The Shaman Laughs (31 page)

Parris shaded his eyes; he looked up at the steep rim of
Canon del Espiritu
and the squat, brooding profiles of the Three Sisters on the mesa top. "It's a while before dark," he said uneasily. "Why don't we drive into Snake Canyon, wait for it… somebody to show up. Sure would beat climbing this mountain."

"No way to drive the Blazer into Snake Canyon," Moon said, "just a deer trail along the stream bed. Besides, whatever… ahhh… whoever JoJo saw, maybe they're holed up in the canyon. Might be watching the entrance." The Ute scanned the mesa rim. "We'll get up on top where we can see into the canyon. If we spot the hairy fellow with the horns and tail, then we move in real quiet like and…" His voice trailed off uncertainly, as if he wasn't sure what proper police procedure might be when an officer encountered the Dancing Devil.

Parris shrugged. "It's your territory."

Moon set the squelch control on his portable transceiver and held the instrument by the side of his head. "Base? This is mobile three. You read me base?" There was an unintelligible response, lost in a sea of crackling static. "This little radio is about as useful as a boat anchor, down here in the canyon. But it should work all right, once we get on the mesa top." The big Ute hitched up his backpack and pointed toward a narrow trail that snaked along the wall of
Canon del Espiritu
. "We'll go up there; that's the trail JoJo used."

"It's Jake with me," Parris said. He couldn't see the trail Moon had in mind.

"Only thing," the Ute policeman said, "watch your step."

"It's steep then?"

"One little slip," Moon said softly, "and all your worries are over."

Parris grinned. This would probably be a cake walk. It was not. Halfway up, he felt a coldness creeping over his limbs as he leaned against the sandstone wall, wishing that some freakish mutation had provided his fingertips with suction cups. The crumbling trail, at some points, was barely wider than his boot. Moon, despite his great bulk, seemed at ease on the narrow path. When they finally climbed over the rim between two of the massive rock formations that were the Sisters, a cold sweat was dripping from Parris's forehead, but it was not the honest sweat of exertion. He leaned against a house-sized sandstone boulder and breathed deeply of the crisp breeze that swept over the mesa top.

Moon pressed the transmit button on his radio. "Base. This is mobile three. You read me?"

Nancy Beyal's voice crackled back over the squelch. "Loud and clear, Charlie. Where are you?"

"Sittin' in the Three Sisters' laps. I'll check in again, in"—he glanced at his wristwatch—"sometime after midnight."

"Understand."

Moon dropped the transceiver into his backpack.

Parris studied the huge trio of misshapen, wind-chiseled monoliths of sandstone. Posted on the mesa top forever… like eternal sentries. "How come they call them the Three Sisters? Could as well be Three Dogs. Three Frogs. Three anything."

"From what I've heard," Moon said, "back in the six-teen-hundreds, three Pueblo women, they were sisters, slipped up here to hide from the 'Paches during a raid. The 'Paches killed all the men, stole the women and children and the corn. But before they headed back south," he nodded toward the New Mexico border, "one of their young men spotted the three Pueblo women. He slipped way from the war party and climbed up here after 'em. Now being caught by a 'Pache brave, that was plenty bad news for these Pueblo sisters."

"So what happened?"

Moon leaned against a gnarled pinon and folded his arms. "The women, they prayed to Sina-wa-vi."

"To who?"

"Sina-wa-vi," Moon repeated, enunciating each syllable. "Sina-wa-vi is a major spirit; the old people thought he lived up in the sky. Anyway, these women, they asked him to spare them from the 'Pache. Sina-wa-vi, he must have heard them, at least that's what the People say."

"So the prayers were answered?"

"Bet your horse and saddle, pardner. Sina-wa-vi, he sent three big bolts of lightning outta the sky"—Moon pointed a finger toward heaven—"and turned them sisters all into stone, quick as a wink. The 'Paches, all except the young man who climbed the mesa, they all ran away, hell for leather, whoopin' and hollerin' and they never did come back. To this very day," Moon added darkly, "no 'Pache will set foot within a mile of the Three Sisters."

Parris knew he was being had, but dutifully fulfilled his role as gullible outsider. "What became of the lone Apache warrior who climbed the mesa?"

