein' as he's been dead for twenty years.

Daisy opened the closet door and pushed aside wire hangers holding print dresses, woolen shawls, a man's wool overcoat. A faded pair of bib overalls was hanging on a hook above the shotgun. Just the thing for a tramp. She found a scuffed pair of horsehide boots; a heavy pair of woolen socks was stuffed inside. The old woman muttered to herself: “I'll warn him to stay where he is, then pitch this stuff out on the porch. If the knucklehead has enough sense left to put these clothes on, then I'll make him a cheese-and-baloney sandwich and put that on the porch too. And send him on his way. Then I can go to bed with a clear conscience.”

When the somewhat reluctant Good Samaritan returned to the window—ready to shout her instructions—the naked stranger was gone.
Well, thank God and all His angels… that's the last I'll see of that oddball.
“Well,” she said aloud so God would be sure to hear, “too bad he left in such a hurry… I'd have liked to help that poor soul.” It was with a sense of considerable relief that she closed the window. And stood there. Watching to make sure he was really gone. Daisy realized that she was breathing heavily, as if she'd climbed the long, rocky trail up the talus slope of Three Sisters Mesa.

The Ute shaman—a member (in moderately good standing) of St. Ignatius Catholic Church—sat down on her bed and said her prayers. She would have kneeled, but her knees were sore. Daisy prayed for some rain—but not enough to flood the canyon. For a mild winter. For the health and prosperity of the People. And for other Native Americans. She prayed for Charlie Moon's safety. And—almost as an afterthought—she prayed for Scott Parris, the chief of police up at Granite Creek. The white man was Charlie Moon's best friend. And the broad-shouldered
matukach
was her friend as well. Even though he had once blown a hole through her roof with a twelve-gauge shotgun—a hole big enough to drop a goat through. With men and children, you learned to overlook such foolishness.

Daisy slid her feet under the covers and pulled the thick quilt to her chin; her head fell upon the pillow. This weary woman, imbued with the hardy spirit of her people—and comforted by the sweet presence of Christ—continued to whisper her prayers.

Our Father who is in heaven… Great Mysterious One… protect your people… Hail Mary, full of grace… watch over us… He who speaks with words of thunder, hear my voice… though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death… your rod and your staff they comfort me… He who makes his home above the mountains, hear me …? Lover of my soul… my cup runneth over… deliver us from evil. Oh yes… help that crazy white man who's all splattered with mud.

And she added this observation and advice for the benefit
of the omniscient One: “The way I figure it, he's either crazy or drunk. Or both. So when you send somebody to help him, it'd be best to tell 'em to be careful. At least that's what
I
think.”

Finally, the rambling prayer ended. As the moon drifted over
Cañon del Espiritu
, Daisy's breathing became more regular.

On a windswept ridge above the shaman's trailer stands a desiccated corpse. She is a hideous, frightful thing to behold—this aged dancer balanced awkwardly on a misshapen leg… twisted arms raised in mute supplication to darkened heavens.

Depending upon one's perspective, she is

…?
grotesque, twisted hag—standing where a living thing once stood

… a
resinous piñon snag—chop her up for kindling wood.

On this night, the carcass has company. Of a sort.

Under the starlight shadow of the dead branches, the naked figure sits easily upon his haunches. He rolls the white “egg” in his hand. The shaman has given him a name, and so he is the Magician. But he does not deal in common tricks and illusions.

He watches the old woman's home. In an unheard voice that harmonizes with the silent choir of night, he sings to himself. It is a lurid serenade. Of lust. Jealousy. Murder. And urgent business unfinished. A lonely soul's ballad oft spins a melancholy tale of what has been—this grim ode also foretells what is yet to be.

When his silent song is ended, the mute singer does not stir. He will by no means depart from this place until the thing is done. And so he waits… for someone who will surely come.

A child.

Charlie Moon turned off the paved surface of Route 151 onto Fosset Gulch Road, immediately crossing the narrow bridge over the Piedra. Rain had been scarce, so the river was low.
Ankle-deep in places. Looked like you could walk across it by stepping from stone to stone.

The wisp of a girl in the seat beside him strained against the shoulder strap and pressed her nose against the window. “I bet there are lots of fishes in there.”

The driver did not respond, and this irked the child.

Sarah Frank looked to the Ute policeman for confirmation.
“Are
there lots of fishes in the river?”

He nodded.

“What kind?” she pressed.

“Mostly rainbow trout,” Moon said, and jerked the steering wheel to miss a shallow pothole in the gravel road.

“Rainbow,” she sighed. “I bet they're really pretty.” Mr. Zig-Zag purred: Sarah rubbed the black cat's neck. “Are there any catfish in the river?”

“Nope. Piedra's way too cold for 'em.”

She shivered. “Aren't there no other fish to keep the rainbow trout company?”

He thought about this. “Well… I s'pose there might be some rattlesnake trout about.”

“That sounds scary.”

“Oh, they're not dangerous. Just another kinda fish.” He waited for the inevitable question.

“Charlie, why are they called
rattlesnake
trouts?”

“For one thing, they got a long, skinny neck.”

There was an expression of wonder in her brown eyes, which seemed far too large for her face. “A fish with a neck.
Really?”

“Sure. That old rattlesnake trout can pop his head out real fast and strike!” He flicked his hand to demonstrate. “Last April, Gorman Sweetwater said he saw one snap a woolly worm off a willow branch that was a good two feet above the water.”

She shuddered.

He was on a roll. “It's an evolutionary advantage. Gives 'em an edge over the common water-feeders.”

“But with such a long neck wouldn't it be awfully hard to swim?”

“Sure. It could get wrapped around a reed or even tied in a
knot. So when they're not using that long neck, they keep it all coiled up on their shoulders. That's why they're called a rattlesnake trout. Although down in New Mexico they call 'em spring-necked trouts.”