Moon's face registered surprise. "Didn't I tell you? Well, it wasn't like he didn't try to make tracks, but Sina-wa-vi, he pitched down another bolt of lightning, turned that 'Pache into stone. Not nearly so big a chunk as them three sisters, but stone just the same. You're leaning right on him," Moon added.

Parris moved away from the giant boulder. "That's some tall story. Ten to one, you made it up in the past two minutes."

"Glad you liked it, pardner." The hint of a mischievous smile that flickered over Moon's face was swallowed up by the twilight that slipped over the flat top of the mesa.

Daisy Perika lit three tiny, pink birthday candles before a plaster likeness of St. Francis; the Italian monk had a tiny bluebird perched on his wrist. She closed her eyes and clasped her hands in the Roman Catholic manner. To the shaman who communed with the
pitukupf
, there was no contradiction in this act of supplication. Even the dwarf knew the power of the Word that had become flesh; as long as the little man got his occasional offering of cigarettes and trinkets, he cared little about Daisy's spiritual activities. The dwarf could be vindictive, even dangerous, but he was no fool. The
pitukupf
knew his place.

"Oh Little Brother who loves the animals," she muttered, "ask our Lord to protect those dumb creatures out there in the storm." She opened one eye and focused on the Saint to see if he was paying attention. Satisfied, she closed her eyes again. "Protect my overgrown bone-headed nephew and his ignorant
matukach
friend from the arrow of fire that pierces the clouds… from the foul-smelling horned beast who dances in the night… and," she added with special urgency, "from the dark shadow that passes over us!"

The shaman opened one eye again; she was certain that St. Francis had smiled.

There was a stirring. In a small arroyo at the bottom of the Canyon of the Snake. Under a pile of freshly cut pinon branches. Very slight, the movement was… subtle enough to go unnoticed by the natural creatures who lived in this place. The presence shifted its weight with an innocuous sound, much like the creaking of an old pine bending before the wind. Then, there was an audible groan… an awakening of a malevolent consciousness. A consciousness of overwhelming desire. Overwhelming hunger. And thirst.

* * *

Moon crawled to the edge of a sandstone outcropping. The Ute removed his hat, pulled a pair of binoculars from his backpack, and scanned the floor of Snake Canyon. Parris appeared at his side. "Don't see anything on the bottom of the canyon, nothing on the far wall," Moon said. "The kiva ruins look pretty empty."

Parris tried to see through the shadows enveloping the canyon floor. "Looks awfully still."

"Can't see much of the wall on this side," Moon said. "Somebody could be holed up in one of the caves the old people made."

"What do you think?"

"I think," the Ute said, "we wait." He winked at Parris. "From what I hear, these hairy horned devils with tails… they only dance late at night." Moon scooted away from the edge of the precipice. He fumbled in his backpack until he found two ham sandwiches. He pitched one to his pard-ner.

"I guess it's going to be a long night," Parris said as he tried unsuccessfully to see the expression on Moon's face. His hand kept moving toward the comfort of the .38 Smith & Wesson revolver strapped under his armpit. He hoped the Ute didn't notice.

"Yeah," Moon said. He was watching heavy clouds draped over the San Juans. A gray anvil writhed and hung its beak over Three Sisters Mesa. "I sure hope it don't rain."

Immediately after Moon uttered these words, Parris felt the hair on his head tingle, as if it were standing on end. Evidence of high electric fields between the cloud and the mesa top? He dismissed it as a case of the jitters. Then, there was a booming explosion. A skinny finger of lightning materialized between the cloud-anvil and the sandstone Apache warrior, chipping a watermelon-sized chunk of sandstone off the formation. The concussion was like a charge of dynamite; Parris found himself on the ground, his face pressed into a pungent carpet of fresh pifion needles. He got to his knees and tried to speak, but his lungs were gasping for breath.

Moon, who had been blown onto his back, looked toward the anvil and grunted. "Looks like Sina-wa-vi ain't done with that no-account 'Pache yet." He coughed and rubbed the back of his neck. "I expect we ought to get off this mesa top."

Parris pushed his trembling hands into his coat pockets. "Works for me."

"There's an old cave just over the edge of the cliff on the Snake Canyon side."

Parris was on his feet, dusting himself off. The pungent scent of ozone permeated the atmosphere… A promise of more lightning strikes? "What're we waiting for?" Better to face the Dancing Devil than to be skewered by a bolt hurled by Sina-wa-vi!

As they crawled into the shallow cave, a light shower was splattering the dust outside the shelter with heavy drops. The "cave" was man-made, the back room of a pueblo cliff dwelling that had long since tumbled into Snake Canyon. The room was beehive-shaped, the domed ceiling not quite high enough to allow Moon to stand upright. Their boots made deep tracks in the dust of ages. The Ute lit a match and cupped it with his hand to hide the flickering light from anyone on the canyon floor. The walls had once been plastered with clay, but this was now cracked and falling off in sheets. Figures of strange animals had been scratched into the black soot that coated the plaster. There were crude representations of four-legged and odd two-legged creatures that might have been birds. One of the two-legged creatures appeared to have be malformed; the hunchbacked creature was playing a flute.

Moon dropped his pack and sat with his back against the wall of the small cavern. He pulled his hat brim over his eyes.

Parris sat down by the small entrance and peered through the mist into the sinuous form of Snake Canyon. "Maybe this devil only comes out once a month. On a full moon."

"The moon," the Ute said, "wasn't full when JoJo saw whatever he saw."

"If he's here already, maybe he saw us come over the cliff to this hole in the wall."

"Might as well relax," Moon said. Why was it so hard for Whites to accept silence? They had to fill it with words.

Parris blinked at the three kivas; the larger one had been restored and was less than a hundred yards from their shelter in the canyon wall. "I think this is a snipe hunt," He turned his head to see how Moon would react to this challenge. His friend was breathing slowly, very evenly. The Ute was asleep. Parris yawned and leaned against the sooty plaster. He listened to the sounds of Snake Canyon. Crickets conducting a great synchronous chorus. An owl hooted. A coyote cried mournfully for something that was far away. The wind made soothing whispers through the tall ponderosa that dotted the canyon floor. Cottonwood leaves rattled like chattering teeth. The canyon sung a haunting, rhythmic song of life… and death. Parris shuddered. It would be a long time before morning.

A saw-whet owl perched motionless on a snag in the lifeless top of a lightning-scarred Douglas fir. This feathered de-scendent of the dinosaurs absorbed the scene reproduced on its high-resolution retinas, waiting for a movement that would be translated into its perception of "mouse" or "lizard." There was a slight rippling movement inside the circle of stones where the small bird often snatched tasty treats of blood-warm pocket gopher or, after the rainy season, squirming tiger salamander… but this was odd. The owl swiveled its head a half-turn around, and back again, and blinked quizzically; it had never seen such a peculiar sight!

Scott Parris, his back arched uncomfortably against the sandstone entrance to the Pueblo back-room, was lost in a dream. He was walking with his wife, along Jackson Park Beach. Helen was on his left arm, the great glacier-scraped lake on his right, the harsh wind blowing the pungent scent of Lake

Michigan across the park into Chicago's bleak streets. Helen was wearing a fluffy white dress that whipped in the gusts like crepe paper. Helen? But Helen was dead! His wife had died in Canada almost three years ago. He turned to look at her face. She was pouting, disappointed that he had remembered her departure. Now, the spell was broken, the magic dissipated. She dropped her hand from his arm and turned… the white dress vanished into the great forest. He followed, attempting to shout her name. No sound came from his mouth. He found himself inside this thicket of great elms and maple, standing in the edge of a small, circular clearing where the grass was freshly mowed. A small, twisted tree was rooted in the bull's-eye of the lawn. As he watched, a misty darkness drifted over the clearing. Now an undulating shadow moved in the shelter of the tree. There was the unmistakable flapping of great wings as a huge, dark bird erupted from the branches. The creature's wings became rigid; the bird soared upward, then fell directly toward him. He saw curved, yellow talons, and the talons were dripping with a scarlet liquid. He could smell the blood!

Parris awakened with a convulsive shudder. It was a long moment before he realized where he was—before he convinced himself that this was not a continuation of his nightmare. But something was different. He could hear himself breathe, even feel his heart thumping under his ribs. But he could hear nothing else. Nothing! The canyon was totally silent. Not a cricket chirped; owl and coyote were dumb as the Three Sisters of stone. Even the wind had fallen silent. Silver moonlight flooded into the gaping mouth of the archaic dwelling on the canyon wall. He could see every stone and twig on the dusty floor. The hands on his wristwatch revealed that he had slept into the small hours of morning. Impossible! But there was the moon, an apricot crescent suspended high over the opposite mesa.