She made a face. “I think they sound
icky.”

“I don't much like their looks myself. But some fishermen prefer 'em to rainbows or cutthroats. Last week Gorman Sweetwater caught a small one. Said he stretched the neck out and it wasn't more'n ten inches long. He let it snap back and only counted three coils. But I guess old Gorman must've took a shine to it anyway. He took it home and put it in a big bowl with his Chinese goldfish.”

“Would you take me to see it?”

“I'd sure like to, but it's too late.”

“Why?”

“Game warden found out about it. Made Gorman throw the thing back in the Piedra.”

“Why?”

“Against the law to keep a rattlesnake trout with less than five coils.”
She's a good kid, but kind of gullible.

“Oh.”
Charlie's nice, but he makes up such silly stories.
Sarah Frank clutched the black cat against her chest and squinted through the sandblasted windshield at a dusty road that led into the canyon country. “Are we almost there?”

Moon, who had answered this question a dozen times since he'd picked her up at the Colorado Springs airport, nodded. “Almost.”

The child looked up at the big policeman. “Are you sure Aunt Daisy′11 be glad to see me and Mr. Zig-Zag?”

Sarah was no blood relation to Daisy Perika, but all the kids called her “Aunt Daisy.” “She'll be happy to see you. But,” he added cautiously, “she don't much care for cats.”

“I know. When I was here before, Aunt Daisy never called Mr. Zig-Zag by his real name. She called him Dishrag and Hair Bag and stuff. And sometimes she kicked at him.”

“Kicked him?” Sounded just like the grumpy old woman.

“Well, not real hard. If Mr. Zig-Zag bothered her, she'd kinda push at him with her foot.”

“When we get there,” Moon said, “I'll go in and have a talk
with her. You'd best stay in the pickup with your cat for a while.” This would be a delicate operation.

Daisy Perika had finished her breakfast of bacon and scrambled eggs—the last two eggs in the small refrigerator. She washed the dishes hurriedly and twisted a papered wire around the top of a plastic refuse bag. Grocery day was also take-the-garbage-to-the-landfill day. Though it would be a mild autumn day, the elderly woman pulled on the heavy wool coat her last husband had worn every winter for fifteen years. She wrapped her gray head in a blue cotton scarf.

Impatiently, she sat in her kitchen, leather purse slung over her shoulder, grocery list in her coat pocket. She scowled in the general direction from whence he would come, and tapped the door key on the table. By her reckoning, Charlie Moon was almost an hour late. At intervals, she would get up and putter around the kitchen. Wiping spots of grease off the porcelain surface of the propane stove. Cleaning her hornrimmed spectacles with a tissue. Setting her wristwatch against the electric clock on the wall over the refrigerator.

Presently, though the windows were closed to the chill October morning, she heard the characteristic grumble of the big V-8 engine. Charlie Moon's old pickup was still far over the ridge, maybe a half mile away. Soon, she could hear the chassis groaning and creaking as her nephew negotiated the deep ruts in the unpaved road.

Well, it's about time.

She checked to make sure the burner valves on the gas stove were firmly shut off, that water from the faucets wasn't dripping in the sink.

Daisy watched through the window as Charlie Moon parked the pickup in the lane that led up to her trailer-home. Funny. He usually pulled right up to the porch, so she wouldn't have to walk so far. And what was that… a second head in the cab? Somebody was in the truck with him. Daisy groaned. She hoped he hadn't brought that Myra Cornstone along. Myra's little boy—the one she called “Chigger Bug”—was almost three years old now, and the baby's father was a no-account
matukach
cowboy who'd run off to Nevada or
someplace after the child was born. After she'd decided her white man wasn't coming back, Myra had started looking around for someone else to share her bed. For some time now, she'd been making the big-eyes at Charlie Moon. Though the Cornstone girl was a Ute—and no close relation to Charlie—Daisy didn't think this particular young woman would make a good wife for her favorite nephew.

But that wasn't Myra in the truck with Charlie. It was someone much smaller. A child …?

Moon climbed the steps on the unpainted pine porch; the planks groaned under his weight. The tall man rapped his knuckles on the trailer wall.

Daisy Perika pushed the door open and peered suspiciously at her nephew. There was no one on the porch with him; she leaned to look past him at the pickup. Yes. He'd left the engine running, most likely to keep the cab warm for his passenger. And there was that little head bobbing around like a cork when a trout nibbled at the worm on the hook. She grunted and stepped aside. This passed for an invitation for her nephew to come inside.

Charlie Moon removed his black Stetson, ducked his head to pass under the six-foot door frame, and made his way into the old woman's warm kitchen. He patted his aunt on the shoulder. “I guess you're about ready to go into town for some groceries.”

“I been ready for more'n an hour,” she said peevishly. Daisy went to a window and stared at the pickup. “Who's that?”

“Who's what?” he said. As if he'd forgotten about his small passenger. Or small passengers if you counted the cat.

“Who's that in your truck?”

“Oh, just a little girl. You got your grocery list ready?”

Daisy turned to wrinkle her brow at him. “What little girl?”

“Sarah Frank. I picked her up at the Colorado Springs airport this morning.”

“That's Sarah?” The old woman jammed her hands into the pockets of the heavy man's overcoat. Now that was interesting. Sarah's mother had been one of them Papago people, but
her daddy had been a Ute. “I thought she was staying with her grandparents down in Arizona.”

“She was,” Moon said. “But her grandmother died last month. And her grandfather's been put in a nursing home. So the
Tohono O'otam
Social Welfare Department had a talk with the Social Services people in our tribe, and they worked out a deal. Sarah will be placed in a foster home on our reservation.” So far, no arrangement had been made.